December 26, 2006
Let's review.
January-January arrived like the plodding mule that it is. Anti-climatic, grey, and everyday. Work was still hell, the commute was still long, but I did get to see my brother and sister, both of whom I continue to love unreservedly. I'm stealing G-Man the first chance I get. Oh also? My real family kicked my ass the old-fashioned Kung Fu style, first with news of my estranged sister's pregnancy then with finding my blog, necessitating in me starting a private infertility blog. Good times, my friend. Good times.
February-February stormed in and threw its weight around. My project won a massive award which resulted in me over-exuberantly hugging a knighted chap and resulted in the financial reward of the bed and couches we have today. Boyfriend treated me to a surprise weekend in Ireland for the weekend, which was glorious. We exchanged contracts on our house. All in all, a busy month for being only 28 days long. Maybe size really doesn't matter.
March-March threw open the fucking doors and cleaned house. We took Angus' kids to Disneyland, the Cook Islands, and New Zealand. The trip was absolutely spectacular and, most definitely, one of the high points in my life. I'll never forget it (and would love to live in New Zealand, actually.) When we got back two other massive things happened-we got the keys to our new house and moved in, and we got the world's bestest dog (no really, he is. Even when he rolls in shit, we still mostly love him.)
April-Nothing much happened in April. Angus and I both had birthdays. We worked our fucking fingers to the bone on the house. We learnt who Gorby is, and he learnt about us. And although I didn't blog about it here (see: January) I was going through my third IVF cycle, but my first with Angus. When I look back at April all I can feel is sawdust and needles, with the help of Mr. Bump (thanks, Stinks!)
May-Also a calm month, except for the fact that a pregnancy test in an awful hotel room in Upper Buttfuck came up negative. Also? Heard from the family, and not in a good way. When I think of May, it tastes like arguments and the inside of the freezer door. The good news is all our stuff from Sweden finally came over, and I re-found things I had forgotten about.
June-We needed to get away after the IVF failure. Angus took us on the most incredible holiday ever, to Greece. We went to Ascot. I got in touch with my stepkids and we celebrated Melissa's birthday in a stressy way.
July-July saw our annual 4th of July party, only we embiggened it in every way, and even had tents of people staying over in the garden. We drank too much, ate too much, and had too many fireworks. July was also hotter than hell, and we spent our time doing DIY and working on fixing up the study, while also painting the kitchen Angus' choice of color known to me as Kermit the Frog Ejaculation (which also became the ugliest fucking color I'd ever seen.) Although I didn't talk about it here, I was also injecting myself daily in preparation for our frozen embryo transer.
August-August we bought some antiques. We transferred two perfect embryos into me. I got attacked by a conservative who didn't do her homework, and we took the kids to Wales for a mini-holiday, where I vomited a lot, where in the chilly bathroom I took two pregnancy tests, both of which were positive. I puked all through August, until I miscarried the last weekend in August, the bank holiday weekend, which I will remember as the time I spent on the couch, my feet propped up, begging to god in between our dashes to the emergency room. The vomiting stopped. August can fuck right off and never come back as far as I'm concerned.
September-I didn't have much to say in September. We went to Proms in the Park (as we always do). We took the Orient Express, which was brilliant. We booked up a New Year's trip. I started acupuncture, which I have become a believer about. I got offered a new job, which I thought would be calmer (but isn't turning out that way). I started 365Days, thanks to Ms. Pants, which I have wound up loving.
October-October came in quietly. My father, stepmother, and step-grandmother came for a fantastic visit. I started feeling better and great progress was made in therapy. Melissa solicited dating advice from me. We went to Scotland and had a fantastic time. Halloween-one of my favorite holidays-came and went. I started laughing again.
November-I said goodbye to my best friend as he got married in Atlanta (and we were there, me in a red dress and all.) We worked hard on the house, re-doing the living room to be a place of calm. I cooked like a maniac. I recovered. I started planning Christmas.
December-We went to York. I took care of a poor dead fox. The decorations went up and my moods fluctuated. And now Christmas has come and gone and that's for the best-I was tired of the stress, but especially tired of the flu which hit two days before Christmas, which saw me vomiting so hard I made my nose bleed. Christmas Day itself was fantastic-lots of food, family, fantastic gifts (really fantastic gifts!), and laughter only now I'm worried I've offended my brother-in-law-ish because his monster child wanted to stay overnight at ours and I'm worried he heard me freaking out about it to Angus (said monster child did not stay overnight after all).
Family is hard.
And now the end of December is here (thank Christ), and we're off to Seattle and Canada. I have to confess to very much looking forward to getting away (not to mention we blew out our air miles and got upgrades on the long flights so that will be pretty cool), but it will also be nice to see my family. We'll be staying with my dad in Gig Harbor for a few days, where he's promised to take us to Pike's Market (which I love), Uwajimaya (which is the world's best Asian food shop outside of Asia), and to eat fish and chips at Ivar's (which is also a must). My stepmother has promised me a trip down Memory Lane, and I think that's a good idea, actually, and I feel ready for it.
Then Angus and I are off to Whistler for 5 days of skiing, before heading back for one night with my dad, and then flying home.
We both need our batteries recharged if we're to face 2007.
I'll be back the 8th of January.
In the meantime, Happy New Year. Here's to 2007. If anyone is willing to help me, could you hold down 2006 while I punch him a few times? Then I'll throw him out, and 2006? Yeah. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.
See you in a little while.
-H.
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December 22, 2006
From: Helen Adelaide
Subject: The appropriate contexts
Please accept, with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for
an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non
addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter/summer solstice
holiday, practised with the most enjoyable traditions of religious
persuasion or secular practices of your choice with respect for the
religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice
not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.
I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically
uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar
year 2007, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other
cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our country great
(not to imply that it is necessarily greater than any other country) and
without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious
faith or sexual preference of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms:
The greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely
transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no
promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for
her/himself or others and Is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable
at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as
expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one
year or until the issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
Disclaimer: - No trees were harmed in the sending of this message;
however, a significant number of electrons were slightly inconvenienced
************************************
The kids finally arrived after a 4 hour delay coming in to Heathrow. I've already braved the grocery store this morning to get the last essentials we need for Christmas Day (and I experienced violent trolley rage, so definitely no more grocery visits for me until 2007). Today we're off to London to see The Lion King with the kids and have dinner with Angus' extended family.
So what I wanted to say is this:
Happy Santa Claus Day to you from me.
Much Love,
H
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December 21, 2006
I love Christmas, I've always loved Christmas. I've been struggling with it this year, as life in general seeps in and throws a fire blanket over my smolder for all things tinsel and twinkly. I keep getting overwhelmed-there's so much to do and there's no point in doing most of it.
I watch a lot of Christmas movies, anything remotely Christmas in them gets a view. I've caught some winners (Hogfather, my beloved Elf) and some real tankers (Christmas With the Kranks...the FUCK?) One came on this morning (when I was supposed to be on a conference call, but I have been battling a stomach bug all day, ergo not being on a call was a perk) called Comfort and Joy, starring Nancy McKeon (remember her?) The premise was simple-a successful, wealthy, workaholic city woman has a bump on the head and wakes up to see what her life could be like in some parallel universe (a story that has been done before, and with more finesse and a kick-ass soundtrack). The main character falls into a life of chaos, children, Christmas decorations, budgets, magic markers, suburbs, barking dogs, affable and adorable spouses, and realizes what they're missing on a cold Christmas Eve.
