March 30, 2007

What Time Does My Baby Elephant Arrive?

So Sunday is my birthday.

No, that's not a joke.

I have NEVER enjoyed having a birthday located squarely on April Fool's Day, and apparently there was no chance of me even saying I cut it close-if I remember correctly from my baby album, I was born at about 2:00 in the afternoon, so I am indeed an April Fool's Day baby. There isn't a crack about April Fool's Day babies that you could make that I haven't heard, either, despite people always being willing to give it a try.

I have no idea what's planned for the day, only I can't help but feel something's planned, mostly because Angus has this undeniable sparkle in his eye as he denies all knowledge of anything planned. I love that I can read him like that, but at the same time it pisses me off that I can read him, but I can't see into the innermost reaches of his soul and find out what - if anything - has been planned. To be honest, nothing has to be planned - I'm just feeling a bit needy and would like some reassurance time.

It must be so great to be with someone with issues.

Angus asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I laid out my dream scenario:

- 5-star hotel.
- Champagne.
- Massage and facial.
- A great round of sex.
- Then all of CSI Season 6 on DVD while I'm laying chilled out on the 5-star hotel bed.
- Dinner of a great food (of course, my fave is mac and cheese, but I could admit that I should bring my game up a little for my birthday and all.)
- Falling asleep after an hour of him telling me how wonderful our relationship is and that time started moving finally the day he met me, or some such romantic shit in a similar vein.

I would've included something about John Cusack, but that's just unrealistic.

But barring any of that happening, I'd settle for:

- Him walking the dog so I can sleep in.
- A great round of sex.
- Him not trying to talk like an American at all for one day (he still sounds like someone battling a case of outrageous hemorrhoids when he tries to imitate us, so a day of not thinking about Preparation-H would be ok with me.)
- A nice meal.
- Loads of voluntary cuddles and compliments.

My stepmother keeps wondering what kind of cake I'll be having. Truthfully, Angus and I usually don't make each other cakes-that was a big thing he and his ex did, but honestly, most of the time I can take or leave cake. I honestly can't stand frosting and never have done, so when I was younger we always had Baskin Robbins' Ice Cream cakes. Ice cream? Good. Cake? Good. Ice cream frosting? Good. The ice cream cakes isn't really an option here, so I told him that ice cream sundaes instead of cake would be ok this weekend, too.

I've specifically requested no English birthday cake. Again, England is fantastic in many, many ways. They have (after many years of abuse) gained a great reputation in food, and I love many English dishes. But one thing I can't stand here is the cake-for Christmas, weddings, and Christenings they have that heavy, heavy fruitcake. For birthdays and other celebrations, they have a kind of "fruit cake lite".

I won't go near fruitcake.

Like frosting, I have never liked the stuff.

Fruitcake is banned from the birthday weekend (although maybe I'll make it for him, as he likes the stuff.)

So I'm Cake Neutral. Although weirdly, lately I've been craving yellow cake with the world's thinnest layer of chocolate frosting. This is seriously out of character for me because 1) I don't really like cake and 2) in case I haven't been clear, I can't stand frosting. He found a recipe for it online (you can't buy the mix here. In fact, there are only one or two mixes you can buy here, so anytime I've made a cake I've made it from scratch. It's more fun that you might imagine, actually, in a "god the flour exploded" kind of way.) So we'll see. I'm good either way-cake or no cake.

Apparently my birthday present arrives today, too, because Angus said that was the closest he could arrange it to my birthday. I gave him a list of what I'd like for my birthday, and I'm relatively certain it's not something like a new fridge or a new dishwasher, mostly because our appliances are still new but also because he is under strict instructions that he is never to buy me an appliance for a gift. This came about as his sister-in-law got an iron from his brother one year, and the other sister-in-law got a juicer (despite the fact that she hates cooking and anything to do with it.) I do not feel that appliances are appropriate presents in any way, shape or form. If I need an iron I'll fucking buy one. If Santa brings me one, he better take a running start because it's going airborne.)

(The one exception to that rule is this. I'd love to have one. I'd worship it for the rest of my life. No one would be in trouble if I got one, although there's a good chance everything we'd eat for a long period of time would have meringue on it, and I hate meringue, I'd make it just because.)

But my present is coming today.

And my present is big.

Very big.

He said that the delivery truck will be by anytime between 8 and 6 today. As he has a meeting this afternoon, if it arrives while he's out I'm to ask the guys to put it in the driveway, although apparently I'll know what it is right away.

I'm convinced it's that baby elephant I've always wanted. I'll name him Seymour, and I'll let Maggie and Mumin ride on him. He'll be so happy here, and I'll punch anyone in the throat that tries to call him Dumbo because I don't want Seymour to have a self-esteem problem.

The baby elephant theme is riding high in our house. I keep asking Angus when my baby elephant arrives, and he keeps rolling his eyes. The truth is, I'm not good with surprises-I hate knowing if one is coming, I'd rather just live my life cluelessly in the dark until something springs up. Warning me that a surprise is coming is like torturing a lactose-intolerant cheese lover with a visit to Neal's Yard.

So there you have it.

On Sunday, I have the unremarkable birthday of 33, which doesn't feel either old or young, I just accept that it is (I love existentialism).

Today, my baby elephant arrives.

Life doesn't get much better than this.

-H.

PS-it's a day early, but it is a tradition, so happy birthday, Mitzi!

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March 29, 2007

4 Out of 5 Dentists Who Chew Gum Recommend

OK, I often get emails or comments from people who stop by this site with products or services that I should try. So I thought I'd return the favor and let you know some things I've been trying that I do or don't recommend. You know...in case you care.

And no-I'm not getting paid to recommend these things, but I can so be bought and would be delighted to be so should someone with an envelope of cash come along. I do remember a kids' show from when I was a child-for some reason I can't recall the name of the show, I just remember it had a patronizing woman and a very scary puppet (this is not unusual for me. Puppets (like clowns) are amongst the most truly frightening creatures in the world). The Patronizing Woman was asked to test a tea polishing set for a sum of money. She tested it, didn't like it, and so decided to uphold her morals and give the money back, rather than say she liked it. I not only never understood why she didn't keep the money and tell them she didn't like the product, but I also didn't understand why she couldn't keep shtum about not liking it. So she didn't like it, big deal, who polishes their silver all the time anyway?

At such a tender age, my morals were already questionable.

Anyway, these are just things I wanted to float past you.


***************************************


When we went to my friend's wedding in Atlanta last November, we met up with a fun couple for dinner. We went to their place and met their two rambunctious dogs, and one of them had one of these things, called a Kong Stuff-A-Ball (and the name of the product makes me laugh in an immature fashion every time).

Gorby can take or leave his Kong toys, it's those goddamn annoying squeaky things that he likes most, the ones which he won't stop squeaking until we either take it away from him for a sanity break or until he performs doggy surgery and rips out the squeakies himself. But we bought him a Kong Stuff-A-Ball and it's become a beloved toy. We call it The Cheese Ball because we like to put a bit of cheese rind inside of it. It honestly keeps him busy all evening, so a little adult action can be had without the background music of a squeaky toy.

Result - 4 Out of 5 Dentists Who Chew Gum Recommend the Kong Stuff-A-Ball.


***************************************


So I was suffering from IBS the other day, as you do. I've had a great deal of stress here lately and my insides wanted to inform me of such. The ulcer was going off, the reflux was bad, and I was having...um...issues...with being able to go to the bathroom. I decided that I didn't want to reach for the usual box of "We'll Get Things Moving Here, Miss", that I wanted to try to remedy this naturally.

I went to our local Waitrose and bought prunes. Yes, this officially makes me an old person now, I'm about 2 years from drinking Clamato Juice I'm sure, but when you have IBS there are days when you would be willing to take anything to make the pain go away. This was one of those days.

Now, regular prunes usually do the job, you just have to have quite a few of them. I saw on the shelf a new product in the fun and wacky world of dried fruits, a bag of something called Waitrose Organic Prunes. Being a crunchy granola chick, I thought: Hmm. Surely those are better for you AND stronger. I'll be like the Holy Woman of Healthy Colon-Land! Think of the holistic benefits! Let's chant and burn incense now!

OK, I didn't chant and burn incense (which is good, as Waitrose is a bit uptight), but as far as the Waitrose Organic Prunes being better and stronger, I was right. What I had failed to remember was that maybe I didn't need to eat so many of them for them to be effective, as potentially the organic prunes-like some other organic products-would have a stronger effect.

Let's just say I was glad I ate them while Angus was still in Stockholm.

The dog wouldn't even come near me, and he's the one with the record for being able to clear a room.

Result - 4 Out of 5 Dentists Who Chew Gum Recommend the Waitrose Organic Prunes...in small doses.


