tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60002909531615054942024-02-20T21:25:30.681-08:00On Love, Tea and AlienshipHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-89641414204614601972013-12-09T06:32:00.000-08:002013-12-09T06:32:12.508-08:00No Snow WinterA few winters ago, sandwiched between two so-much-snow-we-nearly-drowned winters, there was a No Snow Winter. It was a cruelty, really, because I know that forever more I will be hoping for another and likely it was a unicorn of a winter - seen once and set to become a myth forever more (I know unicorns exist out them somewhere). This morning it technically snowed, but because I didn't have to dig my car out of my driveway it doesn't count (that's how American I am now), so there is still hope. <div>
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I hate snow. </div>
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Actually, I don't hate snow. I love snow - provided all of the following are true, with no exceptions:<div>
- I don't have to shovel it</div>
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- I don't have to drive in it</div>
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- I don't have to park in it</div>
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- I'm wearing appropriate footwear</div>
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- There's a fire waiting for me inside the second I get cold</div>
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- Hot Toddies and/or mulled wine are within reach</div>
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- It doesn't turn to a slushy grey sludge of despair</div>
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- It remains fluffy and white and perfect looking</div>
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- I do not have to go to work</div>
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- I do not have to shovel (said already, but it bears repeating)</div>
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- There's no danger of it caving in our roof </div>
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- Snow ploughs do not make their horrendous grinding scraping noise on the tarmac</div>
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- I remain warm or I get just cold enough to make sitting by the fire and drinking mulled wine a joy and not a resuscitatory necessity </div>
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Given that none of the above are usually true and all are untrue whenever it really snows, I'm gonna go ahead and maintain that snow is the worst and I invite you to join my campaign for a No Snow Winter. If you ski and hate me right now, don't worry - it's welcome to snow in NH or ME or anywhere I do not need to be in the next 4 months. FOUR MONTHS. If only hibernation were a real possibility. Ugh. </div>
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<img height="320" src="https://scontent-a-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/555247_10101334007924230_133001278_n.jpg" width="240" /><img height="320" src="https://scontent-a-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/543715_10101301621322240_1050776235_n.jpg" width="240" /><img height="320" src="https://scontent-a-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc1/65774_10101301620962960_1672211157_n.jpg" width="240" /></div>
Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-91580627134458992232013-11-27T07:39:00.000-08:002013-11-27T07:39:51.433-08:00DingbatIt's Wednesday but it feels like Friday, largely because it IS friday - in as much as there's no work tomorrow, or the next day. Thanksgiving truly is the best thing about America. A long weekend! And I can spend tomorrow morning curled up in bed, smug in my warmth although it's cold outside, a late breakfast and large cup of coffee while watching something light and lazy on the television before driving over to J's family's for food and wine and more food.<br />
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Or, I could have been spending tomorrow morning like that, except I am an idiot.<br />
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Instead, tomorrow morning will be spent shivering against the cold as I drag my tired and weary self out of bed, drinking a quick coffee (but not too much or I'll need to pee) and eating something bland and boring that wont induce stich and then joining a load of other idiots in running 4 miles in sub zero temperatures. Thinking about it now, while also considering the warm alternative, this sounds like the worst idea anyone has ever had.<br />
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I don't even like running.<br />
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<br />Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-32942671375755679672013-11-23T19:00:00.003-08:002013-11-23T19:00:56.857-08:00Like CrazyJeremy is out for the evening so I've taken the opportunity to watch something he absolutely would not tolerate. It's a film called Like Crazy and it's about a British girl falling for an American boy and the long distance agony that ensued. It wasn't the best film, but one thing is for sure - whoever wrote it had done long distane, and it brought it all back:<div>
<ul>
<li>the ride on the tube to the airport, where every moment is an anguish and a longing and a holding back of tears</li>
<li>the wait to say goodbye, where everything in you wants the goodbye to be over and everything in you wants to prolong it forever</li>
<li>the ride home on the tube where the seat beside you is empty, or full of a stranger that is not him, and the holding back (or not) of tears</li>
<li>the crying in public</li>
<li>the knowledge that your friends absolutely 100% think you're insane</li>
<li>the excruciating failure of pragmatism</li>
<li>the awkward late night phone conversations, where one of you is exhausted and the other is cooking dinner / about to go out for the night</li>
<li>the first re-meeting that you've imagined and longed for but then it's there and it's strange- this odd reuniting and careful remembering</li>
<li>the joy of remembering and reuniting</li>
<li>the ride on the tube to the airport...</li>
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Long Distance is a remembered trauma that flows through me. Even when I tell our story and people remark on how remarkable we are, I nod and smile and make light. But really I'm remembering and reliving and wondering at how it ever happened. We did it, we survived, but quite how I'll never know. </div>
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Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-74562026475114399132013-11-15T18:59:00.000-08:002013-11-15T18:59:46.973-08:00It's been a whileAnd I don't know why, particularly. It's been a while since I've written much of anything. Work took off and I slowed down. I've been rather obsessively watching The West Wing, which I'm not sure I even like, and not doing a whole lot of anything else. It's problematic.<br />
<br />
I turned 30 and that was awesome in most ways, apart from the turning 30 part, which I don't much care about beyond that I'm now IN my 30s, which seems older than I want to be. But turning 30 was a good excuse to make people celebrate and generally do what I wanted them to do - which meant demanding folks stayed the night and played taboo and ate too much cake, and I loved that. I should turn 30 more often.<br />
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There's been a Bed Bug scare at work, sending me into an inevitable paranoid spiral. Jeremy wakes up to me shining my mobile like a torch beneath the covers. He is not impressed. I tell him that I'm thoroughly justified in my paranoia. He tells me to shut up and go to sleep.<br />
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And still not a day goes by where I do not remember that I live in America. As in, I don't live in England. And I miss it, while not being entirely sure what I miss, besides my people, and baked beans and chocolate. But I do miss it. When I am there, every time I speak I am aware that I sound normal. When I am here I am aware I sound strange. I wonder when or if I'll ever not be aware.<br />
<br />
I miss people. So many people. And not all of them are in England, but all of them are not here. And homesickness chases me, hounds me, and I can't shake it. Even when I think I've shaken it, it's there to surprise me. I don't know what to do about that.<br />
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I've got out of the habit of writing - of writing anything - and I feel the lack of it. I should try harder, more often, and watch less 'West Wing'... why don't they explain where the storylines go? CJ keeps falling in love and then he disappears and we don't know where and that's frustrating.<br />
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That's all.<br />
<br />Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-27550649859234733642013-07-05T09:07:00.000-07:002013-07-05T09:16:31.391-07:00DecadeRight about now, ten years ago, my life's course was about to change while sitting outside an Italian hostel. The moment it happened, when I first saw the boy who would become the man who would become my husband, I was too bogged down in a billion other things to really notice. I was hung up on someone back in England who I'd met twice and decided I was destined to marry, beholden to another boy who'd sort of broken my heart or something like it and who I hadn't quite been able to let go of, thinking still of a tall Australian I'd kissed in Sicily day's earlier. If it sounds fickle and neurotic it's because I was 19. Obsessed by love but not quite able to recognise it or hold on to it. My first thought of Jeremy was that he didn't have any hair, which shows I didn't really look very hard because that wasn't actually true.<br />