And this ridiculous film made me think: What's my bump on the head life like? Say I were to smack my forehead on a ceiling beam and then decide (as one does) to put my nightcap on and go to bed, only to wake up the next morning in a completely different life. Well...what would that life look like?
I sat there on the couch thinking about my life. I have the high pressure job, the career chaos. I live in the house in the suburbs. I have the chaotic Christmas ornaments, I have the strange bendy dog.
What would my bump on the head life be like then?
***************************************
"Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" I scream up the stairwell. "BRAD! We're going to be late!"
Brad races down the stairs, adjusting his cowlick. "You look beautiful, baby," he says, planting a kiss on my cheek.
I smile ruefully. I am currently wearing a ruffled skirt, a sequined sweater, and a corsage the size of a horses' head, complete with ribbons, teddy bears, and dyed carnations in gold and blue. I look like Erik the Viking threw up on me, and threw some Toys R Us merchandise against my boobs for good measure.
"I feel ridiculous in this thing," I reply.
"Oh, Sweetie, you have to wear that. I'm the Homecoming Sponsor, you have to wear that huge corsage. Besides, it's the big game tonight. We have to show our spirit."
"OK, baby. I will. We have to go, we only have the sitter for another three hours." I look into the living room, where the current assortment of videos, toys, and random Cheerios mark the entrance into the room previously known as The Room We Had Sex In, now known as The Kids' Entertainment Space So I Can Have Five Goddamn Minutes To Myself.
Brad comes down and kisses my forehead. He wrinkles his nose. "Did Caitlyn spit up on you?"
"GOD. I thought I got it all."
We have no time, so we dash out the door, waving goodbye to the kids and the sitter. We get into our Chrysler minivan and strap ourselves in, and I push the Best of Duran Duran CD into the CD player. I forward past Girls on Film to Rio, as we danced to that on our honeymoon in Cabo. We sing along.
We get to the high school and park in the teacher's parking area. We walk to the stadium, smelling the hot dogs and hormones from the parking lot. The band is playing something completely unrecognizable and the announcer is warming the crowd up.
Brad kisses me. "I'm going to join the rest of the math department, honey," he says.
"OK. I see Lynda over there, I'll go join the wives." I reply. I make my way to the bleachers to see some of the wives.
"Hi Helen!" Lynda exclaims. "Would you like a cup of hot chocolate?" she asks.
"Yes, please." I reply gratefully. I could use a drink like that.
"Did you hear?" Lynda whispers gleefully, always happy to spread the gossip. "I was talking to Karen at church on Sunday, and you won't believe it-she's getting a job." Lynda says the word "job" like most people say the word "gonorrhea".
"Really?" I ask with interest. "What's she going to do?"
"Oh, I don't remember. Something to do with banking. Didn't you used to do that?"
I shrug. "I used to work for a stockbrokers, yeah. I quit when I married Brad and got pregnant." I think back about my job then. When Brad and I were dating, I got a job offer working for a Swedish telecom company, which I turned down at the time. I used to wonder what would have happened had I taken that job, but I guess life wouldn't have been the same. Brad and I agreed I would be the stay at home parent, and I haven't had a moment to look back since. We both know that being a stay at home parent is an incredibly important and difficult job, but..
I look up and see Brad walk out onto the field with the Homecoming Court. In true Texas style, it's big hair and big jewelry. I clap with the crowd, as Brad strides out like a man in charge. I get a whif of Caitlyn's spit up, and my smile fades just a bit as I realize I am envious of Karen.
***************************************
OH. MY. GOD.
I shudder. It's not that being a stay at home parent is bad-in fact, before I get hate mail, let me state for the record that I think it's a very difficult job and my hat's off to any parent that does it. I just don't think I could do it, personally. I also think that life, that Homecoming Life? I don't think I could've done that, either. Will try again.
***************************************
I tap my foot impatiently. Gunther has asked me a million times to not do that, he hates the states I work my shoes into when I drop them off. I sigh impatiently and pull my scarf around my shoulder. I flip open my phone and dial Polly.
"Polly!" I bark when I get through. "Where the fuck is the car?"
"I'll check, Helen. It was ordered to be there for you."
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you-I want the car here WHEN MY PLANE LANDS. I don't care if he has to wait, he has nothing better to do!"
"I'll check Helen. One moment.....yes, ok he is waiting for you outside now, Helen. I'll see you when you get here, you have a joint VP meeting at 3:20."
God. I can't stand incompetence. I pick up my bag and walk outside the airport down the sidewalk. I see the car down the curb a ways.
"Alex!" I bark.
Alex comes up to me. "Hello, Madame. Can I take your bag?"
"Do." I hand it to him and swing into the backseat.
Alex gets in the front and adjusts the rearview mirror. "Did you have a pleasant flight, Madame?"
"I'm not in talking mode, Alex."
"Of course, Madame. I apologize."
I sigh and look out the window. I am bored. We have a 30 minute drive now into Manhattan and with my Blackberry Pearl battery dead, I have no internet. I am going mental thinking about all the work I need to do, all the emails I am missing. I grab my phone and dial Graham.
"Graham," I purr into the phone.
"Helen. What's up? I'm a little busy," Graham says shortly.
I go out of cat-purr mode at once. "Fine. Never mind. See you at home."
"I have a late meeting with a client. I will be staying out tonight."
I sit there, debate, then decide to go for it. "What's her name, Graham?"
He sighs heavily. "Christ, Helen. Do we have to do this every time? Look, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow." He hangs up.
I hang up and sigh. I open my phone and dial. "Sam," I say calmly.
"Hey baby," Sam replies. "How was Prague?"
"Prague was good. How are you?"
"I am just on my way back from raquetball."
"Have a few minutes for an old friend?" I ask, smirking.
I hear his smile. "What did you have in mind?"
"The usual. See you in thirty."
He laughs. "God you're hot. Why weren't you this hot when we were married?"
"Because I was too busy chasing your money, darling, of course."
"Please, you did that yourself. You chewed through that stockbroking firm. You didn't need my money, you made your own."
"Whatever. I'll see you in thirty. Make sure you have the handcuffs this time, too. I'm bored with the silk scarves."
I hang up and direct Alex to Sam's house first. I figure I can divert to Sam's for twenty minutes, then back at the office. I promise myself I will stay at the office working until 10pm to catch up. I feel suddenly stressed. I realize there's alcohol in the car and I could use a drink like that. I reach into the sidebar and pour myself a scotch. I push away feelings of responsibility to my husband Graham, as I plan to go screw my ex-husband Sam. It's not like Graham's an angel either. I look out the window and see a tower for that Swedish telecom company, the one I nearly worked for. I make a note to check their listing, see if they've pulled out of their slump now.
We glide into the city, and I chase away any feelings of being human.
***************************************
Jesus.
Christ.
That was worse than Homecoming Mom. In every scenario I wind up not being myself, being something less than who I needed to be. At that fork in the road, the fork with the Swedish telecom job, I realize that saying no at that one single fork-let alone all the other choices I have had in my life-would have resulted in the most radically different life I could possibly imagine.
I pull my fleece robe tighter and look out at the fog.
I don't have kids, although I have two bouncy stepkids that (hopefully) arrive today.
I don't have a chauffer.
I don't have a husband.
I don't have loads of expensive heels.
I don't have an enormous corsage.
But I do have a little house, a bendy dog, a loving boyfriend, a world-class therapist, a job that I mostly hate but which doesn't own my soul, and the recognition that a Bump on the Head Life maybe couldn't compete with what I have now. A Bump on the Head Life is designed to show you what you don't appreciate in life, what you're missing, what could be so much better.