***************************************

I got one of the new Dove SkinVitalizers the other day. The product appealed, mostly because I am a real girly-girl when it comes to bathroom beauty products. When I was younger I could take or leave makeup, exfoliators, the lot. The only thing I was ever vigilant about was applying anti-wrinkle cream, proving that it's never too early to work on being vain (or at least preparing me to be the Katharine Helmond part in Brazil, where she just keeps going through surgery to keep looking younger.)

But now, yes-I love beauty products. I'd live within a three minute walking distance of a Sephora if I could. I'm always willing to try something new in my quest to find The Next Best Product. As I have dry skin and an oily T-zone as well, I usually have to battle to even out the face zones.

I also have to confess that I am a Dove fan. The reason is simple-they started that Campaign for Real Beauty series. I LOVE that they use real women of real ages and real shapes and sizes to promote their products. No double 0 size 19 year-olds here, these women in the ads look like people who could be my friends, could be people that I work with or blog with. As someone with pretty severe self-esteem and self-image issues, I have a lot of time for a company that thinks the everyday woman is beautiful and is willing to stake their products on them.

And the SkinVitalizer isn't bad. It smells really fresh and clean, it does indeed exfoliate (you have a choice of two different exfoliator settings), and I feel like I'm skipping school or something as it's the only vibrating beauty product I've ever had. It also does get all your makeup off, too, so you don't have to use two or three products (as I sometimes do and I don't even wear much makeup) to get it all. It's a newer version of a recalled earlier product, so if you read about the recall then don't panic. This new one works well. I feel like a commercial when I say this, but it really did make the skin on my face softer while not aggravating any oily zones - in fact, my nose and forehead look much better, too.

The box says to use it on the face and neck, but I'm one of those with Hideous Winter Skin, the kind that used to make me paranoid that the Crocodile Hunter would've wrestled me to the ground over. No matter how much I moisturize, my upper arms and legs get really dry scaly skin all winter long. You can use the SkinVitalizer in the shower, so I took it in there with me and disobeyed the instructions and used it on my upper arms and calves. I'll be honest-it got rid of the dead dry skin and I feel and look much better. If you go through their home page you can get money back as well, so if you're thinking of buying one, head there first.

I do have one criticism- I wish you could flush the exfoliating pillow down the toilet when you're finished with it, but hopefully that's a future development in the works.

Result - 4 Out of 5 Dentists Who Chew Gum Recommend the Dove SkinVitalizer


***************************************


Finally, Angus has built us yet another PC, which takes our desktop PC count up to 3 in the house (plus we have 4 laptops. We now have more machines than people by a count of 3 to 1. I know, we're sad.) The new PC works much better-it has a killer graphics card, the world's quietest CPU fan, and zips along.

He ordered Windows Vista for it as well, which came out the end of January. That's installed and in use.

And I absolutely hate it.

While it looks cool and the margins are trendily translucent, he had to single-handedly rebuild a load of our programs, because Windows Vista isn't supported on a majority of programs. It also has changed the way that Microsoft Windows, Excel, and PowerPoint behave, and seeing as these are the lifelines in our jobs, it's made it hell. I'm sure that there are a number of improvements and I'm just being an old stodge about it (see: Clamato Juice. See also: prunes), but making such fundamental changes really wound me up.

The real killer is that Vista and iTunes truly seem to hate each other. We've had to rebuild iTunes twice now, and all of our Playlists are so supremely screwed up I'm reluctant to go near it. Vista likes to manage Music and Pictures in a new way, and this new way apparently wants to give to iTunes up the ass.

I know they say never to take a Microsoft Product until the kinks have been worked out, and I'm sure that's the case here, but it really annoys me that Microsoft feel it's ok to launch a product which will run havoc on the many other programs (and even existing hardware) that customers will be using. I'd bet they'll sort this all out in the end, and maybe in 6 months to a year it'll be less of a headache, but still. Pure agony.

We're not the only ones who think so, either. Google this and you'll find plenty of others who agree. Surely it can't be a good sign to have that many haters of a new product, even if said product comes from a well-respected but well-hated company.

(And no-getting an iBook is not an option-the company we work for is not ok with that, so we'll be living with our good buddy Microsoft for some time.)

Result - 4 Out of 5 Dentists Who Chew Gum Do Not Recommend Microsoft Vista right now unless you like pulling your hair out and eating mass quantites of Tums to settle your exploding ulcer.


***************************************

-H.

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March 27, 2007

One Year Down, 19 More to Go

Dear Gorby*,

Saturday was a special day. You probably don't remember a year ago, seeing as how I'm not sure you remember what yesterday was, but a year ago on Saturday, you came to live with us.

It was a a big day-we got the keys to the house that you have known as your home for almost a year now. We went to the kennel and picked you up. You were a terribly kind, needy little man. You had been rescued from sick sadistic fucks that ignored, neglected, abused and starved you. You went to a nice vet's office so that they could find you a home. You and your sister-border collie and Blue Merle collie crosses, were the two that no one wanted.

I will never understand that, for as long as I live.

And even though we went to see your sister (who I'm happy to report was also rescued, apparently by a home with a 5 year-old boy that has them doting on each other) it was you that we saw most. It was you, a 5-month old, scrawny, sweet dog. It was you, with your completely ridiculous nose. You were all we could see.


kenneled Gorby


When you came home with us, you were terrified. You didn't untuck your tail out from under you for days. You were nervous and insecure. Mumin liked you right away, Maggie didn't, but one out of two ain't bad.

And slowly all of us started to become friends.


snooze buddies


Your tail came out from under you. You began to wag it. You began to come alive, and it was amazing. We loved you right away. And soon, you began to love us back.


Summer fun


Dliving room snoozing


You've had so many adventures this year. You've been to Wales, you've been to visit family, you've been swimming in the lake. You've had your first snowfall.


Snowdog


You love Melissa and Jeff, and you always venture into the water with them.


Gorby and Jeff


You're an incredibly loving, patient and tolerant dog. You allow me to embarass you without a word of complaint.


Dogzilla strikes


Repeatedly, actually.


Santa baby


You're clearly still neglected of fun and love still.


boys and their toys


You are the one who barks at the vacuum cleaner, the broom, ringing phones and bubble wrap. You hate the postman with a burning rage. You have to know where the cats are. You love macaroni and cheese (my kind of dog). You go crazy with delight when your father sings down a paper towel tube at you, and together you make so much noise they can hear you in New Orleans. You let me call you Cupcake (and you actually come to it when I call you). You follow me from room to room. We've gotten to know you in the past 12 months and three days, and you have more personality than we could ever have imagined. People tell us we should show you in the mixed-breed category, but we think of you as part of the family, you're not for show.

In short, it's been a fantastic year. We love you so much, you are such a huge part of our lives. You're a pain, a burden, a love, a delight, a joy, and a nuisance. I can't live without you. You have to live another 19 years, buddy, because there's no way I will ever let you go.

And you have my promise, Cupcake-no one will ever hurt you again.

Ever.


my special little guy


-H.


*What? Bloggers can write monthly letters to their kids, but it's weird to write your dog?

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March 26, 2007

Green Green Grass and the Gilmore Girls

Yesterday I was at home, laid up with a very bad back. Angus was back from Stockholm, complete with goodies for us (sour wine gums! And cheese! And cottage cheese! Laugh if you want, but I don't like the cottage cheese you can get in the UK, so we bring it over from Sweden (it's called Keso there) whenever we can, because I love cottage cheese.) Yesterday he and Gorby went to his brother's to help cut down some damaged trees, and so I had the house to myself.

So I sat on the couch and watched TV, seeing as the back hurt so badly I really wasn't up for much else. I watched everything I had stored up on the hard drive, and then I pulled out DVDs. I drank fruit juice and I realized that actually I was feeling very, very blue.

It happens to us ladies sometimes.

At certain times of the month, some of us get blue.

(And if you're a guy and you ever feel the need to snidely say "Hmm...someone's on the rag", then know that it has been proposed to many legislative bodies that it should be legal for us to punch you in the throat for being insensitive, so don't say that to us.)

Anyway, I was feeling blue. I didn't really know why I was feeling blue, I don't know what was behind it, I just had this overwhelming feeling that I was lost, I was drifting, I had come unanchored at a very deep port. And as I watched my DVDs, I realized that a part of me was homesick.

I was watching Gilmore Girls, Season 6 (shut up, I know. It's cheesy, and someone needs to tell Rory to dial it the fuck down, as well as to warn her that her body type is a pear just waiting for a depression so put those twinkies down NOW, but I do like the show. I fast-forward through all the Kirk and Taylor parts, because those characters should just be killed off in some kind of violent gas main explosion.)

Watching Gilmore Girls made me miss being in the States. I don't know why, I can't really explain it. I know it's just a show, and that Hollywood does its best to make everything kitschy cute and as soft as the Snuggle fabric softener bear's butt, but still. I missed home.

