March 31, 2005

The Hidden Thorns

Last night I made Angus' favorite meal, a red onion and goats cheese tart. We had talked a lot yesterday-he knows I am blue and wants to help me (and I'm very sorry that my blog has been so depressing lately), only I don't seem very good at articulating what's wrong. I have to think about my feelings a long time before I can clearly point to things and say: Yes, see that tray of Japanese pickles? Slightly sweet but a tangy ache in your tongue at the same time? Yeah, that's how I feel.

While cutting up the onions last night my eyes streamed more than usual. Being something of a dork, a quick search on Ask Jeeves told me that cut onions form a mild sulfuric acid when mixing with tears, which I guess means we are crying toxic tears. And I was no different last night, stirring in herbs and crying my sulfuric acid onion tears.

Only there came a point when the solitude of my caramelizing the onions in some balsamic vinegar merged from the chemical tears to the sobbingly real kind.

Life is strange like that. You have a great thing that has a hidden stinger in it, a little thorn you didn't realize until you peel the layer back and look closer. Like the caramelized onions-strange that a red onion can taste so sweet when you cook it with a little balsamic vinegar. You think you're going to get a sharp bite in your mouth when instead it oozes delightfully all over the top of your tongue. It's an overwhelmingly positive sensation, but the red onions will delight in the other form of gas that will light up my yoga class so delightfully this evening.

I find a new singer named Jem whose album makes my knees tremble. I downloaded the whole thing on iTunes and love every single song, she reminds me of the fresh originality that Sarah McLachlan has. Then the radio has to go and call her "The new Dido" and I think: Christ, she's already considered passe and I only just found her!

My 31st birthday is tomorrow. As of tomorrow morning I am in another age bracket on those forms, the one that reads, ungratefully, "31-35". I am another age range. I am another statistic. With the removal of a zero and the addition of a 1, I get cheaper car insurance. 31, while now a sign of respectability and responsibility, also means I have just ticked down a notch in the success bracket of IVF treatment, so I'm more likely to afford it, just less likely to succeed. I am now proof I not only met the graceful slope of 30 but that I rode my sled down it. I get to avoid being a wacky Hollywood stereotype-"Hi, I'm Helen! I'm 30! I know, isn't it weird?" I mean, you never hear of 31 year-olds making headlines. We just lie low. We just go about keeping the world on its orderly axis. It's an umremarkable age for an unremarkable chick. No panic here.

But at the same time it means stepping up my Pilates and yoga classes, as in my family genetics proves the body-spread starts occuring in the mid-30's, and I want to keep my ass in the shape it's in, in the shape I've gotten used to. It means that I will be buying scary Bridget Jones pants in order to make sure that I look slim and trim under my cool but bizarre hemp dress at the wedding this weekend, as I don't want people to think: Ah yes. She's over thirty, definitely. Look-you can definitely pinch an inch there. Shame, really. She could've been cute.

Cooking the onions last night the sulfuric acid hit my tear ducts. As tears started to fall all the thinking that I did yesterday came to the surface in one big gulp. I realized how I am beginning to feel and the pain smacked me hard across the right-hand cheek of my face. It was all I could do to keep from detracting from what I wrote yesterday, from what I have been trying to fix myself on. I had to keep from racing around the house and finding everything she'd ever given me and hoarding them in one spot to keep them safe.

I feel like I'm not supposed to talk about it in case my family is reading. But I never know how I feel about things unless I spend some time putting them in writing, so I can only skim the surface of this one as my hands are tied and my mouth is gagged.

I am on hold as I wait for a phone call. I get to live in England, a country I enjoy more than any other home I've ever known, with the love of my life that I still can't keep my hands off of. But the hidden thorn in this one is that financially and logistically I can't be in Dallas at a moment's notice. It means I can't be there instantly but have to wait for the right time, which I should find out by phone any time now. It means I wait here until I receive word of when I can and will go back for a visit.

Because my grandmother is dying and I'm going to go tell her that I love her.

-H.

PS-Happy birthday, Mitzi.

PPS-I may still have a few bugs in my email-if you haven't heard from me and were waiting for me to tag you back, then please blip me a mail and I will try again with a response.

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March 30, 2005

The Gentle Education of Helen

The countryside rolling past my train windows is shrouded in gray and mist. The weeping willows seem even more tragic. The cherry blossoms are subdued. The daffodils can hardly bear to lift their heads. On the old slam door train I am on the raindrops trickle in the side of a window whose rubbery lining is shredding off, and the drops land on the corner of the seat and continue their way through the dark blue plush to a small stream on the floor, which idles and moves with the whim of the train. The young man across from me is drinking from a steaming styrofoam coffee cup and has zirconia of rain leashed about the top of his head.

The world around me seems depressed and silent and, in some ways, I know the feeling. I am dressed in a yellow chiffon top and beige trousers, I am dressed like a daffodil and hyacinth and spring. But inside I feel like a softly changing maple leaf, inside I feel like Autumn. I want people around me to be quiet and leave me alone. I don't want an apologetic smile from the man next to me when his newspaper edge touches the side of my freckled wrist, raising the hairs in the serrated newspaper edge. I don't want a glance from the woman across from me as the long black coat she's shrugging off brushes my ankles. I just want solitude.

I don't know why I feel so quiet and distracted, but I think it has to do with worry and fear. I worry about people around me, I worry about their hearts and their well-being. I worry about the state of their love and the last moment I am going to see them. I can handle me being sick and facing death, but I can't handle anyone else in that position. I want to open up Angus' arteries and blow kisses of relief into them. I want to give a hug and make someone all better, to make them whole again. I want to smooth a brow and fix a hot drink and hold a hand.

I used to have this belief that everyone I love must always part with me on the best of terms, just in case that phone call I have with them is the last. In case that kiss by the front door is the last one I have, in case the email I read while sitting and bored in a meeting is the last one I scan. It was important to me that the last words were always the best words, as a reminder to those about how I love them and for me to remember how I was loved.

Because in the cold and Kafka recesses of the night, the memory of love is sometimes all you have.

I used to mandate that every phone call ended with the words 'I love you' with family and friends and lovers. But as my life has changed in the past year, so has the way I behave. As my life splinters and fractures and ejects some people in my life all the while welcoming new passengers on Helen Airlines, I have begun to change. Now there are a few people in my life with whom the last words may have been kind but the emotions as a whole are bitter and tainted. There are a few relationships that are destroyed and, in light of that, I once would have gotten my shovel out and dug like a little badger to get things fixed. There are a few people with whom my conversations are always positive and loving, but with whom I don't need to always say I love them since they just know I do. To reiterate it would be pedantic, would be overkill, would be a sign of my quivering insecurities.

And my Hallmark moments have ended. Now I shrug and think: I just can't do it anymore, I can't spend every moment chasing people around to make sure the last memory I have of them is positive. It's just not necessary, I need to learn to hold nuggets of hope and laughter and gentleness, instead of chasing after them. I need to trust that they do care about me, unless they tell me they don't.

I used to be so bad about it that when people went away from me for a holiday or business trip I demanded some kind of written note or letter. I needed physical proof while they were away that they loved me. I needed tangible evidence that there really was a person that loved me like that, that I wasn't crazy. And, sadly, I needed proof that they would come back. Someone once described a person with borderline personality disorder as a person for whom emotional conflict and feelings equate to the emotional equivalent a third degree burn. I can't for the life of me think of anything better to describe how perfect that summary is. I'm one of the walking mannequins who has reached emotional adulthood without the proper equipment, who often finds emotions to be sheer agony.

But I am trying to fix myself and my broken toys. When Angus goes away I don't beg and plead for him to leave me a note or a letter, and if he does leave one, it's just icing on the cake. I don't need some kind of physical proof from him that he loves me, nor do I need proof that he's coming back. He does love me. He will come back. And this, in itself, is the gentle education of Helen as I begin to peel back band-aids and let my burns face the air.

The last words my grandfather ever said to me were 'I love you.' And from a stoic and quiet man, his was the biggest gift I can think of. When I look back on the haze that was the all-night hospital visit with Kim, the smells of the machines and his bed filled with things that we had together, I find that I just can't recall his last words. It was the last time I ever saw him. I can't think of the last words we said to each other but I know it was done in an explosion of catharsis and hope, I know that the industrial white walls had an aura of I will see you again, of I will find you.

I can't remember the last words he said but maybe that's the point of how I feel-it doesn't matter if the last words are perfect or not, just as long as I hold bright candles up to his memory.

But maybe people need to hear a good goodbye from me, maybe others need good words from me, and that's an obligation I need to fill, that I want to fill.

I sit here with my fingers on the keys and words brimming in my brain and I just can't get it all out. I am gagged and bound but I can't find the emotions anyway. I am broken opera glasses that sit on the ledge of the box and only view the few people in my life that need to be in the spotlight. I am content to sit here and look out the window, following the raindrops sneaking in through the leak. If I can sit in the shadow of myself maybe I will have a moment to figure out what my heart's composed of, and what it needs.

It's just another rainy day in England.

It's just another rainy work day in my rain-soaked working life.

Meetings, conference calls, minutes, notes, and presentations line the corridor of my day ahead, but I don't care about any of them. I just need to sit still and figure out how I feel, and from there, to figure out the best way to let it all out.

-H.

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March 29, 2005

The Silly Season

So commences what Angus and I call the Silly Season, where it seems like every other weekend is a three-day holiday. It's not as dramatic as it is in Sweden-they have holidays for any old reason (According to the Bible it's the day where everyone understands everyone, despite language barriers? Damn, we should take the day off and stay home! It's the day before the day of Midsummer? Let's bunk off!), but it is impressive. There are two more three-day weekends coming up and I am looking forward to every one of them.

Friday was a day off (as was yesterday) so we idled around the house. Angus bought all the component parts for a new pc and so is meticulously putting it together, which meant I was hanging out in the garden and reading while he studied and arranged. He had a fitness assessment at our new gym on Friday lunchtime, and so went to it.

