I recently had an upsetting experience in a GAP changing room. We've all had them. Fluorescent lights and underwear chosen in the dark at 6am (when not anticipating later standing in it before an unforgiving mirror) also my ballet pumps, which I had to take off to try on trousers, smelt horrible which didn't help me not feel disgusting. It's not a new experience, but for some reason it was more upsetting than usual. I poked and prodded at myself, forgetting entirely the reason I'd declothed myself in a changing room in the first place. I'm more or less the same weight I've always been, I thought, my clothes aren't tighter than usual, but this and that certainly seem squishier.
Anyway. I'm recounting this troubling experience not to expound on body woes but to give explanation as to what came next.
I paid money and signed up for a 4 mile run one month from now.
All you 'runners', the ones for whom 4 miles is a pitiful distance, stop scoffing. This is a big deal, and I shall tell you why. I am not a runner. I'm not an anythinger when it comes to movement and increased heart-rate. I'm more of a sitter, a curl-up-on-the-couch-er, a sleeper-inner. I don't like feeling sweaty. I don't like being out of breath. I don't like anything that could be called 'burn'. I don't like exercise. My single greatest athletic achievement to date is holding the 800 meter record for girls. In primary school. When I was nine. I basically haven't run since then. I've tried to run - I've tried to exercise - but I always get bored and tired and find infinite excuses why doing it a second time is a bad idea.
So in signing up to this race I sought to break the pattern of my lifetime. Because there's one thing I fear more than increased heart rate discomfort, and that's humiliation. And people go to watch this race. Granted I did sign up for it on condition that Jeremy runs with me and I ascertained that some people 'run' it slower than I could walk it, so chances of me coming in last are slim, but either way in signing up to do this I basically forced myself to exercise because I do not wish to embarrass myself.
And so far the plan has been working. Jeremy's been helping me - running on his own when he needs to actually train and running with me when I do. His most successful tactic has so far been lying to me as to how far we've gone and how far we've got to go. I know his game, but it's easier to delude myself anyway so I ignore his untrustworthiness. I've already, in the space of a couple of weeks, got myself up to running 4 miles (albeit very very slowly) and we're now working on improving pace, which isn't something I care a whole lot about. When it's going well I imagine being a person who talks about being in the zone (I'm not sure I've ever glimpsed a zone), of applying an exercise verb to myself as a noun, of being able to stand in a GAP changing room and not disavow eating for the rest of time. When it's going badly I want to stamp my feet, cry and give up.
It feels a lot like when Jeremy taught me to drive. Or attempted to help with my statistics homework. But despite that, I seem to have found a solution to my nonexistent will power. I married someone to willpower for me.
writing in the dark
Sometimes I don't even know if I like writing. It's just this thing I do to torture myself. Other times it flows and I am euphoric. More often than not it's the former.
Right now, almost 40,000 words into the new novel, I'm a teensy bit terrified. Because no one has read it yet other than me and because 40,000 words is a lot of words that could potentially all be crap. I could have spent them all on a heroine that no one will like or a plot that won't be believed. The first book, which didn't sell let's remember but which did get some nice things said about my writing and gain me an agent, could have been a fluke and it's entirely possible that I can't write after all.
But, just in case, I'm going to finish the darn thing and force some poor soul(s) to read it. Just in case.
Right now, almost 40,000 words into the new novel, I'm a teensy bit terrified. Because no one has read it yet other than me and because 40,000 words is a lot of words that could potentially all be crap. I could have spent them all on a heroine that no one will like or a plot that won't be believed. The first book, which didn't sell let's remember but which did get some nice things said about my writing and gain me an agent, could have been a fluke and it's entirely possible that I can't write after all.
But, just in case, I'm going to finish the darn thing and force some poor soul(s) to read it. Just in case.
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| Today in my writing room (yes, that's blogger on the screen) |
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| Editing with Kitty in the sunroom |
choosing love
It's occurred to me recently that Jeremy and I are compatible. I mean, thank god right? Since we went and got married and all, but bear with me. We're neither of us unkind, even when we're angry, and we laugh - mostly both of us laughing at Jeremy but there you go. And generally we just enjoy being around each other. It's all fairly laid back - there's no jealousy or anxiety or demands. It works.
But the thing that I've been puzzling over is that it hasn't always been this way. I mean, we've never been unkind or jealous and we've always laughed, so I guess those bits have been in place. But we got together when I was 19 and Jeremy was 23. We were different people with different expectations of a relationship and I for one hadn't yet figured out how to comfortably exist within myself. I was neurotic - calling him compulsively (I'm convinced he resorted to screening my calls) and losing so much sleep I'd fall asleep during the day if I rested my eyes for a second. He was, and remains, incredibly relaxed within his own skin - in a way I've only ever known Americans be - but he also had that edge of selfishness that I guess you'd expect in a 23 year old guy. I don't mean that resentfully - if anything I wish I'd had it too, although if I had then we likely wouldn't be where we're at today, but he was OK with doing his own thing 3000 miles away and knowing he loved me and we'd be seeing each other in 3 months. I was... less OK with that.
We should have broken up. I mean, we did sort of break up, but then we got back together and never really stopped talking in that time anyway so it doesn't really count. It shouldn't have led us here. Jeremy should have got supremely pissed off at my neuroses. I should have freaked out and given up on his infuriating relaxedness. It shouldn't have worked.
But it did. Somehow, we both held on. Even when probably everyone around us was thinking we needed to just give up already (you know I know you thought that), we couldn't walk away. And I wonder. I wonder whether somewhere within us existed our future selves. And those selves recognized each other and knew that we only needed to endure our younger stupider selves for a little longer and then it'd all be OK.
I realized recently that a lot more has been asked of Jeremy than is maybe asked of most new husbands. When we first married he had to immediately adopt the roles of best friend, comforter, family, supporter because everyone else was so far away. Of course I had to get my act together and prove myself to be a heck of a lot more driven, productive and confident than I normally am, but if he hadn't stepped up to the plate then I couldn't have.
We've something special and I marvel at it daily.
But the thing that I've been puzzling over is that it hasn't always been this way. I mean, we've never been unkind or jealous and we've always laughed, so I guess those bits have been in place. But we got together when I was 19 and Jeremy was 23. We were different people with different expectations of a relationship and I for one hadn't yet figured out how to comfortably exist within myself. I was neurotic - calling him compulsively (I'm convinced he resorted to screening my calls) and losing so much sleep I'd fall asleep during the day if I rested my eyes for a second. He was, and remains, incredibly relaxed within his own skin - in a way I've only ever known Americans be - but he also had that edge of selfishness that I guess you'd expect in a 23 year old guy. I don't mean that resentfully - if anything I wish I'd had it too, although if I had then we likely wouldn't be where we're at today, but he was OK with doing his own thing 3000 miles away and knowing he loved me and we'd be seeing each other in 3 months. I was... less OK with that.
We should have broken up. I mean, we did sort of break up, but then we got back together and never really stopped talking in that time anyway so it doesn't really count. It shouldn't have led us here. Jeremy should have got supremely pissed off at my neuroses. I should have freaked out and given up on his infuriating relaxedness. It shouldn't have worked.
But it did. Somehow, we both held on. Even when probably everyone around us was thinking we needed to just give up already (you know I know you thought that), we couldn't walk away. And I wonder. I wonder whether somewhere within us existed our future selves. And those selves recognized each other and knew that we only needed to endure our younger stupider selves for a little longer and then it'd all be OK.