And what triggered it was simple. It was a no-brainer. It was a moment that the scriptwriter probably wrote in as a filler, or a low-paid product placement jaunt. It was meant to be thrown away, but typically I just couldn't do it.

Rory (the daughter) ate someone's Cheese Nips.

She finished off the box.

Someone lost a Nabisco product to her raging early adult ways.

And I felt completely sad. Not for the fate of the Cheese Nips, because that's what they're for (that, and crunched into tomato soup. They really belong in there.) They're for eating, that's the cheesy snack biscuit's meaning in life.

But they don't sell them here, and in a flash, I saw what any potential child I could actually manage to conceive AND give birth to would be missing out on.

My children (should I ever actually have any) will not have Cheese Nips in this country I now call home. Angus and I will never have a child that knows the great goodness that is Nabisco, from the simple Nilla Wafer to the complex Mallomar. That's not even including Chips Ahoy, Triscuits, and (my favorites) Teddy Grahams and Fig Netwons.

Oh, there's a fig-like product here called the Jacob's Fig Roll, and they're pretty good and all, but they're no Fig Newton. Just like Maltesers are not and will never be Whoppers. If you grow up on one side of the product fence, you cannot embrace the other (and don't even get me started on the peanut butter selections here. It will make you weep.)

And it hit me - all of the things that I knew and loved will be missing from the childhoods of my hypothetical children. Products, memories, food, events...none of them will mean anything. Those stored up Hollywood sheltered moments, the feel of a super market box of goods, the smell of the shiny coupons in the Sunday paper...they are meaningless.

The memories that my would-be children won't have started flooding me, as I sat there on the couch tuning out the Gilmores.

My kids will never walk through a pumpkin patch, wandering around trying to find which pumpkin it is that they are certain wants to come home with us. They won't have Halloween costumes and a large plastic pumpkin with a black plastic handle. The words "Trick or Treat" won't mean a thing to them.

My kids may be in football practice, but they'll not have soccer practice. I won't be a soccer mom, driving my soccer car to get my soccer kids. They won't play softball, T-ball will not make any sense to them, and with a quiet sob I realize that hockey to them will always be something played on a green grassy field, as opposed to something played with the solid metal smell of ice in the back of their throats.

My kids will never know what it's like to take a cardboard vacuum-packed tube of baked goods and unroll it. They won't get the distinct insane pleasure of whacking it against the side of the countertop to watch it explode as Grand's cinnamon rolls bulge out the sides. They won't get their fingers greasy as they put them on the baking sheet, and they won't get to pop the tiny can of frosting to glaze their own cinnamon roll. They won't know that they can have my cinnamon roll's share of the frosting, to not frost mine, that I don't like frosting. They won't know what the cinnamon roll tube of baking is like, and the rituals that go with it.

My kids will never understand what Thanksgiving is. For them, like for me here, Thanksgiving will take place on the last Saturday of the month. It will be certain foods, yes, but the other traditions are lost. No Macy's Day parade. No day of football. No Thursday off with a Friday to start your Christmas shopping engines. No papier-mache turkeys made in school and no cringe-worthy pageants of them dressed up like pilgrims. Thanksgiving will be just one of those weird holidays that Mummy likes to celebrate.

And I'll be Mummy and not Mommy. I can't explain why, but that kind of breaks me.

School will be different - the levels are called different things. They'll have forms not grades, and when they're 16 they have to choose something called O-levels, then A-levels, then hopefully university (not college, that's slightly different). Angus explains the school levels to me and I think I've caught on to them now, it's just they're all different. My kids will not go to high school. They will not have a prom. There will be no homecoming.

It's everything from the big to the little. Santa Claus is Father Christmas. Grilled cheese sandwiches have cheddar, not American slices, and surely every child has an obligation to go through that rite of passage known as the Kraft Slice. They will not know the excitement of the new NBC fall line-up. There will be no insurance co-pays, no car dealerships with giant American flags whipping in the wind and commercials that make you want to top yourself. There are no New England winters (which is ridiculous, as I've never lived in New England.) Dick Clark won't Rock the New Year's Eve and the Easter bunny is a figment of my imagination (which is probably true.) There will be no summertime fireflies caught in a jar and then released. The 4th of July-like Thanksgiving-will be one of those days that means something only to Mum.

I know that there are many wonderful, incredible things here, so if you're a native don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking England, I swear it. I love living here, I love working here, I love being here. This feels more like home than any place I have ever been in the world, and there are so many completely remarkable and fantastic aspects of this country. My kids (if I ever have them) will not have an American background, they'll have an English one.

My kids will have Guy Fawkes Day and hot cross buns and mince pies (which I love completely and utterly all December-long). My kids will be able to travel more, as living by one of the most central hubs in the world and having travel-crazy parents that get 6.5 weeks of holiday a year means that they'll get to see a lot, and that's not something to take for granted. They'll feel safer than I did-England is very child friendly and it's so amazingly safe and happy in our little house in the countryside. My kids will have family nearby and friends all over. They'll have Dora the Explorer and CBeebies and Blue Peter. They'll have pubs and double decker bus field trips and will look back with dread on the school uniforms they had (complete with neckties). They'll come from a family line on Angus' side that goes way back as natives and they'll have many wonderful and incredible adventures.

I just don't know what those adventures are. England is not my past, it's not my childhood, I have nothing to compare them to in my own personal footlocker. It makes me feel a little left out, and it makes me worry that everything I hold inside of me, all the good parts of my past, will be lost and forgotten as my family has different experiences moving on.

I don't even have kids, I'm not close to it. I know I was being hormonal as I sat there on the couch debating the future of kids I don't have. I know this is currently so far from being an issue that it's a non-issue, that there are one million more important issues that should be (and are) occupying my mind. But the loss of Slip 'N Slides, of bomb pops, of Fruity Pebbles and of Charlie Brown Thanksgiving specials...well, those stupid, ridiculous, non-sensical little things suddenly felt like a lot.

And all of it overwhelmed me and broke my heart just a little bit.

-H.

PS-I participated in an online art project called I'm Too Sad. You can see my contribution here. They're still looking for contributions, so if you're so inclined, there's a "contribute" link on the site.

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March 22, 2007

When the Cat's Away, the Mouse...

...plays Sims and eats Mexican breakfast burritos.

Angus is off to Stockholm today to go to his kids' Parent-Teacher conferences. As I'm not a parent, I hate his ex-wife with the burning fire of white hot molten lava (and the feeling is mutual, actually) and it's important for Angus to have alone time with his kids, I'm staying home.

Now once upon a time Angus and I both used to be away from home a lot for work. True, we were married to other people then, but we both recall the days where we worked two to three weeks out of every month in a foreign location. Angus recalls with particular dread how often he had to fly to Madrid about 8 years ago - as he was living in Sweden and there were no direct flights, he would have to change planes and would wind up flying over 6 hours to get to a place that really is only a 2.5 hour flight away, should a carrier be so kind as to fly there direct. I too used to be away all the time, and the luxury of it really wanes when you find out the truth, that a business trip consists of airport, taxi, hotel, office, taxi, airport. Lather, rinse, repeat.

These days we're generally away from each other maybe one night every other month or so, usually when one of us has to go to Upper Buttfuck. The journey is such a dog, we often elect to just stay overnight and retain our sanity. So our evenings apart are rare.

Now, it's not to say we don't miss each other while we're apart because we do (cue the "awwwwwwwwww" cooing soundtrack here.) But at the same time, I think we both quietly think that an evening or two away from each other is also healthy. We do what we want on those evenings, and they're somewhat restorative. By the time the other person comes back we are more than ready for them to be home, and tired of being the sole center of entertainment and affection for two cats and a dog, tired of hearing only our own voices for a few days, and tired of sleeping in the big bed alone.

So what wonders do I have in mind for the next couple of days?

- Play Sims until my ears bleed. Especially since Angus re-built the PC and installed a new killer graphics card.

- Eat macaroni and cheese. Often. Even though he too likes our homemade mac and cheese, I have a religious fervor for the stuff and can eat it without tiring.

- Eat Mexican breakfast burritos. Composed of tortilla filled with potato, salsa, cheese and scrambled egg, they're not everyone's cup of tea.

- Have waffles for lunch. He's not so much a waffle fan, but I love me some waffles.

(If you see a food theme here, it's because there is one. I do not hide the fact that I love food, and my tastes are a bit...strange.)

- Wear my favorite pajamas. Unless it's that time of month for me, in which case I wear granny panties and a pair of boxers, we both sleep in the nude. When he's away I like to pull out my favorite pair of boxers and my enormous oversized Calvin and Hobbes T-Shirt and sleep in them. I do not pretend I look hot in them, but man am I comfortable.

