January 31, 2009

A Letter To My Heart

Dear Heart,

We've been through a lot, you and I. Almost 35 years of choices, experiences, wisdom, failure, and dreams. You've been beating every day, every second, and carrying my wishes throughout every beat. You've been strong, you've let me down, and you have hurt. I've hurt you. I know I have. You've hurt me too. Neither of us is blameless.

I thought I knew everything about you the first time I fell in love. It was hard, this love thing. Hard work indeed. The fragility of human life resulted in your first break, the promises that I made within you are not ever going to be fulfilled. You split that day. A part of you died and will always be gone, but that doesn't make you any less. It just makes you real.

You showed me someone else though, heart. And you gave me love in a way that I never expected to love in - with complete abandonment. With joyful noise and implicit faith, I love with everything.

The day my children arrived you grew exponentially. Secret hidden chambers opened wide, showing me parts of me that I could never have imagined existing. And corridors, options, areas keep opening as every day passes and every new milestone is hit. A hesitant step forward from my daughter lurches open another alleyway, and that one hallway where I held her in the middle of the night, smelling of milk and soap and cotton, closes. My son figuring out how to deal with a puzzle shines light in a brand new room inside of my heart, one I've never seen. And the days where he fell asleep on my chest several times a day, his thumb in his mouth and his fuzzy hair drifting in an infinite breeze, is gone now.

This past week, my heart, you and I realized something new. We learned that you can break still, that you can fall apart and I can fall apart with you. We learned that sometimes there is no room for pride, not when you understand the consequences of what could happen, not when you see what there is to lose. We learned that there are measures you're willing to go through for love, and that there are measures we're both willing to go through in order to save what is so precious to us both. That when silly, light-headed romantic love fades what lies beneath is something infinitely more strong, more wonderful, and more real than you ever whispered to me in the dark when we were young.

This past week, my heart, we went out on a limb and we dropped all pretense. And together we made it work. It was hard exercise but we are better for it. We're both bruised. We're all bruised. But life is decidedly different now, now that we have seen what could happen, now that we have seen what could be. We'd both started taking things for granted. We'd both started to think that the two of us were invincible, when the truth is, we're not. We're strong, we can get through anything, but it doesn't mean we don't come through the other side that much more diminished, that much more raw.

Thank you, heart, for being something that guides me and is there for me, a constant companion through the pain and the joy, through the mistakes and successes.

Everything is beautiful and new when I have you in it.

Love,
Helen

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January 28, 2009

Social Butterfly

I'm not very good at meeting people. No really. I'm not good at meeting people and I'm very not good at making friends. People write and leave comments that they are coming to London, and I freeze up. Oh God. You want to meet me. Oh God. Once you meet me you will find how much of a complete and utter dick I am. I am a dork. I am uncool. I am so average, I make average people look like Heidi Klum.

But meet people I do. I've met a few now, and I always have a brilliant time when I do meet up. I met a friend for drinks and dinner last week, a business writer that could charm the pants off a snake, if snakes were into that kind of thing. I find business writing mind-numbingly dull, but hey-it pays him well and he bought the drinks.

And on Saturday, I got to meet up with some of my longtime friends in the bloggy infertility world. I packed up Nick and Nora and headed to London to meet Thalia, H, Pob, May, H, The Hairy Farmer Family, Ms Prufrock, The Dude, and P,. You might think 5 women, 4 men (Angus was banished to tiling the wet room. When I say "banished", I mean "pleased".), 5 children all under the age of 2.5, one pregnant woman, one woman cycling, and 5 old hands at fertility treatment sounds like a recipe for disaster. But it was, instead, a delight. Bear with me - I must gush a bit now.

And if you read them, then you'll like this because I'm totally outing them.

Thalia (real name: Thalia) is easygoing, a fantastic hostess, and such a calm, loving mother. Her husband H (real name: H. His parents weren't in agreement, they felt it best to leave it at a letter) is a friendly chap who is devoted to Pob (also unfortunately named Pob. She's a Teletubby wanna-be). Pob is stunningly clever, a real charmer, and I raise my fist at God for giving Pob the eyelashes that I have always wanted.

