BarrenAlbion

Now she is three

2009-07-19T04:10:00.007+01:00

A mere hour and 21 minutes ago marked precisely three years since my baby was born. Some of you have been readers of my rambling since I was doing my IUIs, so to have a three year old on the other side of four IUIs and an IVF means I've been at this for rather awhile.

Before I got pregnant, The Dude and I would imagine our potential offspring. Despite numerous hours dedicated to the imaginary child's traits, we never could have predicted the child we now have.

P is stubborn, willful, spirited and at times, conniving. She's a challenge, but in a strangely enjoyable way. P ensures that I am not a complacent mother, and I admit to being somewhat surprised at how much I crave to spend time in her presence. She can infuriate me in one moment like she did yesterday when refusing to try on summer sandals, to creating a mad rush of all encompassing love, as she did the next when this exchange occurred:

Me: "P, Mummy has to say that she doesn't like you very much right now."

P: ::saddest frown you've ever seen::: "That is NOT a very nice thing to say Mum!"

Parents gush about how beautiful their children are, something I'm not immune to. However, the beauty that I see is in the sheer amazingness that this small, developing person is the product of me and The Dude - she's not our tiny, wiggling baby, but rather our little girl finding her way in the world as its complexities present themselves to her. I often stroke her bare legs as she falls asleep, marvelling that much smaller versions of these strong, athletic limbs not long ago beat the hell out of my insides.

I'm not good at attempting to be serious and lyrical, and I know that no combination of words I could devise would ever fully encompass the wonder and adoration I have for P. She makes me laugh, often to the point of tears, and she makes me angry, also, on occasion to the point of tears. I am still not a gushing, obliging mother who years to spend every waking hour with her child, but I never thought I'd be capable of a love like this.

Happy third birthday, sweet P. You are my sunshine, always and forever.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

2009-07-18T03:12:00.003+01:00

What better way to celebrate my FOUR HUNDREDTH POST than to give you a little window into my humiliating, no good, very bad day.

As you know, I'm back in good old Pennsylvania to spread my cheer and good nature. Today there were grand plans for a road trip to the Baltimore Aquarium with our own wee motley crew - The Dude, our kid, me, my brother, and Mom. We left the house on time, had some pleasing McDonald's coffee, and enjoyed the scenic drive through the south of the state into Inner Harbor. All was well until we parked, whereupon I felt a slight drip emerge from my right nostril.

Most people are fortunate enough to be able to grab a tissue, give the nose a quick wipe, and move on. Unfortunately, I am blessed with a fucked up inner nose which makes me prone to spontaneous and aggressive nosebleeds. Most of my life I've been subject to others' confusion as to why my nose would start bleeding without the aid of a solid punch, brain tumour, or heavy cocaine addiction. I don't know why - it just does. It's not a few drips and I'm done, it's full-fledged gushing and it can go on for 20 minutes or more. I got a double-nostril nosebleed during a studio art class in college which forced me into a cramped bathroom stall for half an hour; the best part is that I had my period then as well. My body just loves to expel blood with urgency.

This morning I sat in the backseat of the car grabbing dirty McDonald's napkins off the floor, utilising P's snotty muslin cloth, whilst frantically trying to mop up the escaping blood streaming down my hands with baby wipes. Meanwhile, P was sitting in the trunk (the car is a hatchback) with my brother singing nursery rhymes, while Mom peered at me nervously from one of the doors, and The Dude held a frozen juice box to the back of my neck in an effort to slow the bleeding. The occupants of neighbouring cars pretended not to notice, but we all know how hard it is not to rubberneck when a random stranger is bleeding inexplicably.

After panicking about the amount of blood and duration of the nosebleed, it seemed things started to slow. I was immensely relieved, as ever since the Celexa-induced fainting spell at Christmas caused by a panic attack, any time I start to get anxious, I picture myself suddenly falling over like one of those fainting goats. Once I was finally able to withdraw the coiled up tissue from my nose, I noticed that my khaki trousers featured numerous, very noticeable blood splatters - one on the inside of my right knee the size of a very large piece of chewing gum, gradual drips down my left leg, and a particularly charming accumulation of spots in the upper crotch area. Yes. It does not get better than having a massive nosebleed which leaves you looking as if your tampon isn't the extra jumbo one that was needed.

The plan of attack was to buy replacement clothes so as not to enter the Aquarium looking like a mugging victim. Unfortunately, we were on borrowed time thanks to the Aquarium's rather rigid ticketing schedule and the fact that the only apparel store evident was Filene's Basement. I was dreading the experience because I avoid clothing shopping at all costs due to residual body image issues, as well as having to arrange my bag in such a way to cover the apparent period blood. I optimistically gathered a handful of trousers in the size I believed myself to be. Unfortunately it seems the size I think I should be after all the godforsaken running and exercising I have been doing is a mirage that is not yet a reality. Cue dressing room tears (because I'm nearly 31 years old and all), which carried over to shop floor tears, which triggered the nosebleed switch in my brain and led to me leaning over my bag trying to be covert about the blood streaming from my nose.

The Dude ushered me to a chair, where I praised all that is holy that I have long hair which can cover a face streaming with tears and dripping with blood. We gave up on the shopping expedition, so I faced a day in Baltimore with blood stained trousers. I'm still at the point where this is preferable to having to view my unclothed self in a full-length mirror.

Once in the Aquarium, it became apparent that wearing new shoes, though Puma trainers which look comfortable, is unadvisable on a long day out. In addition to constantly attempting to cover up the crotch blood, I was soon shuffling along like a pensioner. Thank god for accompanying family members, because the toddlers, they're not so much on slowing down for bloodied, temporarily disabled mothers. Friday is also the most popular day at the Aquarium they say, so lines were long and in the hot temperatures, body odour was rife.

Post-aquarium we hoped to have a nice dinner. My Mom has a problem with her feet, so she was desperate to sit down. The Dude and my brother went to scope out restaurant availability, leaving P with the cripples. P dashed away from me at one point, and as I was chasing her down, I felt The Drip. I was away from my bag, which no longer had anything helpful in it anyway vis a vis nosebleeds anyway, so I had to continuously sniff to keep it all from spilling out. I finally caught up with P, got back to my bag, and used a wipe to impede the bleeding until I could reach a bathroom. Fellow sufferers will know that sniffing or head-tilting are not the best methods when dealing with heavy nosebleeds, so as I was scoping out a restroom, I could feel the blood pooling in my throat. What followed was a moment which always makes me feel like a wan, consumptive Victorian maiden and isn't the fondest of nosebleed side effects.

Upon locking myself in a cubicle for 15 minutes with only rice paper-like toilet paper, the bleeding finally stopped. I managed to have that nice dinner, and even had an uneventful ride home. I'm now sitting here in an empty room, blogging about things which should probably remain private, and getting ready to watch Roseanne. I bet this is just the return to blogging you were hoping for, right?

Hey, what's this?

2009-07-10T23:37:00.002+01:00

Ah yes, it appears I have a blog. Come and give us a hug - I've missed you. Things have been quite mad lately you see. Between a relentless work schedule yielding very few spare lunch hours, raising a toddler, a rigid running schedule, searching for a job, numerous (yet fruitless) job applications, and mandatory husband time, blogging has fallen very low on my list of priorities. I do miss it though, and certainly don't suffer from lack of inspiration, just time. Apologies to any I've been ignoring through social networking mediums and email. It's true that I have forever sucked at such things, but lately this has been enhanced exponentially.

The up side is that today I finished my last day of work for one calendar month. Yes, one MONTH. Monday we set off for the sunny climes of central Pennsylvania. I can sense your seething jealousy from here. I get it; Wal-Mart culture and the Amish are enviable hallmarks of a good vacation.

In previous years I have shouted round the blogosphere, begging to meet up with people. As is my way, when it came time to socialise I backed out for various reasons. Is it possible to put a sort of no pressure call out to poeple on the off chance that I do have the time and ability to meet up with some of you? I'm all talk it seems - I am dreadfully, nay, WOEFULLY inept socially, and also lazy, so I can't cope with arrangements made much in advance. In my own defense I do have some restrictions like occasional lack of transportation, spousal and toddler neediness, and familial obligations. This is my long-winded way of saying that if you live in the mid-Atlantic area, send me an email (barrenalbion at gmail dot com) that I hopefully bother to respond to and maybe we can set something up. I certainly know how to sell myself.

I thought I'd start out slowly with this blogging thing again. My goal is to tell you all about my tortous 10K last Sunday in a post tomorrow. I will impress even myself if I can manage to do that and stick to my word. Make sure you come back. There will even be pictures!

Born to Run

2009-06-27T23:28:00.004+01:00

I seem to start every post with my apologies for repeating myself, as I apparently report most of my life on Facebook and Twitter as well. Ah, social networking cross-pollination, what a wonderful thing.

So yeah...uh, running. SORRY. Running and way too much work at, you know, work, are the reasons blog-reading have gone by the wayside. Well, that and all the power blogger ass kissing that is so rampant these days (cross-pollination again, mea culpa), but that's a topic for another day.

