December 30, 2005
I think the future is looking a bit more like Blade Runner at this point, but then again, I am a cynic.
2005 is nearly over. As I was walking into the village this morning to pick up some white wine I had a long think about what 2005 really was, and how it will go down in the annals of my dodgy memory. Although the adult years are easier to remember than the childhood years (and not just because I am getting old), I still forget a whole lot of shit as I go. Or, rather, it's all the shit I remember, which is part of the problem.
2005 didn't see the revolutionary changes that 2004 did. I didn't move into a new country, new job, new house, and all with a lovely new man. I didn't walk into an airport and head into a new life on the other side. I didn't bring my girls over from Sweden to live with me, and I didn't walk with wonder into Dream Job's office building for the first time.
But 2005 has a quiet goodness to it in many, many ways.
It has some serious suck factor, but some of the highs make the year.
The worst things about 2005? Has to be the job. No question about it, hands-down, what's-the-point-of-this-question, the job sucked a clown's ass. I survived it, I maybe even did well, but at the same time the job? Yeah. Not my life anymore. In 2005 I learnt that managers are not to be trusted, that no one gives a fuck if you work yourself to death, and that telecom still is a man's world. Having a woman in this man's world only has the same reaction as using a stick to stir up an ant hill.
It was also a turbulent year in the home market. After three failed sales, we finally lifted the great white elephant known as Angus' house in Brighton. There was much champagne, much elation, a bit of sadness on Angus' part, and a return to being able to sleep at nights.
We also had the Blackberries, we lost the Blackberries, had it, lost it, and now have it again. The bad news is the Blackberries is now in a unique English real estate situation called a chain. Chains are the bane of the average home buyer's existence. Say you own a house and want to sell it and buy a new one. Maybe you sell yours to a nice young couple who are selling their flat, and you buy a house from an elderly woman. The elderly woman in turn buys a house from a family moving to Spain, who can't move until they find a house in Spain. So all of us are waiting until each part of the chain moves on, we can't move into any propertt until it does and if any part of the links fail, the whole chain collapses.
We are in such a situation now. The woman selling us the Blackberries had arranged to buy a property. When the sale of our house in Brighton fell through in October, she therefore lost the house she was buying. Now that we are ready to buy hers she has to find another property to buy, but this process can take months and can result in all of us being in another chain.
In other words, we have the house of our dreams, but aren't likely moving anytime soon.
In terms of blogging, I think I am making progress to sitting my butt down and trying to write something down. I have low confidence, and on top of that am a bit lazy about writing long-term things. I also have to write in strict conditions-I tend to need to be alone, and I do better with no distractions. Blogging this year has become less of an "I MUST write 5 times a week" and more of a "Dear God, please let me have time on the train to write my next blog post" kind of activity. But I still love it, I still get a lot out of it, and although I visit other blogs daily I almost never comment, so please don't hold it against me.
In Blogland, I met her this year. She has become my drive-by buddy, my vent for infertility, and the one who seems to tolerate "Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld" with the greatest aplomb. I love her, even though she can wear lite tampons when the Period Fairy comes (did I mention to you, S, that I found a new type of tampon here, one called-I kid you not-extra super plus? It's like using a toilet paper tube stuffed with a bichon frise! I love the things!)
One of the greatest highlights this year is when I reached out and grabbed a therapist. Once a week I sit in a Scandinavian style loft, in the middle of an Edwardian neighborhood (the dichotomy, she kills me). Once a week I try to sort through the smoldering ruin inside of me. What I have found is that I am more profoundly damaged than I ever thought was possible. I have also found that with this therapist, I can be fixed, and if I can be fixed then I will no longer be an imposter among the living.
Someday, I can just be me.
Now that will be a hell of a blog post when it happens.
I travelled this year, to Hawaii, Egypt, France, California, Finland, and an all-expense paid number to Monaco, where I learnt that I can not only not gamble, but that I am in no way, shape or form a Versace girl. This year Angus became a certified diver, and the two of us, we love it. Up next is his daughter getting certified, and when his son is old enough, the four of us can see amazing things together. Our next holiday is coming up in February and we are aiming for warm places that we can dive, swim and snorkel in. When we return, I can't wait to start the nose sprays, as I think of that other childless woman who will be my partner in IVF every day.
2005 passed with a strong current of loving the norm. My two cats are so firmly entrenched in my heart and thoughts that they take away the still-daily sting of missing my dog. The cats drive me nuts, they try my patience, but I swear I'll maim the first person that hurts one of them and I'll enjoy doing so.
So 2005? I travelled on trains, I drank my Starbucks, I shagged my lovely Angus and I loved curling up on the couch with him. I forgave my father, gotten closer to my stepmother, and missed my grandfather. I fed the wild birds, I made killer risottos, and I loved this semi-normal life that I seem to have found. I stressed out before his kids visit as I want things to go well, but when they are here they are noisy, exhausting, and utterly and completely hilarious.
2005 is nearly over, and in thirty years when I think back on 2005, I hope to have one memory spring to mind:
Last night we went to our local curry restaurant, advertised as the county's finest (which, in my opinion, it bloody well is). We ate far too much curry and naan bread, we laughed and talked and had a brilliant evening, and as we walked back it was snowing. Angus picked up his son Jeff and carried him for a while, hugging him, the two of them smelling like korma and fireside evenings. Melissa came up to me, grinning, and linked her arm through mine. She demanded we skip home, and I showed her how to skip the Wizard of Oz way. We skipped home a la Dorothy and the Scarecrow, both of us giggling hysterically, the way lit by the twinkling tree lights of the homes on the cricket green, the chatter of Angus and Jeff beside us, and we left behind us complicated footprints in the snow.
Now that is a good 2005 memory.
Happy New Year, and I can't tell you how glad I am that you've been here, that the roller coaster of 2005 didn't have to be alone.
-H.
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December 27, 2005
We drove to Angus' brother's house, the motorways zooming with other cars stuffed with presents, all of us going to someone else's home to try to celebrate the holidays. When we arrived, we opened the front door and were met with a sheer wall of noise. It was as though the volume button had broken off the hifi system at a permanent level 10. Angus' three nieces-one of them seven, the other two age three, were standing at the top of the stairs screaming at the top of their lungs. Seriously. This was like the doorbell in an alternate universe, one which involved wanting to take a Phillips head screwdriver to the inside of the ear canal to just neutralize the problem in one go.
I looked at Angus and blanched. He looked at me and smiled. We walked inside.
And thus it went. It was not an easy day, necessarily, and purely from the volume of people perspective. I get on well with Angus' family and I do enjoy their company, it just means a lot of people in all areas all the time. My family is incredibly small, so all the people around are a bit disconcerting. Especially when three of them are reaching sounds that only dogs and myself can hear.
Their house had been done up for Christmas, and as Angus' brother is a bit on the posh side, it was all done expensively as well. Dinner was served on gold plates, with fake glittery maple leaves scattered around the table. Wine flowed. It was a nice lunch, actually.
But here's the thing I struggle with-now, I know my upbringing isn't considered normal by any conventional sense of the term. I know that I am on the extreme of one side of the spectrum of childhood. But one of Angus' brothers and sisters-in-law have a very unique approach to rearing their children. I think of it as Extreme Duvet, where the premise is to supply the kids with constant positive reinforcement. This is foreign to me, and not often fitting-for example, I find it impossible to want to positively reinforce the kids when they scream at their mother that she's stupid and hit her (which did happen). That, to me, is not something where we say "How do you think that makes me feel?" To me, that's where one goes "Give me that Game Boy right now and apologize. You'll get it back when I think you're ready to control your temper." These kids don't get in trouble for speaking to their parents this way, for interuppting adult conversations on a continuous basis, or for screaming. They do, however, get in trouble for putting their elbows on the table.
Surely there must be a middle ground between the Extreme Duvet and what I know as an upbringing. But I am not a parent, I am not the right side of sane, and I am not a part of the family, so this was where I looked at my plate and tried to find it very interesting.
Christmas continued, and later in the evening it all got to be a bit too much-the usual tradition of "let's have a go at the American" started to wear me out. I usually just brush it all off, it's generally not mean-spirited at all, but it was all too much. I get it on every holiday get-together and often on a daily basis, and I just wanted a break. I get worn out for being made fun of the fact I call them pants and not trousers, I get tired of the American jokes, I get tired of the fact we call it gas and not petrol. This time I had a meltdown and thus a truce was called by Angus and his brother, and with the exception of one or two small comments the rest of the evening my American-ness was left alone. Angus' brother explained that it's just so easy to have a go at me for being American, it's just so obvious. To which I want to say-Gee. Thanks.
We gathered for the gift opening in the evening (this concept is strange to me-there are presents in the house. Unopened presents in the house. How can this be? How can people spend the day and not open the presents right away? Are they masochists?)
It was a lovely time but I have to be honest-I was really, really hurt that Angus' kids didn't really think about me. He had a pile of gifts from his kids which I was extremely happy for him about, but I only had one thing, something that Angus had bought for his daughter to give me. Don't get me wrong, the issue isn't materialistic, it's not the gifts themselves-last year they both made me homemade gifts which I love madly and are proudly on display in the bedroom. To be honest I think I love the homemade gifts more than the store bought ones. To reiterate before anyone accuses me of being materialistic-I don't care about the loot or if it's store bought or homemade. The issue is that I wasn't thought of. I bought every single one of their gifts but one. I've been making a list of presents for them for ages. The Christmas cards to them were signed by me, too. The Christmas card they sent went only to their father. I feel a bit deflated, actually, and as though I had failed. A bit of the fun has gone out of making the lists for the kids next year. I know I'm not in any way their mother and I don't want to be, but I was hoping at least I am a friend.
Oh well.
