August 31, 2006

Jerky

This is the single hardest thing I've ever been through in my life so far.

I am not coping so well.

You may think I am so tough and so strong, but I'm really not.

I just can't figure out how to say goodbye.

My therapist has even offered an "emergency" phone session tonight, but I don't think I can. I may be going off the rails but the phone, it's not to be trusted.

It's been less than 48 hours since the sonographer whispered to me how sorry she was. They moved us then to The Private Room. I think my sobbing freaked out the next patients. While wrapped tightly in the embrace of Angus I made sounds like a wounded animal. I guess that's what I am.

Before the scan there was a baby in the waiting room with bright blue eyes.

I've lost 6 pounds and still going. Fall is coming and right now I hate it so much I can't bear it.

Why does no one tell you how fucking messy a miscarriage is? How it actually hurts? And that the pregnancy hormone takes so long to leave your system that you still have pregnancy symptoms, while you're not pregnant anymore?

I had a job interview yesterday. I got the job. It's a promotion. My new title is impressive and I'll now be a line manager. Strange, considering all day people kept looking at me and asking if I was ok. I should have asked what kind of miscarriage package the job comes with, because we will be trying again at IVF, because I have a new fear of this ever happening again.

I am so disjointed I don't even make sense to myself. When I get bad I watch mindless TV, because mindless TV doesn't hurt. I can't listen to music as music hurts. I can't read anything online. I can't talk to people because I can't bear the pity.

I'm not the first person to lose and sadly I won't be the last. I am not unique. This will pass but it hasn't passed yet. Maybe it stops when the bleeding stops, which is still some days away.

I don't know why I'm posting this.

I don't want to talk to anyone but Angus.

I would be lost without Angus.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:09 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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August 29, 2006

Hiatus

I'm going to be away from blogging for a little bit-both from reading others and from writing on my own.

Surprisingly, I don't feel like talking right now, I just feel like caving inwards and being in the silence of myself and Angus, who has been an incredible rock and my support.

I've just miscarried our baby.

Please don't email me saying it will all be ok.

I'm sure, in the fullness of time, it will be.

It just doesn't feel like it right now.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:42 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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August 25, 2006

Opinions

Blogging is, occasionally, completely exhausting.

Not just when I got the blitz of hate mail from that whole brouhaha, no, that was a whole seperate version of hell. That episode made me feel decidedly exposed, and I've had a hard time writing anything since I got back from holiday after that.

No, blogging can sometimes be tiring simply because of what it is-putting it all out there. I sometimes get emails questioning if this is all an act or not, if I'm really real (I am. I swear I am. Ask my imaginary friends, they'll tell you.) Sometimes I get random nasty emails from people that have nothing better to do than attack how I look, if I should be a parent, that I need to see a therapist (helllooooo-obviously haven't been reading here too long then, eh?), or the one I got today from a Terry Boschetti, who told me that my website was disgusting, they can't imagine who gave them the link. I replied back to him (her? Does it really matter?) that I can't imagine who gave them the link either-really nice people read me, and Terry, you sure seem like a tosser.

You know, stuff like that.

I get nice emails too, from nice people. I like those emails. I'm always surprised when I get those, but those are nice.

Trying to decode how I feel about things is exhausting enough, but it's when the negative comes in that I find it really tiring. I don't mean disagreeing-by all means, disagree with me, but keeping it civil seems like the least any of us can do. This has been weighing on my mind a great deal, after my events two weeks ago and now with other things going on.

One of my big concerns is motherhood. If, at the end of whatever tunnel I am finally walking down, I actually get to be a mother, then I face a real quandry. I've seen it in a few places now, Ilyka's being one of them (and one of the better written ones), and this is what I fear most about the distinction of parent vs. non-parent (and more so, about having an opinion if you're in one camp talking about the other)-

The Judgement.

The streams of advice also cause minor degrees of wigging on my part-even though Statia rightfully owns half my brain, while I read her daily sometimes I just can't face reading her comments as they're chock full of progesterone-related advice, some of it conflicting, much of it (if I were in Statia's shoes, which I'm not) overwhelming (although the detractors on her site tend to be civil). But I can't face the stocks of advice. If I want to talk I'll IM her. If she wants to tell me about her symptoms I'll listen and sympathize then try to make her puke by talking about cheese (love you, babe.)

Motherhood is something that seems far away to me, like leading a polar expedition or deciding that sure, Pluto is no longer a planet but fuckit, I like the cold and I'm setting up camp there. Motherhood is this crazy, bizarre spiral path that you have to go through the biggest obstacle courses to get to, and once you get there you realize that the maze is 100 times bigger than you ever thought it would be. It's something I want very much but right now it's so far away I'm just milling around the punch bowl with my "Hello! My name is Helen" badge, rearranging the hors d'ouevres and trying desperately to get picked for the dodgeball game taking place later in the day.

Search Google on IVF, pregnancy, and parenting issues and blogs rank among the top results. Blogs are here to stay, I think, and more and more people turn to them as a point of reference-we can read the medical journals where in a study of 122 people 57 had x while 22 had y, but it makes more sense when someone named Timmy'sMama151 talks about it on her blog, and you think: Yes, so someone else had that side effect on that medication as well. Whew!

The advice, though, is why Mommy blogs and Mommy websites frighten the fuck out of me. Before you start the hate mail, I'm not having a go at Mommy blogs-they have their place and their loyal readers and everyone's happy, la la la. I don't have an issue with Mommy blogs, everyone's entitled to write about what they like and, like with my little space here, if you don't like it, cool-that's what the "X" at the top right hand corner is for. Just click off it. Mommy blogs have great communities of fellow moms and they provide a valuable resource to other mommies (just whatever you do, don't cross some of them. I've seen what happens when a stray deer gets into the crosshairs in some of the blogs and it's not pretty. Mommy blogs, like everything else in the Land of Internet, has a hierarchy and a pecking order-I read somewhere that there was a storm during a Blog Conference (I know-I can't believe they have those either!) and someone stated they didn't like Mommy Blogs. From there on, the poor woman had to wear a huge scarlet "C" (for Child-free) on her chest and was seriously vilified.)

That's what does freak me out. When you go to some of them (not all Mommy blogs, but enough of them to make an impression) and see cat fights in the comments-sometimes the Mommies don't just disagree, they disagree and they've brought their brass knuckles to back up their argument. Examples:

Camp A: Swaddle your child! Children need to feel secure!

Camp B: Are you fucking crazy? Swaddling is like bondage! Your children will have attachment issues!

Or:

Camp A: Let your children cry a bit before picking them up! You have to get them used to you not being at your beck and call!

Camp B: You child abuser! Neglecting your child to cry like that, the shame!

And let's not forget the big one:

Camp A: I'm not breastfeeding. I've discussed it with my pediatrician and there are as many nutrients in formula as breastmilk.

Camp B: Breastfeeding is natural and normal! REAL mothers breastfeed, only women who don't deserve to be mothers give formula!

Camp A: Back off, you La Leche bitch!

Camp B: Fuck you, you should be charged with abuse and your child given to someone with a breast pump built into the bathroom wall!

It goes on, covering everything from being home births to being a stay at home mom to if you should just chuck junior into the deep end and see if he can swim from Day 2. And in some of these places it's so heated it's no longer civil. I was in a site the other day and I swear I had to duck from the Ninja Star-stabbed teddy bears being chucked around the place.

And that's not even including the pregnancy advice. Drink ginger ale! Eat crackers! Go sky diving! Talk to your doctor! No, your doctor is wrong! You shouldn't be bleeding! You should be bleeding! You shouldn't complain! You should complain! Exclamation points are the work of Satan!

And on the infertility blogs, it's even worse. The worst two offenders: Why don't you just relax? and Why don't you just adopt? If I had a nickel for every time I'd seen those two, I could quit my fucking job and party in my helicopter.

And as someone who is infertile-let me tell you, those statements are the most patronizing in the history of bad advice.