I realized recently that a lot more has been asked of Jeremy than is maybe asked of most new husbands. When we first married he had to immediately adopt the roles of best friend, comforter, family, supporter because everyone else was so far away. Of course I had to get my act together and prove myself to be a heck of a lot more driven, productive and confident than I normally am, but if he hadn't stepped up to the plate then I couldn't have.
We've something special and I marvel at it daily.
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| The Italy trip where we met - with Helen and Sam (Oliver was behind the camera) |
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| And the same people 7 years later, at our English wedding 2 years ago. |
Growth
It's been a summer of growth - of the vegetable variety. I'd like to claim at least partial responsibility for it, but I can't. It's all Jeremy. But I've much appreciated the spoils. Fresh tomatoes, basil and aubergine all summer long? Yes please. I could have done without Jeremy lamenting the demise of his cucumber plants on repeat for the past month or so, but if that's the price I have to pay for heirloom tomatoes then so be it.
Here are some pics.
Here are some pics.
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| Square foot gardening in raised beds... I did help mix and transfer soil, so that's something right? |
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| burgeoning watermelon |
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| Harvest |
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| kitty picking his way over the harvest. |
Careful time.
Yesterday I waved my Mommy off at the airport, managing not to cry until she was out of sight because she'd made me promise I wouldn't. And I didn't cry a ton - not like those early weeks the first time she left when I went to sleep with leaking eyes and woke up to the same salty ache.
"But we'll see them really soon" Says Jeremy. Others remind me of how little they see their same-state parents. Neither argument helps all that much.
Because the problem is that the only time we have these transatlantic days is weighted with the goodbye that's coming. It's measured out - a five day trip followed by three, four, five months apart, followed by another week's trip. Yes if I lived in England it's unlikely I'd spend an entire week with just my Mum, but that's not the point. The lack of careless time is the point. The sort of time where you can be grumpy and it doesn't matter, doesn't 'ruin' time... the sort of time where sleeping in doesn't steal hours from a day and reading a book isn't being unsociable - where saying goodbye doesn't generate tears.
And that's what I cry for, mostly, these days. I'm OK about not living with my mother - much as I love her, as a 28 year old married person (I couldn't bring myself to write 'woman'), that's not the best scenario. I just wish with the core of my core that I could have that luxury of being careless with the time spent with her - spent with all of them - safe in the knowledge that there's a hefty supply of it in waiting.
I chose this. And yes, he's worth it, but still it aches.
"But we'll see them really soon" Says Jeremy. Others remind me of how little they see their same-state parents. Neither argument helps all that much.
Because the problem is that the only time we have these transatlantic days is weighted with the goodbye that's coming. It's measured out - a five day trip followed by three, four, five months apart, followed by another week's trip. Yes if I lived in England it's unlikely I'd spend an entire week with just my Mum, but that's not the point. The lack of careless time is the point. The sort of time where you can be grumpy and it doesn't matter, doesn't 'ruin' time... the sort of time where sleeping in doesn't steal hours from a day and reading a book isn't being unsociable - where saying goodbye doesn't generate tears.
And that's what I cry for, mostly, these days. I'm OK about not living with my mother - much as I love her, as a 28 year old married person (I couldn't bring myself to write 'woman'), that's not the best scenario. I just wish with the core of my core that I could have that luxury of being careless with the time spent with her - spent with all of them - safe in the knowledge that there's a hefty supply of it in waiting.
I chose this. And yes, he's worth it, but still it aches.
Fury
Jeremy hates watching Republican speeches with me. I hate
watching Republican speeches with me. I squirm and gesticulate, trying to keep
my protests on mute and either failing or else turning red and exploding with
the effort. Oh and then following up my outrage with a blog post.
Clearly the Republican convention was not going to have a
good effect on me. There they are, willingly misunderstanding and misrepresenting,
waving their flags and chanting ‘we built it’ as if it means something (when
really, if you look at its origin,
it absolutely does not). But for the majority of it I’m able to sit back and
relax in my socialist communist bubble (did I tell you I got called a communist
this summer? All because I listen to NPR. Unsurprisingly by the same relative who told me the UK has a higher murder rate than the US) while I watch the spectacle of the
thing. Until they get to talking about the American Dream that is, and Mitt
Romney’s “Opportunity
Society” (that one was a while ago
but I’m still smarting), and then I find myself dreaming of outrage and then writing
a blog post.
First, let me say this: I don’t have anything against the
American Dream. It makes for much less of a class focused culture – none of
that disdain for ‘new money’ and far less of the general snobbery we have in
England where accent and parentage dictate class even more so than profession
or accomplishment. The belief that America is a country where success out of
nothing is possible, is a good belief.
Except where it isn’t.
Because where, for me, apoplexy sets in and I have to go to
bed or risk bursting a few blood vessels, is when people get all smug about the
American dream and talk endlessly about
how hard they had it growing up but look at where they are today. It’s not
exactly that I have anything against
those people – well done etc – but I absolutely have something against the
blindness that says ‘my family made it, therefore, everyone can make it if they
work hard enough so we really don’t need to support them in any other way’.
For example, Marco
Rubio’s speech last night. He spoke of how his parents came over from Cuba
with nothing and invested everything they could into their kids so that they
could have the opportunities their parents never had and, oh look, there he is
on the RNC stage.
And what I say to that is, yes: if parents are able, have the capacity to,
invest everything – their love and time and money (but mostly their love) –
into their children then the possibility for success is absolutely there. But
for so many, poverty is toxic. It lives alongside addiction and violence and
the sort of trauma that makes people unable to fully connect and engage with other people, with their children.
Meaning that they’re unable to give them the love and care they need to grow
into adults who can then do the same for their children. In the job I do, going into homeless family shelters and supporting volunteers who play with the kids, I've seen that it's absolutely possible for a parent to shield their child from the trauma of living in a congregate shelter - where nothing is your own and all space is shared and all sorts of things happen right outside the bedroom door - but only if that parent has the capacity to absorb and deflect and maintain calm and love and presence in their child's life. For most though, because of their own history, childhood and circumstance, that just isn't possible and the children are just there un-shielded alongside their parents, experiencing their fear, vulnerability and uncertainty as if it were their own, because it is and because in all likelihood it will be.
I’m not saying that
this presents an impossible situation where nobody born into that can escape. I
am saying that it demands those who are out of it, who have had the privilege
of being loved and well-fed and housed, of having been raised into adulthood, to
do something to help. To create programs that mean those less privileged children
have access to decent education and health care and food, to nurture and
counsel their parents out of addiction or despair and into jobs. To do all of
the things the Republicans seem to think they shouldn’t need to do because
opportunity is just hanging around, waiting to be grasped.
The stubborn blindness of it makes me so incredibly sad.
OK, I think I’m done now.
Self Care
I think 'self care' is likely an American term. It sounds like something they'd come up with. Not that they're particularly skilled at self-caring - not given their measly notions of vacation time (and the fact that there don't seem to be any rules regarding how much employers are obligated to give) anyway. And of course there's that whole section of the population without health insurance blah blah blah. Anyway, they came up with a term for taking care of oneself, even if they don't actually take care of themselves.
I'm also not particularly good at self-care. Well, not at all of it anyway. I'm very good at vacation - at taking it, booking it, using it all up. Excellent at that. And I'm fairly good at maintaining the old work-life balance (of course this is helped by my having opted to work in a field that generally compensates for its wages with less stress). Where I trip up on self-care is probably where Americans would pin the key definition of the term: anything regarding doctors, dentists, hairdressers, manicurists. Basically anything that involves me making an appointment and risking a situation where I feel out of place or embarrassed or unsure of the proper etiquette.