I can tell you that I used to ignore my stepmother. I used to neglect and forget her. I stopped doing that about 6 years ago, and I sent her a card apologizing as I now know that she's the best thing in the world for my dad and that's all that matters. Now I send her birthday cards and presents and wish her luck before each of her marathons. Maybe someday I can get to that stage with Angus' kids, too. They'll be here tomorrow, so I hope it goes well and I hope they have a nice time visiting.
I went to bed that night, curled up next to a loving boyfriend/radiator, who held me tight through the night.
Christmas gave way to Boxing Day, which is a holiday I had always thought of as a Canadian event as I'd had a Canadian calendar when I was a kid and it had this foreign Boxing Day thing. I don't really know what the point of Boxing Day is, but it's a day off and we all planned to gather round at Angus' mother's house. The morning of Boxing Day Angus went to make coffee, and I emerged from the guest room and sat on the top of the stairs. As I sat there, the three little girls, their hair in wild waves from braids let loose before bed, came padding up the stairs to me, big grins on their faces. Pajama bottoms dragging on the floor behind their heels, they giggled quietly and as they came to the top step they all sat down on top of me, smiling and smelling warm and making me grin like mad. This must be what Christmas with kids is. The warm moments when they sit on your lap like a warm loaf of bread, happy and tired.
I was happy to be there. I had a great Christmas, I have a lovely boyfriend, and I am looking forward to the Melissa and Jeff visit later this week.
-H.
Because she asked, and even though I fucking hate memes, I had to do it for her, in the extended entry. more...
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December 21, 2005
But at some point last season, I got Christmas again. I thought back on my history with Santa Claus and I decided that the whole season, it didn't have to be lost just because I had grown up, and grown up dark and bitter inside. Santa came to visit, the holidays passed, and I learnt that Christmas is something you have to work on, to want, to need.
Two weeks ago I went to visit my psychotherapist, a man that I trust instinctively, a man that I know is the only one who can get me through the maze in my head, a man that I know, at some point, I may turn against as the whole sordid mess starts to come out. In that visit, one thing was uttered to me that split the foundations of the walls I had put up so many years ago, walls I was busy re-inforcing with titanium, as a new millenium dictates new materials to keep me well away from the world and from myself. I had a falling apart that I saw ran in parallel lines to the one in Good Will Hunting, and when I watched that scene I felt raw and chafed inside.
My therapist told me I am described as "walking wounded". I told him my own description of me is "an imposter of the living." When I told him that, he broke down and told me that he hadn't heard anything so awful in a long time.
Welcome to my world, Doc.
Two weeks ago there was a change, and now I find I am, unbelievably, different inside. My Christmas Carol series was based on this change, this rumble and roar inside of me is something I can't figure out, but somehow I am seeing the world differently. I don't know why. I can't figure out what's changed. But something has, and in the early stirrings of rubble I see that I am still so completely broken and fractured, but I have been reached inside and someone knows that I am in here.
We have a very long, very painful road ahead.
But I've seen the difference a day makes.
Two weeks ago my doctor drove through the first defences, and inside I can feel it. Although I am far from fixed, something inside of myself has started to stop loathing the very sight and feel of me with every ounce of her being. Instead of being scared, instead of running (which I am so good at, so adept at strapping on those running shoes), I'm going to go on until every last fucking cobweb is removed. I'm going back to the beginning. I owe it to myself, or more to the point, I owe it to the little girl inside of me, the one I locked in there and never let out as I punish her and myself for being so fucking awful.
Freaky shit, really.
So two weeks ago my eyes opened just a bit. I may be an imposter of the living, but my finger? It's real. It's alive. It's just a matter to get to the rest of me.
And I have Christmas this year. I have it buried in my heart and head and that living little finger. I see the Christmas decorations and I love them. I sing carols all day and I have the house decorated and Christmas is the most fantastic of all seasons. I actually love Christmas and hold it deep inside my heart, wrapped in a layer of quiet and reverence.
A week ago I was in Covent Garden shopping. There was a singing group downstairs, playing with brilliant light, and I stood at the banister and listened, silencing my phone, my Blackberry, my heart. They played magnificently, and when they put their instruments down and announced that they were going to sing O Come All Ye Faithful acapella, I knew it would be good. And as the sound soared and carried across the halls of Covent Garden market, it was. It reached in and enveloped the hardened parts of myself, the sadness and sweetness of Christmas around my legs like a cat, around my through like a scarf. When they were done, I was crying, and it was Christmas, it was Christmas, it was Christmas.
Christmas is in 4 days. I can't wait, and as I look forward to it, I wonder what's next, both in the holiday season and in that quiet room I talk to my therapist in. What happens to walls? What happens to the person that I have for so long thought I was, that horrible disgusting loss to humankind? What happens now that blue is no longer blue?
If I can be redeemed, then we all can.
Merry Christmas to you all.
-H.
PS-and you may not believe it, but that angel on the table I talked about in my Christmas Future post? She's real. My grandmother gave it to me years ago. I pulled it out of the box this past weekend, and I was floored to see that her wing has, indeed, been broken. I couldn't believe it, it was just like I had written. She is going to be repaired, and will be a part of many Christmasses to come. There is hope again for her.
Sounds familiar.
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December 20, 2005
The town is called Henley-on-Thames, and when we arrived it was a typical misty, murky English winter evening, all moody and men screaming on the moors for the woman that is way out of their league. I love this weather, and Angus' pictures make me want to curl up on the couch in front of a fire with a bottle of wine.
When we arrived, we immediately raced for the bathroom. Not because I had had too many Mountain Dews or because Angus had an issue with breaking the seal, but because Hotel Du Vins have the aforementioned World's Greatest Showers Ever. The shower head is the size of my dream pizza. It is like being under a waterfall, only without the tropical island or fears of something creepy being in the bottom of the lagoon.
The shower didn't disappoint.
Ignore my freakish looking eyebrows.
We showered, shagged, and got dressed up for dinner. I had bought a beautiful necklace from Paris, one that looked as though it was made of flowers, and had been waiting for just such an occasion to wear said necklace. We dressed up, and then made our way to dinner. Around the table I'd laid what the English call Christmas Crackers-these are enormous cardboard things that look like Tootsie Rolls. You pull on both ends and they made a loud popping noise (which is why some airlines ban them as they do have a tiny explosive in them), and a paper crown and a toy of some kind is inside. This means you have to spend the rest of dinner wearing a stupid fucking crepe paper crown and covet your neighbor's toy, until you get them drunk enough to exchange their flashlight on a key ring for your miniature egg timer, at which point-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA-the joke is on them.
I dressed up but apparently hadn't realized that my lipstick was all wrong, and I looked like a future Buffy the Vampire Slayer target.
I told you-I'm not posh.
It was a lovely dinner despite my food phobias, and the wine flowed, the conversation flowed, and I was pleased to be away with the added bonus of it being a corporate event, so the guilt was limited. We were all on good behavior, and even exchanged gifts-I was thrilled to death with my gift when I found Peter and Jeff had gotten me a label maker. Strange gift choice I know but I fucking love those things. I had my hands on one of them at one point during the project and it was no-holds barred. Everything was labelled. People's laptops, phones, desks, walls...you name it. It all got labelled.
It has continued at home, actually. Angus now regularly hides my label maker from me, to no avail. I know those games, baby, but that label maker needs me! The printer says "Yo ho, yo ho a pirate's life for me!" Our downstairs monitor says "Hi. My name is Bob." And that's just for starters.
Nothing is safe.
Nothing.
After dinner we had a bath together, along with a bottle of champagne, and Anugs moved the LCD TV to the doorway of the bathtub so we could watch Ann Robinson's Weakest Link, shouting the answers at the TV and cursing those that don't bank (see? We're not posh.) The shower was fantastic, but the bathtub? That's heaven.
We slept well, Angus waking me up in the morning, and as we had breakfast with Peter and his wife we all talked about how tired we were, how utterly worn out, not to mention how broke and underpaid. We hugged and wished each other well. We drove home in happy company, Angus and I in high spirits, and when we got home there was a red box in the mail. I opened it, and found to my amazement that I had been treated to a Red Letter Day. A Red Letter Day is a day off, paid for by the company, to do different activities. Some are smaller activities, like the one I received a year ago to take helicopter lessons. This was the Gold Red Letter Day, the highest one, and a voucher for any number of activities-extreme yachting, fighter jet flying with the RAF, a day at a spa, an overnight trip in London at a 5 star place, parachuting for me and 3 friends, or the one I am going to do-a trip on the Orient Express. I was shocked, and shaking the letter out of the box, I lean heavily against the kitchen counter as I find it is a thank-you gift from Dream Job for the success of the rocket riding gerbil.
That, and I get a Christmas bonus of £5000.
Santa Claus? I love you. Do you gift wrap bills due for payment?
-H.
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December 19, 2005
Dear Laptop Who Hates Me But Which I Use In Lieu of a Diary Because That Way I Don't Have to Carry Too Much Crap In My Already Crap-Filled Bag,
I am flying to Helsinki for business meetings. I am in the front row seat, the seat that allows one to take one's shoes off and prop their feet up against the bulkhead. I am, in fact, doing so wearing blue and white striped toe socks that have candy canes on the bottom of each of the toes. I love these seats. I love even more that my Evil Boss is five rows back thanks to the collusion I had with the ticket counter guy. And that the seat next to me is empty, so I spend my time transferring things from my briefcase to the seat to my lap and back again, worrying the guy on the end as he realizes that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and baby I own these two seats. The seat next to me emptied just after we were airborne, as the guy with the poncy name on his boarding pass-Edgar von Baggendorffer or something like that-decided he couldn't possibly sit next to someone like me, someone who is wearing glasses and smells a bit like last night's alcohol, someone wearing jeans a size too big and a monstrous Marks and Spencer's cardigan. Plus he really threw a hissy when he saw the toe socks, and the fact that my laptop is fucked up and I have to hold the laptop screen almost vertical as otherwise the backlight goes off. So he moved away.
For this, I do not complain.
