That inevitable time of year that I've had mixed feelings about ever since the year the gravy boat broke mid-pour and deposited gravy all over the table and with it a substantial amount of stress.
Some of my favourite Christmases have been the simplest ones. The one in America when I was 5 and we got a plastic tree for the hotel room and quite possibly ate at red-lobster (I recently discovered that I'm possibly the only person in MA ever to have seen, let alone eaten at, a red lobster. Although I doubt I was allowed lobster.). The one where everyone got snowed in so it was just my immediate family and an oversized turkey. The one where we cooked chinese food instead (although I'm not sure that ever happened - I think I just wanted it to happen). My Mum went mental for Christmas. She used to have our next-door-neighbour write the Santa letters with her left hand, just in case we were smart enough to recognise our neighbour's handwriting. She also once tramped sooty boots all through the house at an attempt at Santa authenticity. And we got a photo of rudolph (taken I think at the natural history museum in DC which they'd visited that year.)
This year Christmas will be spent with Jeremy's extended family. There will be no crackers (no not those sorts of crackers), mince-pies or Christmas pudding and there will probably be salad served with a roast dinner (this isn't a bad thing btw, it's just weird for English people).
It's strange, contemplating a time so rich with tradition and all my traditions are 3000 miles away. I don't mind, mostly because I'm going home on the 27th and will insist on having crackers with every meal and will most likely eat my weight in mince-pies (I attempted to make them but the only mince-meat I could buy here tastes faintly of soap). But without my sister bouncing off the walls with excitement and waking me up about 5 hours too early and my Mum camped out behind the sofa wrapping top-secret presents, it just doesn't quite feel like Christmas. But maybe that's just being an adult...maybe Christmas wont be Christmas again until I have children to lie to...
...In which case Christmas can wait a few more years.
Officially Adulted...
On Friday I passed my driving test.
I'll repeat.
On Friday I PASSED my driving test.
All yee who have been driving since birth will fail to understand the monstrous enormity of this accomplishment in my world. But driving, to me, has been a massive wall in my head that I could not scale. Maths is a similar wall, along with assembling Ikea furniture. But while I may (will) never conquer the wall of Maths, I have conquered driving and I am absurdly proud of myself.
Here is the tale of my scaling the driving wall:
1. Got my provisional license (permit) aged 18 - a little late but still an acceptable age.
Didn't use it.
2. Started having lessons over the summer when I was 19. Stopped after I returned to uni and a) couldn't afford it and b) couldn't be bothered.
3. Spent 8 years coming up with a mountain of reasons for why I didn't need to drive. Things like being environmentally friendly (total BS since I was flying across the atlantic every 4 months), and not needing to because of public transport (and friends with cars) and money of course (in England you have to be insured on whatever car you're learning on and it's not cheap).
But really I was just afraid. Terrified, in fact. I used to have a recurring nightmare that I was driving and I didn't know how or I couldn't open my eyes. When I barely trust myself to carry a glass across a room (not many people have songs made up about the clumsiness of their hands), putting myself in charge of tons of moving metal didn't seem like the best of plans.
And then I moved to America, which leads us to
4. No longer able to rely on public transport to get me everywhere and faced with the fact that EVERYONE drives here (and thinks you're a mutant if you don't know how) and that I'll likely need to if/when I actually gain employment, I took the theory test to get my permit and then...
5. Did nothing for about 6 months. But then I...
6. Interviewed for a job that involved a ton of driving so decided I really should learn how. And so a few nights a week (like at 11pm) Jeremy and I would brave the roads and carparks of Waltham and slowly, slowly I learned to drive. I had multiple temper tantrums and one panic attack but eventually I pretty much got the hang of it and I booked my test.
7. Took the test with my dear mother-in-law sat dutifully in the back seat and all was going well (well, not 'well' exactly but I hadn't yet failed) until I drove through a stop sign.
Yes, I said it, I failed my first test because I drove through a stop sign. Classic. I was not amused. But, thankfully, driving through stop signs is a fairly easy flaw to rectify so I rebooked my test and
8. Then I passed.Only 9 years after I first got my provisional license I passed. Not with flying colours mind you, but I don't really care about the colours provided I never have to take that test again...
...oh yea...
9. When I move back to England I will have to retake the test and learn how to drive on the opposite side of the road and drive on roads ridiculously narrow and windy and terrifying...
10. Before that though I need to summon the courage to drive somewhere, anywhere, on my own.
I'll repeat.
On Friday I PASSED my driving test.
All yee who have been driving since birth will fail to understand the monstrous enormity of this accomplishment in my world. But driving, to me, has been a massive wall in my head that I could not scale. Maths is a similar wall, along with assembling Ikea furniture. But while I may (will) never conquer the wall of Maths, I have conquered driving and I am absurdly proud of myself.
Here is the tale of my scaling the driving wall:
1. Got my provisional license (permit) aged 18 - a little late but still an acceptable age.
Didn't use it.
2. Started having lessons over the summer when I was 19. Stopped after I returned to uni and a) couldn't afford it and b) couldn't be bothered.
3. Spent 8 years coming up with a mountain of reasons for why I didn't need to drive. Things like being environmentally friendly (total BS since I was flying across the atlantic every 4 months), and not needing to because of public transport (and friends with cars) and money of course (in England you have to be insured on whatever car you're learning on and it's not cheap).
But really I was just afraid. Terrified, in fact. I used to have a recurring nightmare that I was driving and I didn't know how or I couldn't open my eyes. When I barely trust myself to carry a glass across a room (not many people have songs made up about the clumsiness of their hands), putting myself in charge of tons of moving metal didn't seem like the best of plans.
And then I moved to America, which leads us to
4. No longer able to rely on public transport to get me everywhere and faced with the fact that EVERYONE drives here (and thinks you're a mutant if you don't know how) and that I'll likely need to if/when I actually gain employment, I took the theory test to get my permit and then...
5. Did nothing for about 6 months. But then I...
6. Interviewed for a job that involved a ton of driving so decided I really should learn how. And so a few nights a week (like at 11pm) Jeremy and I would brave the roads and carparks of Waltham and slowly, slowly I learned to drive. I had multiple temper tantrums and one panic attack but eventually I pretty much got the hang of it and I booked my test.
7. Took the test with my dear mother-in-law sat dutifully in the back seat and all was going well (well, not 'well' exactly but I hadn't yet failed) until I drove through a stop sign.
Yes, I said it, I failed my first test because I drove through a stop sign. Classic. I was not amused. But, thankfully, driving through stop signs is a fairly easy flaw to rectify so I rebooked my test and
8. Then I passed.Only 9 years after I first got my provisional license I passed. Not with flying colours mind you, but I don't really care about the colours provided I never have to take that test again...
...oh yea...
9. When I move back to England I will have to retake the test and learn how to drive on the opposite side of the road and drive on roads ridiculously narrow and windy and terrifying...
10. Before that though I need to summon the courage to drive somewhere, anywhere, on my own.
The approach of blobdom.
Since I last posted, my little sister got engaged and the temperature has dropped. As far as I know the two are unrelated.
Beyond that, nothing has changed. I am fast falling into the routine I struggled against all year, which basically means sleeping in too late and then being unable to fall asleep at a respectable hour and therefore visciousising the circle. It's the cold I tell you. And the laziness.
Spell check just told me that every word in the above paragraph is miss-spelt. I find this hard to believe.
So yes, the laziness. It's bad. I'm in mortal-danger of becoming a blob. I do lunges as a way to get around the house in an effort to stave off total blob-dom and I've given up beer (because I don't really like it anyway and it seemed like an easy way to cut out calories) and drinking on weeknights (unless it's absolutely necessary), but I fear that my total lack of movement is likely to catch up with me at some point. If it hasn't already - I'll be conducting an opinion poll when I'm back in the UK over Christmas, although with the added variables of (proper) roast-dinners, galaxy, mince-pies, sausages and prawn cocktail crisps being available it may not be a fair test.
The problem with the temperature is that it's only going to drop further and will soon be followed by snow and ice and these things are going to prohibit me from moving anywhere at any speed, even if I am inclined to move, and thus perpetuating my rapid demise. It's not like I've ever been one for exercise, but I have been licenseless and employed (paid or otherwise), which has necessitated walking everywhere. Now I am unemployed, and while I'm writing a lot as a means to occupy myself, having fit-fingers isn't going to help much.The only thing for it is to get my license and a car and to drive to the nearest gym and exercise there. Yes I know that sentence contains many things that seem unlikely or impossible. Stop laughing.
Oh if only I could curl up in a cupboard and slow my heart-rate down to barely perceptible levels and sleep out the winter...although I'm currently making a fairly good go at it.
Beyond that, nothing has changed. I am fast falling into the routine I struggled against all year, which basically means sleeping in too late and then being unable to fall asleep at a respectable hour and therefore visciousising the circle. It's the cold I tell you. And the laziness.
Spell check just told me that every word in the above paragraph is miss-spelt. I find this hard to believe.
So yes, the laziness. It's bad. I'm in mortal-danger of becoming a blob. I do lunges as a way to get around the house in an effort to stave off total blob-dom and I've given up beer (because I don't really like it anyway and it seemed like an easy way to cut out calories) and drinking on weeknights (unless it's absolutely necessary), but I fear that my total lack of movement is likely to catch up with me at some point. If it hasn't already - I'll be conducting an opinion poll when I'm back in the UK over Christmas, although with the added variables of (proper) roast-dinners, galaxy, mince-pies, sausages and prawn cocktail crisps being available it may not be a fair test.
The problem with the temperature is that it's only going to drop further and will soon be followed by snow and ice and these things are going to prohibit me from moving anywhere at any speed, even if I am inclined to move, and thus perpetuating my rapid demise. It's not like I've ever been one for exercise, but I have been licenseless and employed (paid or otherwise), which has necessitated walking everywhere. Now I am unemployed, and while I'm writing a lot as a means to occupy myself, having fit-fingers isn't going to help much.The only thing for it is to get my license and a car and to drive to the nearest gym and exercise there. Yes I know that sentence contains many things that seem unlikely or impossible. Stop laughing.
Oh if only I could curl up in a cupboard and slow my heart-rate down to barely perceptible levels and sleep out the winter...although I'm currently making a fairly good go at it.
Dear Thanksgiving...
I do love you so. Entirely because you are a 'holiday' based solely on food... and gratitude, technically...
I was a teensy bit shocked recently though when I realised that the original thanksgiving began with pilgrims breaking bread with the 'indians' and, well, we've all seen 'dancing with wolves' and know how that turned out. So it does seem slightly ummmm strange to carry on pretending that all was friendly and helpful and thanksworthy. But hey, that's probably just me.
But still, if we overlook your somewhat dubious claims to origins of goodwill to all mankind, I appreciate you. And for this reason I'm going to do a cliched and self indulgent list of things I am grateful for: I warn you, parts/all of it may be soppy.
1. For Jeremy. Anytime I feel lost or disheartened, lonely or fed-up I think of Jeremy and feel unbelievably blessed to have him in my life on a daily basis and for us to be growing this marriage of ours. Yes he makes vinegar out of smushed up peaches and lays out a welcome mat to fruit flies, and he watches impossible amounts of Family Guy/ The Simpsons / South Park etc etc, but that's insignificant in comparison
2. For Grace. I don't much talk about God or faith, because I struggle to define myself within the parameters of the popular definitions available to me, but I do have a faith and this year I have felt so blessed and looked after. So many times I have felt entirely incapable and so many times great things have happened despite me... Jeremy can take some credit here also.
3. For family, and the fact that although they are 3000 miles away, they remain my most precious source of strength and support.
4. For friends, new and old. Making friends was the thing I was worried most about when I moved here and funnily enough has been the easiest thing. Jobs and driving on the other hand...And for old friends who have done a brilliant job at keeping in touch (shout out to Abs for sending me chocolate often enough that I still love chocolate and haven't been reprogrammed to think it's all hershey's and nasty.)...thanks to everyone in advance for visiting me in 2011!!
I warned you it was soppy. But tis the season after all.
x
I was a teensy bit shocked recently though when I realised that the original thanksgiving began with pilgrims breaking bread with the 'indians' and, well, we've all seen 'dancing with wolves' and know how that turned out. So it does seem slightly ummmm strange to carry on pretending that all was friendly and helpful and thanksworthy. But hey, that's probably just me.
But still, if we overlook your somewhat dubious claims to origins of goodwill to all mankind, I appreciate you. And for this reason I'm going to do a cliched and self indulgent list of things I am grateful for: I warn you, parts/all of it may be soppy.
1. For Jeremy. Anytime I feel lost or disheartened, lonely or fed-up I think of Jeremy and feel unbelievably blessed to have him in my life on a daily basis and for us to be growing this marriage of ours. Yes he makes vinegar out of smushed up peaches and lays out a welcome mat to fruit flies, and he watches impossible amounts of Family Guy/ The Simpsons / South Park etc etc, but that's insignificant in comparison
2. For Grace. I don't much talk about God or faith, because I struggle to define myself within the parameters of the popular definitions available to me, but I do have a faith and this year I have felt so blessed and looked after. So many times I have felt entirely incapable and so many times great things have happened despite me... Jeremy can take some credit here also.
3. For family, and the fact that although they are 3000 miles away, they remain my most precious source of strength and support.
4. For friends, new and old. Making friends was the thing I was worried most about when I moved here and funnily enough has been the easiest thing. Jobs and driving on the other hand...And for old friends who have done a brilliant job at keeping in touch (shout out to Abs for sending me chocolate often enough that I still love chocolate and haven't been reprogrammed to think it's all hershey's and nasty.)...thanks to everyone in advance for visiting me in 2011!!
I warned you it was soppy. But tis the season after all.
x
You know it's time to move...
... when your apartment starts attacking you with bathroom tiles.
(I failed my driving test by the way folks... I've rebooked and will reveal the exact hilarious reason why I failed after I've passed)
But anyway...
There I am, taking my customary afternoon shower (because by the time I've got up, had coffee, checked email and caught up on whatever cheesey hospital dramas Jeremy refuses to tolerate it's more often than not the afternoon) when not one but 2 tiles come crashing down from above the shower head. Quite how they didn't hit me I'm not sure.
