Things that revolve around me.

Just to let you know...

2010-08-24T01:06:00.000-07:00

...I'm moving any baby-related posts to my new blog, "Cletus the Fetus." That way I can let friends and family read about the baby thing without letting them in on the usual venting I do on this blog. It's nice to have a quiet place like this to tell complete strangers about things going on in my life that I might not be ready to tell the people I know about quite yet. So yep, if you want to follow up on the baby stuff, go here:

http://cletusthefetusblog.blogspot.com/

Week 10 - Could I be contagious?

2010-08-23T01:28:00.000-07:00

I am TIRED. I feel so tired I sometimes think I must have some sort of disease...I am afflicted with pregnancy. I've caught pregnancy. Yeah...that sounds sympathy-inducing.

No new cravings, no new symptoms. Just tired. Oh, and I met the midwife the other day - she stuck me with a needle and took some blood, and later made me pee in a cup - other than that she was really lovely and sweet and chatty.

I'm scheduled to get my first sonogram on September 1st, so that's exciting (but not exciting enough for me to jump up and down or even get off the couch...)! I can't wait to hear the little lub-dub of Cletus and possibly see some grey fuzzy thing that resembles a plum - did I mention Cletus is supposedly plum-sized at this point? I do love how the descriptions of the size of your impending child is given in terms of food...makes me crave whatever food they mention, and last week I think I ate about four plums. At least they use healthy food to describe the thing inside you (I guess I'm not going to get a "fried-chicken-leg-sized fetus," though, am I. If only.).

Right, well that's all I can manage to type today. I'm taking a nap. And yes, I did wake up just three hours ago. Yawn.

Week 9 - Telling the Folks

2010-08-03T00:49:00.000-07:00

We talk to my parents every couple of weeks online since they live in the U.S. and we live in the U.K. At the end of every conversation, once we’ve all run out of things to talk about, my Dad will usually say the words, “Well…I guess we should let you go…” and we’ll shortly thereafter end our chat.
So last Saturday, just as my Dad said his usual words, I told them we had an announcement. They were SO happy. It was such a great reaction! We talked for another twenty minutes about all the people my mom wanted to tell at work, about buying baby clothes (although we’re not going to find out the sex until he or she arrives, so it’s yellow and green onesies, please!), about them planning to fly out next March, about baby names (my Mom doesn’t like the name Ethel, by the way). It was SO great.
The next day Richard’s parents came over for lunch and he told them the news – they were SO surprised! They were also very excited and couldn’t stop talking about it at lunch – which was really nice.
So basically, now I can’t wait to tell EVERYONE! Of course we’ll wait another few weeks, but after that, I won’t be able to hold off anymore!

Okay, so I couldn't wait any longer and ended up telling Jessica, who I've always known to be "anti-baby." I had been SO excited to get her reaction because I knew it wouldn't be typical. And boy-howdy it wasn't. Two of my favourite quotes from her replying e-mail are: "A PERSON IS GOING TO COME OUT OF YOUR VAGINA," and "If it's a boy, there will be a penis inside your body." I don't even need to say anything more.

Week 9 - Cletus

2010-08-03T00:48:00.001-07:00

So it’s the first day of week 9, and this here embryo is officially a fetus. And I’ve decided to call this fetus “Cletus.” Of course there’s no way this child will ever be named such a ridiculous name (no offense to any Cletus’ out there), but it’s nice to call it something other than “the thing in there.” So Cletus the Fetus is it. Anyways, the past few days I’ve had these horrible pains in my sides, and of course I immediately turned to the “problem pregnancy” pages of the What to Expect book I’ve got. So it could either be the ligaments stretching, the start of a miscarriage, or an ectopic pregnancy. So I could be worried about nothing…or possibly having one of my body parts explode. I’m going to convince myself it’s nothing, because I really don’t want to be one of those mums-to-be who worry about EVERY little symptom. And besides, none of the other symptoms that go along with a big bang situation are present, so really, I’m just learning about weird stuff the body does.
My midwife sounds really, REALLY nice. I’ve got a midwife. Her name is Tara and she sounds like a mix between my mother-in-law and one of my friends – she’s friendly, upbeat and positive, but is willing to tell me the bad stuff too. I like her. I don’t get to meet her in person though until August 19th, because she is booked solid and because we’re going on vacation. Ah well though, I’ll be patient. It IS my best quality (says the girl who wants her Christmas presents NOW), after all. After we meet she’ll schedule scans and everything, which means I’ll finally be able to tell for sure if Cletus really is in there (I got carried away looking at the “problem pregnancy” pages and now can’t be sure if I’m really growing a fetus or just a large tumor…I’m so morbid)…

Week 8 - Exhaustion & Cravings

2010-08-03T00:47:00.000-07:00

Oh my god I’m exhausted. I could literally sleep all day and still be tired. I am just…tired. And right now, I’m TIRED of being tired. I feel so lethargic, and it’s a struggle to do anything…do I get up off the couch to get something to eat to ease this queasy feeling, or do I hold off for a few minutes? Should I bother to reach over to the remote to watch something better, or just give in to watching this same channel for the rest of the day? Even though I said I’d do the dishes, and now that teaching is over for the summer I’ve got plenty of time to take care of a LOT of things, can I really stand up for more than five minutes with my hands in a sink full of soapy water? Sigh…I just don’t know.
I’ve got laundry stacked upstairs, but can’t manage to bring it down, because I know that would require putting dirty clothes in the washer and then having to take clean clothes out a few hours later…well, what if I’m not up for that? I can’t just do half the job of laundry…so should I bother at all? And the floors are FILTHY. Surely it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to vacuum the house, or at least sweep downstairs, right? Well…I WOULD have to bring the vacuum all the way downstairs…so I don’t think I’ll do that either. Sigh…
I really wish I wasn’t so sleepy. I’ve got a list of things to do, and I sincerely WANT to complete these items I’ve promised a certain husband of mine I’d do…but…but…
…first I need a nap. Just a quick one.

Not only am I horrendously tired (I can’t imagine how mothers-to-be who already have a child manage this kind of exhaustion), but I have also started to have CRAVINGS. At the moment, it’s for Ruffles All-Dressed Potato Chips, a thing one can only purchase in Canada. Well…I’m not IN Canada, now am I? So that makes this craving particularly annoying. I’ve just spent thirty minutes online trying to find a dealer in the UK (not a crack dealer, but a chip dealer), but at the moment they’re all sold out of these. Poo poo poo. I NEED Ruffles. I probably haven’t had them in over four years, and yet this craving is sooooo strong. I WANT them. I’m also weirdly craving Poptarts, those cardboard-tasting lovelies. Thankfully, I think the local supermarket stocks those. Well, I’m about to drive and find out. I’ll let you know.

Week 7 - Boobs

2010-08-03T00:46:00.000-07:00

BOOBS! I haven’t been this fascinated by breasts since I was fifteen and STILL waiting to move out of a training bra. Being a 32a kind of girl, this is THE best thing about being pregnant so far (okay, I’m sure the focus will shift towards the actual thing growing in me eventually, but for now…). I have boobs. Yes, they’re still ridiculously tiny, but they are BIGGER than they were – and that is GREAT. I don’t expect them to get huge or anything, but seriously, any more and you’ll actually be able to tell I’ve got boobs without wearing a padded bra. HOW EXCITING IS THAT!! Other symptoms less appealing include a bit of heartburn from time to time, the need to pee pretty much every half-an-hour, and dry skin – lovely, huh. But to be honest, with these slightly-larger new boobs of mine, there’s not much else I’m able to focus on at the moment. Weeeee boobs!

Week 6 - A Lack of Symptoms

2010-08-03T00:45:00.000-07:00

This isn’t fair. Of course I’d be moaning if I were up each morning cradling the toilet, but since I’m not…it’s a bit weird. I know I should feel lucky – ecstatic, really – that I haven’t had any morning sickness yet, and yes, I know that writing it down might just jinx me to be one of those unfortunate moms-to-be that get sick throughout their pregnancy instead of just during the first trimester, but still. I’d like a little more confirmation of this pregnancy status of mine other than that one test a few weeks ago. I mean some days I don’t feel pregnant at ALL. Which isn’t really what I was expecting. Not that I thought I’d be glowing or something…but…I kind of did.

Week 5 - Crying, and is it really in there?

2010-08-03T00:39:00.000-07:00

I wish we could tell everyone now. I mean, I know that since the first two weeks of pregnancy are imaginary (How great is that? After a positive test you’re already a month into being pregnant! Just eight more to go!) we’re really just 3 weeks into this whole thing, but still. I am SO excited. I want the world to know. I want them to start doling out the attention already! Only joking (alright, semi-joking). But I am incredibly impatient, and I know I’m going to get even more annoying as these weeks tick by. I can’t write an e-mail without wanting to blurt it out, can’t talk on the phone without the tiny voice in my head screaming, “we’re pregnant, we’re pregnant!” and can’t see anyone without thinking, “oh my god, they know.” This is going to kill me. Hopefully not literally, or else it’d kind of defeat the purpose.
Oh my goodness the crying. I can’t stop once I’ve started, and I start for no reason. The other day I was watching television and a commercial for pet insurance came on. It wasn’t even a sad commercial, but for some reason it made me cry – no, FLOOD – with tears. And then later when Richard got home and I told him about it, it was like I relived the moment and all of a sudden I was bawling again – then laughing at how crazy these hormones make you – but still crying. This is probably the strangest thing that’s ever going to happen to me, I’m guessing.
Also, I keep freaking out about whether or not it’s good or bad that we’re pregnant. I keep going back and forth on the whole issue (though to be honest, it’s a little too late now, am I right?) – we could’ve been wealthy and flown off to exotic places on a whim, could’ve lived anywhere and not have to have worried about good neighbourhoods and schools – but still, how good is it going to be to have a warm, squidgey baby that we MADE? I also keep wondering if it is in fact in there. Am I REALLY growing a baby inside of me, or is it a tumor instead? Only time will tell of course, but for now I’m happy to have the excuse of getting to eat whenever and whatever I wanted without worrying about getting fat.
This is going to be a long nine months…

July 3rd - Week 4 - The Test

2010-08-02T10:11:00.002-07:00

I hid a pregnancy test under the bed last night so when I got up this morning I could sneak into the bathroom and, well, pee on the stick and all. I’ve done this before, the whole peeing-on-a-stick thing, and every time I am flooded with hope that those two little pink lines will turn up instead of the boring old one. I stare at the package to make sure I’ve read it correctly, although I’m fairly sure by now I’ve got the instructions memorized. I just want the two pink lines to show up. I’ve done everything right, I’ve followed the rules and all, and I’m ready to be pregnant. I am I am I am.

I slept well last night and am woken up by the usual alarm. It’s time. I excitedly rush to the bathroom, crashing into the doorframe on the way and barely able to contain myself – literally – to get the wrapper off the test. After waiting the required five seconds, I put the cap on and flush.

I take the test downstairs and put Hugo’s collar and lead on. I decided a while ago that I wanted to take the test without Richard and surprise him with the news later, although I’m still not sure how I’ll do that (I’ve had thoughts of putting a bun in our oven and waiting for him to find it, but with my luck the house would burn down after I’d forgotten about it…). I Velcro my shoes and do the buttons up on my jacket. I look at the test one last time to see…two lines.

At first I think I’ve read it wrong – or that all those times before when I checked it was two lines and I’ve gotten the instructions wrong, one line means I’m pregnant, not two. I leave the house, paper instructions in hand, and decide to figure this out in the park, to avoid any suspicion from my sleeping husband.

I’m pregnant…I’M PREGNANT! The rest of the dog-walk is a blur, and as I get home and feed Hugo his morning meal thoughts are poking at every corner of my brain. How do I tell Richard? When? How great is this? What now?

I sneak back into bed – it’s Saturday, after all – and lie there grinning like an idiot. I go over plans of when and how to tell Richard the news and nearly make it to 8am before blurting out, “we’re pregnant” to my sleep-encrusted warm husband. He rolls towards me. “What?” “We’re pregnant!” “You think so?” he mumbles. I explain how, um, yeah, I KNOW so, because the test says I am. “Huh,” he says. Then we snudge together and stare quietly at the ceiling. We’re pregnant.

April - The Decision

2010-08-02T10:11:00.001-07:00

After the whole Russian-roulette baby making incident, we’ve been talking fairly regularly about this whole getting pregnant thing. And after waiting a few months, we’ve given up waiting and have decided to start trying. Wish us luck!

November - The Beginning

2010-08-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

Have you ever bought a lottery ticket a few days before it was due to be played, and gone through the ups and downs of thinking you might have won and then nope, you couldn't possibly have won? At first you think it's impossible, it'll never happen, the odds are completely against you. But the closer the day gets, the more you start to think things like, "well, someone's got to win, it might be me," and "i've got this feeling it's going to be me..." You then start dreaming of what you'd do with the money and come up with a thousand ways to spend your new winnings, only to have your dreams dashed when those numbers read out are completely different from your own. And then of course you feel a bit silly for thinking you were going to be a winner in the first place and decide not to play the lottery for a while...

Well.

Two weeks ago we had our friends Chris and Lisa over for the weekend. They have been together for ages and have been trying to get pregnant for a really long time (I know you're probably instantly desperate to skip to the end of this post by now, but don't - I enjoy the suspense). Anyways, we last saw them about six months ago and they said they were going to try another round of IVF treatments - fingers crossed, of course. Well, Lisa turned up at our house with this lovely little bump - she's pregnant, hoorah!

So we basically spent the night congratulating them and talking about babies and how life's going to change and blah blah blah.

Richard and I then drank copious amounts of alcohol with these two lovely people (well, with the non-pregnant one) and went to bed late. Right before falling asleep Richard murmered, "We should have a baby."

SO I FLIP OUT. I couldn't sleep. At all. Which for me, is HUGE.

In the morning I say nothing, and once Chris and Lisa leave to go home, I turn off the television, point to the large number of empty bottles and cans, and ask Richard if he remembers what he said right before falling asleep.

HE...SAYS...YES.

So he remembered. Saying he wants to have kids. Like, in the near near future.

Then we talk. And talk and talk and talk. And all of a sudden, with baby-making hormones still all over our house that the pregant Chris and Lisa left EVERYWHERE, we decide that yeah, we could TOTALLY have a baby next year. We could handle that. Easy.

And then we start counting months. Well, if we did it and it happened then we'd have a baby in August. That would be a perfect month to have a baby, because Richard wouldn't have a lot going on at work and I'd be at home not working anyways...and by the time the baby could do stuff the ridiculously busy season at Richard's work would be just ending...

So we think about it all day. And don't say anything more about it to each other for the rest of the day. Then, that night, we decide to play Russian Roulette, the baby version. After all, the likelihood is slim. The odds are completely ridiculous. But...we go for it anyways.

The morning after we both still feel good about it. I start thinking about how lovely it would be to be pregnant. Obviously Chris and Lisa's pregnancy vibes are still in the house. The next day I freak out about it - worry about the fact that we have spent a total of one full day thinking about this huge, life-changing decision. I look online for symptoms of pregnancy and when to take a pregnancy test and what the odds are for getting pregnant. Fairly slim I find out, with only a 48-hour window. But still I think that maybe...The day after that I walk around all day wondering how fat I'll get and how it'll ruin our lives. The fourth day I forget about the whole thing. A week ago I freak out again about the fact that we'd have to dismantle our guest-bedroom IKEA furniture and put it all in the loft so it could become the "baby's" room. Then I get angry about how we'll be poor for the rest of our lives. Saturday Richard had a work party, so I couldn't drink a thing (for fear of damaging things), and I got mad about that. And then two days ago I thought about how if and when we do decide to have one of those baby things, we probably won't plan much in advance anyways, so we aren't exactly worse off than if we had waited. And yesterday I walked past the drug store hoping that I'd have to buy a pregnancy test. I dreamed about babies all night, about how lovely it would be and how crazy it would be if we were pregnant, now knowing the odds.

But today confirmed that we have NOT won the lottery. The Russian Roulette we played, we've won - that shot didn't hit us. So....

So yeah. I'm kind of happy, and kind of sad. Sad not because I really want a baby, because to be honest, I'm kind of glad we're not having one at the moment. But because I really got to thinking we were THAT lucky, that our one-shot-in-the-dark would produce a winner. That we'd win the lottery. But nope, we lost, and now I feel a bit silly for thinking we'd win in the first place.