May (real name: Nuts. Seriously, her mum was feeling pretty unkind that day) and her hushand H (no relation to Thalia's H. Talk about coincidences though.) were lovely, warm, funny people. May is the kind of chick you feel you can meet up in a cafe and bitch with. She's in for the snark. She's got a huge heart and you want to ringfence the world from her, to keep people from being mean.

The Hairy Farmer Family were a delight. Mrs Hairy isn't hairy at all, and I swear she's the girlfriend you can ring up at 10:00 at night crying and she'll be by with a bottle of wine and a cake she magicked from the oven, something that tastes of butter and vanilla and light. She'll make you calm down, tell you a story from her own vault that lets you know you're not alone and which is very, very funny, and will never judge you. Her husband is a sweetie and she doesn't know this yet but her son has asked to move in with us. We're looking at where to let him sleep.

The Barren Albions (here's a funny - at first I thought her website was called "The Barren Albino", and I thought: Christ, doesn't her life just suck.) were there. Pru (real name: Prufrock. Don't forget the frock) is gorgeous. Really. Like, Page 3 girl hot. And her rack is spectacular. I love that she sometimes writes me and calls me a whore, because let's call a spade a spade, yes? Her daughter is so polite and friendly, she's a little elf, a little elf who also wants to come live with me, especially when she tells people that "Obama went to Starbucks."

And luckily Nick and Nora were so overwhelmed by the people (and, let's be frank, Pob's toys) that they didn't undergo their usual routine of acting like Baby Thunderdome with each other (two babies enter! One baby leaves!) and the other mothers hopefully didn't feel the need to shake their heads and think: That's why animals eat their young. And in Helen's case, why the infants should eat the mother.

On Monday I met the fabulous Suzie, her friend Amy, and the gorgeous and so amazingly, completely, 13-going-on-33 Emily (you can see the three of us here). I wanted to steal Suzie's daughter Josie, now I want to kidnap Emily too. This house is going to be full.

And I've loved meeting everyone. So here's a thought: Mrs. Hairy Farmer and I want to arrange a get-together in London in April-ish time frame. If you're around and in, let us know. And, uh, she's the organizer, because seriously, I can't organize my way out of a paper bag.

Anyone in?

-H.

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January 27, 2009

An Anniversary of Sorts

Today is the 27th of January.

An ordinary day, like other ordinary days. You get up, you make a cup of coffee. You shower, you dread the office. You go about your daily routine with comfort and a sense of ambiguity.

The 27th of January is Jennifer's birthday (hi Jenn!)

The 27th of January is my mother's birthday.

The 27th of January is also the day, six years ago, that I tried to kill myself.

I got home from work, walked the dog, started dinner, put the vegetable knife down, walked upstairs, took an entire bottle of pills and somehow slashed open my then-husband's razor and had a go at both of my wrists.

I do not remember any of this.

I do remember the aftermath - the mental wing of the hospital. The taste of activated charcoal. The acute embarrassment.

And then the hundreds of hours of therapy.

I have a photo, somewhere, of my wrists a week after the hack-job. I was going to post it but can't find it. Maybe it's macabre anyway. I have a small scar as a reminder, a small scar, small compared to the much larger one I have inside.

Life is hard, it's fucking hard, it pulls you down and drowns you sometimes. In all of our lives we face a time so dark and so bleak that there is no way out. You know this. You're sure of it. It's not going to get any better, there is no up or out or light or help.

And you snap.

You snap because you've had a lot of dark, you're sick of dark, you don't want to be there anymore and you have no one to help you out of it.

Looking back, I know now that I was lost. I was lost to myself and lost to everyone else. Looking back I don't regret what I did, I just regret that I hurt people. Looking back I have learned that there is dark but if you wait long enough, at some point the light will creep in. It will. It has to.

Six years on and there is no chance that I will go down that same path again. I live. I will live. I have values and love and hope and yes, some very dark days more often that I admit. But people need you. People need me. It may not be obvious who needs you, but there is someone. Just look.

I have four people that would miss me horribly if I ever chose to end it, four people that I love with all of my heart, four people that I would miss forever and ever if anything happened to them.


My reasons


And one of those four is me.

-H.

PS-I met the amazing Suzie, her friend Amy, and Suzie's niece Emily last night. I got to be there for a very special moment for Emily, and I'm so lucky to have met them.