Hairdressers and Manicurists are easy enough to avoid - I just have appalling nails (not helped by said job involving stupid amounts of magic eraser usage on frequently gross toys) and split ends. Not the end of the world. Doctor avoidance on the other hand could actually result in the end of my world.
I was never very good at visiting the doctor in England. Mostly because they made the system ridiculously complicated and I could not for the life of me figure out at what time of day I had to phone to get an appointment the next day. Or the day of. Don't tell me to book ahead, because some bright spark in the NHS decided at some point that it made lots more sense to stop anyone booking any appointments more than 24 hours ahead in time. I mostly ended up going to their first-come-first-served clinic on a saturday where I had to queue outside at 8am.
Anyway, I digress.
While my doctor avoidance in the UK was primarily linked to laziness and an obscure but essentially navigable-if-prepared-to-wait system, in the US the obscurance (not a word) goes to a whole new level.
I don't know the language - what to ask for or what sort of doctor to get. I have to OK things with my health insurance before I even look for a PCP (That's "Primary Care Provider"... I got that far). And there's that annoying aspect to my character where I really hate looking like I don't know what the heck I'm doing. Oh and in America people mostly do not understand what I say to them over the phone. Jeremy is no help because he has a fancy schmancy health insurance where he just books himself in to see surgeons if he has a twinge in his ankle (I kid you not). My insurance is more along the sensible lines where I see a GP type first before I get to bother the super-doctors (although I'm pretty sure referrals don't take months over here... if you have good insurance, and that's a ridiculously big if).
And then there's my hypochondria. I am forever diagnosing myself with illnesses. Cancers, viruses, parasites. Working with kids has upped the ante on my parasite paranoia actually and I currently own treatment for headlice and ringworm (bought on amazon) just-in-case. I'm not sure what I'd need for scabies, but I'll likely buy it at some point. But I've nowhere to go with these concerns, as I'm too stuck and stupid to find a doctor, so I ask Jeremy, whose response is: "find a doctor" or, occasionally, "you're probably dying" - but I think that's mainly just code for "find a doctor and stop bugging me".
It's a problem.
Anyway, there's news. I actually took steps along the self-care road and made a phone call, talked to a perfectly helpful and nice receptionist who understood my accent and helped me find a PCP and book an appointment and it's all on its way. In about a month but I think that's the new patient wait time, not the normal wait time... I hope.The poor doctor does not know what she's in for because I have at least 2 years of paranoia ready to burst out of me.
Now I need to find a dentist.
I'm also not particularly good at self-care. Well, not at all of it anyway. I'm very good at vacation - at taking it, booking it, using it all up. Excellent at that. And I'm fairly good at maintaining the old work-life balance (of course this is helped by my having opted to work in a field that generally compensates for its wages with less stress). Where I trip up on self-care is probably where Americans would pin the key definition of the term: anything regarding doctors, dentists, hairdressers, manicurists. Basically anything that involves me making an appointment and risking a situation where I feel out of place or embarrassed or unsure of the proper etiquette.
Hairdressers and Manicurists are easy enough to avoid - I just have appalling nails (not helped by said job involving stupid amounts of magic eraser usage on frequently gross toys) and split ends. Not the end of the world. Doctor avoidance on the other hand could actually result in the end of my world.
I was never very good at visiting the doctor in England. Mostly because they made the system ridiculously complicated and I could not for the life of me figure out at what time of day I had to phone to get an appointment the next day. Or the day of. Don't tell me to book ahead, because some bright spark in the NHS decided at some point that it made lots more sense to stop anyone booking any appointments more than 24 hours ahead in time. I mostly ended up going to their first-come-first-served clinic on a saturday where I had to queue outside at 8am.
Anyway, I digress.
While my doctor avoidance in the UK was primarily linked to laziness and an obscure but essentially navigable-if-prepared-to-wait system, in the US the obscurance (not a word) goes to a whole new level.
I don't know the language - what to ask for or what sort of doctor to get. I have to OK things with my health insurance before I even look for a PCP (That's "Primary Care Provider"... I got that far). And there's that annoying aspect to my character where I really hate looking like I don't know what the heck I'm doing. Oh and in America people mostly do not understand what I say to them over the phone. Jeremy is no help because he has a fancy schmancy health insurance where he just books himself in to see surgeons if he has a twinge in his ankle (I kid you not). My insurance is more along the sensible lines where I see a GP type first before I get to bother the super-doctors (although I'm pretty sure referrals don't take months over here... if you have good insurance, and that's a ridiculously big if).
And then there's my hypochondria. I am forever diagnosing myself with illnesses. Cancers, viruses, parasites. Working with kids has upped the ante on my parasite paranoia actually and I currently own treatment for headlice and ringworm (bought on amazon) just-in-case. I'm not sure what I'd need for scabies, but I'll likely buy it at some point. But I've nowhere to go with these concerns, as I'm too stuck and stupid to find a doctor, so I ask Jeremy, whose response is: "find a doctor" or, occasionally, "you're probably dying" - but I think that's mainly just code for "find a doctor and stop bugging me".
It's a problem.
Anyway, there's news. I actually took steps along the self-care road and made a phone call, talked to a perfectly helpful and nice receptionist who understood my accent and helped me find a PCP and book an appointment and it's all on its way. In about a month but I think that's the new patient wait time, not the normal wait time... I hope.The poor doctor does not know what she's in for because I have at least 2 years of paranoia ready to burst out of me.
Now I need to find a dentist.
Industry
So what's Jeremy up to today? My friend Helen asked in our recent g-chat catch up.
We'd already established that since our Saturday beach plans had been thwarted by rain, I'd gone shopping for yet more frames to continue on my framing kick. I now have many many beloved pictures in frames waiting to find a home on our walls. That's all down to Jeremy though because I do not trust myself to bang holes into walls I own. When I've historically banged holes into walls I don't own, sizable bits of wall have fallen off.
Anyway, while it would have been nice for Jeremy to have been banging holes into walls for my newly framed photos, that isn't what he's been up to. Instead, my husband has today:
- Brewed beer
- Baked bread
- Torn up a supermarket's worth of gone-to-seed arugula from the garden and suggested I make pesto (I didn't).
- Sun-blushed about 40 home-grown cherry tomatoes with the residual oven heat after the bread baking.
And now he's sat playing a game (likely checkers, possibly robo-tower-defense) on his phone.
This is the industriousness I'm married to. It makes me sleepy.
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| framed photos - on the floor |
We'd already established that since our Saturday beach plans had been thwarted by rain, I'd gone shopping for yet more frames to continue on my framing kick. I now have many many beloved pictures in frames waiting to find a home on our walls. That's all down to Jeremy though because I do not trust myself to bang holes into walls I own. When I've historically banged holes into walls I don't own, sizable bits of wall have fallen off.
Anyway, while it would have been nice for Jeremy to have been banging holes into walls for my newly framed photos, that isn't what he's been up to. Instead, my husband has today:
- Brewed beer
- Baked bread
- Torn up a supermarket's worth of gone-to-seed arugula from the garden and suggested I make pesto (I didn't).
- Sun-blushed about 40 home-grown cherry tomatoes with the residual oven heat after the bread baking.
And now he's sat playing a game (likely checkers, possibly robo-tower-defense) on his phone.
This is the industriousness I'm married to. It makes me sleepy.
One of those catchy-uppy posts
1. I loved the Olympics - I've never really bothered about it before but being here and seeing London looking all smart and English was pretty amazing.And of course Team GB went and outdid themselves given our teensy weensy island size, which made it cooler (although somehow between NBC coverage and my sporadic watching, I don't think I saw us win a single gold). I could write a long moany post about NBC's coverage but a) I can't be bothered and b) it's already been done. Suffice to say the swimming was still on AFTER the closing ceremony.
