June 29, 2007

I Needed the Calcium Anyway

France was good. But Calais, she is not a beautiful place (apologies if I'm offending anyone from Calais.) Calais is simply a port town where the boats and the Eurotunnel come in, and it's swimming with French people fed up with dealing with the English who've come there to buy alcohol. Angus, Jeff and I hit a shopping center where we stocked up on our favorites - good mustard, olive oil, chocolates, cheese (we went running into the cheese aisle, weeping with joy and love), and my favorite, a candy I call Dragonballs.

Then we hit the liquor store.

Hard.


Thirsty?


We bought 78 bottles of wine, 52 bottles of beer, and a bottle of very good single malt whiskey (Ballachulish, for those who like the nectar of life.)

Then we hopped a train home and unpacked it all. We went to bed and yesterday, despite our attempts to change his flight so he could stay longer, Jeff flew home (Scandinavian Airlines sucks. Has to be said.) We waved goodbye as he was escorted to the plane (he's underage so when he flies alone he takes the unaccompanied minor service, complete with the embarrassing neck pouch he has to wear) and now the house is quiet. We have a lot to do - work got neglected, emails need to be answered, the house looks like Martha Stewart's biggest fucking nightmare, and the project that Angus and Jeff have been working on - ripping out the diseased hedges in the front and building a fence - is only partly done because there's only so much you can do in the rain.

A lot has been going on. I realized the other night that I'm actually not doing too well - my hair continues to come out in chunks in the shower, to the point now where I'm actually worried I am losing too much hair. I've been downing Tums like the bottle may have a golden ticket to the Wonka factory in it. I thought it was all part of being the Lemonheads' personal transportation, but with the appearance of ass bleed the other night it appears that actually, my body is telling me it's pretty fucking stressed out.

I downloaded th Editors new album, and now I'm sitting in my study (the next room to be terrorized by Angus and Helen's Great Renovation Project of 2007) and think about everything I'm thinking and feeling.

It's all a little too big, even for someone whose shoulders are as broad as mine.

I've had a lot churning around inside of me, things that perpetrate the enormous mistakes I made when I was younger, as well as the mistakes that were made against me. I don't mean that in a "sobbing on Oprah's couch blaming my inability to hold down a job based on my father's alcoholism" kind of way, but mistakes in my life are common, and some of them are my own and some of them aren't. But I'm someone that doesn't like thinking about the past, I'd rather the past was just a bit of white noise while I change the channel to understand what's going on now. This applies to everything, from walking to school as a 6 year-old to loving Kim to those hot humid Texas summers where I looked up at the sky and wondered where it all went from here. All of those things are uncomfortable and lightly mocking. My mistakes tremble on the ground before me like hot coals.

The things bothering me are hot and varied. The incident with Melissa weighs on my mind, but it's safely on the "we can fix this" list. I think she and I can fix this, we just need to talk. I do also think a small part of it is adolescent hormones and turmoil, but I'm not dismissing the seriousness of her feelings because of that.

One of my current stresses is that Angus' ex is causing us huge issues. Her behavior and statements are well and truly out of control now. The night before Melissa had to go home last week, she got a message from her mother that she should take a cab from the airport, let herself inside the house, and her mother would see her in the morning. Her mother had a last minute trip to another country, so Melissa would be home alone.

All night long.

At age 14.

And this is much, much too uncomfortable for me. I remember being home alone at age 14 all night long. I would sit up in the living room and watch the same Betamax tape again and again and again. I would watch the door. I would listen for my sister, asleep in the other room. And I would wait. I hated it, and I'm not trying to project myself into Melissa's life, but I've got this to say - I'm not a mother. I don't know the first thing how hard it is to be a mother. I can't imagine being a divorced mother of two hoping to find something to raise you up out of the mundane sadness of needing something just for yourself.

But you don't leave your 14 year-old home alone all night long.

Ever.

And I may not be a mother but I call bullshit on that happening.

We couldn't change her flight, so off Melissa went. Angus phoned her constantly, to the point where Melissa was getting annoyed with the phone calls and she was just fine anyway, completely unphased by the whole thing. Angus was angry and upset that if there was an emergency, both of her parents were not only not nearby, they were both out of the goddamn country. And yes, we agree that there may be things occurring in the furute where an overnight alone may happen, but for God's sake arrange for some adult friend to come stay over or something.

Don't leave a kid alone all night, in the dark, wondering.

The ex has done a number of things lately to really fuck me off, but I won't go into them here. I really don't want her attacked on this blog, because it only tears Angus up, so I'm trying to be as neutral as possible.

We're all - Angus, his kids, and Angus' mother, brothers, and sisters-in-law, who all have contact with the ex-wife - tiptoeing around the ex right now because she hasn't been told about the babies yet. Angus has been discussing regularly with Melissa and Jeff as to when and how to tell her. He consults them because they're the ones who have to live with her. He consults with them because he wants to be sensitive to their needs and feelings. He consults with them because her reaction to our engagement was extremely negative, as you can imagine.

And when she finds out about the babies, we all have no doubt that it will be incredibly ugly.

But all three of them have agreed that she'll be told in the next few weeks. They've picked a specific damage-limitation time that is best for them. Angus will tell her himself, and then will be there for everyone in a supportive capacity. I think we're all pretty stressed out about it-Melissa, Jeff and Angus don't want to see her hurt. Angus and I worry about how she'll take it out on the kids and his family. And I worry that once more, the Lemonheads are something associated with great unhappiness.

Angus got a mail from his brother Adam two days ago that has further sent me into orbit. I like his brother, I really do, even when he's being a dick and telling me my unbaptized children will go to hell if they die. He's done this before, emailed and stepped in and tried to intervene on behalf of the family. He did it again, but this time he's wound me up no end.

In his email he pressured Angus to tell the ex now. Like, NOW. He further went on to say that he thinks the ex-wife will make it difficult for Angus to see Melissa and Jeff when she finds out, and that they have regular contact with her and get told all the details of the dramas in her life. Also? She may not be so cooperative in helping Angus with things like "doing the dirty laundry when the kids come back from visiting you".

THAT. That was the straw. That was the sentence.

I accept he has ultra-conservative views about marriage and the baptism of our babies. I accept that he and his wife have contact with the evil ex and don't defend Angus when she goes on an embellished rampage (she loves to bang on about money, and how she has none. Angus pays a huge sum of child support, plus buys clothes and extras for both the kids AND the ex-she sends over grocery requests every time they come over and he buys them for her and sends them back. If she's so upset about money, maybe she shouldn't have done things like buy a horse, spent a month's salary on a pedigree puppy, or, oh, I dunno, quit her job?) I accept that his family would love to know the details of the split-up from Angus, who (like me in my real life) is a very private person and doesn't talk about the details. I even accept that I am still painted as the Bride of Satan and Angus is, by extension, Satan.

But in saying that I would ever send his kids home with a suitcase of dirty clothes?

That's the fucking step too far.

It's not such a big deal, that statement. Dirty laundry, what a tiny thing to hit out on. But it's a monkier for the bigger picture, which is this: I'm not as good a mother as Angus' ex.

I know they think it. I know it. And it's not a competition or anything, but for Christ's sake, can you give a girl a chance here?

Lemme' clue you in on something here, Adam-NOT ONCE have Melissa and Jeff gone home with dirty clothes. They always return with their clothes freshly laundered and smelling like sun-fucking-dappled pools. Always. Have they shown up here with dirty clothes? You betcha'. More than once something they unpacked went straight into the washing machine (but I just think kids find laundry really boring and unimportant, I chalk it up to a kid thing, not a bad parenting thing.)

I may not be great at dusting. I may procrastinate at ironing clothes until the pile is registering for its own island status. But never, ever have those kids gone without care, love, and housekeeping while they've been here. And I will never leave my 14 year-old kid home alone all night.

I can accept that his family may view me as the flighty, mentally ill, unreliable soul that the ex wife paints me as, someone incapable of looking after Angus' children. And I do worry that I'm not being a good stepmother and that I won't be a good mother. If I wasn't worried, wouldn't that be a bad sign? Didn't Mommy Dearest run around thinking she was the bomb when it came to motherhood? Does that mean I should go get the toothbrushes and the wire hangers, will I be a good mother then?

You can call me a home wrecker.

You can label me as someone with psychological issues.

But don't you ever tell me that Angus' kids aren't looked after when they're here.