But it's the way that advice is rendered on fsome ertility and pregnancy and mommy blogs that blows me away. Recently, someone I read daily had a chemical pregnancy during IVF (which means it failed). In the comments, there amongst the "I'm so sorry"s (which is all you can say for something like that, I know) was one saying: So now that your one embryo failed, isn't it time to try with two?

And I think: What is it about opening your heart and your uterus to people that makes them disconnect mouth from brain before saying something? This women JUST MISCARRIED YESTERDAY. This statement couldn't have waited until some of the pain lessened, at least to the point when the poor blog author could take off her sweatpants and crawl out of bed?

I'm not a mother. I'm a stepmother, which is hard enough, but I'm not crazy enough to say that's anywhere near the fortitude requied to be a mother. Of course I have opinions on children, but most of the time I don't feel "allowed" to give them because I'm not a Mommy (I just play one on TV). Angus has two nieces that I think are little terrors-last week we saw them and the 4 and a half year old was screaming at the top of her lungs that SHE WANTED A JUICE BOX AND SHE WANTED IT RIGHT NOW. Then she proceeded to smack Gorby-twice-for doing nothing but walking past her. I restrained myself from saying something (not for the juice box thing, but because nobody hits my dog) simply because I'm not a mother, I didn't feel I had the right to ask if she could keep her amatuer pugilism to herself. I spent the rest of the evening keeping our dog away from the kid.

So it's natural to have opinions. I even have them, and I have no progeny. But it's the way that advice is doled out sometimes that makes me tired. Should I ever have a kid, I don't think this blog would become a Mommy blog, mostly because the judgements and the advice terrifies me so much, the absolutism that what I am doing is (in some eyes) wrong.

We all have views on what is right for kids. Maybe it's right for us, maybe it's not right for others. It exhausts me to think of the condemnation that some women get, just for expressing their opinion and their wants for their child, their body, their fertility (and thus I'm not currently giving my opinion on swaddling/breast feeding/letting them cry/home births/stay at home moms/throwing junior in the pool. Mostly because I haven't worked out the right answers on those for myself*.)

-H.

PS-I understand some people have had problems commenting-I've re-edited the IP banning, so it should be ok now (unless you've been deliberately banned, and those few know who they are.)

*-except the home birthing thing. That just doesn't do it for me. Totally ok for others, absolutely do what you feel comfortable with, I just don't think that would be for me.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:08 AM | Comments (24) | Add Comment
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August 24, 2006

Jinxing By Rote

Some days you wake up in a sweat, the chasing of Kafka just behind you, the sweat scattered across the sheets and the truth that your subconscious knows you so well, well enough to try to rob you of your hope inside of your dreams is a little too much to bear so early in the morning.

The nightmares-a constant and regular part of my life, for all of my life-aside, it occurs to me that I am a believer in things happening for a reason, and I'm someone that subscribes to the idea that little rituals and routines can help make sure that what you want and need won't be jinxed.

I know it's stupid.

I know I'm a grown-up and an engineer no less, but I still subscribe to fate, maybe because the engineer I have become needs the mystery that I have lost.

There are ways things are done for me. When I interview, I wear the same suit-a smart black sheath dress and a black jacket over it. I wear my favorite heels (which will soon need a new pair of heels to replace them, as these are getting up there in age). I wear my hair up, and my makeup minimal. I have learnt that my vintage jewelry with the rainbow gems in them grant me strength and confidence where I would otherwise have none-save for a few pieces I wear, I have now parcelled out my entire collection to those women who I know as strong, but who (like me) could maybe use a booster now and then. It's the jewelry-which I also wore when my project won that big award-that makes me feel like I can clinch something.

I know it's not the jewelry.

I'd rather not jinx things, though.

If I want to go with the flow, not upset the balance, and accept my place in the stack of things I don't raise a fuss. I don't send emotional mails (or I do, but they disappear into the smoky oblivion that is your inbox) and I don't tell you how I am doing, really, past the "I'm ok, thanks." Boats are for riding in, they're not for rocking. I try to let you know what it is I really want (it's just for you to try, that's all I want) without causing a ruckus.

Maybe that's working, too, because now you, my stepmother, and her mother are planning to come out here in September.

And you really need to come. I'm hanging here by my fingernails, man, and loyalty can only go so long. You might not like it here, you might not like how much I've changed and who I've become (you won't believe how much I've changed), you might not like Angus, you might not like Gorby, but the truth is? You don't need to. I'm inviting you into my life, and I'm going to show you life just the way it is.

No more lying.

I'm done with that, and maybe you should be, too.

With the exception of London days, where I write my blog posts in Word as we speed down the rail tracks, my blog posts are written in the same way. I wake up and walk the dog. I check emails from work quickly to see if there's anything I need to deal with urgently (and I check my daily email cartoon I signed up for from Vimrod-they always make me grin). I get a cup of coffee and turn on iTunes, and then I disconnect my brain and just let it go. A good percentage of the time I don't even remember what I've written when I'm done.

Then I log off and go to work.

This morning I woke up alone in bed-Angus had left for an early London meeting, and I shook the bloofy nightmare from my mind. I sat up in our bed and reached behind me to raise the shades. My hair tangled down my back and my head hurt. I sat there and thought about the Kafka dream that woke me up, how it found something I want and took it away from me. I've been terrified for so long.

I can kid myself and say that I'm getting past it all, or that the dreams don't upset me, they're simply dreams. But the truth is, I still wake up scared sometimes. Maybe I always will.

In the meantime, I make my cup of coffee. I walk the dog. I read my daily Vimrod mail. I sit down and pour my brains out and I hope and pray it doesn't jinx me somehow, that in a month's time I don't sit and tell you what a fucking asshole I was for feeling like I could shake the dream off.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:52 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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August 23, 2006

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Living in the countryside takes some getting used to (and even then, by "countryside" I mean a 20-minute drive to a city or a 45-minute train ride into London). I did live on a farm many years ago, but the memories have faded and melt into a run of dried mud grooves, dark brown calves' eyes, the metallic smell of sweat and the razor-sharp feel of leaves on stalks of corn. These memories are vastly different to what I see and know now.

What I have learned is that there are the good parts of countryside living.

There are, unfortunately, bad parts. The bad often have me muttering, under my breath, That's it-we're moving.

I am constantly receiving gifts from the tag team terror duo known as Gorby and Mumin. Voles, mice, birds, frogs, and once a cute garden snake turned up as presents-truthfully, I have passed out of the role of privilege in Mumin's life and the animals are presented to her best mate Gorby who, thinking of them as toys, treats them as such. I run a 24-hour rescue mission in this house saving the lives of hapless frogs that venture too far from the pond. Mumin has taken to wanting to sleep outside at night which worries me no end, as we also have a large fox population that will throw down and take little Mummy away.

Everytime I find the carcass in the grass I think: That's it. We're moving.

Gorby also, from time to time, finds a fragrant pile of something in the back of the large garden. I'm thinking it's fox or cat related, but regardless of what butt it comes out of, he rolls in it. This, then, results in him getting a bath and then every square surface in the house that he even looked at gets scrubbed down as my germ phobias kick in at super levels.

That's it. We're moving.

Then there are the fruit trees. Whoever lived here either suffered from diabetes or worried about Armageddon, because we have more fruit trees than we can deal with. I want to call Smuckers and say: Seriously, get the fuck out here and take this shit away. Bring your friend Mason. What, you expect me to make jam out of this stuff? Who the fuck do you think I am, Laura Ingalls Wilder? Jesus. There's the massive Bramley apple tree that's dropping apples, and wouldn't you know it, neither of us like Bramley apples. We have two plum trees, one with dark purple plums and the other with orangey-red ones. I was just mowing over the damn things

That's it. We're moving.

until Angus picked one of the dark purple plums off the tree, split it, and popped part of it in my mouth. The sweet, tender, succulent taste ran down the back of my throat, and we picked several more, which we ate with big grins.

We're definitely staying.

We have large fields on two sides of the house, fields of trees and swaying grasses

We're definitely staying.

and my mortal enemy, the stinging nettle. Truckloads of stinging nettles, so many of them that some of the paths in the woods are impenetrable just now, unless of course you like having boil-like marks all over every inch of exposed skin.

