Thomasina

...what are you thinking of?

OK, I admit I was a pure, absolute Disney fan when I was a child, so I watched all of the films. Including Thomasina, the story of an English cat with a number of lives and a poncey accent to boot.

I used to love this film as a kid-I'm not sure why, perhaps because it was a movie about second chances, about love, about forgiveness, but above all it was about a cat and that appealed to my child-like love of cats (which continues on today!)

An email from someone who reads my site got me thinking about my life since the mail was very well-written and thoughtful, but also because I am an unemployed loser desperately hoping for a work visa (will be about two weeks before I know the answer to this. In the meantime, my ulcer is about to produce an ulcer of its own).

I think I have had many lives, actually, and I don't mean this in any gauzy Shirley McLaine kind of way. I mean I can think of several distinct periods in my life that are so radically different from the others, that a conscious choice to change my life is almost audible.

They are:

Life 1 - Ages 0-14. Otherwise known as "my childhood". And here is something that I have never told anyone really-I don't remember my childhood. Any of it. The things I do remember turn out to be snapshots that I have in a photo album. The real memories I have of my childhood are hazy, undefined moments that pop up in blips and starts like an 8mm movie. And the creepy thing-all the movie memories of my childhood I have are in black and white.

Yes, my therapist and I are addressing this.

Life 2 - Ages 14-17. My memories kick in big time, and all in color, although recently talking to my sister it's become clear that these memories are off track, too. These are the high school years, and high school for me was a very rough time. My mother, sister and I lived in Arlington, Texas and we were zoned for a very posh neighborhood, when we were very far from posh. We had little money, lived in a tiny rented house with shag carpeting, and I drove a 12 year old Honda to school which got urinated on daily by the football team during practice, when they would go through the parking lot and pee on the bad cars (very noticable from the Beemers, convertibles, and Porsches in the parking lot). I had no friends, and was not only the class clown but also the honor student. I graduated early just to get out of that hellhole. The school just had their ten year reunion. Fuck that.

Life 3 - Ages 18-20 I was married to the biggest dick south of the Mason-Dixon line, and stayed in college while I was married for 18 months to the lamest excuse for a man that I have ever met. Ironically, I don't regret marrying him-at least I have a "Worst" to compare him to.

Life 4 - Ages 20-25. These are the Kim years, as well as the years I graduated from school, started working, and started to try to get on with my life. I learned to scuba dive. I started to travel all over the world. I bounced into being an alcoholic. I bought my first house. I learned Russian. I got my first tattoo (it was the initial "K" on my ankle to start with, for Kim. Then I had it turned into the Kanji symbol for endurance and eternity. Fitting, really.) I suffered my first heartbreak.

Life 5 - Ages 25-29. I moved to Sweden, married Partner Unit, and worked my knuckles to the bone for Company X. I continued travelling like mad, I made two extremely close friends in Dear Mate and Best Friend. I got pregnant. I bought a house. I learned another language. I went sky-diving. I tried to kill myself and started therapy. I got my heart broken. I got my second tattoo (on my shoulder, the Kanji symbol for "heaven", which is defined as a moment of pure and perfect happiness). I became a vegetarian.

And so what's next? Well, it looks like Life 6 is heading up to bat. Lost my job. About to turn 30 (my birthday is on April 1. Yes, seriously. And yes-I have already heard all the jokes, trust me.) My marriage is busting up. I may or may not be moving to the UK to start my Dream Job. I may or may not be heading back into my bed for the rest of my life.

What does all this mean? Well, if Thomasina got nine lives, then I seem to be burning through my lives rather quickly. If it is so that I have 55+ more years to go, I had better slow down a bit:) It's just strange that I don't think of my life in one continuous movement, but rather in acts, in scenes where I was so radically different a character than the one I had been before. In one act I was the victim. In another, I underwent my own renaissance. I am not sure if this is a feature of shaping and growing, or hiding and avoiding. And what it all boils down to, is this: At the end of my nine lives, will I know who I am then?

I have had so many lives, and so many times where I was completely different from one life to the next. Do you ever think about that? About how many lives you have had?

-H.

Luuka List

Does anyone else get that damn song stuck in their head when they hear the name Luuka? Sheesh.

Anyway, here is the ongoing, living list for hosting the Everyday Bear.

Robert in Jersey (the island)
Erik down the Tennessee River
Ted in D.C.
Miguel in Lisbon
Jim in Atlanta
The Wench in Memphis
Drew on Long Island
Imabug in South Carolina
Tiffani in Cleveland
Karen in Virginia
Clancy somewhere on the East Coast :)
Amber in St. Mary's, Georgia
Jennifer in Tulsa
Kat in Boston
Suz in Kansas City
Sean in New Orleans
Sarah in Houston
Ted K in Philadelphia
Pixy Misa in Oz
Cait in DC
Guinness in Sacramento
Carlene in New Orleans
Sue in Indiana
Jennifer in New Orleans
Tami in Idaho
Serenity-wherever she may be when it's her turn :)
Pylorns in Austin
Marie in the Blue Ride Mountains
Laura in British Columbia
Meg in Brisbane
Onyx in the Northeast
Plumpernickel in Calcutta

I will move this to the sidebar and keep it there as an ongong list. Just let me know if you want added to the list-no problems as all!

-H.

Hello...My Name Is Luuka...

...I live on the second floor (sing it with me, now!)

Since our beloved Luuk has fallen (last he was heard from was end of December with his host Jean, and neither of them have been heard from since-Jean, I really hope you're ok sweetheart), allow me to introduce you to Luuka.

Luuka is Luuk's little sister (thanks, Tiffani!) She is a native Swede (which means she likes to drink and knows all the words to the Abba songs).

We hung out and bonded a bit in the snowy Swedish wintertime (which meant we drank coffee and watched a DVD together).

Luuka is now off to Simon, and then will be making her way amongst the blog readers, who take pics of her and post them on their sites (or mine, if they do not blog). My goal is to link a seperate Luuka page to my site, but right now my current pc sucks a clown's ass, so that will have to wait. Luuka has a little travel journal going off with her-just sign it, leave her a message, a train ticket stub, whatever to help her remember where she's been.

Let's work it thus: I have a list here, and we will have this be the "shipping to" list. If the timing is bad or whatever, we can move names around. But otherwise, this is the order in which the little Luuka sees the world. If she sees a town more than once, that's totally OK, and in fact great! It's about perspective-what is it that makes your town great for you?

That, and the bear is just so damn cute that of course people want to host her...

OK, I am starting over with the list, since so many people have come and gone from my site. So if you want her, then let me know-just leave a message with your name and city in the comments, and we proceed from there! I will start with the first two names that I am sure of. We used to have a long list ready to host Luuk, but now we have Luuka, so let's start over, yes? I know in my last post Meg, Miguel and Guinness all indicated that they were ready for her, so let's start afresh-again, if you want Luuka, comment below leaving your name and city, and she will be shipped in the order of the comments. And I am going to leave it to you guys to arrange-contact the name before you and have a dialog, ti send addresses and whatnot.

The "to" list:

Simon in Hong Kong.

Brass in Colorado (Brass, email Simon with your address!)-I know you were so keen to have some time with Luuk in January, is February ok? You promised to teach Luuk snowboarding, now let's have Luuka kick some ass!

