May 31, 2005
Or maybe someone else can, but I can't.
The Normandy Beaches aren't about Americans. The beaches are about young men from all over the Allied World, nervous young boys that should have been starting their lives as opposed to wearing a metal helmet and running straight into hell. Americans stormed two beaches-Utah and Omaha, while the British forces swept into two other beaches, called Gold and Sword, and the Canadians stormed into a middle beach called Juno. These troops were enforced with men from countries desperate to join the fight for freedom, men from Norway, the Czech Republic, Australia, Belgium, and many others.
The Beaches are about those boys, and the quiet French towns and villages are pock-marked with graves and markers that point to where heroes fell, and these markers are well-tended and quietly respected.
I am not sentimental about war. War troubles me. I am a pacifist and someone that truly puzzles over the evil that seems to sweep into the occasional soul of man. While I come from a very long line of men that served in the military and in the wars-from WWI all the way on down to now, to an uncle who is in Iraq-I personally know that the military service is not for me. I couldn't do it, and I admit that. Scopes and battles are something that is hard for me to comprehend, to take in, as I have never been in one.
But I was unprepared for just how shocked and impacted I would be by the Beaches.
To quote some information on just how large the scale of it is:
In the invasion's early hours, more than 1,000 transports dropped paratroopers to secure the flanks and beach exits of the assault area. Amphibious craft landed some 130,000 troops on five beaches along 50 miles of Normandy coast between the Cotentin Peninsula and the Orne River while the air forces controlled the skies overhead. In the eastern zone, the British and Canadians landed on GOLD, JUNO and SWORD Beaches. The Americans landed on two beaches in the west--UTAH and OMAHA. As the Allies came ashore, they took the first steps on the final road to victory in Europe.
That's the basic information.
What you don't know is that the beaches are an open target-range. When you stand on the sea grass of Utah Beach and look down, you realize that the men walked out of their carriers and straight into hell.
The cliffs overlooking Omaha Beach only highlight the fact that young men were probably so easily in gun sights. There is detritus still laying around, rusted ironworks and pieces that could come from tanks, airplanes, ships. They lie in the sea grass growing in bomb craters and on artifical hills, a reminder that after the deaths can come life again.
We went to a number of museums, all of which failed to leave an impression on us. We went to the American Cemetary at Colleville-Sur-Mer, the one from the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Nearly 10,000 graves stretch out, and they're only filled with the bodies of those that weren't repatriated-they don't tell the story of the boys whose bodies went home.
We went to one of the many British cemetaries, this one near Ryes. The peace and tranquility of the cemetary was stunning, as was the age differences-while the American cemetary was filled with men in their early 20's or younger, the British cemetary whispered of longer and harder fights that the people were faced with-a 45 year-old next to a 19 year-old. A 39 year-old next to an 18 year-old.
61 years ago, it could've been my Angus who was called off to war.
The thought of that fills me with a liquid dread so overwhelming I lose track of how to lock my kneecaps.
The British cemetary shares space with some of those that served with them. In the cemetary near Ryes, there are 26 Polish soldiers on the left hand side. Canadians in the silent right-hand corner, all in their early 20's.
And they also share space with those that served against them-in the last 4 four rows, slightly off to the side, the thick and silent tombstones of a number of Germans, resting next to the English and Scottish soldiers. Enemies during lifetimes and silent sleeping partners during death.
The one thing that hits home more than anything are the defences that the Germans built, which still stand today. Pillboxes, bunkers, anti-tank concrete structures. The French have wisely chosen to leave these standing, and more than any museum these alone remind you of what was faced on that frightening day more than 61 years ago.
This is one of many bunkers still lining Omaha Beach.
They are unmarked and open. This one was scarred by what appeared to be bomb damage, so the assumption is that a grenade was lobbed in, killing the men inside.
You can stand where they died.
You can look out the window and see what the German soldiers saw.
You can weep knowing that the window claimed lives in single second bursts.
I don't mourn for any particular group-I feel terrible for them all. Young men who lost their life for their countries, some out of hope, some out of idealism, some out of opression. The tragedy is that a generation lost their men. I admit that the war was necessary and the lives lost were for the greater good, but had it been my husband/father/son/brother that would have been cold comfort on the nights when the insomnia and the longing set in.
And for all of the graves I saw like this-and there were many-I wanted to sweep them up into my arms and whisper a gentle thank you for those that were lost but are not forgotten.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:34 AM
| Comments (9)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1089 words, total size 7 kb.
May 30, 2005
The American Cemetary in Normandy, France, which is home to nearly 10,000 soldiers from WWII.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:20 PM
| Comments (6)
| Add Comment
Post contains 26 words, total size 1 kb.
May 27, 2005
Ashtanga yoga is not like regular yoga, as you actually sweat like a maniac. It's one pose into another into another without pause, and as such you really work it. You have to do this while trying not to laugh at the names of the poses, as well, all of which feel like you are making a visit to the RSPCA run by people that miss the 1970's in a very big way-Start with 5 Sun Salutations! Then we will go from the Lotus into the Plank, Up-Dog and Downward-Facing Dog! You're supposed to be able to last the whole hour in a room with the heater blazing (in order to accommodate the sweating) without stopping and without a water break, but as all of us in our class are relatively new to this, that isn't happening. Water breaks are a must. Gumby needs water or Gumby's clay gets brittle.
So last week we tripped out of the room in our bare feet and sweaty collarbones. Taking the hunk of my long hair off the back of my neck to feel the breeze, I walked to the water fountain. I waited my turn and finally stepped up to the fountain after the last ashtanga devotee had bounced off, and I bent down to the faucet.
Still holding my hair off my neck now to keep it from flailing into the water, I bent down, pushy the knobby metal button, and bent forward. I put my lips directly into the bubbling water, and gently sucked the water from the stream. The water bounced off the outside of my lips, a kind of aqua lip liner, and I just kept drinking the water, so cool that I couldn't believe a miniature ice box wasn't underneath the mechanism.
I've never really liked water. As a kid, I was a member of the Kool-Aid Patrol-if it wasn't flavored with colored sugar crystals that was a representative color of the rainbow, I wasn't going to touch the stuff. As an adult (and since as kids we were only allowed sodas as treats) I would choose a Diet Coke over water anytime-nothing like bathing in the forbidden stuff, famine before feast and all that. It wasn't until I came to England that I became a big water drinker, porting that plastic bottle of Evian, Brecon, or some other form of something promised to bubble out of mountain brooks. Kim used to carry a Camelback around with him, so obsessed he was with water. He had a euphemism he used about death-he once helped a friend put down his dog, and just before the shot was administered Kim offered the dog a bowl of fresh water, so that the dog wouldn't know the pain of the shot. From there on out, death became known in the households as "having a cool drink of water".
It's perhaps ironic-that which gives life became symbolic for taking it away as well.
I've become something of a Luddite, buying bottled water and sucking it down in between meetings, train rides, TV programs. I couldn't remember the last time I had been to a water fountain, I couldn't recall the last time I bent down to inhale the gentle water.
Was it when I was a child, in the hallways of the school and with fingers smelling of modeling clay and the crack of mimeograph ink snaking welcome through my nostrils? Did my little hands grab hold of the faucet with ease and noisily suck in the water, not paying attention to anything but getting that scratchy thirst out of my throat? Did I use the back of my hand to wipe off the remaining water, launching away from the little person water fountain in search of something less mundane than drinking water?
I remembered the drinking fountain in high school. Taller, not just a rectangle of metal watering device but the moniker where the uber-cool would gather, the blondes throwing their Texas hair over their shoulder and flirting in the jocks eyes and thrusting their hips out, perhaps unintentionally. The water fountain was the hormone watering hole of the pubescent. For people like me, people who didn't exactly fit in and whose goal was to stay under the radar, we had to wait our turn to use the water fountain, wait until the gamey and leggy antelope moved away from it and let the more damaged species drink, Darwin playing his cruel games.
I continued drinking, sliding the cool water down my parched throat. I let my tongue dart in and divert the streams of liquid I was sucking in. I felt the sweat beading up on my hot forehead, a stark contrast to the water. I couldn't believe how fantastic it tasted, and I kicked myself wondering why I didn't use drinking fountains more often. When I was done, I let the water stain my lips and chin, cool droplets that eventually pinged their way down onto my chest and easing the heat under my shirt and sports bra.
It was the best water I've ever had in my life.
It's amazing that something so insignificant can be something that I think about days later.
I haven't used the water fountain since, even though I've been to the yoga classes a few more times since. Sometimes you form an opinion of something and you just don't want it ruined.
Even if it's just water you're referring to.
-H.
PS-And now my dear boy and I are off for a long weekend in France. You know. As one does.
See you Tuesday.
PPS-another book meme, below. more...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:00 AM
| Comments (10)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1119 words, total size 7 kb.
May 26, 2005
I have a few of these.
A manager pushing a binder to me across a desk, telling me this was my new project. It took me from Dallas to Raleigh, which took me even further into the snowy folds of Sweden. This was a life-changing moment. I had barged into his office begging for more work and he had just unpacked a binder. If I hadn't have asked for more work, what then? If he hadn't have received the box from Sweden full of binders at that moment, then where would I be?
Something tells me that binder prevented me from finding a nice Texas boy and settling down, living in Grand Prairie of Richardson or something like that, drinking Dos Equis and watching football every Monday. Something tells me that binder led to a lust for foreign food on the tip of my tongue and old cathedrals spiraling in front of my eyes. I have a suspicion that without that binder being handed over, I would never have seen the countries I have seen, I would not have broken and been repaired and would not be settled on this Southwest Train into London I am on today, sore from lovemaking the night before and looking forward to a long weekend in France.
That binder was Event 1 to changing my life.
Last night I turned to Angus during yet another commercial break of my favorite Desperate Housewives. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a worn sweatshirt, I smiled mischievously and turned to him, turning my face up to him.
'When did you first know you were in love with me?'Â I asked him.
He groaned.
Men love questions like that.
'Oh'¦I don't know. A few months after meeting you,' he answers, patting my hand in an Is-That-Answer-Good-Enough-To-End-This-Torture kind of way.