About twenty minutes later the door opened and in walked Angus.

"That was quick." I commented, moseying down the stairs. "Everything ok?"

"Well...not really." replied Angus, running his hand through his damp freshly-showered hair and making it stick up like a hedgehog's. "They took my blood pressure and it appears I have high blood pressure. Really high blood pressure."

"What?" I ask, trying to remain calm. "How high?"

"They took it twice. It's 160/108. I'm not even allowed to work out there until I've seen a physician."

Cue panic. A call to our doctor reveals they're closed until today. Angus chugs nearly 2 litres of water and I surf the web about hypertension, choked up and scared that something may happen to the one good thing I have in my life,
to the one person that I can't live without.

We go about the rest of the day doing normal household things and finally head off to Brighton around late afternoon-we had decided to get away for the weekend, and our 2 pound coin jar is full. Whenever we get a 2 pound coin we wing it in a glass we keep on the dresser, and when the glass is full, we use the money on a Hotel du Vin weekend. The glass had finally just filled up and stunningly, we had over 300 pounds in there (nearly $600), so it was a glam weekend indeed.

Of course, I was mortified to think of chunking 300 quid worth of coins on the counter. I had once tried to pay for something in coins when I was a kid and I got yelled at. Follow this up with an episode of "Amazing Stories" I saw when I was a kid, in which Mark Hamill tries to pay for gas with a jar of pennies and gets thrown out, and I am petrified of getting screamed at by paying with strange currency.

I am so fucked up it's unbelievable.

Brighton is a city in chaos. It seems to have more than its fair share of crunchy granola hippy types, and there is a whole lot of beatnik-armpit-hair-meets-punk-pink-hair-dye there, residing in what appears to be complete acceptance of whatever makes people happy. You have every type of person in every type of situation. It's a big university town, the gay capital of England, and it's a sea of vegetarian and vegan cafes.

My kind of place.

We stayed in the Hotel du Vin in Brighton, since it's our favorite hotel chain, since they have showers the size of dinner plates. We checked in and went for a walk along the streets, stopping to have a large Moroccan meal. The meal itself was ok, but honestly not as exciting as some of the North African meals we usually have. However this meal was augmented by a belly dancer whirling around the tables.

The one thing about the belly dancers I have seen so far-and with our love for Middle Eastern food we've seen a few-is that the women, exotic and beautiful with their Middle Eastern coloring, are all curvy and voluptuous. They don't have flat washboard stomachs and bumps up the back where their spinal vertebrae are. They have curves, they have rounded tummies, they have soft shoulders. They could all be accused by the Skinny People Brigade of needing to do a few sit-ups...but the women seem to like their bodies, they like to expose them, and they love to dance. And that in itself is something that makes me respect them.

This woman was whirling around the restaurant like a dervish out of control. The table next to us had four Irish women that were all morbidly obese. The largest woman came in at easily over 200-250 pounds, but she made me laugh with her quiet acceptance of herself-upon seeing the belly dancer twirl her chiffon scarf around and undulate her stomach, the Irish woman sniffed.

"I can do that." she said in a thick Northern Irish accent. "I just need to get me wee tassled bikini."

This made me grin. The belly dancer didn't hear her but as Angus and I watched she lost her balance and without a hint of exotic grace she went crashing into a table, upending a hubbly-bubbly pipe and dumping the contents of the table all over the floor. Angus and I nearly wet ourselves trying to keep from laughing.

Crashing into a table? Now I can do that.

We went back to the hotel and laid on the stunningly comfortable bed and watched a bit of TV, while cracking open a bottle of red wine. An interesting BBC drama came on about a school trip, and while I kept expecting it to careen off into the overwhelmingly stupid, it captivated us and kept us watching. One of the characters was a troubled young girl that resorted to cutting herself, repeatedly and often.

Angus shakes his head. "What makes people do things like that?"

Curled up in my terry Hotel du Vin bathrobe, my hands twitch as they recall the even burning of the oven rack. I sigh. "It's hard to explain."

He takes a sip. "Well...try."

"Sometimes it's the only way to remind you that you can still feel something. Sometimes things happen to you and emotions and feelings can't get through. Physical pain is proof that you're still alive and still capable." And it is that, but it's more. It's also about having the ability to control a situation-something pushes you over the edge? You can do something to yourself to bring it back. Something hurts so badly emotionally that you can't stand it? Give yourself something physical to focus on instead.

It's all of those things and so many layers of more.

Like I said...fucked up.

The next morning is Easter-we award each other with Easter candy and a big kiss. My Easter candy came in the form of a chocolate cow called Myrtle, which I loved. This is her (however we'd already feasted on her arms before getting out the camera for this pic).

Myrtle Moo.jpg


We read the thick Sunday paper that the Hotel drops outside our door. We drink coffee and just chill-there's nothing big to do, nothing of urgency to deal with. As I sit there reading the News section, Angus comes over and parts my robe, laying me down on the bed. He spreads the section about my crotch open and, kneeling, applies his face with gentle and excruciating pefection. I twist my toes about, feeling them crunch against the newspaper. As he goes faster and faster, my feet whirl about the newspaper faster and faster, until I explode and clear the bed of all remnants of newsprint.

He sits back, grins gorgeously at me, and then does it twice more.

It was a good start to the day.

After that we get dressed and walk along the pier.

Brighton.jpg


Helen in Brighton.jpg


We head into the crunchy-granola section of Brighton and get breakfast which, being Brighton and very veggie-friendly, I even get to scarf my favorite veggie sausages. As we walk down the streets I see a dress in a window that's incredibly beautiful. It's simple, elegant, long, looks like it's made from spun silk and is perfect for the wedding. Earlier in an antique shop I had been trying on antique dresses-I tried on two party dresses from the 50's and the 70's, since I just felt like I wanted to wear something different, something unlike everyone else. I had thought about taking Calla's advice and going to Monsoon, but instead I take Kathy's-I go right in and try it on. I choose one that's the color of sky, the color of the water in the Seychelles, and I love it instantly. It's a halter-neck backless dress that I will dress up with strappy shoes but that, unbelievably, I will also re-use and pair it with flip-flops.

The best thing about it is the dress is made of hemp. Talk about unique. And as I bought it, the man tells me it's made from free trade materials and that it was pieced together locally by people paid a decent wage. So not only did I get a fantastic and very individual dress, but I did my part, too.

That night we have a relaxing meal in the hotel and then head upstairs to watch a bit of TV and drink wine in sleepy relaxation together. There is something so calming about twisting my ankles around under a comfortable duvet and finding my toes crease up next to Angus. It's toe therapy for the solidly crazy. It's a quiet space next to the warmest man I know.

The next morning Angus chunks our money on the counter and they simply laugh. Desperate sitch averted. I do not need to fear having the police called. They don't look thrilled, but at the same time they don't get angry.

We go to check his house and mow the lawn there, more desperate than ever to sell the place, and then we drive home. The long and lovely holiday weekend is over, but luckily there's another one right around the corner.

-H.

PS-doctor visit today had Angus with a high blood pressure again. We've been given a home blood pressure monitor and will go back in a week. In the meantime, it's moderated diet, gym, and loads of water for my dear boy.

PPS-Lemurgirl asked me to do a book meme, and since I love me some books I couldn't say no (I also couldn't say no to her!) It's in the extended entry, and I would like to pass the meme stick on to four non-bloggers, if they're up for it. Kyle, Lindsay, Justme and Azalea, if you're lurking, are you interested? Or any other book lovers? more...

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March 24, 2005

Growing Up and Growing Down

This morning I decided yet again that I wasn't going to be a business suit conforming jacket monkey. I dressed again in sleeveless summer top, jeans, sneakers, and striped green and pink frog socks that look like gloves, so every toe has its own home. I make myself look nice and wear perfume, but this week, I am not going to dress up.

This is my corporate rebellion in teeny tiny baby steps.

On my train into London I sat down across from a young man, iPod in ears and bracelets up and down his wrists. He smiles at me in greeting and I smile back. Next to him sits a standard specimen of Businesssuitus Miserabilis Commuterati. Grey business suit, unremarkable tie, black briefcase with generic business detritus. I pop open my briefcase and dig out the remarkable find I made last night while excavating my bra drawer for something, something I bought from the U.S. and had, incredibly, forgotten about.

It was a pink plastic holder of Hubba Bubba bubble gum tape.

Fucking magic.

I crack open the seal and draw off about 4 inches of bubble gum tape (men think that women can't tell what four inches is without a ruler, but we really can. To prove it I can direct you to a few of my exes). I slide the delectable vagina-pink gum into my mouth and feel a sugar rush as it melts on my tongue. I work it to a soft and pliable condition and then blow a bubble roughly the size of a baby's head.

Businesssuitus Miserabilis Commuterati stares at me as though I am the strange specimen instead of him. I smile through my bubble gum and crack open the pink plastic bubble gum tape, rolled up to look like a delicate cow tongue dusted with powered sugar, offering it to him.

'Hubba Bubba bubblegum tape?' I ask cheerfully.

He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. 'Er'¦.no, thank you.'

I shrug and close the bubble gum tape case. His loss. I head into London, blowing quiet bubbles the rest of the time.

Corporate rebellion, man. Corporate rebellion. You may know me from such roles as Project Director, but my real job is testing the walls of humor for any breach in security.

In London today I am strapped into a meeting until lunchtime, which then sees me off to Covent Garden to be bought lunch by an account manager at Company X. I have no idea what he wants but suspect it has something to do with the next release of Project Rocket Riding Gerbil which I start working on in a few months. We haven't sent out tenders yet for the business, and perhaps this has something to do with it.

The amusing thing is, in the corporate world I can't be bought.

Like, at all.

But we'll see what he needs to talk about.