- Watch endless episodes of CSI, Gilmour Girls, and those Discovery Channel shows of the religious nutters who have 14 kids or more. I love those shows, I watch them with the fascinated horror one would have if watching a giant sea squid take down a school of fish. He and I don't see eye to eye on most TV shows, so this is my hall pass to go mad.

- Re-run Sense and Sensibility. I love that movie, I think I've seen it 100 times and I never bore of it. I also watch bad 80's movies that I know would drive him mad - Weird Science, The Breakfast Club, Outrageous Fortune, Real Genius...these kinds of things make me laugh and take me back (hey-I never said I was sophisticated or anything.)

- Sleep with a stuffed bear and a stuffed dog. WHAT? You find that weird? That an almost 33 year-old woman is sleeping with cuddly toys? Don't you know that stuffed animals present an invisible barrier of protection that bad guys and vampires cannot cross? Geez.

Surely it's not weird that I have my own routine when he's away. I'd bet you have a similar shtick, too.

So there you have it. An action packed plan. It's true I'm off to London first thing tomorrow for a meeting but then my schedule is my own. A lot of people are off work, winding down before the Easter holidays arrive, and so work is very, very slow.

If you're trying to reach me, be advised that for the next few days I'll probably be feeding my face with some bizarre carbohydrate concoction while watching something involving the Brat Pack while trying to play Sims at the same time.

-H.

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March 21, 2007

Ben Gay and Chlorine

So with all the swimming I've been doing, I've noticed that occasionally my gym has Aqua aerobics classes. I'd be doing my laps and watch the folk in the classes. The classes are about 90% female, and about 99% senior citizen. I've seen the occasional young person in the class (always female), and these younger women seem to be either:

A) Knocked up
B) Carrying crutches

So really, the class is for the older folk.

Well, last week I decided I was bored with swimming laps and I was going to be adventurous. I was going to take the bull by the horns and instigate a change. I don't like the yoga classes, weights bore me, and laps were getting old. So I was going to try an aqua aerobics class!

(Cue trumpets here).

I signed up and went to the class today. With my entrance into the swimming pool, I lowered the average age by about 25 years. I was the youngest person there by a whole generation (in some cases, by two.) The instructor - they're land based creatures in this aqua aerobics world - came up to me.

"Have you ever taken aqua aerobics before?" she asked nicely. (It's pronounced "ack-wuh" here. I say "Ock-wuh", they say "ack-wuh", let's call the whole thing off.)

"No, but I'm a swimmer," I reply.

"Any medical conditions?" she asks.

"I've got a bad back," I say slowly, suddenly seeing myself with the old age pensioners (as seniors are called here) after all.

"Oh, so does most of the class," the teacher replied merrily. "You'll be just fine."

And we start off by jogging in place.

Now, let me explain aqua aerobics-the point is to keep moving in the water, which is about shoulder high. They give you those long floaty styrofoam tubes to use sometimes (which they call a womble and which makes me laugh in a most immature fashion every time) and styrofoam weights. It's a one hour class.

And it's so fucking hard you wouldn't believe it.

Seriously.

Grandma and Grandpa kick some water ass in this class.

I've been a swimmer most of my life. I started swimming from a very young age. I was on swim teams. I used to be a lifeguard. I'm a certified advanced PADI diver. One of my single greatest pleasures in life is snorkelling in warm water, looking at the little fishies. I love the water and generally consider myself very "water fit".

But sweet Jesus, halfway through the class I wanted to die. It was unbelievable. You think kicking your leg up in the water is easy, which it is...for about 30 seconds. You think using weightless styrofoam weights is a snap, which it is...unless you're using them underwater, at which point you're working them against the weight of the water and your biceps start protesting loudly.

A kind, matronly woman looked over at me, seeing me grit my teeth. "It's not easy, is it dear?" she asked sympathetically.

You keep making it look easy, Grandma, and I'll swap your denture cream with Heat Rub.

"It's harder than I thought," I admit.

I don't know how these people do it. They're supposed to be frail. They're supposed to be advancing years. Instead, they're laughing and talking about grandkids and TV and the latest book, while I'm just trying to keep the womble from shooting out of the water and taking my eye out. These people get my serious respect for being way tougher than the stereotype they're forced to live up to.

I owe these women an apology-it's not an easy class. It's fucking hard work. I'll definitely be taking the class again-while the work is hard, your heart rate remains steady (which I appreciate) and it's really more of a muscle development kind of work than anything else. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I also napped all afternoon after it.

So the next time you look in on an aqua aerobics class and smile at the grannies working away in there, know this-they could kick your ass in a heartbeat, my friend.

-H.

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March 20, 2007

Drowning in Apathy

But getting there.


Speaks Volumes, Really.


-H.

PS-not a great picture, it's a bit fuzzy, but I did warn you about the apathy.

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March 16, 2007

Most Than Just Swim Time

After coming home from holiday in January, Angus and I both joined a local gym. We'd had a winer of indulgence really, and both of us had gained weight. Between the incredible food, the alcohol, and the sheer fact that the Holiday Season is inclined to add inches to your waist no matter how good you resolve to be, we needed to get fit.

We've given ourselves strict rules about exercise, food, and alcohol. No "bad for you" foods during the week, and on the weekends we aim to be good but do allow ourselves a few indulgences (mostly related to cheese, because everything in life is related to cheese). Week days-with the exception of a holiday, like Valentine's Day or a birthday - are not for alcohol. Alcohol is a Friday - Sunday evening event only.

So far something is working-we've both lost weight, and even though Angus' total weight loss isn't massive his body is definitely changing shape and people are commenting to him about it often. He wants to get down to a weight I don't approve of - I don't care for skinny men, much like he doesn't care for skinny women, we both like curves - but we all have goals, and his is to be happier with himself.

The gym gets visited a lot. Angus tries to go 5 - 6 times a week, and he's there for over an hour as he works on weights and gives himself the minimum target of burning 1,000 calories on the cross-trainer.

I'm not on the same level as him, mostly because I fucking hate the cross-trainer. I went to a few yoga classes there, but found that it just didn't have the enjoyable feeling that my other yoga class had. While my previous class had itself a fucking annoying Reena, it also had a camraderie of women like me-average, ordinary, everyday women that just like to bend and stretch. Yoga in my new gym is like some kind of reality TV show, where the yoga contestants try to see who will pass out first in a headstand and vote off the one who can't get their knees flat on the floor in Lotus (luckily I can do that, but I can't do a headstand to save my life, so that'd be me voted off then.)

Instead I've found myself in the swimming pool. I go at least three times a week and just do lap after lap after lap. I don't really vary my routine that much-laps of sidestrokes, laps of backstrokes, and laps using the kickboard to work my legs out. I know it seems unoriginal and even uninteresting, but I get a lot out of my swimming time. I go often enough that my two year-old swimsuit is beginning to wear out in the straps, and so I have to face swimsuit shopping today, lest I show a little more in my breaststroke than I'd intended.

This week I've only been twice (although I'll go on the weekend, too), but I've really treasured the time I've been there. Today the pool wasn't busy, and I was able to do laps in peace without worrying that the next chap was about to catch up with me. The pool is on the ground floor and one whole side of the wall is glass, so that you have a straight view out into the woods. The sun is shining, the pool is always a perfect temperature, and I just laid on my back, slowly backstroking, and closed my eyes from the brightness of the sun.

And when I swim, I think.

Sometimes I think about my past-my 33rd birthday is a little over 2 weeks away but I often feel so old, like I've been through enough to just say Right. This is me telling you, God, that I'd like to cruise for a while now. I've really put in my time, man. Let's dial it down a bit now, ok?

Sometimes I think about my present-job-wise things are very calm. My managers chose to give me quiet projects to let me emotionally and psychologically recover from the last project, which really did me in. I sometimes feel ready to take on a new, harder project, but at the same time I think cruising right now - something that, with the exception of the 3 months I didn't work when I was laid off, I have never done - might be ok. I've been working my ass off since I started working in the corporate world 11 years ago. A few months of a break can be a good thing.

Sometimes I think about my future. I don't know what to think about there. I work on being positive. It doesn't always work, but I try.

Stroke, stroke, stroke I swim in the pool. You can only be as strong as you think you are. Yes, I am strong, and I'm not boastful in saying this. Actually it makes me feel sad - I'm strong because I've had to be. I'm strong because the majority my life there was no one there to catch me but me. It's not a choice and I try not to think that strength is a limited commodity.

Because it's not. Strength is an infinite pool. You float in in and wade in it, and even when you think you're out of it, you find that you're simply at the end of the wall, it's time to turn around and keep swimming. Even when everything is so fucking hard you can't see how it can get harder, you can get through it.

Stroke, stroke, stroke....Can I get through this?

There is no other choice but to get through it.

