August 31, 2005
The waiting list national average for women waiting to receive eggs is over 2 years. At this hospital, it's running at 18 months. These women are waiting 18 months for the chance that one woman will give her eggs, just so she can be a part of a crayon family.
I was overwhelmed with tears inside.
The counselor then told me that if the other woman gets pregnant using my eggs, I have the right to know, just as if she gets pregnant and I do, too, she can be told. As we discussed it, Angus and I came to the same conclusion-we're not sure we would want to know if she got pregnant and I didn't. It would be joyfully painful, the altruism a knife in the stomach. Maybe, someday, we would want to know. It would take a while before we could get to that stage.
The woman and I will be matched up according to the waiting list and our physical characteristics. If the woman at the top of the list is a tiny blond-haired blue-eyed waif, then she will get passed over for the next woman on the list who has brown eyes. This woman will have access to the following information about me: height, weight, BMI (which, for egg sharing purposes, my BMI is spot on for what they want), age, skin color, family history of disease, my education level and my profession. They will hear of how overwhelmingly unhealthy my grandfather was, while learning that I am listed as 'extremely pale with long very dark hair and skin prone to freckling'Â. I wonder if that makes me average. The nurse said they had many women on the list that matched my characteristics.
The women on the list are there for any number of reasons. Some of them tragically went into menopause in their 20's, and their egg supply is gone. Some of them have had cancer, and the chemo and radiotherapy has taken their egg stock. Some of them are in their early 40's, and are just unable to produce viable eggs for IVF. The nurse told me it's hard to prioritize, and I don't doubt it-I don't envy them their job, it entails too many broken hearts.
The counselor also told us rules in the UK have changed. If I donate my eggs to another woman and she gets pregnant, when the child turns 18 he/she will be legally entitled to have my name and address. They will have access to find out if they have any half-siblings, either through my own relationship or by other women that may receive eggs in future cycles I would have. There is no anonymity any longer in egg or sperm donation-you can be found, even someone as nomadic as I am, as they also take my passport number. How did I feel about this? Was this ok?
I thought about it. Truthfully, it would be ok with me if they had my information someday. A part of us maybe always needs to know where we come from, where our genes started out, where the path diverged. How would I feel if I saw a version of myself on the other side of the door, a person that started out as a cell from me, and became a whole, beautiful person?
It would make me cry. It would make me want to hug the woman that carried my egg and made her baby. I just had the egg, after all. She would be the mother. It makes me feel somehow excited to think that another woman may have the baby of her dreams, and I got to be a part of that in a tiny little way.
The counselor gave me a thick green form to fill out. In the form is one page outlined by a box, and this box is there for me to free-form write. I am allowed to write anything in it, other than my name or information about me that could lead someone to me, and this form will be given to the mother and baby. I could leave it blank if I want, or I can fill it out and tell them about me. A family will be given a piece of paper (or several, depending on how much I write), and that will be the only thing besides my egg that they have that is a part of me. They can hold the same paper that the side of my hand rested on as I wrote. They can feel the same things I did when my pen dipped onto the paper. They will have a part of me, the only other part being the kind that looks into the mirror in the morning and wishes they'd worn their retainer more as a kid.
I haven't done it yet, as I don't know everything that I want to say. If it were me, I would want to know the details, to read about that person that gave up her cell to make me me. With regards to me, the details that I wonder about writing are a mishmash. I used to be a clumsy child. I am type O negative blood. That my eyes turn green when I cry or am in the sunshine. That I had a cat named Nick while I was in university, a gray plush darling that made my mornings light up with happiness. My feet often get cold, and as such I wear socks all winter long. I have a loud laugh. That when I was a little girl I lost my two front teeth when I was 7, and I lost my final tooth when I was 13-I used to put my teeth in a little tooth pillow under my pillow, and my last tooth got me $5 (always negotiate good prices for the last baby tooth, always). I hate bananas. I have lots of freckles. A broken heart is the worst pain in the history of the world, ever. It's never too early to start saving for retirement. That I, their biological mother, is an American and that's nothing to be ashamed of. I am afraid of growing old and growing fat. I like to be alone. I have a birthmark on my left hip that looks like God made a thumbprint on the curve in the flesh.
Maybe none of that's relevant. Maybe a family will get pissed off reading something like that, and want the details-Does Cystic fibrosis run in the family? What's my IQ? Is there any history of cleft palates in the family? How many siblings do I have? How many children do I have? What is their blood type?
I think about what I would want to read, should I be in that woman's position. For me, I know that genetics and health seems to be a wild card-you never know what you're going to get handed, especially when you have adoptions in the family (as I do), when the parentage is unknown in some circumstances (as it is in some branches of my family), when some people are perfectly healthy and live long lives and others die far too young. For me, I would want to know what kind of person the other woman is. What makes her laugh, what makes her cry, and how it is this person came to cross paths with me. This is the only link that family and I will have for at least 18 years, or longer if the child/children never want to look for me. This is the only legacy that I will have with someone that grew out of the hopes and dreams I have for my own child.
But I haven't written a word, because I don't know how to start.
Sometimes I have lots of words to put down.
Sometimes I have none.
- H.
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August 30, 2005
Yeah. I've been listening to that song, by Heap, for a while now. It's short, but plays in my mind a lot.
The hospital was small and inconspicuous-a bright blue sign outside let us know we'd driven right past it, but we turned around and figured our way around the neighborhood, coming at last to the wing we were looking for. As we walked in, I was nervous-would it be ok? Would they say the things I had dreamt about? Would Angus lose his temper (he hates doctors' offices)? We made our way through a largely empty hospital-this is what it's like to go private health care, this is how it feels like to set the checkbook on the counter with a solid thunk-and found where we needed to be.
First off, a visit with the counselor, to make sure we knew what we were getting in to, to understand the implications. She was bedecked as one would expect a counselor to be. Chunky boho jewelry and glasses on a chain. A wild mane of reddish blond hair, and fingers that moved in explanation of her words, a chorus line to the main tune.
Her purpose was to, above all, assess that we were doing what we were doing for the right reasons. Were we donating half of my eggs to help someone, or because the treatment is then free? We told her the truth-altruism is a big drive, but the payment factor is a big one. We're not fabulously wealthy, we don't have £3000 to be throwing around at the drop of a hat.
I was conscious that the entire time we discussed Angus and I were being regarded and assessed'¦one wrong move and the donation would be called over. We wouldn't be able to do it. I felt that I should keep the Great Double Stuff Pigout of 1998 should be kept to myself, as a sense of humor might not go down well. More on the counselor session another day, but suffice to say we passed the counselor session (approved, apparently) and then sat outside in the waiting room. While I was thumbing through a three year old IKEA magazine, my nose suddenly and spontaneously burst into a major nose-bleeding session.
I looked anxiously at the nurses, wondering if my name was being stricken off the list now. Nose-bleeder, they would say, tsk-ing. Can't have that for a baby! She's so off the list!
Angus got called into his special room to leave his little pot of honey behind. We hadn't had sex for 4 days at that point, so I wondered if his swimmers would come out swinging. Then we trooped in to speak to the nurse about my cycle.
My IVF cycle will be timed exactly with the donee mother's. It's a one-to-one relationship, I will be going through a cycle with another woman that I will never meet, or even know the name of. When my system is suppressed-thereby throwing me into a state of menopause-hers will be, too. This is the rough part, the 'I'm going crazy and I'm taking you with me'Â stage. When they test that the chemicals have indeed worked-and I will be taking shots for this one, not the nose spray-then I will be stimulated within an inch of my ovaries lives'. I have have effectively shot from a total shutdown of my ovaries to sending them into hyperdrive.
When they take out my eggs, half will automatically go to the other woman. Quality will not be assessed at that time, it's a straight division. If it's an uneven number of eggs, I get the extra. If I produce less than 8 I can choose to give them all to her and then have the whole next cycle to myself if I want.
When it's time to take the eggs out, in England they put you under general anesthetic, which I personally prefer. The eggs are matched with Angus' sperm, freshly donated that day, and the two that develop the best will be put back in, thereby giving me a 30% chance of success. I can donate twice, but if I donate twice and I haven't gotten pregnant yet and the other woman has, I can have a third time.