Angus very calmly and clearly spelled a lot of things out for his brother in a reply email, including defending our care of the children and the throw-away dirty laundry remark. He thanked him for his concern, but told him that he and his kids - the ones who are the biggest involved parties - are handling how to tell the ex-wife about the babies.

But this, along with many other enormous stresses, hangs over my head. When she finds out it's going to be very, very bad. I do actually wish that she didn't feel bad, but we all know it's coming.

Until it happens, I have Tums.

Tums, and my outrageous burning anger that will be addressed with Adam when I see him next weekend.

-H.

PS-if you do comment, please don't attack Angus' ex-wife. She is the mother of his kids, and attacks on her do give him conflict and I understand that. I discussed this post with him beforehand and he's ok with me posting it, so let's not pile on and have a go.

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June 27, 2007

Booze Cruise

So between the rain, the new prime minister we're getting today who is the very definition of "charisma bypass", the fact that the lawn is so long I'm sure that any moment now an antelope or two will come springing out by the hammock, and the 4th of July party we're having next weekend (on the 7th of July, as you do when you don't live in your home country anymore and you can't inconvenience everyone to come over for a BBQ on a work day), Angus, Jeff and I are bunking off on a booze cruise today.

Although technically we're taking the Euro Tunnel so it's not a cruise, it's a train. What does that make it - a rum run? Locomotive loot? Something equally trite?

I know it's trite and everyone does it, but we're off to France for an afternoon to buy alcohol and do a grocery run. Alcohol in France costs a fraction of what it does over here thanks to our good friend The Tax, and so we make one France run a year and the alcohol tends to last us for about 10-12 months. We're out of alcohol. It is time. Plus, it's an interesting diversion for the day, it gets us out of the way of the rain that's coming and we get to buy fabulous French Emmenthal, which makes my heart go pitter patter*.

So apologies for the short post, but computer time will continue to be limited until the little guy goes home tomorrow, and I've got some long ones coming after that.

-H.

* Yes I am allowed to eat Emmenthal. It's considered a safe one.

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June 26, 2007

Revelations

Last summer, it was the record heatwave and draught.

This summer it's record rainfall (yesterday most of England got a month's rainfall in one day) and flooding, and it's not stopping any time soon. The depression and blues over the cold, dark dampness is overwhelming.

What's next? Locusts?

-H.

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June 25, 2007

Hello, My Role Is _______

A lot's been going on over here. Not just the run of the mill, "wow, we've been fiercely arguing about our upcoming babies AND our beloved cat just died", that's just the foreground. In the background we also have garden landscaping we're doing, the architect's extension blueprints have arrived and we are agreeing draft plans, we've our finances to sort out, and it has been raining every goddamn day since early May, to the point now where the depression in our home is mighty and the flowers are literally rotting in their flower pots outside. Add a dose of Maggie entering depression (we're doing all we can to love on her), Gorby punctured his leg and needed care (I worry that any day now the RSPCA will show up and take him and Maggie away, it's just that kind of month) and the fact that Angus' kids have been here for a week (Jeff is still here for this week while Melissa's gone off to horse camp in Sweden now) and it's been a doozy.

So yeah. I've been pretty quiet, but that's only because not only can I not get access to the PC, but also because I'm frankly overwhelmed.

Melissa and Jeff are good kids. I honestly and truly love them a lot, except at 7:00 in the morning when Jeff wakes up at 10,000 mph and the house becomes a haze of noise. Then I love him a little bit less, at least until I've had a cup of coffee. The biggest problem is that they don't really get along, to the point where it makes our teeth grind and one understands why some animals eat their young. When they get into one of their moods they become so incredibly difficult that it makes me want to board a plane to somewhere, anywhere. I hear Kazakhstan is nice this time of year.

Last week we had a wobble in our household. Unusually, it wasn't had by myself or Angus. It was had by Melissa. Last Wednesday the household was up until about 2:00 am as she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Angus handled it and I came and went with water, Tylenol, stuffed animals, and hugs.

Melissa's complaint was this: she doesn't feel part of the household. Or more specifically, she doesn't feel like she has a place where she really belongs. Being half-Swedish and half-English and living mostly in Sweden, with one weekend a month in England, makes it not easy to reconcile where she needs to be. Is she Swedish? Is she English? Is it disloyal to like one more than the other?

Back in Sweden she and Jeff have a room of her own, they have a horse, a rabbit, birds, a dog and schoolfriends. They basically live on the money Angus sends them monthly (see: ex-wife decided to stop working. See also: I'd love to complain about this but feel it's not fair to Angus, who is the one who has to support two households.) which is much more than the requirement by law but means that there's little money for extras. But Melissa says that the home they live in there is like a museum - their mother won't let them touch things, it's not a "lived-in" house. Considering at any given moment Angus and I have a project on, need to vacuum the house, and have a piece of crap furniture we haven't gotten around to replacing yet (long live Ikea), apparently our home is much more "cozy and comfortable". I take that as a compliment. I think it is one.

But the extension isn't built yet, so Melissa's bedroom doubles as a guest room. Jeff's room doubles as Angus' study. There is simply no other alternative to this, and in fact once the extension is done her room will still have to be the guest room. The truth is the guest room has been used about five times in the year we've lived here, we always make it back up for her, but because she's only here one weekend a month and space is at a premium, this is likely the way it's going to have to be.

I heard some of the problem through the walls. Some of Melissa's complaints I understand - she isn't a part of the decision-making when it comes to purchases for the home. I struggle with that one a bit, because I think that while the input of the kids is good, the decision should ultimately be up to the ones who pay the bills. But I see where she's coming from on that one. She wants to hang pictures up and decorate, which we haven't really done as the majority of the house is temporary until the extension is done, but once again I see her point. She wants to know our neighbors and our bosses. A key one is that she wants to see my Dad and stepmom, whom she calls her grandparents now, whom she's not yet met (we're working on that one) but speaks to on email and Skype, and I see those points too-how can you have grandparents you love but have never met?

She's seen how my relationship is with the other half of my family and she's terrified that will happen to her, too.

I can see that she and I need to have a quiet talk coming up.

Some parts I struggle with. She wants to speak better English but doesn't want "Helen's American speech to ruin her English". I try hard not to take that personally, to just understand it's part of what's affecting her - Americans are unpopular with her mother. I am even more so. I can see why she wants to ensure that her speech isn't peppered with Americanisms, even though I'm getting pretty sick and fucking tired of being made fun of for the way I talk, even so-called light banter can get to be too much. She wants to be a part of all of the decorating of the home, but I feel in some ways that since she doesn't live here and is going off to school in three years, that we should have free reign to decorate the house as we're the ones living here. As long as we don't mark off the house with pentograms and chicken heads, it should be ok, and she has creative control over her bedroom (unless she wants to paint it orange. Then I'm going to try to intervene. Any color but orange.)

But one big complaint struck home with me, and I feel pretty mixed up.

One of her complaints is that she's crazy about me and wants me to be a mother to her, but I don't do mother-type things with her.

That one broke my heart.

Mostly because it was true.

It's true, I don't treat her like a daughter. I didn't want to, I didn't want to overstep my bounds. Her parents' divorce was a hard and difficult thing on the kids, something which has had severe impacts on them in large ways - Melissa walks a diplomatic battlefield, Jeff is a hypochondriac - and the idea that anything I could say or do might add to that fills me with terror. Although we hear plenty of bad things that get said about us, both Angus and I never, ever say derogatory things about the ex, even when I am/we are furious about her behavior. I'm not saying this to make us look like saints. I'm saying this because we both know what it's like to be caught in the middle of the ugliest tug-of-war known to man, we don't want to tighten the rope any more than it already is.

I don't treat Melissa like a daughter, even though I love her like one. She is a Daddy's girl through and through, and I didn't want her to think I was coming in and usurping her mother or trying to take away her father, I didn't want her to think of me as a threat or a challenge or some domineering bitch who wrecked a family and then tried to replace her mum. I wanted to be the non-threatening person on the sidelines. I wanted to be the friend.

She sees me not being a mother figure as a sign I won't love her as much as I'll love the twins.

In wanting to not overstep the bounds I undershot the mark and wound up hurting her.

I feel terrible.

Of course I love her. Of course I think of her as a daughter. I want to talk to her about school and boys, I want to tell her to put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher, I want to tell her to not speak to her father like that, please (sometimes when he asks her to stop picking on her brother she says "No!" back to Angus. It drives me fucking crazy when that happens, I'm of the old-fashioned "children do not tell their parents 'no'" party.) I want to watch films with her and lecture her to please tidy up and talk about history with her and travel with her.

