February 27, 2007

The Party Pooper

I'm just going to come out and say it, and I'll take my stoning-

I hate Spring.

Seriously. I just hate it.

I'm sure you're shocked by that. You think: Helen, the crunchy granola fruity hippy doesn't like Spring? Is that possible? That little Fruit Loop doesn't like the season known for the renewing of life, she of the interminable metaphors can't appreciate the loveliness of the end of the bitter cold? What did Spring ever do to her, huh?

Now, I know that there are differing opinions of when Spring is-Angus marks the start of Spring on the official start of Spring, which is March 21. Me, I note that Spring is coming when the temperatures start to rise, the chances of snow and frost disappear, and the flowers start to come out. I note Spring is coming when the air no longer has that touch of dry painful cold to the underside of it, when my hands can go for a few minutes without mittens.

And with Spring comes the mud.

Everywhere.

And this being England, it rains constantly. It's been raining for days, with more rain forecast until (if I am to believe the weather forecaster) November 2009. April (or February) showers may bring May flowers, but not if I have to build a fucking ark to see them.

And allergies. My allergies pop up with a ferocity normally reserved for NYC brides at that twice yearly bridal fair. My eyes turn red and swell up to the point that I don't even leave the house, for fear of women looking at me with pity. My neck gets covered in bumpy hives. My nose runs, but then my nose is always running.

And did I mention the mud?

I look at the garden with despair. This is the time when I should be doing something about the state of it, but I just can't face it. First of all, in case you hadn't noticed, there's the mud. Go into the garden and every square inch of me will be covered with mud in no time-I'm like that around substances. Paint a wall? Covered in paint. Garden? Covered in mud. Baking cookies? Covered in flour. I am the female equivalen of Pig Pen, I swear it (except I bathe. A lot.) Then there's the fact that while it's not freezing outside, it sure isn't warm, and I'm a fair weather gardener. I like my gardening to inlude an iPod, a tank top, and shorts, I don't want to be wearing three layers of clothing. And of course, our garden has a mind of its own, anyway. The greenery is taking over, I could either tackle it or I could shut the door and go watch CSI, and I'm sure you can guess which will win.

That said, I am buying up seeds and will be scattering them in trays to grow some seedlings. I'm sick of the green and want some flowers, which will of course be pointless if we have another drought this year, and I'm sure we will have another drought because we all used aerosol hairspray in the 80's. Are we all happy now? We just had to have bangs the size of the Berlin Wall in the 80's, and because of that all of the damn geraniums will die. Nice.

I get it that Spring is supposed to be full of laughter and light and making babies and little birdies and budding blooms. I see that Spring is supposed to make us long for the Easter bunny and have dreamy visions of Bambi being all twitterpated and Thumper being a pretentious dick. Spring is new growth and starting life and blah, blah, tree hugging blah. I just hate it.

Spring is mud on every available surface. It's wondering if the grass will actually grow back through the carpet of mud (it will, it always does). Spring is about itchy, watery, puffy eyes.

If you're not clear on if I like Spring or not yet, lemme' sum up:

I hate Spring.

I'll even share a picture of our budding garden to prove to you that Spring is coming.


The daffodils have arrived


Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get my Wellingtons on and kick Bambi's ass.

-H.

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February 26, 2007

When a Statue Isn't Just a Statue

I have a confession to make.

OK, so, you know last night was Oscar night.

I know-in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. Oscar night does not change the price of your stock portfolio. It does not solve the problem of world hunger. It does not end that pesky little trouble of preventing tights from getting snags.

But what Oscar night is, is fucking great.

My confession? I love the Oscars.

I used to be huge on watching the Oscars. It was a big deal to me, and a routine went with it-I would have popcorn. The couch would be fully occupied by the space of my butt for the duration of the awards. I would - I can't believe I'm telling you this - cut out the list of nominees and categories from the newspaper and tick off the winners. I would then keep the list for ages, for reasons unknown even to myself.

I would try to see all the films nominated, or at least those in the main categories. The best foreign films were generally on their own though (unless I was dating an indie freak, then I seemed to have known them all AND could have told you how many times in total there were penis and/or beaver shots in the films), and the categories of Best Short Film and Best Documentary became known in my home as Best Time To Go Make More Popcorn. I went through untold amounts of Diet Cherry Coke (my drinking years really only kicked off once I moved to Sweden, although I like to think what my reaction would have been to the Oscars halfway through a bottle of cabernet - "Helly Billy! Yo! Crystal! Yeah, you! How about a few fewer musical numbers, you nutsack?")

In short, I loved the Oscars.

I also watched the Emmys, because I want to make one thing clear-I'm not an elitist. I worship both film AND television (except the Daytime Emmy Awards. I didn't care about those, I just tuned in to the results to check and see if Susan Lucci ever won.) I have equal amounts of time for both of them, my adoration to the celluloid world of people who don't exist is complete. The Grammys can go fuck themselves, and who the hell even watches the Tony awards? The Golden Globes weren't really a big thing yet when I left the States, but I suspect I would have been a Golden Globe junkie too. It had all the right elements-big party frocks and an "I'm an everyday kind of gal/guy" attitude that the Oscars don't have. I think you could even get by with drinking a beer at the Golden Globes, it's that laid back (rather like the MTV Awards, in which I'm sure even the theatre seats smell like pot.)

I even remember me some Oscars. I remember Geena Davis winning for Accidental Tourist, and at the time I adored her ice blue gown. Looking back now, that dress is clearly something she ripped from a 19 year-old Cinderella extra at Disneyland, but at the time, it was amazing. I remember Joe Pesci winning and giving the best speech in history - he went up to the mike, took the award, shook hands with the presenter, turned to the podium and said, "It's my privilege, thank you." and walked off.

Beautiful. Just the right combinations of "This is cool, thanks" and "Fuck off".