After reassuring myself that there wasn't a poltergeist (this involved waiting for tiles to start flying at me from all directions...that this was among my first thoughts says something about me) I washed the remaining conditioner out of my hair, standing as far away from the zone of tile-fire as possible, and then made a decision:
It's time to move.
Problem is I've known it was time to move since before I moved in. It was one of my conditions of moving here in the first place - along with learning to drive and getting a job...ahem...And we are looking for a place to buy, it's just not been found yet. I've come to the conclusion that realtors (aka estate agents) are geniuses with cameras and that architects have a few screws loose because it seems SO simple to build a house that has normal sized rooms but most have failed in this task and consequently we have so far failed in moving.
And now my bathroom, which was already pretty grim, is raining tiles on my head. I'm nearing a year of living here, and while I do feel like I've achieved a lot since moving (namely warding off depression and not feeling completely isolated, and technically I did get a job I just turned it down...), I would like to achieve something a teensy bit more tangible. A new house with tiles firmly fixed to the wall would do.
(I failed my driving test by the way folks... I've rebooked and will reveal the exact hilarious reason why I failed after I've passed)
But anyway...
There I am, taking my customary afternoon shower (because by the time I've got up, had coffee, checked email and caught up on whatever cheesey hospital dramas Jeremy refuses to tolerate it's more often than not the afternoon) when not one but 2 tiles come crashing down from above the shower head. Quite how they didn't hit me I'm not sure.
After reassuring myself that there wasn't a poltergeist (this involved waiting for tiles to start flying at me from all directions...that this was among my first thoughts says something about me) I washed the remaining conditioner out of my hair, standing as far away from the zone of tile-fire as possible, and then made a decision:
It's time to move.
Problem is I've known it was time to move since before I moved in. It was one of my conditions of moving here in the first place - along with learning to drive and getting a job...ahem...And we are looking for a place to buy, it's just not been found yet. I've come to the conclusion that realtors (aka estate agents) are geniuses with cameras and that architects have a few screws loose because it seems SO simple to build a house that has normal sized rooms but most have failed in this task and consequently we have so far failed in moving.
And now my bathroom, which was already pretty grim, is raining tiles on my head. I'm nearing a year of living here, and while I do feel like I've achieved a lot since moving (namely warding off depression and not feeling completely isolated, and technically I did get a job I just turned it down...), I would like to achieve something a teensy bit more tangible. A new house with tiles firmly fixed to the wall would do.
Approaching adulthood, perhaps.
I was thinking about keeping this secret so that if / when I fail, no one knows. But I think we all know by now that I'm not averse to airing my failures in public.
I'm taking my driving test tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I look my licenseless shame in the face and say 'bring it on'... or, more likely I whimper 'please, pretty please...'
The thing is I have no idea what to expect. Taking a driving test here seems to be like a lucky dip. People choose locations based on which testing-centres are renowned for giving easy tests. I've heard reports of people being asked to drive once around the block and that being deemed sufficient to pass. Or one friend who, when asked to back up 50 feet, backed up into oncoming traffic and was repeatedly given the opportunity to 're-do', until he kind of got it right. But equally there are internet rumours of people being failed for minor faults, and I definitely do know people who have failed here, for things much less than backing into the wrong side of the road.
I think the test in England is harder. It's certainly more expensive, takes longer than the reported 5 minutes and has to be taken on a standard unless you want to be limited to driving automatics for life (whereas here I can take the test on an automatic and then cheerfully get into a standard to drive home, never-mind if I've driven one before or not). And there's a system: you are guaranteed to be asked to do the whole gamut of driving tasks and X many minor faults = fail, 1 major fault = fail. I've even heard that they have a quota of passes for the day so if you're at the end of a day where lots of people have passed then you may be out of luck... although that sounds like a myth to me. Here though from what I've gathered, unless I'm unlucky enough to get one of the professional driving test testers (normally it's just a policeman... don't ask me why), it's all highly subjective and dependent on the person you get and whether they've had their weetabix.
OH and the best bit, just to make me feel that much more of a child for not yet having my license, my mother-in-law is going to be sitting in the back seat the whole time because Massachusetts dictates that I must have a 'sponsor' and Jeremy's at work so she's kindly volunteered. I'm not sure if I feel more sorry for her or me.
So, cross all flexible body parts people in the hope that by tomorrow afternoon I shall have graduated into adulthood. Either way I'll be sure to give a full report of my humiliation or triumph.
I'm taking my driving test tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I look my licenseless shame in the face and say 'bring it on'... or, more likely I whimper 'please, pretty please...'
The thing is I have no idea what to expect. Taking a driving test here seems to be like a lucky dip. People choose locations based on which testing-centres are renowned for giving easy tests. I've heard reports of people being asked to drive once around the block and that being deemed sufficient to pass. Or one friend who, when asked to back up 50 feet, backed up into oncoming traffic and was repeatedly given the opportunity to 're-do', until he kind of got it right. But equally there are internet rumours of people being failed for minor faults, and I definitely do know people who have failed here, for things much less than backing into the wrong side of the road.
I think the test in England is harder. It's certainly more expensive, takes longer than the reported 5 minutes and has to be taken on a standard unless you want to be limited to driving automatics for life (whereas here I can take the test on an automatic and then cheerfully get into a standard to drive home, never-mind if I've driven one before or not). And there's a system: you are guaranteed to be asked to do the whole gamut of driving tasks and X many minor faults = fail, 1 major fault = fail. I've even heard that they have a quota of passes for the day so if you're at the end of a day where lots of people have passed then you may be out of luck... although that sounds like a myth to me. Here though from what I've gathered, unless I'm unlucky enough to get one of the professional driving test testers (normally it's just a policeman... don't ask me why), it's all highly subjective and dependent on the person you get and whether they've had their weetabix.
OH and the best bit, just to make me feel that much more of a child for not yet having my license, my mother-in-law is going to be sitting in the back seat the whole time because Massachusetts dictates that I must have a 'sponsor' and Jeremy's at work so she's kindly volunteered. I'm not sure if I feel more sorry for her or me.
So, cross all flexible body parts people in the hope that by tomorrow afternoon I shall have graduated into adulthood. Either way I'll be sure to give a full report of my humiliation or triumph.
Leviathan
This week I took on the leviathan that is The American Work Ethic and, well, failed.
Basically I asked for the option to take a week’s unpaid leave because my European unionized self couldn’t quite bring myself to face 3 weeks of vacation (less any time where my immune system failed me and I had to use said ‘vacation’ in order to not puke all over my desk) and they said, ummmmm, no.
So I walked away. Or rather I sat on the couch and read the email and sighed.
Overnight I’ve gone from facing a prospect of gainful employment : a salary and a title that isn’t ‘unemployed layabout’ to being ‘unemployed layabout’ once more. But I’m ok about this. Here’s why:
1. 1. I can take my driving test without mortal terror of failing, since there’s no job waiting for me where I have to drive across New England in the first week.
Hmmmm I think that may be the primary and possibly only reason. On the bright side, the mortal fear did kick me into learning how to drive within a month, after having put it off for a good decade.
My other reasons that I tell myself to make me feel better are:
1. I’m not yet ready to compromise on the criteria I set when I first decided to move here (even though I know I may well have to eventually since that leviathan is pretty indomitable)
Ok so I’ve only got one reason on that also…
I’m lucky because I have a Jeremy who is OK with me putting off compromise until I can stomach it a little easier. Although, if we look at it from the other angle (which I do find useful), if I hadn’t moved to this crazy country then I’d be comfortable in my 5 weeks vacation, unlimited sick leave and in close proximity to family and friends so therefore able to use those 5 weeks on things other than visiting Devon… so while I am very grateful for my loving and supportive husband, this was all in the deal to begin with (this particular angle really just makes me feel a little less guilty for turning down a salary... love you Jeremy x)
Back to square one it is then, and an earnest weighing of the pros and cons of being a teacher.
I miss the EU.
Why I probably deserve to be bopped on the head with a frying pan.
This week one of my best friends had a baby and another close friend announced his wife was pregnant.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
The good life...
I haven't been writing a whole lot of late because the only interesting things that are happening are job interviews and, well, it seems unwise to start blogging about them.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
We're going on a job hunt...
Last week I finally caved to responsibility and started properly looking for jobs. Prior to that I'd just been pretending to look for jobs while actually looking at facebook. Quite who I thought I was fooling when I was the only person in the room I'm not sure.
The result of this flurry of job-search productivity is that I am heartened, perturbed and pink.
I am heartened because there are actual jobs out there that I actually want to do and believe I could do well.
I am perturbed because that means that I actually care if they like me or not and that's always a little unsettling.
I am pink because writing cover letters never fails to make me squirm. No matter how qualified I feel I am for a job, no matter what skills or experiences I genuinely have, the process of putting this information into a cover letter and 'selling' myself mortifies me.
However this is not a time for meek and reticent Englishness to hold me back. Therefore I have developed a technique for writing cover letters that has so far succeeded (in that I managed to write the cover letters, not in terms of anyone responding to them): I write with an American accent.
I find if I list my skills, abilities and qualifications with an English accent I sound smug and self-satisfied and more than a little unconvincing. Yet when I switch to American I just sound like a girl trying to get a job. I think this is because we British are so uncomfortable with anything that isn't self-deprecating and wry, whereas Americans have a frankness and an earnestness that makes these things far simpler. I'm not saying that Americans don't experience similar horror when stating they are a perfect fit for a job. Just that, in 'American' it sounds better, more acceptable, less...stiff.
I wonder whether there is any credibility to this theory - whether I write any differently than I would in an English accent - or whether it's just a matter of adding 'zees' to words like organization (but never advertised - confusing that - ooo, or confusing... don't Americans think we're weird for not using Zs? There are a few holes in their argument)
Apologies. This post was really just a long exercise in procrastination.
The result of this flurry of job-search productivity is that I am heartened, perturbed and pink.
I am heartened because there are actual jobs out there that I actually want to do and believe I could do well.
I am perturbed because that means that I actually care if they like me or not and that's always a little unsettling.
I am pink because writing cover letters never fails to make me squirm. No matter how qualified I feel I am for a job, no matter what skills or experiences I genuinely have, the process of putting this information into a cover letter and 'selling' myself mortifies me.
However this is not a time for meek and reticent Englishness to hold me back. Therefore I have developed a technique for writing cover letters that has so far succeeded (in that I managed to write the cover letters, not in terms of anyone responding to them): I write with an American accent.
I find if I list my skills, abilities and qualifications with an English accent I sound smug and self-satisfied and more than a little unconvincing. Yet when I switch to American I just sound like a girl trying to get a job. I think this is because we British are so uncomfortable with anything that isn't self-deprecating and wry, whereas Americans have a frankness and an earnestness that makes these things far simpler. I'm not saying that Americans don't experience similar horror when stating they are a perfect fit for a job. Just that, in 'American' it sounds better, more acceptable, less...stiff.
I wonder whether there is any credibility to this theory - whether I write any differently than I would in an English accent - or whether it's just a matter of adding 'zees' to words like organization (but never advertised - confusing that - ooo, or confusing... don't Americans think we're weird for not using Zs? There are a few holes in their argument)
Apologies. This post was really just a long exercise in procrastination.
The other side of the wedding fence... sort of
Life right now feels too big to encapsulate in a blog post. Mostly because nothing is happening beyond me feeling incredibly overwhelmed by everything that needs to happen and that's not particularly easy to write about.
People warned me that I could face post-wedding blues. That all the glitzy glamouryness of the wedding would leave a big wedding sized hole in my life.
I don't feel this way.
In fact, I have decided that while I loved my wedding, and while wearing a ridiculous-but-beautiful white dress for a day totally lived up to the superstar princess celebrity feeling I'd secretly dreamed of, other people's weddings are much more fun. At other people's weddings you just happily accept food and drink and more food and more drink and do not notice that the canapes seem to have shrunk or that the caterers have neglected to tell vegetarians that there is an option other than pork and lamb. And you most certainly do not obsess over napkin quality (that one comes with a warning - steer clear of napkin conversation with me for the next er 5 - 10 years ). At other people's weddings these details are irrelevant and unperceived (except perhaps if you're a vegetarian or napkin enthusiast.)
So, I have resolved never to get married again and to enthusiastically attend all the other-people's weddings I can.
I do however miss the excuse that the wedding provided. Everything I didn't want to do was put off until after the wedding - casually thrown over the wedding fence, mounting and piling into a big life-sized to-do list just waiting for the wedding and honeymoon and week-of-jet-lag-recovery to be over.
And now here we are.
So rather than doing what I should be doing, here is a list of what I learned over the past few wedding-filled months:
1. That I need to get over my need to appease people because I really just end up pissing off everyone.
2. That the steak and ale pie served at The Plough (in Dibley) is delicious and should always be ordered in preference over fish and chips.
3. That Jeremy cannot be trusted to share his steak and ale pie.
4. That I'm writing a novel (as announced by my dad in his speech...)
5. That I'm a saint (as announced by my father-in-law in his speech)
6. That if you're holding hands with someone when dancing and they fall over, you may end up damaging your finger for life.
7. That I have Miss Havisham tendencies that absolutely need to be suppressed
8. That Jeremy is capable of dancing - sort of - but it takes the peer pressure of 100+ people to make him do it.
9. That England can always be trusted to produce terrible weather
10. That I should never underestimate the power of Dibley - from accommodating guests to donating metric tons of hydrangeas to church transformation. That village is one of a kind.
11. That Jess is guaranteed to do something like turn an electric toothbrush covered in toothpaste on while wearing her bridesmaids dress...
I think I knew the last one already.
People warned me that I could face post-wedding blues. That all the glitzy glamouryness of the wedding would leave a big wedding sized hole in my life.
I don't feel this way.
In fact, I have decided that while I loved my wedding, and while wearing a ridiculous-but-beautiful white dress for a day totally lived up to the superstar princess celebrity feeling I'd secretly dreamed of, other people's weddings are much more fun. At other people's weddings you just happily accept food and drink and more food and more drink and do not notice that the canapes seem to have shrunk or that the caterers have neglected to tell vegetarians that there is an option other than pork and lamb. And you most certainly do not obsess over napkin quality (that one comes with a warning - steer clear of napkin conversation with me for the next er 5 - 10 years ). At other people's weddings these details are irrelevant and unperceived (except perhaps if you're a vegetarian or napkin enthusiast.)
So, I have resolved never to get married again and to enthusiastically attend all the other-people's weddings I can.