I am grateful for what I have.
Here's to not falling asleep after bumping my head.
-H.
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December 19, 2006
I sit back in the stool. I absently rub my calf, encased in a layer of thick black tights. I sigh and reach for the pearl around my neck, the one I almost never take off.
"Can I join you?" I hear.
I look up and smile. "Dude. You came back."
Santa moves into stool opposite me. He looks exactly as he did when I saw him two years ago, from the cheery red cheeks to the cheeky cup of steaming hot coffee loaded with whipped cream. "I went for the peppermint mocha this time, I found that the gingerbread lattes made me wired," he says kindly.
"It can happen."
"I know, especially when I have an extra shot of espresso."
"You do that? Isn't it a con?" I ask.
"You'd think so, but I consider it training for staying up all night delivering toys. You try to do it on No-Doz alone, you'll agree it's impossible."
"I dunno, man. Not being able to sleep is my handle."
Santa smiles broadly. I think: He has a nice smile, it's easy to see why Mrs. Claus went for him. This is immediately followed by: Oh my God, I just thought Santa was cute. I need to bleach my brain now. Finding Santa cute is like wanting to have a threesome with Alvin and the Chipmunks, and that's wrong on so many levels.
"So what's been happening, Santa?" I ask, quietly trying to shake rodent sex from my brain.
"Not much," he says, and leans forward for a long swig of his drink. The smell of peppermint wafts over to me, drowning me. I love the smell but it always makes me feel like I'm in a Fisherman's Wharf commercial.
"I saw this movie came out of you this year, in which Mrs. Claus gets knocked up. That was weird, Santa. I cna't express how your Missus should not be the bearer of children, the only thing she should be bearing is trays of gingerbread. And I know that's really sexist of me, and I should be all: 'Mrs. Claus can totally lead the reindeer too, you know! You should be making the cookies!' but she's an everlasting stereotype of goodness and maternal love. We kind of need that."
"Yeah, she wasn't too pleased about that, either. She's so stressed out that everyone thinks she's fat, then Hollywood goes and makes her pregnant. Now she's joined Jenny Craig and Rudolph and I get carrot sticks. Tim Allen is so on the naughty list now."
"Man. Like Santa could have a knocked up Missus."
Santa stops, his mug halfway to his mouth. "What's that supposed to mean? You think I can't get Mrs. Claus with child?"
I lay my hands flat on the table. "Santa, if you like me even a little bit, you won't make me visualize your penis. Please."
He laughs, and people around us turn their heads at the swimming sound of it. "Fine, I take your point."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while and sip our drinks.
"How are you really, Helen?" Santa asks kindly, his eyes twinkling.
I look up at him and smile. He sees me when I'm sleeping, he sees me when I'm awake...there's nothing he doesn't already know anyway. "I'm doing better, Santa. I really am. It's been hard this year, and I don't know what to make of it all. In some ways, it should be one of the best years of my life-we got this fabulous house. We have travelled. We got the most ridiculous looking dog that I am madly in love with. That part, that's truly been fantastic and I honestly am grateful."
"And the rest?" he asks quietly, his pink nose wrinkling over his coffee.
"Well, this year has been pretty hard. I'm looking forward to 2006 just being over at this point. I've tried to dust myself off in time for Christmas and I mostly succeeded-our living room looks like I gutted a Muppet to decorate, and I've been watching Christmas films like they're going out of style. I've watched Elf so many times I think people are going to commit me, but...I dunno, it just seems to cheer me up a bit. It's pretty easy to lose sight of it all, Santa. I'm struggling this year. What about you? If you could go back and undo something, what would it be?"
His thick white caterpillar brows furrow as he thinks about it. "Hmmm....good question. I dunno I....ok, no, I got it. I'd beat the frosting out of the guy who wrote I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. Mrs. Claus made me see a relationship counselor over that one, and hired a private detective."
"You were tailed by a private detective?" I ask, sipping my latte.
"Yeah, one of the elves from the day shift of procurement. You're looking at me funny, what, you thought elves worked for free? They work in shifts. They're unionized, they're not slaves. They get paid in candy canes, except for those procurement elves, they get paid in Suzie Talks-a-Lot dolls. Dodgy nutcrackers, those guys. He got nothing on me, but still. That song really made me angry."
Wow. Santa gets angry? I wonder what happens when Santa gets mad. Does he throw toys? Fart Toll House scented farts? Give everyone in the North Pole the silent treatment? Randomly assign people to the naughty list out of spite?
I nod. "Sorry Santa. I've never really liked that song."
"Well," Santa says with a smile and a pat of the stomach. "Back to you, Helen. What would you like for Christmas? And please-no singing."
I grin. "I promise, no singing. That was a one off, I don't do musical numbers anymore."
So what do I want? A size 4 body? The extension done on our home? World peace? A baby, one that doesn't die on me this time? For Paris Hilton to become a Carmelite Nun and duck out of view for the rest of our lives? An engagement ring? Peace, love and goodwill to mankind?
I smile and shrug with one shoulder. "You know, I think I'm good this year, Santa. There's nothing I really want. I hope we all just have a good Christmas. I think that's what I want."
Santa smiles. "You're still on the good list, Helen."
"Thanks, Santa. I appreciate it."
Santa reaches for his mug and drains the last of it. He sets it down with a solid thud, and he smiles, reaches for his coat, and shrugs it on. "Well, I'm off now. I only nipped into the Big Smoke for some java, I have to get to Edinburgh and stop some folk from bungee jumping off the Firth of Forth. I swear, the thrill seekers never learn."
He puts his hat on and turns to me. "Merry Christmas, Helen."
I smile. I like him. "Merry Christmas, Santa."
Santa heads out. He gets to the door and he turns to me. "Oh and Helen? Buddy says hi," he grins, and he walks out into the London winter air.
-H.
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December 18, 2006
We had a big Mexican meal (mmmmmm....Mexican. In....York. The Homer-isms fall down there.) Then we headed back to the room for a snooze.
Saturday dawned and we decided to make our way to York-it's a very old, very lovely town, one equipped with the most perfect museum in Angus' world (besides this one, of course.) Angus decided to avail himself of all things National Rail, while I decided to twirl around York, finish up any last minute shopping, and make a trek to the Cathedral in York.
York's had a great deal of rain lately, as you can see in this pic. In the far left of this? Those are benches.
The Cathedral itself is stunning.
And the interior is perfectly maintained and breathtaking.
I'd gone into the gift shop to buy my grandma her customary magnet (I buy her one of every new place I go to. She keeps them in a box in her room, and I love sending her new ones). Once there, I wandered into the Cathedral. It turns out I was supposed to go in through another door and pay, but I'm glad I didn't-I have a thing about paying to go into churches, I'm happy to make a donation but I hate being forced to.
Once inside, my usual ritual was observed.
We met up after a bit and bought vendor fair-York was hustling and bustling and we couldn't have found a more Christmas-y town if we'd tried. I had a crepe and Angus had a pulled pork sandwich, and while we were chomping down, we saw Morris dancers setting up.
Now, Morris dancing seems to be a uniquely English phenomenon. I don't pretend to understand it-the men (and women) wear traditional garb, including bells on the ankles and the waving of handkercheifs. Occasionally they have long sticks which they whack against each other. There was a chap dressed as a black ram in some nod to paganism which I found really creepy, like Ronald McDonald for the woodlands or something.
We recorded a bit of it here (turn the volume right up to be rewarded with the sound of the accordion and bells on the legs).
Told you.
