tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-98628552024-03-16T07:08:11.097+00:00BarrenAlbionParenthood after IVF. Have a seat and enjoy the ineptitude. Will contain strong language and cynicism.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.comBlogger426125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-86396462099112617932012-06-04T23:22:00.001+01:002012-06-04T23:22:41.100+01:00Too much to sayI'm not the only one who thinks of many marvelous things to write about and then rapidly clicks away from Blogger as soon as a blank page is presented, I know this. However, I doubt there are many that give up dozens of times over a period of months rather than weeks because really - what would be the point? You've heard it all before, I've written it all before.<br />
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I want to write, desperately. I just don't know what to say that can't be summarized in a few short sentences. I don't know whether I'm measuring in weeks or months, but I sincerely hope to write again like I used to. Thinking about those more prolific days makes me wistful, and I don't need to be more wistful. I want that outlet again, but talking about Then just makes me dwell on the now. Now is bad, now is shit. I was sad a lot Then, but I don't recall hating who I had become, and how I was to others. <br />
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The gist, to spare you numerous posts of endless laments, is that I fucked up coming here. I've probably said that in at least a couple of the 5 or so posts I've written since moving over almost two years ago. I still hate my job with a fervor I never thought possible, The Dude is doing things he does not want to do in the absence of gainful employment in his field, I don't really like the United States and a lot of its inhabitants, and the second child issue is a further knife in the otherwise shitastic clusterfuck that was my decision to up and move back. My girl is amazing, wonderful, and is what holds my shattered pieces together. She is my constant. I have had some "episodes" (for lack of a better word) of depersonalization, as diagnosed by the internet and my highly-qualified self, and she is the only thing which brings me back.<br />
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Since I now appear certifiably insane, if anyone else has experienced depersonalization before and cares to share their experiences, please do so in the comments or by email. As we well know, I have always had some headspace issues, but not to this extent. I have tried the "WE MUST GO BACK TO ENGLAND OR ELSE I WILL NEED TO BE COMMITTED!" approach, but here I remain.<br />
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So that's that. Crazy. Full of rage and hatred. Looking for a cabin in which to live off the grid with my family. What a post!<br />
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<br />MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-64039276261255200082012-01-18T04:49:00.001+00:002012-01-19T02:48:19.339+00:00TiredI wanted to blog about happy things - show you pictures of my barn, tell you of the random and probably age-inappropriate interests of my kindergartner, or...or...talk of other things significantly more engaging and lighthearted than my father. My father, the (not-so-recovering) alcoholic, PTSD suffering Vietnam veteran who has - PROUD MOMENT COMING - now graduated to domestic violence and attempted suicide.<br />
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I've blogged <a href="http://barrenalbion.blogspot.com/2008/10/parents.html">about</a> <a href="http://barrenalbion.blogspot.com/2008/10/paterfamilias.html">him</a> before, and I have recently tweeted about this drama, as it is one of those non-Facebook-type subjects for me. Re-reading those posts from a few years ago, I have just realized that this post does not have to be as long as I originally anticipated it to be, as I don't think I can better summarize my thoughts than what I have already written. I guess it is amplified now perhaps, with the two new elements of abuse and attempted suicide adding a bit more gravity to an already grave situation.<br />
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Since 2008, when I wrote about my Dad before, he moved out to California to live with his girlfriend. I have never met her, but my brother has been out to visit them and ascertains that she is quite possibly the kindest person one could ever meet. She has put up with repeated drunken nonsense from my Dad, and for some unknown reason she stood by him throughout what my Dad terms "slip-ups" - a vastly inaccurate term if ever there was one. My brother was always candid with my Dad's girlfriend; he told her after every "slip-up" that my Dad was never going to change. His issues have remained the sole constant in his life for the past 40+ years. They stayed ever-faithful through his marriage to my Mom, and a number of relationships since then. In my Dad's own words, those relationships ended due to various problems instigated by the women. It never had anything to do with him being a paranoid drunk unable to stay sober.<br />
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Last week, my brother and The Dude broke the news to me in tandem that my Dad was in jail. DUI? Old news. Dad had moved on to bigger and brighter things like kicking his girlfriend and smashing up her house. She took out a restraining order against him, which we applauded and supported. A day or two passed, and then we found out that my Dad tried to kill himself. This also, is a new development in his pantheon of Bad Behaviour. Even now I'm not sure how, as we have not been able to get through to him at the VA Hospital he may or may not be in. Well, he is there, as mentioned by a staff member the other day who spoke with my Dad to confirm that I could be added to the contact list. However, subsequent phone calls have yielded no response from anyone other than "Ma'am, we can't say whether he is here or not." I have pointed out that I don't need them to confirm, as I already know he is there as he was spoken to by a nurse while I was on hold previously, which would indicate, oh...I don't know...maybe that he is there?<br />
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I'm glad of course, as I really need this situation to be complicated further.
