A Romantic Gesture

It’s half-way through February and I have finally gotten the hang of writing 13 instead of 12, so I thought the time was ripe for a ‘New year-new me’ post.  Maybe throw in a little Valentine's love.

Then I wrote this…


I didn't make any new year’s resolutions this year.  I figure with a new house and a baby on the way, this coming year is already going to be a long list of unmet expectations and goals so why pile on more self-inflicted guilt.

The older I get (because, you know, at 34 I’m aged and wise now) the less I find myself making sweeping proclamations or grand plans about who I am or will be.  I find life has a way of laughing at these kinds of gestures anyway.  What’s the saying?

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”

Little did I know when I made that high school art project emblazoned with this Beatles lyric that it would turn out to be the most poignant of life lessons for me time and time again.  I believe I have mentioned before how I have a tendency to become doggedly stubborn about a chosen glamorous, worthy of a rom-com script, life path and then become witheringly depressed when it doesn't pan out.* What I have slowly come to accept about my life is that the daily negotiations of everyday life, punctuated by occasional big decisions and leaps, actually created a very lovely life. Strangely, this realization is very close to the subject matter of my PhD. You know, one of those stubbornly-held-on-to rom-com plot points which now sits unread on maybe three bookshelves (mine and my parents’ included).

That being said, there are some things on the year long To-Do list and most revolve around Pruin and need to be done in the next two months because I’m giving myself the second half of the year off. If at next Christmas Pete and I are still looking adoringly into one another’s eyes (or at the very least can still stand to look one another in the eye after seven months of baby and resident in-laws) and the house is still standing and the baby alive, I will count it a successful year.

It’s the simple things, really.

The biggest item on the To-Do list (which coincidentally illustrates the ‘life is what happens’ discussion above) is officially changing to my married name.


*GASP*  cue shock and horror


I’m over the whole ‘should-a-woman-change-her-name-after-marriage debate/anxiety.’ Do it, don’t do it.  It’s no skin off my back. Yes, it’s a bummer that it is assumed the woman will take this action and that it is her place to do it. Yes, I can see the argument that it is a ‘feminist’ issue. However, there are so many more pressing feminist issues which involve extreme bodily violence, injustice and death that I can’t jump on this particular ‘first-world feminist’ bandwagon.

I waited at least a year into our marriage to even take the first steps due to over-zealous relations crying out ‘Mrs. Hislast, Mrs.Hislast’ moments after the ceremony and every time I was in proximity thereafter.  I mean, I had only just earned ‘Dr. Mylast’ two weeks prior and it was already getting swept under the table.  I had a year of angst around how changing my name would be losing my identity. It was all very rom-com, internal-conflict, fake-drama worthy.

I briefly tried the professional vs. personal name game. That was a worthless experiment as I have no professional life, but no ‘official photo id’ proof of the personal name.

Picking up packages at the Post Office became a real bitch of an experience.

I won’t lie, those experiences, which involved an over abundance of paperwork and tears, went a long way to sealing the decision for me.  (Is it really necessary to drag the marriage certificate, a property tax bill and both our passports to the office for a package from my in-laws? This is not a matter of national, or even postal, security. JUST GIVE ME THE DAMN CROSS STITCH!)  The imminent arrival of Pruin took me the rest of the way.

We already hold two different passports with two different names. Our visa applications are slightly more complicated because we have different names. We already cross customs in different lines because we don’t share nationality or name.  I wasn't going to add another small body to that confusion. I also am not going to saddle my kid with a double-barreled last name (my own double-barrel is the root of most of the name angst) along with double passports. If we are going to continue this international life we are going to do it as a family.  In name as well as biology.

Most importantly, I now want to change my name. My time with Pete and our life together are the best things to happen in my life and are the reason all those little daily negotiations of everyday life add up to a very lovely life.


Why not commemorate that little bit of wonderful with a mountain of confusing paperwork, an embassy, numerous international phone calls spent on hold at £1.50/minute and a governmental office visit?




** there are too many of these 'woe is me' posts to highlight and, really, who wants to remember, or read, privileged whining?

