As I'm heading back to the UK today and as I'm looking for anything to do that isn't a) finishing packing, b)cleaning the kitchen floor or c) moving the mountain of wedding-present packaging out onto the curb, I thought I'd review one of the original to-do lists to see whether I have actually made progress in settling in here.
1. Get learners permit.
I put it off for as long as possible but eventually did achieve it.
2. Learn to drive.
This is happening. Slowly. I'm currently still recovering from attempting a hill start and then rolling backwards and almost hitting a car behind. Jeremy and I have so far only had one argument resulting from driving, where I was informed that I 'transform into a terrible person' behind the wheel and I have since tried very hard to remedy that.
3. Get social security number
Done, although I now have to go to the office and change my last name / get them to remove working restrictions etc etc.
4. Apply for /get Green Card.
Thank goodness this happened otherwise leaving today probably wouldn't be happening. Upon receiving my permanent resident status I cried out 'Yay, now I can leave'. Before that I'd been a prisoner of the immigration system.
5. Volunteer.
This is by far the best thing I've done. I'd like it even more if I got paid for it.
6. Learn French.
This was me thinking that with all my unemployed time I'd actually be motivated to put it to good use.
Hannah, meet Hannah...
...OK, this goal has been reviewed.
I did re-start my Rosetta Stone course, I just haven't got very far. I get frustrated having to answer stupid questions like "Is the boy eating an apple?" under a picture of a boy playing football and having to tell the computer "No, the boy is not eating an apple."
7. Move house.
I'm getting there. But this has been moved into the P.W. section of the year (Post Wedding)
8. Get a job.
See above, minus the 'I'm getting there' bit. Unemployment Rocks. (when you have a husband who transfers spending money into your account... which I think will start to have conditions attached P.W)
9. Make friends.
This is a work in progress. I certainly have people that were not in my life 6 months ago - I have people I can laugh with and get dinner with and probably confide in, should I have anything worth confiding - but it will take time for these friendships to really take root. In past experience, proper friendships have been born either out of living together or something dramatic involving hospitals and tears. I'm not going to be living with people any time soon so...
...hopefully there's more than one way to cement a friendship 'cause Manchester hospital UK is a long way from Boston.
10. Paint a picture.
See point 6. I think I got as far as drawing a chicken with oil pastels and I then accidentally cut it up while making a template for birthday bunting.
Progress Summary
"Overall Hannah has made good initial progress in settling into her new American life. She drags her feet when a task seems difficult or the results of said task involve effort, but eventually (after multiple motivation speeches from her mother and a few kicks up the bum from Jeremy) she does get her arse in gear. Perhaps most significant is that homesickness, while still present, has receded and on most days she feels happy in her life here. It will be interesting to see how homesick she feels when she returns from her upcoming visit to England. She is a little dubious about the approaching winter, and plans to weather this with red wellingtons, thermal underwear and a resistance to Jeremy's heat-saving tendencies. It is still early days in the emigre story, but the initial signs point to the move being a successful one."
Dammit now I've finished this I really do have to clean the kitchen floor.
Packing...
I'm supposed to be packing, but writing about packing is far easier than actually packing so here I am.
Usually I don't find packing hard at all. I chuck a ton of stuff in bag and trust that Jeremy will have remembered all the essentials I've forgotten. Or that I can buy them when we get there (hence the ridiculous number of sun-cream bottles, plasticky hair-brushes and cheap sun-glasses that we own).
This time packing is different. For every item of clothing that I put on the bed, ready to be smushed into my suitcase, my heart does a double beat. It sounds like this:
Wed-ding.
Somehow I have to pack for 2 weeks of English summer (which means packing for most countries' 4 seasons), a week of backpacking in France and a wedding. Even if we ignore for the moment the massive wedding dress that I'll be hand-luggaging my way to England with, it's still going to be a lot of stuff.
Meanwhile, whilst packing rain-coats and bikinis, jeans and summer-skirts I'm also processing my return to the motherland. So much has changed and I'll be seeing so many people who it's broken my heart not to see. Just thinking about it overwhelms me.