I have been wrestling with what to say to him if I was put through to the room he may or may not be in. My Dad has never addressed his problems with me. Ever. We gloss right over them and pretend that things are normal. Alcoholism and its effects are the subtext we disregard. Dad is a gruff ex-Marine not prone to discussing feelings, and I have both a fear of confrontation as well as the annoying habit of not wanting to upset anyone. I'm not going to go the route of my brother, which is to usually start these conversations with, "What the fuck is your problem?" I would say something stupid like, "Wow, you're a hard person to get ahold of!" I can type a novel here about it all, or rant to The Dude as to how complicated all of this is, but all I'll ever be able to say to my Dad are polite trivialities.<br />
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What if I did manufacture a spine and tell my Dad how much I want to shake him for being so goddamned selfish? Is it fair to do that to someone who has just decided that life isn't worth living? It seems kind of mean to go off on one with someone who has survived a suicide attempt, but then again, we have been tiptoeing around his bullshit for 20 years now. I can agonize over these things for hours, and occasionally I come to the conclusion that all of that thinking was for naught. This illness is too ingrained, too settled in. It's here for the duration, isn't it? The duration was almost up to two days ago, and who knows how much of an extension has been granted. I would love to read about intervention miracles whereby those who have been addicts for decades get better, but I don't read about them because they don't exist. If it hasn't happened now, by his 66th year, it isn't likely to. What stark realization will he have? People talk about needing to hit rock bottom - he presumably hit that in 1996 when he and my Mom split up for good. He was confronted for squandering my college fund, such as it was, and was out of our lives for years. As a parent, I would think rock bottom is not seeing your kids for YEARS because you are too fucked up to be around them. Does it get worse than that? We are years beyond that point now, so I'm not sure what happens next.<br />
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I apologise for all of the rhetorical questions. I don't expect answers. I know there aren't definite ones. Re-reading the comments on my old posts on this subject makes me realize that this is the only forum in my life that I can look to for genuine comfort, so thank you - even if you don't know the "right" thing to say.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-81536601413147298582012-01-08T00:30:00.002+00:002012-01-08T01:18:26.874+00:00And here we are againNo preamble here about not blogging 9 months, or whatever it has been. I'm just going to launch right into the meaty (though admittedly not thrilling)life updates.<br /><br />I bought a barn. It is only one third converted, but that converted third is rather large and certainly habitable. It is an amazing, wonderful place, as well as the recipient of all of our "spare" money for the next 20 years in an effort to finish it. It is my haven, and on most days, the saving grace of my sanity. Pictures will follow at some point.<br /><br />P is in kindergarten and is 5 1/2 at the end of this month. As always, she is equal parts marvelous and frustrating, but such is the life of a parent. She reads confidently and loves to learn - current interests include minerals, dinosaurs, and all things gross (gross science, gross history, etc). I have no idea where time has gone, and I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the baby/toddler thing. I know that is less about P getting older and the changes therein, and more about the whole barren womb thing. Ah, much has changed, but the best things stay the same.<br /><br />I am still employed at the same place I have complained about in the past. One of the few positives I can say about it is that it has prepared me to work in my field anywhere else on this earth, because I can't imagine that I would be expected to balance as much as I do currently. Expectations are very high as well, and it is far too stressful a job considering the pittance I make. First world problems, blah blah blah. <br /><br />At this point in time I feel devoted to getting back into this blogging thing, as I think it would help me since I will soon be trying AGAIN in earnest to get pregnant. I have zero faith that I will be successful, in either really - blogging or pregnancy. However, I'm 33 now, have some gray hairs magically appearing with frightening regularity, I read books about barns with a fervor some may find disturbing, and I drive an eco-friendly car which is often purchased by pensioners (so my car salesman said). It's time to grow up, stop being so goddamned flaky and stick to something for once. I blame Facebook and the bloody ease of microblogging, particularly as I'm friends on there with pretty much all 10 people that still have me in their blog feeds.