Both Angus and I come from step-parent families, and both of us struggled with our step-parents. I was so eager to not make the same mistakes that I made all new ones. I don't phone up the kids to talk to them, and that hurts them. Although I tell them goodnight when they're here, I don't tuck them in like their dad does because I thought it was a special ritual they had only with their dad. I do tend to overdo taking care of meals and such, but I do that regardless of if they're here or not.

She felt left out. The upcoming babies are almost certainly not helping, and we will redouble our efforts to reassure Melissa and Jeff and make them feel secure and well-loved. I know how badly it felt to be so unsettled, to not belong, to feel like a stranger in a strange family and to feel like there was someone else who took emotional precedence. I would do anything to not have Melissa feel that way.

On Thursday I had to go to London for a customer meeting, one I simply couldn't miss. Melissa was taking a lunchtime flight home and I wouldn't be going with Angus to take her to the airport. As I put my things into my briefcase, I looked at her while she surfed the computer.

"I know we need to talk," I say hesitantly. "And we will. When we pick you guys up in Glasgow in a month, you and I will sit down and talk, ok?" And we shall. I'll tell her my background, why there's no chance in hell that what happened to my family will happen with her, and why it seems I am not interested in being a mother to her.

She nods, looking at me.

I smile at her. "I love you, you know. I'm going to miss you."

She reaches out and we hug. "I love you too," she says.

"I haven't answered you on Skype because I thought you wanted to talk to your Daddy only," I say. "How about this-I'd love to talk to you, and if you want to Skype and talk to me, what if you sent me some kind of coded chat message? Like, 'Dogs barking, can't fly without umbrella?' kind of thing? Then I'll know you want to talk to me and I'll be happy to call you."

She brightens. "That'll be cool!"

And I will find some way, with her, to walk that fragile tightrope of treating her like a daughter without disrespecting her mother.

-H.

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June 21, 2007

Seek and Ye Shall Find

IÂ’ve talked about it before, that I went to see a psychic in 1998.

Nine years ago I was in a desperate state. I was working for a stock broking company in Las Colinas, an area between Dallas and Arlington. It was a job I hated beyond hate, but felt I had no where to turn to get out of it. Kim and I had split for the final time. My Rottweiler Alexi had just died. I was paying back massive student loans and making sweet fuck at my horrible soul-sucking job and each month 5 bucks literally meant whether IÂ’d be eating or not. On top of that, I had a drinking problem in which IÂ’d take my favorite magenta plastic cup, fill it with two-thirds vodka and one-third orange sorbet and then proceed to drink myself to the point of spinning oblivion, collapsing on the bed at some point and succumbing to Kafka dreams to the nightly whir of my Texas air conditioning.

This happened nightly.

There wasnÂ’t anything in my life to stay sober for.

Someone I worked with told me about a psychic she saw regularly. I took a yellow post-it with the name and number and made an appointment. After work one day, still dressed in my business suit, I drove to her apartment at our agreed time. I still remember the apartment complex – a mock Tudor sprawl somewhere in Arlington - but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where the apartments were, and I used to know everything about Arlington.

I remember it cost $25 for a one hour session. This was money I barely had to spend on legitimate things like little pieces of plastic that came with a 16.9% APR, let alone on a woman purporting to be a psychic. When I paid her it was in a $20 bill and $5 in quarters, which was my laundromat money for the week. I guess the price of clean clothes was worth the cost of hope.

Besides the money for a few bottles of vodka I had nothing to lose.

IÂ’m a cynic, and since she couldnÂ’t see my face anyway I figured she wasnÂ’t spending her time reading my reactions. I still remember the blind woman and her blind miniature Collie.

She had a short blond bob and was kindly chubby in a “sweet Great-Aunt” kind of way. She had a few candles lit in her very modest apartment. Periodically during the session her little blind dog would get up, walk around, and smack into furniture. The house smelled like herbs and spices and talcum powder.

I wondered what I was doing there.

I remember a lot of what she said still. I donÂ’t know if we make what the psychics say come true because we believe thatÂ’s some kind of path for us, or if thereÂ’s something to what they tell us. What I remember at the time is what came out of her mouth was so far-fetched I could never, ever have believed it could happen. It was a whole world away from me and where I was. She couldnÂ’t possibly have known about the drinking, the loss, the absolute unquestionable need for faith (in something, in anything) that I had. I was slowly killing myself through drinking, despair, and my bulimic purges.

So maybe it was enough that someone came in and told me a story that gave me hope to get out of my situation. Someone told me about something that she said would be happening, and maybe that was what I needed to give me a kick in the ass to do something about my life. And the damn strange thing of it all is that everything she said has – so far – come true.

She told me about lights in the ceiling in a cold building that would lead me to a man with blue eyes. The man with blue eyes would lead to a country on the other side of the water, a country that started with “Sw”. The “Sw” country would lead to a lot of things, some good, some bad. It would lead to me spending the rest of my life with someone, and we would someday live by the water.

There I was, wilting away in Texas, and it was all so surreal it was a dream to me.

But the strange thing is, she was bang on in some parts. I got a job with a consulting agency which paid me 10k more than I was making. I bought a new car and some confidence. I worked hard and worked my way up. The consulting company sent me to a telecom company in Dallas, and then to another one, one which I had never heard of but which the headquarters were based in Sweden.

Sw.

She was right.

Then I went to a hockey game (lights in the ceiling and cold building) which lead to a flirtation with a guy who had blue eyes.

She was right again.

I took a position in the Swedish company. I moved to Sweden.

Even if youÂ’re a cynic, you have to admit that itÂ’s a bit uncanny.

Sweden led to another man but, above all, it led to Angus.

He has the bluest eyes of anyone IÂ’ve ever known.

She told me more – that I had a hard time and some times in my future would get harder. She told me that I was meant to be a writer, that what I had to offer the world would come from words (I’m trying on that one, honest.) She told me someday I would live by the water (still working on that one, too.) She did also tell me I had five guardian angels and that I’d had seriously miserable and uneventful past lives and that this life I am living now would be my last one, but then you can’t win them all.

But here’s the thing that I don’t think I’ve really talked about – she told me that I would have two children. She said that one of them would be very talented in the performing arts and would go far. So imagine my surprise when I found out the local secondary school near our little white house is a performing arts school. She told me that one of the children would cause great worry as a baby, that something was wrong with its heart or something like that, but at birth all would be ok. And we did have worries with one baby, to the point where we had tests, but the baby has a completely normal genetic karyotyping and the anatomy scan yesterday showed no abnormalities at all.

Stop reading now if you don’t want to know, but the rest is beyond the jump – I didn’t blog about it yesterday as I wanted to tell my dad and stepmother about the results before my mother and sister read about it on the blog and decided to tell him for me, as they have very crudely done with other things. We're going ahead with the results as it's not like I can keep it a secret for 15 more weeks, it's much too big for that.
more...

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June 20, 2007

An Update of the Citrus Variety

We had a scan today that's called our "anatomy scan". Melissa and Jeff went with us to the hospital. Jeff is being tremendously cool about the babies (they both are actually, but Jeff is really going the distance.) He's making a fort in the back garden that will be just for him and the twins. When he and I went to fetch the curry from the takeaway restaurant for dinner, I hesitantly broached the subject of him giving up his room for the babies, just until the extension is done, as they need a space. When the extension is done all the kids will have a room and Angus and I both feel terrible that Jeff has to lose a space temporarily (it makes the most sense for his room to be used as it's the smallest.)

"Of course I don't mind," he said, his eyes blue and open. I wondered if the Lemonheads would have blue eyes or brown eyes. "They're my twins."

I love that kid.

So anyway, an update - both babies are absolutely fine. They were happy and wiggling and dancing and generally being very obstructive for the sonographer. They both weigh about a pound each and are about 7.5 inches long. One of them has its head just inside my ribcage and the other one is head down. They were pronounced perfectly healthy, on target, and looking just fine.


Here is Lemonhead 1, which is the baby with the placenta posterior, and its head facing down.

Twin 1 21 weeks.jpg


And here's Lemonhead 2, which is the CVS baby, and its head facing up.


Twin 2 21 weeks.jpg


If you're like us, you find it hard to make out much in the pictures. They look like a fuzzy beer mat in the bottom of a mostly drunken glass of Guiness. But these are the profiles of both babies, from their heads to their upper chests.