But goodness, thank GOD we're not pregnant. I think. We're not playing that game again. At least not until May (when it would work out to be "Richard-work-friendly").

We've broken our first pet after just two days...TWO DAYS...

2010-06-01T00:30:00.000-07:00

So Richard and I adopted an ex-racing greyhound named Hugo three days ago. He's five years old and has just finished racing due to a leg-injury (which he's slowly recovering from). He's ridiculously sweet, doesn't jump up on you when you come in the door, doesn't bark, and likes to sleep all day long...he's the PERFECT dog for us!

The only trouble is, we've broken him already. Two days in and we've already proven to be incapable dog-owners. I feel so ashamed...

So here's how it happened. We got a bit bored of just hanging out inside and so thought we'd introduce Hugo to my inlaws who live about forty minutes away. We get there and he's so excited because they have a stone wall that surrounds their front garden - perfect for a dog to run around in and stay out of trouble, right? After all, we don't have a garden he can hang out in, so he's only allowed at the park with a very long lead and a muzzle (just in case he sees a poor fluffy dog squeaking) until he's learned his name (racing dogs don't really ever learn their name until they retire) and knows a few commands.

Anyways, so we let him off the lead and he LOVES IT. We go to the opposite end of the garden and pat our legs and he just FLIES towards us, with enough strength and power to knock us both clean over if he wanted to. After a few runs he lies down to rest, which is perfect.

Later on we take him for a walk down this long lane to practice learning his name with a long lead and seeing if we can get him to come back to us when he's called (that skill is going to need a lot more work...). Well, upon entering the garden gates he sees the inlaws' CAT. And he...goes...NUTS.

I've got a horrible leash-burn on my hand and part of the skin on my finger has been ripped off. I don't think I've ever seen flesh smoke...Richard ran for him and tried to slow him down...thankfully the cat, high on adrenaline at the thought of being ripped to shreds, ran high up onto the stone wall.

Well...greyhounds jump. Did you know that? I didn't. Not until yesterday. The poor cat had to be rescued from the highest branch of a tree by ladder a few hours later, and even then she bit onto the tree - BIT ONTO THE TREE - for fear of coming down. She is definitely scarred for life (but better to be scarred than compost, am I right?).

We immediately saw the damage the wall had done to poor Hugo - he's cut up on his legs and feet and has a really sore open wound on his stomach.

TWO DAYS! Two days only and we break our first pet. I'm so embarrassed. Are we not ready for a pet yet? Should we have started with a fish? A small guinea pig? A cat?

The poor Hugo is now stiff and sore after being unable to sleep on the wounded part of his tummy. He's smeared blood all over our hardwood floors from being unable to get comfy last night in his sleep and refusing to sleep on his warm duvet. He whimpered all night long for some attention, and this morning he stiffly awoke to go for a very VERY short walk 'round the park.

I can't believe our pet tried to eat my inlaws' pet. I can't believe we can't keep a pet for even a week without hurting it. No wonder no one buys us breakables.

Do you think he hates us?

The Monday Confessional

2010-03-20T05:40:00.000-07:00

I have a shy bladder. And I'm weird about lavatory usage in general (but I won't discuss that with you).

You know that girl (or group of girls) who asks you to go to the bathroom with her (them) in high school, only to group up to become that woman who demands at the dinner table in front of guests that you visit the bathroom with her to go pee?

I am NOT that kind of girl. Nor have I ever been. I am the girl who held it through all four years of high school; the girl who didn't dare drink too many liquids during the day for fear of having to excuse myself from a class to find an available toilet. I did spend many days reading books in the toilet stalls during lunch, but never with my trousers undone or hanging around my knees.

Anyways, I don't really like to discuss the toilet either, or what people might do while they're there. I have this lovely friend who is the exact opposite. She utters - WHILE SITTING ON THE TOILET - as loudly as she possibly can, "BINGO!" when she's...well. I hope I don't need to explain. Her confidence around lavatories both astounds and disgusts me.

It's not anything to be embarrassed about, I realise. But still. You wouldn't have sex within listening distance or in front of anyone (well, some would, but not I), so why am I expected to sit half-naked behind four thin walls of plywood while others watch my feet and speak to me. SPEAK to me!

Which is exactly why the bathroom at work is a nightmare for me. There is only ONE stall, but two sinks and plenty of waiting room. Why. Why!? It means trying to plan peeing when no other woman in the school will need to pee, and often I am caught out and become trapped in a line. The women all talk to each other before, during, and after their respected business has been done as they wash their hands. I wait nervously, hoping desperately that they'll all either continue to talk loudly or suddenly disappear.

All too often, though, there is only ever one other person behind me in line, which means usually when I enter that tiny stall and sit, there is complete silence, and it's up to me to fill the void with um...er...noise.

Right, so what's the big deal?! I've been dying to pee since 9:00am and it's now 1:30pm. I am BUSTING. And yet, the second my bottom hits the seat and the silence begins, my bladder clams up. Which of course is even more embarrassing. The other woman is just standing out there, no ear pressed up against the door but still, waiting, waiting to hear the sound of urine hit the toilet water.

And I just...can't...do it.

It just about kills me having to rationalise this silly condition while sitting with my trousers around my ankles, spending precious seconds (which of course feel like hours) trying to convince myself that I can do this simple task performed without thought by those under two. And yet...nothing.

So instead I fake sneeze, cough a few times, and noisily tear endless amounts of unneeded toilet paper from the roll, flushing as I do so to make it appear that I have indeed emptied my bladder. I quickly wash my hands and leave, only to have to circle back around in the next few minutes to try again, desperately hoping that no one will walk in seconds after me.

Why, why, WHY?!

I haven't always been this way. But then again, I don't think I've ever really been in a one-stall-with-plenty-of-waiting-room kind of bathroom. So maybe I have.

I swear one day they'll find me passed out from dehydration in my classroom. Of course if that happens, I'll probably have wet myself unconsciously. So what's the big deal then, eh?

The Monday Confessional

2010-03-15T10:19:00.001-07:00

I was a complete LOSER in highschool.

Not the kind of uncool that everyone feels about their highschool experience...but instead, I had a serious case of loseritis. It all started because I moved from Canada (after cutting my mousey-brown hair super-short) to Georgia, home of long, blonde hair tied up with ribbon and cheerleaders chewing gum and giggling. I was NOT one of those girls, and walking to the bus stop on that first day of highschool wearning huge baggy jeans and a pair of boys shoes, I was mistaken for a boy. A BOY. It was a HORRIBLE way to start my highschool existence.

I was never picked on; nope...the other students didn't even BOTHER. How awful is that!? I wasn't even gross enough to be made fun of. I mean, sheesh. Instead, I went through highschool as isolated as I could possibly be. I finally made friends with a few lesbians and a girl nicknamed "Scabby" - the only people that would talk to me were other highschool outsiders - oh, and a few people from the marching band. Seriously...are you getting the picture now?

Fortunately, I have this great knack - slash - horrible memory that means those four years of highschool are pretty much all but forgotten...I don't remember any teachers, any of the people's names, and not even what classes I took. The only thing I really remember about that time of my life is getting my car at the age of 17. A few months later, I had finished school and left home the very next day, skipping the last few days of school and ignoring the invites to the prom or even to graduation.

Now that I'm teaching in a secondary school, I assumed I would be able to tell all of the cliques and be able to decifer the cool kids from the losers. But thankfully for England (or sadly, depending on what clique you're in), the whole "us versus them" mentality really isn't so prevalent. I mean, there are definitely those students who others make fun of; a few students are easily recognizable as the cool kids; but other than that, there's just this sea of middle-of-the-road, average kids.

They don't know how lucky they are.

THOSE kind of Dog People

2010-03-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

"Get a dog" is still on my to-do list. I still keep looking at the local website that offers retired greyhounds and whippets for adoption and picking out the perfect one. I still keep waking up in the morning thinking I am SO ready to walk a dog.

But...we still haven't gotten one. We're still waiting on our built-in cupboards to be built so all of our books and things are out of the way, which is our excuse, but to be honest, we've been dog-less...actually, pet-less...for eight years now. And we're kind of used to it.

I mean, it's not like we're big, "Hey, let's take off for the weekend" kind of people. We almost always make plans before doing anything, and well...we don't even leave the neighbourhood most weekends. Which means we could totally HANDLE the responsibility of owning a dog.

But...we're also quite LAZY people. We like getting up late, staying in p.j.s, and fighting over who has to walk over the road (a whole 27 steps from our front door) to buy a morning paper. Not having pets now means we don't have to clean up after anyone else but ourselves, and at the moment, with a sink full of dirty dishes, we're just about managing ourselves.

I still want a dog though. And I'm fairly sure we will get one eventually. My folks are coming over to visit us in about a month, and my mom isn't really a dog person, so that's a BRILLIANT reason for me to get a dog A.S.A.P. (yes, I do have an evil grin plastered across my face...)

The only thing that really puts me off getting a dog is my fear of becoming one of THOSE dog people. You know the ones. The ones whose dogs ARE their lives. The ones who plaster pictures on Facebook of their dog sitting, then sitting a little to the left, then lying down in the same spot, then looking up at the camera while lying down in the same spot, et cetera. These are the kinds of people who will get a picture of their dog put into their Christmas cards, and although they'd never dream of dressing said dog up in a Santa hat, will most likely change their mind before Christmas comes 'round. The kind of people who have started to talk to their pet as if it were an infant, saying things like, "ooh, wook at the wittle puppy-wuppy." The ones that don't mind picking up "boo boos" or "mistakes" and think it's cute to tell everyone about how their dog pooped in their shoes. You know...THOSE kind of dog people.

But maybe that's why I'm not really interested in getting a puppy, but instead an already-trained, most-likely-won't-live-for-ten-more-years, needs-a-good-home kind of dog. Maybe I'm just afraid of becoming a PUPPY kind of person.

P.S. Jessica, I am so EXCITED that you are a puppy kind of person, because it makes up for me being obsessed with a certain Dr. D and not being able to hold a conversation without bringing up his name. So excited. ;)

The Monday Confessional

2010-03-09T10:48:00.000-08:00

I can't stay awake past 10pm.

No really, it's pretty much impossible for me. In fact, lately...I've been crashing out on the couch around 9pm and awake to prods and moans about me snoring and suggestions that I just go on up to bed.

I think Richard has given up on me being a night owl. Because I am DEFINITELY a lark. I think I've always been this way, but since working as a teacher it has gotten worse, and some days I feel as if I'm slowly having the life sucked out of me.

The worst part is, Richard gets home from work around 8 - 8:30pm each evening, which means I try desperately to stay awake so we can eat dinner together. Of course once we've eaten and that belly of mine is full...I'm out like a light.

Have I reverted back to infancy? I am cranky if I've had any less than eight hours of sleep, and to be honest, I think I could handle nine or ten quite easily. Some nights, with that decaf cup of tea in my hands like a bottle, I would like nothing more than to be rocked back and forth...back and forth...back and forth...yawn...

The Monday Confessional

2010-03-01T08:41:00.000-08:00

I am Canadian. That's not my confession, though. My confession is this: I am a PROUD Canadian.

I hate that I've lost my accent, love that I retrieve it again, if only momentarily, when talking to friends in Canada, and have wanted to move back since the moment I left. I enjoy watching hockey, and was screaming so loud I'm fairly sure the neighbours were seconds away from calling the cops during last night's olympic gold-medal hockey game. I correct all those who assume I'm from America, and make sure they know I've just LIVED there. I miss Canada.

I miss ice-skating, even though I never learned to stop; I miss skiing, although I'm terrified of going downhill too quickly; and I especially miss squirting juice-boxes into the snow on the way home from school and scooping it up in a mittened hand to eat my own snow-cone.

I miss being able to complain about the cold and the snow and the potholes - although England is currently cold and full of potholes, the snow is gone and I just don't feel right about complaining since I've known what "real" snow and "real" cold is like.

My family have all become Americans - they took their citizenship test and renounced their Canadian citizenship. And my Gran-in-law already assumes that I've become British via my marriage to a British citizen. But y'know what?

I'm never becoming British.

I know, I know, what's the big deal if I use a different passport when flying, right? And so what if I'm eventually going to have children who will all be British? Well...it matters.

The dream is still to move back. To buy some land, build a home, and live happily...well, you know. When I actually look at this dream with a realistic view, however, it seems unlikely. My husband's job is here, and will only ever be in Europe. And if he changed jobs, we would never live the kind of life we currently lead, and I don't think either of us would be very good at adjusting to that. Sigh.

But still. I figure if I can keep hold of my Canadian citizenship, I can keep hold of that little dream of mine.

Oh, and we totally made out like bandits at the Olympics. Canada is awesome.

The Chair

2010-02-18T08:24:00.000-08:00

I have a chair. It used to be a waiting-room chair at my grandfather's publishing company in Canada during the 1950s. When he gave up his business he took with him a single chair because he liked them so much. It is teak, with this beautiful shape and feel to it. The green cushions are so hideous they're beautiful. I love this chair.

My parents adopted this chair and I grew up with it. But this chair was never really used in our house. It was more of a stick-in-the-corner-'cause-it's-nice-to-look-at kind of chair. So that's what it did. The chair travelled with us to Atlanta, GA when we moved, and after my folks moved to Florida for their "trial retirement" spell, I adopted the chair. Did I mention I LOVE this chair?

When my husband and I decided to move to England, the chair was the first thing I freaked out about - Will it survive a big boat ride? Will it get lost? Will it be bumped or banged or damaged? One of the happiest days of moving into our first home was figuring out where to put the chair. And I use it - daily - 'cause I love it so.

If I were a chair, I'd be this chair. This chair means the world to me. I've picked it up enough that I'm confident that, in the case of a fire, I could easily escape with my life AND the chair in tow. This chair has made me cry when a television was accidentally dropped into it, and weep when the movers scraped and scratched it a little. I've bawled over the fate of this chair.

This chair has also made me ridiculously happy. I imagine re-covering it in different fabrics throughout my entire life, sitting and reading stories in it to my eventual grandchildren, witnessing the arguments as our future-kids fight over who gets "the" chair. I LOVE this chair.

The best thing about this chair? There are others out there. There just must be. It was a waiting-room chair after all. It was made by a company (called "Grand & Toy") that still to this day sells office furniture, and I often imagine the day when I pluck up the courage to e-mail them and ask if they still have records of the sales of these chairs. The dream continues with my search to find ALL of them and reunite them and find out where they've all been.

But for now, I'll just dream, and sit in my lovely little chair...

The Monday Confessional

2010-02-15T08:58:00.000-08:00

Happy Monday!

I confess...I am an AMAZING kisser. Sometimes I forget just how good I am, and yet I am pleasantly surprised every time I find out again after a few-too-many glasses of champagne. I am an especially good kisser after drinking champagne, you see.

I think it started off with my first kiss. There was this lovely boy at school named Chris Moir who was KNOWN for being a great kisser. All the girls wanted to kiss him, and lucky boy that he was, he kissed a lot of them. After a while I decided I wanted to see what this whole kissin' thing was all about too, so I went out with him just so I could get my first kiss. But...after a few days (which of course, at age twelve equal decades of togetherness) of "dating," he went to kiss me and I ducked - I DUCKED! I was such an idiot, and after that I was far too nervous and embarassed, so we "broke up." Sigh...

Which means he wasn't my first kiss. Instead, I waited, and waited...and waited (I'd like to say by choice, but really highschool was just a cruel and lonely experience for me). Finally, I met someone I liked and started dating his friend (surely that's an obvious way to get a boy to like you at age sixteen). We went out on a few dates and it was finally time for us to kiss. After sixteen years of non-kissing experience, however, the only experience I had was from the movies. Slow-motion, fuzzy, soft-lighting-induced kissing. So I waited for the right moment, when we were hanging out under the moonlight sitting in a gazebo by the park. And then I just kissed him. Nerves took over and it was forced and too dry and too "pouncy," if I can use that word. It sucked. And he told me so...HE TOLD ME SO! After I had finished that horrifying kiss, I asked him what was wrong, and he said he thought I kissed badly. He then went on to say "practice makes perfect," but it was too late - I was crushed, deflated, and horrified. How could I, who had been dreaming of this moment since I was about seven, be a bad kisser?

I didn't get over it for a few years - I went out with another guy for nearly two years after that and never really felt good about my kissing. But then after that relationship fell apart, I turned eighteen and met this wonderful boy who again was known for being a good kisser. I watched him kiss other girls, became good friends with him, and although I never wanted to kiss him myself, he did introduce me to his friend who I did end up kissing. And suddenly, I was a GREAT kisser. I mean a GREAT kisser.

