May 28, 2006
So I got your voice mail. My phone had been on silent in my pocket, as we'd spent the day with Melissa and Jeff in the New Forest. I didn't hear it ring.
But then, had I seen it, I wouldn't have answered anyway.
I listened your voice mail just before bed. You're quite good at sarcastic, damaging voice mails. You always have been. I listened. Shrugged. Deleted. Took a sleeping tablet and went to bed.
I got your news. You must be so happy. You have everything you want now, the perfectness in your life is so complete. I don't begrudge you it, because not only is it bad karma to do so, but I simply don't. How ironic that days after you found out you have the perfect baby, we found out we didn't. That was the sleeping tablet necessity, in case you hadn't guessed it. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But you didn't need to guess it, the timing of your call told me all I needed to know.
Remember when we were growing up, and you would wring your hands and moan about why did no one love the girls? What was so wrong with us? Why did all the grandparents fuck off and abandon us and, as the nuclear family became a nuclear fission and we picked up folks on the wayside, why did they not love us, too? Why why why why why?
You maybe don't realize it, but it used to eat me. I used to sit there and think: What am I doing wrong? What can I be that would make people want to be around me? What if I were prettier or smarter, browner or whiter? What if I were worthy enough of being loved?
I don't blame you for my mental illness. My problems are my own, even if the seed that became the forest of my issues started from a very young age, in a very unstable house. But I do blame you for being a hypocrite. I'm calling your pot black, and I'm doing it here. Because, you see, I have two tow-headed stepkids. I have two children that I get to see once a month, and for that month Cartoon Network hits the airwaves at 8 am. The dog is a best friend, the house seems to have more things in it, and somehow, I feel the walls inhale and exhale with the pitter-patter of not so tiny feet. But do you ask about them? Never. Do you even acknowledge their existence? Nope. They are a non-entity to you. Did you know that he asks about them? He sends them gifts. He even got on the phone to wish them Merry Christmas. He tries, and the kids are shy but he doesn't care, he keeps trying in small ways. Only now maybe all that will change, I don't know.
But I have at least broken the cycle. I don't wonder and muse aloud why you don't love them enough to be in their lives, it's a silent process that I debate internally. I don't mention you to them at all, because I would never, ever let on to them that there is someone that can't be bothered with them. For every moment that they get to be here, they will only know that they are loved by anyone that crosses our fucking threshold, and I can't express in words the fierceness I feel about this.
I am many things. I am awful at most of them-talking, feeling, singing, believing, hoping, being. I can list in the single digits the few things that I am good at. It's not much. I'm not good for much, you know that. But you know one of the things that I am good at? I think I'm good at being a stepmother. I'm good at answering the Hollywood questions ("Where have I seen that guy, before, Helen?" "He was the bad guy in Lemony Snicket, Jeff.") I'm good at knowing where I fit in the scheme of things. I'm good at providing the Little Nemo Band-Aids and I'm good at knowing when someone wants a hug. I'm good at being distant, when what they need is their father. I'm good at trying to listen, even when I don't have a hope in hell of getting the answers right.
So now I'm a stepmother, I have the unique ability to see things from every single person's shoes in our family. I can see myself in my father (always on the fringe, looking in on the team he was never allowed to play on. Stakes are too high, and the fall is too steep). I can see myself in my stepfather (coming in as some kind of parent, but not really a parent, and not really a part of it all in the early days.) I can see myself in my stepmother and Angus' stepmother (the other woman, the whore, the adulterer who breaks up families. The price they pay is a life without children, even when they long for them, and they paper themselves in a life of riches. But they're not really whores and adulterers, they're just people. We're all just people.)
The only shoes I can't seem to fill, no matter what, are yours. But I don't want your shoes, I want my own. The cycles stop here. I will put myself through any kind of hell I need to, I just want to be healthy. I want to continue to try to be a mother myself, and in order to do that, I am going to purge myself of any kind of unhealthiness I need to in my weekly sessions with my therapist, where he confronts my boogeyman. There will be light in me, someday, where there is only dark.
So I make the waffles, two expectant sets of blue eyes on me, hair unbrushed and socks falling down. I pour the batter in, remembering the scents. I close the lid on the waffle iron. It is a disaster, the waffles stick and I have to pick them off. Jeff, a sweet smile and outstretched plate, tells me it's ok, he wants to eat the pieces anyway. I nearly cry. I almost give up. We give the pieces to the dog and I take a deep breath and try again.
I got your voicemail.
I pour the batter, and close the lid.
I was ok not hearing about it.
I find my own gods and pray to them.
I don't want any more details.
When the light tells me they're ready, I raise the lid.
I don't want to know any more.
There, on the griddle, are two deep brown, crusty, beautiful waffles. I smile and sigh and provide them to my stepkids. They eat them and several more. I make enough waffles for Angus, the kids, and then myself. I get the last batch, by which time enticing things have beckoned young minds away from the table. I sit alone at the table and I eat my waffles, the little pools of gold, the small flows of maple syrup. At the last waffle I am full, and in a tribute to the tradition, the last soggy waffle goes to Gorby.
I wash up.
Making waffles on Sunday doesn't make me a mother.
But it helps.
Don't call I don't want you to call I really don't.
I've figured it out.
-H.
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May 26, 2006
I could tell you that work is shit, that I am a bit blue, and that health-wise I continue to struggle. I could mention that I don't really visit other sites these days and there are some sites that I can no longer go to at all for certain reasons. I might go into detail about my thoughts and feelings, but as I'm gearing up for the Grand Nationals in therapy, I think I'll save that for next week. So instead I bore you with moving vans, details on visas, and hangovers.
But now! For the penultimate in boredom, I bring you our garden (I know! Doesn't it just get you wet/hard? Doesn't it though?) Hang on! It just doesn't get any more interesting than this! (This was my first ever paragraph with complete exclamation points! I have achieved some kind of compromise in my life, truly!)
Being a city chick, I've never really had a garden. In Stockholm I had one for the first time, where I had both a flower garden and a vegetable patch. The flowers I did well with, only because I had thrown about 5 packets of Snapdragons at the recipient earth, where somehow they took light and the garden exploded in the things. The vegetable patch I worked hard on, only once I realized it needed daily activity and that I had some kind of obligation to then eat the damn veggies, I balked. I hate being forced. Obligation does my head in.
I refuse to do vegetables now.
Part of the draw of this house was the garden. The garden was sculpted and spectacular, the woman who owned it spent her time dwelling in it, planting in it, weeding it and loving it. It showed.
Now that we moved in, things are happening in the garden. Things are growing and I have no fucking idea what half of them are, and not even Alan Titchmarsh (yes, he's really called that and yes, I have juvenile laughter about it) can tell me what half of it is. Everywhere you turn, something is coming out of a bulb, flowers are exploding, and a bush looks like it has caught fire with flowers.