I smile-I know he hates talks like these, one of my favorite things to do is to catch him off-balance when he's in the middle of something he has to concentrate on (installing lights, reversing the car, building bookshelves) and sidle up to him and wheedle, 'Honey? Let's talk about our relationship.'Â
When did I first fall in love with Angus?
The answer?
I don't know, actually.
I remember the first day I met him, across a table at Company X. There he was-an Englishman at a table of Swedes. He was sipping the Swedish coffee in a paper cup, and his notebook was in front of him on the table. He had an important job at Company X, a Job I would later take over when he burnt out of doing it too long. I remember thinking he looked strong and angry. I remember thinking that he was someone far more senior to me.
Above all, I remember being hyper-aware of everything he said and how he moved in the meeting.
His recollections of me are a little less stellar. He remembers me sitting there quietly (sulking, he says, but the truth was I was new to that line of work and I simply thought it was better to sit there and listen quietly than open my mouth and say something stupid). He remembers I had a bottle of orange Mer (a type of Swedish juice as I wasn't a coffee drinker then). He remembers Company X had provided me with an ugly dual mode phone. He remembers being told my name and then assuming I was Irish.
The whole world changed in Bangkok some time later. I had just arrived to the conference center-my department was hosting a massive meeting, and I was the first presenter on the first day-so I arrived two days early to get over the jet lag and take a look around. I knew that Angus was coming the next day, so in something highly uncharacteristic for me, I left him a note at the reception asking him if he wanted to join me for dinner. He called me when he arrived, jet-lagged and grouchy, and we had dinner that night with some others in a pagoda, a thunderstorm lashing water everywhere and wrecking havoc on the orchids.
I don't know why I asked him to dinner that night, I only know it was so important that he join me.
Two days, many meetings and Thai beers later, a group of us were out at what's called the Backpackers' Area in Bangkok. Even at one in the morning, the place was throbbing with people. There were dogs running to and fro, stalls with rip-off Levi's, women offering their own personal commerce, and neon lights everywhere. The air was hot and thick with humidity and sin. As we got out of a cab, we had to cross a busy road.
Without thinking about it, Angus reached back and took my hand, holding it as we crossed tik-tik carts and unlicensed taxis weaving dangerously around people.
And it was that instant that I knew that I was mad about the boy.
I swear we crossed the road in slow motion, like some ridiculous Sandra Bullock Hollywood film. Looking down, all I saw were his fingers thread through mine, his profile attentive and watchful of the traffic ahead. It was as though he hadn't even realized that he'd taken my hand, that it was second nature. I felt electric and alive, as through the interlocked fingers were running a current, and that the lights and sounds of Bangkok were turned up just that much more because of it. As we slowly made our way across the street, Bangkok moved in slow motion with us-a hawker shouting about his DVDs a caricature in open-mouthed shouting. A little girl continued to play with a ribbon she had in her hands, and I could hear the soft satin sound it made as it slipped through tiny fingers. The taxi behind us signaled to merge back onto the road and his indicators were my heartbeat'¦tick'¦tick'¦tick.
When Angus let go the world resumed as it was. The taxi shot away and the DVD seller's speech was as fast and garbled as ever. I looked at my hands, hardly believing that they weren't glowing from the electricity. Angus moved on in the crowd as though he hadn't noticed what had happened, but I knew for a fact that something fundamental had happened. The theory of my universe had shifted, and now it included having my hand held by a man who had changed the course of my life in one 5 second burst.
I was mad about him from that moment on. The love came after that, but it came swiftly and with greater power than the gentle currents I had had for others before. The way I felt about Angus was like a hurricane, it reached in and wiped everything out inside of me that had ever been owned by anyone else. He infuriated me, he ignited me, and above all, he listened and paid attention.
Angus taking my hand in Bangkok-an event that lasted maybe 10 seconds.
That was Event 2.
Amazing how something that appears to be a subconscious action can change lives.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:25 AM
| Comments (12)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1214 words, total size 7 kb.
May 25, 2005
Good News: I have discovered Azure Ray on iTunes and bought every song of theirs.
Bad News: iTunes.uk doesn't have all their songs. And if I wait, someone will come along and call them "The New Dido" as well, fucking up their appeal for me.
Good News: Lance (our former roommate) came over for pizza, wine, and the last episode of "Life Isn't All Ha Ha Hee Hee". It was big fun.
Bad News: I'm hungover.
Good News: I think I've successfully kicked the flu I've been battling.
Bad News: A backache woke me up in the middle of the night last night. My back hurts. And I have to go to London all day. And I have to lug that Fucking Projector there, which will do my back no favors.
Good News: I am free from the tyranny of my upper management since Jeff returned.
Bad News: Jeff returned. Long live the New Tyrant!
Good News: HFEA (the governing fertility authority in England) published new reports on success rates in IVF clinics in the UK.
Bad News: The site has been brought down by the number of users, and when I do get on the page I need a degree in quadratic equations to be able to understand all of the statistics. This, while practicing my medical Swedish on a weekly basis to get my records transferred over to the UK.
Good News: Our offer on the house has been accepted.
Bad News: So has the other couples' offer, so now it's a race to see who can sell their house faster.
Good News: Deadline for my Rocket Riding Gerbil rapidly approaching.
Bad News: The stress and workload is killing me. I'm scheduling now in 5 minute chunks on some days to try to get everything done.
Good News: A trip to the skin doctor yesterday shows that my scarred back (from previous rounds) is currently still skin cancer-free.
Bad News: Another "suspicious mole" has to be removed on my face next week. I'm going to the mats. That's right. The mole is down on my right cheek-the one you can just make out on my sidebar picture, the one in a line from my mouth. So I will have a big and noticeable scar on my face.
Good News: I will be ok and Angus has a thing for pirates.
Bad News: Rapidly reaching the stage where "choice cuts" can describe my appearance.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:39 AM
| Comments (12)
| Add Comment
Post contains 460 words, total size 3 kb.
Good news: skin cancer can be removedMay 24, 2005
I'm not sure what happened along the way.
I'm guessing I got waylaid by reality, but I can never be sure.
Tiffani asked me some questions recently and one of them brought a smile to my face and got me thinking. She asked about my first kiss, and that's something I hadn't thought about in a long time.
My first kiss happened in the great drama that is all first kisses. The first knee trembling moment that you find out that boys aren't so icky after all, that the days of playing football and tetherball together are over, and forever on there will be seperate groups cliquing together in seperate worlds with seperate dreams and giggles and flushes of embarrassment.
Like all first kisses, mine happened when I was 7 years old. His name was Marc, and he had dark brown hair and enormous brown eyes with lashes that seemed to reach the sky. He had a cheeky grin and-God help us all-a dimple deep in the right cheek that tucked in cheerfully when he smiled.
As I was a Drama Queen of the first order, I had the two admirers that liked me-Marc and another boy named Junior (yes, that was his name)-run a foot race. The winner would get a kiss from me as I was waited at the finish line.
It was recess, and another friend asked the guys to get on the mark, get set, GO! They ran the short footrace, Marc easily beating Junior, and he came up to me, flushed. I smiled at him.
It was a warm sunny day in Washington State, and Spring was budding. I was wearing a pink skirt that I loved, a pink skirt that had white ribbons hanging off the side that I would worry with my hands when I wasn't paying attention. He was dressed in a red polo shirt and dark blue dungarees. His brown hair stuck up in a cowlick in the back, bobbing as he walked.
When he came up to me, I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned forward. I was a tall girl, so we were even height, face to face. He kept his eyes open, and so did I. When I planted a tiny kiss on his lips, I saw his pupils expand, and I was so busy watching his eyes I forgot how my first kiss felt, all two seconds of it. Standing back, we giggled and then went about our business.
I don't remember what happened to him, I don't have any more memories of him in that dodgy photo album in my head. I remember that one bright Spring morning and my first kiss with a boy with a dimple. I remember that he smelt of Coast soap and the skin on the tip of his nose had freckles splashed across it.
I have no idea what happened to him after my lips with their Bonne Bell rolling ball lip gloss met the surface of his lips.
I wonder if he remembers me.
The memory of it seems to have the sweetness that childhood should have. It tastes like butterscotch and has skinned knees and fireflies in a jar. My first kiss is just another ghost from my past, but unlike other ghosts, this one brings a smile to my lips as I remember how it was, for one moment, to be a little girl.
And that feeling is enough to get me through the rest of today.
-H.
PS-The rest of my questions from Tiffani are below. more...
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:08 AM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1038 words, total size 5 kb.
May 23, 2005
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
I've never been much of a gambler. The first time I tried gambling was on a pit stop in Louisiana. I went into a casino when I was travelling from Dallas to Raleigh, my car packed with goodies and my two sweet dogs lolling about the back seat. I went into the casino and played $20. I won $10. I took my winnings and walked out. I was there for maybe a grand total of fifteen minutes, and it left almost no impression on me.
When you're someone like me, someone who's flirted with alcoholism, been seduced by excessive exercise and danced a midnight dance with anorexia, another addictive habit is about the last thing in the world that you need.
Thank God I can't smoke.
So we took turns a starin' out the window at the darkness
'til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.
I did some betting at Ascot last year, and I lost a total of £30. I had zero luck on my first attempt at the races and on my horses, which is perhaps not without excuse if you're someone like me, someone who bets on them based on their names. Just because I was a Southerner lost in the upper English echelons that day didn't mean I should be betting on horses called "Thank You, Ma'am" or "Southern Comfort". My bets, at any rate, were always small. I bet £2 each time, and none of this each way bullshit. If you bet on something, you need to believe in it. So all of my bets were £2 to win.
Now ev'ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
A week and a half ago I got taken to the races again (only in England they're not called races, they're called "Meetings". You go to the Meet, not to the races. My only pass at explanation is that it does look nicer in the Outlook calendar that way, more "business" less "gambler's anonymous"). It wasn't as dressy as the Ascot races, no enormous hat needed, but I did have to dress up a bit and got to spend my time in a box overlooking the finish line, thanks to one of the suppliers I am working with. It was a large group of people, about 12 of us, and we were treated to a nice lunch and nicer wine. During the lunch, the racing enthusiast next to me taught me all about the statistics and information about the horses and the races, and I have to say-it was interesting and I learnt a lot.