I try to run 20-25 kilometres per week, but sometimes life gets in the way. As I've mentioned before, some nights it's a struggle to do more than a few kilometres, which makes me very pissed off at myself for failing so miserably. However, though Thursday was one of those nights (struggled to get 3.5k done), tonight I pushed myself and ran 12.5k. That's the furthest I've ever run by 2.5k, and it surprised the hell out of me that my legs remained attached to my body as I climbed the stairs back to the flat.

I made a personal best time of 58.53 for 10K, and managed the whole thing in 1.16.00, so I am inordinately pleased with myself right now. Not to go all puppies and rainbows on you, but less than a year ago I couldn't run more than five minutes without nearly collapsing in a heap of sweaty, panting rotundness. I have my first 10K "race" next Sunday, which is almost precisely a year since I started this running business. I promised that I would post a photo of myself post-run, but I'm getting a-scurrred of doing that now, so we shall see. Maybe I'll just put a photo up of my rack in the race shirt, because let me just say, though I may look like a total flooze, they do appear rather magnificent in it. Speaking of boobs, they will not.go.away. I could run straight through to next week and subsist on a diet of celery and water, and those things would not go anywhere. Big boobs 4 lyf. Shit.

What is the point of this, shameless bragging aside? Well, I don't want to get all if-I-can-do-this-so-can-you(!!) happy clappy rubbish, BUT really. I might be one of the laziest people on god's green earth, yet I have managed to stick with this for a year now. The Dude admits that he had no faith in me - I've gone on exercise jags before and quit within a month. I've somehow just reached a place that I needed to be in order for this to work. I'm not convinced that you can just start exercising and get on with it if you don't truly want to do it. It just seems like you're punishing yourself, and if it's going to be a long-term change, what's the point of facing years of self-flagellation in the form of physical activity?

I know that sounded Oprahrific, sorry. I'm just powered by endorphins and some really fine vanilla custard that I had post-run. It just makes me happy to see THAT photo of myself from last summer and know that though I still don't love my body, I'm now only moderately repulsed. I can at least not feel physically sick when seeing it reflected back at me. I'm even hopeful that for the first time in her nearly three years, I consent to having my picture taken with P on her birthday. Small steps.

The Crazy Returns

2009-06-23T22:50:00.003+01:00

I started a post about some random facet of motherhood, but then my own mother called and interrupted my flow. There was mainly talk of what curtains will grace the bedroom we'll be staying in - the theme is early Victorian (overload) in case you're interested.

In lieu of that waylayed post, I feel I simply must tell you the latest Aunt Florence tale. Oh, how I love to recount the stories. This woman is unparalleled, she really is. I refuse to believe there is another woman this functionally insane in existence.

In a recent visit with my Mom, Aunt Florence was on the prowl for more illicit items to assume. My Mom is strangely proud of her aversion to tidyness, which is why her house must be an inexhaustable treasure trove of possibilities to old Aunt Florence. Florence's keen magpie-like eye found a ring which she had to procure. In fairness, she did tell my Mom that if the ring disappeared, the culprit would be easy to figure out. I love her boldness - she doesn't even ask for shit anymore, she just tells you she's going to take it. She's aware that my Mom treads around her delicately thanks to The Crazy, so she just goes for it. Guess what couldn't be found after she left that weekend?

Young Molly tells me about her family sometimes, and they sound so delightfully normal. I love all of The Crazy in my family, but sometimes a bit of sanity and non-old sock stealing behaviour wouldn't go amiss.

Weighted

2009-06-17T22:55:00.003+01:00

Victims of my incessant running-related tweets and occasional blog post centred around running will know that this activity is a focal point of my life lately. When in optimal health (which is rare thanks to my oft disease-ridden offspring), I try to run 4-5 times a week, averaging 20-25 kilometres. At the moment, I'm also doing Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred, because I want to beat my body into merciless submission for the hell of it.

Almost a year ago I started running because I was weary of feeling like a thin person stuck in a chubby body. I'm aware that I wasn't "fat" in the traditional sense of the word, but I wasn't toned at all and extra weight does not sit right no my frame at all. You know those women who are 190 lbs but you'd swear they are about 140? That's not me - in fact, quite the reverse. Even before I had P and was a UK 12/US 8, people implied that I was larger than I was. My post-pregnancy 150-155lbs (this is all a complete estimation as I shun scales)must have made me look 180.

I may be exaggerating slightly, though it is true that my excess weight never distributes evenly. It instead chooses to linger around my upper thighs, stomach, face and boobs in a most obtrusive, obvious way. Even now I'm trying and failing to get rid of the flab on my inner thighs and it is stubbornly refusing to shift. Whenever I hear reference to "kissing thighs" I think of the amount of dreadful rubbing the tops of my thighs have done for years now, thus preferring to call them "fucking thighs" for more than one reason.

So yes, the primary impetus behind me running was to lose weight. I would give lip service to the notion that I wanted to be healthier, which is of course a beneficial byproduct of exercise, but I would be lying if I said this was the main reason. I want to have and pass on a healthy body image to P, and losing weight is the only way I would be able to do this with any level of sincerity. I know this makes my good friend Molly very sad indeed, as she's completely on board with the body acceptance movement championed by Kate Harding. It does make me a bit sad and sorry for myself too, as I know that there is no feasible way I would ever be happy with myself not being thin. Admittedly, when I was under 120 lbs (which was until my early 20s), I hated myself then too, but for other reasons. How delightfully femme moderne of me.

Weight fixation is far too much of a presence in my life, which is why I'm bringing this up. I stare at my face in the mirror constantly, curious as to how someone getting this much exercise can have a visage which still resembles the moon. I push my work chair in as close to my desk as I can possibly sit in order to not have to view my thighs and stomach. I nearly had a panic attack at the hair salon the other day viewing my appearance in the full length mirror because I could only see my boobs as massive pillows of fat steadfastly obscuring the weight I have lost. I occasionally find myself lurking dangerously close to exercise-like-hell-and-eat-nothing-but-one-matzo-cracker-per-day territory, and I hate that feeling. I know it would negate all of this positive body image stuff that I'm hoping P will glean from me subconciously, but the voice tells me that at least I would be thin and again be told regularly, "...but there's not an ounce of fat on you!"

That's my mental state of being, which I acknowledge is less than stable. However, despite these conservative, hardline views on my on weight, I never feel that way regarding the weight of others. Just this week a Twitter/blogging friend who shall remain nameless mentioned a weight loss goal of hers - x lost kilos in a certain amount of time. When I first read of it, I felt the sadness that Molly must feel when I'm being all Debbie Downer. This woman is gorgeous, and I would never call her anything but slender and fit looking. However, she obviously feels the need to change, and of course, who am I to question this given my own issues with the same subject? It's a shame that so many of us feel this way, and even more tragic that a lot of women are like me and will probably never be properly happy with what they look like regardless of the effort put forth.

It's always easier to make suggestions or provide encouragement to others and not be able to heed your own advice. I've never been able to work out why that is. Intellectually, I am aware of my hypocrisy, but somehow that's not enough to see things from that perspective as it pertains to me.

So, for as long as I continue to inter on this net, I will shake my head at my screen when you talk about needing to lose weight, because no doubt, you are beautiful as you are and all that trite rubbish people spout. I will believe that to be true about you, genuinely and without pause. Just don't ask me to love my fucking thighs.

Show and Tell: Literati

2009-06-12T22:40:00.013+01:00

On a weekly basis for many months now I've been intending to participate in Mel's Show and Tell threads. I think it's a brilliant idea, I love seeing what other people have to show off, but I'm just so painfully lazy and complacent. The only reason I'm doing it now is that I'm fueled by jellybean excess and SVU immersion, and this is the next logical thing to do. Obviously.

As some of you may know, I (very) casually collect antiquarian books and ephemera like old letters, purchased off eBay. I hesitate to call it a collection as it's composed of two books, two letters, and one WWII-era scrapbook, but I'm quite proud of what I do have.

My first acquisition was an Edward Burne-Jones book which seems to be inscribed to Burne-Jones' widow, Georgiana Burne-Jones, from their son Philip in 1909. It is then noted that it was passed on to someone else by EBJ's granddaughter in 1952.

I bought this book off eBay for something ridiculous like $20 at the height of my Burne-Jones and Pre-Raphaelite mania, something which has lessened significantly as I've aged and become more cynical, but this book remains one of my favourite possessions.

The inscription reads as follows: "Mother (Georgiana Burne-Jones, widow of Edward B-J) from Phil (Philip Burne-Jones, son of E B-J and G B-J), Nov 1909". A later writer, presumably the same person who presented the book as a gift in 1952, wrote the explanations. In the final dedication he/she wrote, "and now to EMC, from CM, granddaughter of EBJ, in everlasting gratitude, Christmas 1952." CM is Clare Mackail, whose signature and writing pop up in various auctions thanks to her connections with people like JM Barrie.

The photos in the book, though yellowed from age, are gorgeous reproductions, many of which have comments written beneath them as to their origin:

This one reads, "painted from Margaret Burne-Jones, his daughter, aferwards Mrs Mackail". Margaret, as well as Philip, can be seen as children here, in this photo from the National Portrait Gallery in London. Margaret is the youngest, and the other two girls are daughters of William Morris.