That's it. We're moving.

In the spring morning the sound of pigeons, doves and sparrows compete for the daybreak and once the sun is up the welcoming bellow of the cows nearby accompanies the sound of our coffee grinder.

We're definitely staying.

But the birds decided to hold gang turf wars in summer. The cooing of the doves became a vicious chain saw-like action as the Crips and the Bloods took sides. It was a daily 4 am going to the mats. The sweet, Cinderella-like aviaries became the Alfred Hitchcock version of The Birds, and the beautiful wake-up call became the nightmare frenzy smack down that saw me wanting to shoot the coffee grinder out the window at the singing little fuckers, just so I could sleep longer.

That's it. We're moving.

We leave the windows and doors open when we're home, unconcerned that someone other than the postman will cross the threshold. The DHL delivery man and the postman know us, and they always say hi to Gorby. I feel like I'm living in Petticoat Junction.

We're definitely staying.

A week ago Gorby was pawing at something on the back flagstones in the garden. He was barking at it and his tail was wagging. Smiling, I sauntered over to see what our precious little boy was barking at. I bent over to see.

Yeah. It's a maggot.

We're moving we're moving we're moving.

I'll get used to it all at some point.

Except the maggots.

I'm not really ever going to get used to those.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:47 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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August 22, 2006

Sensory Overload

Sometimes it strikes me how much things feel. I'll be sitting somewhere and a sound, a smell, a sight will hit me at a speed of 1,000 freight trains with 1,000 cars. I don't always know what to do with these emotions either-part of the work with my Couch Man is that I have to stop disassociating, I have to stop standing outside and watching the other me-who I am still unable to connect that the person I see struggling in situations is the Real Me-tackle the good, the bad, and the feeling.

Previously, I have been the master of emotion avoidance, as most of the time everything feels like a second degree burn.

It's not just feelings either, it's memories. I'm beginning to remember things that left my attic a long time ago. My therapist told me I don't have a say in what comes up, the memories that pop in are what my subconscious needs me to deal with. It's not always fun and more often that not my memories leave me very confused, but at least they're in color and not in 8mm spinning film, and thank God for that.

Strangely I have started clutching on to things that make me feel, that make me think. Sometimes the feelings are good and sometimes they stick like the thick burnt soup on the bottom of the pan. But feeling something is a start, it's the way to living in the now, and it's one way I'm going to break free of myself.

The other day I saw a man sitting in the doorway of a home in London. He was in a suit and it was clear he wasn't of the vagrant variety, he just had nowhere else to be. He sat in the doorway with a look of such utter quiet and sadness that I knew whatever had led him to sitting in the doorway wasn't a good thing.

And I thought of Kim.

Just like that, I remembered our last breakup, the worst breakup. I had moved into my own appartment in Arlington, Texas. It was late at night the first night and I was hideously sad. A soft sound came and I looked up to see an envelope slipped under the front door. I rushed to the door and opened it, but there was no one there on the doorstep. I sat down and leaned against the door, opening the envelope-it was a letter of goodbye from Kim.

I sat against the door for most of the night, feeling like it was the closest I could ever get to him again.

Seeing the man there in the doorstep, the memory hit me and all I could feel was my stomach swelling and trying to meet my ribcage, as I felt the door behind my back and a complete and utter sense of loneliness the likes of which I had never felt before. And me? I'm a Loner Chick, loneliness is something I do well.

My new soundtrack from The Last Kiss arrived on Saturday. There's a new Joshua Radin song on there called "Paperweight", and I heard it for the first time on my iPod yesterday, having simply downloaded it onto my iPod without being able to listen to it. When it came into my ears my heart lightened and I felt this sudden rush of ease. I walked through sycamore-lined streets reflecting on everything that was happening in my life and I felt so fucking buoyant I needed to be tied down in order to function. The darkness is far from gone, the stress still weighs heavily on my heart and fear shows up in every tiny mark on my face but for a moment I felt like I was floating, searching, free.

I saw an original 1940's Chagall print online in an auction, a print I had never seen before. I love Chagall, I love that his pictures are so complicated that everytime you look at one you see something you missed the time before. I love that things both do and don't make sense in his pictures, and as I know absolutely nothing about art (in fact I find art to be exhausting and overwhelming), I go for what affects me.

I saw this picture and knew I had to have it-there was something in it that made me feel like I was breathing again, like the very act of taking air in and expelling it all over again was something that was a part of me, was something I could do.

It wasn't cheap, but I won it in the end.

It arrived today, and since it has, I am conscious of the fact that I do, indeed, breathe.

Here is a scan of it:


Chagall.JPG


Unwrapping the print this morning, I remembered another painting from a long time ago. Back in university I had a large print of Klimt's The Kiss (a requisite college print if there ever was one). It was framed and sat on the fireplace in the bedroom Kim and I had, and although he never liked it, I used to stare at it and think it was us-him with his dark hair, me with my red hair. One night after a particularly bad fight, something inside of me kind of broke. I stood up, walked to the painting, and standing in front of it and staring, I reached out with my fingertips and pulled the frame off the fireplace. I didn't move when the picture started coming down. The frame went to the side of me and shattered, vicious glass like raindrops on the bedroom floor. I turned and looked at Kim, who wordlessly stared back at me from the bed.

I walked out of the bedroom, trodding on broken glass but never getting cut.

It came to me that perhaps that's why some types of art still make me feel like I am walking on broken glass, and as I realize it, I feel happy for being able to make the connection.

Feelings are sinking in, creeping up. A portion of these feel horrible-the guilt of my mother wondering aloud Why does no one want to love you girls? I don't know, Mom, but the truth is maybe it isn't about us. The disgust I have at never being enough, never being right, never being ok-that disgust is nothing new but the foundations of it are, my blinders are coming off now.

But then some of the emotions have such light and joy I can't believe I didn't let myself feel them-my feet on the dashboard and sunglasses on my face as Angus is driving us somewhere, somewhere not here, and when he looks at me his eyes have that sparkle in them that you can see from a mile away and which means My God I am so in love with you. The indescribable feeling I have when I stand in my kitchen, my man singing as he cooks, the dog charging around the kitchen with his toys.

It doesn't always have to feel like broken glass-sometimes, it can feel like cashmere.

Everything is slowly but surely hitting home, and the more I find things that make me feel, the more I make myself continuously confront them, and I surround myself with things that prove to me I am human, and that I am real.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:20 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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August 21, 2006

Help Desks

Oh fuck.

These are the first words I think as I turn on my laptop and find that things are not working according to plan.

Sitting next to my laptop is the memory I had to order for the creaking, 5 year-old much abused laptop I carry around. I'd order a new one, but my success with laptops is not good, and this one is robust enough to stand me. So I order more memory just to keep the damn thing alive but frankly, I hate it.

But things aren't looking very healthy in laptop land just now.

So I wearily realize that I have to do the one thing in the world I dread the most. I dread this more than I dread paying taxes. I dread this more than that womanly yearly exam, with the heels pointing to God and a doctor in my snatch who always (bizarrely) wants to talk about the weather. I dread this more than I dread ironing, and nothing is as off-putting as ironing.

I called the Help Desk.

Help Desks, I am sure, have their purposes. In some far away lands where princes slay shiny red dragons and orgasms are sold in the penny candy shop, there exist Help Desks that really are helpful. Somewhere, Help Desks exist, and not just in my imagination, like Comfortable Tampons and Jake Gyllenhaal at My Beck and Call-all real things, all documented options.

And I am ashamed to admit it, but often I lose my patience with our Help Desk.

My call today went something like this:

Help Desk: Hello Help Desk, please confirm your name and employee number.
Me: I'm Helen Adelaide, number Alpha-Delta-Tango-Bravo-6-6-7-3-Charlie (that's not really it, but sounds cooler than my real employee number).
Help Desk: Thank you Helen, what seems to be the problem?
Me: My VPN client isn't working.
Help Desk: What's the problem?
Me: I get "Host Not Responding".
Help Desk: OK, first you will need to reset your password-
Me: Actually, I don't need to reset my password but I somehow knew you'd tell me that, so I reset it anyway.
Help Desk: You will need to re-start your computer.