The nurse was part of the original pioneering IVF work with Louise Brown, the world's first 'test tube baby'Â. She has been doing this for ages. She patted my hand with her own be-ringed hand and looked into my eyes. 'Your chances are great.'Â She said kindly. 'I would say you will get pregnant.'Â
And that was the second time I nearly cried.
The nurse reviewed my info with me, and we uncovered something interesting-based on the amount of sheer and total agony I was in the day we did egg retrieval for Egg and Bacon's group, it would appear my ovaries were hyper-stimulated. It would also explain why the fertilization of the retrieved eggs was so low (I had 20 retrieved, which is on the border of being too high. Of the 20, only 13 fertilized, and there should've been more than that). The nurse pondered, and also wondered aloud if that's what caused me to lose Egg and Bacon-hyper-stimulation is very, very hard on the body. Most pregnancies can't continue if hyper-stimulation has occurred.
And then I did cry a bit, quietly and to myself, while Angus and the nurse discussed on. I might have lost my babies due to carelessness. I might have lost my Egg and Bacon due any number of reasons, but I had never factored on this one.
The nurse and Angus discussed options, and she mentioned a couple that has done this 14 times. I shuddered at it, and Angus mentioned that we weren't that desperate. He's right-we absolutely won't be doing this 14 times. But the nurse pointed to me and said that, for women, the pull and drive and desire and constant fucking need to have a baby is sometimes so overwhelming that it's nearly all we think about, all we dream of.
And then I teared up again, because she's right.
She's right.
So we're on to step two-meeting the doctor and setting up more tests and some schedules. To be an egg donator I have to have over £1000 worth of tests, which the hospital will pick up the tab for. It includes screens for diseases I have never heard of, and chromosomal typing to make sure I'm healthy. I had to give a detailed medical background of every ailment known to my family tree.
She said if we started now, we could get in one cycle before the holidays, before the clinic closes. I could be implanted by the end of the year, and find out over the holidays if it worked. Angus noted that we are traveling over the holidays, and it would be harder on me (and the other recipient mother). I completely agree, plus there's the other issue-I lost Egg and Bacon over New Years'. I couldn't face the empty horror and fear that there could be a repeat.
We leave and I am full of babies, thoughts and feelings and images and hopes, all of a family with Angus, of gurgling child-laughter at holidays, of attending school plays, of feeling my heart explode seeing Angus tuck in our child in bed. I can't recall a time I've ever wanted something more. We go to have a curry for lunch and head home.
And that night, we had an argument that went off like an atom bomb. Our worst fight ever. The radiation settled around the house, poisoning us. The black cloud stayed over us for days, finally getting chased away by the burgeoning sun. Things were said that were horrible to say, things were forgiven, but for two days I walked around with my legs cut off at the knee, and in the afternoons I crawled into bed and laid there, unable to get up, unwilling to answer the phone, incapable of feeling anything.
In the fight, Angus told me he didn't want more children.
And when he said that, I felt my world end.
He's explained the context now, and the confusion has been cleared. It's true he doesn't actively want children in the same way I do-my want is almost tangible, it's something you can put your tongue to and taste. It tastes like cotton candy and the rain that comes off an umbrella, and it stays on the fingers and lips in much the same way. But Angus doesn't want children the same way he doesn't want an apple-his is not the same tangible, active want as mine. Give him an apple and he'll take it, enjoy it, love it and be glad for it. The same, he hopes, will be true for a baby-he didn't actively want the two children he has from his previous relationship but he loves them to the end of the earth. I wonder if that's how a lot of men are, that a child is harder for them to actively want like a woman does-looking at my colleagues, I suspect a lot of them feel that way, too. But for two days I thought that babies were off the menu. I felt humiliated for going to the doctor, I felt embarassed for hoping, for dreaming, for yearning to have an addition to the family that I am already in love with being in.
And now? Now it feels tender, and I'm not sure how to talk about it all, I am not allowing myself to feel anything. The nurse instructed me to take folic acid and pregnancy vitamins now, so on the kitchen counter they sat, untouched and unopened, a picture of a pregnant woman lighting up the vitamin box, infectting my kitchen counter with her joy. I finally opened them up just before we went on holiday and started taking them.
I think and hope we are ok. The hard part isn't even here yet, the injections, the tears, the whispered transactions with the devil to make it work. We won't (hopefully?) start the process until after the New Year, so new hormones, no agony of schedules. I think he's feeling the pressure, and I am too. I'll be paired up with a woman who wants to have a baby as much as I do, and together we'll live in separate homes and run parallel lives of drugs and dreams. We'll be making dinner for the house and not even know that we are both thinking the same thought: Dear God, please let it work this time, I am running out of time, Dear God, please please please.
I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patch.
-H.
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August 29, 2005
Seriously.
"So fucking hot" doesn't begin to describe it.
Of course, it could be said that we would have known about this aspect of it as soon as we signed up for a trip to the Sinai Peninsula. In August. With our "I've been stuck inside all goddamn winter" English-affected skin.
Sharm El-Sheik isn't even an ancient town, per se. It was created by the Israelis in the 60's when they invaded, and when they discovered that Sharm, as it's known, enjoyed over 300 days of sunshine a year and bordered one of the world's greatest reefs (Ras Mohammed National Park), they made it a resort town. It's still one today, even if there appears to be no trace of Israeli occupation any longer.
We flew to Sharm late last Sunday, and the flight was a bit long (5 hours in a charter plane, which means that the leg room, she be too little) but we had the row to ourselves and we'd brought a picnic (again, charter flights? You want it, you pay for it.) We'd packed a number of miniature wine bottles to consume and Angus had made us sandwiches that I have now coined "Angus Sandwiches", and they were so good I have been craving them for a week now (Emmenthal, light mayo, tomatoes, cucumber, and soy chicken on a baguette. God I think I just came thinking about it.)
We landed, grabbed our suitcases out of the many revolving bags of diving gear on the baggage belt, and headed to our transfer to our hotel. I have dive gear in storage in Sweden, but I really don't see the point-why carry all that kit all the time, when local dive shops have all you need? That, and one of the things I hate about diving is that divers tend to faff about with their kit too much. Just get your shit on, get in the water, and let's go. So to that end, we brought only our own masks and snorkels, the rest we would leave up to the dive college.
Our hotel was the Sheraton, and it wasn't anything special. It was clean, the AC worked, and the refrigerator nearly worked. The shower alternated between freezing cold and "person a la flambe", but the stress and depression began to melt away a bit and, it being us, we had a good shag and then passed out.
The next morning we had to get up early, as would be the case the rest of the holiday. Dive boats get going early in the morning, and we had to be out the door by 7:45, having devoured breakfast and then catching a transfer to our dive college. We'd done a lot of research, and decided that Red Sea Diving College was the best option, and as such I'd booked a PADI Advanced course and Angus had booked a PADI Open Water course.
I was stunned to see Sharm El-Sheik in the daytime. It is quite literally a desert. Seriously. The only green is inspired by hotels and resorts, but otherwise, it's a desert. It is bordered by an enormous craggy desert mountain range, all thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I remember flying over Russia and former Soviet countries once, and I looked down out of the plane and saw an enormous desert that went on as far as the eye could see-I was terrified, as I have an innate fear of deserts. There is something about them that makes me think: Yup, you're going to die in one of those that makes me avoid them. Add on the the fact that a great portion of the Sharm desert is still mined from the previous occupation, and it's a real no-go area.
Only I wanted to go. Badly. I don't know why. I only know that every chance I got, I stared at those mountains in wonder.
Oh, and see those blue and white cars? Yeah, those are taxis. The taxi drivers drive them like kamikazees, whizzing their way down the streets. There are no traffic rules in Sharm. A 2-lane road? Obviously room for three cars then. A pedestrian crossing the road? Target practice, baby. Target practice.
Our driver took us to the diving college every morning, and in the mornings he would play what we think was a reading of the Koran. Since the only Arabic I know is the word "Imshee" (go away), I had no idea what was being said, but I do have to say this-it sounded beautiful and melodic. It was relaxing, those mornings, looking at and fearing the desert mountains, and being lulled by the reading.