I'm on a Finnair flight, and I dig Finnair as not only are all the announcements made in Finnish, Swedish and English. I like the announcements, as although I don't speak Finnish, I can cover the Swedish and English bases and I try to figure out what words might be the same. They have a screen that comes down from the overhead compartments and shows what you're flying over so you can see beneath the plane even as you take off. From time to time the plane progress screen is mingled with a large animated map which shows the plane's progress from London to Helsinki. Thankfully, the map is large, and Finnair also shows on the map where we are in relation to Mombasa, which is a relief as I am constantly trying to figure out where I am in relation to Mombasa. That, and it's nice to be a backseat driver, so that I know if we cross that equator I can holler at the pilot if he could veer a little to the right, please?
I have much work to do, but am still feeling pretty ropy from a hangover. Hair of the dog has already been practiced-who's here to police me if I want a glass of wine at 11 am, after all, it's 1pm Helsinki time, and shouldn't I be trying to go native?
For some reason I can't put my finger on, I am feeling extremely odd about the trip. I haven't been to Finland in a few years, and although I have always liked Helsinki, something about this trip has me feeling off-kilter. It's not just the fact that I am going with my Evil Boss, because I am, but there's something that reminds me terribly of the Long Dark Winter, the winter of my discontent.
I'm sure I will be fine. We've been booked on business class seats and are staying in a five star place (the annoying companion that we have to go on the trip with pointed out to me that this is the finest hotel in Helsinki, and we must stay there, and the reason it is so perfect is Shania Twain stayed there. To which I think-Is this man serious?). I have a list of things to buy, and I love walking around Helsinki. It's a full day of meetings on Thursday and part of Friday, then a flight back home in time for dinner. We are being taken out to dinner on Thursday night, me, Evil Boss, Frank the Scottish wonder and annoying companion guy that drives me nuts. Evil Boss keeps trying to explain Scandinavian things to Frank and I, as he lived in Finland for 6 months. It's doing my head in as I gently remind him that I have been to Helsinki many times and, in fact, lived in Sweden for nearly 5 years, so I think I get the general mojo of Scandinavia just fine, thanks. He's been constantly telling me that I should expect it to be dark and cold, and I think: No shit, Sherlock. I sat on a fucking armchair and drank my way through one Scandinavian winter, how about them apples?
The business class toilet had many fresh wipes in a basket. For reasons I do not understand, I felt it was necessary to load up on those bad boys. I guess they don't expect fresh wipe kleptomaniacs to fly business class but if that's the case, I have news for them.
(Dear Laptop-this is where I ceased writing on you as, predictable piece of lovable shit that you are, the battery started to go. After 20 minutes. Seriously. Proving that indeed, portability is an optional feature on laptops. The rest of this post is all re-cap, baby.)
When we arrive in Helsinki I am asked, for the first time ever, of proof that I have a return ticket out of Helsinki. I have been all over and never once been asked to do this, but I show him my e-ticket with a shrug. I love Finland but historically they've not been especially embracing with regards to immigration-I remember reading that in 2002 they allowed 6 people to enter Finland with leave to stay. I show my ticket to prove I am not among those 6, and with a stamp from the the customs agent I made my way into Helsinki in a cab with the others.
And it's beautiful.
Snow and ice patterned everywhere. A tram moved smoothly up the road, and the darkness sat on the capital like a wool scarf. The hotel was fantastic, an absolute luxury-I even had a chandelier in my entryway, which is a huge mistake as items break within a 3 mile radius of me, in sheer anticpiation of my clumsiness. A chandelier is just asking for trouble (as proof, I offer you my life when I was 15. A chandelier actually fell on my head. It was made of iron, and I had stitches and now have a weird shaped bump on the bottom of my skull to prove it. So yes, chandeliers? Not so much). I had an enormous bathtub and two showers in the room (why, one must ask?) The toilet had its own little room, you know, in case it started to develop a complex, complete with another handheld shower unit whose function escaped me.
Yeah. And that's just the bedroom part of my room. My favorite food in the world is macaroni and cheese-someone like me, I am so not posh.
We went to dinner, I did a bit of shopping (Finland makes Aarikka, which is hands-down the coolest kitchen gear in the whole wide word ever. I collect the duck stuff myself-I've included the link, and there's masses of amazingly cool stuff on the website, so just be brave and click the hypertext with too many vowels because again-I don't speak Finnish. But their kit is great.) That night I sat in my boxers and T-shirt with the window open, overlooking the silent city from the eighth floor. While waiting for a sleeping tablet to kick in, I watched the silent streets and felt the slight draft through the window. I tried to find the silent part in myself that sat through the dark silent Scandinavian winter two years ago. I felt the cloth around me, I could tell that darkness was only a stone's throw away.
So I stood up and went to bed, and slept soundly and solidly all night long.
The next day was the day of business meetings. I dressed up and met the others for breakfast, all of us turned out in our business kit. Evil Boss led the way in the meeting, and I had to rub my eyes as often as possible, as it was such a long day. There was much posturing and preening, and Evil Boss, unable to remember all of the Finns names, simply resorted to calling them all Matti (a common male Finnish name, but alas, not the names of those in the room). When the day was over it turned out we made it all the way through the agenda in one day, so Friday morning would be ours.
Before the meeting I had time to walk around a bit. Regardless of where you are, if you open your windows you can smell a strange, burning plastic kind of smell. That smell? It's my Visa card. We got to know each other well. I visited Marimekko and Ittala. Finnish design is, to me, amazing-clean and simple. I walked around a Christmas market and breathed in the bitter cold air, feeling it sweep out months of London smog from my lungs in one exhale. I don't speak Finnish, Finnish is a language on a line related to Turkish and Japanese, I believe, and my Finnish extends to knowing how to say "thank you" and, for some reason, "welcome!" Lucky for me Swedish is the official second language, and so I can figure my way around as long as the signs have the second language.
We were taken out for dinner, and when the dreaded event was over once again I met up with my friend the sleeping tablet. I waited for it to work again and watched Strictly Come Dancing in my pajamas, the curtains open to the falling snow. I slept like the dead, and when I woke up it was knowing that I had 9 hours of sleep under my belt. I woke, ate breakfast, and walked around the city, taking pictures of the stunning church I had first seen 6 years ago, the trams, the signs, the life that holds Helsinki in motion.
And I was constantly afraid-afraid that the darkness I knew in Stockholm would sink in to the darkness of Helsinki. Afraid that I didn't actually escape the depression, it's just been waiting for me to come back to the archipelago again. Afraid that people would point at me, laughing, saying We know her-she spent a Swedish winter in the dark, motionless and alone.
Instead I came home with a suitcase full of Christmas presents and a business deal done. I came home to a house ready for Christmas ornaments, complete with the Finnish star at the top of the tree that I brought back with me. I came home. The darkness, it's still out there, but I will kick the darkness' ass with my new Aarikka duck keychain, and I will tell myself that not every place I go has to have my ghosts, too.
-H.
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December 16, 2005
Champagne is chilling in the fridge.
The house in Ovaltine has been sold-contracts signed and money exchanged.
We are free-the house is no longer ours.
And you know what? We talked to the owner of our beloved Blackberries, the house of our dreams, the house we lost twice and I cried bitterly each time. We talked to her, and we talked to her...
...and it's ours again.
God Bless us, everyone!
Tiny Tim can kiss my ass.
-H.
PS-note to self: go to Finland more often. Not only is the shopping utterly fantastic, but good things seem to happen when I do.
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December 13, 2005
A second later I hear a small sound in the kitchen. I don't look up. The sound progresses towards me, until I hear a massive crash in the kitchen, as my next ghost crashes into the clothes drying rack we'd set up in front of the radiator.
"Oh, gosh! Sorry! I'm terribly sorry!" comes the soft male voice. I turn my head to the doorway and there, walking into view, is a man.
"What, I'm finally being visited by someone who doesn't need a flea collar?" I ask, wiping tears off of my cheeks.
"What? Oh yes. Right. The other two. Well, we do come in many shapes and sizes, you know," chortles my new ghost. As he makes his way into view, I see him clearly. He's dressed all in dark navy blue, with bright red epaulets and a ridiculous hat on. He has long brown sideburns and completely round Harry Potter-like specatcles. On his hands are white gloves, and in one hand he holds a shiny silver trumpet.
"Are you serious?" I ask. "I've been sent a Salvation Army ghost?"
The Ghost of Christmas Future looks down at his trumpet. "Oh right. The trumpet. Well, we all had other things we did in life before we got here. I used to play for them at the holiday times, yes."
"Are you serious?" I ask again, dazed.
"Oh yes. Serious indeed, yes. I am the Ghost of Christmas Future, but you can call me Reginald."
"I've been sent a Salvation Army trumpet player named Reginald?" I reply stupidly.
"I know it might seem surprising, but yes. That's the scope of things." Reginald walks into the room and sits on the edge of the couch. His trumpet reflects the light of the Swedish Christmas lights we have in the window, and reflects it back into little crescents of light throughout the ceiling of the living room. His black patent leather shoes squeak as he rocks his toes backwards and forwards inside of them.
I reach out and take Reginald's hand-reassured for once by the solid familiarity of a ghost whose corporeal form is a little more recognizable-and we walk out the front door. I am no longer shocked by finding myself somewhere else, only I try to close my eyes and accept that where I go and what I see is going to depress and horrify me. As my toes curl out and stretch down, waiting for purchase, I feel a sigh shudder through me as I watch my feet.
And when my toes find something solid, I see the ground beneath my feet consists of smooth, worn hardwood floors. They are very dark and scabbed, something old, something new. My toes slide neatly along the floor, the grooves like marble against my skin. I look around and see that I am in a long, lovely room. Ice has formed over the sash windows, which look thick and sturdy, eyes to the world for over a hundred years. On one wall is a roaring open fire, the red flames greedily eating the logs that pop and crackle from time to time. The mantle is covered with pictures that are too far away for me to see, and the walls are a smooth warm amber color, the ceiling high. Near a window is a tall Christmas tree, covered in sparkly fairy lights and brightly colored balls. On the top of the tree is a white angel, her arms held wide in a gesture of forgiveness, of acceptance, of love.