I do however miss the excuse that the wedding provided. Everything I didn't want to do was put off until after the wedding - casually thrown over the wedding fence, mounting and piling into a big life-sized to-do list just waiting for the wedding and honeymoon and week-of-jet-lag-recovery to be over.
And now here we are.
So rather than doing what I should be doing, here is a list of what I learned over the past few wedding-filled months:
1. That I need to get over my need to appease people because I really just end up pissing off everyone.
2. That the steak and ale pie served at The Plough (in Dibley) is delicious and should always be ordered in preference over fish and chips.
3. That Jeremy cannot be trusted to share his steak and ale pie.
4. That I'm writing a novel (as announced by my dad in his speech...)
5. That I'm a saint (as announced by my father-in-law in his speech)
6. That if you're holding hands with someone when dancing and they fall over, you may end up damaging your finger for life.
7. That I have Miss Havisham tendencies that absolutely need to be suppressed
8. That Jeremy is capable of dancing - sort of - but it takes the peer pressure of 100+ people to make him do it.
9. That England can always be trusted to produce terrible weather
10. That I should never underestimate the power of Dibley - from accommodating guests to donating metric tons of hydrangeas to church transformation. That village is one of a kind.
11. That Jess is guaranteed to do something like turn an electric toothbrush covered in toothpaste on while wearing her bridesmaids dress...
I think I knew the last one already.
Post ceremony with the Dibley river and mist for a background.
Evening attire and one of Abbie's amazing cupcakes.
The original Italy crowd, 7 years on.
A particularly cold gust of wind.
My wonderful bridesmaids, who did an amazing job attempting to keep me sane. Hats off to Abbie for braving the Stratton Family madness and emerging unscathed.
Decompression
Later this week I will rewind back 3 weeks or so and recap on all the adventures of Wedding preparation and the Dibley Flower Army and grooms with flu and sprained fingers and sleeper trains and honeymoon scooters on the French Riviera. For now though, I'm sat on Helen's bed, trying (and failing...sorry) not to get slightly-scorched croissant crumbs on her bed (The no-croissant diet is being put off for the foreseeable future), drinking coffee and gearing myself up to shower and head to richmond for a day of coffee and shopping and probably a fair amount of cider with a conveniently unemployed friend.
Two days in London before heading 'home'. It feels like a Hannah Decompression Chamber. I don't thnk anyone has ever referred to London as decompression before. Normally it's total compression, in the form of packed tube-trains, sucking all the air out of you and cramming you in to the tune of 'can you move up please' (seriously, who are the people who say that?). But these few days are allowing me to become accustomed again to my family being further away, to me being the independent adult that I'm supposed to be, before I really do the distance and resume life in Waltham.
I'm not sad about going back. Ahead of us is moving house (I'm far more excited about this than Jeremy is) and me getting a job (Jeremy is far more excited about that than I am) and me learning to drive (neither of us is looking forward to the effort required for that to actually happen). Lots of busy, good, life-building things.
I am sad to leave though. There is always a moment when I say goodbye to the crucial people when it feels like the air has been moved just out of reach and I have to gasp to find it.
Which is why saying goodbye in stages is helpful and good. From the hugs of family to the hugs of friends to the free wine and strangely comforting food of BA, I am decompressing back into a person who can handle living 3000 miles away.
(Jeremy is guaranteed to be asked to confirm about 10 times a day this week that yes, one day, we will live in England.)
Two days in London before heading 'home'. It feels like a Hannah Decompression Chamber. I don't thnk anyone has ever referred to London as decompression before. Normally it's total compression, in the form of packed tube-trains, sucking all the air out of you and cramming you in to the tune of 'can you move up please' (seriously, who are the people who say that?). But these few days are allowing me to become accustomed again to my family being further away, to me being the independent adult that I'm supposed to be, before I really do the distance and resume life in Waltham.
I'm not sad about going back. Ahead of us is moving house (I'm far more excited about this than Jeremy is) and me getting a job (Jeremy is far more excited about that than I am) and me learning to drive (neither of us is looking forward to the effort required for that to actually happen). Lots of busy, good, life-building things.
I am sad to leave though. There is always a moment when I say goodbye to the crucial people when it feels like the air has been moved just out of reach and I have to gasp to find it.
Which is why saying goodbye in stages is helpful and good. From the hugs of family to the hugs of friends to the free wine and strangely comforting food of BA, I am decompressing back into a person who can handle living 3000 miles away.
(Jeremy is guaranteed to be asked to confirm about 10 times a day this week that yes, one day, we will live in England.)
Progress Review
As I'm heading back to the UK today and as I'm looking for anything to do that isn't a) finishing packing, b)cleaning the kitchen floor or c) moving the mountain of wedding-present packaging out onto the curb, I thought I'd review one of the original to-do lists to see whether I have actually made progress in settling in here.
1. Get learners permit.
I put it off for as long as possible but eventually did achieve it.
2. Learn to drive.
This is happening. Slowly. I'm currently still recovering from attempting a hill start and then rolling backwards and almost hitting a car behind. Jeremy and I have so far only had one argument resulting from driving, where I was informed that I 'transform into a terrible person' behind the wheel and I have since tried very hard to remedy that.
3. Get social security number
Done, although I now have to go to the office and change my last name / get them to remove working restrictions etc etc.
4. Apply for /get Green Card.
Thank goodness this happened otherwise leaving today probably wouldn't be happening. Upon receiving my permanent resident status I cried out 'Yay, now I can leave'. Before that I'd been a prisoner of the immigration system.
5. Volunteer.
This is by far the best thing I've done. I'd like it even more if I got paid for it.
6. Learn French.
This was me thinking that with all my unemployed time I'd actually be motivated to put it to good use.
Hannah, meet Hannah...
...OK, this goal has been reviewed.
I did re-start my Rosetta Stone course, I just haven't got very far. I get frustrated having to answer stupid questions like "Is the boy eating an apple?" under a picture of a boy playing football and having to tell the computer "No, the boy is not eating an apple."
7. Move house.
I'm getting there. But this has been moved into the P.W. section of the year (Post Wedding)
8. Get a job.
See above, minus the 'I'm getting there' bit. Unemployment Rocks. (when you have a husband who transfers spending money into your account... which I think will start to have conditions attached P.W)
9. Make friends.
This is a work in progress. I certainly have people that were not in my life 6 months ago - I have people I can laugh with and get dinner with and probably confide in, should I have anything worth confiding - but it will take time for these friendships to really take root. In past experience, proper friendships have been born either out of living together or something dramatic involving hospitals and tears. I'm not going to be living with people any time soon so...
...hopefully there's more than one way to cement a friendship 'cause Manchester hospital UK is a long way from Boston.
10. Paint a picture.
See point 6. I think I got as far as drawing a chicken with oil pastels and I then accidentally cut it up while making a template for birthday bunting.
Progress Summary
"Overall Hannah has made good initial progress in settling into her new American life. She drags her feet when a task seems difficult or the results of said task involve effort, but eventually (after multiple motivation speeches from her mother and a few kicks up the bum from Jeremy) she does get her arse in gear. Perhaps most significant is that homesickness, while still present, has receded and on most days she feels happy in her life here. It will be interesting to see how homesick she feels when she returns from her upcoming visit to England. She is a little dubious about the approaching winter, and plans to weather this with red wellingtons, thermal underwear and a resistance to Jeremy's heat-saving tendencies. It is still early days in the emigre story, but the initial signs point to the move being a successful one."
Dammit now I've finished this I really do have to clean the kitchen floor.
1. Get learners permit.
I put it off for as long as possible but eventually did achieve it.
2. Learn to drive.
This is happening. Slowly. I'm currently still recovering from attempting a hill start and then rolling backwards and almost hitting a car behind. Jeremy and I have so far only had one argument resulting from driving, where I was informed that I 'transform into a terrible person' behind the wheel and I have since tried very hard to remedy that.
3. Get social security number
Done, although I now have to go to the office and change my last name / get them to remove working restrictions etc etc.
4. Apply for /get Green Card.
Thank goodness this happened otherwise leaving today probably wouldn't be happening. Upon receiving my permanent resident status I cried out 'Yay, now I can leave'. Before that I'd been a prisoner of the immigration system.
5. Volunteer.
This is by far the best thing I've done. I'd like it even more if I got paid for it.
6. Learn French.
This was me thinking that with all my unemployed time I'd actually be motivated to put it to good use.
Hannah, meet Hannah...
...OK, this goal has been reviewed.
I did re-start my Rosetta Stone course, I just haven't got very far. I get frustrated having to answer stupid questions like "Is the boy eating an apple?" under a picture of a boy playing football and having to tell the computer "No, the boy is not eating an apple."
7. Move house.
I'm getting there. But this has been moved into the P.W. section of the year (Post Wedding)
8. Get a job.
See above, minus the 'I'm getting there' bit. Unemployment Rocks. (when you have a husband who transfers spending money into your account... which I think will start to have conditions attached P.W)
9. Make friends.
This is a work in progress. I certainly have people that were not in my life 6 months ago - I have people I can laugh with and get dinner with and probably confide in, should I have anything worth confiding - but it will take time for these friendships to really take root. In past experience, proper friendships have been born either out of living together or something dramatic involving hospitals and tears. I'm not going to be living with people any time soon so...
...hopefully there's more than one way to cement a friendship 'cause Manchester hospital UK is a long way from Boston.
10. Paint a picture.
See point 6. I think I got as far as drawing a chicken with oil pastels and I then accidentally cut it up while making a template for birthday bunting.
Progress Summary
"Overall Hannah has made good initial progress in settling into her new American life. She drags her feet when a task seems difficult or the results of said task involve effort, but eventually (after multiple motivation speeches from her mother and a few kicks up the bum from Jeremy) she does get her arse in gear. Perhaps most significant is that homesickness, while still present, has receded and on most days she feels happy in her life here. It will be interesting to see how homesick she feels when she returns from her upcoming visit to England. She is a little dubious about the approaching winter, and plans to weather this with red wellingtons, thermal underwear and a resistance to Jeremy's heat-saving tendencies. It is still early days in the emigre story, but the initial signs point to the move being a successful one."
Dammit now I've finished this I really do have to clean the kitchen floor.
Packing...
I'm supposed to be packing, but writing about packing is far easier than actually packing so here I am.
Usually I don't find packing hard at all. I chuck a ton of stuff in bag and trust that Jeremy will have remembered all the essentials I've forgotten. Or that I can buy them when we get there (hence the ridiculous number of sun-cream bottles, plasticky hair-brushes and cheap sun-glasses that we own).
This time packing is different. For every item of clothing that I put on the bed, ready to be smushed into my suitcase, my heart does a double beat. It sounds like this:
Wed-ding.
Somehow I have to pack for 2 weeks of English summer (which means packing for most countries' 4 seasons), a week of backpacking in France and a wedding. Even if we ignore for the moment the massive wedding dress that I'll be hand-luggaging my way to England with, it's still going to be a lot of stuff.
Meanwhile, whilst packing rain-coats and bikinis, jeans and summer-skirts I'm also processing my return to the motherland. So much has changed and I'll be seeing so many people who it's broken my heart not to see. Just thinking about it overwhelms me.
I know from past experience that the England I left will not be the England I'll return to. I will have changed - there will be inflections in my accent, new mannerisms, 'bad' table-manners (no judgment - it's way easier your way...) that will distinguish me as not-quite English and if other people aren't aware of it then I will be anyway. That doesn't worry me too much though. What worries me is that I'm only now beginning to shake the homesickness, to settle here and accept the distance. Am I going to lose all that ground?
Stop rolling your eyes at me. I am NOT complaining. I can't wait to be back in the UK, knowing my way around and being understood and having EVERYONE I love most in the world in one errrr tent for a night. I'm just aware it's going to be a little odd and saying goodbye is never ever easy.
Which is my excuse for packing very very slowly.
Usually I don't find packing hard at all. I chuck a ton of stuff in bag and trust that Jeremy will have remembered all the essentials I've forgotten. Or that I can buy them when we get there (hence the ridiculous number of sun-cream bottles, plasticky hair-brushes and cheap sun-glasses that we own).
This time packing is different. For every item of clothing that I put on the bed, ready to be smushed into my suitcase, my heart does a double beat. It sounds like this:
Wed-ding.
Somehow I have to pack for 2 weeks of English summer (which means packing for most countries' 4 seasons), a week of backpacking in France and a wedding. Even if we ignore for the moment the massive wedding dress that I'll be hand-luggaging my way to England with, it's still going to be a lot of stuff.
Meanwhile, whilst packing rain-coats and bikinis, jeans and summer-skirts I'm also processing my return to the motherland. So much has changed and I'll be seeing so many people who it's broken my heart not to see. Just thinking about it overwhelms me.
I know from past experience that the England I left will not be the England I'll return to. I will have changed - there will be inflections in my accent, new mannerisms, 'bad' table-manners (no judgment - it's way easier your way...) that will distinguish me as not-quite English and if other people aren't aware of it then I will be anyway. That doesn't worry me too much though. What worries me is that I'm only now beginning to shake the homesickness, to settle here and accept the distance. Am I going to lose all that ground?
Stop rolling your eyes at me. I am NOT complaining. I can't wait to be back in the UK, knowing my way around and being understood and having EVERYONE I love most in the world in one errrr tent for a night. I'm just aware it's going to be a little odd and saying goodbye is never ever easy.
Which is my excuse for packing very very slowly.
A Trifle
Wedding planning madness is being interrupted this weekend by Jeremy turning old.
To celebrate, we're having a big BBQ where we'll smoke a pork shoulder to make pulled pork and accompany it with many many delicious sides, demonstrating conclusively that Americans know how to do BBQs in a way us Brits would never imagine. British BBQs of sausages and burgers certainly have their place in my heart but this is something else. The mere addition of mashed potato is enough to convert me, but throw into the mix collard greens, corn bread and jambalaya and I'm sold.
I recently discovered that an array of English roast-dinner accompaniments go surprisingly well with BBQ. cauliflower cheese has been a massive hit, and I think roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings would fare well also. So in a strike of genius, I decided that for Jeremy's party I would make a traditional English trifle. A taste of home that would integrate well with the BBQ deliciousness.. I checked with Jeremy on whether the ingredients would be available in our local supermarket and I set out on a humidity soaked quest to obtain them.