At the dive college, we got seperated-Angus with a classroom and a boat and I on another boat, as our courses were different. We wouldn't get to spend the days together until Friday and Saturday, when Angus had passed his Open Water and was taking his Advanced and I had passed my Advanced and was taking my Specialty courses (I have decided to work my way over time to being a PADI Master Scuba Diver. We all have goals, right?)
So my days were thus-get on boat. Make sure my kit was there. Make sure my 15 Liter bottles for my enormous fuck-off lungs were there (even with more air, I remained the first person to run out of air everytime. Every fucking time.) Then I'd settle in and relax while the boat took a load of divers to various sites, often sitting in the very front prow of the boat to avoid the seasickness and to just stare at the water. We'd dive in (me the only one without a wet suit, but come on-the water was 28 degrees C, it wasn't remotely cold), get out, do surface decompress time, then repeate the dives twice more.
My days were spent on boats like these.
But my God was the sea incredible.
This is from Tiran, which is an area of reefs, pockmarked by wrecks by drivers that get lost in the night.
I guess I know that feeling.
We would trip back to the dive center where I'd meet Angus every night, full of images of morays, blue spotted lagoon rays, fish the color of rainbows, fan corals bigger than our bedroom and my beloved zebra fish. The Red Sea is everything they say it is-it's just as beautiful as the colors in my dreams, and just as warm and inviting as the softest down of any bed.
I'm not sure what one would do in Sharm if you didn't dive. Apparently, only 4% of the people who go to Sharm El-Sheik are divers. That leaves 96% whose only options are to sit by the pool and drink. That's ok and all, but being outside is like playing baseball on the sun it's so fucking hot. I would've gone out of my mind being there if I didn't dive. As it was, every single day we went diving, and even though we're not big dive-obsessed people, we really enjoyed it.
Sharm is the only place in Egypt where a woman is allowed to wear a bathing suit in public. In fact, it's so "Westernized" that shorts, skirts, and tank tops are allowed. The blend and mix of cultures and religions is amazing-even amongst the Egyptians, you'd see a woman in a bikini and a cover-up walking past a woman in a full head-to-toe, face-covering burqua. The only thing that's forbidden is topless sunbathing, which a lot of tourists did anyway, and it really pissed me off as we are on their truf and we therefore should follow Sharm's guidelines. I thought Sharm was amazing, albeit a little behind in the times, as witnessed in this 7-Up I got.
Um...hello? Didn't pull tabs go out in the 70's?
We'd often go into Sharm for dinner, risking our lives in one of those taxis. We passed the Movenpick, where one of the bombs went off, and it's laregely rebuilt now, and the ideal location for if/when we come back. All of the hotels and most of the restaurants have high security-metal detectors, mirrors to check under the cars, barricades so cars can't get through. Egypt is making sure that people are safe. In Sharm, we'd eat Egyptian meals, Lebanese, Mexican (!), and one night, we confess, we wanted an "ordinary" meal so we bunged off to Hard Rock.
We thought it wouldn't happen to us. We thought we could be immune. But lo and behold, yes, we both got the Pharoahs Revenge.
Being an IBS sufferer and just a poo-sensitive chick anyway, I suffered from my usual traveller's nightmare of constipation. I can never poo in foreign places. My sphincter seems to slam shut once a plane takes off, and then that's it. I'm packing. So there we were in Sharm, and I was sealed tight, but the knowledge that all my time was spent on dive boats made me unwilling to take matters into my own hands and suck down a grove of prunes.
Then Angus got hit with the runs.
And the next day, walking to the hotel, I realized I had better run to the hotel.
The seal was thus broken most dramatically in the hotel toilet.
I took some Immodium after that, and the Immodium? She has put a block on my intestines the size of Ben Affleck's ego. Ain't nothing coming out of me now, and now that I'm home, the Sunsweet prunes will be dipped into. But the diarrhea in Sharm was so bad I had to go to an Egyptian pharmacy and buy some anti-spasmodics for my stomach it hurt so bad. I'm sure it's something that in England requires a prescription, but still. Did the job.
As for the two of us, it was much hand-holding and sex. Getting back to good, in some ways. And we both maybe needed the together time, the "let's just get away" time. We slept like babies every night, never once suffering from our usual insomnia problems. The heat affected our appetites and our inclination for a glass of wine, so that we were perhaps healthier than we ever are.
When I slept, the bed rocked, as though I was still on the boat.
Finally on Friday, we got to be on the boat together.
That day, I saw my first enormous sea turtle with Angus. The next day in Ras Mohammed, we saw the second. We took a load of underwater photos, which we are going to get developed and maybe I can scan some of those to show, however my photography has never been very good.
I got to wear my vintage sunglasses as well. I love these things, I even wear them outside to hang the laundry up (Whitney Houston, get used to it, and go ahead and embroider that straight jacket for me, m'kay?). I found them online and have just adored them since, as I feel they look very Jackie O.
Only in my case, maybe it's less "Jackie O", more "Willy Wonka".
So we came home last night, suntanned, calmer, happier maybe. The holiday is over but I can't recall when two people have ever more needed a holiday. Today is a day off in England, and the sun is shining, my cats are lovely, and the pile of dirty clothes makes me want to weep.
And as for Sharm, I will be back.
Even if it's to meet this little guy.
Yes, it is what you think it is. A white-tipped reef shark. Dangerous.
Dangerous...but very very sexy.
-H.
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August 18, 2005
The doctor visit went well/badly.
I sat there for ages. Half a train ride. I just couldn't move. I sit here now and my fingers just can't think of how to say things.
At last they have moved, and nothing comes out of them. The blink is better than the result. I can't look at the screen and I can't look out the window and I can't do anything but just sit here. Blink. Blink. Blink.
I have nothing here.
I'll be back online August 29, when I return from holiday.
-H
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August 15, 2005
I pull a corner off the Emmenthal that I am about to put on my bagel.
She sniffs it delicately, then looks up at me.
What the fuck is this? she seems to say.
"It's Emmenthal," I coo nervously. "You love Emmenthal!"
She sniffs it again. It's fucking light cheese, isn't it! You bought light Emmenthal! The sacrilege! The horror! What's the matter with you, woman? She turns around and walks away, her ass to me and my cheese, showing what she really thinks.
"What do you expect!" I shout after her retreating figure. "I have my first IVF appointment tomorrow! If it wasn't light Emmenthal they'd for sure ask why the hell someone brought in a big ball of mozzarella to have IVF!"
Cheese is my comfort food. When I am nervous or stressed, I eat cheese. It would explain why last week an entire round of Bavarian Smoked mysteriously disappeared from the cheese drawer in our fridge.
For someone with lactose intolerance, I sure do like my cheese.
Yup, tomorrow is the big day, the first appointment. It's strange-I have a busy week of work ahead, and when I think of Tuesday, it's like it's blocked out in my head. I sit on the couch, and think-OK, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday I am off-site for work, Friday I plan on shutting the PC down around lunchtime, and Tuesday...I have something on Tuesday...what the hell am I doing Tuesday?
Then it hits me, and I want to give my ovaries a cuddle, to tell them that it'll be ok.
I think we're mostly ready. We haven't had sex since Saturday since I'm not the only one who gets examined, Angus gets to, as he calls it, "make love to a Tupperware container". You have to go two to three days before the protein shake withdrawal, in order to have a good store of them. I know that the idea of performance anxiety is on his mind, but I know he has some fantastic swimmers, so we should be just fine (he thinks he should be worried, but I also get to explore the Land of Stirrups. That, and I am due for a waxing. Nice).
As I look around, I sometimes get nervous. Not about the idea that I am making the wrong decision, or that I shouldn't do this, but about what it entails. I get caught up in the details.
For instance, I am going to try to have a baby with a man who insists on changing the toilet paper roll so that it hangs down in the back. How can it be that the man I love to death is one of those guys? We play Toilet Paper Chicken all the time-I change the roll to hang toilet paper over, he hangs it toilet paper under, so I of course then change the toilet paper over again. This is the life we have together, I have a Charmin groper who insists on changing the toilet paper around. What kind of impact will it have on our children? I mean, instead of worrying that our child might get his toes or my grape-flavored insanity, my concern is that I want our IVF genes to carry Genus Toilet Paper Overus on the 9th chromosome.