Which obviously means it takes a good kisser to be a good kisser.

A New To-Do List and a Week Off Work!

2010-02-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

Hello there!

This week is midterm break, which means a whole week away from teenagers and homework and grading - wahoo! It also means I've got a chance to catch up on all the regular stuff I should probably be doing on a more frequent basis, but instead allow to pile up until it looks a little frightful. So I'm currently writing a to-do list, which of course, is one of my very favourite things to do. I've got multi-coloured Sharpies and everything. I know, nerdalert, but I can't help it. Colour-coded by importance and area - household work equals light green to dark blue, school equals yellow to red, other equals pink to purple. I wish I could express how happy these little lists make me.

It's silly, yes, but when I feel organized I feel safe and secure and happy. And currently, with twenty-three items neatly arranged to be ticked off one-by-one in the near future...I am. :)

Oh, and I've also decided to piggyback on a friend's idea - she writes a confession every Friday, and so I'm going to do it too now, but on Mondays. Y'know, so it's not like I'm copying her...

January: A Recap

2010-02-05T10:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes time passes too quickly for my liking. I cannot believe it is February already!

Anyways, the lovely Pinecone Camp asked me the other day how my January was. Well...

January came and went like this: I stayed indoors for the most part, figuring out the British grading system (finally - hoorah!) and strumming on my banjo. I knitted a bit, read a bit more, and wrapped myself up in our new-to-us antique 1930s Hudson Bay blanket while the snow came pouring down outside. It was quite lovely, really.

But once the snow melted a poorly-thought-out parking job resulted in the cars (both Richard's and mine) being broken into. The only damage done was to the windows and to my belief in the good of humankind, but the windows are fixed now and my belief is slowly growing again with each smile of a little old man or woman that greets me on my way to the grocery store.

Work was far too busy for me this January - I'd have preferred a simpler life with smaller ambitions, but unfortunately the teaching profession is a huge rollercoaster of day-to-day barrages of emotion from pubescent teenagers who weigh constantly on my mind. Sitting by the fire grading paper after paper became tiring, but it's finally over now and I feel a sense of accomplishment - I can check "learn the British grading system" off my to-do list - yay!

Richard signed himself up for this ridiculously scary-sounding mountain bike race - 8 hours, sheesh - so he was and is busy training for that. My exercise routine has been reduced to stretching to put on extra pairs of socks, but ah well. Once it's a bit warmer outside I'm sure I'll make more attempts at putting down "running" as one of my hobbies.

We've done a bit more cooking, which was definitely one of our goals, and we've been saving money like crazy! The cold is a good excuse to hibernate instead of visiting with friends, but we've made lots of plans for the upcoming months to get out of our warm little house!

Well, I can't think of anything else that happened during the first month of 2010...so...that was my January!

I don't ever want to parent a teenager.

2010-02-05T09:34:00.000-08:00

Television sitcoms are full of people who get home after a hard day at work, open the fridge, grab a cold beer and proclaim after a deep sigh, "God, I needed that." I always thought this was a funny thing to do. Mostly because I'm not really a beer-kinda-girl, but also because I guess I've been lucky enough not to have those kind of days. I've never "needed" a beer to calm my nerves or anything.

Until today.

Today, I became a mother. Not just any mother, but I became MY mother. It was very strange indeed.

So it's the last class on a Friday afternoon. The kids and I are all tired, we've all had a long week, and we all just want to go home. But of course, I'm determined to teach them something, because I've already planned this great lesson and I want it to happen. It's got to happen. So amidst the groans and talking and not paying attention, I screech, I scream, I make multiple attempts to get them back on track and focused. Pretty much a lost cause on a Friday afternoon, I'll admit, but I was stubborn.

Too stubborn, I think. My MOTHER kind of stubborn.

So this one girl, aged fourteen, who completed ZERO work during the hour (instead sliding highlighters across the table at her friend and writing notes to another), slams her chair on the desk (the students are all asked to put their chairs up at the end of the day) to get some attention. And that tiny little thread of sanity, the one that I've been re-braiding all week long and trying to hold onto, snaps. Breaks. Falls to pieces.

I FLIP. I tell everyone to put their chairs back on the ground because Rebecca* has volunteered to put them all up on the desks for us. And everyone does, and she just glares at me.

The bell rings, and I let students leave table by table, leaving hers as the last ones to go. I tell her to get started and she shrieks at me.

Now, if I had just held on to that thread a little longer...I wouldn't have gotten into a shouting match. Like a parent and a teenager. Like my mother and I used to. It was awful, and now that it's over, slightly embarassing that I didn't keep my cool.

She left angry and frustrated. I left angry and frustrated. I guarantee I'm not the only one planning revenge. And on the car-ride home I realised how awful it must be to have a teenage daughter.

And so I've decided: I'm never having one. I can make those sorts of rules, right?

Resolution: Choose A New Goal

2010-01-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

I wonder how many people out there went running this morning, how many skipped their morning cup of coffee or avoided that first cigarette of the day. I did no such thing. Instead, I woke up incredibly grumpy and was sent back to bed to "try it again" by my husband as he was greeted by my grumbling and the ferocious scowl plastered across my face.

It worked, by the way. For a little while at least. Until this afternoon, when I went to make a fire using horrible firewood (bought at the local petrol station instead of delivered by our "log man" who hasn't come back to work yet from his Christmas holiday) and spilled dirt and pieces of wood and slime-covered furry wood-like bits all over the floor. Then for some reason my grumpy mood returned in more-than full-force, the scowl returned with me caring even less about the crinkly wrinkle it will inevitably give me in the near future in the middle of my eyebrows, and just then, Richard walked in the door from a bike ride.

The poor thing. It's not his fault I'm in a grumpy mood, and yet he has the pleasure of dealing with the fall out that starts with a changing tone of voice and ends with a usually-sincere apology. For the REST OF HIS LIFE. I tried not to remind him of that but just couldn't help myself.

So after a cup of tea and a bath with my thoughts, my grumpy mood is for the most part gone, and now it feels like a good day for starting anew. I know the first of the year was yesterday, but that was spent recuperating from jet-lag and annoying each other due to our forgetfulness that everything would be closed on New Year's Day. So yesterday was forgotten and for the most part, ignored.

But today, today is different.

I feel like making resolutions, but I can't think of any that I would have a chance in hell of keeping. Sure, there are loads that I would love to commit to writing down (or even saying out loud), but they all involve vastly changing the person that I am now, and the likelihood of that is very slim, I'm afraid. Not that I'm THAT horrible of a person, mind you...

Which is why I think resolutions often fail for people. How can one be expected to keep a resolution if it involves changing all aspects of their character? Losing weight, for example. Well, unless you change your exercise habits, eating habits, spending habits, thinking habits, and weekend habits, you're not very likely to succeed, are you? And those are a lot of things to change, which is why the usual resolution is only kept for about two and a half weeks.

But of course we all aspire to become better people. Why shouldn't we? We could all use a little improvement here and there. I'd like to be realistic, however, in my endeavors this year.

So here it is:

I'd like to earn enough money to be able to pay off the mortgage, sell the house, move back to Canada in the middle of nowhere next to a lake, quit working all together, grow my own food, exercise every day in a FUN way, raise a few animals, knit or sew all of my clothes, make my own soap, play the banjo with finesse, and learn how to sail a boat.

What? That IS realistic. I swear.

Okay, so maybe not. But maybe I'd like to be a bit more postive about the life I lead NOW.

Because at the moment, and for as long as I can remember, I've always lived for tomorrow. I've set myself far-off future goals and then worked feverishly at them until they were complete. Only now, I've completed them and I now have no interest in the life that's come out of it all. When I was thirteen I decided I wanted to move out of my parents' house as soon as I possibly could, and I saved every penny of my allowance and worked every available hour when I could legally work to make that a reality at the age of seventeen. Later on, I wanted to leave the U.S. and move somewhere different, and as of two years ago, that's been checked off too. When I decided I should graduate from somewhere with some sort of degree, I did, spending four years busting my ass to gain an English degree I've since realised is worth more as kindling than anything else.

So I did it, hoorah! I'm married, I've got a job (that I really should love, but often despise), I live in England, I have love, friends, and a family that's not too horrible, and I have enough money in the bank that a vacation outside of our home this year isn't too far-fetched of an idea.

So yep, I should be positive and happy. I should have a half-full kind of optimistic outlook on my life. But knowing how unlikely that is to happen, I think I'll skip that as a resolution and change it to something more obtainable.

So...I need a goal. Because just being and living and doing just isn't enough for me. And I don't even think if I DID live in a little Canadian cabin in the middle of nowhere with my solar panels, sheep and soap-making skills that I'd be ridiculously happy. Nope, even then I'm sure I'd want something more.

I HATE that about myself. Why can't I just be one of those folks who are happy and content with what they've got? Am I being selfish? Do I want too much? And why can't I be satisfied with the wonderful life I lead that I'm sure many others would be envious of?

Sheesh, I'm difficult. No wonder I'm grumpy.

So yeah, a goal. Maybe I should take up a course in plumbing. That way, when we do move to Canada and buy a huge plot of land on the side of a lake in the middle of nowhere (it'll happen, I swear) and start building our very own house using our own four hands, I can be in charge of the plumbing. Hmm.

Maybe I should buy a sewing machine and finally finish that quilt I started cutting out squares for about eight months ago. Or I could start making all of my own clothes or something cool like that.

Or maybe I should...goodness, I don't know.

Any ideas?

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T07:05:00.000-08:00

I hardly ever finish anything I start.

It's a horrible habit. One I am constantly reminded of by the hundreds of squares of fabric just lying there, not becoming a quilt; the purple yarn of my snood which has still not become a snood poking out of the cupboard I stuffed it in when guests came over; the blog which I started with good intentions (as all these things start out with) and then have since abandoned for over a month now.

Of course it being the 30th of December, New Year's Eve, only reminds me of the laundry list of things I'd like to accomplish before I turn into some bitter old woman who hasn't done anything with her life (I know I've got a while, but if I don't start now...) and who cannot seem to finish much of anything she at first sets her mind to.

Sigh.

I hate New Year's. Not because of the ridiculous tradition of staying up until the strike of midnight just to "ring in" having to buy a new calendar (although due to my love of sleep and dislike of staying up late when I'm not in the mood to stay up late, I'm not the biggest fan of such traditions), but instead because it's a bit too much pressure for me.

Of course I'll make resolutions. Not that any of them will stick, because again, I don't finish much. One year I resolved not to make any resolutions and even that posed problems and ended in failure. Grr...

I don't know why I bother, but I can't help it. The big one is always to "finish what I start." I might as well give up now...

The second resolution is to have a six-pack. Not one from a liquor store, although that would be much easier, but the general idea is to eat better, take better care of myself, see a doctor and a dentist more regularly, and I figure if I had rock-hard abs that would somehow prove that I've become this wonderful person who will live happy and healthy forever. Again, this is not likely to happen.

Of course there are other smaller resolutions - exercise more, cook at home more, save more money, write more letters, et cetera.

It's funny how we all think that a brand new calendar will change our whole personality and will somehow give us the strength to become entirely different and near-perfect people. I am not, nor will I probably ever be, an exercise freak. Although I sometimes like to cook I also sometimes like to sit on the couch and ask my adoring husband "what's for dinner" the second he walks in the door from a 12-hour day at work. I would love to be crafy and artistic and yet have very little patience when waiting for a project to be completed.

And so...my resolutions don't really add up, do they. But of course I would LOVE to become a person who finishes things, jogs every morning to maintain her rock-hard abs, and shops at the local farmer's market to create meals that are healthy and homemade.

Sigh. Will I ever become this person? And if so, how? When will it happen? Please tell me I don't need to DO anything difficult or challenging in order to get the ball rolling...'cause knowing me, that just isn't going to happen.

Hmm. Well, at least I've picked up blogging again. Just don't hold your breath for my next post...

A Recap

2009-12-31T05:23:00.000-08:00

Since abandoning my post as a regular-blogger sometime in November, a lot of lovely things (and not so lovely things) have happened to me that I thought I should blog about. Of course they've long since passed so I don't feel like explaining in too much detail about each thing, but I thought I should at least put them on paper...er...computer screen.

So, here goes:

I'm still working at the secondary school down the road - I'm there until the summer so that's some great job stability!

Christmas was crazy and hectic and draining - spent in Atlanta with my dear friends and family - such a whirlwind of a week and if I can be bothered to dredge up the emotional baggage I brought back home with me I'll try and write a post about it. Two words: Ah, family.

I have the most beautiful and wonderful husband, as proven by my two perfect Christmas presents - a banjo (yippee!!!) and a pocket watch (pictures to come soon)!

Right, well I've got another load of laundry to do and the suitcases to put back up in the loft, so I'll end it here for now. Have a Happy New Year!

Good Day, Sunshine!

2009-11-21T00:02:00.001-08:00

Well it's about time!

I woke up today in a GOOD mood. Hoorah!

This morning I woke up to the alarm, as usual, but I didn't have to get out of bed when it began chiming. Pure bliss. Instead, my husband got up to shower, and I rolled over on his side of the bed - something I haven't done in about a week - and it was a different kind of squidgy and warm in comparison to my own, and just PERFECT. The sound of the kettle whistling was the next sound I heard, and by the time I had fully roused from crazy dreams*, a cup of tea was sitting next to the bed. ABSOLUTE HEAVEN.

So I'm now sitting with a cup of tea downstairs and I can hear the washing machine - the WASHING MACHINE - running in the background. He remembered to put some towels on like I asked - WONDERFUL! - before heading out to work. Yay yay yay yay yay!

Some other great news I found out this morning - my friend and her husband have bought their FIRST HOUSE! How great is that!! I am so excited for them, and more importantly (since it relates directly to me), I'm so excited about seeing their house this Christmas, in less than FIVE WEEKS! I can't wait, especially about getting to crack jokes about hearing the pitter patter of future children's feet in their brand new home - bwah ha ha!

So yep, today is starting out GREAT. And even though I've got a mountain's worth of cleaning to do before our friends come 'round and stay over tonight, I'm going to put on a Sinatra album and make every effort to stay in a great mood.

And before I start all of that housework, I think another cuppa is in order...

* My crazy dream: Richard and I are in this really old city walking along narrow roads and alleys. All of the shops have windows that curve inwards instead of outwards like a bay window, and they don't have any awnings or signs that stick out. There are scratch marks all over the brick and cement shops' outside walls, and there are trolley tracks that go all along the main road. The shops all have their doors set in from the walls so they create a covered stoop. Four times a day the trolley rolls on through and everyone starts screaming and shouting and running down alleyways and into the shop stoops to avoid being crushed. The trolley leaves scratch marks all along the walls as it sparks and speeds down the street. So we hear the warning call, "Jumanji!" (I have never even seen the film, just a few previews YEARS ago) and we start running - it's like the running of the bulls - and someone grabs our outstretched arms and pulls us into an alleyway in just the nick of time.

How weird is that!?

A Turd of a Week

2009-11-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

I have had a turd of a week.

It started out with a lost voice, which sadly hasn't gotten much better. Of course you can hear me when I speak now, but unfortunately the high notes are still all squeeks and whispers and the low notes are wiggly and mannish (I hope that makes sense). I'm hoping eventually I'll get my real voice back, but I've almost gotten used to sounding all raspy and old, so either way I think I'll be fine.

The rest of my body is fine. Well, except for my shoulders. My shoulders are killing me. I'm a laid-back, doesn't-worry-about-much kinda gal, but this week I've just been really bad at handling things, and my shoulders are currently knotted and sore as my punishment. Hopefully a gallon of tea and a few hot baths will cure this ailment.

So that's the physical reasons for my turd-week (by the way, I am loving using the word "turd" lately, I don't know why, so I apologize if it gets old really quick). The mental reasons are a bit more complex...

Supply teaching is hard. The honeymoon phase is over - the kids are over the fact that I've got a funny accent compared to them, and they've gotten over the slightly different way I teach in comparison to the teacher I'm currently replacing. Which means they're now just...testing me.

Testing to see if I know the rules as well as they do. Testing me to see which rules I'll let slide and which ones I'll be strict about. Testing me in EVERY...SINGLE...CLASS this week. It has been TESTING, that's for sure.