It was nice to be there with my family, watching the two that are yet to be here.

Angus even quietly told me that it's ok if we find out about the sexes of the babies today.

So we did.

-H.

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June 19, 2007

Magic

The kids arrived Saturday morning with the usual accompaniments-one million questions, requests, ideas, and noises. I never get used to it but two kids make a hell of a lot of noise. Ironically once they leave, I miss the hubbub enormously and wonder what we can do to bring the decibel level back up.

Yesterday Jeff was playing around on the PC (when Melissa wasn't on it, that is. Between the two of them I won't be seeing much PC action for two weeks, so apologies if you've sent a mail and not heard back from me) and the sounds of film trailers drifted into the living room. One song in particular drifted out into the hallway and wrapped itself around my spine.

There's something magical about that song.

Here's a picture of a place we passed in Scotland, at a bridge called Glenfinnan (and yes I need to upload my Scottish pics. It's on the list along with a lot of things I need to do).


Glenfinnan


Do you recognize it?

If I used the words "Hogwarts Express", would you then?

That's the bridge shown in the films when the kids are aboard the train heading to Hogwarts. That's even the train they use, they just rebadge it "Hogwarts" over the West Highland Railway markers. We passed the viaduct and knew we had to stop and take a photo. We even waited for the steam train to pass us. It sounds dumb, but I got a small thrill thinking that something like a steam train heading on its usual route could have a small impact on my day. It's not like I'm a Harry Potter groupie or anything, honest.

The music that drifted from Jeff's computer antics was the very distincitve and appropriate Harry Potter theme song, and that's what I've been thinking about for a little while.

There's something special about the Harry Potter books (just in case the box office receipts and J.K. Rowling's standing as one of the wealthiest women in history didn't give that away.) The kids work themselves up into a frenzy each time a book or film is released. Melissa is re-reading the series for who knows what time - 5th? 10th? While maybe Angus isn't a fan, there's something in the series that sets the kids alive.

And I can relate. To me those films are perfect on a cold Autumn day (I can't really explain it but I don't like watching them in the Summer. They're Fall films for me.) You get under a blanket, have a fire in the fireplace, ignore the cold grey sky outside and you sit transfixed while you watch the films, transported to cold damp hallways and golden goblets of butter beer (a concoction while sounds simultaneously repugnant and fantastic all at the same time).

The books are equally absorbing. When you start to read you're launched into a world that feels like 100 year-old velveteen and smells like the ripe hollowed end of a thick hardbound book. You care about the characters. You hope the good guys win.

And the books are a basic, perfect mix of it all, and you see why kids love them. The books revere that state that you spent your childhood looking for, and once you didn't find it you realized that, that's what made you a grown-up. It wasn't hair in odd places or rushing hormones or the fact that your head was scraping the ceiling. You became a grown-up when you stopped looking for magic places.

I remember as a kid looking behind the boiler in the house we lived in at Colorado Springs. I was so convinced that the small door back there was a secret passageway to Narnia, Nimh, or to the Borrowers. I was sure of it. When I finally got the little door open I discovered it was just full of dust and cobwebs, possibly the skeleton of a rabbit or two, and that the door? It led to nowhere.

I didn't stop looking for magic places then.

I tried them in department stores inside the racks of clothing.

I tried them in fitting rooms.

I tried them in old houses with too many closets.

And eventually when I didn't find any magic spaces, I just stopped trying.

So it was that I grew up.

But Harry Potter, he's extending that for this generation. Melissa, at 15, could potentially still be a believer. Jeff most definitely is. They can dream and taste magic because it's in front of them - three ordinary kids with special circumstances live the life they wish they had. The books have a clear delineation between good and evil, there's no ambiguity. That kind of clarity is exactly what is needed in the world today. This guy here? He's bad. We don't want him to succeed. This guy, with the glasses? He's a good guy. He should win.

I love the books. I'm not ashamed to admit it, I have no problem confessing that the books are something that sets my imagination on fire. The films are brilliant and well-made and something to be revered, too, but the books...the interpretation that the mind gives them is amazing. It doesn't make me want to be a kid again (god, not that again). But it does bring out something dusty that had been sitting on a shelf, forgotten.

When the books come out the trains I ride on are chock full of the bright yellow, red, and blue books as all the grown-ups get them out to read on the commute. Even though we're adults we still remember what it was like to have enforced bedtimes, little responsibility, and dreams that Saturday morning cartoons were the start to a weekend of magic hunting. I like to imagine that as soon as we pull our books out of our purses, briefcases and backpacks, that our feet shrink and fall out of our high heels, the ends of the re-inforced toes of our tights hanging well past our little toenails. The air smells like strawberry bubble gum and caramel apples. From time to time you hear a small, high-pitched giggle. The mens' trousers hang over the ends of their legs, their little legs pumping back and forth against the seat, as all of us shrink out of our 30's and 40's and become kids again, if just for a 45 minute train ride.

I'll buy the next one, as will Melissa - we'll be in the Scottish Highlands that week and will look for them then. I'll savor every last drop of the book, and I'll even force myself to read it slowly, more slowly, as this will be the last foray into a world that as a grown-up, my only hall pass into it comes in the form of a little wizard with a crooked scar. I'll miss that little guy. More than that, I'll miss how I let all my stres and fears go while I read it, and let myself back into a world where people can fly, magic potions exist, and dragons are right around the corner. Melissa, she'll drink and devour it and then she'll read and re-read them. But she can do that because it's all so real to her still. It can still happen, if she just checks the right doors.

And while I read it, I'll remember what it was like to believe in that magic, to think that there's something more than all of this out there.

And that will be enough, for a while, to help me dream of crawlspaces and doors behind boiler rooms.

- H.

PS-LynD, thank you very much. I really mean it.

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June 18, 2007

Eulogizing

My ex-husband and I got Mumin on a warm summer day in Sweden. We'd been to visit his mother and stepfather at their home in the middle of Sweden, and a local farm was advertising rescue farmhouse kittens. We'd already had Maggie (named for Maggie Simpson) and Maggie was a wild, untamable kitten. She didn't want to be held, she didn't want to be touched, and her preferred way of life was to be causing some form of distruction. I'm one of those that think cats are better off in pairs because they can offer each other company and comfort, so it was always in the cards to get another cat.

Enter a little black and white kitten.

We went to a farmhouse where we were presented with two options - an all-black male kitten or a black and white female kitten. Since we already had a female kitten, we thought it would be best to get another girl. We paid a fee (a donation to the society and the cost of the kitten's shots).

And just like that, Mumin was a part of our life. She was named for a Finnish cartoon character and although I was nervous about bringing her home - cats often have a hard time adjusting to each other - I had nothing to worry about. Maggie and Mumin took to each other as though they'd always had each other in their lives, and always would. They looked nearly identical, with the exception that Mumin's eyes were yellow to Maggie's green and Mumin had a front leg that was white up to her upper leg, whereas Maggie's simply look encased in a pair of white 1950's gloves.

Mumin turned out to be very ill with a severe parasitic infection and a few vet visits later she was healthy. The parasitic infection damaged her growth though (or so the vet said) and as a result she was always a small cat. She and Maggie got on fabulously and in Sweden where you'd find one sleeping you'd generally find the other.

Mumin was my cat. She liked to curl up on my lap under the blankets, and we'd watch TV together while the snow fell outside. She liked to chase toy mice and if you threw one for her she'd bring it back, meowing as if to say "See how much I love you? You drop your toy and I'll bring it back to you." She had one of the sweetest, most patient dispositions ever - she wasn't the cleverest of cats but she was kind and loving. While Maggie is the angry, unfriendly wild cat Mumin was the happy, purring happy-go-lucky cat. We had our rituals, amongst them me giving her nibbles of cheese in the mornings. She liked to be held against your chest, like a baby. She loved to sleep on your lap with her head curled under, blocking out the light.

When she and Maggie came over to the UK after serving out their pet quarantine time in Sweden they have both gained a significant amount of weight. They'd been living with my ex, serving their quarantine, and had been simply eating to bide the time. It had never once occurred to me to not bring them over-they were my girls, they were coming. On the airplane trip over both nearly died as I had misguidedly given them tranquilizers to ease their stress-turns out animals sleep at that altitude anyway, drugging them dangerously lowers their body temperature.