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January 22, 2009

Tidbits From the Gig

The Gig is working out so far. I have some troubles at The Gig, but lots of good times, too. There are no permanent desks in Gig Offices, we all hot desk, yet we all seem to sit in the same seats. Rather defeats the idea of hot desking, really.

I sit in an area of 6 desks with 5 other people and none of us are in the same department or role, which gives a nice persepctive. We all sit together and work, although periodically we crack each other up (and we all agreed early on that we can swear and muck about, no one will sue the others.) I'm not sure if other areas have this much fun from time to time, but I can say that when we all get a bit ADD and go into things, it gets fun.

Here are some examples of what we get:


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


One of the guys has been assigned a new line manager, a particularly creepy individual that he calls Twatty Bollocks. I asked him how he was going to handle it. He told me not well. I asked him what he was going to do about it.

He replied: "I am going to masturbate in the mirror. It won't help things but it will take my mind off my troubles."

When I go to lunch I'll bring him back some glass cleaner.


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


Another one of the guys stood up and announced that he was going to the stationary cupboard, and did we need anything?

We all looked at him.

"Uh...like what, Stan?" I asked him.

"You know. Stationary things," he replied.

"I'm good," I countered, as did the others. When Stan returned 20 minutes later he was clutching a handful of highlighters.

"I got what I needed," he said, clutching his finds.

"Wow," said Karl. "Seeing you get those has been the highlight of my day."

Stan rolled his eyes.

Matt next to me grinned. "I see what you did there."

"Did you like that?" Karl asked.

"I did, I liked that," Matt answered. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

Stan sits down, whips out the green highlighter, and proceeds to highlight all of the text on one whole page.

"Dude?" I ask. "If you highlight the whole page then you're defeating the point. It's why it's called a highlighter. Otherwise it would be called a paintbrush."

Stan looks at me. "What's the matter with you? Does Trunky want a doughnut?" he asks.

"Mmmm, doughnuts," Karl moans.

"Simpsons jokes are cheap," I reply. "Anyone can do those, it takes a master to come up with orginals. If you laugh at something they'd fall about on 'Are You Smarter Than a Ten Year Old?' then it doesn't count."


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


As I wrote last week, I had a bet with one of my guys that he wouldn't use the word "buttmonkey" in a meeting with a particularly scratchy guy we were meeting with last week. I bet £1 that he wouldn't do it, and he did. It's now become something of a competition, with all of us choosing words that we challenge the others to use on various conference calls and in meetings. Not every word is an insult, although buttmonkey remains the favorite. We've also used "fish fingers", "verisimilitude", and my personal current favorite, "catheter".


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

Stan was rummaging in his gym bag this morning.

"Dammit," he mutters.

"What's up?" I ask.

"I forgot my nut cup," he replies.

"Stan, there are a few words that I'd be ok with not hearing you utter before 10:00 in the morning.

"Nut cup is one of them?"

"Nut cup is one of them."

"What would another one be?"

"Salmonella. And didgeridoo. The rest of the list we can play by ear."

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

-H

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January 17, 2009

Magic

I know there are people who read here who are going through fertility treatment, have been through losses, or who do not have children even though it's one of the single most desired for pieces of their lives, and I do not in any way, shape or form want to hurt you, so if that might be you stop reading and come back Monday when no doubt I'll be back on something disgusting or embarrassing regarding my behavior, bodily fluids, or completely random concepts that have nothing to do with anything.

I just want to say this:

Coming home to the man you're turning things around with and whom you've missed so much it's been like missing one of your lungs is fabulous.

Coming home, driving together to the nursery, and kneeling down to scoop up two babies (both shrieking with delight) who have hurtled themselves towards you at a crawl that registers with the speed of sound and who, once on your lap, won't let go of you as they laugh while you take turns kissing each of them is icing on the proverbial cake.

-H.

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January 15, 2009

Where You Be?

Hmmm...commenters don't like my presence in Finland, I think (I liked my last two posts, but you never know).

Will be back on home turf on Monday, where hopefully you all come back. I'm sensitive. I notice things.

*Sobs quietly*

Kidding. In the meantime, tonight my team and I are having a drink-up. We need one. I need one. I had a quiet night in last night, with takeout sushi and a bottle of wine bought from the liquor store, which in Finland is a state-run shop called"Alko", which doesn't make you feel like you have a problem or anything.