I love the lilacs.
I love these things, called (I think) Grandma's Bonnets.
Then there's the pale clematis, growing up the side of the house.
There's a bush laden with snowballs, and I love to sit beneath them.
The peonies are about to explode. I fucking love peonies, and I can't wait to see them. I planted about 5 other peonies myself this year, but they seldom flower in the first year, so I suppose I've just made an emotional investment in my garden for next year, which is weird as I can't commit to vegetables.
Everywhere, there are roses. I am not good with roses, but I am going to learn.
But there's this thing-a walkway that I found out is laden with roses. The whole thing is dripping with rosebushes that must be older than I am.
And I saw that it is getting ready. The buds are forming, and the flowers are coming, and when they come the entire thing is going to explode with roses.
In fact, the top of the trellis is already blooming.
And my cold bitter heart is excited about the roses coming out, so watch this space as I will continue to bore you with a rose-covered walkway (and I planted jasmine and sweet peas down the sides, so it will be a true assault on the senses.)
By the back door, a rose bush is in bloom.
I was never promised a rose garden, but the house is going to give me one, anyway.
-H.
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May 25, 2006
I left the US in November 1999. I haven't lived back there since, although I have managed to visit the States nearly once a year since leaving. There are things that I miss, I won't lie-I think Target is about the best shop in the world (100-count box of tampons? Excellent. Ten gallons of Tide? Perfect.) I do miss the constant availability that is restaurant life. Fancy Chinese? Or Indian? Or Mexican? Or Texmex? Or Mexican Infusion? How about a Saskatchewan/Szechuan, because there's one of those off Central Expressway. I sometimes miss knowing how everything works-I know how to get utilities hooked up, I know where to go when it's time to vote, and Oscar Night was always a big night.
But there are some pretty good trade-offs about living here. The Indian food is killer. TV can either be cutting edge or complete crap. There are houses around the corner that are 600 years old. Angus' hometown's church has the tombs of three witches, burnt at the stake. I don't have to drive to work (other than the 5 miles to the train station), as I can walk or take the tube.
And I have the most magnificent view on my way to work.
I don't regret moving to Europe for a single second. There is something that you have to note, though, if you are thinking about moving here. Unless you are Australian or a New Zealander, you won't have a fallback community (the Aussies I work with have regular barbecues. They all know each other and don't hesitate to talk to a newcomer. They can drink them some beer and like hubbly bubbly pipes. I love them.) I work with an American from Boston named Derek. Derek and I get on well. We always chat when we see each other in business meetings. I make time for Derek, not because he's an American, but because he's good at what he does.
But Derek and I don't socialize outside of the office. Not because we don't get on, but because there's an unwritten rule, a silent code-if you move away from the States, then you must make it on your own. You don't group in obvious clumps and knock back beer together on a weekly basis. You don't call each other to compare Ribena versus Vimto. You can't commiserate on the hierarchal structure that is English working environments (which, it has to be said, is also found in the States.) You chose to live here, so you suck it up and get on with it. You don't commiserate. The first rule about Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club.
Loners move away.
I can live with that.
There's a lot to get used to in living away from what you grew up with. You start with things that are small, like getting used to a paycheck once a month instead of every other Friday (and this one is harder than you would think!), and learning what the equivalent ingredients are for things-in Sweden, as in England, things aren't always what you think they are. You work your way up-lingo is a biggie, as are languages altogether. Bureaucracy is different and the politics and inside jokes take a while.
So how do you get here? I don't know every possibility. If you want to follow the same path that I did to get to Sweden, then the following apply:
1) Get a job with a large company in your home country, one with a headquarters located overseas. Far, far overseas.
2) Work like a maniac for said company.
3) Maniac = 7 days a week.
4) And forget Christmas.
5) Ignore Thanksgiving.
6) Take on more work, because work is life comrade.
7) Large International Company has overseas posts listed on the job site. This is a big thing. An important thing. Peruse them regularly.
When your project gets canned, apply for jobs on internationally job site. Don't be shy. And realize that over here, you do follow up on job applications, as otherwise they think you're not really interested (it's a test, and we all know how hard tests are in relationships). And if you have a name for yourself in the company as someone who can disregard Thanksgiving for work, then you've a good shot at it.
9) Work moves you, including your things. They sponsor your visa, including a trip to the Swedish Embassy in NY to get everything verified and a visa slapped into your passport.
This was the move to Sweden, however. To get to England was harder because I had to do it myself, there was no company handling everything (if you can get a company to handle it for you, you've found the brass ring. Kiss their feet and let them do it for you).
After losing my job in Sweden, I knew I couldn't stay there. The company had laid off a massive portion of their workforce. When one job in telecoms came open in a rival company they had over 7,000 applications. As a non-native Swede and someone who made consistent grammatical errors, I knew I had a snowball's chance in a Floridian retirement home. So I cast the net wider, focusing on England.
After all, England held something dear to me.
England it would have to be.
And in England, the visa structure is different.
I decided to go for what's called an HSMP visa, or highly skilled migrant worker. Basically, in England you go on a points structure, which means that you get points if you have a degree, you get points based on your age, your income, your partner's education, your work background, etc. If the points all add up to the minimum required, then with a small fee you can get a visa. It helps if you already have a job offer, but the best bet is to apply for the visa then work the Monster job sites like a working girl on the Vegas strip. Apply for anything that may be a close enough fit-the job I have today was something I took a chance on through Monster, it was similar to the work I had done, but not the same thing. A recruitment agency on behalf of the company I work for took a chance on me, and here I am today. Post your CV, which may feel weird but does work because companies will contact you. Check up on jobs daily. If you tell them that you are already in the process of getting a visa, you have a chance.
If you don't have enough points, I understand England has now instituted a visa plan for those who have skilled labor, or are recent college graduates, or who are early in their careers (being younger counts for more points, and not just with Don Johnson.)
If you are even debating moving abroad, get the paperwork ready now. You will need proof of employment for the past five years. You'll need letters from colleagues. Make sure you have your tax returns, diplomas, proof of income, proof that you can support yourself if you move, and proof that you will never, ever support naming your children Bluebell, Romeo, or any other fucked-up Spice Girl deviation. If you submit your info around the end of the year, it'll take less time (this year the wait was about three weeks). Wait until Spring and there's a queue-I had to wait about three months, and in the summer the wait lingers to six months. Don't go through a company that say they can get the results faster-they can't. Send it directly in to the UK government.
Make yourself look as good as you can, because this? It will change your life, no matter what.
