April 30, 2007

Whipping Me

English gardening is renowned. Seriously. Not only do they have the big gardens, like Kew Gardens, but they have 100,000 gardening shows with the likes of that guy with the name and her who never wears a bra (and I'm not a prude or anything, but DAMN. Consider strapping those puppies, babe, or you're going to put someone's eye out someday).

I even have the name guy's book, and while it's good he's a little fussy for me, even. He's like the Martha Stewart of gardening, when I'm still at the level of trying to figure out the Hungry Man frozen dinner gardening equivalent. I'm a true beginner. Even using the latin names whips me and makes my eyes glaze over.

But we have been getting a lot done. After the weekend known as "Slash and Burn" weekend:


Angus and the burning


Where we cut back huge bushes (the whole place was overgrown), ripped out sections of overgrowth, and above all weeded:


Too much to do


We've felt better about the place.

Not like it's done or anything.

A garden this size is NEVER done.

So a lot's been happening in my life, and I decided the area where I wanted to unleash my aggression was on my number one enemy...the pond.

When we first viewed the house the pond was a selling point for me. I have always wanted a pond, complete with irises, little fishies, and a duck (a duck proved too much for Angus, we had a fierce argument about it and the duck idea was abandoned.) So when I found out that this house came with a pond, it was huge. Angus was ambivalent, but me? I'd found nirvana.

Until I actually OWNED the pond, of course.

And can I just say...do you know how much fucking work is involved with a goddamn pond?

It was a nightmare. Mumin - the ultimate hunter - was bringing mice in by the handful. Turns out that the former owner's gentleman caller friend would feed families of field mice on the floating lily pads of the pond. Very cute and Wind in the Willows, but add a cat to the equation and it was rodenticide. The families of field mice didn't last long, even though we tried to stop her. When the mice ran out, she moved on to decimating the pond frog population (and I did learn from the helpful comments that praising her for catching animals was the way to get her to not kill them. Thanks for that advice - now we get presented with them alive, so they have a chance to live. Still, it squicks me out.)

One month after moving in the pond had 100,000,000 tadpoles brewing on the top of it. A neighbor helpfully told me that you have to go in there and do a little "weeding out" of the frog population, so I had to murder about half of the little tadpoles. I still feel guilty today, and worry that the frogs continue to hold it against me. In my next life I'm going before a tribunal for my crimes against amphibians, I just know it. Kermit judges me. I feel his anger.

The pond got covered with pond scum, which needed sweeping out and which smelled like something died (nothing did, apart from the Mumin presents.) You had to constantly cut back the overgrowth, something we weren't always good at:


The pond before


Not like you can make it out, but the pond is to the right in the picture. It's the huge growth of irises, you can't actually make out the water.

And we had to keep the pond covered with mesh netting, as rumor had it there was a neighborhood heron that likes to have a little sushi for lunch.

But this year I'd had enough. The pond was going. True, it did have fish in it-at last count, we thought there were about 10 or so. We were going to give the fish to Angus' brother, who is installing his own pond (HA! Sucker!) and would take our fishies. I uncovered the pond because I hadn't seen a heron around.

I am now going to be tried for crimes against amphibians and aquatic vertebrates, because guess what? Yeah, um, there is a heron. And he had a whole lot of sashimi from our pond. We came back after a weekend away and found that we had no fish.

So we started to drain that which I call That Fucking Pond.

And wouldn't you know it, we did have 4 fish left.

The 4 fish were rescued in a bucket, along with a few water newts. We were going to give them to Angus' brother (who is in Namibia) but hadn't been able to do it yet.

The fish didn't last long in the bucket.

Despite my best efforts at feeding and giving them fresh air, the bucket became known (in Angus' terms) as the Departure Lounge.

I do feel really guilty about both the heron and the Departure Lounge.

Now down 4 fish and several water newts, there was nothing holding us back. I attacked the pond yesterday with Carrie-like ferocity. I ensured that all wildlife (except for frogs, which I knew would move on, and water snails which, seriously, are on their own) and then stripped out the rubber liner. I was ready to fill that pond in...until wouldn't you know it. The batshit lady who used to own the place had filled the inside of the pond with carpet and newspaper.

Carpet.

CARPET.

This woman loved carpet. She had carpet on everything, including the bathroom floor. I'm surprised ceilings weren't carpeted. She has instilled in me a hatred for carpet that is nearly pathological, and the only remaining rooms in the house that still has carpet are the hallway and living room, but only because both are getting torn to bits in the coming extension so it made no sense to address it now. We chucked out every other room of carpet and took the floors back to the original floorboards. If I never see carpet again, it will be too soon. Hell (for me) must be covered in shag pile.

This made the job 100,000 times worse, as not only did I have to get the liner out, I had to try to get the carpet out otherwise I'd be handling really foul, awful carpet as well. And while the pond water looked clean, lemme tell you-what was left after the water was pumped out smelled like sewage.

I went into a fury.

Angus came to help me, even though I'd been getting lots of help (to the right of the sleeping dog is some of that bloody carpet):


Gorby helps out


Together we tried to get as much carpet out of the pond as we could. We got about half of it, then the structural integrity of the liner gave way, and the pond drained.


Empty pond


I have never in my life - despite all the housework I've done, no matter the rebuilding jobs I've been a part of - been through a more foul task in my life. I asked Angus if this was the worst house job he'd ever been through and he admitted that some of the sewer work he's done on homes has been worse. I can see that. Just.

So all that's left is a few inches of mud, the liner, some roots, and some funky carpet. We're going to let the mud dry out - it's not even May yet and already we know we're headed for a drought again this year, it's been the hottest April in English history and it looks like that'll keep going. The mud will sort itself out and then the liner, the carpet and more will be taken to the tip.