I went into the Meet with £25, and if I lost my £25, that would be it. No visits to the cash machine to extend the fun. Once again I made my £2 bets to win.
Every time, without fail, my horse came in second.
We did what's called a Lucky Dip-you write the names of all the horses on a piece of paper, pay £5, and for that privilege you get to draw a horse and if he wins, you win the pot of money split between the horse that came in first, second and third. I drew a horse that had the worst odds ever. I chucked my piece of paper into my handbag and went on a conference call. During the call, the race started, and I stood on a chair in a quiet room to watch it.
To my utter astonishment, my horse-which had 28-1 odds-came in first.
I won a chunk of cash.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
On Saturday we bought a lottery ticket. We have the worst luck ever-Angus and I only ever get one number right, out of the two tickets we buy. We rarely buy lottery tickets since it's just a matter of throwing away £2 for us. But this time we had a reason to.
That house we viewed on Saturday?
It was almost perfect.
Around 100 years old. Huge manicured private garden complete with koi pond (the koi pond I could take or leave, actually). On a quiet lane with a massive field and footpath nearby it had room for expanding the house and building a conservatory. The house was fully functional but decorated in 80's style, meaning a complete rip-out of the kitchen and bathrooms was needed as well as redecorating all the rooms. But this is something we want. We want to design our own kitchens and bathrooms and install them ourselves. We've both done it before in previous houses in previous lives. You wouldn't believe it, but I love tiling, I love cutting the tile on the diamond cutter and soaking myself in clay-smattered water. He loves building and planning, the detail and the lighting.
Two loping golden retrievers live in the house, and I see in their footsteps my own dog I can have when we get a house, a sleepy German Shepherd mix from the RSPCA that I would call George and take with me everywhere. I see the enormous kitchen filled with Angus' family at Christmas. I see lazy summer evenings and al fresco sex under the rose-laden awning. I see ripped T-shirts and music playing as we re-fit our new kitchen and do our dishes in the bathtub in the meantime.
The house comes under budget at what we're planning on spending by a long shot. We've set ourselves a ceiling of £500,000 to accomodate renovations and this one is far under that. This house is unbelievably in our price range, and is ready to be taken off the owner's hands-she is quiet and seems tired, having buried her husband and the third of her golden retrievers, and wants only a smaller space to live in. The interest in this house is immense and we know that it will be gone by this week.
The only problem is, we haven't sold Brighton yet. Angus' house is still languishing on England's southern coast, and hasn't been sold since the previous sale in February fell through. We've dropped the price, done further repairs and maintenance, and still it doesn't move. The market in Brighton has dropped, and the house sits there, waiting. We can't live in it-not only is it much too far for Angus to commute to work, but he feels weird about it and so do I. Renting it out again would temporarily solve the problem, but the issue remains-it needs to be sold for a number of reasons-financial, legal (divorce agreements), etc.
We add up the sums of money we have in various accounts-savings accounts, stocks, accounts in Sweden. If we wipe out our accounts we have more than enough for a down payment and the stamp duty (which is a stunning amount of tax you have to pay in England just for the privilege of buying a house. Infuriating.) We qualify for a mortgage. The problem is, the monthly payments are so high that until Brighton is sold, we can only make monthly payments on interest alone. Once Brighton is sold, we'd replete our vanished savings and dump the rest of the money on the new house, lowering the monthly payments spectacularly. If Brighton doesn't sell, we are well and truly fucked.
This plan is risky, to say the least.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.
In the end, as the owner of Brighton and the one with the most to lose, Angus decides it's too risky.
We're not going to bid on the house.
You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
A part of me is very sad. That house was fantastic, and I can only hope that once Brighton is sold we can find something so lovely and so kind again. I want to find a house where I can hear the slipping of the dog's nails on the hardwood floors. I want to find a fence that I can imagine my cats sleeping on in the midday sun. I want to know that there's another house out there where I can imagine spreading a baby blanket on the thick grass and watching chubby infant feet get tickled by the dark green blades.
We're not gamblers, really.
I'm not sure if that's something I am glad about or regret.
In the end, everything in life seems to be about timing.
So when he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.
-H.
PS-many thanks to my anonymous benefactor. My gift of movies couldn't have come at a better time. Thank you so, so much.
UPDATE: We've bid the full asking price of the house, predicated on us selling Brighton first. Another couple has also bid the full asking price, also based on their selling their house first. We'll see how this all turns out, but a little finger crossing wouldn't go amiss here....
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:10 AM
| Comments (10)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1586 words, total size 9 kb.
.. Hopefully you won't laugh to hard to snuggle May 20, 2005
There was a point yesterday when I actually informed him I would have to look for a new job. It was that bad. And this morning, in the cold light of day, I am once again wondering if I do need to look for a new job or if I can reach that internal switch inside myself where I say: Look, dude. You're pissing me off and I don't like your management style, but whatever.
I get to work from home today, and by "work from home", I mean "work from home". I have back to back conference calls the entire day, some slots are double-booked. Luckily I am equipped- I have two speaker phones in the household, an enormous pot of coffee and an ulcer the size of Kansas. I had a phone call earlier:
Project Manager: Helen, can you come to the test plant today?
Me: No.
Project Manager: Are you sure? This meeting this morning is going to be a doozy.
Me: I'm sure.
Project Manager: Are you really sure?
Me: Mate, not only would that mean I need to find a way to be in three meetings at once a few times this morning, but I would rather be bleeding out of my eyes than attend the meeting. But thanks.
So here I am this morning in my robe and trying to just dial down the stress. In a moment, I am going to paint my toenails and then pop a Lush Ballistic in the bath and relax. I will open the window wide to let in the sound and smell of the rain outside, and I will light a candle and put it in the window, to listen to it hiss and sputter. I am bunking out of a conference call to take this bath, and I will bunk out of another one when I go to the local doctor's office and have blood taken to measure my FSH levels as we continue down the path to IVF.
Baby steps to babies.
Today Angus is headed to London to enjoy a day with his Dad. They're going to ride trains around London together. I asked him what on earth people talk about while riding trains around, and he shrugged in a cute and sheepish manner and said: Dunno. Bonding-type stuff, I guess.
I'm going up to London for dinner with them and Angus' stepmother. We'd tried to get some theatre tickets, but were divided on what to see-I'm the only one who wants to see Mary Poppins (none of them have ever seen Mary Poppins, ever. Can you believe it? The tragedy! The culture loss! How can it be that there are people in the world that don't know Chim Chim Cheree? It explains why I always get a blank look from Angus when I announce that it's time to play Tidy Up the Nursery.)
They all wanted to see Billy Elliot (which for some reason Melissa and Jeff can only remember as Billy Idiot, so now we all call it that, too). Then the only other option was an Elton John concert, and frankly I'd rather chisel off dried paint with a chopstick than listen to Elton John. Instead it will be a quiet dinner and a train ride home, leading to sleep and (please, God) sleeping in tomorrow morning (we average a wake-up time of about 6 am in this house. We just can't sleep lately).
Tomorrow is Ashtanga yoga, followed by a house viewing. We've found a small older house in the countryside that needs a bit of love, but is well within our price range. It's not in Whitney Houston, but is very close and would mean I'd be using the same train station I use now. This, somehow, is important to me.
I am focusing on the good. Next weekend is a three-day weekend in England so Angus and I are bunking off to France. You know. As one does. We're going to Normandy and staying in a hotel with a balcony overlooking the water. We will see the battlegrounds and the graveyards and we will mourn the tragic and utter loss of life. We will buy too much wine and stinky French cheese and have too much sex. We will try to relax before Angus heads off to Finland and Germany for business meetings.
Two weeks after that we're off to Monaco, and I need to get my ass into some kind of bathing suit shape for that. We have nothing planned after that but my mind is already lilting towards some three-day weekends in August-maybe Rome, Rhodes, or Budapest. Melissa and Jeff arrive in installments throughout June and July, and I know Angus is beside himself that he'll have them for so long. He's investigating getting diving certification with Melissa, and Jeff can practice scuba in a pool that only goes 2 meters deep. We'll have to think of a creative name to call his practice scuba, as something tells me if we tell him he's in the "Bubble Buddies" course he won't be pleased.
I know I wouldn't be.
In the meantime, it's raining. I will buy some plant fertilizer. Our oven has packed up and I will deal with the dreaded estate agents. I have some errands to run (you know, I love running errands these days. I just love it. It means I actually get to be a normal person. Dry cleaning to drop off? I'll do it! Post office run? Count me in!) I will start reading a new book tonight, having just finished the brilliant Middlesex. I will have some vegetable soup for lunch and pet my cats, and maybe at the end of the day I will have found that switch inside of me.
I may be getting to know who I am, but it doesn't mean sometimes my days don't suck.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
08:32 AM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1111 words, total size 6 kb.
May 19, 2005
No really.
We really do.
I don't care who you are-from man-eating Angelina Jolie to the PTA mom next door to the nice shopkeeper with the Dorothy Hamill haircut. We are all of us going to feel a twinge insecure at some point of the day/week/month, and for me this insecurity may come more frequently than most.
Mine, in fact, comes nightly.
Sometimes a few times a night if the red tide is frothing.
We have a routine in this house, and it's a routine that, although based in insecurity, actually has become something of a tradition. It's as though the night isn't normal if I don't do it now. The Kafka dreams could potentially be more rampant should we not go through this.
Every night as we're just in bed, laying on our left sides with his right arm around me and curling me hard to him, I ask him: Tell me something nice.
Now, I am not asking him to tell me about the time he helped a little old lady cross the road. I'm not looking for a description of a cuddly and perfect brood of kittens. I am asking him to tell me something out of what we call the hearts and ponies category, which means: Bring on the romance, baby.
I'm looking for things like: You're the only woman for me. Or another casual standy: I love you more and more everyday. I'll even go for: You da' bomb., although of course Angus doesn't talk that way and I cringe when he tries to put on the American accent.