But that visa is just what you need if you want to work in the UK. There are many kinds of visas. There are visas for students and visas for working for one year in the UK in a market such as hotels and restaurants (popular with the antipodeans, who usually come over for a year and do this.) Student nurses have their own types of visas, and of course there's just the visa if you want to come here for 6 months or less, which isn't a hell of a lot of time to see what lies behind the Union Jack. Of course, if you're living in a Commonwealth country or a country where they like Queen Betty a whole lot, your visa process will be easier.
You can also get visas based on being in lurve with a native, but that takes more time-a chap I work with has an Asian girlfriend, who has to prove once every two years that they are indeed a couple (by showing things like utility bills, which they have as they've been together for yonks). They could get married and save the hassle, but he's a commitment-phobe and she, I think, has the patience of a saint. She has to leave the country while getting the visa, which can take up to three months. When you are in love, three months apart is a long time.
Hell, when you're in love, three minutes apart is a long time, something along the lines of a Shakespearean tragedy and thrashings of undying love.
So it's a time consuming process, fraught with pitfalls, but where there's a will, there's a way.
I love being here.
-H.
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May 23, 2006
We had opted to not take insurance because if the boat sank, how can you put a price on a blue and green vase that you made yourself in Skansen? How do you describe a blue hanging candle you bought in a market in Turkey, and how the hell do you tell them that the childhood book you had, the one you insisted on having read to you every night, the last copy you could find in hardbound, is gone?
The boxes arrived, and as I wrapped my hands around the strong frame of my rocking chair and carried it in, I felt like laughing in the rain. As I tore boxes apart to find my silver box, I nearly cried with relief when I found it. I withdrew it and asked Angus if he wanted or needed to look in it-he said he didn't, and so it has gone back into another box to be stored inside. I didn't open it.
I don't need to.
Opening my boxes of books I felt like I was re-uniting with lost lovers. Griffin and Sabine, I missed you. Vikram Seth, may we never part again. A.S. Byatt, let's have tea. We have to build bookshelves in our study, which is currently unfinished, so for now they remain boxed and holding up our many framed prints which need to go on the walls.
Angus was also wrapped in memories (as well as more power tools than even the New Yankee has, or as Angus calls him, the Damn Yankee). His boxes go further back than mine, and have something more of a scent of the 80's on them, a time of loud music and louder clothes. I'm a decade younger, and in being younger, my claim is of a different generation. He gets the 80's, that time of St. Elmo's Fire and everything tinged with a taste of Duran Duran and the Talking Heads. While I'd like to steal The Breakfeast Club, the 90's were more about Men in Black and, on the cusp, Say Anything, all aired with a twinge of REM and They Might Be Giants.
Every box had to be sanitized. I've found many picture frames packed with pictures I never want to see again, but at the same time, I never want to lose them (a strange dichotomy in my life filled with dichotomies). A few have been thrown away. One got ripped on accident, and then ripped again on purpose. There are now two boxes which I plan on simply sealing and keeping in the attic, as I don't want to lose them but I don't want to look at them. They contain things like love letters, a wedding dress, and photo albums.
It was asked about my Ex-Partner Unit, and the truth is-we don't talk. We don't talk because he avoids me like the plague, and I don't blame him. He has moved himself out to China, sold everything, and now is working on a new life. He hates me, I think, and I understand that. If I were him I'd hate me, too. I'm not even him and I often hate me. He had the keys to my storage unit, where he dropped a few things off that apparently he didn't want reminding of-the Lladro wedding figurine we have, the former wedding cake topper, a few appliances. He used the same route I usually do-get rid of it fast before it hurts too much.
It was also mentioned yesterday the feeling of being a nomad, and this feeling is one I understand completely. Ironically, I have a book that's lazing around my hard drive, which I titled "Nomads" (which I doubt will ever see the light of day) about exactly that-the moving, the trying to find your way home. My whole life has been that of a laconic gypsy, the moves either military-imposed or self-imposed. My therapist says that one re-creates what they grew up with because that's what they know, that's what's "comfortable", (even if the comfort level is equal to laying on a bed of nails). So move around I did, a self-imposed exile of forwarding addresses and hazy memories of too many formica kitchen counter-tops. Moving is like running-you can do it and escape your problems, but you'll only get new ones.
And I'm done with moving.
This is my stake in the ground, and it only took 32 years to do it.
The boxes were wonderful-Angus unpacked in the kitchen and I took on the study and there were many exclamations of "Oh my God, you have to see this!" as we unwrapped our wrapped lives and wanted to show them off.
There were many things I had forgotten about-a plastic green frog which used to grace the bathroom of my home I owned alone in Dallas (and which I loved). A garden table my mother bought for me years ago, and which I still adore. The handmade cape I bought in Venice, for Canivale. Sweaters (Jesus. H. Christ. I have a lot of sweaters, a throwback to those Swedish tundra winters.) A hand-painted Japanese bowl with a maple leaf motif. An original Hummel music box given to me as a gift by a friend of my parents who passed away many years ago.
And then I found the gorgeous quilt that my grandmother had hand-sewn for me, before her arthritis took over and it got too hard. It was the last quilt she ever made and I love it unreservedly. We're debating having it hung on the wall, because I don't want anything to happen to it.
There was a blue and green vase, hand-blown in Sweden. It was the first thing I ever bought in Sweden, on my very first trip there. It is heavy as hell but, to me, remarkably beautiful and something I can't believe someone could make. It now resides next to a crazy vase I bought in New Zealand, one which makes me think of Dr. Seuss and laughter and sunnier days.
I found my packet of pictures I have of my previous generations. More wedding photos of my grandma and grandpa. Some pictures of my great-grandpa, though sadly none of my beloved great-grandma. And I found a picture of my grandpa, the one I still miss, and I stuck it in a frame and placed it in our living room, next to a print we have of the London underground in the 40's.
And finally, the rocking chair. One of the rockers is still broken, but we have woodworking class tonight and the instructor-a retired traditional cabinet maker-is keen to look at the chair. The chair somehow makes me feel lighter inside, and once it's repaired I know I will sit in that damn thing all the time.
Here's a picture (ignore the laundry hanging in the background because again, it just won't stop fucking raining).
Loads of boxes are flung all over the house. The kitchen looks like the cupboards have exploded. I am missing a few things-a plate from Greece, a bowl from Israel, and tiny tea-light candles in the shapes of a lotus seem to be missing-but if those things are all that's missing, I can live with that. These are our things. Our things are here, and I have missed them.
-H.
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May 22, 2006
I have almost nothing from my early days-a baby quilt, a rag doll, and a hardbound book whose spine is falling off are all that marks my very early childhood. All but the hardbound book are here in England with me, the other items I have personally flown with instead of entrusting them to moving companies.
The childhood, pre-teen and teenage years have, I believe, nothing at all to show for it.
