August 31, 2004

I Want to But I Can't

I sit here and I want to tell you about my weekend.

I want to type it all out, to tell you about the Hotel Du Vin we stayed in, a former Victorian eye hospital in Birmingham. I want to tell you about the amazing shower (so amazing, I took three of them in 12 hours). I want to tell you about the way Mr. Y and I had fantastic sex here:

View Image

(which would at least give this guy more material to work with), but I find my fingers are sluggish. Slow and immobile. I think my heart is sitting too hard on them.

I want to tell you about the wonderful restaurant Mr. Y took us to, where we indulged in a fantastic meal served by a waiter in grey pajamas that jumped when we asked him to, without even adding the one-liner "How high?" after that.

I want to relay then how lovely it was to sit in the Champagne bar and have champagne after that. The thoughtfully named "Bubble Room" is exactly that, a bubble room of masses of enjoyment in champagne delights. Mr. Y took his shoes off and smoked a cigar, a gesture I find terribly endearing and indulgent. I sat there in a nice outfit, the neckline the boldest cleavage revealing I have ever had, a V that ends in a point somewhere below my chest, just revealing the tiny raised pink lips of my old scars.

I'm trying to tell you about Stratford-Upon-Avon, a gorgeous town that personifies the word "cute", that is more quaint than quaint, a town that stretches history like an arrow on a bow and twangs the sharply drawn string. It has more older buildings still existing than any town I have seen here in England, and a row of donated street lights from other countries has Mr. Y's rapt attention and delight, and I am so pleased that he has something to delight and enjoy. He doesn't like Shakespeare, but I do (I wonder if you can guess my favorite work by Shakespeare?) and this town is a happy canal-filled delight of cuteness and charm.

It would be great to talk about our drive to Wales the next day, to stay in a spa in Cardiff. Our room has a stunning view of the water over the balcony, the beds are so downy soft they make my eyes open in wonder. Mr. Y and I, clad in the thick and warm robes that come hanging like little ghosts on the back of our bathroom door, make our way outside and have sex on the balcony, me bent over the railing and both of us watching the ships in the harbor.

We walk through a street fair on the beautiful harbor. We buy French nectarines. I feel heady with love. A posse of clowns in grease paint walks by and one of them compliments me and I want to snarl at him "Fuck off and leave me alone, clown, or else I will remove your carotid artery through your knees." but I simply keep my clown revulsion to a minimum and I smile at him. Mr. Y and I eat Indian food and then stand outside and watch a fireworks display, and Mr. Y puts his arm around me as we stand by the bay and I love it love it love it.

Monday morning we wake up and head for the spa treatments, and spend time in the salty hydrotherapy pool, the bandeau top of my bikini trying to make a run for it in the pool and Mr. Y making dead-on impressions of the sound of a speed boat in the water. We sit in the sauna and let the heat soak into our pores. In the elevator together I catch my reflection in the mirror and tell him I need another pair of jeans like these, as they make my ass look great. Mr. Y disagrees, saying they cost too much (they were £70, which is about $125, but man are they the best jeans I have ever worn in my life).

I wish I could show you the pictures in my head of the next day, where we visit an outdoor museum called "Welsh Life", where we see actual homes, mills, tollbooths, barns, etc from all over Wales, buildings brought to this site and preserved as they were in time, so we can walk through a Victorian terrace home from 1805, a farmhouse from 1534, or a post-war pre-fab house from 1948. It's amazing and fantastic, the crowds around us with the sing-song Welsh accent or even speaking Welsh (how marvelous-hope that the language won't die, and when a gaggle of teens walks past us speaking Welsh to each other it seems there is even more hope for the future of the Welsh language.)

And then we get home and our neighbors kittens (the ones I call the Tabby Bombs) ping through the house. Mr. Y cooks us a wonderful dinner which I end up not eating, since the fighting breaks through and dampens my hunger. We have a terrible fight about the holidays, a misunderstanding that we both take personally. The War of the Words commences and it becomes a terrible argument, a fight that includes him wondering if our relationship will make it.

And just like that, I am watching myself from the hallway. The last vestige of support and strength in my life a rug yanked out from under my feet. I have been pushing tin, I have been the air traffic controller of the airline wreck of my life. Lining up Air Family, I have followed it with Dad Airlines, and both of them are smoldering wrecks of plane crashes on the tarmac in my heart. My lovely Mr. Y, the one person who has actually penetrated every part of my life, can't be a part of that too, he simply can't, I simply love him too much. Since he has worries about me, shouldn't that mean I need to have worries about him, too? You know-balance things out? Am I so ignorant?

I can't understand anything anymore. My family has wrung me dry. I feel an utter fucking failure and if you're tired of me writing about my family, best not to read here for a bit as it's only going to get worse for a while. The sadness and confusion over what happened last week has been replaced by a ball inside of me. This ball, a swinging concrete wrecking ball, is one-part guilt over letting my family down, over hurting my mother, over the fact that she hasn't let it sink in or I haven't been clear enough that I think she is so strong.

And the ball is two-parts blistering, molten, vibrating rage and wrath at what has happened.

Eclipsed by the sarcasm and horrible things that were flung about the living room last night, I know I should get over it and let it all pass-Mr. Y was in a good and buoyant mood this morning, I know I need to get cheerful too lest we have another terrible evening. I am trying. Honest. He gave me a hug. And a kiss. He cuddled me and slept next to me, both of us doped with sleeping tablets since anger makes an uncomfortable sleeping partner.

I want to tell you all about my weekend, and maybe I just did, but it seems like I am sitting here in front of myself and all I feel is lonely. I am not having a go at Mr. Y in this post. It didn't even matter to me that Jersey didn't work out in the end, the disappointment non-existent, since I had such a lovely time with my man, whom I love so much it sometimes knocks the wind out of me. Why do fights affect me so much? They're just words, I try to tell myself. Just words. Let it go.

Last week was so fucking miserable, I simply can't accept that this week is lining up to be like that, too. I'm not kidding when I say I feel bruised and hurt in a number of places that I never knew could itch like that. I look at things that get said to me by people close to me, and I hate myself for letting them hurt so much. I hate myself for my weakness and inability to stop thinking about the negative. I am the type that Darwin would have selected out-normal people do not replay the painful things in a reel in their heads like I have.

I am so pathetic sometimes, I wish my teeter-totter would break and fling me to the ground, so that I am not so exposed and vulnerable anymore, sitting here all alone on my elevated seat.

My email is down. I have work to do but simply can't face it. I have writing to get out of me but simply don't know how to string words together today. I've been reading all the kind and wonderful comments that have been left here, and I should reply to them but I can't. I have kittens to pet and household things to attend to. But the truth is, I think I would rather spend my day in bed, in a closet, or under the living room table.

So if you'll excuse me, I have a table to lie under. It's comfortable enough. There's even a rug under it.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:17 AM | Comments (35) | Add Comment
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August 28, 2004

Quit It, God

In the immortal words of Walter Kornbluth..."What a week I'm having!"

We're at home.

We spent 8 hours yesterday driving to Coventry and back.

I hate Thomson Airlines.

Our flight was cancelled due to, they said, bad weather on Jersey. When we checked on the web upon our middle of the night return home, all the other airlines had flights that went to Jersey-and landed, despite what must have been a horrible flight. Oh, but what's what weather channel website? Jersey's weather was fine last night? Oh, so....we've been lied to by an airline? Can that happen in the real world?.

So we are home now. Determined to not get upset. Determined to search online for a last minute deal and still go away. And we drank champagne and cuddled last night, so I feel lovely.

The sun is shining, and I could've been on the beach with Mr. Y.

Gee thanks, God.

-H.

UPDATE: We are off to a Hotel Du Vin up north (Hotel Du Vin being our favorite chain of hotels, with showers that can accommodate 20 and shower heads the size of dinner plates). And in this hotel, they have a champagne bar with 50 types of champagne, so I am packing the hangover medication too. If the only had John Cusack and a constant supply of strappy shoes, David Sedaris readings, and size 6 dresses that fit like a dream, I would truly know I have redeemed myself and am in heaven.

On the way up north today, we are stopping in the heavily touristy town of Stratford-Upon-Avon (birthplace of Shakespeare), which is supposed to be lovely and heaving with American tourists. Maybe we can buy a Bard Burger or a Macbeth Pasty there, and wash it down with a pint of Othello's Bitter or Opheliia Ouzo. Then Sunday we bunk off to spend the night at a spa in Wales.

It's not Jersey, maybe, but we are both in very high moods and looking forward to it. And Mr. Y has already made me laugh a few times today, so I hope there's more where that came from.

See you Monday.

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August 27, 2004

Oh Look...It's Raining Again

The post was pulled yesterday because of the comments section.

In the comments section wasn't just a mean comment or an unkind word. There were two comments there from my mother and sister.

Disowning me.

In my family, you don't talk about the family to anyone but the family, it's part of why I don't really discuss them here. A flurry of angry mails and avoided phone calls later, and I am absolutely unsure of how to proceed. I do love them. I do miss them. But things are looking so rough right now that I think all of us are wondering how to act-do we cut the ties? Do we try again? Can a progressive book of mistakes and anger that has been compiled over a lifetime be forgotten, or is the Grudge Book just too full?

Apparently, "someone" has also graced my father's inbox with a copy of some of my posts, gutting him. And yes-I wrote a post about him. But my father never would've found my site if someone hadn't have forwarded it to him. And the fact that he was sent something from it is unforgivable. For the first time since I was 6 years old, our relationship was getting better. I missed him and looked forward to hearing from him. I can't face being robbed (by myself or by anyone else) of that again.

My mother has given me her word that she will never visit this site again. Honestly? I think that's a good idea. I would like to repair our relationship, but I know that's not really up to me. I'll only ever have one mother, and although our relationship is turbulent, I am not yet ready to hang my hat up on it. Mom, you piss me off and drive me crazy but you are my mother and I love and miss you very much. I've always been there for you, even if you think I don't understand.

For my father, if you're reading this, then can you please call me?

For my sister-you have not given me your word that you will not visit here. In fact, in the past year you haven't given me anything other than swords to "protect" our mother. Stay off my site. And stay out of my life.

As was said in the comments yesterday, my blog was started for one massive reason-as my free therapy. I have all kinds of things in my head and heart that I am trying to work out. I make no secret of the fact that I have massive issues that I am dealing with-in fact, all my issues have been discussed on this site. My issues come from all kinds of places-my past. My behavior. My childhood. My adult life. Chemicals. I don't blame anyone for "making" me mental. There are factors in how I got here today, and yes-my family is a large part of that. But I take ownership of my problems. I have problems.

I'm not going to quit my blog. I can't quit it. In the late hours, in the dark, in my heart, I toss and turn and think about it and I know I simply don't want to-writing here has led to having a better attitude, a healthier mindset, and has helped me learn how to calm down, to listen, to laugh, to know that although I am a wee bit mental, I'm not a complete insurance write-off just yet. There is still hope for me.

I think, anyway.

This blog is not closed. It may be someday, and when that day comes I will close it and keep it that way-bungee-cord relationships are not my style. But for me, and how I feel now, that day is a long way away.

The whole point of this site is thus-these are my feelings. This is my life. The title "Everyday Stranger"? It means exactly that-I am a chick you can pass on the street and it will never change your life. I am like the millions of others out there, all anonymous people with heartbreak, hope, happiness and horror. A few people who read this site know my real name, but the point of it all, in the beginning, was I realized that we pass people by all the time without even giving them a second thought. If you passed me, I would be one of them.

My emotions, as I have said in the past, are written down on this site exactly as I feel them. Maybe they don't even always make sense, they certainly don't always make sense to me. The emotions-the good, the bad, the ecstatic and the horrific-they're all here. And I just can't quit that-it would mean returning to the person that I was, which was one part robot, one part vicious temper, and one part thousand-miles-an-hour self-destructive hurricane. And stuffing me into that person won't work. I don't fit in her anymore.

The fact of the matter is, I never really did.
It's part of why I broke.

For the few people that know me in real life, this blog may sometimes hurt. It sometimes hurts me when I read what I have written about myself and discover that I am not a very good person. If you read this site, then you enter it knowing that this is my brain dump. This is where my heart is.

I absolutely don't want to hurt people, and I am deeply sorry if people are hurt. Really, it has never been my intention to roast my family here, only to talk about what has me in knots that way it does. You can't leave your past behind, no matter how hard you try-it's part of the packaging that you carry with you.

So from here on, this site is run on the proviso that entering here is at your own risk. I will protect and guard this site since it is me. What I write here comes from my mind and my memories, and no matter what ugly color paint it is lacquered with, it is mine, and it is real.

This.
Is.
My.
Site.

There was a comment yesterday that stays with me-Sometimes, a girl's just gotta burn the whole fucking house down and move somewhere else. It doesn't mean I am going for the lighter fluid and a box of matches, I really like the terraced home Mr. Y and I live in and don't want it to smolder away. And besides that, unless it's involved in a candle-related chick environment, fire kinda' scares the crap out of me.

I was thinking of the "burning down the house" analogy when it comes to feelings. I didn't go down the route of "phoenix from the ashes" or any other kind of mystical matephors designed to dazzle the everyday interior of the mind, but it does have me thinking like this: My whole life has been a series of walls and roadblocks, concrete structures which kept me in my own petting zoo, natural borders that keep the pain segregated from the nice people with the camers and the peanuts. And I've been tired for such a long time. Really, deep-down, bone tired of life, of my cage, and of all the sparkly accessories that life waved at me. When I started this blog I started to purge my mind. Last Fall, when I lost my job, I purged my possessions. In March, I ejected out of Life number 5.

Since January 2003 the house has been on a slow burn, but you betcha it's fucking burning down. And maybe the cheesy phoenix analogy works, because now I feel small parts of myself coming to life, the ugly puce paint chipping off as I am beginning to be real. I haven't stepped outside of myself for a while now, whereas once it was on a daily basis.