When we are feeling particularly mushy about each other, we will send each other a text that usually says nothing more than: Ponies. To the casual observer, this may look like we are interested in running our own stable. What it actually means is we are feeling that Hollywood kind of romance for each other, with the crashing waves and string quartet, with visions of green fields and flowers and yes-prancing ponies.
So most nights Angus is left scrambling, having left his defences down. His Insecurity Radar had not detected an incoming enemy craft. His troops were not ready. His war chest was empty.
Last night I did the usual. Tucking his elbow under my breast, I whispered: Tell me something nice.
In response, he tighened his arm around me in a crushing hug, the tight muscles bouncing.
Once I caught my breath, I asked him: That's a cop-out! What does that mean?
He replied: What does what mean?
I giggled. That shaking hug? Is that like: I love you so much? Or: I'm shivering with hypothermia?
He relpied dozily, I love you. I have hypothermia.
And ever since then, I've been stuck with that saying in my head. Now it's not just ponies I get. It's love and hypothermia too.
-H.
PS-Stinks, I just got the hat and the postcard and I love them very much! Now tell me when you might be in town 
PPS-Thank you Marie! Yesterday you were my 9000th and 9001st comments!
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:33 AM
| Comments (10)
| Add Comment
Post contains 528 words, total size 3 kb.
May 18, 2005
Monday saw London dressed in smart casual to talk to Third in Charge. It was pockmarked by a visit to the doctor and a promise of surgery in a few weeks time for the broken ligament in my hand. Apparently it's called a Trigger Finger, and mine is too far gone for cortisone shots. I am told it can be done under local anesthetic and with the use of a tourniquet, but while I am all things crunchy-granola I have my limits. Not interested. If you're going to approach me with a scalpel in your hand, please knock me out completely, thank you.
Yesterday it was London clad in a business suit and high heels, heels which I know scrape off the toenail polish on my big toes only, heels which I could wear in my sleep and which symbolically serve to help me look above it all, that there are 3 inches between me and whatever it is that would run under the arch of my foot. The business suit is my business standard, a black jacket that is no less than 5 years old and has been to almost as many countries as I have. I wore it all again because I had yet another day of being called in to show off the Rocket Riding Gerbil to that same group of people far more important (and aristocratic) than I will ever be.
Today it is dressed down in jeans and a floaty chocolate-colored shirt. My hair is scraped back off my face in a tight ponytail. My feet are hidden in pale brown flats, flats which make me feel every ridge of the earth beneath my feet, flats which hide the missing toenail polish chips that now make their tenancy on the inside of my black high heels.
Yesterday saw the biggest men in the company tapping me on the shoulder and asking me questions. Men talking to me and looking for answers, not knowing that the round-faced brunette they are talking to grew up on military bases and in homes she never owned, not knowing that of all the people in all the companies they've chosen the one who fell and, on falling, found out that she can bounce. One of them told me about his other home, a castle in Scotland, and I think of my little two-up two-down in my little cricket village and wish I was home in my pajamas with my feet propped up on the radiator and a cat on my lap. The only castle I will ever have is one made out of Lego. Yesterday was a success and a day of trying to be positive and confident, to remember my manager's plea (Please-for God's sake, whatever you do-please don't swear, Helen!), to show that I know what I am doing.
Today is back to being my kind of day. A full day of meetings with my team, to wrangle every last drop of what we can do out of our project plans. I'm going to buy them donuts for breakfast. Everyone needs a donut from time to time. Donuts make the world go round. Today is a day of jokes and relaxation with a team that lets me swear when I need it and gives me grief when I don't.
These two Helens are so opposite it's unreal. And yet neither of them is an act. Angus used to absolutely hate it when I would become someone else, when I would switch out of Helen and leap off a cliff, flying into someone more socially adept, more capable of handling the lion taming, heart-to-hearts, or the cut throat business arena. I could be the life of the party, or I could be the presenter of information, taking questions I couldn't answer and finding a way through them. I would shed a Helen skin like a snake and come out the other side adaptable to the desert, the water, the potting shed, whatever you need.
And now I've been through all of my skins. I don't become a different Helen for a different reason. And although occasionally I get to pop outside of myself and watch the act of Life, it doesn't mean I get to be someone else entirely. I'm stuck inside my skin and had to walk through the fire of finding out, often in layers of awkwardness and cloaked in embarrassment, how people should behave in a situation. It was a learning curve that I should've had at some point in my life, but my car overshot it and I've spent most of my life with wheels spinning.
And so now I can find myself talking to landed gentry without feeling the need to kiss up. I am polite and kind. I tease and ask questions. I treat them like a friend, instead of trying to see if I can join the group and talk highbrow. I don't want to join the group-I want to own a dog and eat my vegetables. I want to have loud and long Sunday afternoon antics. I want to shake my ass in the garden to a song blaring through my iPod. I want to know that the chipped toenail polish gets unnoticed in my yoga class and that the under £10 wine we buy is fantastic.
Once I aspired to be as high as it got. I wanted to run companies and be driven to work. I wanted to crack the whip and be feared as the woman you never want to cross. I wanted to be the biggest, baddest corporate bitch who dominated meetings and seduced corporate presidents in my windowed penthouse apartment. It's what I worked for. It's what I wanted.
And then I fell, and if there's anything that falling proves, it's how tough your wings are. I found out that my wings were made of a mix of second class stamps, burnt diaries, lily petals and midnight whispers, all held together by liquid dreams and tears. My wings didn't hold up to the push but when they did spread and start to fly again, I found that they floated well on an English current. Spreading the wingtip, I found that the tiny feathers underneath cared about people, more so than I thought they could or should. I found that they couldn't get me to my former dream of corporate domination and soulless pursuits of power, but they could get me to a small Victorian home, cats that lay in the sun, and a man whom I try to be there for everyday.
And this flight pattern fits so well I can't believe I ever wanted anything else.
The two Helens have merged and the former dreams are gone, replaced by something that I can do aerial acrobatics and loop the loops in. It doesn't mean that everything is perfect, but it does mean that as time goes on, I realize that I am flying where I should be, that the pinnacle is a different height for each person, and that I am finally getting to the point where I am who I should be. I have a house with things I can touch. I know if it will be a good day if I can spot the train spotters. I look forward to laying my head on his chest as we watch TV and sip chardonnay.
If you'll excuse me, I have to get off the train now and run a meeting.
I will be running it, and if I fuck up, that's ok.
Just me. Just Helen.
I don't have to be anyone else anymore.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
10:21 AM
| Comments (17)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1289 words, total size 7 kb.
May 16, 2005
Saturday night Billie and her husband had stopped over at our house after a birthday curry with Karl (who has royally pissed me off, and more on that another day) for a slosh of wine and some gossip. Rising and shining on Sunday morning, Angus and I went about the action that is our Sunday-coffee. Bagels with eggs and sausages (my sausages are made of tofu, spinach and gruyere. I love them and, unsurprisingly, they taste like chicken.) A shower and a walk to get the newspaper.
Heading into the living room at about 9 am I saw the unmistakable parcel by the couch that is Billie's purse. I know this for a fact as I sat next to Billie and saw her upend the entire thing on the floor on accident, and I got to tuck her tampax into her Day-Timer to avoid embarrassment. These are the things women look out for, after all). Sighing, I slide Angus' flip-flops on my feet and clad in sweatshirt shorts and an old T-shirt (as we are off to Brighton that afternoon to do garden work on Angus' house), I flip-flop my way to Billie's house, greeting the Billie's cat, the sole surviving Tabby Bomb, who is busy stupidly chasing a bumblebee in the common.
I knock on the door and am greeted by a cacophony of sounds-Billie has two dogs, one a dachshund named Hartford and, as if to prove that life really is all about opposites, the other one is a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy named Burt already weighing in at about 100 pounds. Burt is gorgeous-happy, big brown eyes, and masses of lean muscle under a massive fur coat that you can only think you control. Trust me-when Burt gets something in his mind nothing short of a National Guard roadblock can stop this dog.
I flip open the mail chute and talk to Burt and Hartford, much to their barking delight and Billie's nightmares. She comes slogging down the stairs in a denim shirt hastily and incorrectly buttoned over a pink satin nightgown and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers. She looks exhausted. I decide the best course of action is to be as annoyingly bright and sunny as possible.
'Good morning!'Â I chip at a high octave. Billie winces and Burt dances around. 'You forgot your purse! Great morning, isn't it?'Â
Billie looks as though her head is about to pop off. I grin. Burt is going mental and just as I hand the purse over to Billie he lunges out the door. Billie sighs in such a way as to indicate that the world is against her, and I laugh and run after Burt. I manage to grab his collar and am allowing myself to be dragged back to Billie's house when I see the Tabby Bomb has something. I lug Burt over to Tabby Bomb and see there, shivering and shaking in the grass in front of Tabby Bomb, is a little mouse.
A little mouse that has had one of its eyes ripped out.
'Ohmigod!'Â I scream. Billie snaps out of her hungover haze and races outside in the bunny slippers, followed by Hartford. 'Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!'Â I release Burt who makes a beeline for the neighbor's recently planted snapdragons. I grab the looking-very-pleased-with-herself Tabby Bomb to keep her from tormenting the mouse. Tabby Bomb hates this move and so in one Wolverine like move ejects her claws directly into the soft skin of my upper hand.
I scream but bear it. Billie comes racing over and sees the mouse. 'For God's sake, Helen. It's just a mouse.'Â
'ÂI'm not scared!'Â I say, exasperated and freaked out, remarkably at the same time. 'We just can't let Tabby Bomb kill the mouse!'Â I am suddenly the Great Vermin Defender. I will try to save the tiny mouse, knowing that any day now it could be comfortably nesting in my sweaters in the loft in my home.
Phobia number one: Injury to animals. Any animals. Including those that tend to gift the human population with little gifts like chewed heating cables, mouse droppings, and the plague.
Billie manages to grab a manic Burt and takes a close look at the trembling mouse and sees the blood down the side of the face and the eyeball hanging wonkily down the chin. Billie's chin trembles and at once, we are united. She looks at me. 'You have to save the mouse.'Â
'I know!'Â I wail. Kurt pokes his head out the door and is greeted to Billie and I, dressed to unimpress, and Burt who is trying to find new ways to wrench Billie's shoulder out of socket.
