I was thinking about keeping this secret so that if / when I fail, no one knows. But I think we all know by now that I'm not averse to airing my failures in public.
I'm taking my driving test tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I look my licenseless shame in the face and say 'bring it on'... or, more likely I whimper 'please, pretty please...'
The thing is I have no idea what to expect. Taking a driving test here seems to be like a lucky dip. People choose locations based on which testing-centres are renowned for giving easy tests. I've heard reports of people being asked to drive once around the block and that being deemed sufficient to pass. Or one friend who, when asked to back up 50 feet, backed up into oncoming traffic and was repeatedly given the opportunity to 're-do', until he kind of got it right. But equally there are internet rumours of people being failed for minor faults, and I definitely do know people who have failed here, for things much less than backing into the wrong side of the road.
I think the test in England is harder. It's certainly more expensive, takes longer than the reported 5 minutes and has to be taken on a standard unless you want to be limited to driving automatics for life (whereas here I can take the test on an automatic and then cheerfully get into a standard to drive home, never-mind if I've driven one before or not). And there's a system: you are guaranteed to be asked to do the whole gamut of driving tasks and X many minor faults = fail, 1 major fault = fail. I've even heard that they have a quota of passes for the day so if you're at the end of a day where lots of people have passed then you may be out of luck... although that sounds like a myth to me. Here though from what I've gathered, unless I'm unlucky enough to get one of the professional driving test testers (normally it's just a policeman... don't ask me why), it's all highly subjective and dependent on the person you get and whether they've had their weetabix.
OH and the best bit, just to make me feel that much more of a child for not yet having my license, my mother-in-law is going to be sitting in the back seat the whole time because Massachusetts dictates that I must have a 'sponsor' and Jeremy's at work so she's kindly volunteered. I'm not sure if I feel more sorry for her or me.
So, cross all flexible body parts people in the hope that by tomorrow afternoon I shall have graduated into adulthood. Either way I'll be sure to give a full report of my humiliation or triumph.
Leviathan
This week I took on the leviathan that is The American Work Ethic and, well, failed.
Basically I asked for the option to take a week’s unpaid leave because my European unionized self couldn’t quite bring myself to face 3 weeks of vacation (less any time where my immune system failed me and I had to use said ‘vacation’ in order to not puke all over my desk) and they said, ummmmm, no.
So I walked away. Or rather I sat on the couch and read the email and sighed.
Overnight I’ve gone from facing a prospect of gainful employment : a salary and a title that isn’t ‘unemployed layabout’ to being ‘unemployed layabout’ once more. But I’m ok about this. Here’s why:
1. 1. I can take my driving test without mortal terror of failing, since there’s no job waiting for me where I have to drive across New England in the first week.
Hmmmm I think that may be the primary and possibly only reason. On the bright side, the mortal fear did kick me into learning how to drive within a month, after having put it off for a good decade.
My other reasons that I tell myself to make me feel better are:
1. I’m not yet ready to compromise on the criteria I set when I first decided to move here (even though I know I may well have to eventually since that leviathan is pretty indomitable)
Ok so I’ve only got one reason on that also…
I’m lucky because I have a Jeremy who is OK with me putting off compromise until I can stomach it a little easier. Although, if we look at it from the other angle (which I do find useful), if I hadn’t moved to this crazy country then I’d be comfortable in my 5 weeks vacation, unlimited sick leave and in close proximity to family and friends so therefore able to use those 5 weeks on things other than visiting Devon… so while I am very grateful for my loving and supportive husband, this was all in the deal to begin with (this particular angle really just makes me feel a little less guilty for turning down a salary... love you Jeremy x)
Back to square one it is then, and an earnest weighing of the pros and cons of being a teacher.
I miss the EU.
Why I probably deserve to be bopped on the head with a frying pan.
This week one of my best friends had a baby and another close friend announced his wife was pregnant.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
The good life...
I haven't been writing a whole lot of late because the only interesting things that are happening are job interviews and, well, it seems unwise to start blogging about them.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
We're going on a job hunt...
Last week I finally caved to responsibility and started properly looking for jobs. Prior to that I'd just been pretending to look for jobs while actually looking at facebook. Quite who I thought I was fooling when I was the only person in the room I'm not sure.
The result of this flurry of job-search productivity is that I am heartened, perturbed and pink.
I am heartened because there are actual jobs out there that I actually want to do and believe I could do well.
I am perturbed because that means that I actually care if they like me or not and that's always a little unsettling.
I am pink because writing cover letters never fails to make me squirm. No matter how qualified I feel I am for a job, no matter what skills or experiences I genuinely have, the process of putting this information into a cover letter and 'selling' myself mortifies me.
However this is not a time for meek and reticent Englishness to hold me back. Therefore I have developed a technique for writing cover letters that has so far succeeded (in that I managed to write the cover letters, not in terms of anyone responding to them): I write with an American accent.
