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| March 1st 2010 - just married |
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| Having crossed the threshold (not my favorite threshold, but happy nonetheless) |
Showing posts with label Jeremy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jeremy. Show all posts
To Jeremy, on three years of marriage
I was scared. I didn't know what it'd be like, what we'd be like and I didn't like not knowing. And forever seemed such a long time, too long to really know anything. And I was here and not there, and everything I knew that wasn't you was there and not here, and for a moment it all seemed too much. But somehow I was able to trust the decision I'd made and trust the love we had - trust it to keep me afloat in those early homesick days and then to lift me above water level and help me find a life here that I wanted to live. And it worked, or proved true, or something.
There's not a day that closes without me feeling grateful in some way that I made that choice and took that chance. You make me laugh like nobody else- with your songs and your dimples and everything you are. You change lightbulbs in my car and fix my tyres and sort the internet on our computer. You bought our house when really I think you'd have been happy in that nasty Waltham apartment forever more. You laugh at your own jokes and make up names for the cat and never ever stop making noise of some sort. You are indefatigably curious and sometimes I wish you were just a little bit lazy. You eat ingredients and it drives me insane. You cook and clean up after yourself and deal with me being not so great at cleaning up after myself. You're very particular about only boiling the correct amount of water. You do our taxes and you don't get cross when I throw a tantrum about being too hot when running on a treadmill. You run at my speed and are friends with my friends and occasionally babysit for their children so that we can go out. You tolerate Grey's Anatomy. Sometimes. You challenge me to push myself, to climb (literal) mountains and run (literal, half) marathons and to not hate republicans just because they're republican. You are completely wrong about the value of fiction and really need to go clothes shopping more than once a year. We hold people to the same standards of decorum and manners and I love that. You have far too many opinions on the way I cook in the kitchen and I hate that. And all of it, all of you and this life we've built adds up to something far beyond my best case scenario. I love you, I love us, and our life and I'm so glad - so incredibly glad - that I, that we, took this chance together.
Jeremy got bitten by an ant.
On Wednesday night, Jeremy got bitten by an ant. I know because he woke me up to tell me and then proceeded to tell me by:
-leaving me a note
-sending me a text message
-writing me an email
-posting me a letter (stamped, addressed and everything) which I received today.
So, because he clearly feels the need to share this piece of information, I thought I'd tell the world (or all 40 odd people who read this).
It's not a particularly normal thing to do, right? But when Jeremy commits to a joke, he commits. For all I know there's a plane writing 'An ANT bit me' in the sky right now. It wouldn't surprise me. And this is one of the reasons I love my husband. Because, abnormal as he is, he makes me laugh. A lot, and often.
-leaving me a note
-sending me a text message
-writing me an email
-posting me a letter (stamped, addressed and everything) which I received today.
So, because he clearly feels the need to share this piece of information, I thought I'd tell the world (or all 40 odd people who read this).
It's not a particularly normal thing to do, right? But when Jeremy commits to a joke, he commits. For all I know there's a plane writing 'An ANT bit me' in the sky right now. It wouldn't surprise me. And this is one of the reasons I love my husband. Because, abnormal as he is, he makes me laugh. A lot, and often.
That line between independence and loneliness
The past month or so Jeremy has been MIA. Well, that's not entirely true, I know where he is but he's not here and when he is here, he's working in a language I don't understand so he may as well not be here.
The language is 'Java', which brings to mind coffee and a far off land, but in Jeremy's reality means writing in 'code' and something about algorithms. Had to spell check that one.
The reason is that he's taken on an evening course in addition to his normal job. The course is through Harvard, which means it's difficult and he seems to be doing more work on this one module than I can ever recall doing in an entire year of modules when studying English Lit.