That night we had a posh dinner and I wore my red dress again. We drank too much, ate too much, and the train ride home on Sunday took the whole fucking day. I know that England looks small on the map, but when you use the trains it feels like one mighty country.
This post is disjointed, mostly because I'm struggling today.
Angus picked up Gorby this morning, who's been in a delightful and loving mood all day (largely as a preventive measure against having to go back to the kennel again I think. Little does he know, in just over a week he will indeed be back there and for a much longer stay, too. Said dog will be handsomely rewarded with PetSmart treats we will bring back.)
And I could use it, because this morning I failed my driving test over a minor error, which I still contend there was nothing I could have done about the situation, but whatever-it's not an argument you can have with driving inspectors. Next test set for the end of January.
Fuck.
-H.
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December 15, 2006
Still, you feel guilty. Really guilty.
He gets dropped off in a little while.
We're up in Yorkshire at around lunchtime. I hope it's a nice weekend as we really need one-we've clocked up 5 days of depression and not getting along now, so staying at that fantastic place with the showers is just what we need.
Hope it works.
***************************************************
So Monday is my driving test. That's right. I finally got around to booking a test. I don't want to do it and am really fucked off that I have to (the fuck? I can't swap my license here for an EU one, but Japanese drivers can. I've been driving more than half my life now, you think I can't drive a fucking car here?) I signed up for lessons-again-as they teach you how to drive so that you can pass.
My guy showed up a few weeks ago.
The cars can't get any more obvious that I am not a licensed driver.
My instructor is very nice, and I call him La Mole. I call him this because he looks like this guy, only sans cane. The first time I got in the car he tried to tell me how to use the stick shift and the steering wheel. I quietly informed him that seriously-I can do this driving thing. Then I showed him and he agreed that I can, indeed, do this driving thing.
We work on the maneuvers mostly-part of the test is that you need to execute 3 out of 5 possible maneuvers. The one I am worst as is reversing around a corner, mostly because it's not easy and secondly? Who the hell does that? And WHY?
We had a lesson yesterday and it didn't go so well. I am getting pretty nervous about this test that I am over-compensating, badly.
"Uh, Helen?" asked La Mole.
"Yes?" I replied.
"You could drive faster you know."
"I don't want to speed."
"I don't want you to speed either, but a bicyclist just passed you. I think that means you need to speed up."
La Mole is nice. We both hope I pass on Monday, especially since the average number of attempts to pass the driving test here in the UK is seven. Seven. I don't even want to do anything fun seven times in a row, let alone something as taxing as a driving test. So it would indeed be nice to pass, considering I took the wrong exit at a roundabout yesterday that would, in essence, have been an automatic failure were I testing. La Mole was nice about it: "Helen! You need to pay attention! You need to couunt the exits!"
I know, dude. I know. Story of my life.
***************************************************
Work is not yet slowing down, but as of next week it should do. I only have to be in London one day next week (besides on Friday when we take his kids to The Lion King). I was finishing up the last of my Christmas shopping yesterday (I only need one more thing) and was paying for things at Paperchase. I was absolutely exhausted. The very attractive sales guy looked at me and grinned. He looked absolutely exhausted, too.
"You look tired," he said kindly.
"Dude, YOU look tired," I replied, smiling.
"I could sleep for days," he said.
"God I know. I would love to go to bed and simply shut the door and sleep for days," I moaned.
"That's EXACTLY what I want!" he said excitedly, in a tired kind of way. "What do you want for Christmas?"
"I've asked Santa for sleeping pills." I said, nodding.
"Huh. Might be interesting. Santa as a dealer."
"It could happen."
Ironic, isn't it? Hot guy, not so hot girl, and they don't do any casual flirting or anything, they both just really want to go to sleep?
Christmas, man.
The bounce of it has gone from my step.
-H.
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December 14, 2006
When I get on the train, for perhaps the first time in my life, I sleep for the entire journey sandwiched between fellow businessmen also sleeping. We are a train of Nod. I hate it.
When I get to London I opt for walking to the office, as I think I need the exercise, as I canÂ’t face the hordes of people waiting for the tubes. I walk over the Thames, I walk into a Starbucks, I walk towards the destination.
And then the office.
I used to have a Speak & Spell and a Speak & Math. I loved those things, I used them constantly. I remember specifically on the Speak & Math there was a game called “Greater Than/Less Than”, in which you had to identify which side of the equation was the big boy using the greater than/less than marks. I remember the voice of the electronics coming on saying: “Greater than less than….level 1.”
I heard it all day.
First meeting I walked in to, the resounding words in my head were “Greater than less than….level 1.”
The meeting did not go well.
I walked out hearing the Speak & Math admonish: “That’s incorrect. Your score is 0.”
I bought more coffee and made my way into my next meeting.
The next meeting goes better but circling me the entire time are the Greater Than Less Than men I failed to beat. They smile. I smile back. I pretend like they are gumdrops stuck on the side of a gingerbread house. It doesnÂ’t help.
More coffee. Next meeting. This one drags on and on and on. I find my phone hasnÂ’t been delivering messages to me. There is tension between us (maybe that time of the year. Certainly that time of the month). My other boss is wondering why he hasnÂ’t heard from me in two days. My other boss can go fuck himself.
I buy more coffee. I am barely awake and certainly barely functioning. I fall asleep standing up in the elevator between the ground floor and the 8th floor. I miss my stop.
Finally I am done. I have been in many meetings. I have had over 7 cups of coffee. I am so tired I could cry but instead I walk across the bridge in the London darkness to look at the Christmas lights on the banks of the Thames. I am not alone in this, there are many couples laughing and holding hands and kissing. Somehow they annoy me, and I feel ashamed at being annoyed.
I cannot believe how low I am by work.
I am surrounded by Christmas lights that I love but theyÂ’re not getting through. My Christmas cheer is not easily held on to. My Christmas cheer comes and goes, itÂ’s a viral cheer, a 24-hour thing. I get up by a Christmas tree. I go down with an argument. I recover with Rudolph-scented soup. I lose the cheer when I trip and fall over office politics.
Maybe if I get some sleep itÂ’ll all make sense.
But today not even my precious Elf appeals. I am worn out. I want Christmas break to be here. I want things to be easy, but then IÂ’m an asshole who never learns that they never are.
I ride the train home next to Boozy Claus, and I get a bit drunk off his fumes.
-H.
PS-the good news is I don’t have to go to Upper Buttfuck for a while. Upper Buttfuck-which has a “telecom alley” that hosts branches of all of the telecom companies in the UK-is this place (and I am not the cashier Helen mentioned in the article). Upper Buttfuck. No joke.
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December 13, 2006
Still.
Love the song.
It's a very simple song-short, easy lyrics, easy on the ear (especially considering it was first done by Bing Crosby in 1943, and he's got the voice of an angel. Also? Bing. Bing. "Francisco, oooooh, that's fun to say." Bing. OK, I'm done now.)
I'll be home for Christmas,
You can count on me.
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree.
Christmas Eve will find me,
Where the love light gleams.
I'll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.
Christmas Eve will find me,
Where the love light gleams.
I'll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.
Sweet. Lovely. Uplifting. This song-along with O Holy Night, which I like to pretend I can sing but can't due to the high notes. Or I should specify-I can hit the high notes, but only if I am really, really drunk. Then I'm sure I sing like Judy Garland, if Judy Garland really was a drunk.
Oh wait.
So this year-along with the Christmas carols and Elf twice a day-I've been pretty maniacal with the decorating.
Advent candles on the fireplace mantle.
Candles inside and the tree outside decorated with lights.
A daytime view of the tree.
A close-up of some of the ornaments.