I laughed at Roberto Begnini's antics (what the hell happened to that guy? He just disappeared after that film). I remember being shocked with Whoopi Goldberg won, as well as wondering just what she was thinking when she left the house dressed like that. I was equally surprised when Marisa Tomei won (she later went on to haunt me with the following seriously crap films which I always seem to watch when feeling very hormonal, thus there I am crying at a very crap Marisa Tomei film. I clearly did something to her in a past life to get paid back like this.) I remember rooting for The English Patient and L.A. Confidential. I remember loathing James Cameron. I cried at every one of those montages where they showed the icons and stars who had died that year (I cried, as well as often exclaimed "He's dead, too? When did that happen?")

As a kid of course I used to have my own Oscar speeches. I was always thrilled to win the Best Actress Oscar, going up to the podium to accept my award in the world's most gorgeous gown and accepting my award from either Sean Astin or the New Kids on the Block (SHUT UP, I was a kid!) where I would wipe a few tears away, thank the cast and crew of my film, hold my hand on my heart and thank Meryl Streep (who would be crying and blowing kisses at me, her handkerchief clutched to her throat) as the world's greatest mentor, and I would dedicate my Oscar to all the little girls who want to be an actress, just like I used to. I would have a standing ovation (of course), and the orchestra wouldn't play their music before I had finished, because they were that nice to me.

I have to further confess that as I grew up, my Oscar speech changed. As an adult I would be presented the Oscar by George Clooney who would graciously kiss me (Mmmmmmmm......give me a moment here.) My Oscar would be for Best Screenplay, and I would thank Steven Speilberg (who would be crying and blowing kisses at me, his handkerchief clutched to his throat) for interpreting my words so perfectly with his direction. I would thank the main actor and actress of the film - Gwenyth Paltrow and Tom Hanks (both of whom would be crying and blowing kisses at me, their handkerchiefs clutched to their throats, in case you see a theme here) for bringing my beloved characters to life. I would choke and admit that my screenplay and book were my life, my dream, and the total embodiment of all my hopes. I wouldn't cry (like the aforementioned Gwenyth - you should never come apart like that on the Oscar stage, it isn't done) but I would be the epitome of gratitude and love. Once off-stage I'd do my press conference, and then go to a few after-Oscar parties snuggling into my man, and then get snapped going for tacos at Taco Bell and the headlines the next day would scream "Golden Winner Proves She's a Real Woman, Too!"

Yeah, OK. I know it'll never happen, but still. It was a nice diversion when in business meetings.

So I love the Oscars. They used to air the show in Sweden and I'd watch them in the middle of the night. Over here we don't get the coverage, but I devour the websites and will be buying the magazines (People magazines annual coverage of the Oscar gowns is always an orgasmic edition for me.)

So no Oscars for me here, although E! did air their Red Carpet pre-show (will someone PLEASE get rid of this Ryan Seacrest schmuck?) I feel pretty cut up about missing the Oscars themselves, but I'll get the magazines. I read the websites. I still pretend it could happen to me (it won't) and I still love the obscene glamour and pageantry of the whole thing, even if I don't get my popcorn and my checklist of winners anymore.

Hi. My name is Helen, and I'm an Oscar addict.

-H.

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February 23, 2007

Dreaming and Recovery

It's been a bit of an introspective week for me-I swing from body functions to looking inward with the turn of a spindle-and I'm no different today.

I got an email from someone I consider a friend. They had lost someone that they loved very much, and they were spooling with grief. Grief, this is something I know.

The grief carried over into my dreams last night. Lately, I've been having very vivid, vibrant dreams which often veer on the side of Kafka. Even though I get healthier and healthier, the Kafka, they'll never leave. I think my night terrors are the pennance I pay for my actions either in this life or the last. I can tell you my penance is resolute, and someday when I die, I will be free from them.

Last night was no different. My dreams started off well, I dreamt I had mad crazy loving with Nick Stokes from CSI, before he got a call for a 419 and had to leave (I am clearly watching too much CSI). As he left he told me to take care of that veruca on the bottom of my foot (it still won't go away), and even though he was patronizing, goddamn he was hot in bed. Of course, the fact that we were shagging in an antique bed in a Medieval Mansion I was doing an archaeological study in was a sideshow, the focus was Nick Stokes in bed, really.

I'm sure my dreams are wildly uninteresting to you.

But here's the thing. What I read before bed carried over into my dreams, and I dreamt that I descended down a huge staircase (this is after soaking in the hot male scent of Nick Stokes, of course.) At the bottom was a swish party, and everyone was in tuxedos and fabulous dresses. Some had masks on. And at the bottom of the stairs, in a wheelchair, was Kim.

I haven't dreamt about Kim for a while. Kim has been dead nearly 7 years now, and I stopped looking for him in crowds a long time ago. In real life, the last time I did see him was in a hospital bed and in a wheelchair, as leukemia raped him and left him for dead. In real life, the last time I saw him his voice was quiet, and he didn't look like the man I remembered him to be.

Dying does that to you.

In my dream I descended down the staircase in a silk dress the color of buttercream. Everything moved slowly, and all I could see through the noise and hubbub of the party was him. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I had to talk to him, there was something I had to tell him, there was something I had been waiting so long to tell him about. It was a warning, and it was the one thing I had to give him.

I wrapped my arms around him. "You have to go to a doctor, before it's too late. They can catch it earlier than they did, they can save you if they find it now."

In my dream I look down at Kim again. He smiles at me. I smile back, and feel a thousand levels of ache for what I know is going to happen.

And then I woke up.

I don't know if forewarning him could have saved him. He hated doctors, and he waited until the disease was advanced before seeking treatment. The truth is, I simply think this was the way it was supposed to be. I used to rage against the world for taking him out of it and leaving someone like me in it, I used to think God had a fucked up sense of humor and karma was a piece of shit.

But even forewarning him wouldn't have changed the path of our lives. Even if he had made it I'd still be here and he'd still be there. Although I thought that he would be the one I would eventually die with, maybe that was never in the cards regardless of his death. He was a beautiful, extraordinary part of my life and always will be.

Warning him would not have saved him.

Even if it had, we still wouldn't have been together, although the world would have been better off for having him in it.