When he started out working late, it was a novelty. I quite enjoyed being the cool wife who was ever-so understanding and supportive. It helped that he wasn't having fun and that he took time to apologise for working late. What also helped was that for the first time in a year I was cooking for myself alone. Cue instantaneous return to Dr Oetker's frozen pizza, fish-fingers chips and beans, jacket potatoes and a not small amount of red wine from a box. After a year of eating like an adult and cooking proper meals (or being cooked them - I'm not the model of traditional housewifery, never fear), the sudden freedom to just eat what I wanted and not having to worry about whether Jeremy would want to eat it was quite liberating.
Equally liberating was my having a car and being brave enough to drive it. I was going out and doing things without Jeremy, coming home and cooking a satisfyingly un-nutritious meal and settling down to watch medical dramas. Bliss.
Until now when the novelty has totally worn off. I'm back to cooking proper meals (because there's only so much Dr Oetker one can eat before realising one's skin is turning grey from lack of vitimins), Greys Anatomy is doing that weird break-in-series thing that American TV does annoyingly often and the only places I can think of to drive to involve shopping, and I've already done a fair amount of that in the past month. Yes I could drive to art galleries and be all cultured, but... yea.
I miss Jeremy. And J, I'm not writing this to make you feel guilty - like I said, the fact that you're not having any fun makes it all much easier. I'm writing this because, well, because I'm sat here thinking about driving to the library (essentially just somewhere else to sit and mess about online) and pondering what to do with myself for another evening spent alone after another day spent alone and I'm willing May to hurry up and get here so that Jeremy's course can be over and we can get back to eating nutritious meals together.
On the bright side, it's pancake day tomorrow (I moved it). Which, if you don't know what it is, is essentially the singular greatest contribution England has given to the world and I have appointed myself as a pancake-day evangelist. So tomorrow, nutrition be damned, I'm cooking a thousand pancakes in ingenious ways and feeding them to friends.
Maybe I'll go buy eggs.
(I should insert a don't-worry-about-me disclaimer. I babysat on monday, went to a women's day event on tuesday and had an interview on wednesday. Life is not as dull as I'm making it out to be. Except for right now this minute and maybe a few minutes yesterday. But I do miss Jeremy)
The language is 'Java', which brings to mind coffee and a far off land, but in Jeremy's reality means writing in 'code' and something about algorithms. Had to spell check that one.
The reason is that he's taken on an evening course in addition to his normal job. The course is through Harvard, which means it's difficult and he seems to be doing more work on this one module than I can ever recall doing in an entire year of modules when studying English Lit.
When he started out working late, it was a novelty. I quite enjoyed being the cool wife who was ever-so understanding and supportive. It helped that he wasn't having fun and that he took time to apologise for working late. What also helped was that for the first time in a year I was cooking for myself alone. Cue instantaneous return to Dr Oetker's frozen pizza, fish-fingers chips and beans, jacket potatoes and a not small amount of red wine from a box. After a year of eating like an adult and cooking proper meals (or being cooked them - I'm not the model of traditional housewifery, never fear), the sudden freedom to just eat what I wanted and not having to worry about whether Jeremy would want to eat it was quite liberating.
Equally liberating was my having a car and being brave enough to drive it. I was going out and doing things without Jeremy, coming home and cooking a satisfyingly un-nutritious meal and settling down to watch medical dramas. Bliss.
Until now when the novelty has totally worn off. I'm back to cooking proper meals (because there's only so much Dr Oetker one can eat before realising one's skin is turning grey from lack of vitimins), Greys Anatomy is doing that weird break-in-series thing that American TV does annoyingly often and the only places I can think of to drive to involve shopping, and I've already done a fair amount of that in the past month. Yes I could drive to art galleries and be all cultured, but... yea.
I miss Jeremy. And J, I'm not writing this to make you feel guilty - like I said, the fact that you're not having any fun makes it all much easier. I'm writing this because, well, because I'm sat here thinking about driving to the library (essentially just somewhere else to sit and mess about online) and pondering what to do with myself for another evening spent alone after another day spent alone and I'm willing May to hurry up and get here so that Jeremy's course can be over and we can get back to eating nutritious meals together.