And finally a picture of the tree at night, lit up and sparkly (it looks particularly red here, but don't worry, our home isn't actually a discotheque).
The previous years we had one string of lights and silver ball ornaments only on the tree. This year, I started buying ornaments in July, during the heat wave. I started dreaming of Christmas early on this year. I started wanting something more.
And I think it's because-for the first time in my entire life-I live in a house that I love wholeheartedly.
The house I owned in Dallas I loved, too. I remember that time in my life with distinct fondness-I was single, earning extremely good money, had a cute VW convertible and two lovely dogs, and I was single-my life was my own, every decoration in the house there because I wanted it there. The problem was the little house was in a not very good area of Oak Cliff, so while I loved the little house, I had a lot of home protection devices.
No, this house? I feel completely safe in. I love many little details of the house and plan excitedly on the extension. This house, which I swear we were meant to have, with this ridiculous colored dog and these two black and white cats. This is where I am supposed to be.
I ride the train home, and home to me has a wagging tail and the scent of coffee and oranges. It's got a bedroom I love and a study that needs tidying badly but is a space which I get to call all mine. There are couches that are comfy, a fireplace that accommodates, and a canine that makes me laugh a dozen times a day.
I have always loved that song but it hit me yesterday, walking through the bustling and hustling streets of London to get to an appointment, the lamps festooned with burgundy bows and lights hanging across the roads, that getting home and sitting by the tree was what I wanted most of all.
I never thought I could ever get there. I never imagined living on the end of an unmade road in the English countryside. I couldn't have possibly predicted that a white house in a foreign country would be the one place I feel 100% comfortable. I never deserved something like this, but now that I am here my degree of gratitude is something that shakes me every single day.
We get to have Christmas here and yes, it will be hectic, fraught, loud, giggly, nightmarish, fantastic, and busy.
We get to have Christmas here and it's the first ever big Christmas I've ever held.
We get to have Christmas here. It's as simple and as complicated as that.
I'll Be Home for Christmas was a song. It was a ground instant coffee commercial. It was Old Blue Eyes on the radio. It was something I played on an endless loop as I had an endless parade of houses I lived in and endlessly moved from. It was something that I yearnt for. When I moved to Europe I thought the "Only in my dreams" part of the song meant I'd be dreaming of a Christmas in my mother's home. Seven years on, and I am instead dreaming of a New Year's at my father's.
My own dreams, my "only in my dreams"? That part came true. That part happened. I'm awake and it's here and there's a big tree in the living room, I have a home with a glowing boyfriend and the uber-dog.
This year, for the first time in my entire life, I'll be home for Christmas.
It hit me on the busy London street, and it made me cry with ridiculous happiness.
-H.
PS-my sistah. Me-and my Hallmark commercials-are here for you. I'll even bring Sprout games.
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December 12, 2006
And, seriously-I hold Muppet values to be close to godliness here. Where there is no God, there is Fozzie Bear. I'm just saying.
Anyway, Angus and I are both extremely keen on recycling, the environment, crunchy-granola goodness, and dancing naked under the harvest moon ensuring we don't use non-renewable resources whenever possible. We recycle within an inch of its life, only buy electricity from a renewable source, and we'll be putting up solar panels when we extend.
We're not perfect though. We take a lot of flights, which of course is very bad for the environment. For a little while we weren't recycling glass because Angus was at war with the local council. Our toilet waste goes down a pipe to a factory, thanks, and not into our garden.
We try to be conscious in other ways, too. For example, we try to only buy fruits and vegetables grown locally and not things that are flown in. This not only helps local economy, it means we aren't contributing to foods getting loaded on flights, and further polluting the environment. So while I feel better about eating local mushrooms and Lancashire radishes, occasionally I feel a real twinge as I see the South African passion fruits. Sometimes, I even buy one.
Forgive me, hemisphere, for I have sinned.
It extends to cut flowers, too. I love cut flowers in the house, but Kenyan hot houses have contributed to severe pollution and deforestation. So we can only buy local flowers and this time of year, that's likely to consist of a few handfuls of stinging nettle and some evergreen branches. But where I'm occasionally going to cave on an African passion fruit, I don't cave on the non-local flowers.
Truthfully, I feel too guilty.
I'm still a card-carrying member of Catholics Anonymous.
My feeling of moral obligation may waver when it comes to passion fruit, but it really desserts me when I think we're going too PC-crazy. I hate that I have to say "Happy Holidays". Now, of course I don't want to offend anyone. If you are Jewish, then a Happy Hannukah will come your way (which leads me to another fear-I can't say the word "Jews". I just can't. To me, it feels like a swear word, much like "Jap" (which my father explained to me) and the infamous "N" word. Before you react with cries of anti-semitism, I assure you I am definitely not that. Abbreviated terms for ethnic/racial groups just always seem to wind up as racial/ethnic slurs, and even though a Jewish friend assured me this wasn't the case, still it makes me feel uncomfortable. I don't run around saying "Jews", much like I don't over-react and say "Children of Israel". I just work "Jewish" into the conversation.)
Now, if I was in a group and someone came up to me and said: "Happy Hannukah!" I'd simply smile. I'm not Jewish. But big deal, someone wanted to wish me a nicety. That's cool and I'm thankful for their kindness and attention. I'm not a Christian, either, but I don't get upset if someone wishes me a Merry Christmas (which no one does, anymore.) Much like I'm not going to get wound up if someone wishes me a Happy Eid al-Adha, a Happy Dev Diwali, or a Happy Kwanzaa Day (I left off the Buddhists there, but don't take offense, I have no problem with Buddhists (HELLO? Japanese?) I just couldn't get the PDF to download to figure out what holidays the Buddhists had at the end of the year. I love Buddhists. Buddhists are great, in the spiritual non-competitive sense of the word, of course.)
I think we're a little uptight when it comes to the holidays. I read this story with interest, especially as we're going through that airport for New Years (bad airplane ozone burning wasters us! Bad!). I thought: How sad. They had to take the tree down. And why would a rabbi threaten to sue? Isn't it enough to point out the error, ensure Menorrah went up, and then everyone would have a happy transit through an airport? Why does it get so bad we just give up?
Being PC and having a sense of moral obligation is, I think, going too far. A mate of mine went to his children's school play. She was playing Snow White only it wasn't the Snow White we know of. Apparently, Snow White's new name is Jessica (or something like that) as Snow White is offensive to non-whites (I don't know if that's true or not, maybe I'll ask my non-white dad. Truthfully, as the whitest person you could possibly imagine, the term "Snow White" bugs me a bit, but not in a litigious way, just in a "God, I know I look anemic" way). And the artist formerly known as Snow White doesn't live with dwarves as that's offensive to little people (as I am informed that people with achondroplasia (aka dwarfism. Don't be angry, I'm not misuing the term.) are called.) So his kid's play? "Jessica and the Seven Defenders of the Forest."
I shit you not.
And I'm sure the Dwarves Defenders had new names as well. You can't call one Grumpy as it's an insult to people with depression. Ditto for Happy. And calling someone Dopey must be an insult to Stupid people, and Stupid people should never be up for an insult (or-oh God-maybe it's not allowed as Dopey isn't allowed due to concerns over people with mental retardation, in which case I do apologize for being flippant.)
Also, you can no longer sing Baa Baa Black Sheep, as it's not PC. Never mind that black sheep actually exist, they are real fluffy creatures that seem to live harmoniously and don't get uninvited to Thanksgiving dinner. No-here, the nursery rhyme is "Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep".
Somehow, that's lost its edge.