It took me about an hour of traipsing around the supermarket and one phone call to Jeremy asking for descriptions of brands / boxes / locations before I finally had a basket of passable trifle ingredients.Here is what I found out, in case you too want to make trifle in America.
- Custard is called Pudding and is to be found disguised as Jell-o. Birds custard does exist in the 'British Foods' section but it was, like everything there, prohibitively expensive.
- Jell-o, as we English already know from watching far too much American TV, is what they call Jelly, only it comes in disconcertingly powdered form, rather than the temptingly edible gelatin cubes that I grew up with.
- Lady fingers don't exist but I settled on Vanilla flavoured wafers, which seem comparable but are found with the cookies rather than baking section.
- Jam, as I'm sure everyone knows, is Jelly, which is fine only it lurks in the bakery section, plus by this point I was getting confused with the jelly / jell-o thing anyway.
I was then asked at the check-out if I was paying with food stamps, which either says something about me or the food I was buying, I'm not sure.
Sorry, that was SO un-pc of me. I take it back.
So, armed with my dubious substitutes for trifle ingredients (what would Delia say?) I am going to attempt to wow Americans with my British culinary skills.
I can't say I'm holding out a huge amount of hope.
To celebrate, we're having a big BBQ where we'll smoke a pork shoulder to make pulled pork and accompany it with many many delicious sides, demonstrating conclusively that Americans know how to do BBQs in a way us Brits would never imagine. British BBQs of sausages and burgers certainly have their place in my heart but this is something else. The mere addition of mashed potato is enough to convert me, but throw into the mix collard greens, corn bread and jambalaya and I'm sold.
I recently discovered that an array of English roast-dinner accompaniments go surprisingly well with BBQ. cauliflower cheese has been a massive hit, and I think roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings would fare well also. So in a strike of genius, I decided that for Jeremy's party I would make a traditional English trifle. A taste of home that would integrate well with the BBQ deliciousness.. I checked with Jeremy on whether the ingredients would be available in our local supermarket and I set out on a humidity soaked quest to obtain them.
It took me about an hour of traipsing around the supermarket and one phone call to Jeremy asking for descriptions of brands / boxes / locations before I finally had a basket of passable trifle ingredients.Here is what I found out, in case you too want to make trifle in America.
- Custard is called Pudding and is to be found disguised as Jell-o. Birds custard does exist in the 'British Foods' section but it was, like everything there, prohibitively expensive.
- Jell-o, as we English already know from watching far too much American TV, is what they call Jelly, only it comes in disconcertingly powdered form, rather than the temptingly edible gelatin cubes that I grew up with.
- Lady fingers don't exist but I settled on Vanilla flavoured wafers, which seem comparable but are found with the cookies rather than baking section.
- Jam, as I'm sure everyone knows, is Jelly, which is fine only it lurks in the bakery section, plus by this point I was getting confused with the jelly / jell-o thing anyway.
I was then asked at the check-out if I was paying with food stamps, which either says something about me or the food I was buying, I'm not sure.
Sorry, that was SO un-pc of me. I take it back.
So, armed with my dubious substitutes for trifle ingredients (what would Delia say?) I am going to attempt to wow Americans with my British culinary skills.
I can't say I'm holding out a huge amount of hope.
Driving with Jeremy
Jeremy: Ok, now you’re gonna take a right and then an immediate left…
…Woah, woah, watch it….
- Silence –
Jeremy: Sorry
He’s apologizing because I don’t like it when he voices nervousness when I’m driving. Only in this instance he’s perfectly entitled to because I’ve just nearly crashed into a tree.
Jeremy: “Er you can go faster if you want” (I'm now driving about 10 mph)
Me: “I’m still processing the tree.”
Until recently, my only experience with driving was with a driving instructor in England 7 years ago. This is completely different. Firstly because I was not married to the driving instructor and therefore crying / sulking / moaning was not permitted – I had to suck it up and get on with it. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, because the driving instructor had a brake.
I feel the need to state here that I’m learning on a standard. Possibly the only standard in the whole of North America. I know this will not garner any sympathy from you English folks, but at least a large number of Americans reading this will concede that they wouldn’t be able to turn a corner while shifting gear either.
A major advantage (or disadvantage, depending what mood I’m in) of living with my driving instructor is that he can motivate me to practice and I need motivation because I am not remotely inclined to risk my life (and more importantly Jeremy's car's life) of an evening. Motivation from Jeremy generally comes in the form of a reminder that no one, absolutely no one aged 26 does not know how to drive.
It does the trick.
Because literally everyone drives here. If you have not learned to drive by age 17 then you are a freak of nature. The literature on the DMV’s website about getting your learner’s permit reads: “You just turned 16 and are ready to obtain your learner's permit. This is what you need to know before planning a trip with your parent or guardian to your local Registry branch” When I went into the local registry branch (without my parent or guardian) I was asked had I been there before. When I replied no I was asked my age. When I told her my age she said ‘So, you have been here before.’
Sigh.
I am an anomaly, a mystery, an aberration. When I tell people I do not drive they look at me as if trying to assess what exactly is wrong with me. I try to reassure them that it’s normal in England for people not to learn until later but that doesn’t help much – it just confirms their suspicions that all English people are weird.
All I can do is learn how to drive as soon as possible. Which means stopping being such a wimp about the whole thing and just doing it. And looking out for trees.
…Woah, woah, watch it….
- Silence –
Jeremy: Sorry
He’s apologizing because I don’t like it when he voices nervousness when I’m driving. Only in this instance he’s perfectly entitled to because I’ve just nearly crashed into a tree.
Jeremy: “Er you can go faster if you want” (I'm now driving about 10 mph)
Me: “I’m still processing the tree.”
Until recently, my only experience with driving was with a driving instructor in England 7 years ago. This is completely different. Firstly because I was not married to the driving instructor and therefore crying / sulking / moaning was not permitted – I had to suck it up and get on with it. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, because the driving instructor had a brake.
I feel the need to state here that I’m learning on a standard. Possibly the only standard in the whole of North America. I know this will not garner any sympathy from you English folks, but at least a large number of Americans reading this will concede that they wouldn’t be able to turn a corner while shifting gear either.
A major advantage (or disadvantage, depending what mood I’m in) of living with my driving instructor is that he can motivate me to practice and I need motivation because I am not remotely inclined to risk my life (and more importantly Jeremy's car's life) of an evening. Motivation from Jeremy generally comes in the form of a reminder that no one, absolutely no one aged 26 does not know how to drive.
It does the trick.
Because literally everyone drives here. If you have not learned to drive by age 17 then you are a freak of nature. The literature on the DMV’s website about getting your learner’s permit reads: “You just turned 16 and are ready to obtain your learner's permit. This is what you need to know before planning a trip with your parent or guardian to your local Registry branch” When I went into the local registry branch (without my parent or guardian) I was asked had I been there before. When I replied no I was asked my age. When I told her my age she said ‘So, you have been here before.’
Sigh.
I am an anomaly, a mystery, an aberration. When I tell people I do not drive they look at me as if trying to assess what exactly is wrong with me. I try to reassure them that it’s normal in England for people not to learn until later but that doesn’t help much – it just confirms their suspicions that all English people are weird.
All I can do is learn how to drive as soon as possible. Which means stopping being such a wimp about the whole thing and just doing it. And looking out for trees.
Getting married while being married...
Getting married when you're already married is a curious thing. Not only does it confuse the heck out of grandparents (I think I reassured Jeremy's Grandma about 20 times this weekend that yes, we are already married), it also frames the whole ceremony and process entirely differently to what I imagine most brides experience.
Case in point. I've been searching for readings / poems to be read during the ceremony and I've been struggling to find ones that honestly speak to the heart of marriage - that capture the terror and the trust and the beauty of it all. Things that I don't think most people truly realise until way after the ceremony planning is done.
Because being married is near beyond description. I don't want to come across like one of those couples (we know who you are) who seem to imagine they've taken on celebrity status upon sharing surnames. Getting married is hardly an original thing to do. But there's something magical about it that even I, a die-hard follower of the hopeless-romantic school of thought, could never have imagined and I'm still busy marveling at the whole thing.
I think because the act of getting married is so deadly terrifying - promising forever to someone when you have absolutely no control over what forever might throw at you, there is such a profound depth of trust placed both in yourself and in your partner. And this trust wraps around you both and creates a space of comfort and confidence that is unimaginable before you get married.
That said, the every day details of life don't change. We're still incredibly messy. It still drives me crazy that he doesn't flush the toilet when he pees and that to get into our house you must first navigate an obstacle course of tomatoes and hoses and a watering can with a sock wrapped around it, brewing 'worm 'tea' (don't ask...). I know it annoys him that I always forget to wring out the kitchen sponge and that I don't care which way the toilet roll goes onto the thingy.
There are still times when I think of 'forever' and my stomach tips with vertigo before I mentally place 'forever' in the context of day-by-day and the dizziness recedes. But it's that luminous trust that binds us - that step together Indiana Jones style (if you've been to as many christian camps as I did growing up you'll know that clip well) into the unknown, stepping into each day together and securing this life of ours so that it is able to face future storms - that is what I want to communicate in the marriage ceremony and what I want to re-promise.
Here's the closest poem I've found so far, although given the choice I'd sub in prawn cocktail crisps for popcorn...
Habitation - Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder at having survived even this far
we are learning to make fire.
Case in point. I've been searching for readings / poems to be read during the ceremony and I've been struggling to find ones that honestly speak to the heart of marriage - that capture the terror and the trust and the beauty of it all. Things that I don't think most people truly realise until way after the ceremony planning is done.
Because being married is near beyond description. I don't want to come across like one of those couples (we know who you are) who seem to imagine they've taken on celebrity status upon sharing surnames. Getting married is hardly an original thing to do. But there's something magical about it that even I, a die-hard follower of the hopeless-romantic school of thought, could never have imagined and I'm still busy marveling at the whole thing.
I think because the act of getting married is so deadly terrifying - promising forever to someone when you have absolutely no control over what forever might throw at you, there is such a profound depth of trust placed both in yourself and in your partner. And this trust wraps around you both and creates a space of comfort and confidence that is unimaginable before you get married.
That said, the every day details of life don't change. We're still incredibly messy. It still drives me crazy that he doesn't flush the toilet when he pees and that to get into our house you must first navigate an obstacle course of tomatoes and hoses and a watering can with a sock wrapped around it, brewing 'worm 'tea' (don't ask...). I know it annoys him that I always forget to wring out the kitchen sponge and that I don't care which way the toilet roll goes onto the thingy.
There are still times when I think of 'forever' and my stomach tips with vertigo before I mentally place 'forever' in the context of day-by-day and the dizziness recedes. But it's that luminous trust that binds us - that step together Indiana Jones style (if you've been to as many christian camps as I did growing up you'll know that clip well) into the unknown, stepping into each day together and securing this life of ours so that it is able to face future storms - that is what I want to communicate in the marriage ceremony and what I want to re-promise.
Here's the closest poem I've found so far, although given the choice I'd sub in prawn cocktail crisps for popcorn...
Habitation - Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder at having survived even this far
we are learning to make fire.
Nudity and Salad Bowls
There comes a time in every Boston summer where the only solution is nudity and salad bowls full of iced water.
No this isn't some kinky American practice, it's called stifling heat and no air conditioning. I'm not sure I've ever been this hot. There have been holidays to hot destinations, but they are always accompanied by pools or oceans and never by kitchens that need cleaning before father-in-laws come for dinner.
(The salad bowl is for my feet by the way.)
I drive Jeremy crazy. Because while yes, I am wandering around the house sans clothes, I am also moaning my head off. Basically I off-set the lack of clothes with unattractive complaining so as far as Jeremy's concerned I may as well be wearing an astronaut suit.
But seriously, I think I might die. I am not a person who sweats. Mostly because I am a person who avoids all activities (other than sunbathing on beaches) where sweating is a consequence. I don't like sweating. It's sticky and uncomfortable and pretty gross. Thedungeon basement is about the only place where the temperature is bearable and, well, I'd rather die of heat exhaustion.
The worst of it is I can't even blame Jeremy for our lack of air conditioning, because this principle is mine also. I don't believe in it - I think it puts people out of touch with their environment, it wastes tons of energy and the recycled air makes people ill. So, no blaming Jeremy on this one.
Seems complaining is the only answer. That or McDonalds. I may have principles but they have Mcflurries and air conditioning...
No this isn't some kinky American practice, it's called stifling heat and no air conditioning. I'm not sure I've ever been this hot. There have been holidays to hot destinations, but they are always accompanied by pools or oceans and never by kitchens that need cleaning before father-in-laws come for dinner.
(The salad bowl is for my feet by the way.)
I drive Jeremy crazy. Because while yes, I am wandering around the house sans clothes, I am also moaning my head off. Basically I off-set the lack of clothes with unattractive complaining so as far as Jeremy's concerned I may as well be wearing an astronaut suit.
But seriously, I think I might die. I am not a person who sweats. Mostly because I am a person who avoids all activities (other than sunbathing on beaches) where sweating is a consequence. I don't like sweating. It's sticky and uncomfortable and pretty gross. The
The worst of it is I can't even blame Jeremy for our lack of air conditioning, because this principle is mine also. I don't believe in it - I think it puts people out of touch with their environment, it wastes tons of energy and the recycled air makes people ill. So, no blaming Jeremy on this one.
Seems complaining is the only answer. That or McDonalds. I may have principles but they have Mcflurries and air conditioning...
Hi-Five, America.
Americans love to Hi-Five. Even when they do it with full ironic awareness, I'm pretty sure the majority of their being is indulging entirely in the cheesy exuberance of hand-slapping expression.
I hate to hi-five.
My reasons for this are as follows:
1. I'm not American
2. I'm not stupid
3. I'm fairly introvert and such demonstrations of enthusiasm make me uncomfortable
To combat this, and because it's funny, I developed an anti-hi-five tactic: when faced with an expectant hand saluting before me, I extend my hand at normal hand-shaking level and offer to shake. 'I'm British', I say. I don't do Hi-Fives.
Americans hate this.