I know from past experience that the England I left will not be the England I'll return to. I will have changed - there will be inflections in my accent, new mannerisms, 'bad' table-manners (no judgment - it's way easier your way...) that will distinguish me as not-quite English and if other people aren't aware of it then I will be anyway. That doesn't worry me too much though. What worries me is that I'm only now beginning to shake the homesickness, to settle here and accept the distance. Am I going to lose all that ground?
Stop rolling your eyes at me. I am NOT complaining. I can't wait to be back in the UK, knowing my way around and being understood and having EVERYONE I love most in the world in one errrr tent for a night. I'm just aware it's going to be a little odd and saying goodbye is never ever easy.
Which is my excuse for packing very very slowly.
Usually I don't find packing hard at all. I chuck a ton of stuff in bag and trust that Jeremy will have remembered all the essentials I've forgotten. Or that I can buy them when we get there (hence the ridiculous number of sun-cream bottles, plasticky hair-brushes and cheap sun-glasses that we own).
This time packing is different. For every item of clothing that I put on the bed, ready to be smushed into my suitcase, my heart does a double beat. It sounds like this:
Wed-ding.
Somehow I have to pack for 2 weeks of English summer (which means packing for most countries' 4 seasons), a week of backpacking in France and a wedding. Even if we ignore for the moment the massive wedding dress that I'll be hand-luggaging my way to England with, it's still going to be a lot of stuff.
Meanwhile, whilst packing rain-coats and bikinis, jeans and summer-skirts I'm also processing my return to the motherland. So much has changed and I'll be seeing so many people who it's broken my heart not to see. Just thinking about it overwhelms me.
I know from past experience that the England I left will not be the England I'll return to. I will have changed - there will be inflections in my accent, new mannerisms, 'bad' table-manners (no judgment - it's way easier your way...) that will distinguish me as not-quite English and if other people aren't aware of it then I will be anyway. That doesn't worry me too much though. What worries me is that I'm only now beginning to shake the homesickness, to settle here and accept the distance. Am I going to lose all that ground?
Stop rolling your eyes at me. I am NOT complaining. I can't wait to be back in the UK, knowing my way around and being understood and having EVERYONE I love most in the world in one errrr tent for a night. I'm just aware it's going to be a little odd and saying goodbye is never ever easy.
Which is my excuse for packing very very slowly.
A Trifle
Wedding planning madness is being interrupted this weekend by Jeremy turning old.
To celebrate, we're having a big BBQ where we'll smoke a pork shoulder to make pulled pork and accompany it with many many delicious sides, demonstrating conclusively that Americans know how to do BBQs in a way us Brits would never imagine. British BBQs of sausages and burgers certainly have their place in my heart but this is something else. The mere addition of mashed potato is enough to convert me, but throw into the mix collard greens, corn bread and jambalaya and I'm sold.
I recently discovered that an array of English roast-dinner accompaniments go surprisingly well with BBQ. cauliflower cheese has been a massive hit, and I think roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings would fare well also. So in a strike of genius, I decided that for Jeremy's party I would make a traditional English trifle. A taste of home that would integrate well with the BBQ deliciousness.. I checked with Jeremy on whether the ingredients would be available in our local supermarket and I set out on a humidity soaked quest to obtain them.
It took me about an hour of traipsing around the supermarket and one phone call to Jeremy asking for descriptions of brands / boxes / locations before I finally had a basket of passable trifle ingredients.Here is what I found out, in case you too want to make trifle in America.
- Custard is called Pudding and is to be found disguised as Jell-o. Birds custard does exist in the 'British Foods' section but it was, like everything there, prohibitively expensive.
- Jell-o, as we English already know from watching far too much American TV, is what they call Jelly, only it comes in disconcertingly powdered form, rather than the temptingly edible gelatin cubes that I grew up with.
- Lady fingers don't exist but I settled on Vanilla flavoured wafers, which seem comparable but are found with the cookies rather than baking section.
- Jam, as I'm sure everyone knows, is Jelly, which is fine only it lurks in the bakery section, plus by this point I was getting confused with the jelly / jell-o thing anyway.