On the bright side, it's pancake day tomorrow (I moved it). Which, if you don't know what it is, is essentially the singular greatest contribution England has given to the world and I have appointed myself as a pancake-day evangelist. So tomorrow, nutrition be damned, I'm cooking a thousand pancakes in ingenious ways and feeding them to friends.
Maybe I'll go buy eggs.
(I should insert a don't-worry-about-me disclaimer. I babysat on monday, went to a women's day event on tuesday and had an interview on wednesday. Life is not as dull as I'm making it out to be. Except for right now this minute and maybe a few minutes yesterday. But I do miss Jeremy)
One year on.
I am nearing a year. A year of America, a year of marriage, a year of living far far away from 90% of the people I love most. And I sailed past a year of unemployment over a month ago.
One whole year.
And here's the thing. The thing I breathe in and out with relief and thankfulness and more relief:
I'm happy.
Not just happy, I'm happy and I am in love. That quiet stillness that I found on a beach in cape cod almost a year ago has stayed with me. One year on and I love my husband and I'm happy.
Of course I'm not supposed to say I'm relieved. I'm supposed to act as though I knew all along that this would work and we'd be happy. But I am not a person that ever really knows anything, and there were quite a few massive variables at play. Things like us not having lived on the same continent in years and my frightening potential for being completely overwhelmed by homesickness. This whole year has been a massive exercise in trust for me. Trusting myself that I made the right decision to move and marry, trusting Jeremy that he trusted himself, trusting in God for strength and the ability to take the year one day at a time.
And now, one year on I can say that I know:
I know that J and I work, that when we argue we make up within the hour and that he can make me smile even on my darkest and mopeyest of days. I know that I'm resilient enough to live 3000 miles away from family and still be happy, even though I miss them every day. I know that missing people doesn't equal misery, that the fact of having people to miss is in a way a blessing. I know that I am stubborn enough to hold onto my accent, even if occasionally when asking for water or butter or informing J's grandma that the soup flavour is tomato, I have to begrudgingly drop 't's and alter vowels, just for the ease of being understood. I know that I can make friends and, through doing so, that I can still be myself here - with my funny accent and love of pashminas - that the 'spark' of 'me' is not lost in this big new world.
I know I can be ok.
A year ago today, I was one sleep away from moving to America, and I did not 'know' any of the above. I only hoped and trusted for it - based on the knowledge of years of loving Jeremy and knowing myself.
Thank God it all turned out OK.
Seriously.
One whole year.
And here's the thing. The thing I breathe in and out with relief and thankfulness and more relief:
I'm happy.
Not just happy, I'm happy and I am in love. That quiet stillness that I found on a beach in cape cod almost a year ago has stayed with me. One year on and I love my husband and I'm happy.
Of course I'm not supposed to say I'm relieved. I'm supposed to act as though I knew all along that this would work and we'd be happy. But I am not a person that ever really knows anything, and there were quite a few massive variables at play. Things like us not having lived on the same continent in years and my frightening potential for being completely overwhelmed by homesickness. This whole year has been a massive exercise in trust for me. Trusting myself that I made the right decision to move and marry, trusting Jeremy that he trusted himself, trusting in God for strength and the ability to take the year one day at a time.
And now, one year on I can say that I know:
I know that J and I work, that when we argue we make up within the hour and that he can make me smile even on my darkest and mopeyest of days. I know that I'm resilient enough to live 3000 miles away from family and still be happy, even though I miss them every day. I know that missing people doesn't equal misery, that the fact of having people to miss is in a way a blessing. I know that I am stubborn enough to hold onto my accent, even if occasionally when asking for water or butter or informing J's grandma that the soup flavour is tomato, I have to begrudgingly drop 't's and alter vowels, just for the ease of being understood. I know that I can make friends and, through doing so, that I can still be myself here - with my funny accent and love of pashminas - that the 'spark' of 'me' is not lost in this big new world.