And so I get out of bed and I walk the dog. I laugh with Angus and go for a swim at the gym. When I leave the gym I drive home and feel my skin tingle, I feel alive. This is my life and I love it. I get home and find that Angus has booked us a short holiday to Iceland in May, and I am absolutely over-the-moon about it. I feel happy. I feel calm. Right now my life is a bubble that I hold gently and lovingly-I couldn't feel better about some aspects of my life right now, and I could never have believed I would ever be in this place.

I wish my friend's heart peace and comfort, and it will get there someday. I wish her dreams like the one I had, where you see the ones you loved once and you find ways to tell them you still care and always will. I wish her the chance to wake up from dreams, too, and find life embracing you in every way possible.

-H.

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February 22, 2007

It's the Little Things

Reading the comments the other day from the "Life is Short" post, I realized you were on to something. Maybe the best and greatest that we take with us when we go isn't a punch the air kind of day, it's a collection of tiny memories that will replay on a loop for us. And Angela pointed something else out-a lot of the bigger days that you may remember are actually no good rotten very bad days.

She has a point.

In my ongoing effort to continue to get healthy (and if you read here, I'm going to drag you with me), I try to focus on the positive. I'm not happy in my career, but I have a great family. I may not like my looks but I sure like my dog. I have a series of failed relationships but I have a pretty good man now. I'm not getting any younger but my skin is holding up so bathing in vats of virgin blood can be put off for a while longer.

And even though my entire life has been one giant whirlwind, a series of lurching from disaster to disaster, I like to imagine that someday, when I'm old and gray and alone, I'll have little memories that I'll hold in my hand, memories like little marshmallows, and the longer I hold them the stickier they'll get.

I look around me and wonder what kinds of things people will hold close to them later in their lives. For Donna it's maybe the sweetest horse. For Statia, it's perhaps getting through the roadblock of infertility and making me an Auntie (for those who follow her, I'll spill the beans. She's giving birth on the 17th of March because it's St. Patrick's Day, and the truth is, she's giving birth to Lucky the Leprechaun-I hear her Leprechaun comes out not just magically delicious, but also with a bowl of cereal ready for the breastfeeding service. Shhhhh-you heard it here first.) For Teresa, it may be about knitting that perfect piece, and for Lindsay it may be pouring a bowl of General Mills cereal (Booberry FOREVER!)

Different things for different people.

So I thought about my life and my list. Now, there was this film I remember watching a long time ago called Brainstorm. The key point of this film (besides putting aside the disbelief that Natalie Wood and Christopher Walken could get it on) is what the memories on one's life look like when you cross from life to death (bear with me here, I'm not about to start peddling crystals or anything). A scientist in the film has a heart attack, and she records her memories as she's dying. Her memories are everything from the good to the bad, the young to the old, and as she passes away her memories become clearer and clearer...but they are everyday, ordinary memories. A lifetime of the day-to-day, little glimpses of just getting on with that thing called life.

You're probably right-the little things are the things I want to take with me. Of course I want to remember what it was like to get engaged in Whistler, but I also want to remember what it was like to feed the birds from my hand half-way up Whistler mountain. I want to remember settling in to this house we have, but I also want to remember laughing and painting the kitchen and drinking wine on the mattress in the living room as we dreamt big dreams.

My little memories maybe mean nothing to anyone-playing Frogger on the Atari with a braid swinging down my back. Swimming with Melissa in the freezing cold New Zealand waters as dolphins dove and splashed around us. Running through the bluebells with Gorby. Catching fireflies on a hot summer night as a kid. Drinking wine and watching a Santorini sunset with Angus. Having my hand held in Bangkok. Walking across Waterloo Bridge. Hovering as I snorkel, in perfect peace and quiet, in the Indian Ocean off the coast of the Seychelles. Making risotto. IM'ing with a friend.

These are what I want to take with me.

I've had punch the air days. I got jobs, I got loves, I got good tests, I got success. Those days, they may not stay with me. I had a punch the air day yesterday, actually, but in time that exact day may fade and be replaced by an ordinary image. And I'm ok with that. I'm going to try to imagine that my life is a big corkboard, and the soft crunchy sound that a pushpin makes as it gives way into the cork is where I place each memory. Riding a bicycle as a kid, with a banana seat and those plastic streamer things flowing from the handlebars - *crunch*. That night we stayed up all night talking, and I'd never talked like that before - *crunch*.

Maybe someday I'll use this blog to look back on the everyday, and in the everyday, I'll find amazing comfort.

-H.

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February 21, 2007

Proud New Parents

Big news-

(no really)-

Angus and I are delighted new parents.

We have successfully adopted this gorgeous darling. more...

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February 20, 2007

Life Is Short

I wonder what it is about our days that makes us remember them. Can you look back and say: "Oh yes-February 19, 2004. I remember it well, that's the day I had scrambled eggs for breakfast and had an Americano instead of my usual latte at Starbucks." Or: "Sure, I recall November 10, 2005. That's the day I had a presentation at the office and had that massive python tattooed across my back. It kinda' hurt."

Do most days just pass us by in a blur, they have no imprint on us, they don't make a difference? We register that the floor of the coffee shop needs a mopping, but it doesn't change our life. We have 10 voice mails, but they have nothing revolutionary to add. We pop in to blogs that make us smile, make us cry, make us cringe, but when we click that red X in the upper right-hand corner, it doesn't linger with us past that popping mouse click.

If we save up a host of these days, does it mean that our recollection will be a cumulative one-our interminable days become a single day in our memory (wake up, shower, brush teeth, dress, leave house, head to work, get coffee, work, head home, undress, watch TV, have dinner, go to bed.) Will we look back at our twenties and see this pattern? Will it mark our thirties? Is our forties about refining this pattern, getting the daily grind into perfection?

They say that on their death bed no one really wishes they worked more, but I think that's only because they haven't polled everyone. That, and do you really know you're punching the grand time clock at that moment? With my luck, just before I kick the bucket, I'll be telling a dirty joke or asking for another plate of mac and cheese. Hardly the romantic images we all have of tearfully clutching our loved ones and telling them what they meant to us.