2. Summer is amazing. If America wants to keep me, it should just be warm and sunny all year long. Here's my stein of iced tea on a particularly warm day:
3. Our nameless cat continues to be awesome.
4. I'm still working on the new book. It's not as quick now I'm also working on an actual job, but I'm 33,000 words in so it's coming along. Hopefully.
5. This article was written and made my friday (which wasn't hard - friday wasn't going so well)
6. We're planning a trip to China to visit our buddy who's moved to Shanghai. Problem is I keep thinking, well, since we're out there, maybe we should go here... and here... and here. Well, no, problem is my vacation allowance.
2. Summer is amazing. If America wants to keep me, it should just be warm and sunny all year long. Here's my stein of iced tea on a particularly warm day:
3. Our nameless cat continues to be awesome.
4. I'm still working on the new book. It's not as quick now I'm also working on an actual job, but I'm 33,000 words in so it's coming along. Hopefully.
5. This article was written and made my friday (which wasn't hard - friday wasn't going so well)
6. We're planning a trip to China to visit our buddy who's moved to Shanghai. Problem is I keep thinking, well, since we're out there, maybe we should go here... and here... and here. Well, no, problem is my vacation allowance.
Never Never Land
Somewhere out there, far far away from here, I am married with a husband and a cat and houseplants. I drive to work in ridiculous traffic everyday and complain about things like lack of natural light. It's hot and we (this husband and I) debate things like whether to have the air conditioning on and how thick a duvet is really necessary in July.
But right now, I'm not there, I am here - England - for 36 more precious hours I am back in the homeland. Where it rains, a lot. And where I don't have to repeat myself a thousand times (except I'm still unnaturally quiet so sometimes I have to repeat myself a few times). But when I'm here, rather than there, 'There' adopts a quality of unfathomability. How is it possible that I have this other American life, separate to these people here, where drizzle isn't particularly usual?
And yet there are signs of this other life. Apart from the tug of missing towards my 'husband' and 'cat', which I can feel I have and love, despite the fogginess of unreality. I don't have a coat, for one thing - that's right, this Englander managed to pack for a week in England without packing a coat - a sure sign that the other world has some sort of hold over me. And I haven't once managed to try and get in the right side of the car - I get confused every time. And I think I may have finally learnt which way to look when I cross the road in the US because I definitely got it wrong here.
But oh, England, I love you so. Despite the ridiculous amount of rain you are capable of precipitating. Your accents and sense of humour. The fact of clothes stores selling all-in-one pajamas adjacent to bikinis and pubs that still have things like 'prawn cocktail' on the menu for my grandparents to order. Your buildings made of stone and your roads with actual visible painted lines and lanes on them. Your interesting flavours of crisps (which is the only way I'll be eating anything called prawn cocktail btw). And of course my family, who are entirely English and entirely enmeshed with everything I am.
I find these trips confusing. Not because of how strange and culture-shock-y it is, but because of how normal and comfortable. How familiar. Even as Jeremy and Kitty and Sunshine draw me 'home', this other Home remains. Damp and lushly green and absolutely mine. Fogging up reality and reminding me that I'll always belong here. Bugger.
But right now, I'm not there, I am here - England - for 36 more precious hours I am back in the homeland. Where it rains, a lot. And where I don't have to repeat myself a thousand times (except I'm still unnaturally quiet so sometimes I have to repeat myself a few times). But when I'm here, rather than there, 'There' adopts a quality of unfathomability. How is it possible that I have this other American life, separate to these people here, where drizzle isn't particularly usual?
And yet there are signs of this other life. Apart from the tug of missing towards my 'husband' and 'cat', which I can feel I have and love, despite the fogginess of unreality. I don't have a coat, for one thing - that's right, this Englander managed to pack for a week in England without packing a coat - a sure sign that the other world has some sort of hold over me. And I haven't once managed to try and get in the right side of the car - I get confused every time. And I think I may have finally learnt which way to look when I cross the road in the US because I definitely got it wrong here.
But oh, England, I love you so. Despite the ridiculous amount of rain you are capable of precipitating. Your accents and sense of humour. The fact of clothes stores selling all-in-one pajamas adjacent to bikinis and pubs that still have things like 'prawn cocktail' on the menu for my grandparents to order. Your buildings made of stone and your roads with actual visible painted lines and lanes on them. Your interesting flavours of crisps (which is the only way I'll be eating anything called prawn cocktail btw). And of course my family, who are entirely English and entirely enmeshed with everything I am.
I find these trips confusing. Not because of how strange and culture-shock-y it is, but because of how normal and comfortable. How familiar. Even as Jeremy and Kitty and Sunshine draw me 'home', this other Home remains. Damp and lushly green and absolutely mine. Fogging up reality and reminding me that I'll always belong here. Bugger.
I accept
Here are a few things that I, on the verge of turning 30 (I'm 28, but 30 is only a year and 4 months away and I figure I may as well come to terms with it now), am accepting about myself:
- I will never be instinctively neat. Nor will I ever have matching underwear. I will likely always hate putting clothes away and delay emptying the dishwasher for as long as possible
- It is highly improbable that I will ever be a runner. Or enjoy exercising. I live in hope that some day I will exercise.
- I will always act as if I were starved as a child when faced with free food. Always.
- Similarly, I will never be able to refuse ice cream.
- My hair will never be sleek. I will always look ever so slightly disheveled, if not out and out disheveled
- Talking loudly/audibly will probably always require effort. Often more than I can be bothered to muster.
- Put me in front of a crowd of people and my body will likely always decide to visibly shake with nerves, even if my head says I'm not nervous.
- Mornings will never be bearable before coffee.
- Following recipes is most probably not something I'll ever do adeptly (meaning reading the whole thing first, making sure I have all the ingredients and then following the steps without making up steps unintentionally)
- I will never have long polished nails. Clean and only slightly nibbled, maybe.
I'm not yet ready to accept I'll never be great at parking. Or that I'll never have the body of Gisele Bundchen. Although, points 1, 2,3,4, 5 and 10 certainly point in that direction. I'm also still holding out hope that regular exercise might be in my future - even if I never enjoy it.
Behind in Time
Have I mentioned that I hate Time Difference? How about that I loathe and detest it?
Well if not (which I highly doubt), I do.
Yesterday, an important day in our family, I was planning on phoning my mum. I was in my mind while I sat at my desk that as soon as I was no longer at my desk, I'd call her.
But then I forgot - it slipped out of reach as I drove home, further still when I decided that stopping at Walmart for CD players, baby wipes and disinfectant (for work... my job is not the most conventional) was a good idea. And by the time I got home it was too late.
But I called anyway.
And woke my Mommy up.
Oops.
I told her to go back to sleep - that I'd phone her today, and that I love her. I put the phone down and paused to let the nose tingle (does everyone's nose tingle when they're about to cry?) and throat ache (how about throat ache?) to die down. I blinked a few times and went to get dinner started. It's not like it hasn't happened before.
Living on this side of the Atlantic, behind rather than ahead in Time, you (I) hold the calling power. Phone calls are made in the evening and my evening is later than their evening, so it's up to me to call them in theirs - to find the time in my day when their day has already ended.
When I was ahead in Time, I used to find this all very frustrating. I'd be ready for bed, aching for sleep, and it would only be 5pm in Jeremy's world. I'd either have to stay awake until gone midnight to talk to him or else I'd snatch a few words while he was at work - conscious that I was sharing him with math code and work phones and evening plans. Generally I stayed awake until after midnight. Generally I was exhausted. I resented him for my lack of sleep - surely it's easy enough to find time in the day, or immediately after work...