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My friends started talking to him and his friend. Left alone, I would likely have never spoken to them because, as a rule, I don't strike up conversation with randoms. But they started talking which meant I had to start talking and without very much input from me we planned a trip out to Capri the next day and then a tour of the Amalfi Coast by motorbike and then our plans for Florence were altered to Cinque Terra so that we could travel together and all this before I'd even allowed for the possibility of liking him. (That's a lie - back then I think I allowed for the possibility of liking pretty much every man that crossed my path, but I hadn't done much more than allow the possibility at that point)<br />
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Then came late night water fights when other more responsible folks were trying to book us a hostel, and midnight drinking on beaches, and a first kiss had on a rock in the dark mere feet away from our friends.<br />
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And so it began.<br />
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<img height="150" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/51_556505097170_6276_n.jpg" width="200" /><img height="150" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/51_556505072220_4294_n.jpg" width="200" /><img height="150" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/51_556505087190_5328_n.jpg" width="200" />Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-9105989883366180542013-05-24T04:49:00.000-07:002013-05-24T04:49:47.238-07:00foreignerFirst let me say that if you read the previous post, you'll understand why it's been two months until this one. Change is asked for, it happens, and then time gets sucked into a black hole. That said, I've not been bored.<br />
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OK so I've a billion things to write about. Our recent trip to Asia and the Japanese guest house where there were different slippers for different bits of the house. The fact that maternity leave in America is just 12 unpaid weeks (no, I'm not pregnant). That not just blogging writing stopped since I went and requested change, but all writing and I'm a bit scared to start again.<br />
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But instead, let me tell you about the following exchange in our local Trader Joes (not sure of UK comparison... maybe M&S Simply Food except less stuck up and more chilled out Californian). Oh, and prefacing this by saying that I usually avoid asking questions of strangers, and now I know why.<br />
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Hannah: "Excuse me?"<br />
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Man (busy stacking shelves)<br />
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Hannah: "I'm sorry, excuse me, but do you know if you still stock Tofurky?" (Torfurky is sliced vegetarian 'turkey' that is pretty tasty and which J inhales regularly)<br />
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Man: "Can I help you?"<br />
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Hannah: "Yes, do you still stock Tofurky? I can't find it."<br />
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Man: "I'm sorry, what?"<br />
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Hannah: (getting flustered) "Tofurky. Do you have it?<br />
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Man: (confused) "SoMarKurNis?" (I can't remember exactly what he said here except that no letters, sounds or syllables were the same.)<br />
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Hannah: (In this now so need to press forward) "No. Torfurky? It's like the fake turkey sandwich meat."<br />
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Man: (Looking more confused, starts to lead me towards a section of the shop that seems promising enough. We stop in front of the sushi.)<br />
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Hannah: (Very confused)<br />
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Man: (hopefully) "fake Sake?"<br />
(I should note that there isn't such a thing as fake Sake and it wasn't infront of us).<br />
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Hannah: (wishing ground would swallow her) "Haha" (nervously and cursing Jeremy for wanting this stuff) "no, I mean fake turkey. Turkey. Like ummm Chicken?"<br />
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(this could well have got to the point where I had to flap my fake wings and start talking about pilgrims giving thanks except somehow he at this point understood.)<br />
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Man: "OH, you mean TOFURKY."<br />
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Hannah: (Grimacing) "yes."<br />
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Man. "I don't think we have that."<br />
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(turns out they do have it, it was 2 feet away and when I finally found it after he'd questioned another staff member who didn't have trouble understanding me and knew where it was, the first guy stood over me while I picked it up asking "that's what you want?" "you've found it?" "are you sure?")<br />
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I know I have an accent, but it's really not THAT different.Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-10141411834148188962013-03-30T08:10:00.000-07:002013-03-30T08:10:02.314-07:00When you ask for change......change seems to happen. At least, not always and not to everyone, but often and to many. Since I posted in February, my friends who were waiting alongside me for something new, those who were reassessing their careers or elements of their lives and finding them wanting, have all found change and hopefully the change they've been hoping for. One has moved countries with the added security of being able to take her job with her, which sounds crazy lucky but it only really happened because she decided to move either way. Another has signed up for classes to lead her in an entirely new career direction, and got a promotion in her current job. I imagine there are more stories from more people that I haven't heard yet or that haven't quite happened yet, but my point is this - that when change becomes the only option, it happens.<br />
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And then there's me. February was a horrible month. I was low and homesick and had moments of something near despair. They were only fleeting moments, but despair is not something you ever want to come close to, especially not in February. I wanted, needed change. I went to an information seminar on Social Work and came away knowing that that particular course for sure was not for me. I sent my book off to my agent, hoping that might be the change I needed, and it came back supremely unloved - which is OK, it needs work and that's fine, but it wasn't the flash of newness that I needed. I got my new greencard back, which meant I could stop envisioning deportation or canceled holidays, but which didn't change much in the day to day. And then, the day after my Social Work disappointment (I'd been expecting some sort of fire of hope and excitement to be lit under me and it definitely was not), I was told that my boss had got a promotion meaning his job was available, and everything started to feel more possible.<br />
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I got the job. I started the job. I didn't stop my other job (we're recruiting), which has meant I've been busier than I've possibly ever been (busy in charity job terms, not in lawyer / banker terms - I've eaten dinner with Jeremy and slept in my own bed each night - but there's are reasons I'm neither lawyer or banker and my lack of aptitude to either job is not the only one). I haven't been bored in almost a whole month. Life is moving forward. And, I'm writing this sat in our sunroom where it is warm without the help of radiators. Progress.<br />
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<br />Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-65263496363362926952013-02-28T17:43:00.000-08:002013-02-28T17:53:18.822-08:00To Jeremy, on three years of marriageI was scared. I didn't know what it'd be like, what we'd be like and I didn't like not knowing. And forever seemed such a long time, too long to really know anything. And I was here and not there, and everything I knew that wasn't you was there and not here, and for a moment it all seemed too much. But somehow I was able to trust the decision I'd made and trust the love we had - trust it to keep me afloat in those early homesick days and then to lift me above water level and help me find a life here that I wanted to live. And it worked, or proved true, or something.<br />