There were new rules when they arrived. Angus' pets had a different way of life to mine. Dogs are not allowed upstairs. Cats should go outdoors. Pets on beds is generally not ok. It was a change, but in general the cats took to the changes in an entirely positive way. It turned out that Mumin, she loved the outdoors. She was incredible at catching animals to present to us as gifts. She and her new best friend Gorby would be outside for hours wiling away hours. She tolerated his puppy-ness. He, in turn, loved her. She'd spend all day outside on various rambling adventures and in the summertime it was impossible to get her inside. During the winter she wouldn't go out and would instead start gaining winter weight like a grizzly bear, which she'd quickly lose once it became warm enough to investigate the great outdoors.

I think it was for this exact reason we didn't notice what was going on.

She'd lost her usual winter weight. At a vet visit in March for her immunizations she was weighed, and came out a reasonably light 3.8 kg. She was pronounced very healthy and happy. She was wormed, boosted, and continued her fun outside.

We'd noticed over the past few weeks that she was looking too thin. But her antics outside with Gorby were continuing, she still came inside from time to time, and she was as loving and sweet as ever.

Last week we thought she'd become too thin. Her personality was still completely normal, so we decided to watch her and make sure she was ok. I'd decided to book up a vet visit, but then she was her usual self so I figured maybe this was just extreme summer weight loss.

When we returned from Scotland on Tuesday, I saw her in the evening. I was shocked by her appearance-you could see her hip bones. Her fur was matted and dirty. I held her and washed her fur, which infuriated her and she dashed outdoors. I waited for her to come inside so we could go to the vet.

But she didn't return until Friday morning, which was highly unusual for her.

When she finally came in she was frail, shaking, and uninterested in our usual morning cheese ritual. She was frighteningly thin. I held her in a towel and called the vet. We thought maybe she had some kind of parasite, maybe something she hadn't been wormed for.

The vet was very worried-Mumin had gone from 3.8 kg to 2.2 kg. She started to get sick all over the vet's table and was shaking. She was held over at the vets as they could feel a mass in her stomach.

Through it all, she was purring.

They took her through a swinging door and that was the last time we ever saw her.

They did x-rays and took blood at lunchtime. They called us. They were worried. They felt exploratory surgery was needed and they would call me and keep me posted.

When the vet finally did call I think somehow it was what we knew was coming.

The vet had found a massive tumor in Mumin's small intestine, just at a critical junction with the large intestine. It would be impossible to remove the tumor as in cats, it's apparently at a junction that you can't successfully re-connect. But as though the tumor weren't enough the lymph nodes were swollen and cancerous. The vet said they could do a biopsy and try chemo, which would buy us another year at most, but that the tumor was such that it would burst at any time, killing Mumin. Even if it hadn't, Angus and I wouldn't want to put Mumin through chemo. I fully understand that other people feel it's the best solution for their beloved pets, but he and I feel that Mumin wouldn't have understood what she was going through, that the pain of chemo would have been too great.

The vet and I agreed to let her go on the table. Waking her up just so I could say goodbye was a gesture that I wanted very, very much but I knew it was too selfish. My goodbye would have to be implied. My "I love you, baby" would have to be understood.

And so my little girl died.

Someone sent me an email not long ago (Foggy? Was it you?) about heaven. It told the story of a man who died and met his beloved dog in the afterlife, and they were walking along and came to the pearly gates. The man asked for a bowl of water for his dog and the guardian at the gate said "Sorry, no pets allowed." So the man and his dog kept walking until they came to another pearly gate, identical to the one he had just been at, and there was a bowl of water there. The dog had a long drink and the man turned to guardian at the gate. The guardian welcomed the man and the dog. "What is this place?" asked the man. "I was just at a place like it, only they wouldn't take my dog." The guardian smiled. "This place, my friend, is heaven. Both of you come on in."

It's stupid, really, but I like to think that's along the lines of what happens.

And for everyone who commented who also lost a friend, I hope it happens for you, too. Thank you for being there. It's been a bad time lately and I'm a little screwed up right now, so thank you.

Animals take up a deep space in my heart, and in general I trust them more than I trust people. Animals will only hurt you out of fear, while people, well...who the hell knows how they work. Animals have an innate sense of love and kindness and as long as you encourage that love and kindness the relationship you have with them is immeasurably sweet. As I get older my relationships with my furry buddies gets better and better, to the point now where I can't imagine extricating a single one of them from my life.

Until now, that is.

I feel like I shouldn't complain that my cat passed away. It's not like the body of a solider covered in a shroud from the beaches of Normandy or anything like that. I guess I feel embarrassed that losing Mumin has hit me so badly. But the truth is, my pets are my kids. They've always been my kids and always will be, even when real kids show up. Mumin was a bright spot in my day and one of the characters that I thought would tolerate and be patient with the Lemonheads as they go through their tail-grabbing stages. She was a sweetheart, a good girl, and a good friend to Gorby.

Maggie and Gorby are both being very needy now, as though they know something's amiss, too. I keep holding and cuddling Maggie (much to her annoyance) because no matter how unfriendly she can be I love her, too, and couldn't bear to lose her either. We will go on, and Angus has agreed we can maybe even think about another kitten someday. But we're still at a stage where we miss the little Mumin, and I think it'll be like that for a long while.

I'm not dragging this out and I'm not refusing to move on. I wrote this not for sympathy but so that you could know who Mumin was, what affect she had on our lives. I know a lot of people are probably rolling their eyes with a sigh of "Geez, man, she was JUST a cat." And she was a cat. But she was a cat I loved. I won't be posting about her for a while now, I think. It is time to move on and we are all moving on. Just as you have your own companion-sized shapes in your heart, so do I. I need to let the Mumin-shaped hole in my life heal. I never knew something so small could leave such a space behind.

But then, she was like that. Always catching you by surprise.

-H.

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June 15, 2007

An Update To the Earlier Post

The vet just called.

They did blood tests and x-rays this morning and at 2 pm had to do exploratory surgery.

Mumin had cancer and an inoperable tumor in her intestines.

She died on the operating table.

She was 6 years old.

My little Mumin

I love you, baby.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:40 PM | Comments (79) | Add Comment
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An Anniversary

Four years ago today I started writing this blog. I remember the day well actually - I was sitting at my desk at Company X, the desk with the view of the atrium, and I didn't have much going on at work. I'd heard of blogs and knew a little bit about them, and in an impulse moment I decided to start one of my own. I opened an account on Blogger, sat there thinking for a minute, and then started writing (from work, which is naughty and something I never do now.)

I don't know how I came up with the name Everyday Stranger, but it just came (little did I know at the time it's also the name of a San Francisco band. I like to think I came first.) I wanted to get across, to the random person who would find my site, that I'm just an everyday person you pass on the street. I'm like any other person out there, someone you may never talk to or meet, but one of many people you rub shoulders with on your commute, at Starbucks, on the airplane. I'm ordinary and anonymous, and like any other stranger I pass in and out of your life and leave no mark behind.

I didn't know where my blog would take me. I think the anonymity of it was what attracted me - I could talk, I could talk about things I shouldn't talk about, and no one would know it was me. I could let things out of myself that would horrify and shock and no one would be there to stare across the table at me with disdain. The quirks, mistakes, foibles, and fuck-ups that I am composed of could have a voice.

I think I was pretty surprised when I found out people were reading. I am still surprised. What surprises me even more is that some people have been around a long time - to name a few, I found a comment here from Loribo that goes back to June 2004. Sarah first popped up in October 2003 when I confessed I knocked the cat off the bed with my knockers. People that I care about have been around a long time, longer than some of my real life friends.

It's important to me that people read here, not because I'm a glory hound, but because it actually makes me feel more human. Human as in "in touch with life". That these random thoughts and punctual nightmares are things others may think, feel, or experience helps me understand that maybe we all have issues, insecurities, and laughs, they're something that can bring people together. I am human (and I need to be loved). I don't always respond to comments but I read them all meticulously and I wonder about your life and your experiences, too.

I think blogging has helped my confidence. Recently I've decided (honestly and truly this time, not like all the other false starts I've had) to try to go about getting published, and I'm adding a second track to that in attempting to try my hand at writing a regular column for something in print (I'll get back to you at how successful that is.) With two babies coming more income is going to be needed, and badly. I'm hoping in some way to augment our income with selling writing, if that's possible. If I'm being foolish and kidding myself and I'll simply meet with the pointy stick end of rejection which will cause me to wear Band-Aids labelled "You Suck. Stop Trying To Play With the Big Kids Now", well, there's always blogads (which I'm putting back on the site this weekend.)

