Keeping in touch.

When I first moved over here, two whole years ago now, I probably spoke to friends and family more than I had when I lived in their country. Our country. Phone calls, emails, facebook updates, blogs, even the occasional card sent in the actual post (although more likely, written and never posted because I'm crap like that). We kept in touch - I knew about their days, the minor things that had happened, the major things. And they knew about mine - knew that I hated the clock that ticked or what clothes purchases I'd made or what I was planning for dinner.

Then life here began to gain momentum. I volunteered, started learning to drive, we got Starz and Showtime in our cable package  (and with it the US version of Shameless, which is awesome, along with Spartacus [essentially just porn in togas] and Camelot [porn in tights] and multiple on demand films), we moved house and got a cat (who yet remains nameless, or namefull because he has about 10 and counting). But throughout all of this, while maybe not as much as those first new months, I managed OK at keeping in touch. I visited England regularly enough, went home via Switzerland once to meet my godson, had multiple coffees in Paddington Station and curries on brick lane. I phoned, emailed, blogged, g-chatted, facebooked and failed to post letters I'd written.

And then I got a job.

The job has tipped the balance rather. Two hours spent commuting in traffic, 40 hours spent emailing and organizing volunteers (ok maybe not all 40 - I spend a fair amount of time visiting volunteers, playing with children, cleaning toys and the occasional trip out to buy coffee / diet coke / iced tea etc etc) so that when I get home I don't want to talk or write or type and time slips through my fingers and suddenly it's tuesday again and I'm back in a hotel/homeless shelter (when the shelters are full they spend $1000s housing people in hotels - one room for a family, no cooking facilities, no transport, no case-management -  when they could pay their rent for much much cheaper) playing with children and thinking about coffee.

Friends, I'm sorry. A feeling of helpless inadequacy has been simmering away of late. The emails I've failed to respond adequately to (if at all), the phone calls I've neglected to return. Life here is full but not to the point where I don't need the people I have in England (or New York, or California, or Attenschwiller) not even close to that point.

So, a concerted effort is going to be made. Birthday cards and presents posted, emails written, phone calls made. It's going to happen because it has to happen - because the second I feel those relationships fading, a part of me begins to fade.

I know that no letters or phonecalls make up for an hour, a minute of no-pressure time (the type of time where you know you'll see the person again and again, soon and sooner, so that there is no weight on the minutes you have). I know that. I just prefer not to think about it.

A recent attempt to cross the miles. It's not the same as a hug.

Of course this would happen in February.

I can barely bring myself to write it, to think it, to entertain the thought of thinking it.

I found grey hair.

Not  just one, lurking ominously as a promise of decay (but quickly pluckable, the evidence hastily disposed of), but a cluster, a clutch, a nest. Thankfully there aren't really THAT many (just enough for me to despair) and they’re hidden behind and under a lot of other normal coloured hair so that only someone with a magnifying mirror, a spotlight and a tendency to self-torture would happen across them.

But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.

Of course I did what any self respecting woman would do.

I cried.

Then I spent a considerable amount of time pulling them out, occasionally trailing into the living room where Jeremy sat trying to watch TV, presenting him with a torch (the lighting was dimmed) and pointing to the offending area. He said they looked blonde and it didn’t matter if they weren’t.

He lied.

So, that’s it – it’s happened. And I’m only 28. I wasn’t prepared – I thought I had at least until 30. I still have spots for goodness sake; surely it’s a great unfairness to have spots and grey hair. And I know some people get grey hair early, but they normally have very dark hair and I don’t so therefore it’s unacceptable. I'm not even sure 28 is early, it probably isn't, but I barely feel like an adult and my hair's already preparing for middle age. 

I will stop obsessing.  I will not google whether grey hairs in one location are a sign of brain tumor. I will not be vain. I will grow old gracefully. I will consider getting highlights and invest in some expensive face cream. 

sent, gone, away from me.

Again my novel is sent, gone, away from me. Only to my agent so it's not as scary as to a publisher, but it's still scary.