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There's not a day that closes without me feeling grateful in some way that I made that choice and took that chance. You make me laugh like nobody else- with your songs and your dimples and everything you are. You change lightbulbs in my car and fix my tyres and sort the internet on our computer. You bought our house when really I think you'd have been happy in that nasty Waltham apartment forever more. You laugh at your own jokes and make up names for the cat and never ever stop making noise of some sort. You are indefatigably curious and sometimes I wish you were just a little bit lazy. You eat ingredients and it drives me insane. You cook and clean up after yourself and deal with me being not so great at cleaning up after myself. You're very particular about only boiling the correct amount of water. You do our taxes and you don't get cross when I throw a tantrum about being too hot when running on a treadmill. You run at my speed and are friends with my friends and occasionally babysit for their children so that we can go out. You tolerate Grey's Anatomy. Sometimes. You challenge me to push myself, to climb (literal) mountains and run (literal, half) marathons and to not hate republicans just because they're republican. You are completely wrong about the value of fiction and really need to go clothes shopping more than once a year. We hold people to the same standards of decorum and manners and I love that. You have far too many opinions on the way I cook in the kitchen and I hate that. And all of it, all of you and this life we've built adds up to something far beyond my best case scenario. I love you, I love us, and our life and I'm so glad - so incredibly glad - that I, that we, took this chance together.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyCEZEjgbQozl2PQ192iYntNagkz4oLrMSmo0kA7zV6iK2RobBJ0J78DDcG7dGPLo1ikBeg5LyGelrFM02GI06jCqpXoM41FS-eS4pux8OQiVyzG3kz7O_l-dPooQFgPQkNdiSaTSN-JE/s1600/married+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyCEZEjgbQozl2PQ192iYntNagkz4oLrMSmo0kA7zV6iK2RobBJ0J78DDcG7dGPLo1ikBeg5LyGelrFM02GI06jCqpXoM41FS-eS4pux8OQiVyzG3kz7O_l-dPooQFgPQkNdiSaTSN-JE/s320/married+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 1st 2010 - just married</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG72M5VY9IIrUeF0KA-6eWnlUpw95s6-y5WissUn8pOz1WRIPveAN-q4c2ZOy_CGW2ZuLbvtaXEE0FzRAHMM9xGkE6oclCTuy09lb5y8Wy5l_beT8g0v6I5xDRVRv-c0rwHI_z2TgTiDqb/s1600/married.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG72M5VY9IIrUeF0KA-6eWnlUpw95s6-y5WissUn8pOz1WRIPveAN-q4c2ZOy_CGW2ZuLbvtaXEE0FzRAHMM9xGkE6oclCTuy09lb5y8Wy5l_beT8g0v6I5xDRVRv-c0rwHI_z2TgTiDqb/s320/married.jpg" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having crossed the threshold <br />(not my favorite threshold, but happy nonetheless)</td></tr>
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<br />Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-84187593187750190862013-02-22T17:26:00.000-08:002013-02-22T17:26:59.293-08:00Februcrappy <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">February is my least favourite month. There is something so incredibly grey and tired about it. Every year I enter into it apprehensively, moving through its fog with trepidation, knowing it has full capability to trip me up and drag me under. I do not like February. Generally there are two lights in its favour. Three if you count the fact that it's short as months go. But this year I managed to overlook Pancake Day (easily done in a country that's a) never heard of it and b) thinks pancakes are those dumpy doughy lumps they like to stack and soak in maple syrup) and also had food poisoning on, yes on, Valentines Day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Also laden upon February this year is a host of Waiting, if you can have a host of Waiting, which I think you can. Waiting for feedback from agents (which eventually came and succeeded on casting more shadow on this grey dull month, so now I'm waiting for inspiration or inclination or just some oomph to revise, restart, reeverything); waiting for Green Card renewal (more on this another time, but basically we can't book our China trip until this arrives and it's been not arriving for months now); waiting for my professional life to look livelier and like it might actually be gaining momentum (it might... I'm waiting) and the usual February Waiting, which is waiting for February to hurry up and end already. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Too many days this month I have felt inexplicably sad, an empty sort of sad that has no focus or reason, just sad. And I blame the month entirely. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dear February, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You suck - go away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sincerely</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Hannah </span></div>
Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-86216961327240513222013-02-21T07:29:00.000-08:002013-02-21T07:33:23.398-08:00Snow<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You may have been informed that we had a little snow last week (for some of you, this information will have come by way of snow burial, for others the BBC). I struggle to explain to you snowless people (and Englanders, no matter how many centimetres more than usual may have fallen in recent years, you are still snowless) just how much snow fell. 30.5 inches doesn't quite do it, nor does three feet (or thereabouts). It felt like a joke, except it was (is) everywhere and shoveling it felt like an exercise in futility. Especially when Jeremy started shoveling it off the roof, onto the deck and I was supposed to move the roof snow and the deck snow, elsewhere. Except that elsewhere quickly got filled up with snow. My solution was to get onto the roof also, as shoveling from a roof top is slightly more fun than from the ground, buoyed as I was by a sense of hilarity and farce and there's the minor thrill of the possibility of falling off the roof (which is muted by the fact that there's a mattress of snow to land on so not massively risky).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I learned this, last weekend: Snow days, in principle, are awesome. Because, in principle, they involve a day off of work sat on the couch in a snuggie with coffee and my cat and catching up on crappy TV because Jeremy's office doesn't dole out snowdays (and Jeremy moans about crappy TV that isn't animated). And that does happen and it is wonderful, but the snowday principle forgets to include the caveat of the three days of shoveling that must follow. And the week or more of walking a mile to the train and doubling ones commute because there's no parking at the office. And the necessity of wellies everywhere and always, because the icy mush on the ground pretends to be shallow but it is not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I guarantee I will have forgotten this caveat as soon as the next snowday roles around.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Below is my weekend of Snow in pictures.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYrFMuRi7u2CF7cM63PhgCk69Rm1yLYquSpZhPUcQy-qR5AccX8LvubmByFg785zh6brHuGGwd3txXzvO6PX3ULIr3reEnCXcCyblCmyNSE1Ztd2LXQUiWpq6qrlPtWdeLE91gXEVOAZw/s1600/IMG_20130208_114300+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYrFMuRi7u2CF7cM63PhgCk69Rm1yLYquSpZhPUcQy-qR5AccX8LvubmByFg785zh6brHuGGwd3txXzvO6PX3ULIr3reEnCXcCyblCmyNSE1Ztd2LXQUiWpq6qrlPtWdeLE91gXEVOAZw/s320/IMG_20130208_114300+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1 - wake up to no work and a blizzard. Watch TV with Tronky <br />
thinking snow days are the best thing in the world ever. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3ab8QDlGO5O13ytfAHPmIx1Sz0B6j5pppaPL9lbsJoQXw8WeB7TkjlrbdBlsITMjAs4YdK_S3dyIuGimVbTa5fOgmhnTmhKflKC_gMdcaapqVwgjqcSUGwOLeduthW-scGghhi1SYy9U/s1600/IMG_20130209_085802+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3ab8QDlGO5O13ytfAHPmIx1Sz0B6j5pppaPL9lbsJoQXw8WeB7TkjlrbdBlsITMjAs4YdK_S3dyIuGimVbTa5fOgmhnTmhKflKC_gMdcaapqVwgjqcSUGwOLeduthW-scGghhi1SYy9U/s320/IMG_20130209_085802+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 2 - wake up to more snow than<br />
you've ever seen in your life ever. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfN7RJAaFAuTnZF49a-UMo1xZsH33KT5abm3XGwcWD5vIkw9B5zrXIqbvW9SkH0f9k76P7sqmOH2UsVVZTA2i_DckNlikHGjo-UltKIfWP60NnugMPwPOpUFQoX-ko5s2a1_HLoGYi-vmX/s1600/IMG_20130209_104320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfN7RJAaFAuTnZF49a-UMo1xZsH33KT5abm3XGwcWD5vIkw9B5zrXIqbvW9SkH0f9k76P7sqmOH2UsVVZTA2i_DckNlikHGjo-UltKIfWP60NnugMPwPOpUFQoX-ko5s2a1_HLoGYi-vmX/s320/IMG_20130209_104320.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremy suggests running 10 miles in it. Funny. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD6k_tyU4-EbzX8NIvZPwpyQg-KtULkKX3VWhp2GW5-A_V1bv_KaVlwk34MVsAUcRZiFD8VaYGNfQ-156BuRknKUkuNtSBTn-MrDMvja74lfq_7AkslHapxudVGgGGWzOstVtEltx6_Gr/s1600/IMG_20130209_102033+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD6k_tyU4-EbzX8NIvZPwpyQg-KtULkKX3VWhp2GW5-A_V1bv_KaVlwk34MVsAUcRZiFD8VaYGNfQ-156BuRknKUkuNtSBTn-MrDMvja74lfq_7AkslHapxudVGgGGWzOstVtEltx6_Gr/s320/IMG_20130209_102033+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spend the rest of day 2 shoveling / watching Jeremy shovel. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcEFqAn1qVf_bfuQGkotp3_lUDC4GMogSbv_ha1AkOh5zBb1gYUmIwhqHWZ86jJbi6aW-oxvv3knBSXWcG3JkfT4dMkesDIkaBbYHnR3EmANRFanziBMsgI3EFSSBL0WrfojevwwlA1gW/s1600/IMG_20130209_172605+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBcEFqAn1qVf_bfuQGkotp3_lUDC4GMogSbv_ha1AkOh5zBb1gYUmIwhqHWZ86jJbi6aW-oxvv3knBSXWcG3JkfT4dMkesDIkaBbYHnR3EmANRFanziBMsgI3EFSSBL0WrfojevwwlA1gW/s320/IMG_20130209_172605+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremy didn't seem to see that building a <br />
snow fort is just more, optional, shoveling. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRSPyfqc6FPFA9altCOPG_m2vVP2Sso0nYIv-l-N98V8yeqc8iAGzQEngCtwIzjZ3nfuE9BucjDQSvhVMXVy2x8nP642hmUFO7Y9KWdBmffDp0tg_reHnKmwAOZdRJ9FakB6bwaSESc9f/s1600/IMG_20130209_180838+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRSPyfqc6FPFA9altCOPG_m2vVP2Sso0nYIv-l-N98V8yeqc8iAGzQEngCtwIzjZ3nfuE9BucjDQSvhVMXVy2x8nP642hmUFO7Y9KWdBmffDp0tg_reHnKmwAOZdRJ9FakB6bwaSESc9f/s320/IMG_20130209_180838+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spend the evening drinking hot-toddies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXifMPYQXJntm1AycF6VuQi-mlFjszsXQqStEIg3RpVlIzeoIAfe_Efd1CMlSzSckvOWR0SRlDJhS4qxU5VEm1TuFrILqIEx50KiQ1yW57ek9T7YbfAoo6M5eMmEK4aEBbLoTVHyjdxhr0/s1600/IMG_20130209_180124+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXifMPYQXJntm1AycF6VuQi-mlFjszsXQqStEIg3RpVlIzeoIAfe_Efd1CMlSzSckvOWR0SRlDJhS4qxU5VEm1TuFrILqIEx50KiQ1yW57ek9T7YbfAoo6M5eMmEK4aEBbLoTVHyjdxhr0/s320/IMG_20130209_180124+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And eating cheese scones </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Phe7arL2d49snDZ3ke-dcCMPfiK1X36P-KJgBj8MlZj__YN5zgdSLkPIvztLQDDpPLGKyv7UI3c9KTFLI1odEK-v1lEMbWzaSmbaiQRWJPkxqn0qe8hamJO8NHbUeIdUFVVlZeNWvVnS/s1600/IMG_20130209_200858+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Phe7arL2d49snDZ3ke-dcCMPfiK1X36P-KJgBj8MlZj__YN5zgdSLkPIvztLQDDpPLGKyv7UI3c9KTFLI1odEK-v1lEMbWzaSmbaiQRWJPkxqn0qe8hamJO8NHbUeIdUFVVlZeNWvVnS/s320/IMG_20130209_200858+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And soup with homemade bread</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThuK-OPlQjiNc7herXQ0AIoNtC68QMKjMfQiDaHae3kcvl06HIdNRpWOYaX65dieK94gWVM5EXu1OUK1dKoesJKgrLnlp_k9soZxYQJC0CQ7GvaycXCM3u2vvuV_VwEGd5QAD5kXBouFT/s1600/IMG_20130209_211946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThuK-OPlQjiNc7herXQ0AIoNtC68QMKjMfQiDaHae3kcvl06HIdNRpWOYaX65dieK94gWVM5EXu1OUK1dKoesJKgrLnlp_k9soZxYQJC0CQ7GvaycXCM3u2vvuV_VwEGd5QAD5kXBouFT/s320/IMG_20130209_211946.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finish by snuggling with Tronky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Day three was indistinguishable from day two, except that any snow novelty had thoroughly disappeared, there was less whiskey and more running 10 miles on a treadmill. Actually, day three was awful. Day four was pretty much just as awesome as day one though so it was all OK in the end. </div>