I find if I list my skills, abilities and qualifications with an English accent I sound smug and self-satisfied and more than a little unconvincing. Yet when I switch to American I just sound like a girl trying to get a job. I think this is because we British are so uncomfortable with anything that isn't self-deprecating and wry, whereas Americans have a frankness and an earnestness that makes these things far simpler. I'm not saying that Americans don't experience similar horror when stating they are a perfect fit for a job. Just that, in 'American' it sounds better, more acceptable, less...stiff.
I wonder whether there is any credibility to this theory - whether I write any differently than I would in an English accent - or whether it's just a matter of adding 'zees' to words like organization (but never advertised - confusing that - ooo, or confusing... don't Americans think we're weird for not using Zs? There are a few holes in their argument)
Apologies. This post was really just a long exercise in procrastination.
The result of this flurry of job-search productivity is that I am heartened, perturbed and pink.
I am heartened because there are actual jobs out there that I actually want to do and believe I could do well.
I am perturbed because that means that I actually care if they like me or not and that's always a little unsettling.
I am pink because writing cover letters never fails to make me squirm. No matter how qualified I feel I am for a job, no matter what skills or experiences I genuinely have, the process of putting this information into a cover letter and 'selling' myself mortifies me.
However this is not a time for meek and reticent Englishness to hold me back. Therefore I have developed a technique for writing cover letters that has so far succeeded (in that I managed to write the cover letters, not in terms of anyone responding to them): I write with an American accent.
I find if I list my skills, abilities and qualifications with an English accent I sound smug and self-satisfied and more than a little unconvincing. Yet when I switch to American I just sound like a girl trying to get a job. I think this is because we British are so uncomfortable with anything that isn't self-deprecating and wry, whereas Americans have a frankness and an earnestness that makes these things far simpler. I'm not saying that Americans don't experience similar horror when stating they are a perfect fit for a job. Just that, in 'American' it sounds better, more acceptable, less...stiff.
I wonder whether there is any credibility to this theory - whether I write any differently than I would in an English accent - or whether it's just a matter of adding 'zees' to words like organization (but never advertised - confusing that - ooo, or confusing... don't Americans think we're weird for not using Zs? There are a few holes in their argument)
Apologies. This post was really just a long exercise in procrastination.
The other side of the wedding fence... sort of
Life right now feels too big to encapsulate in a blog post. Mostly because nothing is happening beyond me feeling incredibly overwhelmed by everything that needs to happen and that's not particularly easy to write about.
People warned me that I could face post-wedding blues. That all the glitzy glamouryness of the wedding would leave a big wedding sized hole in my life.
I don't feel this way.
In fact, I have decided that while I loved my wedding, and while wearing a ridiculous-but-beautiful white dress for a day totally lived up to the superstar princess celebrity feeling I'd secretly dreamed of, other people's weddings are much more fun. At other people's weddings you just happily accept food and drink and more food and more drink and do not notice that the canapes seem to have shrunk or that the caterers have neglected to tell vegetarians that there is an option other than pork and lamb. And you most certainly do not obsess over napkin quality (that one comes with a warning - steer clear of napkin conversation with me for the next er 5 - 10 years ). At other people's weddings these details are irrelevant and unperceived (except perhaps if you're a vegetarian or napkin enthusiast.)
So, I have resolved never to get married again and to enthusiastically attend all the other-people's weddings I can.
I do however miss the excuse that the wedding provided. Everything I didn't want to do was put off until after the wedding - casually thrown over the wedding fence, mounting and piling into a big life-sized to-do list just waiting for the wedding and honeymoon and week-of-jet-lag-recovery to be over.
And now here we are.
So rather than doing what I should be doing, here is a list of what I learned over the past few wedding-filled months:
1. That I need to get over my need to appease people because I really just end up pissing off everyone.
2. That the steak and ale pie served at The Plough (in Dibley) is delicious and should always be ordered in preference over fish and chips.
3. That Jeremy cannot be trusted to share his steak and ale pie.
4. That I'm writing a novel (as announced by my dad in his speech...)
5. That I'm a saint (as announced by my father-in-law in his speech)
6. That if you're holding hands with someone when dancing and they fall over, you may end up damaging your finger for life.
7. That I have Miss Havisham tendencies that absolutely need to be suppressed
8. That Jeremy is capable of dancing - sort of - but it takes the peer pressure of 100+ people to make him do it.
9. That England can always be trusted to produce terrible weather
10. That I should never underestimate the power of Dibley - from accommodating guests to donating metric tons of hydrangeas to church transformation. That village is one of a kind.
11. That Jess is guaranteed to do something like turn an electric toothbrush covered in toothpaste on while wearing her bridesmaids dress...
I think I knew the last one already.
People warned me that I could face post-wedding blues. That all the glitzy glamouryness of the wedding would leave a big wedding sized hole in my life.
I don't feel this way.
