Since I last posted, my little sister got engaged and the temperature has dropped. As far as I know the two are unrelated.
Beyond that, nothing has changed. I am fast falling into the routine I struggled against all year, which basically means sleeping in too late and then being unable to fall asleep at a respectable hour and therefore visciousising the circle. It's the cold I tell you. And the laziness.
Spell check just told me that every word in the above paragraph is miss-spelt. I find this hard to believe.
So yes, the laziness. It's bad. I'm in mortal-danger of becoming a blob. I do lunges as a way to get around the house in an effort to stave off total blob-dom and I've given up beer (because I don't really like it anyway and it seemed like an easy way to cut out calories) and drinking on weeknights (unless it's absolutely necessary), but I fear that my total lack of movement is likely to catch up with me at some point. If it hasn't already - I'll be conducting an opinion poll when I'm back in the UK over Christmas, although with the added variables of (proper) roast-dinners, galaxy, mince-pies, sausages and prawn cocktail crisps being available it may not be a fair test.
The problem with the temperature is that it's only going to drop further and will soon be followed by snow and ice and these things are going to prohibit me from moving anywhere at any speed, even if I am inclined to move, and thus perpetuating my rapid demise. It's not like I've ever been one for exercise, but I have been licenseless and employed (paid or otherwise), which has necessitated walking everywhere. Now I am unemployed, and while I'm writing a lot as a means to occupy myself, having fit-fingers isn't going to help much.The only thing for it is to get my license and a car and to drive to the nearest gym and exercise there. Yes I know that sentence contains many things that seem unlikely or impossible. Stop laughing.
Oh if only I could curl up in a cupboard and slow my heart-rate down to barely perceptible levels and sleep out the winter...although I'm currently making a fairly good go at it.
Dear Thanksgiving...
I do love you so. Entirely because you are a 'holiday' based solely on food... and gratitude, technically...
I was a teensy bit shocked recently though when I realised that the original thanksgiving began with pilgrims breaking bread with the 'indians' and, well, we've all seen 'dancing with wolves' and know how that turned out. So it does seem slightly ummmm strange to carry on pretending that all was friendly and helpful and thanksworthy. But hey, that's probably just me.
But still, if we overlook your somewhat dubious claims to origins of goodwill to all mankind, I appreciate you. And for this reason I'm going to do a cliched and self indulgent list of things I am grateful for: I warn you, parts/all of it may be soppy.
1. For Jeremy. Anytime I feel lost or disheartened, lonely or fed-up I think of Jeremy and feel unbelievably blessed to have him in my life on a daily basis and for us to be growing this marriage of ours. Yes he makes vinegar out of smushed up peaches and lays out a welcome mat to fruit flies, and he watches impossible amounts of Family Guy/ The Simpsons / South Park etc etc, but that's insignificant in comparison
2. For Grace. I don't much talk about God or faith, because I struggle to define myself within the parameters of the popular definitions available to me, but I do have a faith and this year I have felt so blessed and looked after. So many times I have felt entirely incapable and so many times great things have happened despite me... Jeremy can take some credit here also.
3. For family, and the fact that although they are 3000 miles away, they remain my most precious source of strength and support.
4. For friends, new and old. Making friends was the thing I was worried most about when I moved here and funnily enough has been the easiest thing. Jobs and driving on the other hand...And for old friends who have done a brilliant job at keeping in touch (shout out to Abs for sending me chocolate often enough that I still love chocolate and haven't been reprogrammed to think it's all hershey's and nasty.)...thanks to everyone in advance for visiting me in 2011!!
I warned you it was soppy. But tis the season after all.
x
I was a teensy bit shocked recently though when I realised that the original thanksgiving began with pilgrims breaking bread with the 'indians' and, well, we've all seen 'dancing with wolves' and know how that turned out. So it does seem slightly ummmm strange to carry on pretending that all was friendly and helpful and thanksworthy. But hey, that's probably just me.
But still, if we overlook your somewhat dubious claims to origins of goodwill to all mankind, I appreciate you. And for this reason I'm going to do a cliched and self indulgent list of things I am grateful for: I warn you, parts/all of it may be soppy.
1. For Jeremy. Anytime I feel lost or disheartened, lonely or fed-up I think of Jeremy and feel unbelievably blessed to have him in my life on a daily basis and for us to be growing this marriage of ours. Yes he makes vinegar out of smushed up peaches and lays out a welcome mat to fruit flies, and he watches impossible amounts of Family Guy/ The Simpsons / South Park etc etc, but that's insignificant in comparison
2. For Grace. I don't much talk about God or faith, because I struggle to define myself within the parameters of the popular definitions available to me, but I do have a faith and this year I have felt so blessed and looked after. So many times I have felt entirely incapable and so many times great things have happened despite me... Jeremy can take some credit here also.