At work we were told we couldn't brainstorm anymore as we were told that's offensive to people with epilepsy. So we "blue-skied" it, only now we have to have a new term for that as we were told "blue-skied" was offensive to people who are color-blind. I don't know what it's called now, we're all terrified of saying it wrong, so we book "discussions to get together and think a lot".
Some PC is right. Sensitivity is needed. It's good to protect people and it's good to protect the environment. I feel guilty if I am doing anything to intercede with that-people may feel abused. England may have record heat. Polar bears may die.
It's just every once in a while I want to sit around with my black sheep family status and light a wood fire, scoff New Zealand grapes and burn Christmas cards of nativity scenes.
Where, ironically, I suspect they'd be banned as the sheep in the picture are all white.
-H.
This post brought to your courtesy of ().
UPDATED-sorry, somehow the comments got closed. They've been opened now...
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December 11, 2006
Yeah.
The reason I mention him is there's a new film out called Stranger Than Fiction, which I am dying to see but probably will have to wait until it's on cable. The premise of the movie is there's a guy who's life is being narrated, and he finds out his narrator is going to top him off at the end. It's very disconcerting.
Especially since I feel like my life is narrated by Burl Ives.
It could be worse-it could be Oscar the Grouch or even Ross Perot. Burl Ives has that calm, cool voice. He's everybody's grandpa they never had, the kind who sat on the porch watching fireflies and serving up pink lemonade. He played a character named Osh Popham-Osh Popham, does it get any kinder than that?-in a Disney film called Summer Magic, which I suspect I'm the only viewer who has ever seen it.
Burl Ives often narrates for me, and I just accept it.
**********************************
I am cooking dinner. Once or twice a week these days I cook a big, rather posh meal. It takes a while to do but I really love doing it, I get to check my brain at the door and just chill. This Saturday baked spinach bubbled in the oven and garlic-infused lamb shanks (for him) were awaiting a sizzling pan. I changed the TV channel in the kitchen and-as there's no satellite in there, so we're limited by what we can watch-I wound up on The 10 Best Choral Masterpieces. Some I knew, some I didn't. Most I played loud. Then came the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah. I cranked the volume up and stood there, listening. I wiped my hands on a towel. I smiled. Then I felt a knock on my spine.
Burl Ives: You see, Helen had once had a bad event associated with hearing the Messiah. Something once happened that shook her badly, something that still sneaks up on her and...well...it just plain makes her feel bad. For Helen had never truly worked out what had happened in her own heart and mind. It seemed that whenever she heard the music, she would both love it and want to turn it off at the same time.
**********************************
Four days ago I was on a train back from Upper Buttfuck. The day had been long and-I thought-reasonably interesting. I like my new managers (even though technically speaking I still work for the same manager I have been). I like the work we're to do. And though the meeting room was cramped, hot, and airless and the meeting itself unremarkable, I was glad I went-I even got another award, which included a pat on the back and my very own ambient light. I've been battling another group for control of my project-my management team say I'm in charge of the project, his management team say he is. Although all the various managers are said to be working this one out with each other, it doesn't mean it's not immeasurably frustrating. The worst part is how these other guys talk to me. Even though-regardless of how this all works out- I'm their customer, they talk to me as though I am one of those legions of pointless managers all organizations seem to have, despite the fact that I have-twice!-delivered a rocket riding gerbil.
I am bemoaning this to one of my new managers, a volatile Irish chap, and he says out of the blue to me: I have noticed that they speak to you like that, yeah. And I honestly have to say-I think they're doing it because you're a woman. I'm not excusing their behavior, but I am reasonably certain that's one of their issues.
My stomach sinks and I get so angry I hit the arms of my chair, forgetting that one of my hands still held one of my phones (which survives the impact with no problem).
Burl Ives: Helen felt that the entire situation was out of control. You see, she'd spent her whole life fighting to get her head above water, and this last argument threatened to drag her under into the inky blackness. The truth is, Helen was so worn out she wasn't even sure she could face it-she took this new job as a bit of a quiet break, but it was beginning to be clear to her that it would be anything but. And that, my friends, is what was beginning to hurt her heart.
**********************************
I've been both enthusiastically checking and dreading the post everyday. I never know what little carpet bombs are going to be in there. Although the Scary hasn't arrived, it doesn't mean other things don't wind me up. To the forefront of what winds me up is when we get Christmas cards addressed only to "Angus Crumpleton" on the outside (that's not really his last name. Actually, Angus isn't his first name either. I think some English last names are truly hilarious and Angus' real last name-which is quite rare and very strange-is one of them). Inside it may have my name, his kids names, and even Gorby's name. But on the envelope, it's all about Angus. This really fucks me off.
Me: I hate it how it's ok to just send the card to you when it's for both of us. They all know my name. The least they can do is address me, too.
Him: My dad has you in his contacts folder. He has you as "Helen Crumpleton".
Me: Get the fuck out!
Him: No, he really does. Is it ok to call you that?
Me: No. No it isn't. I have a last name, I'm keeping it.
Him: So if we got married you wouldn't be Mrs. Angus Crumpleton?
Me: I will never-EVER-allow anyone to address me as Mrs. Angus Crumpleton. I have a name. Getting married doesn't have to become my identitty.
Burl Ives: Helen had long been waging a war on her own independence. Her argument about being called Mrs. first showed up on her friend Ilyka's site, and even though it got her into hot water with other bloggers, Helen felt there was something deeply important in it for her. For as Helen and her therapist are understanding, Helen's background held a deep vein of women being inferior. A part of the struggle Helen faced in herself was accepting that this battle was in the past, that her heart would heal, and that she didn't need to spend her life being so afraid of being downtrodden. For what Helen failed to understand was this-knowing that you're being stepped on is part of the path to freedom.
**********************************
Currently the tension in the house is palpable due to an argument. I won't go into it, but we're not happy with recent events and, in our usual fashion, we'll avoid it until we're tired of avoiding it and living under a cloud, then we'll just go on with daily living. It seems to be a pattern in our house that both people have to hurt over the exact same thing before there can be an understanding. If part of the Scientology vow is to never go to bed without clearing the air I tell you-if we were practicing Scientologists we both agree our insomnia would be a lot worse (which will never happen. We don't do oganized religion and anyway the Scientology headquarters is in Angus' former home town. There's no way we're going down that path.) I'm sure that no one really likes to fight and I especially hate it when we fight. I just-
Burl Ives: Helen felt a bit blue and tentative. Both Helen and Angus love and live passionately, but before they could understand how one another hurts, they both needed to feel the exact pain, it was their way to create an Empathy Bridge-
Me: Dude, I was talking. You interrupted me, Burl.
Burl Ives: No speaking to the narrator.
Me: But I wasn't finished. And what the fuck? An Empathy Bridge?
Burl Ives: Helen resolved to let time heal all wounds, and decided sitting in the decorated living room would heal her heart and mind.
Me: Burl, you've mentioned my heart every time now. What's up with that? You need new material?
Burl Iver: NO SPEAKING TO THE NARRATOR!
Me: Easy. I was just pointing it out, you know. GOD.
Burl Ives: You want me to narrate here or what?
Me: I do. Seriously. Having Sam the Snowman narrate my life rules.
Burl Ives: I've done a lot of narrating, Helen. I even did The Ewok Adventure.
Me: I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that one.
Burl Ives: That's probably a good idea.
**********************************
-H.
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December 08, 2006
I'm not talking Ali McGraw-like love or anything like that. Love is grand, but slightly bigger than not realizing you have it one day. If you were that unobservant to begin with, your relationship probably wasn't stellar anyway.