'Kurt! Kurt! Get a box!'Â I shout.
He blinks. 'What?'Â
'ÂA box! A box! Get a box!'Â Billie and I shout. I am desperately trying to hold a very unhappy Tabby Bomb, and my hands are beginning to look like a roadmap of bleeding red cuts.
Kurt blinks and slowly turns inside to get a box. His lack of haste is whipping me. Burt is barking like mad and I see curtains around the terrace twitching as people open them up to see what the commotion is. Tabby Bomb takes a moment to flip upside down and park her claws in the soft flesh of my inside thigh, which elicits a scream of pure agony from me. More curtains twitch open. I involuntarily release Tabby Bomb and she takes off running. Burt is now foaming at the mouth in his best Cujo impression and Billie has lost a bunny slipper somehow to the nearby bushes. Kurt finally moseys out carrying a box, and hands it to me.
I bend down to try to corral the mouse into the box. The mouse jumps sideways and touches me. I scream in panic and a few doors of terrace homes open to the continuing Sunday morning commotion.
'For God's sake, Helen!'Â says an exasperated Billie. 'Just pick up the poor thing!'Â
But I can't do this.
Not because I am afraid of mice, because I'm really not.
Not because I fear being bitten, because I really don't.
I scream because I now have to confront my second phobia-germs.
The mouse, while a desperate and important rescue mission, is suddenly something that needs a liberal bath of Purell antibiotic gel. There are germs crawling all over it, I just know it. The eyeball alone has enough germs to make typhus look like a walk in the park. I want to hold the wild mouse and soothe it and pet it, and I may just about be able to do that, but I still have that last threshold to cross, and right now the situation is not ideal for the crossing of it.
The mouse jumps at Billie and we both shout, startled.
A few more front doors open.
Billie hands me Burt and reaches for the mouse. Out of the corner of my eye I see Tabby Bomb silently stalking the twitching rodent, and I panic. Pure and sheer panic. One of the neighbors who has come outside to investigate steps up to me.
In my best Christopher Lloyd Who Framed Roger Rabbit impersonation, I become a babbling raving idiot.
'The Tabby Bomb! THE TABBY BOMB!'Â I scream two octaves above my normal speaking voice, pointing at the scary offending feline. Neighbor looks at me confused. 'Bad-very bad! Keep it away! It will destroy! IT WILL KILL!'Â
Neighbor looks at the tiny tabby cat and looks back at me. I can see it flash in his eyes that he doesn't understand why it is I am so afraid of a small neutered house pet, so he nervously back up to his doorstep, smiling nervously, hoping to appease the crazy American lady.
Another neighbor comes out. I am desperately holding onto Burt who, in his excitement, is slowly choking himself to death with his collar. Kurt has freaked out and hightailed it back to his entryway and Billie is still trying to catch the suddenly vibrant mouse. I see a flash of the eyeball hanging out on the poor little guy, and the neighbor, who has approached me out of curiousity, gets it.
'The EYEBALL!'Â I rave, having stepped right off the deep end and landed into a pool of crunchy-granola animal lovers. 'There is blood everywhere and it's BLIND FOR LIFE! And there's only one, there's no three blind mice! It is all alone! There is BLOOD and NO EYEBALL and we MUST SAVE IT!'Â
He stares at me, possibly wondering if the insanity I am infected with is contagious or if it's more of a 24-hour viral madness that one can be innoculated against. Billie manages to grab the mouse, which then uses her hand as a springboard and neatly does a half-pike, double-twist with a flourish into the nearest bushes. We scramble to find it before Tabby Bomb does and instead manage to lose the mouse completely in the vegetation.
Billie and I look at each other and assess the situation. The majority of the terrace has now seen her in a pink satin nightgown with a jeans shirt buttoned over it wearing one fuzzy and worn-out bunny slipper. Burt has lost the plot and is doing his best rabid dog impersonation in case Animal Rescue TV crews happen to be walking by. Hartford is sitting square in the middle of the neighbors newly planted marigolds. Tabby Bomb is racing around looking predatorial and, frankly pissed off. I am dressed like a contestant in the 'I Don't Give a Fuck'Â clothing contest and it is clear I have been crying and screaming. We smile at everyone.
'Morning.'Â We say nervously. 'Morning. Nice day, isn't it?'Â
I hand Burt over to Billie and try to make my exit. 'Just stopping by. Er...drama. Who knew?'Â
I race home.
Still worried about that mouse.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
12:02 PM
| Comments (9)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1667 words, total size 9 kb.
May 13, 2005
Hi, remember me? We met at that messy do about 31 years ago, the one that involved a lot of screaming and placenta? That? Yeah, I've been working off a lot of karma in my life. For starters, have I finally paid back the time when I was 3 years-old, just back from a haircut and apparently thought the cat needed one too, so I got the pinking shears and headed for the whisker territory? You know, when I had horrifically cut off the whiskers on the left-hand side of our cat's face before parental intervention managed to save Fluffy's dignity? The one where although the vet assured us it didn't hurt Fluffy, the whisker loss resulted in the cat leaning to the left and smacking into walls until the whiskers grew back in? Yeah. That one. 'Cause believe me, I still feel really, really bad about that, and I've become a big animal rights believer, too, so maybe you (and Fluffy, really) can finally forgive me and my horrible toddler actions?
Anyway, I'd like to bring some things to your attention. You may think that the way you've set everything up is perfect, but just pull a chair up to the dinner table here, let me pour you a glass of vino and explain a few things to you. You've maybe got a few things wrong, so I've written up a list of demands that might help shed the light of day on some things you have going wrong here.
- Two-ply toilet paper should be just that. Two-ply. Don't let toilet paper slip in one ply and just emboss the other ply. That's like ripping me off a ply. I'm talking about two solid sheets here. My ass, it's fragile. It needs gentle attention. It needs two ply. Spare me the embossed bears or the tulip-colored rolls. I want it white, I want it soft, and I want two fucking plies.
- Please tell Britney Spears that while I'm envious that nearly teenage faux trailer trash like herself is pregnant, that doesn't mean I want anything bad happening to any babies. So please tell her that Kentucky Fried chicken is not a satisfactory baby food (not even pureed, Brit!) and that running a brush through your hair every now and then might actually help you find one of those missing navel rings you always seem to be losing.
- Jose Cuervo-Stop. Tormenting. Me. Still.
- You should never have pulled the plug on Dead Like Me. Clearly you are one of those Nielsen Rating families, and you have chosen that we must view the tragically plot-incontinent Joey instead of dark and morbid humor.
- Sometimes, it's ok to reminisce about the Huxtables singing "I Just Called to Say I Love You" with Stevie Wonder without feeling embarassed. Go with it. The 80's were a humbling time.
- Destiny's Child. You know what I'm talking about. Make them fuck right off and never destroy the radio airwaves again. And while you're at it, take Girls Aloud with you. They're whipping me.
- Work should be more casual. I don't wear jeans to the Big Office sometimes to be a renegade. I do it to be comfortable in the 8 hours of meetings I will waste my life in a day. Now take off that fucking tie and put some flip-flops on, I'll hook up the keg and we can talk project plans.
- People I care about shouldn't be so far away. Move them here. Now. Or at least un-retire one of those Concordes and give it to me, with my own personal pilot John Cusack.
- Tampons are little lipsticks of fiberglass and cotton. Do you know how cheap they are to make? Do you? OK, now how's about not charging me £4 for a box of 28 white cotton buds I am going to go through in 2 days. Tampons are a staple, like bread, milk and champagne. As such, it should be more affordable. And another thing-PMS? Yeah, it's real. So stop cracking your fucking jokes as we can kill you during PMS and it would be legal. Any female judge would side with us, and would, after our acquittal, sit outside drinking chardonnay with us bitching about control top panty hose.
- Nessum Dorma should only be played on warm sunny days, with all the windows flung wide open and the prospect of hot bunny sex with your loved one on the menu. Please don't play it on the radio when I'm driving hell bent for the train station at 7 am, 'cause it loses its luster that way. Oh, and while I'm at it, please make Sissel's "Laer A Kjenne" (Teach To Feel, I believe it is in Norwegian) less painful and haunting, cause it always makes me cry.
- Orange peel cellulite is a mockery of the female form. Begone with it, I say! Begone!
- Don't try to kid us with those probiotic yogurt commercials. We know it won't give us that much more energy. We know it won't make us younger, it won't make us have a spring in our step and a bloom of color in our cheeks. We know it tastes like shit, like a three day-old handjob popped into a little plastic pot, so do the world a favor and just admit in a tired voice that people drink it because the doctors tell them to, so don't fuck around with us.
- Cats should come in a non-shedding variety. And they should come bundled with a play panel inside so that when they reach a point just before their joints ache and their eyes get cataracts, we can put their aging on pause and love them the rest of our lives.
- Those days when I look across the table at Angus and see his eyes sparkle with love should be something I can put into a bottle, to pop the cork out to sniff when I am feeling lonely or blue.
- Coke should only be served in glass bottles.
- The past should be something that we can forget, if we want to.
- Admit it-you designed women to be unable to work together without fighting. Fix that. It's counter-productive to spend so much time posturing and sniffing each other's asses.
- Which reminds me-please tell men that when women are arguing verbally, it isn't exciting. Clothing isn't actually about to be ripped off as the women succumb to a haze of pugilistic lust. We are not going to fuck each others brains out in our drunken rage. And if we did, the answer is simple: No, you can't watch. Quit asking.
- Despite what Jenna Jamison would have you believe, no, we are not dying to swallow. It's not the single greatest moment in our lives, it's not the pinnacle of our gift with the tongue. We do it because we love you. So please don't shoot it across the face, because sperm in the eye? Yeah. That hurts.
- Teach people that work is not everything. Do it at their own pace. And then get groups of them together to help the workaholic newbies as they learn the same painful lesson.
- Therapists should have plates of cheese in their office. Therapy? Good thing. Cheese? Good thing. The two together? Good mental health and 100% RDA of Vitamin D, here we come.