(This is the Help Desk equivalent of telling an infertile woman to "just relax". It's pointless, patronizing, and NEVER EVER solves the problem).

Me: I anticipated you'd say that, and I did it already.
Help Desk: I'd like you to do it again while I am on the line.
Me: Why, did I fail "Microsoft Windows Re-Boot 101"? I already did it. Trust me.
Help Desk: How do I know you re-started the PC correctly?

I am floored.

Me: Well, I went to "Start", chose "Re-start computer", and the screen went black. Then it came up again, and boom! I logged back in! In between, I went and got an apple and a bowl of soup, so while it's possible it started the modern Matthew Broderick-less version of War Games, that doesn't appear to have happened because no one is asking me if I would like to play a game.

He takes that as a sign to move on.

Help Desk: I will need the login information to your router.
Me: I'm not going to give you that information.
Help Desk: But it could be your router.
Me: No, it can't. The router is currently powering 3 other networks and 2 other phones in our home and they have no problem whatsoever. This is not a router problem.
Help Desk: Could I put you on hold?

(I have no hold music, that makes me feel weird. He comes back.)

Help Desk: Could be your dial-up.
Me: I'm on broadband.
Help Desk: Your broadband is too slow.
Me: I'm on 8 Mb of broadband. I think that qualifies as "ass kicking broadband".

(At this point, I am put on hold for review.)

Help Desk: I will need you to do option A (a step in the VPN process).
Me: I've done that already. I've done it 20 times.
Help Desk: Can you do it once more while I am on the line? I need to be sure you've done it correctly.

(I do Option A every day, and have done for 2 and a half years. I'm pretty sure I have this down, but simply sigh and do it anyway. Unsurprisingly, it fails.)

Help Desk: Can you change this option A to option B, and try it again?
Me: I've also tried that three times.
Help Desk: (see if you can see this one coming)- Can you do it once more while I am on the line?

(I sigh and do it. It fails.)

Help Desk: Can I put you on hold?

(He goes. I surf the web. He comes back.)

Help Desk: Can you go back to option A and try it again?
Me: We've done that. I have now done that 21 times. TWENTY-ONE. That's not even like, 1, or 2, or 3. No, that's TWENY-ONE. Are you guessing at the problem now? Can we be more constructive? I mean, I don't know what the problem is either, but I do know that going for the golden 2-2 in trying something does not a problem solve!
Help Desk: Can I put you on hold again?
Me: Could I stop you if I wanted to?

(He goes. I surf more, eat some soup, play with the dog, and nearly finish War and Peace. He comes back.)

Help Desk: I'm afraid I have to raise a fault ticket.

(Muppets could have deducted this step already.)

Me: OK.
Help Desk: But maybe you can just try option A once more we-
Me: TWENTY-ONE TIMES. GOT IT? TWENTY-ONE. Look-this is going no where. I am losing my patience, and I respect you for trying and for being kind, but I will handle this myself.

I ring off and stare at the phone, at which point I march upstairs and scream my frustration at Angus who, upon realizing the levels of hormones flowing through my body, kindly offers to install the new memory and see if he can deal with the Help Desk for me.

In the meantime I have my Blackberry to do work.

I love my Blackberry.

There's no Help Desk involved there.

-H.

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August 18, 2006

Fall Is In the Air

So I know it's August 18, and it's still bright and sunny, mostly warm-ish, all that jazz.

But....um...am I the only one looking forward to the Fall and Winter?

Seriously. I know I should appreciate what I have right now, and I have indeed enjoyed the heat wave that I'll remember as Summer 2006 (aka, Oh My God, It's So Fucking Hot). The garden is now the pale yellow burnt color of a Krispy Kreme, we're still officially in a drought and I'm pretty sure a tumbleweed went through the front yard yesterday, but changes are coming. We've had to wear sweatshirts in the early morning and evening now. The fan hasn't been used in the house for a long time, and we don't need all the windows open to air out the house anymore. Trees are beginning to drop yellow leaves, whether from the coming change or the burnt air, I'm not sure.

I've reached a point with the garden where I look around at what has survived the drought and am mentally going through my own triage-You, Dahlia darling, you're making the cut, you'll be brought into the greenhouse in a few weeks. You, nasturtium seedlets? You didn't make it. Sorry, mates.

Angus' kids-visiting right now and heading home to Sweden tomorrow-go back to school next week. We spent yesterday school shopping and the sight of all those sharpened number 2 pencils, bright pencil cases and notebooks aching to be written in brought it all back. I remember the massive lists we used to get each year of things that parents would have to buy us-ruled paper, notebooks, an L-shaped ruler, Kleenex-and I remembered that back-to-school feeling.

It all smells fabulously like unused pencil erasers.

I can't wait to have our week in northern Scotland in October-we have part of our stay in a Scottish whiskey distillery and nothing says Autumn like oaked casks, roaring fires, and a glass of whiskey (which should be served neat, in my world. I don't dick around with cutting whiskey with ice or water). Scotland will be ablaze with color, the Highlands looking like they're on fire, the smell of coal and wood fires making the nose twitch. Scotland will feel like Fall.

A month ago I ordered Christmas ornaments that I plan on using this Christmas. We'll be hosting the family Christmas party, which means Angus' mum and stepdad, Angus' two brothers and their families, and one of his sister-in-law's brother and girlfriend. It will be a packed house, filled with 10 adults, 5 kids (including Angus', it's his year to have them for Christmas), and 2 dogs. People bring all their gifts for a massive opening session on the 25th. We eat too much and then they will all be staying over (as that's what you do) and there will be people in every available nook and cranny of the house. Angus and I will cook every meal, and it will be traditional English fare (but so help me God, we are not serving goose this year. Too much fucking work). My family's tradition of Christmas Eve lasagne will be upheld, and stockings will indeed be hung by the chimney with care.

I like to think about where the tree is going to go in our house. I like to dream about the smell of it drifting through the upstairs, and the idea of keeping the dog and Mumin from robbing the tree of its ornaments makes me laugh. A holly wreath will go on the front door, and Christmas cards will be strung up in the kitchen. We'll have mulled wine and gingerbread.

It's not even just Christmas that has me excited. Drifting leaves piling up make me grin. The idea of walking through the London street to my therapist, my cheeks red and my nose running, appeals. Eating soup by a roaring fire (note to self: get chimney sweep round to take care of the fireplaces in living room and study. So far, they've been hosting birds' nests and now the coast is clear). Decorating for Halloween, the pumpkins grinning merrily from our front porch and the pumpkin seeds roasting in the oven. We'll have Thanksgiving here, as we have done for years, and when we invite people round the hallway will be littered with boots and the recycling littered with bottles.

I'm looking forward to it all. I have been worried-there have been reasons why I possibly would not have been so excited. This Fall could have seemed like that longest one in history. Those reasons, so far, are being put aside as I just look forward to everything. Fall and Winter have historically been times that toy with depression, but this year? Everything is a different color and inside I just can't wait.

And maybe that's what is so unusual for me on this-I am looking forward to things. I suppose I've always just bounced along, heading to where I needed to be, getting stopped by a location or distracted by something shiny.

Maybe it's the fact that we have this house that I love so much. Maybe it's that I feel calmer, more anchored. Maybe it's that I do have things to look forward to.

I wonder if I'm alone in looking forward to the Fall.

-H.

PS-The work situation? It worked itself out. I sent over proof that I was innocent of the mistakes I'd been accused of. I got myself an apology, which honestly? Yeah, it made my fucking day.

PPS-I'm feeling nostalgic. I bought myself a penguin Weeble Wobble because it makes me laugh, and because the Weeble Wobble song (Weebles wobble but they don't fall down) is an epithet to me that life just is this way-things may suck, but nothing can knock us down. He sits on my desk as a reminder.