After that, I get to experience the horror that is known as Shopping for a Dress To Wear To a Wedding (it's a movie about to be released, and critics say it's horrifying). The truth is, Jeff is off for all of April on his honeymoon, and Angus and I are going to his wedding the weekend of my birthday. I have to buy a dress to do this, and the invite specified that men wear a tuxedo (which Angus has) and women wear evening dress (which I don't have. I have frog glove socks and pink Lolita wigs, I do not have evening dress just chilling out in my closet waiting for me to wear it to my next ball).

Angus and I checked for 'evening dress' over the weekend. We went to one shop that had formal wear, wearily consigning ourselves to the fact that I would have to invest in an evening dress. As we rounded the evening section, all around us was a sea of pastel taffeta. Seriously. It looked like Attack of the Killer Prom Queen, and as I fingered one light blue taffeta number I wondered if someone was lurking around with a bucket of pig's blood.

Taffeta gowns are for teenage proms, not for adults. When you reach a stage of worrying about crow's feet and cottage cheese thighs we should not be subjected to the possible horror that is mutton dressed up as lamb. We should not have to make so much noise with artificial clothing materials when we walk that Richter needles go off. We should not have to worry that someone is going to come by wielding a horrifyingly huge wrist corsage that we will wear in a state of humiliation the rest of the evening, stabbing ourselves with it and hoping that the damn thing will fall off at some point.

Angus and I did find one dress that we really liked-a shorter Jersey number (thank you, Hillary Swank, for bringing down the bling factor of eveningwear). It was soft and sexy with a shorter skirt and a tiny bit of cleavage. Jersey is an unforgiving fabric and I have only just started my workouts at our new gym after being away from elliptical machines for a month (and I start yoga tonight, which I am very much looking forward to) but this dress bells out a bit and makes me look skinny, which I love.

I'm going to buy that dress this afternoon after lunch with Company X man. It's all about the comfort in my world.

I had one other mission that I had to accomplish in Covent Garden today that I managed to get done yesterday-my friend in Holland needed a souvenir. A specific souvenir. Turns out her brother-in-law is getting married on the same day as Charles and Camilla, so they requested some Charles and Camilla memorabilia as a gag gift. This would sound so easy, but my god the embarrassing horror of it. Not only did I have to ask a shop if they had anything, I had to go back again yesterday once they got the shipment in. I bought my friend two incredibly naff mugs of Charles and Camilla with their pictures and wedding date. It was just what she wanted.

She asked me what I thought about Charles and Camilla's wedding and as I sat there and thought about it, I realized my stance: I just don't give a fuck. Get married, don't get married, I don't really care. I don't particularly want Charles as a king, but I don't care who it is that's sitting next to him. Diana died 7 years ago and they were already divorced-true, she was a kind soul who appealed to the public, but how long should he continue to refrain from what it is his heart wants?

As I looked at the mugs in the souvenir shop, I realized that the Charles and Camilla mug was next to the Diana mug. That, side by side, it was a confrontation of then versus now, right versus wrong (and, in some way, taste versus profit). I realized that even though I don't really care if Chuck and Cammie get wed, I do understand her. I do, in some way, understand her position. Even though we're worlds apart and her world includes royalty, money, designer gowns, privilege, fox hunting (shame on you) and Bentleys, and my world contains bubble tape, frog glove socks, buying my evening dress at House of Fraser and train commutes into London in standard class, we do have more in common that I did with Diana.

I am nothing like a fragile, kind, beautiful and worshipped princess, but I do hold court as a war-torn, disliked, home-wrecking whore. I like to hope that maybe it's a moniker we both can graduate from someday. All this because we fell in love with someone that wasn't available, and I'm nothing if not a sucker for true love.

-H.

PS-I got home yesterday and found a large box on my doorstep. In it was my own version of G-dog, which Sporty sent to me, and I just utterly love him. I was looking for companionship everytime Angus travels, and now I have a cuddly black G-dog of my own to sleep with at night. Thanks, Sporty gorgeous, I just love him.

PPS-Happy birthday Best Friend.

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March 23, 2005

The Six People Behind You

I get up and decide that my usual trek into London isn't worth a skirt and a pair of heels. I decide that spending my entire day locked into conference calls is so soul-stripping that people don't get to dictate tights and a skirt. Work can be done no matter what the attire, so in a tiny act of rebellion I dress the way I would want to should I be stuck in meetings all day. I wear jeans and a sleeveless summer top. Blue Sketcher sneakers and striped pink socks. A yellow wristband from David and Goliath and that says 'Chicks Rule!'. And my badge, hanging on a new cord also from David and Goliath that says: 'Doesn't Play Well With Others'. I put on my makeup and spritz myself with Demeter's 'Rain' perfume.

I join the commuting rat race. I get to the train station and get handed a goodie bag from some conservative Christian organization. The brochures and the bag all get binned but the chewy granola bar they offer makes its way into my bag and I wonder if it will taste of righteousness. People are already lined up on the train platform like the zombies we have become, black dress shoes and black high heels stepping on the yellow line. I make my way down the platform dressed in my business casuals. My suitcase over my shoulder has a pin stuck on it confirming my support for the League Against Cruel Sports and I'm just waiting for the day that someone calls me on it. My projector dangles from my bumpy injured right hand and I head for the one patch on the platform that is drenched in sunlight.

And I stand in it. I raise my face to it and close my eyes, letting the sun mask my eyes in blinding red and a swirling blue 3D meringue pie where the sun should be. I shrug my cloak around me and wonder if I look like a bat, like a desperate, like someone who hasn't seen the sun for years. I take off my coat and feel my bare arms instantly react to the chilled air, but I just raise my face and close my eyes. I don't care that others might be watching, I don't care that I look nuts. I just want this moment in the sun, and if I could, I would twirl around and around and around with my arms out until I was dizzy and laughing.

No matter how often I think about it, I can't understand this life I am leading. Pieces of me fall away with every train ride I take and yet other parts of me have been shored up by stable brick and decent mortar when I wasn't looking. If I stand still on the platform I can hear my future beat in my inner ear like a hummingbird.

I talked to Jeff yesterday-the board of Dream Job wants a demonstration of Rocket Riding Gerbil in the Spring, during a date which Jeff is away. He tells me that I must set up and hold the demonstration as it's important that they get to know the name 'Helen Adelaide'. He says I need to push myself in front of them and get them to know my name as I will go far.

And I am just a girl who was raised in military housing. I am a girl who had no money in college. I am a girl that comes from humble origins and still has humble pursuits. I am a girl that once lived in a flat where I would have to reach around the corner to turn the light on in rooms, to give the roaches a moment to run away. I'm a girl whose eyes got too big for her dreams and so met with the business end of mortality.

The thought of taking our rocket in front of people whose lives so wildly outstrip mine fills me with terror.

Jeff tells me I will go far in this company, which is ironic since I don't really want to go anywhere at all. Three years ago this would've been my brass ring and now it's my nightmare. I don't want to be upper management, I want to sink my feet into dark grass and feel the sunlight on my collarbone. I don't want to make decisions about the business of the company, I want to make decisions about what to make for dinner and where to walk my dog. I don't want to demonstrate the future of Dream Job to the board, I want to teach a room of 5 year-olds how to make sock puppets.

But I am here, and this is what my life is. My life is about dancing in the quiet space of my heart. My life is about redefining what my family will be in my future. My life is about taking a moment to have the deep stresses to figure out that I like to do such small and calm little things that I could never have believed it. I can spend time watching a spider build a web. I can sit there on the couch with a cat on my lap and just pet her until she molds herself around the length and curve of my knees. I can sit still and not do anything but just listen to the sounds of my spinning thoughts.

The blind psychic I went to so many years ago still rings about my head. She told me so many things which have, either by influence of my visit to her or something creepy that should be documented, come true. But she told me something that I dismissed years ago since it wasn't cohesive to my own views.

She told me that everyone has people around them. These people can be called whatever you want, ghosts, guides, people. Most people call them guardian angels. The concept of guardian angels hovering around me was too Hallmark-meets-Michael-Landon for me to bear-I don't subscribe to the idea of angels although I can confess that it's a comforting idea that someone's looking out for you, guiding you straight and worrying about you when you go astray. She told me that I had the most people around me that she had ever seen-five men and a woman were all behind me, watching out for me and caring about me. That I would never see these people but that, if I were quiet, TV and radio off, I could hear them. That they would be with me for life and maybe someday I would meet them on the other side.

I thought it was utter rubbish all those years ago. I thought: six people hanging around me? Six people watching out for me and loving me? Do they watch me pee, too? Do they cluck their tongues when I add too much garlic to my pasta? And I paid $20 for this?

And now I am faced with some things at work that make my knees knock and daily job stress that's not on par with anything I have ever known. I face fertility treatment in the Spring. I have watched my family pare away like slices falling from an apple core. I have characters for a story bursting inside my brain.

But I am also a lot quieter these days, and as such I have begun to change. I don't get angry. I don't get impatient. I don't throw things. I may not know what it is that I want from life but I am slowly learning what I don't want.

And so it is that maybe it's my six people telling me to raise my face to the sun. Maybe my people tell me to not think about the demo, to ignore the dichotomy of who people think I am at work versus how inadequate I feel inside. Perhaps my people tell me to close my eyes and hold my arms out and spin around the platform, to try to capture back little droplets of lost happiness that drained out of the sink of my life.

And, because my life is so short and my hopes are so great, I listen. I raise my face to the sun and I close my eyes and I hold my arms out and do a quiet spin, dizzying up my brain with warm fragments of my life. I like to think there were seven of us spinning around out there, trying to put our lives on hold for just one moment.

-H.

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March 22, 2005

The Thirty Year Guarantee is OVER

As I creep from 30 to 31, one thing is perfectly clear to me: I am not a Maytag.

I have no lifetime guarantee.