My second book of note is an early edition of Vasari's Lives of the Artists. Here I was thinking it was one of the first editions of the book in English, but as it turns out, the first one was in 1685, and mine ain't that. Mine is from 1885, so it's a mere 200 years later.

The inscription on this one is very hard to read, not because of faded ink, but poor penmanship. C'mon Victorians, I expected more of you!

I can get "For dear Mary from Jack and ...." as well as 1885, which, like one of the letters, has been written over and changed to 1887. Again, Victorians - you so crazy!

Some of the illustrations:

And finally, to drag the classy down to a notch or ten, here is my Toilet Sedaris. In actuality I have a signed copy of Naked, but as I lent it to someone it is not here to photograph. Instead, you must view my copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day, referred to above as Toilet Sedaris.

This next picture isn't great, but I hope you can see the warpedness of the pages from, you know, dropping it in the toilet. Confession time - I have lent this to someone in the past and not told them of its sordid Toilet Past. Gross, I know.

Thus ends the tour of a part of my moderately unusual library. Perhaps someday I'll do a Show and Tell on my emphemera, and I hope there are some nerds out there like me who might actually give a shit.

Music Monday: Life and Death

2009-06-08T20:34:00.001+01:00

I just can't help myself. I'm going back to the Guardian's 1000 Songs to Hear Before You Get Hit By a Bus, or whatever. Sorry. Blah, just blah. This week's theme - Life and death. Appropriately. Summaries are linked to below, courtesy of the Guardian.

1000 songs everyone must hear

Life and death: 1000 songs everyone must hear

My selection of 21 from the Guardian.co.uk list of 131

St James Infirmary Blues (Louis Armstrong, 1928)
This Is a Low (Blur, 1994)
Will the Circle Be Unbroken (By and By) (The Carter Family, 1935)
The Mercy Seat (Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, 1988)
My Favourite Girl (King Creosote, 2005)
Personal Jesus (Depeche Mode, 1989)
Black Eyed Dog (Nick Drake, 1986)
Summertime (Ella Fitzgerald, 1959)
Baggy Trousers (Madness, 1980)
Safe from Harm (Massive Attack, 1991)
Lithium (Nirvana, 1991)
Live Forever (Oasis, 1994)
Sour Times (Portishead, 1994)
Paranoid Android (Radiohead, 1997)
Paint it Black (The Rolling Stones, 1966)
Feeling Good (Nina Simone, 1965)
O Death (Ralph Stanley, 2000)
The End of the Rainbow (Richard and Linda Thompson, 1974)
Rufus Is a Tit Man (Loudon Wainwright III, 1975)
Grandma’s Hands (Bill Withers, 1971)
I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry (Hank Williams, 1949)

Louis Armstrong: St James Infirmary Blues

Blur: This is a Low

The Carter Family: Will the Circle Be Unbroken

Nick Cave: The Mercy Seat

King Creosote: My Favourite Girl

Depeche Mode: Personal Jesus

Nick Drake: Black Eyed Dog

Ella Fitzgerald: Summertime

Madness: Baggy Trousers

Massive Attack: Safe from Harm

Nirvana: Lithium

Oasis: Live Forever

Portishead: Glory Box

Radiohead: Paranoid Android

Rolling Stones: Paint It Black

Nina Simone: Feeling Good

Ralph Stanley: Oh Death

Richard and Linda Thompsons: The End of the Rainbow

Loudon Wainwright: Rufus is a Tit Man

Bill Withers: Grandma's Hands

Hank Williams: I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

Music Monday: New Music

2009-06-01T20:16:00.004+01:00

So here it is again, for what it's worth. I don't even know how many weeks Music Monday has been in absentia - it's such a labour of love (believe it or not) and I just haven't been feeling it lately. I'm not feeling it much today either, but The Dude is watching cage fighting and I am very down on life at the moment, so perhaps this will cheer me up a bit.

Pennsylvanians who listen to XPN and people fond of public radio will probably recognise my complete plagiarism (that word never looks right to me) of their playlists. Oops. Apologies as well that I'm so "Stuff White People Like" that it hurts.

K'naan: Wavin' Flag

I'm really digging this song and it's the newest addition to my running playlist (which needs all the revitalising it can get).

Ben Harper: Shimmer and Shine

There Brother of mine - Ben Harper. Again. A good summertime song and a bit different to his usual stuff, at least the things of his I know. I also think it will take my entire lifetime to figure out how such a hot piece of ass married and spawned with Laura Dern. Srsly.

The Felice Brothers: Penn Station

This song is catchy as hell, and I wish I could find a studio version on YouTube, but alas, it's not obliging.

Matisyahu: One Day

You know those "odd crush" blog posts and tweets that float about sometimes? Erm...

Dave Matthews: Funny the Way It Is

It's a running joke between Brother and me how deep my hatred for DMB runs. I never thought I'd include one of their songs on MM, but here we are. Turn around, the Horsemen might be behind you.

Grizzly Bear: Two Weeks

Puuurdy. Creepy video though. Blurgh.

Matt Duke: Sex & Reruns

This song makes me almost happy. Sweet litle thing.

Nicole Atkins: The Way It Is

I think I've had Nicole Atkins featured before, but hopefully not this song.

Animal Collective: Summertime Clothes

Yay, fun. This makes me miss Letterman though. Bloody UK television.

Sara Watkins: All This Time

Gorgeous song, if you like Americana/bluegrass/folk as I do. Sigh.

There's more, because there's always more. However, cage fighting is over and I've got a date in bed watching The Office with my husband. Requisite empty promise number 49403 - I will catch up on my blog reading. Someday.

Too old for this shiiii

2009-05-27T20:23:00.002+01:00

Growing up, I could have bought a McMansion in a crowded subdivision if given a penny every time my Mom would tell me that any social ills were caused by my advanced maturity. Trite phrases such as, "Girls mature faster than boys!", or "You're 12 with the mind of a woman in her mid-20s Pru; others will catch up eventually!", rang in my ears each time I could be found crying under my duvet (you may find this a constant in my life, even now -- LOVE duvet seclusion).

I'm two months off the advanced age of 31, yet give me five minutes on Facebook and I'm feeling 61. Tell me, is it only recent generations that just cannot give up the bar/drunken fool stage? As a non-drinker I'm biased, I know, but really - you're in your 30s, is there a need for half of your online photos to be various incarnations of your Drunk Asshole face? I get it, you're YOUNG! FREE-SPIRITED! ZANY! One picture of this would suffice.

Most people think that those who don't drink (or to excess) are boring. I'm sure I am frightfully dull to a very large subset of the population, but I don't care. If asked to brainstorm as to what would constitute an evening with friends, the word "bar" would only be included if it meant I was going to play trivia there. Ideally I would want to spend an evening in, have a nice dinner, talk, watch a movie, do things that respectable grown-ups do. Bottles of wine with casual tipsyness - fine, but as soon as a picture is taken of someone making googley eyes and sticking their tongue out, I'm gone.

I have tremendously fond memories of my drunken times in my late teens/early 20s. I have a fair amount of drunken photography taken by me and of me, some involving cleavage asparagus, others featuring a heavy-lidded Pru smoking cigarettes despite being a non-smoker. Thing is, I was in college, and that's what you do in college.

Once we hit our 30s surely it's time to pack up the frat and grow up?

A Call to Arms

2009-05-21T21:04:00.002+01:00

Let me just dust this thing off, excuse me. I hope to soon look at my Google Reader feeds without being gripped by a paralysing guilt assuaged only by pretending blogging is actually all fake.

My mother has left, which means no more half-assed compliments, so consider yourselves spared. I thank you for bearing with me while I whined about not being sufficiently rewarded for my troubles by my mother, since it seems that I'm still six years old and craving my Mom's validation. I swear, I'm not this needy in real life, really. No, really.

Changing topics entirely, I need your advice on things media. The Dude has made my life by telling me that I can shop for my very own special gadget - iPhone, iPod Touch, or Blackberry tomorrow evening. It will be an early birthday present, but as we're trying to rack up air miles in time for our US trip in July, this is a quick way to accumulate them. I'm very gadget-adoring, and had you been here a few weeks ago when I was setting up my BIL's iPod Touch you would have felt you were witnessing an unnatural union between woman and machine.

Despite this love, I'm in three minds as to which one I want. It's me, so I will research the hell out of this mother before making up my mind anyway, but I know you are clever, tech-savvy ladies with opinions. I don't use my mobile enough to warrant a monthly contract of £35, or whatever ridiculous sum they want for a monthly iPhone contract. There is a pay as you go option which is much more feasible for my kind of usage, but now I'm worried what would happen if I moved to the US. Anyone have any idea if you can just take these things when you move to another continent and carry on as normal?

I know the Touch doesn't have the phone element, and though I don't use my mobile enough, I'm wondering if I'll miss that part in not getting the iPhone. Basically, I think I want to know if the only difference between the iPhone and iPod Touch is the actual phone part. Otherwise, can you still use the apps to the same extent? I am madly, enrapturously in love with the notion of using magical, amazing apps standing in the middle of the street. I don't want to get a Touch and discover that half the apps aren't applicable.