And will our child walk around pronouncing things like Angus, or like me? I don't think I can face a lifetime of my child pronouncing it "toe-MAH-toes". That's just not on. Anytime I ask our child if they want a mozzarella and toe-MAY-toe salad, will Angus lean across the table and pat our child's hand pityingly, as if to say: I know, darling. Mummy is mental. Let's just indulge her, ok? You get the cheese, I'll get the Prozac, and we can force it down her throat.?
And that's another thing-in England, it's not "mommy". It's "mummy". Now while "mummy" makes me think of Winnie-the-Pooh and, more appealingly, Brendan Fraser, I do wonder if I would be missing out calling myself "mummy" over "mommy". Mommy, to me, has connotations of popsicles, of Easter baskets filled with jelly beans, of Band-Aid brand bandages over skinned knees, of attending bad Thanksgiving student plays. Does Mummy mean I will be doling out ice lollies, a packaged Cadbury's Easter egg, bandaging knees with a plaster and explaining the significance of Guy Fawkes Day?
Overwhelming.
I am also jumping the gun. Right now I just have an appointment. Worrying about whether I will be a mommy or a mummy will be a good problem to have.
On Saturday night Angus and I were talking about travelling. We have a few things planned for the next six months, then travel calms down. He casually mentioned that travelling may be slightly different when we have a small child (for example a week long diving trip to Egypt is out for a while) but that travelling with small children is ok-you just pack up and take them along (he did that with his two.) And it hit me-he too is planning on a different life, one where the good problem to have is whether to go to Thailand or Florida. It may mean that snorkelling with nurse sharks is out, but it doesn't mean that splashing in the ocean has to be.
So tomorrow we kick it off, me and my beloved Toilet Paper Under Boy. Me, the woman who has never been a mother but knows she wants to be. Him, who it has to be said is a fantastic father with his two children. He has been down-his kids were due to be here this weekend, but their BA flight obviously never made it. They won't be able to come over now for a month. But he has extraordinary patience with them, he dotes on them and knows them so well.
I know that he's the one that I want to be a family with.
So this is how the party starts. It hopefully starts tomorrow with lots of hand holding and no tempers lost (hint, hint my dear). It continues to a schedule. Then on from there.
It's like Tom Hanks said- "I want to get married, I want to have a kid, and I want him to play a tooth in the school play."
That's all I want. And the truth is, it wouldn't matter which way our child would pronounce tomato or what they called me. I just want to get there. It's a good problem to have.
The toilet paper, on the other hand...
-H.
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August 10, 2005
There was a moth in the bedroom.
And the spirit of Psycho possessed her, making her meow pitifully and her whiskers twitch in her desire to catch it. She was so intent on catching the moth that she wound up wedging herself between the headboard and the wall uncomfortably, much like a cartoon character. We had to un-wedge her from behind the bed, and as the moth dove past us and back behind the bed the stupid cat followed it, neatly lodging herself back behind the bed all over again.
My cats are very entertaining, but I never said they were smart.
(And yes I know they look alike. Strangely, they're not even related-Maggie is one year older than Mumin and she came from Stockholm. Mumin came from a Swedish farm in the middle of the countryside. If I follow stereotypes, I guess this means that Maggie is a Cosmopolitan-drinking high-heel boot loving girlie girl, whereas Mumin likes a roll in the hay and appreciates her beer, thank you very much. And strictly speaking, I guess this would actually sum up their attitudes.)
They have gotten completely used to being inside and outside all the time. They have figured out where home is, and periodically come running inside just to check that all is right with the world, that their food bowl is where they left it and that one of us is around to nurture any insecurities that might have blown up from being in the Big Bad World. If the door accidentally gets closed, their cry is so loud and so pitiful that it's clear they're being tortured, either by boiling water, any Paris Hilton show, or Tom Cruise explaining his view on psychiatry to them.
And it's become clear that the one I thought was clever, Maggie, is actually the not clever one. Maggie doesn't go outside very much, but likes to sit in the doorway, a hall monitor to the world. All this time I thought of her as the sleek one, the mastermind, the one destined to take over Luxembourg. It transpires that Maggie is actually El-Thicko, and about the only thing she's capable of taking over is Angus' T-shirts that he drops on the floor when he takes them off.
She's really just a couch cushion.
Maggie has become extremely good at catching her mortal enemy, the one thing that could bring destruction on the feline race. It's as though she takes it personally, the fact that they are allowed to come into the house uninvited, and take up her breathing space. She has become singularly focused on the complete and total extermination of the moth race, and seeing as they are good at nibbling holes in sweaters here in England, I'm happy to help her out, karma be damned.
Last night as Angus was brushing his teeth, a moth the size of a baby's foot flew in to the bathroom. I stood at the top of the stairs and called Maggie to come upstairs. She came, tail in the air, an answering meow the call of the cavalry, a willing soldier for the aid of her country. She walked into the bathroom.
And went mental.
Nothing could get in the way, bottles of shampoo, the open toiled lid, the bathtub, Angus. She meowed that fractured hunting meow as she dove about the room, paws in the air, tail sweeping the floor. We were in fits of laughter watching her think that she was the Real American Hero, capable of leaping halfway up the wall, when nothing short of a visit to Weight Watcher's and a pair of stilts could actually achieve that. It didn't help that Angus and I were encouraging her- Get the moth, Maggie, oh my God, get the moth!
She was whipped into a quivering black and white-furred frenzy, a crack addict yearning for her latest fix of fuzzy moth wings. The moth flew down from the top of the walls, making a mortal error and teasing her as he did a flyby over her head. But Maggie was ready, and as she jumped up and caught the moth, she used her paw to tuck it into her mouth. She looked at us pleasantly.
'Oh my God!'Â I shrieked. She had the moth in her mouth and her mouth was pulsating. The flapping of the moth wings vibrated through her empty skull, a patina of rap music. We could actually hear the thing buzzing in her mouth.
Revolting.
She took her quarry and ran downstairs, where by the sounds of it a game of capture, torture, release, repeat occurred. When she finally returned upstairs she deposited an empty hull of a moth at my feet. Shuddering, I remembered the advice I'd received, so I thanked her kindly, pet her, then retrieved the dearly departed and flushed it down the toilet. This, so that she could find another moth in the bedroom and not let us get to sleep for another hour as we indulge her hunting needs.
This has been a pattern she's showing. She brings me gifts of dead insects (which I prefer to the mammalian variety), but I am most amused when she gets one of her toy mice, carries it outside, bats it about, then carries it back inside and deposits it at my feet.
Look at the gift I have wrought, her expression says. Mumin brings you dead animals, and I bring you dead animals. Our love is equal. Fear me, for I can kill and I can rule Luxembourg.
I reward her and thank her and grin that at least she brings me animals whose only chance at animation would be in a bad Kenneth Brannagh film.
Oh sure, she looks innocent.
But just look at those fangs of death.
This morning I wake up, groggy. Neither Angus nor I could sleep and so melatonin was uncorked around 1 am. I am tired and have to trek into London, and when I get up I take a shower and head downstairs for the java we so well and truly need.
And there, in the middle of the kitchen, is what is obviously a Mumin offering.
I feel like cold water has been thrown on me, because the animal wasn't there last night, when Mumin came in and we locked up and went to bed. This means the little buddy was already in the house. This means the thing was lurking in our home, either in a state of hidden fear or near death, while we slept. It was in the house.
Mumin looks at me and smiles. Maggie may give you insects, but I bring the money presents, baby.
Shaking, I pet her and thank her, as she sits by her lifeless gift, her tail flicking. Maggie walks in and sits in the kitchen doorway, looking at her little sister.
Bitch, her expression says to Mumin. I knew I should've asked for a brother, instead of asking for you.
Mumin flicks her tail in return, her expression one of the cat who not only caught the cream, but made sure it suffered before it died. Bite me. Some of us have obviously graduated from remedial hunting.
I wish they knew the phone number for the local florist's. Now there's a gift I'd be happy to find on the kitchen floor in the morning.
-H.
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August 09, 2005
And Walker is very, very cool.
So we head out to his barbecue on Saturday. We drove to a small home in the suburbs and parked along the driveway. As we walked up to the house we were greeted by Walker, helping his aging mother out of the car. She gave us a big smile and a welcome and handed a massive foil pan to Walker.
