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.
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.
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.
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