In fact, I have decided that while I loved my wedding, and while wearing a ridiculous-but-beautiful white dress for a day totally lived up to the superstar princess celebrity feeling I'd secretly dreamed of, other people's weddings are much more fun. At other people's weddings you just happily accept food and drink and more food and more drink and do not notice that the canapes seem to have shrunk or that the caterers have neglected to tell vegetarians that there is an option other than pork and lamb. And you most certainly do not obsess over napkin quality (that one comes with a warning - steer clear of napkin conversation with me for the next er 5 - 10 years ). At other people's weddings these details are irrelevant and unperceived (except perhaps if you're a vegetarian or napkin enthusiast.)
So, I have resolved never to get married again and to enthusiastically attend all the other-people's weddings I can.
I do however miss the excuse that the wedding provided. Everything I didn't want to do was put off until after the wedding - casually thrown over the wedding fence, mounting and piling into a big life-sized to-do list just waiting for the wedding and honeymoon and week-of-jet-lag-recovery to be over.
And now here we are.
So rather than doing what I should be doing, here is a list of what I learned over the past few wedding-filled months:
1. That I need to get over my need to appease people because I really just end up pissing off everyone.
2. That the steak and ale pie served at The Plough (in Dibley) is delicious and should always be ordered in preference over fish and chips.
3. That Jeremy cannot be trusted to share his steak and ale pie.
4. That I'm writing a novel (as announced by my dad in his speech...)
5. That I'm a saint (as announced by my father-in-law in his speech)
6. That if you're holding hands with someone when dancing and they fall over, you may end up damaging your finger for life.
7. That I have Miss Havisham tendencies that absolutely need to be suppressed
8. That Jeremy is capable of dancing - sort of - but it takes the peer pressure of 100+ people to make him do it.
9. That England can always be trusted to produce terrible weather
10. That I should never underestimate the power of Dibley - from accommodating guests to donating metric tons of hydrangeas to church transformation. That village is one of a kind.
11. That Jess is guaranteed to do something like turn an electric toothbrush covered in toothpaste on while wearing her bridesmaids dress...
I think I knew the last one already.
Post ceremony with the Dibley river and mist for a background.
Evening attire and one of Abbie's amazing cupcakes.
The original Italy crowd, 7 years on.
A particularly cold gust of wind.
My wonderful bridesmaids, who did an amazing job attempting to keep me sane. Hats off to Abbie for braving the Stratton Family madness and emerging unscathed.
Decompression
Later this week I will rewind back 3 weeks or so and recap on all the adventures of Wedding preparation and the Dibley Flower Army and grooms with flu and sprained fingers and sleeper trains and honeymoon scooters on the French Riviera. For now though, I'm sat on Helen's bed, trying (and failing...sorry) not to get slightly-scorched croissant crumbs on her bed (The no-croissant diet is being put off for the foreseeable future), drinking coffee and gearing myself up to shower and head to richmond for a day of coffee and shopping and probably a fair amount of cider with a conveniently unemployed friend.
Two days in London before heading 'home'. It feels like a Hannah Decompression Chamber. I don't thnk anyone has ever referred to London as decompression before. Normally it's total compression, in the form of packed tube-trains, sucking all the air out of you and cramming you in to the tune of 'can you move up please' (seriously, who are the people who say that?). But these few days are allowing me to become accustomed again to my family being further away, to me being the independent adult that I'm supposed to be, before I really do the distance and resume life in Waltham.
I'm not sad about going back. Ahead of us is moving house (I'm far more excited about this than Jeremy is) and me getting a job (Jeremy is far more excited about that than I am) and me learning to drive (neither of us is looking forward to the effort required for that to actually happen). Lots of busy, good, life-building things.
I am sad to leave though. There is always a moment when I say goodbye to the crucial people when it feels like the air has been moved just out of reach and I have to gasp to find it.
Which is why saying goodbye in stages is helpful and good. From the hugs of family to the hugs of friends to the free wine and strangely comforting food of BA, I am decompressing back into a person who can handle living 3000 miles away.
(Jeremy is guaranteed to be asked to confirm about 10 times a day this week that yes, one day, we will live in England.)
Two days in London before heading 'home'. It feels like a Hannah Decompression Chamber. I don't thnk anyone has ever referred to London as decompression before. Normally it's total compression, in the form of packed tube-trains, sucking all the air out of you and cramming you in to the tune of 'can you move up please' (seriously, who are the people who say that?). But these few days are allowing me to become accustomed again to my family being further away, to me being the independent adult that I'm supposed to be, before I really do the distance and resume life in Waltham.
I'm not sad about going back. Ahead of us is moving house (I'm far more excited about this than Jeremy is) and me getting a job (Jeremy is far more excited about that than I am) and me learning to drive (neither of us is looking forward to the effort required for that to actually happen). Lots of busy, good, life-building things.
I am sad to leave though. There is always a moment when I say goodbye to the crucial people when it feels like the air has been moved just out of reach and I have to gasp to find it.
Which is why saying goodbye in stages is helpful and good. From the hugs of family to the hugs of friends to the free wine and strangely comforting food of BA, I am decompressing back into a person who can handle living 3000 miles away.
(Jeremy is guaranteed to be asked to confirm about 10 times a day this week that yes, one day, we will live in England.)
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