We walked into the kitchen, to a major hubbub of people busy at work moving plates around and getting food ready. We were introduced to everyone there with big smiles and friendly handshakes-most of the people had the same last name McIntyre in the room, but with the exception of Walker and his mother none of them were related (it transpired that the name is descended from a Scottish pirate in Jamaica some centuries ago). And with the exception of one woman, who was part Nigerian, part Guinea/English, all of them were from Jamaica, having moved to the UK as children.
We kept offering to help but were firmly admonished each time. We were the guests. We were not to be helping in the kitchen. So we chatted with people and helped whenever we could (I was allowed to make the coleslaw, which I felt very good about. And Angus was allowed to take out the trash, so at least we didn't stand about doing nothing.)
Walker and his long-time girlfriend, a beautiful Jamaican woman named Jane, had baskets filled with fruit all over the kitchen. Lychees, pineapple, guava, and mangoes streamed out of bowls and onto the counters. Walker handed me an especially beautiful mango and asked me if I wanted one. Strangely, I did-I'm not much of a fan of mango, but I did indeed want one.
"But you have to eat it the West Indian way." Walker admonished. "There are two ways to eat the mango-one is with a knife and fork, the other? In a bathtub."
"You want me to eat the mango in the bathtub?" I asked stupidly.
"No no no. I want you to try the West Indian way." he said, laughing. He showed me what to do-you take your front teeth and dig them into the skin, pulling down a layer of skin with your teeth, like you would peel a banana. You continue round the whole mango that way, and then you can sink your teeth into the glistening flesh.
I had mango juice flowing down my arms. I stood outside and peeled the mango, orange juice dripping down my face. When I sank my teeth into the mango flesh, I swear to god I've never had a better mango in my life. It was the most fun eating a piece of fruit that I've ever had.
After I washed up from the mango, we set the table and sat outside. We'd brought some soy sausages for me to eat (I hate telling hosts that I am a veggie, as people tend to stress about vegetarian food. It's much easier for me to bring something, and then let the hosts worry about their other guests.) One look at the sausages from Walker and Jane and I knew they wouldn't be serving them to me.
Instead, they made this fantastic rice, mixed with red peas, onions and creamed coconut. I got to splurge on the side courses, too-potato salad, coleslaw, mixed vegetables. The main courses for the guests were jerk chicken, cajun fish, and curry goat. The jerk sauce for the food was a homemade mix brought over in a Maxwell House jar from Jamaica by Walker on a recent trip there.
The food was absolutely fantastic, as people sat around the table talking and eating. Angus and I were nearly the only non-Jamaicans, and also apparently one of the few couples they'd run into that liked the food as spicy as we do. The Jamaican food was delicious and Walker and Jane hovered about, making sure everyone was happy.
I talked to Walker about his jerk sauce-I knew what it was like to bring things back to the UK to enjoy, and I also knew what it was like to worry that customs would confiscate things. It was the same with his jerk sauce-so yes, maybe they would take it away, and the worst they'd do was destroy it. But at the same time, that really is the worst thing you can do, as all that hope and transport would come for nothing.
It transpired that it was Jane's birthday. "Ooh!" I cried. "Happy birthday! We had no idea, or we would've brought gifts!"
"Did Walker get you anything exclusive and expensive for your birthday? Anything with bling?" Angus asked, munching on curry goat.
"Bling?" Walker asked.
"De shiny-shiny." Jane said with a smile to Walker, her Jamaican accent flowing over her words. Walker just threw his head back and laughed.
We watched a bit of sports on the background TV, as the World Championships were happening in Finland. Talking to Walker and Jane, it was clear they felt similar to me-when Jamaica was in a competition, they cheered for them. When England was in a competition that no Jamaicans were in, they cheered for them. If they competed against each other? They quietly supported Jamaica. It's the same for me-it's hard when you have one home in your heart, and another home in your post code. And then when the two merge, and maybe the one in your heart is bleeding out a bit, you don't always know where you live.
One of the other Jamaican women sat at the end of the table, and made distinct criticisms of what she was eating. The juice was cheap, the rice too hard. Munching on a chicken leg and tearing off the skin, she observed that there was too much jerk spice. Jane just nodded and tried to look understanding. It reminded me of a Neil Simon comedy of a Jewish neighborhood, where they critique each other but love each other dearly.
Sometimes, I wish that we had big get-togethers like that here. My Australian friend has massive barbecues for her expat friends. The Jamaicans around the table all clearly spent a lot of time together. I know that Swedes often get together and celebrate Swedish events together. But the Americans abroad often do things slightly different-it's like we made it to the outside, and we have to prove we can do it on our own. None of this expat togetherness for us, nosiree! We're going Commando, and we're going to acclimate to foreign society.
It's a shame, in some ways, as maybe it means that we are always going to be adrift, the anchor catching on the coral.
Walker then brought out a bottle of clear white liquid. He smiled, pointing to the bottle. "This is the white rum. This is the Lady. Would you like to try it?" he asked me.
"Of course!" I said.
"How would you like it?" he replied, getting a glass ready.
"Straight up, no ice, thank you." I reply. The table is staring at me, mouths open. "Er...what?" I asked.
Walker shakes his head. "The white rum, it's 100% proof. Pure alcohol. You can't dance with the Lady like that. I mix it with ice, see if you like it."
He pours me a glass. I sip it. Everyone is staring at me, expecting me to spit it out perhaps. But it goes down nicely, a smooth easy drink, none of that burning stuff you get with tequila or Bacardi. I smile and set the glass down.
"I think it's lovely." I say, and I meant it. They look at me, astonished. They may have thought the American was an easy one to fall over drunk but they likely hadn't reckoned on my secret weapon-although I am sure that my liver is secretly experiencing a state of necrosis in my body, I used to be well familiar with Everclear in college. I could do the white rum.
I even had another glass and was fine. When we left, it was hugs all around, and as I hugged Jane she smiled and told me that "You did just fine with the white rum, my girl."
It's nice to be accepted for just a moment, even if Jamaica is a place I have yet to see.
-H.
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August 08, 2005
I've bought a Will and Testament kit.
It never hurts to be prepared, after all. It's not like I have a lot of things, it's not like I have to wonder whom to leave the combination to the safe to so that my Millenium Diamond collection can be looked after, but I realized that should things go pear-shaped, it's nice to have all my ducks in a row, even if the only ducks I really own are pottery.
So following the form I have bought, here is my will, in essence:
Last Will and Testament -England, Wales, & Northern Ireland (but it's written in really cool script-y goodness, so just imagine it looks impressive).
This Last Will and Testament is made by me Helen Adelaide (not my real name, but work with me here, people), of Whitney Houston (I struggled to decide what to put here. Of...perpetuity? Of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which it stands? Of basically sound mind, although some of my mental floorboards are pretty droopy and I could do with a new coat of paint, seeing as the old one still has streaks of the crazy?)
I revoke all previous wills and codicils. I appoint as executors and trustees of my will Angus Stephens (not his real name) of Whitney Houston (seems like since I figured I'd put Whitney Houston as my "of", consistency would be key here. Otherwise it's back to the whole "basically of sound mind" issue, and Christ knows that old arrangement makes me tired).
And then I'm supposed to list another name, but since I don't really know whom I'd appoint, I'm going to leave that one blank of No seriously. I just said I'd have to leave that one blank.
Specific Gifts and Legacies: (the Scottish will says: Specific Gifts and Pecuniary Legacies. I'm infantile, and the word "pecuniary" makes me laugh. It also makes me laugh that it has to be a legacy with financial implications, which probably rules out most of what I own).
I give
Everything to Angus. No really. It all goes to him. What kind of selfish bitch would I be, to be all "I love you honey. I really do. Wanna' spend the rest of my life with you. What's that? Oh, I'm dying? OK then. Let me fuck you emotionally and financially then. Deal with the image of my corpse and then watch as the moving van comes in and removes all of my personal goods and, baby, unless you have a receipt, most of yours. How about them apples?"
So yeah. It all goes to him. There are some specifics I wouldn't mind him passing on-I'd like all of my Tampax Lites to go to Sporty, as she is the only one I know that can actually use them. I buy the rainbow party pack of tampons with an air of wishful thinking, my Tampax Lite collection huddles forlorn in their purple wrappers, their plastic masses yearning to be free. So why waste good fiberglass? Unused tampons to Sporty.