College life may have an item or two-a few pictures, maybe. There is certainly a silver box lurking amongst my possessions. My college diploma is over here, folded and stuffed in a box under the bed as an article that I needed for various visas (certificates mean fuck all to me. I'm not the type to hang up my college degree. I have awards and certificates from work, and I know where they are only for the bureaucratic helpfulness, but they are not things that will go on the walls. To me, these things are all just pieces of paper.)
There are binders that contain all kinds of forms-tax returns (I have kept them all, copies of every 1040-EZ ever. I only ever made enough money my last year of living in the States to file a 1040 regular. The other years were amalgamations of various W2s and hopes that for the love of God, the tax refund would be mighty.) I have a few items of poetry I've written, including one that won a prize. I have a few photo albums, things that may hold memories that I myself can't recall.
I have no journals.
I burned them all in the smoking tiled Swedish fireplace, after losing my job.
I don't think I regret that.
There are a few boxes of clothes, only I haven't seen the clothes for two years, so I don't really remember what's in there. I can remember a grey wool skirt with sparklies on it that look like shifting snowflakes. I can remember comfy pajamas and thick socks. I can't really remember what else is in there but since they are my possessions from Sweden, I imagine there are a lot of sweaters in there. There are other boxes that my ex hastily packed and slung into the unit-I don't know what's in them, I only know that I didn't pack them. I am curious, but not worried.
I have a small dresser. An enormous bag of hockey gear from when I was a goalie. A massive REI backpack, a throwback from the college days and what I used to trek through Belize and, years later, to sail between Greek Islands. There are a number of framed prints, including some of my favorite pictures by my favorite artist, Marc Chagall. I look forward to these pictures, as they make my mind swirl.
And the one thing I am looking forward to the most is a rocking chair. I bought this rocking chair on the Swedish island of Gotland a few years back, a rocking chair that's over 150 years old. It had a beautiful design on the chair that sadly had to be covered over as it was repaired. This rocker is unusual in that the rockers themselves are extra long, so you go very far back in one smooth motion, although currently one of the rockers is broken and will need repairing. I love this rocking chair, and of all the items it is the one I have missed the most.
A few weeks ago Angus flew to Stockholm and combined our things-his possessions were boxed up and lingering in one of his and his ex's houses (the property that they used to jointly own and which she now owns has two very large houses on it-one is lived in, the other is currently empty.) His boxes are full of power tools, kitchen things, and items of his past-he has memories and reminders of years past. Since we bought the house and have settled in (and because his ex was making noises about putting all the goods on the lawn) we moved everything into my storage unit. We could finally do this, as the streets were melted of snow, the flights were cheap, and the cost of my storage unit has gone up. All told, the sum total of our lives has turned out to be 6 cubic meters. I don't really know what 6 cubic meters is, all I know is that it's contained in the smallest Shurgard storage unit size possible.
Why am I bringing this up now?
We arranged last week to have it moved. Last Tuesday a Swedish firm took a considerable sum of money off of us, went into the unit, packed it up, stuck it on a ferry, and it all arrives here this afternoon.
Two and a bit years later, and everything we own and love will finally be under one roof again. Our things will mingle together. We will finally have a home.
I wonder if this means our things will copulate and we'll wind up with an overflowing Tupperware cupboard.
-H.
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May 18, 2006
But no.
A setback is a setback is a setback.
And this is not just the little disappointment that comes with finding you're out of milk or that your favorite bagels are no longer stocked. This is earth-rocking level. This is the hard stuff.
Walking through London Liverpool Street station on Friday, I see in the Lush there they've a new type of bath bomb called The Happy Pill, designed to deconstruct those moments when your mental health feels fragile, when you feel blue, when defeat feels imminent. Standing there in a throng of commuters I sigh heavily and purchase one. A fucking bath bomb is not going to change the core of sadness I feel, but a bath bomb combined with alcohol combined with mac and cheese combined with the gentle and kind words from my boy, well, those might alleviate.
They were a start.
The sun is out and the trees are a volatile color of green, the kind that you can taste on the tip of your tongue and it tastes like earth and hope. The sky has a mantle of those high flung clouds that have no consequence, other than to remind you of the fact that the sky, she can be very, very blue. Bees and humming, the proverbial birds are chirping, flowers are erupting victoriously and all I can think is: If I hold still long enough, will my thoughts be able to outrun me? Can they just pass me by and leave me alone? If I am the Allegory of the Cave, is the shadow on the other side simply my other half, the half that thinks and feels?
I like being numb. It tends to suit me. I hope it lasts long enough to just be a small tide of sadness and disappointment, my characteristic self-defenses actually doing their fucking job for once and just protecting me. The darkness has not been calling, but then again the light was having a hard time getting in. Thanks to my Angus, the world has been kept at bay and the house became a welcome spot in which every part of me retires.
I am getting better.
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May 15, 2006
It has not been good.
I am taking a few days to be away from the web, and to just recover.
-H.
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May 11, 2006
And lately, the whole forest floor has become a carpet of exploding bluebells and new growing ferns. Walking through the forest is a visual sensation, something that yanks you out of any reverie and pulls you into a tranquility that I've seldom known outside of a pill bottle or away from a speeding train with a laptop reverie, my mind pouring out and eliminating that blinking cursor.
The next few days may be dfficult, and in the difficult will come me trying to picture myself here.
With this guy.
And with the other guy behind the camera, the one who took this picture:
I won't be online today or tomorrow. Instead, I will be somewhere else, but my mind will be whirring and I will wish I was here:
The world may be off its axis by just half a centimeter, but I will know that it is.
-H.
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May 10, 2006
Where we lived before the most convenient station was about a ten minute drive from our house. There was generally always parking, even if sometimes it wasn't kosher parking, and the trains were the slow ones into London, generally taking around an hour to get in. Now that we've moved, that station is still the closest but we aren't far from two other ones with faster, direct trains into London. We take these stations for the most part now, but therein lies the problem-so do all of the other commuters. If you don't get to the stations by 8:30, you don't get a parking space, even if you offer to unzip the uptight suitboy and ask him for a full-on example of the best Maxim has to offer (which would be a punch in the nuts for taking the parking space. And Maxim is rubbish.)
So I got to the station at 7:00. I got a parking space, which I paid £4 for the honor of borrowing and I bought my ticket. Like a good girl, I followed procedure. I showed my ticket to the revenue inspector that had just witnessed me buying a ticket (actually, it wasn't really me. It was my evil twin whose soul purpose is to fuck with the staff at Southwest Trains. She's one spiteful bitch.)
I had my meeting in London, bought a sandwich, and made my way back home. I traveled on the train, flashed my ticket again to the train staff, and then at the station, I got off the train. I walked to my car.
And I saw a stupid fucker had thoughtfully parked illegally right behind me, blocking me in.