And I bet one of my colleagues that he wouldn't use the term "buttmonkey" in the meeting today. He just used it. Looks like I have to pay up now. I always pay my bets, but maybe I should stop making them. It reminds me of the time I bet an ex on something, with the loser getting a pie in the face.

Let's just say that I still hate meringue.

-H.

PS - the purple sour wine gums are indeed my favorite. Black currant flavor...mmmmm....

PPS - a Finnish kid was arrested yesterday for taking an extra fish stick at his school lunchtime. I can't imagine what they would've done to Oliver Twist.

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January 08, 2009

You Say Tomato, I Say Piss Off

On my current project IÂ’m working with a guy from Sheffield. This may not seem like relevant information, but in terms of communication and speaking the same language itÂ’s very important. Because truthfully itÂ’s not the same language, not at all.

We all agreed early on in this project that swearing amongst ourselves is completely ok. And in a team of six, all of us from different parts of the world, we do. And to say that things regularly get interesting is an understatement. For example, the other day Sheffield Man called me “Cock.”

“Well fuck you too,” I replied huffily.

“No, no, no, no!” he said, panicked. “Cock is a good thing, too.”

“But you use cock as a bad thing. You called the Coke machine a cock the other day when it ate your 50p.”

“Yeah, it was a cock. A bad cock. But cock can also be a term of endearment.”

Oh man. Cussing just got that much harder.

Swearing is a funny thing – get it wrong and you look like a real wally. Get it right and you go down in certain slang dictionaries and get copied across Facebooks and MySpaces the world over. People say that those who swear simply lack the couth or intelligence to use other words in their stead. I would refute that by saying that I am a manifestation of decorum and erudition. Then I'd tell them to fuck off.

I’m a big fan of swearing, and I like swearing to be creative. My key phrase for some time was “fuckshit”, which I callously stole from a horrible film, this phrase being the only redeeming quality from said cellular disaster. I’m a big fan of using “whore” but over here it’s the ultimate insult for most women, so I’m careful in who I use it with. I use the term "dweedle" a lot (as in "Stop being such a dweedle!") which I don't know where I picked up and would quite like to give it back.

I also like to swear in Swedish although Swedish cussing isn’t very creative. Their worst word is Swedish for “devil”. You can use anything else on TV but not that word. Interestingly, a friend of mine in Swedish introduced me to “Pucko javel” (pronounced “poo-koh yeh-vull”). Pucko is a Swedish chocolate drink exactly like the American Yoohoo. I detest Yoohoo with a fiery passion, so calling someone the equivalent of “a fucking Yoohoo” is popular with me.

Maybe I’ll just start using “fucking Yoohoo”.

No word is out of bounds with me, although you’ll be hard-pressed to hear me say “arse” because it makes me feel like a poser. The British language has opened my eyes to massive possibilities in swearing, and my vocabulary has grown exponentially. I now regularly use “git”, “wanker”, “twat”, “berk”, “tosser”, "bollocks", and my personal favourite, “pillock”. You can also combine phrases for further insult potential, for example the guys on the team call another man "Twatty Balls". Luckily he doesn't know this is his new moniker. I expect he'd have some choice things to say about it if he did.

Interestingly, most British insults seem to relate to only men or masturbation. I think thereÂ’s a message there. Stop punching the clown, lads.

IÂ’m looking to expand my vocabulary, though, so any input welcome.

-H.

PS-I think tomorrow should be International Internet Reveal Your Horrid Teenage Years Picture Day. Come on, I know we all have some of those photos. I know I certainly do, and I am rising to the challenge. Tonight I'll scan some of my more frightening photos and reveal them to you, and you will never ever again think of me as being anything that even borders cool. I appeal to you to do the same, only let me know in the comments tomorrow if you do so, because I want to gawk at your horrors just as much as you shall gawk at mine. No matter how bad you think your teen photos are, I will have you beat. Trust me.

So - scanners at the ready tomorrow?

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January 07, 2009

Letting Our Ladies Down

The Gig has, as one of its core values, that we as a company have to give back to the community, and even has a volunteer organization as part of the company to ensure we can get plugged in to local activities. We also get two days paid leave to attend to volunteer actions, and I think it’s a good idea to volunteer. I’m not completely altruistic in this, I admit – my 5 year anniversary of moving here is coming up and I’m facing citizenship and indefinite leave to remain visa hassles, and volunteering is a good idea.