'Look!'Â I shout to Reginald, pulling away. I walk to a small side table, staring in wonder. There, on the table, is the white glass angel that my grandmother gave me many years ago. One of her outstretched wings has broken in the past, and been repaired. 'It's my angel,'Â I whisper to Reginald. 'But what is she doing here?'Â
Reginald smiles and adjusts his glasses. 'Just watch, Helen. Watch and see.'Â
I stare at the room. Outside of one of the windows I can see, just above the frost, the icy pull of water. It is foam-topped and gray, a wintry pallor over it, but there it is-the water view I have always longed for. I run my hand on the mahogany table that holds my angel, and I give a start as I hear footsteps.
Walking into the room, a tall dog at her heels, is me.
I am older, much, much older, but it is me. My hair is shoulder length and completely gone white with age, shot through with thick streaks of gray. I have a number of wrinkles and my chin seems to have disappeared, but my eyes look just the same. I see, embedded on my cheek, the scar from the mole that was removed. I move slowly, with some care, but not as though I am in any pain. My hands-my hands!-they are so wrinkled and fragile looking, the nubs of the joints showing as I bend my fingers to touch the dog on the top of the head. I am dressed in a thick sweater and a long fleece skirt, and beneath the edge of the skirt I see, true to form, that I am wearing thick yellow slippers with some unidentifiable cartoon character on it with round boggy eyes.
'That's Ronaldo the Rhino,'Â Reginald says, pointing to the slippers. 'He hasn't been invented yet, but you're going to love him!'Â
The older me is humming to myself, and I watch in wonder as she goes up to the tree and straightens a ball that has gone wonky. I watch my old hands manipulate the ornament and right it, and as I do so, the old me starts to sing in a high, soft voice, Silent Night. The dog curls up by the fire on a thick red rug, groaning softly with delight at the warm fire.
'Settle in, Fido,'Â the Old Me says with a laugh. I start at the name-did I name my dog after the Ghost of Christmas Past? Really? Fido looks up at Old Me and blinks a few times, chuffs softly, and lays his head back down. 'It's just you and me in here,'Â Old Me says wistfully. 'It's just you and me. I think for dinner we'll have macaroni and cheese, what do you say?'Â
I heave a deep sigh. At least my favorite meal hasn't changed, even if I am all alone to eat it. I turn to Reginald, the sight of the Old Me in my periphery vision, still straightening the ornaments. 'So this is my future? I am old and alone, in a beautiful house with just a dog as my companion? I mean, I get it. I'm going to die all by myself, a hermit surrounded by a lovely home, and people aren't even going to care. It'll be just me.'Â I start to cry. I hate my fucking self so much I can't bear the feel of it in my young skin, let alone my old skin. 'At least I'm not a crazy cat lady! OK! At least I don't have a hundred fucking cats which I call my children. I get it. I'm alone. Can we move on now?'Â
Reginald reaches his arms out for me and holds on to my shoulders. I feel the edge of his trumpet along my right arm, the cold metal cutting through my pajamas. He looks me in the eyes, and I see he has dark brown eyes, so dark I can't even see the pupils begin and end. 'Watch and listen, Helen.'Â He says softly and urgently. 'This is all part of a bigger piece.'Â
I snuffle hideously and look into the pupil-less eyes. 'What piece? There's no puzzle here. I get it. I don't ever reach out to anyone, I don't ever forgive and forget, I never move on.'Â I am crying freely now, sobbing my heart out on a Salvation Army ghost. 'I am trapped inside myself forever, I am the ice queen, the white witch, the one that is destined to live and die alone as I just can't do it. I can't make a break outside of myself. I gave up. I give up. The fucked-up, the crazy, we get to live long, tragic lives, and we get to do it alone.'Â
I swallow and shudder and open my mouth when I hear-
'Helen? Are you in the lounge?'Â
And I am speechless.
I stare at Reginald, my eyes huge and full of tears. Reginald smiles, leans in and kisses my forehead, and whispers again, 'Watch and listen, Helen. Watch and listen.'Â
'ÂI'm in here, darling!'Â The Old Me shouts. I watch as she turns enough to the doorway so that her fleece skirt brushes against the bottom of the tree. Fido raises his head, and his tail thumbs out a heartbeat of welcome. I look at the doorway as the approaching sound of footsteps echoes on the smooth boards, and there in the doorway, is what I never expected to see.
'Angus!'Â I scream. 'Angus! Angus! It's Angus!'Â I drop to my knees as the Old Me walks forward and reaches an arm out, smoothly kissing him and smiling up at him. Angus has aged just as dramatically as I have, his hair also completely white. His face is as deeply lined with wrinkles as mine is, and sadly he has resorted to the type of sweater vests reserved for those that don't give a shit about fashion anymore. But he is there, in the room.
'I thought you weren't due back from your bother's until tomorrow,'Â Old Me says with reproach.
'Some watchdog you are!'Â Angus chides Fido, who hastens the staccato of the tail on the floor in response. 'I was bored to tears, darling. I had to leave, and anyway we'd finished the re-wiring anyway. Have you eaten?'Â
'ÂNo, not yet. Fido and I hadn't gotten around to it, yet.'Â Old Me admitted.
'Helen, you know you're supposed to eat regularly. You have to eat with the medication, doctor's orders.'Â Angus admonishes me.
'You should talk! I saw that someone had once again neglected his blood pressure medication on the kitchen table this morning!'Â I rebuke back.
'I don't need the tablets! My blood pressure is fine, I'm completely fit.'Â
Old Me laughs and wraps an arm around Angus' waist, as he slides an arm around my shoulders and we walk out of the room, Fido bounding up and at our feet. 'Come, darling, let's go whip up some dinner. I fancy a curry'¦'Â
I am still on my knees in the living room. Reginald places a solid hand on my shoulder. 'This is your future, Helen. This is what is ahead.'Â
I have my hands clasped over my mouth as tears stream down my face. 'I still have Angus. It can't be all bad. I still have Angus.'Â
Reginald sits down next to me, his trumpet clattering on the floor. 'The future doesn't have to be bad, Helen. I mean, I know this one guy once, a real old geezer money bags? His future was really dreadful, but his future isn't every future. This is your future.'Â
'I can't believe it. How can I be here, and have all of this?'Â
Reginald smiles and indicates the fireplace. I look at all the pictures lining it, and standing, I walk over to it. On the mantel are pictures of faces I know and love, but only just recognize. There's one of Melissa, laughing with two teenage boys on a beach. She has her arms around them, a bright smile on her middle-aged face.
'Melissa has kids?'Â I ask, breathlessly.
'She does. And she's very happy.'Â Reginald replies, standing behind me.
I see a picture of my father, a completely wizened creature, as we sit at a table together. 'It's my dad.'Â I say, breathlessly. 'But he can't still be alive.'Â
'ÂHe's not, I'm afraid,'Â intones Reginald. 'He died some years back. But when he did, you were at his side.'Â
I turn to him, holding the picture. 'I was?'Â
'Yes. Although the two of you were close, it wasn't a complete catharsis in life. There were many unsaid things between the two of you, but at least you were there for him. You always promised you would be, and sure enough, when the end came, you were.'Â
I hug the picture close to me. I continue looking down the mantel. There's a picture of Angus and I laughingly holding up scuba kit. A picture of Jeff holding up an enormous fish, a ridiculous cap on his head. A picture of Angus with his kids and-I can only assume-his grandkids. A picture of Angus and I dressed up at a registry office, signing our names in a book that will make our names one. And there, on the side of the fireplace, is a picture of a middle-aged me with my arms around a young woman in a cap and gown. We both look so happy, and I notice with a shock, we both have the same smile. My hand shaking, I reach out for the photo and hold it like it's made of china.
'Is this'¦?' I ask hoarsely.
'That's your daughter, Helen. That's your daughter.'Â Reginald says softly.
I am crying as I trace the picture with my fingers. 'I have a daughter. I can't believe it. I have a daughter.'Â
I hear a sound outside the window and see a car pull up. The Old Me and Angus are walking outside, arms outstretched, and as the car door opens I see my daughter emerge. She is laughing, long dark hair and bright red coat on. She grabs us both and hugs us, and then opens the back door, reaching in, and emerging with a squirmy happy bundle a moment later who immediately opens its arms to a happy and grinning Angus, who has his arms open to receive the baby in kind.
'It's her.'Â I croak to Reginald. 'It's her and her baby.'Â
'They're surprising you for Christmas,'Â Reginald laughs. 'Surprise! She's a few days early, and Melissa and Jeff and their kids will be here tomorrow.'Â
I sob, holding the picture. 'I can't believe this is my life. You don't understand. This is my dream. This is what I want, this can't be what will be. I can never get here, I can never get to this. I don't get good things, it just isn't the way it is. I don't deserve it.'Â
Reginald sinks to the floor, crossing his legs and letting his trumpet hit the floor with a soft cling. He looks at me. 'This isn't about what you deserve. This is about getting to where you are headed. Your past, your present'¦they're just a part of what you become, but they don't have to be all that you become. Your future has so much good in it. Not everything will be perfect, there is setback and heartache, there is a great deal of loss and pain. There is so much work for you to do. But the bottom line is, you are going to create this future. You can create this future. The reason you were chosen to see it all is simply because you're falling down in your present, kid. You're falling down, you're beginning to doubt, you're beginning to give up and not see the bigger picture. And the bigger picture is beautiful.'Â
I smile and look at his trumpet. 'Do Salvation Army guys ever play those things?'Â
Reginald looks down and picks up the trumpet. He licks his lips and burses them, puts them to the trumpet and plays a note that is loud and clear and beautiful. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I am back in my living room, the silent darkness reverberating from the echo of that note. I walk up the stairs and climb into bed, snuggling tight next to the furnace that is Angus.