I know I can be ok.
A year ago today, I was one sleep away from moving to America, and I did not 'know' any of the above. I only hoped and trusted for it - based on the knowledge of years of loving Jeremy and knowing myself.
Thank God it all turned out OK.
Seriously.
Fraud
For the next three weeks I have the use of a car, which is good but it also completely negates all excuses for not driving on my own. I have driven on my own a bit, but only really on routes I already know well and only short distances. Today I drove on the highway to a previously unvisted destination. And I didn't die.
Yesterday I drove to the supermarket and bought groceries (I've completely forgotten what we'd say in lieu of groceries in England... is it just 'food'?).
Yes I know this is all very mundane, and when I demand praise from Jeremy for such things, he looks at me like I'm asking for praise for learning to tie shoe-laces or count to ten, but it comes with the weirdest feeling. I feel exactly like an adult in disguise. As if I've donned adult clothing and am moving around undetected amongst other adults, but really I know I'm only an impostor.
I'm wondering whether this feeling will ever rub off, or whether it's just going to get worse when I'm a home owner or parent. And when I get wrinkles and grey hair, is it just going to feel like a more elaborate disguise? I'm not saying I feel young in that 'you're only as young as you feel' sort of BS, I'm saying I feel incompetent and unworthy. A total fraud.
To make matters worse I got asked if I was a teenager today.
It seems the disguise isn't all that good.
Yesterday I drove to the supermarket and bought groceries (I've completely forgotten what we'd say in lieu of groceries in England... is it just 'food'?).
Yes I know this is all very mundane, and when I demand praise from Jeremy for such things, he looks at me like I'm asking for praise for learning to tie shoe-laces or count to ten, but it comes with the weirdest feeling. I feel exactly like an adult in disguise. As if I've donned adult clothing and am moving around undetected amongst other adults, but really I know I'm only an impostor.
I'm wondering whether this feeling will ever rub off, or whether it's just going to get worse when I'm a home owner or parent. And when I get wrinkles and grey hair, is it just going to feel like a more elaborate disguise? I'm not saying I feel young in that 'you're only as young as you feel' sort of BS, I'm saying I feel incompetent and unworthy. A total fraud.
To make matters worse I got asked if I was a teenager today.
It seems the disguise isn't all that good.
Mouse-trap.
Our apartment has mice. They're fairly polite - they don't come out and scare me or eat the bread we store on top of the microwave. They stay in one particular cupboard and only occasionally make noise enough to prevent me from denying their existence. I've been ignoring them because a) I don't want them to exist and it seems a good way to go about things and b) we're moving. soon. and I'm putting off all unpleasant jobs in this house until I no longer live here and don't have to do them.
That is until yesterday when Jeremy produced mousetraps I didn't know we had and decided to catch them. What follows is an instant-messaging conversation and the drama that ensued.
me: I think we may have just attempted to trap a mouse...
Jeremy: what do you mean?
That is until yesterday when Jeremy produced mousetraps I didn't know we had and decided to catch them. What follows is an instant-messaging conversation and the drama that ensued.
me: I think we may have just attempted to trap a mouse...
Jeremy: what do you mean?
me: I heard the trap go.And I don't want to find out
Jeremy: oh yeah? I emptied it this morn
me: serious? ugh
Jeremy: yeah
me: please PLEASE can we make an offer this week?????
Jeremy: theres a plastic bag with a mouse outside teh door. Ha.
me: nice
... (10 minutes or so pass)
Jeremy: did you check the mousetrap?
me: nope. Because if I check it and it has a dead mouse in it, I'll have to do something about it and I really
don't want to
don't want to
Jeremy: you just lift the spring
me: right but there's a dead mouse underneath it. I don't like dead animals much
Jeremy: me either
me: no but they're yours.