Now I'm behind in Time I understand. You mean to call and want to call but then something else comes up and it's still daylight outside so how could it possibly be night somewhere else. And then you check the time and realise it's let you down - that to phone now would mean waking them, stealing precious rest from them, and another day has passed.
And that is why I hate, loathe, detest Time Difference. And why without it the Atlantic would be that much smaller.
Well if not (which I highly doubt), I do.
Yesterday, an important day in our family, I was planning on phoning my mum. I was in my mind while I sat at my desk that as soon as I was no longer at my desk, I'd call her.
But then I forgot - it slipped out of reach as I drove home, further still when I decided that stopping at Walmart for CD players, baby wipes and disinfectant (for work... my job is not the most conventional) was a good idea. And by the time I got home it was too late.
But I called anyway.
And woke my Mommy up.
Oops.
I told her to go back to sleep - that I'd phone her today, and that I love her. I put the phone down and paused to let the nose tingle (does everyone's nose tingle when they're about to cry?) and throat ache (how about throat ache?) to die down. I blinked a few times and went to get dinner started. It's not like it hasn't happened before.
Living on this side of the Atlantic, behind rather than ahead in Time, you (I) hold the calling power. Phone calls are made in the evening and my evening is later than their evening, so it's up to me to call them in theirs - to find the time in my day when their day has already ended.
When I was ahead in Time, I used to find this all very frustrating. I'd be ready for bed, aching for sleep, and it would only be 5pm in Jeremy's world. I'd either have to stay awake until gone midnight to talk to him or else I'd snatch a few words while he was at work - conscious that I was sharing him with math code and work phones and evening plans. Generally I stayed awake until after midnight. Generally I was exhausted. I resented him for my lack of sleep - surely it's easy enough to find time in the day, or immediately after work...
Now I'm behind in Time I understand. You mean to call and want to call but then something else comes up and it's still daylight outside so how could it possibly be night somewhere else. And then you check the time and realise it's let you down - that to phone now would mean waking them, stealing precious rest from them, and another day has passed.
And that is why I hate, loathe, detest Time Difference. And why without it the Atlantic would be that much smaller.
woot, as the americans might say.
I'm writing again and OH it feels good. I've been barking up the wrong book for a while now, but I've now started afresh and I'm excited. Nervous, because writing gnaws at me and doesn't let go, but excited.
Oh dear.
I'm totally becoming an American. Americans get 'excited' about everything. It's kind of exhausting.
But this I am excited about, and legitimately so. And only about 55,000 words to go until I have a novel.
Aaaaaand in rushes the dread.
I'm setting myself the goal of 4000 words a week. That's not a ton, but with working full time and being as lazy as I am, I think I'll be lucky if I can meet it.
Watch this space.
Oh dear.
I'm totally becoming an American. Americans get 'excited' about everything. It's kind of exhausting.
But this I am excited about, and legitimately so. And only about 55,000 words to go until I have a novel.
Aaaaaand in rushes the dread.
I'm setting myself the goal of 4000 words a week. That's not a ton, but with working full time and being as lazy as I am, I think I'll be lucky if I can meet it.
Watch this space.
This too must pass
Homesickness is a moving target. I get to grips with one form and other one pops up.
The current form is more problematic than the others. Before it's always been an acute feeling of missing. Longing for family or friends or foodstuffs. Missing fields full of cows and small cars and winding roads. My current problem is this:
I'm surrounded by Americans.
They're everywhere. Speaking American, thinking American, eating American food and watching American television. There's even one sleeping in my bed. Heck, even my bloody cat is American. Now that's depressing.
One day I may have American children. I can't quite bring myself to contemplate that as an idea.
I'm not sure when this happened. I mean, obviously it's always been so. I'm in America after all. But recently I've been painfully aware of it in a way I wasn't before.
I'm hoping this feeling will pass. It kind of has to.
In other related news, this week I was introduced to someone as follows:
"I'd like you to meet Hannah, Jeremy's wife. Now, wait until you hear her talk. Hannah, say something."
This feeling will pass, right?
The current form is more problematic than the others. Before it's always been an acute feeling of missing. Longing for family or friends or foodstuffs. Missing fields full of cows and small cars and winding roads. My current problem is this:
I'm surrounded by Americans.
They're everywhere. Speaking American, thinking American, eating American food and watching American television. There's even one sleeping in my bed. Heck, even my bloody cat is American. Now that's depressing.
One day I may have American children. I can't quite bring myself to contemplate that as an idea.
I'm not sure when this happened. I mean, obviously it's always been so. I'm in America after all. But recently I've been painfully aware of it in a way I wasn't before.
I'm hoping this feeling will pass. It kind of has to.
In other related news, this week I was introduced to someone as follows:
"I'd like you to meet Hannah, Jeremy's wife. Now, wait until you hear her talk. Hannah, say something."
This feeling will pass, right?
I'll say Tom-ah-to if I bloody want to.
When I moved over here I had to quickly accept that I will forever be a novelty. In a way that (as far as I can tell) isn’t true of other cultures, other accents, Britishness in America is seen as uniquely quaint and, for some reason I’ve yet to understand, totally fair game. There’s mimicry, which is widespread, there’s the curling flicker of a smile when I talk that lets me know they’re only half listening to what I’m actually saying and mostly listening to how I say it, there’s the look of blank confusion that normally goes unaddressed and in that moment I realize that some turn of phrase or word I’ve used has completely passed them by. And then there’s correction:
“It’s not Basil, it’s Baysil.”
“Pavement? You mean sidewalk.”
“Um, we say Tomayto?”
"HA! Oreg-ah-no? it's oregano"
There are certain people around whom I avoid saying certain words because I know it'll result in correction and I'll result in bristling good humour. Ha ha ha, how funny that you think my pronunciation of things is wrong. How amusing.
Am I sounding bitter?
The truth is, pretty much every American I know has done this to me at some point or another. People I have known for years still do it. It's also entirely possible that we British (you British I should say, in this instance I am not included) do it to the Americans in our (your) midst. I have but one thing to tell you.
Stop.
It happens often enough that I have to drop my ts and ask for budder or warder when people fail to understand butter or water. Recently I even had to spell out children on the phone... c-h-i-l (etc) when a volunteer really couldn't pick up the word I was saying. I actively avoid calling customer service because it's almost always laborious and painful. My days are littered with misunderstandings, repeats and rephrases. So when people I know correct my speech when they already understand what I'm saying, I mostly want to strangle them.
And then there's the "Alright Guvnors..."
Enough. No More. It was never good and it's certainly no good anymore.
The one where my book gets rejected.
The final say came through yesterday. A year or so on from when I first sent it out to agents.
The final say was No.
She said it kindly – praised my writing and the changes made to the novel but ultimately she said no, which is kind of what counts at this point. I considered crying but thought better of it. This isn’t massively surprising news – it was always the more likely choice – and the thing I’m most upset about is that I don’t now have a reason to sit and write all day / fly to England whenever I please.
Sigh.
But, there is good news amidst the bad. The positivity about my writing has been a big boost and people genuinely seem to think that if I apply myself and keep going with this writing thing then one day it will happen. And the truth is I made it pretty far for a first novel - an agent willing to represent me and a publisher who was willing to read it more than once. This sounds like I'm boasting - I don't mean to - it's more an exercise in reminding myself why crying and moping is not necessary.
So.
So I need to start writing again, a whole new book, which is going to mean summoning self-discipline, which I don’t have in large quantities. And inspiration, which to be honest is easier to come by than self-discipline where I’m concerned, and it’s not easy to come by.