I also have some lovely 1920's art deco jewelry and a vast collection of boho skirts. I'd like to think they would go to someone that would love them, but Angus my dear, if you want to keep them for yourself so that you can wrap yourself in them to sleep and catch my scent, then that's ok with me. Or if you want to keep them just in case someday you decide to eplore being a transvestite, all my love and support, darling.
Just don't look better in them than I do, or I will find a way to come back and haunt you, and not in the funny Blithe Spirit kind of way m'kay?
And since you won't read a lot of my books, probably best to give those away, too. I know that Jen reads almost exactly the same books as I do, so maybe you want to ask her? Then again, the shipping would be high, so you can do what you'd like with my books. Just please send Me Talk Pretty One Day to the great institution in the sky with me, as I'm probably going to be needing a laugh wherever I wind up.
And Angus please take care of the cats, the lovely bitches. I know that it gets on your nerves the way Mumin cries to be let out (and I don't mind passing on the torch as the one that has to remove the mole corpses that Mumin brings as gifts, it's no fun, trust me.) I know that Maggie sleeping in the bathtub gets wearying, and that she's a very "I want you to love on me...no wait....I changed my mind, piss off" kind of cat, but I love them dearly and want you to love them until they die.
Residuary Gift
I give the residue of my estate to
Angus Stephens (and can I just say "Ew!" at the word residue? It's like I blew my nose on my house keys before handing them over.)
but if he/she or (if I have indicated more than one person) any of them fails to survive me by 28 days or if this gift or any part of it fails for any other reason, then I GIVE the residue of my estate or the part of it affected to
Angus' children, Melissa and Jeff (also not their real names). I figure if I've kicked the bucket and he's kicked the bucket, then they should wrap up everything and take it home, especially any money that we have so that they can have a comfortable time in university or in buying a house someday. Hopefully, Angus' ex won't burn anything associated with me.
Funeral Wishes
I wish my body to be
Creamated, after the organs have been donated if it's possible. I want the ashes scattered, too, only I haven't decided where yet, so I'll get back to you.
Other instructions
This part is serious to me. If I am pronounced brain dead, pull the plug. That, to me, is not life. I am not interested in being one giant bed sore "just in case". Brain death in my world is death. Let me go.
I don't want to be buried and I don't want a wake as it's incredibly uncomfortable to me that people would want to view my body. If I've died that body is no longer me. I have left, and am somewhere else.
I want the people that cared about me to gather round and spread my ashes somewhere. And if it's possible, I would like anyone that loved me to write me a letter and have it creamated with me, as when my ashes hit the wind they could get mixed up with the words that they are leaving me, and parts of their love will always be with me then.
Love is in rare supply. The idea that it could come with me gives me hope.
Since I have little doubt that karma will come after me and have me die slowly from a long term illness or disease, I want the following-when I've decided it's time to go, let me go. I wouldn't ask you, my beloved Angus, to help me end it all but I will possibly ask a physician to help me. And when I am dying, I only want Angus and a few friends (who know who you are, and if you don't then I am remiss and I am sorry and I love you) to be there with me. I don't want my family there. Please respect my wishes.
And for the not-serious- dress me comfortably when I go. I live my life in pajamas, so let me wear them forever (the big thick ones, not the boxers, as I hate being chilled and something tells me the road to the new beyond may not be lined with box heaters. Or if it is, I've done something wrong then and my pajamas are the least of my worries.) And although I don't want a wake, you never know what you'll find on the other side so please can you make sure I am wearing lip gloss and eyeliner? I mean, what if the afterlife is stocked with angels that look like John Cusack? I'm going to need an edge, here.
Play the Simple Minds' Don't You Forget About Me and have a drink after the ashes have flown away. I want you all doing tequila shots (with lime not lemon). This, since I love me some tequila and also because I am just a little bit evil and want you all to have a hangover.
And if you could do one thing for me-don't forget that I lived my life the best I knew how to. I fucked up a lot and I am so sorry for that, but if there was ever a life to end a constant recycled existance on, it was this one. If I am an old soul and this was my last round trip ticket to life, then know that every memory that I have will be explored and loved as I go on, that this was the best life I could ever have imagined living.
So thank you.
Signed Helen Adelaide
of Whintey Houston
Occupation Dreamer, despite all the telecom nonsense.
-H.
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August 03, 2005
I am proud that my silhouette is curvy,
That I walk with a sweet and girlish gait
With my hips kind of swivelly and swervy.
When I was a kid, I was a real tomboy. My life was lived in those Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls that came in a variety of colors. Being a freak of habit I naturally had all of those colors, so now when I look back at childhood photos I am generally clad in red, blue or green overalls much like a miniature Village People wanna-be. My time was invariably spent up in a tree, reading a book and making myself sick on crabapples, so the overalls were perhaps fitting, seeing as I was channeling Huck Finn and all.
I also insisted on wearing a long sleeve shirt at all times as I hated my arm hair.
But then again I've always been nuts.
My whole life I've been pretty consistently un-girlie. I can't stand having my fingernails painted, and as the sound of nail filing makes me want to fling myself from the top of a very high building, I've never even had a manicure or a pedicure (as the sound of sandpaper only magnifies my want-to-fling-from-rooftops phobia, it very conveniently means I am hereby excused from any DIY that might mean sandpapering. Some phobias work out well.) The only hair coloring I've ever done came out of a bottle in the bathroom of my own house, cheap plastic gloves at the ready and blobby stains of errant hair dye marking my bath mat. The hair dying was about the only attention I ever paid to my hair-I went through university without ever having my hair cut and, once I emerged out of the four year rite of passage with hair down to my waist, I cut it all off in one go. I've been pretty hit-and-miss with returning to the beauty salon since, as I get bored sitting still and I'm not good at having a regular relationship with any kind of vendor of goods (back to the being nuts theme, here).
When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!
I only started wearing a bra when I was threatened with bodily harm as a teenager in a Sears shop (complete with sulking and tantrum on my part at the thought of being confined by what I considered to be such an abomination of elastic). And, as punishment, karma rewarded me with a rack that eventually sprang out to be a 38DD, although a little trip to the plastic surgeon helped take that back, thank you very much. My period started late as a child (again, karma is here with the Carrie-like bloodbath to make sure I am compensating for that), and when I was a teenager that whole "being a teenage girl and using her wiles on the men while utilizing modern fashion and enjoying the endeavors of makeup" was a concept restricted to Claire in The Breakfast Club.
And now, strangely, I have become a girl. Now that I am a creaking 31 years old, I have figured out that the tits actually mean something. They symbolize something in a Rivers of Estrogen sense. I'm a chick, and the older I get, the more of a chick I am becoming.
Although I made it through most of my life running in fear of skirts, I've noticed that the past year I almost never wear trousers at work. I wear skirts. I like skirts. Actually, I like skirts so much that it's the first thing I look at in the shops.
I wear makeup. In fact, unless I am crawling around dusty floorboards picking off pieces of foam-backed sea grass carpeting, I don't leave the house without at least a slick of lip gloss, my eyebrows done, and a bit of mascara. Eyebrows are important to me. This is why I was devastated when they didn't allow tweezers on airplanes anymore as that's absolutely the best lighting in the world to see the little stray eyebrow hair fuckers that you don't see in your bathroom.
And as the boho look creeps in, I am definitely living life and actually enjoying trying to see what other types of clothes I like (although I still won't wear form-fitting clothes, and I still buy clothes one size too big. Hey-we all have insecurities.) No longer is every single item in my closet a variant of the color black. Goth be gone, I have seen the light! The summer clothes I have bought are all much lighter-hot pink, pale yellow, robin's egg blue, lavender. It's like the Easter bunny took a crap in my closet. I just love it.
And even better-many of my skirts have sparklies on them. Seriously. I am all about the sequins. Sequins just make the skirt. My summer is about skirts that can reflect enough light to land airliners. Although I suspect the sparklies will be sadly packed away for the duration of the black and grey-clad winter months (everyone hates those cheerful and perky folk that try to be all happy and Thumper-like in winter), they will be unpacked and twirled about in again next year, "last season's fashions" be damned!