3. For family, and the fact that although they are 3000 miles away, they remain my most precious source of strength and support.
4. For friends, new and old. Making friends was the thing I was worried most about when I moved here and funnily enough has been the easiest thing. Jobs and driving on the other hand...And for old friends who have done a brilliant job at keeping in touch (shout out to Abs for sending me chocolate often enough that I still love chocolate and haven't been reprogrammed to think it's all hershey's and nasty.)...thanks to everyone in advance for visiting me in 2011!!
I warned you it was soppy. But tis the season after all.
x
You know it's time to move...
... when your apartment starts attacking you with bathroom tiles.
(I failed my driving test by the way folks... I've rebooked and will reveal the exact hilarious reason why I failed after I've passed)
But anyway...
There I am, taking my customary afternoon shower (because by the time I've got up, had coffee, checked email and caught up on whatever cheesey hospital dramas Jeremy refuses to tolerate it's more often than not the afternoon) when not one but 2 tiles come crashing down from above the shower head. Quite how they didn't hit me I'm not sure.
After reassuring myself that there wasn't a poltergeist (this involved waiting for tiles to start flying at me from all directions...that this was among my first thoughts says something about me) I washed the remaining conditioner out of my hair, standing as far away from the zone of tile-fire as possible, and then made a decision:
It's time to move.
Problem is I've known it was time to move since before I moved in. It was one of my conditions of moving here in the first place - along with learning to drive and getting a job...ahem...And we are looking for a place to buy, it's just not been found yet. I've come to the conclusion that realtors (aka estate agents) are geniuses with cameras and that architects have a few screws loose because it seems SO simple to build a house that has normal sized rooms but most have failed in this task and consequently we have so far failed in moving.
And now my bathroom, which was already pretty grim, is raining tiles on my head. I'm nearing a year of living here, and while I do feel like I've achieved a lot since moving (namely warding off depression and not feeling completely isolated, and technically I did get a job I just turned it down...), I would like to achieve something a teensy bit more tangible. A new house with tiles firmly fixed to the wall would do.
(I failed my driving test by the way folks... I've rebooked and will reveal the exact hilarious reason why I failed after I've passed)
But anyway...
There I am, taking my customary afternoon shower (because by the time I've got up, had coffee, checked email and caught up on whatever cheesey hospital dramas Jeremy refuses to tolerate it's more often than not the afternoon) when not one but 2 tiles come crashing down from above the shower head. Quite how they didn't hit me I'm not sure.
After reassuring myself that there wasn't a poltergeist (this involved waiting for tiles to start flying at me from all directions...that this was among my first thoughts says something about me) I washed the remaining conditioner out of my hair, standing as far away from the zone of tile-fire as possible, and then made a decision:
It's time to move.
Problem is I've known it was time to move since before I moved in. It was one of my conditions of moving here in the first place - along with learning to drive and getting a job...ahem...And we are looking for a place to buy, it's just not been found yet. I've come to the conclusion that realtors (aka estate agents) are geniuses with cameras and that architects have a few screws loose because it seems SO simple to build a house that has normal sized rooms but most have failed in this task and consequently we have so far failed in moving.
And now my bathroom, which was already pretty grim, is raining tiles on my head. I'm nearing a year of living here, and while I do feel like I've achieved a lot since moving (namely warding off depression and not feeling completely isolated, and technically I did get a job I just turned it down...), I would like to achieve something a teensy bit more tangible. A new house with tiles firmly fixed to the wall would do.
Approaching adulthood, perhaps.
I was thinking about keeping this secret so that if / when I fail, no one knows. But I think we all know by now that I'm not averse to airing my failures in public.
I'm taking my driving test tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I look my licenseless shame in the face and say 'bring it on'... or, more likely I whimper 'please, pretty please...'
The thing is I have no idea what to expect. Taking a driving test here seems to be like a lucky dip. People choose locations based on which testing-centres are renowned for giving easy tests. I've heard reports of people being asked to drive once around the block and that being deemed sufficient to pass. Or one friend who, when asked to back up 50 feet, backed up into oncoming traffic and was repeatedly given the opportunity to 're-do', until he kind of got it right. But equally there are internet rumours of people being failed for minor faults, and I definitely do know people who have failed here, for things much less than backing into the wrong side of the road.