I've saved the Blackberry for last because the extent of my knowledge about them is that people call them Crackberries. Oh, and that Debbie Whatsherfacegreekname from E! got carpal tunnel from hers. I said that like it was a communicable disease and not a hell of her own making. The iPhone/Touch is just so damn purdy, and I'm finding it very difficult to resist its siren song.

To save this post from the tragic whingeing of the spoiled middle class, I'd like to know what you people are up to media-wise. What are you watching? Listening to? Reading? We have spent weeks trying to catch up on DVRd TV, I've managed to forget that music exists, and it's taken me 3 weeks to read 20 pages of Cold Mountain. Obviously I need a wee gadget to distract me from the important things even more.

The more they stay the same

2009-05-16T00:13:00.002+01:00

Greetings children. Apologies for the absence and inconsistent blogging lately - my Mom has graced our shores to talk of my flat ass, I've been running a lot, I work full-time, and they tell me I have a small child reliant on my mothering. Who knew?
I was excited about my Mom's arrival, believing that though we only saw each other at Christmas, she would be impressed by my weight loss since then. Or, perhaps not. Instead, all I got was the general comment referring to my overall weight loss, "You look nice. Do you feel as if your clothes are any looser?" Que? Well, when one loses 15 pounds or so, it's usually a bit more than slightly ill-fitting clothing. In three seconds I went from being proud of myself to wondering if I have imagined the extent of my weight loss.

Mothers always have that supreme ability to say deflating things, intentional or otherwise. My Mom is of the otherwise variety, but it still hurts. So far, The Dude and one friend are the only ones to say anything about it all, which again, leads me to believe that this profound weight loss thought that is dancing about my head is due to my clearly potent anti-depressants rather than anything based in reality.

I know, I know, I should shut the fuck up already about my body issues, but people - I have worked HARD in the past nine months to get where I am. I run 20-25k/week, I lift weights, survive on healthy foods and little junk; if I don't look significantly better, what's the point? Yeah, I feel better, and it's great to know that 2.5 miles is a casual, easy run that I do when I don't have much time. Me of a year ago would have sputtered and coughed at the very notion of running for 2.5 minutes. Still, I want to look better too. A lot better.

Those privy to my Twitter outbursts of morosity the other day will know how much my Mom's lack of reaction bothered me. As punishment I only had one cup of coffee (my main source of sugar)instead of the usual two or three, and did sprints/3 miles one night, and 2.5 miles the next night. I am glad my Mom isn't around all the time to not notice weight loss, or else I would be out every night pushing myself until I passed out in the bushes.

I have no idea where all this body-based neediness comes from. I wasn't neglected as a child or deprived of compliments, so I have no excuse. I think a lot of it results from me hating (not an exaggeration) my body for the past 12+ years without trying to change it, and now that I have, any encouragement has to come from my own drive or The Dude's obligatory support. Don't get me started on my Mom's throwaway statement from her last trip, "You can borrow some of my trousers if you want" and how that doozy nearly pushed me toward wearing a vinyl weight loss suit in the Sahara whilst subsisting on lettuce leaves and grub blood. Oy.

Let me gather myself again and try to limit the drama. Ahem. If you see me on the street, just make sure to tell me how fine I'm looking lately. You'll make a girl's day.

Bullets

2009-05-08T22:48:00.002+01:00

I'm not prone to doing posts comprised of random little thoughts, but I wanted to address a few things that don't warrant their own posts. Apologies for the schizophrenic nature of this and lack of segue.

First up, I *finally* managed to run 10K tonight, for the first time ever. My average runs are 5K-ish, so to be able to conquer that distance by quite a considerable margin was quite a victory for me. I'm pretty sure my legs were preparing to detach from my torso toward the end, but I'm proud to say they're still present and accounted for. Yes, I may be unable to walk properly tomorrow, but that's no different from any other Friday night - hey-ohhhh!

On the topic of running, I have such an odd affinity for reading about other runners' stories of what they have done. A paragraph about running makes me all giddy, even if the writer is way more prolific than I am (not that it takes much). So, if any of you are runners, write about it sometime on your blog so I can grin at the screen stupidly and dream of running.

Also, to the runners (sorry to bore the rest of you who don't give a shit) - how often do you have off days, and are they really off? I struggled the other night to even run a couple of miles, like my trousers were weighted down with a gathering of pebbles. I got all pissy about it and moped for at least 34 minutes upon my return home. I know we don't all have great days, but jesus, it was as if I was just starting my Couch to 5K programme again.

Lastly, on the running issue, don't forget, I have my big 10K coming up in July for Cancer Research UK. I need sponsorship money, and I'm not above begging in this case. I'm not looking to garner cash to go to BlogHer for god's sake, so any donation is appreciated. No seriously, any amount. One pound, fifty pence, whatever. I'll even post a photo of myself post-race, plum-faced, glistening with sweat, with my eyes likely to be rolling into the back of my head. Funny story about this - I got my race t-shirt in the post, and when I proudly showed it to my dear husband, he said, "Are you sure that's big enough?" Har har, if it was meant sarcastically anyway, which it WASN'T. He backtracked, saying he thought it was a child's shirt, ergo, it wouldn't fit. It's a woman's medium, and yes, it fits. Bastard.

Oh yes, donations. Widget is in the right margin. I'll even show you a boob if you donate. The right one though, the left one is a bit smug as it is.

Changing subjects entirely, jobs. Who needs them? As you may know, I'm in the process of trying to get a job in the US, and the whole thing is so much of a kerfuffle I'm kicking myself for making this decision. I've applied for one position, but realised yesterday that though I made it clear in my cover letter that I'm free to fly over for interview/relocation, I didn't say that I would pay for it. In these troubled times there aren't many employers that would want to shoulder that financial responsibility for someone who may not even get the job. Dur. Lesson learned.

This particular job is in my wee home region of Central PA, so flying over isn't a problem since I'll have a place to stay. However, I am looking further afield as well - all along the Northeastern seaboard actually. There are a lot of good jobs out there, but obviously I can't afford to fly back and forth for a handful of interviews in places I've never been before. How do people even find jobs in locations in which they do not currently live? I know my situation is a bit on the extreme side given the distance, but still. It's not as if we'll move back to the US sans jobs and just give life over there a go, temporarily unemployed. As it is my plan is to go back with me being the only employed one until The Dude finds work as well. Hmph. Grown-up life is hard.

So yes, a post equal parts "go me/woe is me". How fun for you. Stay tuned for Sunday/Monday night, when I might actually be motivated enough to do a Music Monday post again, at long last. Yay!

Judge Not

2009-05-05T20:22:00.004+01:00

This post has been bopping around my brain like a jacked-up crackhead for months now. It's not like I'm going to break any blogging barriers here, discussing the played-out, godawful Mommy issue of judging, but I do want to discuss it anyway. People seem to call it "mommy wars", which just makes me think of catty little bitches with perfectly coiffed hair, driving their dreadfully suburban-named kids around in minivans. Therefore, I take no part in such endeavours.

I'm not against judgement - how can you not judge other people at all? If any of you are clear of judgement, parenting or otherwise, please tell me your secret. Is it ok to judge if the judgee isn't aware of your views? Do you only become judgemental once your views are known?

I've got this bee in my bonnet because I was reading a post on another blog about crazy Dr Laura's new book on how the only good mom is a SAHM, or something equally vitriolic. I have no time for that crazy witch, so I don't really care what she has to say. However, within the comments section a SAHM said that it is known that children with a stay-at-home parent (which, let's face it, is almost always the mother) are unequivocally better off than a child whose parents work full-time. Really? REALLY? Say what?

Fair enough to say that one way or the other is best for you, but is there a reason to tell us working mothers that we are raising our children in far less than ideal situations? Can't you just say "I love staying home with my BAYYYYYYBEEEES!" and be done with it? I get The Look all the time - the one that says "what are you doing here at work when you have a child?" Some people are so bold as to ask where P is during the day and how long she's in there, imprisoned. I know it's a well-tread topic on my blog, but each time I get The Look I feel like it's the first time I've been outwardly judged.

I judge all the time in my head - I have opinions on smoking and/or drinking around children, bottles, juice, bottles WITH juice, vaccinations, lack of discipline, blah blah blah. Am I still judgmental? I would never dream of vocalising my differing views to anyone but The Dude, but even with that limited audience I still do it from high atop my soapbox. My rationale is that at least I don't make people feel shit for their choices, choices that were best for them.

This rambling load of nonsense is just my way of petitioning people to just keep their opinions to themselves. It's fine to think that I'm a poor mother for abandoning my latchkey toddler, but save the raised eyebrows for someone who cares what you have to say.

Slippery slope

2009-04-28T21:03:00.003+01:00

Any time a conversation commences with a hesitant, "No offense, but..." or a cautious, "Don't take this the wrong way...", fear rises quickly from the pit of my stomach. I pray nothing is said about my weight, fat moonpie face, or eating habits, knowing that the subsequent shame spiral will put me off running and non dust-based food for the foreseeable future.

Today a colleague busted out the latter phrase, and I knew it wouldn't end well. So the quote makes sense, I was wearing high heeled boots, which is a departure from my standard collection of Rocket Dogs.