And now, if you will excuse me, I am still throwing my guts up. It it -4, snowing like a maniac, and yesterday I had an "incident"-my body woke me up, the way only a body does, needing to throw up. I leaned over the land it in the very clean and ready-to-go bucket that Partner Unit thoughtfully placed next to the bed for me, but realized in horror that curled in the bottom of the bucket was one of my precious kitties.

I just couldn't throw up on her! So I dashed out of bed, ran to the bathroom...and hurled all over the bathroom floor.

Last time I checked that damn cat was still sleeping in the bucket.

-H.

PS-I need some assistance, too-a friend of mine is taking his children to Florida for vacation, and has 3 days to spend in the Miami area. Any ideas on fun things to do with two childre (ages 6 and 11) in that area for 3 days? Thanks!

Eject and Reject

Break-ups, at least in my experience, tend to be quiet affairs. It's not the stuff that Hollywood portrays a break-up as. It's not really any sobbing, wrenching, pleading kind of spectacle. Grief from a break-up is private. In all of the relationships I have ever had but one (where I was pushed around a bit), my break-ups have been quick, just a few words to actually pontificate the endless stream of words that really mean "It's over", and the participants grieve and cry in private.

Most of the time you never hear the relationship break. It just does. It starts with a little crack in the foundation, which happens when you aren't paying attention. Just a small split in the bottom of a wall. And any home-owner will tell you that a crack, if not contained, will just grow and grow, and sprickle off into a vine of other cracks. The walls begin to bow, the ceiling falls in, the stairs go wonky. You do finally reach a point where the cracks are so great that you can spend all of your time trying to repair them, or you can move.

And in my home relationship, we are moving.

We had another version of "The Talk" on Friday night when I was sufficiently liquored up. He told me he believes he will stay here in the house for the year, and can do if I pay my half of it until May (which I think is fair and will do). He said he wants to get started on his life again, and I need to get my belongings over to England as soon as humanly possible.

I am still breath-takingly stressed over the visa question, which hangs in the air like so much chest-squeezing fear (and the rejection of my Swedish citizenship just another slap in the face by this country. I get it. I am useless and not welcome here. I get it.) I got the Dream Job, I have the chance to start over...now I am waiting for one administrative detail that could make or break my dreams. Dream Job won't sponsor the visa, since it means they must go before some government board and swear there are no local candidates who can fill this job, which in this time of economic recession, there surely are.

If I don't get the visa and get out of here, I will just take to my bed and never get back out again. It's that simple. So I sit here by my pc hoping the UK government will believe in me, and as I have been hit with the flu today, I sit here in feverish, angry misery.

Partner Unit's mother has offered to take our beautiful dog. They love him madly, and I have to be honest-he will get a better life living in the countryside with a retired couple than he will with me-a mommy that works all day while he stays home in a flat in the outskirts of London. It breaks my heart to lose my Partner Unit, my house, my dog, and my history all in one go, but I don't see any other way.

I talked to Dear Mate a bit. I told him that I hurt like mad knowing that Partner Unit has wasted 5 years of his life on me. That I am upsetting his life and breaking his heart. And, as Dear Mate said on the phone, the only thing Partner Unit is guilty of is loving me too much.

I can't express how much this hurts. Partner Unit and I went to the grocery store together, and I thought about what a great guy he is. He is mad about me, and most of the time he is wonderful and kind, sweet and attentive. It's true-I cannot talk to him about deep, personal issues and his temper is scary and vicious, the stuff that makes me cower in nervousness, but the rest of the time he is a great partner.

And I am breaking his heart, and I feel terrible about it. He even turned to me in the car and told me the single thing he wanted most in life is to just be with me and love me.

I am the worst person in the world. And I have to be honest-so far, this break-up hurts worse than the break-up with Kim.

Partner Unit has started clearing out things. The burning and purging that I have been going through since losing my job, the throwing out of possession and items. Boxes placed in the hallways and cellar to be thrown away, items from lives he had before me and during me. And I have started to look around with a narrow eye and a heavy heart, wondering what will be coming with me, too. Will I throw everything out like I did before I came to Sweden? I came with just 10 boxes and a few pieces of furniture. Will I have even less this time?

I tried to hug him last night, to seek comfort in him and with him, but he doesn't want me near. His heart is breaking, my heart is breaking, and I wonder if I can get through everything that is happening without losing my mind, my friendships, or my heart.

And now we have begun taking boxes and boxes to the tip, to throw them away. Him, since he wants no memories of me. Me, since I can't move it to England, in which my last remaining and clinging dreams still linger.

And we are throwing our 5 years together away.

One
Carload
At
A
Time.

-H.

PS-if my posts seem down right now...well, it's cause I am. Something much more positive scheduled for tomorrow.

The Lunatic Luncheon Club

Exactly one year ago today, I tried to kill myself.

This post is very long, but here is a preface about it: I have a body of writing on my hard drive that is about 510+ pages long, and all rather biographical. I started writing about 5 years ago, and haven't really stopped. But because it was all so personal, I have never done anything about it.

I wrote this as part of a larger body of my thoughts, experiences and feelings after trying to top myself nearly one year ago. I guess I don't really think it's publishable since it's a bit down and a bit close to my heart...so I give it up for my blog since...well... I think it has a home here. I have been more open about my suicide attempt here than with my family.

I have to be honest here-sometimes I wished I had succeeded.

I wrote this during the end of January, 2003. It was a few days after I was home from the hospital, home from the night I tried to kill myself. It is the true account of what happened to me that night in the hospital, complete with all my thoughts and feelings.

It's a long one, and I'm sorry about that, but maybe it makes up for my silence yesterday.

-H.

-Oh, and for the original suicide telling, please see here.

************************

Sitting upright on the gurney, an IV in my hand, an EKG strapped to my chest, and Partner Unit looking like he is in hell, I realize that I am not in control of this situation. I blew it. The nurse comes in and looks me in the eye.

'Hi Helen.' She says. 'I'm Marie.'
I nod my greeting back.
'Helen, can you tell me why you did this?' she asks quietly.

Ah, the big question. As though I had any kind of answer that would be appropriate for anyone. What answer would be acceptable to people? That I have had enough? That I am tired? That I am carrying deadly bacteria that would eliminate mankind and must thus consider myself the sacrificial victim?

The tears start up again. 'No, I honestly can't. Why does everyone keep asking me that? There is no why. I just did. I am just tired. Something inside me kind of broke, and I just couldn't take this. I just did.'

She nods, writing on a tablet. My own personal Rosetta Stone of sanity. To be preserved across time as the moment that Helen, insignificant Helen, finally lost control. Years from now someone would read it and need to look up 'fruit loop' in some archaic dictionary. I look at Partner Unit, sitting there, so tall in the chair. There are deep lines in his face that I have never seen before, lines that I have put there. In that moment, I realize the worst thing in the entire world would have been if he had come home to find me dead. It would be unforgivable. Of all the things in the world that I could have done to him-cheating on him, selling all of his possessions on e-bay, serving him macaroni and cheese from a powdered mix-this is the one act that could never, ever be resolved, and could never, ever be excused.

The most atrocious crime I could ever commit would be to make someone who loves me face that. And I almost did that to him. He raises his eyes, to look at me, and he smiles a bit.