<br /><br />So yes, barn, kindergartner, still no baby in this vacant womb, hates job. I could have saved us all the trouble and just typed that. Must get back to watching Barbie: Swan Lake with the Sassy Tornado of Hair, Teeth, and Fingernails. Girl may lecture you on Jurassic vs. Cretaceous periods, but in her down time nothing makes her happier than a shitty Barbie movie.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-80111128786119500712011-04-24T03:58:00.004+01:002011-04-26T22:23:45.422+01:00Shut the Front DoorI am pretty much the laziest and most easily distracted person alive. Despite my failures in communication with blog friends and two completely defunct-through-neglect blogs not to mention this one, I'm starting another venture - Shut the Front Door.<br /><br />Lately I have wanted to say more here than I can without fear of being outed or compromising my anonymity. It all sounds very dramatic when it couldn't be more pedestrian, as I really just wanted to talk more about job frustrations but don't feel comfortable doing so here. I'm friends on Facebook with people I work with, so that's out, and Twitter...well, what can you really say in 140 characters anyway? <br /><br />It came to me recently that it would be nice to have a members-only online forum to take any similar concerns private so they were not readable to all of the internet. Yes, there are password-protected posts, but I'll be honest - not only can I not be bothered to do that on my own posts and notify readers of the password, but I never remember others' passwords either. Again with the lazy.<br /><br />It will be a private forum, and all memberships will need to be approved by me. I want to make sure it is a space in which everyone feels comfortable to share freely without the accompanying paranoia that I get when I talk about certain things on my blog. It's obviously not a replacement blog, because lord knows I would never tend to that either if so, but on the odd occasion you feel the need to talk about work, marital issues, sexual concerns, or if you're worried that your cat is trying to kill you, come hither. There are comment functions, so you would be able to get feedback on what you are saying just as you would on your blog.<br /><br />It will not be a place for talking about any bloggers in a negative way, so behave yourselves. I also do not intend for any detailed personal information to be posted there, so it's not as if anyone will be providing their addresses, names of places of employment, or even real names of spouses/kids/etc (unless you are comfortable with that). I suppose you could be anonymous based on the name you set up in the account, but I will need to know who you are in the initial stage (as in blog name or connection to this collection of bloggers)for membership purposes. That information would obviously not go beyond my inbox if required of course. <br /><br />I've started this <a href="http://forums.com/">here</a>. I have no idea whether this site is any good at forum hosting, so we shall see how it goes. If you go to the search box in the upper left of the homepage and type in "Shut the front door" the forum will come up with the option to join. This may work, or it may be a complete fucking disaster. We shall see!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />UPDATE:</span> It appears as if forum.com is shit. Not only can some of you not access it, but I as the administrator cannot even log in. Hmph. It is a beta version after all, but <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span>. I guess I will spend some of my evening post-ice cream dinner with P looking at other options.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-6322853428509242332011-04-05T02:56:00.002+01:002011-04-05T03:57:25.264+01:00Still hereIt's so hard to come up with pithy subject titles which allude to the subject to be discussed without being obscenely cliche or cheesy. "Drowning", "HATE HATE HATE", "Grey", "Please feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up with all the bellyaching" (and so on) were all considered and promptly binned. <br /><br />Well, I'm still in the United States, so let's start there. It's strange - there is so, so much I want to say in order for me to try to work out the shit if even just in my own head, but with the amount of things to say it all just becomes tiresome. Half the time I start venting to The Dude and just give up through sheer exhaustion, both mental and physical, and feel the need