- Clothing from the 1970's should be banned. Forever. Don't aruge with me, world. Nobody looks good in bellbottoms, not even Angelina Jolie (and I'd go gay for her. And no, you can't watch).
- Curvy should be in. Men should revel in women who have more cushion for the pushin'. 'Cause women with curves? We can ride you like a pony, baby.
- Dancing bears should be set free and cared for in lush protected reserves, and instead their owners should be muzzled and made to dance all day instead while starving and recovering from a back-alley pancreatic operation. Those sick fuckers.
- Teachers should be paid more.
- Politicians should be paid less.
- Recycling should be compulsory and, in fact, a joyous celebration in which the soul feels cathartic and we do a tap dance with each bottle that goes down the "colored glass" chute. So then tap dancing should be compulsory, too.
- Everyone should be able to wear the color yellow.
- Dr. Phil should be publicly stoned, stripped naked, painted with peanut butter and forced to read the EU shipping laws regarding bananas out loud outside of Grand Central Station. It would be payback for all the people that arrogant bastard has hurt. And even then it would only scratch the surface.
- I have a demo to the chairman of the board on Tuesday and I am getting a sty in my eye. That's not on, world. It's not on.
- Life should have more musicals. None of us burst into song anymore. It would help things, I think. Makes the day more interesting.
That's all I've got for now, world. I'll get back to you if I think of anything more. This list is, obviously, not inclusive-of course it also covers the serious things, like no more AIDS, child/animal abuse, suffering, or insects mistaken for Goobers in the crack of the passenger seat of the car. This is just a start. A scratch on the surface, if you will.
-H.
PS-other suggestions for the world are welcome. My demands are a work in progress after all.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:51 AM
| Comments (18)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1603 words, total size 9 kb.
May 12, 2005
How is your head this morning Helen - I got home at 0230.....got the last train 00.36hrs.
Great night '¦tequilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa'¦'¦'¦'¦...
It hits me like a freight train.
Oh God. There was tequila. A lot of tequila.
As a result I'm now sitting here in front of the pc in my robe, hair wet and wearing a baseball cap to try to block out any light. I smell like blackberries from a Lush bath bomb I used to try to nurse the toxins out of my body. I think that was just wishful bath bombing, as although I smell like a bowl of Trix if my stomach is any gauge I am still toxin-ridden. I am eating Ryvita (which is an English cracker not unlike cardboard) and hoping to God I keep it down. I am alternating between hot and cold and can't decide if I want to go lay down, keep going, or throw up.
That's right.
I'm hungover.
Yesterday I slogged it out to London in a great 1950's style FCUK skirt, armed with my briefcase, that Fucking Projector, and a good outlook on a full morning of meetings with my team. After the meet, the team went for a massive lunch in a nice restaurant overlooking the Thames. But while the team would get to go on lunching and drinking, my teammate Peter and I had to get back to Dream Job for a demo.
When it was done Peter and I, exhausted and stressed, got a text to join up with the team, most of whom had left the nice restaurant and were now working on exercising their elbows in that historic dance known to mankind as: the drinking move.
When we got there, a few of them were already hammered. Peter and I settled in with a glass of wine for me and a Guinness for him and we listened to the drunk talk. It was, actually, all work talk and work stories, but it felt nice to be together as a team and to vent. It felt good to give off some ribbing and to get some in return, and to know that everyone simply had their hair down.
It was all going so well, and I only had two glasses of wine before moving on to the Diet Cokes. I wasn't interested in getting drunk. The two glasses of wine were all I wanted.
And then someone ordered tequila shots.
And being the chick from Texas, I was asked (in a clever ploy to get me drinking again which, fair play to them, worked) to show these men how tequila shots are really done. Throwing caution to the wind and ignoring my firm mantra: "Never mix grape and grain unless eating muesli", my hand reached out and grabbed the glass.
It was downhill from there. Shots were done, and according to Greg (whose company footed the bill for the drink-up) we all did 5 shots each. Five. Talk was still work but began to be interspersed with the outrageous-after discussing work launch dates Karen revealed she had a Brazillian that day and the men reminisced about their favorite shapes for women (I didn't dare reveal that I am currently sporting a new Angus Special Edition-I have a Nike Swoosh down there).
Having had more than enough, I stumbled out and somehow managed to find Waterloo station, whereupon I implored my nice boy to meet me at the train station on the other end (I was too drunk to drive) and I set my new phone's alarm on to make sure I was awake near my train stop. I was so worried I might sleep past my stop I set the alarm for two stops before mine, whereupon I made myself stand by the doors in order to ensure I'd be awake (this was apparently good foresight on my behalf. According to three of the other guys they slept past their stops, one of them waking up in the middle of nowhere, thus necessitating a £50 taxi fare to get home to a very displeased wife.)
I get home, amazingly with both briefcase and Fucking Projector intact, and manage to take my contacts out and drop my perfect 1950's skirt in a little puffball on the floor. I am asleep in seconds. I haven't removed my makeup or, as I discover in the morning, my jewelry.
And this morning?
Yeah. This morning I wanted to die. I head into the bathroom after making conciliatory coffee for Angus in what would be the first of eight trips to the toilet (the good news is, now that my colon's empty I look pretty thin. The bad news is, I can only hope my colon's truly empty.) Said bathroom trips would be interspersed with dry heaves over the toilet in my stomach's desperate attempt to rid itself of the tequila, which it completely forgot about since its college days. Helen, I can hear my stomach admonishing. You can no longer drink tequila like that. Didn't you remember that those days of wearing boxer shorts out of the house and having no hangovers are over? You didn't? I can find ways to remind you! Remember that Cornish pasty you had at the train station last night? Want to see it again?
Once my stomach actually did oust its nasty unwanted guava tennant, I can tell you-you think tequila burns going down? Try it coming back up. No contest.
I only have one alcohol that I just can't stomach, and that's vodka. I can't take the smell, the taste, or anything about it. I overdid it on a boozy snowy Swedish night in Stockholm about four years ago and haven't been able to touch the stuff since. And last night I came dangerously close to making a lifetime enemy of the tequila too.
Thank God we're still on speaking terms.
Wait-yes.
Oh God.
I think I am definitely going to be throwing up again. *runs to bathroom*
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:13 AM
| Comments (19)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1016 words, total size 6 kb.
May 11, 2005
Fucking wrapping paper.
I have to get that wrapping paper down shortly, just like I have to go to Marks & Spencer's and buy yet another baby present and baby card that I will wrap up in that baby paper with baby tape. I will sign the baby card from the team and throw the receipt away, and I will hand away the baby present with a baby smile and honest hopes for a good baby future. Yet another team member's wife is about to give birth to their first child, and soon I will run out of baby paper for other people's babies, so I will get to buy some more in my baby-free hands and take it to my baby-free home.
This is what my story is like.
The past few days have struck home even more that I have absolutely no concept of what it feels like to be a parent. Melissa, sick with the flu, being cuddled and cared for in a way that only a parent knows how to do. A midnight flu brings worried foreheads and any degree of parental inconvenience, because that's what parents do. Parents spend the night by the bed. Parents soothe and comfort. Parents say that cleaning up vomit is no problem, just feel better baby, just get well.
When you're not a parent, you want to say those things too, but it doesn't have any weight behind it. I haven't cleaned bloodied knees. I haven't wiggled loose front teeth. I haven't put together a bicycle on Christmas Eve. I haven't comforted when the first best friend fight happened. I haven't sat on a couch and listened to whispered child's dreams on a dusky Summer's evening. I too want to comfort and cuddle and soothe, but I've had no on-the-job training, and apprentice love is just not the same as the full on deal.
I don't know anything about what it's like to have a little heart, let alone how to take care of one. I got stuck on "Adult" when put into my microwave of childhood, only my shell is adult and the inside is an undercooked child, a child who has a hard time understanding how the inside is supposed to feel.
In yoga on Sundays the woman next to me always rushes in, nearly late. She shakes her short blond bob and runs a hand through it. She asks me my plans and I tell her that after yoga I will be back home reading the paper with a cup of coffee and wearing my pajamas. I may garden. I may read. Who knows?
She laughs, and taking her socks off rolls her eyes. "You don't have children!"
I smile, with no teeth showing. "Why no, I don't!"
She looks at me, fluffing the bob. "Don't then! I swear I haven't slept in for 8 years! Just don't have children, you're so lucky!"
I love this one. Really. Terribly funny. It's at this point I often want to scream at them: Do you know how fucking inconsiderate and insensitive a comment like that is to someone you DON'T EVEN KNOW? Do you know what a fucking tombstone it is to be infertile? Do you? Do you know what it's like to wake up sometimes and think that it may never happen to me, that I am going to die old and alone and never be a part of something that is so magical and so precious? You and I both know that you don't think childless women are lucky, tell the truth, dammit! Do you have any idea, or are you just TRYING to cause deep and hemorrhagic bleeding inside of me?
Maybe someday I will say that. In the meantime, I usually smile and walk away. I nod and start a meeting. Or in this case, I go into downward-facing dog. I do it to stop having to talk about how lucky I am to not have children. I do it to avoid having to chatter about how languid and easy my weekends must be.
I do it to hide my face.
On Monday there was an accident-Melissa, an avid horse-rider, had a fall. Angus' ex left him a hasty message on his mobile, a message that didn't give all the info, a message that sent him into a panic. By the time we were able to talk he'd had more info-Melissa is OK and at home with some nasty bumps and bruises-but he was badly shaken.
I feel so horribly awful for Melissa, whom I wish I could help comfort, and for Angus, whom I just love so much. I give comfort, but it's not enough, really. It's not enough to offer words and a hug and quiet tiptoeing around the house if you just don't know how it feels. Angus' concern and worry was so great it was nearly palpable, floating in the air at the top of the rooms of the house and encircling the irises in his eyes. I don't know what it's like to imagine the worst from something that is so indelibly a part of you. I don't know what it's like to go wild with hurt when they hurt.
I know what it's like to despise a woman for pushing a baby stroller, and hating yourself for the jealouse hatred.