I'm sorry if this post seems a little disjointed. I haven't slept much, there've been floods of tears, a little bit of the ass bleed (Pop! Goes the Ul-cer!) but my nice man and I are going here this weekend (Monday is a bank holiday here in England)-we leave late this afternoon. And if you check the webcams, you may just see us-one of them is in front of our hotel.

I'll be back Monday afternoon.

Have a good weekend, and try not to get disowned. I don't recommend it. It doesn't feel nice at all.

-H.

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August 26, 2004

What's the Fucking Point.

Previous post from earlier today deleted.

As this blog may be, too.

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August 25, 2004

Tinkle Tinkle Little Star

I am blessed with a bladder the size of a pumpkin seed, which means that I am well acquainted with every toilet between here and London, and quite a few of those within the city as well. It means I am able to navigate through the darkness of my house with the grace and finesse of a drunken bull in a matador's ring as I stumble and fumble my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It means I have zero shame asking people where a toilet is. It also means I have the art of hovering down to a science, with thighs like Arnold Schqarzennegger's.

It's a fact of life.
It just is.
I pee all the time.
I don't know how many times in my life I have heard the words, "What, AGAIN?" and not in a complimentary I-see-you've-just-had-another-orgasm or you've-won-Miss-America kind of way.
And I don't know how many times I have uttered the words, anxious look on the face and toes hopping as I search the area like a deer in headlights: "Ummm...I kinda' have to go."

And if I can't get to a toilet, I get angry. I get stressed, I get angry, and I worry that I am giving myself a yeast infection (apparently you can do that if you hold it too much). Or that I will suddenly blow a gasket like a defective washing machine line and unleash the torrent. Or that it will back up and come out my tear ducts.

Criss-crossing the way across the US as a kid, we would make our way from rest stop to rest stop, little Helen running from the car with a look of sheer terror on her face and screaming: "Get out of the way! Get out of the way! For the love of God, mankind and the Smurfs, GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

Moving to Sweden was liberating. In Sweden, I learnt the Swedish way: When you've gotta' go, you've gotta' go. If it's not obscene, go ahead and whip it out or squat and let it flow. No longer was I chained to the foul sewage stench of rest stops, oh no! I had the great outdoors! Sides of the road, behind trees, in alleys between parked cars! I'm not saying you drop trou in the middle of the shopping center-more like the tree-lined parking lot outside of it. The world was a wide open possibility of places to urinate, it was my pearl from my oyster, my very own release from the stresses of always making sure there was a floating ball in my recipient receptacle! I was free! Weeing was heaven!

From then on, I looked at the world in terms of possibilities-all I needed was a kleenex in my pocket/handbag/car. Where once a field looked restrictive, now it presented the possibility of numerous squatting places. Where once a drunken night at the bar meant lurching from McDonald's to McDonald's, it now meant that the snow between the parked cars was fair game! I was free!

And now in England, I feel more restrictive. My tiny bladder and I can safely visit fields and trees in secluded areas, but no longer can relief be found behind a parked car. There are rules. There are frowns from society.

But even more so, there is CCTV, and with one camera for every four people here, I really don't think they need a shot of my beaver as I squat and relieve.

Yesterday morning I was in bed asleep when I heard an amazingly loud sound. I blinked, wondering what was up. I awoke to Mr. Y looking at me, seeing if I heard, and when he thought I hadn't, he was off for his morning bathroom routine.

Oh but I did hear, my darling, I did.

And later, when I asked Mr. Y about it, he pinked up and shrugged, saying "It's hard to control what you can't see."

This is like reaching a mature stage of a relationship. We have indeed come to terms with bodily functions-him with mine when I was fucked-up hungover one morning and I went in to tinkle while he was brushing his teeth, and I broke the lid on the seal a few times. I was too sick to care. And when we had a wonderful dinner the other night packed with red onions, we simply made a pact between us that any hot air that moved would be overlooked, ignored, and never spoken of.

I can pee in front of him, I simply don't care. In fact, with a bladder like mine, I could wee in front of the Pope, the President, Big-Ear Tony, and even John Cusack. No one is above me holding it for. But Mr. Y can only pee in front of me if I don't actively look at him.

One day I put my head over his shoulder, I wanted to observe the process.
I felt him go tense.
Droplets came.
I kept staring.
He froze up.
"Do you have to stare?" he asks.
"Does it make it crawl back up?" I reply as the stream starts again.
More droplets. "Doesn't come very fast." I remark. "And your willy looks a bit like a tube worm when you pee."
"That's not very nice."
"A really cute tube worm."
I keep staring, as it comes in fits and bursts.
"Is it supposed to come in fits and bursts?" I ask. "Do you need me to snap on gloves and ask you to cough?"
"Quit staring at me."
"Is your urine usually that color?"
"Quit staring at me."
"Do boys use toilet paper when they pee? Like, a little sqaure? See, with that skin there I bet-"
"For God's sake, Helen, quit staring at me and get out!"

Hmph. And he was cute while he peed, too. No splashback or anything.

We draw the line at what we call private moments. The door gets closed and no one is present in the room. We may love each other and want to share, but there are limits.

As far as private moments go, when I have them, I need to be alone. If anyone is nearby (besides Mr. Y, whom I am only just getting used to this), I will run the water in the sink. In Sweden, the toilets were fantastic-your own little room to handle your own transactions. In England, you at least have privacy doors, but I remember more than one time in the US when I hoped to God that the women would just leave the room so I could get on with it. There can be no private moment with others in the bathroom. I just can't do it.

I'm not going to go into them here, I have phobias, you know.

I decide to ask Mr. Y about his life as a male with male toilets. You know. Bring out the anthropologist in me (who says anthropology always has to be about the Dobe! Kung? Don't we already have them figured out now?)

"Can you have a private moment at work, in a stall?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Yeah."
"Do you care if people can hear you?"
"Not really."
"And at the urinal, how close can the other guy be to you?" I ask, thinking of men lined up around a porcelain queen at a football game.
"You can stand side by side, but no touching."
"Not even a little bit?"
"No."
"What if their shirt brushes you?"
"You don't mention it. Or look at them."
"Can men share one urinal? Like if it's not a communal thing and you really have to go?"
"Absolutely not. There can be no sharing."
"Do you aim for the cookie?"
"Not usually-there can be splashback from that."

I was like Jane Goodall, exploring the chimpanzees. Dian Fossey sitting and scratching a silverback. This was a whole new world. I mean-lots of people (like Jim and Emily) blog about bathroom humor. But this was actual learning, an alien species opening up to me. It was seeing the Victor side of the Victoria, complete with the willy drip (as Mr. Y calls it. I like to call it "shaking the dew off the lily" but no one gets it).

"What's the worst thing that happens in the men's toilet?" I ask.
"If a guy pushes you in the back, either intentionally or not. There's nothing you can do. You're going to be a sprinkler of urine. There will be splashage. It makes one angry." he says, nonchalantly. "I did it to my mate Leon. It makes him furious, but so worth it, once you get out of hitting range."

I tilt my head.
"Do men break wind while peeing?"
He thinks. "It can be done."
"No, I mean, if you have one stored up, can you break it while peeing standing up?"
"Absolutely!"
"Does that cause mortification at the urinal?"
"Absolutely not. It's to be congratulated!"
"What?" I ask, confused.
"Absolutely, if one guy farts the others will compliment him in some form. My standby is I say 'Name that tune!' And if he can a merry tune out of it, it's congrats all around!"

Oh.
My.
God.

"Seriously?" I ask, my photojournalism anthropology career in shock at the new revelations.
"Sure." he says honestly. "Don't women do that?"
"NEVER!" I squeak. "That is the act which shall not be named! We do the toilet paper whiz and spin to cover up the sound of it! How awful!"

So it's true, then.
Women are dainty, delicate creatures who abhor breaking wind.
Men are like Porky's caricatures, and definitely in touch with their inner phlegmatic.

My anthropology work here is done. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the field-er, I mean, the toilet.

-H.

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August 23, 2004

London Calling

Saturday afternoon, after we'd had a picnic of Camembert, red wine, and ciabatta. I was outside, taking the sheets down from the line on a warmish afternoon, hair in a messy rats' nest, glasses on, and wearing my standard boxers and Old Navy T-shirt. Summer has more or less bailed on us here in England, but it was a nice taste of a warm afternoon. A window opened from upstairs, and Mr. Y's head popped out.

"Have you seen Les Miserables?" he called down.

"Twice." I reply, clothespin in my mouth. I spit it out. "And read the book. Why?"

His head bobs back inside.

Curious, I finish the job and head inside to see what's up. I take the fresh clean laundry upstairs, deposit it on the bed, and walk into the study, where Mr. Y is busy on the computer. He turns to face me, big grin on.

"I wanted to do something nice for my girlie," he said, and I peer over his shoulder. He is looking at London shows, and trying to book one up.

"But you hate theatre!" I reply, marvelling.

He sighs dramatically. "This is what relationships are about. Compromise."

Before you know it, we've booked up a show (that I would never in a million years have guessed he would've agreed to see) on LastMinute.com, which often has a great supply of last minute tickets, I've taken a bath and have undergone a radical transformation worthy of Queer Eye-dressed to the nines in a little black dress with cleavage open and on display, and wearing tiny sparkly pink strappy high heels.

Mr. Y points to them. "Those are going to hurt your feet."

I do a girlie pirouette, pointing my toes. "No they won't. And aren't they fabbbbbulouuuuus?" I gush.

I feel so cute, and on the arm of my favorite guy also dressed up an lovely in a YSL maroon colored shirt (which he gets annoyed at since he hates insignias showing on shirts) we take the train into London for a meal and a show.

I have been to shows in London before, and the thing about them are, they are invariably in tiny-but-packed theatres laden with actors that you see in films. For some reason, American stars feel the need to flex their acting muscle in the small theatres here, so recently we've had Molly Ringwald, David Hasslhoff, Apple-loving Gwennie, and Calista Flockheart, to name a few. No wonder the English think there's an American invasion on England. There really is one.

I have also seen shows in Dallas, Stockholm, and New York, and the greatest difference is, in New York, some of the theatres are enormous. I think there are some people still wandering around in them, having gotten lost looking for the bathroom during an intermission. They may still be clutching a copy of the program for Cats in their nervous little hands, wishing they'd brought a pen with them so they could make the walls that they pass.

Once in London, we pick up the tickets and go for some dinner. Dressed up in lovely clothes, my Issey Miyake perfume wafting through my nose and my sparkly cute girl shoes killing my feet (but I am not going to tell him that), we go to the kind of place we both love. The kind of place that caters to my vegetarian needs, and proffers a gentle inspired atmosphere that takes in the ambience that a diner desires.

We went to a tiny hole-in-the-wall, crunchy-goodness-I-miss-the-60's type of restaurant in a basement, called Food For Thought, where both our meals together cost £6 (that's about 11 USD) and the place only serves organic whole foods type nosh. The place is packed and popular, with more hemp present than in Jamaica, and we sit at communal tables with people in batik tie-dye and dredlocks, making romantic eyes at each other and playing footsie under a scarred wooden table, where the water is free and the food without any additives whatsoever. To the right of us is a table on the floor with pillows strewn around it, which we just missed getting as it got occupied by a man in Teevos and his woman in overalls.

I loved it.

After we downed the good stuff with the wholesome properties, we go do what any other couple would do-we ruin it by heading into a bar for some martinis. That's right-we sat in a lovely bar across from the theatre and I downed cassini martinis, made of all kinds of liquor and syrupy girlie type stuff, while Mr. Y quaffed white wine. I felt a bit like Sara Jessica Parker, if she were about 6 inches taller and perhaps 40 pounds heavier and wasn't complaining about the pink strappy shoes with her toes made of iron. We giggled and laughed and I surreptitiously put some band-aids on my throbbing toes under the table. Then we went into the theatre, where we had another glass of white wine before heading to the theatre.

The theatre, the Cambridge Theatre, is a small theatre with perhaps enough seats for 200 people. The seats are plush red velvet that have seen better days, with gold railing lining the balconies. After walking up the large stairs and we took our seats.

When the show started, the music swelled. The cast, stunning in their ensemble, filled the room with their voices, streaming over the completely sold-out audience. I felt the sopranoes hit notes on my spinal cord, tumbling into the rafters. Mr. Y sat, dubious, watching the stage, and we heard the magical words fill our ears:

"She's a chick with a dick! A chick with a dick! A chick with a diiiiiiiiiiick!"

That's right.

We bought tickets for Jerry Springer, the Opera.

And it was hilarious. And I wasn't the only American chick watching an American comedy of a show taking the piss out of an American tv series in London, I heard lots of us. The best part is, Mr. Y seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself, as I heard him chuckle quite often.

Jerry Springer was played by David Soul, of Starsky and Hutch (was he Starsky? Or Hutch? I never know. Don't really care, either). The first act was about him interviewing people on his show, and the second act was about him in hell, trying to come to terms with the consequences of his show. I have never, ever seen an operetta like that in my life. First, the singing was fantastic. Secondly, I have never been dressed up like that and hear things such as how midgets give great blow jobs, how a grown-man wants to wear a diaper and have his mother change it, or heard Jesus tell Satan to "talk to the hand". And that's not even including the scene where they make fun of the KKK, whom are tap-dancing their way through a scene.

At intermission, another glass of wine waiting for me with Mr. Y, I use the toilet. To my surprise, the toilet paper has musical bars on it, with the words: "This is your Jerry Springer moment." written on them, which is one of the big songs in the show.

I tell Mr. Y about it over a cup of sauvignon, served in a paper cup. He snorts. "It should've said 'This is your Jerry Springer movement'."

What a clever boy.

The show ends, and we both are pleased to note we spent a lot of it laughing our tails off. I hadn't expected to like the show, but I really honestly did. It was a parody of a parody, a piss-taking out of the show that made "trailer trash" a household term. It was unexpectedly funny, and it charmed me to know that Mr. Y would brave a night in London by booking a show like that for me.

We head home, and at Waterloo we decide to buy some goodies at Marks and Spencer to eat on the train home. We pick up some foodie bits and some wine, and wait in the queue. A very tall man with his shirt untucked and the amazing swerving and swaying ability that only the drunk can manage, is behind us, bottle of wine in hand and impatience on his face. We wait for ten minutes, and finally reach the checkout at 2 minutes to 11.