How many of us wake up in the morning and grin, saying "THIS! This is the day I've been waiting for, I think. I'm sure of it. Today is here, and today could be the day." And how many of us head through that day and the most amazing thing that happens is someone hands us a red balloon animal. Maybe it occassionally works that way-maybe the chap that invented Hubba Bubba woke one morning and shouted "Today is my day! I'm going to grab my day by the balls and I'm going to make it strawberry flavored!"

Maybe not every day needs to be this way. Maybe our days should be ordinary just so we can enjoy the little patches of extraordinary. I caught the train into London yesterday then walked to the office, while eating a bagel (not on the calorie approved list, but I made myself walk fast to help burn some of it off.) I had a few meetings. I lost my temper. I got offered a job by a manager I can't stand (so that'll be a no then.) I walked to a theatre and saw a film with a mate of mine (Blood Diamond, and definitely not a film you should see if you're PMSing as I cried like a baby every time a little kid got shot, which in this film happens a lot. I also like my Australian non-conflict diamond engagement ring a whole lot and we're definitely going to ensure my wedding ring is certified conflict free from Australia, too, and not just because I saw the film.) I bought a sandwich at the station and went home.

Not a day likely to stick in my mind in the long term.

I'm not depressed or upset, in case this post is reading like that. I'm just feeling pretty random and wondering what my memories are going to be made of, because days are passing (as is my youth) and I want to know which days are the days I'm supposed to seize. I'm ok about a haze of nondescript memories of train tickets, Starbucks, minutes of meetings, and poached fish for dinner. Those memories aren't bad necessarily, I just want a bit of heads up on the days that have a say in changing my life. I can look back and see days that met those criteria, I know the ones that made everything change in the blink of an eye.

I just want some control over them.

And I want to wake up, punch the air, and say This is the day. Today is the day. I'm seizing the fucking moment and together we're going to make a memory that I'll remember forever.

It's not happening today.

But I've decided it will happen, so bear with me.

I'll be expecting to hear from you, too, on when your day is. You know, so I can punch the air with you. You show me yours and I'll show you mine and all that.

-H.

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February 16, 2007

Red Nose Day

This blog is usually about me because, well, it's a blog about my life (hence the "me" part). But today is Red Nose Day here in the UK. Red Nose Day is run by Comic Relief to help save lives, both in the UK and abroad. Comic Relief helps fund projects to help educate about HIV/AIDS, for tsunami victims, urban slums, fair trade, and in the UK its helped fight domestic abuse, child abuse, and a subject dear to my heart, they help fund projects aimed at mental health.

If you find yourself with a spare fiver in your pocket, just click here to lob it over the fence and help someone out.

In our house today, we're suppporting Red Nose Day.


It's Red Nose Day Tomorrow, Baby


Make a difference.

Be there for someone who needs your help.


It's Red Nose Day Tomorrow, Baby


-H.

UPDATED-Holy shit, Caroline is right! Red Nose Day is MARCH 16.

I feel like a dick! But still! Give!

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February 15, 2007

The Dark Ages Meets Bra Burning *Updated*

Angus and I sometimes watch a BBC Three series called Wedding Stories, not because we're engaged and I've subscribed to Modern Bride and have catalogs of tiaras to wear or anything like that, but because it's hilarious. Basically, the BBC has picked ten couples it follows around leading up to and on their wedding day. And these couples are the epitome of bizarre, trailer trash, or so utterly cringe-worthy that it's like watching a matrimonial version of Jerry Springer.

One such story is about a religious couple. When I say "religious couple", I mean "dial it up as far as the notch will go" religious. I don't think I've seen a more evangelical couple, ever.

Now, I don't mind religious leanings. Even though I'm a lapsed Catholic, I just figure-to each his own. I'm not a rabid anti-religious person, I'm not like a vindictive ex-smoker who gets vicious with smokers, I just don't think religion has anything to do with me really. If you're Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or Zoroastrian, then whatever floats your boat, mate. Rock on. I even find some religion entertaining-I like watching documentaries about the Duggar family. but that's more in the horrified fascinated "look at the double-headed camel!" kind of way.

This couple are very, very religious. They pray before everything. They cry and raise their hands and sing at top volume while whizzing in the car down the motorway (to which the only thing I have to say is maybe they want to keep at least one hand on the steering wheel.) I also understand that they have abstained from pre-marital sex (understand, but not agree. I'm one of those that likes to sample my 31 flavors before settling on a cone.)

When I finally lost it, though, was when the bride-to-be was talking to her nightly prayer group. She said that she accepted the Lord's word as her own, she just struggles sometimes with one aspect of it. Then this woman-an Oxford graduate-used the "S" word.

Subjugation.

As in: I must do it.

And that's when I started singing Starship's We Built This City on Rock and Roll in my head to try to keep my inner woman from going on a rampage. This wasn't the first wedding I'd seen where subjugation was mentioned, but I swear it needs to be the last.

I did some checking-it turns out the Bible has over 200 references referring to the subjugation of women. I didn't pull my ancient Precious Moments Bible off the shelf to check each one, actually (mostly because if I so much as touched the cover of the thing I'm sure it would catch on fire, but also because today I'm being pretty lazy) but there are a few (using another favorite "S" word-submit) that I looked up online and read about.

I know this is not a suprise to most. It just galled me-I thought: An Oxford-educated woman is going to spend her entire married life submitting to the will and whim of her husband. What point was her education? Isn't education the embodiment of empowerment? Shouldn't this be a sign to her that the world is her oyster, shuck away? And while you're shucking, might as well take those manacles off?

What can you do. This is her choice, it's her life. It makes me feel sick that they'll probably have daughters and it'll be round 2 of subjugation and submission, but then this is me being a judgmental bitch. I don't have the right to be pissed off about it, I know-they're not my kids. While I might raise any daughter I would ever be fortunate to have to think that she's the miniature version of Wonder Woman, it doesn't mean everyone will do the same thing. I am one of those that truly believes men and women can do everything equally, and anyone who tries to tell me otherwise has me plugging my ears and chanting Lalalalalalalalala I can't hear you! (Solomon I only recently un-banned you. Don't even think about delivering the sermons here, I am not going to be ok with that.)