Suddenly, I realize how close I came to ruining everything and losing him. And I realize that after I make myself better, I need to make him better. Because, unlike me, the only thing he ever did wrong was love me. Maybe I don't deserve to be loved like this by him, maybe I don't love him the way he loves me, but he is taking his chances, has thrown caution to the wind, and indicated to fate the person he wants on his team. And I need to do a better job of carrying the team to victory. Maybe we will win, maybe we won't-but I let my captain down. And I have to fix it.

Another nurse walks in and hands a large black bottle to the head nurse, who starts to shake it. I stop trying to cover the gaping mouths that I have left on my wrists, further attempts to ensure that the sweet smell doesn't pass me by. She catches me looking warily at the bottle, and smiles.

'This,' she says, 'is activated charcoal. The medication you took is toxic in the dosage that you took it in, and this charcoal will bind to the medication and help break it down. You will need to drink the whole bottle.'

She unscrews the lid and unceremoniously hands it to me. I take a sniff, and get a scent of something almost metallic, and harsh. One sip later, and I am one hundred percent convinced that I will make damn sure to never take too many pills again.

Or else to next time be confident that I do.

Later, I find myself rocking back and forth on the edge of the chair, the nurse looking sympathetically at me. I don't know why I am rocking'¦the movement is soothing and disturbing, simultaneously. Tears keep rolling down my face, and nothing I say or do seems to be able to stop them from appearing. I recklessly wipe them off my face with a hand, bundled tightly into the sleeve of my sweater. I can't stop hiding the slashes on my wrists. I don't want anyone to see them, or know about them. If I just keep them hidden, maybe I can make sure that they won't look at me like I'm crazy. Maybe I can keep my troubles to myself.

I had been taken to the psychiatric intensive care ward, to be admitted for one night. An orderly led me on the way, through a maze of concrete tunnels underground, beneath the hospital that reminded me of a sad juvenile delinquent film with Brad Pitt in it. I wondered if I would meet the same fate (I guess not, as I am not a twelve-year-old male in the Bronx). Thick, heavy pipes laced the ceiling, ending abruptly above thick steel doors that were not labeled, and looked like the kind of doors you would find on a submarine. The orderly is trying to keep up the small talk, but all I hear is background noise, gibberish.

We stop at a bank of elevators, and take one up three floors. We get off and turn in front of another one of those submarine type doors, and the orderly removes absolutely the most amazing key ring I have ever seen-I had no ideas that many keys could be found in the whole city, let alone in one hospital. He unlocks the door and ushers me inside. I find I am in a small vestibule, and once he shuts and locks the door behind us, he unlocks the other one in front of us. This one has a curtained window over the top half. A window with bars.
Which puts me here, in a waiting room full of rattan furniture and more chairs than I have ever seen in any hospital area ever. Orderlies come and go like worker ants, checking to see if the queen is content. The nurse, however, never moves.

She continues to stare kindly at me, asking me reassuring questions in soothing tones. I can't really make out what she's saying, the only thing I know is that I have never felt so tired in my entire life. I actually ache inside my eyelids, as though the swelling and the need for sleep will threaten to sprain them.

'Helen.' She asks. And this one I hear. 'What do you want?'
I look at her, and open my thick mouth. 'I want to sleep.' I whisper. 'I want to sleep, and I don't want to wake up once with nightmares or anxiety.'
She nods. 'Do you often do that.'
I nod. 'Every night.'
'In this place, tonight, you will be safe. You will only sleep, and no one will disturb you. The medication we give you will make you calm, and make you sleep all night. I promise.'

In that moment, I have never felt a feeling of such deep and utter gratitude. I would have wrapped my arms around her and cried out my thanks, if I had been capable of moving. I felt as though someone finally understood my aching need.

I turn to Partner Unit and hold him tight. I can't remember the last time that I fit so well into the curves of him. Sometime before I lost my mind, I guess. Sometime back when I was still able to function. I remember being held like that by him, and I remember wanting it, too. What had happened?

He places a big hand on the side of my face. 'It'll be ok, Helen. I will be back first thing in the morning for you. Tonight, you will sleep and feel a bit better in the morning.'

I look at him and ache. 'Promise me you won't make me stay here. Promise you will come get me out of here tomorrow.' I whisper.

He kisses my forehead. 'I promise.' He whispers back. He hands me an overnight bag that he had packed for me, and walks away.

The nurse reaches out her hand, and takes my hand in it. We walk solemnly to the bedroom, where two orderlies await. With a glance to me, they reach for my bag and open it, and start removing my belongings. Almost everything is deemed dangerous or prohibited, until at the end the only thing I have left is my toothbrush, a change of clothes, a hairbrush, and a book. Whatever. Like I could kill myself with my MD player.

Another nurse walks in and hands me a small plastic cup, with two pills in it. I down them, chased with a glass of water that had also been produced. I am led into a dark room, where an old woman lies in the other bed, watching me. She has draped her clothes over every chair in the room, and I find, rather than touch her belongings or be burdened with the hindrance of conversation, I drop my things on the floor next to me.

The room smells of old people. It is her scent, a scent bordering on sickening sweetness, of talcum powder and ancient sweat. I hate that smell, to me it's the smell of decrepit aging. I want to dash the corners of the room in rubbing alcohol to take away the scent, but since I am not even allowed to have soap, I am sure that's on the banned list.

The orderlies go and I lay down, begging, aching, yearning for sleep to overtake me. To fill my head and eyes with blackness, no visions, no dreams, no other sense of reality. I feel my body relax, and scrunch up next to the surprisingly comfortable pillow and hear the rubber sheets beneath me squeak against the gurney.

And, of course, I can't fall asleep.

The old woman starts snoring. Loudly. And she wheezes and laughs and talks in her sleep as well. I try shutting my eyes, tuning out the world. My stomach is bloated and thick feeling, full of pills and charcoal. I cannot sleep.

I go padding out into the hallway, looking for the doctor. I am nervous-is this the part where a number of orderlies charge me, thinking I am dangerous, and lock me in a padded cell? Or do they try to do horrible and disgusting things to me? Or just pat me on my head and look at me like I am simple?

They do none of these. Instead, I am led to a quiet and empty room to allow me to sleep in peace. Scarily enough, this is the room for the ones who go into violent psychotic episodes. The beds all have thick leather straps, the windows are barred and the room stripped of any furniture save the three beds. The nurse reassures me that I am only here for the chance to sleep, they will not strap me in and don't think I am dangerous.

They turn out the light. I lay down, and fall asleep almost instantly.

I am awoken a few hours later. A nurse stands at the door telling me there is breakfast ready in the main room, if I want any. My brain protests, begging me to go back to sleep. Tells me that it is still under the influence of the medication, and to lay back down. My tongue, on the other hand, takes a sucker punch at my brain and demands some juice to get the glue-like feeling out of my mouth. Mouth wins. I pull the thick sheet-like robe over me and totter out into the light hallway, feeling dizzy and weird from all of the medication. I hold onto the wall for support, feeling the palm of my hand slap against the cold wall as weave my way towards the main hall.