Oh I tried. I tried to maneuver the big people carrier we have in the teeny tiny space, but the two cars next to me were too close (and I met them that morning on the way in, nice polite men with practical cars, men I wouldn't punch in the nuts at all.) I was simply trapped by a piece of shit red car that had a pink foam steering wheel cover. Now, I have to be honest, I would've been happy to take the rear end of our piece of shit car to nudge that piece of shit car out of the way, but England has this lovely thing called CCTV, which basically means that there are more cameras here watching the population than any other country in the world. It's something like one camera for every six people, so there was a good chance one of the three CCTV cameras in the lot would catch me whacking the shit out of this red car.
I get a piece of paper and leave a note on the guy's car. I then march into the ticket office.
"Excuse me," I say nicely. And I really did say it nicely, none of my sarcastic estate agent stream of consciousness. "Someone has blocked my car in."
"Oh, God," moans the agent. "I'm so sorry, you're the fourth person today. We'll have one of our managers accompany you to see if we can help."
So a nice manager comes out with me, and he witnesses that, indeed, my car is well and truly blocked in. He tries to move the car for me, but there's no way-Superman alone could have moved that damn car. Another agent comes out.
"Looks like we'll have to bump the car," he says grimly.
"Bump the car?" I ask.
They grin at me. They turn to the red car and, grinning, they pick up the rear bumper. They start rocking the car and soon the thing is hopping like a kangaroo, hopping to the right.
"Wow!" I screech. They get into my car to try to move it, but they can't still, so they get out and bump the red car along again, until it's at a 45 degree angle from where it was parked. They manage to get my car out, the bumper of my car only nudging the other car a few times (there wasn't a scratch on either car).
"Oops!" I say hastily "I wouldn't have minded hitting their car, only there are so many cameras around!"
"Aye," one of the guys acknowledges with a grin. "But we're the ones who control it, so I imagine a few minutes are going to disappear from the tape."
In the end, my car is freed.
My note on the car was a polite one. Really. It was addressed: "Asshole". The inside read: "You are a fucking moron for parking so illegally. Next time I am going to hit your car repeatedly and I am going to LAUGH about it."
Angus took the train home with said Asshole, who apparently at first thought the note was funny but then, upon seeing his car parked at a 45 degree angle, flew in a huff into the ticket office. Hopefully he thought it was moved due to constant ramming.
All this, and you know what? After they moved the red car, I didn't feel in the least charitable, nor did I feel like sucking on a goddamn mint chew.
-H.
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May 09, 2006
Uproar over IVF woman expecting a baby at 63
That's right. England-and the world-went nuts decrying the pure selfish behavior of said woman, how she was absolutely mad. IVF clinics probably had a number of phone calls from grannies dialing in to find out if their wombs still had trampoline qualities. Pensioners were likely checking their temperature in the bathroom, to check and see if their temperatures implied ovulation, even though menopause maybe had hit 15 years prior.
Or maybe not. Maybe instead too many fingers were pointing and tsking through their dentures. It seems younger mothers-particularly of the IVF crowd-really had a go at this woman's 'selfishness'Â, and it was pointed out more times than I can count that 'she already has kids!'Â, as though children are war coupons exchangeable for meat. Considering this woman's age, she maybe even remembers said coupons. This single item of a 63 year-old caused such incredible consternation, to which I had to say:
So?
Really, what's the issue here? Yes, she's 63 (although her doctors described her physical equivalent as being that to a 45 year-old). Yes, she used donated eggs. Yes, she has a higher risk of Down's. And yes, it's possible that she could pass away before her kid taps the high school board on his or her head. But if you're a mother, that's a risk no matter what your age is. Is that the issue? That she might die and leave her kid behind? Don't all mothers have a risk of dying, or am I unaware that there's a magic cape that they award you with those episiotomy stitches? This woman may be decried for being at higher risk of dying before her child, but why is no one having a go at a cancer survivor who gives birth? I don't see anyone smacking her proverbial wrist and saying: Shame on you! Remission isn't everything, you know!
I'm not saying that a cancer survivor and an older mother are the same thing. I recognize that those are different cases with unique capabilities, but the older mother argument seems to be along the lines of 'You may die before your kid.'Â Sorry, but when did life expectancy become a criteria in the acceptability of having a child? This woman is a child psychologist, and both she and her husband are financially secure professionals with an adult extended family. I imagine a great deal of thought went along with the great deal of money to have an IVF baby.
The discussions have been outrageous over here. It has sparked that fabulous and no, never tiring debate on how old is too old to have a baby. According to the HFEA (the regulatory body for infertility and fertility treatment), that age is 45 (remarkably, the age that the 63 year-old's doctors put her body at). This, because there are a number of factors involved in determining what's best for the baby-the health of the woman, fertility possibilities, pregnancy history, and the fact that the statistics of success shoot way down for women over 40 in terms of IVF, while the risk of Down's Syndrome skyrockets to one in 32. For the body, 40 seems to be some kind of magic number, a bitter destiny that nature gave us.
But we can sometimes fool nature. We do it all the time. We cure diseases, we see babies being born to women who would otherwise spend their lives babyless, and we even sew new faces on. To some extent, we can sometimes lead nature off the path of righteousness.
So why bitch about a 63 year-old woman using IVF and getting pregnant? I mean, you don't see men of similar age getting grief. A newscaster here at age 70-something just had a baby, that got all kinds of 'Oh, how sweet!'Â comments in the papers at a pic of him carting the baby around in a Baby Bjorn. Rod Stewart recently had his 7th child at the age of 60. That's right. He was 60, and has 6 other kids. Nowhere in the press did I read about outrage-no one screamed that he was a selfish bastard (perhaps because it is assumed that as a vain, self-obsessed rocker he already is one, so that argument is wasted) and that-my God!-he already has his war coupon allotment of children! He HAS 6, why does he need another one? No, it was all love and happiness in the papers for Rod-he was quoted with the heartwarming response: 'I count myself blessed to have bestowed upon me the honour of fatherhood again with Penny, whom I love and cherish so much.'Â
Women the world over must have menstruated simultaneously upon reading this.
Or what about Don Johnson, who just had his 5th kid at age 56? He's not faced any grief, not even any smirking that one of his daughters is roughly the same age that one of his wives was when they hooked up (Melanie Griffith, at 14.) No, it's a sign of his virility! He has 5 kids, has a massive fortune, his dick sends out swimmers and he still has the pastel jackets! He's the king! The press cooed over him, quoting him everywhere with: "over the moon times six." Ahhhhh! Isn't that sweet? Don't we just love him?
That's not even bringing into the fact that Australian Les Colley just fathered a kid. He's 93. You know, totally above reproach in the press because after all, all he did was deliver the jump shot, right? The line the press seem to take is that these men are going to be competent fathers because they are virile, so gee, that's ok then.