It's her life. Angus knows that when we eventually get married that "honor and obey" is not going to be a part of my vows. Honor isn't demanded. Obeying isn't an option. We watched the rest of the TV program, and I just accepted that for some people, if God says subjugate, then subjugate they will (that whole "would you jump off a bridge too?" question just ran through my head, but I figure if some people will spend a lifetime subjugating then a jump off the bridge is small potatoes, really).

But then the minister said at the end of the service to the bride-to-be: "You must take care of your man. Always make sure he has good food, good sex, and good sleep every night, a man must have those. Never do anything to disturb any of those three."

The bride nodded and swore to uphold her duties.

I had to be restrained.

-H.

*UPDATED-oops, comments got closed on accident. Sorted now.*

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February 14, 2007

A Day to Make Me Smile About Something.

That fucking driving test


One less stress.

I finally passed my UK driving test.

-H.

Psssst-Happy Valentine's Day, too.

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February 13, 2007

Red and Pink All Over

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, in case you somehow have been in a coma the past few weeks and failed to see the barrage of Hallmark pink and red-related illness hung in every possible doorway.

When you're a kid, Valentine's Day is about giggling. It's about slipping a Valentine's card into the handmade pocket hung on the front of every desk, the Valentine consisting of a stiff glossy paper Winne-the-Pooh, Strawberry Shortcake, or Snoopy and Woodstock, all with perforations down three sides and the "To" and "From" written in silly red ink. Valentine's as a kid tastes like Pepto Bismol candy hearts, whose messages you would go through until you found the one you wanted, making your fingertips chalky and your tongue would feel like you licked the top of a pottery wheel. You counted your Valentine's and wondered if there was hidden meaning in any of them (generally, there wasn't). It was all very exciting.

As a teenager, Valentine's Day changed a bit. Instead of punched out Valentine's Day cards your guy or girl you were "going with" would casually hand you a cassette labelled in black Sharpie. It would invariably be some compilation that they made for you of "songs that meant something to us", and you'd listen to it with religious fervor every day, or at least until you broke up, at which point the tape would get chucked and every song on there would mean something bad to you from then on (my list includes Groovy Kind of Love (I know, I know!) and Thomas Dolby's Cruel. What can I say, I'm a Gen X-er?)

As an adult Valentine's Day takes on a special meaning. It's the day where you don't want to be single so you'll suck it up with Mr. Wrong just to have a Mr. Right Now. If your failing Mr. Right Now relationship made it past Christmas it'll creak past Valentine's Day, at which point there's no amount of bailing you can do as that ship will sink. You have inflated meaning in the day, and everyone walks around with eyes looking slightly strung out. Men seem miserable. Women seem over-expectant. You had to have an obligatory photograph taken of the two of you at dinner, looking wildly romantic and vaguely feverish, which will get framed immediately and then hidden if/when you break up with Mr. Right Now.

Zales would have you believe it's a day where every woman who is properly loved gets diamonds, and while diamonds are indeed welcome, I am one of those (among good company) who errs on the side that Valentine's Day is not the day for proposing. The whole world gets engaged on Valentine's Day, let your day as a couple be some other special day. What about Arbor Day, Arbor Day seems a good day to get engaged (I'm just saying. The second of January isn't too bad, either.)? Why doesn't anyone get engaged on Arbor Day?

For me, Valentine's Day has stretched and changed. I think it's about a good meal, some presents, and a cuddle. I am a believer in Valentine's Day, I admit, simply because I do think that some people need a reminder that every once in a while, the person that they're with likes a day to feel truly loved. Maybe I'm all jaded that way, I've had people in my past that needed a reminder, but there's nothing wrong with a little pink Post-It note reminder sometimes in the shape of a Hallmark holiday.

And as I get older, I think of Valentine's Day as the day where I would like to be pampered in some way (and am happy to offer pampering in return, I'm not that bad). My ideal Valentine's Day would involve a few presents, rivers of champagne, macaroni and cheese (you can take the girl out of the States...) and a back massage while being allowed to watch a CSI:Season 6 DVD marathon. I confess that's maybe not the normal view.

Valentine's Day isn't about chocolates and red construction paper and black Audiovox tapes, though.

To me, Valentine's Day as a grown up should be about letting the other person know that no matter what, regardless of the years or arguments or resentment or work life or problems or hassle or pain or who's going to walk the dog or how did the vacuum cleaner get broken discussions, you'd fall in love with that person all over again if you could, if it worked like that. Valentine's Day is the romantic way of shouting "Do over!" in the playground and looking up and still finding that person to be absolutely amazing. Valentine's Day is the day when you find that when you look at that person you still feel that fluttery feeling in the top of your stomach and ponies circling your head like an idiotic three-ring circus, all handed to you on the back of a perforated Winnie-the-Pooh card that lets you check yes or no if you'll be their Valentine. That's the ideal Valentine's Day to me (and I do know that I'm being an idealist on this one)-letting the other person know that you don't regret a moment of the falling in love with them, and that you wouldn't hesitate to do it all over again. It's not about the shadow-y Zales figures or the rivers of chocolate or those chalky candy hearts (good riddance to those!)

A CSI marathon would just be icing on the cake, really.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:37 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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February 12, 2007

You

Some mornings you wake up and the sheets tangle around your leg like a vine. You struggle, not just in putting your Ready to Meet the World Face on, but in the little things like breathing and moving and trying. The day comes up and takes in your personal space. Real life makes things harder than they need to be.

You make it out of the bedroom and into what lies beyond and you gather your courage. Your day is like your coffee-you take it a sip at a time, you get it into the bloodstream. You sigh and own up to all that you need to do today, all that people expect of you.

You maybe walk the dog. You struggle with your partner, whom you've been arguing with a lot and whose arguments are really, really weighing you down. You're tired of the stress directed at you-everything you do gets you in trouble, and when you do nothing, you get in trouble, too. You sit by the computer and wonder what it holds. Maybe you open your work emails and they make you cry. Maybe you open your personal emails and they make you laugh. Perhaps it's the other way around. You look at your work calendar and start purging all of the meeting invites with a simple explanation-You're no longer working on this project. You feel embarrassed. You feel sad. You feel liberated. You feel lost.