Her: "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think when you're tall like today you look like a teenager. When you're short, you just look like a mum."

Those loud sucking and screeching sounds you hear? That's my self-image evaporating and my head being ripped off by winged agents of Satan, intent upon dragging my soul into the depths of Mumsy. Those who know me will know that there are very few things which I would classify as an insult, and telling me I look like a mum is definitely one of those things. Tell me I have a flat ass - fine, I do. Tell me my hair looks like shit - it probably does. Tell me my boobs are too big - they are. Looking like the stereotype of a mother? You might as well hook me up with some high-waisted jeans, a grubby KMart sweatshirt, and a dandy collection of Hummel figurines.

I don't ever deny being a mother, and I'll never be like those post-menopausal ladies who only want their grandchildren to refer to them by first name only. I'm happy to be a mother, but jesus, I'm only 30, surely I have a few good years in me before I look like one. Some of you have met me - I'm not drowning in mummyness, right? RIGHT? I know I'm frumpy as hell, but I'm in metamorphosis at the moment (fat to thin, not cool to mum). Tell me the truth, no wait, no wait, lie if you must. I can only take so much honesty in one day.

My future has been foretold, and it looks a lot like this:

Shit.

(Un)remarkable

2009-04-22T21:59:00.002+01:00

"It is funny, but it strikes me that a person without anecdotes that they nurse while they live, and that survive them, are more likely to be utterly lost not only to history but the family following them. Of course this is the fate of most souls, reducing entire lives, no matter how vivid and wonderful, to those sad black names on withering family trees, with half a date dangling after and a question mark."
-from The Secret Scripture, Sebastian Barry

Five years ago, at my grandfather's memorial, I was treated to a family photo slideshow edited by my redneck twentieth cousin. Most of the pictures of the long-dead I recognised, oddly-dressed people whose images sat on random bookshelves and mantelpieces in my childhood house. Maybe it was because it was my first major loss as an adult, but I found myself with the sudden desire to know more about them - their names, their professions, their history within their families, anything that created a link between who they were, and who I am. It makes you wonder what traits, physical or otherwise, are shared with the anonymous (in a personal sense) faces which litter our histories.

I have family members heavily involved with genealogy, and though I appreciate how much enlightenment is provided by this, it's mostly dry, factual documents which are unearthed. There is no essence of the individual, though I suppose this media-saturated age will solve this problem for future generations seeking the origins of their past. Blogging may be the domain of the closeted self-absorbed, but I've often thought of this as my document of the side of my life which can't be accessed by marriage certificates and passport stamps.

Initially it may seem a morbid subject, pondering your own place in the grand scheme of things. I think too many people get caught up in the notion of major accomplishments, and not so much on the minutiae that actually makes a person interesting. For me, I'd much rather find out my great-great grandmother collected preserved pig fetuses than discover another great-great-something-or-other graduated from Yale and was an early mayor of Boston.

I'm guilty of questioning my place all the time, mainly through blog reading. Certain people are scarcely older than me and publishing novels, or if they aren't yet, soon will be. Some have series of degrees and illustrious academic careers. There is me, a postgrad drop-out living in a diddy flat with a job I fell into, in a largely unimpressive field. However, I recently read an article about a hoarder in the North of England who recently passed away. No one knew much about him, and he didn't leave any family behind when he died. With one swift swipe by Death, a person was erased. Yes, there is this article, but it doesn't answer any questions as to who he was. The writer went so far as to say that the hoarder's life was "unremarkable", a word which leaped from the page when I read it. What makes a life remarkable, and who are we to judge what is classified as remarkable or otherwise?

No doubt by this writer's definition, I lead an unremarkable life. The rest of my time will probably be spent raising my daughter, working like the stiff I am, and enjoying life through what makes me happy. I suppose by the standard interpretation, my life is unremarkable in its ordinariness. Millions of people have the same life structure as me, so apparently you have to stand out in order for your life so as to avoid the dreaded designation of your life as unremarkable.

Delusional as it may be, I hope P, the most immediate source of who may have interest in my life, takes much more joy in what makes me an individual than what would make me "remarkable". She will know that I moved over to the UK at 22, knowing no one except her father and most of my possessions squeezed tightly into a couple of bulky suitcases. She will know that I have an inappropriate and all-consuming love of hip-hop music despite my abiding whiteness (so very, very white) and nerdiness. She will know that I collect old books, decaying letters from previous centuries, and antique art prints of Arthur Rackham illustrations. She will know that I think The Big Lebowski is the funniest movie ever, a fact of which she will be painfully aware as I will be quoting it until they lower me into my grave.

I might be in complete denial, making up for a life not flashy and important enough. Just don't call me unremarkable.

Lay back and think of England

2009-04-17T23:18:00.002+01:00

With all of the centuries of British literature, all I could think of for my England-focused post was the above. In my own defense, P has been unwell with a creeping, itchy rash and a swollen, funky foot, so I'm a bit sapped at the moment. Add to this my successful run this evening (5K personal best - 29.16, yay!), my stomach swollen with fresh berries and half fat creme fraiche, and right there is a recipe for forgetfulness and lack of inspiration.

A couple or one asked after my last post why I want to leave the UK. I think I've expanded on it a bit before, but I'm not so keen on trawling my archives so I'll just summarise again. I will always dearly love the UK. I became the person I am today because of how it shaped me, my daughter was conceived in British petri dish and was born here, and there are certain aspects of the UK I think you would be unable to see elsewhere even if you combed the edges of the earth thoroughly.

I was infused with Anglophilia from the time I was a child. Something about the UK just seemed "right" to me, and I was always telling people that I would live here someday. On my first trip to the UK when I was 17 I nearly collapsed in a heap of religious-level supreme ecstasy upon seeing the majesty of York Minster for the first time. It perfectly captured what I perceived the UK to be - stuffed with wonderous, ancient history, each step an echo of a fascinating history extending thousands of years. I still feel this powerfully, and I will never cease to feel the wonder of its history deep within me. There is a castle nearby which I have been to dozens of times, yet standing at the top of its keep and viewing the crumbling stonework below continues to make me emotional.

I think that romantic notion of Great Britain is what makes people Anglophiles in the first place. It's an annoyance of mine that the unintiated only see this side of Britain, and based on that think it must be a wonderful place packed with quaint villages full of thatched roofed houses and reserved people drinking tea, pinkie finger extended. There is plenty of that, yes, and it is such a huge part of why it is such a great place. However, there are flaws, just like any country, but the floaws that I find are just too insurmountable for me at this point in time.

I live in a big city, so I know that any negativity I perceive is enhanced by the claustrophic nature of city living. This is a culture of drinking. People live for the weekend, when the primary objective is to get completely wasted - unabashedly pissing in the streets and vomiting on the sidewalk. On a Monday walk to work I am likely to pass at least 4 splatters of puke, which offsets the numerous expanses of mosaiced window glass from car break-ins quite nicely. I'm all for enjoying life, but is it so hard to pull yourself together and save the release of bodily fluids for the bathroom at home? Lest you think this behaviour is reserved for the dark hours, I only wish it was. I see drunken, loutish idiots clutching cans of beer stumbling down the road at 9am, 1pm, and 5pm on most days. I live on a nice street with a cluster of £500,000 homes (not my flat, I fear), yet still, there is that constant of a slice of life I, let alone my daughter, do not want to see.

I worry taking P up to the shop at the end of our street for a pint of milk. Inevitably, we are surrounded by groups of loud obnoxious kids shouting obscenities at people just walking buy, or drunks whipping out their business so they can relieve themselves on cars. Other than walking to work and running in the evenings, I don't feel comfortable walking on my own. I avoid large groups of chavs (I'm sorry, I know it's painfully politically incorrect, but this is what they are - at work, domain of the polite, we refer to them as "the locals") because they will either shout rude things or ask me to buy them fags.

I am aware that this just sounds like someone complaining about any city's problems, but I think it's a problem endemic within British culture at large, certainly not relegated to big cities. Yes, I could move out of a city into a nice market town, but for the most part I would have to resort to the sex industry as mentioned in my previous post in order to finance this. Moving up North due to its less expensive nature was suggested by more than one person, and it is something we considered in the past. I personally think the gap in cost of living between North and South has narrowed greatly within the past ten years, and it's not the financial cure-all it once was.

In regard to cost of living and what we could afford, it does come back to my own need to live the kind of life which has resided in my brain all of this time. I grew up in a big(ish) house, had a yard over an acre, and miles of nature to explore. I so desperately want this for P. Even up North this is hard to find within our price range combined with an ideal location. I love the space the US affords, and I think regardless where you go in the UK, that inherent sense of claustrophobia exists. I don't doubt that this is my Americanness coming through, but I suppose it's only natural that a shred of it remains.

Those are pretty much the only reasons I want to relocate - no more drunken, destructive chavs, and a nice big house with land. Yes, yes, drunken miscreants exist everywhere, but there is more scope in the US from getting away from all of that if you choose your locations wisely. In my nearly 7 years of living here, I always have the impression that the undesirables are only a street corner away. This is where my snobbiness steps in, because yes, I want to shelter P from all of that. The "real" world is a great place which we need to be aware of, but not in the form of having to grow up too fast if you don't have to. I'm all for shielding her eyes for as long as I can. She will have the rest of her life to realise all of the crazy and disgusting shit that goes on in this world.