Jeremy: why
me: I'm not sure but they are
me: I didn't set the traps
Jeremy: I did because of you
me: no you did because you got fed up of losing chickpeas.I was perfectly happy pretending that I didn't know they were there but now there's a dead one so I can't do that anymore.
The conversation ends there but in my head I know that there's a dead mouse in the chickpea cupboard. There are cans and stuff in there too, but I'm guessing the mouse was mostly interested in the dried chickpeas, of which there are many. I steel myself and go and look in the cupboard. Sure enough there's a mouse in the trap. What I wasn't prepared for was quite how mouse-like it looked, or how big its eyes were.
What follows is a comedic and stereotypically female response involving rubber gloves, a phone call to Jeremy, tears (of sadness for the mouse, illogical fear for me and hilarity, all rolled into one) and much hopping to and fro. I cover the mouse with a shroud (made of kitchen towel) so that I don't have to look at it and attempt to release it from the trap and into its grave (made of a plastic bag outside the back door...Jeremy's earlier mouse is also in it so it's fast becoming a mass grave). Cue more hopping, heart racing, tears and one bit where I thought it wasn't completely dead and dropped it on the floor. Eventually I get it together and deposit the mouse into the bag and wash my hands about 10 times.
I do not reset the trap.
An epiphany of sorts.
Today, as if from nowhere, I realised something about myself that most of you probably already know.
I am impulsive.
This came as a surprise because in so many ways I'm not at all impulsive. When asked at a party recently whether I would prefer to 'burn out or fade away' (no context given then so none given now), I immediately chose to 'fade away'. Burning out sounds far too tiring and potentially sudden.
My idea of impulsive people is one of rash devil-may-care (not sure what that means exactly but it seems appropriate) attitudes. People who don't take extra pairs of shoes out with them in case the heels end up being the insensible choice they know them to be. People who aren't afraid of flying, who don't purposely travel at the back of tube trains (because a sensible terrorist wouldn't strike there). People whose favourite activity of all time is not reading.
But the evidence speaks for itself.
When it comes to big, life changing, should-really-spend-some-time-thinking-about-this decisions, I make them in an instant.
Go and visit man in America I've known for 5 days? Naturally
Embark on long-distance relationship when all evidence points to them being painful and, ultimately, disastrous? OK
Do Masters as a way to live in America? Sure thing (this was literally decided in an airport when saying goodbye to Jeremy)
Marry American and move whole life over there with no guarantees of employment or, well, anything? Easy (well, not easy, as you'll know from all my moaning, but the decision was made pretty quickly).
I think I've proved my point. In almost every area of my life, where big decisions are concerned, I listen with my heart. Move with my heart. And when my head catches up I ignore it until my heart makes the argument and wins it around.
Recently this has been a little problematic.
Because Jeremy is the opposite. When it comes to the small everyday things that I'm careful and sensible about, he's as headstrong and carefree as you like. He'll travel on any carriage of a tube train without a passing thought, thinks airplane turbulence is 'fun' and enjoys scuba diving at night in deathly cold temperatures. And on the small things he doesn't think twice - he throws himself into his hobbies with abandon. Bread baking, beer brewing, cheese making, vinegar fermenting. All things that I'd be cautious about because they take up so much time / the equipment costs money / they smell bad , he doesn't give a second thought. But on the big things he takes his time. Chews things over. Considers, weighs, deliberates.
I suppose you could argue that he's made the same decisions as me. He too long-distance-relationshipped and married a foreigner (one who practically wrote into the marriage vows a future move to her homeland). But he did so carefully, with thought. I made up my mind in an instant, Jeremy took, well, longer.
The reason it's been problematic of late is because we are house hunting. And we've found a house. A beautiful, party-perfect, walking-distance-to-shops-and-restaurants house which is not in danger of being consumed by a mud-slide and which doesn't have a septic system that will need replacing in a year. And there's granite in the kitchen and beams on the ceilings and a deck.
So you can guess my decision making process on this matter.
And Jeremy's.