We're not sure what we'll do with that space now-there's more work to do, it has to be filled in and the paving stones removed and those aggressive hedges behind it ripped out. We'll either just grass it over for more lawn or make a small benched reading area or something.

I've since had 2 showers since getting rid of the pond, and we rewarded ourselves with a triumph over my other nemesis, the stinging nettle. I carefully picked a load of them (and still got stung anyway, despite the gloves), washed and boiled them, and then made nettle soup. I know it sounds awful, and very crunchy granola, but it was the best soup I've ever had in my life.

And the pond is gone.

It was hell.

It was worth it.

Dontcha' just long for relaxing country living?

-H.

PS-yes, that last post really was from Angus, who is the one who fixed my sidebars and thus the loading, she is better. And yes-I really did pay up. Of course.

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April 28, 2007

Angus says:

It was well worth walking the dog for!

Angus.

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April 27, 2007

Bartering

"I dreamt that we were at a water park and one of the slides we went down went at 4G!"

"That's impossible, Helen. You can't have a downward force of 4G."

"You can in my water park."

My cow clock goes off.

"I love that clock," he says sarcastically.

"I know! I love it too!" I squeal.

We lay there, cuddling.

"I'll give you a blow job if you'll walk the dog this morning."

"OK. When?"

"After my visit to my mental health professional."

"Deal!"

Never let it be said that I'm not willing to pay for my services.

-H.

PS-My website is slow to load because my sidebar is screwed up, but I'm hopeless at this kind of thing and can't figure out how to fix it. Also, I'm sorry for the lack of posting/abbreviated posting. There's a whole lot going on in our house, which I'll explain on Monday or Tuesday. Until then, thanks for being here.

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April 25, 2007

Jump

There are a lot of times I wish I could reach out to you and tell you that I just believe. I just believe. I don't know why, and I can't explain how, but I believe in you. You've been through so much, and there is so far still to go, and yet here you are. You persevere. You show me that you're so much stronger than I worry you are, all in the space of a second, in a flicker, in a moment.

I've never been a leap of faith kind of girl. Gods waved goodbye to me as we went our seperate ways. I can't believe in something I've never seen, I can't accept a concept as my mantra. Things have to be seen to be believed. This is the way of the world, of my world, of the way things have to be.

And now I need to just believe.

And I will do this, this just believing, because the alternative to not believing is unpalatable. Because you are so important to me that you nearly own me. Because if you think I just not believe, then maybe you will go, and in going you will destroy me.

I remember a Winne-the-Pooh still from a long time ago. It had the pudding shaped Pooh walking hand-in-hand with the little Piglet. Their backs were to me, and their profiles were speaking.

"I'll believe in you if you'll believe in me," Pooh is saying to Piglet.

That sounds like a fair trade to me.

I believe. You believed in me. I won't let you down.

Don't let me down, either.

I love you with everything I know how to love.

You can go anywhere you'd like, you can be anything you want...as long as you'll be mine.

-H.

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April 24, 2007

Helping Hand or Helping Push

The Alamo thing has, apparently, really affected me.

I'm not a very Bolshy person. It comes and goes with me in terms of standing up for myself. Sometimes I do it, more often than not I don't. I don't like to raise my voice to people I don't know and - this is the worst part - I don't like people to hear my American accent, not because I'm ashamed or anything, but I figure they'll simply dismiss my complaint and chalk me up to being "an American" instead of listening to me (and yes, this has happened to me).

But since coming completely unglued at the rental car counter I'm suddenly a lot less tolerant of people being assholes around me. Maybe it's just a phase, maybe it'll pass, but right now I call people on their shit and that's completely out of character for me.

Angus, he's a guy that will make a fuss. So will my stepmother. Both of them have had real bust-ups with managers of grocery stores, Angus over his views on the unjust cost of limes and English cheddar, my stepmother over a bad melon. They do not have a single problem with complaining about bad service or bad products - in their views, they have paid for a product or service and dammit, it better be good.

Me, I cringe. I don't really ever complain to staff or management about things because I'm not much of a "rocking the waves" kind of girl. I have eaten not great meals and never said a word. I have been left waiting in queue longer than Paris Hilton's list of one night blow jobs. People cut in front of me and I don't say anything, people are stupid and I don't let off.

Until now.

Maybe something's come unglued in me.

I've made no secret about the fact that commuting is one of my greatest stresses. The train station (which is now empty of Travellers, as they've moved on to a football pitch nearby) is one of my fiercest foes. My ulcer goes off nearly every single time I take that fucking train, and it never gets any better.

Add on to the fact that I'm suddenly dealing with a great deal of stress in another area of my life (more on that later), and I'm a ticking device ready to burst.

This whole week was set to be a London week (luckily today has become a working from home day). After months of very few London days, suddenly my project schedule is getting very busy-I have three projects now at work (two of them very interesting), and they're not stressful but will keep me busy. This week kicks it all off, and sadly Thursday and Friday I have meetings in Upper Buttfuck (proving that you can't have everything and sometimes that includes trips to the one place in the country that I truly hate). So the train station and I are going to be very, very close for the next several weeks.

I made it to the train station very early yesterday morning, as I had a number of calls I needed to make in private and quiet before my meetings started. I got to the station and just missed the train I wanted, but I knew another one was coming in 5 minutes, so I wasn't too stressed...yet.

The ticket queue was torture though, as everyone wanted to buy monthly tickets, a complicated procedure involving forms, photos, and all kinds of hassle, and which nearly every time makes me want to scream "Why can't you handle these transactions AFTER peak travel time?" I went to the queue for the ticket machines instead. The machines were acting up, dicking around, rejecting cards at random. Mine was such a card. By the time it accepted my card, the train was pulling up. And again, if you get on the train without a ticket you get a penalty fine, even though the Network Rail website says that you should never have to unreasonably wait to get a ticket to board a train, proving that Network Rail really are a bunch of bureaucratic cunts who get off on messing with commuters minds and wallets.