My Weeble Wobble

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August 17, 2006

Choose Your Own Adventure

When I was a little girl I used to read those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books from time to time. Do you remember those? You started a story off-invariably some kind of action book about pirates/haunted houses/alien invasions with a plot involving danger (on the high seas/in the conservatory/with alien number 9)-and you'd get to a page where you'd have to make a choice-do you jump off this ship (in which case plesae turn to page 2 or do you stand and face Long John Silver (then please turn to page 5)? I read a few of those, but I'd read them in a strange way-as opposed to trying to get to the longest and most satisfactory ending, I'd read through all of the endings just to know what the endings looked like.

I suppose it's all a bit like a Choose Your Own Adventure. When we went away to Wales, I very much felt like I was locked inside the pirate's room, readying for interrogation (page 9). I didn't have my sea legs yet and couldn't work out how to walk from the end of the room without falling down. When I finally twigged how to jaunt like an old Sea Dog and pick the lock, I didn't know if I should turn right ouf of the captain's room (page 62) or left (page 51).

My Choose Your Own Adventure did have some predictable plot lines. I got stabbed in the back in my absence at the office, but I have come to expect this and so it wasn't really a surprise (continue on to next page). My managers have delved in to micro-management mode, but this too is not unexpected (turn to page 19). On the long drive home yesterday, I saw in my Blackberry that the working world had exploded, that I would have to dig out evidence that I do not deserve the scouring (which I have), but I couldn't face it and allowed myself the rest of the day's holiday without stressing out. Stressing out can be for today (page 31). Only, honestly? I'm not really going to stress out about work anymore (page 22). That's the thing with Choose Your Own Adventure-you can choose the route you want. My adventure doesn't include that anymore.

My inbox looks like someone chucked War and Peace in there and ran, the house needs tidying, and the breathing down my neck is wrinkling my collar. I'm concerned about Maggie and the dog needs a bath. I have errands to run, a hotly worded email that's pinging around my head and I feel very, very tired. Above all, there are two blond stepkids dancing around the house, and we have a puzzle to finish together.

I guess in those days of Choose Your Own Adventure I never realized that the best end goal maybe wasn't always the most celebratory-it wasn't about defeating the pirates and carrying away the treasure a la Goonies (albeit without the chap dropped on his head too many times). To me, working out how to get to that storyline was the key-how do I get the maximum result for the sweat on my adventure?

Standing staring out over the sea on Tuesday, my legs in the water and my eyes looking out across the sea, I realized that while the adventures have changed, they can not only have a simpler ending, but be far more fulfilling than I'd ever known.

-H.

PS-comments are back open, and hopefully, they can stay that way.

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August 12, 2006

Gone Fishin'

The interview Friday night is done.

Rob at CrabApple Lane has been kind enough to have a link to it.

You can listen to it here (right click, save as, yes?).

You're a star, Rob. Thanks.

See you Thursday, at which point the normalcy will be back in place on this blog.

Oh yes. It will.

-H.

PS-Yeah, he had my website address wrong.

PPS-Yeah, I do sound like a bizarre mix of English and American.

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August 11, 2006

Clean-Up on Aisle Five

Right.

Jesus Fuck I hope that's all over now.

The post I wrote yesterday morning, before any real details were known about the terror plot, was the first "political" post I've allowed on this site, mostly because I honestly feel politics are best aired on a one-to-one basis, not on the internet. With a link from Michelle Malkin yesterday, my day was complete. Michelle-allegedly a journalist, according to her bio-posted a nice little paragraph about me being a "moonbat" (which is not in my Oxford Dictionary of English, but there you have it) and the gist of it, really, seemed to imply that I'm busy single-handedly arming terrorists in my study over here/dancing among the daisies while grown-ups try to solve a Big Bad Problem. She's also the second highest ranked blog of all the hundreds of millions of blogs so her little nasty link to me (and as to the "Hap-tip reader Susan"? Yeah, Susan? I hope we never meet, babe. You could have emailed me directly, but you didn't. Coward.) sent my blog into overdrive, at several points receiving something like 8,000 hits an hour.

Fox News America contacted me, requesting an interview. When I asked if it was a witch hunt and what the context was and told them I wasn't interested in the partaking of a grill fest they disappeared, and a little research showed that the news program they wanted me on was one in which I do suspect I would've been set-up as the hippy trippy beatnik.

The link also got me lots of hate mail. All comments on all posts had to be closed. My inbox saw a steady stream of emails-most of them offensive. I was staggered by some of the emails-it's one thing to disagree with me, which hey-this is free speech. Disagree with me, that's ok. It's another thing entirely to assault someone. In one mail my dog got attacked (you feel really good about yourself, mate? Attacking a 9 month-old rescue puppy? Is that how tough you are, you pick on a puppy? Jesus Christ.) On a website my right to reproduce got charged-apparently because I have an opinion, I'm going to be an unfit mother and do I really "deserve" to be allowed to be a mother?

But it didn't stop there. The worst of the emails was the one in which the guy threatened to kill me. I post about how I ask why the airports weren't already prepared and I get a death threat. I didn't keep the email, mostly because emails where people intone about slitting my throat aren't ones I want to print out, frame, and exclaim over.

And here I'd thought the "You've Made It In Blogging!" prize was given after the first troll (which I had many years ago actually). The truth is, it's after the first person who threatens to top you.

It's as Mac said-truly someone is able to have a hate site.

Vilifying blog posts cropped up. But I don't understand it, really-most of the nasty ones (I won't link to them here, but if you do a technorati search then believe me-you'll find them. Hope you don't mind MySpace, either there are several of those) are word for word copies of Michelle's post. Now if I write a post and someone likes it enough to write about it, no problem. If they copy bits of it to support their own post, I don't mind. If they copied it all word for word and then expected comments? Weird...and plagiaristic. And what's perhaps even stranger is that hardly anyone comments on not only those blog posts, but on those blogs as a whole.

So I presume no one's reading them.

But then the tide turned-support started coming in. Some of Michelle's readers even emailed me (the more literate ones, not like Howard from Tennessee, who had about the worst grammar in an email I've seen in a long time in the email where he said that people would have to "scrape my stupid ass off a sidewalk") and said they actually supported me. And for every nasty blog post that blogland threw up about me, a supportive one came up.

Angus asked me: Do you want to enable comments again now?

I replied: The slitting the throat thing? Kinda put me off it for now.

Anyway, I just wanted to air my opinion. If you've come here today hoping for a political post, well...once bitten and all that. I'm a personal blogger. I will be sticking to that, and if I want to vent about politics then I'll be talking to a friend. It's not that I mind if people disagree with me-I think that's normal, I think it's ok. People disagreed with me on Villainous Company's post but you know what? They were grown-ups about it. There were no death threats, no throwing around of the "moonbat" word (Wikipedia enlightened me to its origins). They have an educated and considerate discussion going on in the comments-proof it can be done, if the blog author is methodical, clear, and actually reads the post they're trackbacking to.

Anyway, hopefully no new hate mail comies in, I hope something else will have people circle jerking now. I'm disappointed in someone who is supposed to be a journalist and (I agree perhaps I'm being an idealist here) I thought journalists would have higher standards than to be ok with people making illegal death threats and would, you know, actually read something before linking it and de-crying to the world that the author is sad and "a moonbat" (and this is the only post I am using that word on this site, I promise you.) Journalists have a responsibility, but maybe that responsibility ends when a piece of work is done on a blog, which has no libellous powers that have to be answered to.

The comments will remain closed until I am sure the madness is over, then they will open back again. Because you know what? I love my readers and my commenters. I love my blog. I still stand by what I wrote yesterday and still disagree that it makes me "un-American"-I am simply saddened by what travelling has come to, and I want to know why the airports/we weren't prepared for this. This does not make me a supporter of terrorists. This does not make me un-American.

But then, the America I'm from doesn't come with illegal death threats based on a blogger stating their opinion.

Now I'm going to go pet my maligned dog. I'm going to get ready for my stepkids to visit-we're going to Wales for a few days on Sunday and I hope it'll help us all unwind. I've got a lot of work to do and some tidying up to do as well. This whole furore will end for me, because I'm tired of it. I won't fuel the fire anymore.

End of discussion.

And to those who emailed me, thank you.