I think the test in England is harder. It's certainly more expensive, takes longer than the reported 5 minutes and has to be taken on a standard unless you want to be limited to driving automatics for life (whereas here I can take the test on an automatic and then cheerfully get into a standard to drive home, never-mind if I've driven one before or not). And there's a system: you are guaranteed to be asked to do the whole gamut of driving tasks and X many minor faults = fail, 1 major fault = fail. I've even heard that they have a quota of passes for the day so if you're at the end of a day where lots of people have passed then you may be out of luck... although that sounds like a myth to me. Here though from what I've gathered, unless I'm unlucky enough to get one of the professional driving test testers (normally it's just a policeman... don't ask me why), it's all highly subjective and dependent on the person you get and whether they've had their weetabix.
OH and the best bit, just to make me feel that much more of a child for not yet having my license, my mother-in-law is going to be sitting in the back seat the whole time because Massachusetts dictates that I must have a 'sponsor' and Jeremy's at work so she's kindly volunteered. I'm not sure if I feel more sorry for her or me.
So, cross all flexible body parts people in the hope that by tomorrow afternoon I shall have graduated into adulthood. Either way I'll be sure to give a full report of my humiliation or triumph.
I'm taking my driving test tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I look my licenseless shame in the face and say 'bring it on'... or, more likely I whimper 'please, pretty please...'
The thing is I have no idea what to expect. Taking a driving test here seems to be like a lucky dip. People choose locations based on which testing-centres are renowned for giving easy tests. I've heard reports of people being asked to drive once around the block and that being deemed sufficient to pass. Or one friend who, when asked to back up 50 feet, backed up into oncoming traffic and was repeatedly given the opportunity to 're-do', until he kind of got it right. But equally there are internet rumours of people being failed for minor faults, and I definitely do know people who have failed here, for things much less than backing into the wrong side of the road.
I think the test in England is harder. It's certainly more expensive, takes longer than the reported 5 minutes and has to be taken on a standard unless you want to be limited to driving automatics for life (whereas here I can take the test on an automatic and then cheerfully get into a standard to drive home, never-mind if I've driven one before or not). And there's a system: you are guaranteed to be asked to do the whole gamut of driving tasks and X many minor faults = fail, 1 major fault = fail. I've even heard that they have a quota of passes for the day so if you're at the end of a day where lots of people have passed then you may be out of luck... although that sounds like a myth to me. Here though from what I've gathered, unless I'm unlucky enough to get one of the professional driving test testers (normally it's just a policeman... don't ask me why), it's all highly subjective and dependent on the person you get and whether they've had their weetabix.
OH and the best bit, just to make me feel that much more of a child for not yet having my license, my mother-in-law is going to be sitting in the back seat the whole time because Massachusetts dictates that I must have a 'sponsor' and Jeremy's at work so she's kindly volunteered. I'm not sure if I feel more sorry for her or me.
So, cross all flexible body parts people in the hope that by tomorrow afternoon I shall have graduated into adulthood. Either way I'll be sure to give a full report of my humiliation or triumph.
Leviathan
This week I took on the leviathan that is The American Work Ethic and, well, failed.
Basically I asked for the option to take a week’s unpaid leave because my European unionized self couldn’t quite bring myself to face 3 weeks of vacation (less any time where my immune system failed me and I had to use said ‘vacation’ in order to not puke all over my desk) and they said, ummmmm, no.
So I walked away. Or rather I sat on the couch and read the email and sighed.
Overnight I’ve gone from facing a prospect of gainful employment : a salary and a title that isn’t ‘unemployed layabout’ to being ‘unemployed layabout’ once more. But I’m ok about this. Here’s why:
1. 1. I can take my driving test without mortal terror of failing, since there’s no job waiting for me where I have to drive across New England in the first week.
Hmmmm I think that may be the primary and possibly only reason. On the bright side, the mortal fear did kick me into learning how to drive within a month, after having put it off for a good decade.
My other reasons that I tell myself to make me feel better are:
1. I’m not yet ready to compromise on the criteria I set when I first decided to move here (even though I know I may well have to eventually since that leviathan is pretty indomitable)
Ok so I’ve only got one reason on that also…
I’m lucky because I have a Jeremy who is OK with me putting off compromise until I can stomach it a little easier. Although, if we look at it from the other angle (which I do find useful), if I hadn’t moved to this crazy country then I’d be comfortable in my 5 weeks vacation, unlimited sick leave and in close proximity to family and friends so therefore able to use those 5 weeks on things other than visiting Devon… so while I am very grateful for my loving and supportive husband, this was all in the deal to begin with (this particular angle really just makes me feel a little less guilty for turning down a salary... love you Jeremy x)
Back to square one it is then, and an earnest weighing of the pros and cons of being a teacher.