I'm also not talking about things like, oh, your kidneys. Kidneys are cool. Kidneys flush out the baddie toxins. We like our kidneys although, unless you are awaiting a transplant or frantically drinking cranberry juice to ward off an infection, you're not likely to think about them daily.
It's similar to how you feel about General Mills cereals-when they changed the formula for Lucky Charms I hadn't yet realized by deep, penetrative love I had for Lucky, the little fucker. Lucky the Leprechaun and his pale, pastel charms were part of my childhood. Then Lucky got all whacked. He got funky. He watched too many episodes of In Living Color. He went and changed the color of the marshmallows to a new, ultra-violent color, a color so putrid they could have come from the anus of someone on the outskirts of Chernobyl.
Not just that, but Lucky? He went and made his marshmallows chocolate last year. Seriously.
We've broken up.
Don't even get me started on Trix, I swear I will kill that fucking rabbit if I ever see him. Trix went from rabbit pellets to rabid pellets. Trix are for kids my ass-no kid of mine will be touching that shit now that they changed the formula. Grapety Grape? What the fuck is wrong with you people, huh? I was heart broken.
I had taken Trix for granted.
I had taken Lucky Charms for granted.
But that's not all-I've spent the day without broadband and wifi as technical testing has been taking place in the home and we needed a clean environment (but, seeing as I got home from Upper Buttfuck at 10pm last night, the air interfaces were clean but seeing as we'd been too busy to vacuum for a week now, the house really wasn't.)
It's difficult running your day on only a Blackberry.
Especially if you are already in a killing mood.
Dear broadband, dear wifi...I love you so much. Let's never leave have moments without each other in our lives again. I would say that you complete me, but then Tom Cruise is squicky and how sad is that, I need you to complete me?
Love You Forever and Ever,
-H.
PS-can you talk to General Mills for me? I'm pretty worried they're going to take Boo Berry and insert marshmallows shaped like P Diddy. My life will really be over then.
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December 07, 2006
I woke in the dark to get showered and dressed. I left in the dark to get to the train station to catch a hideously early train into London. The weather was perfectly miserable-driving rain, gale force winds, and everything-regardless of umbrellas, rain jackets, hats-got soaked. The ticket machines weren't working (due to rain). The trains were late (due to rain). The staff was surly (due to simply being Network rail staff).
My mood was excellent, despite it all.
The train-when it finally arrives-is packed and I luckily get a seat. I sit down and pull out my PSP to watch my usual (going on number 30-something I think). The rain keeps driving and the whistling wind batters the train. Inside, I am one of many commuters, all of us with minds whirring full of sugar plums Excel spreadsheets and Microsoft Project plans.
When we get to London I get my usual bagel and my usual venti nonft gingerbread latte. I grab a free Metro. I get the umbrella ready. Then I put the umbrella back and figure-Fuck it. I have a hat. My hair is uncontrollable anyway. Let's just go with it.
I walk across Waterloo Bridge grinning and eating a bagel.
There's worse that could be.
In the office I find a hot desk and set myself up.
Work is contentious-I am in a power battle with another chap. He wants control of my new project, I have control of my new project. Things get escalated to people with CEO in their title (our company has several of them as it has several branches of business). Said people come out of the woodwork and support me-they support me, crazy intrepid me.
My mood is still good.
My laptop is in a sorry shape, my email inbox a fucking disaster area. In a week when I officially start my new job I can just archive all the mails and start fresh. My phone batteries are both nearly dead and my Blackberry has gone on the fritz.
I quietly hum Christmas carols under my breath.
I make my way up to North London to meet with my therapist. We are making leaps and bounds lately, the key that turned some time ago has actually done some good. These days I feel more inside of myself than I ever have before. My therapist says this is why things feel so much to me-I haven't felt them before, so my view is as though I'm new.
I guess I am.
I have more meetings, all of them stressful. I have CEOs still calling me. I watch the PSP and take deep breaths and don't let it get to me.
I walk across Waterloo Bridge and marvel at the Christmas lights. I breathe in the cold night air and curl my hand tighter around my Christmas present purchases. I ride the train home.
Thursday morning my mood was still good, despite getting very little sleep. Angus dashes off to a full-day meeting and I work from home. I pour coffee and add my gingerbread syrup. After sipping it and finding it tastes like a spicy, warming cup of ass, I pour it out, smile, and pour myself another.
The emails start coming in and are contentious as all get out. I take a deep breath, remain firm, start up iTunes and click on the Christmas music, and vow that my holidays will be about family and healing. I look out the window and see our garbage bin has been left behind by the bin men.
Our garbage bin, which is currently filled with trash and the rotting moldy carcass of a Thanksgiving turkey, masquerading as a science experiment.
I feel slightly rankled.
I try not to let it bother me.
A CEO calls and tells me I have to travel to Upper Buttfuck tomorrow for an afternoon meeting. That's a nearly 9 hour journey for 3 hours. I sweetly ask out of it but am firmly told it's "best for my career". I try to tell the chap I don't have a career, but am left at the end of the phone with the sinking horror that I'm off to Upper Buttfuck, and nothing good ever comes out of going to Upper Buttfuck. I sigh and go with Gorby to take the compost out-a jaunt through the garden with a spiky happy pup will do me good. I grab the compost bucket and some shoes and we walk out.
And I see, edged around the horrible fish pond, is the corpse of a fox.
OH MY GOD.
THERE'S A DEAD FOX IN MY GARDEN.
At this point the Candy Cane colored veneer I've been living under cracks. I have been living in some kind of Elf-induced tranquilization. The carefully removed stress I've been feeling for the past two days hits like a freight train and my eye muscle madly twitches like Pamela Anderson on a Friday Fight Night.
THERE'S A DEAD FOX IN MY GARDEN.
Cue hysteria.
When I finally get it together, I pack the fox up in two plastic bags, all the while apologizing-I feel foxes are beautiful glorious animals (despite how mean they are to the local farmer's ducks. The same farmer whom, I assume, poisoned the little guy so that he could come here to die in my garden.) Also? I'm freaked out that it will come to life and rip my hands off, so as I'm scooping him up with a shovel and Glad Bags, I'm in hysterics: "I'm sorry! You're so lovely! I'm sorry! DON'T KILL ME! I'm sorry!"
Yeah. The calm and easygoing mindset I had died with the shiny red fox.
THERE WAS A DEAD FOX IN MY GARDEN.
Still, weirdly I'm in an OK mood.
I really need to get my hormones balanced.
The air is sweet and fragrant, and none may pass without my permission!
Christ.
-H
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December 06, 2006
This year a few care packages went out with cards in them. Those names are not on my list, but their cards had an early exit point from the house. I hope the cards made sense. Some cards will go out as e-cards, because e-cards make us laugh.
My father, stepmother, and stepgrandmother Nobu are crossed off the list. We'll be seeing them just after Christmas and we all agreed to exchange gifts then. My stepmother and Nobu handmade us a few Christma ornaments, which they sent over with a Christmas card a few weeks ago. We responded in kind, with Christmas ornaments from Harrod's and a sparkly glittery Christmas card for them.
I have a few friends on the list that are card bound. I have my father's crazy Japanese mother and my cheap uncle. I have one or two colleagues that will be getting cards.
And my maternal grandmother's card was snuggly wrapped in a cardboard box with a mug and a birthday card. Her birthday was yesterday. I didn't call. I didn't think my call would be answered and I worried it would be. We communicate via letters only-she'll send me a long one which carefully mentions nothing about the family, I send back a thick stack of pictures of Angus' kids, of Gorby, of our holidays.