'You know what I want for Christmas? I want a do-over. And if I can't have a do-over, I just want that stocking I made as a child. That's all I want. And you better keep taking your blood pressure medication,'Â I whisper, crying into his shoulder.
'The train's at platform 1!'Â shouts Angus, still asleep.
I lay down in the bed of my future, and I dream about a glittery red Christmas stocking hung by the fireplace, silver glitter falling to the ground in a halo.
-H.
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December 12, 2005
A fluttering of dust puffs out of the fireplace. I look wonderingly at it, wondering if yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he is coming out of my fireplace. There is a rustling sound which sends the cats back under the couch, and a splatting sound that is followed by a string of swear words so ripe it even makes me blush. I stand up, leaving the blanket on the couch, and as I peer under the brick edge of the chimney a sudden shower of black coal dust coats the room. I see something dark moving...moving...and BAM! I am hit by something solidly the size of a football, and moving at about that speed. I trip over the open box of Christmas cards I left on the floor and look up in time to see the football slam into the wall, leaving an enormous black puffball of coal dust.
"Jesus Christ!" shrieks the football. It slides gracefully down the wall before moving and, in one movement, shakes itself off and frees itself of coal. I see the football isn't actually a football, it's a small barn owl.
"What the hell? Is my house suddenly Mutual of Fucking Omaha? Is Marlin Perkins coming in, too?" I say in wonder, looking at the owl shaking its leg off.
"What are you talking about?" asks the barn owl in a gruff voice.
"You're an owl. An owl! What, they're so desperate for help they hire wildlife now?" I ask. "I suppose you're the Ghost of Christmas Present, or are you just here to tell me how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?"
"I find your churlish remarks to be inane," frets the owl. "And your chimney is filthy, have you ever thought about cleaning it?"
"Didn't you just do that for me?"
The owl cocks his head, considering. "Fair point. OK, I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present, as you guessed. Name's Bob." The owl ruffles its feathers and a tiny wave of dust makes its way to the floor again. "Sorry about that," Bob says, looking down at the perfect halo of black on the floor around him. I look at Bob-he's got soft-looking white feathers down his chest, black eyes, and a line of brown around the bottom of his face like the thinnest of goatees. He's not large, roughly the size of a football, and he hops on slender well-clawed feet over to me.
"Could you bend down here? You're doing my neck in."
"I thought owls could rotate their heads 180 degress," I reply.
"What are you, a Discovery Channel closet case? Just get your ass down here," barks Bob.
I sit cross-legged on the floor as Bob flaps his wings and sits on the edge of the table only recently righted by Fido. He fluffs his feathers again, and I find he smells like soil, hay, and blueberries. He clicks his off-white beak together a few times and cocks his head to look at me. "Now Helen, I'm here to take you through your present. There's a lot going on that you don't really see, not really, and we have to fix that. You're not well, kid. Not well at all. And it's sad, 'cause it's only going to go downhill from here."
I watch him silently, thinking I've heard all of this before.
He clicks his beak again and, raising his wings with no effort at all, he floats up onto my shoulder. His claws settle in reassuringly on my shoulder, holding tight but not too tight. His weight is comforting and solid.
"Stand up, kid, and let's go for a walk, ok?" he twits.
"Ok." I say, standing. He settles himself in and balances as I stand up, and we walk to the door. "And Bob? If you leave a present down my back I'm going to be really pissed off."
"Don't pressure me, I've had a lot of coffee today," tweaks Bob, as I reach for the doorknob and open the door. As we step out the front door, once again my foot doesn't reach the soggy Ikea doormat outside the step. Instead I find myself in my mother's living room, her living room in Dallas, her living room so far away. It's just as I remember it-the plush couches forming an imaginary battalion, her hardwood floors slick and shellacked. On the dining room table a festive bowl of holly is set out, along with the detritus that my mother always used to collect and pick up and move around in the eventuality of it finding its home-bills, a tube of lipstick, a pair of fingernail clippers, a few CDs.
Bob coughs next to me. He looks at me, holding a wing over his beak. "Sorry. Pellet coming later on."
The Christmas tree is lit up in a corner, and I turn to it, looking for the familiar ones. Somewhere on the tree should be that horrible plastic of Paris ornament of a Victorian woman I painted when I was about 6. She has a garish face because I couldn't manipulate a paintbrush very well, so the black for her eyes melted across her face like a turn-of-the-century Batman. Her thick heavy purple gown should stand out among the tree...but try as I might, she's not on there. None of the crap ornaments I made as a kid are on there, as I see that the tree is actually not composed of any homemade ornaments at all, it has uniform, crisp, fresh-looking glass balls.
"That's funny. Mom always used to use the homemade ornaments," I say softly, more to myself, and Bob doesn't answer but I feel his head turn to look at me. I make my way through the quiet house. The dogs are there, and even though Bob gives a nervous hoot when he sees them, they don't even turn their ears up to Bob and I as we walk through the hallway. They can't see us. We aren't here. No one is home at my mother's house, and as I pass a corner I see the stockings hung up on the wall-there is a stocking for everyone, including the dogs...but there is no stocking for me.
Bob turns to look at me again. "You weren't expecting one, were you? You're not really a part of anything, Helen. Things go on."
"I know," I tell Bob without turning my head. I look around the sitting room and it is unfamiliar. Things have moved on, as they will do. I reach for the back door doorknob and turn the handle, and as we step outside we don't go into the fenced-in backyard, instead I find us standing in the middle of a busy shopping area. People are racing around, looking hassled. I feel stunningly uncomfortable, and my shoulders tense up automatically, causing Bob to hoot nervously and sway with the tension.
"Chill, Helen." Bob instructs. "They can't see you, can't touch you. Just chill."
I look around the shop and see, pausing over a shelf, is my father and stepmother. They are looking studiously at a brightly packaged box.
"Is that something for Helen?" asks my stepmother.
"I dunno," replies my father honestly. "I have no idea what she likes."
"We've been to three different stores already, babe," my stepmother says, exasperated. "We have yet to find anything!"
"She's just so hard to figure out," my father says, ambling down the aisle. "I just don't know her."
I sigh.
"It's funny," Bob says thoughtfully. "I know you're supposed to see the scenes that you're supposed to see. But the truth is, everyone who has been shopping for you is saying the same thing. No one knows what to buy you. No one." I look down an aisle and see Angus puzzling over a gift. Another aisle of the same shop has Angus' Mum holding something cloth and soft-looking, and she seems bewildered. Parallel to that aisle is my mother, holding something in her hand but looking unconvinced. It's impossible that all of these people are in the same store, but there they all are, picking things up and putting them down, wondering what the hell you get for someone you just don't know. "People just don't know you, Helen." Bob says softly. "They can't know you because you don't let anyone know you."
"That's not true!" I shout back at Bob as I watch the entire cast of characters in my life wandering around the same store, half-heartedly trying to figure out what to get me, like characters in a music video. "People do know me! I do let people in! I want to let people in, I just don't know how!"
I turn around and see myself, standing at the checkout. I recognize myself, it's from Thursday last week. I look tired, strained, unhappy. I am drawn, and there are lines around my eyes that I hadn't seen before. I place some items on the checkout belt-two large bottles of fresh juice, some yogurt, two boxes of mince pies.
Bob shakes his feathers gently next to me, and I feel the edges of them on my ear like a whisper. "I see you're buying mince pies for your Asian grandmother. I don't know why you are buying them-she doesn't really care about you, does she? I mean, she saw you earlier in the year, but she didn't come over to see you, she came over to see her other granddaughters. She even said that her other granddaughters were the most beautiful girls ever, right in front of you. I'm sorry, Helen, but you just don't figure in to the equation."
I feel my shoulders slump.
Bob leans gently into my ear. "Why do you try so hard to be accepted, Helen? Why are you trying to hard to be remembered? Why do you chase after people to be loved?"
I watch the mince pies make their way down the belt, and I watch myself smile at the cashier, the smile never reaching my eyes. I am embarassed for the mince pies. I am embarassed for being me. I shake my head and turn to Bob, feeling my tears well up. "What is this, tough love from a bird of prey? Is this the point of my Christmas visits? Are you all here to make me remember how shit I am, how scraping the barrel doesn't begin to sum me up? Is this fun for you, because I can tell you, it's not much fun for me."
Bob leans in and reassuringly takes my earlobe in his beak. "It's all a bigger part of something, Helen. It's all a bigger part of something. You made these walls, you chase these phantoms. I'm just here to show you what you're heading towards."
I shake my head, upsetting Bob, and I shout into the cavernous store, "I'm just fine the way I am! There's nothing wrong with me! I'm just fine!"
And with a soft click of Bob's beak I am back in my living room, tears running down my face and tiny footprints highlighted in black coal dust leading up to the fireplace.
-H.
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December 08, 2005
I sling on the pajamas which were discarded by the bed, and putting my glasses to my face I tread softly downstairs, feline homicide on my mind.
I walk into the living room, and there in the middle of the living room is a big shaggy dog. A big shaggy dog in my living room. A big shaggy dog who somehow got past the locked front door and is in my living room. A big shaggy dog is currently standing on his back two legs, righting the side table that he knocked over.
"Geez, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to knock that over. It's the tail. I saw the cats and...well. A dog's gotta' do what a dog's gotta' do," he says apologetically.
I bend over and look under the couch and see my two cats, roughly twice their size in exploded standing-up fur and their eyes glowing with hatred.
The dog turns around and drops to all 4 legs. "Like I said, a dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do. But they'll be ok. I'm sorry about the noise, I usually try to be quieter. It just didn't say on the job spec that there are cats in here. They know cats are my weakness. Geez. A little warning, people!" He shouts, raising a paw to the sky.
I stand there, staring.
"What are you thinkin', kid?" asks the dog.
I look at the dog and blink. "I'm thinking I need to lay off the melatonin."