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Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-9123707845131587932013-02-04T05:19:00.000-08:002013-02-04T05:27:05.791-08:00When I grow up.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> Everyone I know, well maybe not everyone but most, well maybe not most but many, is reevaluating, reassessing, recalculating. We’ve reached or are reaching that final line where we can no longer kid ourselves that we’re kids, that irrefutable truth that is THIRTY and we’re considering where we are and who we are and in what direction we are heading and we are deciding if we’re OK with these things. For most of those many, the answer seems to be No or Meh or Not Entirely Certain. Not that we’re all depressed and miserable and laden with regret - everyone I know going through this has sizeable positives in their lives. And Yet. We've grown up, but are we who / what / where we want to be?</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I wish I'd figured out I loved writing sooner. I wish I'd been confident enough to believe I might be really good at something. I wish I'd never given up horse-riding and had taken French rather than German (nothing against German except that NO ONE speaks it other than Germans, Austrians and a few Swiss, who speak it wrong). I wish the Atlantic were smaller and flights were cheaper and my cat was more amenable to cuddles. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">None of those things are massively attainable though. I could hypothetically learn french, although I can hear Jeremy scoffing from 30 miles away given he bought me the whole Rosetta Stone thingy years ago and I am definitely not dreaming in french yet (this could, of course, be something to do with my not using the thing, but it teaches you to answer questions like 'is the boy eating an apple?' which really don't seem particularly useful.)So, wishes that primarily involve time travel for fulfillment aside, what do I want? </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I want to find an occupation where the days are not being counted off in wait for the weekend and which I can do until retirement. I want not to want to retire. That's mostly all I want. That and the body of Gisele, but that likely falls into the wish section. There are various options on the table - going back to school, striving forward in the non-profit world, crossing everything and hoping my book gets published (it's yet to be read and critiqued by my agent so we're a ways away) and becomes an overnight sensation to rival Harry Potter (ha). And then there's the having children thing, which definitely won't help with the Gisele body wish but could potentially be juggled with part time school.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So tonight I'm going to an open house for a Masters in Social Work program. It's just an open house - no commitment, just questions, and to be honest the whole prospect of returning to 'school' has me tired just thinking about it. But then I think about being an actual licensed social worker, able to do therapy (social work is a bit different over here) and to be equipped with the credentials and skills to really help people and I wonder... maybe that's what I want to be when I grow up.</span></div>
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<img height="214" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/197315_502457671352_688_n.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-14904055514056726872013-01-21T17:48:00.000-08:002013-01-21T17:48:17.717-08:00Whose bright idea was this?<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two weeks in to
half marathon training and it’s already old and worn and ready for the bin.
What possessed me? Why </span>didn't<span style="font-size: small;"> I do something in-between 4 and 13.1 miles? And
why, if we can establish that I was possessed for a valid reason and that there was
an equally valid reason for the choice in distance which I don’t think we can,
did I decide to do it all in 10 weeks?</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Jeremy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Why not sign up for another race?" (answer - because it's another race) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Why run 10 when
you could run 13.1?” (answer – because it’s 3.1 miles less)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“Why put it off?”
(answer - because then it’s longer until
I have to do it)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“You’ll never just do the running without a
goal. You need a goal.” (answer, to unasked question - bog off)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">My mean and horrible husband
got me into this. And at the end, if there is one and it </span>doesn't<span style="font-size: small;"> involve tears
or death, I’ll most likely say it’s all because of him and thank goodness he pushed
me blah blah blah. Dear future me – you don’t have a half marathon to train for
because you've already run one so shut up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have three miles to run
tonight. And five to run tomorrow. And all I want to do is drink wine after not
drinking it all week. Never get married. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>I wrote that on Friday. Since then I've ran three times, including the five mile run which was the furthest one I've yet to do. And somewhere in there I realized that each run goes a little like this: </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>Before</b> - "I'm an idiot for doing this and Jeremy's a sod for thinking it up. I really just want to sit down with wine. What? It's a no wine night? It's a no wine night and I have to run? I actually am insane. Everything is tired and heavy and I think if I move too fast I might die. Bleurggggggh"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>During</b> - "I'm an idiot for doing this and Jeremy's a sod for thinking it up. I want a shower. Ugh I hate being sweaty. Is there such a thing as running knickers, cause if there is I think I need them. I want water. My ankle itches. Why won't Jeremy slow down. Are we half way yet?* I'm definitely having a heart attack"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>After</b> - "Wow. I'm amazing. Jeremy, thank you so much for helping me do this. I feel so great. I can definitely do this."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>Aaaaaand repeat. 8 weeks of this and 30 runs remaining. It's gonna get repetitive. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>* Like every horse I've ever ridden, I magically speed up as soon as we hit half way. </i></span></div>
Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-5433532130941700572013-01-15T05:14:00.000-08:002013-01-15T05:14:10.408-08:00Resolute <br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I don’t normally make resolutions. I know myself too well. I am not exact good at self deprivation / control and any resolutions I might be inclined to make would usually be eat / drink less, exercise more. Bollocks.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Except that last year I actually managed to successfully train for and complete a four mile race. Me - who previously had never maintained an exercise schedule for more than two days (that’s not an exaggeration) – I managed to run four miles in under nine minutes per mile. Yes it had a lot to do with Jeremy appointing himself my personal trainer - and it's hard to escape a personal trainer you're married to, but still, I did it. That seemed to me to be something of a life pivot moment. And then I spent the whole month between thanksgiving and new year eating and drinking as if it were an obligation (this is an issue over here, the holiday season begins and ends with total gluttony and with very little respite in between). Seriously – at the slightest hint of hunger or just not-too-fullness, I was compelled to eat more. So that when New Year came around, two things had occurred:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I believed myself capable of exercise and general self control</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>I felt so full and gross and lumpy that I wanted to do something – anything – to feel healthy and sleek and slim.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
These two things are clearly a dangerous combination. Had I just moderated my eating and drinking for a few weeks maybe what next possessed me wouldn’t have happened. Maybe I’d have signed up for another 4 mile race and left it at that. But no. Instead, I allowed Jeremy to talk me into the idea of our making joint SMART New Years goals. You know, Specific/Measurable/<wbr></wbr>Achieveable etc etc. Here they are:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