You feel you've let yourself down, and maybe you have, but your life is too short to play a constant game of emotional table tennis. You feel this way about all parts of your life, actually. You should take it one step at a time, though, one step at a time.

The sun is hiding and the coffee has injected the day into you. There is nothing stopping you from getting through the day except yourself, and there is too much riding on you to let yourself down. You wonder about love, you wonder about work, you wonder if you need to do the laundry today or tomorrow, you wonder when you'll go to the gym, you wonder what you're going to be when you grow up.

You wish things were easier but you accept that things can't always be that way. You try to stay positive because you promised yourself that you would be. You try to not feel like you're always in trouble, even if you are. You tell yourself that tomorrow will be better, it has to be better, it can't be anything but better.

And it maybe will be.

And if it isn't, maybe the day after that will be.

And someday, if you keep hoping that the next day will be better, eventually you'll be right, because you can't be wrong all the time, because with every down there is an up, because you have learnt that over time and you have found it to be true.

Have a better day, You.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:12 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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February 09, 2007

They Descend in a Haze of J-Lo Perfume

Angus' daughter Melissa and her best friend, International Erin, arrived yesterday amongst a cloud of snow flurries (we call her International Erin as her parents spell her name "Erin", as opposed to the Swedish spelling of it, which is truly international indeed). Angus decided to up the embarassment factor to the nth degree, so of course he brought the Nikon D50 and my bounce flash (which is a great big fuck-off amount of kit) and took photos of them exiting the gate, as well as making them pose in the middle of foot traffic in front of the "Welcome to Britain!" sign. It's always fun to embarrass your guests, and when they're two Swedish teenagers? Even better.

Melissa's humiliation was so rife you could bottle the stuff and sell it at the Estee Lauder counter.

International Erin is a very quiet, very blond child, and whenever you ask her an opinion about something, you get the answer (croaked in a hestitant, delicate whisper) "I don't know."

This is applied to anything.

"International Erin? What do you like for breakfast? Cereal?"

"I don't know."

"Fruit?"

"I don't know."

"A steaming plate of baby back ribs?"

"I don't know."

She's a bit nervous about flexing her English muscle although she speaks it with no problem, so we're managing on a mixture between Swedish and English for now.

Melissa was delighted with her room-I'd spent the weekend re-painting it and Angus hung up some shelves just for her. Whenever she arrives she takes a moment to unpack her things and move items around the room just so, so she and Angus did that. He also told her that we were engaged to be married, and how did she feel about that?

"Cool," came the breezy teenage reply. "That's ok."

Allrighty then.

I made risotto for lunch while the girls turned the lights off in the living room and watched Van Helsing. Then the four of us packed up and went to Sainsbury's to try to deduce just what this wild creature International Erin ate outside of her native habitat. We asked her in the car.

"International Erin, if someone asked you what's your favorite food, what would you say?"

"I don't know," came the standard reply. Then-"I like to eat Africans."

How do we translate this one...

"Africans?" I ask. "You mean African meals, African-style cooking?"

"No, I like to eat Africans," she replies.

We sit there. "So, you like your Africans baked, boiled, or fried?" Angus finally manages.

We switch to a Swedish/English mixture and though none of us are entirely sure what she means (even Melissa, who is perfectly fleunt in Swedish), we worked out she means a type of African stew served on rice, so if you're an African in our neighborhood you can sleep safe tonight, you're not on the menu.

In the shop we buy a lot of fruit. Melissa comes up to me in the meat aisle. "So Melissa," I say. "When we finally get married I expect you to be a part of it. A big part."

"Cool," she says in the way only teenagers manage.

Melissa hugs me.

"What's up?" I ask. "Did you stick something on my back?"

"No, I just wanted to hug you. I feel happy." she says, smiling.

I smile back. I love being a stepmother. It's finally all coming together, I finally think we're going to make it. I'm on Cloud 9 while we keep shopping.

International Erin comes forth and announces that her other favorite food is biscuits (cookies)-she eats them all the time, she says. I figure her mother must know what she's doing-International Erin is so tiny she gives Nicole Ritchie a run for her money, so ok. As Melissa is not shy of the biscuits either we head to the biscuit aisle. Britain has a number of biscuits that are pretty unique, so we bought some of those-Jaffa cakes, Hobnobs, mini-rolls, flapjacks. I vow to make all of their regular meals very healthy and vegetable-laden as balance for the biscuits. Somehow we managed 8 bags of the stuff, but the girls will take most of them home for distribution amongst family. Angus-still heavily dieting-has managed to avoid them all, but I'm not so keen on sweets anyway, so the temptation is no problem.

A woman comes up to me, looking at my cashmere jacket. "I've been meaning to come up to mention your jacket each time I've seen you in the shop," she says, touching my arm. It's a nice jacket, one of the few decent ones I own. I'm still feeling a bit high from Melissa's hug, I decide to let the woman admire my jacket. I feel like Jesus, without the washing of the feet part.

She reaches for my back, and hands me a sticker. From one aisle over I hear Melissa laughing so hard she sounds like she's going to vomit.

It's a sticker for Fairtrade Bananas.

Bitch put the sticker on my back.

We head home and the biscuits get mentioned from International Erin. "I love biscuits," she babbles.

"Do you eat them often?" I ask.

"Oh no, I sneak them at school, my mom only allows me to eat fruit," she chirps happily.

OH MY GOD. We've just violated another mother's covent. We are the good guys riding in on a shiny chocolate horse, her mother is the baddie dressed as a dried apricot.

"Um, International Erin?" Angus says hesitantly. "Let's keep this biscuit business between the four of us, ok?"

"OK!" she giggled.

I'm going to have to make so many vegetables it will look like we've all gone on the cabbage diet.

Off to London for the traditional sight-seeing now for the girls, and I'm sure more humiliation will occur.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:15 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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February 06, 2007

Short But Sweet (Sugar Free Even)

Work is going spectacularly badly-so badly that I can almost not face it. The other day I found out that-after I'd left the rocket riding gerbil as it has launched-my colleague and boss both got awards for their hard work for the gerbil, with a £1000 bonus.