"What?"
"And the realtor is going to shit when they hear there's a dog in the house."
"Hey, I'm not just a dog. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"If I tell my therapist about this he will totally lock me up this time."
"So don't tell him, then. Who says therapy is all about 100% honesty all the time?"
I cock my head sideways. "Am I being Punk'd?"
The dog shakes its fur, which goes in all different directions. "Do you think Ashton Kutchner has the brain power to make a dog talk?"
"Fair point," I concede. "So...why a dog?"
"What, you were expecting an animated cricket in a waistcoat or something? Fucking Disney." says Christmas Past, and lifts his leg to lick his ass. I feel my lip curl in disgust. Once Christmas Past has completed the tongue toilet paper routine, he turns to me. "You're Helen, I know. You can call me Fido, but if you laugh I will kick your ass from here to Christmas Future. Just so we're clear."
I hold my hands up. "No skin off my back as to what you're called."
"See, Helen," Fido says, sitting down. "I have come to try to save you. You're heading down a dark path, kid. A dark path. And the folks upstairs, they just thought maybe you needed some kind of kick in the pants, because you're struggling right now. And I want to help you stop struggling, because that's no way to live."
"Umm...ok." I say slowly. "So...what? We look through photo albums? 'Cause I don't have any, and anyway that picture of me with the poodle perm isn't going to cause me to have any kind of struggle relief, that bad boy needs to be burned. And I don't really remember my past anyway, so this should be a short journey."
Fido stands on his feet again and walks to me. He reaches for my hand and, his rough sandpaper pads on my hand, passes me a blue leash. He sits back down, tilting his head.
"OK, hook me up," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"Put the leash on."
"You want me to walk you?"
"No, you silly bint. The leash is for you to hold on to, so you don't get lost," he growls. "Those parallel universes are a real bitch."
I clip the leash on and, deciding to forgo my own personal vow that Thou Shalt Not Leave the House Without Lip Gloss On, open the front door and, holding on to the wrist strap, we walk outside. Only once we pass the front door, instead of stepping neatly onto the soggy striped doormat that lingers just outside the front door, we slide cleanly into the hallway of an old house. The house has pale yellow walls, numerous boots by the front door and the hallway smells like frying bacon and Kool-Aid. Outside the window I see snow falling gracefully, and beyond that a dirt road, a gas tank, and an enormous metal tub.
"I know where I am," I say faintly, feeling my heart crash into itself.
Fido sits and, raising a leg, scratches his ear.
"I know this place," I tell Fido. I turn to him, and see he has his leg up, ready to nail the corner of the doorway. "Don't you dare!" I shout at him.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Got a whiff of some other mutt in this house and had to let him know who's boss."
I feel faint. I touch a hand to the wall and turn a corner. "I can't believe it. I'm in Iowa, in my grandma and grandpa's farmhouse." I feel like I can't breathe. "But I don't understand. They sold this place so long ago. They don't live here, and my grandpa isn't even-"
I stop as I turn the corner and see there, on his usual armchair, sits my grandpa. My beloved grandpa. Tears spring to my eyes as I watch him watching the TV. Fido comes up and puts his head under my hand.
"That's my grandpa," I whisper to Fido. "He died 6 years ago, but I think I have missed him everyday." I walk over to him and kneel by his chair.
"He can't see you, kid. You're not really here," Fido says sadly.
I watch my grandpa for a moment, taking in the scent of him, a mixture of motor oil, cigar smoke and sweat, a manly smell, a real smell. Then, in the corner of my vision, I see something so startling it makes me fall from my kneeling position. A little girl with long brown hair and pink overalls runs into the living room. She has a round face and two bucked front teeth. She looks thin but healthy. I feel the air sucked out of my solar plexus as I watch her.
She's me.
The little girl me.
She runs up to my grandpa and, with one bounce, lands on his lap. She squeezes her arms around his neck, which he returns with a one-arm hug that is so strong it makes her squeak. She bounces off of him with the same Tigger-like energy that only the young have, and walks into the dining room area.
"I think you should follow her," Fido says quietly.
I walk around the corner and there, at the dining room table, is my father and my little sister. My grandma is hovering around in the kitchen and my mother is reading a book on the floor in the living room. Everyone looks so different, so unbelievably young. Spread across the table is the detritus of home crafts-thick, red Christmas stockings, bottles of Elmer's Glue and sparkly vials of glitter. My father is meticulously painting his stocking with thin lines of glue, while he cackles gleefully.
I remember this day. It comes to me suddenly, swiftly.
I watch as my child fingers manipulate glitter and glue. I watch as the snowflakes I intended to make simply become enormous black holes of glitter, I watch as I scrawl my name along the top of the stocking but don't leave enough room, and the last three letters of my name are splayed nearly on top of each other on the side. I have glitter in my hair, glue on my cheek, and am pulling off lumps of the stuff from the palms of my hand, the rings of my fingers like so many little veins in the glue.
My father holds up the stocking he made for my sister, and it is beautiful. Her name is spelled perfectly and evenly across the top, and the middle is covered with perfectly formed silver snowflakes and a snowman with a red glitter hat. He looks very proud. I look down at my stocking, which looks like it has been involved in a hit and run accident with a pixie.
"Your stocking sucks, Dog Breath!" crows my dad, using my occasional nickname. "It's awful! And stupid! Mine is so much better!" He points to mine, laughing. I see my little girl face burn with shame and I hate my stocking so much I want to cut it to bits with scissors.
I feel Fido come up next to me, and as he sits down his haunches rub up against my ankles. I feel embarassed for the little girl me. I feel embarrassed for the big girl me. I feel stupid standing there in my purple pajamas, and I feel fat and ugly and horrible. I watch the little girl me choke back hot tears, and all I want to do is hug her tightly and exclaim over her incredible stocking. I want to tell her it's the most beautiful stocking I have ever seen, ever, and that if she will let me have it I will treasure it and hang it up every year.
"It's hard when you're made to feel like that as a child." Fido says quietly.
"I never felt I was enough," I reply softly. "You probably think I am being stupid. I know it seems like this is nothing, this is just a ridiculous stocking. But it wasn't just the stocking, it was often like that. I was always too slow, too stupid, too fat, too ugly, too bookworm-ish. I was never...enough. I'm still not enough." I turn to Fido. "Why'd you bring me here, anyway? To remind me of that? To remind me of how useless I am? To remind me of the loss of my grandpa? Isn't that what therapy's for?"
Fido looks up at me, the shaggy brown hair moving away from his eyes. "I only take you to where you're supposed to go, Helen. I don't choose the places." He stands. "Come, it's time to go."
We stop by the front door and I hook the leash to him. "I still love Christmas," I tell him, as much for myself as for him. "I really do. I think it's a beautiful time."
He nods. "Christmas is lovely. It's my favorite, I just love getting me some chew toys in my stocking. Those damn squeakers inside those toys-I tell ya', they just drive me nuts!" He shakes his head, and then looks at me. "What would you have said to the little you?"
I look at him and try to shrug it off. "To try to resist eating any cheese as in the future it'll be her Achilles' Heel. To make sure not to date that Mike guy, he was a real loser. Oh-and invest in Microsoft as soon as possible. That kind of thing."
He shakes his head. "They always think they're so tough," he says to himself. He puts the leash in my hand and shakes his whole fur coat again. "OK, kid, so I guess you know the drill. Two more ghosts are coming, I can't tell you a whole lot more since I only take the first shift, but hopefully at the end of it you get all happy about Christmas again."
"And...what? Make my assistant partner and save his kid from dying from some disease that started off with a limp?" I ask sarcastically.
Fido regards me. "Bitter, aren't we? No wonder you were on the list for visits. I'll see you around, kid. Try to take care of yourself, ok?" And together we walk out the front door, and straight back into my little living room in England, only once I walk through the front door I am alone, with the smell of wet dog in the living room and two furious cats tucked under the couch.
-H.
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December 07, 2005
My boots scuffling, I passed pile after pile of the enormous sycamore leaves, and with a swing of an ankle I sent a huge pile swirling into the air, paper-like and curled they took to the air with a jump before settling back onto the sidewalk. I have been watching those leaves every time I walk through that neighborhood, and every time I have wanted to bend down and pick one up, to touch the veins of leaves in my fingers, to hold the woody stem in my hand. I have never done it, and I don't know why.
The houses, stately and Georgian, are silent and calming as I continue walking. I look up at the windows of the houses and try to imagine who lives there. Is it a young family, the childrens' Wellington boots slung frustratingly in the hallway? Is it a working professional couple, and he comes home smelling of bank money and nuzzles her neck as the stir fries the bok choy, hoping he's washed off the other smells before making it home? Is it the same set-up as my therapists', in that it's a home shared by psychotherapists, who each have made an area their working area, and in these areas they sit and face the broken and ready the superglue?
Walking along, I look up in a window at a movement and see a man, huddled under a thick purple blanket, rocking back and forth in front of the enormous windows. He looks at me, still rocking the rocking of the manic, the crazy, the lost. I know that rocking. I've done that rocking. I stop for a minute as he rocks and look up at him. I smile at him, and he sees me but doesn't stop rocking. I know how he is. We're all looking for a way to get away from ourselves. His rocking is the only way he can think of right now, to soothe, to escape. We're all looking for a way to get away from ourselves, and this way keeps it at bay.
I walk on, my boots quiet on the sidewalk. I have O Holy Night in my head, playing on an endless loop, and when I am not careful the words come out of my lips as I quietly sing my way to therapy. I pass a man mixing concrete and spreading it near the curb and I catch myself and stop just in time to not be heard. When I get to the house that I know, I make my way to the steps. I am greeted by a Swedish woman, another therapist, and she tells me that my therapist is still with his other person, would I mind waiting in the lounge?