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1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Eat vegetarian a minimum four days a week. This isn’t that hard, although I think fish should count as a vegetable.</div>
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2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Go alcohol free a minimum of three nights a week. That we have to make this a resolution makes us sound like total lushes. But the thing is we’ll often just have one drink here and there, not drinking to get drunk but just having it with dinner or because it’s there and tastes good and that didn’t seem like the healthiest way to be, or it seemed like it could well become a slippery slope. Two weeks in and I’ve already had to not drink at times when I usually would because there are other things coming up with other people where sharing a glass of wine seemed more important. So, as a resolution, it’s working. It’s also an easier way of cutting calories than not eating.</div>
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3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Eat vegan one day a week. We gave up on this within a week. In fact I don't think we ever actually attempted it. Cheese is too tasty.</div>
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4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Cook a delicious and fancy meal once a month. This is my favourite resolution. We did this yesterday (see pics below)… actually Jeremy did it and I finished off my book and sent it to my agent, which is crazy scary but at the end of it I got to eat rack of lamb with roasted red bliss potatoes, harissa, cucumber mint and tomato salad and a fancy olive thing on top, so that helped.<br />
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5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Exercise for a minimum of an hour a week. Bearing in mind that prior to October I’d consistently not been exercising at all, ever, this is a big deal. A bigger deal is that the other aim that’s not an official resolution but has been put into action, is that I’m training for a half marathon. I know. It’s hilarious. It involves running four times a week and building up slowly (but not slowly enough). The schedule we’re using has me running 10 miles in four weeks time, which is terrifying because four miles totally had me almost dying this weekend.<br />
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So that's it. Not crazy hard for a normal person with a normal amount of self discipline (beyond maybe the whole half marathon thing, but that's not an official resolution), but I definitely have below average amounts. However, if we actually manage to keep it up I think it could well lead to a sleaker slimmer healthier me. And there's nothing in there about ice-cream or sugar or butter or bread, so that's awesome. I do also want to blog once a week, but I might already have failed in that so we can casually forget about that one and just make it an intention rather than a resolution.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhArn1Trw9UQyTDF9EYi8Mqmt0uLlqInLucWHsQsB2Ff0eR4_ZjpsUdu_1KOkJb2WuPFya5dgxq3ojgJliCnqwwO_Wsj4BQOSSOwq8ylBi4ulKbaKFRfTDEifmORgbRU_xtKW4YZxxGip/s1600/IMG_20130113_191805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhArn1Trw9UQyTDF9EYi8Mqmt0uLlqInLucWHsQsB2Ff0eR4_ZjpsUdu_1KOkJb2WuPFya5dgxq3ojgJliCnqwwO_Wsj4BQOSSOwq8ylBi4ulKbaKFRfTDEifmORgbRU_xtKW4YZxxGip/s320/IMG_20130113_191805.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremy plating deliciousness</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52IkjD3pbHx7D8-gaQN5vr4AOd5gjJjKEAQH0t-d4NtaEulhxkh9oVIOODDFQjIinlaVYwMpd_3jzAm2uf2FF19yT2VPE17MgbIQ2j2ZbkutG9o-6UtCkL7aCsLih0UQ_fBh9szf28usl/s1600/IMG_20130113_192351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh52IkjD3pbHx7D8-gaQN5vr4AOd5gjJjKEAQH0t-d4NtaEulhxkh9oVIOODDFQjIinlaVYwMpd_3jzAm2uf2FF19yT2VPE17MgbIQ2j2ZbkutG9o-6UtCkL7aCsLih0UQ_fBh9szf28usl/s320/IMG_20130113_192351.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YUM. </td></tr>
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Hans http://www.blogger.com/profile/11264075802112642131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-42038234874612024852013-01-05T08:27:00.000-08:002013-01-05T08:40:02.064-08:00The year of the adultI prefer reflection to planning. So much less to get wrong and so much more potential for wisdom. Hence why this first post of the New Year is about the Old One. Resolutory (not a word) posts about goals and delusions can and will come later (one resolution is to blog weekly rather than bi-monthly).<br />
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Twenty Twelve, I decided this morning while reading UK Glamour magazine and drinking coffee by the fire, was the Year of The Adult. The most adulty year of my life to date. For the first time, in twenty-twelve, all the adult things of my life so far converged into one whole year of living them. It involved being married to my husband and living in a house, an actual house with stairs and furniture, driving myself to work every day in a car that I own. And I only sort of crashed once. It wasn't even a crash as much as a moment of utter brainlessness that led to my license plate leaving an imprint on the parked car in front. I left a note (very adult) and met the guy on a street corner to give him a cheque to cover the damage (kinda dodge and unadult, but we didn't want my insurance to skyrocket). But anyway, the point is I drove my car to work mostly without incident and when I got to work I spent the whole day working. Working. There was a lot of working, every day in fact, although I'm pretty good at squeezing the American System for every last drop of vacation remaining within it. There was a fair amount of grocery shopping. At some point, I wrote a book - which at this very moment is being critiqued by my most critiqueiest reader, a thought which terrifies me. I had a kitty to look after, and we even gave him a name after a while, or a name kind of stuck to him and refused to un-stick. Tronald. Jeremy's name creation, of course, which I have shortened to Tronky. If this were the McCarthy era, we'd probably be brought in for questioning - I definitely think of communism every time I call him (I know Tronky is not Trotsky, but it's similar enough). We grew vegetables. I took to using 'we' even when I had sod all to do with the actual process. And I finally accepted that I no longer have the eat-whatever-I-want-and-sit-down-all-day resistant body of my early twenties and I started running. I didn't stop running. OK, I stopped for an entire month between Christmas and Thanksgiving, but then I took it up again and have sort of maybe said that a half marathon might be in my next quarter's future.<br />
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I feel the need to go and do something utterly irresponsible. Or maybe I'll just go shop in Forever 21.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDDh8bI3O76UII1n4iTxE1Q_w0DpHR7UjSrHhtKLC2kfShgIQJYljveB_V7HjnjUQW4ro8Qg2RkX07OVMUs7phivBhtUIHI2wpJZ-UdqA-NFISjbbTfalwc1C1y-XGhq193slSi8i0eY/s1600/2012-12-03+19.57.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDDh8bI3O76UII1n4iTxE1Q_w0DpHR7UjSrHhtKLC2kfShgIQJYljveB_V7HjnjUQW4ro8Qg2RkX07OVMUs7phivBhtUIHI2wpJZ-UdqA-NFISjbbTfalwc1C1y-XGhq193slSi8i0eY/s320/2012-12-03+19.57.16.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tronky lying down on adultly folded napkins</td></tr>
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<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-51145675675582461552012-10-15T14:35:00.001-07:002012-10-15T14:35:24.591-07:00runningI recently had an upsetting experience in a GAP changing room. We've all had them. Fluorescent lights and underwear chosen in the dark at 6am (when not anticipating later standing in it before an unforgiving mirror) also my ballet pumps, which I had to take off to try on trousers, smelt horrible which didn't help me not feel disgusting. It's not a new experience, but for some reason it was more upsetting than usual. I poked and prodded at myself, forgetting entirely the reason I'd declothed myself in a changing room in the first place. I'm more or less the same weight I've always been, I thought, my clothes aren't tighter than usual, but this and that certainly seem squishier.<br />
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Anyway. I'm recounting this troubling experience not to expound on body woes but to give explanation as to what came next.<br />
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I paid money and signed up for a 4 mile run one month from now.<br />
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All you 'runners', the ones for whom 4 miles is a pitiful distance, stop scoffing. This is a big deal, and I shall tell you why. I am not a runner. I'm not an anythinger when it comes to movement and increased heart-rate. I'm more of a sitter, a curl-up-on-the-couch-er, a sleeper-inner. I don't like feeling sweaty. I don't like being out of breath. I don't like anything that could be called 'burn'. I don't like exercise. My single greatest athletic achievement to date is holding the 800 meter record for girls. In primary school. When I was nine. I basically haven't run since then. I've tried to run - I've tried to exercise - but I always get bored and tired and find infinite excuses why doing it a second time is a bad idea.<br />
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So in signing up to this race I sought to break the pattern of my lifetime. Because there's one thing I fear more than increased heart rate discomfort, and that's humiliation. And people go to watch this race. Granted I did sign up for it on condition that Jeremy runs with me and I ascertained that some people 'run' it slower than I could walk it, so chances of me coming in last are slim, but either way in signing up to do this I basically forced myself to exercise because I do not wish to embarrass myself.<br />