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, depending how sensible you are), Jeremy is the one with the power in this decision making process. And by power I mean he's the one who's managed to save more than 10 pounds (that's coinage, not weight) in his life. And I do understand that when you've saved enough to buy a beautiful house, you might want to be careful and considered in how / when you part with those savings. You might want to understand the process and be fully aware of all potential pitfalls.
I understand, but it doesn't stop me from jumping up and down with excitement / impatience, waiting for his head to catch up with my heart.
And yes, I also accept that it's a bloody good thing he's the one with the savings power, because I'd have probably bought the house before this house. The one with the septic system and a hill ready to avalanche into it at the next rainstorm.
I am impulsive.
This came as a surprise because in so many ways I'm not at all impulsive. When asked at a party recently whether I would prefer to 'burn out or fade away' (no context given then so none given now), I immediately chose to 'fade away'. Burning out sounds far too tiring and potentially sudden.
My idea of impulsive people is one of rash devil-may-care (not sure what that means exactly but it seems appropriate) attitudes. People who don't take extra pairs of shoes out with them in case the heels end up being the insensible choice they know them to be. People who aren't afraid of flying, who don't purposely travel at the back of tube trains (because a sensible terrorist wouldn't strike there). People whose favourite activity of all time is not reading.
But the evidence speaks for itself.
When it comes to big, life changing, should-really-spend-some-time-thinking-about-this decisions, I make them in an instant.
Go and visit man in America I've known for 5 days? Naturally
Embark on long-distance relationship when all evidence points to them being painful and, ultimately, disastrous? OK
Do Masters as a way to live in America? Sure thing (this was literally decided in an airport when saying goodbye to Jeremy)
Marry American and move whole life over there with no guarantees of employment or, well, anything? Easy (well, not easy, as you'll know from all my moaning, but the decision was made pretty quickly).
I think I've proved my point. In almost every area of my life, where big decisions are concerned, I listen with my heart. Move with my heart. And when my head catches up I ignore it until my heart makes the argument and wins it around.
Recently this has been a little problematic.
Because Jeremy is the opposite. When it comes to the small everyday things that I'm careful and sensible about, he's as headstrong and carefree as you like. He'll travel on any carriage of a tube train without a passing thought, thinks airplane turbulence is 'fun' and enjoys scuba diving at night in deathly cold temperatures. And on the small things he doesn't think twice - he throws himself into his hobbies with abandon. Bread baking, beer brewing, cheese making, vinegar fermenting. All things that I'd be cautious about because they take up so much time / the equipment costs money / they smell bad , he doesn't give a second thought. But on the big things he takes his time. Chews things over. Considers, weighs, deliberates.
I suppose you could argue that he's made the same decisions as me. He too long-distance-relationshipped and married a foreigner (one who practically wrote into the marriage vows a future move to her homeland). But he did so carefully, with thought. I made up my mind in an instant, Jeremy took, well, longer.
The reason it's been problematic of late is because we are house hunting. And we've found a house. A beautiful, party-perfect, walking-distance-to-shops-and-restaurants house which is not in danger of being consumed by a mud-slide and which doesn't have a septic system that will need replacing in a year. And there's granite in the kitchen and beams on the ceilings and a deck.
So you can guess my decision making process on this matter.
And Jeremy's.
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, depending how sensible you are), Jeremy is the one with the power in this decision making process. And by power I mean he's the one who's managed to save more than 10 pounds (that's coinage, not weight) in his life. And I do understand that when you've saved enough to buy a beautiful house, you might want to be careful and considered in how / when you part with those savings. You might want to understand the process and be fully aware of all potential pitfalls.
I understand, but it doesn't stop me from jumping up and down with excitement / impatience, waiting for his head to catch up with my heart.
And yes, I also accept that it's a bloody good thing he's the one with the savings power, because I'd have probably bought the house before this house. The one with the septic system and a hill ready to avalanche into it at the next rainstorm.
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
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 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.)
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...
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.
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.
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