The choice you have to make is if you want to get through it and be happy. The end of the journey might look nothing like the start of it, but there's no reason to think that what I find at the end can't be extraordinary. Different, yes. Trying, definitely. But the trick isn't to survive.

It's to thrive.

And I keep swimming, and keep trying to picture that.

-H.

PS - Private aside to L - I love you and you're in my thoughts. My mails to your work address get bounced, so I'm sending them to your hotmail, and I am here for you, no matter what. I will understand if you can't talk about it, especially now. Please know that I'm thinking of you.

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March 15, 2007

Light

I fumbled through the dark and found a match.

The match led me to a candle.

The candle burned as I found a flashlight.

And then I kept walking and finally saw the end of the road, and at the end of the road, there was light.

I'm almost there.

-H.

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March 13, 2007

Pause

Sometimes, the world goes dark and all you can think is Oh my God. How am I going to get through this?

The light goes out with the flash of an exploding bulb. You look for hope, but there's no one with hope with you. You dread these days, for when they come they remind you of how hard everything can be, and these days are the type that you can't see the end to see if there will be light again.

This is one of those days.

It might even become one of those months.

-H.

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March 12, 2007

That Which We Call a Rose, By Any Other Word Would Smell As Sweet

Sidestepping my real life for a minute, there's something on my mind and I'd really like to get it out, not least because I simply don't want it in there, but also because I'm a little busy dealing with a few other things and would like to reserve my resources with those issues.

Over at Ilyka's is a post which has really fucked me off, and not just because of the reponse you get if you come out against the principle of the post (this is not the same as "Ilyka has really fucked me off", so no attacking). In said post I commented, and I'm afraid I did come out in the beginning with guns already blazing when I should have taken a deep breath and addressed it calmly (this is why I don't comment on most sites). Regardless I still stand by what I said, even if my delivery was off.

The truth is, I don't mind the word "cunt".

I know a lot of people consider it offensive, not least women. It's a base word, an edgy term. It's a slang term for female anatomy, but then many terms are. Some feminists, in particular, consider it an ad hominem attack. Attack a woman by her anatomy is, I believe, a double slander-you're attacking the gender twice, and using a vagina as an offensive term.

I get that some people are offended, I really do. I'm just not. I don't care if people use the term. The truth is, I honestly hear it a lot more living in the UK than I ever did in the States. This is the case for several terms-when Angus used the word "Jap" a long time ago I came unglued. The term is incredibly offensive to me, while the word "Jap" is used here and isn't really considered an insult. But as I was so angry about it that it has been removed from Angus' vernacular. There is a learning curve here, and it's not always easy.

But with the exception of Angus' parents (who still use the term "fiddlesticks"), everyone I have regular contact with uses that shocking "c-word". It's not like it's used in every other sentence, some people I work with use it once in a blue moon while one guy I know uses it a lot. But in my experience it is used more, and it's far less shocking here, than back in the U.S.

I even use it myself, and with one exception (the Swunt), when I use it I don't mean it in anger or in a derogatory way. I don't use any vulgar names in anger, actually, and neither does Angus. But I don't just randomly walk around using the word, and in general I do a "swear check" with people I meet-I won't curse until I hear them do so. If they swear I'll match it. If they don't I will refrain, just in case I offend. If they tell me a term is offensive, I make it a point to never use it. Amongst my friends and work mates though, we will swear. And of the entire range of swear words, we use them all.

I do consider myself a feminist. I used to be a very militant one, to the point where I did think the spelling of the word "women" needed to be changed to "womyn". I used to be very aggressive about my feminist belief structure, and violating that was not only a personal attack on me but I viewed it as an invalidation of women as a whole.

I've mellowed though. A lot. Now I just think names are exactly that-they're just nouns. They don't define me. As a result, I don't get remotely offended if someone is angry with me and calls me a bitch, a cunt, or a whore. Words like that said in anger simply go in one ear and out the other, I figure the person has brought it down to the level of a bar fight and this is the best they've got. None of those words used at me in anger phase me in the slightest. You want to call me a cunt? Whatever. Maybe I am.

I myself say the word. I also call other women bitches, particularly if I think they're being one (but I don't think I've ever called another woman a bitch to her face in my life, it's just something I think.) "Whore" is a word I use on a daily basis, but also never in anger. Anything can be labelled a whore, and the following list (which is not inclusive) are some of the things which have been called "whore" around me:

- the computer
- my London commute
- the cats
- the dog
- parking meters
- myself
- Angus
- my period
- the weather

and so on. It's not a personal attack on women to me. To me, it's just a word.

I'm pretty free with the use of the word "dick", "dickhead", and "dickass" as well. I'm liberal with my vulgar slang, generally because I like to swear (and if this is where you step in to tell me it's not eloquent to curse well, then, fuck off.) While I don't use the word "pussy", it's not because I get offended by it, I just think it's weird calling things by an improper word for "cat". I don't think of pussy as a synonym for women's genitalia, as to me that word could only be uttered by 50 year-old pervs with ridiculous mustaches who have been out of touch with the new slang. It's not offensive so much as it's pathetic (the same applies to the word "cock" to me. It feels like shiny exposed chest hair covered in gold chains rather than a demeaning term).

I don't think these terms demean women so much as they're simply demeaning, and demeaning to both sexes equally. All of these terms play the same game of riding the gender line. "Cunt" is perhaps as bad as "prick" which is perhaps as bad as "bitch" which is perhpas as bad as "dick". It's true a lot more negative terms come from female-associated nouns than male ones, and most of the male terms which were insulting have, over time, perhaps become less invective simply because fashion changed-men went around insulting other men by calling them "curs" in the Victorian times, but you don't see people throwing down over being called the equivalent of a hunting dog these days. Perhaps as the rise of the female role occurred, so did the insolence about female terms.

Angus and I are similarly aligned-he could care less if someone starts an attack on him and calls him a poof (English slang for gay), a cunt, a pussy, a bitch, or a dick. He figures they have nothing better to do with their time if they resort to bar slang. I understand many men find it highly offensive to be called a bitch or - perhaps worse - to be called a gay term. But to both of us they're just insults, and ones which can be attained once you hit the 10 year-old level or watch TV after 9 pm, either way. If I get called those terms I simply think someone isn't very creative at all, if this is all they can pull out of their ass.

To me an insult is more personal and more intuitive. A real insult to me is a clever one, one which hits home as a person, instead of as a gender. If you're going to use terms I can find written on the inside of any truckstop bathroom door, then I'm just going to tune you out. Call me crazy to my face, for example, and I will throw down. Tell me I'm selfish and chances are good that an epic battle is about to occur. Things that are incredibly mild said in anger can also really get to me-Saturday Angus was angry with me and called me an idiot, something which is a generally innocuous word. Said in anger though, it became hurtful, and he did apologize. Ironically, one of the most hurtful words I've had thrown at me is "American"-not because I'm embarassed about being an American or it's a derogatory thing to be so, but the context of the way it was sent my way assured me that the person did not mean it positively, and I took real offense to that.

Maybe I should be angry about using female anatomy as an insult. Maybe as a woman I should consider it an egregious affront. But the truth is, I simply find there are more important fights to battle against the establishment. Getting "cunt" removed from the popular battle lingo is your battle? OK then, and good luck. It just doesn't anger me. I'm more angry over the pay scale being unfair between men and women. I'm angry that the industry I'm in is far more likely to promote a man over a woman, even when the skill sets are the same. THOSE are my battles.

Now if you'll excuse me, work is being a whore, and I have to deal with it.

-H.

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March 09, 2007

The Thin Line Between "Relationship" and "Relationship Counselling"

Angus and I are, in some ways, similar in the way we think and behave. We're both fiery Aries, we're both stubborn, and we both can turn on the charm if the situation is right. It's fair to say that we are both completely mad about each other. But just like if you put two fires together they burn each other out, sometimes we do each other's heads in, too.

Lemme' explain.


******************************************


Angus had to go in to the office in London, while I got to work from home yesterday. Not only did he have to be there all day, but his pc is sick and visiting the PC doctor, so he was feeling restless. I, in the meantime, was parked on the couch with my laptop, surfing travel pages and options and trying to put the holiday together. My mobile rings.

It's Angus. "Have you checked Opodo.co.uk too?"

"I'll check them too."

"OK, bye!"

A short while later, the mobile rings. "What about Jamaica?"

"I'll add it to the search list."

"OK, bye!"

And still later, it's him again "Can you check on Cape Town? You know-just in case?"

"OK HONEY." I say through clenched teeth.

When he gets home it continues. We're still surfing pages trying to get everything to work.

"What if we check Traveljungle.com?" he asks.

"I did, but you have to have a US credit card to buy from them," I reply.

"Check it again, just in case."

Grr.

Then he takes a long phone call from his Mum, my head starts pounding, and I close it all down for bed.