If people are going to condemn the women, then condemn the men, too. Why must these women have to be cast as the whoring madonnas, the mad bitches for trying to dream? No one decried these men who become fathers, who call them selfish and mental. As a society is it because men are above reproach, or is it because the assumed social role of the father has become unimportant? I'm sick of the women getting all of the fucking blame, how as the one who carries the child they must be the paragon of self-righteousness, instead of the men who get chuckles for acting like the perfect lad. The men are constant media paragons of fertility and youth for having kids. I'd like to be spared the constant gender derision-in this, the men and women are simply parents, who are we to step in and feel the need for derision?
So that woman who dared fall pregnant at 63, the one who had the audacity to approach the reporters condemning her and said: "We're delighted'¦We take our responsibility very seriously and regard the best interests of the child as paramount." Well, she must truly be evil. Because she wanted to get pregnant for the worst reason of all-she wants to offer her child the rest of her lifetime of love. That's right-her lifetime, because she and her doctor decided she was fit enough, so she could have many years still to live. There are no guarantees, and isn't it the very basic fear of every mother that they may outlive their child?
Age shouldn't have anything to do with it-they say, in fact, that kids make us feel younger. And the BBC parenting site warmed the very cockles of my very bitter and fucked-up heart when they wrote: 'Your children will think you're terrific regardless of your age.'Â This is a beautiful sentiment, and one I personally agree with. Added to that the fact that older parents are generally more stable, secure, tolerant, patient, and less prone to crises and angst, and I think there's a strong argument for people with a lot of history under their belts. I think they beat unexperienced teenage parents hands-down, and I should know about that one.
It's not about the age, it's about the fitness of the parent and the love that they will have. Put the stone down, sinners, and quit casting at the poor woman. I think that it's for none of us to judge her, and if the press is going to judge her then they should judge everyone equally, men and women. For most of us, the rest of our lives is all we can pledge to a child, no matter how old, how fit, how anything we happen to be. If this 63 year-old's kid gets half the devotion and love I think she means, then that is one lucky kid.
If only we could all be as fortunate.
-H.
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May 08, 2006
Fucking whatever.
-H.
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May 05, 2006
A moment in time where a dentabone-the ultimate instant gratification-is pure bliss.
Where your only big choices are which toy to play with, which Nylabone to chew.
And where each moment can be a moment of fun, safe and secure in the loving nest of your home and your family.
Of course, if you knew that seven days from today your loving and tender family have arranged to have your testicles removed, you might not be so carefree.
-H,
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May 04, 2006
Maybe it all comes from having a father who felt that service people were something to be disdained and toyed with-it was a regular issue to have me or someone else in my family go back and apologize for his behavior. I am actually polite to the point of being nearly pathetic about it-the first words out of my mouth tend to be "I'm sorry", like when I had surgery not long ago and apologized profusely for asking for more pain medication as I didn't want to be any trouble. Angus gets a bit frustrated with me as I'm polite sometimes to the point of being meek, and there is a fine line between polite and taking one up the ass. I haven't found this line so easy to not traverse, so my butt? She is well lubed.
But lately, perhaps due to hormones, spring being in the air, or some other lock being sprung inside of myself, I've been fighting back.
And it feels good.
On Saturday I had to go to the shop as we were out of those essentials every house needs like milk, toilet paper, and cheese (God forbid we ever run out of cheese. Cheese and fresh juice, those are the very minimum staples here. Without the two of them, life isn't worth living.) I parked in a parking space with faint lines and got the shopping cart (called a trolley here, but I feel like a real dick calling it that. I also like to call it a "trundler", which is what they call it in New Zealand, because then I imagine I'm pushing around someone in the midget WWF, but maybe that's just weird.) As I got said cart, I notice an older couple walking around my car. They peer into it. They walk around it again. Now, it is a horrible car-it's Angus' import from Sweden. It's a minivan (or what they call a people carrier here) and it's a real wreck but we don't care, as it's paid for, it gets us to and from the train station and the shops, and when it finally dies it'll just get junked.) but that's no reason why it can't be parked in the shopping lot of the local poshy Waitrose. Ugly car people need food too, you know!
I go about my business when lo and behold, I hear "Will the owner of a red Ford Galaxy, license number..... please contact a member of staff?"
And it was indeed mine.
I go up to the cashier and ask what's up, and she tells me I've parked in a walking area. I shake my head. No I'm not, I'm parked in a parking space. She sniffs and tells me it was a parking space, now it's a walking space and everyone knows that.
Everyone but the poor American driving an ugly car, I guess.
So I go out and move it and older couple sniff and huff around me. I want to scream at them: Is this the basis of your life? Is this all you have, to go report cars parked in secret walking spaces? You're sad, and pathetic, and you know it.
But I haven't crossed that bridge yet, I don't say a word, I just move it.
As I check out the older couple is behind me. I unload the goods, and among them I have lots of wine and pregnancy vitamins. No, I am not pregnant. But since undergoing a whole rash of illnesses in the past few weeks my doctor recommded I take pregnancy vitamins as they have all I need plus they're low on iron, which is good as iron makes me violently ill. The cashier looks at me.
"Are you French?" she asks.
I put things into a bag, and naturally the bag falls apart and I have to get a new one and re-pack. "No, I'm an American," I reply. An American who can't pack groceries, obviously.
The older couple is staring at the wine and the vitamins with a look of sheer and utter condemnation. I look at them and think-Who the fuck are you to judge me? The dam breaks. "The baby, he's craving some vino," I say.
They gasp.
Now, before you lecture, I accept that was not a good thing to say. I am not subscribing to the idea of drinking while pregnant (and if I were pregnant, I wouldn't drink), nor do I think fetal alcohol syndrome is funny in the slightest. The brain had simply disconnected the "socially correct" button for one moment.
But the lack of social correctness aside, it felt good to at least fight back.
This trend has continued.
Since moving, the estate agents (who hate us nearly as much as we hate them) have been slow in getting our deposit back to us from the house we were renting. At first it was because they demanded we prove we sprayed for pestilence as we have two cats, which got a hot letter back from us stating that no where in the contract did it say we had to do that and we are dilligent about our girls-they have regular flea and tick treatment and we can get the vet to attest to how clean and well-maintained they are, if the estate agent wants. The agents then dropped that one. As the deposit's about £1600, it's money worth fighting for, especially as we nearly killed ourselves in getting that place picture perfect when we left.
Angus has been ringing them for a few weeks now, and I rdecided yesterday to go ahead and join in the game of Chutes and Ladders. The manager Sue promised to call me back yesterday. She didn't. I rang her this morning when the post came, sans deposit check.
"Hi, this is Helen calling for Sue?" I ask chirpily.