Virtual Reality

A year ago I was in a dark place. 

(I may have mentioned it a few times before.)

One of the places I turned for a bit of sympathy (or at the very least similar dark places) was the interwebs.  I somehow stumbled upon a wedding planning website.  I was searching ‘life transition blogs’ and the wormhole that is the interwebs sent me to A Practical Wedding.  I was done with the wedding stuff.  So very done.  But there seemed to be a bit of a kindred community there so I stuck around. 

This virtual community led me to other smart women looking for a bit of non-partisan advice and banter, virtually.  But funnily enough, some of those ‘virtual’ ladies became very real ladies and very dear friends.  Friends that join you on a mid-week runaway to Bath.  Send corny and fabulous postcards from the MidWest.  Brave the Christmas Crazies to go ice skating.  Send you good thoughts and baked goods when you go through one of the hardest moments of your life.    

I have since moved on from the original website, but I stuck with the smart, sassy ladies.  So when some of these virtual friends decided to organize an international gift exchange.  I was on board.  I was a bit nervous.  No lie.  I wasn’t familiar with everyone taking part but they seem good seeds so why not?

I was intimidated by my giftee.  But I sallied forth to my local market and did some browsing and digging and amazingly enough found the perfect thing.  Afterwards I realized that most of the lovely ladies were crafting their gifts and I felt like I cheated a bit.  However, I decided to go with my skill set and that is not crafting.  I do however have browsing my local market down to a science. 

So I sent it off.  Realizing after the fact that I didn’t actually wrap it and feeling like a real shit.  As luck would have it, she loved it anyway.  Phew!!

Now it was time to wait for my package.  Again, the nerves.  But not about the gift.  About Royal Mail.  No gift-giving occasion goes by without the Royal Mail and I butting heads.  It has become a tradition.  I don’t mean to criticize, but how is that a country that once ruled the globe cannot manage to deliver a package five blocks. 

Wednesday, a very large package appeared at my door.  I didn’t recognize the name and suddenly realized, THIS IS IT!!!  Greedily, I dove into the green packing peanuts to find…..

Maps and Maples. 

I got over my initial giddiness and on closer examination realized that the map coasters were personalized.  They were places that were incredible meaningful to me.  HOW COOL!!!!

And lovely lady that my gifter is, she also included a bit of herself.  A map of her home state and the signature tree and accompanying syrup.  What she couldn’t have known, but which makes it all the more cool, is the personal connection I have with maple leaves. 

A maple leaf immediately takes me back to 687 Dunny Ave.   My childhood home is fronted by two huge Silver Maples.  They produced a maddening amount of leaves which in turn produced the highest and biggest leaf pile for blocks around.  (Which, let’s face it, as a kid is pretty much your entire world.) Jumping in the leaf mountain until it was reduced to a mound of leaf bits (and the following chore of having to then rake the leaf bits back into a pile and transport to the compost heap) is a fairly prominent memory of that house.   

Once again, the interwebs are proven wonderful and full of lovely ladies with not only sass, but good taste and great crafting skills. 

As my virtual-recently-turned-real-friend Anna would say, ‘HUZZAH!’

...and a very Happy Holiday season. 

Balance is Restored

This is what Pete said as we snuggled in under the duvet, in our own flat, on our own couch watching our own (very tiny) TV. 

Our life can go back to its regularly scheduled monotony.  I can’t wait. 

However, as I stumbled into the house after a day of travelling that included three hours of fairly intense turbulence, 2 bouts of airplane toilet puking and about 1 million pissed-off London commuters, it felt oddly familiar.  Odd in that I caught myself second-guessing my reflex actions.  Is this actually the silverware drawer?  Has Pete switched up food storage while I was away?  And of course, it was and, he hasn’t.  But while I was unpacking and putting my stuff away I was also tidying the kitchen and house, reasserting my place in our life and daily upkeep. 

It was unconscious and completely fabulous!!  I was exhausted and achey, but I was smiling and content. 