I'm more like one of the less robust knock-offs. My washing machine may be just as functional looking as the rest of them, I may have shiny buttons or the capacity for an extra spin cycle, but after 30 years you can't take me back and get a new one. Not even if I am falling apart.

I have never been a particularly healthy person, cold and flu season rubs its hands with glee when it sees me. I have migraines, iffy hearing, and constant nosebleeds despite 4 surgeries to rectify this. Up until I turned 13 I got a winning case of impetago on my ass every year at Thanksgiving. No one ever knew why, nor did they know why it just seemed to never come back again. I've broken a lot of bones and had more stitches than I can count. I have had (still have) skin cancer and have the scars to prove it (it looks like I survived an attack with an ice pick on my back. I tend to think that's a pretty good story). And that's not even bringing up the mental health issues, that's a whole other basket of fish to fry.

But as my warranty is up, the health shit is just getting weirder. I live with a socialist health care system but I honestly don't mind as it tends to work. It does mean that I had to wait four months for the doctor's appointment I have today, but I am hoping that it's more quality over time. The thyroid glands in my neck have been swollen and difficult for about 8 months now. Blood tests have been run and proven that there's nothing wrong from that perspective, so it's off to a specialist, an appointment I finally have this afternoon.

I have been thinking about how to explain what's wrong with me to my Maytag repairman:

(Put on best Russian accent). I drink irradiated borscht under Soviet regime. I do this for country. Good borscht, only it make me piss like fluorescent firefly.

(Put on best sorority girl voice). Ohmigod, it was, like, so cool. This American Navy boat came into Portsmouth, you know? And, like, I had to do my patriotic duty. (Sighs). So many blow jobs, so little time. I think I have sperm burn as a result.

Then I have another appointment coming up, one in which I see an orthopedic specialist. Sometime around New Year's I noticed a thick and painful bump under the joint of where my middle finger attaches to my hand. The bump has only gotten more painful over time to the point where it sometimes locks my hand into a closed position. A trip to my GP got me a diagnosis of "fucked-up tendon" (that's laymen's terms, of course) and a referral to the specialist.

This one has way more possibilities for explanation.

(Sit there and raise only middle finger to illustrate the problem.) I'm an American in a suck job. This is my middle finger. Any questions?

(Put on tough surfer chick voice). Our beach volleyball championship was so happeninng. I totally dove for the ball in order to snarf the other team and BLAMMO! jammed my finger. Got sand in my crotch too, but that's more an occupational hazard.

(Put on soroity girl voice). Ohmigod, it was, like, so cool. This American Navy boat came into Portsmouth, you know? And, like, I had to do my patriotic duty. (Sighs). So many hands jobs, so little time.

Not to mention another visit to the skin cancer chick in May, in which I have to bring up that one of the moles on the side of my face has been changing-it has a red rasied edge and actually hurts. I'll mention it, along with one of the following:

I have signed a deal with Ford Models. No, get that look of utter disbelief off your face, dammit! If you so much as leave a twitch of a scar I swear I will sue you for every inch of your firm. And don't look at my bum that way as though you've got some slicing and dicing to do there-it's insured too!

I think it's a zit trying to run away on my face.

Look, when you take it off, can you make the scar seem extreme? Like a pirate or something? That would totally rule.

Whatever the story I go with, my visit to the Maytag repairman today is something I am glad about. I am tired of feeling like I have rocks in my neck. At the same time, I really have to wonder why it is that I seem to be falling apart healthwise, and I just can't find my receipt.

It's the turning 31 thing.

Gotta' be it.

-H.


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March 21, 2005

My Life for a Keyboard and More Than 1.5 Hours

It happened on Friday afternoon.

Friday afternoon I hung up the phone from a conference call, my ears burning and ringing, and opened a window. The weather was so warm it was nearly unbelievable-people were running around in shorts and T-shirts, the sound and smell of grass cutting pervading every corner of the neighborhood. It was in that moment that I found myself keys in hand, shoes on, and headed for the car to go to a garden center. Once there I bought 40 kilos of compost, 4 different types of flowers, a bird feeder, and a rose bush.

When I got home I changed into grubby clothes and, iPod in ears, I got to it. I didn't use gloves as I never use gloves-I want to feel the dirt beneath my fingers, to get the cuts and brambles on my joints, I need to have some kind of physical memory of the things I touch. I planted one garden of snapdragons, one garden of hollyhocks and one garden of sweet peas. I don't believe in mixing and matching flowers, it seems unfair to the flowers I've planted, as though I somehow don't think they're enough, that somehow they're only pretty if they're been augmented by other friendly flora.

And it felt amazing. I have never been one much for outdoor gardening-I try, and often flowers grow, but I think it comes out of my earnest wishing as opposed to any kerry-colored opposable appendages. I am useless at growing flowers in the house, the only flowers I can grow in the house are orchids, which for some reason regularly explode in color. I am new to gardening, as I have only ever had one year of gardening when I had the little white sugarcube in Sweden. I succeeded, and I never really knew why.

I know that in England gardening is taken quite seriously. People start planning and clearing the earth early on. Growing trays of seedlings dwindle on windowsills. Professional garden advice sought and coveted. I wonder at my insolence in simply reaching my naked hands in the earth. I wonder about me scattering seeds in bunches and in groups, burying them in compost and checking daily to see if anything's grown.

I took my time, pulling weeds out and trying to ignore their frustrated screams as I removed them down to their roots. And as I was there, crumbly earth beneath my fingernails and sun sweat shining on the back of my neck, it hit me like a freight train. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I stood back from myself and saw it for what it was. I was able to see the bigger picture with a clarity that I often lack when it comes to bigger pictures, so obsessed as I always am figuring out the details.

It was an idea for a story.

I saw pieces of it in perfect clarity, the turquoise blue of a skirt and the red-eyed lining of exhaustion. The details started tripping along in my brain, linking the hitches of their railway cars to each other and becoming something capable of motion. In slivers it comes to me still, little bobbles of motion and thought. Dialogue is popping into my head. A bed, a bus, a bench. Fingers inter-linking and an ID card flapping in the wind.

I planted my flowers with seedlings of story and when I was finished I sat down and thought about it some more. This morning waiting for the train I thought about it. I thought about it as I ran it by Angus. I think about it as I walk and sit. I think about it in meetings.

The problem is, with a job like mine, personal time is getting to be regrettably more and more difficult. Today alone I have 7.5 hours of meetings crammed into a 9 hour day, and then there's train travel on top of that. This leaves me with approximately 1.5 hours to go through emails, pee, get a bottle of water, explain a spreadsheet to someone who drops by my hot desk, and to post my blog post (1.5 hours explains why this post is so short-I usually write them on the train but it was too crowded and I had to stand for 55 minutes into London). 1.5 hours is not enough to give birth to an idea. 1.5 hours is barely enough time to emotionally prepare myself for trying. And every day this week is shaping up the same-1.5 hours here, 1.5 hours there, as I truck myself off to London every single day.

In the meantime my train of ideas is getting longer, ideas which may only be good to me, but at least my heart feels it's worth something. The ideas are pilling up and turning into something real on the tip of my tongue and in the whorls of my fingers. They stay with me while I dance to music. They stay while I sleep. They follow me into meetings. They whisper to me: You know you really want to be writing this, instead of wasting your life with gerbils. Do you want to die knowing that you gave too much to your fucking job? Is that what you really want?

I'll come clean-I found out on Saturday that I lost the writing competition. It's my first rejection letter. It'll be the first of many, I am sure-you can't win if you don't play the game.

And I'm playing now, baby. I'm playing now.

-H.

PS-dinner with RP was great. He's a lovely man and the three of us demolished a Lebanese meal in no time. And don't let his pseudoym fool you. I can tell you who he really is.

He's Spiderman.

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March 18, 2005

You Can Be Cool, Just Not At the Vet's

Two weeks from today I will be 31.

It's true.

I will officially be closer to 40 than to 20. It's only a matter of time now before I resort to Clairol to cover my greys (I already have the one, but so far this battle can be fought in Tweezer Land). I will live a life of cardigans. I will buy those little tray tables for us to comfortably eat on the sofa like sensible people when something is good on the tv, as opposed to now, when I sit on the floor and contort like a magician in front of the cute but impractical coffee table.

40 is coming.

With this in mind, I decide to spruce myself up a bit today. It's a special day after all-not only do I have three conference calls and emails to catch up on, but I also have to take my girls to the vet for their shots. I took their kennel out of the attic last night, the one they made their nearly fatal trip from Sweden over in, and set it in the study (it has a tag on the front from SAS Airlines saying: "Two Live Cats". Angus looked at me and wryly said "They should have put the word 'Barely' in there". Sedation was a lesson we will never forget).

Once the kennel was in the study, the cats couldn't keep out of it. My daft girls, they never learn. When the cat god was handing out survival instincts, my cats were busy playing with something shiny.

Whitney Houston's local vet is someone that was regaled to me by Billie, one of the book club ladies. She owns a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy, a giant that doesn't run he bounces (cause bouncing's what Tiggers do best). At the book club, she leaned over to me.

"You have to take your girls to the local vet. He's a lovely and handsome Australian man. I even dress up a bit for him." she said, swigging a sip of her chardonnay.

Blimey. Billie is so comfortable with who she is that she's the definition of earthy crunchy granola woman. I can't even imagine her dressing up for a knighting ceremony. With this in mind, I take an extra minute to get ready-I'm know I'm not hot, but still. Effort, people, effort. Lip gloss, a dash of laundromat perfume, sparkly white T-shirt. I mean-I'm closer to 50 than I am to 10 now. It's time to start making sure I look after myself. I don't want a new guy, I am perfectly happy with my Angus, but still-no one likes to be the one where people shake their heads and say: She really let herself go, huh?