I walk into the lounge, feeling like I'm somewhere I'm not supposed to be-the interior of a surgeon's car. The kitchen of Dr. Henry. The filing room of an accountant. The walls are adorned with pictures and posters in Swedish and I interpret them readily. My own therapist spends part of his time in Sweden, treating people there, although he is English and his base is English. In a rocking chair by the large windows a thick tabby cat sits, tensely regarding me. I make my way to the cat and gently stroke its head, its neck, its chin. The cat, ears back and tense, obliges me with a purr and angles her face up for better access from my fingers, while never easing up on the springing feeling in the shoulders, the ready to run instinct.
My therapist comes in. 'I see you're making a friend,'Â he says kindly. 'It's unusual, she doesn't let people touch her much. She was mistreated in her last home and now is not trusting, she doesn't believe in people.'Â
I look at the cat. 'I know the feeling, doc.'Â I reply.
We go up to his loft office, full of clean light and Swedish-influenced pale pine. He has lit advent calendars and the area has a waft of magnolia from them. I sit on the couches and we talk.
I have been seeing him for a few months now. Every session I go, I am glad I did. Every session I talk, I feel better for letting the cork out. We talk about my current battle with the food, about my self-disgust and creepy loathing. We then talk about other things and begin to link them together. My mind starts spinning as I start to see that there are things at play, things at work, things underneath that I had never thought about. You don't think about these things as you understand them to be fact. Blue is blue. The sun comes up. I am utterly deficient. These truths I hold to be self-evident, and I don't think about them as the world is full of options, facts don't need thoughts spared on them.
And then my therapist sits forward and looks me in the eye. He smiles gently. And he utters one sentence that somehow collapses me into a torrent of sobs. He utters one sentence that, for the first time in my life, enters my head and sinks in. His one sentence explodes the boundary of my carefully defended world, my brick walls suffer a crack in their foundation, and all the truths I knew to be self-evident are now up for grabs.
I sob hysterically on his couch, and he hands me tissues. 'This is the beginning,'Â he says.
He asks me how I feel, and I tell him the truth-I feel utterly exhausted. Completely and totally shattered, and I don't understand, understand anything. I feel as though the only thing I can do is sleep, that the only thing I should do is sleep. He tells me it's important I try not to think about things just now. He may have opened the box for me, but I can't deal with some of the things inside of it on my own.
And that this is only the first box.
He tells me to walk back to the tube station slowly, and I oblige him. I walk as though my hips are disjointed. I walk watching the ground, the trees, the sky, unable to focus my eyes on anything specific. I walk with eyes full of tears. I walk as though I am a child, and in some way, I suppose I am.
I stop and pick up a large sycamore leaf, larger than my hand and tinged with brown. I hold it in my hand and make it dance on the air. When I pass the Rocking Man's house I look up and see he's still there, the purple blanket still over his head, his rocking still in tact. He looks at me and I look at him, and I am still crying. I hold up my leaf to show him, and he cocks his head, still rocking, and looks at it.
Then I walk on and go home, feeling like an exhausted empty confused vessel who just found out that blue isn't blue, it's yellow.
And I have the large sycamore leaf on my desk to prove it.
-H.
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December 06, 2005
I'm not eschewing the need for books. I go through 2-3 books a week but perhaps as a card-carrying American, I feel the need to have a TV. People with no televisions are not artsy in my world-they are strange, lost in a generation gap that somehow swallows up the past 60 years, or just generally need to get over their bad artsy selves and admit that the box can be as good a lover as any.
Sometimes better.
I'm just saying.
As an American in England-land, I am pleased to say that we even took it one step further and installed satellite TV. Satellite TV. That means there is always something on, unless you count early insomnia driven Saturday mornings or times when Angus is around, because while we are compatible on many, many levels, we don't align on TV shows (that's TV programmes to you, darling.)
Case in point-on Sunday morning before the posh party lunch we were watching a show Angus enjoys called How Is It Made?, which tells you how they make anything from honey roasted peanuts to fiberglass boats to bubblegum (the bubblegum part, however, was actually very interesting). I think I lost my will to live somewhere around the time they showed how the inside of a dryer is made. The words "This applies to my life how, exactly?" booted around in my head a good dozen times as the narrator talked with wonder about the inside dryer barrel.
So we tend to diverge on TV, and thus my favorite thing to do is to record my shows on DVD (we have a DVD recorder, too. Satellite, a plasma screen, surround sound and a DVD recorder/player. It's like a digital orgasm in our living room.) and watch them when Angus isn't around. For reasons why, see the Lost description below.
My current favorite shows are Grey's Anatomy and Lost. I watch Grey's Anatomy and think-Dude. Doctor McDreamy. I remember you in that movie where you had to pay that blond chick to date you and make you cool, and you rode a tractor, and I thought you were an idiot yet you have a fantastic career and I so want to have wild naked monkey sex with you...and whatever happened to that blond chick? Wasn't she on some kind of angsty 80's yuppie highly acclaimed TV show that inevitably starred Peter Horton and asked us to examine our inner child with crystals and healing light?
I also love me some Grey's Anatomy. I know it's not remotely realistic. I know it's not. I've had a few surgeries in my lifetime to know that while they all seem to have the bitchy attitude of Sandra Oh's character, none of them have ever been anywhere near as cute as that cast of characters (not even my Scottish gastroenterologist, who I thought was nice and average looking until she told me she just loves scoping nice clean bowels. Talk about off-putting.) But while we are very far behind here in England (so please, no one give it away!) I have a feeling McDreamy will choose his scary looking but remarkably pleasant ex-wife over the oddly fish-lipped Meredith. Scary baby-eating ex-wife has a soul (note to self: remember that "I screwed your best friend to get your attention" defense) and somehow, I almost like her (bizarre best-friend screwing defense aside).
But we just had the episode where Dr. Burke crawls in bed with his emotionally frozen just-ectopiced pregnancy girlfriend (like I said, we are behind here). And Dr. Burke is a big, burning hot hunk of man. So ABC, please do not ever dress Dr. Burke in clothes that could be construed with the time period in which Dr. Burke would utter the words "love machine" or "can you dig it, baby?" m'kay? The polyester turtleneck and bad jacket are SO OVER.
I am also a huge fan of Lost. We are still in Season 1 here, and Angus tried to watch the first episode with me but the part where a guy got sucked into the engine was nearly too much for him. There was the kind of indignant shouting at the TV that generally occurs whenever there's a car chase scene on TV ("What, so now it's going to burst into a fireball, isn't it? Go ahead! Explode the car! Go ahead, you know you will! AHA! See! Useless wankers!"). I was able to keep him in the room, despite the man-into-turbine suckage, but when the polar bear showed up it was a step too far for him and he outright hates the show now.
And in some ways I understand-there are elements of the show that I hate. I hate that the Kate chick is always looking wistfully into the sea as though the answer lies just over that wave...no, that wave...no that one. I hate the fact that everyone is so nuts about Charlie because of his dreamy English accent when-hello?-it's bordering on perverted. How can anyone find a hobbit dreamy, isn't that like some kind of weird and pervy elf porn, to lust after a hobbit? Imagine the Dr. Scholl's intake that would be needed. I hate that I can't decide if Locke is so cool I want to love him up or if he's really the Antichrist. I hate that no one seems to be having sex on that island-isn't that what grown-ups do when there's nothing else going on? I hate that half of them are half-shaven and you know there's going to be an outright bitchfight over the last tube of toothpaste, as in someone will die. That's not even thinking about the tampon shortage that's bound to occur, especially once the women learn that palm fronds? Not so absorbant after all. It's going to have to be re-named "Island of Funky Beaver" when it comes to that point.
But there's a lot of it I like, enough of it to keep me glued to my seat in anticipation each week. I have only missed one episode of it, and I confess I need to get my Dr. Jack fix on a weekly basis. It's just as well I do, as they haven't started showing the second season of Desperate Housewives here yet, so for all I know Zack's gunned down everyone on Wisteria Lane and is running an organ donation scam while his teenage bride Julie is pregnant and enjoying the remarkable career she has as a dental hygenist.
I was watching Weeds for a while, as I would switch teams for Mary Louise Parker, but I started to go off it. Angus and I watched a depressing but great miniseries called Auschwitz which ran last year and then again this year. They ran a reality show here called The F***king Fulfords, about a repugnant and thoroughly digusting git of a Lord and his tumbling down castle. He's so miserable, they gave him a spin-off series (don't take offense, last week's episode was called "Why England is F***ked"). We were huge fans of a great show that I think only ran here in the UK called Love Soup, an uncomfortable comedy (but not as toe-curling uncomfortable as The Office, that was a whole new level) about two lovelorn people (an Englishwoman working in a cosmetics shop and an American comedy writer) who dated all the wrong people on their way to finding each other...then the series ended and, of course, they didn't find each other.
In case you were looking for more depression.
And I have to confess-I am a closet fan of Extreme Makeover-Home Edition. Even though Ty and his megaphone get on my very last fucking nerve and Connie the Wonder Wuss always sobs about how blessed everyone is, I enjoy it. Even though every time they make a 7 year-old girl a pink cowgirl fairy princess Barbie pony room I smack my head and think: In 4 years that child is going to hunt you down and punish you for that tiara-shaped bed, I love that show. Angus can't stand the shouting they do, and the fact that when the people see their re-made home they invariably jump up and down screaming "Oh my God! Oh my God! Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod!" and cry like mad (Angus does a good impersonation of said moment which I like to call "The Demented Leprechaun"). I find that part endearing, after all, in England they don't have the show (for good reason, as we have a running joke that an English family would perhaps be more reserved, and would, after the politely clapping neighborhood ceased their ruckus and asked kindly: "Bus driver? I say...could you please move that bus? You could? Yes, thanks very much indeed.", the family would smile kindly and nod to Ty. "Yes," said polite family says politely. "I do think that this abode will do very well indeed. Jolly good. Rather."
See, there's just no need for that kind of outpouring of emotion.
So when the Americans go nuts and jump around and scream and cry, I laugh.