I ran for the train, tickets in hand and receipt still printing in the machine.

As I boarded the stairs (because naturally the train I needed was on the opposite platform to the ticket office), I passed a party of four old age pensioners taking an overnight trip to London (I know this as one of them felt the need to tell the ticket agent about said trip, and the details of the trip, and how fun the trip was, thus delaying the ticket queue even more. This isn't even including the fact that all the seniors had asked the one senior to purchase everyone's tickets, and made a real song and dance about dividing up the bill and who owes who money but do you have change for £20?) The seniors were slightly blocking the entrance of the stairs.

That, I could have dealt with.

I could even have dealt with the elderly group taking up time at the ticket window (despite a huge line of people waiting for tickets).

What I couldn't deal with was one woman in the group.

As several business suited men and I sprinted like hell for the train, she chanted in a sing-song childhood playground taunting kind of voice "You're never going to make it! You're never going to make it! You're never going to make it!"

Sure enough, we didn't make it. As we made it to the top of the stairs leading to the train's platform, the train pulled away from the platform, leaving 6 of us who were within site of the doors but the train conductor wouldn't wait for us, on the platform.

And I could still hear the old woman chanting. The men who missed the train with me shook their head in disgust. One man swore. The woman's taunts reached me from the other side of the platform.

And a blood vessel in my head burst right open like a very ripe peach.

I was fuming. Absolutely fuming. (I hated her sooo much, it, it the, it, flame, flames, FLAMES on the side of my face, breathing, breathle...heaving breaths, heaving....) My stress levels-both about the train and about other things-were threatening to take over my vision. I walked up the stairs and over to the woman. I couldn't believe what I did next.

"Do you think that's very helpful, to stand there and make stupid comments like that?" I demanded angrily to her.

I couldn't believe I had said something like that.

I NEVER talk like that outside of the safety of my own brain.

The old woman looked startled. "I was just talking, I wasn't really thinking about you."

"No, clearly you weren't." I replied angrily. I walked back to the ticket office to get the receipt I'd left behind for my tickets. When I passed the old woman again she had a packet of mints in her hand.

"Well," she said snippily, popping a mint into her mouth, "looks like your day got off to a bad start."

I looked at her. "PISS OFF!" I snarled.

An elderly gentleman in the group shouted after me. "What did you say, young lady?"

And I made myself walk up the platform away from the group. I knew if I turned around to talk to the group there was a chance I could take the old gent and actually physically get into it with him, which I would ordinarily never do as I'm a serious pacifist. With the exception of the Alamo counter I can't remember being that angry in so long.

I caught another train twenty minutes later, which naturally got delayed and kept me waiting outside of Waterloo for 10 minutes. And I couldn't calm down. I recognize that I should have just shrugged her off as being a busybody who couldn't help herself, but I had had enough. It's possible I was taking my own stresses out on her, it's possible she meant no harm, she'd just disconnected that whole "brain-mouth" connection. But in that moment I felt that not thinking about others wasn't acceptable. Got nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.

Instead of helping her across the road, at that moment I was tempted to push her in front of traffic.

-H.

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April 20, 2007

Today Is Your Day, Sparky

This morning started with giddy excitement. I carried up coffee to a beaming Angus. I whipped out a mound of gifts from me, his kids, and my Dad, stepmother, and step-grandma. He grinned as he opened his cards. The phone and Skype have been ringing off the hook as wishes come pouring in.

The gifts were popular-clothes, sweets from Sweden, a Gorillapod and pasta maker from me, a cooking certificate from Eat, Drink, Talk from my family (which is perfect, as Angus loves to cook).

And then my big present-he unwrapped The Rough Guide to Scotland. Even though we've been to Scotland many times and love it absolutely, I thought it would be useful.

Useful because I've booked us a trip there. We leave the first weekend in June (June, as even though it's his weekend this weekend, we just came back from holiday and we have Iceland in May). He head to Oban (via Fort Willaim) on the sleeper train, and our first stop is somewhere he's always wanted to go to, the Cruachan Power Station, which is Scotland's biggest power station. From there, we then head up through the Hebrides and relax for a total of 5 days, before taking the sleeper train back home again.

He seems very happy with his gifts.

Tonight I'm making him a posh pasta dinner and uncorking a nice bottle of bubbly. We're relaxing and taking it easy. Throughout the day he gets whatever he wants.

It's his day after all.

To the sexiest 45 year-old I know: Happy Birthday, Angus. I love you madly.

-H.

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April 19, 2007

Walking

Some days are days where everything makes sense-the sun comes up just like you need it to. The coffee is hot but not too hot. Your phone is quiet and the dog's tail thumps on the floor behind you and your favorite TV show is all saved up to watch.

These days, the days where it's all like it needs to be, are the days which remind you that things will be ok.

In my head things buzz around. A long email which needs answering but I don't know how to answer it. A project at work that I want to sink my teeth into, but am not sure how to proceed. A long litany of words swimming around in my skull which need to be unleashed. A move towards the next step in the therapy of me that needs to be taken. All of these things move in me and on me and will be released when I am ready, when they are ready.

Sometimes life comes in and affects us so profoundly that we think the life we knew before will never come back again. We had gotten comfortable, we had become secure, we never knew that things could go the way we didn't want them to go. We walked our daily walk, never knowing the storms that were brewing, the fact that the sun is going to disappear.

When the darkness comes, we never think we're going to make it.

The thing about life is you don't really have a choice.

Pick any tired cliched adage you want - When God closes a door he opens a window. That which does not kill us makes us stronger. We are never given more than we can deal with. Through every darkness, there will be light. It doesn't matter the saying, the underlying message is this- it's bad now. It's very bad. It's a sheer and unmitigating darkness that swallows you whole.

But it will go away, in time.

It always does.