The clerk refuses us the wine, as they can't sell alcohol at 11.

Indignant, we point to our watches-there's 2 minutes to go and anyway we'd been in line for ten minutes!

He refuses.

We demand he calls management.

Management in the form of a small round man comes out and refuses, as well, even though we point out we've been waiting forever and we still have one minute to go. He refuses, and doesn't even bother with an apology. Drunken man behind us goes ballistic, but I decide to stay calm.

I look him in the eye and coolly say in my best schoolmarm voice, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? That this is the customer service that you offer? Isn't that a tragedy?" He shrugs, in an I-don't-give-a-shit kind of way. "I think I shall never shop here again, I am so disappointed in the lack of customer service here." I reply, pursed lips.

He shrugs again in a "pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on" kind of way, and we walk out.

We walk around and clip to the train, and I am giddy and giggly. I am the chick that would never send a dish back to the kitchen if I was unhappy. I am the chick that will generally not say anything to people when they cut in line, I just experience a rise in blood pressure. I am the chick that will be at the airport 2 hours ahead if the airlines instruct so, since I don't want to cause waves. And in one week I not only went toe to toe with someone from Teledick, I told a manager of a shop how disappointed I was in the service.

Maybe Jerry Springer is rubbing off.

Feet hurting, head happy, and mood high, I sit on the train next to Mr. Y and fall asleep on his shoulder, filled with organic food, dizzy bubbles, and the lyrics "this is....your Jerry Springer moment.....".

-H.

PS - Congrats to my lovely, lovely Simon and his new baby. How wonderful

PPS- Am off today to deal with Von PettyPumpkin. Wish me luck

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August 20, 2004

Clap Your Hands If You Believe

I grew up superstitious. Spill salt? Gotta fling that over your left shoulder and remember to sweep it up later. Cracks in the sidewalk got avoided (although I must have failed, as both my grandfather and grandmother wound up with broken backs). Trucks rolling past me that were filled with hay got wishes made on them, and lavendar was always planted for luck.

I didn't go overboard-I think black cats are the height of perfection and I really don't give a damn about walking under a ladder. And if broken mirrors cause 7 years of bad luck, then me and my Laurel and Hardy ways are seriously fucked, seeing as I seem to be perpetually dropping and breaking things (laptop, anyone?)

My great-grandmother, a woman whose skin was wrinkled and as papery to the touch like the petals of a week-old rose, with a big set of false teeth and a droopy bosom that she loved to squish the kids to, was a psychic. Believe it or not, we would sit around her and listen in awe to what she had to say. She would read palms, look at us and tell our fortune, and was eerily correct in most of what she came up with.

I remember sitting at their kitchen table in Des Moines. Once their house have been in farmland, but over the years it became absorbed into a run-down area of the city. The kitchen was the most central room in the house, we all sat there for our talks, with the rubber-ended chairs sticking to the brown linoleum with big flowers on it. White tupperware salt and pepper shakers naked columns in the center of the table. For some reason, there was also always a tray of butter on the table, melting slightly with an oily dip in the middle.

My great-grandmother was one of the coolest women I've ever known, single-handedly taking care of everyone and everything, including my great-grandfather-a WWII vet who had the fingers of one of his hands shot off during the war, a man who had worked in a tire factory and suffered debilitating coughs with Black Lung because of it. Kids, roaming the streets with parents that ignored or detested them, would go to my great-grandparents for food, some Kool-Aid, chat, or another kind of emotional nourishment that only people with big hearts could give. She would open up a drawer of plastic pop-beads, costume jewelry and masses of Masonic pendants to us, and we would dress up like princesses.

My great-grandmother would talk about spiritual issues, ghosts and fairies, mystics and magic. She weaved the little people into stories that never once impacted her other beliefs as a rather Christian woman (some things didn't rub off on me, I guess). And it never occured to me that it wasn't real, that there weren't fairies, spectres and ghosts. She talked about them as matter-of-factly as she talked about my crazy Uncle Ray, so of course they were real. Why wouldn't they be?

Just before her death, with a diagnosis of terminal cancer, she became insanely religious to the Christian slant. The little people story well ran dry, and gone were the palm readings. I remember my mother hugging me and telling me that people, as they near death, often do become very religious. That they are looking for hope and redemption, and so they turn to it.

I missed her stories.

At her funeral, I wrote her a story and put it in her casket. To this day I can't remember what I wrote, but I sincerely hope that she liked it. She always did encourage me and love me, so I can't imagine her chucking the story across the coffin and saying: "Geez, Helen, what a waste of good double-lined paper!"

I miss my great-grandmother sometimes. I think she would have given me some great advice about my life, advice that would have been honest and heart-felt, not what I wanted to hear or what is correct in society. If there was one woman with a big heart and a head full of wisdom (albiet a complete lack of common sense, my kind of gal) it was her.

Maybe it's because of her that I also have a unique blend of modern versus ancient. Sure, I'm an adult, but I too believe that reading palms is interesting. It doesn't guide my life or anything, but it's nice to know I'm going to live a long time and have two kids. I'm not sure little fairies tiptoe through my bedroom at night, but why can't they? I don't mind, as long as they don't move my glasses, pull my hair or spill my water.

Ghosts? Yeah. Those are real, I think. Not this version of people covered in sheets, but little shadows or light that peer into corners or attract your attention. The hint of something in the corners of your mind, little sighs from the house as it moves and shrinks, thinking about the past. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, after all. Why can't people stick around? Why do ghosts have to be the stuff of Hollywood wizardry, what is it about the unknown that makes us quake and chill? Shouldn't we take comfort in itl? That around us may be others who look after us, look into us, look out for us?

I lived in a loft apartment in Dallas, which was a really strange place. Things were always going missing, I would look for a hot pad in the kitchen, only to find it in the bathroom the next day. And every night at 2 am, my dog and I would wake up. BLAM! Wide awake. My dog, curled at the bottom of my bed, would look up at the ceiling and whine. And every night, at 2 am, a little blue light would appear on the ceiling. I did masses of experiments to determine where this light came from, and after a week I gave up-it didn't come from any electrics in the house, or through the window (curtains were drawn). It was just there. Every night.

Others saw it too-Kim would often stay over and at 2 am, he too would wake up instantly, and all 3 of us would look at the tiny bobbing blue light. In the morning the items on the bathroom counter would often be flung on the floor, even though they were pushed back against the wall before bed.

I didn't mind. I kind of took comfort in it, in fact. And when I finally moved, it wasn't because of the little blue light, but because the Dallas police department chased down an armed suspect and finally caught him right by my front door as I was walking to it from a trip to the grocery store.

Trust me when I say that when you hear a male voice scream at you: "Get down! Get down!" the Kroger bag of groceries gets forgotten and you get down with more speed than a breakdancer.

Wetting your pants is optional.

I have been in many places where I've looked around and felt: Think of all the ghosts in here. And it's not with the enthusiasm of someone trying to make contact with the other side (there's someone else I would've tried to long-distance dial, if that were the case). It's more of a shrug of the shoulders, a smile and thought of my great-grandmother, and the knowledge that there's room for all of us.

Just because you grow up, doesn't mean the magic has to die.

-H.

PS-I'm not saying where, but there was a brief glimpse of me on tv last night here in the UK...I wonder if anyone saw it?

PPS-Luuka should be headed to Eric now, Marie if you want to see if you can get her earlier, just ask Ted!

PPPS-This was my 400th entry, and I should reach my 6000th comment next week. Not bad, eh?

PPPPS-Beth asked for some recipes! In the extended entry is one of my faves! more...

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August 18, 2004

The Scent of Desire

Is it palpable, the scent?

Is it almost physical sometimes, desire? Can you reach out and touch it, curve your fingers around it, make it soft between your fingers, melt out through the gaps of your knuckles? If you hold it in your hand, does it heat up and become incandescent?

There are some instigators that light me up, that make the tiny fine hairs on the back of my neck twitch and make my neck curve around on my spine. They are finite and little things, small moments that send me alight and make me tactile, that make me long to run my fingers and hands over supple woods, soft satins, and sweaty skin. I can't state all of them, they hit me at different times, often catching my by surprise. Candles and champagne, the standard cliche. Watching Mr. Y as he talks to a kitten, a baby, a puppy, nurturing a small being in his enormous and calloused hands. Some music by Enigma or the Vangelis love theme from Blade Runner. A flirty eye candy exchange with Mr. Y from across a dinner table or crowded room.

It makes me lurch around in my seat just thinking about it.

Not for one second do I take it for granted that I have Mr. Y, and that he has me. I have a most incredible relationship, complete with the dizzying highs and tar-pit lows. But I have a lover that will let me do anything, that will touch me and let me touch him anywhere, a lover that has woken something up in me that I didn't know existed.

In the past, drunken fumbles and patient acceptance was my routine. Exes would be going at it while I would make a grocery list in my head, wondering when I should pick up the dry cleaning and what would be on TV tomorrow night. I faked it every time, I gave them nothing but my acquiescence, and in that I cheated both them and myself.

I knew it was reaching the end with X Partner Unit when I not only dreaded the bedroom routine, but I wanted it over quickly. No kissing, it just felt so wrong, it felt like I was cheating on someone with my heart, only I never knew whom. No looking at each other, that was too intimate and too close. Just fuck me and get it over with, I would think. Take me from behind, make it as animal and distant as possible. Leave me alone.

And now I have this man that I would drink in bed if I could. I can't get enough of looking at him during the bedroom tango, meeting his gaze. I could kiss him for hours, feeling him on me, in me, around me. There's nothing that we can't do in the bedroom, nothing is taboo, and there isn't a grocery list in sight.

This morning I shower off, letting the soap run down my legs, feeling on. As I take the thick foaming sponge and run it over my thighs, I catch sight of a perfect purple line ridged into my flesh on the top of the back of my thigh. I trace it with my sudsy finger, leaving a trail of tiny lavender scented bubbles that pop and drip down my leg. It's a belt-mark, perfectly engrained in my flesh, complete with the tiny punctured holes for the belt tooth.

Mr. Y had tied me up, squriming and excited, and then spanked me, telling me to tell him to stop. I refused, absorbing the white heat of the belt strap, letting the molten pain drift around my lower body and spread among me. When at last I told him to stop, he immediately untied me and smothered me with apologetic kisses, even though in my mind he'd done nothing wrong, there was nothing to apologize for.

It was a fabulous evening.

I understand that the world thinks passion fades. Read a chick magazine, glance at the web, hear long-married couples say with a knowing one-sided dissatisfaction, and realize that life thinks the romance dies. It peters out, it gives up, the passion candle dies and is replaced by a solid puddle of firm and reliable friendship wax.

To which I say to life....Fuck you. I've had enough of compromising in my life. I've had enough of getting close to the dream but letting it slip through my fingers. I'm going to have both. I'm going to have the wax and the candle. This is my world, this is my heart, and this is my chance to finally see the dream come true. The friendship and the passion-they're both mine. Try to take them from me, and I wil fight to the death.

I'm not saying every moment is filled with hearts and flowers. I don't think passion needs to come out of the pores of your skin every moment of every day. Passion and romance are treats and splenidid pleasures that shouldn't be taken for granted-always have them around and the lustre will fade, the sparkle dim perhaps, as the rarity of it retreats. But I do think that-with the right person-it lingers there beneath the surface, coming up to haunt you from time to time when you're alone-thinking how someone makes you think or feel or act. Or when you're together and the heat is omnipresent. And I do think it means that grocery list sex is gone for good, relegated to my past.

I simply believe that passion doesn't have to die, if you don't want it to. The lows may be low, but the highs are like a drug that erases and eases the synapsing corners of the brain. They say a woman forgets the pain of having a baby is forgotten over time, that it's nature's way of easing the path again. Maybe so. But maybe you can never forget the pain of going back to the faking relationship when you've have the real thing.

There are a lot of things in my life that I am done with, that I will never accept again. A passionless existence. Faking orgasms, love and lust. Not being able to talk. Not being able to squirm about in sweat and lust and heat. Not being able to feel again some of the things that I have felt in the past few months.

And with being life's bitch.

I am so done with that.

And now if you'll excuse me...I have an ass to kick at work today.

-H.

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August 17, 2004

The Other Side of Opera

Our plane is delayed at Gatwick, so when it finally touches down at Marco Polo airport, the night sky is lit up with a ring of thunderclouds that don't release the rain, they simply provide a fireworks display the likes of which I haven't seen in years. We get into a taxi, and the driver plays some upbeat remixed opera, and with a sweat sheen painting my chest and face, I sit back in the taxi and let the music swish over me, holding Mr. Y's hand and enjoying the scent of warm air in the car. I feel girly, giddy, oozy with love.

We get to the bus station, and the driver directs us to the water ferries, so we head out to the water boat station and wait for one to show up and take us to our hotel, which is smack in the center of the city, a few minutes away from Piazza San Marco. It's late, and people are out and about on the docks, laughing, taking photos, stunned and amazed. The sky continues its night display, while sparing us the rain. Mr. Y is looking at boat timetables, trying to figure out the schedule.

I go dancing up to him, twirling my arms around his neck and so thrilled to be there with him. I shower his faces with kisses as I try to keep the grin off my face.

"I don't want kisses right now." he growls.

I stand back.

What?

I look at his face. "Are you ok, baby?" I ask, unsure of what's happening.

"No, I'm bloody furious!" he seethes. "We've been ripped off by the taxi driver, and we are totally unprepared for being here. This is a disaster. Don't tell me you think this is going well?"

Oh. "Actually, I do. I think of Italy as just being chaotic and corrupt. I don't mind it. In Italy, I think of just going with the flow. Can't you just think of that with me? Can't we just enjoy each other's company while we wait?" I stand back, unsure of what to do. He's livid, and I never know how to handle these situations.