And if Angus isn't in the room, I tear up myself but please don't tell him that.
-H.
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December 05, 2005
Yesterday we had a Christmas lunch in a posh place with Angus' extended family. Little nieces ran around with bows in hair and shiny patent leather shoes striking the marble floors. Big smiles lit up small faces at the prospect of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, and chocolate mousse. Brothers got helpings of roast beef from the enormous hunk of bovine on the counter, smothered in horseradish, mustard, and dreams of an afternoon nap.
I walked through the hallway after the lunch, my short heels ringing along the marbled halls. I felt cold and pulled my shrug closer around my shoulders. I stopped in front of a long gilded mirror hanging in one of the hallways. I reached a finger out to run my hand over the grooved sides-it was cold to the touch and made me feel even more chilled. In the mirror two green eyes looked back, boring holes into the glassy surface. The hair, the makeup, the vintage 1920's earrings...they looked fine. But when the eyes travelled down they picked up the body of someone comparable to a pack animal. I was filled with flaws, the desperate look of someone that needed to starve themselves, and do it well, and do it long.
And I felt the edge of the ledge at the tip of my toe.
And I ran my toe along it, wondering what was on the other side of the precipice.
Melissa has been visiting us this weekend. She's been great company, as she and I watch Extreme Home Makeover and relax on the couch. We talk about movies. She borrows my clothes. For the Christmas lunch, every single item she's wearing apart from the bra, knickers and tights are mine-the jewelry, clothes, shoes and coat are all mine-and I am somehow deeply touched and flattered and happy that she wants to borrow my clothes. She puts on some of my makeup and twinkles my earrings. She smiles at me and we talk and I am a mix between an older sister and a friend with some degree of authority and I love where our relationship is. I toe the edge of the ledge, and hold in my heart the good feeling that we are ok, that we are doing fine right now, just before the edge of her ledge where she hauls herself through the turbulent upper teen years.
That night, after we'd dropped Melissa off at the airport with a box stuffed with Christmas presents and a big hug (for both of us!) I was rewarded with a long Lush bath and a sensual massage from Angus, complete with champagne and "the extra service". My body soft and smooth from ylang ylang, we sipped wine downstairs in our lounge, and still the edge of the ledge was just there.
I have a deadline of some work things to do, so I briefly log in and take care of them. As I go through the motions of the world I would rather not inhabit, I realize that I do the work with dread in my soul. I don't enjoy the work, and even though I love my project team, even their company is not enough to keep me in this work for any longer than I have to be. The edge of the ledge grows menacing as little pebbles slide off the top, my toes making their way off.
My father rang and when we spoke his mood was high. My sister had finally deigned to speak to him after many, many months of ignoring him. My father had been bereft at her completely blanking him, and I have to be honest-as I had told my therapist, while I felt bad for my father, I didn't mind that she was ignoring him. For the first time in my life I had a parent that was "mine". I had someone that wanted to talk to me. I was a favorite, and the only time I've ever been the favorite was by my beloved grandfather, who left us in 1999. So yes-I hurt for my father, but the truth is, I loved that I was finally an ok child, I was finally walking away from the fences I used to throw myself against to get their affection. My father tells me, happily, that they spoke. I refrain from the biter torrent in my mind (Why did she pick up the phone? What-she needed money again?) and simply tell him that I am happy for him. And I am. He's happy, so I am happy, but that edge of the ledge reminded me that it was just there, just there, waiting.
Christmas is coming and I love Christmas with all my heart. Last year I had a deep feeling of disconnect with the holidays and this year I am determined to avoid that. I have stories and blog posts about Christmas churning in my head, things I want to write but just need to set aside the time to do so. With every sleigh bell, every red ribbon, every twinkly light I look up and am so amazingly grateful for Christmastime it makes me want to decorate the edge of my ledge with tinsel and sing O Holy Night at the top of my lungs.
I sleep in a warmed and lovely bed with Angus, and that night I dream anxiety dreams about his ex (who is my least favorite person in the world, but I imagine that's mutual). I also dream that Kim is alive, alive and looking for me, and when he finds me I see Angus has packed his bag and is walking away, only I go chasing after him and tell him that I choose him, that I would choose him, that I do choose him.
Because I would choose him.
And I wake up and the edge of the ledge is there, only it's a calming feeling I have.
The edge of the ledge is not scary, it's just a ledge, maybe it only scares me as I just don't know what's on the other side.
-H.
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December 02, 2005
I am one of those strange creatures that, if I am provided with a no-rush situation, loves grocery shopping. I love it. I have no problem going to the grocery store and planning out meals for the next four days. Said menu will invariably get fucked up by Day Two as it's revealed that we already used the red onions in the goats' cheese tart and so have to make some kind of weird dough-oriented meal unless we scrap the whole plan and cook up a curry. The grocery store, to me, whispers a world of opportunity, bags of things from the shelves are whispering of things that I can make with them, to help them fulfill their culinary destiny.
Because I am one of those people, too. Just like Phoebe with all the dead Christmas trees on Friends, I too believe it's up to all of us to help these inanimate objects that surround us to complete their destiny. If there is one bottle of a certain type of wine left on the shelf, I will always buy it, even if it looks like it's not going to be very good, as I have to help it fulfill its wine destiny. A drooping orchid will come home with me, as just because it's going through a down cycle doesn't mean it can't fulfill its floral destiny. And our toilet paper backup contingency shelf in the bathroom upstairs accommodates four spare rolls of toilet paper. If there is one roll left and I need to refill the shelf with three other rolls, then I must be fair and push the one lone roll to the front of the shelf so that it will get used first as, according to my theory, the toilet paper can't wait to meet the business end of my beaver as a way of settling in with fate.
Yes, I am that screwed up.
So grocery stores, to me, are great fun. I have found that as I get older, I get less focussed about the food. I always have a list bu that doesn't stop me from thinking that Yes, we could use another bottle of maple syrup!, when I conveniently forget that we already have two bottles of the stuff sitting unopened on a kitchen shelf (not fulfilling their Canadian destiny, obviously). The list must be followed, and I am one of those people who crosses things out on the list once it has been retrieved.
I am also a grocery list stalker, in that if there are a choice of grocery store carts to pick up, I will always choose the one that has an abandoned grocery store listed in it. Often hastily written on the back of an envelope or piece of junk mail, these crumpled items are like archaelogical finds for me.
Camera zooms in and focusses on Helen's uneblievably wrinkled face.
Helen: After leaving Dream Job and becoming a professional achaeologist, naturally I never imagined of a world where the Prime Minister of New Zealand would accidentally lean on the flex capacitor in the nuclear plant, thereby wiping most of the modern world out, not unlike Dark Angel, but with better acting. Since becoming a professional in a career that would have had most people wondering when I'd be getting a real job, I have been studying the not too distant past. One of the great losses to modern civilization was of the common grocery store, and here's a magnificent find from a local site.
Snaps on rubber gloves and holds up tattered piece of paper.
Helen: It's a grocery list! We used to write down the things we wanted to buy, as some people are forgetful, or too organized, or menstruating and unable to think past the Midol. Isn't this amazing! This person wanted to buy beer, flowers, and rump roast. Obviously a romantic dinner in that house, as the next item is "condoms"! Someone must have gotten lucky that night, before the nuclear meltdown sealed their orifices shut!
Why yes. Sometimes I do live inside my own Mitty World, thank you very much. You should see the scene where I rescue my colleagues from Argentinian bad guys. That's a good one.
I walked around the shop picking up small Christmas gifts. I bought a nightgown for Melissa (Sainsbury's, believe it or not, has a great clothing range called Tu. I love it. It is comfortable, cute, and decent prices). I buy levitating pens for Melissa and Angus' Jeff (work Jeff nearly got a Weight Watchers calendar for Christmas, but I have decided I don't want to play his game. I'm going to be nice if it kills me, which-with his behavior-it will.) The levitating pens are so cool I resolve to go back within the next few days and see if they have more, as it'll make a good gift for my project manager. Well...ahem...for my project manager and for myself. I think I need to quality test them. You know. OSHA and all that.
On my list are folic acid and pregnancy vitamins, as well as Omega-3 of the flaxseed variety. Since the IVF clinic wants me on folic acid and prenatal vitamins now, to try to get my body ready for the Spring, I find this a dreary chore-is it all for nothing? Will it help? MUST these companies all have really pregnant women looking they've smoked too much of something and are in a blissful coma on the front of the package?
I head to that section and am naturally overwhelmed by the sheer volume of vitamins. It turns out ClearBlue Easy makes prenatal vitamins now. Isn't that a weird thing? Prenatal vitamins. So, they make the preganancy tests, the vitamins, what's next? Diapers? A ClearBlue color chart (Is it a pink line or a blue x? Hmm, little Harvey? It's what? Oh my God, give me that. Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have had all that chardonnay and let Daddy mount up that night. Screw him and his "It's ok, I'll pull out darling!") for the burgeoning toddler? A Hooked-on-Phonics ClearBlue for the growing child? ClearBlue college for those dreaming of a career in Planned Parenthood?
Strange. I steered clear of the ClearBlue vitamins. A little too creepy for me. I was reading the back of the prenatal vitamin options-iron supplements make me wildly ill, so I have to avoid them like the plague.
An old woman comes up next to me, looking at the Omega 3 vitamins. She smiles kindly, and smells like apricot jam. She holds a bottle in her hand.
"My GP recommended these, he tells me that they are good for the joints."
"Indeed," I say, smiling back. "I saw that on TV as well."
"It's perhaps a bit too late to try something like that, but I'll do anything if it helps the arthritis!" she says happily, with anefficacious giggle. She sees me holding a bottle of prenatal vitamins and indicates them with her head. "Good luck, my dear. I'm only getting my Omega 3, I'm not pregnant of anything!"
I watch her walk away and think: Neither am I.
-H.
PS-Many thanks to Polichick, who was my 11,000th comment yesterday. 
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