When I get there, the TV is on. It's the weather guy, predicting more snow. A look out the big window confirms he may possibly know what he is talking about, as the flurries come down. A couch full of people turns their head immediately and looks at me, and I realize that they are all nurses and orderlies, checking me out. I stumble over to a table laden with food, and realize there is no juice. I take a half cup of coffee and look for the milk, but I see that the red plastic mug with the milk is empty.

I can't drink coffee without milk.

I stand there holding the half cup of coffee, not sure what to do. A man comes up, takes some coffee, and says hello. I look at him in horror, then put the cup down and hurry back to my psychotic bedroom. A nurse stops me on the way, introduces himself, and tries to shake my hand. I do so, realizing that the cuts on my wrists are obvious. I squelch myself against the wall, stuff my hands in the arms of my sweater, and hurry back to bed.

As sleep begins to tumble back over me, I realize that I am acting like a madman.

It must be this place.

I wake up a bit latter and see a fuzzy silhouette standing in the door, looking at me. It is a tall man, with dark hair and a green sweater. When he sees that I am awake, he bolts out of the room, and I see his hospital bracelet as he grabs the frame of the door.

Great. A patient has been standing here watching me. I shudder slightly, close my eyes, and, feeling the weight of my eyelids, fall asleep again.

A while later I am woken up by a man holding a piece of paper and a handful of cash. It's an orderly, and he looks closely at me.

'Jane?' he asks.
I sit up, rubbing my hand over my face. 'What?' I reply.
'Jane?' he replies, looking at me.
'Jane is my middle name. I go by Helen.' I reply.
He nods. 'I'm doing the shopping now. Do you want anything? Do you have any cash?'
Head fuzzy. I am clearly not catching what he is throwing at me. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand. What are you doing?'
'Twice a day we come through and offer to pick things up that you don't have here. Magazines, cigarettes, that kind of thing. Do you want anything, do you have any money with you?'
I shake my head. 'My wallet is at home, but I don't need anything. I am going home today anyway.'
He gives me a closed smile, and I feel a sharp stab of fear tweak its way into my stomach. I stand up. 'I am going home today.' I state again. He looks at me. 'I am going home today?' I say a third time, but this time it squeaks out in the form of a question.
'The doctor will be seeing you in about ten minutes. How about you get ready to meet her?' he asks kindly.

Oh God. I may be stuck here. Trapped. I hurriedly brush my hair and teeth and head out into the main room.

There are many more people there now than there were at the failed coffee expedition. Patients this time, and at least two nurses per patient. In one corner, an old woman is painting pictures that one could expect to see in a portfolio done by a seven year old. A girl is going up and down the hallway, asking every person she sees if they have a cigarette. This must be routine, since every single person shakes their heard and replies 'Sorry, Martine.' In a chair in a far corner a man is huddled into himself, barely a lump, watching the TV. Another man is rocking back and forth, trying to tear apart a newspaper.
I am waiting for Roger Rabbit to run across the hallway at any minute now. Or someone to come out and yell 'Cut!' and all of the patients would then light up a cigarette and talk about the latest in the actor's union. Surely this can't be real.

I wish the walls could swallow me up. Then this would all go away. My wrists sting, and my stomach still feels packed full of concrete. At least I have missed meals for the past 24 hours, I could hope to be a bit thinner soon. Attempted suicide may become the new fad diet, activated charcoal the new diet nutrient. Forget those shakes in a can!

I walk into the doctor's room, accompanied by an enormous intern who looks like he couldn't decide whether to go to med school or a gym. He nods at me in greeting, sitting down across from me. 'I'm Tom.' He says slowly.

He must think I am really thick. Hey man-I'm crazy, not ignorant. But then again maybe it's a good thing he said it slowly-if he talked fast then I would totally expect the white rabbit to come tearing through. The gray matter is not cooperating so well. Another man walks in, shorter but well-built.

Tom nods towards him. 'Helen, this is Manuel. He is a handler, and is here for the safety of all involved.'
I look at Tom, and feel the corner of my mouth go up. 'So, he's here in case I try to rush you guys, or something like that, feel the urge to do a round or two?'
Tom stares closely at me. 'Are you currently feeling any hostile or violent tendencies, Helen?'
Oops. Wrong audience. 'No, sorry, Tom, I'm not. Bad joke. Sorry.'
He nods. Seconds later, the head doctor comes in, a woman in the early-forties or so. Well-dressed, with sparkly gold earrings. She reaches out a hand. 'Hi, Helen, I'm Susan.'

She sits down and adjusts the numerous papers on her lap, and tucks her hair behind her ear. I am very conscious that I am in my pajamas, and that I am not wearing any underwear. I try to look sane.

'Helen, can you tell me why you did this?'
Oh for fuck's sake. I thought of anyone she would know not to ask crap like that.
I look at her, and feel the bags under my eyes leaping out. 'I don't know.' I replied, trying to keep my voice even. 'Why does everyone ask me that?'
She looks at me in her 'I'm analyzing you' psychiatrist-look. I wonder how I am measuring up. She sighs, and folds the ends of her fingers over the papers in her lap. 'Helen, I'm afraid that you have been assessed as a real danger to yourself. We think that you may be, based on info you gave the nurse and our talks here, manic-depressive, however more tests are needed. We are ordering you into hospital care.'

I feel my heart stop.

**************************

They were wrong, I am not manic-depressive. I do have another problem, which I may talk about someday, but in the meantime...just remember-life isn't ours to choose if we want to walk away from or not.

It's as Rob Part said-Life is hard but the only game in town.

Batter up.

-H.

PS-It's official. Luuk is gone, may he rest in peace. I hope that his last known host, Jean, is ok. If people are interested, I can launch a Luuk II campaign. Let me know. Poor Luuk-he was a really special little guy.

PPS-to my anonymous benefactor, you absolutely made my day. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You brought a much-needed smile to my face :) Thank you, thank you, thank you.

UPDATE-I have been denied Swedish citizenship due to a glitch in the visas I have had-apparently Sweden doesn't count my first two years here as being here, since I had a work permit, not a residence permit. I am utterly bereft now, and working like mad to secure a work visa. If I do not get one, I lose Dream Job.

And all my dreams with it.

Leave Your Message At the Beep

Despite the thrill of landing my Dream Job and the nail-biting I am doing regarding my citizenship, I find today that I am broken.

Yesterday was a rough day. Not only did the temperature get to -20, but I had to go to the career counselling program as established by Company X for those of us losers that they let go. And this counselling program has a whole team set up just to handle the masses of people that Company X has sloughed off. The rooms were not well-lit, the job posting board was nearly bare, and the woman told me I already needed to sign up for the itty-bitty unemploymeny pay offered by the state, since I and all the other refugees of telecom would not be finding a job anytime soon.

I did not tell her I have a job, which I do, although the start date is still ambiguous. Company X wants me to jump through hoops for my severance package, so jump I shall. Ironically, I had a phone call Tuesday evening from an English recruiter hoping to hire me to work in Sweden, as they wanted someone who is a native English speaker who can speak Swedish and has a telecom background. Partner Unit went off in a depression that I said no, Mr. Y recommended I chase it up to cover all my bases, so I talked to the recruiter after all and he now has me on the back-burner, in case citizenship and visas fall through.

When it rains, it pours.