I know what it's like to feel like you will always be the fun and cool aunt instead of the loving and omnipresent mom.
I know the color of the cotton crotch in underwear as you watch, constantly checking.
I know what it's like to sob as the shower water pings off your back and helps scrub the leaking and the dreams away.
I know what it's like to put your hopes and dreams in the realms of science, to play crap shoot with the odds in hopes that needles and bruises will end in joy and praying to any god you think might have half an ear turned to you.
Like the wrapping paper, sparkly yellow stars are just out of my reach, only my stars come with drool and baby powder and endless nights of me hoping for their future.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:05 AM
| Comments (15)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1156 words, total size 6 kb.
(May 10, 2005
- Not very clever.
- Bloated.
- Busy.
- Proud of your boy.
- As if getting on a train home is the single greatest most important thing you can do, even beyond curing male pattern baldness or practicing your Russian.
- As though you should be spending a day in bed reading Middlesex and playing footsie with the warm body next to you.
- Like assbleed.
- Like your time is better spent in your pajamas watching TV on the couch with your loved one. Dead Like Me is on tonight, after all.
This might be one of those days.
Longer one from me tomorrow.
-H
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
01:32 PM
| Comments (3)
| Add Comment
Post contains 122 words, total size 1 kb.
May 09, 2005
Because my head is kinda' full and I have to hit the ground running today, instead of a post as long as Tolstoy's sequal to "War and Peace" (a work tentatively entitled "War...What is It Good For? Absolut Vodka.") I give you vignettes.
*****************************************************
Melissa had the flu late Saturday night, and a sniffling sound to Angus' side of the bed filtered through the kleenex earplugs I wear, and I see Melissa standing there crying. Angus goes into Extreme Caring Parent Mode and throws on his robe before heading to the bathroom for exercises in Hair Holding, Calming of the Down, and Reassurance That It's Totally OK to Vomit Up the Chicken Curry He Spent Hours Cooking.
It's a gorgeous sight.
As Melissa sits, drained by the side of the toilet, Angus carries a warm sleepy bundle into our bed. His children have this remarkable ability that most kids don't have, in that they sleep like the dead. Once they're out, they're out. We can talk in normal volumes, we can run around the house in Doc Martens, we can practice our entry into the Two Man Band competition, it won't matter. They're out.
So he deposits a scrawny pajama'ed Jeff into our bed and smiles at me, then goes to sleep next to Melissa and take care of her.
I panic.
I throw my pajamas on and lay there, worrying. Worrying that Melissa isn't well, worrying that Jeff will freak out if he wakes up next to me, worrying that Angus' ex will freak out if she finds out her son slept next to me.
I lay awake for an hour then finally drift off to sleep.
Then....BAM! An elbow comes flying out of nowhere and dislodges my forehead from my scalp. It's a move worthy of any barfight. It's a move that Jackie Chan wishes he could do. As I rub my head, Jeff peacefully sleeps next to me, snoring softly.
I fall back to sleep.
SMACK! Jeff's knee comes up and finds the very sensitive little bones in my backside and viciously dislodges them from their comfortable resting place. He is now sprawled over most of the bed, and I painfully rub my throbbing sacrum in hopes of reviving it and actually practicing any future bipedal hopes I may have. As I do that-POW! Jeff follows up the complicated Irish dancing knee move with a stunning backhand in order to reach the full effect of actually being in the pose of Da Vinci's sketch.
I am not sleeping next to a cute 8 year-old.
I am sleeping next to The Rock.
*****************************************************
We watch Cricket on Sunday. Cricket is beginning to sink in now, and I have to confess-while it's still on the boring side a bit, it's also beginning to be a bit interesting.
Me: We should bring a blanket and a picnic basket and watch it next Sunday.
Him: OK.
Me: But we need a dog. We really need a dog in order to enjoy the cricket.
Him: We don't need a dog to watch a cricket game.
Me: But we do. We can't bring the cats, as they'd be too busy fucking around in the grass with the insects or going after the ball. But a dog....Yeah. A dog is what we need.
Him: Your logic is faulty.
Me: We'd be just like the Waltons, only without the Log Cabin, John Boy, or an outhouse. An no grits. And we'd have running water. OK, so not really like the Waltons at all.
He looks at me blankly.
Oh yeah. I am so wearing him down now.
*****************************************************
Late Friday I am rushing around. Angus is cooking and I am cleaning up the house to a degree I would feel comfortable having a mother-in-law around in. Because we had a late night on Thursday and had an early morning getting Jeff and Melissa Friday morning, simply important things I never miss (such as making the bed) haven't been done.
I make the bed and see on the duvet cover is the soft wet stain that is KY Jelly, evidence of the night before (in fact, it's the heat sensitive one, the "pull out all the stops" lubricant. Hey-sometimes you need a little finesse, sometimes you need a lot). I decide that looks tacky and I don't have enough time to change the sheets, so I flip the duvet over. And there, smack down the left hand side, is an enormous sperm stain.
I sigh and throw some bottled water on it.
I decide that if asked, I will attempt to blame the cats.
And on next week's episode of Debbie Does Angus....
*****************************************************
We have a new lighting feature in the bedroom, a round funnel of mosquito net with LED lights on the inside (pictures to follow later). We go into bed and Angus asks me to look at them.
Him: Isn't it amazing? Look at them. Some of them look pink and some of them look blue. And amazingly, the white walls look purple. Do you know why that is?
Me: (Solemnly). Yes. I do.
Him: Go on, then. Why is it?
Me: (Still serious) It's magic.
Him: It's what? This is serious stuff, Helen!
Me: I am being serious. It's magic.
Him: Aren't you curious? Do you want me to tell you why the walls appear purple?
Me: Nope. I'm a believer.
Him: Don't you care about the "why's?" in life?
Me: (getting into bed) Oh yes. Yes I do. Like: "Why is he grumpy today?" and "Why doesn't he buy me that ring I want?"
Him: (Getting into bed) You don't care about the "Why do those LEDs make the walls appear purple?"
Me: Tag team why's, honey. I care about the emotional whys, you care about the technical ones.
Him: My LED why is an emotional one, honey.
Me: (Patting him on the arm) I know baby. But lighting porn is totally ok with me.
*****************************************************
While Melissa and I spend a great Saturday gardening and filling the yard with flowers, Angus and Jeff go shopping. Jeff is awarded with a Super Mario Brothers game, which he spends the rest of the time engrossed in. At one point, I come over and help him. I grew up being babysat by a Nintendo, after all. I was a Super Mario bitch.
I teach him secret bricks to punch and how to warp into other worlds.
He looks at me in wonder.
Him: How do I get to be as good as you? (he breathes).
Me: (Sighing dramatically) Years of diligent practice, baby. Years.
Him: You're the best at Super Mario.
Me: (Nodding). Yup. I know.
Good thing it's something that looks good on a CV/resume.
*****************************************************
We're waiting in the first class waiting area, as that's where BA take care of unaccompanied minors. Jeff looks around.
Jeff: This place is cool.
Melissa: It's luxe.
Jeff: How can we always fly from here?
Angus: I used to be able to fly from here when I had a BA gold card, but now I haven't been flying as much. So no access here.
Jeff: How can I be like you and get to fly from here?
Me: Ah, Jeff. Work hard, go to college, study hard, and you'll get there.
Angus: Absolutely. That's the way to get there.
Jeff: But you did those things, right?
Angus and I nod.
Melissa: But you don't get to fly from here, right? So it didn't work, the college and working hard.
Angus and I sit there and realize she's right.
Depressing, how on target the little people can be.
*****************************************************
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:36 AM
| Comments (8)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1290 words, total size 7 kb.
May 05, 2005
That's right.
I'm 31 years old, I've been driving since I was 15, and the last time I had a car accident that was my fault was 1993 (the days of Salt 'N Pepa and Nirvana were reigning high that year, I remember).
The insult is massive.
I read a book about all the rules on the train last night, and I felt like a right dick doing it. The businessman next to me didn't seem to have a too-high opinion of a businesswoman carrying a massive projector and reading a driving instrcution book on the train either. (Psst-hey, business guy train asshole? If you are underwhelmed by my driving prowess, how about looking out the window and not at my fucking perfect breasts, ok?)
Then I am off to a remote location to get in about 5 hours of fights and arguments with one of my vendors. You know. 'Cause my life isn't stressful enough.
Then I get to come home and try to catch up on the 60 or so work emails I missed yesterday by being in London that I didn't finish reading last night, plus the emails I'll receive today and my private emails. I also want to make the house spotless and have to go to the shops with Angus-Melissa and Jeff arrive tomorrow for a long weekend here and I want the place to be great for them.
I am also trying to be happy and calm for Angus despite my stress sending me into a crying jag yesterday afternoon-he's really depressed about the house in Brighton not selling yet and about the mysterious crack that's appeared in one of our bathroom sinks. Said crack may necessitate us replacing the sink (I have no idea how it happened, but it did happen when he was away. Maybe I was sleepwalking and lobbed 5 kilo weights at it in my sleep. Or I did if I had any 5 kilo weights, anyway).
Yesterday I had to meet with some of my vendors to talk about the next version of the Rocket Riding Gerbil, which I have also been put in charge of. Since it's my project I've decided to be a girl about it. Not only is it getting performance adjustments and new streamlining, but I am making sure it will have a nice sparkly matching handbag and stunning strappy shoes.
I hear gerbils like those.
Said vendor took me to a rather impressive place-we went to Clairidge's, of the Gordon Ramsey fame. The whole interior was fabulous 1920's art deco and it turns out a lot of Jeeves and Wooster has been filmed there. The staff were all French, and there was an individual waiter for everything. One guy distributed the champagne. One guy brought bread. One guy refilled water glasses, another refilled wine glasses. One brought the appetizer, one the little drink for the palate. At one point I tried to get the water guy's attention but wound up making eye contact with the pepper mill guy, so he started rushing over despite my frantic efforts to wave him off grinding said pepper mill on my salad of artichoke hearts, asparagus and truffle shavings.
It was nice food and really was a business lunch, but then again...I'm a pretty ordinary girl.