I was then asked at the check-out if I was paying with food stamps, which either says something about me or the food I was buying, I'm not sure.
Sorry, that was SO un-pc of me. I take it back.
So, armed with my dubious substitutes for trifle ingredients (what would Delia say?) I am going to attempt to wow Americans with my British culinary skills.
I can't say I'm holding out a huge amount of hope.
To celebrate, we're having a big BBQ where we'll smoke a pork shoulder to make pulled pork and accompany it with many many delicious sides, demonstrating conclusively that Americans know how to do BBQs in a way us Brits would never imagine. British BBQs of sausages and burgers certainly have their place in my heart but this is something else. The mere addition of mashed potato is enough to convert me, but throw into the mix collard greens, corn bread and jambalaya and I'm sold.
I recently discovered that an array of English roast-dinner accompaniments go surprisingly well with BBQ. cauliflower cheese has been a massive hit, and I think roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings would fare well also. So in a strike of genius, I decided that for Jeremy's party I would make a traditional English trifle. A taste of home that would integrate well with the BBQ deliciousness.. I checked with Jeremy on whether the ingredients would be available in our local supermarket and I set out on a humidity soaked quest to obtain them.
It took me about an hour of traipsing around the supermarket and one phone call to Jeremy asking for descriptions of brands / boxes / locations before I finally had a basket of passable trifle ingredients.Here is what I found out, in case you too want to make trifle in America.
- Custard is called Pudding and is to be found disguised as Jell-o. Birds custard does exist in the 'British Foods' section but it was, like everything there, prohibitively expensive.
- Jell-o, as we English already know from watching far too much American TV, is what they call Jelly, only it comes in disconcertingly powdered form, rather than the temptingly edible gelatin cubes that I grew up with.
- Lady fingers don't exist but I settled on Vanilla flavoured wafers, which seem comparable but are found with the cookies rather than baking section.
- Jam, as I'm sure everyone knows, is Jelly, which is fine only it lurks in the bakery section, plus by this point I was getting confused with the jelly / jell-o thing anyway.
I was then asked at the check-out if I was paying with food stamps, which either says something about me or the food I was buying, I'm not sure.
Sorry, that was SO un-pc of me. I take it back.
So, armed with my dubious substitutes for trifle ingredients (what would Delia say?) I am going to attempt to wow Americans with my British culinary skills.
I can't say I'm holding out a huge amount of hope.
Driving with Jeremy
Jeremy: Ok, now you’re gonna take a right and then an immediate left…
…Woah, woah, watch it….
- Silence –
Jeremy: Sorry
He’s apologizing because I don’t like it when he voices nervousness when I’m driving. Only in this instance he’s perfectly entitled to because I’ve just nearly crashed into a tree.
Jeremy: “Er you can go faster if you want” (I'm now driving about 10 mph)
Me: “I’m still processing the tree.”
Until recently, my only experience with driving was with a driving instructor in England 7 years ago. This is completely different. Firstly because I was not married to the driving instructor and therefore crying / sulking / moaning was not permitted – I had to suck it up and get on with it. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, because the driving instructor had a brake.
I feel the need to state here that I’m learning on a standard. Possibly the only standard in the whole of North America. I know this will not garner any sympathy from you English folks, but at least a large number of Americans reading this will concede that they wouldn’t be able to turn a corner while shifting gear either.
A major advantage (or disadvantage, depending what mood I’m in) of living with my driving instructor is that he can motivate me to practice and I need motivation because I am not remotely inclined to risk my life (and more importantly Jeremy's car's life) of an evening. Motivation from Jeremy generally comes in the form of a reminder that no one, absolutely no one aged 26 does not know how to drive.
It does the trick.
Because literally everyone drives here. If you have not learned to drive by age 17 then you are a freak of nature. The literature on the DMV’s website about getting your learner’s permit reads: “You just turned 16 and are ready to obtain your learner's permit. This is what you need to know before planning a trip with your parent or guardian to your local Registry branch” When I went into the local registry branch (without my parent or guardian) I was asked had I been there before. When I replied no I was asked my age. When I told her my age she said ‘So, you have been here before.’