Just in case anyone pigeonholes me as an anti-British expat who is socially right of the Daily Mail, my list of things I'll miss vastly outweighs the things I won't. Living here has granted me a world view I wouldn't have gotten any other way. I always thought I was so open-minded and unpatronising until I moved here, when I realised how very wrong I was. I have grown so much, and what I have learned will no doubt remain with me and keep me defined as the Ameribrit I feel I have become even if my location changes.

Much as I love my American television shows, the British do factual, news and original programming like no one else. Even after all of this time I shake my head in amazement at having a primetime show on Baroque art on a main channel, frank news discussions whose aim is to make everyone uncomfortable with the truth, or a hilarious, mostly high-brow quiz show hosted by the world's most brilliant man. Just tonight I have been watching NewsNight Review (which has no US parallel, I'm sorry), followed by Jools Holland, because as you know mama likes her some fresh new music.

I will miss the media here in general. I'm already working on a way to regularly obtain my heart in written form - The Guardian. Some days I lay naked on its newsprint in the hopes I will absorb its amazingness. Nothing yet. I didn't think it was possible to love a newspaper as much as I do this one.

I will miss the people. The non-drunk, criminal ones, that is. I'm much more suited to the reservedness of British culture than the American need to have a constant conversation with everyone you meet. I don't do small talk, so in a country such as this which is a black hole for such trivialities, I'm in heaven. When I'm back in the US I am severely unnerved by fellow patrons in line that talk to me unprovoked. I'm sure I come off as socially retarded or immensely arrogant, but I just cannot cope with that rubbish.

I will miss the weather. Yes, you heard me correctly. The rain, the overcast skies, the wind - I love it all. An ideal meteorological day for me is dark skies, a hint of drizzle, and a temperature of about 48 degrees. Those people who get seasonal affective disorder because of the lack of sun - weirdos. I have the opposite, though I suppose it would still be called the same thing. Too many days of sunshine and warmth and I'm looking for a blackout blind and an ice box.

The most controversial thing I will miss is the NHS. Again, yes, that's what I really said. I think it's brilliant, and all of those American knee-jerkers ranting about an impending socialist society because of Obama's healthcare plans should know of what they speak before they cast judgments. I had to make an appointment last minute this morning for the doctor to prod P's gross foot, and by 11am I had a prescription for an antibiotic and some lotion which cost me absolutely nothing. My crazy pills? They cost me about £8($12)/month. Yes, we all know the problem I had getting those blasted pills in the first place, but that was down to the specific GP's philosophies rather than any fault on behalf of the NHS. My labour and childbirth were amazing and just what I wanted - the only people present in the room were The Dude, a midwife, possibly me, and eventually P.

I'm sure if it wasn't nearly 1am I could come up with more things, but I shall just need to bore you with them another day. My love/hate letter to Britain here is something I have wanted to do for awhile, particularly as the day we leave is drawing nearer and nearer. Well, that is, if my people (ie Americans) can give my ass a j-o-b. My hopefully-not-shit resume was just submitted last night at this time, so fingers crossed kiddos. If I find myself back in PA, I would be lying if I said I wasn't way too excited at the notion of being close to so many much-loved blogging friends of mine. Not Statia though, she swears too much. That's just tasteless.

Wayfaring stranger

2009-04-14T22:19:00.002+01:00

Yeah, so not to seem all needy and stuff, but 20 visitors in one day is just shameful. A girl more paranoid and blessed with sufficient sleep would wonder what happened to all of her blogging friends. I know what happened - I got pregnant three years ago and a huge chunk of them jumped ship. Things just ain't like they used to be. Wah wah wah, etc etc.

Ok, I'll try and pull myself together. I'm reading a lot of books lately, so perhaps I shall make them my new friends, harrumph. Please don't remind me that I'm so shit at commenting that most of you probably don't even remember my name - we'll just brush that under the carpet, ok? I'm digressing again, aren't I...I'm going to do a real post, I promise.

Do you recall that we were going to move to Canada? Weeeell, it appears as if that's off the table now. Once we submitted our final paperwork (prior to the required medicals), The Dude started to haunt ex-pat boards and ended up frightening himself out of it. I remained positive for a whole day or two before his negativity made me second guess my own optimism, and now I'm all, "Booo! America's hat wants to keep the non-Canadian down, booo!!" He is of the opinion that Canadian employers are unlikely to hire non-Canadians, and that job security is a foreign concept. I suspect that these perceptions originate from posts on the ex-pat forums from embittered, narrow-minded people with a rigid sense of what they perceive to be "right" or "wrong". Most of the women on my American expats in the UK list are provincial shrews who just cannot bear to accept that life is not the same in the UK as it is in the US. I imagine a lot of British people living in Canada are the same way.

With this recent development, our perspective has shifted and now I am looking at re-patriation. I check a specific job listing site as if that itself is my job, and I may even be applying for a position in my home state within the next couple of days. I'm exceptionally nervous about the prospect, as it dawned on me yesterday that I've never had a "real" job in the US. I have only ever worked a standard Monday through Friday job in the UK. My familiarity is with UK working culture, and it's bizarre to think that I would likely feel like an outsider in my own country's culture.

This isn't just an update about our migration plans. I acknowledge that only a couple of you have been marking my whereabouts with drawing pins connected with string on a large map on the walls of your living rooms. All of this talk of living here, living there, and all points in between makes me worry that I am a bit too migratory for my own good. Will I ever settle down and believe that I want to stay in that place?

I didn't have a transient childhood - we moved to a different local school district when I was 11, and that was it. Due to money issues and my Dad siphoning my college fund to support his drinking and gambling, I had to stay at home while I went to university. Toward the end of my studies I was desperate to the point of insanity to get out of the town in which I grew up, and I moved to the UK after graduation.

In the nearly seven years that we've been here, we've always had this goal of living in our ideal house in the perfect location. In the first couple years that could have been in the UK, until reality set in and it occurred to us that we could never have that life here barring a large financial windfall or 24 hour prostitution. After that, Canada came into the picture. The rambling house on the fringes of suburbia started to take shape, and my chickens called Ted and Dot became a realistic possibility. So much of our lives in the past seven years has been, "When we have our proper house..."

I've reached a point now where I desperately need to get out. I want that life now, in Canada or the US, and though for years I was content to cheerily say, "We'll have that one day!" Polyanna has done packed her bags and hopped on the earliest red-eye. I'm nearly 31 folks, I ain't getting any younger.

Now I'm concerned that this next step, if it takes place, will still not be enough. Am I always chasing a perceived happiness which isn't remotely steeped in reality? I know it's not all about material goods, and honestly, what makes me look forward to this hoped-for future is that P will have a big yard to run around in, trees to climb, outdoor toys to play with, and a house big enough that she isn't always in the same room as her parents. Here she lives on the top floor of our building, has no garden, and can only spend time in one of a few rooms. This poor kid strokes out when a friend of hers produces a bike and rides it around an open space. It's a completely foreign concept for her, the poor mite.

I hope you're still reading a couple of years from now when I'm ensconsed in my nice house, airing my firmly middle class concerns like the irritating prat that I am. I just hope I don't get pregnant before then - my only reader will be my brother. Can you imagine the embarrassment...

Music Monday: Partay

2009-04-06T22:42:00.005+01:00

Because there ain't no party like a Scranton party (or in the case of my own geographical origin - Harrisburg), this week I'm talking about the Guardian's list of party music. There will be no Abba or shit like that here - this isn't a hen night at a dodgy pub. Rock on. All summaries are those of The Guardian, not my own. Sadly.

The B-52's: Love Shack

"A seemingly effortless meld of Don Was’s slick big-band production, Fred Schneider’s fairground bark, the piping harmonies of Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson and the dirty blues guitar of Keith Strickland, Love Shack gave the B-52’s their first mainstream hit more than a decade into their career. Inspired by the cabin in Athens, Georgia, where the band wrote their early songs, it was a tribute to original guitarist Ricky Wilson who died of Aids-related illnesses in 1985."

Next was going to be the Beastie Boys' "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party)", but it seems YouTube does not think I can watch ANY version of this video. At all. Oh well, you know what this sounds like anyway, right?

David Bowie: Let's Dance

"Few people know more about making people dance than Nile Rodgers. As the guitarist in Chic, he helped write and produce some of the best songs of the disco era, including Everybody Dance, Le Freak and Good Times. No surprise then that when David Bowie asked Rodgers to produce his second album of the 80s, it resulted in a dancefloor gem. The clipped bass, rhythmic guitar chops and rising chants that telegraph the chorus work in any setting, from wedding discos to fashionable east London bars."

Johnny Cash: Cocaine Blues

"If you believe that violent and amoral lyrics were invented by rockers or rappers, this stunning proto-gangsta stomp will be a shock to your system. TJ “Red” Arnall’s 1947 western swing standard is the testimony of Willy Lee, who, high on coke and whiskey, shoots his woman and fails to escape justice. Cash’s Folsom Prison concert version is legendary, but The Man in Black is outdone by one Billy Hughes, whose 1947version is utterly remorseless."