To those who posted in support of me or in support of my right to an opinion, I love you too. If you want to say hi to them, go for it. If you want to leave death threats for them, well...You can just leave those for me instead. I've adjusted. The bloggers are:

Sir Henry
Statia
CalTech Girl's World
Ilyka Damen
She Who Will Be Obeyed
John of Argghhh!
Villainous Company
CrabApple Lane

And I'm going to be making Ilyka's Sad Moonbat Salad. I know just the communists to serve it up to, hopefully I can get them to put their Manifesto and their berets down long enough to pick up a plate. Those guys, whew! So fucking stubborn.

Have a good weekend, I'll see you mid-next week.

-H.

**UPDATED** Fox News did actually contact me back, their mail was simply caught in my server, which was dealing with the maelstrom, and I didn't receive it until about 1 pm today GMT. My apologies.

**UPDATED AGAIN** I will indeed be doing the interview on Fox News America Radio tonight after all. Fox Across America is broadcast from 2-5 pm ET, and I think my piece is on at 420 320 or so (oh hell, I dunno what time zone this is in. It's at 820 pm my time, GMT). There is apparently a link to listen to it streaming here. So...um...talk to you then. It's maybe a bad idea, but we'll see. Wish me luck.

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August 10, 2006

A Sad Day For Liberty

We awoke this morning with a nice cuddle and a usual morning-one of us walked the dog, while the other made coffee. I let Mumin out and we played with Gorby. Then we did our usual-Angus started surfing on the downstairs PC while I made myself comfortable on the couch, finishing my book.

But then Angus-whose first stop in the surfing of the day-called me into the study. It seems this country has gone a little mad this morning, and in going mad, they've left us feeling pretty seriously vulnerable. We should have guessed it by the quiet outside-we couldn't hear a single plane, and at this time of day there should be some, high above the clouds, on their way to America and beyond.

Apparently a terror plot was foiled last night, which has not only resulted in the closing of Heathrow, but also in a number of grim officials on TV now telling us what we can and can't do. The biggest is this-no carry-on luggage. American websites are mis-reporting this issue as "British Airways not allowing carry-on luggage"-the truth is, no flight going to or from the UK-on any airline-can have carry-on luggage. The changes, as listed here, are as follows:

Passengers may take through the airport security search point, in a single (ideally transparent) plastic carrier bag, only the following items. Nothing may be carried in pockets:

- Pocket-size wallets and pocket-size purses plus contents (for example money, credit cards, identity cards etc (not handbags)

- Travel documents essential for the journey (for example passports and travel tickets)

- Prescription medicines and medical items sufficient and essential for the flight (eg, diabetic kit), except in liquid form unless verified as authentic

- Spectacles and sunglasses, without cases

- Contact lens holders, without bottles of solution

- For those travelling with an infant: baby food, milk (the contents of each bottle must be tasted by the accompanying passenger) and sanitary items sufficient and essential for the flight (nappies, wipes, creams and nappy disposal bags)

- Female sanitary items sufficient and essential for the flight, if unboxed (eg tampons, pads, towels and wipes)

- Tissues (unboxed) and/or handkerchiefs

- Keys (but no electrical key fobs). All passengers must be hand searched, and their footwear and all the items they are carrying must be X-ray screened.

- Pushchairs and walking aids must be X-ray screened, and only airport-provided wheelchairs may pass through the screening point.

- In addition to the above, all passengers boarding flights to the USA and all the items they are carrying, including those acquired after the central screening point, must be subjected to secondary search at the boarding gate.


Liquids and electronics, then, seem to be the bad guys.

And for all flights going into/out of the US, we still have to follow the rule as instituted a few years ago: no locked suitcases. So the good news is, we get to put valuable items in our suitcases now-like laptops, mobile phones, and iPods-and risk not only getting our knickers sniffed, but our important items knicked, too.

This is great. Unfortunately, we have already booked our tickets to Atlanta in November, otherwise the truth? We wouldn't be going. From a personal perspective, I'm already a nervous flier, the idea of getting on a plane without a book is damn near sacrilege to me-I don't think I can do it. On flights without films, etc, I'd go mad-I literally can't sit still for any extended period of time without getting wigged out. What am I supposed to do, juggle my tampons (which will be obviously exposed individually in my clear plastic bag)?

But that's not my biggest issue. My issue is I'm pretty tired. Really tired. I'm sorry if I come off ungrateful-I do absolutely extend sincere and heartfelts thanks to the MI5 and Scotland Yard for their vigilance, and am sure that they deserve kudos for busting a terror ring-that takes incredible skill and patience, I am sure, and it's also (I'd imagine) incredibly dangerous. The men who accomplished this foiling should get a medal, a raise, some time off, or at least a nice box of wine. Not sure what the going rate is for saving many lives, but they should get that times two.

But these temporary measures-they're not temporary. Not in the least. I suspect it'll be a year or more before we're allowed to carry anything on board. And I have to be honest-in some ways, this really fucks me off. To be drilled and scanned so many times. Why isn't security already good enough to catch things? Why take extra measures and scaring the bejeezus out of people just to fill the gaps that the airports can't fill? Why haven't the airports been secure enough before?

This is my biggest issue. It's as a security expert said this morning-it's not that hard to smuggle things onto airplanes. To which I want to shout: Why not? What is being done wrong that makes it not hard?

All this, and we're getting no further information here, and the information I see elsewhere is only so much conjecture. Strangely, the Swedish papers that have better info (true, Aftonbladet is a little bit sensationalist. Still, it's more info than we have and so I read all the Swedish newspapers this morning online.) But I reckon that as there are only 9 million people in Sweden, and maybe only a few million more that speak Swedish, this info is not so useful.

I wonder what end this is all coming to. I hate feeling like I'm a suspect, which is how I feel every time I fly in and out of the States-and I'm an American citizen, I wonder how other travellers who aren't citizens feel. I hate seeing what's happening in my lovely country-a few years ago when flying into Atlanta, the man in front of me-an American citizen, in the American citizens line-was pulled out by security and taken to another area to be grilled. I heard him asking what was going on, in a thoroughly American accent. His crime, I guess? He was of Arabic descent. I later saw him in the baggage claim area, and he looked like a lost soul.

That kind of action really winds me up.

I thought those days were over, and ended around the time that anyone could sit in any part of the bus.

I was wrong.

Terrorism is not new to anyone in England-they haven't had trash cans in train stations or tube stops for so long that no one seems to remember when they did have them. The IRA had the country under lock and key in some ways-now that the IRA are no longer such a concern, there's another reason to keep the bins out of stations. Living under threat is something that the people here-especially in the area I live and work in, the London and commuter areas-are accustomed to.

I remember flying out of Tel Aviv, on a business trip to Israel. Although I have a serious issue with their actions in Lebanon, I found the Israelis to be quite kind, but their way of life was so foreign to me-the security at the airport was the most ruthless and aggressive I had ever seen. I am a well-seasoned traveller but they had me, and many others, reduced to tears. I actually felt scared. Aside from the airport, I had good hosts, but I remember each time we went out for dinner we had to be searched at every restaurant. Some even had metal detectors fitted over the doors. The Israelis seemed so nonchalant about this-this was their way of life, they were used to it.

I don't want to be used to this.

I love the fact that I am an American, I am proud of my heritage and my background, but I am equally proud and thrilled to live in the UK with my English love. What I don't like, what my biggest problem is in all of this, is knowing there is loss of liberty. I hate that all details about me are transmitted to the US government when I travel, right down to any meals I order. I hate that wire-tapping is all A-ok now and can be done without a warrant. Hell, I'm sure this blog post will set off some flags somewhere, and some government official will read it to make sure I'm not a loon. I'm not a loon. No really, I'm not.

Angus' kids fly in tomorrow. Luckily, their mum still seems amenable to them coming. They'll have to hand carry their passports only, and I can't imagine that a three hour flight with nothing to do will be very good for morale.

I want nothing more than to bring a child into this world with Angus, as a family. I want to travel the world as a family with three kids. What I don't want is to know that there is fear along the way, that some borders are closed to us because of the color of our passport covers.