Sigh.
I am an anomaly, a mystery, an aberration. When I tell people I do not drive they look at me as if trying to assess what exactly is wrong with me. I try to reassure them that it’s normal in England for people not to learn until later but that doesn’t help much – it just confirms their suspicions that all English people are weird.
All I can do is learn how to drive as soon as possible. Which means stopping being such a wimp about the whole thing and just doing it. And looking out for trees.
…Woah, woah, watch it….
- Silence –
Jeremy: Sorry
He’s apologizing because I don’t like it when he voices nervousness when I’m driving. Only in this instance he’s perfectly entitled to because I’ve just nearly crashed into a tree.
Jeremy: “Er you can go faster if you want” (I'm now driving about 10 mph)
Me: “I’m still processing the tree.”
Until recently, my only experience with driving was with a driving instructor in England 7 years ago. This is completely different. Firstly because I was not married to the driving instructor and therefore crying / sulking / moaning was not permitted – I had to suck it up and get on with it. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, because the driving instructor had a brake.
I feel the need to state here that I’m learning on a standard. Possibly the only standard in the whole of North America. I know this will not garner any sympathy from you English folks, but at least a large number of Americans reading this will concede that they wouldn’t be able to turn a corner while shifting gear either.
A major advantage (or disadvantage, depending what mood I’m in) of living with my driving instructor is that he can motivate me to practice and I need motivation because I am not remotely inclined to risk my life (and more importantly Jeremy's car's life) of an evening. Motivation from Jeremy generally comes in the form of a reminder that no one, absolutely no one aged 26 does not know how to drive.
It does the trick.
Because literally everyone drives here. If you have not learned to drive by age 17 then you are a freak of nature. The literature on the DMV’s website about getting your learner’s permit reads: “You just turned 16 and are ready to obtain your learner's permit. This is what you need to know before planning a trip with your parent or guardian to your local Registry branch” When I went into the local registry branch (without my parent or guardian) I was asked had I been there before. When I replied no I was asked my age. When I told her my age she said ‘So, you have been here before.’
Sigh.
I am an anomaly, a mystery, an aberration. When I tell people I do not drive they look at me as if trying to assess what exactly is wrong with me. I try to reassure them that it’s normal in England for people not to learn until later but that doesn’t help much – it just confirms their suspicions that all English people are weird.
All I can do is learn how to drive as soon as possible. Which means stopping being such a wimp about the whole thing and just doing it. And looking out for trees.
Getting married while being married...
Getting married when you're already married is a curious thing. Not only does it confuse the heck out of grandparents (I think I reassured Jeremy's Grandma about 20 times this weekend that yes, we are already married), it also frames the whole ceremony and process entirely differently to what I imagine most brides experience.
Case in point. I've been searching for readings / poems to be read during the ceremony and I've been struggling to find ones that honestly speak to the heart of marriage - that capture the terror and the trust and the beauty of it all. Things that I don't think most people truly realise until way after the ceremony planning is done.
Because being married is near beyond description. I don't want to come across like one of those couples (we know who you are) who seem to imagine they've taken on celebrity status upon sharing surnames. Getting married is hardly an original thing to do. But there's something magical about it that even I, a die-hard follower of the hopeless-romantic school of thought, could never have imagined and I'm still busy marveling at the whole thing.
I think because the act of getting married is so deadly terrifying - promising forever to someone when you have absolutely no control over what forever might throw at you, there is such a profound depth of trust placed both in yourself and in your partner. And this trust wraps around you both and creates a space of comfort and confidence that is unimaginable before you get married.
That said, the every day details of life don't change. We're still incredibly messy. It still drives me crazy that he doesn't flush the toilet when he pees and that to get into our house you must first navigate an obstacle course of tomatoes and hoses and a watering can with a sock wrapped around it, brewing 'worm 'tea' (don't ask...). I know it annoys him that I always forget to wring out the kitchen sponge and that I don't care which way the toilet roll goes onto the thingy.