I wonder how Gordon Ramsey would feel if I told him homemade macaroni and cheese just makes my day.
Probably would be enough to get vol-au-vents and mushroom croute lobbed at my head.
More tomorrow, for now I'm going to be cramming for my driving theory test.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:26 AM
| Comments (5)
| Add Comment
Post contains 615 words, total size 3 kb.
May 04, 2005
In the darkness of the study and with a soft sigh in the air, I lit a candle on the windowsill and let the light reflect.
It all started last week.
I hadn't heard from the clinic in London after sending off my precious envelope, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. I ring them only to be told that I need to obtain my medical records in Sweden before they can continue-since I have had (semi) successful IVF treatment in the past, they want to continue with the same drugs and the same dosages that I had before.
Fair enough.
I get on the phone and wield my rusty Swedish only to find that I am still flexible enough to tell a nice woman on the phone that I need my medical records sent to me. That I live in England and will continue IVF treatment here. That the inexorable dreams of being a mother don't just end when you cross water, that the yearning comes with you.
She asks for my personal number (like a social security number) and finds my name.
"Helen?" she asks (in Swedish).
"That's me." I reply (also in Swedish), moving a notebook around the desk.
"Ah, I see here that you still have four embryos in frozen storage."
And this I know. I think of them often, actually. Those four fertilized eggs that hover halfway between light and dark, between substance and nothing. Four eggs that were taken out of me and fertilized with my X Partner Unit's sperm, four tiny bits of icicle that wait, in the darkened silence, for an answer.
"I know." I reply.
"But you and Partner Unit will not use them?" I am asked. "They will be destroyed the end of this year if you don't."
"He's my ex, actually. We've divorced."
"I see. So you can't use them anyway." she replies firmly. "Swedish law. Should a couple split, then neither partner has the right to the embryos. They must be destroyed."
Oh.
I didn't know that.
I give her my details, and she promises to mail me my records. As she hangs up, she says, "And I'll give the order for your four frozen embryos to be destroyed now. Thank you and goodbye!"
And I hold the phone in my hand for a long while, and I just sit there.
I don't know why and I don't know how, but a huge part of my heart feels open and bleeding as I sit there and try to figure out why. I had never intended to have those babies-I know my ex wouldn't want that, I know Angus wouldn't want that, and I don't think I would want that. Once my ex and I had split, I had never intended to have those four babies.
But for some reason, I mourn them terribly.
I mourn the children I never had, the ones I almost had. I mourn the mother I didn't get to be to them. It seems like such a fucking waste-I am so desperate to be a mother and there are four little peas just waiting for a pod.
I think about them. Four tiny embroys just aching to become something more. My IVF chances of conceiving are about 35%, so at least one of those had the chance to become something I could hold in my arms. But because of a divorce, because of changes in circumstances, because the heart shifts on its own axis and because of Swedish law, those four embryos are bound for the incinerator.
Maybe I am burning up my own future.
The one embryo that could've become a baby...I think about her. In my mind, it's a her, and she's got sholder-length curly brown hair. She has a sash on her dress that just can't stay tied, and her knees are wobbly but strong. I see her whiz passed me in a grassy green garden, and as I stand on the side of the lawn watching her I am so full of love that it is physically painful.
But I can't see her face. She won't hold still long enough, and I haven't earned it. I can't touch her. I can see grass stains on her elbows and that scar on her knee she got when she fell off her bicycle on the driveway, but I can't see her face. She's the baby I never got to have and I don't even know what she looks like.
Maybe (please oh please oh please) there will be more babies. There will be more tiny embryos hanging in suspense, conceived in clinics and created by love. There will be more that meet the 35% odds, more that I will get to hold and love and look into their Angus-like eyes and know them at once.
But there are four that I'll never know. Four that were a part of me and then they weren't. Four that will never know how soft Maggie's fur is, what raindrops sound like, or what butterscotch tastes like. Four that will never hold their little hands up to mine and marvel at how large my hands are, while I gaze in awe at the pads of their tiny fingerprints. Four that will never know that all I like to do is hug.
It's just another day to the clinic. Babies are born, babies are created, eggs are rejected. They think nothing of this but I see these four embryos as the result of two months of hormone therapy and thousands of hours of plea bargaining to gods I never knew were listening.
Last night I lit a candle as I cried goodbye to them.
Someone's going to drop their test tube in an incinerator, and I'm not even going to be there to sing a lullaby to them as they get caught up in the flames.
-H.
PS-any pro-life/pro-choice/religion/abortion-related comments will be deleted. This isn't about that.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:21 AM
| Comments (23)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1011 words, total size 5 kb.
May 03, 2005
Oh yeah. That's got therapy written all over it.
As for me, I don't mind change. I really don't. My life tends to have the velocity of small hurricanes, so it's really more about trying to keep my arms and legs inside of my moving vehicle than it is about fearing what's to come. You don't get a name like Destructor for nothing. Even if, to be honest, no one actually calls me that. I just enjoy the childhood He-Man flashbacks.
But there is one area where I am now resistant to change. I don't want anything to be different in this one aspect. I will board up the doors and tell the hurricane to fuck right off, I'm not having any impending meteorlogical disasters in this house, thank you very much.
And it's about my lovely village, Whitney Houston.
I was always a city girl. Well, ok, when I was a child I was an Air Force Base girl, but as soon as I launched off the lily pad I smacked myself right down in the cities. I wanted to be in places where grocery stores never closed, where there was always a dodgy Mexican place open for a midnight burrito chased up with a two a.m. heartburn, and where I never knew a single one of my neighbors ever.
So I was filled with trepidation that when Angus told me about a little village that he had driven through, and would I like to see it?
When I heard the word "village", I envisaged people never getting off my front porch. Inbreeding. People having village fairs with apple crumble competitions. Andy Griffiths and Don Knotts getting into all kinds of zany small town sheriff mishaps. That kind of hokey stuff.
What I got instead was a little slice of heaven.
I am smacked upside the head on a daily basis how much I love living here in Whitney Houston. One of my favorite things to do is walk down to the village newsagent on Sunday mornings to get the paper. Every Sunday I love walking through the heart of this tiny place, and every Sunday I think: I am home.
Incredibly, I have a home.
The thing is, we are house hunting (if only that house in Brighton would sell! Sell, Mortimer, sell, sell!) and Whitney Houston? Yeah, the houses here cost a small ransom. Leave it to me to find the place of my dreams, only I will slowly have to sell off body parts on the black market to actually fund a home here. The houses come and go quickly in this market, and the range we're looking at is about £500,000 (that's about $1 million USD) and that kind of change won't get you much of a house in this part of the country, let alone in this village.
This village is posh.
Seriously.
It has a butcher, a baker (but no candlestick maker). Two banks. A tiny post office, a newsagent, and a small corner grocery shop. Four estate agents and a pet store. Two curry houses, one Chinese, and four pubs. But you know what makes it posh?
Six antique shops.
Six of them.
Plus a children's costume shop.
And two poshy wine stores.
So presumably you could lurch from the wine shop to the children's costume shop, buy yourself a fairy outfit, and then supplement it with costume jewelry from the 1920's at the antique stores. You know. As one does.
But the real reason why Whitney Houston is so popular is that it has England's oldest cricket green smack in the center of the village. Our home has one of the prime positions and looks out onto it. We are, therefore, very cool.
And the cricket season has begun.
Now, I'm an American, which therefore means that cricket as a whole makes about as much sense to me as a chocolate doorknob. You see the men running across the grass pitch wearing white pants, white shirts, and white sweater vests. This goes against my childhood upbringing: Jesus, Helen! You're wearing white! Get off the goddamn grass, do you have ANY IDEA how hard grass stains are to get out? Yet these men are deliberately flogging the Shout commercials-they have chosen to wear white and play games on a deep green manicured lawn! The insanity!
Simon once tried to explain how to play cricket. A guy at work once tried to show me using a whiteboard, but still, it no work. Cricket just didn't make sense to me. How can you play a game that can last 5 days straight, at which point it's possible that no one wins? I don't even want to have sex for 5 days straight, and that's way more fun that watching (paint dry) cricket.
But the lure is there. I watch cricket moms drop off their cricket sons, and I vow that if we have a boy he's going to be wrapped up in white sweater vests in no time. He's going to be given a cricket bat at birth and told that grass stains are A-OK in this house. I'm not going to be a soccer mom. I'm going to be a cricket mom. The lure is there-I very nearly have interest in cricket. I find something about it to be so diametrically opposed to everything I was raised with that it's almost an impulse to learn how to play a game that's nearly baseball, but without any athletic skill required at all.
On Monday the sound of leather on willow comes in through our windows, signs that a cricket game is in progress. It is time. Angus prints off these instructions for me so that I can try to follow the game. We look outside but suddenly the players have stopped-when I ask Angus what's up, he tells me that it's their tea break. They have tea breaks. Apparently, during this break they eat cucumber sandwiches as well.
I find this to be so hilarious that I nearly wee. Tea and cucumber sandwiches. Sheesh.
Once they start playing again, we walk to the green and sit outside the boundaries, opposite the cricket club.
I am dressed in paint-splattered clothing and a baseball hat. I have no lipstick on. I am clearly a model cricket fan.
We settle in on the grass, wearing shorts and soaking up the heat and the sunshine, and survey.
And I try to follow the game with the other cricket fans, only it's a lot of polite applause and thwock sounds from the willow bat. The men throw like girls. And I am mesmerized by one of the referees, who is, in fact, a little person. But still-I am nearly there with the interest. I keep trying to pay attention.
Angus, on the other hand, gets bored and explores the options on the camera.
I read the instructions, and although it makes a bit of sense, when Angus notices the last line of them he tells me that the cricket lesson is over. So we go back to the house, have a barbecue in the front garden (I had tofu "lamb style" grill. And wouldn't you know, it tasted like chicken.) and proceed to get very drunk on two bottles of wine.
The last line of the instructions?
The winning team is the one whose members are still conscious after five days. In the event that both teams remain conscious, Australia wins.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
07:16 AM
| Comments (18)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1378 words, total size 8 kb.
52 queries taking 0.0697 seconds, 376 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.