This edit has been a hard slog - much harder than any of the others because now I'm working, time is harder to come by, as is energy and willingness to sit in front of a computer.

But, it's done and I wont have to read it again for another week at least. All in time for the SuperBowl, which of course I'm impossibly excited about. Why wouldn't I be? Given I don't like any sports and this one in particular makes no sense to me whatsoever. There is beer and food though - that's reason enough for excitement.

OK I'm done with computers for the day. Just wanted to say hi and yay, edit done.

kitty kitty no name

It’s long overdue for a post about my cat. Here are some facts.

• He doesn’t have a name. When we adopted him, he was called Shannon, which was clearly dumb. I had offered for Jeremy to choose the name as a lure towards getting a cat in the first place (also clearly dumb). Jeremy’s first suggestion was Spaceship Carrot Slicer. Mine was Scout. Nothing really stuck. He is most routinely called Kitty, alternating also between Tronald (Jeremy), Ollie (me), Kitchya (Jeremy) and Trouble / Bugger / Stinker (me).
• He sleeps either in our bed, a purring hot water bottle, or on top of the covers between us in hammock like fashion.
• He wakes up around 5.58am and stamps on my face. When that doesn’t work he attacks my fingers. When that doesn’t work he bites my nose. This is when he gets called Bugger.
• He only drinks out of people glasses and if they’re empty they get batted onto the floor. As does anything else I leave on my bedside table.
• He’s currently not allowed outside. In America terms, this means he’s an ‘inside cat’, which I’ve always argued doesn’t really exist. But we had to sign something swearing not to let him outside because of things like Coyotes, FIV (the kitty version of HIV) and cars. They also seemed to think that since he was a stray, going outside might trigger some sort of nervous breakdown, but he’s escaped a few times and is equally psychotic as he was before he escaped. I expect that, come summer, keeping him inside will be near impossible but, for now, he’s an ‘inside cat’ even though he thinks otherwise.
• He favours Jeremy and routinely bites that hand that feeds him (me).
•  He’s ridiculously, wonderfully, cute. Which makes up for him behaving like devil spawn 30% of the time. 

a      Aaaaand here are the inevitable Cat photos. 

A

See? Unbelievably cute. Jeremy's alright too...

This is known as 'cat-hat'... it's not entirely voluntary

This is 'display of trust'...

Marsupials

This is 'calming pose', which actually works and he doesn't seem to mind 

A few unrelated things

- I hate Lowes (hardware superstore place) and Home Depot. I hate them with a vehemence that screams through my veins. They're too big, filled with far too many boring things and I end up trailing around after Jeremy feeling once again like I used to feel aged 5 when I'd trail around similar places with my parents. Except these days I don't get to be pushed in a trolley. Now, as then, the only thing that can stave off internal boredom-induced combustion, are paint swatches. We now have so many there's an entire drawer dedicated to them.

- I'm writing again. It's like drawing blood from a stone. Since I'm the stone, it's quite painful. I've given myself til early feb to get this rewrite done - currently that seems like the stupidest idea I've ever come up with.

- There was ice on the inside of one of our windows this morning. Don't panic, it doesn't mean our house was below freezing inside, but it does mean this particular window isn't very good and that it's impossibly cold outside.

- All of my clothes are currently bundled in a bag downstairs in the basement, waiting to be folded and put away, because somehow all of my clothes became unfolded and scrumbled up all over the place and I lost patience and put them in a bag instead. I wish I was one of those people who folded clothes and had self control.

- Jeremy doesn't like pulp in orange juice. I learned this yesterday. We have been together over eight years. What else isn't he telling me?

Not Writing

Today was going to be the day I started writing again. My agent has okayed my edit ideas and now all I have to do is breathe life into them and transform my novel into something sellable.