I get the girls in the kennel and brace myself. My cats are very good about the kennel and about a vet visit, but they are hell on earth while in transit. In the car I am treated to a rousing rendition of "Stairway to Heaven" in the keys of C and F sharp as my cats scream with such unholy terror you'd think I was taking them to an abattoir.

When we get to the vet I drive for a bit before finding parking on the high street. I have to wait for the dotty driver to pull out of the space before I can pull in, and a silly chick talking on her mobile in a minivan nearly rear-ends us. Since she's talking and can't be bothered with passing me, she starts a traffic jam. People in cars behind her start honking their horns. My cats go ballistic and I am wondering why I didn't buy any of the Mexican Zoloft that seemed so prevalent in Tijuana.

We park and go in, me lugging them in their heavy carrier. Unusually, they are still screaming in agony as I walk into the vet's. A woman in a lavender suit sits there holding a cage with a dwarf rabbit, her friend squeezing her hand in support. A veterinary nurse comes out with a bottle of something and explains that it's ok, that mange is completely treatbale.

Nice.

I walk up to the desk and set my paperwork down. Being someone who has immigrated countries twice, I have learnt the golden rule: keep every single piece of paper that you accumulate, no matter what. If it means you will thus be carrying around a binder of information on two domestic shorthair housecats, so be it. I'd rather look anal retentive than be rejected.

The receptionist looks at me. He grins. "Welcome to Whitney Houston Vets. Really nice day, isn't it?" he asks. He has a lisp and a speech impediment, so it comes out as "Weally nice day, ithn't it?" I grin back.

I present all my paperwork and he starts to write up new records for my girls. Once this exhaustive process is complete, I sit down. My girls are still screaming like someone is dipping their tails in hot wax, and Mangy Rabbit Woman's friend looks at me like I'm a bunny boiler. I feel the need to explain that they are just unhappy in the carrier, that I haven't been dressing them up and applying make-up to them. The receptionist approaches Mangy Rabbit Woman.

"Now, you need to uthe thith twithe a day." he explains. "Don't uthe too much, or you may kill the wabbit."

That slays me in the deepest childish parts of my psyche. I so desperately want him to sing the line a la Elmer Fudd in What's Opera, Doc?: "Oh, Bwoom-hilda, you're so wuve-wy...." that it makes me have to pee. I cross my legs and try not to smile. He stands up and smiles at me.

"The doctor will thee you now. Go on in exam one. If you can, take one of your cat-th out, ok?"

Yes I know it, I can't help it....

I lug the heavy case in the room, sweating with exertion and with my hair drifting over my face. I set the case on the floor and pry an autistic Maggie out of the case. The room is a typical vet's exam room, complete with a tiny pile of pet hair that has drifted towards the door. I hold Maggie for a second and then put her on the table.

I look at my shirt and realize that Maggie has somehow had a sympathetic reaction to the drifting hair by the door. She has exploded in a haze of shedding all down the front of my shirt. It's as though she was a mushroom puffball and released a cloud of toxic black hair. I look like I have been body wrestling with Robin Williams.

Speaw and Magic Hewmet! Speaw and Magic Hewmet!

I am sweaty, tired-looking and covered with hair. I'm like a cat-owning version of Lynette from Desperate Housewives. The vet comes in...and it's a woman. An Englishwoman. No sign of my Crocodile Hunter anywhere. "Hello, I'm Doctor Doolittle," she says. (She wasn't really called that, I just don't think it's fair to use her real name.)

I realize I got all excited for nothing. Wishful lip-glossing. As I am now closer to 60 than I am to birth, it was for nothing that my ego day-dreamed getting admiring glances from an Aussie vet. I would not get the chance to ask him to say for me: Crikey, there's a crikey crock! Dr. Doolittle looks at my shirt.

"I brushed them last night. I think it's nerves." I say weakly. I pray to god that no anal glands explode in here, or else I can never show my face in this vet's office again as they burn all of the linen in the room.

She nods. "Which one is this?" she asks.

"It's Maggie," I say, petting her. In the corner Mumin continues to howl in aguinsh. Maggie is laying flatter than a pancake on the table and will not move as I stroke her shoulders. She's like stone. I can't even detect if she's breathing she's so still. The vet listens to her heart.

"Good strong heartbeat." she says, removing the bits from her ears.

Good. So she is breathing then.

The vet gives her the shots and when I pick Maggie up I find that she has left perfect sweaty paw prints on the table, a la The Sixth Sense. I get Mumin, who is now mewly weakly as though exhausted from the effort of peril, out of the kennel. I pet her and find she is exploding in fur too, and I now look like King Kong's love child. Unlike her sister, Mumin is all over the place trying to check out the smells. The vet listens to her heart and gets the needles out. Mumin rubs against her, trying to be pet, oblivious to the danger looming ahead.

That cat never was very bright.

Once done, the vet smiles. "Your cats are very healthy. They are a bit fat, though."

I take offense to that. "We prefer big-boned." I say defensively. The vet looks at me. "Slow metabolism." I assert.

OK, so they have gained a bit of weight, but you would too if you no longer had a rambunctious collie chasing you around the house.

We go to the reception and the receptionist looks at me brightly. "Everything go ok?" he asks, eyeing my new hairshirt.

I smile back. My cats start screaming in the kennel again. The people on the chairs, including an older man with an intrigued looking spaniel, regard me as a baby killer.

"They weally don't like the kennel, do they?" he asks.

Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit, the wabbit is dead!

"Not really." I reply.

I part with nearly £200 and wearily agree to come back in three weeks-in Sweden they don't vaccinate for feline leukemia, so we had to do that here plus a booster in three weeks. In three weeks time, after I have turned 31 and therefore will be closer to death than birth, I will come back.

Dressed in black, no makeup, and tranquilized.

-H.

PS-Angus and I are off to London tonight to meet this lovely man. He's only the fourth blogger I have ever met, the fabulous others being Simon, Emily, and Stinkerbell. He will then be able to prove that both Angus and I, contary to reports, are real

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March 17, 2005

With Time Enough to Dream

Elizabeth, who is swinging in roughly the same project management hell trough I am, recently asked a question that I have thought about for a few days now.

What is enough?

In a life of much, how do we pick out what is just the right amount to keep us afloat? What do we need to keep the violins playing softly in our souls, to keep the demons at bay? And maybe when we get there, it will be human nature to just keep wishing and hoping for more and more.

It's tiring, keeping up with the Joneses. I did it in my teens and early twenties. It leaves you feeling unsatisfied, as though you always have to work for something better, thinking: Why yes, I do want a ceramic sake set, thanks! And yes, I absolutely need a sterling silver turkey baster! And of course I want to live life on the meager edge just so I can afford a two-year old BMW!

When I left my first husband I left absolutely everything behind-all I had were
my cats and the clothes that could fit in my car. Sometimes it burned me up to think of all the things I had left behind-electronics, furniture, books and CDs, things I touched and held and wanted. At the same time, I learnt how to be the person I needed to be-a student in student's quarters, living with the basics and embracing boho with all of my might.

In college I became a chick who could wear boxer shorts to class and wash her hair every other day in rose-scented shampoo. I rarely wore makeup, and didn't even own perfume. I lived with brick and board bookshelves and a hand-me down couch and mattress. I lived day-to-day in the food department and drove the most economical and boring car I could find.

But I was happy. I look back on one student campus housing apartment I lived in with my cat Nick and have only fond memories of hot summers, archaeological digs, books and dancing to the radio. I remember it with a taste of roses in my mouth and Gatorade in my senses.

When I graduated and was thrust into the corporate world, enough was about the money. What could I get, how could I demonstrate I deserved where I was. It became about the business suits and the right demonstration of wealth. I had to prove to the world who I was and I had the credit card debt to prove it. I had to look the right part to be enough, and I even dated a guy who fit in-a tall and handsome blond Finnish guy who was hands-down one of the worst lays in my life.

Strangely, once I left the stock-broking firm I calmed down on my materialism, while at the same time ramping up the work ambition into overdrive. I didn't need an image to be enough, I needed the job to be. I did buy a nice new car (my VW Cabrio) but I lived simply with two male friends in a house, and even though I was earning fantastic money my furniture was from Target and clothes from the Gap. I was happy, living in a rat race defined only by one rat.

When I moved to Sweden, my enough became just absorbing my new culture. Once again I had left everything behind, and looking back all of my possessions are like weird spectre-memories to me, things that almost exist as items I see in pictures, items that make me think of sweat and self-revulsion and cardboard. My enough in Sweden was my job-I had to work, I had to be the best, I had to work hard.

And look how hard my enough saw me fall.

Now I look back on my life and think about the massive changes to my enoughs. Things have little to no impact on me-I'm just as happy with furniture from Ikea as I am from a poshy furniture store. Maybe it's because I know that a dresser or a TV stand is not something that I'll have a long commitment to, that my wedded bliss to a piece of wood rarely lasts past the honeymoon stage. I view items as having utilitarian nature. While this doesn't mean I want ugly shit just because it's cheap, it also means my heart won't be broken if tomorrow someone takes it all away (ok, except for my Sims. And I do have a very big crush on the plasma TV, but we haven't rounded third base or anything).

My enough has changed as much as I have and I am beginning to think that this is now my permanent basis for enough. I used to joke that I wanted a house on the French Riviera and a dozen boyfriends, but now I think that the French Riviera is overrated and that a dozen boyfriends is too much work. I wouldn't say no if someone handed me a winning lottery ticket, at the same time being a millionaire is not a big driver in my life. If it happens-cool, I'll buy that big house on the cricket green. If not, that's ok too.

Now my enough in my life means I could say what I feel without repurcussions. I could throw my arms up and laugh things off. I could believe in myself and not feel the constant fucking need to apologize at the drop of a hat. I could look telecom in the face and say, unblinkingly: Folks, we're talking about mobile phones here, not the cure for cancer. Nothing we say or do here is going to make any kind of difference in the long run. The world will not remember us.