Our boat finally comes. We get on it, him a wriggling mass of anger and me defeated and crushed that the trip to Venice I booked up for us is already going so wrong. It gets worse, too, as the boat we are on stops service halfway to our hotel, we all get unceremoniously dumped on a dock and we have to wait there for another one. When the next boat finally comes, Mr. Y and I are equally stone-faced. When we finally make it to the hotel and check in, riding the lift up to the room, his back to me as he faces the buttons of the side panel, I hear his voice quietly filling the tiny lift.

"I am so sorry." he says softly.

We go to bed, not touching, not talking.

The next morning dawns better, as he starts off with rounds of apologies. I accept them, I understand he was stressed. I had forgotten how difficult it can be to find your way around Venice, to work the system. I was regretting booking the trip, but hopeful that it would get better and that his stress was over. It became our joke, to see people lugging suitcases, map in hand and frown on face. And it seemed without fail that whenever we would see them, the man looked cross and stressed, the woman looked tired, an argument brewing in the space between them.

Formulaic, really.

But I still wish the fight hadn't happened.

Breakfast is in the hotel's little garden, a dish of rich cafe latte and croissants with Nutella. Ordinarily my calorific-fears would kick in over such a meal, but somehow in Italy or France it feels normal. Expected. One eats croissant with nutella in the sunshine, tiny birds all around. It's what's done. So far be it from me to say no, eh?

We start by sightseeing, walking around the city that is Venice. The sun is warm and spectacular, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I can feel the light soaking into my arms, my face, my hair, and I breathe easier, knowing that the cobwebs are being chased out of me. We take a lot of pictures but avoid the tourist masses-uninterested in waiting for hours to see the Doge's Palace in San Marco, we pass it by and spend our time chasing up and down the alleys of Venice, learning the cobbled streets and agog at the ancient feeling in the city.

Once you get out of the center of Venice, you have whole areas to yourself. We stop at a little tiny restaurant in one of the quieter parts, a little trattoria whose name translates to "The Pumpkin". We drink a liter of wine (that's a bottle and a half to most of us) and sit outside in the warmth, gorging ourselves on buffalo mozzarello and pomodoro, pumpkin, and vegetables. The outside area fills up, and in no time we realize that two of the tables near us are populated by an American family and their Italian hosts.

Surprisingly, Venice was heaving with Americans. You heard them everywhere, all in groups, all laughing. It was so wild-I haven't heard so many Americans since...well...the last time I was in America. I hadn't really thought of Venice as being high on the tourist map-it's difficult and expensive to get there, and the last time I was in Venice, I don't recall hearing a single American accent. I think it's great that Americans are travelling, provided I am not exposed to loud stories of an American college student's father, who liked to drop his trousers to tuck his shirt in. On behalf of myself and all the other diners at that restaurant, sweetheart, we wish you'd lowered your voice. Really.

The father of the American family is on the phone, talking loudly. Not as loud as his wife, who is trying to pick out the most bland food on the menu possible. She settles for asking for some spaghetti with tomato sauce, proof perhaps that you can take the person out of the country, but you can't take the Ragu out of the person. I want to walk over to her and say: You have to try this food. The Italians can make such fantastic fare here. Give it a shot, you'll love it. Honest.

The father is talking even louder on the phone. "Ohmigod are you serious?" he nearly shouts into the phone. "Was that on the news? Really?" he shakes his head. Mr. Y and I (and, frankly, everyone within a block radius) wonder what's up. He hangs up and turns to his group.

"The governor of New Jersey has resigned after a gay affair!" he crows. "Can you believe it? And there was nothing on the news about it! Clearly the BBC didn't think it was newsworthy! Can you believe it? That's not newsworthy over here!"

Well, mate, actually....yes, I can believe it. It's not newsworthy in Italy. So he had a gay affair? Big deal. Hope he wore a condom. But no-honestly we don't really care about the governor of New Jersey. I mean, the Home Secretary in the UK is rumored to be having an affair with a married woman, but you don't see that prancing across the screen on CNN, do you? It's all regional news, about what affects the people that live in the areas the news is broadcast to.

A bit sozzled by all the wine, we decide to bounce out of the trattoria and head for the center again, where Mr. Y negotiates a gondolier down to a lovely price for a short ride. The price may be nice, but the gondolier is pissed off about accepting it, and we get the curtest and shortest ride ever. But even so, we laugh off his attitude and enjoy ourselves, relaxing in the company of the sun and each other.

Walking back to the hotel, I realize that I recognize the area we are in. I don't know why, but something tells me that I had been to that area before, and I found myself looking around, wondering why. Walking up a small alley, I see a spray of graffiti on the wall. My heart stops and fills with ice water. There, scribbled on the wall, is the saying (in English): I hate my parents and my life. And I remember that graffiti from eight years ago. Kim made us pose against it and he took a picture of it. I still have those pictures, wrapped in a box in a storage unit in Stockholm. A part of me feels strange to see those words-it's almost physical proof to my mind that he was indeed here with me all those years ago. A part of me wants to listen down the alley for the sound of him, even though the fall of his footsteps on that cobble happened over eight years ago.

I take a picture instead, and move on.

Graffiti

We go back to the hotel for a siesta, a round of sex, and a shower. Changing clothes, we head out for a nice dinner at a candlelit square, the risotto rich and the wine flowing. We talk warm heart-to-heart things, feet rubbing under the table and smiles on our lips. Mr. Y lets me know that he was worried that I am comparing this trip to Venice to my previous trip, but the truth is, I really wasn't. My visit with Mr. Y was so wildly different and so full of sunlight that it hadn't even occured to me.

As we walk back to our hotel, we hear stunning and loving opera flowing down the street. It's a lone voice hurtling up the heights of the scale, accompanied only by a piano. The sound is haunting and beautiful, an ache that makes me squirm and yearn. As we turn the corner, we see that the person singing is directly opposite our hotel, a crowd gathered listening. And to my utter shock, the singer is a man. A older gray-haired man, clearly deprived of his male bits, whose voice made me quiver with tears and happiness.

Saturday and Sunday were also spent walking. We just walked around Venice, taking in the sights and views. Talking to each other, getting to know the city. The Adriatic sparkling and fantastic in the sun, water so blue and clear that it takes my breath away. All I want is to be by it, to feel it, smell it, see it. We have one more argument, a mar on the otherwise sunny landscape. We make up. We make out. Sunday we eat lunch at another tiny trattoria, owned and run by a mother and son. The food is simple, understated, and fantastic.

Venice is for lovers and families. You don't see a lot of single folk wandering around hoping to score-it's couples, holding hands. Families touring the area, all of them looking eager and interested. Apparently, Venice is also popular for proposals, which Mr. Y warns me off of from the get go (which is ok-I didn't actually anticipate one!)

The trip home is fraught and boring, but we both manage to hold our tempers. An American chick stands next to me on the bus from the terminal to the airplane. She is wearing a sparkly new engagement ring and an incredibly sour face, while her boyfriend juggles their bags.

"I hate this country. I hate Europe. I'm never coming back." she whines.

Mr. Y is reading his newspaper, propping himself against a pole and maintaining his balance on the moving bus. I tell him about the conversation that I overheard.

"Fine with me." he says, to her "never coming back statement". "Don't think she'll be missed here."

We are talking now about where to go in October-my only requirement is that it is hot and by the water-and so we are looking at options. Regardless, you can be sure that I will have worked out the transportation upon arriving. But even if the transport goes awry, hopefully Mr. Y will be able to laugh and relax and give me kisses, just glad to be in my company, instead of getting so angry. Maybe it's a chick thing-since learning to laugh things off and not get angry, I now simply want to throw my arms around the boy and enjoy things. Maybe it's not so easy for men to climb down from anger, to want to be kissed when they are pissed off.

And now when I think of Venice, I think of the wonderful company I had and the sun on the Adriatic. And something takes me back to the Friday night. With the windows open to let the wind in, Mr. Y's naked form sleeping peacefully next to me and holding on to me, I stay awake. I let a six foot tall eunuch, dressed in a white T-shirt and fraying jeans sing to me. I stay awake until his last song, and then I let this man's voice reach into my ears and massage my spine, rubbing it and smoothing out the frayed edges, easing me to sleep.

-H.

Some pictures, including my new sidebar pic.

Mr. Y and Helen

View from the Rialto Bridge

On the Gondola

PS-I am pleased for Jim-he's got himself an article published about blogging. It's like he's all grown up and moved out of the house. New home, job safe, been published. *sniff sniff*. Soon he won't need Simon and I, and then what?

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August 16, 2004

Gondole Gondole?

A long one from me tomorrow from a most amazing time.

Until then, a picture. To quote an ex of mine: I mean, if a holiday can't make people envious, what's the point?

Gondolas.jpg

(Did it work? Envious?)

-H.

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August 12, 2004

Fearless

I have always been fearless. The kind to throw caution to the wind, the kind who doesn't worry about the consequences. If there's an adventure, I'm up for it. A new experience, and I will try it. Fear has generally been a foreign commodity to me, something that I pity others for having. My complete lack of regard for life generally gave me the flexibility to be a cow about minor details like: safety. Concern. Security.

Sometimes being a little bit crazy makes life fun. Not only are you the life of a party and pills can be taken like M&Ms, but you get to disregard the serious bits about life and seem completely ok about it. Like "Valley of the Dolls" without the fame, I guess.

Sitting in the car yesterday, fiddling with the strap of my briefcase and trying to sit in a ladylike manner, I turn to Mr. Y.

"What are you afraid of?" I ask him.

"Italian electricity." he replies automatically, not taking his eyes off the road.

Ri-iiiiight.

And I think....What do I fear? What is it in life that I am afraid of?

I'm not afraid of the things that most people fear. For example:

- Heights? Well, I strapped myself to an insane Aussie and threw myself out of a plane a few years ago and am eager to do it again, so I guess not.

- Public speaking? Well, not only was I once an actress, but with Company X I had spoken presented to roughly 300 people at a time previously. No sweat-in fact, I actually enjoy it. Well, enjoy it minus the stupid headphones that they wrap around your head, with a microphone just by your lips. It's always made me feel like I should be leading a step aerobics class or something productive like that, instead of walking through Powerpoint.

- Death? Considering the fact that I have tried to top myself and seem to bounce around in a perpetual state of disregard for danger, that's not really a huge concern either.

-Snakes and spiders? While I don't exactly enjoy spiders, snakes, and bugs, they don't send me wiggy with paranoid fear, dancing on a chair in girlie screaming delight and brandishing a can of Raid in one hand and a spatula in the other (don't ask me why, but that image always has me holding a spatula. Weird.) Bugs get dealt with, life goes on, and while I don't want them as pets, thank you very much, they don't scar me for life either.

- Natural disaster? I remember driving through North Texas on the interstate. It was a boiling hot summer evening, and I was alone in the driver's seat of my beat-up old Honda. My windows were rolled down and the heat and humidity came into the car in waves, making the knobs of the dashboard swell and the steering wheel sticky. The sky was thick and purple, an angry thunderstorm hanging low in the horizon, trapping the heat close to the ground.

As I drove, I noticed the sky change and bulge, and the air around me grew into a hazy green color, a light mist of film sticking over the road. With a few convulsions, I noticed as the thundercloud over the field to my right seemed to absorb itself, and with a flash of lightning it spat out a swirling black cloud, a tornado which reached to the ground and danced on the field beside the road. It whipped up dried yellow vegetation, this small tornado, and hopped and bounced around like a puppet on a string.

And instead of feeling afraid, I felt alive. I laughed and watched out the rolled down window, not stopping, not diving for a ditch. I somehow knew that the tornado and I weren't meant to meet, I didn't feel any concern that it would leap the fence and try to dance with my car, and as I drove it bounced around hazardly on the field before retracting up into the cloud and unleashing a fiery hailstorm that pinged the hood of my crappy car with little metallic plinks, complete with blitzing lightning and a rolling cool in the air that sent instant goosebumps up and down my arms.

Nope. Natural disasters don't scare me. If I can laugh off a tornado-and I have been through a few in my life-then I can laugh off anything.

So that takes me out of the major list of phobias, I guess. Weird-for once a psychological condition doesn't affect me. Maybe I should call Guinness. Or at least the AMA.

Old age was once a fear of mine. The degradation of the faculties, the demise of the presence in society that the older generation should enjoy. I was always so afraid of growing old and-above all-doing so alone (albeit as crazy cat lady). That the days would grow long and my company unappreciated, a lost and sad woman from a lost and sad life. As time passes, perhaps as a function of me aging, I realize that I don't fear that as much as I used to. No, I don't want to be alone. No, I don't want to lose my faculties. But there is strength in age, as well. A quiet respect for a life lived. Maybe it's not going to be as bad as I have feared it to be.

I think about fear, and for the first time I realize there are two things that come up in my mind. Two concerns, perhaps irrational, perhaps stupid. Two angst devices that make my breath catch and tell me that I have things I need to protect in my life, to keep them safe, to hold onto them.

The first is losing what I have now with Mr. Y. It's not an active fear, something that grinds my heart into kibble, but a fact in my mind, a simple boundary that I know could exist. In so many ways, he has become this incredible key to keeping me grounded, to keeping me sane, to teaching me things about myself. For the first time in my life, I can talk about anything and everything. I can be myself, I can be calm, I can laugh off the anger. With him the highs are dizzyingly high and the lows incredibly low, but I know that there's no one else on earth I would rather be with. If I can't make it work with this man, this man whose fingers set my skin to life and whose eyes seem to look deep down into me, then I don't want to make it work with anyone else.

And the second fear? Let me take it down to a serious level here. I am deeply afraid that I will never get better from a battered life and a bruised past. That the weird, screwed up thoughts in my mind will take over me, the demons that scour my soul with their Brillo pads can never be exorcised. Sometimes all I want is to stop hating myself with the force of that tornado I drove with. A quiet acceptance that I am not a bad person, I am not a waste of space, and what I think and feel is ok, it's normal.