to retire for a 20 year nap. <br /><br />I started out in the let's-get-it-all-out mode not a mere 15 minutes ago (yes, it has taken me that long to get this far...shameful), and my head is now a jumble of half-constructed thoughts and random filler that I'll never be able to bring together in this post. I struggle a lot lately with a foggy head and the general inability to express myself coherently, which isn't exactly conducive to my working life either. <br /><br />I want to talk about why I miss England, and how I possibly don't miss it as much as I think I do. I want to talk about how I'm pretty sure a lot of Americans (except the ones reading this blog) completely lack a sense of humour and are fake, back-stabbing assholes. I want to talk about how, contrary to what your fair selves indicated previously, I really am fucking up my kid's life with startling aplomb. I think I may have said pretty much that exact same thing last time, but I'm running on fumes here.<br /><br />There is good news amongst all of the talk of dark days and gloomy thoughts - I have now reached the end of my 6 month probationary period at work, so I am eligible for prescription cover. Thus, I will be hot-footing it to my doctor's someday soon to beg for sweet, medicinal relief. The bad parts of life keep elbowing into the sunny slivers which occasionally peek through, and it's not fair to The Dude and P. <br /><br />Fingers crossed that my next post is not a muddled, confused mess. I don't expect to be jumping out of bed in the morning desperate to go to work, but I want to be able to function like a real human again. I want to write on here, comment on other blogs again - all the stuff I used to do before in The Motherland. You know, before I was crazy that other time. God willing and the Creek don't rise.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-48821208169286749462011-03-01T02:58:00.002+00:002011-03-01T03:51:40.458+00:00StuckThere is an impulse in me to head to my blog when I am down and feel there is nowhere else to go - the histrionic blogging equivalent of drunk dialing. I come here because I want someone to tell me that everything will work out for the best, to offer some brilliant advice which hadn't previously occurred to me. That is my modus operandi in situations like these; I seem to think the only way out will be via direction given by someone else. Rather than addressing the problem(s) myself, I always want to rely on other people to change my way of thinking. As if a snippet of wisdom doled out by you, or by my Mom, life will align and all will be well. Intellectually I know that I am basically fucked, and this is what it is, that no three line comment left here will stop me wondering if life will ever be truly, unreservedly good.<br /><br />My brain is not currently in a position to devise a well-crafted post, so I will just get it all out there, hit "publish post", and regret it as soon as I do.<br /><br />I don't like being back here. Every single day I wonder why we have made this move when we were comfortable in the UK in so many ways - we had job security, we owned our own property, P was enrolled in a great school in which she was flourishing. Ok, we didn't actually *like* our jobs, which was the initial impetus to come back to the US. Oh, we had grown out of our flat too and were looking to sell, acknowledging that even in moving to a bigger place we still wouldn't have the space we wanted for P. The US seemed the obvious choice to improve those areas, but guess what? The joke is on us. We can't sell our property in the UK, we spend more in rent per month than we would on a mortgage for a very nice house, The Dude can't find a job, I HATE my new job, and P goes to a sub-standard daycare/school which manages to drain even more money that we don't have. Bills keep coming in, as they are wont to do, and I'm in constant amazement that we pay so much for not having much of anything quantifiable. <br /><br />My job might give me a stroke, and on a calmer day I might evaluate how I can't yet decide whether the US workplace is shit overall, or if it's just my place of employment. I was lucky back in the UK - I loved the people I worked with, so I guess it's my turn to be in a work environment that is largely unbearable. Under ordinary circumstances, I genuinely love the field I'm in, but I now dread going to work every day. I sometimes sneak into the bathroom and cry, thinking about how I just want to be home with my baby. Those who know me know that this is *not* Pru-like behaviour, so there is obviously a glitch or 50 in the system somewhere.