My enough is to have a house by the water. To be able to take holidays when it's time for one, and to love every inch of the little house that I will have. To sleep without Kafka, to dream with an Angus. My enough has me sitting in a tall and loving rocking chair by a fire, my feet curled under me and a gentle rock in action. There are bookshelves all around me and a dog laying at my feet. Maggie and Mumin are curled up dozily on their favorite chair, close enough to the fire to sit up and blink at it from time to time. My enough has sounds of Angus and our child laughing in the kitchen.

My enough is quiet and small with time enough to dream. My enough has intimacy and light, the nooks and crannies of it no longer filled with things or work or status but with items that are branded onto my heart and filled with simplicity. The world may not remember me, but when I look back I want to be able to remember it for what it was, the real and revealed version, not hidden behind shiny foil wrapping paper.

-H.

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March 16, 2005

In the Battle of the Sexes the Men Have the Good Locker Room

When I graduated from university with a four year degree in anthropology (with minors in English and French), I leapt straight into the working world. Not, as you'd suspect, into a sophisticated area of work commensurate with my degree (a career aligned with my degree could only entail the use of the words 'Would you like fries with that?' or 'Paper or plastic?') but I went to a job fair where a number of companies were recruiting. At the fair was a temp agency, and seeing as it was the best bet, I talked with them. Said temp agency signed me and my shiny new degree up and I was sent to interview at a stock-broking agency. I cut my nearly waist-length red hair off, went to JC Penny's to buy the only suit I could afford, and got the job.

I never even went to my graduation, but then again, I never really saw the point in those types of things.

Upon working at the stockbrokers, I delved straight into the ideal that I had fought so hard in college. Being of the crunchy granola type of study, all women's rights, evolution, and study of the cultures of people, I was one of those who thought that a utopia was more than just the name of a fruit drink and that helping your fellow man was what it was all about. I became a capitalist, armed with a salary of 22k and a student loan debt that nearly matched that. I worked very hard under a woman that I didn't really like and definitely didn't trust, and I studied and took some of the stock broking exams in order to move up.

The truth of the matter is I hated it. I could've care less about studying for the 22 or about Blue Sky Laws. It was so mind numbingly boring I would rather spend time memorizing bar codes, and I was simply awful at finance to boot (that said, when I lived in the States I was meticulous about my own personal finances, even managing a spreadsheet for my checking account and knowing, to the penny, what was in my account at all time. Anal retentive bitch.). So I switched jobs and started working in the same company in compliance and quality assurance.

And it was here that I learnt something fundamental about myself.

The truth? I can't work for women. In fact, I can barely work with them, so I guess it's a damn good thing I work in a severely male-dominated industry.

I started working for another woman named Sherie. Sherie was a single Mom, a woman who dressed in pale yellow suits, and she was a Texan through and through. Big hair, big makeup, and she had a self-confessed problem with overeating. I once walked into the office as she was polishing off an entire extra large pizza'¦all by herself.

I didn't know it at the time, but Sherie was about to make my life a living hell.

Our department was something straight out of 'The Office'. There were four women, six men, and very little to do. We were grouped with the statisticians and the ISO 9000 managers, parodies of people that hadn't seen the light of day since perhaps the late 1960's. I was the youngest of the group, along with my colleague Jessica, who was one of the snottiest bitches I had ever met in my life. I introduced Jessica to the small group of four friends I had made in the stock broking department, and within a month I was on the fringe and Jessica was the hottest thing since Baywatch. Just like that, I was out of the loop in a sweeping gesture reminiscent of junior high, albeit without the experimental colored mascara.

Across from me in the cubical nightmare sat Debra-a woman with blond hair springing from dark black roots, enormous breasts that she loved to reveal in candid décolletage, and lips only a carp could love. Debra loved to sit and listen to people's conversations and to idly offer opinions on how to fix things, interspersed with desperate longings to fuck anything that walked upright and find a husband in the meantime.

I hated it.

One day I decided to do something different. I had to stay in my job as the student loans were stunningly high. I simply couldn't afford to leave, but I had to do something for myself to save me from going postal. So I signed up at Parkland Hospital to be a baby holder. Parkland, Dallas' largest county hospital, had more than their fair share of babies born addicted to drugs or with HIV, babies that needed constant attention. I decided to be one of the volunteers that dropped in to hold them. I signed up for the intro session and then went to take a number of inoculations, vaccinations that were needed to ensure that some of the babies' fragile immune systems would never be exposed. One of these shots was to prevent Hepatitis. I called to book this test while at work.

The next day, people in the company avoided me like the plague. I couldn't understand what was happening, it didn't make any sense. Was it my uncool dress sense? Did I offend? Was I wearing white shoes before Labor Day? Then Jessica pulled me aside.

'Are you taking antibiotics? I mean, it freaks me out. I don't want you near me if you aren't'. she said nastily.

'What are you talking about?' I replied. 'I'm not ill.'

'That's not true. Debra overheard you on the phone and warned us about your illness.'

Nope. I was still lost. 'Sorry?' I asked dumbly.

'You have herpes! Don't you know how disgusting that is?' she said, looking at me as though my home was beneath a comfortable grate with a nice view of the sewers.

I was stunned. 'Well, I do know that herpes isn't a nice bedtime companion. But I don't have herpes. I was booking a vaccination for hepatitis. Totally different thing.'

'Yeah, right.' Jessica sniffed, and walked away (probably to the ladies' room to have a scouring session, as she was standing so close to me and all).

I stormed into Sherie's office. 'Do you know what's being said about me? Do you know what Debra is perpetrating? She's telling everyone I have a sexually transmitted disease!'

Sherie looked at me, one hand deep in a economy size bag of Lay's. 'Well, as far as I'm concerned, you deserve it. You're young, thin, pretty and smart. You had it coming.' She chewed slowly, the yellow foil bag reflecting the sheen of overheard fluorescent lighting.

I was dumbstruck. Floored. So it was ok to be mean to me if I was of a certain image (an image I don't agree with, but it's nice to know I am thought of that way)? I marched out of the office and went straight to human resources. I filed a complaint. I went immediately to a headhunter and was out of the office within two weeks, landing myself as a contractor with what became the dreaded Company X in the field I now work in.

I have had one good female boss that I liked a lot, a Swedish woman in Company X. But I've had run-ins with nearly every single female colleague that I ever worked with. I am not sure if it's the industries I have chosen, but almost every woman I work with has come across as petty and conniving. Maybe I come across that way, too, I don't know, but I do seem to be more unconventional than others. I absolutely don't hold anything against women in industry-in fact, I think we should all be on the same side trying to bust through the glass ceiling. What's better, one woman with a hammer chipping away slowly, or a whole team blasting through the ceiling with one mighty splash of splintered glass? It just never works out that way.

The women I have worked with are perhaps like me-mavericks, women in a mens' industry. Maybe it's because we feel we have more to prove-women generally aren't engineers and don't often work in technical design categories. It's as though we are worried of being disregarded by the men-folk-we all sit around a table with our views and points, but how soon before you ignore what I have to say if I fuck up? As such, shouldn't I fight like hell to make sure I never do fuck up? And if another woman is about to fuck up, should I distance myself so she won't bring us both down? We have to fight and battle like mad to get men to listen and respect our opinions, is it so that we only have enough strength to get ourselves out of a burning building, we can't be helping each other, too?

I'm not saying I do think like this, but I do wonder if it's part of the working woman subconscious. I don't automatically discredit a woman who turns up at the meeting, I don't think she's a silly female who can't contribute. I don't ignore her input and I don't cut her out of the loop. But I am careful of how I conduct myself around her, I admit. I relax more and crack more jokes around male engineers than around their female counterparts.

I wish I could say that I have had deep and enriching experiences working with women, only I haven't. This isn't to say all men are princes-I mean, look at my manager Jeff. He's definitely hard to work for. But the men I have worked for are, in general, easier to deal with. They forget about past sins. You can tell them things off the record and said things fly out of their head later on. They'll tell you how the game is played and let you get on with playing it.

All of my working friends are men, with one exception (and we only became friends after we stopped working together, we never got on well while working next door to each other). I'm not sure that this kind of work in this kind of industry is conducive to making longtime female buddies-if we should get together and drink, is there a possibility that we could reveal our weaknesses? That letting our hair down means letting our guard down? That anything we say can and will be used against us in a court of meetings?

To be honest, if I were to interview for a job and find out it would be working for a woman, it would count as a massive con on the list as I debated taking the job. I have been burnt. I am wary.

It's a shame, really. I imagine a group of talented and clever women could rock the house and make incredible things happen. Instead, all we seem to do is waste time and energy tearing each other down.

-H.

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March 15, 2005

Swing When You're Down

On the airplane on the way back from Los Angeles to Heathrow (we spent a day in 16 hours of flights. There's something to make you want to weep.) I sat with Angus in the plush nice seats in an exit row. The kids were on the upper deck of the plane, away from us-we tried to re-arrange seats to move them down next to us but once the kids realized that they had what they call "Luxe" service upstairs, they were having none of this moving seats business (Melissa came downstairs with wide eyes. "Daddy!" she breathed. "They brought us newspapers and orange juice and we haven't even taken off yet!".)

Angus fell asleep pretty quickly, but I struggled. I just can't sleep on airplanes. And I certainly can't sleep on airplanes that offer over 30 movies on demand. So I watched the films, as I always do. I watched Ray (man, that Foxx can act). I watched a film I love, Garden State (it was strange that they showed it on a plane, seeing as the opening scene is of a violent plane crash. Talk about hedging your bets.) And I watched one of my other favorite movies again, the movie Closer.

I first saw Closer by myself on its opening day in the theatre. I had an entire 400-seat room all to my little lonesome and so I would periodically move around the theatre, not only to enjoy the ambience of a movie from a different seat, but simply because I had the freedom to do so. So I know how it felt when Larry and Alice talked in the gallery from the right-hand side of the theatre with a bottle of apple juice. The scene at the aquarium is from the second row. The strip dance is from the third row on the left with my feet curled under me.