And when I walked out of the career counsellor's room, there was a man sitting at the table, looking through the ads, running a gold wedding-ringed hand through his brown hair, which was tinged with grey. His face wore the lines of stress, and I realized with a start that I knew him from Company X. We didn't acknowledge each other, two soldiers lost from the front, and I exited the building to face the bitter dark cold.

I went to bed by 8:00 pm last night, blissfully aided by pharmaceuticals and spent a night in Kafka dreams (which to me are dark and horrible dreams, not dreams where my father turns into a praying mantis and bites my head off). I know others here have been dreaming a lot lately, and so have I. I always dream that I am running, being hunted, and half the time I have to save some children on the way.

I almost always fail.

So due to the darkness that is career counselling, uncertainty over citizenships and visas, disagreements with Mr. Y and Dear Mate, and the continuing upset between Partner Unit and myself, I really am not such a happy camper today.

Anyway, if anyone needs me today, I will be in front of the tv with a bottle of chardonnay. It's just that kind of day.

-H.

How You View Yourself

If anyone asks me how I would describe my breasts, my response is: Fucking Perfect.

Considering I paid a shed of money to have them reduced 11 years ago, I guess this is a good response. I went from a 40 DD to a perfect 34 C. I had actually wanted a 34 B, but I guess a C is ok. Basically, I wanted petite and delicate breasts that allowed me to view the world of the demi bra. I'm talking scalloped, lace edging, flowery satin patterns, the whole nine yards. I haven't looked back at the enormous "We can hold your breasts and all the breasts in your family at the same time" industrial white bras ever since. Bras are meant to be soft slips of fabric in yellow, black, red, blue.

My breasts are something I am proud of, but I have never been proud of my figure. Ever. I always felt like an overgrown Clydesdale-long legs, broad shoulders, strong arms, enormous feet, chicken pox scar on my chest, round face. Basically the kind of healthy peasant look that men in the Russian Revolution would have been interested. "I'll raise your babies...and your potatoes, comrade!"

Especially when compared to my sister. My sister got the Japanese genes, the good ones (all I got was the inability to stomach alcohol and lactose. Thanks, Dad.) My sister got the high cheekbones, the dark skin and hair, and above all, she got the size 4 figure. She eats anything and everything-burgers, chocolate, chips-and never gains an ounce. Her size 8 sister, on the other hand, has to watch her step.

When I was younger-and even now-I suffered wild eating disorders. Anorexia and I have been friends for years, to the point where people would ask what was wrong with me after taking one look at my exhausted and emaciated face (but ironically the lowest size I ever got down to is a 6. Even anorexia fucks with me.) During one episode I would only eat 4 cheese crackers a day. Then I got better and ate normally. Then I rebounded and I would only eat one sandwich a day, always at the same time of day. Three years ago, my grandmother made a cutting remark that I could be getting fat, so I only had one bowl of soup a day for months, losing weight and my mind in the process.

And in college I really abused laxatives. The thing with laxatives is that your body grows dependent on them, so you begin to be unable to go without them. It wasn't enough to take one tablet...I had to take the whole box, thereby necessitating spending the whole next day on the toilet, the unpleasantly sweet smell of a week's worth of unloading in the bathroom air. Whew...I was a real party girl.

I no longer have the laxative problem, although I do "enjoy" the fun of IBS as a result of those wacky laxative years. Yes, fate. I got the message there. Now go make a Schoolhouse Rocks about binging and purging. I haven't stopped eating deliberately for a long time, but I am a freak about not eating things like cremes, sauces, fried foods, high fat cheeses, etc.

Anyway, last night I was digging through some boxes looking for visa information and I found some photos of me, taken a lifetime ago by Mr. Y. We were on a part of the English coast called the Seven Sisters, which is a series of rounded cliffs overlooking the violent waters of the Atlantic. He and I went there, intending to be tourists.

But he and I never made for the usual tourists.

Once there, in the cool air of the sea balanced by the warmth of summer, he instructed me to remove my clothing. Remember, Mr. Y and I had a submissive/dominating relationship, and I basically did anything he asked. So without further ado, my clothes were discarded and I was standing outside, buck naked, for the very first time in my adult life. I was a little worried about the people very far away, walking on the edge of the cliffs, but I figured...why not?

And Mr. Y lay on the grass and just watched me stand there. Then he removed his camera, and started to take photographs. But I started to not really notice him so much, I just felt the cool breeze lift underneath the crease of my breasts, behind my knees, underneath my sheath of heavy hair at the base of my neck. I felt the lightness on my waist, stomach and hips of being released from clothes, and just allowed to feel the sun. My nipples were hard, which is something they rarely do after the surgery. I even let a hand drift down between my legs, to softly caress myself.

Mr. Y and I spent a lot more time on the cliff that day, but when we developed the pictures later, I was shocked and horrified-my body was so ugly! How could he stand to be with such a fat hippo like me! My God, my body was so revolting, even the Elephant Man was hotter than I was....I remember him looking at me curiously, his brow tightening.

"Helen," he said. "I think you look good in these pictures."

I chucked them in a box and never looked back. I didn't want a reminder of how I am not a size 4 or a size 2. Yes, I can shop in all the shops since I am a common size, but it wasn't enough-I've always wanted to be tiny. But last night I found them and looked at them. I realized, looking at them, that my body hadn't changed a bit (other than a number of skin cancer scars on my back).

And forgive me for saying...I look beautiful.

Yes I have the broad shoulders of a peasant-hook up a plow to me and let me clear your fields! Or better yet, allow your arms to circumference my shoulders and squeeze me tight. The long legs, always such a nuisance before, are strong and well-turned out, like the legs of a pasky and determined colt. My waist is soft and rounded, my hips smooth but with a tiny blip of the pubic bone pointing out the top of them, and my breasts are like soft, beige eggplants.

I have the body of a woman. And maybe trying to battle my way towards the Courtney Cox-dom of achieving a size 4 body is like trying to stuff my curves into a boy's body. This is who I am. These soft curves and soft skin, these freckles, scars, and bones.

I will most likely go on a non-eating stance again. Don't get me wrong, I am not healed a-la-Baptist-revival. It's not like it's something you ever get over. But in the meantime, I have these pictures of a younger Helen standing outside, laughing, exposing her curves to the world.

Be proud of your body. They're shaped the way they are, with every ample bit of variety, for a reason. Why fight what we're given, when we can instead be proud of a curve, a pocket of flesh, a scar? If I were a man, I would rather be with a non-self-conscious size 12 than a skinny and body conscious size 2.

I reckon another visit to the Seven Sisters is in my future.

-H.

Lost in Translation

So after I quit screeching in decibels that only dogs here on the phone to friends and family and stopped generally acting like Woody Woodpecker hopped up on cocaine, I felt a pure and perfect sense of happiness that can only come when you are given a reason to start believing in yourself again. All of those fucking doubts and haunted feelings that I had, the whispers of people taunting me and telling me I was worthless just dried up.

And maybe I am worthless, but I got the job. A job that pays 50% more than Company X paid me. And I get a company car. Somehow, I feel vindicated.

Last Thursday I went to see the movie "Lost in Translation" in the theater. It's the film with Bill Murray, playing an aging, lost actor who does whiskey ads in Tokyo, and meets up with a fellow lost American who is also pinging around in her space like a drunken pinball. This film has become my second-favorite movie of all time, no mean feat considering all of the time I spend watching films.