Flipping through a photo album of some pictures I had from my childhood, I realize that I don't remember a single episode that they were taken in. I look at this shiny happy little girl that I appear in the album, and I long to take her up in my arms, carrying her through her adolescence, her teens, her twenties, setting her down at 30 and making sure she escaped unscathed. I want her to remember the good bits that I can from my childhood-hours of Pac-Man on Atari. Roller skates with metal wheels that made a hell of a fabulous noise as I tripped down the bumpy paved driveway. Fruit Roll-Ups. Sparklers on the 4th of July. My grandfather's lap. And I want to make sure she can't remember some of the bad bits that I can, to erase them from her memory and her consciousness, to protect her from spears that will stab her forever. Take them away, they didn't exist, give her the perfect and normal upbringing that every little girl deserves.

That's my big fear. That I can't make it up to her. That I can't be forgiven for losing her somewhere along the line, that she can't forgive me for not finding her, and can't forgive me for trying to kill myself before I could. That I can't take the little girl that I was and love her enough to compensate for the adult that I am. That a lifetime of experiences, of world travels, of loves and lovers...that none of it will ever make up for the shattered image that the little girl that is Helen holds inside of me.

Although I am phobia-free, I guess am no longer fearless, no longer able to throw caution to the wind and not give a shit about anything. But at least I know what it is I fear, and I know how to get about fixing it. Bring on the tornadoes, the heights, the public speaking, perhaps even death. But grant me time to make it up to the little girl I was and lost. Let me buy her a bombpop from the ice cream truck, which will paint her lips blue and red and sticky her little fingers. Let me read her a story, and let me give her a hug and tell her that for the next 20 years she'll need to be strong, to hold on, and I will be there for her at the end.

Here's to that little girl.


Young Helen.jpg


-H.

PS-I am off to Venice this evening with my lovely Mr. Y, so nothing from me until Monday.

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August 11, 2004

It Could've Been Me

This morning I got to face the drudge of bureaucracy by heading out to a DHSS (Dept. of Health and Social Services) and obtain what's called a national insurance number. This number is basically like any other kind of number the world over, a number that is automatically assigned for its citizens, be it a social security number, personnummer (in Sweden), what have you. It's the government's way of saying: There's our girl. Now let's get her taxes, eh?

With the exception of tax collection, in England the national insurance number isn't really used. It's not like the social security number in the U.S., which you need for things like credit cards, hooking up utilities, school, etc. Or in Sweden, where you need a personnummer just to cross the street. But until now, I've had a temporary national insurance number, meaning I am giving Tony Blair and his cronies an extraordinary amount of extra tax money.

And that's just not on.

So I had to book an interview. That's right. An interview to sign up and give away my money for taxes. And not only did I have to interview, but I had to go armed with a mountain of paperwork validating who I am, where I live, where I'm from, where I work, my blood type, my star sign, and if I prefer my Slushees cherry-coke or blue-raspberry flavored (cherry-coke, please).

I've gone through this in Sweden, as well. I remember my visa was due to expire and I had to wait in the immigration office to try to renew my new visa. It was November 2001, and I was not only the only Westerner in there, but I was also uncomfortably aware of the "special treatment" I got as a Westerner. It was an unwritten rule that Americans, U.K. citizens, Canadians and Australians had a much easier time of getting a visa than other countries, say in the Middle East or Eastern Europe. When they jumped me in the queue and asked me almost no questions, I hid my American passport in the files on my lap in order not to piss everyone else off. It should be noted: I don't get special treatment here due to my shiny American passport.

So I head to the social security offices, armed to the teeth with documents (note: if you are ever, in any way, remotely even half-toying with the idea of moving? Gather up documents. Keep them in a box. Throw nothing away. That second grade report card where Mrs. Pringle signed that you are "smart but hyper-active" and gave you an "S" in finger painting? Yeah, you're going to need that. Better hope you've kept a sample of the finger painting in question, too), my passport, and a will to survive the interview. The good news is, I interview well. The bad news is, I panic at the thought of these official meetings.

I head into London, as the office I am interviewing in is one tube stop from where I work. It's taken me forever to get this interview, I don't want to be late lest I have to go through the enormous paper trail and phone call nightmare or trying to procure another appointment. I get to the neighborhood, a bright beautiful area with a lovely garden called Russell Square, and there is the the building. Unmistakable. Not only does it have a sign saying: "Social Security Offices" but the front doors are slung in people. Homeless people, beer cans at their feet and yelling at the doors.

Oh Jesus.

So this is where I am going.

I walk in, and there are CCTV camera everywhere. Security is sealed up within the entry vestibule, staffed with men that look like ex-Navy SEALS gone wrong, thick beefy guys with pinky rings, gold chains and swaggers. Inside the office are signs everywhere that say "Do Not Lay On the Floor Or On The Seats". The wallpaper is sliding off the walls. Staff man the interview booths behind bulletproof glass.

Clearly, obtaining a national insurance number is something not done by the crusty upper echelons.

There is another man, in a suit, clutching his briefcase and looking grim. He struck me as looking very Swedish, and he smiled grimly at me, in some form of "get me the fuck out of here with my national insurance number" comraderie. There is a quiet Muslim family sat by the doors, trying to keep to themselves. One lone Asian man waits with a London Street Map wadded in his hands.

And the rest are a group of about 10 transients, staging a revolt.

One of them is yelling that the government is cheating him, this isn't the amount of money he should be getting on unemployment. He is accompanied by a few thin men with "Love" and "Hate" tattooed on their fingers, and they are seriously pissed off. A few women sit wearily on the iron chairs, chairs which are bolted to the ground. One of the women has about 5 teeth. The other woman nervously twirls her short purple hair. The men take turns screaming at one of the interview booths and going outside for a drink. One guy turns to another.

"Hey mate." he snarls in a stage whisper. "Clean yerself up. You're dripping skin onto the floor." he says, pointing to the guy's leg.

The man's sweatpants are unravelling, and it shows skin literally shedding itself off of his shin. He embarrassingly wipes at it, making it worse, and it drifts down to the floor.

The woman with 5 teeth is talking to one of the guys next to her.

"If I get me check today, then by next Tuesday it'll be gone and I'll enter detox. That'll take me through to me next check." She says, grinning her gaping grin.

"Yeah, but detox's hard work." the man replies, scratching his chin.

My name is called to interview for the national insurance number and I get razzed by the waiting homeless, who shout that the social security office has better things to do than give people national insurance numbers, things like giving them their pay and helping to find new jobs.

And it makes me think. Last winter, when it was so cold and so dark, I too had no job. My money would run out in May this year, and if I hadn't had a job by then, what would I do? I would've definitely left Sweden, but to go where? To what? And do what? When the money would've run out, the Swedish government would've kicked in...but for how long? How much? And with the marriage deteriorating, where would I have gone?

That could've been me.

It could've been any of us out there. So many people are one paycheck away from being homeless. So many people struggle in despair, out of hope, out of feeling, and so many jobs have been lost. What keeps us all from tumbling onto the street? What keeps us from falling apart, falling down, falling out?

I too have had my share of alcohol dependencies. Years ago when Kim and I split up, I was the type of chick who rarely drank. A glass of white wine a few times a year. Maybe one or two margaritas a few times a month. It just didn't appeal.

Sitting in my new flat in Arlington, Texas, with our Rottweiler Alexi my only company, the flat done up in crappy new carpeting and with roaches in the kitchen, I lived a miserable life. I cried constantly over Kim, and I had absolutely no money, working in a job that I hated and with no one to turn to. So one night, I made some dinner out of the only things I had in the house-some orange juice, some raspberry sorbet, and some vodka.

And that night I went to bed, dreamless, tearless, and worry-free. In the morning, I woke up hangover free and looking forward to the next drink. I was also depressed beyond belief, a gift that alcohol gives the people it temporarily makes feel better.

It became a nightly routine. Vodka mixed with something. When the vodka ran out, I would go for anything else. Sherry. Cognac. Tequila. Rum. And when the something I mixed with the alcohol ran out? I drank the liquor straight. I drank it from an enormous magenta-colored plastic mug. And I drank it until I passed out.

Nightly.

And thinking of back then...I was one paycheck from being on the street. It was inches away. I had absolutely no extra cash in my paycheck after bills and booze. I had no savings. I had credit card debt bleeding out of my ears and student loans dripping down the walls. I would've been lost. What would've kept me from being on the street? Alexi? Hope? My innate fear of germs?

I was saved when I discovered all that drinking made me gain masses of weight. Just like that-snap. I quit drinking that night. I lost the weight. And although I drink now, I am aware of what it felt like to need something to make me sleep, to make me forget, to make the reality easier to deal with. I know where that boundary lays. I don't want to leap that cliff.

I look at the group in the waiting room there, angry and full of vinegar, and I think...It could've been me. I have been on the edge of losing it all a few times. I could've wound up on the street, homeless, alcoholic, scared, bitter. It could've been me.

And after my interview-which I pass and am awarded a number from-I get up to leave and look at the motley group. One man has ignored the signs and passed out on the floor by the door. The 5 toothed woman looks away from me when I pass her, not meeting my gaze. The truth is, I don't think I am better than them, I don't look down on anyone, I don't think they are sick or sad or lazy. I think they've been dealt a bum rap in life, and simply haven't had the luck or ability to get past it.

Maybe, because each time I've had a complete shake-up of everything I know I've been able to pull myself out of it, maybe because I have someone in my life that hopefully wouldn't drop me, maybe because I keep fighting even when the fighting is killing me, maybe because I've looked at hell in the mouth and backed away...maybe that wouldn't be me.

Or maybe I am just telling myself that, fooling myself to think that I am stronger than I really am.

I exit into the sunlight and slip my sunglasses on.

-H.

PS-Good work. Jim may be saved

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August 10, 2004

The Stumpy Club

We leave for Venice Thursday night for a long weekend of Italian fun. I really care for Venice-it's a bit chaotic, a bit romantic, and such an old and bumpy city. I can only hope that Mr. Y likes it as much as well.

Walking hand-in-hand back from picking up the newspaper a few weeks ago, I mention Venice to Mr. Y.

"Are you looking forward to Venice?" I ask, smiling over at him.

"I am," he says honestly. "It will be nice."

"Venice is so romantic, I just love it." I say, feeling dreamy. I am just about to tell him that I think it's so romantic that I am expecting him to read me poetry and wear a puffy shirt (a la bodice ripping romantic novels) when he interjects.

"I hope you're not expecting me to propose, cause that's not going to happen." he says, wryly.

Hmmm...actually I was going to suggest he read me poetry and dress up like a pirate, a proposal hadn't even crossed my mind, but ok.

Not like there's any question in my mind about how he feels about marriage. Once a truly traditional and conservative boy, he has gone a bit sour about marriage, and doesn't see any pros in it. In Europe, if you are a couple that lives together you get the same rights as a partnership that you get if you're married, and unless you are religious, maybe marriage has less impact, less drive, there's less need to put the meringue on.

To be honest, I myself am a bit confused about marriage. Having been married twice, if I went for a third time it really better had be the final time, or else I really am bordering on Elizabeth Taylor-like behavior. And I don't even know my own thoughts about marriage-the only thing I am sure about is Mr. Y is the one I want to be with until the end. If I can't be with him, I don't want anyone else. This is the guy I want, sign it in indelible ink, seal the envelope, put it in the vault. I finally have the one thing that I have always been lacking in all of my relationships-I have faith. It's a weird and foreign feeling, lemme tell you, to have faith in anything, let alone another person.

Mr. Y's more cautious-he says he wants to spend his life with me, and really hopes it happens, and as it looks today things are positive, however you never really know, do you?

And it's ironic-that's exactly the stand I used to take with previous partners when they swore their love and wish to be with me forever. They had so much faith and certainty, and here I was arming myself in stacks of yellowing insurance policies, simply because I was so sure that I was being realistic and cautious. Others used to get upset at my response, and now I know why.

It kinda' hurts to hear.

In less than a weeks' time-barring a few agreements that still need to be reached-Mr. Y and his ex will be divorced. My divorce papers have now dried, too, and it strikes me as odd about how easy divorce can be, from a logistics standpoint. In Sweden, as a childless couple, we just signed a paper and once the courts got to it, voila. We're divorced. With kids involved, it's a 6 month "cooling off" period to sort out the details of custody, homes, etc. Monthly payments are made. Items moved out of homes. And voila. Divorced.

It was easy in the U.S. as well, once my psycho ex-husband stopped stalking me (thank you, oh great protective order) and sat around a table during a tense negotiation with me, my scummy lawyer, and some mediators. I signed up for paying all the debts, he got all the property and furnishings, and voila. Divorced.

But those are just logistics. Nowhere does it tell you about how it can feel. There's no paper to document how you split yourself up inside. Compartmentalize all you want, but the heart still hurts when you rub it the wrong way.

With my first husband, I honestly didn't feel that bad about the divorce, and weirdly enough the fact that I lacked any pain makes me feel bad. Guilty. Like I didn't care enough, which in retrospect, I guess I didn't. A bad woman in a bad marriage to a bad man. Maybe if he hadn't have raped me and stalked me, I might've cared more. Or maybe I am just a cold bitch, I don't know.

But with X Partner Unit....well, I felt terrible. And sometimes I still do-it's cyclical, sometimes it just hits me, the guilt, and I feel raw and hope that he finds someone wonderful that loves him to bits and takes care of his heart. I'm sure over time that the guilt will lessen. We weren't meant to be together, but that doesn't mean I want him to be unhappy.

The truth is, I want him to be happier than when he was with me.

Maybe marriage should have some kind of clause-if you get married, you sign up for the Arm Clause, like if you get divorced you lose an arm. Or a Hand Clause if you are less certain about the person. Because sometimes, in relationships where you do genuinely care about the person, it hurts like a body part has been cleaved right off, and you walk around a bit unbalanced, smacking into the walls when you meant to go straight. We would know others right away who are missing parts of their heart due to a divorce, as they walk around with one sleeve pinned up. We form Stumpy Clubs for those who've lost body parts, and the really unfortunate souls are missing two arms, or even a leg.