Even though I'd launched the project.

Said boss had been on leave for months and hadn't done a fucking thing.

Said boss not only didn't mention the money to me but he wasn't even going to tell management they forgot me, it was my colleague who did.

My hatred is absolutely broiling. BROILING. Combine that with massive stress I have in other areas, and I thought my head was going to pop right off like a Fisher Price doll. Just put your thumbnails underneath the little plastic nubbin and...POP! All done. The words "I hate my job" don't come anywhere near to the level of emotion I truly feel.

I came home on Friday a seething mess of bilious rage. Fuck zen. Fuck carefree. Fuck not letting the work life affect my home life. Fuck everything.

I walked in the door in blaze of anger-I hate my new project and unlike my old project, which sucked a lot but at least I had a team that I loved a great deal, I don't even have a team I like. In fact, most of my team I don't like, a few of them I wouldn't trust further than I could throw them and I'm built like a Clydesdale, man, throwing teammates is easy for me. I slam my gear down on the kitchen table. I howl at the animals, who only want to enquire what's wrong with me. I stomp up the stairs and unleash a litany of troubles to Angus, who has been working from home.

Angus blinks.

"Well?" I nearly shout. "Say something, and make it good!"

He blinks again. "You know those sugar-free fizzy sherberts you bought me?"

I do-fizzy sherberts are a candy that really do fizz in your mouth, they're lovely things.

"Yeah, well the package warns you to not eat many of them, that sugar free things impact the stomach. Turns out they're right. I've had diarrhea all day, and you know what? When it comes out? IT FIZZES."

I stare at him.

He stares at me, nodding in rhythm with his rocking office chair.

We burst into hysterical laughter.

Perspective. I need better perspective.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:50 AM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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February 02, 2007

And Maybe Someday

I think often of how it would be. I think that's a good thing, that I at least visualize, that I at least try. It comes to me in small moments, with a whiff of talcum and caramel. I can imagine the monitor sqwaking, and I get up and silently pad into the room.

And maybe someday...

I can see pushing my hair over my shoulder and reaching down, the gap neck of my T-shirt pulling low over my collarbone. My mouth is pursed and with a small intake of breath I start to coo. I am tired but not tired, I am calm, I am here.

And in one move, I slide my arm under your head and lift you up. Your skull is cradled in one hand, and with my other I come and circumference your tiny size. I smile and start to bounce slowly, while still talking low, talking soothingly. I start to hum that song, that song I always swore I would sing my child, the one I've practiced a million times in my head.

And maybe someday...

And you will look up at me, your face scrunched up. I will watch the pulse beat in your soft spot, and I will see the round red apple of your cheeks. You will feel solid and soft, a wobble, a gift. Your white onesie has shifted and I soothe you, pat you, inhale you.

When times get rough-and they will get rough, I know they will-I will think back to the times when it was you and I, dancing and singing that song to you, and I will hold it fiercely in my heart. I will remember how much I wanted you. I will not recall the needles, the tears, the fear, because the soft plush of a teddy bear and the quiet silliness of Dr. Seuss will have chased it away.

And maybe someday...

It's not stupid to think like this, I won't believe that, and it's ridiculous but I can't stop crying as I write this. Maybe you and I dancing in the dark never happens, maybe there is no nursery, you are no pocket of perfect warmth waiting for me to pick you up. I choose to believe in you than not, I choose to see you than to look away. You will be mine and I will be yours because that's the way it is. If we can just dance in the quiet night, if we can just get there, I will never leave you, and I will never hurt you. I will dry your eyes and I will sing a lullaby and I will love you more than you could ever be loved by anyone, ever.

Because maybe someday, I'll be a mother.

Until then, I have this dream.


-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:02 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
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February 01, 2007

I'm Going To Call It "Blow Job Thursday"

Yesterday was even worse than car tire puncture day. Much worse. In a meeting I was so incandescent with rage I nearly slammed my laptop shut, flipped my scarf over my shoulder, pushed on my sunglasses, slung my hot bag over my shoulder and declared in the perfect Joan Collins-haughty voice "That's it! I quit, and nothing you can say can stop me. Good DAY, gentlemen!" and then stormed out, slamming the door behind me.

Well, I wanted to do all that, but:

1) It's unprofessional. In this business, you meet the same sad sacks again and again, so you only burn bridges if you're truly prepared to piss on the burning ashes.
2) My laptop isn't working so well anyway, so it wasn't on the table.
3) My scarf is a fluffy giant Muppet-like thingy, so if I'd whirled it around my neck the end of it would've whiplashed around and taken my eye out.
4) I forgot my sunglasses in the car.
5) On the way out my bag would've fallen open and my Super Plus tampons would undoubtedly have gone rolling across the floor, like little white fiberglass Pillsbury doughboys.
6) We have those safety doors in our offices that you can't slam. They get really slow as they get closer to the frame, so that would've been me on the other side of the door, grunting and trying to pull the door shut in the most undignified way imaginable.
7) All that's followed up by the fact that I threw on my nice pair of black trousers and dashed to the train station. When I got to the station, I had to run for the train...and my trousers fell down. Like, fell down. Those bitches took one look at my hip bones and shouted "See ya!" as they hurtled towards my feet. I knew I'd lost weight, but I didn't know I'd lost that much. Once in London I had to stop and buy a belt just to keep the fucking things on, and I looked like Lil' Orphan Annie's less interesting cousin Lil' Potato Sack Mabel.

A good day, really.

But that's my job, my acupuncturist and my therapist have both agreed that I need to prioritize my state of mind over my corporate world, and who am I to disagree with two aging hippies professionals?

Angus and I are on a health kick (see: trousers falling off), and we're pretty hardcore about behaving with food (I would sell my grandma for some cheese right about now) and no alcohol during the week (sell you my other grandma for some of that, then you'd have a matching pair of grandmas and I'd have a cheese and wine party. Seems fair.) Along with the behaving comes TV programmes we watch. The BBC seems to have as many nutrition programmes as it has WWII programmes-What Not to Eat, You Are What You Eat, Eat What You Want and Still Look Hot, Beans Beans Are Good For Your Heart, and who the fuck knows what else. We seem to watch most of them. Generally most of them involve people that should have gotten thee to a doctor a long time ago (one woman was morbidly obese and had a permanent yeast infection under the folds of her stomach. I get it that she was embarrassed and ashamed of how she looked, but it was too much for me) getting abused by various nutritionists, dieticians, and physical therapists.