I just got this film. It hit me on a thousand different levels of understanding. Not only have I been to Japan and felt like a stranger in a strange land (even though I am part Japanese), there was one scene that clinched it for me, and smacked me upside the head with the strong feeling of: Finally, a filmmaker that writes about something that I can relate to.

There's a scene where Bill Murray's character decides to call home and talk to his wife. Their marriage is ailing and they have become near strangers, bonded together basically for the sake of their children. He rings her up after too much to drink and a bit jet-lagged, mostly because he wants to hear her voice but also because he just wants to reach out to someone. The conversation goes badly, you can tell that they just aren't connecting, and as he hangs up he says: "Well, that was a bad idea." and drops the phone on the bed next to him.

I've done that. Exactly that. And exactly that while I was in Tokyo, no less. And I've had exactly that rocky phone call in a series of other countries as well, and not only have I had them with Partner Unit, I have had them with the boyfriend before him, too. To reach out, pop a number out on the phone and hope on the other end of the line is a relieved voice full of hope and love, not full of exhaustion and daily grind. To ring someone up at the very second when you realize that the thing you want most is to hear a familiar voice that will ground you to the real world in a way that no passport, no nationality can do.

That's why this movie has become my second favorite (second only to "Grosse Point Blank", which has been enjoying favorite status for some years now). It just affected me so much. I understood and related to every scene, every emotion, every need of a traveller desperately trying to find their way.

Partner Unit and I didn't talk Saturday night, since his flight was delayed and he got in at 3 am. But we did talk on Sunday night, and a bit last night too. The good news is, so far we are friends. The bad news is, so far we are both very sad. I did not mention Mr. Y and I never will-I see no need to destroy him just to relieve my guilt. We have agreed to sell the house in the Spring when it may fetch more money. Since the bottom dropped out of the real estate market here just after we bought it, we will consider ourselves lucky if we even make what we owe on the house.

I find I want to hug him a lot, to try to comfort him. I find I want to give him all of my money and make him laugh. I find I want to just curl up next to him in bed and sleep in the warm glow of him. But instead we roll up in our own duvets, two little eggrolls that cannot touch, and sleep fitfull sleep that is broken by Kafka dreams, jet-lag, and despair.

We cannot talk about deep issues, he never remembers what I tell him, his anger is frightening and all-consuming, but I do love him and always will, and nothing will ever take away from the fact that I hate myself for busting us up and breaking his heart.

My citizenship seems to be stalled-the chickie processing my application is out sick and unless she is out for three or more weeks, none of her cases will be re-assigned. So my passport and application linger in her inbox. In the meantime, I am paying 600 pounds and filing for a work permit on my own in the UK, which requires a fuckload of paperwork, DNA samples, sacrificial virgins, and an oath in blood that I will never go on the dole in the UK. I hope to have this done soon, and only once I have this can I start working. So I have no real start date yet.

But now my days aren't going to be spent obsessively pouring through web job sites. I am going to kick back, read books, watch movies, and blog.

In the meantime, here's to broken dreams, hopeful futures, and a small independent film that touched my heart. Run right out to see it, OK?

-H.

PS-Rob has done a hell of a good job with the Best of Me Symphony. Say hello!

Ahhhh....

I think I need some aspirin. I have been chasing down my citizenship specialist who is working on my application, since I need some answers (otherwise I need to splash out some major pound-age on trying to procure a work visa). The recording on the specialist's machine says she is signed out sick, which could mean anything from ill today to ill all year. Who knows...

It's ironic that exactly two months ago today I lost my job from Company X, thereby bringing forth the darkest period of my life so far. I have been suffering depression the likes of which I always associated with tv-not showering, not changing clothes, not leaving the bedroom, the living room, the house. Sometimes I felt like I was the average bird, flying in the Company X flock, but starting to lag behind and got shot out of the V-formation, hurtling to the earth at great speeds and crushing my tiny ribcage.

But I will plug hard to get this citizenship/work visa stuff done. I view it as a tiny blip, a challenge that I can overcome. They said I had done excellent in the second interview on Friday, you see.

Uncross everything. Eat those M&M's. If anyone needs me, I will be drinking and making phone calls.

The Everyday Stranger is moving to London.

I GOT THE JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-H.

Where Have You Gone?

I wander into the living room, where we sat on the couch last night, our limbs tangled up in a soft fleece blanket and a bottle of chardonnay was quaffed while we watched reality TV for a bit and made merciless fun of it. My legs were curled up on your lap, and you removed a sock and stroked my foot, not making me the least bit ticklish but instead caressing and kneading the arch of my foot into a blissful satisfaction. Later, in the DVD player "Secretary" languishes, two chapters away from the finish as you had to take me then and there on the couch, spanking me hard and fucking me even harder to the tune of slapping flesh and moans.

In the kitchen are the messy pans where I cooked you risotto for dinner, my specialty. You even helped me cook it, chopping leeks and mushrooms, grating the knarled bit of parmesan I had that I saved from a trip to Rome. We swilled white wine together, dashing bits of it in the pot to steam the risotto, and your hands strayed around my waist, cupping my breasts and leaving the aroma of parmesan on the lengths and curves of my skin. We laughed and talked as the risotto steamed up the pot lid and we steamed up the windows.

We ate the lush and wonderful risotto by the forkful, and you even finished my bowl of it. I decided to forgo my usual need to clean just after dinner, leaving the risotto pan, the pasta bowls, and our wineglasses in a jumble in the sink, knowing that the time it would take to scrub the pots would take precious seconds away from being with you. The dishes didn't matter. The vacuuming was ignored, the woodpile grew small, and all I cared about was having maximum exposure to your skin through the evening.

I make my way back to the bedroom. The bedsheets are rumpled, strained and thrown aside. I remember you taking your arms and wrapping them around me, gentle now compared to our cinematic excursion a few hours earlier. You were so calm and loving in the last round, taking your time to massage your mouth across me and bringing a full shuddering orgasm between my legs. Your lips were everywhere-my neck, my shoulders, my legs...and you kissed and licked all of our war wounds from earlier-the scratches, the bruises, the animal brutality of the couch forgotten in the luscious love-making under the covers. I ran my fingers over the nail tracks on your neck and shoulders, massaging loving into their textured surfaces.

You slowly guide yourself into me, moving in one fluid motion, and we move in a gentle rocking that I always look forward to. It feels as though I am coming home again, making my way into something I know after spending my life wandering the world. You stare into my eyes the entire time, your pupils large and drinking me in, and just before you orgasm you grab me hard and squeeze, almost in agony and say "My God, I am so in love with you."

And then you lay on top of me, the weight of you reassuring, pinning me to the bed in a reminder that there is no where else I would rather be. And you roll me over and lay beside me, wrapping your arms around me and placing your knees behind mine, and you hold me until we fall asleep, freeing me then to move around the canvas of the bed.

When I wake, I look out the window and see only swirling snow, hear the wind batter the house and hope that the fireplaces can hanker with enough fire in the fireplace to warm up the little spots in the corners of the bed that I occupy. The sun has forgotten to come out today, or maybe it just hasn't seen the point.