Or maybe you can elect to change the appendage loss. You know-you wind up being so mad for someone that you think: Hmm. Losing my hand isn't enough. If I lost this person, it really would be more of a spleen and foot thing, I really need to up the ante. You never know how the love you have for someone is going to grow. Sometimes it just expands and looks more sparkly and exquisite as time goes on.

I like to think the dreamers and believers know that, too.

Maybe when you get married, it really should be because you know that you can't go a day without knowing that other person is yours and yours alone. That there's no one else on earth you'd rather waste a Sunday afternoon with. That this person knows the few things in the world that you need and love and will do anything to help them with it. That respect isn't just a seven-letter word, it's about so much more than a term people fling around, that respect has meaning and needs to be a guiding factor in the partnership. That this person is going to weather anything-cancer, mother-in-laws, fights about money, holidays-and your affection isn't going to decrease at all. That you can't keep your hands off of them and never want them to stop touching you, either. That you have never, ever felt more alive than in the presence of that person, in their care, in their arms, in their heart.

So we should have to sign a paper saying: If I give up on this, I'll give you my arm, which you can do with as you wish, be it put it in a trophy display case or use it for practical jokes. Maybe then marriage and divorce will both mean something, something more than it seems to today. Because if you find that person, that one true and great match that makes you spin around in circles on the lawn and marry them, then losing an arm is the lesser of the pains that you will have. It's the incidental to the big pain that you will carry around forever.


-H.

PS-Jim, whom I adore, has an important interview coming up. They will be looking at his blog, so if you like him, go leave him a comment in his comments section. Makes him look good

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August 09, 2004

Who Are the People In Your Neighborhood?

The weekend was extraordinary-hot, balmy, the sun always out and the moods always high. After a few days of grumpiness, the good moods broke through Mr. Y and I much like the summer has suddenly broken through England-with warmth, heat and light the likes of which I find I can't live without. Saturday morning he laid me down on the bed, exposing my girly bits to the sun, and with great concentration and a fabulous hard-on, he tapered and shaved my minge, working hard, looking deep in concentration, an artist at his palate.

An hour later, and I had a gorgeous and flawless star adorning my beaver.

Perfect.

Friday I spent some time outside, and as such, got to know my neighbors a bit more. Hanging laundry out to dry, I heard some raised voices. Curious. You almost never hear anyone raise their voice unless they're calling their errant daschund or looking after Squeakers the cat. So I found myself tuning in, mostly since I wondered who they were, but also since we all love to peep into other people's lives.

It was clearly an argument, and coming from a house that Mr. Y and I had, for so long, assumed was vacant- a beautiful brick structure on the cricket green, it had the sad disused look of a condom at prom night-wanting to be occupied but getting nowhere fast. Their backyard butts up to ours, but we have a stunningly high privacy fence draped with clematis, so there wasn't going to be any peeping. It was definitely an argument over there-it was an older man with the voice of a lifetime smoker, the hoarse hidden cough you could hear aching to come out of the strained vocal cords, the throat a sandpaper tunnel. He was arguing with a young guy, who was nearly in hysterics, you could hear panic, stress and desperation all over his voice. But there was something oddly familiar about it, there was something that made me tilt my head like a dog and wonder what was striking me.

Then I heard it.

'Cletus! Ah'm not playin' with yuh now! Ah'm ah gonna' call 911 in a minute! Ah'm not playin', if you keep up with that rastling!'

Oh sweet Jesus.

The neighborhood had just been infected with Southern bumpkins.

I listened a bit longer, and sure enough-the old man was about as Southern as they get-after living half my life in the South, I can detect redneck at 20 paces, and this man clearly had the farmer's tan. I rubbed my hand in my face-the Americans were bickering, and doing it at incredible decibel levels.

I ran inside and got some shoes on and went walking around the corner to see what the hell was going on-I don't generally get involved in fights (the kind with no violence, anyway), but I also don't like it when I hear young people crying and in such a panic. I walked around the corner and saw that the brick house, usually so alone, now had what looked like the entire kitchen appliance set sitting in the front yard-stove, fridge, boards all over the place. But it was abandoned. I walked around to the back yard, but they had apparently already left, as there wasn't a person in sight. Mr. Y came around to the front yard, and stood there watching.

I was about to walk out of their yard when something caught my eye on top of the mound of trash and kitchen goods that was littering the yard-there, rolled up and looking seriously abused, was an American flag. I reached for it and unrolled it, feeling the starched stiffness of a flag that has suffered some elements. It pisses me off when people disrespect flags-any flag-and I felt even worse about it with this flag-with my flag.

Mr. Y looked at me unfurling it and said straight away, 'There's something wrong with it. It's an old flag. Look at the stars.'

I looked at them and saw nothing unusual.

'Look at the pattern.' He said patiently. So I did, and then I did a double-take, and then I counted them. This flag must indeed have been old. It only had 48 stars.

Of course I nicked it, and took it home, washing it in the sink and hanging it to dry on the line outside. I'm not sure what I am going to do with it, but I felt it needed me to liberate it from the trash pile and take care of it.

I love adopting strays.

I stood outside in the sun later and talked for ages to Petunia's owner, a single mom named Sarah. She is the mother of the Perfect Child, 3-year-old Ellen. You know the Perfect Child. Gorgeous, sweet, enormous eyes and kind nature. Easy to talk to and with that perfect little girl giggle that makes grinch hearts melt.

Sarah is a bit different-she's a tiny wispy blond thing, something slightly elfish wafting about her. She doesn't eat really since she often forgets to make herself something when she cooks for Ellen, and anyway she can't cook and so simply doesn't. She's a gardener and landscape artist that has chosen to simply take time off work and raise Ellen until she begins school, and so they live on almost no money and with no extravagances. Sarah sometimes doesn't seem real to me-porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, blond hair, and a tiny, tiny figure, and she is such a softie that she captures bad bugs in her garden, puts them in a jar, and later releases them by the lake. She simply can't kill anything.

We're standing in the sun, Ellen dancing around in a little white leotard with wired wings on the back, a little fairy costume that she twirls about as she discusses her teddy bear picnic with me. It's enough to make my ovaries slam about in estrogen love, and in the sun she lights up like a roman candle. Periodically, she throws herself into her mother's arms, and when I offer her a glass of ribena (like grape kool-aid) her sweet angelic 'Yes please.' is enough to make me want to put her in a competition for world's most perfect 3 year old. She'd win. No contest.

Sarah turns to me. 'Are you and Mr. Y going to have children?' she asks.

'Well, we don't know yet. Discussions are ongoing.' I reply carefully, looking at Ellen pick up Petunia in her little girl arms, Petunia's patient cat nature allowing him to just squeeze and compress to fit her circumference.

'You'd make a fantastic mother, Helen. And Mr. Y is clearly a perfect father, he's such a young 42 year-old.' I feel an ice pick stab through my heart, gouging out lumps of cardiac flesh which get thrown about the yard. No one seems to notice my bleeding bits laying around in the grass, so I don't point them out. I smile and decide to change the subject, or else face hemorrhaging all over the yard.

'How about you and Ellen come over for lunch on Tuesday?' I ask, surprising myself. 'I know you hate cooking, but I absolutely love it. And I work from home most of the time and need a lunch break myself. So how about it? Or else I will have to abduct Petunia and hold him for ransom, not giving him back until you cave and let me feed you.'

Sarah looks startled, then smiles widely. 'We'd love that! That would be wonderful! I don't often get to talk to adults, it makes me so tired afterwards when I do get to.'

I nod. 'I know the feeling. I have such a hard time talking to people, I am so sure I am going to mess it up all the time. I'm crap at talking to people'

She looks at me. 'No, I just meant I get tired since I never get to talk to adults, I only have Ellen. Do you really think you are not so good at talking to people?'

I look back at her. 'Absolutely. I think I always muck it up.'

She smiles broadly. 'We think you're great. So friendly and so funny! You seem to have it all going for you.'

I smile. Good then-I don't come across as crazy as I'd worried I did. 'Did you hear the Americans over there fighting last night?'

She laughed. 'Are there Americans who have moved in? Haven't we met the quota?'

I know she's only kidding, so I laugh back. 'Yup. There goes the neighborhood.'

Sarah smiles. 'Would you maybe like to go for a walk with us sometimes? Or just meet up for coffee during the day?'

I smile back, feeling as though I am an alien making contact with a new world. 'I'd like that very much.' I say, staking my 48-starred American flag in friendly new foreign territory.

And I meant it.

Later that evening Kurt, a divorced sound engineer who works from home most of the time and is a really good laugh, rides by on his bike as Mr. Y and I are taking a walk, and while I am trying to defend myself from an aggressive and bitter goose who seems to take offense at my drawing breath. I invite him to lunch as well, seeing as I like cooking anyway and he doesn't often get a good meal, and he accepts. He also agrees to be my sci-fi movie buddy, since Mr. Y hates science fiction and from time to time I love a good sci-fi movie.

Riding wobbly on his bicycle so he can talk to us at the same time as we walk, he says softly, 'I realize what you're doing. I'm grateful, you know.'

My hand cupping some floating dandelion fluff, I turn to him. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean possibly matching me up with Sarah. Thanks for that, I'm not at all opposed.'

Actually, I hadn't even thought of that, but if that works out, then totally ok with me. They're nice people who deserve a little company, so hopefully some sparks fly. I doubt they will-Sarah is a supremely focused single mom-but you never know.

And later on I think-it's ok. I am making friends here, friends who don't think I am mental. Friends that talk to me and laugh with me. Friends that will join me for coffee, a walk, a meal, a movie. Is this how it's done? Letting people get to know you, letting people into your life? By talking and relaxing and trying to be yourself, to dial down the crazy? This is, after all, one of the reasons why we chose the little terraced house in Whitney Houston-to make friends, to get to know our neighbors, to have friends that we make as a couple, jointly, instead of the pins and needles incorporation of friends from our past lives, friends who knew our previous partners as well. And for the first time in my life'¦I am making friends with my neighbors. And it's great, better than I could have thought, and so nice to know there are people around to talk to and count on.

I feel acres of happy feelings about it all, and on Sunday morning, the sun coming into the window and the light coming into my head, Mr. Y turns to me and makes love to me, holding me close and kissing me as though he would drown if he couldn't. His morning stubble leaves little scratches along my lower lip, scratches that today look like I tripped and fell and skid on my face but I don't care, I love the feel and memory of them and of that morning when he held me tight and kissed me hard.

After, curled up under his arm, I ask him the kind of question that men hate. 'Name 3 reasons why you love your partner.' I ask, wondering what he'd come up with.

'You make the best risotto.' He states emphatically.

I laugh.

He sits quietly for a moment and then sys softly, 'That's the only flippant answer I can come up with. You're just great, that's it. You're great'

I like his answer so much it makes my morning. And so we go downstairs, have a day full of prancing ponies, and with Cletus' (you know-that's the name I really heard shouted. I didn't change it for my blog since it was so damn funny that someone in the world is actually named Cletus) 48-starred flag still on the line, my head full of what I can make for Kurt, Sarah and Ellen for lunch, my soul full of happiness for Mr. Y and our life, and my minge in a perfect star.

I could get used to this.

-H.

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August 06, 2004

She Was a Showgirl...

My life is nearly unrecognizable from what it was a year ago, or even 6 months ago. Maybe even 3 months ago. Where once it was sheathes of misery, now I am much lighter, much happier. Perhaps it's even getting a bit boring to read me: Oh Helen, yes, yes, we know you're in love and think Mr. Y hung the moon, yank yank, how nice for you but my life sucks so could you just do us all a favor and shoot the fucking prancing ponies and fluttering fairies now, OK? You were more interesting mental. I mean, more mental. Thanks.

It's not always perfect chez Helen. We do have arguments, and although I am getting more comfortable with the fact that we have arguments and they're normal, they happen, they don't mean the end of the Gap culture as we know it, it doesn't mean I always like some of the things that are said during the arguments, which in my typical mental way I remember and stab myself with whenever the going gets rough. We had a bust-up last night in fact, and although I think things are relatively ok now and we're mostly friends, we're still a bit frosty.

You know-we open our mouths and a light comes on.

I think sometimes my spider senses are off.

I had this idea in my head to surprise Mr. Y with last week, a small little brainstorm that made me laugh and I hoped would make him laugh. I don't know how I thought of it, but a few mouse clicks later I had procured the item I needed. When it arrived in the post, I ran upstairs, put it on, and came down to Mr. Y on the couch.

It was a pink wig.

And, sliding onto Mr. Y's lap, his face adorned with a big grin, it was then that I knew my idea was indeed appreciated. I sat on his lap and smiled, pink strands flying about, startling me periodically in my peripheral vision as I saw them light their fluorescent way. It made me feel younger, it made me feel naughty, and above all, it made me laugh.

"I am Lola." I said, sliding my arms around his neck. "Tell me about your day."

And so, with my skirt rucked up around my upper thighs and my pink hair in our faces, he talked about his day at work while I listened happily, sitting on the couch with the sun coming in the windows. Then I went outside and watered the plants. And I did the whole thing with a big grin.

Lola is, to me, a little happy sex kitten. She's easy going, she's bouncy, she's sexy yet not a slapper. When I think of what pink-haired Lola is like, I think about a happy chick that would cook her man fondue and serve it to him wearing a skimpy skirt. She'll giggle with laughter as they tell each other jokes. She stands up for her opinions and won't back down. She has enough moxy to float Hollywood. She's skinny and, to be honest, not gorgeous, just interesting looking.

You know the kind of chick-she's the one in the grocery shop in the combat pants and skimpy T-shirt that leans on the handle of the cart and flies down the shop aisle. She's the bouncy one that goes to a nightclub at night, armed only with a whistle, a tube of lipstick, and an attitude. She's up for anything in the bedroom, provided it feels good for all involved. She has no problem heading to the nearest greasy spoon to order coffee and scrambled eggs at 2 am, chatting to a waitress named "Sue" with yellow fingernails and enough Rave in the hair to plug holes in cement. Men turn their heads when they see her, simply because she walks with a casual confidence that she doesn't even recognize, and she sings a buoyant song in her head, unaware she is getting stared at. She's the one that heads first for the animal with a limp, scooping them up and declaring herself to be their mother.