This week I broke up two fights - one by a boy who is currently in a sling from an accident involving him and a wall (the wall won that fight) and has, quite obviously from the sling, anger-management problems, and the other by a boy who was throwing pieces of eraser at a boy twice his size (but unfortunately, weak at heart).

The first fight was one I've seen before. Kid gets made fun of, comes from a not-so-great family situation, and has never been taught how to control the rage he feels when his buttons are pressed again and again and again and again. I feel for these sorts of kids - after all, it's not really their fault - they just react before they have had the time to think. This boy is absolutely lovely, and he knows he has a problem and he's trying to get a hold of it. He's friendly and helpful and apologizes with such sincerity. But of course everyone was making fun of the fact he hurt himself when he got mad and punched a wall, and after one too many pokes at his self-esteem he just cracked - from my point of view the bully didn't get TOO much more than he deserved, but at the end of the day, hitting people just makes things worse - especially for this boy.

The second fight was just stupid, and the kind where the kid wants to show how "hard" and "tough" he is by picking on someone who is...let's say a bit chubby and nerdy...and ends up looking like a fool when his teacher makes him nearly burst into tears shortly afterwards (oh yeah, that was me).

SO MUCH PAPERWORK! The worse part about being a supply teacher is that I've got no access to the computer systems, which means a lot of chasing different teachers and department heads to find out students' last names and form tutors and more. Then there are the multiple notes to different teachers to have detentions sent, and further chasing up of those to make sure they're handled before I see the child next. Ugh.

So not only did I break up two fights (at 5'2", it's just embarrassing when I start to walk up to them and they get bigger and taller the closer I get...but boy can I grab an arm and hold onto it like a lobster...like a LOBSTER, folks!), but I also had a boy scream, "I f#%king hate you!" at me. So...a great week. But don't worry. After asking multiple faculty members and filling out the required forms, he'll be in the "Date room" on Monday (the room where the baddies go to be isolated for a whole day...muah ha ha ha!).

Yep. What a week. And today, today ended with a horrible class. Unfortunately there was a stupidly small and easy amount of work for them to do, which means they just played up for the whole hour. I sent a few boys out, wrote a few more up, and will deal with the rest on Monday (I've made some notes so I don't forget). Most of it was just throwing paper across the class. Because they're just...that...smart.

The BEST thing (and I'm being sarcastic) about my current job is that I've covering for a teacher who, as I've quickly found out, let her students get away with EVERYTHING. Her good drama students and the teaching assistant have all told me that she let them sit on desks and usually just wrote an assignment on the board for them to do. Most of their books have only a few pages worth of writing on them...and they've been at school for THREE MONTHS now. So it's not exactly easy to come in and expect them to act like, well, humans.

I guess there is a good thing about all of this work and trouble and strife. Give me another crap week and they'll be rehabilitated into respectful students again. Well...at least I hope so. I'll crack 'em, I'm sure.

Oh, and there is a positive note to all of this. My tutor group LOVES ME. I mean, they-want-me-to-STAY loves me. Ten of them went to the headteacher to ask him if they could keep me. How cute is that!?

So yeah. This week was turd-like. But surely next week will be better, right?

Right?

Grr, cough, whine.

2009-11-18T12:21:00.000-08:00

I've just looked at the most recent few posts. Blech. I sound downtrodden and miserable and whiny. Well, that's just how I feel at the moment, and today was no better. I miss my voice - now, it's not particularly wonderful - after all, I can't hold a tune and hate the sound of my voice when it's been recorded and played back to me - but it's mine, and I miss it. I miss my husband, who has a deadline tonight that will leave him at the office until at least 9:30pm - the poor, tired thing. Oh, and I miss the sunshine too - where have all the daylight hours gone, anyway?

So yeah, I AM downtrodden and miserable and whiny.

But at the moment, that's just who I am. So there.

Can you remind me what my husband looks like, please?

2009-11-17T11:17:00.000-08:00

I miss my husband. He hasn't left me or anything sad or depressing like that, but he IS still at work.

The thing is, today we both got up before 7:00am, both drank our tea and ate our toast between 7:10am and 7:20am, and both brushed our teeth and left the house by 7:30am. We both drove off in our cars and waved to each other when we got to the roundabout where our paths separate, and I haven't seen him since!

I hate this time of year.

I used to LOVE this time of year - the air crisping up, the far-too-early holiday commercials being played, the urge to play Christmas records a month before I should. The anticipation of Christmas and spending time with family, buying a Christmas tree and spending weekends watching Christmas parades, the lights being switched on, and all of those lovely winter-time couple activities (picture all of those romantic comedies where couples ice-skate or have snowball fights).

But my husband works in the racecar business. Which means THIS TIME OF YEAR is when all the real work happens, and I hardly see him at all, and with the days being shorter and the stars popping out at 6:00pm, it's a bit sad, really. The worst thing is he's already working on Saturdays, and I know that within the next few weeks he'll be working seven days of the week, for twelve-thirteen hours a day. He might as well make running shoes in a third-world country for the amount of work he's expected to do.

Of course, he LOVES his job, and I love that he loves his job, and at the end of the day I would kill, physically kill, to have a job that I loved as much as he loves what he does. So I'm TRYING to be understanding. And I'm TRYING not to bring up how the house isn't magically being cleaned and filled with food, but that it's me who's taken over all household responsibilities. I'm TRYING not to complain when the alarm clock goes off on a Saturday morning at 6:30am and I'm really, REALLY TRYING not to moan about the fact I can't remember if he's still got a beard or not (the picture is of him at Hallowe'en, when he did have a beard, but I'm sure he mentioned something about wanting to shave it off...has he? Is it weird that I honestly cannot remember?) because I haven't seen him with my eyes open (let's face it - I'm plain ol' grumpy at 7:30am, and I'm close to passing out when he comes home at 9:30pm) in weeks. Sigh.

But tonight, as I sit in front of the fire on the couch watching a funny television show that I'm sure we could both laugh at and comment on, I just...plain...miss him.

Sick Day

2009-11-15T23:43:00.001-08:00

I woke up stupidly early this morning, which is very unusual for me. Normally I'm a nine-hours-minimum kind of gal, and I like the fact that I can fall asleep within minutes of touching my head to the pillow - and that's NOT an exaggeration.

But last night I managed to stay awake until 10:30pm (I normally stop functioning as a human being by around 10:00pm, so pathetically, 10:30pm is late for me). So when I woke up this morning at 5:00am, it was a bit of a weird feeling.

SIX AND A HALF HOURS OF SLEEP, and I'm awake? What?! I'm not even grumpy, I don't have a headache, and I feel fairly refreshed. I must be sick.

But I don't FEEL sick. In fact, although I sound like some gruff old woman, I feel perfectly fine. Which is SO not like me. Normally when I have the slightest cold, I turn into this meek and disasterously needy infant. I don't get sick that often, but when I do, I really, truly milk the experience.

On Friday I left school without a voice - I figured it was due to the constant talking/occasional yelling all week long after months of not having to entertain others for seven hours straight. But on Saturday my voice sounded even worse, and my throat started to become sore. Sunday was spent on the couch drinking lots of tea and hot chocolate and I tried my best to stop singing old Frank Sinatra songs in my newfound lounge-lizardy voice. I figured my throat would be fine and I'd be back to my old self this morning, ready to talk and yell and teach again.

But this morning I had to call in sick, because even though I feel fairly normal, there is no way my voice would hold out for more than a few hours of talking class after class. Which of course makes me feel guilty and horrible - I mean sure, it was definitely the most authentic I've ever SOUNDED calling in sick (and I've even had thoughts about taping a general "I'm sick" message for the next time I really am sick but don't sound it), but the fact that I still feel like I could run a marathon without collapsing is a very strange feeling indeed.

I mean, I sound ill. And I hardly slept at all (for my usual standard), which means surely something's wrong with me. And yet I look normal, I feel normal, and if I don't talk, I could probably forget why I'm staying home from work today.

I wish I felt as sick as I sound, or sounded as well as I feel. This just doesn't add up.

A Brief Recap of The Last Ten Days

2009-11-15T00:43:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it's been over ten days since my last post. On that point, I can barely believe ten days have come and gone in general...

I have been SWAMPED these past nearly-two weeks. Going from spending months in a fairly relaxed lifestyle as an unemployed layabout to full-time work again was a bit difficult to get used to, I must admit. I'm still exhausted from it, but at least I'm ready to start blogging about it instead of spending all of my spare time under the covers!

So, first topic: School. The school I'm working in is lovely - truly the best school I've been to so far as a supply teacher. The teachers are uber-supportive and helpful, which of course is a huge factor when you're supplying for more than a day or two. I've already been asked to stay on until the first week of December, which is lovely and great and exciting. And since I'm going to be there for a while, I've already established myself as a "strict" supply teacher, giving out two after-school detentions, one a whole-class detention. Yep, they're not getting away with ANYTHING.

The students are really nice and friendly too - they don't throw things at eachother (or me), they don't swear at eachother (or me), and they actually pay attention and listen when I speak - it's almost a miracle!

So to put it plainly, I like it there, and I'm glad I'm staying there for a few weeks. Of course I'm sure I'll discover things I dislike about the school once I'm more used to things there, but for now, I don't mind being in the "honeymoon" stage of things.

Right, second topic: Brownies! So I went last Monday to a Brownie meeting and we made pinecone-suet birdfeeders, played a few silly games and sang the goodbye song - and I LOVED it. It was really nice to not have to shout and discipline - after all, every child that shows up WANTS to be there, which helps immensely. They're also super-little and cute and sweet and made me feel very welcome indeed. And so, today I've got to come up with something fun for them to do tomorrow that is bird-identification-related, because I've been put in charge of an activity already! The woman who runs this particular group is only doing it because the woman who used to be in charge stopped being their group leader to go back to college at nights - and from all of the not-so-subtle-hints, I think I might end up as a Brown-Owl in the long run - how fun!

Last topic for today's post: My voice. I have lost it. One week of talking non-stop for hours in a classroom and repeatedly shouting at those misbehaved students has done it - I'm voiceless. The weird thing is, I don't feel ill - I don't have the usual head stuffiness, tiredness, or lack of control over my moaning, and if I didn't sound so horrible, no one would guess I was sick at all. But my throat is KILLING ME. And I sound raspy and have lost all notes on the upper-registers. Which of course I loved yesterday, because it made me sound like a lounge-singer who smokes and I couldn't stop talking and singing. Today, however, I realise that I need my voice for next week, and so I'm trying to be as silent as possible - a task which, if you know me, is no small feat!

Right, well I'm off to make myself another cup of tea - must get the liquids in, of course - and I'm hoping that I will be less-exhausted next week and can give a more proper description of my days at work.

YAWN!

2009-11-04T09:56:00.000-08:00

So it is three minutes 'till six o'clock at night. I am wondering where practically the entire day went. I am exhausted. I miss today already, even though it's not over yet. And my body feels like it's much, much later than just six o'clock at night.

I have done more in the last two days then I have in the previous two months. It's pathetic, yes, but I got USED to being pathetic, and it's going to be a little while until I get used to this.

Today, today I awoke at 6:00am, got out of bed, took a hot shower, realised it is COLD in our house before 7:30am (my usual crawl-out-of-bed-to-move-to-the-couch-with-blanket-still-attached-to-me time), got dressed into my pre-picked-out outfit (thank goodness for my insane organizational skills, or I would've been a complete mess this morning), made myself and Richard breakfast, made us tea, and helped make our sandwiches. Then I collapsed on the couch and realised I only had fifteen minutes until I had to leave for work*.

See, I'm the kind of person who needs a good forty minutes to relax after waking up. I know that sounds weird, but I need a bit of time to think about the day, get into a relaxed and happy mood, and feel prepared for what might happen that day. I know, strange, but it's just what I do.

So today I left the house moaning and whining and in a generally grumpy mood - I think I should probably appreciate Richard for all the hard work he does EVERY DAY (and has done for the past eight years, all to support himself and little ol' me), and also for all the cups of tea he makes me EVERY DAY (and has done for the past eight years...). He's great. I should probably tell him so, but...I'm so tired. So I'll tell him later.

Just like I'll tell you about the rest of my day later. Because after getting home at four o'clock after sitting in traffic for half-an-hour only to march back out to buy groceries, cutting up and preparing vegetables for the dinner I'll be making in the next hour or so, chopping wood and starting up the woodburner to warm our place up to a reasonable temperature, and wii-exercising for an hour, not to mention talking to the local Brown Owl (Brownie leader) about helping out with her group for forty minutes...well, I'm TIRED.

So I'm making myself a cup of tea and sitting down. FOR THE FIRST TIME TODAY. My feet are killing me, and I miss my bum imprint on our couch. Again, pathetic, but true.

So I'll tell you about school and about the teachers and about the assistant teachers and about the great students and the fun books we're reading and the drama class that was just that and about the after-school-whole-class-detention I've already set, AND all about my upcoming Brownie thing soon. SOON.

Yawn!

P.S. I know I shouldn't have any right to complain, especially since my husband has been working from 8:00 until 8:00 six days a week for about a month now while I've been hanging out at home complaining about not having a job, but I'm tired. I'm SO tired.

*Work was suprisingly great. I'd love to go into more detail, but again, my eyes are barely functioning and my fingers feel heavy. My fingers...feel...HEAVY. So hopefully I'll be more awake later on this week and I can share my experiences of this new school with you then.

I get to go to work!

2009-11-02T08:06:00.001-08:00

You know you haven't worked in a while when you're EXCITED to go to work.

I just got a call from my supply teaching agency telling me I've got work from tomorrow until Friday - with the possibility of carrying on further! Woohoo!

This is just great! I mean sure, by the time Friday rolls around I'll probably be complaining about something (because that's just who I am), but today, today I'm happy! I've already re-organized my closet, picked out the four outfits I'm going to wear, matched them to shoes and tights, changed the razor blade in my razor (Richard will be so pleased to have his hob-goblin wife go away for a few days and replaced with the smooth-legged-takes-pride-in-her-appearance wife he thought he had married!), searched through all of the drawers for pens (I cannot believe I've only got three in the whole house, but it'll do for now), found my stickers, and have ironed my shirts and my hankerchiefs (I love a good hankie). Yay!

So now all I have to do is make myself a pack lunch and wait until tomorrow when that alarm goes off! Is tomorrow here yet? Well, is it?

Boo Hoo!

2009-11-02T04:04:00.000-08:00

What a pathetic Hallowe'en.

It started out well. Monster Mash playing on the radio, candy bought and ready by the door for any trick-or-treaters, and the biggest pumpkin we could find sitting on newspapers waiting for us to decide it's fate.

After carefully drawing design after design for our pumpkin's perfect face, we agreed upon one and started hacking away at pumpkin flesh and seeds and goop. We found a candle and put the pumpkin outside just as the sun was starting to set - we were ready.

We turned on the television to see if we could find a scary movie to watch. But nothing, NOTHING scary or even remotely related to Hallowe'en was on. What!?

Then an hour or two went by, and we still had had no goblins or ghosts or even teenagers dressed as teenagers wanting candy. Granted, we are out of the way being down an alley and all, and we are one of only three houses back here, but the apartments across from us (whose windows I often stare into hoping for some gossip-worthy happenings) surely could see our lit pumpkin. But nope, nobody came. Not a one.

Now, Hallowe'en is something North Americans can do. I remember dressing up in a huge winter jacket, scarf, mittens, and THEN trying to fit the costume over my huge puffy (but warm) self when it was freezing cold in Canada. I remember carrying pillow cases and eating leftover candy well into December. I remember how much fun it was to be out late at night when you were normally supposed to be home before dark. But nope, these poor British children. They don't even realise what they're missing!

And so, after having no one come to our door (or even down the main street - I checked), we ended up eating all of the chocolate ourselves, playing on the Wii, and going to bed early. So I guess it wasn't a total loss.

Wheeeee!

2009-10-30T04:26:00.000-07:00

I bought a Wii Fit today. Last year for Christmas Richard got a Nintendo Wii, and since then we've enjoyed bowling and tennis and generally any activity that involves us hopping around the living room looking like goons to anyone outside looking at us through the window.

We borrowed a Wii Fit from a friend and liked the idea, so after saving our grocery pennies (soup, anyone?), I finally found the remaining change in the couch and went out and bought one. Hoorah!