For a while I found it pretty funny - and I assumed that they got the humour. I knew they were disconcerted, but I figured they'd just chalk it up to me and my dry British wit. However, this fourth of July weekend (the only time they ever say the date that way around, which is my reason for celebrating) I was told in no uncertain terms that in refusing to hi-five I am being rude and stand-offish and downright un-fun. OK the person doing the telling had been drinking since 7am, but I tend to believe the kernels of truth that come from alcohol loosened tongues.
Dry British humour bellyflops again.
(Or maybe they could just see through it to the fact that I hate hi-fiving and it's all a bluff.)
So I have to find a new technique for Hi-Five coping. Because believe me they appear at the most unexpected moments and from the most unexpected wrists.
My options as I see them are to either half halfheartedly indulge the Americans, whilst letting them know that I do not in anyway enjoy it. Or to irony the heck out of the situation and conjure up more enthusiasm and hi-fiving vigour than you'd find in High School Musical. I think the latter is far more funny. I think knowing me there's no way I'm capable of pulling it off. A future of reluctant hi-fives it is.
I hate to hi-five.
My reasons for this are as follows:
1. I'm not American
2. I'm not stupid
3. I'm fairly introvert and such demonstrations of enthusiasm make me uncomfortable
To combat this, and because it's funny, I developed an anti-hi-five tactic: when faced with an expectant hand saluting before me, I extend my hand at normal hand-shaking level and offer to shake. 'I'm British', I say. I don't do Hi-Fives.
Americans hate this.
For a while I found it pretty funny - and I assumed that they got the humour. I knew they were disconcerted, but I figured they'd just chalk it up to me and my dry British wit. However, this fourth of July weekend (the only time they ever say the date that way around, which is my reason for celebrating) I was told in no uncertain terms that in refusing to hi-five I am being rude and stand-offish and downright un-fun. OK the person doing the telling had been drinking since 7am, but I tend to believe the kernels of truth that come from alcohol loosened tongues.
Dry British humour bellyflops again.
(Or maybe they could just see through it to the fact that I hate hi-fiving and it's all a bluff.)
So I have to find a new technique for Hi-Five coping. Because believe me they appear at the most unexpected moments and from the most unexpected wrists.
My options as I see them are to either half halfheartedly indulge the Americans, whilst letting them know that I do not in anyway enjoy it. Or to irony the heck out of the situation and conjure up more enthusiasm and hi-fiving vigour than you'd find in High School Musical. I think the latter is far more funny. I think knowing me there's no way I'm capable of pulling it off. A future of reluctant hi-fives it is.
Wedding Countdown and More Lists to be Ticked...
There's under two months to go until wedding no.2 and the nightmares have started.
I'd thought I was pretty well prepared - I'd done a lot before leaving England and it was really just sundries and a few loose ends left. Nothing to stress about.
Apparently my subconscious disagrees.
In my subconscious, I am the epitome of flaky disorganisation. I forget to do flowers, my dress is a foot too long because I've forgotten to have it taken up and I have mean friends who spitefully throw massive glasses of water all over me. For some reason I haven't yet dreamed about Jeremy not showing up, which is actually a valid concern because he hasn't booked his tickets yet and I have. I did manage to veto his master plan of flying via Iceland though. There's a reason why those tickets are cheaper. That volcano may have quietened down for the time being, but that's no reason to go and taunt it.
Needless to say, my wedding related anxiety has been slowly but surely mounting in the past two weeks.It's an ongoing dialogue between Jeremy and I that has no end. Or rather, it's an ongoing monologue where every now and again in the middle of unrelated conversation I'll throw in a task that we really really need to do and Jeremy attempts to ignore me. I am not easily ignored. Jeremy's solution to try and stop my anxious wheedling is to book in wedding time. Whole chunks of time devoted to wedding related chores and in return I'm supposed to not worry aloud for the rest of the week.
I do not keep my side of the bargain.
Wedding time does work though. On Tuesday we bought Jeremy's suit and our rings all within the space of about 2 hours. On the way home, all I could think about was the satisfaction I would get from ticking those jobs off the list on the fridge. I was genuinely excited about it - one big permanent marker tick per job. Maybe two in the wedding ring box because there were two rings. For once my wedding chatter was about tasks accomplished and ticking...
We got home and I momentarily forgot about ticking and went to the loo or made tea or ate part of the mountain of carrot cake that is the result of my bridal shower and me having chosen a not-universally-loved cake flavour (and my sister in law buying a cake for 45 people when the shower was comprised of 15. I'm not complaining though, I have enough cake to last at least a week)...
When I returned, marker in hand to tick off my list I found to my horror that Jeremy had already done it. Not even a good tick either, the sort of half-arsed badly proportioned tick that only a malicious left-handed husband could do. While he chuckled in the background I morosely traced over his ticks.
It did not have the same effect.
The phrase 'candy from a baby' comes to mind, although in that story I'm the baby so that's not great.
Never fear, there are many more tasks on the list and I shall get my own back by nagging him to death.
Jeremy. You really need to book your flights. Now.
I'm serious.
I'd thought I was pretty well prepared - I'd done a lot before leaving England and it was really just sundries and a few loose ends left. Nothing to stress about.
Apparently my subconscious disagrees.
In my subconscious, I am the epitome of flaky disorganisation. I forget to do flowers, my dress is a foot too long because I've forgotten to have it taken up and I have mean friends who spitefully throw massive glasses of water all over me. For some reason I haven't yet dreamed about Jeremy not showing up, which is actually a valid concern because he hasn't booked his tickets yet and I have. I did manage to veto his master plan of flying via Iceland though. There's a reason why those tickets are cheaper. That volcano may have quietened down for the time being, but that's no reason to go and taunt it.
Needless to say, my wedding related anxiety has been slowly but surely mounting in the past two weeks.It's an ongoing dialogue between Jeremy and I that has no end. Or rather, it's an ongoing monologue where every now and again in the middle of unrelated conversation I'll throw in a task that we really really need to do and Jeremy attempts to ignore me. I am not easily ignored. Jeremy's solution to try and stop my anxious wheedling is to book in wedding time. Whole chunks of time devoted to wedding related chores and in return I'm supposed to not worry aloud for the rest of the week.
I do not keep my side of the bargain.
Wedding time does work though. On Tuesday we bought Jeremy's suit and our rings all within the space of about 2 hours. On the way home, all I could think about was the satisfaction I would get from ticking those jobs off the list on the fridge. I was genuinely excited about it - one big permanent marker tick per job. Maybe two in the wedding ring box because there were two rings. For once my wedding chatter was about tasks accomplished and ticking...
We got home and I momentarily forgot about ticking and went to the loo or made tea or ate part of the mountain of carrot cake that is the result of my bridal shower and me having chosen a not-universally-loved cake flavour (and my sister in law buying a cake for 45 people when the shower was comprised of 15. I'm not complaining though, I have enough cake to last at least a week)...
When I returned, marker in hand to tick off my list I found to my horror that Jeremy had already done it. Not even a good tick either, the sort of half-arsed badly proportioned tick that only a malicious left-handed husband could do. While he chuckled in the background I morosely traced over his ticks.
It did not have the same effect.
The phrase 'candy from a baby' comes to mind, although in that story I'm the baby so that's not great.
Never fear, there are many more tasks on the list and I shall get my own back by nagging him to death.
Jeremy. You really need to book your flights. Now.
I'm serious.
Family Visit
My house is eerily quiet, my eyes are swollen, there is a new pot of marmite in the cupboard and I have an abnormal amount of washing to do (that's laundry, Americans - I'm not abnormally dirty...). This is the aftermath of the first visit of my family since my moving and marriaging.
It was wonderful to see my mum and sister- as they walked blearily through the arrival gate at Logan, I felt that part of me that's only fueled by family take a breath.
The week was emotionally charged but full of love and at least one lasting legend. Being chased by a squirrel from a park is likely never to be forgotten (seriously, I threw water and flip-flops at him and he kept advancing). I'd needed desperately to be around people who I could be completely normal and relaxed with - people who I could suspend politeness and just be me with (of course I can do this with Jeremy, but the more the better) - and I got it. What a treat to be able to growl at people who talk to me before my morning coffee, instead of feigning pleasant wakefulness.
The week also had its disappointments. These by no means defined the week but it's these I'm going to write about because they seem to be key to the expat experience.
Because when you gather up all that missing - all the longing for hugs and implicit understanding, all the wished for confidences over tea and biscuits - when you bundle it up and lay it at the door of a week-long visit, asking the visit to be the golden family sustenance to nourish you through the upcoming months of missing, you are guaranteed to be disappointed.
Add to the mix a basement spare-room so heavy with humidity it almost squelches, a husband bent double in agony with a back-problem and a dependence on public transport and you have enough niggles to ensure moments of tension and misunderstanding. These moments are of course part and parcel of family dynamics - particularly my family as we're very good at sharing our emotions. The problem comes when you pair them with the bundle of need and expectation, and you're left with a frustrating feeling of the visit being somehow incomplete or imperfect. Like half a sentence left hanging in the air.
Somehow we are going to have to work out a formula for visit success. In it will likely involve some heavily managed expectations and a dehumidifier. Ultimately though I have to accept that in moving to America I have changed how I can be with my family. I no longer have access to un-pressured family time, and resenting that isn't going to help.
That said, every now and again I'm going to have to shut myself in a room, stamp my feet and shout "it's just not fair". This may be the norm for the near-future, we may have to work out techniques to manage it, but man it sucks sometimes.
It was wonderful to see my mum and sister- as they walked blearily through the arrival gate at Logan, I felt that part of me that's only fueled by family take a breath.
The week was emotionally charged but full of love and at least one lasting legend. Being chased by a squirrel from a park is likely never to be forgotten (seriously, I threw water and flip-flops at him and he kept advancing). I'd needed desperately to be around people who I could be completely normal and relaxed with - people who I could suspend politeness and just be me with (of course I can do this with Jeremy, but the more the better) - and I got it. What a treat to be able to growl at people who talk to me before my morning coffee, instead of feigning pleasant wakefulness.
The week also had its disappointments. These by no means defined the week but it's these I'm going to write about because they seem to be key to the expat experience.
Because when you gather up all that missing - all the longing for hugs and implicit understanding, all the wished for confidences over tea and biscuits - when you bundle it up and lay it at the door of a week-long visit, asking the visit to be the golden family sustenance to nourish you through the upcoming months of missing, you are guaranteed to be disappointed.
Add to the mix a basement spare-room so heavy with humidity it almost squelches, a husband bent double in agony with a back-problem and a dependence on public transport and you have enough niggles to ensure moments of tension and misunderstanding. These moments are of course part and parcel of family dynamics - particularly my family as we're very good at sharing our emotions. The problem comes when you pair them with the bundle of need and expectation, and you're left with a frustrating feeling of the visit being somehow incomplete or imperfect. Like half a sentence left hanging in the air.
Somehow we are going to have to work out a formula for visit success. In it will likely involve some heavily managed expectations and a dehumidifier. Ultimately though I have to accept that in moving to America I have changed how I can be with my family. I no longer have access to un-pressured family time, and resenting that isn't going to help.
That said, every now and again I'm going to have to shut myself in a room, stamp my feet and shout "it's just not fair". This may be the norm for the near-future, we may have to work out techniques to manage it, but man it sucks sometimes.
Final Fantasy
"Hans, can you find out how I change the cloudy mirror to the celestial mirror?"
"Sure - you go find a man at the campsite and tell him where his wife is. Then you go back to the woman but the boy will have gone. Then you go up the glowing path to find the boy and the mirror will change"
Unless you too have a husband / partner who is prone to video-game addiction, you are probably wondering whether a) Jeremy and I have moved to Avatar land or b) we've lost our tenuous grip on reality.
But no, alas, while I'd really quite like to live in Avatar-land, in actual fact I'm sat on a sofa googling cheats for my husband.
For the past few weeks, since some dear soul at Jeremy's geek-filled workplace lent him a stack of games, Jeremy has been transfixed. I go to bed with the music to Final Fantasy playing in my head. At least, I think it's in my head, but it also might just be audible from the next room because for the past two weeks I can't remember going to bed at the same time as Jeremy. I also can't remember waking up and him being there. In fact, it's entirely possible that he hasn't been to bed at all.
I'm not sure what the correct plan of anti-final-fantasy attack should be. My options as I see them are:
a) pinch him whenever he plays as a subtle aversion therapy so that he ultimately associates it with discomfort.
b) feed the games to his worms as some sort of modern-take-on-a-greek-myth revenge.
c) find out as many cheats as possible and wait until he falls asleep (assuming he does sleep) and then subliminally communicate them (he only intentionally cheats when he's exhausted all possible options) so that he wakes inspired and actually finishes the damn game.
I have a feeling that the latter is the only real option available to me, since from past experience I know that until he finishes the thing, there'll be no distracting him.Plus I'm not 100% sure worms eat CDs...
Do you think it's a sign that the honeymoon period is over when your husband tries to get you to go to bed early (alone) so that he can play his video games?
That was a rhetorical question.
"Sure - you go find a man at the campsite and tell him where his wife is. Then you go back to the woman but the boy will have gone. Then you go up the glowing path to find the boy and the mirror will change"
Unless you too have a husband / partner who is prone to video-game addiction, you are probably wondering whether a) Jeremy and I have moved to Avatar land or b) we've lost our tenuous grip on reality.
But no, alas, while I'd really quite like to live in Avatar-land, in actual fact I'm sat on a sofa googling cheats for my husband.
For the past few weeks, since some dear soul at Jeremy's geek-filled workplace lent him a stack of games, Jeremy has been transfixed. I go to bed with the music to Final Fantasy playing in my head. At least, I think it's in my head, but it also might just be audible from the next room because for the past two weeks I can't remember going to bed at the same time as Jeremy. I also can't remember waking up and him being there. In fact, it's entirely possible that he hasn't been to bed at all.
I'm not sure what the correct plan of anti-final-fantasy attack should be. My options as I see them are:
a) pinch him whenever he plays as a subtle aversion therapy so that he ultimately associates it with discomfort.
b) feed the games to his worms as some sort of modern-take-on-a-greek-myth revenge.
c) find out as many cheats as possible and wait until he falls asleep (assuming he does sleep) and then subliminally communicate them (he only intentionally cheats when he's exhausted all possible options) so that he wakes inspired and actually finishes the damn game.
I have a feeling that the latter is the only real option available to me, since from past experience I know that until he finishes the thing, there'll be no distracting him.Plus I'm not 100% sure worms eat CDs...