There are still times when I think of 'forever' and my stomach tips with vertigo before I mentally place 'forever' in the context of day-by-day and the dizziness recedes. But it's that luminous trust that binds us - that step together Indiana Jones style (if you've been to as many christian camps as I did growing up you'll know that clip well) into the unknown, stepping into each day together and securing this life of ours so that it is able to face future storms - that is what I want to communicate in the marriage ceremony and what I want to re-promise.
Here's the closest poem I've found so far, although given the choice I'd sub in prawn cocktail crisps for popcorn...
Habitation - Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder at having survived even this far
we are learning to make fire.
Case in point. I've been searching for readings / poems to be read during the ceremony and I've been struggling to find ones that honestly speak to the heart of marriage - that capture the terror and the trust and the beauty of it all. Things that I don't think most people truly realise until way after the ceremony planning is done.
Because being married is near beyond description. I don't want to come across like one of those couples (we know who you are) who seem to imagine they've taken on celebrity status upon sharing surnames. Getting married is hardly an original thing to do. But there's something magical about it that even I, a die-hard follower of the hopeless-romantic school of thought, could never have imagined and I'm still busy marveling at the whole thing.
I think because the act of getting married is so deadly terrifying - promising forever to someone when you have absolutely no control over what forever might throw at you, there is such a profound depth of trust placed both in yourself and in your partner. And this trust wraps around you both and creates a space of comfort and confidence that is unimaginable before you get married.
That said, the every day details of life don't change. We're still incredibly messy. It still drives me crazy that he doesn't flush the toilet when he pees and that to get into our house you must first navigate an obstacle course of tomatoes and hoses and a watering can with a sock wrapped around it, brewing 'worm 'tea' (don't ask...). I know it annoys him that I always forget to wring out the kitchen sponge and that I don't care which way the toilet roll goes onto the thingy.
There are still times when I think of 'forever' and my stomach tips with vertigo before I mentally place 'forever' in the context of day-by-day and the dizziness recedes. But it's that luminous trust that binds us - that step together Indiana Jones style (if you've been to as many christian camps as I did growing up you'll know that clip well) into the unknown, stepping into each day together and securing this life of ours so that it is able to face future storms - that is what I want to communicate in the marriage ceremony and what I want to re-promise.
Here's the closest poem I've found so far, although given the choice I'd sub in prawn cocktail crisps for popcorn...
Habitation - Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder at having survived even this far
we are learning to make fire.
Nudity and Salad Bowls
There comes a time in every Boston summer where the only solution is nudity and salad bowls full of iced water.
No this isn't some kinky American practice, it's called stifling heat and no air conditioning. I'm not sure I've ever been this hot. There have been holidays to hot destinations, but they are always accompanied by pools or oceans and never by kitchens that need cleaning before father-in-laws come for dinner.
(The salad bowl is for my feet by the way.)
I drive Jeremy crazy. Because while yes, I am wandering around the house sans clothes, I am also moaning my head off. Basically I off-set the lack of clothes with unattractive complaining so as far as Jeremy's concerned I may as well be wearing an astronaut suit.
But seriously, I think I might die. I am not a person who sweats. Mostly because I am a person who avoids all activities (other than sunbathing on beaches) where sweating is a consequence. I don't like sweating. It's sticky and uncomfortable and pretty gross. Thedungeon basement is about the only place where the temperature is bearable and, well, I'd rather die of heat exhaustion.
The worst of it is I can't even blame Jeremy for our lack of air conditioning, because this principle is mine also. I don't believe in it - I think it puts people out of touch with their environment, it wastes tons of energy and the recycled air makes people ill. So, no blaming Jeremy on this one.
Seems complaining is the only answer. That or McDonalds. I may have principles but they have Mcflurries and air conditioning...
No this isn't some kinky American practice, it's called stifling heat and no air conditioning. I'm not sure I've ever been this hot. There have been holidays to hot destinations, but they are always accompanied by pools or oceans and never by kitchens that need cleaning before father-in-laws come for dinner.