The bed is empty. And when I make my way downstairs, I see no pile-up of dishes in the sink. The wine bottle is empty, but my headache reminds me that I was the one who accomplished that alone. The woodpile is refurbished, the house is vacuumed, and there are no scratches and bites down the length of my body.

I walk back upstairs, to the bed that is only warm on one side. I huddle under the blankets and put my hand on the pillow next to me, trying to find any trace of warmth or remnant of your scent that you were there. That you loved me.

I got to walk the house with you in a normal relationship under normal circumstances for one evening in my dreams. And with a sigh, I pull the covers back over my head and try to reinsert myself in my dream, to reinsert myself back to you. It was just my dream. And all I want to do is sleep in order to try to find you again.

If anyone needs me, I will hopefully be making love, making memories, and making risotto today. The real world can slip by unnoticed for now-we don't need each other today...

-H.

Just a Few Things to Share

First off, since I have been writing and was inspired and requested by a certain someone (you know who you are), I will post a piece of it that the certain someone inspired. This is just a quick synopsis of the larger body of work that I am doing-it's far from done, this is just one rough piece of the rest of the work, which I present here as my first pass. Comments and criticism are welcome, since I am a bit worried that I am a crap writer who should just stop writing.

It's about two and half pages, so I give you the possibility to download it and use it for target practice.

Secondly, here is a picture of Kim and I. This was taken on December 31, 1995. We were at a Big Band New Year's Eve party-both of us were big WWII buffs and the youngest people at said party by about 30 years. But here, at last, is a face behind his name. And you get to see me with long red hair, too.

Kim and I

Wasn't he beautiful....

As you can maybe tell, I am feeling really low this morning, so I wll escort myself off to the living room after checking my job ads and settle in for some TV.

-H.

PS-I have been made blog of the week at Musings from the Underground. Go say hi for me.

PPS-Found this over at Say Anything. This guy has obviously just found out that his ex-girlfriend has indeed posted on her blog that he has a flaccid little dick that has no real purpose in life. Whatever, Anger Ball. Learn yoga, pick the road less travelled, spank your inner moppet...do whatever you have to do to get over yourself. Or better yet, just stop reading blogs. Maybe that will help. And for the record, "fucking stupid" gets tiresome after about the 50th time you use it in one paragraph.

Moments of Patriotism

I am not what you would call wildly patriotic.

I am an American, I know I am an American, and I generally don't feel the need to plaster my vehicle and my possessions with the American flag. I don't speak loudly in public (unless I am boozing it up in a pub, then it's all decibels all the time). I don't fly the American flag here in Sweden (most houses have a flagpole, which they run the Swedish flag up on. We have a flagpole, which is flagless).

It is something that I simply know. A part of what makes me me. I am a woman, I am 29, and I know I am an American, so I don't really feel the need to advertise it.

Actually, I have been in situations while travelling where it wouldn't benefit the situation to reveal that I am from the USA. In a cab in the remotest parts of a Greek Island, with a mad cab driver ranting and raving about the "horrid" Americans, who was my only option for getting to the ferry in time. In Gothenburg, during the summit two years ago in which Bush showed up and riots went mad. In the Seychelles, when I walked into a restaurant after a day of fabulous snorkelling and diving in the Indian Ocean, to find the residents of the restaurant with their heads in their hands-America had started bombing Iraq, worried the Seychelles tourist economy would be ruined (and it was indeed very hard hit).

I am not ashamed of who I am or where I am from. I am currently moving ahead with my Swedish citizenship (which I found out from the Swedish immigration service that they will rule on within two weeks-keep those fingers crossed still, as my life will be well and truly fucked if I don't get it!) and the caveat in me pursuing it was that it was not at the expense of my American citizenship-I couldn't give that up.

Like most Americans, I come from a family of immigrants. On my father's side, I am the first-born American. On my mother's side, we have everything-Irish, Dutch, French, Native American. I am proud to know that my family came to America for the same reasons that millions of others did-to try to make a new life. So yes-I am an American, but I don't feel the need to scream it out loud.

On December 26th, I went to see a hockey game played by my beloved Dallas Stars (for the record, they won against the Predators). The arena (the new American Airlines Arena, which I had never seen before) was packed to the rafters. The fabulous Jumbotron hung over the center ice, full of delicious digital images. Around the entire arena, an electronic screen snaked around the seating, displaying vivid green and gold graphics in a 360 degree view. The ice smelt heavenly, almost metallic in the tip of the tongue, and I remembered how it felt when I used to play hockey, to be a mixture of cold and sweat and heartbeat.

The crowd was loud and happy, and the Stars came out and warmed up. Then, without further ado, we were asked to please stand for the national anthem. We turned to one end of the arena, where an enormous and brilliantly colored flag hung. The music started, and the crowds' voice joined the singers in harmony.

Stars fans do something which has always amused me-the word "Star" appears twice in the anthem, and the fans yell that word each time, in tribute to the Dallas Stars. They did not disappoint, and I found my voice lifting and shouting the word, too. Beside me, Partner Unit just smiled and watched the crowd, not knowing the words (I don't know the Swedish anthem either-it's something about greenness and nature). The Jumbotron sparkled with patriotic images of eagles, flying flags, and glittering gold stars.

And it was then that I felt a lump come up in my throat. As the voices of 20,000+ people raised up for the anthem that I have heard a thousand times in my lifetime, I realized that a strap had been placed across my chest, squeezing out the air in my chest and bringing tears to my face. For the cheesy graphics, the bad anthem singer on the ice, and 20,000 other Americans, for the darkened arena, and for that moment, I felt so completely and utterly American. For all my wanderings in the world and not knowing who I am or where I am from, I knew in that one moment that although some places may no longer feel like home, some situations always will. And I realized that I sang that song along with the others, tears streaming down my face, feeling so happy to be an American, to be a part of a moment and a culture that I understand, and for one second to be able to let down my guard and just think...Look what great things my country can produce.

The anthem ended and we sat, the excitement of the game charging the air with erratic tension, and my tears continued for a good ten minutes or so. I realized that that moment, the moment in which I sang the anthem with many others, was one of the most homesick moments that I have ever felt in my life. And maybe it was an inconsequential moment, nothing spectacular happened, but never in my life have I been prouder to be an American than that pinpoint in time.

Sorry about the flag-waving rabidity.

-H.

PS-Partner Unit is off on a 10-day trip to Hong Kong (to the land of Simon), so hopefully blogging will be plentiful. And go say hi to Simon anyway-he is about to be a father. Again.

PPS-I am 32 comments away from my 2000th comment, which Drew had predicted would come by the end of December. He was only one week off :)

UPDATE!!!!!!!!!!

I just got back from a trip to my mailbox, and I found a wonderful surprise waiting for me, something which has made my week and put a smile on my face (and it even had me take a shower and change my pajamas!) So to my mysterious benefactor...thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am touched, deeply.

Luuk and Pictures

First off, anyone heard from Jean or Luuk? Jean? You ok, baby? Luuk? Has Jean fallen in the well? Are you here to get help, boy?

Here's to hoping we hear from either of you soon.

Also, I had a few snaps from NYC and Dallas to share. They're not of my family (since I feel the need to protect their anonymity) but here you go:

This is me at Rockerfeller Plaza.