I love this film. Not just because the film feels so real-adultery really does feel like that, break-ups really do happen like that-but because there are elements of how people really behave in it, behavior that the rest of Hollywood doesn't want us to see. After all, why pay money for watching something that doesn't, at the end of the day, amount to escapism?

There was one thing, in particular, that strikes a chord with me in this movie. In two scenes the leading ladies are facing a break-up. In both scenes it is over love, lust, and fidelity. And in both scenes the women flinch as they challenge their guy, knowing that a hand is about to fly and breach the space between them. They know they are about to be hit. They know the men have reached the threshold of language and are forced to resort to the next level, the level most men swear they will never reach and yet, in my experience, many men often do. The women know the exact moment that the argument has changed from the philosophical to the physical.

And that is something I too know.

You can feel it in a fight. If you are standing up and battling it out, there is a split second when you know what's about to happen. You can tell when it's coming, especially if you have been brought up in homes that include physical manifestations of heartbreak, or if you have neighbors, friends, or colleagues that fight. You know when your father is about to get violent or your neighbor is about to hit his wife in the flat below. You can tell the exact moment when everything changes.

The air holds still, and all you can see is their eyes.

The skin around their eyes tightens and the planes of the cheeks get flatter. The outside edges of their eyes pulls to the side, and their pupils go black. You may not even see his shoulders move, but trust me. You know. You can't take your eyes off each other if you tried.

The air is still, and not even the echo of the shouting remains. You can feel your heartbeat in the tiny vein in your wrist. You can feel your jawline. You can lick your lips and taste the electricity in the air, you feel the ions stick to the tip of your tongue. You hold your breath and know what's coming. It all happens so slow, yet it never happens slow enough to do anything about the strong hands that are headed your way.

You know that moment. That moment when he's about to pick you up and fling you against a wall. The moment when a telephone is about to be snatched off the end table and flung at a head. The moment when you have said something that they have no retort to, and that they don't know what else to do besides to just hit you.

When standing and fighting, I have never been taken by surprise. I may not have been able to do anything about it, but I knew in that fraction of a second that I was about to be pushed around. The only times I was ever taken by surprise were two incidences that happened in bed. In bed, where all things are supposed to be safe and quiet, where you do not expect to have to watch yourself.

It's funny, in a way. An ex once told me that he could understand why men are driven to violence against me, even if he himself never laid a finger on me. There is something about me that is innately smack-able, and even if I never know what it is, it does mean that I recognize when the eyes go squinty and the heartbeat in my wrist sounds strong. Getting hit hurts. Getting emotionally torn down hurts. Trying to live a flinch-free life is a prison sentence.

So many men swear up and down that they would never hit a woman, ever. Never, never, never. And yet a disproportionate number in my past parade did get physical. So is it that men often don't know where their threshold is, or is it that I have had the remarkable luck to pick the bad apples with incredible consistency? I seriously am not having a go at men here, no man-bashing, only it confuses me. It's perhaps like the men who say: "I don't care about my enjoyment in bed, I only care about hers." Well, that's very noble of you, but then why is it I have only ever had two lovers that really did behave in that way and really did apply themselves? Is the rest of it lip service, is it what you really want to feel about yourself, or is that really how it is and I just pick the losers?

Like the women in the film, I too have challenged a man with: "What are you going to do, hit me?" And you know, that challenge almost always gets through to a man. In my experience, if you say that something in their eyes wakes up and realizes what they are about to do. The itchy palms they have stop itching as they realize that they are about to slap more than just a face, they are about to mar something much bigger that that.

Some bruises, after all, never heal.

-H.

Note of disclaimer: This is not prompted in any way by any actions of my Dear Boy, who is, in fact, in Germany right now. This honestly was based on me thinking about the movie on the flight, so don't worry that something is amiss.

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March 14, 2005

Holiday Part II-There is No Greater Quiet Than the Water

We arrived late in Honolulu, on the island of Oahu, on March 2. Picking us up from the airport was my stepmother, draping a lei around my neck and bearing a bag of food from her mother. She drove us to our hotel where we would be staying for two nights, before we stayed in the condo that she and my father own near Ala Moana. The night sky was warm and inviting, and I felt the warmth sink under my skin and set my senses alight.

We slept deeply that night in the hotel room, opening our balcony to its view of Waikiki Beach and marvelling that the air could smell of salt and history.

The next morning we walked to Waikiki Beach before meeting my stepmother and her mother for lunch. The water was warm, the beach not too crowded. The sun sheltered us in heat and the mood was high. Lunch was dim sum, delicately wrapped balls of tasty goodness, and my stepmother presented me with my birthday present from my father-a loving card choked with cash and a small wrapped box. I opened the box and there on a bracelet was my name in Hawaiian. On the inside of the bracelet was an engraving: "Love, Dad".

In my life I have never gotten anything like it from my dad, and I just love it.

On Thursday we took over the condo in all of its penthouse glory. These were the views from the living room and bedroom (the volcano in the bedroom photo is Diamond Head. Impressive, no?).

Condo.jpg


Condo2.jpg

The next day we went to Waikiki Beach to swim around. As we dove into the warm and wavy waters, Angus pointed to the beach and we saw an Asian couple tie the knot on the beach, all white tulle and black tux glory. We smiled and watched a while, and then Jeff floated over to me and clung to my back while Angus and Melissa floated together closer to shore.

Jeff and I had been spending a lot of time together. Melissa has always been very much of a Daddy's Girl, and so was constantly addressing Angus, holding his hand, cuddling under his arm, falling asleep on his lap. Either out of just being the other two members or because Jeff is not so aware of the political sensibilities that are involved in liking me (thereby allowing himself to like me), Jeff and I had become close. Closer, in fact, than I had realized.

"Helen," Jeff started, his very blond brow furrowing. "What are you?"

I smiled at the water. I knew this one. "I'm your Daddy's partner. And I am your friend."

"Yes, you are my friend. But you're also like my mother. But you're not my mother, since I already have a mother. You're like my pretend mother, only you're real." Jeff blinked sea water out of his unworldly blue eyes. His explanation was confusing, but I held my breath and didn't dare to interrupt. "So I was thinking. They speak Hawaiian here. I thought what if I called you mother in Hawaiian? Then you are my mother."

That kid. He breaks my heart, often in very good ways. I think he is the most sensitive 8 year-old I have ever met.

And from there on, he called me Mahua (short for Makua-wihena), and I called him by his Hawaiian name.

We spent a lot of time in Hanauma Bay, a natural preserve on the southeast of the island (the north was battered by winter waves, and since I have never surfed in my life tackling the 20ft high surf of the Banzai Pipeline wasn't really in line with my "no suicide" patterns). I had brought my 11 year-old snorkel with me and Melissa and Jeff tried it and were instantly hooked. We went to Wal-Mart and bought them some masks and snorkels, as well as one for Angus, and from then on the whole family was continuously face-down in the water.

There was so much to see-the wildlife was amazing. Trumpet fish, sea cucumbers, Parrotfish the size of Jeff. The fish just swam lazily by us and made us laugh and point and snap photos with our underwater disposables.

Hanauma Fishies.jpg

That one's my favorite. I swear the fish is mocking us.

Helen Snorkelling.jpg

Yes, that's me. It is impossible to look cool with a snorkel in your mouth. Impossible.

On March 6 Angus and I obtained ground control clearance from the kids that we could go out to dinner alone. March 6 was, after all, a day of note to us. One year ago that day I walked out of the airport at Heathrow and into the life I lead now, the life in England, the life of Angus, the life of now. We spent the morning doing the most extraordinary thing-we took a boat ride at oh-God-hundred in search of dolphins, which we would get to swim with in the wild (but not touch, as they are federally protected). We joined a group of 12 others and whipped into the waves.

On our way, we saw a Hawaiian Monk Seal floating idly by, watching us curiously. We saw an orgy of sea turtles, 3 males suiting up and hoping to get lucky with the female. We saw a Humpback Whale mother and calf, the little guy constantly trying to get close to the boat and being protectively herded by the mom.

And then we saw them. The pod of dolphins, about 35 strong, near the entrance to Pearl Harbor. The boat driver stopped the boat, inviting us to swim and keep our hands to ourselves, and I was first off the boat, followed by Melissa and Jeff.

And there they were-Spinner Dolphins, their echo location lighting up the water. They swam around us, beneath us, near us. They moved with a fluid I will never know and a peace I dream about having.

Dolphins.jpg


Dolphins2.jpg


Swimming in the water reminds me of the fact that my working life has gone off-track. It helps me realize that I am not happy slaving away for rocket riding gerbils, that this is not the end of the line for me. It recharges my batteries and sinks into my soul and shuts it up temporarily, filling me with sufficient memories to get through the days until I can be in the water again.

That afternoon, elated from the dolphins, we went to Hanauma Bay, only I was riddled with a migraine that called it all short. We also had to cancel dinner, and I crept into bed and was taken care of by everyone-Melissa was mindful to be quiet and sweetly kept Jeff entertained with a story. Jeff slipped into the bedroom and hugged me to help me feel better, and as I cuddled his head, smelling of salt and Prell and licorice, I just loved that he thought to hug me. Angus made us dinner, brought me medicines, and warmed me with his thoughtfulness.

The next day we went out to dinner, to Alan Wong's, an incredible restaurant. The food was spectacular, the service amazing, and they even made us special "Happy Anniversary" menus and a cake.