Two wonderful things about the Wii Fit: First, it comes with batteries. I know, I know, it doesn't sound like a big thing, but don't you remember when you were little how at Christmas you'd be rooting through the junk drawer for a bunch of triple As? I do, and trust me, it was not very fun having to steal batteries from other toys just to play with our new ones. And so, that's a great plus. The second wonderful thing is that, while I was purchasing this new contraption that we both hope will tone us into the perfectly-shaped human beings we were destined to be (we'll see...), I got hit on by the two guys behind the counter. HOW GREAT IS THAT!?

The reason that's so great is that, while we were living in Atlanta, GA, Richard and his beautiful and lovely British accent were hit on CONSTANTLY. Everyone mentioned his accent, asked where he was from, and practically swooned when he spoke more than a few words. So of course when we decided to move over to England ourselves, I became so excited by the idea of finally being hit on by my accent (who knew I had one!) and having the roles between Richard and I reversed. Unfortunately, most Brits are super-polite and aren't as friendly or outgoing as those Georgian Southeners, who don't think it's rude to ask you where you're from and what you do and why you're there. So until this morning, I was never asked where I was from, never received a compliment or even a comment on my accent, and basically, was lacking the attention I think I so thoroughly deserve (note the title of my blog). Until today, when two not-typically-nerdy game store employees told me they LOVED my accent, and said that they could "listen to me talk all day." Sigh. That was great.

So yep, this whole Wii Fit thing was a good idea. What a great start to the day!

Brownies (not the chocolate kind) and a Decision - Yay!

2009-10-29T06:59:00.001-07:00

I used to be a Brownie. I wore the brown and yellow uniform, I had badges sewn onto my sash, and I learned a few new songs and skills in a big group of giggly girls. Of course, this lasted only for less than a year, because sadly, I was never a joiner when I was younger (the scowl on my face in my t-ball uniform can surely attest to that), and my parents didn't feel it necessary to push me into doing something I didn't like (Don't worry, I've already added that onto the list of things I'll blame them for).

But now, at the ripe old age of 26, I'm going to attempt to become a Brownie again...or at least a Brownie leader.

I've been thinking about doing this for a while now, but I've been putting it off (like a lot of things) and putting it off, and finally I've gotten back 'round to it. And so, I've finally e-mailed the woman in my area about volunteering with either the Brownies or the Guides. Go me. So who knows what will happen, but I'm glad it's finally out there. I'm finally joining something (or at least attempting to). So don't laugh...and you know who you are.

Also, I figured I should get off my rear and figure out what it is I'd like to do as a career. And since "lazy-knitter-who-bakes-occasionally-and-sometimes-cooks-who-likes-to-read-a-lot" isn't a job that pays, I've decided that I'm meant to be a teacher. I just am.

I figure I must be - it's what I always THOUGHT I wanted to be when I was growing up, it's why I lined up all of my stuffed animals as a child and drew ABCs on the chaulkboard, it's why I'm so great at telling others what they should do (a very helpful skill). So although I tried and failed at teaching in a secondary school (although I'll continue to supply for them for as long as they'll pay me), which of course threw me into a huge deep dark lost place for a while there, I think my real calling must be a slightly-younger crowd. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not too interested in cleaning snot off my trousers at the end of the day, so I'm hoping to avoid the real young ones, but the creativity, the imagination, the still-have-excitement-about-learning crowd - that's surely where I'll fit.

See, I used to think I'd like to teach in highschool - English, just English. It's a subject I love, and I had a few brilliant English teachers who made me think I could instill in others the same love for reading and writing that had been instilled in me. But once I tried it I quickly figured out that the reason those teachers had such an effect on me was because I was a complete sponge, and by highschool most students have already discovered which subjects make them crazy and which ones make them want a nap, which means it is super easy to teach the students who want to learn, but nearly impossible to teach the ones who don't care about anything you've got to say and feel you are wasting their time.

Also, while supply teaching at secondary schools, I've discovered that I'm so much better when working with the younger ones - they have the energy and the interest that I just thrive on, and they still carry markers and glue and glitter pens in their bookbags, which I'm all about. They also appreciate stickers, creativity, and being a bit silly - things the older students would be too embarrassed to admit to in front of their friends.

Well, that's it then. I'm going to become a primary school teacher. I've finally figured it out! And to think, it only took one year, five months, and a few odd weeks and days. Whew!

So I've started drafting application letters, researching local schools that offer Graduate Teacher Training Programs, and figuring out where I can volunteer to get some usable experience with the younger set.

Wish me luck (with the Brownies and the career choice, please)!

Christmas Lists

2009-10-28T09:12:00.000-07:00

I am a goody-goody in many, many ways. I used to be the teacher's pet (even in university...don't judge me!), I used to try and convince others not to smoke cigarettes (I've got a multitude of anti-smoking speeches memorized), and I am the kind of girl who always has spare birthday cards and thank-you cards ready to send in a moment's notice - I'm fairly prepared for polite society, basically.

So even though it's not EVEN November yet (prepare yourself for gasping at the end of this sentence), I've started writing my Christmas lists. I know, I know, it is WAY too early. In fact, I'm fairly sure I've been starting earlier and earlier each year, which means eventually I'll have my lists done by January. Ah well, that's just me. I like lists, I like shopping, and I like Christmas.

I didn't mean to start so early this year. But my brother sent me an e-mail asking me what Richard and I would like for Christmas. So of course my list is done: a ton of old records (which I've found online and put in order of desire (including the one in the photo - I love Frank)), a few sweaters from JCrew and Banana Republic (my two favourite stores (in reverse order)), a banjo (so I can sing out like Harold in my favourite movie), a sewing machine (so my quilt-making procrastination is even more obvious), a pocket-watch ('cause they're just cool), and a few other odds and ends.

And I've pretty much made up lists for my other family members also - I know what I'm getting for practically everyone.

Everyone except Richard, of course. Because for some reason, Richard is extremely difficult to shop for.

For one, he's picky. He can't just ask for a blue sweater. Instead, he'll ask for a size small blue fisherman's rib knitted sweater with plastic black buttons and dark brown worn leather patches on the elbows, with a collar that flips up and isn't too wide. He'll of course find one for you to buy. But it'll cost $400 or something crazy like that. And so the next item on the list is considered. A scarf. Sounds easy, right? Well, he doesn't want just any scarf. He wants it to be of a thin material, but not too thin. He wants it to be a single colour, but not a bright colour, and he doesn't want it to be too long. And it can't possibly be too short. He doesn't mind fringe but nothing too girly or too fringy. Of course by the time you've tried to find this scarf, you realise that the one he wants is actually what he already has in his closet - the one he bought himself three years ago but hasn't worn once.

Whew! The other problem with Richard's gift list is the fact that he never wants anything small (or not ridiculously expensive). I mean, I'm happy he has brilliant taste (ahem!), and sure, everything he owns is gorgeous and well-made and should last forever (for the amount he spent on it, it better!). But seriously, he never wants just socks. And if he needs socks, he just buys them. He doesn't SAVE the things he should buy for himself to keep for present ideas. I do that, on the other hand. All the time. I haven't bought myself socks or pajamas in years. And I don't plan on changing that. Why? Because then people always know what to get me!

Anyways, so it might be a good thing that I'm starting making Christmas lists this early. Maybe by the time ol' Chris Kringle comes 'round I'll have thought of something perfect for him. I sure hope so.

Tea & Shortbread

2009-10-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

Today is a shortbread and tea kind of day. I just thought you should know.

Things for my future dog.

2009-10-27T09:09:00.000-07:00

I couldn't help myself. I've been pretend shopping all day long for my non-existent dog.

First off, my dog is going to be stylish and modern and gorgeous. I've already decided. Just like this jacket from Etsy seller AcmeCouture. How beautiful is this coat!? (http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=33057816)

Secondly, my dog will eat and drink out of the finest bowls, like the beautifully simple square ones by eastvoldfurniture (also on Etsy). These actually attach to the wall - love love love. (http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=24070097)

I can't help myself. January can't come soon enough!

I want a dog.

2009-10-27T05:11:00.000-07:00

I grew up with cats. Six of them (not all at once, thankfully). None of them were ever really mine, though. They were my mom's cats, through and through, following her around and ignoring the rest of us. Even the one I picked out!

I have always wanted a dog, but was never in the right kind of situation to get one. I was either living at home with my parents, sleeping on friends' couches, renting a really small room, moving in with a boy in a new relationship, thinking about moving downtown to a small apartment, deciding to move across the ocean to live in a new country, living with the inlaws...and the list of reasons goes on.

But now...now we own our own home. We can punch holes in the walls, dig up the foundations if we wanted to, and basically mess up our house however and whenever we'd like to.

So I'd like a dog. I'm ready. I'm prepared.

Thinking he could postpone this HUGE LIFE COMMITMENT (I'm amazed he married me after the freak-out he had over the idea of owning a dog - who would live for less than two decades - does he realize I'm going to live a lot longer than that?!), he told me we could get a dog when we had a bit more time to give to it.

I agreed at first, thinking it would be unfair to own a dog we'd leave at home all day long whilst at work. But then I thought about it some more, and realized that being a teacher means I only work until 3:30pm at the latest, which isn't too much time for a dog to be on its own.

Especially if you get the right dog. So I researched big dogs (I've always wanted a HUGE dog like a Great Dane or an Irish Wolfhound), and Richard said no, because we have a teeny tiny house and a teeny tiny garden. Then I researched small dogs (I figured I could teach it cool tricks like Eddie on Frasier), and Richard said no, because he doesn't like small dogs.

Whew! So then I picked the perfect compromise, and discovered it's the perfect dog for us: A Greyhound.

They sleep ALL DAY. They love sleep more than I do, and believe me, I love love love sleep. They like short runs/walks a few times a day and don't need hours upon hours of exercise - just enough to stretch their legs. They're PERFECT for us.

Now, I've never been one for expensive dogs - I'd rather rescue one than have one genetically made just for me. So I've found a rescue agency that takes old racing greyhounds that are retired and finds them good homes. Homes without cats, obviously.

So then when I told Richard my idea, he said fine, we could get a greyhound. IF I really really knew what I was getting into. After all, I have never owned a dog, so I don't know how much or when you feed them, how often they need to be walked/fed/exercised, and anything else I should know about a dog if I'm planning on having one. I'm guessing he thought I'd be too lazy to do the research. Not so, husband dear.

So I've found out EVERYTHING I possibly could learn about greyhounds. I am ready, really ready, for the time and effort it takes to own a dog. Richard and I have talked about adopting a dog that's more than a few years old - less of a scary commitment for him, and more likely to be already trained for me. We've been checking out dogs on the rescue agency's website and I've found at least ten I'm completely in love with. We've picked out 5-7 year old dogs who are small for greyhounds and who have lived in a house before. Richard is finally on board, and likes the idea of having a dog. We are ready for this commitment.

And so, after Christmas (I'm heading back to Atlanta for a week to visit family and friends - hoorah!), we're getting a dog. I am SO excited. I've already picked out the leather collar, the lead, the bed, the bowls, and even the winter jacket. I can't wait!

Oh, and this is the picture of the one I want (this morning's choice - it varies hourly). She is SO gorgeous though, I doubt she'll still be homeless by the time we're back from Atlanta. It doesn't matter much, though - they are ALL gorgeous.

Ladybird Issues

2009-10-27T04:41:00.001-07:00

I love this time of year when it's cold and crisp and chaps my lips. I love stuffing my little wood-burner with fire and seeing how high I can get the numbers on our thermostat to go. I love moving really close to the fireplace until I get so hot my cheeks are red and then moving further away until I get slightly too cold again.

What I don't like, however, is the bugs that want to enjoy the warmth of our house too. I don't like the spiders who are tenacious in their web-building, I don't like the little mothy-like bugs who scare me when I get to close to wherever they're hiding out, and I especially don't like the ladybirds.

Ladybirds, or ladybugs, depending on where you are in the world (I figure I should call them by their English name since I'm living in England now), are beautiful, gorgeous little insects. I usually like them. I think they are so lovely, and this summer I found myself rushing outside where our birdbath is to rescue the clumsy little red things who fell in time and time again.

But now that they're all coming inside (which I wouldn't normally mind at all), they're getting slower, falling off the beams in the ceiling, and scaring me half to death when they drop on the floor right next to me. And I don't like that one bit. I don't really know what ladybirds are supposed to do when it gets cold outside - do they hibernate like bears (I'm guessing not), do they lay their eggs somewhere and then die (I hope not in our house), or do they just keep on chugging all through the winter? Hmm. Something to look up if I get bored later on.

And what should I do with the ones I find? I thought I should put them back outside, but the other day it was really cold and I thought that might be a bit rude. Then I thought about putting them on our houseplants hoping they'd find the odd bug or two to munch on, but we've only got two plants, so they don't really have too much to choose from. The solution I came up with was to put them on a flower bunch in a vase - but I won't do that again. It appears that, because they're a bit clumsy, they just fall in the water and drown. So now I feel like I've murdered a ladybird.

So instead, I'm just going to avoid stepping on them and let them get on with it. Unless I find one today - it's warm and far too hot for a fire (darn), so if I find any today they are going back outside. They can find someone else to bother.

What a fair.

2009-10-26T05:19:00.000-07:00

You know how when you're little, you can eat pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast, eat a huge bag of cheesy puffs for a mid-morning snack, eat a cheese sandwich for lunch and finish it off with apple juice and a bag of M&Ms, and then spend the afternoon walking home from school munching down pixie sticks, maltezers, ruffles potato chips, fizzy strawberry pop, gummy worms, a bag of sour patch kids, chocolate-covered peanuts, and a packet of twinkies, and then go home and ask your mom for dinner? Then hours later you chow down on some mac n' cheese and have a bowl full of chocolate icecream for dessert, and not for one minute during this entire feast of fat and sugar and calories do you ever get a stomach-ache?

What happened to those days? Man, children sure are lucky. Though, I guess it works out for the best because now that I'm an adult and have a paycheck instead of an allowance, if I spent it all on candy and junk food I don't think I'd be able to work it off by a simple game of "tag." Hmm.

So after bugging him for HOURS on Saturday like a spoiled child, Richard finally said we could go to the fair (it is much better in the dark, so he was right about that). And after the first ride, which just spun us round and round so fast that my hip was digging into Richard's thigh and both of us felt slightly uncomfortable, we felt a bit sick.

The first ride we went on - we should've started with something more tame

We then went on the Waltzer, which is the kind of ride that spins you round in a bucket as the whole ride spins around and moves up and down. After that we really felt sick. So sick that we had to sit down. When did the wonderful childhood fearlessness leave us? When did we lose our iron stomachs? When, oh when, did we become wimps?

All of these children are rushing around, hopping on and off of rides with such ease, downing cotton candy and processed hotdogs without the slightest of tummy-twinges. Richard and I, on the other hand, couldn't face going on the tilt-a-whirl, or any other ride like it, and decided that we'd just take some pictures instead. How dull are we!

The Tilt-a-Whirl - no way were we going on that!

Which means, after all of my built-up excitement, and "so what it's raining, pleeeeeease can we go now?" pleadings that morning, we ended up back in our cosy little house by about 8:00pm drinking tea and hoping it would settle our stomachs. We're such chickens.

I didn't even attempt eating pink sugary cotton candy. I just couldn't face it. I'm such an adult.

Today is better than I thought it would be.

2009-10-23T07:21:00.000-07:00

Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah!

So I might have work. Semi-permanent work (my favourite kind, actually). The school that I supplied in the other day have a woman who teaches there who is about to go on maternity leave, and since they LOVED me the other day (who couldn't), my agency says they're probably going to ask me.

Now, I know I shouldn't spread good news before it's actually happened, but I can't help it - I'm too excited. I mean sure, I still don't know if teaching is really what I should be doing (even though every time I try to get away from it I somehow get sucked right back in), but it would be money. On a regular basis (woohoo!). For at least a few months (double woohoo!). And that would be worth spending the time figuring out if teaching is what I should be doing or not.

The only bad thing about today's great news is that I won't find out for sure until after next week - all the schools have a term break next week and so no one will be around to confirm if they want me or not. But seriously, how could they not want me?

The prospect of work, AND a fair twenty steps from my front door. Today is better than I thought it would be.

You must be this tall to read this post

2009-10-23T04:47:00.000-07:00

I'm a shorty. I am 5'2" short, and have been since my last growth spurt, at the ripe ol' age of 12. I've always been this way, so it's nothing new to me. I also look incredibly young for my age, which of course I appreciate now, but as a teenager I hated being offered crayons and paper when out at a restaurant. But anyways, when I was little my parents took me to the local fair one year - I must have been about 10 or so (so before the last growth spurt) - and I couldn't go on any of the fun rides. I was too little, and there was no way I wanted to ride on the teacups - they were swarming with babies anyways. It just wasn't fair (pun not intended).