Project Hannah Personality Transplant is officially underway.
You owe me.
Me: “Sometimes I feel like you’re not interested in what I’m saying – like you’re listening but not really listening”
Jeremy: “You were talking about traffic”
Me: “Yea, but…”
But traffic has become the deciding factor of my day. Sail through and in the office within 35 – 40 minutes = good day. Stuck the moment I get on Route 9 and over an hour spent holding very personal grudges against SUVs and wannabe sports-cars = bad day. It’s all decided before I even sit down at my desk and even a good day can turn into a bad day if the mall/school / random sods-law traffic gets me on the way home.
It’s different somehow than commuting on public transport. I’m not saying that that’s a breeze – walking to the tube in all weathers and seasons; enduring inevitable hold-ups right outside Bond Street; attempting to find that happy place somewhere inside my head to teleport me away from the reality of body-odor and not-quite-clean-enough hair brushing up against me. None of that is fun. But none of that incurs quite the same level of rage.
Hang on… memory coming through…
Ah yes, I’m wrong. As a London commuter I used to have terrible thoughts about slow people, people standing on the wrong side of the escalators, tourists. I remember thinking horribly personal things that I would never in a billion years actually voice, but the vitriol in my head used to make me wonder if in fact everyone is capable of cold-blooded murder, given the right circumstances.
I don’t remember it impacting quite so heavily on my every day though. It was something to be got through and then the day started. Maybe that’s the thing – with driving you can’t switch off and go to that happy place or immerse yourself in a book and pretend the world doesn’t exist because, well, then you would die or at least cause even more traffic.
So, in summary, I’m sorry J but you’re going to have to put up with my talking about traffic. More than that, you need to start caring and being interested in my traffic related stories – you need to enquire after the hair color of the man that sped down the right hand lane even though it was closed 100 yards later and traffic was merging and he clearly knew this and didn’t care that it’s people like him that cause things to move this slowly in the first place. The reason you have to do this is firstly that it’s integral to my day and moaning about it helps. And secondly because your commute is almost, sometimes, on a bad day for me and a good day for you, a full hour shorter than mine and most days you’re still asleep when I walk out the door and into an hour of anger. Basically, you owe me.
husbandless
This week, I have been husbandless. While I've been working and doing normal working / cooking / sleeping things, he's been off in Panama, diving and exploring in the sunshine.
(I can write this now because Jeremy gets home tonight so any would be breaker-inners needn't bother, I have my man back to protect me. haha.)
Before he went away, I was looking forward to it. I go away / work late or on Saturdays fairly regularly so Jeremy often gets time on his own in the house. Me, not so much. I envisaged this week laid out before me as a stretch of time where I could make my own choices on what I ate/ what I watched on TV; where I could come home and write without thinking about making dinner or hanging out with Jeremy.
(I should say, he doesn't expect me to cook every night or push me to eat certain things or hang out or anything, but things are different, together.)
Anyway, the point is I had all these plans and I expected to feel free somehow I guess - free to do what I wanted, to have that space of solitude that is only fully real when you're alone - when there's no one to know you're still in PJs at 2pm or that you mostly had ice cream for dinner.
Needless to say, I missed him within 8 hours of him being gone. 24 hours later I was calling friends and booking in sleepovers so that I wouldn't have to be alone in the house all week - not so much for the fear of being alone as much as the emptiness of it. Time passed slower without him, and not in a good way.
I missed his constant singing / tapping / general noise-making. I missed his hugs and his jokes; I missed laughing and snuggling; I missed him remembering to take the trash out.
On the flip side, my house is full of flowers I bought to keep me company, and a few other purchases too...shhhh
(I can write this now because Jeremy gets home tonight so any would be breaker-inners needn't bother, I have my man back to protect me. haha.)
Before he went away, I was looking forward to it. I go away / work late or on Saturdays fairly regularly so Jeremy often gets time on his own in the house. Me, not so much. I envisaged this week laid out before me as a stretch of time where I could make my own choices on what I ate/ what I watched on TV; where I could come home and write without thinking about making dinner or hanging out with Jeremy.
(I should say, he doesn't expect me to cook every night or push me to eat certain things or hang out or anything, but things are different, together.)
Anyway, the point is I had all these plans and I expected to feel free somehow I guess - free to do what I wanted, to have that space of solitude that is only fully real when you're alone - when there's no one to know you're still in PJs at 2pm or that you mostly had ice cream for dinner.
Needless to say, I missed him within 8 hours of him being gone. 24 hours later I was calling friends and booking in sleepovers so that I wouldn't have to be alone in the house all week - not so much for the fear of being alone as much as the emptiness of it. Time passed slower without him, and not in a good way.
I missed his constant singing / tapping / general noise-making. I missed his hugs and his jokes; I missed laughing and snuggling; I missed him remembering to take the trash out.
On the flip side, my house is full of flowers I bought to keep me company, and a few other purchases too...shhhh
Keeping in touch.
When I first moved over here, two whole years ago now, I probably spoke to friends and family more than I had when I lived in their country. Our country. Phone calls, emails, facebook updates, blogs, even the occasional card sent in the actual post (although more likely, written and never posted because I'm crap like that). We kept in touch - I knew about their days, the minor things that had happened, the major things. And they knew about mine - knew that I hated the clock that ticked or what clothes purchases I'd made or what I was planning for dinner.
Then life here began to gain momentum. I volunteered, started learning to drive, we got Starz and Showtime in our cable package (and with it the US version of Shameless, which is awesome, along with Spartacus [essentially just porn in togas] and Camelot [porn in tights] and multiple on demand films), we moved house and got a cat (who yet remains nameless, or namefull because he has about 10 and counting). But throughout all of this, while maybe not as much as those first new months, I managed OK at keeping in touch. I visited England regularly enough, went home via Switzerland once to meet my godson, had multiple coffees in Paddington Station and curries on brick lane. I phoned, emailed, blogged, g-chatted, facebooked and failed to post letters I'd written.
And then I got a job.
The job has tipped the balance rather. Two hours spent commuting in traffic, 40 hours spent emailing and organizing volunteers (ok maybe not all 40 - I spend a fair amount of time visiting volunteers, playing with children, cleaning toys and the occasional trip out to buy coffee / diet coke / iced tea etc etc) so that when I get home I don't want to talk or write or type and time slips through my fingers and suddenly it's tuesday again and I'm back in a hotel/homeless shelter (when the shelters are full they spend $1000s housing people in hotels - one room for a family, no cooking facilities, no transport, no case-management - when they could pay their rent for much much cheaper) playing with children and thinking about coffee.
Friends, I'm sorry. A feeling of helpless inadequacy has been simmering away of late. The emails I've failed to respond adequately to (if at all), the phone calls I've neglected to return. Life here is full but not to the point where I don't need the people I have in England (or New York, or California, or Attenschwiller) not even close to that point.
So, a concerted effort is going to be made. Birthday cards and presents posted, emails written, phone calls made. It's going to happen because it has to happen - because the second I feel those relationships fading, a part of me begins to fade.
I know that no letters or phonecalls make up for an hour, a minute of no-pressure time (the type of time where you know you'll see the person again and again, soon and sooner, so that there is no weight on the minutes you have). I know that. I just prefer not to think about it.
Then life here began to gain momentum. I volunteered, started learning to drive, we got Starz and Showtime in our cable package (and with it the US version of Shameless, which is awesome, along with Spartacus [essentially just porn in togas] and Camelot [porn in tights] and multiple on demand films), we moved house and got a cat (who yet remains nameless, or namefull because he has about 10 and counting). But throughout all of this, while maybe not as much as those first new months, I managed OK at keeping in touch. I visited England regularly enough, went home via Switzerland once to meet my godson, had multiple coffees in Paddington Station and curries on brick lane. I phoned, emailed, blogged, g-chatted, facebooked and failed to post letters I'd written.