So, I got up at 11.30am, drank coffee and read a newspaper, had a bath, peeled off an hour's worth of wallpaper, got changed, helped Jeremy paint the garage, microwaved some dumplings, got changed again, sat and stared at my computer, called my mother, cried (about nothing in particular), called my mother again, went to the supermarket, lit a fire, cried a little more (about the lack of writing I've done today along with nothing in particular), checked facebook, checked twitter, checked email, read the guardian online, read bbc news online, aaaaaand finally scribbled down on paper a few plot points expanding on the plot points I've already come up with.

I did not add a single word to my novel. I did delete about 5 words.

Tomorrow. It's all going to happen tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to go wash the ink off of my  jumper (I was leaning on a pen while writing this), eat dinner courtesy of Trader Joes (with a little help from Jeremy), sit by the fire and watch repeats of Spartacus: Blood and Sand on cable (which seems to be code for gratuitous sex and violence). I'll mostly not be thinking about the 1 month deadline I've given myself for doing this rewrite. Or the half-stripped wall that glares at me every time I go into my dining room (it may also be Jeremy that's doing the glaring... he doesn't agree that half-stripped is better than full-ugly).

A post that got a bit carried away with itself...

How is it possible that it’s taken me 28 years to realize that a) I love writing and b) I’m fairly good at it? Why has it taken this long for me to understand that my brain needs to be challenged and that writing challenges it in the right way? I wish I could talk with my 17 year old self and tell her not to be such a wuss – to demonstrate some self belief and to try for the scary things. I’d also tell her that dungarees are for decorating only, that straightening irons are going to kill her hair and that it’ll then take 3 – 4 years to fully recover.

(This is where this post goes awry -  totally wasn't originally heading in this direction but it turns out advising my former self is kinda fun)

18 year old self: Loosen up. Alcohol won’t kill you and you can afford to read a few less books about WWI. Realise how good you've got it, try and be cooler than you are and learn to drive dammit.

19 year old self: yes he says the right things but it’s all hot air. And seriously, that hair, those jeans? It’s not a good plan. Also, 19.75 year old self, don’t go chasing Americans across the Atlantic. He’ll come to you and then you’ll be a heck of a lot less neurotic and will get lots more sleep (leading to less neuroses). You’ll also have more money.

20 year old self: Stop being so neurotic. Clearly he loves you. Chill out and stay away from the other one who doesn’t love you but says he does. Bad bad news.  And don’t make decisions on housemates when drunk.

21 year old self: International Relations, while interesting, is a completely impractical degree. If you will insist on studying in America, do something that might actually result in a job. People who study international relations go on to be diplomats, economists or security advisors or other things that involve travel to scary countries and statistics. You are ill equipped for any of these things. And for goodness sake take your passport with you when you take the GRE test. Otherwise your poor choice in housemate will have to go through your laundry (because of course that’s where you’ve left your passport), hand it to a friend who will then have to take a train into london and you’ll be very stressed, poorer and embarrassed.

22 year old self: learn to drive and, failing that, buy a puffy coat. They’re not pretty but they’re warm. Also, tell Jeremy to turn on the darn heating.

23 year old self: steer clear of housemates who dictate what shampoo you use and watch out for bed-mice. Everything will be fine with Jeremy so relax, invest in that travel-card and join the gym.

24 year old self: Seriously, everything’s gonna be fine. OK it might not seem that way but trust me. And you need a thicker duvet - there's no insulation in that flat whatsoever. Also, stop wearing ballet pumps out in January. Your feet get wet and cold and do not help the situation.

25 year old self: See, I told you so. Now don’t go insane over visas and, I know the idea of paying off your overdraft and sleeping on couches sounds like a good one but…

26 year old self: You’re doing ok. Homesickness fades, although it never completely disappears. Not too too long til you get a house and a cat.

27 year old self: in a year’s time you’re going to live 10 minutes away from that job you’ve been offered… consider this before you start throwing ultimatums around.

28 year old self. This probably counts as talking to yourself, which isn’t generally seen as a good thing. Remember to pick up milk on your way home.

29 year old self: Anytime you wanna drop me a note on what not to do, feel free.

I’ll stop now…