In November I signed up to help out this week, on Tuesday and Thursday, with a local school. The school has asked for local businesses to come and help students write CVs and go through mock interviews in preparation for college, university, and employment. I thought this was a great idea and since the school is local to the house (the babiesÂ’ nursery is located on site) I thought it would be very relevant, not least considering because IÂ’d just been through the interview and CV process. So yesterday I trooped out to the school to interview 15 and 16 year olds, their CVs already in-hand.

The CVs were cute – I made a lot of comments on them about things they’d done well (work experience) and things they may want to change (not having an email name of “sparklyhotkitten”, for example. I went into the school feeling decidedly cold and flu-y, and registered. There amongst the other business people to help interview were a scary looking sergeant in the military, a number of professionals from companies similar to mine, and a few school governors. We had lists of questions to ask the kids and critique papers for them to receive when we were done.

Our students came and got us and took us to an interviewing room. I was greeted by a very twitchy young woman named Ellie, who fidgeted with the cuffs of her school uniform constantly.

“Um, what are you going to do?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Relax,” I said, smiling. “I’m not going to be mean or scare you at all. I’m just going to show you how to interview.”

She smiled hesitantly, clearly not convinced. As we walked she looked to the left and then dropped low, close to the floor.

“Are you ok?” I asked her, wondering if she was fainting.

“Ohmigod it’s Jacob,” she said in a theatrical whisper, indicating with her head a boy walking down a parallel corridor.

“Jacob is a good or a bad thing?” I ask, observing his stupid hair. Dear Jesus, please don’t let Nick have stupid hair in the future. I can handle many things, but stupid hair is not one of them.

“Are you serious?” she asks me, mouth agape. “Jacob is so hot!”

“Right. So why are you hiding?” I ask her as we shuffle along.

“He can’t see me!” she squeals.

“Then how is he going to notice you?” I ask.

“Ohmigod! He’s not!” she squeaks. "That's the point!"

Teenage love, man. More complicated than adult love.

When we get to the interviewing tables I meet the others – I have 5 students, all of them girls. I explain a bit about myself and where I come from, what I do. One of them seems very impressed. “You’re really high up in your company aren’t you?” she asks.

“No, I’m just about right.” I reply.

“You must earn so much money!” she breathes.

I think about my empty bank account. “Um, yeah. Lots of money.”

I tell them to relax and be themselves, that I am just here for practice and in future if they get an interview it means something good, that a company sees potential in them. They nod, sort of listening but still terrified. Truthfully, I was pretty nervous about meeting them prior to this - I think as someone who was both the nerd and the class clown in high school I can now be labelled "hideously uncool". As such, I have re-opened myself to a large amount of torment and teasing. My 80's perm may forever rest in peace.

We begin, and I start with Ellie.

“So Ellie, what do you see for yourself in 5 years?” I ask, using the standard boring interview question.

“Yeah, uh, I dunno,” she replies.

“OK, well what is your ideal job?” I ask her.

“Oh, I just want to be a secretary!” she says breathily.

This is a first. I know many people who become secretaries (I started out that way) but I’ve never met a teen who wanted that as a career choice, not in this generation. “What attracts you to the role?” I ask her neutrally.

“I think it’s so great that you know, you file, and you make coffee, and get lunch for my boss, and stuff like that. And I’m not good at anything else, really, so this is a good fit.”

I struggle with this one. I don’t let on to her that I'm struggling, I tell her that’s excellent and that behind every decent boss is a secretary who runs things with an iron fist. And I do mean that – the managers I know who have a modicum of success do so I think thanks to someone who toils thanklessly beneath them, making sure things keep running smoothly. But I can’t help but feel that she’s letting herself down a bit. The whole world is ahead of her, she’s only 16. She can be anything, but what she wants to be is a secretary.

Before I get hate mail, IÂ’m not in the least bad-mouthing secretaries. ItÂ’s hard work, and youÂ’re often overlooked. I know, I was one. I just canÂ’t point to anyone whose excitement is centred on making coffee for someone, and the basis of her choice is that she doesn't think she's good at anything. How can someone not have corrected her on that? Is it so that young girls think that about themselves these days? Am I missing something? Shouldn't we be saying "Yes, you can be a secretary, but it's a choice. You choose to be a secretary if that's what you want to be. It's not that you're not good at anything else."