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And so far the plan has been working. Jeremy's been helping me - running on his own when he needs to actually train and running with me when I do. His most successful tactic has so far been lying to me as to how far we've gone and how far we've got to go. I know his game, but it's easier to delude myself anyway so I ignore his untrustworthiness. I've already, in the space of a couple of weeks, got myself up to running 4 miles (albeit very very slowly) and we're now working on improving pace, which isn't something I care a whole lot about. When it's going well I imagine being a person who talks about being in the zone (I'm not sure I've ever glimpsed a zone), of applying an exercise verb to myself as a noun, of being able to stand in a GAP changing room and not disavow eating for the rest of time. When it's going badly I want to stamp my feet, cry and give up.<br />
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It feels a lot like when Jeremy taught me to drive. Or attempted to help with my statistics homework. But despite that, I seem to have found a solution to my nonexistent will power. I married someone to willpower for me. <br />
<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-13490438078605189062012-09-16T11:09:00.000-07:002012-09-16T11:09:42.728-07:00writing in the darkSometimes I don't even know if I like writing. It's just this thing I do to torture myself. Other times it flows and I am euphoric. More often than not it's the former.<br />
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Right now, almost 40,000 words into the new novel, I'm a teensy bit terrified. Because no one has read it yet other than me and because 40,000 words is a lot of words that could potentially all be crap. I could have spent them all on a heroine that no one will like or a plot that won't be believed. The first book, which didn't sell let's remember but which did get some nice things said about my writing and gain me an agent, could have been a fluke and it's entirely possible that I can't write after all.<br />
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But, just in case, I'm going to finish the darn thing and force some poor soul(s) to read it. Just in case.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_J2pKpEzmcg-JtPUyx5xLs88_2dOT1vPjhPLh9vGHMq-C6W-uazjGpQX824PMKyj1FmkAXGbefTzwd-EFSOtWSS6qW36JfK5iD7VUNVjbi0Zvv-qysi8HGPQwyrMaRfQh2m3JNqrTm9k/s1600/IMG_20120916_140247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_J2pKpEzmcg-JtPUyx5xLs88_2dOT1vPjhPLh9vGHMq-C6W-uazjGpQX824PMKyj1FmkAXGbefTzwd-EFSOtWSS6qW36JfK5iD7VUNVjbi0Zvv-qysi8HGPQwyrMaRfQh2m3JNqrTm9k/s320/IMG_20120916_140247.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today in my writing room (yes, that's blogger on the screen)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yUc-QiOtJ6eNwf9HGnSswGKocBgtoxScDjzYWE5atfgiTm3kOTh31j1UX8s9ug5SeaUEeQugJJoaTPX1lyFl03Lq5ODpZSab2OdKHZUgKYP444zrYWlvOQS0ErjHZkXP_INCjL4cSK0/s1600/IMG_20120818_134825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yUc-QiOtJ6eNwf9HGnSswGKocBgtoxScDjzYWE5atfgiTm3kOTh31j1UX8s9ug5SeaUEeQugJJoaTPX1lyFl03Lq5ODpZSab2OdKHZUgKYP444zrYWlvOQS0ErjHZkXP_INCjL4cSK0/s320/IMG_20120818_134825.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Editing with Kitty in the sunroom</td></tr>
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Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-3158325753906971032012-09-12T18:14:00.000-07:002012-09-12T18:19:58.217-07:00choosing loveIt's occurred to me recently that Jeremy and I are compatible. I mean, thank god right? Since we went and got married and all, but bear with me. We're neither of us unkind, even when we're angry, and we laugh - mostly both of us laughing at Jeremy but there you go. And generally we just enjoy being around each other. It's all fairly laid back - there's no jealousy or anxiety or demands. It works.<br />
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But the thing that I've been puzzling over is that it hasn't always been this way. I mean, we've never been unkind or jealous and we've always laughed, so I guess those bits have been in place. But we got together when I was 19 and Jeremy was 23. We were different people with different expectations of a relationship and I for one hadn't yet figured out how to comfortably exist within myself. I was neurotic - calling him compulsively (I'm convinced he resorted to screening my calls) and losing so much sleep I'd fall asleep during the day if I rested my eyes for a second. He was, and remains, incredibly relaxed within his own skin - in a way I've only ever known Americans be - but he also had that edge of selfishness that I guess you'd expect in a 23 year old guy. I don't mean that resentfully - if anything I wish I'd had it too, although if I had then we likely wouldn't be where we're at today, but he was OK with doing his own thing 3000 miles away and knowing he loved me and we'd be seeing each other in 3 months. I was... less OK with that.<br />
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We should have broken up. I mean, we did sort of break up, but then we got back together and never really stopped talking in that time anyway so it doesn't really count. It shouldn't have led us here. Jeremy should have got supremely pissed off at my neuroses. I should have freaked out and given up on his infuriating relaxedness. It shouldn't have worked.<br />
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But it did. Somehow, we both held on. Even when probably everyone around us was thinking we needed to just give up already (you know I know you thought that), we couldn't walk away. And I wonder. I wonder whether somewhere within us existed our future selves. And those selves recognized each other and knew that we only needed to endure our younger stupider selves for a little longer and then it'd all be OK.<br />
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I realized recently that a lot more has been asked of Jeremy than is maybe asked of most new husbands. When we first married he had to immediately adopt the roles of best friend, comforter, family, supporter because everyone else was so far away. Of course I had to get my act together and prove myself to be a heck of a lot more driven, productive and confident than I normally am, but if he hadn't stepped up to the plate then I couldn't have.<br />
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We've something special and I marvel at it daily.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/67_556505122120_3678_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/67_556505122120_3678_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Italy trip where we met - with Helen and Sam (Oliver was behind the camera)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpS9zsn62wQtIarJ1_uH3heSWZ8o8Ve9a7odhIMH6x_du40UJqhbknSXbRgBLfL_JDqpzkIivBiJUS1uAuMi7zE3-DfdDH4E5pRj2BUzdBn8CKzKvsbhihLGv4V7Pm6OQ0kE_BXZHEok/s1600/IMG_2031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpS9zsn62wQtIarJ1_uH3heSWZ8o8Ve9a7odhIMH6x_du40UJqhbknSXbRgBLfL_JDqpzkIivBiJUS1uAuMi7zE3-DfdDH4E5pRj2BUzdBn8CKzKvsbhihLGv4V7Pm6OQ0kE_BXZHEok/s320/IMG_2031.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the same people 7 years later, at our English wedding 2 years ago. </td></tr>
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<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-75922418021852957802012-09-11T16:05:00.000-07:002012-09-11T16:05:49.508-07:00GrowthIt's been a summer of growth - of the vegetable variety. I'd like to claim at least partial responsibility for it, but I can't. It's all Jeremy. But I've much appreciated the spoils. Fresh tomatoes, basil and aubergine all summer long? Yes please. I could have done without Jeremy lamenting the demise of his cucumber plants on repeat for the past month or so, but if that's the price I have to pay for heirloom tomatoes then so be it.<br />
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Here are some pics.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrW5gP2Jg0czF9ejaaFkpEPuAABu9XbNv6welkslYA_BgLXNIq3Obe-Ghm7Lub_NU6a0wt3dhDMwX8N-40l_JtSrKxiUBLpJstCoqCWk4JCAF_Zv380MWm4q7dUufynojtjl6A64R1WY/s1600/IMG_20120911_184423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrW5gP2Jg0czF9ejaaFkpEPuAABu9XbNv6welkslYA_BgLXNIq3Obe-Ghm7Lub_NU6a0wt3dhDMwX8N-40l_JtSrKxiUBLpJstCoqCWk4JCAF_Zv380MWm4q7dUufynojtjl6A64R1WY/s320/IMG_20120911_184423.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Square foot gardening in raised beds... <br />I did help mix and transfer soil, so that's something right? </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeMWpTnb5fyNb8O8z0LcUgxOdlBLEd9BmwQjoLJsuA06KIFJTmfD8Agr1mVVCNJnt2T5MWjDrdN5v_ShY4Qtdwsz5xu7VDGydeX7HRE2F0rlJpCI_CoTDvDzA4i879NYNcbIhrINJfS8/s1600/IMG_20120911_184441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxeMWpTnb5fyNb8O8z0LcUgxOdlBLEd9BmwQjoLJsuA06KIFJTmfD8Agr1mVVCNJnt2T5MWjDrdN5v_ShY4Qtdwsz5xu7VDGydeX7HRE2F0rlJpCI_CoTDvDzA4i879NYNcbIhrINJfS8/s320/IMG_20120911_184441.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">burgeoning watermelon</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">kitty picking his way over the harvest. </td></tr>
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<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-38686799641027227982012-09-10T14:58:00.000-07:002012-09-10T15:01:37.375-07:00Careful time. Yesterday I waved my Mommy off at the airport, managing not to cry until she was out of sight because she'd made me promise I wouldn't. And I didn't cry a ton - not like those early weeks the first time she left when I went to sleep with leaking eyes and woke up to the same salty ache.<br />
<br />
"But we'll see them really soon" Says Jeremy. Others remind me of how little they see their same-state parents. Neither argument helps all that much.<br />
<br />