Depeche Mode: Just Can't Get Enough

"No matter how inventive the rearrangement, how annoying the charity cover version or how ubiquitous its appearance in advertising makes it, there’s no escaping the pure pop thrill of new-wave veterans Depeche Mode’s naive, breakthrough single, the final contribution from early songwriter Vince Clarke (before leaving to form Yazoo and later Erasure) and an anthem in British gay clubs ever since."

Ian Dury and the Blockheads: Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick

"Chas Jankel’s musical nous and Ian Dury’s wordsmithery combine to perfection on this blast of brilliant nonsense that sold nearly a million on its initial release. The music is a thick funk gumbo (largely down to Norman Watt-Roy’s heavy, busy bassline) as Dury rhymes the likes of “Borneo” with “Bordeaux”, “Eskimo” with “Arapaho” and “Milan” with “Yucatan” before breaking into the gloriously nutty chorus. Davey Payne’s double saxophone break is manic; the Blockheads never hit these heights again."

Flight of the Conchords: Think About It (What is Wrong With the World Today)

"In which the peerless Kiwi “digi-folk” duo pay homage to a certain strain of “protest song” – the vague, directionless, apolitical soul ballad exemplified by Buffalo Springfield, Stevie Wonder, Curtis Mayfield, the Stylistics and any number of acid jazz copyists. As FOTC describe an inner-city dystopia where kids are “killing each other with knives and forks” and “getting diseases from monkeys” over the chords from Marvin Gaye’s Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology), it’s clear that they’re actually rather good blue-eyed soul crooners."

House of Pain: Jump Around

"Irish-American rappers House of Pain always played second fiddle to west-coast contemporaries Cypress Hill, who never fashioned anything as great as Jump Around. From the fanfare that launched a thousand cannabis habits to the squeal that ushers in every jump (sampled from Prince’s Gett Off), it united college halls and rock clubs long after they sank into insignificance."

The Libertines: Can't Stand Me Now

"From a poetic point of view, the release of Can’t Stand Me Now could not have been more perfect. From an intra-band harmony perspective, it couldn’t have been worse. Released just as Pete Doherty and Carl Barât’s tumultuous relationship was beginning to finally fall apart due to Doherty’s drug habit, you can hear the spite in the love me/hate me lyrics. A No 2 hit at the time, it remains the most famous mission statement from the London could-have-beens."

MGMT: Kids

"Brooklyn-based duo MGMT emerged in 2007 with an intoxicating blend of squelching electro-funk, wiggy progisms and 70s pop-rock sensibilities. Produced by Flaming Lips associate Dave Fridmann, Kids remains their signature tune; its mix of gurgling synths, pounding drum machines and make-believe lyrics overcoming hints of hipster irony to rock harder than a Shoreditch warehouse party. Much to the band’s chargrin, the track was recently appropriated by French premier Nicolas Sarkozy for use at political rallies."

Pulp: Sorted for E's and Wizz (if you want to know more about Pulp, come and ask - I'm an expert)

"The ultimate after-the-Britpop-party anthem, as Jarvis Cocker and co steal the melody of Leo Sayer’s Moonlighting and define the dark side of drugs, festivals and coming down. The Mirror got itself in a tizz about the single sleeve that explained how to make a drug wrap, but if they’d listened they would have heard one of the most despairing of all drug anthems, with its pensive acknowledgment that communal highs are always followed by private lows."

Jackie Wilson: Your Love

"Originally unable to nail the vocal track, Wilson was instructed by producer Carl Davis to “jump and go along with the percussion”. It worked a treat. In perhaps the most joyous two and a half minutes ever committed to tape, Wilson – backed by members of the Funk Brothers – builds Higher and Higher up into a crescendo of gospel-inspired ecstasy, capturing the optimism and seemingly endless possibilities of new-found love."

And just for fun...

Cameo: Word Up

A walk in my shoes

2009-04-05T20:43:00.011+01:00

I wanted to do a post about serious issues, but this time it's nausea rather than tiredness acting as my foil. I think I'm either pregnant or dying, and as I'm an infertile who doesn't have sex, I think I know which is more likely. Anyway, I swear I have some good posts coming, not that it matters since most of you Bloglines kids haven't been told of my existence in months. Fucking thing.

Today P and I visited friends, and on the way home we passed an old cemetery that I've never actually explored despite my reformed Goth leanings. Fog was settling, so I did what any good ex-Goth would do and whipped out my camera. P was slightly intrigued, but got distracted when I wouldn't keep turning left as per her demands. For your (hopeful) enjoyment, here are some of the photos. Can it get more British than this, I ask you?

And because life knew I had a camera to document this, I present:

Real things soon, I promise.

Time-sinks

2009-04-01T21:53:00.004+01:00

Rather than doing something constructive with my much-needed spare internet time such as commenting on your blogs, I have been doing idle, fluffy internet things. I have such grand notions of sitting down at the computer and leisurely strolling through my Google Reader feeds, but I have no coherent thoughts bubbling up in this tiny mind of mine. I can read, but as for coming up with something worthy to say - no chance. The feeds are all there, unread, waiting for me to be inspired at some point.

It seems I am so arrogant as to believe you are hanging on my every word, desperately wanting to find out where I go when I'm avoiding being a good member of blogging society. I'll tell you, because though I have a few posts swimming around in my head, I think all that would come out is a Liz Lemonesque, "BLURGH".

In no particular order:

1) What Would Tyler Durden Do

I happen to think my brother is the blogger behind this hilarious gossip site, so familiar are some of his phrasings. I'm sure some of you would find him crude and most inappropriate, but I myself am often crude and inappropriate.

2) Curious Expeditions

I happened upon this site, perhaps via Molly, when we were looking for library porn. Yes, there is such a thing, and while reading the post I had to change my underwear three times. Please see above, "crude and inappropriate".

This blog isn't usually about libraries - its object is to find the strange and unusual sites in the world, and you wouldn't believe what's out there. Prepare yourselves to get lost in this website for awhile.

3) Craftastrophe

Admittedly, this is a new fixation since I didn't know about this site until they started following me on Twitter. Etsy lovers will probably find it particularly funny. I mean, really (and also because I have always hated the word "moist", particularly in conjunction with "chunks")...

4) Postcards from Yo Momma

I only "found" this site last week, but good god is it funny. Readers submit funny texts/emails/IMs with their mothers, and it has made me realise that there must be a universal motherism because so many of them are totally my own Mom. I'm tempted to submit the conversation I had with my Mom when she told me about a movie she saw the night before - she couldn't remember the title or even what it was about, but she knew she really liked it and that Keri Russell was in it. Yes, it was The Waitress. That being the only thing Keri Russell has really done since Felicity, which my Mom never watched. Somehow she had little recollection of the film she greatly enjoyed, but she did remember the random B (C?) list actress that a lot of people, particularly those of her generation, wouldn't be familiar with at all. Anyway, mothers...comedy fodder for sure.

5) Lovely Listing

Some of you may know of my love of real estate. If I tell you that I can spend three hours on real estate sites no problem, please don't laugh. It's an addiction, and it needs fed. This is why I find Lovely Listing so hilarious. It features reader submissions of photos from real estate websites that perhaps should have never been published. Ever. I have often wondered why, in trying to sell a house, a realtor thinks that showing a photograph of a bloke sitting in a chair, or a cat on a table is in anyway relevant. Prepare yourselves - this one will keep you busy for awhile. Not only are the photos worth a visit, but the write-ups are witty and clever too.

My life is making me feel like road kill on a sweltering day, so I'm going to stop interneting and go to bed. I hope you don't get too carried away with my links as well!

Music Monday: Heartbreak

2009-03-30T21:13:00.002+01:00

Here I am, week three of focusing on the Guardian list. Yes, I lack originality, and I'm never very good at coming up with songs which fit a certain theme. Molly has now sworn off blogging altogether thanks to the rather...tepid response to her music about The Secks. Poor dear has retreated into absolute seclusion, stroking her budding creole tomatoes and trimming her newly sprouted herbs. "Blogging be damned!" she is heard to shout, shaking her tiny fists toward the forboding cajun skies. Poor dear.

In view of last week, this theme of heartbreak is for Molly, who no doubt if asked for her own contribution for this week would suggest her favourite ever song, "Achy Breaky Heart" by beloved, formerly bemulleted Billy Ray Cyrus. I, however, will be selecting more refined songs, thank you very much.

The Boy Done Wrong Again: Belle and Sebastian

Flume: Bon Iver

Lua: Bright Eyes

I Still Miss Someone: Johnny Cash (because there was always going to be Cash)

Crazy: Patsy Cline

Katie Cruel: Karen Dalton

Killing Moon: Echo and the Bunnymen

How Do You Mend a Broken Heart: Al Green

Devil Got My Woman: Skip James

Love Will Tear Us Apart: Joy Division

Let Me Down Easy: Bettye Lavette

Blue Monday: New Order

Crying: Roy Orbison

Jolene: Dolly Parton

I Know It's Over: The Smiths

Dry Your Eyes: The Streets

Use Me: Bill Withers

I hope you are sufficiently cheered up now.