Do you think it's a sign that the honeymoon period is over when your husband tries to get you to go to bed early (alone) so that he can play his video games?
That was a rhetorical question.
Biking in Burlington.
"I'm not going any further" I call out to Jeremy's receding back. "Jeremy!"
He screeches his bike to a halt and turns around. "What's wrong now?"
"I'm not going any further." I get off the bike and resist the urge to throw it into the bushes and stomp my feet.
"Come on - we're almost there and you're doing so well."
I know when I'm being patronised, plus we're not almost there. There's at least another mile of hill ahead of us and the 100 feet I've just done has near enough killed me.
There's a reason I'm wary of bikes. I have a habit of spontaneously and inexplicably catapulting myself over the handlebars and I am pretty much entirely without muscle. So when Jeremy suggested we get me a bike so that we could cycle around Burlington VT this weekend, I was apprehensive. "Will it be hilly?" I asked. "No." was the reply - "it's a lake-side city - all very flat". So against my better judgment I borrowed a bike from my friend's oldest son which we strapped to the back of the car and drove off up to Burlington.
It turns out that while Burlington VT is on a lake, the lake is in a valley and our hotel was not. Our hotel was at the top of the hill that led down to the lake in the valley. And while cycling down to the lake was fun and required more exertion of my brakes than my legs, cycling back to the hotel was less fun.
There are times when I hate my husband. There are times when I glare into the back of his head (these times are always when he is ahead of me on some excursion of some sort where my heart rate is required to go above what is comfortable), furious at him for being so frustratingly reasonable and nice and physically fit. (Furious at myself for being so unreasonable, annoying and embarrassingly unfit.) Cycling up hill in Burlington VT on a bike that was last owned by a sixteen year old boy, with Jeremy riding way ahead with mocking ease, was one of those times.
"Well what do you want to do instead?" He asks.
I consider asking him to go get the car to pick me up, but I don't much fancy waiting in the dark for him to return - plus I think his saintly patience might be wearing thin and he might just decide to leave me here. I weigh the amount of time it'd take me to push the bike back to the hotel vs the pain and anguish of riding back vs the fact that I need to pee.
I get back on the bike.
"There you go - I knew you could do it - you're more capable that you think" Jeremy says. I glower - refusing to let him see that while I know I'm being patronised, I like it all the same.
He screeches his bike to a halt and turns around. "What's wrong now?"
"I'm not going any further." I get off the bike and resist the urge to throw it into the bushes and stomp my feet.
"Come on - we're almost there and you're doing so well."
I know when I'm being patronised, plus we're not almost there. There's at least another mile of hill ahead of us and the 100 feet I've just done has near enough killed me.
There's a reason I'm wary of bikes. I have a habit of spontaneously and inexplicably catapulting myself over the handlebars and I am pretty much entirely without muscle. So when Jeremy suggested we get me a bike so that we could cycle around Burlington VT this weekend, I was apprehensive. "Will it be hilly?" I asked. "No." was the reply - "it's a lake-side city - all very flat". So against my better judgment I borrowed a bike from my friend's oldest son which we strapped to the back of the car and drove off up to Burlington.
It turns out that while Burlington VT is on a lake, the lake is in a valley and our hotel was not. Our hotel was at the top of the hill that led down to the lake in the valley. And while cycling down to the lake was fun and required more exertion of my brakes than my legs, cycling back to the hotel was less fun.
There are times when I hate my husband. There are times when I glare into the back of his head (these times are always when he is ahead of me on some excursion of some sort where my heart rate is required to go above what is comfortable), furious at him for being so frustratingly reasonable and nice and physically fit. (Furious at myself for being so unreasonable, annoying and embarrassingly unfit.) Cycling up hill in Burlington VT on a bike that was last owned by a sixteen year old boy, with Jeremy riding way ahead with mocking ease, was one of those times.
"Well what do you want to do instead?" He asks.
I consider asking him to go get the car to pick me up, but I don't much fancy waiting in the dark for him to return - plus I think his saintly patience might be wearing thin and he might just decide to leave me here. I weigh the amount of time it'd take me to push the bike back to the hotel vs the pain and anguish of riding back vs the fact that I need to pee.
I get back on the bike.
"There you go - I knew you could do it - you're more capable that you think" Jeremy says. I glower - refusing to let him see that while I know I'm being patronised, I like it all the same.
Snap Crackle Pop
Today (while volunteering) I met someone who had never seen rice krispies before. Someone who had never heard of cereal. Any cereal.
Imagine that.
I know it's not exactly an integral part of our existence but just imagine.
No snap
No crackle
No pop
The thing that baffled me was not so much the lack of cereal experience. If I'd never eaten rice crispies I think I'd be OK . (In fact the only thing rice-krispies are good for is to mix with molten chocolate, cool for an hour or so and then indulge in the chocolaty crispy goodness.) The thing that confounded me was the degree of separation from western culture that lack of rice-krispie knowledge represents.
Now imagine that the person who has never heard of rice krispies has arrived in America. Friendless, homeless and emotionally scarred because of experiences that drove them to leave their family, friends, home and familiar breakfast food. Neither permitted to work nor entitled to benefits. Able to speak 5 languages but none of them English. Expected to navigate an immigration system so abstruse and dense that I, (a person who has grown up with rice-krispies) lost considerable amounts of sleep, saline and sanity because of it.
And if they fail to navigate that system - if they fail to attend appointments for health assessments, biometrics and immigration interviews - if they can't afford to get to the appointments or are so overwhelmed by this country they're scared to leave the house, then they become an 'illegal immigrant' and are immediately thought of by the masses as the scourge of society.
There are people who flee to the west who have never before encountered stairs.
That blows my mind.
I've taken two things from today:
1. I've remembered why I'm passionate about helping refugees and asylum seekers. I've remembered the importance of extending warmth and welcome to people who have experienced the worst of this world and then find themselves in a foreign world - technically 'safe' but in reality exposed and disoriented and lost.
2. I've seen my situation in its true perspective. I am lucky. Blessed. This experience of mine is not easy, but it could be worse beyond all imaginings.For all the times I am homesick, at least I know that my family is safe from harm. For all the times I miss chocolate digestives and sausages (and I do miss them, very very much), at least I have the means to buy food (ice-cream gets special mention). For all the times I long for the familiar, at least I speak the language.
At least I know what rice-krispies are.
Imagine that.
I know it's not exactly an integral part of our existence but just imagine.
No snap
No crackle
No pop
The thing that baffled me was not so much the lack of cereal experience. If I'd never eaten rice crispies I think I'd be OK . (In fact the only thing rice-krispies are good for is to mix with molten chocolate, cool for an hour or so and then indulge in the chocolaty crispy goodness.) The thing that confounded me was the degree of separation from western culture that lack of rice-krispie knowledge represents.
Now imagine that the person who has never heard of rice krispies has arrived in America. Friendless, homeless and emotionally scarred because of experiences that drove them to leave their family, friends, home and familiar breakfast food. Neither permitted to work nor entitled to benefits. Able to speak 5 languages but none of them English. Expected to navigate an immigration system so abstruse and dense that I, (a person who has grown up with rice-krispies) lost considerable amounts of sleep, saline and sanity because of it.
And if they fail to navigate that system - if they fail to attend appointments for health assessments, biometrics and immigration interviews - if they can't afford to get to the appointments or are so overwhelmed by this country they're scared to leave the house, then they become an 'illegal immigrant' and are immediately thought of by the masses as the scourge of society.
There are people who flee to the west who have never before encountered stairs.
That blows my mind.
I've taken two things from today:
1. I've remembered why I'm passionate about helping refugees and asylum seekers. I've remembered the importance of extending warmth and welcome to people who have experienced the worst of this world and then find themselves in a foreign world - technically 'safe' but in reality exposed and disoriented and lost.
2. I've seen my situation in its true perspective. I am lucky. Blessed. This experience of mine is not easy, but it could be worse beyond all imaginings.For all the times I am homesick, at least I know that my family is safe from harm. For all the times I miss chocolate digestives and sausages (and I do miss them, very very much), at least I have the means to buy food (ice-cream gets special mention). For all the times I long for the familiar, at least I speak the language.
At least I know what rice-krispies are.
Curbed enthusiasm
There is a frustrating trait of mine where when those key life moments come, when one is supposed to scream and jump and squeal, I stall. When I got 4 As at A-level (which even after two degrees still feels like my biggest academic achievement to date), when I got my first 'proper' job, even when Jeremy proposed...
Whenever I am supposed to have an excited ecstatic response, I freeze. 'I'm happy', I say. 'Really happy, honest.' While friends and family watch on, curious and perturbed by my coolness, my detachment. Where are the squeals? The yelps of joy? I summon more evidence of excitement at the prospect of ice-cream (this invariably elicits small claps of glee) or greys anatomy (more clapping).
So it was yesterday when my mum surprised me with the announcement that she will be coming too when my sister Jess visits in 3 weeks time. It's something I've wished for, hoped and prayed for. There have been times when the 3 months stretching ahead until I saw my family again felt like a desert and I felt parched and weakened at the thought of wading through those months. But when she told me I found myself drained of emotion. 'Wow, that's amazing.' I said. 'I couldn't be happier'.
And the words were all true. This visit is something I need - I want my mum to see that Boston is not always gray and cold, to see that Jeremy and I are happy and our home is ours rather than his - I want a big hug and a chance to recharge that part of me that is fueled by my family alone. And yet I still sounded like I'd be more excited if someone told me Ben and Jerries was 2 for 1 at the local shop (granted that would excite me).
I don't think I'll ever understand this part of me. It's like the really big, really crucial things are too much for me to react to there and then. I am not a squealer. Ever. And certainly not at the times when other people expect me to squeal. Perhaps I'm just contrary. Or maybe I'm taking the time to let my heart digest the change in tack. To process that the 3 months of desert I'd prepared myself for no longer lie ahead. To let the happiness and relief build. It's as if in these moments - when things I've waited and hoped for actually happen- the barriers I've built up to shield myself against the alternatives come down and I am left tired at the effort of having kept those barriers there. That's the best analysis I can give, and I'm still not sure it's entirely accurate.
I'm thrilled. Really. Just give me time to assess and reflect and maybe then we'll have a few hand-claps thrown into the mix.
Whenever I am supposed to have an excited ecstatic response, I freeze. 'I'm happy', I say. 'Really happy, honest.' While friends and family watch on, curious and perturbed by my coolness, my detachment. Where are the squeals? The yelps of joy? I summon more evidence of excitement at the prospect of ice-cream (this invariably elicits small claps of glee) or greys anatomy (more clapping).
So it was yesterday when my mum surprised me with the announcement that she will be coming too when my sister Jess visits in 3 weeks time. It's something I've wished for, hoped and prayed for. There have been times when the 3 months stretching ahead until I saw my family again felt like a desert and I felt parched and weakened at the thought of wading through those months. But when she told me I found myself drained of emotion. 'Wow, that's amazing.' I said. 'I couldn't be happier'.
And the words were all true. This visit is something I need - I want my mum to see that Boston is not always gray and cold, to see that Jeremy and I are happy and our home is ours rather than his - I want a big hug and a chance to recharge that part of me that is fueled by my family alone. And yet I still sounded like I'd be more excited if someone told me Ben and Jerries was 2 for 1 at the local shop (granted that would excite me).
I don't think I'll ever understand this part of me. It's like the really big, really crucial things are too much for me to react to there and then. I am not a squealer. Ever. And certainly not at the times when other people expect me to squeal. Perhaps I'm just contrary. Or maybe I'm taking the time to let my heart digest the change in tack. To process that the 3 months of desert I'd prepared myself for no longer lie ahead. To let the happiness and relief build. It's as if in these moments - when things I've waited and hoped for actually happen- the barriers I've built up to shield myself against the alternatives come down and I am left tired at the effort of having kept those barriers there. That's the best analysis I can give, and I'm still not sure it's entirely accurate.
I'm thrilled. Really. Just give me time to assess and reflect and maybe then we'll have a few hand-claps thrown into the mix.
Saying goodbye to mum back in March.
Cities to live in...
This week I made a flying visit to New York (city - for all you Americans who don't automatically assume I mean city, unlike the English who barely know there is a NY state). A friend of mine who works for BA had a stop-over there so I spent 5 mind-numbing can't-believe-the-girl-next-to-me-isn't-sticking-to-the-arm-rest-territory-limits hours on a bus there to spend under 24 hours with her and then 6 desperate rush-hour-and-raining hours back.
(Which basically means I spent a day playing Tetris on my phone this week)
I've never navigated NYC on my own before. Normally I'm with seasoned NYers, or at least a more competent nonNYer - and it's been a good 5 months since I last ploughed through London rush-hour. So when I arrived at Penn station in the pouring rain at 5.30pm and attempted to get down and across town via Grand Central, it is fair to say I was overwhelmed.
New York is like London on crack. In a fight, New York would kick London's ass all the way back to Samuel Pepys and beyond. Not because it's cooler or more fun but because it's hardcore and seems to have unfathomable reserves of strength and rage. New York rush hour left me in no doubt that I could ever live there and marveling with a mixture of awe and dread at the breed of human that can and does.
So when I arrived back in Boston, where 'rush hour' equals more than one train every 10 minutes, where there are pigeons rather than rats on the platforms and where people actually chat to each-other on the trains (not me, mind you - I'm English after all), I was washed with a wave of fondness for this city.
Because if New York is London's evil twin (a lot of fun to visit and party with but not gonna be invited home to meet the parents any time soon), Boston is its unassuming country cousin. In fact if it wasn't for volunteering at the hospital and seeing its grimmer 'city' side, I would need convincing that Boston even qualifies to be called a city at all. And that's just why I like it - love it, even. Boston, with its profusion of fairy lights and enchanting steaming grates, its pride in all things Irish and its love of chowder, is a city I could live in, a city I could learn to love.
All that remains to be done is to either cause a massive land-shift, resulting in England being attached to America again, or bamboozle friends and family into moving here too. Oh and to speed up global warming enough that Boston isn't buried in 10 feet of snow come December. Simple.
(Which basically means I spent a day playing Tetris on my phone this week)
I've never navigated NYC on my own before. Normally I'm with seasoned NYers, or at least a more competent nonNYer - and it's been a good 5 months since I last ploughed through London rush-hour. So when I arrived at Penn station in the pouring rain at 5.30pm and attempted to get down and across town via Grand Central, it is fair to say I was overwhelmed.