Yesterday was not a remarkable day. In the ordinariness of life, this day was stunningly ordinary. Return from holiday, laundry hung out to dry, dishes done, the dog was bathed, and I passed out on the couch from jet lag.

Yesterday was the day that the child we miscarried last year was due.

I didn't mention the day to anyone, I didn't do anything to note the event.

I didn't need to.

Yesterday the sun rose and set and then it came up again this morning. It will continue to do so for as long as I'm alive, which is a great deal longer than that embryo ever will be. Once I didn't want children. Now, I know children are something I want more than I know words to express it. And I look back on the unrelenting grief that was August, I remember the loss of the one I nicknamed Dr. Seuss baby, and I feel ok. I feel like I have been on a long walk, one which nearly took my career, my heart, and my happiness down with it. I walked through the storm of it all, and I look at yesterday with a bittersweet calm.

A birth didn't take place in our world yesterday.

And it's ok.

I'll never stop walking.

-H.

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April 18, 2007

We're Home, aka American Airlines, Expedia, and Alamo Can Suck My Flat Pale Ass

I'm super tired and barely functioning. I'm home now, and Angus has left to take his two extremely tired kids to their final flight home. I'll crawl back on the couch and pass out in a sec, but first an update.

You know how I'm one of those high-powered, super-sonic worriers when it comes to holidays and flights and such? I like everything to be beyond ready, I like to be at the airport fucking eons before the flight, I like everything to be nailed down tight? Imagine what happens when it all goes wrong.

Which is exactly what happened last Monday.

It went wrong in every way something could go wrong.

Seriously.

It started with us screaming to the airport, running late to catch our flight to Miami from Montreal, where we'd then connect to Jamaica. The security queues were endless. We got trapped in an immigration line with a man who wrote slower than a Slug Tag Team. We barely caught our flight.

I tried to calm down.

I ate Tums.

We got to Miami and it really went downhill.

Melissa only had her Swedish passport on her, as her English passport is being renewed (and anyway her English passport isn't machine readable, a requirement to enter the USA). I checked the Jamaican visa requirements when we booked the flights, and we were all green.

Then Jamaica went and hosted a Cricket Tournament.

And a cricket coach was murdered.

Suddenly, Swedes needed visas to enter Jamaica. Because, you know, the Swedes, they have a real reputation for danger. They are wild, my friend, especially if it involves cricket-a sport they don't even play there.

For being a neutral Scandinavian country, they're rewarded by needing visas to enter Jamaica for the months of March-May this year. Said visa could only be gotten from Jamaican consulates. Which-as it was Easter Monday-were closed, and it takes them 24-72 hours to process them anyway.

I asked an American Airlines woman for assistance. She blew me off. I asked for her supervisor. He blew me off in an even more spectacular fashion, it was more of a "really, can't you go crawl in a hole somwhere in the airport and die?" blowoff than a regular blowoff. In a fit of rage, and in a totally uncharacteristic move for me, I shouted after him if there was actually anyone who really knew how to do their jobs who could help me.

We decided to book a last minute flight to somewhere warm. We paid an extortionate sum of money to American Airlines for a hotel and flight and wound up going to Cancun instead. I told the American Airlines guy I'd be contacting American Airlines about his behavior. I thought I'd won that round.

American Airlines, instead, thoughtfully had us chosen to be specially security searched as a "security risk". We got singled out, embarrassed, and held in a little glass box in the middle of a hugely congested screening area before we were screened with a fine tooth comb (which luckily didn't include rubber gloves). Angus was livid. The kids were confused. I was ready to come home.

I'm so grateful to American Airlines that I hope they rot in hell.

We got on the plane.

Once on the plane, I realized my beautiful and amazing Irish bracelet Angus had bought me had fallen off somewhere in transit and was gone.

When we arrived in Cancun, the security screeners there pulled us to the side. They were very kind and polite, and we braced ourselves to be searched again. They didn't want to screen us, it turns out, they just wanted to kindly let us know-a bottle of wine had broken in one of our suitcases, and soaked most of the contents inside. When we opened the suitcase in the airport it smelled like Boozy McWino had taken up residence in our clothing.

Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

And when we finally got to the hotel-a surprisingly posh one, thanks to Expedia-they informed us we didn't have adjoining rooms after all (as we had booked), but for another $120 a night they could upgrade us to a two bedroom suite. I battled with them, and they went down to $60 a night. In the end, we wearily agreed-it was have the kids stay on the other side of the hotel (not an option) or have the adults split up to stay with one kid on the other side of the hotel (also not an option). Rock? Meet Cancun place. The room they gave us was indeed nice, although I'm not too happy we were held for ransom like that.

Melissa took diving courses, Angus stayed with her as much as possible, and Jeff and I spent the next three days in the pool. This would be idyllic, only there was a hidden problem we would later learn about - "what lies beneath" is more than just a scary movie title.

Both Angus and his son came down with flaming ear infections, apparently (according to the doctor, anyway) from the Mexican hotel pool (and this was a really posh upscale resort, too! Who saw that coming?) When we made it to Key West over the weekend, it was another $400 in a doctor visit and antibiotics for them, and both of them are still in agony.

They were not alone in their discomfort-Melissa came down with an outbreak of Herpes Simplex A on her face (NOT the kind related to sexually transmitted disease, this is the viral kind related to exposure of chicken pox. Still, not something that one is necessarily proud of). That's right. Melissa has the hand herpes...but on her face. Luckily, she too has an ointment that seems to be clearing it right up.

I seem to not have come down with anything (besides a day of seasickness when I accompanied Melissa on her diving boat. I didn't dive as she was doing her exam dives, but I did snorkel, which I only did up until the waves started, then I was flat on my back for the duration of the day, puking my guts up.) I'm told my face was an interesting color for the remainder of the day.