Before the marvellous monotony sets in, I’m onto the business of an international Christmas.  We are home this season but there are cards and packages to send off before the end of the week to ensure that the post office has plenty of time to re-route everything through Newfoundland. 

With love from sender

I'm from mid-west US.  Pete is from Auckland, NZ.  We live in London, UK.

How do you maintain your relationship with family when its divided between three countries? *

Do you…

a)      Make regular Skype dates and yell at each other while staring at a jumpy picture of your loved ones and the occasional confused cat.

b)      Answer the phone despite it ringing at the most inconvenient times (I mean they have uncanny timing) and let dinner (or partner) go cold because it’s the least you can do since you decided to live halfway around the world.

c)       Dutifully read every piece of news lovingly clipped and sent every few weeks, sometimes with photos, and realize that the clippings are doing the exact opposite of what the grannies/aunties/mums intended.  Instead of enticing you ‘back home’ you realize you have no idea what is going on ‘back home’ and aren’t entirely sure you can go back.  

d)      Regularly do battle with Royal Mail/Parcel Force in order to track down and receive the packages sent by family every month (and vice versa).  Packages which regularly go ‘missing’ or arrive broken to such a degree that they obviously were involved in an impromptu cricket and/or rugby match between RM and PF carriers.  Then gamely attempt to find room for all those coffeetable books (you don’t have a coffeetable), blankets, pillows, framed photos, lamps, flatware, etc…that do make it through unscathed.

e)      All of the above.

*I am stretching the truth here a bit for entertainment purposes.  We love that our families are thinking of us.  We know you love us and miss us.  Rest assured that we are thinking of you just as frequently and love you just as much.  However, we live in a very small rental flat with no storage.  Save yourself the postage.  The amount you are dropping on sending packages and/or newspaper clippings half-way around the world every month could pay for a plane ticket and you could tell us in person.  Seriously.  

On storms, silicon and showing up

I have insomnia.  I’ve had it for years.  A few years ago I used to use a thunderstorm CD to help me fall asleep.  Then I joined the circus.  Thunderstorms ( and rain in general) now give me panic attacks.  I’m not joking. 

When you live in a circus you are basically living outside.  The only thing that stands between you and the elements is a bit of fibreglass, a layer of insulation and some tacky wallpaper or woodeffect wall covering.  Also, most RVs and house trailers are made to be driven on highways to a campground and parked a few times a year.  Driving an RV over almost every road condition known to man and off-roading on a daily basis and parking on unlevel and unstable surfaces is not the way to maintain the vehicle.  Also, these vehicles are meant to be in used in pleasurable weather and stored away from the elements in the not so great weather.  This is not possible when in the circus. 

In my few months on the circus, my motorhome and I experienced snow and freezing temperatures, blazing hot temperatures, high winds and tornado warnings, and lots and lots and lots of rain.  In my first weeks I woke to a sopping wet couch and carpet more than once.  I slept on my couch because my bed was wet from a new leak numerous times and on days when the rain was relentless and I was stuck in my house all day, I would exhaust entertain myself by wringing out dish towels and calculating leak rates. 

Eventually, I became a bit better at preparing for and dealing with precipitation.  After setting up each morning, it was not unusually to see me on my roof with a silicon gun patching leaking seals.  By the time I left the road, every window on my house had been re-sealed with silicon at least twice.  I became obsessed with weather forecasts  (like everyone else on the show) and finally found a practical use for all those cloud quizzes from my undergrad meteorology course.  On days which rain was predicted I took precautionary measures by levelling my house in such a way to direct water runoff toward the strongest seals and away from problem areas and positioning towels under particularly stubborn leaks.

However, no matter how prepared I was for the actual water, I could never prepare for or eliminate the sound.  For some reason, no one has yet to be able to explain it to me, rain hitting a motorhome is deafening.  The incessant sound of pounding rain would drive me crazy.  On the rare occasions that I had no leaks and could escape to a friends’ house, I would be amazed at their acoustics.  If not for the inescapable dampness, you would never had known it was raining. 