New York is like London on crack. In a fight, New York would kick London's ass all the way back to Samuel Pepys and beyond. Not because it's cooler or more fun but because it's hardcore and seems to have unfathomable reserves of strength and rage. New York rush hour left me in no doubt that I could ever live there and marveling with a mixture of awe and dread at the breed of human that can and does.
So when I arrived back in Boston, where 'rush hour' equals more than one train every 10 minutes, where there are pigeons rather than rats on the platforms and where people actually chat to each-other on the trains (not me, mind you - I'm English after all), I was washed with a wave of fondness for this city.
Because if New York is London's evil twin (a lot of fun to visit and party with but not gonna be invited home to meet the parents any time soon), Boston is its unassuming country cousin. In fact if it wasn't for volunteering at the hospital and seeing its grimmer 'city' side, I would need convincing that Boston even qualifies to be called a city at all. And that's just why I like it - love it, even. Boston, with its profusion of fairy lights and enchanting steaming grates, its pride in all things Irish and its love of chowder, is a city I could live in, a city I could learn to love.
All that remains to be done is to either cause a massive land-shift, resulting in England being attached to America again, or bamboozle friends and family into moving here too. Oh and to speed up global warming enough that Boston isn't buried in 10 feet of snow come December. Simple.
Grovelling.
I'm being unreasonable. I hate it when I'm unreasonable, because I can hear everything that I'm saying and I know it's all crap. And I know that Jeremy knows that it's crap and I look pretty dumb but I can't stop myself from saying it because when I'm unreasonable there's nothing to be done about it but see it through to its humiliating end.
I'm not about to write what I'm being unreasonable about. a) because writing about arguments on a blog seems unwise and b) because I'll look stupid, and even in my unreasonable state I can recognise that I don't want the world to see me at my full irrational height.
Suffice to say that my argument has no grounds, is not supported by any evidence and is largely borne out of grumpiness and ever so slightly too much wine. Either way it's the principle of the matter. Except I've forgotten what the principle is. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion that principle is not on my side.
There should be a gag button I can press when I start to go down the unreasonable road. Because it always ends in shame.
Bugger.
When Jeremy gets back from whichever room he's skulked off to I'm going to have to apologise. I think that may have been his skulking plan all along. He knows I know when I'm being unreasonable and his reasoned approach is just to wait it out until I give up and apologise.
Guess he wins this one on all counts.
Double bugger.
I'm not about to write what I'm being unreasonable about. a) because writing about arguments on a blog seems unwise and b) because I'll look stupid, and even in my unreasonable state I can recognise that I don't want the world to see me at my full irrational height.
Suffice to say that my argument has no grounds, is not supported by any evidence and is largely borne out of grumpiness and ever so slightly too much wine. Either way it's the principle of the matter. Except I've forgotten what the principle is. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion that principle is not on my side.
There should be a gag button I can press when I start to go down the unreasonable road. Because it always ends in shame.
Bugger.
When Jeremy gets back from whichever room he's skulked off to I'm going to have to apologise. I think that may have been his skulking plan all along. He knows I know when I'm being unreasonable and his reasoned approach is just to wait it out until I give up and apologise.
Guess he wins this one on all counts.
Double bugger.
For once the Atlantic comes up trumps...
It's been a strange few days for me. Being here while the UK is left hanging, waiting for a wink and a nod and a few fingers-crossed-behind-their-backs promises to tip the balance into a Tory government (albeit with a few Lib-Dem concessions, to be weaseled out of at a later date).
I feel more detached and more enamored with Obama with every new report on deals and coalitions and muddled-explanations of what exactly has happened/ could happen/ will happen and why.
I guess it doesn't help that I'm not a big fan of any of the political options right now. Me and the rest of my country it seems, since no consensus was reached. The conservatives keep saying that there's been a decisive rejection of Labour - I don't really see what's so decisive about a hung parliament, but whatever.
I was talking to a young republican recently (always a rare find here in Massachusetts) who, worried that I was unfamiliar with what a republican was, told me that they're kind of like UK conservatives...only different.
Good job I already knew what a republican was.
Because UK conservatives are different. This is by no means a defence of them, but they do try to hide their social-conservative tendencies. They'd be in a lot of trouble if they just came out and said that they don't have much time for gay people. Instead, they give tax breaks to the traditional-nuclear family and hold press interviews of unparalleled incompetence on gay rights issues (seriously - it'd give Palin a run for her money). And they don't align themselves with the Christian Right. Probably because there isn't one. Or if there is, it doesn't have much muscle. And besides championing the rights of people to chase foxes until they're exhausted and then have them torn limb from limb by dogs, they don't really speak of gun laws. And while they moan their heads off about the NHS, they wouldn't dare disband it.
Basically, UK conservatives are just that. UK conservatives. With all the reticence and reserve and feigned politeness that being British entails. Which actually leaves me more suspicious of them than I am of American conservatives - at least with them you know exactly what they are thinking. They shout it, with refrains of 'drill baby drill' and "baby killer" and the like. With UK conservatives, you get the impression that beneath the smirk and Eton polish they are carefully maneuvering their way towards an uncertain but definitely sinister goal.
As a semi-politically aware adult, I have yet to live in a conservative country. My one memory of Margaret Thatcher's policies (John Major just doesn't count) is that she discontinued the distribution of milk to primary schools - something I was disappointed about since I'd read all sorts of picture books where kids got milk with straws at break time. Never-mind that the law was passed before I was even born, or the fact that she did a lot worse than lessen the country's calcium intake, that's still my lasting-thatcher memory.
And now here we are, a few slimy steps away from a conservative government, and for once I'm glad of the distance that the Atlantic gives. My self-interested-master-plan is that Labour will now be forced to get its arse in gear, remember what its values are and be ready to take on Smarmeron in 5 years time. Right about when I'm planning on moving back to England and a couple of years before Obama will have to leave office (I'm working on the assumption that he's getting voted in again - I can't bear the alternative).
So, I'm alright. I just feel sorry for anyone living in England who is poor...or gay...or eastern-european....or a single parent...or an unmarried cohabiter...or principled... oops, didn't mean to say that out-loud. Gonna shut up now before I lose friends.
I feel more detached and more enamored with Obama with every new report on deals and coalitions and muddled-explanations of what exactly has happened/ could happen/ will happen and why.
I guess it doesn't help that I'm not a big fan of any of the political options right now. Me and the rest of my country it seems, since no consensus was reached. The conservatives keep saying that there's been a decisive rejection of Labour - I don't really see what's so decisive about a hung parliament, but whatever.
I was talking to a young republican recently (always a rare find here in Massachusetts) who, worried that I was unfamiliar with what a republican was, told me that they're kind of like UK conservatives...only different.
Good job I already knew what a republican was.
Because UK conservatives are different. This is by no means a defence of them, but they do try to hide their social-conservative tendencies. They'd be in a lot of trouble if they just came out and said that they don't have much time for gay people. Instead, they give tax breaks to the traditional-nuclear family and hold press interviews of unparalleled incompetence on gay rights issues (seriously - it'd give Palin a run for her money). And they don't align themselves with the Christian Right. Probably because there isn't one. Or if there is, it doesn't have much muscle. And besides championing the rights of people to chase foxes until they're exhausted and then have them torn limb from limb by dogs, they don't really speak of gun laws. And while they moan their heads off about the NHS, they wouldn't dare disband it.
Basically, UK conservatives are just that. UK conservatives. With all the reticence and reserve and feigned politeness that being British entails. Which actually leaves me more suspicious of them than I am of American conservatives - at least with them you know exactly what they are thinking. They shout it, with refrains of 'drill baby drill' and "baby killer" and the like. With UK conservatives, you get the impression that beneath the smirk and Eton polish they are carefully maneuvering their way towards an uncertain but definitely sinister goal.
As a semi-politically aware adult, I have yet to live in a conservative country. My one memory of Margaret Thatcher's policies (John Major just doesn't count) is that she discontinued the distribution of milk to primary schools - something I was disappointed about since I'd read all sorts of picture books where kids got milk with straws at break time. Never-mind that the law was passed before I was even born, or the fact that she did a lot worse than lessen the country's calcium intake, that's still my lasting-thatcher memory.
And now here we are, a few slimy steps away from a conservative government, and for once I'm glad of the distance that the Atlantic gives. My self-interested-master-plan is that Labour will now be forced to get its arse in gear, remember what its values are and be ready to take on Smarmeron in 5 years time. Right about when I'm planning on moving back to England and a couple of years before Obama will have to leave office (I'm working on the assumption that he's getting voted in again - I can't bear the alternative).
So, I'm alright. I just feel sorry for anyone living in England who is poor...or gay...or eastern-european....or a single parent...or an unmarried cohabiter...
So this is the choice we get. Appealing, huh?
Change, Prostitution, Crossing Roads and a Confession.
1. Too much change.
No, this isn't me lamenting my uprooted disoriented state. I have too much change.
Literally.
In my wallet.
Far more change than I ever had in England, which is weird as we have a lot of redundant coins - not only do we have £1 coins (whereas here they have notes, unless you're paying for a subway ticket in which case the change it spews is all $1 coins that inspire suspicious resentment in any sales assistant recipient), we also have £2 coins and 2p coins and 20p coins and 50p coins... in fact, England has eight different coins to America's four. Five if you count the rare and begrudged $1s.
Yet I still have far more change in my wallet here than ever before. And I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm spending less. It's because although I know that the 10p shaped coins are actually 25c and the 5p shapes are 10c and the other silver coins that don't look like anything other than maybe the old 5p pieces that were decommissioned back in the 80s are 5c, I don't trust myself to know this instinctively while I search for money at the cash register. So I reach for the largest note I see (which in itself is hard because they all look exactly the same). This results in my wallet weighing more than a small child and my periodically emptying my change out, promising myself that I'll take it to the bank soon to convert it back into easy notes. Only I wont because I don't really know how to do that here and I can't be bothered to find out.
2. Prostitution
All the English people who visit me nod gravely when I say that some parts of Waltham are a bit deprived. "We've noticed there seems to be a big problem with prostitution here", they say. Jeremy and I look at them puzzled. Prostitution? Alcoholism, maybe. Meth addiction even. Homelessness, for sure. But prostitution? "yea - all the stores here have signs on them saying 'no soliciting'...". At which point Jeremy and I catch on and I start to giggle. "They mean trade soliciting / salesmen", we explain.
I don't mention that I knew what they meant all along because I'd thought the exact same thing back when I first visited here.
3. Crossing roads.
Aside from the obvious issues with crossing roads in a foreign country where one has to retrain one's brain to look left first instead of right (or is it right first? I can never remember.). And the fact that I've grown used to the pavements in London telling you which way to look (directions are literally painted on the road - seems I'm not the only foreigner to get confused). And that I'm just not a very good road crosser (Jeremy calls me R2D2 because of my tendency to walk unwittingly into danger...I had to have the joke explained to me 'cause I've never seen Star Wars)...I have another problem with crossing roads here.
Cars always stop.
Sometimes of course it's nice, but they stop even when there's nothing else coming and it'd be much easier for them to pass me by. I'm not sure if they're scared of getting sued or they assume anyone crazy enough to walk is likely to throw themselves in front of a car. Either way, I don't like it - I feel self conscious having them watch me cross when had they ignored me we could have continued on both of our journeys without this momentary pause where I am observed and they are delayed. Sometimes, I pretend not to be crossing the road to trick them into not stopping.
4. A confession.
There's a taxi company here called 'Veterans Taxis'. For a long time I thought they were for veterans only and I was surprised by how many Veterans there must be in need of transportation. Surprisingly enough it turns out it's just a taxi company with no stipulations on whether its passengers have served in a war. Although I do still wonder whether they give a discount to those that have...
No, this isn't me lamenting my uprooted disoriented state. I have too much change.
Literally.
In my wallet.
Far more change than I ever had in England, which is weird as we have a lot of redundant coins - not only do we have £1 coins (whereas here they have notes, unless you're paying for a subway ticket in which case the change it spews is all $1 coins that inspire suspicious resentment in any sales assistant recipient), we also have £2 coins and 2p coins and 20p coins and 50p coins... in fact, England has eight different coins to America's four. Five if you count the rare and begrudged $1s.
Yet I still have far more change in my wallet here than ever before. And I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm spending less. It's because although I know that the 10p shaped coins are actually 25c and the 5p shapes are 10c and the other silver coins that don't look like anything other than maybe the old 5p pieces that were decommissioned back in the 80s are 5c, I don't trust myself to know this instinctively while I search for money at the cash register. So I reach for the largest note I see (which in itself is hard because they all look exactly the same). This results in my wallet weighing more than a small child and my periodically emptying my change out, promising myself that I'll take it to the bank soon to convert it back into easy notes. Only I wont because I don't really know how to do that here and I can't be bothered to find out.
2. Prostitution
All the English people who visit me nod gravely when I say that some parts of Waltham are a bit deprived. "We've noticed there seems to be a big problem with prostitution here", they say. Jeremy and I look at them puzzled. Prostitution? Alcoholism, maybe. Meth addiction even. Homelessness, for sure. But prostitution? "yea - all the stores here have signs on them saying 'no soliciting'...". At which point Jeremy and I catch on and I start to giggle. "They mean trade soliciting / salesmen", we explain.
I don't mention that I knew what they meant all along because I'd thought the exact same thing back when I first visited here.
3. Crossing roads.
Aside from the obvious issues with crossing roads in a foreign country where one has to retrain one's brain to look left first instead of right (or is it right first? I can never remember.). And the fact that I've grown used to the pavements in London telling you which way to look (directions are literally painted on the road - seems I'm not the only foreigner to get confused). And that I'm just not a very good road crosser (Jeremy calls me R2D2 because of my tendency to walk unwittingly into danger...I had to have the joke explained to me 'cause I've never seen Star Wars)...I have another problem with crossing roads here.
Cars always stop.
Sometimes of course it's nice, but they stop even when there's nothing else coming and it'd be much easier for them to pass me by. I'm not sure if they're scared of getting sued or they assume anyone crazy enough to walk is likely to throw themselves in front of a car. Either way, I don't like it - I feel self conscious having them watch me cross when had they ignored me we could have continued on both of our journeys without this momentary pause where I am observed and they are delayed. Sometimes, I pretend not to be crossing the road to trick them into not stopping.