As a family, we didn't even get to spend a single day together in Cancun. We booked a day trip with the local Expedia office to Cozumel, where we were told we'd be together all day, but we weren't. Jeff and I went snorkelling while Angus and Melissa went diving (Melissa flexing her successful PADI dive card for the first time), and we didn't see them all day as they put us on different boats. Don't get me wrong, by this time Jeff and I had bonded so well we were like two peas in a pod, but I was actually missing Angus by that point. When I went back to the Expedia office to complain about what had happened, I was told that "I clearly misunderstood."

That'll be letter number 2 going off to management then.

Besides the face herpes, the oozing ears, and the overwhelming cost of Cancun (a big perk in Cancun is I can highly recommend the Argentinian restaurant Puerto Madero, which is one of the best meals we've ever had), the real kick in the face happened with Alamo Rental Cars in the U.S. Upon landing in Miami I went to the rental car shuttle to tell them that we were coming, could they wait thirty seconds for us to board? I had my body half in/half out of the bus while asking this question, and the bus driver simply shouted "We're full!" at my question. Then he shut the door on me.

He shut the door on me.

With me halfway in the bus.

I had to push myself out of the closed doors.

And then I went mental. I was so full of rage I couldn't even speak. The weird thing is, in the Good Cop-Bad Cop scenario, Angus is always the Bad Cop and I'm the Good Cop. Always. But not this time. Angus tried to tell me this was a minor inconvenience, but all I saw was red. I went from Bad Cop to Ballistic Cop with a speed that startled even me.

And in the Alamo office, I exploded. I even used words like "assault", "police", and "lawsuit", and I NEVER use those words because I NEVER sue. It got us a car upgrade, anyway, from a Ford Piece of Shit to a Chevy Impala Piece of Shit (seriously, who drives these cars? Who?) but I didn't calm down for a long time.

Cue angry letter number 3.

I can say this-Key West was extraordinary. The people were very kind, the place relaxing, the setting lovely. I want to live there. Gorby would be in heaven. On Sunday we had a terrific thunderstorm and I loved it. We had key lime pie (obligatory). We went to the Southernmost Point (also obligatory, but what the fuck is up with those creepy plastic people?) We took it easy.

Unfortunately we had very little time in Miami and we only saw Old Navy and Target, no other shopping got to be done. We didn't see anything of Miami this time, but I can confirm this-no more hotels on Miami Beach for us, mostly because I like my sleep to not be interrupted at 4 am by abusive drunken revellers.

I'm getting old like that.

We made it home on the flight from hell, leaving last night and arriving at Oh God Hundred this morning. I say flight from hell because the American woman in front of me threw her seat back all the way down from the moment the plane took off, and didn't raise it again, except to have periodic bursts where she'd lift up her seat back and then slam it back down as hard as she could, nearly always catching my knee in the process.

We fully expected to have come home and found the house burned down, burgled, and Gorby dead, but none of those seem to have happened, despite us apparently not only forgetting to lock the door on Sunday when we left, it appears we forgot to even close the door at all. A neighbor who we asked to check in on the place found the front door wide open on Tuesday, two days after we left. She kindly locked up the place for us.

Living in the country has its advantages.

So we're home. Overall we had a good time, but I think it was far from relaxing. I miss the kids. I miss the sun.

I never knew the house could be so calming.

-H.

PS-will try to upload Flickr pics tomorrow. For now? Bedtime.

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April 06, 2007

What a Week I'm Having

It's truly been an amazing week. I'd be hard to enunciate why, exactly, but I somehow feel some kind of new horizon has been opened up. Maybe it's turning 33 (because that's such a banner year, of course.) Or maybe it's many things.

Having my dad and stepmother here was absolutely phenomenal. We miss them very much, actually, and I wish we all lived closer. Seeing as they work from Seattle and we work from London, though, I think that's unlikely. We've spoken twice since he returned home, him using his laptop with the new Skype kit Angus installed, and I get to talk to him once more before we have a bit of radio silence while we're both away.

Our guests just left. Jill and her kids stayed the night, and it went better than I thought it would. Angus did indeed up his attentive game, and I have to admit in my childish way that being the center of his attention again was just what I needed. In the light of his sparkling, I felt calm and secure. I still recognize that around Jill, I am Logical Helen. Logical Helen is tough, has her game on, and is not rocked by emotions anywhere. Logical Helen is polite, laughs, and goes about getting things done. Logical Helen is a part of the real me, but she usually dwells behind Childlike Helen, Dozy Helen, and Laughing Helen. Having Angus understand that I have jealousy issues made a difference, though, and this visit went very well.

The house is quiet now for 24 hours. I feel like people have been here with us all week, which I guess they have. It's a day off in England today as Good Friday is a proper holiday. Angus and I will do a bit of work, and I'm personally hoping for an afternoon session in the bedroom.

The sun is shining. More than that, the sun is warm. The back door has been thrown open to a cloudless sky and a canine trods in and out of the house. The light is coming in all the windows, sheltering, calming, cleaning.

Tomorrow morning Melissa and Jeff arrive. I haven't seen them since February, and you probably wouldn't believe it, but I can't wait to see them. I know-it sounds cheesy, it really does. But I'm looking forward to having them here a lot. Melissa showed me her new haircut on Skype, and we'll settle in tomorrow to watch TV and chill.

And then, on Sunday, we're off. The four of us leave at lunchtime after dropping Gorby off at his bed and breakfast. We board a flight to Montreal, and we land in the late afternoon. We're checking in to an airport hotel for a meal and a night, then in the morning we take a flight to Miami, where we then connect and go on to Montego Bay, Jamaica. We spend 5 days in Jamaica.