As the interviews go on, itÂ’s clear that the girls are simply aiming low. One of them wants to start a wedding planning business but laughs it off, saying itÂ’s just a stupid dream, one that she'll never get to take off. Another one says she failed to get into sixth form college so sheÂ’s just going to work at a pre-school, and she adds she plans on working there for the rest of her life. Yet another one says she wants to be a chef but will likely wind up doing something else, as sometimes the coursework is too hard.

I look at these 5 girls, who have their whole lives ahead of them, and I want to shake some sense into them. You could be anything! I want to shout. Aim high, life will come in and kick you anyway, but you might as well have this dream! You have so much to offer, donÂ’t knock yourself down!

Talking to Angus later, he tells me that maybe I have the wrong end of the stick. In his school, he explained, career day had a film about working in a sausage making factory. Of his former classmates most of them wound up in thoroughly average roles during thoroughly average work. But theyÂ’re happy for the most part, even if they do sometimes say they wonder what would have happened if onlyÂ…

ItÂ’s not like IÂ’m some pinnacle of success myself, I never saw this in my future. I'm not someone with the right to stand on a soapbox and tell people to be like me. I just hate seeing young people not want to reach for everything. I hate seeing anyone, regardless of their age, say that theyÂ’re not good at anything. My problem is not that I don't want to hear someone saying they just want to be a secretary, as I don't want to hear someone saying they just want to be a senior project manager, either. I want these girls to say that the sky's the limit, they're evaluating their options because they could do anything. Most of all, I want them to take out the "just" in their dreams, as it implies they are limited by something above.

It's as Angus and I have been saying - we don't want our kids to have lives as good as ours. We want their lives to be better, to be more. You can be envious of anyone and everyone around you, except for your kids. For them, you want them to have it all.

And maybe above all, I hate seeing women beat themselves up like that. I tend to believe that things are just that little bit harder for women in the working world anyway. We need to approach employment with energy and the belief that we are just as good as anyone else, more specifically that we are just as good as the men. Otherwise how can we accept the failings weÂ’ve subjected our young women to? How is it that boys in the other interview groups believe they can be policemen, businessmen, or attorneys but my five girls don't even believe they can try again to get into sixth form, or that they have more to offer than picking up someone's lunch?

In the end I thank them. I tell them they did great. I wish them luck in everything they do. And at the bottom of their critique sheets I write: “Believe in yourself. You’re great, you just need to believe it.”

They'll maybe laugh it off. I'm hideously uncool and I know it. But if only...


-H.

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January 06, 2009

Health Hazard

I'm over being sick.

Over over over over over.

I spent the entire two weeks over the holidays sick as the proverbial canine. First the stomach flu. Then influensa (like 8 million others in the UK). Now the stomach flu feels like it's creeping back on again (and Angus got hit with it again last night), along with a cold which has my nose running at a million miles an hour. Although the good news is the new improved stronger anti-depressants I've been put on seem to be working, although they make me very tired and very queasy. Small price, I know.

Nick has an ear infection so severe that his eardrum burst. He's on antibiotics now, and isn't too happy (although he does really like the taste of the antibiotics. I want to tell him to ease off, otherwise he will miss the glory that is tranquilizers). My poor sweet little boy is teething as well, molars coming up in his back gum that make his cheeks look bright red. Nora has an ear infection as well, in fact make hers a double. They both have raging colds still, meaning we go through boxes of Kleenex as I wipe their constantly streaming noses, which pisses them right off every time. And over Christmas we met up with their cousin, who had a raging case of conjunctivitis. I sighed, knowing exactly what was going to happen next.

So it has - both babies have come down with conjunctivitis. In both eyes. And I sighed again, knowing exactly what was to come next.

Sure enough, today I'm at work in my glasses, my eyes so gluey I feel like they've been superglued shut.

Any day now we'll have quarantine signs posted on the house. Our home cannot be entered without a Hazmat suit, and even then you're going to be catching something. We're like the CDC posterchildren.

*sneeze*

-H.

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January 02, 2009

Peanuts

The Saturday before Christmas my stepmom was here and basically ordered us out of the house, in the way only a loving stepmom can pull off. Angus and I hadn't been out as just the two of us in forever, and she was throwing us out of the house and insisting that we go on a date. She always offers and we never take her up on it, but this time we did.