She's also great at giving head, which is a perk.

And before you stress, let me tell you-this is not some alternate personality that I have. I'm not schizophrenic. I don't have enough room in me for Helen, let alone subletting another person into my head. This isn't some weird schism or psychotic break, just a piece of pink-floss that is able to unlock some of the things that are inside of me, my emporer's new clothes, my way of doing the kinds of things I want to do. A way of envisioning a part of an ideal woman, the lighter, joyful type of woman that I have never been (I've always thought of myself as more of a raving moor-wanderer's chick, perhaps).

Lola makes me laugh. The idea of her makes me laugh, and seeing myself in the pink wig makes me grin. And the truth is, after putting the wig on, picking off dead petunias from the windowbox and making my man laugh, after thinking about what Lola means....well, I don't need a pink wig to do all of those things. I am not in danger of creating another personality simply because all of the things she is to me...I already am.

OK, I need to work on standing up for myself more, but in general, all of her traits are already in me, they just needed the right person to unlock them. So after donning the wig and thinking about how I felt about Lola, I decided...I like her. And the weird thing is...she's a part of me.

Does that mean I like me? Yeah...let's not get carried away. I am not the picture of mental health and self-confidence. This is not my id kicking my ego's ass or anything.

It's getting way too Freudian in here.

I like the wig. I'm keeping it, and Lola will get an airing periodically. When I walk to the village shop for some milk. In my garden, sipping some wine. When I greet Mr. Y at the front door, wearing nothing and slipping a finger into his waistband, drawing him upstairs for a round of Extreme Shagging.

But I can also do those things when I am not Lola.

But a pink wig...come on. Now that's funny.

-H.

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August 05, 2004

Pillow Talk

We're curled up in bed, a little bit drunk, a warm breeze coming in through the windows. We've thrown the covers off since no one wants too many covers on them in the heat, and the sheets have just been brought in from the line outside, smelling of pears, trapped bees, and sunshine in the folds.

Mr. Y is letting me stand on his feet again, and I brace my feet like a ballerina and spin imaginary pirouettes on the flat of his strong feet. We're not being sexual, not toying with each other, just each of us reading our books in bed, companionable silence, enjoying the evening.

The day had been outstanding-I had gone into London for work, thinking (and dreading) that I would be spending today in Bristol with my colleagues. We had been booked into a hotel for last night, and the plan was today to spend the day attending an IT demonstration, which frankly makes my eyes roll into the back of my head just thinking about. The strange this is-I didn't want to go. Once upon a time I loved a night (or week, or fortnight) away from home. But now, I find going away for business...well...intrusive, frankly. I would rather be at home with my bed, my man, and my bathroom.

Halfway through the meeting, it was revealed that the team building we had planned for the night had falled through, so in Bristol we we each to our own. I texted Mr. Y and asked if he wanted to join me for an evening of shagging, wine, and dinner at a hotel. After some thinking about it, he decided he did want to come, and so put aside his plans for self-gratification for the evening and it was set.

Then in the afternoon, the whole Bristol event was cancelled. Change of plans (in fact, change of work scope, and now I have lots of work to do that actually sounds pretty interesting) and I let Mr. Y know that I would be coming home tonight after all. And after Mr. Y agreeing to go join me in Bristol, after more work from my manager who indicated he liked the work I was doing, after a productive day...I felt fantastic.

I was in a great mood. I went and bought Mr. Y a few items of clothing for our trip to Venice next weekend (and, of course, bought myself a few things, too. I can only be so restrained, after all). I picked up a bottle of bubbly. I went home in a fantastic mood and with love pouring out of my pores on my face. He met me at the train station, all smiles. We spent the evening in the sun (new pic on the sidebar is from last night, in fact) and had an enormous curry for dinner.

Mr. Y flips off his reading light and turns over to me. I have my own reading light, we both do-two halogen lights attached to the side of the headboard-but I hate direct light on my books, I don't like light to bake and snake the words I read, to throw heat and reflection into the binding. So I never use it, I only take the driftwood rays from his.

Me: You turned your light off.

Him: You have your own torch. Use it.

Me: There's no torch here. There's no fire in this bed.

Him: Hmmm....not a good sign.

Me: I meant that it's not called a torch.

Him: Oh, that's right. It's called a pocket lamp.

Me: (laughing) I dunno, I've never had a lamp in my pocket. Think you're thinking of the Swedish for torch.

Him: Oh, that's right. Ficklampa. Sorry-you have your own "flashlight".

Me: That's right. That's the correct term. But here we would just call it a reading light. A flashlight's portable.

Him: Why do you call it a flashlight? There are no flashing lights.

Me: Why do you call it a torch? There's no fire involved.

Him: Once upon a time there was, originally people lit sticks with....what....say it with me here-fire.

Me: Oh yeah? Well once flashlights flashed!

Him: How?

Ooooh...he had me here. I was just being big about it. Better go for the outrageous, throw him off the scent.

Me: Once light was gotten by capturing fairies. You know. Put them in the jar, shake it to piss them off, and voila! Let there be light!

Him: Ri-iiiiight. Do we need to have our electricity talk again?

Oh God. Once, while enjoying an evening away, Mr. Y and I got a bit drunk on too much vino tinto and we laughed it up in bed (after engaging in Extreme Shagging, a new sport coming to ESPN any day now). Mr. Y attempted to explain the differences and benefits of English electricity versus American electricity. I fell asleep somewhere around the words "110 volts".

The next morning, he asked me what the benefits were of the American electrical system. Now, being a bit of a Monica character, I love a good quiz, but I only like them if I was actually conscious for the lesson. I racked my brain. What could he have said? What could he have said?

The best I came up with was: When you step on the plug in the middle of the night, the American plug hurts less.

Yeah...Although it was a clever answer, it was not the correct one.

Me: Are you tired?

Him: Actually, I am tired. Maybe I have the flu you had on Sunday and Monday.

Me: It's the encephalitic lethargica. I just know it.

Him: More like encephalitic erectica. That's probably the problem.

Mr. Y spins his hand in the air, which is my cue for "turn around". I turn around, sliding my bottom into the neat curve of his crotch. My back slides against the warm hard heat of his chest and one of his arms lays over my side, and below my breast. I continue to stand on his feet, and he kisses the side of my face.

We curl up like that and sleep every night, and when we don't do it, somehow the sleep isn't right, the evening isn't normal. Even when one of us is sick, it's better if we touch in some way-he holds my upper arm, or we lay back to back, touching. The feel of his skin on mine seems critical to me being able to slide into oblivion, the world isn't right if it's not like that.

He begins to slide into sleep, and I feel the ache of him behind me. I grab hold of his wrist and kiss the fleshy-side of the hand, and he squeezes me back in return. The night wind comes into the room, over the geraniums exploding in the window box outside, over the two of us curled up naked in the middle of the bed, and through the house, lacing it with the honey-scented village air. And there's nowhere else on earth that I would rather be.

And I think...

Every single tear I cried.
Every horrible moment of my angst.
Every time I thought I had hit the wall and lost in the lottery of life.
Every second I wondered about if I should pursue the passion in my life or stick with what I had.
For this man, for what we have...

...absolutely every single bit of it was worth it.


-H.

PS-this is the other man in my life that I miss. I know he's happier where he is, but sometimes my heart squeezes when I think about him, and I just have to breathe shallow breaths until it goes away.

Sometimes, love and loss hurt more than they should be allowed to.

View image

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August 04, 2004

The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin meets Joe Versus the Volcano

I remember a film called Joe versus the Volcano, a film that started with extreme brilliance and promise only to spiral into a weird world that dwelt on orange crush and leather luggage. I remember watching the beginning of it, about a man in a boring day job, whose eyes got suctioned by fluorescent lights and he lived for the moments he could play his tropical lamp on his desk. I remember him walking to work, and stepping aside a dandelion growing in a crack in a sidewalk. I remember it all because, at the time, I was smacking my head and thinking: God how fucking brilliant...life really is like that.

England had it's own version of this, a tv show called The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin. It was the story about an ordinary guy with an ordinary life, and he had his routines to boot. I haven't seen it, but Mr. Y tells me that it was about a man who worked in a bog standard factory and had his own routines. Twelve and a half minutes to walk to the train station. A little rhyme he would make himself say before opening a door. Routines.

And I can see that too many of them are overkilling brain-sucking nightmares, but you know....routines can also give balance. Maybe when you don't have routines...you miss them.

I've been trying to think about normal life, about ways of working and doing things that signyify an achievement. I even blogged about this last week, about my search for the definition of normal. My project at work is quite slow so I am left with acres of time on my hands. I watch tv, I write on my blog, and Alice is getting out of my head and onto paper. But I am still convinced that perhaps there is a real way that normal life works, that there are real definitions of normal. There simply has to be. Life can't always be so crazy.

Maybe if you did put me in a family with 2.4 kids, an SUV, a house with a white picket fence and a dog named Fido, I would still find a way to paint the house with graffiti crazy, sprinkling little mental dust around the place that got ground into the carpet and couldn't be vaccuumed up and finding some way to de-normal the normal. Maybe I simply can't be normal. The truth of the matter is, my diagnosis gives me the gentle gift of being able to feel way too much. Perhaps that also means I simply live too much.

What constitutes a normal day? Is it the fact that every morning I check out the spider web on the flowerbox outside, just to see how the little guy is doing? Is it the way Mr. Y greets me every morning, with a new nickname? (Good morning, my Gorgeous. Good morning, my little chicken egg. Good morning, my turnip). Is it taking the same train every Wednesday morning into London, taking the same tube or walking the same path? It is watching certain TV programs during the day? Is it picking up Petunia and worshipping her?

Why is figuring out if a routine is necessary so difficult?

Why is figuring out what is normal on my mind?

After losing my job last November, I had lots of routines. Mostly, they involved sitting in an oversized green armchair with my hair in a ponytail and my pajamas on, going for days without eating or showering and generally concluding in floods of tears. But they also included things like: blogging from this time to this time. IM with Best Friend from this time to this time. Ed was on tv from this time to this time. Wallowing in self-misery, was used as a schedule filler.

Before losing my job, I had routines. Get up at exactly 7:15 every morning. Walk the dog, shower, juice, and sandwich, then drive to work. Work, hating the entire day, then go home and freeze my ass off walking the dog again. Make dinner for X Partner Unit and I, watch tv, go to bed.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now my days are different. They're punctuated by logging in to work from home in my boxer shorts, a bodum of coffee at my elbow. Days punctuated with IM from Best Friend and text messages from Mr. Y reading things like: Make sure some nice white wine in the fridge for outdoor enjoyment later! Love ya! Occasionally getting on a train to London for meetings, where I take great pleasure in the people watching and the sights, sounds and whipping wind. Being in love one million times a day with my lovely boy.

But there's nothing that's dead-on routine about any of it. There's no predicatibility, no sameness, it's always changing and growing, shaping itself to be something new and dynamic the next day. Even how I feel about Mr. Y is changing (but only in a good way, darling, it's honestly getting more stable and larger and less "help-me-down-off-the-ledge"). And I really am not stressed about not having so many routines, I really enjoy "going with the flow", only I wonder if at some point I too need routines, if I too need to avoid the dandelion in the sidewalk and if I should count how long to walk to the train platform. When do I get my routines?

And as more time goes by and I realize I just Tigger my way around life (Since bouncing is what Tiggers do best! Hoo hoo hoo hoo!), I also realize that I like the fact that things are sometimes unpredictable. I like to not always know what's around the bend. We can maybe dial down the crazy a bit, I've had enough of that, but as more time passes, I realize that Emma was right-normal is a setting on a dryer, and I don't even have one of those.

Perhaps I have the off-counter routines like the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggles of the world. The Morks, the Joes, the Amelia Bedelias. For the Joes and the Reginald Perrins, maybe that's a routine too far. Perhaps people with routines make the world balance since they have to deal with people like me, tightrope walkers with poor inner ears or flame throwers that forgot the zippos. The bouncing types that spend a lot of time thinking and feeling but wonder what color of grass is on the other side of the fence, the yard that includes children and carpools and Sunday barbecues with the family.

Through all the thinking, I have determined that maybe my life isn't normal...but I wouldn't give it up for the world. Not one crazy, passionate, happy, stressful minute of it.

Maybe someday for my routines. But I get a text message from fabulous Mr. Y asking if I want to go to the Channel Islands with him.

A very unusual thunderstorm hits and I curl up on the couch, staring out the window, armed with a chocolate shake and all the lights and the TV off, just soaking up the outrageous rock of thunder and the peals of lightning in the sky.

I walk to the post office, and people I have never even met and maybe never will again say hello and ask me how my day was.

And I think....I'm settling in. Maybe someday I'll have routines. But thankfully not now.

-H.

PS-one thing I do know-my routines need to include my girls. I think my heart is ripped out without them, so I just keep telling myself: November 28...November 28....

My Girls

PPS-Luuka has been found, after lounging around the Jersey post office after being with Rob, and is now on her way (again) to Eric.

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August 03, 2004

I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

This post is a bit lighter, since there weren't any ghosts in my hallway last night.

Mr. Y and I go to a gym regularly, which neither of us like but both of us feel the need to try to look good (you know-get a guy, so then you need to make sure your ass still looks good in a pair of boy shorts). It's a bit dull, but at least the gym has installed tvs on all of the elliptical machines and treadmills, so at least I can be constantly entertained by MTV Cribs or some other mindless nonsense while sweating my hopefully soon-to-be-skinny butt off. Then I go work on the free weights and generally hate my lot in life.

Interestingly enough, gym culture changes from country to country.

I used to go to a gym in Dallas, too, a yuppie urbanite wonder with mirrors all over the place and packed spinning classes at lunch. I went daily back then (read: didn't have a life) and got to know a lot about gyms. First off, in American gyms, even if you know the other person you don't talk to them unless you are out of the locker room. It's like the "don't look at my willy while I'm peeing" thing gone mad from the men's toilets. We go blind in there to everything but the tunnel vision in front of us. We all have wobbly bits, we simply pretend that other people don't exist until we leave the locker room, where, amazingly, once the steam lifts from our eyes it's like an unveiling of the senses.