"Oh....um... sorry, she's just picked up another line, can I get her to call you back?" asked the nervous receptionist.
"No, actually. Sue's not reliable in actually calling people back, so I think I'll just hold." I say back nicely.
I stay on hold for a few moments, then Sue picks up.
"This is Sue," she says wearily.
"Sue!" I chime brightly, as though we are buddies and the friendship bracelets we made this weekend while quaffing chardonnay and popping pregnancy vitamins are ready. "It's Helen! I know you were going to call me yesterday but I guess you just got SO BUSY that you just plum forgot!"
"I didn't forget," she snapped. "The accounting department had no update for me, so I had nothing to tell you. They said it was the end of the month and their computers were down, they couldn't do your check."
"Your computers go down the end of every month?" I say with Alice in Wonderland wonder. "Wow, how do you do business?"
"They say they've got your check at the top of the pile to do today, so you should have it by Saturday," she says crossly.
"Oh excellent!" I squeal. "So I'll ring you tomorrow to confirm it's gone out. And if I don't get it Saturday, then I'll ring you again!"
"The accounting department is closed on Saturday," she states frostily.
"That's not my problem," I reply sweetly. "Sue, the sooner you get the check to us the sooner we'll all be out of each other's lives, and won't that make us all so very happy?"
"Indeed," comes the icy reply.
"Great!" I bubble like Strawberry Shortcake so strung out on acid that she just shagged both Blueberry Muffin and the Purple Pieman* and was looking to branch out further. "I'll ring you tomorrow then. Buh-BYE!"
Oh Sue. These days? Yeah. I can out-bitch you anytime.
-H.
*I couldn't for the life of me remember the bad guy from Strawberry Shortcake days, so I looked it up and found it here. The site was so nauseatingly cute it's shorted my social button again, so I'm going to go either vomit or work over the next sales caller I get on the home phone. Either way, it should work the saccharine out of my system nicely.
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May 03, 2006
Or, in this case, the lack thereof.
I researched hard on this topic because I actually found it very interesting. The class in itself was quite a venting mechanism-the instructor was an anthropologist who'd earned her Ph.D. by analyzing the rubbish in a rural French village (this made no sense to me but, like a lot in anthropology, if you mix it with a small dose of magic mushrooms everything becomes clear). She was also someone for whom the correct answer to any and every question was 'Men are bad.'Â A decline in civilizations? Blame men. The complete lack of women in positions of power? Men are bad. Nipples are chafed? It's totally got to do with a man, I just know it.
As long as you stuck to that central theme the teacher liked you and gave you good grades. Considering I was even more damaged then than I am now, that party line was an easy one to ride-not only was I someone always looking for approval and to achieve, but I had a real man-hating streak running through me (this has luckily abated. Well, lucky for me and lucky for Angus, although somewhere there's an instructor that rummaged around in people's garbage who's maybe a bit broken up that a sister has fallen by the wayside.)
I loved writing about this subject. I loved studying this subject, and the focus I took was on the linguistic and socio-linguistic differences that men and women employ (are you so stunned that I am such an incredible geek? Isn't it obvious that the things I think are interesting* have absolutely no income potential whatsoever, other than to ask if they'd like fries with that?)
One of the crutches of my dissertation was the work of a linguist called Deborah Tannen. I used her book called You Just Don't Understand-Men and Women in Conversation.
I haven't read it since university but it was a minefield of information, and also of insight. It wasn't written from a perspective of who's right and wrong, but rather what's different. And based on reading the book, fucking everything is different between men and women from how we try to talk to how we try to think.
The fundamental issue that rides between men and women is women seek emotional support, and men seek to fix things. It makes me wonder if this has always been the case.
Cavewoman: I've been having nightmares about being eaten by a cave bear.
Caveman: It's just a dream, there are no bears.
Cavewoman: That's not the point, Cavey darling. The point is I feel really shaken up about the dream.
Caveman: Is there a bear in here? No. Do you have bite marks up and down your leg? No. No problem then.
See, Cavey, the little lady is looking for comfort. While you're trying to illustrate that the fears are baseless, it's all ok, what she wants is a hug and a hair smooth and for you to say: Ahhhhhh, my little lambkins, I love you and I'll hold you through the bad dreams. Because then we Cavewomen can whimper and we don't have to suck it up, like we do when you illustrate that the case of our angst is pointless.
I think this carries through today.
Modern woman: I have an aberrant mole. (OK, maybe most modern women wouldn't use the word 'aberrant'Â, but it's a fun word and I wanted to work that in.)
Modern man: What did the doctor say?
Modern woman: He said it was fine, but I still worry it can change.
Modern man: Look, the doctor said it was fine. There's no issue here.
Wrong Modern Man, wrong! Modern Woman wants a watered-down version of care and concern! Modern Woman wants to know you also worry about the aberrant mole and what it could lead to, which is ultimately skin caner and potentially death! Aberrant mole could lead to you losing the love of your life, is this what you want? I didn't think so. A little concern here, Modern Man, a little concern!
I'm not tripping down that familiar path of blaming men, even though the running shoes, they still fit well. We women fuck it up all the time.
Woman: Honey, do you want to go to the garden shop and look at the new Spring arrivals?
Man: Not particularly, no.
Woman: OK then. We won't.
And then Woman proceeds to sulk and be hurt, thinking: We never do what I want to do! Man is all confused, thinking: Why is she all upset? What's going on? And this leads to Woman: He doesn't understand me. He NEVER understands me. Which leads to Man: I can never do anything right around here!
Now, if Woman had just bothered to tell Man: Honey, I would really like to go to the garden shop and look at the new Spring arrivals, and I would love it if you came with me and we can act like some nauseating hand-holding couple together, then this never would have happened. It's true man may have said: OK, but how's about a blow job first? or: OK, but can we skip the hand-holding mushy stuff? But whatever. The truth would've been out there.
It also falls down the line of how women seek human connections, while men seek status. When I say status, I don't mean that they want to be dating Eva Longoria and driving a Bentley, although perhaps a lot of men do. It's like when a friend asks if you'd like to get together on Friday. Generally, the woman's response is: Sure, just let me check with my partner. Now, if the man says: Yes to the get-together and then mentions it to his partner, he's likely to get in trouble. Why? Because she views things as a unit, whereas he wants to show that he is independent and in charge enough to make these choices.
Again, these are generally how things work. Not all relationships are like this, but there are significant patterns.
The book was, if memory serves, quite interesting-it talked about how men and women deal with conflict, how men and women behave in the workplace, and so on. Even though I guess the book is something like 15 years old now, I wonder if it has changed any in interpreting attitudes. Deborah Tannen has a new book out about the difficulties in communication between women and their mothers. I'm going to be getting it, not only because I like her work but because my own relationship with my mother is fucked up beyond repair. I'll let you know how I find that book.