Guest Post: MuSex Monday

2009-03-23T14:50:00.003Z

Hi friends. It's Molly. Remember me? I used to, um, blog?

To get back into the swing of things, your favorite sassy redheaded librarian invited herself to blog here on Music Monday. Perhaps I’ll post on my own blog sometime too! Don’t get your hopes up. I am very lazy.

As Ms. Pru mentioned in her last Music Monday post, The Guardian is publishing its list of 1000 Songs Everyone Must Hear. The list is largely Brit-centric (I mean, I’m sure there are a few Americans who adore the band Elbow, but, you know) but there are some fabulous songs on there. My favorite of which have to be the Sex Songs. Surprised?

I’ll begin with the best -- if you listen to no other songs on this list, listen to this one. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the sexiest song I have ever heard in my life. (If there are young children about, you may want to pop on headphones. Though it may be interesting to hear your reply to “why that nice lady is making those strange noises?”) Serge Gainsbourg originally recorded this song with Brigitte Bardot – this recording is with his wife, Jane Birkin.

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OK, calm down, girls. How about a bit of classic bluesy-smut from Ms. Bessie Smith. “He was a deep sea diver with a stroke that could not go wrong.” Atta girl. Recorded in 1928, when Smith was at the height of her popularity.

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Mmmm hmmm.

Now, I love Moulin Rouge! as much as the next guy, but having Xtina and Pink (ugh) pounded in to my head for years afterwards has nearly obliterated the awesome original version of LaBelle’s “Lady Marmalade” from my head. I don’t think I realized that the lyrics said “Creole Lady Marmalade” until after I had moved to Louisiana and actually knew what a Creole was. You need to watch this, if only to see the costumes.

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And now, Etta James. Listen to the edge of ferocity and drip of sex in her voice. She was 22 when she made this recording.

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I was surprised to see Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” on the list, until I read this description: “Richard Penniman was an undistinguished R&B shouter when he began recording with Robert “Bumps” Blackwell. When their session was going badly, the assembled went to a nearby bar and the openly gay singer entertained them with a ribald ditty about the benefits of applying grease before attempting anal sex. Blackwell heard gold, got Dorothy LaBostrie to clean up the lyrics, and Little Richard unleashed the screams that forever define the polymorphous perversity of rock’n’roll.”

I assure you, you will never hear “Tutti Frutti” the same way again.

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Because I am Molly, you’re not getting out of here without any Barbra. This is actually the only Barbra song of the whole 1000 (which is slightly baffling to me. Not even “Evergreen?” “People?”), and while I don’t think there’s anything overtly sexy about this song, there are ear-boxing shoulderpads and Barry Gibb with a mullet and pointy boots, and if those don’t suggest sex, then I don’t know what does.

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Having said all of this, there are a few notable omissions from the Sex list. I think both Ms. Pru and I would agree that any sex list should really include N*E*R*D’s “LapDance.” Raunchy all around, from the lyrics to the guitar riff. I love that the youTube description on this one is simply: “hottest song to strip to.” I’m a dirty dog, indeed.

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And one last song that should be there, but isn’t: Flight of the Conchords, “Sugalumps.” This song is in my head constantly. So are Jemaine’s sugalumps, incidentally.

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What do you think, ladies? What are the sexiest songs ever?

Mother's Day Questionnaire (madness ensues)

2009-03-22T19:00:00.005Z

A friend tagged me on Facebook for this, but as I'm a complete Facebook moron, I can't figure out how to post it there - HA! I'm only used to typing in a brief status report, a la Twitter. Anything which requires a bit more know how is lost on me.

This is a little thing which I believe made the rounds in bloglandia before Facebook was even a glint in its creator's beady little eye. If you see I have finally managed to get this on Facebook, please don't mention the blog since those worlds should not collide. I will warn you that this questionnaire is like being dragged into a Doors song - the psychedelia is powerful in this one.

Incidentally, this totally makes me a vital part of the STFU Parents' main agenda. I find this website hilarious despite my complete complicity in what they are railing against. Ah well.

1. What is something mom always says to you? "Don't know."

2. What makes mom happy? (showed me her empty plate)

3. What makes mom sad? (made a sad face)

4. How does your mom make you laugh? (grins)

5. What was your mom like as a child? "Confused face." Oh child, if you only knew

6. How old is your mom? "3."

7. How tall is your mom? "BIG, and I'm your little girl."

8. What is her favorite thing to do? "Shopping."

9. What does your mom do when you're not around? "School." News to me.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for? "Umm...THOMAS!" As in Thomas the Tank Engine, whom I have never impersonated.

11. What is your mom really good at? "Potty sweets." What a contribution to society - I am good at dispensing jellybeans when my child goes on the potty.

12. What is your mom not very good at? "Confused face." I happen to think I make one hell of a confused face.

13. What does your mom do for her job? "I don't like it." Me neither kid, me neither.

14. What is your mom's favorite food? "Chips and peas." Again, I had no idea this was anywhere close to my favourite food. I don't even eat peas.

15. What makes you proud of your mom? "I am proud of you."

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be? "A goodie."

17. What do you and your mom do together? "Shopping, sticking."

18. How are you and your mom the same? "goodie."

19. How are you and your mom different? "Ladybird, ladybird, ladybird, ladybird."

20. How do you know your mom loves you? "No, not pimp." Do not ask me how she knows this word. She hasn't watched Jerry Springer in days.

21. Where is your mom's favorite place to go? "Simpsons."

Just as guidance, though she said "confused face" rather than making one, this is her actual confused face:

I happen to think it's a bit more, "Bitch, please!" myself, but one toddler's confused face is another toddler's bitchface.

Stay tuned in the next day for the guest Music Monday posting from Molly, the best blogger who never actually blogs.

Materfamilias

2009-03-20T23:11:00.004Z

Mother's Day is on Sunday here, which has just reminded me that I need to buy a card in preparation for American Mother's Day, whenever that may be. I lack preparedness in every possible way, so quite often I find the US date approaching rapidly and realise I have no card to give my Mom. Now at least I have a small person with access to crayons and paper, so I could just put her to work on crafting one I suppose. Don't worry, her labour would not go unrecognised. I would pay her in at least six stones and ten rubber bands. It may not sound like much, but this kid's utopia would be formed of stones, rubber bands, shells and tampons still in their packaging (green ones preferred).

Anyway, I'm not here to wax lyrical on my role as a mother, nor am I going to craft a loving ode to my own mother. Ok, I am going to talk about my Mom, because lately her eccentricities have given me cause to acknowledge her idiosyncratic brilliance, but it won't be cheesy. I can't write emotional stuff for anything.

I've blogged about my Mom's...uniqueness in the past, though I'm currently too lazy to link to it. Regular readers will know of what I speak. I talk to her regularly and often make mental notes to tell others of her oddness, because sometimes it really must be shared with the world. For example:

-Last weekend she got in a tiff with a woman at an antiques auction. The woman's pre-teen son sat in my Mom's friend's chair when she got up to use the restroom. My Mom explained to the kid that her friend was sitting there, and he would need to move upon her return. He didn't, she asked him to move again, and he declined. My Mom loudly proclaimed to her friend, "It's a shame people don't raise their children to have any manners these days!" This raised the ire of the child's mother, who got indignant with my Mom and ended up storming off in a huff after a wee shouting match. I warned my Mom that as we are from Central PA that she'll piss off the wrong gun-toter one day with that big gob of hers, but she has no concerns in this regard.

-What is the best way to recover from a day in which you get confrontational when surrounded by Victoriana? Obviously you, a nearly 60 year old woman accompanied by your 60+ friend, hitchhike. It seems they couldn't get to the auction location of their choice, so my Mom jotted down the name of the destination town on a bit of paper and stood by the side of the road. I was worried that she was so fueled by adrenalin and filled with passion for antiquities that she hopped into a big rig with a mustachioed trucker, but thankfully she did not. Her ride was a couple of nice middle-aged ladies, one of whom was Amish, because - why not? Again, Central PA, of course the Amish were involved at some point.

-My Mom is a dog lover. She has three, one of whom is a Great Pyrenees. This thing is her baby, and he is like a volunteer of the year. Senior citizens, children, midgets, all benefit from his philanthropy. Tomorrow, I shit you not, he is marching in a local St Patrick's Day Parade. She even said the word "marching" in all seriousness, and made sure to tell P about this upcoming event. Not only is he marching in a parade, he's wearing this, a gen-u-wine Irish flat cap:

Yes, srsly. As I was reliably informed tonight, it will be affixed to his head with bobby pins. It was a lucky escape dog - you were very close to being dyed green, but the fear was that the fading green would appear too "dingy" on your brilliantly white coat. When you're as busy campaigning for Canine of the Year you mustn't be any less than your best!

Happy Mother's Day Mom, you crazy old bitch. The world would be a much more boring place without you.

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In very non-Momish vibe, I have a guest blogger for this week's Music Monday, and her theme will be songs about the secks. I'll give you a hint - she's a sassy, sexy redhead librarian down in the Bayou. I bet you have no idea who it could be...