And then I got a job.
The job has tipped the balance rather. Two hours spent commuting in traffic, 40 hours spent emailing and organizing volunteers (ok maybe not all 40 - I spend a fair amount of time visiting volunteers, playing with children, cleaning toys and the occasional trip out to buy coffee / diet coke / iced tea etc etc) so that when I get home I don't want to talk or write or type and time slips through my fingers and suddenly it's tuesday again and I'm back in a hotel/homeless shelter (when the shelters are full they spend $1000s housing people in hotels - one room for a family, no cooking facilities, no transport, no case-management - when they could pay their rent for much much cheaper) playing with children and thinking about coffee.
Friends, I'm sorry. A feeling of helpless inadequacy has been simmering away of late. The emails I've failed to respond adequately to (if at all), the phone calls I've neglected to return. Life here is full but not to the point where I don't need the people I have in England (or New York, or California, or Attenschwiller) not even close to that point.
So, a concerted effort is going to be made. Birthday cards and presents posted, emails written, phone calls made. It's going to happen because it has to happen - because the second I feel those relationships fading, a part of me begins to fade.
I know that no letters or phonecalls make up for an hour, a minute of no-pressure time (the type of time where you know you'll see the person again and again, soon and sooner, so that there is no weight on the minutes you have). I know that. I just prefer not to think about it.
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| A recent attempt to cross the miles. It's not the same as a hug. |
Of course this would happen in February.
I can barely bring myself to write it, to think it, to entertain the thought of thinking it.
I found grey hair.
Not just one, lurking ominously as a promise of decay (but quickly pluckable, the evidence hastily disposed of), but a cluster, a clutch, a nest. Thankfully there aren't really THAT many (just enough for me to despair) and they’re hidden behind and under a lot of other normal coloured hair so that only someone with a magnifying mirror, a spotlight and a tendency to self-torture would happen across them.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
Of course I did what any self respecting woman would do.
I cried.
Then I spent a considerable amount of time pulling them out, occasionally trailing into the living room where Jeremy sat trying to watch TV, presenting him with a torch (the lighting was dimmed) and pointing to the offending area. He said they looked blonde and it didn’t matter if they weren’t.
He lied.
So, that’s it – it’s happened. And I’m only 28. I wasn’t prepared – I thought I had at least until 30. I still have spots for goodness sake; surely it’s a great unfairness to have spots and grey hair. And I know some people get grey hair early, but they normally have very dark hair and I don’t so therefore it’s unacceptable. I'm not even sure 28 is early, it probably isn't, but I barely feel like an adult and my hair's already preparing for middle age.
I will stop obsessing. I will not google whether grey hairs in one location are a sign of brain tumor. I will not be vain. I will grow old gracefully. I will consider getting highlights and invest in some expensive face cream.
sent, gone, away from me.
Again my novel is sent, gone, away from me. Only to my agent so it's not as scary as to a publisher, but it's still scary.
This edit has been a hard slog - much harder than any of the others because now I'm working, time is harder to come by, as is energy and willingness to sit in front of a computer.
But, it's done and I wont have to read it again for another week at least. All in time for the SuperBowl, which of course I'm impossibly excited about. Why wouldn't I be? Given I don't like any sports and this one in particular makes no sense to me whatsoever. There is beer and food though - that's reason enough for excitement.
OK I'm done with computers for the day. Just wanted to say hi and yay, edit done.
This edit has been a hard slog - much harder than any of the others because now I'm working, time is harder to come by, as is energy and willingness to sit in front of a computer.
But, it's done and I wont have to read it again for another week at least. All in time for the SuperBowl, which of course I'm impossibly excited about. Why wouldn't I be? Given I don't like any sports and this one in particular makes no sense to me whatsoever. There is beer and food though - that's reason enough for excitement.
OK I'm done with computers for the day. Just wanted to say hi and yay, edit done.
kitty kitty no name
It’s long overdue for a post about my cat. Here are some facts.
- He doesn’t have a name. When we adopted him, he was called
- He sleeps either in our bed, a purring hot water bottle, or on top of the covers between us in hammock like fashion.
- He wakes up around 5.58am and stamps on my face. When that doesn’t work he attacks my fingers. When that doesn’t work he bites my nose. This is when he gets called Bugger.
- He only drinks out of people glasses and if they’re empty they get batted onto the floor. As does anything else I leave on my bedside table.
- He’s currently not allowed outside. In
- He favours Jeremy and routinely bites that hand that feeds him (me).
- He’s ridiculously, wonderfully, cute. Which makes up for him behaving like devil spawn 30% of the time.
a Aaaaand here are the inevitable Cat photos.
A
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| See? Unbelievably cute. Jeremy's alright too... |
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| This is known as 'cat-hat'... it's not entirely voluntary |
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| This is 'display of trust'... |
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| Marsupials |
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| This is 'calming pose', which actually works and he doesn't seem to mind |
A few unrelated things
- I hate Lowes (hardware superstore place) and Home Depot. I hate them with a vehemence that screams through my veins. They're too big, filled with far too many boring things and I end up trailing around after Jeremy feeling once again like I used to feel aged 5 when I'd trail around similar places with my parents. Except these days I don't get to be pushed in a trolley. Now, as then, the only thing that can stave off internal boredom-induced combustion, are paint swatches. We now have so many there's an entire drawer dedicated to them.
- I'm writing again. It's like drawing blood from a stone. Since I'm the stone, it's quite painful. I've given myself til early feb to get this rewrite done - currently that seems like the stupidest idea I've ever come up with.
- There was ice on the inside of one of our windows this morning. Don't panic, it doesn't mean our house was below freezing inside, but it does mean this particular window isn't very good and that it's impossibly cold outside.
- All of my clothes are currently bundled in a bag downstairs in the basement, waiting to be folded and put away, because somehow all of my clothes became unfolded and scrumbled up all over the place and I lost patience and put them in a bag instead. I wish I was one of those people who folded clothes and had self control.
- Jeremy doesn't like pulp in orange juice. I learned this yesterday. We have been together over eight years. What else isn't he telling me?
- I'm writing again. It's like drawing blood from a stone. Since I'm the stone, it's quite painful. I've given myself til early feb to get this rewrite done - currently that seems like the stupidest idea I've ever come up with.
- There was ice on the inside of one of our windows this morning. Don't panic, it doesn't mean our house was below freezing inside, but it does mean this particular window isn't very good and that it's impossibly cold outside.
- All of my clothes are currently bundled in a bag downstairs in the basement, waiting to be folded and put away, because somehow all of my clothes became unfolded and scrumbled up all over the place and I lost patience and put them in a bag instead. I wish I was one of those people who folded clothes and had self control.
- Jeremy doesn't like pulp in orange juice. I learned this yesterday. We have been together over eight years. What else isn't he telling me?
Not Writing
Today was going to be the day I started writing again. My agent has okayed my edit ideas and now all I have to do is breathe life into them and transform my novel into something sellable.
So, I got up at 11.30am, drank coffee and read a newspaper, had a bath, peeled off an hour's worth of wallpaper, got changed, helped Jeremy paint the garage, microwaved some dumplings, got changed again, sat and stared at my computer, called my mother, cried (about nothing in particular), called my mother again, went to the supermarket, lit a fire, cried a little more (about the lack of writing I've done today along with nothing in particular), checked facebook, checked twitter, checked email, read the guardian online, read bbc news online, aaaaaand finally scribbled down on paper a few plot points expanding on the plot points I've already come up with.