Melissa is going to get certified to dive there. I couldn't understand it, but Angus was adamant that she get the complete certification with him, instead of doing parts of it in Sweden. I didn't get it until he explained it quietly to me-he wanted her to look back on her diving as something she learnt just with her father, he wants it to be a special memory. I got it then, and now I'm doing all I can to help. We've found an excellent PADI certified school in Jamaica. I've spoken with the instructors. I feel comfortable they're good, and Melissa is very, very excited.

Jeff may do a resort dive or two, it depends. While Melissa is taking diving class, Jeff will have one of about 50,000 water slides at this hotel to choose from. I don't think he'll be bored at all. We'll all be slathered in SPF60, aka "BLOCK THE SUN NOW!" sunblock, especially as two of the four are shockingly blond and just had a Swedish winter, and one of us has had skin cancer.

As for Angus and I, it's not our usual type of holiday, but we're looking forward to time with those he calls "his babies", and we'll relax (I'm taking several books), eat fabulous food, and hopefully have a lot of loving in the quiet nighttime hours (the kids have their own hotel room.)

Next Saturday we leave Jamaica and go back to Florida. We're making our way to Key West for two nights, then Monday we stay at South Beach for one night before taking a connecting flight in Toronto to come home.

It's been a hell of a week, my friend.

And now I'm going to paint my toenails red while soaking up the sunshine. I'm going to have a cup of coffee and smile at the man I love. I'm going to enjoy the last few days before we go away.

I'll see you on the 18th of April.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:08 AM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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April 05, 2007

My Eyes Are Sometimes Still Green

A long time ago, I was one seriously jealous chick.

Really.

I remember being eaten up with jealousy and envy. The 7 Deadly Sins had nothing on me. My insides got eaten up with hideous jealousy, to the point where I was a control freak.

The biggest point I remember being jealous was with Kim-I was almost mental with insecurity and resentment. Kim had a lot of female friends, and although it's true, he did wind up cheating on me with one of them, I viewed them all as the enemy. I had to be on my guard. I had to watch everything. It got to where I was dangerous-I would listen to his answering machine, I would search his closets. I was way out of control.

When we split I realized that I couldn't spend my life that way. Jealousy is an emotion that takes enormous chunks out of your soul, it's a feeling that eats away inside like a caustic chemical, burning out parts of you as you go. I learnt that the price I paid for jealousy was too high-not only was I rewarded with my greatest fear of him cheating, but it became one of the worst parts of me, something that I was least proud of.

I didn't want to be that person anymore.

So I stopped.

Honestly. I just stopped.

From then on, I wasn't remotely jealous about people in my boyfriends' lives. They want other people in their lives? Cool. Those people of the opposite sex? Whatever. Go to dinner, have a drink, enjoy. Fuck them and I'm leaving you, but unless you give me a reason to believe you're cheating it's not going to cross my mind for a moment. I'm not spinning another wheel on jealousy, I'm not dwelling in the House of the Paranoid ever again. I may dial up the crazy in other ways, but I'm not going to be jealous.

Angus and I have a very, very honest and open relationship (by open I mean communicative, not "shagging our way through Britain one person at a time" open). One of our early foundations in who we are is that we told each other everything. For the first time in my life, I had someone that I let it all out to. No one got that before, not even Kim. We told each other everything, from the hopes and dreams to fears to where we had grievously sinned. Nowadays sometimes our communication takes a hit, sometimes some subjects are so prickly that it does damage the ability to drag everything into the open. It used to sadden me terribly, but now I just think that life is like that-maybe some feelings are too raw to drag out until the edges become a little bit buffed. But in general, he's the one who knows me more than I know myself.

Which is why I was shocked that he recently mused I was jealous about something.

Angus has an old friend from when he was in school. He's one of those lucky sods that didn't spend his life moving around, his childhood friends are still his friends, and probably always will be. At this little school he had a friend named Jill, and in a strange coincidence, they met up at a school reunion about 10 years ago and discovered they were both living in Stockholm with their spouses and kids. They reunited their friendship and have remained friends since.

Jill and Angus both divorced about the same time, and although she disapproved of me in the beginning, she doesn't seem to mind that I'm around now and in fact he says she speaks highly of me these days. They talk fairly regularly, especially when she's going through a new relationship crisis which seems to happen about every 10 minutes or so.

And the truth is, I don't like Jill.

I never have.

It started when I first met her and Angus and I had an argument that we both handled very badly, and it's continued since then.

I don't for one minute think there's something naughty going on. Trust me when I say that I have zero doubt they're not having an affair. They're good friends and they like each other alot, but I don't need Angus to tell me that sex isn't an option (which he has told me, anyway), it's clear that there is nothing even vaguely romantic between them, nor could there be. They may be friends but you can tell they'd probably kill each other if they were romantic.

My dislike for Jill isn't something I really talk about. It does happen in relationships, I'm sure we often dislike one of our partner's friends (I have a female friend Angus doesn't like, so I guess we're even.) But since that meeting a long time ago, she simply rubbed me the wrong way and stayed in that sandpaper position.

When Angus went to Stockholm a few weeks ago he stayed with her and her kids in the evening (staying at the former marital home wasn't an option, which I think all parties are relieved about.) While there Jill mentioned she and the kids are coming to London this week, could they stay with us? Seeing as Angus had just crashed at her pad, it was hardly possible to say no.

So they're coming.

They were due to come on Tuesday, but my family was here until Wednesday. So they arrive tonight and stay until Saturday. Jill has three kids, one of them who is sweet and friendly, the other two for whom the word "tornado" was invented-the youngest is just a handful, the eldest ranges from "offensively rude" to "incredibly sweet" in a matter of seconds (unless something has changed-I haven't seen them since last year so maybe they're no longer like that.)

I'm not looking forward to it. I'd take an herbal tranquilizer, but that's not a good idea. Instead I'm going to face it head on.

One night in bed a while back, Angus said that he thought I was jealous of Jill. I scoffed. Ridiculous! I don't do jealous! There's nothing to be jealous of! Jealousy is an outdated emotion! Acceptance is the new black!