"June!" you cry in recognition, to the woman who just swung her bare chesty bits by your elbow while you were slipping your bra on. "I didn't see you in there!" (nope, you only saw nipples the size of peanut M&Ms). "How ARE you?"

You know. Cause we all start sounding like June Cleaver when we get out of the gym. Or at least like Alexis Carrington.

And June is just as surprised to see you. "Cassandra!" she squeals in delight (am I getting to carried away with the Dynasty here? ) "My God, it's been ages!" (or at least since she just saw you applying deodorant in clockwise circles, lathering up a real white mess that is now trailing down the side of your black top).

Such is American gym life.

Now, in Sweden, I had the shock of a lifetime. Swedes are known perhaps for being sexually expressive and armed with morals as open as a whore's knickers. As a person who lived in Sweden for many years, I can tell you it's not true. While Swedish culture (in general) supports the ability to be extremely tolerant and understanding of sex and sex education, in general they are as repressed as the rest of us. And Swedish women are rated the second most jealous group of women in the world (just behind the Japanese women).

Speaks volumes, really.

So when I joined a gym in Sweden, upon walking into the locker room, I discovered it was absolutely unlike the American culture in gyms.

It was more like Porky's.

There wasn't a stitch of clothing in sight. Women, as unclothed as the day they were born (but decidedly more hairy ). Talking, laughing, chatting to their mates...all while naked! Totally naked! In fact, getting dressed seemed to be about the last on their checklist of things to do after working out.

Shower...check!
Put dirty clothes in bag...check!
Put on deodorant...check!
Talk to Ingrid about summer holidays...check!
Solve world hunger...check!
Clothes on....oh, all right.

I found it refreshing, I like knowing that women are comfortable with their bodies and imperfections (which I am not!). I like how they just seemed to know the limits and confines of their skin and enjoy how it felt. I enjoyed their openness, even if I never did actually engage in chat with others while swinging my boobies around the shower.

Now in England, I have found a serious reverse happening. Women are bizarrely modest here, so much so that most of them go into a changing room to change. Talk is totally ok, but only if you know the person and came into the room with them. Nudity is verbotten, the towel must be covering the unsightly bits at all times, even to the point where the women do the bra strap shimmy-you know, wrap the towel around their trunk and shake one way then another in order to get the bra off without a side view of cleavage.

It's too bad. I was kinda' getting used to the enjoy-your-nudity Swedish world. Even if I hadn't yet solved world hunger while towelling off.

So the gym is an interesting place.

On Sunday, Mr. Y and I went there to get our bodies into shape, and while in the locker room after the workout, two girls next to me (doing the towel shimmy) were talking.

"He was so good, although it was a little fast." Girl A said to Girl B.
"Just a few minutes, eh?" Girl B replied, understandingly.
"Yeah, but that's ok. We'd had a fantastic evening with the dancing and drinking."
"He was a nice guy."
"I know!" cooed Girl A. "And I can't wait to hear from him again!"
"When is he going to call you?"
"Well, he's just joined MI6 you know, so he told me he'd call me as soon as he was done with spy training. He said he has to go deep underground, so he can't call me for a long time. Isn't that thrilling! He's going to spy training in London, he said. I'm going to be dating a spy!"
"Corr, you're so lucky!" Girl B said, in a trance, as they flounced off to the gym.

Ri-iiiiight. A spy. You'd better hold your breath for him to call when he's out of "spy training".

Chicks. I swear we'll fall for anything.

-H.

PS-Happy birthday Jim!

PPS-for those who were wondering, Kim is here. And here. And here. But he's really here. And he died of leukemia, which is not the way I know he would've wanted to go.

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August 02, 2004

Conversations With a Dead Man

I know how it would go, if he were here. If I were to see him just one more time, to have one more talk. I know exactly how the conversation would go, which is strange since I haven't spoken to him in 5 years. All this time, all these events, all of this change has transpired, and yet I have no doubt that I know exactly what we would say to each other and how we would say it.

For so long, I couldn't accept that he was gone. I just didn't. He was a master of reinvention, a chameleon that had changed his colors (and his name, city, and history) a number of times in order to escape. I just knew this was one of those times, that he had gone underground again, that he wasn't really gone, couldn't really be gone, and that it was only a matter of time that he would come for me. He had to come for me, after all. We were meant to be together in every ridiculous star-crossed sense of the word.

But slowly after all of this time it has sunk in that he really has gone and done something as mundane and middle-of-the-road as dying on me. He really is gone. And all the time that has passed has helped me stop looking for him in crowds, to stop thinking of him so much, to stop crying everytime I do. The 4th anniversary of his death is coming on August 15, and for some reason this time I remembered the date, when the previous anniversaries all escaped me...maybe because previously I simply didn't believe he was dead.

I called him Kim, but his birth name was Michael.

And if we could have just one conversation, I know how it would go.

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

The floorboards are a bit chilly beneath my feet as I sit at the top of the stairs and look down their steep incline. I should put some socks on, but I don't really feel like moving, and putting socks on would entail standing up, turning on some lights, rummaging through my drawer which holds my underwear, bras, some postage stamps, sleeping tablets and various other detritus that I chuck in there to simply give it a home. I just can't face the sound of rummaging, of tablets turning in their jar, so I sit there in my baggy pajamas and let my feet chill.

A slight movement across the darkened landing and I look up into a familiar face, a face which I once knew better than my own, a face that I am starting to forget and I hate myself for it.

He's dressed exactly as he always was. Black combat pants, a T-shirt over his thin but muscular frame. His combat boots are tied onto his feet and his watch is the only adornment he has on. Without asking, I know he isn't wearing any underwear, simply because he never did wear underwear. He smiles, his teeth as white and straight as I remember them.

We sit unmoving on the landing of the stairs, since all of my deep talks take place on floors in halls, since I can't commit to any rooms.

"Hey Buddy," he says, softly, calling me by the pet name he had for me.

"Hello, You." I reply, not scared, not moving, but not convinced that this is a hallucination. "I always knew I'd see you again."

"You look different but the same. Your face has grown up. You shouldn't have cut off your long glorious red hair." he follows up, and we both laugh as he regards my shoulder-length dark hair, piled messily into a hair clip.

"I know, it's what made you fall in love with me." I say, smiling.

"No, I fell in love with you. Your hair is just what first made me turn my head." he replies. "Remember how I told you once that you are the kind of woman that gets more ethereal looking the older she gets?"

I feel my heart lurch, remembering the nicest compliment he ever gave me. I fleetingly wonder why he was always so kind to me and, not coming up with an answer, I nod.

"I was wrong. You're better than that, but I lack the vocabulary."

I smile. I look at my long white fingers. I don't know what to say. "I missed being able to say goodbye to you." I stammer.

"You are the one person I never could say goodbye to. You know that." He said, tucking his hands under his chin. "How are you? What's happened in your life since I last saw you?"

"I'm ok. Did you know that? Can you see me wherever you are?" I reply, cocking my head.

"No, I'm afraid it's not what people think. It's not like we get to watch a movie of the life we've left behind and what happens after we're gone. I have no idea what's happened to you after you left on a plane back to North Carolina, when I was in the hospital in Dallas. Tell me what's happened."

I nod, looking at my hands. "You've missed a lot. I was in Sweden for a long time, isn't that amazing? It was so dark and cold there in the winter. I got married. He was a really nice guy, but he wasn't the right man for me and I wasn't the right one for him. We've divorced. I lost my job, you know, I was working for Company X? Yeah, they let me go."

"So far it doesn't sound too good, Buddy."

"No, it really wasn't. Then, um...I went a little bit crazy. I kind of lost the plot and tried to kill myself." I hoped he didn't want to know the details, but he never wanted the details, so I move on quickly. I looked up at him and saw he just regarded me calmly, like he always did. "So now I'm here, in England. Ironic huh? I'm in England now, although I haven't been to your hometown. I'm with a really great guy, a man I care about deeply."

Kim smiles, and his eyes squish up at the corners. "Tell me about him."

"His hands shake like yours do. Did, I mean. And he has these blue eyes that are also like yours, blue eyes that you just fall into and can't get out of. And you both have a thing for electricity." We both laugh. "He's really great about trying to figure me out, and he won't let me lie to him. He stops me when I do that, you know how I used to lie to people to keep them away from me? Well, he doesn't let me. He knows me really well, sometimes better than I know myself. And for once, I am really glad about that." I say, softly, across the landing from the former love of my life. "Sometimes I am filled with terror that he's going to die, like you did. In the middle of the night if I wake up I have to make sure he's breathing. Just because. If I lost him, I'd give up on love, since no one gets to love twice like this only to have them die. I really, really love this man, Kim. Really."

He doesn't seem upset or weird about Mr. Y, and I think...Why should he be? He only wants me to be happy, and the most unusual thing is...I only want him to be happy.

"Did you finally cut the strings from that crazy family of yours? They really used to weigh you down." he says, folding his legs beneath him, his boots making a soft scuffling noise.

"Well, they kinda' cut the strings on me. I don't really hear from them anymore, I think we're ships that have sailed away from each other now." I reply looking at him.

Kim takes a big sigh. "I'm really happy for you Buddy. And I have missed you and missed what's been happening here. What's been happening in the world?"

"You've missed a lot. The world is at war and all those civil liberties you used to talk about are gone. You wouldn't believe it, there's a Punisher movie coming out. I know he was your hero, but I just can't imagine they're going to do him justice. They now have all of these video game systems like X-Box and Game Cube and whatever, but I figure I can't get Super Puzzle Buster so I don't bother. And they changed the formulas for both Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops, you can't even recognize them anymore."

He shakes his head, looking downcast and puts his head in his hands. "The world's gone mad. It's fucking insane, it's so upsetting. I mean, if you can't count on General Mills, who can you count on?"

We laugh. I feel an awkward tug at my heart, and yet I don't really know how it is my heart feels.

"I didn't believe it when you died, Kim." I say slowly. I don't want to scare him away. I needed to talk to him about this before he disappeared, before I woke up, or before the men with the white jackets came to take me away. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't believe it was true. I figured you'd be back for me, I mean, that was the plan. You told me in the hospital when I visited you that I was the greatest love you ever had. So I was a wreck when you died. I didn't believe it. I kept looking at all the people that passed me, convinced you would be one of them."

I cry at this, and I realize it's been a while since I have cried for him. I let out some of the thousands of tears that I have cried for Kim, all of them honest and bitter and like tiny little knives that stab my face and nose as they fall. The salt on my cheeks hurts like a sunburn, but it's better than the feeling of when I lost him.

"I get it now that you're gone. It's true, I think, you've up and died and that's the shape of the world. And you know? It's not so much that I am left in this world that you created, it's that I am left in a world that I'd created with you. Now I have to put my own stamp and signature on it. I'm working on it. And for the first time in my life, I am so happy. Honest."

He looks at me, moving his eyes up and down my seated figure in the hallway. "I'm sorry about it all, Puppy." he says softly, using my other pet name. "I never wanted to die, either. There's still so much in the world that I never got to see, so many things to do. There are all of these adventures that I'll never get to have, all of these places I'll never get to go. And no house by the seaside with too many animals and time enough for love someday," he says, talking about the dream we used to dream.

"We don't get to have each other now, do we?" I ask, feeling like time is running out but wanting to brush the cobwebs out all around. "I mean, I know it in my heart that this was it, this was our chance. But that's how it is, huh?"

He sighs and looks down, pursuing his lips. "I told you once that we will love each other in the next life and the one after that, all the way until we get it right."

I nod.

He continues, "I'm sorry, Buddy. I was wrong."

I nod again. It doesn't hurt. I already knew it.

"I am coming back to another life soon. We always knew I was new. But this is the last one for you, you're an old soul and finally get to rest. I did some checking and this was the last one for you, so enjoy it and stop trying to kill yourself."

"Checking up on me? What, am I famous?"

"More like infamous." he replies, and we laugh again.

"You'll get your adventures when you come back." I tell him softly. "I'm done trying to kill myself. I have a really fantastic man who is there for me, and whom I love very much. I still think I can have a house by the seaside with too many animals and time enough for love, it's a dream I share with another now. I have some friends now that will be there to help me if I fall. I will live my life out, even though I think that you should be alive more than I should be. The world was a better place with you tilting at its windmills."

His eyes soften.

"What's it like where you are?" I ask.

"It's hard to explain." he answers, scratching his chin. "It's not exactly the Island of Wanton Red-Headed Stewardesses that I had hoped for, and no one here will have marathon Command and Conquer games with me, but overall it's amazing. I have all the Legos a man could want. And I'm Batman."

"With a cape and everything?"

"With a cape and everything."

"It's your dream come true, then." I smile.

"I love you, Buddy." he replies, and I see the edges around him are fading a bit, he's a bit pale. "I love that you're happy, and I need you to know that I am happy too."

"I love you too." I reply, choking up a little. And then I think...Thank you for letting me say goodbye. The goodbye in the hospital wasn't enough, I can't remember you that way. You were the most alive person I have ever known, the way I think of you has to be the one of the man staring down a hurricane.

He smiles and reaches a hand out. "Goodbye, Buddy."

"Goodbye, Kim."

Our hands almost touch as he gets to be nothing more than an outline. "And just because he doesn't say it everyday, it doesn't mean he doesn't love you."

Startled, I look across and see he's not there anymore. "I thought you couldn't see me!"

From thin air comes, "I can't. I just know you and your baggage."

And then he is gone.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:05 AM | Comments (32) | Add Comment
Post contains 2428 words, total size 13 kb.

August 01, 2004

Quick Laugh

The UK government set up this site, for advice on what to do in case of a terrorist attack.

But they (stupidly, naively) forgot to buy all forms of the domain name, so a cheeky boy set up a parody site, which made me wet myself, here.

Whatever your politics, he's a funny boy. Read the link "Basic First Aid".

I popped a vein laughing.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:45 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 70 words, total size 1 kb.

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