I did not add a single word to my novel. I did delete about 5 words.
Tomorrow. It's all going to happen tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to go wash the ink off of my jumper (I was leaning on a pen while writing this), eat dinner courtesy of Trader Joes (with a little help from Jeremy), sit by the fire and watch repeats of Spartacus: Blood and Sand on cable (which seems to be code for gratuitous sex and violence). I'll mostly not be thinking about the 1 month deadline I've given myself for doing this rewrite. Or the half-stripped wall that glares at me every time I go into my dining room (it may also be Jeremy that's doing the glaring... he doesn't agree that half-stripped is better than full-ugly).
So, I got up at 11.30am, drank coffee and read a newspaper, had a bath, peeled off an hour's worth of wallpaper, got changed, helped Jeremy paint the garage, microwaved some dumplings, got changed again, sat and stared at my computer, called my mother, cried (about nothing in particular), called my mother again, went to the supermarket, lit a fire, cried a little more (about the lack of writing I've done today along with nothing in particular), checked facebook, checked twitter, checked email, read the guardian online, read bbc news online, aaaaaand finally scribbled down on paper a few plot points expanding on the plot points I've already come up with.
I did not add a single word to my novel. I did delete about 5 words.
Tomorrow. It's all going to happen tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to go wash the ink off of my jumper (I was leaning on a pen while writing this), eat dinner courtesy of Trader Joes (with a little help from Jeremy), sit by the fire and watch repeats of Spartacus: Blood and Sand on cable (which seems to be code for gratuitous sex and violence). I'll mostly not be thinking about the 1 month deadline I've given myself for doing this rewrite. Or the half-stripped wall that glares at me every time I go into my dining room (it may also be Jeremy that's doing the glaring... he doesn't agree that half-stripped is better than full-ugly).
A post that got a bit carried away with itself...
How is it possible that it’s taken me 28 years to realize that a) I love writing and b) I’m fairly good at it? Why has it taken this long for me to understand that my brain needs to be challenged and that writing challenges it in the right way? I wish I could talk with my 17 year old self and tell her not to be such a wuss – to demonstrate some self belief and to try for the scary things. I’d also tell her that dungarees are for decorating only, that straightening irons are going to kill her hair and that it’ll then take 3 – 4 years to fully recover.
(This is where this post goes awry - totally wasn't originally heading in this direction but it turns out advising my former self is kinda fun)
18 year old self: Loosen up. Alcohol won’t kill you and you can afford to read a few less books about WWI. Realise how good you've got it, try and be cooler than you are and learn to drive dammit.
19 year old self: yes he says the right things but it’s all hot air. And seriously, that hair, those jeans? It’s not a good plan. Also, 19.75 year old self, don’t go chasing Americans across the Atlantic . He’ll come to you and then you’ll be a heck of a lot less neurotic and will get lots more sleep (leading to less neuroses). You’ll also have more money.
20 year old self: Stop being so neurotic. Clearly he loves you. Chill out and stay away from the other one who doesn’t love you but says he does. Bad bad news. And don’t make decisions on housemates when drunk.
21 year old self: International Relations, while interesting, is a completely impractical degree. If you will insist on studying in America london
22 year old self: learn to drive and, failing that, buy a puffy coat. They’re not pretty but they’re warm. Also, tell Jeremy to turn on the darn heating.
23 year old self: steer clear of housemates who dictate what shampoo you use and watch out for bed-mice. Everything will be fine with Jeremy so relax, invest in that travel-card and join the gym.
24 year old self: Seriously, everything’s gonna be fine. OK it might not seem that way but trust me. And you need a thicker duvet - there's no insulation in that flat whatsoever. Also, stop wearing ballet pumps out in January. Your feet get wet and cold and do not help the situation.
25 year old self: See, I told you so. Now don’t go insane over visas and, I know the idea of paying off your overdraft and sleeping on couches sounds like a good one but…
26 year old self: You’re doing ok. Homesickness fades, although it never completely disappears. Not too too long til you get a house and a cat.
27 year old self: in a year’s time you’re going to live 10 minutes away from that job you’ve been offered… consider this before you start throwing ultimatums around.
28 year old self. This probably counts as talking to yourself, which isn’t generally seen as a good thing. Remember to pick up milk on your way home.
29 year old self: Anytime you wanna drop me a note on what not to do, feel free.
I’ll stop now…
what sort of a parent...
I hug my hot-water bottle tight, rub my feet together to encourage blood to flow and wait for my 13.5 tog duvet (brought over from the UK because despite their sub zero winters, I was unable to find a decent duvet here – and even if I did find one there was no way of knowing b/c they don’t use any sort of warmth rating) to start doing it’s job.
*crash smash meow* “Stupid *$#!ing cat”
(This from the dining room.)
I wait, wondering whether I can pretend to already be asleep or whether I need to get out there and defend my kitty.
I get up.
“This can’t go on. He’s out of control. I’m shutting him away.”
“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”
“He’s a cat.”
“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”
“He’s staying in this room for the night”
“No he’s not.”
I sweep and vac and do my best to hide the evidence of kitty’s disgrace. I then fetch him from the cold cold room meanie Jeremy has shut him in and take him into our bedroom (which is also cold but there’s me, my hot water bottle, 13.5 tog duvet and electric blanket for him to snuggle next to).
"There’s still glass on the floor out here."
I feign sleep. Jeremy, after grumbling a little more about just how much glass I failed to vac up, comes to bed and, as per usual, ignores my feigning and starts to talk to me.
“He needs discipline.”
“He’s a cat – he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.”
“We need to isolate him and teach him a lesson.”
“It wont work – he has about a 5 second memory”
“What sort of a parent are you going to be if you can’t even discipline a cat?” *
“It’s not the same” I mumble, letting kitty snuggle into me and moving my fingers out of hunting-reach”
 |
| Who, me? |
*disclaimer: I'm not pregnant.
Home Improvement.
"Be optimistic — assume that the paper is dry-strippable. Lift a corner of the paper from the wall with a putty knife. Grasp the paper with both hands and slowly attempt to peel it back at a very low angle."
Then, as it shreds in your hands, avoid the knowitall gaze of your husband and pretend that your decision to start on the main wall rather than a 'smaller section where if it all goes wrong and you get bored and give up it would be less noticeable' was absolutely the right one.
Persevere. Act as if you're not bored already and thinking about making a snack or whether the next episode of gossip girl is available online. Soak the wall in wallpaper removal solution. Wipe it up off of the floor. Look around to check knowitall hasn't seen. Scrape the wall. Remove about 2% of the wallpaper. Reapply solution and consider reading the instructions.
Repeat for all foreseeable weekends until the hideous wallpaper has finally disappeared and/or Jeremy gets fed up of waiting and decides to do it himself.
Then, as it shreds in your hands, avoid the knowitall gaze of your husband and pretend that your decision to start on the main wall rather than a 'smaller section where if it all goes wrong and you get bored and give up it would be less noticeable' was absolutely the right one.
Persevere. Act as if you're not bored already and thinking about making a snack or whether the next episode of gossip girl is available online. Soak the wall in wallpaper removal solution. Wipe it up off of the floor. Look around to check knowitall hasn't seen. Scrape the wall. Remove about 2% of the wallpaper. Reapply solution and consider reading the instructions.
Repeat for all foreseeable weekends until the hideous wallpaper has finally disappeared and/or Jeremy gets fed up of waiting and decides to do it himself.
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