A lot of people who started blogging the same time I did have dropped by the wayside. You burn out, your situation changes, you get discovered...I think for some blogging is something that, when the need is filled, you stop. I feel pretty proud of myself in some small way. I've been writing on this site for four years today, an act of commitment which is now longer than either of my marriages (how embarrassing it is to say that), my time in college, and my relationship with Kim. The only things, in fact, that have lasted longer than this blog are my love for Angus, my time outside of the U.S, my girls Maggie and Mumin and my desire for macaroni and cheese.

So I have a pretty committed relationship with my blog. We're at the "it's ok to fart in front of each other" stage. I no longer complain when it leaves its boxer shorts on the floor every morning. I even give it the remote most of the time.

I'm not quitting, and although I do take a time out every once in a while when my going gets too tough to write it all out at once, I do appreciate and love my little space here. It's not going to change the world. But it does help me.

So four years today.

I think that's something.

I could get all introspective and shit, but then I do that pretty often and you're probably very used to that (to the point where you may often scream "The mirror! She does not have two faces! Now move the fuck on!"). But suffice to say that there's been more living in these past four years of my life than in the entire rest of my life combined. And it's amazing to me to be able to look back and see, in print, the journey that my life has taken. Yes that sounds incredibly cheesy. But it's been one hell of a ride.

And if you'll excuse me now, Mumin is clearly very unwell and we're off to the vet.

-H.

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June 13, 2007

It Just Is

There are a lot of things you've been learning about life. This is what you do, you're a ball of tape that rolls and bounces and picks it all up as you go, and from time to time you check the adhesive to see what's on you, how it all adds up. Recent stock-taking would have you happy as you see what's settled on the surface-love. Security. Hope. Your recent liking of avocados. Amazing shit.

But sometimes the floor falls out from under you and despite the fact that you are well on your way to getting that healthy mental bill of certification, the one with the gold seal and watermarked signature, you are not prepared enough to handle some of what comes your way.

You started IVF because it was so desperately important to you to be a mother. He wasn't so keen to be a father again but agreed to do it for you, with you, because it was so important to you. You didn't know at the time, you should have checked the small print, that "agreed" does not imply graciousness. Agreed means reminding you on a regular basis that you have ruined your collective lives, and by "agreement" that means you are expected to sit there and take it since you are solely and utterly to blame.

You knew that you would be different to the other people out there, see. You knew you'd not have a partner desperate to get home and pat your stomach. You knew that joyously creating a nursery was out of the question. That's not what was in the cards for you, it wasn't even available in the deck. But you didn't know that you would get constant negative reminders of how angry he would be. You didn't know, not because you don't pay attention because you always pay attention, but because you didn't understand that success would mean such pain.

You knew that he didn't think pregnant women glow. He told you that, and to some extent you agree. Pregnant women are simply pregnant. What you weren't clear on is that he wouldn't find you attractive. You, this person that supposedly is what makes his blood run rampant, are now something he can't find attractive. It's a difficult one when you don't generally find yourself attractive either, but you always have done with him. You may not be classically beautiful but there's something about his reaction that makes you feel like a beauty, only that's missing now, too. You tell yourself that can come back and in the meantime you cover up.

You spend a lot of time trying to solve problems. With every new problem thrown up at you, you try to find a way to resolve it. That's what you do. And that's wrong, too.

You can't buy anything. What you have bought you have to remove from sight because he says it may jinx things. There are things you thought of buying but can't because he says they're gimmicks, you can make do without. Your mother had problems with baby things. You remember it, in that fucked up memory of yours, you remember her saying We have to hide the baby things, it makes him angry. The four things you've bought are removed from sight, too, because they depress him. Years later you were there when she said a big regret was not having someone in her life to share the joy of pregnancy.

You didn't know that you would repeat the patterns.

You are filled with anger at the fact that you can't even feel this way without them reading about it, too, because you live in a bubble.

You knew that he isn't a baby person. This isn't such a bad thing, you know others that aren't mad about babies. Some people think of babies like I do, like little tulips that smell of extraordinary things, that are a tremendous amount of work but the small weight of them is worth it. Some people look at babies as an inconvenient stage to childhood, which is where they get interesting, when they have opinions and reactions and give you cause for laughter. You knew that he isn't a baby person but you didn't know that he thinks of babydom as a great big black pit of despair, you thought it was a point in development that he simply didn't enjoy.

And all of these things so far, you can take them. It's really hard and you have screaming in your head but so far you can cope. Pregnancy will give way to you getting your body back, babies grow into opinionators that he will enjoy more, and you have hope.

But sometimes it's too much to bear. Your defense mechanisms are non-existent just now, you're at the point in your therapy when your defense is being built up, it's going to be that your defense is to believe in yourself enough to handle what comes your way. So when he tells you that all he can see for years to come is black darkness, you have to try to pull it together and be there for him. But when you hear that you are not even something that he looks forward to in the future, you lose it.

You offer not a hint of light.

All that you thought you offered - love, laughter, sparks and magic...it's just bullshit. It was nothing. You offer not even a single match to light up his darkness. The only positive thing in his future is building an extension which will take his mind off of you and off of his babies. You, who are naive and stupid enough to believe that your faith in him and in your relationship can get you through any black times, that how you feel about him will get you through hard times because it has before, now know that you're not enough for him. And when you ask why he doesn't just leave now, why would he want to be with someone he doesn't look forward to being with, you're told it's because he cares about you and he has a sense of responsibility.

And you have become that 1950's housewife, one without sparkle and magic, one who is an obligation and a duty, not a joy.

He tells you he hopes you prove him wrong, that you prove you will be something to look forward to. Although it never once occurred to you that you wouldn't be yourself when the babies are born (you'll still want to curl up next to him and still want to hold him and still bounce around and still buy him Fruit Rowntrees as a surprise) it gets added to the list of Things You Must Do. You now have to prove yourself to him. Again. You feel you need to reassure him that his fears are of course justified, it's worrying to think that one may slip in priority with the arrival of two babies but you have absolutely no doubt at all in your heart that how you feel about him is unwavering and limitless, that even on the nights when you're knackered and sleepless the hold he has on your heart is unchanged. And you honestly believe that to be true. You have to prove him wrong, and while you do so you have to know that you're now not a person to look forward to, not anymore, and you were a fucking self-righteous idiot to ever think that you were.

You know he's angry and scared and nervous. You are too. You know that maybe some of the things he says are being tempered by his fears so they're not coming out right. You had a fantastic holiday weekend in Scotland, you were close, so you hold on to that and to the fact that he often comes through for you. You cry a lot and feel lower than you have for a very long time and all you can see is darkness now, too.

You love him very much.

You can see he's depressed and he knows he's depressed, but he's not moving on from it, he's not anywhere but in the middle of the depression, embracing it, he's not trying to see a way through it in whatever small steps that emergence can come from. You know how that is. You hope he will try, soon.

You are torn into little shreds feeling like you are something not worth looking forward to.

You are 20 weeks pregnant and your stomach is a hard ball.

So is your heart.

You keep going because that's what you always do and that's the only choice that you have.

-H.

Comments are closed because I won't have anyone saying anything remotely negative about him. Don't email me trying to offer advice or opinions. Please. I really need some space just now.

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June 12, 2007

"Surrounded"

I was there
CÂ’mon and tell me I wasnÂ’t worth
Sticking it out for
Well I was there
And I know I was worth it
Cause if I wasnÂ’t worth it
That makes me worse off than you are
But donÂ’t lose sight of me now
DonÂ’t lose sight of me now

Chantal Kreviazuk, Under These Rocks and Stones

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June 06, 2007

"Hotter than my shorts! I could've done a little crotch pot cooking!"*

Home now.

Event over and we didn't win but that's ok, you can't win them all.

I left the event early actually-when we arrived at the ballroom it was hotter than fuck in the building because the air conditioner crapped out. Although we complained there was nothing that could be done, so about 400 of us sweated it out. As one of only a handful of women bedecked in shoulder baring clothes I had it easy-I was half-naked in a wispy dress. We fared much better than the menfolk, as they were cinched up in their penguin suits. And when I say it was hot in that room, I'm not exaggerating in the least. The men had their handkerchiefs out and continuously moving to mop up the sweat (I really felt bad for them, I can't imagine facing that kind of heat while wearing both a tie and a dinner jacket). I wasn't so great either-my makeup did a runner, I had sweat rivulets running down my legs, and the heat did nothing positive for The Lemonheads, as I swelled up to roughly the size of something that Japanese commercial fishermen would be keen to throw a harpoon at.