(The salad bowl is for my feet by the way.)
I drive Jeremy crazy. Because while yes, I am wandering around the house sans clothes, I am also moaning my head off. Basically I off-set the lack of clothes with unattractive complaining so as far as Jeremy's concerned I may as well be wearing an astronaut suit.
But seriously, I think I might die. I am not a person who sweats. Mostly because I am a person who avoids all activities (other than sunbathing on beaches) where sweating is a consequence. I don't like sweating. It's sticky and uncomfortable and pretty gross. The
The worst of it is I can't even blame Jeremy for our lack of air conditioning, because this principle is mine also. I don't believe in it - I think it puts people out of touch with their environment, it wastes tons of energy and the recycled air makes people ill. So, no blaming Jeremy on this one.
Seems complaining is the only answer. That or McDonalds. I may have principles but they have Mcflurries and air conditioning...
Hi-Five, America.
Americans love to Hi-Five. Even when they do it with full ironic awareness, I'm pretty sure the majority of their being is indulging entirely in the cheesy exuberance of hand-slapping expression.
I hate to hi-five.
My reasons for this are as follows:
1. I'm not American
2. I'm not stupid
3. I'm fairly introvert and such demonstrations of enthusiasm make me uncomfortable
To combat this, and because it's funny, I developed an anti-hi-five tactic: when faced with an expectant hand saluting before me, I extend my hand at normal hand-shaking level and offer to shake. 'I'm British', I say. I don't do Hi-Fives.
Americans hate this.
For a while I found it pretty funny - and I assumed that they got the humour. I knew they were disconcerted, but I figured they'd just chalk it up to me and my dry British wit. However, this fourth of July weekend (the only time they ever say the date that way around, which is my reason for celebrating) I was told in no uncertain terms that in refusing to hi-five I am being rude and stand-offish and downright un-fun. OK the person doing the telling had been drinking since 7am, but I tend to believe the kernels of truth that come from alcohol loosened tongues.
Dry British humour bellyflops again.
(Or maybe they could just see through it to the fact that I hate hi-fiving and it's all a bluff.)
So I have to find a new technique for Hi-Five coping. Because believe me they appear at the most unexpected moments and from the most unexpected wrists.
My options as I see them are to either half halfheartedly indulge the Americans, whilst letting them know that I do not in anyway enjoy it. Or to irony the heck out of the situation and conjure up more enthusiasm and hi-fiving vigour than you'd find in High School Musical. I think the latter is far more funny. I think knowing me there's no way I'm capable of pulling it off. A future of reluctant hi-fives it is.
I hate to hi-five.
My reasons for this are as follows:
1. I'm not American
2. I'm not stupid
3. I'm fairly introvert and such demonstrations of enthusiasm make me uncomfortable
To combat this, and because it's funny, I developed an anti-hi-five tactic: when faced with an expectant hand saluting before me, I extend my hand at normal hand-shaking level and offer to shake. 'I'm British', I say. I don't do Hi-Fives.
Americans hate this.
For a while I found it pretty funny - and I assumed that they got the humour. I knew they were disconcerted, but I figured they'd just chalk it up to me and my dry British wit. However, this fourth of July weekend (the only time they ever say the date that way around, which is my reason for celebrating) I was told in no uncertain terms that in refusing to hi-five I am being rude and stand-offish and downright un-fun. OK the person doing the telling had been drinking since 7am, but I tend to believe the kernels of truth that come from alcohol loosened tongues.
Dry British humour bellyflops again.
(Or maybe they could just see through it to the fact that I hate hi-fiving and it's all a bluff.)
So I have to find a new technique for Hi-Five coping. Because believe me they appear at the most unexpected moments and from the most unexpected wrists.
My options as I see them are to either half halfheartedly indulge the Americans, whilst letting them know that I do not in anyway enjoy it. Or to irony the heck out of the situation and conjure up more enthusiasm and hi-fiving vigour than you'd find in High School Musical. I think the latter is far more funny. I think knowing me there's no way I'm capable of pulling it off. A future of reluctant hi-fives it is.
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