When it comes to travel, I stress just as much as I do for trains. I like my shit to be prepared. I like every detail done, underlined, and crossed off. I don't like to linger for days before booking something, I'll put some hours into it and then I want an answer. I like my seats assigned, my cars hired, and my hotels putting chocolates on my pillow before I leave the house. I'm sure I'm not easy to deal with when I get like that, but I like my travel plans to be tight.

That's just how I roll.

The boy, on the other hand, takes his time before booking. Even this morning, he was still checking options-"What if we just book all our tickets as singles, and try to put them all together that way?"

No.

More.

Motherfucking.

Options.

OH MY GOD. Just...OH MY GOD. Let's just get on with this, I will pay £50 more if I have to right now, just let's book something!

We have at least gotten the major part of our travel booked, the London to Miami portion (with a layover in Montreal, because it saved us several hundred pounds and a few frayed tempers.) As of this morning I was lined up to book the Key West and Bahamas portions of the trip, but a monkey wrench has been thrown into that and now it looks like the Bahamas has been replaced by Jamaica.

I'll tell you what, though-this will have to be booked by tonight or my head will pop clean off.

(And ok-I'm actually very excited about the whole thing, so it's really fine.)


******************************************


We've been trying to alternate certain housechores, because we've been set in our ways for a while. As such, I've been the general Animal Caretaker. While we both take turns walking Gorby, the cats are almost completely taken care of by me in terms of feeding and litter changing. So Angus has agreed it's his turn to change the litter.

We agreed this a week ago.

Nothing has happened.

I have reminded him four times now. Maggie sits angrily in the hallway-Dude. Seriously, what the fuck? Do you hate me now? Do you not understand how delicate I am? What about my needs?

Last night Angus was brushing his teeth. I picked up Maggie and walked up to him.

"Hello Maggie," he said through his mouthful of toothpaste. "How are you?"

"I'd be better, Dad," she said in a voice astoundingly like my own, "if you'd change my goddamn cat box."

He nods. "Remind me in the morning."

This morning he's looking out the window. "Should I go to the gym now or go into London to get my pc?"

I rub my chin. "Hmmmm....oooh I know! You can change the cat litter! That'd be a good idea!"

He looks at me with daggers.

I swear I'm going to win this one.

Or rather, the cats will.


******************************************


Angus got a new toy. This new toy is designed to help you understand your home's energy consumption in terms of cost, energy generation, and carbon footprint. This has become his hot topic here, the carbon footprint. The only thing we really blow our footprint on is flights, and we're going to do one of those deals where you contribute to environmental sites based on the footprint you use up.

Anyway, this device. It arrived yesterday and he's been working it ever since. It was very popular with me, as I had a headache, was plowing through holiday websites, and felt very cranky in general last night, and there he was fiddling with this infernal thing which wouldn't. Stop. Beeping.

Refresh webpage with new options.

Beep beep beep beep beep. "Oh my God!" he exclaims. "We're using 500 watts of electricity right now! What can we turn off?"

Oh, I dunno. That infernal machine you're playing with?

This continued all night. The machine went into every room with him as he turned things off and on to see readings and levels. When we went to bed he had the machine next to him. He turned the light on a number of times just to check what the reading was, up until the point where I lost my temper with him.

Love the man, hate the gadgets.

Then he made love to me, which I really needed. We haven't had the easiest of times recently, and while it's true that sometimes you just need a shag and sometimes you need a fuck, other times you really need the romance.

I got the romance.

Then the light went on so he could check his machine. "Since you're getting up anyway to go to to the toilet, I might as well check the reading."

Ah. True love.

"Don't turn the light on in the bathroom when you go!" he called to me, as I went to do the usual post-coital draining. "I want to monitor the meter!"

I fucking love this guy.

We may need some counselling.

Maybe they'll let us dress up like inflatable Sumo wrestlers and bounce around wrestling each other.

-H.


UPDATED-Cat boxes are cleaned. Maggie back on speaking terms with us. True love abounds.

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March 08, 2007

Surfing and Turfing

This morning will be spent piecing together travel websites. It's that time of year again, you see-because of various commitments, we couldn't go with his kids on the Super Major Blow Out Holiday in February that we usually take, so we decided to take a Mini Blow Out Holiday at Easter time, followed by Let's Rent a Villa In a Cool Location Somewhere and Invite Friends and Family to Join Us in June (said cool locations include Greece, Tuscany, and France right now). So today I'm trolling the travel websites trying to piece together a Mini Blow Out Holiday.

I remember doing this in the years before the web, having a piece of paper and the Yellow Pages, making endless notes and trying to maneuver the best deal. Now I'm doing it via the web, and it doesn't help when we change our minds on destinations every five minutes. Thailand! No, Cape Town! Oooh, there's a good price on flights to Sydney! No wait-how about Costa Rica?

My brain hurts.

Current favorites are a combo Key West/Aruba break, a Key West/Bahamas break (the kids would love this place, where we stayed a few years ago), and Angus just rang and asked if we could put Cape Town back on the possibility list, so I'll look there as well.

I need a nap. Followed by a massage. And then maybe a 3 hour CSI marathon will do it.

But going away is exciting and fun, and we're suddenly finding ourselves slightly energized.

I could use the energy. Something about the endless rain we've been having has sucked me dry-the sun is peeking out this morning and every feline (and the lone canine) in the house is laying in every possible patch of sunlit floor. I'd join them, too, only I'm sure I'd fall asleep only to find the sun has moved without me. It's funny-I don't get depressed in Fall or Winter, when you'd expect this seasonal disorder stuff to hit. I get depressed in Spring, when the rain and the gale force winds just don't stop.

The manager for the job I interview for called me last week. Apparently, even though I'm not coercive encouraging enough, they want me for the job. The manager called to tell me that the job was mine, if I want it.

I don't know if I want it.

It's a little bit of a step down from where I am now, although the manager promises to promote me as soon as possible (where have I heard that before, I wonder?) The company used to always give you a 10% pay rise when moving jobs as a standard practice, but those days are over-no pay rises. So I'll be moving down, I won't get any money (in fact, my benefits get slashed), and I'll have to work with The Little Man again (truthfully, I'll be the customer in that scenario, but it just doesn't matter-I simply never want to see him again, in any situation).

I feel bad, but I think I'm going to turn the job down.

My own organization is unstable right now, and a re-organization is coming up. I think and hope it may help my situation, but I just don't know. Right now I'm on two projects I don't believe in that much, but you know? They're not that stressful. I'm working 8 to 5 right now, and when I close the lid of the laptop, I don't think about work for the rest of the day. I am not setting the world on fire...but my ulcer is better, my hair is better, and the twitch under my eye has disappeared.

Maybe that's enough.

Maybe it's enough to have two manageable, 40 hour-a-week projects. I've also talked to some of my former team about an idea I had, we're going to try to turn it into something, and I feel excited about that. It may not get anywhere, but at least I can give something a try without giving up my day job.

So I've got a lot to think about. I'm not 100% sure I'll turn the job down, but I have yet to receive an official HR offer yet, and I won't make any moves without something on paper. It's true the new manager is a great guy, and someone I could work with in less fear than my current manager, but I can't help but factor in that "better the devil you know" factor.

So today I'll work from 8 to 5. I'll search for sun-kissed holidays to take two frozen Swedish children and two sun-sick England dwellers to. And I'll feel really, really good that someone wanted me for a job, even if I turned them down.

My ego, it needed that little boost.

-H.

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March 07, 2007

Three is a Magic Number

Yesterday was a London day, and this afternoon is a London afternoon.

This morning we woke early. I walked Gorby in the misty morning. He has a new toy and a new routine, so by the time we get back from the walk he's exhausted but still bouncy, the way a dog should be.

I make myself a bagel and check in on the pulse of the internet. Gorby jumps around the living room with his favorite annoying squeaky toy. Maggie sits upstairs, smoldering in annoyance at his juvenile antics. Mumin goes in and out and in and out of the newly installed cat flap in the back door. I drink a glass of juice. I take my vitamins.

I decide to go for a swim at the gym, and so grab my things and go. The traffic report is the usual-the M3 is gridlocked, the M25 is stopped anti-clockwise, and the Northern and Metropolitan tube lines are running with severe delays. I'm grateful I don't have to use any of those areas of transport today. The sun is peeking through filmy clouds, and the car is reassuring under my hands.

When I get to the gym I pad into the women's locker room and decamp my things into a locker. I take my clothes off, slide my swimsuit on, and head to the pool, where I do many laps pulling myself through the water using my arms, shoulders, and legs. I think alot when I swim. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's not.

I shower and dry my hair. I put lotion on my arms, face and legs. I get my clothes on and drive home. Once home, I pet the dog. I hear the flap of the cat door. A Maggie toy flies down the stairs and I oblige her by winging it back up the landing for her. We make coffee. We login to work mails again. I ready a care package for my family.