And the strange thing is, I am getting into vintage as well. You know that lovely necklace that I bought at the local antique shop? Well, since then I've bought 3 more of that kind of necklace, all from the 1930's, all absolutely stunning. And I've bought two pairs of earrings. This is major, as previously I only ever owned one pair at a time, always tiny hoops, which I would wear until one got lost then I would replace it. Now I am trying to wear earrings, and trying to pick different styles, all of them a bit dangly. And it turns out I have a hot and heavy lust for what's called rainbow crystal-I'm bidding on a few other pieces, as I think they're lovely and will make great gifts (which will only be going to deserving people that I hope will love them as much as I do!).
I have bought a 1970's English schoolboy satchel to use as a purse. I have vintage jewelry now. And I'm turning to vintage sunglasses, only I could never in a million years believe what it is that I find interesting.
Me...suicidal crazy chick who has always worn black...I saw these 1950's sunglasses on a webpage and it was absolute and total instant lust. I wanted them so badly I had to put my head down and weep (especially as this pair has been sold, and so they no longer have them. They have an orange pair I really want, but it doesn't have sparkles, and I don't want to pay $115 USD). That's right. They're pink. Really pink. With glitter. And once I saw them, all I could do was think of magical nights at the Sadie Hawkins dance, where we did the hand jive and then went to the local burger joint for a soda float. That's right. Suddenly, it was like Grease had taken over my mind (and no, I don't think I'm Sandy. Not only could I never, ever fit in those black leather trousers but I don't have an Australian accent. I think I'm more like Frenchy, really. Kinda' hopeless and with strange hair.)
But that's not all. I'm not just thinking about waving around a bunch of stationary in a kiddie pool and mooning over a boy who I would undoubtedly wind up divorcing later in life as a bitter woman with saddlebags who felt she'd wasted her life on an ex-Thunderbird thug after giving up the chance to go back to Australia and date a surfer. I'm not limited to the 50's, oh no.
I found the 60's. And I like these. Visions of dancing like Twiggy in a bouncy pink sequined skirt fly through my head. They're pink. And they're perfect. Of course, they're also $175 USD and I'm not very interested in paying that, but still. They're so cute, even though, ironically, I have very little interest in the 60's. Bell bottoms are things that should be purged from every household. Free love was only ever free in that decade, and even then it came with strings. I don't care for the music, and I don't get the whole hippy thing, but I do love the fuck out of those sunglasses.
So yes. As time goes on, I am becoming more of a girl. Even though I am sitting here in my men's boxer shorts and Paris souvenir T-shirt, at least my toes are painted a sparkly lavender color. In our bedroom are a few vintage pieces that I am keeping for myself (just a few, but still, I love my few fiercely). And I am on the lookout for the 1950's vintage pink sparkly sunglasses, so if anyone sees any, let me know because my blood lust desire for that already-sold pair I saw is still sweltering.
A girl's gotta' have pink sparkly shades, after all.
And as I have been learning, I am absolutely, most definitely, a girl.
I'm strictly a female female
And my future I hope will be
In the home of a brave and free male
Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl... like... me.
-H.
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It's nice to see you again. No-wait. I am totally lying, actually. To tell you the truth, I never look forward to your visits. I mean, I know you pop in regularly, but let's be honest-you make my life hard.
First off, it never seems to fail that when I want to go on holiday, you decide to come along for the ride. Especially-most especially!-when I am going somewhere that involves tiny sundresses, bathing suits, and diving, because:
A) It's impossible to conceal one of those sausage-like Tampax in the confines of a tiny little girl dress, so I either have to carry a bag myself or implore Angus to arm himself with the cotton wonders. And everyone knows how thin and revealing those sundresses are, so any little drop of blood that might leak its way down the string is sure to be a beacon screaming: Look here! Look here! We've got a bleeder!
B) Naturally life isn't stressful enough, I need to also be constantly concerned that the string could potentially be hanging out the crotch of my bathing suit, like some kind of choke on a lawnmower or the handle of a Venetian blind. Pull the string and I'll either chug to life and mow your lawn or else the swimsuit will magically go up.
C) We've all heard that sharks can smell a drop of blood in, oh, the whole ocean, so why not put me in the middle of the water, like a giant blood Squeegee?
Preparing for your visits is always hard on me. Anticipating your arrival invariably brings a fight at home as my chemicals go wildly out of control, turning me into a nutter that feeds off of depression and anxiety (and it continues, so you, you bitch who's reading over my shoulder right now on the train? Yeah, you? Please quit eating beef jerky. You'll smell like an antelope all day.) Then comes the bloating, where I have to stay away from the sea in case Captain Ahab sees me and finally wings a spear my way. Then the zits, and my God-being pimple free was the only good thing about my teenage years, why does this have to happen now? The final step is when I inherit Dolly Parton's boobs for the day and have to raid the kitchen. And I don't just raid the kitchen, I'm like a pregnant woman who's just been freed from watching a Martha Stewart cooking show-I want salt. Covered in chocolate. Covered in peanut butter and every carbohydrate in the kitchen. And then I want it rolled up in a ball and fried with cheese, I want a lot of it and I want it right fucking now.
You're so good about coming early. 28 day cycles? Why bother! On most months I get rest and respite for a maximum of 25 days. You can tell the months that I am under a lot of stress as you can't even hold yourself back any more than about 22-23 days. Those are good months. I really enjoy those months.
And Period Fairy, you don't just visit. You take up residence, you unpack your bags, nick a drawer in my dresser, and you come to fucking stay. The first day you arrive it's more like a gentle socializing, a talk over tea and a kind re-acquaintance. You talk and joke with me, put me at ease, and don't impede my daily life at all.
But the next day WHAM! You wake up a fucking banshee and spend the next three days as violent as a fireman's hose. You open up the faucet of hate and you just let it flow, unleashing the horror. Vampires circle above the house. Cats spontaneously go into heat. Kofi Annan walks into the UN and asks everyone to hold hands and sing Kumbaya.
And the whole time, you just go at me like a nuclear-powered train. You just flow and flow and flow and then stop. I think you're done and think of my poor beaver passage finally recovering, but oh no-you give me what I call the Last Hurrah, the time when it never fails that the knickers get a soaking as you inevitably unleash it on me when I am in the grocery store, doing a presentation at work, or supposed to be behind the scenes coaching Tom Cruise what not to say on Oprah (I wasn't there due to the Last Hurrah, and look what happened. What a nightmare. I told him if he went on about those fucking vitamins I'd have to limit his Fag Hag Starlet intake, and look what happened).
And as I grow older, you have me outgrowing tampons. That's right. Where once I was just a Regular girl, those days have passed. Now I know there is only one perfect day of Regular tampons, and that's day one. From there on, we get to go through the box of Lucky Charms colors as I proceed straight into the Super zone, even heading into the Super Plus zone with a side of Extra Thick Overnight Maxi Pad protection with wings that inevitably wind up coming un-winged and stuck uncomfortably to my minge. I can't believe that once upon a time I got the option to use the Lite tampons! The Lites, with their sweet little purple covers-they're the reason I can't buy the party pack as they sit there, dejected and unused, like the virgin on prom night.
Not that they're even cotton anyway. Not only do I get the possibility of stuffing something inside me that may or may not cause toxic shock syndrome, they're not even natural. I know this. When you were visiting that one time, Period Fairy, and you retired upstairs late one night? Well, Angus and I were by the fire and decided a bit of How's Your Father was in order. So he removed the drain plug and bunged it into the fire. It blazed there for a while, but you know what? It never burned up. That's right. The next morning we got to retrieve the slightly charred thing and throw it away. I am sticking something fireproof inside of me, how's that for fucked up?
Either tampons are getting smaller as I get older, or else pretty soon I'll need to just buy mattresses and roll them up and stuff them in, hoping to finally find something that staunches the blood flow.
Without you, I wouldn't have the singular pleasure of throwing perfectly good money that could be spent on vintage jewelry at boxes of things that I am going to use up and throw away. I get to chuck £4 at a box of 16 tampons. That's right. I'm paying 40p per asbestos stick, and I'd never pay 40p for anything else that will be thrown away within one hour. And Period Fairy, with a visit like yours-5 days, full fucking throttle on the exsanguination of a chick with a teeny tiny bladder-I can tell you, 16 tampons lasts about as long as Luke Perry's post-90210 career. The plugging of Helen needs a whole lot of tampons.