In the end I'd run out of time before the event, so I wore my hair down with a slight wave in the back.

Here's me (with a colleague, whom I've cropped out):


CIMG3291-1.jpg


And me in the bathroom with bad fluorescent lighting and cut off at the waist (I only had a second before someone else came in to the bathroom, and there's nothing weirder than seeing someone with a camera in the toilets):


CIMG3284-1.jpg


I have to confess - and this is not because I'm looking for contradictions or compliments, because I'm really not - but I didn't feel all glowy and floaty and dreamy. I felt sweaty. I felt swollen. I felt huge. I felt I wasn't remotely attractive, I was just pregnant.

I enjoyed spending time with my team though, even if I didn't get to partake in the guzzling of the copious amounts of free champagne. While we were melting into a pool of liquid goo a nice older man came up to talk to my team. He was the absolute typical enigneering type-greying, glasses, bow tie askew and black pen marks on his white tuxedo shirt. He introduced himself as James and asked us about our project. He knew a lot about it and had a lot of information, and I jumped in and gave my opinion about various things.

My hands kept twitching to fix his bow tie, as it was completely askew.

He asked more questions.

It literally was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he wouldn't mind if I fixed his tie (I had even licked my lips and inhaled to push the sound out of the sound box) when they called us out of the sweat box ballroom to move us into the dinner room for the meal and the awards. James promised to stay in touch with us and our future projects. I liked the chap.

We sat and had some starters, and then the first presenter went up to talk.

I saw with a start that the speaker was James.

Only he isn't just James, he's Sir James. As in Landed Gentry James. As in "gives off air of doddering geek but really has sums of money so vast I can't even comprehend them" James.

I was awfully glad then that I didn't fix his tie.

There are a lot of things I have gotten used to living here in England, but as long as I live I will never get used to the idea of mingling with men who have been knighted. It's just too much for my tiny brain to manage.

Anyway, we're off this evening on Angus' birthday celebration - taking the sleeper train up to Fort William (Scotland) then a few days tooling around the Hebrides before taking the sleeper train back home again.

I'll see you on Tuesday.

-H.

* Quote from Good Morning, Vietnam.

PS-London's 2012 Olympic logo sucks donkey balls. I could've put a crayon between Gorby's paws and he'd had done a better job than that.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:40 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
Post contains 731 words, total size 4 kb.

June 05, 2007

Fashion Help for Dummies

OK, so tonight I have another awards prsentation formal do, in which I am staying over in London for and needing to put on the Ritz a bit, so to speak. I've bought an inexpensive new dress seen here (it's the chocolate strap dress. And yes, even though it's not ideal I'm wearing strappy black heels with it because I can't be assed to go buy a new pair of shoes for a dress that I'd better not have to ever wear again and generally speaking I never wear brown. Plus I'll be in a room full of male engineers, and it's not like a few of them won't be mismatching things in their tuxes as well.) It's a comfortable dress and it's inexpensive, which was important-I hopefully won't be fitting into maternity clothes this time next year, so even though it's a black tie event, this should be a one-shot for the dress.

It'll be my first "unveiling" to most folk since getting knocked up, and I'm definitely visibly showing now.

I'll also be around the infamous tummy rubbers tonight, but at least with strappy shoes I can do damage to anyone coming near me.

I tried the dress on last night. I felt like a beached whale. And I still have 18 more weeks to go.

So here's my dilemma. I have no style sense, as you'll generally find me in pajamas and a ponytail. I'm also absolutely, completely, 100% hopeless at doing my own hair. Seriously. I think the French twist is very elegant but I can't even do that. And I completely forgot that I will be having hair to contend with so I didn't book a hair appointment (besides, if I can't be assed to buy new shoes and I LOVE new shoes then there's no way I'm addressing the hair).

My question, and I need your advice-should I wear my hair up in a very, very simple updo or should I wear it down (and if down, then straight or curly)?

Thanks in advance for any style guidance you can offer.

Love,
The Fashion Hopeless

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:06 AM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
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June 04, 2007

Doctor, Doctor

I was recently asked by someone to sum up how I feel about the NHS care I receive here in England. I remember living in the States and, except for that radical period I went through where I read up on foreign cultures and politics as a way of back-stopping arguments I had in my Anthropology 101 class (which was really a collection of beatnick hippy anthro students like myself and a load of Texan Ride 'Em Rough conservatives who took the course as a liberal arts elective and then spent their time banging on about Bibles, shotguns, and Old Glory), I really didn't think a moment about how other countries handle their social structures. The Dobe Kung were as relevant to me then as the Finnish political system.

What the hell was I thinking getting a degree in anthropology, anyway?

So how do I find the NHS care I receive here?

In a word: Excellent.

I know this will wind people up, but frankly I don't give a shit. I tire of reading diatribes of people that like to bash the UK health system because it's-oh my GOD-socialist. "Socialism" is uttered in the States like a bad word, it's on par with assuming that McCarthyism is relevant and the government is out to take your paycheck which they will use to color the world a new Dulux color of pink. It annoys me when I read articles from writers who have never been in a socialist health care system and they decide they have to fight the evil and support truth, justice, and the American Way (I don't read bloggers who bash health care because those aren't the types of blogs I read.)

Having socialist health care isn't a way of debasing truth, justice, and the American Way. If you are happy with your health care here it doesn't mean you have a tattoo of Karl Marx on your ass, it simply means you're happy with your health care here. I'm not a communist, but as someone who's been in socialist societies for 8 years now, I can see there are elements of them that work.

My past saw me born and raised as an Air Force brat. I was truly immersed in the most patriotic of cultures, in a culture which you didn't question and you were completely and utterly supported from a health, schooling, and housing perspective. I have to say that our health care wasn't the best, not because military doctors aren't good because a lot of them were, but because we moved every 2-4 years and the doctors moved every 2-4 years and it was therefore impossible to build up a doctor-patient relationship in that respect. I think because I never knew what it was like to go to the same pediatrician I saw when I was an infant to when I turned 18 that I am ok with how things operate here, too.

Doctors in America can be fucking fantastic. They really can. You have an amazing amount of choice and expertise at your fingertips, as long as you have access to a reasonably metropolitan area (you're not likely to find a world-renown oncologist in a town of about 600 people.) I honestly had some incredible doctors while I was there.

I also had to pay for them.

When I was in college I had to resort to that status quo of being at patient of the university health care system. Whenever you had anything wrong with you, you were presented with two options: STD and pregnancy testing or Prozac. Clearly the only things wrong with you were the clap or depression. Once I broke two of my toes and still had to convince the doctors that no, I swear for the fourth and final time that I've never had an abortion, now can we please address my broken toes?

I went to the clinic because I had to.

I couldn't afford anything else.

I remember once they prescribed me some antibiotics for a cheerful bout of bronchitis I had. When I went to the pharmacy to pick them up I found that the pills weren't covered by the clinic. I had to walk away without the pills, because I simply didn't have $130 to pay for the damn things. What average college student does?

When I first started working I had what I called Health Care Lite. I was allowed to see a doctor but only if I called the insurance company, spoke to a barking dog-like administrator and convinced her that yes, the bleeding out of my ears really wasn't a good thing, at which point I would get a clearance code to see a doctor from an approved list (and they were always too busy to see people) and I could only have certain prescriptions should they decide medication could stop the hemorrhaging from my aural canals.

I remember my ex-sister-in-law going to give birth at Parkland Hospital because, as she explained, it was a county hospital so they couldn't come after her when it was time to pay the bill. She couldn't afford health insurance and a healthy baby's birth came to a cool $1000, money they didn't have.

We lived in the land of hope and plenty, but not for healthcare for the poor.

I did at one point have really good health insurance. Towards the end of when I lived in the States I was making a fair amount of money (and working myself to an early nervous breakdown.) I worked for a very large company that potentially did care about its employees, and so I had a $10 copay (I had to see my general physician who would refer to me a specialist if I needed it, and it could be any specialist) and a max £1000 a year on meds, at which point they were free after that. My care was excellent. Among the treatments I had was my skin cancer doctor, who was professional, kind, and absolutely excellent.

For the privilege of being able to use this service I paid $400 a month from my paycheck (and again, this was 1999. Costs have surely gone up since then).