The next day my best friend Miranda and I decided we'd go to the fair again, but this time we had a plan. I loosened the laces on my shoes and put a few pairs of socks in the bottom so it made me an inch or two taller. When we got to the fair and went up to the first ride, we talked really loudly and laughed a lot so that we would be distracting to others, and when we passed the sign with the big red tape marked "you must be this tall to ride," the guy just let us on in. I was SO excited. Not only because I could go on the big kid ride like everyone else in my grade, but also because we were doing something sneaky, something dangerous. Oh what wild children we were (yeah right)!

So just to let you know, this ride was the big boat kind, where it swings back and forth, back and forth, high up into the sky and then flying fast back down to the earth again. Well, I learned really quickly why you should be a certain height and size before you ride it...

There weren't any safety harnesses or anything - just a big metal bar that went all the way across the booth. Regular-sized kids fit right into it - their backs touched the back of the seat and they could still touch the floor. They could reach the bar to hang onto if they got a bit scared, and they were heavy enough not to lift too far off of the bench.

I was not a regular-sized kid back then. I was super-tiny. The kind of tiny where people say, "you're so precious I could just put you in my pocket," and depending on the pocket, I might have just fit.

The ride starts, and I go flying into the back of the bench seat, slamming my backbone hard. The next thing I know is we're sailing backwards again, and I slam into the metal bar, instantly making my stomach ache and regret the overkill of cotton candy I had stuffed into it. I lift off the seat and hold tight to the bar, white knuckles and all, and wish hard that I could touch the floor, even if just for a second. When the ride starts it's downward fall again I feel like I might fall out of the ride - in fact, I'm convinced this is exactly what is going to happen. Everyone around me is screaming and laughing at how weird and amazing it feels to "fly," but I was nearly in tears, choking back pink-coloured vomit, and wishing the ride would end or that I would fly out of it - just so it would end already. It felt like the longest ride, going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

When the ride finally ended, my hands were frozen in the clasping-for-dear-life position and ached from the metal bar mark that was left on my sweaty palms. I was so horribly frightened that I staggered off of the ride with my knees buckling every few steps, and Miranda knew instantly what my pale face and sweaty forehead was signalling. She found a trash can so I could vomit pink, and on the way home we promised we wouldn't say anything about it again.

It's funny, I can still eat and enjoy cotton candy, but I have never ever been back on one of these rides. I'm way past the "you must be this tall to ride" sticker, but still. I just can't do it.

Amazingly, I still love the fair. I love the horrible-tasting food, the super-sweet candy, the rides that feel slightly rough and unstable, the tickets that are found strewn all over the ground when it's all over. And this weekend, for one weekend only, the main street of our entire tiny little town is being made into a fair. HOW COOL IS THAT. Sidewalks are currently being taken up by huge trucks, there are rides being unfolded and bolted together, and I can just faintly smell the huge amount of cotton candy mix being unpacked from it's box. Tonight and tomorrow our humble and quaint little town, usually filled with old people with their canes looking for antiques at the market on the weekend, is going to be filled with screams and loud music and the clunking of those hard metal rides.

I cannot wait. I am just about pee-in-my-pants excited. I feel like I'm 10 years old again, cannot wait to chow down on some greasy food that doesn't taste quite right, and I can't wait to ride the bumper cars. The best part about where we live is that we're literally right in the middle of town. We're down this little alley where it then opens up into four or five little houses. So twenty steps from my front door is the bumper car ride. Twenty steps. I'm practically a carnie for the weekend. I love it.

I can't wait I can't wait I can't wait! (But if they have one, I'm still not going on the big boat ride.)

Tylenol, Chemotherapy, and Juice: My Thoughts

2009-10-22T08:48:00.000-07:00

So, I'm the kind of gal who wouldn't take Tylenol - TYLENOL - for years because I didn't know how it worked. And since I was too lazy to figure it out on my own (aka, go online, which was a problem back then), I just didn't feel comfortable putting some small white pill into my body that would magically cure everything from a hurty-knee to an achey-ear. But anyways, I now get how Tylenol (and other aspirin-like drugs) works, so I don't feel weird taking the stuff.

Of course if you’ve read my posts about my mom (the pill-poppin’ hypochondriac) you can probably connect the dots fairly easily. I mean, there isn’t a psychologist who would blink twice at how I grew up afraid of most forms of modern medicine.

This probably also explains my avoidance of smoking tobacco of all kinds, and saying no to any fun drug use I had the opportunity to try when I was younger, and so on. I avoid pre-packaged foods as often as I can, I don’t drink a lot of alcohol, and I usually eat fairly plain-looking foods when out at a restaurant if I don’t know what’s in them. Basically, I like to know what I’m doing to myself, and I like the fact that when I eat bad foods, I can tell. I like that I notice.

I'd like to think that this makes me smart and responsible, but also a bit paranoid, I’ll admit – if I don’t know what’s going to happen, I do tend to freak out a bit (which of course I realise causes extra perspiration and a minor headache to form in the creases on my forehead). But I’m living by the “better safe than sorry” policy, and it seems to work for me.

So anyways, I’ve been ridiculously fortunate to have never had to stay in the hospital in my lifetime (she writes, knocking on wood). I’ve had two broken arms, but those were simple fixes (I even cracked my own arm back into the correct place the second time – how cool is that?), and so I’ve never had to stay overnight or have tubes in my veins or anything like that. I haven’t even ever had a tooth filled or capped or drilled. I’m lucky that way.

But one day, I’m sure, I won’t be so fortunate, and I will have to have a bag of saline solution attached to my arm. Thanks to Wikipedia and Google, however, I already know what it is and what it’s for, so I’m fairly comfortable with the idea. And I’ve looked up how and why anesthesia works, so I’m comfortable if that sort of situation were to arise as well. I figure that would be the basics I’d need to know if something horrible were to happen to me – after that I could ask a doctor how EXACTLY medications and treatments work, etc.

Right, so I did intend to have a point to this post, and here it is: My good friend had a fight with a friend of hers over Chemotherapy, and whether or not it is the correct method in treating cancer, or rather a government plot to harm and/or influence the American public. (She’s on the sane side of this argument, by the way). Well, being me, I’ve got an opinion of course. Especially since it really isn’t my business. But…after looking up Chemotherapy, and how it works, and why it works, I’m fairly sure it’s going to have better effects than thirteen glasses of fruit juice would (the fruitloop’s suggestion).

So yeah, even though I prefer to treat headaches with a cup of tea, hangovers with eggs on toast, stomach aches with crackers and peanut-butter, and cramps with a hot-water bottle, when it comes to the big stuff, I’d want the big stuff to help me out. Not that I don’t like juice…but I’d prefer to lose the odd healthy cell if it meant keeping me alive.

So there. My friend is always right (and she never disagrees with me, which means I get to be right all of the time too), and I just thought I’d let you know.

After all that!

2009-10-21T08:06:00.001-07:00

After all that craziness that happened this morning with the whole do-I-have-work/do-I-not-have-work thing, I got a call around 8:50am this morning asking me if I wanted to work at a school nearby - I jumped at the chance, got dressed all over again, and raced over there as soon as I could.

So yay, I worked today! To be honest, it was a decent day's work - I taught Science all day long and the school is full of some really lovely students - students who opened the door for me, didn't swear, didn't chew gum, and had their uniforms on correctly - it was amazing! Definitely the best school I've supplied in. I taught a bunch of year 7s and 8s (so years 12-13) who listened and responded and asked questions - by the end of those classes I had moved all around the classroom demonstrating different forces and even how a water filtration system works - and I'm fairly sure they actually learned something!

The last class of the day were year 9s, but the work they were set wasn't very challenging (mostly consisted of cutting and pasting...and I'm not joking) and so they played up a bit - but even with that they were fairly decent!

What I learned today is that I'm definitely more suited towards teaching younger children - it was so much more fun teaching them then the moody year 9s. So here's hoping my teaching angency can find me some work at a primary school - but again, I'll take anything at the moment!

So close.

2009-10-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up at 7:00am, regardless of the fact I'm jobless, and sit with my husband downstairs watching the morning news and sipping the hot tea he's made for me. Calls to supply teach usually come before 7:30am, so once that time has ticked by I can relax a bit more (as if wrapped up in pajamas and a housecoat isn't relaxed enough!) and start planning my non-working day.

Well, this morning at 7:29am the phone started ringing, and for the first time this school year I was needed for supply in a town about twenty minutes away. I said yes immediately and after writing down the necessary information, I raced upstairs, showered in under two minutes, and was dressed and brushing my hair by 7:34am. I was so happy to finally have the opportunity to work and make some money, even if I was only needed for today.

But then the phone rang, and when I answered, I was told that I wasn't needed after all; that their normal cover superviser had switched her day off and so was available to work today herself.

With shampoo remnants running into my eyes, the button on my trousers not yet done up, and myself feeling like a chicken with it's head cut off, the last thing I need is to be told it's all for nothing.

So I'm currently making myself a new cup of tea, because the first one was cold by the time I got to it, and I'm back in my pajamas - I'm going to try and restart today.

Want Ads

2009-10-20T03:54:00.001-07:00

A few months ago I gave up on looking for a job. I'm still not 100% sure what I'd like to be "when I grow up" (if and when) and didn't feel like putting yet another place of employment on my resume that didn't mean very much to me. I've tried supply teaching and am still on the list, but I still haven't had any work this school year. I didn't mind supplying, but I would prefer teaching, I think, and probably younger children (I've been a supply teacher at a secondary school, so students aged 12 - 16), which means I need to get a teaching certificate and complete some training and all of that, which of course won't take place until next September. So until then...

...I really need to find something to do that actually brings in some money. My husband has this great job that he loves (no fair - he knew what he wanted to be when he was 16 and is currently in his "dream job"), but it is currently under threat - his company is being forcibly downsized, which means everyone is currently working all hours, including weekends, to try and save themselves from the redundancy axe. He's been there for nearly two years now, but he's still the second-to-last "new boy," which means he's currently ulcer-ridden and tired-looking from working from dawn to dark (not dusk - he hasn't seen that in ages). The poor thing.

So I've been trying to cook dinner, not complain about his absence, keep the heating off (we get a firewood delivery today, thank goodness!), have super-short showers, and wash his clothes without moaning about how many of them I had to pick up off the floor first. And now, after a few months of not having to troll through the same old jobs I'm either completely unqualified for or ridiculously overqualified for, I'm back in. I've applied to four jobs so far this morning (none of which I have a chance of getting, but I'll try to be optimistic) and I've got a long list of jobsites to go through this afternoon. I've given up on trying to figure out what my dream job is and have resigned myself to the fact that at this point, I just need a job so we can start saving for any unwelcome changes that may come our way. So depressing.

The Pumpkin Latte Craving

2009-10-19T12:13:00.000-07:00

Sure, we have beautiful foliage, chilly scarf-worthy weather, and reasons to light a log fire without having to turn on the air-conditioning, but my friend just reminded me of a reason to miss living in Atlanta, GA at this time of year - Pumpkin Spice Lattes! What I wouldn't do for one right now (although I can't justify (or afford) spending money on a plane ticket just to get a latte, it's incredibly tempting...). Arg!

Piggy Weekend

2009-10-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

So after Friday’s big birthday party for Nanny M, Saturday evening was spent at this gorgeous restaurant with just the family – Richard and I would normally have had a debate over who should drive and whether or not we should stay over at his folks’ house, but after he had to work on Saturday and I got caught up cleaning the house time to discuss these things sort of ran out and it was time to pick his brother up from the train station and make our way over to the in-laws for an early dinner. So we hurriedly decided that he would drive there, I wouldn’t drink, and I would drive back.

But of course we had told his folks earlier that we might stay over, which meant that when we got there, the guest bedroom was made up, a huge piece of lamb was in the fridge waiting to be roasted on Sunday, and there was a surplus of tea and cakes and cookies. So we gave up our plans, decided we’d borrow clothes (since we were both dressed up for the evening and would be a bit uncomfortable if we had to wear fancy clothes on a Sunday morning) the next day, and got rip-roaring drunk with all the family – it was a great evening.

Sunday was also great, and we both woke up to a cup of tea brought straight to us in bed. It’s so comfortable there, and even though I had to wear my mother-in-law’s running outfit (which eerily fit me really well, even down to shoes), the warm fire, wine with a homemade roast dinner, and the trip we took to the local farm shop more than made up for it!

The reason we drove to the farm shop was solely because there are now piggies there. Little teeny tiny piglets that are fresh and new and spotty. We used to go to the farm shop all the time when we lived with the in-laws, picking up eggs or bacon and other bits and bobs. Normally we’d say hello to the free-range chickens (and we even went inside where they lay eggs one time, which resulted in sneezing and fluttering and crazed chickens not enjoying our company at all), but they’ve recently added to their little homestead a "blank"(I know it's not gaggle, is it a herd?) of pigs. And boy are they cute.

So this weekend pretty much makes me want to move back in with my in-laws. Because of the pigs and the glorious food and the company and the fact that we’re treated like children whenever we’re there. It’s such a lovely thought to know that I have a home away from home that feels like…home. With piggies just down the road, too. Nice.

Nanny M's Birthday Bash

2009-10-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

When you hear the word “old folks’ home,” you tend to think of those low ceilinged, dark, dingy, slightly smelly places with mismatched furniture and yellowing lace curtains. Well, Nanny M does live in just that sort of place, but for some reason, it doesn’t seem so bad, this whole getting old and moving into a home thing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m still dreading the thought of being unable to walk by myself or cross a room under ten minutes, to possibly need an oxygen tank or a Zimmer frame, and to be left out of other’s conversations because they’re simply too tired of having to repeat themselves to you at a higher volume. But Nanny M received over eighty cards, lives amongst some absolutely amazingly cool people, and is adored by everyone around her. She’s old enough to be able to say exactly what she thinks without any repercussions, she enjoys a full day of seeing friends and running small errands, and she still has the freedom of living in her own self-contained apartment, which she takes great pride in sprucing up and filling with boxes of candy for all of her visitors.

Her ninetieth birthday party was AWESOME, by the way. We all sat down to a fish-n-chips supper, I helped serve all those lovely people drinks (mostly orange squash with dinner, but once that was cleared it was straight to Baileys or Sherry) and in return had my hand squeezed repeatedly, was smiled at constantly, and enjoyed being escorted around and introduced to everyone like a show pony.

Afterwards, there was a woman named Flossy who sang songs from the war all the way up until the 1960s, and she changed outfits during her act, from a scarecrow outfit to a nurse to a 60s mod dresser. At first it was completely horrifyingly embarrassing, watching this woman sing songs to a group of people she treated slightly like toddlers, but by the end everyone was singing, clapping their hands and remembering the good ol’ days.

Being one who dwells far too much on the long-gone past myself, I could totally picture myself as an elderly person enjoying the music of my heyday, and instead of feeling sorry for these old people who are set in their ways and no longer open to changes, I understood just how proud they must be of their lives – having survived through wars, rationing, and all sorts of troubles, they’re still here, hanging on, and quite happy to share a story of their own sordid youths.

I talked to as many as I could, and can’t wait until the next time I visit – when we lived just down the road, I went to Bingo once or twice, but after winning too many times (a whole 4 pounds), they stopped inviting me. But after attending Nanny M’s party (which went on until just before 8pm) this weekend, I can’t wait until her next birthday!

Ninety

2009-10-16T04:21:00.001-07:00

My husband's Nanny M turns 90 today. Ninety years old. This lovely little spritely wrinkly old woman was born in 1919. How crazy is that!?

Nanny M is delightful - she's a complete gossip, knits something new each day (putting my knitting skills to shame), has had two heart attacks, a quadruple bi-pass, and is still the kind of lady to tell you what she thinks you're doing wrong. She is an inspiration.

So today she's ninety - although she prefers to say she's "Eighty-Plus," (hense the card we got her) and I'm about to head over to hear about all the latest gossip from the retirement home she lives in, catch up on all the various ailments her fellow residents are suffering from, and be forced to count how many cards she's received already (the show off!)...I'm so excited!

A Delightfully Damp and Dreary Day

2009-10-15T05:07:00.000-07:00

I could quite easily become a recluse and live in complete isolation. In fact, before I met my husband Richard, it was a dream of mine. It’s still a dream, but instead of complete isolation, it’s just the two of us living far away from civilization. Of course he doesn’t completely share this crazy wish of mine, so we’ve put it aside for the time being.