Then, with time and a little thought, I realized that he was right.

I am jealous.

I don't feel the need to check his collars for lipstick or to guard my heart. I don't worry that she's coming along in an attempt to steal him, I don't want to religiously check his behavior.

But they have a different relationship than I understand, and it does upset me.

In the UK friends use very derisive humor with each other. You take the piss out of someone that you like (and you simply abuse those you don't.) As friends, she speaks to him in ways that I would not only dream of talking to him in, but in ways that I'm not allowed to talk to him.

Everyone has trigger points, the things that make us blow up. Everyone's are different. For me, if you hang up the phone on me you'd better plan on never speaking to me again, because I find it pretty unforgivable (but that hasn't stopped Angus once or twice from doing it to me.) If you attack the fact that I have a mental illness in a negative way, you'd better be prepared to throw down. If you're teasing me about being an American, that's one thing. If you're having an unwarranted go at my country, that's another.

For Angus, he has a few key flashpoints. One of them is when something is imposed upon him-it can be anything from getting a parking ticket to someone imposing their opinion on him. One of this other triggers is when you tell him what he should think or do - he doesn't like that, and while I understand that, I do sometimes struggle with it, as you have to explain perceptions to him carefully, i.e. "I think you're doing X" as opposed to "You're doing X" in an argument.

Through the years we've been together we've learnt what each others triggers are and we carefully try to work through them. It doesnt' mean we both don't fuck up from time to time, but I know that there are parameters I should work in with him, just as he has ways he has to handle me (the words "kid gloves" apply here.)

For Jill, she gets to blow down all the barn doors. She can talk to him however she wants and it's ok. I know Angus disagrees with me, but I've seen her commit the cardinal sin of telling Angus what he thinks and he didn't get angry. And I'll be honest-on reflection, I realized that I resent that horribly. Why do I have to be so careful with what I say and she can just let loose? Maybe the truth is, they just have a different relationship-as school friends, they can be disrespectful but lovers, well...you have to respect and care more. But still-it makes me angry. It makes me angrier still when I think she's being downright rude, teasing him about weight or grey hair or the like.

But my biggest issue, I have realized, is so embarrassing I can hardly believe it.

The entire time I have known Angus there is one thing I can count on him for-if we are at a party or an event or in a crowded room, he will be looking out for me. He will be around me, sparkling, caring. This sounds incredibly smug and I really don't mean it that way, but I know that in a room full of people chances are his eyes will be on me. Which makes me feel amazing and alive, especially since my eyes are always on him. We're both so transparent it's sad, but it's one of our things-apparently our eyes sparkle around each other, and for once I don't mind sounding a little My Little Pony.

But when Jill's around, his attention is on her. Not in a sparly eye kind of way, but perhaps in a "she makes me laugh and is a good mate" kind of way. The past few events we've had that she's been to, I've barely seen Angus. Again, I'm sure there's no hanky panky going on, but I have understood my biggest issue-

When she's around, I'm not the center of his world.

I can't tell you how embarrassed I am at how pathetic and needy that sounds.

Here are my insecurities playing out on a global scale. I am jealous all over again, and all because I'm not the center of his attention for one evening. It's like I'm a fucking four year-old all over again, demanding the grown-ups pay attention to ME ME ME.

Angus and I talked about this, and he's apologized for not being more attentive and says he'll rectify that. For my part, I've got some work to do, and I apologized to him for that. I hate feeling this way, and I need to stop it. This is wrong, it's not healthy.

So they arrive tonight. I'm not looking forward to it but I'm glad Angus will see his old friend. I guess a part of me sort of wishes I could hop out of myself for the evening, but for better or for worse I can't do that anymore.

I honestly believe that even if it weren't for my childish insecurities I still wouldn't really care for Jill (but of course, I would tell myself that). She's really isn't the kind of person I usually get on with, her personality kinda' grates on me. I wouldn't be rude to her, I'll be polite, but I still can't escape from the fact that I'm not a good person inside when she's around.

But that's my problem.

I may be off the suicide list, but apparently I still have more work to do on the jealousy list, and I can't express how ashamed I am to admit that.

-H.

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April 04, 2007

The Shape of Things

This post might not make much sense, but I'm currently a jumble of emotions, thoughts, and memories. So maybe it's more for me than anyone else but I need to disconnect the brain and hands for a bit and let some things out.

My dad and stepmother just left and the house is sadly quiet now. Gorby - having lost his companion in dad - is sulking in his dog bed. Angus had to go in to work for a bit and I'm at home looking out the windows, feeling like I forgot something somewhere - I left the oven on, I need to bring the laundry in, I'm meant to be on a conference call...something like that.

Angus and my family arranged my surprise birthday visit back in January so that my family would be able to arrange their crazy flight schedules accordingly. They can never change things on short notice as their jobs don't permit for such, so the fact that this has been planned for so long touches me greatly. I absolutely loved having them here and I can't wait until they come back and visit again.

The relationship I have with my father is a whole new territory for me. As a young child I adored him, I loved him, I wanted him in my life so much, but this ended shortly after I turned 8 and my parents divorced. My childhood idolatry of the man I knew as "Daddy" ended then, with the harsh reality of poverty and preferences - namely that his preferences were to be elsewhere, instead of us.

When my parents got back together all parties had changed. "Daddy" had disappeared, and in his place I had intalled The Man to Butt Heads With. I was hard and broken inside, and it was the start to many years of battling between my father and myself. I could never forgive, even when I would later commit those same offenses myself.