He goes to a meeting this afternoon, I go to a meeting this afternoon. I'll head to the nerve-wracking train station and attempt to park. I'll pay a fortune for parking and for a ticket, and I will go into Waterloo and then walk to the office, crossing over the Thames, getting dazzled by the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben. This afternoon I meet some colleagues I love for a catch-up session. I'll be home tonight for dinner, Flickr, and the next episode of Desperate Housewives. I'll do dishes, I'll throw dog toys for a rabid dog, I'll make cats purr. I'll fill him in on my day, we'll talk about the news, I'll drink a few glasses of water. When we go to bed we both read-him a magazine, me Calvin and Hobbes.

And this is my daily life.

You might be wondering why the hell I'm boring you with this, and so I'll tell you-this is my daily life because it's become that way. I have had the possibility to make it this way.

Three years ago today I moved to England.

I left the snowy tundra of Stockholm behind. I walked away from shattered dreams, a shattered marriage, a shattered career. I pulled mysef up using my mental health strings and I got on an airplane.

So much has happened in three years that it hardly seems believable. The cats came to join me. A funky dog appeared on the horizon. I lived in three homes before tripping and falling into this one, the one that we keep talking about expanding but never do, but which I love unreservedly anyway. I've been all over the world. I've gotten back in touch with my father and stepmother, and I gained a grandma in the process. I have a therapist who has been making big changes in me, and I am grateful. I have a career that-while difficult and stressful-has made me a name for myself. I have a house full of toys and a plasma that I worship. I look through the eye of our Nikon and I see a whole new world. And every time I walk over the bridge at Waterloo, it still takes my breath away at how beautiful London is.

And of course, there's this boy I have.

It's as simple and as complicated as that.

My mornings seem mundane, I'm sure. Maybe all mornings are, I dunno. What I do know is that three years ago I could never have imagined I'd have an everyday life like this.

I am so grateful for my everyday life.

I mean it.


-H.

PS-there's a cute new man in town. Go say hi, if you haven't already.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:28 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
Post contains 794 words, total size 4 kb.

March 06, 2007

Battling the Moral Monster Within

I think of myself as a very, very tolerant person of all religions and ethnicities. This isn't because I like to think of myself as a beatnik hippy singing Kumbaya at every chance or because I was brought up in an uber-tolerant household, because neither of those are true-I fucking hate the song Kumbaya and generally want to punch people in the throat that sing it, and both my mother's parents and my father's parents have strong veins of certain racism in them-in my father's case, it's important to point out that just because the world group them into a category of "Asian", it doesn't mean they get along (in fact, I think the Japanese are pretty universally hated amongst the Asian ethnicities, and the feeling tends to be mutual.)

I'm not writing here that I am tolerant and understanding to make myself look good in any way, shape or form, but because I honestly think I am. I have a very useless degree in anthropology, which is the study of human cultures. I find people fascinating and puzzling and frustrating and many other words ending in "ing". I'm not throwing this out there that I try to be respectful and protective of all religions and races as the foundation for my arugment.

I'm writing it because I'm currently struggling with it.

I'm not struggling in the broader sense, because I do still support tolerance and acceptance of differences. But suddenly, my own boundaries are being encroached in a way that stresses me out. I've been in countries where I had to go against what I felt because it was important to follow that country's social and cultural mores, and I did. But this is on my turf, and I'm struggling.

As you know, Angus and I live just south of London. This puts us squarely in one of the heaviest London commuter populations, where the majority of people live here but work in the Big Smoke. We're lucky we get to occasionally work from home, but when we do go in to the office, it's a real pain in the ass. We have a choice of three local train stations, but since we live in Commuter Central, all of our train stations become nightmarish from 7:00 to 9:00. The stations have a knock-on effect on each other, too-if one has a problem, the other two become unbearable. If you get to the station after 9, you can forget about parking, there just isn't any room. If you park illegally, you will get a ticket. So even if you don't have to be to a meeting until 11, you're taking an early train just so you can park. For this privilege of battling the train station parking lot, we get to pay £5.00 a day for parking (on top of the £30 for train tickets). If we park illegally and get caught, we get to pay £60.

It's really great.

The train alone is often enough to make my ulcer go off.

I find train commuting to be very, very stressful. Angus and I have had a number of arguments about it, because he likes to show up 0.5 seconds before the door shuts and the train leaves, and I like to be there at least 10 minutes ahead of time in order to calm myself down. I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but I can't handle the train travel well.

A few weeks ago, something happened at our local station. I had to take a super early train at 6:00 (so no stress for parking at that time of the morning), and I drove in the dark to the station. When I got there, I was amazed.

The parking lot had been taken over by Travellers.

Now, Travellers are something I'd only gotten familiar with since I moved to England. I don't know a great deal about them, but I'll impart what I do know (and apologies in advance if I get things wrong and offend anyone who may be a Traveller). Travellers (also called Gypsies, but apparently that's not an acceptable term) are a nomadic group. Travellers are said to be of Irish origin, while Gypsies are from Romany. In England, Travellers are recognized as an ethnic group, and so have the rights that go along with that.

And in practice, the Travellers seem to be universally hated.

I watched a BBC documentary about them, and while it's true that 72% of Travellers live an honest life (according to this government website), living on authorized land, paying taxes and abiding by the law, it's the 28% of the Travellers that give the rest a bad name. Travellers maintain that culturally, they have the right to be nomadic and move about, based on a cultural practice that apparently can be dated back to 400 A.D. Modern Travellers do so in caravans (trailers).

And the 28% who are hated, do so in unauthorized areas, like protected woodlands, people's private property, in country lanes, and on people's yards.

And now they've taken over the Railway Station parking lot.

When Angus found out, he groaned and rubbed his face. They had Travellers by his old home in Brighton, on the protected Downs. It took the court years to get them evicted as they claim ethnic rights. By the time they finally were evicted, the county council had paid a fortune, years had passed...and the part of the Downs in which those particular Travellers were staying were completely trashed. I used to look over at the Travellers as we passed them on the way to Angus' old home, in one of our monthly trips for upkeep. Plastic chairs flung about, junky cars, caravans parked at random...I was fascinated.

I understand that this is not the majority of the Travellers, but this is how the public views them. Everyone I know has been impacted by them-one of Angus' friends was done by them for work on his driveway (apparently fraud is a key to the less appropriate Traveller groups). Property values have fallen in a number of places because they are camped there. Apparently they have a high crime rate associated with them, and government statistics states they have worse health than non-Travellers and higher infant mortality rates..

Both the BBC and NBC have had documentaries about the Travellers. The NBC one showed American Travellers committing fraud and a number of other felonies. The BBC one showed that a number of Travellers aren't really of Irish Traveller origin, they're simply unemployed and want to stay that way. The press vilifies Travellers and Gypsies alike-apparently some groups of Gypsies promote wedding off the girls at a young age, and the Travellers are written of here in ways that always link to crime and the destruction of property. If they're on private property, it's almost impossible to get them off your land as you have to go to court, as they allege Human Rights abuses due to their ethnic status. I'm honestly not trying to put an unfair slant on the Travellers, I'm just giving you the feedback on what I have seen and read so far.

Until they moved in to the train station, and took up a third of the parking spaces.

And they don't pay the £5 a day parking fee, nor can they get tickets.

And the parking lot the day after they arrived was trashed.

I couldn't believe it.

Miraculously, a few days later they were simply gone. No sign of them. But then today, I dropped Angus off at the station this afternoon, and BOOM! They were back.

And they had reinforcements.

Now over half the parking lot has been taken up with Travellers, to the extent that they are blocking the path to the second half of the parking lot.

I do understand that the Travellers do have a historic background, I really do. But so did the Huns, and you don't see many of those agressive nomadic Asians running around anymore, do you? I also understand that they are discriminated against, but I wonder if it's not a vicious circle-they misbehave and don't get government support, and when they don't get government support they have no options but to misbehave.

But they're in our train station parking lot, making my super-high stress levels even more red-line critical, meaning that the window of opportunity to get a train at any of the stations now is much smaller.

And for this, my guilt is enormous.

It makes me feel like I'm ok about other people's plights, just not on my turf. Trust me, I do understand that most Travellers live the same law-abiding life that I do-paying taxes, paying bills, even paying for parking. Half of me knows this and accepts this. But the other half, the half viewing the other 28%, seethes, and this makes me feel terrible, as though I too am committing an injustice. If I was living through WWII and lived by a concentration camp, would I have turned a blind eye and been annoyed that all that noise was so nearby? During the internment of the Japanese in WWII (an event which affected friends and loved ones on my father's mother's side), would I have been pissed off that the trains I wanted to take weren't available as they were busy shipping the Japanese to POW camps? Am I ok about supporting underdogs, as long as they don't come into my neighborhood?