But being completely infatuated with myself, and genuinely enjoying my own company, I often can spend days and days at home by myself and completely forget about what’s going on outside in the world, only leaving the house to buy groceries or to run a quick errand.

Today, however, I had to go out to get some milk and butter, and it turned out to be a wonderful outing.

First of all, it rained last night, and the sky is the colour you get from a glass of water you’ve used to rinse paintbrushes in – gray and cloudy and thin-looking. Secondly, it’s a bit cold outside – the PERFECT kind of cold, when mittens and a scarf are not involved but two hands buried deep in your pockets are.

So today I put my best jacket on and braved the reprieve from the drizzly-rain, went to the shops, and bought the few items I needed. After the ridiculously young male cashier made eyes at me (which is always a nice treat), I went outside to begin my two-and-a-half minute walk back to the house (it’s a blessing and a curse all at once to live right in the middle of town), but then stopped to pet this lovely white-and-tan greyhound.

I have to admit, a puppy fix always puts me in a good mood, and so I decided to walk around the park for a bit before going straight back to the comforts of tea and warmth that my home provides me. I walked along the beautiful river and watched the ducks sleeping on the banks, passed a woman who was incredibly dressed and whose perfume smelled lovely and sweet, and even stopped while crossing the bridge to watch a water-rat picking apples – picking apples!

What a beautiful sight to behold, this furry little rat running along tree branches and gnawing at wild apples until they fell to the ground. I have never seen such children’s book-worthy image! Just another reminder that I should never leave the house without a camera. Never again.

Because it started to rain shortly after that, I’m nearly drenched, sitting in my cold I’m-still-determined-not-to-turn-the-heat-on house and waiting for the kettle to boil. Today is brilliant.

The Bread(ed) Curse

2009-10-14T03:09:00.001-07:00

Oh, I give up!

Most cooks boast about how great it feels to make bread. They go on and on about how wonderful a house smells when there is fresh bread in the oven, how great it feels to knead a loaf of bread before letting it rise, and how proud they feel when tucking in to a hot slice of crusty bread.

Well, I have only once felt this way about making bread. In fact, there is a slightly-warm kitchenaid mixer full of horrible-looking batter that I've abandoned on the countertop. I'll clean it later, I just can't look at one more horrible dough mixture.

The very first loaf I made turned out gorgeously. I used a very simple recipe and used my then-brand-new mixer and watched lovingly at my loaf rising in the oven. I thought to myself, "Great! How much money will I save on bread, and goodness, it sure is easy to make!"

But for some reason, I don't remember what recipe I used. Since then, I've realised that my first effort must have been a fluke, because every loaf I've managed to put in the oven (there have been batches, such as today's, that never made it that far due to their gloopy texture or failure to rise properly) has been too salty, too small, and too dense. I'm cursed!

It's not the yeast - I've tried multiple brands and multiple amounts. It can't be the water - I always make sure it's warm, but not too warm. It can't be the flour - I've used so much of it TRYING to make bread I go through a small bag every week. It can't be the salt - I've varied the amounts, tried putting it in at different times, and even left it out of one bad batch. It can't be the recipes - I've tried a bunch, all to no avail. So...it's with a heavy heart I must admit...it's me.

I would LOVE to be the kind of person who bakes bread a few times a week, who makes a big batch to rise in the fridge overnight and then freezes the extra loaf for the next day's cravings. It's just not fair.

I just added bread to today's grocery shopping list. It feels like I've been defeated. Again. Will I ever be able to bake bread? I mean, good-tasting bread?

Because right now, as the sink fills up with soapy water with which to clean out my mixer, I'm highly doubtful.

New Cookbook – Hoorah!

2009-10-13T03:27:00.000-07:00

I bought a new cookbook the other day, called Economy Gastronomy. It’s all about cooking really good food without spending a fortune…sign me up! Living in England, especially in a small town, means living amongst fishmongers, butchers, delis, and a farmers market on Sundays and Tuesdays where you can buy everything from antiques to artichokes – basically, with all of these great, fresh ingredients around me it would be an absolute shame to buy pre-packaged meals and cans of sauces and the like.

This cookbook is fab – it shows you how to cook something basic (like roast chicken, a whole salmon, ground beef, a shoulder of pork, et cetera) and then make two or three other dishes with the leftovers. The brilliance is that the leftovers don’t taste like leftovers – they taste like completely new dishes!

I’m far too excited about this. Yesterday, I cooked ALL DAY. I cooked three pounds of ground beef in onions and garlic and a bunch of other stuff. After I had made the “basic ground beef” mixture, I then divided it into thirds and used one third to make the most gorgeous spaghetti sauce I’ve ever tasted (don’t tell my mom – she’s got a family recipe that I’m afraid I probably won’t ever cook again…). So after eating spaghetti for dinner, I’ve still got half of that sauce left over, which is currently wedged into my freezer. But the magic is, I’ve also got two more pounds of already cooked beef! One pound I froze to create something different with later (most likely chili con carne, if Richard gets his way), and the other I’ll make a cottage pie with for tomorrow’s dinner – which most likely will give us even more leftovers! So with the great deal from our butcher (3 lbs for 5 pounds), and the fresh ingredients from in town, each meal (about six) will cost about five pounds to make – that’s practically nothing!

Now, I’m not the kind of person who could spend day after day in the kitchen cooking for hours on end. If we had a window in the kitchen, maybe, but with nothing too entertaining in there, I tend to avoid it for long periods of time. Which makes this plan the perfect solution! Sure, I spent hours upon hours in the kitchen yesterday, but tomorrow’s cottage pie will take me about thirty minutes or so to create (not including cooking time), and I’ve already got nearly pre-made meals ready to go in the fridge and freezer – hoorah!

I’m currently folding down page corners in my new cookbook, and finally excited about cooking again – Richard couldn’t be happier!

Stealing off to Richard's Folks (or...stealing from them)

2009-10-12T02:09:00.000-07:00

I love visiting my in-laws. Not only are they lovely people, but they also make one great tasting Sunday lunch. After the oven incident on Saturday, Richard and I called them and left them a message that basically begged them to have us over on Sunday. They did, and they cooked the most wonderful tasting steak and kidney pie for lunch. I LOVE home-cooked meals! With a glass or two of red wine, a few cups of tea, and a jam roly-poly for afters, we both had serious thoughts about moving back in with them before the desert was even served.

Not only are they great cooks and wonderful company, but they are also great for mooching off of! By the time we left we had a couple courgettes (zucchini), onions, and apples from their allotment, a few magazines and catalogues to troll through, a bag of firewood for our wood burner, some cooked beetroot for packed lunches, a packet of chocolate-covered shortbread cookies, and some more bulbs to plant in our little garden – we had to make two trips to the car!

I can only imagine what else we would have made off with if we had stayed longer…at least they can be assured we’ll always visit!

H-ovens to Betsy!

2009-10-11T02:06:00.000-07:00

On Saturday Richard decided our sink and oven was just not stainless-silvery enough, and bought this awful stuff to clean them with. While cleaning the top of the oven he accidentally got cleaning goop into the ignition button that ignites the gas burners, and once our oven was gleaming and we tried to make a cup of tea, the switch seemed to get stuck and just kept click, click, click, clicking. We turned off the power to the oven and waited for the button to dry out, but after an hour we flicked the switch to power the oven and it continued to click, click, click. Half an hour later and oven parts were strewn all over the kitchen – on the counter tops, floor, and table. Richard found the part that has been irreversibly damaged by cleaning goo, and reconnected everything back up. So at least with some long matches we can use our oven again!

Of course during this whole demolition experience all I could do was think about what we would have for dinner that night – and realized we would starve without our oven. We don’t have a microwave, and toast and cereal isn’t exactly worthy of dinner. I started trying to think of things we could eat to avoid going to a restaurant or ordering a takeaway, which would involve ruining the budget we’ve been trying to stick to (albeit only for a week or two now, but still). All I came up with was this:

Starter: Cheddar cheese and stale crackers
Main: Toast with butter and jam and a bowl of cereal
Desert: Half an apple and half a brown-spotted banana

Thankfully Richard did get the oven working again, although I’m sure he’ll be using this experience as an excuse not to clean...

Harold and Maude

2009-10-09T07:38:00.000-07:00

One of my favourite movies has got to be Harold and Maude. I love everything about the movie – the multiple fake-suicide attempts, the gorgeous e-type hearse, the Cat Stevens soundtrack…just everything about this movie makes me smile and feel happy.

I identify with Harold’s love of all things morbid, and when I was sixteen I was determined to buy myself a hearse as a first car. Unfortunately my parents were paying half and I ended up with an ugly maroon Honda instead. I still regret that, because there is no way I could get away with driving a hearse around now that I’m no longer a teenager. Besides, parking over here is far more difficult than in America, and I have trouble parallel parking as it is…

But anyways, I watched the movie online yesterday for probably the eighteenth time, and I haven’t been able to stop smiling since. I’ve got a Cat Stevens record playing in the background and I’m thinking we should all try and be a little bit more like Maude – replanting dying city trees back in the forest, sniffing a fresh New York snowfall on a smell-machine, playing the piano while singing and dancing in the living room, and making scary faces and doing summersaults outside on the fresh green grass.

Of course she isn’t the perfect role model – she does steal countless cars (including a policeman’s motorcycle), attends strangers’ funerals, and in the end she commits suicide – but still…her belief that we should do our best to really live this life we’ve been given, not to mention the young, hot Bud Cort she has courting her (I do realise he’s old now so my crush is based solely on this film), makes me aspire to be just a little more like Maude.

Now all I have to do is find a dying tree somewhere in town.

…if you want to sing out, sing out, and if you want to be free be free…

Most of the time I think my family is nuts. Once in a while, I get a confirmation…

2009-10-08T03:50:00.000-07:00

My brother, who I rarely talk to (we mostly find out about each other through our folks, and since they’re fairly good at giving us the gossip, we don’t find much use in contacting each other directly…), sent me an e-mail the other day. In it, he asked if I could keep a secret, and in the next sentence he said he’s going to propose to his girlfriend in December.

Now, most sisters would be delighted with the news that their brother is finally taking a wife after twenty-eight years, settling down, and putting down roots. But you see, my brother has already done this. About four years ago. And that marriage ended in divorce just barely a year ago. So the fact that he’s intending to marry again, and after only dating this girl for nine months, makes me flabbergasted, confused, and…well…un-delighted.

But what can I do? We’re not close, and he’s not asking my opinion on the matter, only to keep his secret for him. I assume he’s expecting a, “Congratulations, that’s great news!” as a reply, but the only phrase that comes to mind is, “Are you NUTS?!” and I can’t possibly reply with that. And so…

It’s the second day I’ve had this e-mail, just sitting there in my inbox pressuring me to be supportive. But my honesty (usually barefaced and without concern for repercussions) gene is a hard one to ignore. So I’m trying to figure out just what to say without having to admit I think this is the worst idea since un-sliced bread.

By the way, I have NEVER kept a secret.

Coffee-Cravings

2009-10-07T05:07:00.000-07:00

There are days when all I can do is think of the things I miss about living in Canada, and other days when all I can do is think of the things I miss about living in Atlanta. Today is an Atlanta-missing day, and today, I miss coffee shops.

The thing is, I’m not even a big coffee drinker. I love tea, as mentioned in a previous posting. But I do like the occasional cup of coffee – real coffee – and even though I’m just going to pour far too much sugar into it and drown what’s left in milk, I like the “idea” of coffee. I miss walking down the street, buying a paper or carrying a book with me, and sitting in a coffee shop not reading at all and instead just people-watching over the smell of coffee beans and various sugary syrups.

And so, I miss the Starbucks, Seattle’s Bests, Caribous and various other little shops that served pre-made (or preferably hand-made) cakes and cookies and served delicious hot coffees and cappuccinos and mochas and lattes. Don’t get me wrong – they do have Starbucks and the like over here, but only in big towns. Ours is not a big town, I’m afraid. We do have two café-like places, where they serve breakfast and lunch, and they do offer espresso-made drinks. But they close too early in the day, the tables are too close together and too small to fit a newspaper, and they, like every other place over here, are closed on Sundays (another rant for another day!).

Not to mention, they don’t serve coffee. No really, they don’t. They have espresso machines and no coffee makers, and if you ask for a coffee you’ll end up with a watered down espresso, which is bitter, watery, and just not…coffee.

In fact, I’m sure that’s why there is such a dedicated “pub” culture over here, and why people go to pubs in the evenings to meet up with friends and head to a pub on a Sunday with a paper in hand. Surely this must be the reason, and although I’m not quite ready to brave going to a pub at ten-thirty in the morning to read a book and people-watch, I admit I’m fairly close.

So today, as I sit in one of the local cafés drinking over-stewed tea and trying to avoid being elbowed by the elderly man sitting at the table next to me reading his huge paper that is quickly creeping onto my table-space, I’ll be thinking of you, Atlanta, and your wonderful coffee shops on every corner. And yes, people may joke about there being a Starbucks on every corner and within every twenty-two steps of sidewalk in America, but what I wouldn’t do for a lovely cup of real coffee right now…

Boredom

2009-10-07T05:05:00.000-07:00

Although I am still technically employed with a supply teaching company, I haven’t had any work since last July. I did expect this to happen – after all, this time last year I hadn’t worked at all either and didn’t get any work until the end of October. Not to mention that last year at this time I had been living with the in-laws for over eight months, so it was much, much harder to survive. Not that my in-laws aren’t lovely – they are – but they lived in this teeny tiny village and only had five television channels, so my options of entertainment were few and to be honest, mostly soul-sucking.

So I am happy to be in my own home, in our own little town, although completely bored out of my skull. Not having money is no fun. We borrowed the deposit for our little house from Richard’s folks, and although they aren’t demanding about the money and haven’t put us on a payment schedule or anything like that, Richard and I both would love to pay them off as quickly as possible, since we both don’t like the guilt that comes with owing money.

That being said, we did spend the last two months going out every weekend, seeing various friends, attending concerts and music festivals, and generally spending all of our money as if we had a crotchety old sugar-daddy supporting the both of us. And now that we’ve become accustomed to the life we have just had the pleasure of living these past few months, not going out on the weekends, eating lots of casseroles, and avoiding the movie theatres and pubs is a bit draining (But thankfully, not on our wallets, so at least we’re saving money again).

Back to the point – I’m bored. I’ve tried walking around the town that we live in, but once you’ve done it once…well, it doesn’t get much more interesting than that. I’ve tried cooking, and in fact roasted a chicken last night and made the perfect gravy and vegetables and blueberry galette for desert, but with our tiny kitchen, and our lack of a dishwasher means I won’t be doing that again right away. Driving to the mall twenty minutes away is no longer an option, as the fall collections of clothes are looking gorgeous and seeing them and their hefty price tags will only get me down. So…my current options include knitting, reading a book (although I am nearly finished with it, the book I am currently reading is one I’m no longer interested in and at this point, I just want to finish it, which means an un-enjoyable experience) watching t.v., meandering through the internet, and cleaning our house. And that last one is added to that list purely as a joke.

So I’ve been knitting…a lot. I wish I were faster at it. I’m still on my snood, and although it looks great, it’s still only about halfway done. Of course my dream job is one where I work from home and get paid for doing something creative (although I haven’t figured that part out just yet) that I love and enjoy, and knitting might one day fall into that category, but with my completion time averaging just over one piece per year (two pairs of slippers in 2007, a beautiful wrap in 2008, and now the 2009 snood), I don’t think there’s a lot of profit in that just yet.

Which brings me to my original point – although technically employed, I am currently jobless, and bored, and tired of being jobless and bored. And I just thought you’d like to know.

Glorious Tea

2009-10-07T04:58:00.000-07:00

There is nothing I like better than a huge cup of tea and a crunchy biscuit to dip into it. My hands are usually cold due to my poor circulation (my blood is like a nun and her sex-life – she doesn’t get around – ha!), and holding a cup or mug of tea is just the thing to warm me to the core. It’s the only way to wake me up in a decent mood in the morning, it’s the perfect afternoon pick-me-up, and it’s a great way to end a day with. I admit – I’m addicted, and will eventually have horribly stained yellow teeth because of it, but I’ve accepted that fact and many of the other consequences of tea drinking.