My father was never a good father. He really wasn't, and I'm not having a go here at him, he even admits that he was a terrible father. He was never around and when he was he was volatile as hell. His career was the most important thing in his life and his emotional repsonsibilities to his family were far down the list. I often felt like I was an inconvenience, a nuisance, a hassle. He struggled with himself, he struggled with us, he struggled. I, in turn, struggled with him. He was never "my" dad in my mind, he was my sister's. Ever the golden child on both sides of the fence - even my mother admitted to me once that my sister was her favorite, which is always a wise thing to tell a child - I always felt like the darkest of the black sheep, the one who honestly should never have been born. We once went three years without talking, and I guess the emotional distances from all of our pasts was something that we thought would serve some of us again, as now years later most of us don't speak anymore.

I could be all I'm OK You're OK and blame my parents for handling things badly. I could blame myself for handling myself and the situation badly. There are all kinds of ways to throw all kinds of blame, but at the end of the day people need to take account for their actions, and even more so rehashing the past will get us nowhere. I don't see the point in dwelling anymore - thanks to therapy, I try to let things go and not spend all my time immaturely running around appointing blame. Because the truth is, in the split-up of a grown-up family, everyone is to blame. We all came at things with pinking shears, on every side of the fence.

Only some fences in my life, they got mended.

My dad and I started talking very occasionally when I moved to England. It wasn't regular, but we were pleasant on the phone to each other. W weren't that close, and Angus used to remark we talked on the phone more like friends than father-daughter. I didn't confide things in him and I didn't let him too far in my life, but he was on the periphery.

When we miscarried last year it was bigger than either Angus or I could handle. I didn't know why at the time but I wanted to talk to my dad, and I never talked to him about matters of the heart. I couldn't even really talk to him about the miscarriage, I just wanted him around. So after he visited my sister and her child in Texas (to be fair to both of us he saw us both), he came out here.

And we've been close since then.

We've been father-daughter, even.

We talked often between August and Christmas, and at Christmas Angus installed Skype on all of their computers and we all now speak several times a week.

Angus, for his part, has been ultra-supportive. He interacts often with both my father and stepmother and thinks this relationship we have is so important. He - like all of us - works hard to make sure everything stays on course. He and my father wants the relationship between the other side of my family and myself to heal too, but that's just not going to happen.

My dad has changed so much from when I was younger that he's not even the same person. He and my stepmother have a very respectful, very caring relationship, and I have found her to be honestly an amazing and wonderful person - she never had a chance to be close to any of us because it wouldn't have been tolerated, and I have apologized to her for that. I was wrong.

Dad and I talked about the past from time to time and on this visit we covered off some things that maybe needed to be talked about. We both apologized for things that happened in the past, and we openly and honestly admitted where we went wrong, where we regret, and where we wish things had been different. The other side of the family is different-everything is all my fault, always has been, probably always will be, I'm the worst kind of despicable human beings, so it's a relief to find someone that doesn't want to spin their wheels with how horrible a person I am. Maybe the truth is I am a bad person. Maybe the truth is my mother and sister will never be happy until they resolve their internal bitterness.

But I hope and wish for happiness in my dad's life. The funny thing is, I've learnt that love gets bigger as you spread it around. I know my dad isn't limited to only being in my life, I may not like the person but I honestly hope and wish that he will be allowed into that other person's life, simply because it would make him happy. I understand that's not the case right now, and I know that my dad would be a great asset to the other person's world.

That's something that Angus taught me.

Love isn't a clique, it's not a fierce loyalty spending card.

As cheesy as it sounds, love is a gift with endless depth and resources.

So I had my dad and stepmother here, and I loved every minute of it. I got to spend my birthday with them. They got to meet most of Angus' family, and I'm delighted that my family and his family gets on very well. They came to stay with us for a few days, and Dad walked the dog, we all had meals together, we relaxed and laughed.

And I got to tell them some of the best news we have had in a long time. Last week in my therapy appointment, I got some of the most rewarding news ever - from my therapists' professional and clinical opinion, I am now out of the high-risk category. My BPD and I are healing, to the point where I am now officially no longer ruled a suicide risk. My therapist said that my entire world can collapse in every way, shape, and form, and yet I will make it, that I am strong enough and able enough, that inside parts of me are healed even though other parts remain broken.

People make mistakes.

People recover from their mistakes.

Having a dad is one of the greatest feelings in the world. I feel like I finally have a family, and it's a family that is healthy, loving, and supportive, no matter what. My dad has only been a major part of my life for the past 8 months, and if I lost him tomorrow I would mourn him forever and ever, but I will never regret that we have become close.

It only took 32 years.


Dad and Helen


-H.

PS-I realize that the Texas side of my family obsessively reads both of my blogs (which is very disappointing and extremely pathetic and sad in a control freak kind of way.) I didn't write this for you, though, and I didn't write it to hurt you. I wrote it for me. I wish you'd just go away from here and give me my privacy, but I guess you will never truly leave me alone, so I make my peace in other ways.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:57 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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April 02, 2007

Seymour and More

I only have a moment, so here goes:

Seymour arrived with great fanfare late Friday (read: me jumping up and down in the pouring rain with glee.)

Seymour is a fabulous wooden outdoor table and chairs, complete with comfy cushions (not seen in this photo as they arrived later.)


Seymour


I absolutely love it. I thought Angus outdid himself with the fantasticness of the gift. I adore Seymour (and yes, it will be called Seymour).

But then more came.

Saturday, after a day of frenzied cleaning and some minor arguments, I came back from a short shopping round to a sparkly Angus. He told me to pack things for two nights, and put them on the bed. When I looked again, a suitcase was packed. We dropped Gorby off at the kennel and went for a Mystery Tour.

I had no idea what was going on.

We drove into London, and pulled up at a nice hotel on Gloucester Road. He asked me to take a walk with him, and we went to the National Science Museum. He asked me to stand by a barrier and hold still for a picture. I did so, then he asked me if I wanted to see the picture. So I walked up to him and looked at the back of the viewscreen of the digital camera.

more...

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