Angus and Helen.jpg


The next day we took Angus and Melissa to an intro Scuba course. We had signed up on a boat for me to dive, Angus and Melissa to take an intro dive, and Jeff to be led by a snorkelling instructor (he's too young to dive, as of yet, and I don't have the heart to tell him that as an asthmatic, he likely won't ever know the mouthpiece side of a dive tank). Jeff and I walked around while they practiced. We had a Dunkin Donut, I bought him a souvenir and some Scooby-Doo Band-Aids. He held my hand, and when we went to watch Angus and Melissa at the Outrigger Hotel pool they allowed us to watch from the fitness room, which had a window facing into the pool. As they practiced diving, Jeff and I got down to Smashmouth's "All-Star", dancing and laughing in the fitness room.

The dives were called off due to bad currents at sea, so we never did get to dive. We did get to Pearl Harbor (picture below), and we did get to Hanauma Bay (yet again).


Pearl Harbor.jpg


On that final day the surf was rough even at Hanauma Bay, so I took a moment to go by myself and challenge the sea and surf and swim alone. To be honest, I needed that moment just of my own, to just see how strong I was and how far I could swim out. I swam in solitude. I recharged my batteries.

I like to think I got a part of myself back, but maybe I'm being naive.

And when I was done I joined the other three and we snorkelled the calm quiet center of the Bay, pointing to fish and enjoying the moment. At one point a large Parrotfish swam near us and all four of us laid flat on the water and just watched. Melissa took Angus' hand. Angus took Jeff's hand. Jeff took my hand. For one moment a Parrotfish linked four people in the water, into a family. For one moment we all just held still and watched a brightly colored fish lead our imagination and unite us as one unit, and when the fish swam away we broke the links and swam away, too.


Parrotfish.jpg


Some parts of the holiday were hard. Some parts were not relaxing, and a few things really hurt. But some parts were wonderful and hilarious. It was the first "family" holiday, hopefully the first of many. I got to spend it with the love of my life and two very entertaining kids. And the amazing thing is, the kids taught me some things about myself, about my life, and about my own family that I never expected to learn. I know we are not a family, but I love them as much as if they were.

I am Mahua, I am Helen, and I am equipped with full batteries. I am also home now and confronted with real life-off to London today to battle with work. Angus is away on business. Houses, insurance, licenses, doctor visits and other things to deal with. But I have the memories. I have the photos. I have the tan lines.

And I have a print I bought of four snorkellors at Hanauma Bay with fishies nibbling their toes. I bought the print since it shows, in my mind, Angus, me, Melissa and Jeff.

It's a reminder of something special.

-H.

PS-my email isn't working. I can receive mails but can't reply back (server problem, we believe) so I swear I am not ignoring you if you've mailed me!

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March 12, 2005

Holiday Part I-Are There Any Overweight People in San Diego?

We are suffering from some pretty major jet lag here, so here's a (hopefully coherent) part I.

On Sunday February 27, Angus, Melissa and Jeff and I loaded up the bags and made the dash to Heathrow. It was a grey and dismal day in London with snow flurries making their way to the ground in loose shifts, taking turns settling on the windshield in suicidal waves.

The flight to LAX was uneventful-as usual I was the only one that didn't sleep as I simply can't sleep on airplanes. Luckily, Virgin Airlines have video on demand and a whole library of films, so I was continuously amused the entire ride. An amused Helen is a quiet Helen. But it was a long flight, made longer by the fact that we were in the very last two rows of the plane, and when we got to Los Angeles we were bone tired. The sun was setting (luckily we arrived just as the rains ended) although it wasn't as warm as we hoped it would be.

We collected our bags and our rental car (a strange Kia 4 Wheel Drive number. It was both cool (high up on the road) and not cool (a Kia). Quite a dichotomy, really.) and decided to drive as far as we could stay awake. We decided to head south and got on the roads to San Diego. As we left the airport I saw a huge towering American flag reflected in the glass pillars that mark the exit of LAX, and I wondered...does this mean I am home?

Or does it mean I just left it?

Angus drove for a while, until we determined we needed to stop for some caffeine and I had to stop for air-it seems car sickness is now no longer relegated to European roads, I have taken it global now. The Chevron's bushes saw me chucking my guts up, and when we started driving again I got behind the driver's seat and threw the speed limits to the wind. I had forgotten how hilly and nice the Californian countryside is-while I don't think California is a place that I would necessarily want to live in, I do think it's nice to visit. When we got as far as we thought we could make it without finding ourselves asleep behind the wheel, we stopped and found a hotel.

We had made it to Pacific Beach, just north of San Diego.

In the darkness of the evening we checked in, showered, and decided we had to try to stay awake a while longer. We walked around the streets of Pacific Beach. We hopped in to Taco Bell for a quick meal-their first visit to the Bell of the Taco and the impression was generally positive. When we got back to the hotel we crashed and were out within minutes of settling into the beds.

The next day dawned sunny but chilly. We walked around the beach and dipped our toes into the freezing water. To be honest, things weren't always easy-that saying "Two's company, three's a crowd" isn't always true. The real saying is "Three's company, four's a crowd, especially if you aren't really part of the family". I was not deliberately excluded, and I absolutely wasn't going to complain and I completely understood, but it did feel a bit lonely sometimes. It was our first holiday together, after all. Adjustments were needed all around.

We walked along part of a pier whose entrance was decked with a windchime shop, and I wanted to just stop there and make every bell ring, every ceramic sun sing. The sunlight was so welcoming, and the relief I felt at just being able to open my mouth and talk and not feel stupid for my flat vowels and for calling it a "gas station" was amazing.

But it wasn't home. And yet it was. And it wasn't.

Helen on Pier.jpg


We went shopping the rest of the day, visiting Old Navy, Sephora (Demeter's two fragrances "Rain" and "Laundromat" came home with me. No sign of "Paperback", but in the meantime I perversely love smelling like freshly laundered clothes), Skechers, a drugstore, and a few others. We went all out-after all, the pound is nearly 2:1 to the American dollar, so it was a sea of 50% off for us. My Visa card is still cooling off in the fridge.

That night we sat outside our hotel room and watched the sunset. People went jogging by on a beach path outside our room, and I noticed with a start-every last one of them was thin and athletic. They all looked like the UT Alumni I used to suffer from-chicks with bouncy scrunchied ponytails that wore baseball caps and had French manicures, the ones who drank Corona with a slice of lime and got on my very last nerve in college. The men all looked like the junior BMW model drivers, the ones who had golf shirts from Jamaica and had a beer opened on their keychain and secret tattoos on their butts.

I realized that, although I was currently only sampling the "I have a demon, watch me run" set, in general I hadn't yet seen an overweight person in San Diego. Is it not allowed or something? Do they check your weight when you drive up in a moving van, and if you tip the scales above a size 8 do you get allocated a seperate living area, one where the Double Stuffs come in the full-fat variety and where all of the dessert cakes get dumped off?

And my fellow Americans-what's up with all of this "low-carb no-carb" business I saw everywhere? What do people have against the spud? Did it do something bad while I was away? Has the potato gone all underground and evil since I moved countries, has it been silently killing people with a potassium-based cancer that tastes fantastic with a dab of ketchup? Is Atkins the only way to defeat this nemesis?

Pacific Beach2.jpg

The nights were hard-jet-lag had us in its grip and the mornings dawned at about 4 am. It was strange sharing a room with all of us-one double bed of Angus and I and one double bed of Melissa and Jeff, but I thought it extremely cute that they both sleep like the dead and that Melissa talks all night, alternating between Swedish and English. The evenings were pleasant enough but I was ravaged by Kafka dreams of the Rooster and of my boss every night, dreams of humiliation and stress in a public arena. I would wake up filled with stress and dread about my work, and throughout the entire vacation I didn't once feel remotely good about work.

Something's gotta' change before my job kills me.

The next day was also sunny but cold, and we decided to hop the trolley to Tijuana-even though I spent nearly 8 years in Texas I had never once been over the border, so it was bordertown for us. We were shocked to find that Mexico is achieved simply by walking across what felt like a parking garage, and once we walked out of it we were in Mexico. As we swung out of said garage a very tall and skinny white guy looked at us with zoned out pupils.

"Go to the right." he said, looking spookily into my eyes. "It's a revolution to the right, man. A revolution." He strolled on back to the US of A, and the kids looked at me. I grinned.

"What say we go left?" I asked them, and they grinned back.

Tijuana was about what I expected-lots of people selling things and lots of police sirens screaming around the place. The endless calls to peruse shops or be photographed with hennaed donkeys got on our nerves quickly, so we found a tiny restaurant to have a Mexican meal in (and it was fucking fantastic!), bought a blanket and a tablecloth, and headed back. We debated buying some Cialis to use back home (fun for the grown-ups) but decided we likely wouldn't know what we were getting. I stopped at a tiny stall and bought a Kokopelli, a vision I hadn't seen since my grubby archaeology digs in university, and doesn't every house need a Kokopelli?

We crossed back over into the US, and spent the evening enjoying the TV. This show you have over there, Amazing Race? Oh yeah. I loved it. I would so be into that were I living over there (even though I don't even know who Rob and Amber are and yet we all wound up hating them too, and please-if you do watch it, can someone keep me informed about the really cool gay guys that we want to win?).

We laughed and talked and got ready for the flight the next day, the Hawaiian Airlines flight to Hawaii and to the main part of the holiday. My father would not be there-he had a change in priorities and a change in schedule, so I would not be seeing him. There was a lot coming, and so far I found that I had so many chiffon layers of quiet inside of me that I wasn't sure what would come out of the wrapping in the tropical sun.

-H.

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March 11, 2005

Home Now

Exhausted.

Jet-lagged.

Happy we were upgraded to Premium Economy on my carrier of choice now, the beloved Virgin Airlines, the Airlines that kick British Airways' ass.

Stressed and fraught now and with much to do, playing the duck and cover, the squeeze into the wall.

Sunburnt but thrilled I felt so much sun and sea.

Can't feel my face.

Need a vacation.

If you still love me despite my absence, check back tomorrow-I will likely have a new post up then.

-H.

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