I know the answers in my heart are "no", and yet I look at the hideously cramped parking lot at the train station and despair, feeling my stress levels explode. Just because I am a schizo about train travel I feel like I am being encroached, and that's not what tolerance is about.

I've begun to question if I'm really as tolerant as I thought I was, if I get so fucked off that my train journey is even worse now than it ever was.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:18 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
Post contains 1676 words, total size 10 kb.

March 05, 2007

Helen is Really My Alter Ego

So I've started watching this new TV show that just debuted over here called Heroes. I'm sure in the States you're already on Season 15 of Heroes, where they battle the Superfriends (who have gone contract and, since getting unionized, are a little less on the "friends" side of the Superfriends). Here, we are hurtling towards Episode 4 tonight, which I am looking forward to-I've become hooked.

I love the show. I love the little Japanese guy (is it me or does he always seem to be shouting? I think he's shouting. Yes, my Japanese is appalling - I can only count from 1-6 in Japanese, I have no idea why the numbering ends there - but I'm going to ask my Dad for a second opinion. I think the character shouts a lot.) I like Nathan, the former Gilmour Girls character who needs to eat something. I like the cop especially, he seems like a sweet-hearted man.

There's something about superheroes that really appeals to people. Maybe we like thinking that there is something special and unique in the dork that is all of us-if you think about it, no Superhero's alter ego is cool, they're all a collection of nerds and geeks destined for few signatures in the yearbook. It's like knowing that those of us who live by the word "geek" have a chance, even if that chance is just to be able to push a pencil off the desk using our mind. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but a pretty fun diversion.

Since I started watching this show (which I confess, I only started watching it yesterday-I had three episodes recorded and the weather was so shit I took it easy and watched them all in one go) I've begun wondering in what ways I could be a Superhero. Not like I can walk through walls (in fact if history is any indication, I am spectacular at walking into them instead of through them) and not like I can start fires with my mind (although there has been an occasion or two where I started a fire with some candles, but we won't talk about that now) but little things.

I'll show you.


****************************


It was a windy and brisk morning. She looked out at the sky - currently sunny, but threatening to break at any moment - and sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

Walking into the study, the whirring sound of electronics took her mind off the sky. This was the hub of her operations, her domain which kept her linked in to the criminal minds of the world at large. She had to keep tabs on everyone at all times, and this throb of human interaction was the one place to do it.

All of a sudden, a choking sound came from one of the gadgets! Quickly, she donned her action cape and got to business! The world was no longer safe this morning.

From the hallway came the thud of footsteps. The intruder was in the house, and making his way to her hub! She vowed to stand her ground, when in walked...VEXATION MAN!

"Why the hell isn't the printer working?" mutters Vexation Man. She knows she has seconds until there's a blast of white hot molten anger from Vexation Man. She wraps her cape close to her.

"Ummm...it wasn't working yesterday, either," she intones in a calm voice, her last defense against Vexation Man. Vexation Man's nemesis is Any Computer Problems That I Have To Deal With Man, and if there's one sacred vow amongst Superheroes it's that A Superhero Must Never Interfere With Another's Battle To The Death With Their Nemesis, That's Just Not Done.

"So I spent all that time installing the drivers for it to disappear?" rages Vexation Man. She realizes the danger she's in, and with a silent pop!, she disappears completely. Vexation Man wrangles with his nemesis, the printer, and as he does she quietly absconds from view and lives to fight another day.

She is...InvisiGirl!


****************************


Logging on to the hub of operations, she observes that the world is continuing in much the same vein-McDonald's still hasn't brought back the Sausage Breakfast Biscuit in this part of the world, and until that happens, terror will reign in the hearts of all of England.

Or at least terror will reign in the hearts until the Biscuit arrives, then hardened arteries will reign.

She logs in to her super secret server, the one with the dastardly plans for the destruction for the cosmetics world. She must stop them, she knows she cannot live without lip gloss! She's been tracking and watching their actions for months now, time is almost upon her!

She logs in and....it fails! She gets an exchange error! The drama builds as the attempts to login again!

Vexation Man pokes his head around into her secret chamber of operations. "The server's are being upgraded at work, so email's down."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Left only with her personal email account, she has no ability to stop the horrible plot to eradicate all women of their slap! Will she live to fight another day? Can she survive without access to her work world?

She is....What The Fuck Is Wrong With My Computer Again? Girl!


****************************


She bites her lip and looks out the window. The howling rain - Day 10 of the stuff - is beginning to weigh her down. She knows it's all a plot to drain her of her energy by her evil Nemesis, Captain Spring, and she knows that his clever ploy of covering every possible surface with her own personal Kryptonite, known on this planet as Mud, is sapping her of her Superpowers.

She crawls to the couch, taking her remote communications hub with her (known in this country as a laptop, but it's truly a clever device that lets her keep her finger on the pulse of the world as well as watch ebay auctions.) Moving ever slower, the force of the mud on her, she feels completely zapped. Creeping towards the remote, she barely manages to click it on. Lagging ever more, she hears her phones ringing in the other room-it could be the commissioner! They could need her help! It could be the end of the world! Only...she can't make it to the phone in time, the mud and dreariness has sapped her! All that she can do is raise a weak fist at the sky and turn on CSI, and sit there and watch it in exhausted silence!

She is....Slow Motion Girl!


****************************


See? I can totally be a Superhero. You can, too.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:44 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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March 01, 2007

Getting All Philosophical About Blogging

I've been blogging for going on four years now, and I've seen a lot in those four years, both in my own life and in the blog world. Blogs enable people to find jobs. Blogs also cause people to lose jobs. Blogs allow people to heal thyselves in the midst of troubled minds. Blogs provide a walkway for people to fall in love, blogs create some of the greatest friendships, and my blog has given me people that I interact with and really care about.

I get emails from people - sometimes I'm slow to respond, but I usually do. Sometimes I get some hate mail and in those cases I simply wonder what bug flew up their bonnet. I don't get a lot of spiteful comments on this site, but the other site I have can get edgy-I hate it when that happens, and in generaly just delete their comments. Life is too short to deal with abuse, especially on such a sensitive topic. Recently, I've had a few emails asking me to give a product a try and write about it, and I'm ok with that-I can't remember the last time a commercial prompted me to run right out and buy a product but a positive review by a blogger I like and trust certainly has.

There's an obscene amount of blogs out there, some of them regularly updated, some of them not. Half of them seem to have Skater Talk as their language of choice (kids, let's be clear- "L8r Dudez!" will not be a term used frequently here.) The majority of blogs seems to be political blogs who seem to have far fewer visitors than opinions. They are devoted to various other political bloggers, to the point where you wonder if and when they have their own original ideas, do they orgasm from the feeling of it or not.

I've been thinking about blogging platforms as well, as a very cool chick I know is going to start up her own blog now. Typepad and Wordpress blogs seem to be from those people who are middle of the line bloggers-they like to blog, and they enjoy to do it quietly and resourcefully. Blogger is for those new to blogging, and while it's a great intro platform (even though it seems to crash a lot) people seem to come and go from it with the haste of a Lemming, Party of 4. Mu.Nu has been evolving into the platform for the ultra-conservative nutters, and I feel like the real oddball in that group. I'd move Everyday Stranger from it if I could, but I haven't found a platform that I like enough to move to yet (but when I do, move I will.)

I wonder what non-bloggers get out of blogs. How did you find a blog? How did you come across my blog? Do you look at the blogging world and think: Dude. You folk are strange. Like, "charge people for admittance" strange. I would bet that blogging feels very clique-y to you, and indeed, it often is. But blogging is fleeting-generally speaking, the people you see at a site don't stick around for longer than a year. The people who do stick around, they become part of the fabric.

I like that.

As for me, I don't read an awful lot of blogs, and those that I do, I tend to just lurk at. I'm not good at commenting, I don't give good comment. I do have people linked, only they're linked privately. If you come here to visit because you like reciprocal links, I'm probably letting you down. Sorry about that. But it's not because I don't care. I read, I just don't say much.

I read your comments here, every one of them.

I remember 15, even 10 years ago-Inernet dating was uncouth. It was for the desperate and the sad. Or, at least, that was the perception-the truth is, Internet dating is a fantastic idea. I think about my life and dating circumstances sometimes-if I weren't with Angus, I'd be doing it. I think if you work a lot and don't live in a central area, meeting people is impossible.

Blogging is a unique creature. I'm not planning on quitting anytime soon, and when I do it will be for good, but for now I still get a lot out of it. Sometimes I maybe don't have so much to say, and sometimes you may not make a lot of sense at what's spewing forth from my head, but Everyday Stranger stays.

I'm glad I'm here.

I'm glad you're here, too.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:03 AM | Comments (46) | Add Comment
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