I feel really attractive when you're here. In bed I have to sleep in knickers and boxer shorts, as you never know when the Super Plus gives up its will to live and the Overnight with wings flies out the window. The bloat doesn't go away until the final day, when it's like letting the air out of a Wonder Dog balloon. Even if I feel like having sex, the messy logistics of it takes away the romance (Gee honey, I really fancy some. Hang on-let me get a towel!) Add on to that the fear that every woman has (Dear God, can people smell that I am menstruating?) and it's a wonder that more women don't walk around in wimples during period times. Oh yeah. During your visits, I feel so hot.
And finally, your visits are becoming more and more painful over time. That's right. I'm not trying to be rude, but there's nothing more fun that lying doubled-over on the couch, gripping the area where I suspect my uterus is in agony. It does feel better to raise my butt in the air, only I can only do that when I'm home alone as it means that gas also makes its way to freedom and there's no way I want to be thought of as 'that fart bag with the cramps on the couch'Â. Luckily, Angus has discovered a type of ibuprofen at the chemists that is so strong it could neutralize a horse, so I know that once you arrive, it's a few days of making sure those twelve hour doses are met with regularity, else we risk the fart bag scenario.
So in short-gee, I'm glad you're here, Period Fairy. Here in a day full of meetings and on trains, and me with my briefcase and that fucking projector and most bathrooms closed on trains due to fear. So thanks. Really. I look forward to getting home and getting my ass kicked by you tonight.
You bitch.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
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August 02, 2005
Slowly we are making those 'finishing touches'Â to the house. The entire place got painted a year ago, now some areas are being re-painted again. The house is suffering from the bumps and woes that any house suffers over time, especially one that is unlived in-the cobwebs are a regular battle, and it's always wearying to be confronted by a host of tiny roly-poly exoskeletons tucked in the corner of the bathtub.
The garden also has to get some attention, although we've earmarked that for next weekend. It's tidy enough, but at some point someone planted a bit of mint in the garden, and now the whole damn thing smells like a Wrigley's commercial. I think next weekend I'll just dig up the whole damn garden and take my chances. In the far corner of the garden is what used to be a little garden shed, complete with windows and furniture inside of it. However, Father Time has opened up a can on that shed, as the windows were broken by some vandals, the roof has given up the will to live, and a plant has decided that it's one perfect and cozy abode thank you very much, and now resides deep inside of it a la Little Shop of Horrors. It needs to be taken down, only the good news is it's likely not hurting the house sale chances as it just about qualifies as 'country garden shabby chic'Â.
I have the Living Channel.
Angus thinks the garden would put someone off, but I really don't-if I were viewing it, I would be pleased that nothing specific was really growing in one place. Then I wouldn't have to feel guilty about ripping it all out and planting what I want in there (or maybe I just say that since I am absolutely rubbish at trying to tell what plants are what they grow. Just flower already, dammit, and quit making me guess if you're a weed or a fucking flower).
The carpet was easier said than done. It had been professionally fitted, which meant that the perimeter of the room was set with evil looking board with carpet tacks sticking every which way. As Angus would pull the carpet, some of the carpet's foam backing had so permanently mated with the carpet glue that viewing an eternity together was not an option. So while he pulled up the heavy carpet (who knew that sea grass would weigh so much?), I got on my hands and knees and dug up the black foam backing from the glue.
Inch by inch.
And when he was done heaving up the carpet and launching it from the window into the garden, he got to join me on his hands and knees, digging up foam.
It wasn't too bad-it went quickly and we chatted. Once it was flat and level, we vacuumed the room and packed ourselves off to B&Q to buy wood flooring. Underneath the carpet, and the plywood the carpet guy had put down, were beautiful wood floor. Thick planks of wood, part of the original house from 1776 we'd figured, and they were under the plywood, hiding. But they'd been hidden for so long and the house had battled so many problems that they were not in great shape-to fix them up would take a great deal of time and money, neither of which we want to invest in a house we are trying to sell.
B&Q is like Home Depot, only slightly more depressing, if you can imagine. Pick a huge warehouse. Paint everything a screaming, traffic cone orange, throw in a load of over-priced DIY things that you naturally need, fill it with people dealing with screaming toddlers and arguments about which color tile to use. Now add a whole slew of teenage uninformed staff who would rather use your body as a skateboard ramp than attempt to help you, and you have B&Q. Angus' mood invariably goes downhill when we have to go there, so when we pull into the shops I go into 'Now honey, let's keep our tempers about us this time'Â mode.
We choose a nice wood flooring, the essentials for the wood floor, and after an unexpected £250 ($500 USD) hour we go back to Ovaltine to fit the floor. This isn't new to us-we've both of us laid floors before in other homes. We swing around with the nonchalance of expert floorers, relaxed and un-intimidated in our work ahead. We carry everything upstairs and set things out, Angus had his sawhorse, saw and measuring stick at the ready. We nail a board down in the middle of the floor, as this is the key element-you have to start the first row completely straight or you're buggered, the whole damn thing will be slightly off-and we start at a straight line.
And my God it was complicated.
We get the first row in, but for some reason the row next to it just won't behave. They won't fit together. The boards are built like a jigsaw puzzle, with bits that need to be fitted into slots on the boards next to it, to hold it together. It's a no-glue, no-nail option, and it's supposed to be easy. It's marketed as something any cute two year-old with their thick and chunky Playskool blocks could do. Slide, slot, click! Slide, slot, click! Put the star shape in the star slot! Easy, yes?
No.
There we were, desperately trying to get the slots to work. Begging. Pleading. Offering sacrifices to the Capricorn moon and throwing our Playskool toys in anger, it just didn't work. We tried to slot the sides first. Then we tried to slot the backs. Then we figured out if you lifted up all the previous rows that had worked, you could get them to click into place easily. The only problem with that was the floor could only be lifted for so long, and then we would need Lou Ferrigno to come in, rip apart yet another shirt, and fix our fucking floor for us.
The good news is, neither of us lost our temper about it. I'd done DIY with my ex before and remember in particular a tiling session in the kitchen that had nearly ended in either divorce or in him selling me to an slave trade wife ring. Angus and his ex had gone toe-to-toe before with design ideas as well (which is good news for me, I guess, as I generally don't have strong opinions about home design. That said, if we have to move into the house in Ovaltine the first thing to change is the master bedroom color schemes. The color of green the walls and skirting board/closet doors/window frames is currently painted reinforces the idea that I really am just a stone's throw away from a nervous breakdown and perpetual insanity, me being in that room would have me circling the perimeter and practicing a Woody Woodpecker laugh while dressed in my blue evening gown, Wellington boots, and Angus' bathrobe while singing He's Got the Whole World In His Hands.)
We finally figured out how to get the floorboards going (and yes we read the instructions. Well, we read them after things started going wrong, and since they continued to be about as helpful as a chocolate doorknob, we felt vindicated that we hadn't started off with reading them). Once we got moving, we were in the groove. It went by fast. I fit the slots and scooted around the floor, while Angus did all the measuring and sawing.
At one point he looked up at me. 'I had been thinking about having sex with you here at some point this morning.'Â He says. 'But to be honest, I've really gone off the idea.'Â I look at him. He has sweat pouring down his face and chest and sawdust sprinkled throughout his hair. I look at myself-I too am sweating like one of Old McDonald's lodgers, with dust all over my clothes and black foamy stuff from the floor sticking to random parts of my T-shirt, like little mushroom forests growing off me. He's right-we're both off the idea. I'm not sure I've ever looked so revolting in my life.
We do half the room and then decide it's best to go for the day. We were thinking of going away this weekend, but instead we get a trip back to Ovaltine to finish up the floor, and to paint the bedroom walls. That green is going now, as the leaking gutters had caused a damp problem and the damp problem had caused a mold problem. Now that both of those have been sorted, the walls are dry and can be painted to cover up some of the damp stains that have appeared. And we have the garden to deal with, roly-poly shells to sweep up, and a whole list of other things that could do with attending to.
And they say owning a house is relaxing.
-H.
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