Because the problem is that the only time we have these transatlantic days is weighted with the goodbye that's coming. It's measured out - a five day trip followed by three, four, five months apart, followed by another week's trip. Yes if I lived in England it's unlikely I'd spend an entire week with just my Mum, but that's not the point. The lack of careless time is the point. The sort of time where you can be grumpy and it doesn't matter, doesn't 'ruin' time... the sort of time where sleeping in doesn't steal hours from a day and reading a book isn't being unsociable - where saying goodbye doesn't generate tears.<br />
<br />
And that's what I cry for, mostly, these days. I'm OK about not living with my mother - much as I love her, as a 28 year old married person (I couldn't bring myself to write 'woman'), that's not the best scenario. I just wish with the core of my core that I could have that luxury of being careless with the time spent with her - spent with all of them - safe in the knowledge that there's a hefty supply of it in waiting.<br />
<br />
I chose this. And yes, he's worth it, but still it aches. Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-87158663177032109562012-08-31T05:32:00.000-07:002012-08-31T05:32:46.127-07:00Fury<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jeremy hates watching Republican speeches with me. <i>I </i>hate
watching Republican speeches with me. I squirm and gesticulate, trying to keep
my protests on mute and either failing or else turning red and exploding with
the effort. Oh and then following up my outrage with a blog post. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly the Republican convention was not going to have a
good effect on me. There they are, willingly misunderstanding and misrepresenting,
waving their flags and chanting ‘we built it’ as if it means something (when
really, if you look at its <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/itsallpolitics/2012/08/31/160370383/gops-we-built-it-refrain-is-both-puzzling-and-telling">origin</a>,
it absolutely does not). But for the majority of it I’m able to sit back and
relax in my socialist communist bubble (did I tell you I got called a communist
this summer? All because I listen to NPR. Unsurprisingly by the same relative who told me the UK has a higher murder rate than the US) while I watch the spectacle of the
thing. Until they get to talking about the American Dream that is, and Mitt
Romney’s “<a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/romney-sees-choice-between-entitlement-society-and-opportunity-society/2011/12/20/gIQAjXH57O_story.html">Opportunity
Society”</a> (that one was a while ago
but I’m still smarting), and then I find myself dreaming of outrage and then writing
a blog post. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, let me say this: I don’t have anything against the
American Dream. It makes for much less of a class focused culture – none of
that disdain for ‘new money’ and far less of the general snobbery we have in
England where accent and parentage dictate class even more so than profession
or accomplishment. The belief that America is a country where success out of
nothing is possible, is a good belief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except where it isn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because where, for me, apoplexy sets in and I have to go to
bed or risk bursting a few blood vessels, is when people get all smug about the
American dream and talk endlessly about
how hard they had it growing up but look at where they are today. It’s not
exactly that I have anything against
those people – well done etc – but I absolutely have something against the
blindness that says ‘my family made it, therefore, everyone can make it if they
work hard enough so we really don’t need to support them in any other way’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2012/08/30/transcript-marco-rubio-speech-at-rnc/">Marco
Rubio’s speech</a> last night. He spoke of how his parents came over from Cuba
with nothing and invested everything they could into their kids so that they
could have the opportunities their parents never had and, oh look, there he is
on the RNC stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what I say to that is, yes: if parents are able, have the capacity to,
invest everything – their love and time and money (but mostly their love) –
into their children then the possibility for success is absolutely there. But
for so many, poverty is toxic. It lives alongside addiction and violence and
the sort of trauma that makes people unable to fully connect and engage with other people, with their children.
Meaning that they’re unable to give them the love and care they need to grow
into adults who can then do the same for their children. In the job I do, going into homeless family shelters and supporting volunteers who play with the kids, I've seen that it's absolutely possible for a parent to shield their child from the trauma of living in a congregate shelter - where nothing is your own and all space is shared and all sorts of things happen right outside the bedroom door - but only if that parent has the capacity to absorb and deflect and maintain calm and love and presence in their child's life. For most though, because of their own history, childhood and circumstance, that just isn't possible and the children are just there un-shielded alongside their parents, experiencing their fear, vulnerability and uncertainty as if it were their own, because it is and because in all likelihood it will be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not saying that
this presents an impossible situation where nobody born into that can escape. I
am saying that it demands those who are out of it, who have had the privilege
of being loved and well-fed and housed, of having been raised into adulthood, to
do something to help. To create programs that mean those less privileged children
have access to decent education and health care and food, to nurture and
counsel their parents out of addiction or despair and into jobs. To do all of
the things the Republicans seem to think they shouldn’t need to do because
opportunity is just hanging around, waiting to be grasped. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stubborn blindness of it makes me so incredibly sad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, I think I’m done now.<o:p></o:p></div>
Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-63054409018430976232012-08-24T16:02:00.002-07:002012-08-24T16:12:19.580-07:00Self CareI think 'self care' is likely an American term. It sounds like something they'd come up with. Not that they're particularly skilled at self-caring - not given their measly notions of vacation time (and the fact that there don't seem to be any rules regarding how much employers are obligated to give) anyway. And of course there's that whole section of the population without health insurance blah blah blah. Anyway, they came up with a term for taking care of oneself, even if they don't actually take care of themselves.<br />
<br />
I'm also not particularly good at self-care. Well, not at all of it anyway. I'm very good at vacation - at taking it, booking it, using it all up. Excellent at that. And I'm fairly good at maintaining the old work-life balance (of course this is helped by my having opted to work in a field that generally compensates for its wages with less stress). Where I trip up on self-care is probably where Americans would pin the key definition of the term: anything regarding doctors, dentists, hairdressers, manicurists. Basically anything that involves me making an appointment and risking a situation where I feel out of place or embarrassed or unsure of the proper etiquette.<br />
<br />
Hairdressers and Manicurists are easy enough to avoid - I just have appalling nails (not helped by said job involving stupid amounts of magic eraser usage on frequently gross toys) and split ends. Not the end of the world. Doctor avoidance on the other hand could actually result in the end of my world.<br />
<br />
I was never very good at visiting the doctor in England. Mostly because they made the system ridiculously complicated and I could not for the life of me figure out at what time of day I had to phone to get an appointment the next day. Or the day of. Don't tell me to book ahead, because some bright spark in the NHS decided at some point that it made lots more sense to stop anyone booking any appointments more than 24 hours ahead in time. I mostly ended up going to their first-come-first-served clinic on a saturday where I had to queue outside at 8am.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I digress.<br />
<br />
While my doctor avoidance in the UK was primarily linked to laziness and an obscure but essentially navigable-if-prepared-to-wait system, in the US the obscurance (not a word) goes to a whole new level.<br />
<br />
I don't know the language - what to ask for or what sort of doctor to get. I have to OK things with my health insurance before I even look for a PCP (That's "Primary Care Provider"... I got that far). And there's that annoying aspect to my character where I really hate looking like I don't know what the heck I'm doing. Oh and in America people mostly do not understand what I say to them over the phone. Jeremy is no help because he has a fancy schmancy health insurance where he just books himself in to see surgeons if he has a twinge in his ankle (I kid you not). My insurance is more along the sensible lines where I see a GP type first before I get to bother the super-doctors (although I'm pretty sure referrals don't take months over here... if you have good insurance, and that's a ridiculously big if).<br />
<br />
And then there's my hypochondria. I am forever diagnosing myself with illnesses. Cancers, viruses, parasites. Working with kids has upped the ante on my parasite paranoia actually and I currently own treatment for headlice and ringworm (bought on amazon) just-in-case. I'm not sure what I'd need for scabies, but I'll likely buy it at some point. But I've nowhere to go with these concerns, as I'm too stuck and stupid to find a doctor, so I ask Jeremy, whose response is: "find a doctor" or, occasionally, "you're probably dying" - but I think that's mainly just code for "find a doctor and stop bugging me".<br />