I'm sure I'll be over-analyzing with that one, too.
-H.
* I am not at all being pretentious. In fact, I'm a bit embarrassed that I spent my 90's studying things like linguistics, evolution, and gender discourse instead of things that normal, interesting people did in the 90's, like play D&D, create Post-It Notes, attend raves, found a dot com company, or whatever people with a modicum of coolness did in the 90's.
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May 02, 2006
Huge progress has been made-the downstairs bog is now a purply color that I love. The upstairs bathroom has had a major overhaul-although we didn't rip it all out and refit it as we're rebuilding in a year or so, we did fix the toilet, rip out the carpet, install wood floors, install both a hand-held and a standing shower (with a shower head the size of a dinner plate!) and the whole place got painted a refreshing light green.
But it was during the process that it happened.
The start of the period now to be known as The Troubles.
It was horrible, absolutely horrible. I couldn't believe it, and the whole world seemed to move in slow motion. We had to pull together hard as a couple in our relationship in order to make it through.
Right in the middle of laying the flooring in the bathroom, I looked up from my position on the floor, and happened to see, there in the middle of our hallway, a mouse.
A mouse.
In our hallway.
A brown mice about half the length of my hand.
In our hallway.
I went from thinking in slow motion to quick motion as I hurtled myself into the bathtub, as though someone had just swung something that hit the floor with a solid chunk before shouting 'Incoming!'Â What came out of my mouth happened just as fast as an explosion. Angus looked up into the hallway and regarded our vermin friend.
'Ahhhh'¦.he's really cute,' Angus coos.
Cute my ass. Although the mouse may be cute, with twitchy whiskers and tiny little feet, I couldn't think of it as a mouse. Oh no. I know mice are cute. Birds are cute, too, but they are also diseases packaged in something pretty. I am someone who suffers from a germ phobia, so these creatures, they are like the spawn of satan wrapped in big brown-eyed cuteness. Instead of seeing a little mouse in our hallway, all I could see was THE PLAGUE. That's right. Mice may be cuddly but they are only pestilence packaged in tiny fur form. Stuart Little could be carrying the Black Death. This boil brought to you courtesy of Beatrix Potter's Johnny Town-Mouse. Want some Hantavirus? Just ask our boy Mickey over there.
The mouse continued to tool around our hallway with absolutely no care in the world. And why should he care? I only had two housecats 6 feet away in either direction. One of them was in the guest room, the other was in our room'¦and from where I was in the bathroom I could hear her snoring. Our two killer responsive cats couldn't even be dealing with the new tourist in our house.
I freak out about the mouse. We keep a clean house with no food hanging around, so I didn't understand what he's doing whistling through our hallway. Angus shrugged. 'It's an old house, Helen. Old houses have mice.'Â
We were about 10.5 seconds away from packing up and moving to a new build, when my sense of stubbornness kicked in.
At the end of my shouting, Angus was just calm. I nabbed the little guy in a blue trash can and insisted we walk him to a field and let him go. Angus wanted to let him go outside the front door but I reasoned that he'd just get back in again. I'd rather he live and have the option to be an outdoor or an indoor mouse, preferably of one of our neighbors' homes. We walk him to the field to let him go.
'Ahhhh'¦he's really cute,' Angus reiterates.
As we see his little tail slip through the foliage, I agree that he is really cute.
And then we go inside and I work to refrain from hitting the areas he touched with a blow torch, because nothing kills infection like an inferno.
-H.
PS-for Anh who asked, and I can never resist showing off the little guy, especially when he blinks.
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May 01, 2006
To hope is to reveal that there is something that you want or need that you just don't know if you can get. Hoping is a flawed policy, clasped hands in the air and your feelings in your eyes, the whole world knows that there is something that your heart is instructing you for, and the whole world can reach for it and take it away. And it's not the humiliation, so much, of falling flat should the world take it away. It's the idiocy of ever allowing yourself to believe that you could ever have something good, that you ever deserved to aspire to more than life feels you should have.
I have never had faith. Faith, by its definition, is a leap. There's no bridge between believing and knowing, I guess that's the whole point of faith. You have faith that when the bird spreads its wings and jumps off the side of the roof that the wind will pick it up and it will soar. You have faith that when you get in the car and insert the key, with a flick of the wrist it all comes to life. You have faith that what goes up must come down, that e=mc squared, that everything the world tells you is correct but which you do not investigate yourself must be true.
And if you're a damaged and dubious girl like me, sometimes that faith is hard.
If I sound bitter it's because sometimes I am. Although reading my site may seem like I get life handed to me on a platter, I truly believe that everything I am rewarded with is due to sheer hard work mixed with a degree of penance and a little dash of karma. As I get older and work harder to try to take care of others, so life amazingly has started taking care of me. Someone as scratched up as I am doesn't get many chances. Previously I had a wild feral instinct of self-defense, like a street kid living rough. Although I never had to learn the pain of being homeless, my only focus was protecting myself, was getting myself through the day. The only person to trust was myself, and in trusting myself the expectations were set as far low as possible-since everyone always expected and demanded the lowest of me I aimed to continue to that. They say that you surround your life with what you knew, and so I wrapped myself in a comforting cocoon of incredible angst and self-degradation.
Hope and faith were things that a person like myself could not afford. It could bring me down. It could show the whole world that there were spaces in my soul, that I lacked, and above all that there was something that I ached for. Life could take that away and in my experience it would, just to cackle and dance in the shattered dreams I'd left behind.
I sometimes think I have changed so much in the past few years that if the current me went back ten years to meet the old me, we not only wouldn't recognize each other but we wouldn't like each other, either. The changes are largely for the better-I am not so self-defensive, my protection is extended to others over myself. Although the ranks are small there are people that I trust, people I depend on. The world is a lighter brighter space that I continue to chase the shadows out of.
Yet I continue to be someone without hope and without faith.
But for the first time in some years I am confronted with something that I do have to be positive about. I have to reach deep down inside of whatever untapped spaced I own and have hope. I have to be optimistic and wish for something, and people have to know about this wishing. I have to have faith in the numbers, when faith is still a commodity I am not comfortable with.
It is so hard and the fall on this one is so spectacularly high. It's higher than idly hoping I'll win the lottery but throwing the wasted tickets in the bin. It's higher than hoping to talk my way out of a speeding ticket but getting one anyway. This leap of faith comes without a parachute, without a cushion beneath me to catch me if I fall. I have to hope, when hope was previously the elusive elixir I've never had my hands on.
And yet I know, every waking moment of the day, that it is something that I have to do and so I concentrate very hard and chase the negative thoughts out with the scent and taste of what I think may be hope.
-H.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
09:01 AM
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