There's one show that we both quite like though, called The Truth About Food. We both think the show is well done, interesting, and they spend time debunking or confirming ideas that the diet world put into our heads. For example, they proved that fiber and vegetables really do help the digestive tract, as they fed a load of both to some truck drivers, and then had one of the truck drivers swallow a pill with a camera in it to follow the path of the digestive tract. The fiber really did push things through the body (or so I'm told-I don't do poop. I had to leave the room and plug my ears and desperately pretend I didn't see a shot of the pill entering a brown oozing goo before I'd left the room.)

One of the more interesting episodes was about sex.

Sex is always pretty interesting, I guess.

These diet shows are quite conscious of the fact that daily life is running our sex lives, everyone and their dog (and me!) have fertility problems, and in general there are a lot of myths about sex. One of the things they discussed was that if the male partner drinks three fruit or vegetable smoothies a day for a period of over three months, the sperm count can not only go up, but the quality of the sperm goes way up. Apparently if you have DNA abnormalities, they decrease by 40% just by drinking fruit or veggie smoothies.

That's a lot of fucking fruit, man.

But it worked.

They discussed PMS as well (sometimes called PMT over here.) PMS has a bad rap-I think most men don't really believe it exists, and many of us women get too psychotic to try to rationally discuss it with you when we do have it (I suffer PMS myself-I do get a bit cranky, the boobs get so big they rival Dolly Parton's, and if you get between me and the carbohydrates you may have to die. Once the period starts, all of these symptoms go away and I become the picture of goodness, harmony and light. NO REALLY, I DO.)

A dietician stuck a group of hardcore PMS sufferers on a high vitamin D diet. These women take the trophy in PMS suffering, they have the 500m freestyle in the Olympics. They make my PMS suffering look the synchronized swimming of the Olympics (you can tell me that synchronized swimmers need good lungs, and I get and respect that, but I still think it's a dumb sport). I'd heard this before-that a lot of vitamin D can help PMS, which is one of the reasons why I take a vitamin D and calcium supplement. The study revealed that a third of the test subjects had a significant reduction in PMS, so label that one true.

They de-bunked the myth that there are foodie aphrodisiacs-asparagus, oysters, strawberries, etc-don't really get your blood pumping. It gets pumping because you think it should do, as these are urban legend aphrodisiacs. They proved that men do get turned on by certain scents. I'd heard that American men get high levels of penile blood flow with pumpkin pie, and it was proven that that scent (as well as lavender) increased blood flow to the penis by 32% (just what are you men doing to the pastries at Thanksgiving, hmmmm?). Englishmen apparently get their donkey honking at the smell of apple pie (24% increase.) Across the board, 32% of men get a stonker just by smelling donuts and licorice, while for the ladies apparently our juices flow by 13% more with licorice and cucumber (which is strange, because I get the cucumber part, but I can't stand black licorice.)

You're probably wonder why I'm re-capping this, but I'm getting there. As with anything, I'm a bit slow. And I procrastinate. Maybe I'll go make some toast...nah, I'll do it later.

The one part of the programme that sticks with me the most was about the taste of sperm. Now, I don't mind drinking straight from the fountain-I am happy to drink there, sometimes I even get a bit thirsty for it, but I don't always want to do it as after all-it can't always be Christmas, right? It's a personal choice and while some people prefer to let their cup runneth over, for me I like a bit of spring water directly from the source (plus? If you do swallow? The gratitude you get is huge. I'm just saying.) It doesn't mean I think spooge is the best tasting stuff in the world, I don't want to get Angus all hot and bothered and use the liquid Angus juice as a salad dressing or anything (once an ex told me that one of his exes had asked him if he could ejaculate on her salad. He replied: I just don't find lettuce leaves that hot.), nor is it something that I want to dip my chips in. It just is what it is.

They decided to see if what men ate floated in to the little spermy dudes and influenced the taste-there's long been that urban legend that garlic will make it taste sweeter, and salt...well, it's supposed to do something, but I can't remember what. So they recruited three married couples (all American) to do a taste test. The men and women were seperated for a weekend, and the men put on specific diets-one was on seafood only, one was on fruit only, one was on hot and spicy foods. After three days, the men had to find the inside of a test tube very attractive, and then the test tubes were hand-delivered to the women.

Who drank out of them.

And here's where little old me-the one who's not bothered about playing in the sprinkler-gagged.

I did.

My gag reflex reached right up in my mouth and grabbed hold of my tongue. When one woman smacked her lips a bit, I had to smile to fight the gag reflex (it does work, actually). Then-I watched it, I couldn't even look away in time-she went back to the test tube for a second swig.

A second swig. I felt I could've done something, I could've moved off the couch and curled up in a fetal position under the sidetable, I could've screamed "For the love of God, no!". But I was unable to move, I was frozen, Keanu Reeves couldn't have even dodged bullets that slow. With her second swig I had to battle to keep the bile down.

See, now I get being there at the source. I'm ok with that. What feels weird to me is taking the junk second hand. That's just wrong. If it comes out and there's not something that's 98.6 degrees to catch it, then let it go. You aren't meant to drink it. It's like nuking a hot dog, getting the bun and the mustard ready, and then leaving the weiner to sit on the counter for a while without even putting it into the bun-it's not going to be good out of context.

The truth? It seemed inconclusive that the women could guess what the men ate. Two of the women got it right, one didn't, but then they did see the choices of what their men had been eating. The couples all had dinner, presumably while being all healthy and talking about what the men's sperm usually tastes like.

Lemme be clear on this.

Ladies? Your men's sperm tasted like sperm. That's all it tastes like.

You don't eat the cream filling if it's not in the Twinkie.

Now go get a hot-looking salad, but maybe you should rinse out that test tube first.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:08 AM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
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