Tony Blair had better call his holiday short and fly back to the UK. And if he's going to lead the people, he should be one of us, and fly back with his transparent bag in his lap, containing his glasses and his passport and a couple of unused handkerchiefs.

-H.


**UPDATED**-I've closed comments and banned several commenters-it's a nice feeling, that IP-banning frenzy. Almost orgasmic. And I pulled then re-published then pulled then re-published this post and another I had explaining why I pulled it (the reason? The hate comments and email this post garnered by some trolls. Not worth it). I think I'll leave it up now. For now.

**UPDATED AGAIN**-if you came here via Michelle Malkin (who I believe didn't actually read my blog post) and want to spread the hate-save it. Seriously. I wrote this post first thing this morning UK time, before they'd even identified that there were specific airlines and threats involved. News reports were all conjecture then, there were no "10-20 airlines", at that time all we were told was there was "indicative threat". The point of this post is that I feel airports should have been better prepared. If you can't see that, this post isn't really for you, anyway.

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August 07, 2006

I Know How It Will Be

When we were in Santorini waiting for a ferry to Crete, I looked around and noticed many young couples around us. I weighed it all up in my head and realized if a=June and b=young couples then a+b=sex central, aka honeymoons. One couple in particular caught my attention.

While Angus-carrying our passports and our suitcase, business class tickets in his pocket-chatted with a nice older couple from Boston who were also waiting for the ferry and whom were regaling him with their experience years ago in the Lake District (strangely, they thought I was English. I didn't correct them on that, and I don't know why I didn't.), I watched this particular young couple in earnest. They must have been early twenties and clearly newlyweds-he held both of their American passports and their economy class tickets in his hands and he fidgeted constantly with his wedding ring, being unaccustomed to the weight of it. She had two bright, shiny rings on her left hand as well, and seemed nonplussed by them-they're supposed to be there, I am supposed to be laden was the gist of it. She had a tank top and a peasant skirt on, her hair in one long braid casually thrown over her shoulder. He had a dark blue shirt and khaki cargo shorts, a University of Michigan hat on his head (dark blue, bright yellow "M".) Both of them had large hiking backpacks slung over their backs.

I watched them, memerized. Maybe it is the anthropologist in me, or maybe it is the fact that I have been there, done that. I too have backpacked my way through the Greek Isles, never knowing where we'd stay, never minding that a night of sleep might be on the deck of a boat or it might be somewhere that tasted like the sea.

I watched them, and I understood.

I remember what it is like to be them.

Still giddy from the wedding, excited and in love. Memories of their wedding day still a bizarre mishmash in their head, too many people and too much happening. It's as though the rose petals are as fresh a scent on them as the first official night as a married couple.

I knew what was coming next.

They'd get home, exhausted and exhiliarated from their honeymoon. They'd bore everyone to tears with stories of their trip to Greece, how Santorini was beautiful and spacious, how Athens was dirty and noisy. Once the dust wore off their REI backpacks (now safely stowed in the hallway closet of their 2 bedroom apartment) the real world would set in.

The real world was driving to and from work. The boards and brick shelves that hold up the TV and VCR would be decorated with trinkets they bought on their honeymoon. Inside the tiny kitchen were sparkly appliances that they got from their wedding, and in one cupboard the china they requested, right down to the matching gravy boat.

Real life would be commuting to work. Setting the Tivo for Lost and watching it together, her in the pajama bottoms from The Gap. Dinners would be quick and simple, often of the frozen TV dinner variety. Occasionally they'd barbecue on their little apartment balcony with friends as young and noble as they are, him in his U of Michigan hat, she with her hair down, all of them clutching a moisture-laden half-drunk Dos Equis.

Over time the brick and board shelves would grate. In would come shelves from Pier One or IKEA, and the fleece covered futon would be replaced by a couch that they bought for $550 on a credit card with 15.9% APR. They would work hard at their careers and within a year would trade in one of their beaten up cars for a new, punchy car-an SUV, or an Audi TT, or a 4 year-old blue BMW that he would meticulously care for. His U of Michigan hat would linger in the backseat, and he'd wear it when the sun was out and he didn't have to mind the hat hair.

Then they'd move house. One or two of their Greek trinkets would get broken in the move, but the sacrifice would be worth it because they'd have a house now. They would borrow nearly the entire amount of money needed to buy the house but while means were tight, they were by no means unbearable. Their shower curtain would come from Linens 'N Things, her shower gel from Bath and Body Works. It would smell like sweet peas, and even though she'd never seen a sweet pea in her life, she'd love the scent. Their garden would consist of a large lawn and some straggly marigolds she'd planted then forgotten about. They'd drive to South Carolina/San Diego/the Hamptons for a one week holiday, where they'd laugh and spend time and eat seafood with their fingers. Their couch would still not be paid off.

Their marriage would have been going for a couple of years by this time. Attentions would start turning-he'd be plumping for the promotion and so would she, but their minds would start to turn to family. They'd take the brakes off and he would have night sweats about it. As weeks turned into months turned into a year, they'd wonder what was going on. They'd buy another couch, this time at 13.7% APR, and their guest room would remain a guest room. Sex would be dictated by a thermometer and an ovulation chart. It would rarely be anything but missionary.

She'd see a fertility specialist. They'd kick off IVF and the thin waist she had would be lost to bloating from the hormones and the open eating you have to do while trying to conceive. He'd get lines around the side of his eyes. It would be hard on their marriage. Fertility treatment may or may not work. There would be tears. They'd quarrel a lot, more than they used to, and she'd look at their wedding photo and wonder what happened to that guy, that guy she got all giddy with at the altar. He'd wonder what happened to that adventurous girl, the one who re-enacted the strip scene from 9½ Weeks. They'd never get an answer.

The stress would take its toll. He might hit her once, maybe twice. She'd cut her hair. He'd start relaying his fears to his best friend.

Then she'd announce it was over. He'd leave and she'd pack his things for him. She'd give him the wedding china, including the unused gravy boat. She'd keep the not-yet-paid-for couches. Going into the bin would be the IVF drugs, the Greek trinkets, and his U of M hat-she'd been tired of it for years and just waiting for her chance.

And just like that, it'd be over.

I watched them and knew that was what was ahead of them.

I wondered when I'd become so jaded.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:45 AM | Comments (27) | Add Comment
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August 04, 2006

Studious

Right.

The study is done.

OK, well, technically it's nearly done, as the cabinet hasn't yet been scrubbed within an inch of its life, it's really only been scrubbed twice, and as my grannie used to say: Twice is not within an inch of its life! (She didn't really say that, it just seems like the kind of thing grannies would say.) And we haven't put anything in the cabinet, and it needs some tidying, some pictures need to be hung up on the walls, and blah blah blah I want a drink.

Getting there.

In the meantime I have some pictures.

The Brighton cupboard hasn't been stripped yet, but still stands outside under a tarp (another Cristo masterpiece!) to be done this weekend. You can see it here, though, on the top left hand side (the picture next to it? A stool from 1650. Get the fuck out. That place rocks.)

The lovely and beautiful dresser is, actually, possibly older than we thought. Angus originally estimated it at about 100 years old but some of the panes of glass were made the old fashioned way, which puts things at anyone's guess. It needs a few more rounds of scrubbing and (possibly) repainting, but we're keen to keep it as simple and neat as possible.


Dresser


We also got one of those old-fashioned collection boxes, this one from a church in Salem (fitting, really). We now use it to host our 2 pound coin collection, having graduated the pint jar from this duty, which we'll blow on a weekend away when the thing is full.


Coin box


Angus has hung up my light, which I love. It's made from recycled fibers (hippies!) and has butterflies punched out on it. I know it's a bit weird and quirky but it makes me smile, and shouldn't lighting evoke an emotional reaction anyway?


My light


And until Angus gets his wide angle lens, it's hard to show the entire mass of work we've done in terms of the bookshelves-they flank both sides of the fireplace and are made from the 100 year-old floorboards we got at a salvage yard.

I love them. They surround the fireplace, from which hangs a mirror that Angus inherited from his grandparents.