I did try to give up tea once, with distressing results. I remember telling Richard I was going to give up tea, and the look of shock on his face, followed by his clammy palms on my forehead to see if I had a fever, followed by the short burst of laughter, somehow made me even more determined to give the stuff up. So I did it – I gave up tea. The first day went well, and I thought my cold-turkey decision a good one. Turns out I just had enough tea-remnants in my system that my body did not realize I had given it up. Day two gave me a horrible headache in the afternoon, and by day three I had a constant headache from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep – at about 8:30pm that night. I was sleepy in the afternoon, cranky in the mornings and evenings, and generally unpleasant to be and to be around. By day four I was seeing clearly again, with just a dull ache in my skull, and after a week and a half I actually felt better than ever! I also felt awful for having put something in my body that could cause physiological changes in me – I had become so accustomed to my tea-fix that my body no longer knew how to wake up without making me cranky, and so used to tea that without it my body went through withdrawal symptoms!

Of course, my tea-cravings came surging back, and a few weeks later after a hard day at work, I had half a cup – just something to ease me out of the day I had been having. The next morning, I was brought a cup of tea in bed and had just a few sips – nothing that admitted defeat. Of course now, a year or so later, I am back up to two or three a day (which is a huge decrease from the six cups I was previously used to), and still have the urge to give up caffeine for good, but I’m putting that off for a while. I’ve got other things to worry about, and if one day I don’t have anything else to worry or think about, then that will be the day I can concentrate on giving up tea. Until then, I’ll put the kettle on and open up a new pack of biscuits.

Off the Radar

2009-10-07T04:56:00.000-07:00

I haven’t answered any e-mails, have left the house only a few times to buy groceries or mail a letter or get some fresh air, and haven’t done much of anything for about a week now. I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, due to a lack of supply work I’m sure, and so I’ve been avoiding making contact with the outside world. Hey…it happens. But I’m back now and feeling more positive about life in general, and with all these positive thoughts comes the desire to write and share – so enjoy the surge of posts today – there’s bound to be a couple!

I'll trade you a bad thyroid for a bad temper.

2009-09-30T06:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went for a jog, and it felt GREAT. I was out in the slightly-chilly air, my lungs were burning, and my legs felt like jelly. I get home, feeling that lovely jogger's high, feeling as if this one jog has turned it all around for me and from then on I'll be this wonderfully fit and healthy person, and walk up the stairs to take a shower. And on the second-to-last step, my leg buckles.

I try to forget about it. After all, it doesn't hurt, so why worry? But all I can do is think about it. I'm not worried that I should be eating more oily fish and drinking more milk. I'm not worried I'll have arthritis when I'm older. I'm not worried I should ease into exercise instead of killing myself one day every week or so. Nope, instead, I'm worried I'm becoming my mother.

My mother. My mother has heart problems, thyroid problems, stomach problems, arthritis problems, and the list goes on. When I was little I used to joke about it with my friends, calling her a hypochondriac and playing, "guess how many pills my mom takes," always winning by twenty or more. I used to tell people it started with a headache she had when she was twelve, and the pills she was given caused another problem in her body, so she was given a pill for that, which caused another problem, and so on. The joke was that if she stopped taking everything, she'd be exactly the same as she is now, but with more room in her purse.

The truth is, now that I'm getting older, and have her hips, her stubbornness, and most of her facial features (as a child I looked just like my dad, and was content to look like that forever as long as I didn't grow a beard or go bald), I'm now adopting other aspects of her that I'd rather not get. I mean sure, I avoided getting her nose (she had rhinoplasty when she was sixteen, and judging by my brother's nose, I understand why), but what horrible things won't I be able to avoid? Will it just be the achy knees after exercise, or will it be something worse?

A few years ago I gave up. I had tried desperately for years to become someone completely opposite from my mother, but with each year that passed I realised there was no way of getting around it, and decided to embrace the positive things I like about my mother and try not to focus so hard on the aspects I'd rather omit from my genetic makeup. This has been working very well for me so far, but each time my knee cracks or I get a bad heachache, I can't help but wish I could pick and choose which genes I get. I might be more accepting of my ridiculous stubbornness or manipulative nature if I knew I could avoid a heart attack when I'm older...

Becoming a Runner

2009-09-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

I'd really like to be a runner. I'm not, though.

I think it started when I was around eight or nine years old. My mom took me to a tailors to get measured and when I asked her why, she gave me the excuse that my grandmother wanted a tailor-made track suit for me. I have no idea WHY I believed that gosh-awful excuse, and thinking about it now, well...wow. But at the end of the day, I went to sleep dreaming that I'd take life more seriously (than I had already been at age nine of course) and become a professional runner. I became so excited about my birthday present from my grandmother, and could not wait to tear open that wrapping paper and begin my new runner's life.

Of course, when I opened up the paper I found the most hideous plaid dress, complete with puffy sleeves and a white pinafore - this was for a girl who had always felt disdain towards dresses and skirts and white socks with lace around the tops - and I remember it was so difficult for me to smile and say thank you as my parents joked about the track suit and how they'd fooled me.

I always think about that horrid dress when I jog - I think about how silly I was to think that if my grandmother had bought me a track suit instead of a fluffy dress, how I might be running marathons by now. As if buying me a horse would have made me a world-famous jockey too, or buying me a great bike would've made me a female version of Lance Armstrong or something.

The thing is, I still want to be a runner. I've bought myself the track suit, I've got the best shoes I can afford, and my ipod is filled with songs fit for running. And although I wake up and mosey downstairs to the couch most mornings with a huge cup of tea, there are some mornings when I think about taking life more seriously and persuade myself to put on those shoes and go for a jog, and afterwards I feel that "runner's high" and feel so great about myself and about life. I would love to have a more dedicated routine than that, but I'm working on it.

Today, however, I just took a picture of my shoes. Small steps towards a great routine, I'm sure.

Mail Call

2009-09-24T07:06:00.000-07:00

I love mail. There is something wonderful about our friendly postman and his dog wandering around town on his bicycle delivering cards and packages. And when I see him coming towards our door, I get this lovely warm buzz in my chest - I just love getting something in the post.

Today I got a lovely package from my good friend Sally. She and I have been writing back and forth to each other for almost two years now - we both agree that a handwritten note or card is so much more fun to get than an e-mail, even if we do have to wait a little longer for news to arrive. Of course, if there is something especially exciting going on, we can't help but send the quick e-mail, but we try hard not to.

So today I am all smiles, I've got some nifty little presents and a lovely note about their new puppy Harry and how he's settling in.

I just love mail.

A Wrap and a Snood

2009-09-22T04:40:00.000-07:00

After checking the bank account this morning, the past two months have been wonderfully entertaining - we've spent every single weekend away from our little house, either in London, Oxford, Reading, and even the Isle of Wight! - but also, incredibly expensive. Hotel rooms, dinners out, new clothes, wedding presents - we have definitely been living beyond our means.

It probably doesn't help that I haven't had any supply-teaching work since July, but let's not play the blame game...Basically, we are both really looking forward to the start of October, as it will mean a paycheck in the bank and something to eat other than beans on toast.

But in the meantime, during the few remaining days of September, I intend to finish my two knitting projects that I've been working on for far too long now. One is a wrap, which I only need to "finish" (I need to hide all the stray yarns and iron it flat), and the other is a snood (a scarf/hood mixture), which I'm a quarter of the way through knitting (see picture).

If I don't manage to finish them both in the next week, at least trying to will keep me inside and away from the urge to spend money!

The Big Twenty-Six

2009-09-22T04:12:00.000-07:00

So I turned twenty-six last week. I know, I know, it shouldn't be a big deal. I mean, I'm still wrinkle-free, there are no grey hairs on the top of my head, and I'm the youngest out of all the friends I hang out with. But...there's still something awful about turning twenty-six for me.

I read somewhere when I was a teenager that by the time you're twenty-five, your bones have stopped growing, and shortly afterwards, your ability to absorb calcium starts to decline. Now, I'm not freaking out that I'm going to get osteoporosis when I'm older, and I'm not worried about my health or anything like that.

But age twenty-five for me was a really great buffer. It meant that I could drink bucket-loads of alcohol when I was eighteen and tell myself the lack of milk I drank wasn't a problem; that I would make up for it before I was twenty-five. It meant that when I put on a couple pounds I could tell myself not to worry; that I could still lose weight as easily as when I was little as long as I was under twenty-five. It meant I could live unhealthily and exactly how I wanted to without having to face the consequences. The "Until Age Twenty-Five" barrier I had going meant I had one really great excuse to do whatever I wanted, eat whatever I wanted, and be whatever I wanted - I felt like I still had tons of time to...well, be a teenager.

I guess turning twenty-six for me means that I'm officially an adult, and my great excuse has ended. So if I don't go for a run in the morning, it's not because I don't have to worry about it until I'm over age twenty-five...it's because I'm lazy. And if I don't drink milk I can no longer make it up later - I've just got to admit I'm calcium-deprived. Sigh...

The thing is, it isn't really a huge deal turning twenty-six, and I guess I'm almost over it. Sure my big excuse is gone, and I'm just who I am. The truth is, if I really wanted to change something about myself I should just do it now, not later, right?

I mean geez, it's not like I'm thirty...

I know it's early, but...

2009-09-16T06:02:00.000-07:00

...today I can't stop thinking about Christmas.

In the past week or so the weather has turned autumnal - it is definitely NOT summer anymore. There is a slight wind and a bit of a chill in the air, and the sky just doesn't seem as blue. Strawberries don't taste as good anymore, and corn on the cobb is just starting to taste great.

This has got to be my favourite season. I love sweaters, light jackets, and wrapping up on the couch at night in a warm blanket. I love going to bed when the sheets are cold, and I love watching more and more birds visit our yard to eat all the easy pickings during the day. I love the hot comfort meals, the extra bit of weight society lets one pack on during this time of year, and the feeling of change in the air.

This year we're visiting my parents for Christmas, and today I've been trying to work out dates and flights and things like that, hense the thoughts of Christmas. Last year we moved over to England, got married, and bought a house, so Christmas was very short-lived and felt almost non-existant. But this year will be the first year we go back to Atlanta to visit my family, and I just know my mom is going to make a HUGE deal of it all. Which I hate...but secretly can't wait for.

Christmas is my mom's favourite holiday. She has a collection of ugly Christmas sweaters that are so embroidered and embellished you forget she's wearing Christmas earings, too. She makes a gingerbread house, puts out a miniature Christmas village, and decorates the house with every single decoration she's ever had - AND she buys new ones every year. So basically, the house feels smaller, which always makes it feel a bit more...cosy. There are always cookies and candies, my dad always turns the air-conditioning on so he can light the fire, and there is various types of Christmas music playing twenty-four hours a day once December first comes 'round. My mom ALWAYS cries at Christmas too, which I used to find disturbing, considering how much she says she loves the holiday, but now I kind of understand. Her dad, my grandfather, used to love Christmas, and I think she gets a bit emotional because she's still mourning the fact that for her, Christmas will never be the same as when she was a little girl.

Although I can't wait to some day enjoy my own family Christmas, with its own excentricities and traditions, I do enjoy knowing that, at least once a year, everything goes back to the way it was when I was little, and I get spoiled rotten and don't get yelled at for acting like a little kid.

So I've got something to look forward to for the last few months of the year, which makes this change in the weather even more wonderful. I know it is WAY too early to be thinking about Christmas already, but with last year's rush with everything, this year I might just milk the season for a while...of course I won't put on the Christmas records yet, but maybe I could start on my list...

Bestival Weekend

2009-09-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my husband and I got back from Bestival, a music festival held on the Isle of Wight, and I am still a bit achy from sleeping on the ground for three nights in a row. It was SO great though, and eventually I'll forget about the misery of trying to fall asleep when people are making noise until 5:00 in the morning.

We saw some AMAZING bands, including Elbow, The Fleet Foxes, Florence and The Machine, and Introducing, which is a band that plays the album "Introducing" by DJ Shadow live - I couldn't begin to explain how great they were. We even made it to (nearly) the front of the stage for the last show on Sunday which, for two shorties like us, was a massive achievement (that and not being crushed in the thrall of people pushing and heaving around us).

I have to admit, I never really understood why people went to concerts before this past weekend. Being short, I never really saw much of the band, I always ended up near a speaker and so felt like my heart might explode at any minute (I've read somewhere that everything can explode if vibrated at just the right pitch, and I really don't want to be the first person to shatter like a wine glass...), and went home with ringing in my ears that stayed for days. But for some reason, even though I was incredibly close to the stage and the speakers and the band itself, I didn't experience any of the usual horrors that would normally make me want to trade my tickets in for a duvet and a record playing in the background...it was SO great!

So anyways, there wasn't just music at this festival. There were multiple tents featuring all sorts of music, from the rave tent, to the club tent, to the polka tent, which was quite an experience in itself. But besides music there was also this great round wooden tent-like place where they taught different dances in the afternoon - I can now do the running man very badly, as well as the Roger Rabbit (also very badly). There was a burlesque tent, also teaching one how to dance, but I couldn't convince Richard that that might be a skill he'd one day need to know. There was even a ferris wheel and a few other rides there, which taught me a few things: One, if you're famous, like Kate Moss, then you don't have to wait in line for a ride. Two, if you happen to be on the ferris wheel at the same time Kate Moss is, then you get an extra long ride. And Three, if you're scared of heights, you should probably steer clear of the ferris wheel (a lesson that I would have rather learned on a shorter ride, but with Kate Moss on it, the fear seemed to go on, and on, and on...).

Other than the different places to go and the various things to do, the food there was surprisingly GOOD. I mean so good that I was tempted to ask for recipes at some of the booths. We had this amazing pulled pork sandwhich with stuffing, apple sauce, and gravy, and I swear I have never tasted anything so heavenly. I plan on making my own version very shortly!

Next year if we go, we'll probably have to buy a new tent - ours is really just meant for one person, which means we were a bit squeezed in there, and the festival was thrown on this farmer's fields, which means the ground was ridiculously hard and lumpy, which is not something you want to sleep on three nights in a row. Also, we might invest in some earplugs. Not for me, mind you, because I didn't have a problem falling asleep at all (not that I ever do), but Richard looked like he hadn't slept at all by the time Monday morning came 'round.

Overall, a brilliant way to spend a weekend, and once my back stops hurting, and this cold I've caught goes away, I'm sure I'll remember the experience even more fondly.

Weird and Ugly Stuff

2009-09-10T08:04:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, our house had this cosy basement that seemed to be dedicated to my parent's life before they had children. It was filled with the furniture they adopted when they had first been married, and had various nic-nacs, records, books, and photo albums stored on all the shelves.

I remember looking through all of those photographs and being in such awe of my parents - they looked like they were having so much fun in those pictures, hanging out with their friends and lying by the pool in those awful brown-and-orange swimsuits - I just couldn't believe why they would ruin all of that by having my older brother and me!

Anyways, on this one shelf there was this really weird and ugly brown candle that was in the shape of an owl, and these lovely little hand-sewn owls my husband Richard bought for me made me think about that cosy basement and all of the "stuff" my parents had before their lives became cluttered with baby toys and books and clothes. In a way, it makes me think about how great I have it now - I'm twenty-five years old, married, and my husband and I enjoy the little life we've built together. We've got our own photo albums filled with friends and fun times by the pool, and although we've talked about having children, I quite like the idea of being on our own for a little while longer, so we may keep collecting our own weird "stuff" that our future kids will remember as weird and ugly. Although seriously? How could they not like those owls.

To-Do Lists

2009-09-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

There is real satisfaction in checking off things on a to-do list, and for some reason I can't seem to get anything done unless I've first written it down. Often I forget how much I need and rely on these scraps of paper which equate into little bursts of positive self-reinforcement, and if I haven't written one in a while, once I do I feel an overwhelming sense of relief and structure and self-esteem.

It might sound crazy, but for some reason I need a to-do list in my life, something to ground me and help me cope with whatever life might throw at me. At the moment I am unemployed and confused about what I'd like to do as a career for the next forty years, and although the rest of my life is fairly close to perfect, some days are ridiculously boring and soul-sucking, which cause me to be unable to do anything. And I mean ANYTHING.

So today I made a to-do list, which I haven't done in a while, and wrote down even the most obvious of things for myself to do, such as showering and making the bed. After completing those two easy ones, just the sight of two little filled-in circles made me want to complete the rest. I guess what they say is true - if you take a difficult task (like getting through the day with sanity) and break it into smaller pieces, it doesn't seem so hard to complete.

Write first new blog post - check!