<br />
It's a problem.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there's news. I actually took steps along the self-care road and made a phone call, talked to a perfectly helpful and nice receptionist who understood my accent and helped me find a PCP and book an appointment and it's all on its way. In about a month but I think that's the new patient wait time, not the normal wait time... I hope.The poor doctor does not know what she's in for because I have at least 2 years of paranoia ready to burst out of me.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now I need to find a dentist.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-5817778846906926972012-08-18T15:04:00.000-07:002012-08-18T15:04:44.753-07:00IndustrySo what's Jeremy up to today? My friend Helen asked in our recent g-chat catch up.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixInZJtFE8gCjCREYcahnjf1kNtDDx5-3FGrYXwLJcaoHJxGlDgIwKGnwxvxQiS8JKYgtew6q0ef_KXhbdaG0hb3D2zYvg-8Xt3QUXm-t5y4DSDSxB7PtwfF996phkey-ZxmiRCn3fCog/s1600/pictures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixInZJtFE8gCjCREYcahnjf1kNtDDx5-3FGrYXwLJcaoHJxGlDgIwKGnwxvxQiS8JKYgtew6q0ef_KXhbdaG0hb3D2zYvg-8Xt3QUXm-t5y4DSDSxB7PtwfF996phkey-ZxmiRCn3fCog/s200/pictures.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">framed photos - on the floor</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
We'd already established that since our Saturday beach plans had been thwarted by rain, I'd gone shopping for yet more frames to continue on my framing kick. I now have many many beloved pictures in frames waiting to find a home on our walls. That's all down to Jeremy though because I do not trust myself to bang holes into walls I own. When I've historically banged holes into walls I don't own, sizable bits of wall have fallen off.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, while it would have been nice for Jeremy to have been banging holes into walls for my newly framed photos, that isn't what he's been up to. Instead, my husband has today:<br />
<br />
- Brewed beer<br />
<br />
- Baked bread<br />
<br />
- Torn up a supermarket's worth of gone-to-seed arugula from the garden and suggested I make pesto (I didn't).<br />
<br />
- Sun-blushed about 40 home-grown cherry tomatoes with the residual oven heat after the bread baking.<br />
<br />
And now he's sat playing a game (likely checkers, possibly robo-tower-defense) on his phone.<br />
<br />
This is the industriousness I'm married to. It makes me sleepy.<br />
<br />
<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-28603609775856423892012-08-17T20:08:00.001-07:002012-08-17T20:09:38.468-07:00One of those catchy-uppy posts1. I loved the Olympics - I've never really bothered about it before but being here and seeing London looking all smart and English was pretty amazing.And of course Team GB went and outdid themselves given our teensy weensy island size, which made it cooler (although somehow between NBC coverage and my sporadic watching, I don't think I saw us win a single gold). I could write a long moany post about NBC's coverage but a) I can't be bothered and b) it's already been done. Suffice to say the swimming was still on AFTER the closing ceremony.<br />
<br />
<br />
2. Summer is amazing. If America wants to keep me, it should just be warm and sunny all year long. Here's my stein of iced tea on a particularly warm day:<br />
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3. Our nameless cat continues to be awesome. <a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/559124_10101001641504200_1264361040_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/559124_10101001641504200_1264361040_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
4. I'm still working on the new book. It's not as quick now I'm also working on an actual job, but I'm 33,000 words in so it's coming along. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
5. <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/tom-morello-paul-ryan-is-the-embodiment-of-the-machine-our-music-rages-against-20120816#ixzz23ohf7DmL">This article </a> was written and made my friday (which wasn't hard - friday wasn't going so well)<br />
<br />
6. We're planning a trip to China to visit our buddy who's moved to Shanghai. Problem is I keep thinking, well, since we're out there, maybe we should go here... and here... and here. Well, no, problem is my vacation allowance.<br />
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<br />Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-11979096966345381382012-07-06T15:14:00.001-07:002012-07-06T15:14:44.763-07:00Never Never LandSomewhere out there, far far away from here, I am married with a husband and a cat and houseplants. I drive to work in ridiculous traffic everyday and complain about things like lack of natural light. It's hot and we (this husband and I) debate things like whether to have the air conditioning on and how thick a duvet is really necessary in July.<br />
<br />
But right now, I'm not there, I am here - England - for 36 more precious hours I am back in the homeland. Where it rains, a lot. And where I don't have to repeat myself a thousand times (except I'm still unnaturally quiet so sometimes I have to repeat myself a few times). But when I'm here, rather than there, 'There' adopts a quality of unfathomability. How is it possible that I have this other American life, separate to these people here, where drizzle isn't particularly usual?<br />
<br />
And yet there are signs of this other life. Apart from the tug of missing towards my 'husband' and 'cat', which I can feel I have and love, despite the fogginess of unreality. I don't have a coat, for one thing - that's right, this Englander managed to pack for a week in England without packing a coat - a sure sign that the other world has some sort of hold over me. And I haven't once managed to try and get in the right side of the car - I get confused every time. And I think I may have finally learnt which way to look when I cross the road in the US because I definitely got it wrong here.<br />
<br />
But oh, England, I love you so. Despite the ridiculous amount of rain you are capable of precipitating. Your accents and sense of humour. The fact of clothes stores selling all-in-one pajamas adjacent to bikinis and pubs that still have things like 'prawn cocktail' on the menu for my grandparents to order. Your buildings made of stone and your roads with actual visible painted lines and lanes on them. Your interesting flavours of crisps (which is the only way I'll be eating anything called prawn cocktail btw). And of course my family, who are entirely English and entirely enmeshed with everything I am.<br />
<br />
I find these trips confusing. Not because of how strange and culture-shock-y it is, but because of how normal and comfortable. How familiar. Even as Jeremy and Kitty and Sunshine draw me 'home', this other Home remains. Damp and lushly green and absolutely mine. Fogging up reality and reminding me that I'll always belong here. Bugger.Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6000290953161505494.post-32636178592353530092012-06-25T17:15:00.001-07:002012-06-25T17:15:15.228-07:00I acceptHere are a few things that I, on the verge of turning 30 (I'm 28, but 30 is only a year and 4 months away and I figure I may as well come to terms with it now), am accepting about myself:<div>
<ol>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">I will never be instinctively neat. Nor will I ever have matching underwear. I will likely always hate putting clothes away and delay emptying the dishwasher for as long as possible </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">It is highly improbable that I will ever be a runner. Or enjoy </span><span style="background-color: white;">exercising</span><span style="background-color: white;">. I live in hope that some day I will exercise. </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">I will always act as if I were starved as a child when faced with free food. Always. </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Similarly, I will never be able to refuse ice cream. </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">My hair will never be sleek. I will always look ever so slightly </span><span style="background-color: white;">disheveled</span><span style="background-color: white;">, if not out and out disheveled </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Talking loudly/audibly will probably always require effort. Often more than I can be bothered to muster.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Put me in front of a crowd of people and my body will likely always decide to visibly shake with nerves, even if my head says I'm not nervous. </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Mornings will never be bearable before coffee. </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Following recipes is most probably not something I'll ever do adeptly (meaning reading the whole thing first, making sure I have all the ingredients and then following the steps without making up steps unintentionally)</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">I will never have long polished nails. Clean and only slightly nibbled, maybe. </span></li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;">I'm not yet ready to accept I'll never be great at parking. Or that I'll never have the body of Gisele Bundchen. Although, points 1, 2,3,4, 5 and 10 certainly point in that direction. I'm also still holding out hope that regular exercise might be in my future - even if I never enjoy it. </span></div>Hanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08385670587332503763noreply@blogger.com0