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This is me Christmas morning, unwrapping presents and drinking coffee (yes, that is the perfect bracelet on my arm, and yes- I am wearing Snoopy pajamas and some duck cartoon socks).

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And finally, the arena of my precious Dallas Stars.

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-H.

Hellions

My whole view on children has been shifting quite rapidly lately, but let's set that aside for a moment and let me vent about something.

On New Year's Day, Partner Unit's best friend Hasse and his girlfriend Annika stopped by for coffee and muffins at our house, joining me, Dear Mate and Partner Unit on a calm day.

Well, at least it had been calm. But then Hasse and Annkia showed up in the driveway with their three children, three boys-Annika's 7-year-old son from a previous relationship Hasse's two from a previous relationship (ages 6 and 2). We had never met these kids before. I now understand why, they were likely still being put together by Dr. Frankenstein and so weren't yet ready for public viewing.

It was something out of a Steve Martin film.

Let me clarify one thing, if you don't mind. In Sweden, it is illegal to hit your children. In fact, children are provided with a telephone number that they can call if they are ever hit, and then the parents are in supreme high hot water if said number is called. Now, in theory this is a good idea. I mean, we shouldn't be walking around using children as target accuracy practice or making them cower in case of any sudden movement. That being said, there are a few times when I can think a short swat on the back of the leg can terminate a situation and end a potentially disastrous public confrontation between angry child and frazzled mother.

When I was a child, I was only spanked once, and that was for playing with fire. I think I deserved that one.

The end result is that, in my opinion, Swedish children in public can often be little monsters. You see temper tantrums from children in grocery stores and parents saying: "Now Anders...do you really think that is reasonable behavior?" when the truth is, little Anders can give a fuck about reasonable behavior, he wants some chocolate-covered raisins, and he wants them now, dammit! The children here, overwhelmingly, can do no wrong and have absolute right of way. I have yet to hear a kid of any age here apologize for slamming into your legs while you are carrying 100 pounds of cooking gear and they are mindlessly wandering about the aisles of the store. Or you see little Anders or little Ulrika get scooped up and held by their parents in the midst of a tantrum, and you can see little Anders or Ulrika administer Mommy or Daddy a slap, to which the parents say nothing.

I was raised with the pretty strict motto that children should be seen and not heard. And that we should be unfailingly polite, always. And if we ever talked back or hit our parents...well, the words "organ donation" come to mind as a consequence.

So it was that three little hellions were unleashed on our house, shattering the peace that had been New Year's.

It was quite clear that Annika's son (whom she had always heretofore referred to as "my sweet little boy") was the ringleader. Dear Mate nicknamed him The Thug, and that name was perfect. He was a little terrorist.

The second he came in the door, he had whipped the other two kids into a frenzy. Our collie, Ed the Evil One, was immediately on the spot. Fortunately for him, he is a very sweet-natured and patient dog who absolutely loves children, although I imagine he will need a little holiday from them for a while. The two oldest boys (The Thug and Thug Junior) starting crashing about the living room with a set of plastic golf clubs (I kid you not), bashing them about and clubbing anything in sight. The littlest one (called Thug Lite) just screamed at the top of his lungs.

Then The Thug took Thug Junior upstairs. I heard much screaming and bashing, and I raced upstairs to find the two of them trying to beat our cats to death with said plastic clubs. When I told them no, they protested their innocence but I confiscated said clubs anyway. They then set about sliding down the bannisters and trying to capture the cats. They went into the cellar downstairs, tearing around and trying to torture the animals.

At that point, our normally extremely placcid and friendly cats just managed to avoid detection and tore through the living room, roughly the size of beavers with their hair puffed up to three times the normal circumference, and wedged themselves under the couch, where they stayed the rest of the stay, four glowing eyes looking out under the couch in a mixture of sheer terror, hatred and revulsion.

The Thug and Thug Junior then set about making "traps" for the cats, which included going through the contents of my dresser drawers and stealing our flashlights. This did not sit well with me-I hate having people touch my things, so this set my nerves right on edge. Their parents just rolled their eyes and smiled in a "kids-will-be-kids" attitude. Dear Mate looked as though he would murder them, as he has two half-Swedish half-English kids himself, and he would never tolerate that behavior.

Thug and Thug Junior then came downstairs, ran screaming-literally-in circles in the dining room and started in on Ed. They found out that he will sit if instructed, so took great delight in making him sit and stand and sit and stand, endlessly. The poor dog got so confused that at one point he would stand, take a step, and just sit again in bewilderment. Thug and Thug Junior then went through our kitchen and brought back some raisins (since The Thug had deemed my freshly-baked blackberry muffins to be repulsive), which they ate in the living room by the handful, dropping them on the carpet.

I couldn't concentrate on Annika and Hasse, and truthfully when the coffee was out, I was a bad hostess-I didn't offer or make any more. I just wanted them to go, honestly. I was never so glad to see people leave. Just as they were leaving, the monsters were using Ed's sleeping cushion to body-surf down the stairs.

When the hellions finally left, Dear Mate, Partner Unit and I collapsed. Exhausting. And no, I don't have children and of course I would say this, but for the record:

My kids will never be like that.

-H.

PS-I have been having many problems with my pc, and in general most commenting systems aren't working for me just now (weirdly enough, the mu.nu system works fine for me). For instance, examples of some of them that I have tried commenting on Ilyka's and Melodrama's sites, but I think I am having issues with Java. I also am having fantastic problems with my pc timing out. I'm still reading you guys, just not able to worship you publicly and comment for a while. I'm around. Just quiet.

PPS-I have a pretty good shot at a job with a UK company that will sponsor visas. Send happy thoughts their way, so that they will hire me, 'K?

PPPS-Update on the fuckwittage that is my personal life tomorrow.

Finally, A Picture!

Just a short one from me, since I am very, very tired and trying to get the settings on my reconstructed computer working again.

New Year's Eve was actually fabulous. Partner Unit, Dear Mate and I kicked off the drinking at 5:00 pm, and didn't stop until 3:00 am. Four bottles of wine, two bottles of champagne, and a whole lot of Talisker later, and we all passed out in our beds.

We got to light off masses of fireworks here, which was fabulous. Partner Unit and I had 18 rockets, and Dear Mate had brought 35. At about 10 to midnight, much to Ed the Evil One's great dissatisfaction, the world in Sweden went mad. Fireworks exploded over the entire neighborhood, and when we packed ourselves up in winter clothes to light off ours (it was about -10 degrees that night) we found the sky on fire. It was as though someone had set a big black bowl upside down over the sky and rimmed the edges with Christmas lights-the fireworks went off on the horizon on a 360 degree view. It was amazing.

We shot our rockets off, cheering like maniacs with each explosion. And when midnight came, I kissed the two men, we all hugged, and then trudged back inside to do more damage to the alcohol. Dear Mate (who is indeed divorcing) and I agreed-we offer up a big "Bite Me" to 2003 and hope that 2004 shapes up.

Dear Mate and I watched a bizarre (but, I admit, very funny) English show called "The Alan Partridge Show" all morning on the 1st while Partner Unit slept off the hangover. Dear Mate has gone to spend the weekend with his kids, and I miss him and the buffer he provided between Partner Unit and I. Things are certainly weird here.

So in the meantime, here's hoping none of you still have a hangover. And here is a view of the new me:

-H.