Bookshelves


We've put a throw rug down that matches the deep red of the walls. I still have trim and doors to paint, there are bits and pieces to be done, but we're nearly done in here, and this study has become a place where we love to relax.

All of us.


The little dude


-H.

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August 03, 2006

An Anonymous Love Letter

Dear Sparks,

You mentioned the other night that sometimes you take me for granted and you try to be conscious of that. You told me that you think of me in the quiet spaces of the day that I am not physically near, and when you do, you smile. You say things to me that you maybe haven't said to anyone else, and since words of love tend to be recycled time and again, it's a comfort.

I could make this cutesy and sappy, I could pour out my heart for you and fill it with gently sanded spaces, but as time passes I have found that love, like everything else in my life, grows up. What I have with you is rounding out of puberty now and looking to ditch the fake ID in favor of debating Nietzche and drinking dodgy brandy. It's not pretentious, but it's growing up, and that's all that matters.

When you left for a meeting in London this morning, with product in your hair and that nice aftershave I bought you marking the space on your neck, I laughed and kissed you and asked who's this other woman you're meeting? The fact of the matter is, I don't worry that you'll meet someone else. Not because I am so sure of myself, but I am so sure that we have a layer of honesty the prevents it-glasnost, we've always called it. And now we have a Gorbachev to oversee it, and I know that it's still in place.

I still trust you, you know.

I love that you talked me down from a ledge earlier this week when I had to go to the other side of England for a business meeting. Trapped in some podunk train stop you Googled me out of it, and your calm reassurance helped relieve my stress.

Thank you, baby.

I love that we go places together and do things that make us laugh. In two weeks we'll be in Wales in that B&B we love so madly. In two months we'll be in Inverness, and we both love Scotland unconditionally. In three months we'll be at my friend's wedding in the States, and we get to go shopping (Target! Sephora! Old Navy! Home Depot!) and eat all the Mexican we can stand (please? Pretty please?). And we get to get gussied up again for the wedding, and my God you are so handsome-whether naked, in your boxers, or in your black tie.


Angus and IAngus and I Hosted on Zooomr


Thanks for listening to me, too. I know I have a sometimes screwed-up way of looking at things, but it means a lot to me that you pay attention.

I can't believe it's been all these years and I still love you as much as ever. The only person I have ever loved longer than you now is John Cusack (well, ok, there was that brief crush I had on Mr. Snuffleupagus, but I really don't think he counts, especially since I don't even own that Sesame Street LP anymore, and can only just remember the lines to Rubber Duckie. No really. That unrequited love affair is so over. Which reminds me, please stop trying to have an American accent, it's not very becoming. And while I'm at it, making Alan Partridge faces while I'm coming on to you really puts my fire out as effectively as thinking of Whoopi Goldberg while trying to orgasm.)

I've always had a thing for older men with furry chests, I guess.

Thank you for making not one but two treks out to that antique shop to help furnish my study. It's nearly there now, and the re-wiring you did yesterday so that I would be able to hang my new lampshade, which I still exclaim over with girly glee, is something you did without a single complaint. That means a lot to me. Especially the not complaining part, I love that.

Thank you for making me macaroni and cheese yesterday and for admonishing me to not overdo it today, to not lift too many things in our wartorn study.

It's things like that, babe. Things like that.

I love you like this:


Heart.JPG


(Found courtesy of here, makers of my favorite cards).

Love,
-H

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August 01, 2006

In the Name of the Holy Ghost

The study is nearly finished. This is good, as while I can take change ok, utter-fucking-turmoil is something I struggle a bit with. The walls are painted (Mr. Do You Want This Done Right? is asking when I'm going to paint the ceiling. I LOVE you baby, but I've painted the ceilings in every other room in this house, my own personal line in the sand is here-I hereby solemnly swear, on the round of Reblouchon we have in the fridge, that I absolutely do not want to paint that goddamn ceiling. So it is written, so it shall be.)

The boy has done an incredible job with the wiring. Angus is big on cabling, and as such our study-which unfortunately, due to us being on various trials, etc with work, is throbbing with expensive kit designed to facilitate, radiate and repudiate. Pick a new gizmo and chances are we may have one, although the truth is we don't actually like having all this shit, especially as trials invariably have us swapping out wifi routers, inserting sims into test phones, and re-bricking the walls of our fabulous firewall. So there are many, many cables in this room.

And, being an old house, it figures that in the entire room, there's only one outlet.

Nice.

On Sunday, sweaty and foul, Angus informed me of our new task-we got to pull up floorboards and put cables under the boards.

I stared at our ancient soft wood floorboards. "You want to go under those?" I asked with a shudder.

"Oh yes," he replied nonchalantly. "We have to put the cables under the floor so they'll be out of the way. "It's only earth under there, what are you afraid of, what do you think could be under there?"

"Dead people. Ghosts. Something from a horror movie, and I'm no Jamie Lee Curtis, I can't pull that shit off." I reply with a whisper.

We rip up the floorboards, a sweaty, nasty horrible job. With a crack the board came up and we saw that these floorboards aren't as old as the ones upstairs-those are original in the house, these have been laid since (we know as these were tongue and groove floorboards. I sound like I talk dirty to the New Yankee, don't I?) Once we lifted them, I could see Angus was right-our house is built literally on top of the earth, which lay about a foot down (am not sure what I expected. It's not like houses were built on Faberge Eggs or bouncy castles, of course they rest on the ground. Idiot.) I peer down and see a scrap of ancient wallpaper, so I reach in to pick it up.

"See any rat droppings down there?" Angus asks casually.

I drop the wallpaper like a hot potato and wonder how I can cauterize my arm off.

We run the cables under the floor, and I even throw a cling-film wrapped picture of Angus and I down there. He looks at me like I was mental, and I shrug. "I would've loved it if we could find a picture of the first family that owned this house, I thought in maybe 100 years someone would get a grin out of seeing a picture of the family that owned the house in 2006."

The first owner of this house was a brother, his other brother owned the house next door. What trips me out is that in 1914, the brother bought this house for £90. Times, they have truly changed.

The floorboards go back in place and you can't tell we were ever there. The place is now well-wired and humming along.

What we needed last was a new cabinet of some kind to hold CDs and documents. We are a bit tired of Ikea-they have some cute things, and are great if you're not sure what you need so you go for something you're not going to mind chucking someday. But we did have an idea of what we wanted, and we found one online at-of all places-an antique shop specializing in church antiques.

We went there yesterday. This place is packed, not only because many churches are being deconsecrated as their flock stray, but because they want to be kitted with the latest and greatest in Biblical technology. So pulpits from the 1700's sat, forlorn, next to church stools of the Shaker variety, and a massive pipe organ sat dismantled, still gleaming in the corner.

I know this sounds bizarre, but I've always wanted my own pew. My very own pew. It's true, God and I are at odds (but he owes me money), but still-a pew is a pew. People's hopes and dreams soak into the wood, and they become soft after years of people shifting up and down them. I wanted a pew. We found some pews and, there amongst several other things, was the world's most perfect cabinet.

Angus haggled with the guy over the cabinet, a few lights, and another cabinet we thought we could use as a linen cupboard (turns out the soon-to-be linen cupboard is from a Methodist church in Brighton, and is about 100 years old.) I, meanwhile, found leftover church robes and spent time draping them over ancient trunks, pretending I was Cristo and this was my new draped creation.

I wondered if just being there and buying former church furniture was like pennance, because I could do with a whole lot of that.

The Brighton cabinet is being stripped and may be re-painted, but right now it sits under a tarp outside, waiting for its new home (another Cristo creation by Helen!) The cabinet for my study comes home tomorrow-it has the old-fashioned leaded windows, and two panes were missing so the antique center will fix them for us.

I haven't gotten my pew yet (but as the man there said, "the pew market has dropped out", which makes me wonder: who the fuck was asking for pews?). There was also a wooden carved angel that captured my fantasty and I would love, but maybe that's for another time. We have to go easy on the religious artifacts, lest people think that we drink our wine straight out of Corinthians.

We came home and surveyed our study, still covered in God dust.

It looks fantastic.

Pictures to follow.

-H.

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