And then.
And then....
I don't know what to do about the other.
We haven't spoken since January. I got a stroppy voice mail in the summer. It's been complete and total silence and that's keeping me comforted. The phone, it is my profession. The phone, it is also a weapon.
Maybe the truth of it is we have nothing to say to each other. Maybe we don't want to hear each other's voices. Maybe we're both engulfed in the martyrdom of our own private issues, or own private angers. We cannot talk without fighting, and I don't want to fight, I don't even want to talk. Maybe we cannot forgive our tresspasses-I'm talking to someone. You're insensitive. I don't want you in my life. That's fine I don't want you in mine. My year has been hell. Your year could never be anywhere near as bad as mine.
I would say that you win, but the competition is not interesting to me.
I love you but we're not so good for each other.
I hold glass ornaments in my hand and spin them round. I stare at my blurring whirring reflection and debate the point of it all. Then, like a switch, I shudder and turn it all off. Most of my self-defenses are under examination but this is one I can't live without.
I've spent my life trying to be the good child. I worked so hard to be loved by you, to be lovable. I spun my wheels to please, I lived for approval, I throbbed for acceptance. I never missed a birthday, I never missed a holiday, I never missed Christmas, I never missed a thank you letter. I was the good child...and still I lost. Good child...fuck. Being the good child never got me anywhere.
And this is where I'm struggling. I'm so fucking angry with you and you're so fucking angry with me. I'm fine to not hear from you again (I say ever, my therapist says for now, maybe there's a middle ground or maybe my stubborn streak will rule, I don't know). But there's the filial piety coming in. There's the urge to do the right thing, to be the good girl, to be loved. My head battles itself.
Fuck you, I don't want your love.
Oh yes I do.
No I don't.
Fuck you, too.
Angus says, quietly: Maybe you should send a card.
I think: Ironic, isn't it? You hated him so, he's one of our fenceposts, yet he's been the one with the duct tape and the olive branches.
So all around me is Christmas. Our Christmas tree goes up soon. The decorations are draped over the spare bed.
And the Christmas cards await us.
I think I know how the outcome of this will be.
-H.
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December 04, 2006
Not a line as in: "Can I take your picture, because I want to show Santa Claus want I want for Christmas" line.
He gave me a Santa Claus line.
Christmas is more or less here. I've been struggling a lot with mood swings for the past month, I seem to be going up and down pretty severely. Le Therapist thinks this is ok, that my moods aren't of the cataclysmic variety right now. He has been briefed about my past, about how before various topping-self-off events I have suffered wild periods of mania and depression, the depression of the "not getting out of bed" territory, the mania of the "I can't sleep, think or talk but I will rub a hole through the floor with Lysol" (and lest some wise body think this is where they should jump in with the "You're a manic depressive and trying to have a child? How selfish!" I give you the standard response-I'm not manic depressive, thanks. Also, my therapist has given me the all-clear for trying again, and I do trust my mental health professional more than I trust someone armed with an online version of the DSM-IV. So really-thanks. Also? Fuck you.)
Angus has had his hands full with me this holiday season. From the lows of September we have picked ourselves up and dusted ourselves off, but the truth remains that I continue to be slightly frenetic about Christmas (I'd say that's what has to do with my extreme love of Elf, but that would be down-playing the sheer perfectness of that film. I do honestly love the film, and I love those that love it, too.)
When we first got our very first place together, we had a sober Christmas tree-we had traditional Scandinavian lights on it and silver bulbs only. We had Swedish window lights and the advent candles. We had very traditional Christmas stockings. We had the customary English stocking stuffers-bits and pieces as well as a Satsuma and a shiny two pence coin.
Angus likes traditional things, he's a classical kind of guy (but ask him what he thinks about marriage while he's driving to see if you can get him to swerve the car.) The holidays are, to him, about family. He doesn't like the gaudiness of some of the Christmas decorations. He won't be watching Elf with me any time soon. He's not so traditional that he watches the Queen's Speech on Christmas, but he doesn't watch the annual Christmas Day Bond film on TV, either.
I don't mind his being traditional, actually I rather like it. I have such a hopeless background that I have very few customs myself, there is very little that is a "must do" of my family-with the exception of lasagne on Christmas Eve, I can't really claim any norms that we used to do. Sure, I'll watch my Christmas DVDs, among them Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (the claymation one with the Elf Dentist, of course), A Christmas Story ("They looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears."), Scrooged ("Oh look! A TOASTER!") and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation ("Yeah, it is a bit nipply out."). This, to me, is all I can think of.
Until this year, that is. Maybe it's the new house that's got hold of me. This year I asked if we could dispense with the silver oranments and candle-y lights and really go for it. I got a yes, and since then I've been buying ornaments, bright chipper ornaments that will light up the tree and the eyes. I've bought garlands and tinsel, lights and wreaths, advent calendars, Christmas cards, and nearly all of the presents.
This is all a bit difficult for Angus, who I think is beginning to feel like he's not part of the equation. I've been buying things without discussing them and it has caused problems. But if he says anything to me about it, then I kind of fall down the slippery slope of depression all over again. So the poor boy has a choice-he can either accept that our house will wind up looking like a coked-up Rudolph threw up all over it, or he can risk having his girlfriend crying while chopping down trees in the garden after trying to ensure that we are on the same wave-length for an even keel Christmas.
The boy, he seems to have gone for the LSD-tripping reindeer option.
I am very grateful for that.
We had an argument over the Santa Claus line ("Hey, a one -horse open sleigh isn't the only fun thing to ride."). I was going to return it but he hid it from me, and I never made it back to the shop with it. We had another argument a few days ago over the stocking holders for the fireplace that we bought in the States
(Him: What made you think I liked those things?
Me: You said you didn't mind them one way or another, if they were important to me than we'd have them.
Him: That means I don't like them. I don't see how you could misunderstand.)
and after that argument, the Santa Claus line came out ("Hey Baby-believe me, if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows.")
Saturday we drove to his father's. On the way, we saw a guy who had wooden Rudolphs for sale. Angus went against his norm and turned the car around to buy one for his ecstatic girlfriend. We bought the little guy, who rode in the car with a distrustful looking Gorby, and the reindeer (which is reusable each year) is now parked in our front garden.
He loves me enough to put up with my frantic decorating.
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a Santa Claus line, and a reindeer to match.
-H.
PS-Yes, that IS a candy cane in my pocket and I AM glad to see you.
OK, I'll stop now.
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December 01, 2006
***********************************
I saw Casino Royale. Now, when they first unveiled Daniel Craig a year ago, I'd thought: Eh. What a pussy. Then my movie mate and I saw the film.
Jesus Christ on a muffin.
The new Bond is masturbation material in a very big way. The new Bond is hot, agile, and manly. The new Bond got into a shower in his tux and hugged a crying woman, not minding that she was in the shower in her dress, and he even turned the water on hotter and not once did he say: God, what the hell is wrong with you, why the fuck are you in the shower in your dress?
He's a keeper.
Yes, I know he's fiction.
Still hot though.
***********************************
You know this picture? The one where I'm getting ready in a hotel bathroom?
That hotel I stayed in while applying curlers to make me look like Cindy Brady?
Yeah.
It was this hotel.
I'm wondering if I'll glow in the dark soon.
***********************************
I have now watched Elf a total of 22 times, and it's not stopping yet.
***********************************
You know what? It's December 1. It's time to rock.
You didn't think he'd escape it, did you?
-H.
PS-sorry for the extreme suckage as of late.
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