And that was just for me, I remember a colleague talking about how much it cost to pay for 4 members of a family, and the costs were frightening. I wondered how he could afford it. Looking at my situation now, of myself, my partner, two stepkids, and a set of twins on the way, I know I could never pay for healthcare there like I did when I was a single woman. When that company laid a lot of us off, I took off to Sweden while a lot of the families searched for jobs and looked at COBRA, which was prohibitively expensive.

Sweden was my first view of socialism. In Sweden, everyone who wants a job can have one and everyone who needs a place to stay can have one. It doesn't mean there isn't unemployment (as I know only too well) and it doesn't mean there aren't homeless, because there are. But there is a lot less of both unemployment and homelessness than many other places. Medical treatment in Sweden is free (unless it's something elective like plastic surgery) and prescriptions are very cheap, with a limit on how much you have to pay per year (it used to be 1300 SEK).

If you are sick in Sweden you go to the hospital. Very few people have a family physician, they're an unusual entity. The hospitals aren't beautiful-enormous concrete structures that are about as soulless as it gets. Most of the doctors aren't Swedish but come from Eastern Europe or Asia and sometimes following either their English or their Swedish is a struggle. I'll be honest-I found that the care is ok there, you will get seen if you are ill, but don't go looking for a cuddle if something is wrong with you. They're not into that. They don't love you and if you don't get better, that's too damn bad (Angus has said similar about his and his kids' experiences in Sweden). They're also not big on medication-if you're ill suck it up, medication is an enabler. If you're truly ill, take a paracetamol (Tylenol). If you're verge of death then-and only then-will you be seeing the business end of a prescription. In general, unless you're chronicaly ill, medication is not that common (I know this. I had a sigmoidoscopy administered without anesthetic. Really makes for an eye-opening experience, I tell you.)

Swedish health care will make the ill better but it won't be a pretty process. They are also seriously intolerant of heavy drinking. I remember once going to the hospital to get stitches in one of my fingers and seeing beds of bleeding passed-out drunks in the hallways. I asked about them and was told that they would be attended to when they sobered up, but not before. This was their punishment. I sure was glad I only had a sliced finger, not a sliced finger while I had been out on a bender.

Compassionate mercy, maybe, is something not included under that particular brand of health care.

When I moved to England I got an NHS number around the time I got a national insurance number (like a social security number). Here you sign up at your local GP's office and you see them when you have a problem. If they can't help you they send you on to a specialist, a process which (in our area) takes a few weeks. The hospitals themselves tend to be soulless, concrete buildings. You tend to have to wait a while before it's your turn.

But I've had great care here.

Doctor visits are free (except for fertility treatments, which do cost, as do, I imagine, plastic surgery and things like that). Prescriptions have a maximum cost of about £6. And while it's true that in some areas of the country they have really, really long waiting lists to see doctors (Angus' dad needed a hip transplant and was looking at a 6 month wait, so he paid for the surgery out-of-pocket to jump the queue), in our area if you're referred to a specialist I've found you'll be seeing one in about a month or two. If you're willing to pay for the service or have private insurance, you can move ahead in the queue. I do have private insurance through work, which costs me about £50 a month, and it covers both Angus and myself. I have used it approximately once, to see a hand specialist about the trigger finger I had. I jumped the queue by 30 days by doing so.

It's true we pay a fucking load of taxes, way more than I did in the States. In Sweden I think I paid around 40% in taxes. It's less than that here but it's still a hell of a lot of tax. But I personally think that the health care I get in return is worth it. If you're sick you see a doctor. Maybe it makes me a bit pink, but I don't think it should matter if you have money or not, everyone should have the right to health care. We can't all be judges, lawyers and stockbrokers, blue collar workers get ill, too. Just because I support social egalitariansim doesn't mean I'm out to rape the Constitution.

People say a lot of bad things about socialism. Socialism isn't the source of all evil that it's said to be, if you're in a socialist country it doesn't mean that Big Brother is looming over your shoulder. I understand that when the railways were under government control they were generally in better shape than the privatized nightmare they are today. Socialized health care is, I think, equated with shoddy doctors and crappy service. But in the three years I've lived here I've had nothing but good care. My doctors are kind and knowledgable. I get seen when I'm ill. I may have a wait for a specialist, but if I need one then I will be seeing one at some point.

Yes it's true that in our geographic area we have better health care than in other areas, and it's true that in some areas there aren't enough doctors and not enough clinics, but I think in some part that's due to doctors being lured off by bigger grander pay in other countries. It's also true that the NHS is apparently running out of money and looking at how to handle health care. There are debates it should be privatized (which I am against) and debates on how to pay for things. Angus' brother thinks that people should have to prove their financial earnings before they can have access to service, but I think his view on that is full of shit. Elitism makes me weep.

People who haven't lived here can trash the health care all they want, but unless they've lived here they simply don't know how it works, and supporting a socialist health care system doesn't make you Red. I get to see a doctor if I need one and it doesn't cost me anything. I get a prescription if I need one, and if it's a fancy antibiotic all I will pay is £6.

No one can tell me that the doctors here don't care and don't try, because I've yet to find one that has let me down. And when I had to go to the hospital bleeding all over the place and miscarrying last August, the doctors were kind and held my hands. They spoke in gentle voices and offered support. They had answers. They spent as long as they needed to talking to me and discussing options with me.

And that, in my opinion, is good health care.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:09 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
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June 01, 2007

Friday Round Up

I went to my GP about my cough.

He told me that I had a viral infection, and recommended the following:

1) Paracetamol (Tylenol).
2) Vicks Vap-o-Rub (I may be the only grown up that loves that shit)
3) Holding my head over a bowl of steam.

Seriously.

Fucking steam.

I looked at him and wondered if he thought I was a choo-choo train.

He said antibiotics won't help as it's viral (I understand that part) and cough syrups are out because the only ones safe for someone in my state have codeine in them, and I'm allergic to codeine.

Steam. I do get that it will help break up the congestion in my head and throat, but seriously-Laura Ingalls Wilder called. She wants her life back.

While I'm at it, I'll make a few poultices up and drink some castor oil.


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


I had to go pick up a prescription, which naturally wasn't ready. When you do IVF, for a period of time after the embryos are put into the female microwave oven in hopes of them actually staying put, you're put on a progesterone supplement. In the States, this is called PIO, or progesterone in oil, which is a shot of progesterone with a needle straight out of Pulp Fiction. Here, it comes in the form of suppositories which you bend over and insert twice a day.

The PIO crowd complain about the needles.

Lemme' tell you-stuffing waxy bullet-shaped drugs up your backside is no picnic, either. Especially because the damn things leak. And they mess up your insides. And for an IBS sufferer like me that has a real phobia about anything relating to the ass, they're even worse because you have to use your finger and push them way up there (the instructions recommend you wash your hands after inserting one of them. In case, you know, it never occurred to you that it might be a wee bit foul to not wash your hands after sticking them where the sun doesn't shine). You can put the suppositories in vaginally but they make one unholy mess and pretty much rule out anyone being interested in snacking at your snack bar unless you've been hosed down with a flame thrower.

If you get pregnant, you stay on the progesterone until week 12.

In the UK, if you're pregnant with twins, you stay on them until week 28 as they help prevent pre-term labor.

In other words, twice a day I have to confront one of my phobias.

And it will continue for another 10 weeks.

This, then, will be the "see what I had to go through" story for my children. It won't be about walking to school 5 miles uphills in the snow, nosiree. It'll be about having to push my finger up my ass twice a day for 28 weeks*.

Now that's love.


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


It's June 1.

I've already bought quite a few Christmas presents for a holiday 6 months away.

Is that weird?


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


Angus bakes the best brownies in the world, ever.

Really, he does. It shames me to admit that my brownies pale in comparison to his brownies.

I'm not big on desserts, and these days I'm off sweets at all really, but the other day I was desperate for one of his brownies, so he kindly agreed to make me some. On of the ingredients in his recipe is cherries, which he soaks in rum overnight first.

I walked in to the kitchen to see him sneaking one out of the bowl.

"I bought dried cherries," he says. "It's not fresh cherry season yet."

"I saw some the other week," I say getting a glass of water. "I really wanted to buy them but felt the price wasn't justified."

"I went looking for the American ones," he says. "American cherries are the best."

And my brain was so full of retorts to that statement that it self-destructed.


-H.


*Yes, it will be worth it.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:10 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
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