In our current flat, when it rains, it sounds like being back in the motorhome and I suddenly go into leak anxiety mode.  I race around checking for leaking windows and straining to hear the distinct plop, plop of an indoor leak.  The fact that our gutters are crap and send sheets of water flowing down the walls and windows doesn’t help.  My skin gets that weird electric feeling like before you do something terrifying (like say zip-lining when you aren’t that comfortable with heights) and I can’t relax or concentrate.  I literally pace the house continually checking. 

It’s the antidote to the romantic memories and feelings about the circus.  It’s remembering that it can be a b***h of a hard life that requires skill, endurance and commitment that is only gained through perseverance.  It’s a reminder that the show will go on despite the mud and the rain and that means you need to find a way to go on as well or get left behind. 

There is a bit of a life lesson there I think. 

I started writing this post as a pithy way to ignore the storm and my leak anxiety and pass along a little personal experience but I find it has led me to something I have been thinking about and struggling with in the last few weeks (oh who am I kidding, the last year).  Yesterday marked a year since I finished my PhD.  A year gone, with nothing much to show for it except two new titles (with accompanying paperwork) and few more recipes and a few less pounds. 

In my worst days on the circus, days when I only went a few hours without crying, days when I was wet and cold and out-of-range and truly on my own, I found the strength to keep driving and showing up every morning to a new lot and a new day knowing full well that it was going to be another day full of tears and doubt and, inevitably, mud.  I remember two days in particular that presented me with an easy opportunity to turn off the route and head back to Cleveland and a flight home.  But I didn’t.  I kept showing up and it turned into one of the best experiences of my life. 

At the risk of cueing a music swell in the background, it’s time to start showing up again. 

In case you’re wondering, I didn’t find any leaks in the house (not surprising) but wouldn’t it have been a great end to the story if I did?  Living and learning and all that?  Oh well, maybe in the movie I do.  Because, let’s be honest, we all  imagine our life could be a movie one day, right?

A note on the Royal Mail

I’m not impressed.  Ever.  In the five years we have lived here we have had 3 (almost 4) packages sent from abroad go missing without a trace, even when they were ‘tracked’ (that doesn’t include letters, contracts, bills, etc. lost during reoccurring strikes).  At least two have arrived looking as though they served as substitute balls for an impromptu football match, the broken contents confirming.

Our families always receive Christmas presents late even when we get them in the mail ‘on time’ for international delivery, but this year was a real treat.

In an attempt to get our presents to our families in time for Christmas we started our shopping early.  I mean in October we were buying Christmas presents and were done before Thanksgiving.  We checked the Royal Mail timetable for guaranteed delivery for Christmas.  We made sure every box was under 2kg (so the shipping wouldn’t be equivalent to a month’s rent, but still ended up being over £100).  Then we went to the post office in three shifts over two days.  The packages (10 in all) were all going to either New Zealand or Ohio. 

Here’s what happened.

The three New Zealand packages (which were mailed in the last shift) arrived two days before Christmas.  One large package (mailed on the first shift) for my parents’ house arrived in a week.  Two smaller packages (mailed the second shift same day as the NZ packages) to central and southern Ohio also arrived in that week.  So far so good.  Over half of the packages arrived before Christmas between the 13^th and 23^rd.  And this is where it all went to s**t. 

There were five more packages on their way to my parents’ house holding gifts for them, my grandparents, and aunt and uncle.  All of whom were getting together on Christmas Day. 

By Christmas, none of them had arrived.  By New Year’s Day, none of them had arrived. 

The post office claimed that the ‘freak’ snow storm just before Christmas delayed delivery.  But that doesn’t explain how the rest of the packages mailed on that day or the day before got to their destination, this same destination.  Just so you know, the ‘freak’ snow storm hit a week after we mailed the packages.  We also received packages from the US within that time frame. 

On January 4^th, two small packages arrived on my parents’ front porch.  The following Monday, the 10^th, another package arrived.  The next day, the final package arrived. 

32 days after we mailed the first package, all the Christmas gifts finally arrived.  With them came the explanation for the delay. 

 

The packages were initially sent to OSLO instead of OHIO. 

Geography Matters. 

Especially when presents are involved.