We fed my stepmom a little home cookin'. We showered. I put on makeup and some strappy shoes and I wore this little number. That's right - mother of two, complete with saggy C-section scar, decked out in a minidress.

And Angus and I - doing really well now after this past weekend of dark, difficult talks - went to a party. A Christmas party, full of Christmas people and Christmas cheer. The two of us, minus two teething, dribbly, babbly little creatures wore grown-up clothes and grown-up heels and went to a party.

The party was fun. It really was. Lots of laughter and booze and people in festive outfits celebrating a festive time. Mistletoe was everywhere, and I find that while the English may have a reputation fo rbeing straight-laced, add English people to a Christmas party and you get wild abandon. It's all about the kissing, snogging, bum clutching and red-cheeked behavior. It's not like it's one wild orgy or anything, it feels more like people make up for being more straight-laced the rest of the year.

I found myself under the mistletoe a lot, generally accidentally. I got myself a lot of kisses. I don't mind, it's all in good fun, a quick smack on the mouth or cheek is no big deal. Everyone was having fun and doing similar when someone would inadvertantly find themself hanging around underneath a poisonous plant.

Yet at one point during the night, I found someone's hand on my shoulder. I turned and it was a man there, one I didn't know. He was polite and kind, older than I, and he looked up. "You're under the mistletoe," he said nicely.

I followed his gaze to see that once again I had wound up under that damn plant. "So I am," I replied. Angus was talking and laughing to some people nearby, he waved his glass in a salute and carried on talking.

I smiled and got ready to pucker up when something unusual happened, something I hadn't expected. The man moved forward and opened his arms. He pulled me to him and put my head against his chest.

"I hope you don't mind," he said. "It's just you look like you could really use a cuddle instead of a kiss."

It's hard for me to write this and tell you that in that moment, I knew he absolutely meant nothing remotely sexual. Likewise, I expected nor wanted anything more intimate than what had happened. He wasn't coming on to me, he wasn't playing some stupid man-game whereby I am supposed to throw myself at him and ply him with liquid eyes, he was being genuine. I honestly know that. I will likely never see this guy again, and if I do it will be a harmless and innocent encounter. He was just a stranger that hugged me.

And as I stood there, in some stranger's arms, I took such enormous comfort from a gesture that was as innocent as his intent was. Me, a 34 year old in a sparkly minidress and strappy shoes, I was being hugged by someone who somehow knew that all I wanted was some contact.

There's a Charlie Brown cartoon that I remember. I'm not big on the Peanuts, I find them relatively un-funny, but this one sticks out. It's Charlie Brown facing the reader, and all he says is this: "I feel lonely when I'm all alone."

That's well and good, Chuck, but what happens if you're someone who feels lonely when you're not alone?

Loneliness is something reserved for the single folk and the ones who aren't in some kind of unit. If you're in a family and feeling lonely, then people get out the advice books - You're with the wrong person. You're unhappy. And the worst - What do you have to feel lonely about? It's as though the company of any other human body is supposed to be enough to ensure that you never, ever feel lonely. You feel naughty for feeling alone, you feel ungrateful and childish. You have someone, why should you feel alone? But maybe it's not about having someone. Maybe you are the kind of person that gets on an iceberg and can't figure out the way off of it.

The busier my life gets, the more lonely I feel.

Sometimes we're with people that we love heart and soul, but even in love there are differences, there need to be. We can't want the same things. We can't have the same needs. It's the same with families - having a family doesn't mean that you never feel alone again, it just means that there are several other people in the house who need you, too.

Many years ago I used to surround myself with things. I used to believe that objects would make me happy, that they would give me purpose. After falling into serious credit card debt and giving away nearly every single item that I owned, I learned that things, they didn't make me happy. I could have all the things in the world, it still didn't make me feel any less lonely.

It's not like I spend my time at home functioning as either a mother or as a sexual object, but to be simply hugged by someone was something I needed, something that I was craving and I didn't even know it. Maybe the truth is even when we have full lives of family, work, friends, writing, blogging, you name it, sometimes we just need someone to reach inside of our little bubble and hold on to our elbow, to remind us that we're not alone. You can feel lonely when you're all alone, but it's a lot more painful to feel lonely when you're not.

Or maybe it's just me.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:52 PM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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