4. A confession.
There's a taxi company here called 'Veterans Taxis'. For a long time I thought they were for veterans only and I was surprised by how many Veterans there must be in need of transportation. Surprisingly enough it turns out it's just a taxi company with no stipulations on whether its passengers have served in a war. Although I do still wonder whether they give a discount to those that have...
Meet the Nersasians...
I spent last week holidaying in the US Virgin Islands with Jeremy's family. St John is insanely beautiful - teeming, seething with life. Turtles, iguanas, deer, mongoose (mongeese? mongi?), kittens, donkeys, goats, chickens, mice, crickets. It has it and we saw it all.
A lesser known species non native to the islands are the Nersasians. Aka my in-laws. I could write and write about late night debates, travel debacles, itinerary disputes and just plain crazy statements. I could, only I wont because I'm planning on remaining related to these people for a long long time. And besides, a description is unnecessary, because they're just a family like any other. With the same tug of love for each other - no matter how inconvenient that love may sometimes be - the same frustrations and rolling here-we-go-again eyes.
The difference is of course that this particular family is not my family, or rather they are now but haven't always been. And while I've known them for over 6 years now, something about the binding rope of til-death-do-us-part has meant that I've lost any sense of distance. They are mine, and they're here to stay.
So I have to learn the intricacies, the dance steps, that will allow me to navigate unscathed the inevitable ructions and turbulence that accompanies family gettogethers. Here are a few survival tips I've garnered for in-law-holiday-navigation:
- Coffee is of paramount importance upon waking. Do not speak / pass go / collect any amount of dollars or pounds before taking that first all-important slurp. Proceed with caution until well into the second cup of the day.
- Headphones are always an option, as are sunglasses, if the need to appear / feel invisible becomes overwhelming.
- Cocktails are permissible from 5pm, Beer from noon.
- Choose your battles - know what principles you're prepared to overlook in favour of the greater, calmer good and which you are duty-bound to defend. Learn to lose gracefully.
- If all else fails, the pool / ocean is your ally.
Don't get me wrong, I'm under no illusions about my own family. For sure, it's easy enough for me, but they're mine and I contribute to the mystical dynamics as much as anyone else. For the uninitiated, I'm sure my family can be more than a little daunting- we flare and fight and forgive with alarming rapidity to those unaccustomed to voicing gripes. We also say 'I love you' more often than is normal, demand hugs at inconvenient times and love each other fiercely - so that an outsider might feel uncertain how to enter the tightknitness of our unit.
What coping techniques Jeremy has developed I'm not entirely sure. He's yet to go on holiday with my family though, so maybe the need has not yet presented itself. I'd wager that tapping, yawning, neck-clicking and his incomparable ability to appear to listen while he's elsewhere entirely would be part of his in-law defence.
Families. Unavoidable, infuriating, miraculous. They are what they are, and now I have two.
A lesser known species non native to the islands are the Nersasians. Aka my in-laws. I could write and write about late night debates, travel debacles, itinerary disputes and just plain crazy statements. I could, only I wont because I'm planning on remaining related to these people for a long long time. And besides, a description is unnecessary, because they're just a family like any other. With the same tug of love for each other - no matter how inconvenient that love may sometimes be - the same frustrations and rolling here-we-go-again eyes.
The difference is of course that this particular family is not my family, or rather they are now but haven't always been. And while I've known them for over 6 years now, something about the binding rope of til-death-do-us-part has meant that I've lost any sense of distance. They are mine, and they're here to stay.
So I have to learn the intricacies, the dance steps, that will allow me to navigate unscathed the inevitable ructions and turbulence that accompanies family gettogethers. Here are a few survival tips I've garnered for in-law-holiday-navigation:
- Coffee is of paramount importance upon waking. Do not speak / pass go / collect any amount of dollars or pounds before taking that first all-important slurp. Proceed with caution until well into the second cup of the day.
- Headphones are always an option, as are sunglasses, if the need to appear / feel invisible becomes overwhelming.
- Cocktails are permissible from 5pm, Beer from noon.
- Choose your battles - know what principles you're prepared to overlook in favour of the greater, calmer good and which you are duty-bound to defend. Learn to lose gracefully.
- If all else fails, the pool / ocean is your ally.
Don't get me wrong, I'm under no illusions about my own family. For sure, it's easy enough for me, but they're mine and I contribute to the mystical dynamics as much as anyone else. For the uninitiated, I'm sure my family can be more than a little daunting- we flare and fight and forgive with alarming rapidity to those unaccustomed to voicing gripes. We also say 'I love you' more often than is normal, demand hugs at inconvenient times and love each other fiercely - so that an outsider might feel uncertain how to enter the tightknitness of our unit.
What coping techniques Jeremy has developed I'm not entirely sure. He's yet to go on holiday with my family though, so maybe the need has not yet presented itself. I'd wager that tapping, yawning, neck-clicking and his incomparable ability to appear to listen while he's elsewhere entirely would be part of his in-law defence.
Families. Unavoidable, infuriating, miraculous. They are what they are, and now I have two.
Chickens on the beach at St John
Jeremy and I attacking my mum with kisses - on a much colder beach in England.
Girl Friday
This morning as the alarm went off I groaned and hit snooze. "Thank goodness it’s Friday", I thought as I clung to the lingering bliss of sleep. Nothing is ever as comfortable as bed first thing in the morning as you try to get up. Nothing is as painful either.
And somewhere, in amidst the pain of waking and the dread of the second tinny alarm chorus going off, I realized. Fridays have become Fridays again. Lie-ins have resumed their hallowed status of something-to-be-treasured rather than just a way to make the day shorter. Already I’m looking back on the past 3 months of lazy wake-ups and am kicking myself for not relishing it while I had the chance.
You know what this means, right? Normality is reasserting itself, in all its tiredness inducing strength.
Weirdly, I think Friday becoming Friday is the most progress I’ve made so far and although I felt deep regret on leaving my bed this morning, it felt like a significant achievement (the having a reason to get up rather than the getting up…although that was brutal, so that counts too). I’m a little apprehensive about Monday becoming Monday, but as I’ve only signed up to volunteer 3 days a week, I have a little while to gingerly ease myself back into the unwelcoming waters of early mornings. Meanwhile, tomorrow is my first Saturday since December.
Hello Life, my name is Hannah.
And somewhere, in amidst the pain of waking and the dread of the second tinny alarm chorus going off, I realized. Fridays have become Fridays again. Lie-ins have resumed their hallowed status of something-to-be-treasured rather than just a way to make the day shorter. Already I’m looking back on the past 3 months of lazy wake-ups and am kicking myself for not relishing it while I had the chance.
You know what this means, right? Normality is reasserting itself, in all its tiredness inducing strength.
Weirdly, I think Friday becoming Friday is the most progress I’ve made so far and although I felt deep regret on leaving my bed this morning, it felt like a significant achievement (the having a reason to get up rather than the getting up…although that was brutal, so that counts too). I’m a little apprehensive about Monday becoming Monday, but as I’ve only signed up to volunteer 3 days a week, I have a little while to gingerly ease myself back into the unwelcoming waters of early mornings. Meanwhile, tomorrow is my first Saturday since December.
Hello Life, my name is Hannah.
Honeymoon Dungeon
This week the Atlantic got bigger. 5 days bigger to be exact, because that's how long it now takes to cross it - and that's if you go in a freight carrier, it's 7 days if you go by cruise (although granted much more enjoyable).
I didn't even know Iceland had a volcano until Friday and now it's upping my feelings of displacement and I'm feeling the distance acutely. When England is a 7 hour flight away I can kid myself it's easily accessible - should disaster strike I could be home within a day - unless the disaster is a volcano apparently...
Offsetting this Atlantic expansion are the English accents in mydungeon basement.
No, I didn't go out and kidnap English people to quell my homesickness. As of yesterday, Jeremy and I are hosts to a stranded British couple (known vaguely to me and not at all to Jeremy) who are currently wishing they'd chosen Bogner-Regis rather than Boston for their honeymoon (I don't actually know if Bogner Regis is a nasty place, from its name I just assume it is a giant toilet-by-the-sea).
So while they phone Virgin Atlantic every 5 minutes and debate the merits of building a raft to sail back home, I am taking solace from once more being around people who put milk in their tea and mind their Ps and Qs. People who understand what I mean by 'mind their Ps and Qs' - not because it's a phrase used all that often in England but because they most likely grew up reading Famous Five. People who know what Famous Five is, and who need it explaining that broil means grill and grill means BBQ and BBQ means something we don't really have in England but it's really yummy.
Around these people I make sense (or at least more sense than I make around Americans), and I am even able act as translator, making me feel slightly more adept at this country at the same time. So while the volcano has widened the Atlantic to unacceptable proportions, it has also brought with it a welcome sound of home. I'll forgive it for now - provided it stops with the ash spewing by August, because if it gets in the way of me andmy our wedding I'll probably do a little erupting myself.
I didn't even know Iceland had a volcano until Friday and now it's upping my feelings of displacement and I'm feeling the distance acutely. When England is a 7 hour flight away I can kid myself it's easily accessible - should disaster strike I could be home within a day - unless the disaster is a volcano apparently...
Offsetting this Atlantic expansion are the English accents in my
No, I didn't go out and kidnap English people to quell my homesickness. As of yesterday, Jeremy and I are hosts to a stranded British couple (known vaguely to me and not at all to Jeremy) who are currently wishing they'd chosen Bogner-Regis rather than Boston for their honeymoon (I don't actually know if Bogner Regis is a nasty place, from its name I just assume it is a giant toilet-by-the-sea).
So while they phone Virgin Atlantic every 5 minutes and debate the merits of building a raft to sail back home, I am taking solace from once more being around people who put milk in their tea and mind their Ps and Qs. People who understand what I mean by 'mind their Ps and Qs' - not because it's a phrase used all that often in England but because they most likely grew up reading Famous Five. People who know what Famous Five is, and who need it explaining that broil means grill and grill means BBQ and BBQ means something we don't really have in England but it's really yummy.
Around these people I make sense (or at least more sense than I make around Americans), and I am even able act as translator, making me feel slightly more adept at this country at the same time. So while the volcano has widened the Atlantic to unacceptable proportions, it has also brought with it a welcome sound of home. I'll forgive it for now - provided it stops with the ash spewing by August, because if it gets in the way of me and
The scent of spring...
I feel like England in spring time smells crisp. The bite of chill is still in the air and there's an occasional sweet sharp whiff of cut grass or daffodils. I associate it with fairy liquid (no, not me being fantastical - it's a brand of dish-soap) and promise, tentative washing being hung out to dry.
Here the prevailing smell seems to be of mud, with the odd sniff of cat-piss. And yet it's not altogether unpleasant.
Let me explain...
The mud smell has two sources. Firstly, the bank-burst-rivers and temporary-lakes are receding, leaving behind them sodden gasping sludge which is slowly drying and emitting a dank damp dark smell as it does. Since March was the rainiest March on record ever, I'm not sure I can say that this smell equals Spring to Americans, but it will be forever associated in my mind with my first Spring in Boston.
The second source is more generalizable and that is the smell of mulch. Mulch is basically mushed (or mulched) up grass, bark, compost, leaves etc that is placed over soil in gardens. Apparently it protects the soil and stops weeds from growing. Americans use it all over the place and it has the curious effect of making everything look like it's just been planted. The smell of mulch is everywhere - rich, smokey, deep and earthy, signaling that life can come out of hibernation and things can reattempt to grow without the threat of ice and snow. It seems here, you know it's spring when your neighbour decides to unwrap her shrubs from the sack-cloth-blankets they've been covered in all winter and the air suddenly smells of smoke and earth.
Surprisingly, the cat-piss element of the spring bouquet comes from blossom trees that line the streets. The trees are so beautiful that I think I can bear the smell. It does add an interesting and slightly unsettling layer to the wafting scents around here though.
So, the smell of spring. Not quite what you might expect, but strangely appropriate given the rich heady heaviness of summer in this part of the world. The smells of mud and pee herald sunshine and warmth. Who'd have known?
Here the prevailing smell seems to be of mud, with the odd sniff of cat-piss. And yet it's not altogether unpleasant.
Let me explain...
The mud smell has two sources. Firstly, the bank-burst-rivers and temporary-lakes are receding, leaving behind them sodden gasping sludge which is slowly drying and emitting a dank damp dark smell as it does. Since March was the rainiest March on record ever, I'm not sure I can say that this smell equals Spring to Americans, but it will be forever associated in my mind with my first Spring in Boston.
The second source is more generalizable and that is the smell of mulch. Mulch is basically mushed (or mulched) up grass, bark, compost, leaves etc that is placed over soil in gardens. Apparently it protects the soil and stops weeds from growing. Americans use it all over the place and it has the curious effect of making everything look like it's just been planted. The smell of mulch is everywhere - rich, smokey, deep and earthy, signaling that life can come out of hibernation and things can reattempt to grow without the threat of ice and snow. It seems here, you know it's spring when your neighbour decides to unwrap her shrubs from the sack-cloth-blankets they've been covered in all winter and the air suddenly smells of smoke and earth.
Surprisingly, the cat-piss element of the spring bouquet comes from blossom trees that line the streets. The trees are so beautiful that I think I can bear the smell. It does add an interesting and slightly unsettling layer to the wafting scents around here though.
So, the smell of spring. Not quite what you might expect, but strangely appropriate given the rich heady heaviness of summer in this part of the world. The smells of mud and pee herald sunshine and warmth. Who'd have known?
More on homesickness
Not looking to worry anyone - generally I'm doing ok. But I find the phenomenon of homesickness interesting and it helps me to unpick the emotions so that I better understand them and am better prepared to stay strong when they hit - know thine enemy and all that...
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
Two American things...
1. The amount of choice here never fails to overwhelm and baffle me. Something as simple as ordering a sandwich prompts about 100 questions. Type of bread? type of cheese? you want pickles? tomatoes? peppers? They often don't even suggest combination fillings, assuming (wrongly in my case) that you know exactly what you want and have the imagination to conjure up a sandwich. I miss Pret with its pre packaged, pre-chosen, no surprises (other than the odd sneaky addition of celery salt) sandwiches.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
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