I miss the EU.
Why I probably deserve to be bopped on the head with a frying pan.
This week one of my best friends had a baby and another close friend announced his wife was pregnant.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
And I feel very far away.
(probably because I am very far away)
It comes at a time when life is beginning to take shape here. Jobs are being offered, driving tests passed (hopefully!) and houses bought (eventually). I have new friends, new kitchen equipment and if all goes to plan I might even have a new kitten (post house-buying / moving / jeremy-persuading etc etc, but I can dream).
Things are going well, they are going to plan. Lists have been ticked to the point that new lists have to be written, with things like 'buy new mattress' on them, rather than 'make friends'. But it doesn't help that some days I don't want my life to take shape here, I want it to take shape there. Some days the thought that I do not know when I'll get to meet my godson, that he'll probably have doubled or quadrupled (how quickly do babies grow?!) in size and weight by the time I get to hold him, kills me. Some days I want a hug from my mum so much that there is physical pain in my chest. I'll be walking down the street and the need for 'home' and old friends and family is so acute I start to cry.
Some days.
Those days have basically been this week. Possibly because of the life-shape-taking events. Because those events root me here - they dictate how much vacation I have to go home and see friends and family, and how much money I have to do it with. They tell me what my life is going to be like here, what my label will be and what people I will meet. They tell me that life here is going to be real and normal and I am going to be far-away from my other life for a long time.
Of course this is a fairly negative way of looking at things.
I think at this point I should probably give credit to Jeremy, who has had to deal with a wife this week who, rather than getting excited and happy about exciting and happy life-building news, has got anxious and low and positively pessimistic. Not because I'm not excited and happy about those things - but because my best friend just had a baby and I can't go to visit her and, well, it's all a bit overwhelming. Jeremy, thank you for not bopping me over the head with a frying pan - I'm sure the temptation is sometimes very strong.
Maybe that's what love is - resisting the urge to bop someone with a frying pan when they most truly deserve it and instead giving them a hug and telling them it's going to be ok. Because of course it is going to be OK - I just have to live with the reality of what being 3000 miles from 'home' means. And I need Henny to get on Skype so I can make cooey noises at my Godson.
The good life...
I haven't been writing a whole lot of late because the only interesting things that are happening are job interviews and, well, it seems unwise to start blogging about them.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
So instead I am going to tell you that my kitchen smells of vinegar.
The reason it smells of vinegar is because Jeremy decided a few weeks ago that he would like to make some vinegar and, in true Jeremy fashion, he set about doing so with enthusiasm, determination, and little thought to what inconveniences might ensue. Consequently, there are now 3 or 4 tubs of wine / fruit juice / mushed up peaches slowly but surely doing their vinegarising thing in our kitchen cupboards.
(Is anyone else disturbed that the jelly-like creature that lurks in vinegar is called a 'mother'?)
Their vinegarising thing is having two notable effects:
1. It smells of vinegar. Well of course, I hear you say.... but it smells of vinegar even with the lid on and the cupboard door shut. Did your lovely store-bought balsamic ever do that to you?
2. It's attracting fruit flies. It seems they don't care if the 'fruit' is slowly fermenting and acidising and whatever else happens to make vinegar vinegar. Fruit is fruit to these flies and they can sniff it out a mile off. As a result, these tiny floaty bugs are busy floating all over my house and they also do not know the difference between vinegar and end-of-the-day-glass-of-wine, so all attempts to drink in peace are thwarted by the little buzzy buggers.There are also a suspicious number of black fly-like dots floating around in the vinegar. Jeremy seems unperturbed and just fishes them out from time to time.
I shouldn't be surprised. This is Jeremy - the boy who gets more excited about buying a pressure canner than most 'normal' men would get about their ball bouncing / kicking / throwing / batting team winning the world whatever.
We don't boil pasta in this family. We mix it, roll it, stretch it, slice it and then we get to boil it. Yoghurt is not bought from the store (or the shop), it's cooked overnight on a very low-heat oven, inevitably using up the last of my all essential coffee-in-the-morning milk. Beer is brewed, bread is baked and left-overs are not thrown away, they are fed to the worms which then fertilize the tomatoes which, if there are any left over, will be canned for the winter.
Don't get me wrong. I love this about him - even if at times I do foresee my own end as being brought on by an avalanche of kitchen equipment.
I could, however, do without the fly vinegar.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)