<br /><br />We tell ourselves that we need just that "one thing" - a job for him, an offer on our flat in the UK, and then it would all start to be ok. We say that to one another when we are both doom and gloom, but I don't believe it, and I very much doubt The Dude does either. <br /><br />There are P-related (future) school issues that are also being thrown at us, and I'm just so sick of thinking about it that I'll just skip over it here. When I'm back to being sane, if only for a moment, I have parent-of-a-near-5-year-old crap to bring up on the blog but I can't be arsed right now. Suffice it to say, it's so, so hard to not feel as if I have completely screwed her over in all of this. We moved over here to give her more, and she's living a pale imitation of her former life right now. It tears me apart thinking that I have consciously done this to her. <br /><br />I try to recall that revisionist personal history is powerful. It makes you think that you were much happier before, that had you stayed in that life, everything would have been fine - peace in the status quo. Truth is, I know I wasn't happy before. I needed change, and I got it. Now I don't want it. I'm always discontent, there, here, everywhere. It doesn't matter. I don't know what I need to do in order to be happy, or if I can be. The DRAMA, I know. <br /><br />So there it is. I know, it's just one of a hundred times I write these posts. I'll get over it, until the next time when I do it all over again. Don't feel obligated to indulge me by dispensing sage advice, just please, no one say that it could be worse. Things could always be worse - that doesn't make it better.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-43572810807078987812011-01-04T02:56:00.002+00:002011-01-04T04:22:36.315+00:00Why hello thereMy initial concern was that I wouldn't remember how to get to my blog, and even if I did - would I know how to log in and where to go once I was? I managed this after a couple of tries, then realized the larger problem would be whether I remember how to write. I'm concerned that until I get back into the swing of things (assuming I can manage to blog more than once every 6 months), I'll write in the self-conscious style that plagued my early posts. Reading my old posts you'd be forgiven for thinking you'd stumbled onto a 13 year old's diary, not the blog of someone in their late 20s talking about infertility. Late 20s...oh, those were the days. <br /><br />So yes, I'm "back", though I never really left. I shifted my whole life and family back to the fair shores of the US and got lazy. Creating a new life for three is hard, let me tell you. I could pretend that I have no time, but I do. My kid (nearly 4 1/2 - SHIT) goes to bed at 7.30pm, I go to bed around 11pm every night. That is 3 1/2 hours of nothingness. Said nothingness is largely spent watching TV or DVDs with The Dude, catching up on what we have missed all these years away. Let me tell you - you people have got this reality TV thing down. Yes, it is "you people", because though I have lived in the US for three months and uh, I <span style="font-style:italic;"></span>am American, I'm having some outsider issues which I hope will lessen soon. <br /><br />My job is frustrating; it seems the notion of "training" is not important to the new place, yet haranguing me for not doing something I did not even know existed is acceptable. I am very independent and thorough, so this is not my chosen method in which to work. Professionally, I wouldn't want to do anything else, but I'm not sure if this is the institution for me. I am trying to be open-minded about it because I know it can take awhile to adjust, particularly when you come from a familiar, comfortable environment. I've been increasingly homesick for a country I am not even from, and on most days I debate whether I've done the right thing. <br /><br />So here we are, dropped in an unfamiliar place, slowly getting our bearings. The Dude vacillates between thinking that the life we'll have here will be great once we sell our place in the UK and he finds a job, and OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE WE DONE? He has started doing some part-time coaching which has alleviated some of the overall pervasive misery, but neither one of us can help thinking about the two fairly good-paying jobs and property that we owned (god, I hate renting) and left behind. <br /><br />P is just peachy regardless. She's happy here, she's happy there, she'd be happy in Eritrea. She is a jolly little bean, if not a jolly little dictating bean. See, I suppose not everything changes. We question our decision on her behalf as well, because even though she's well-adjusted, things could always be better. I wonder if anyone ever feels confident that their child(ren)have the very best life that they can provide. I didn't feel as if I was doing that in England, which was part of the reason for the move. Yet, I certainly don't feel as if I'm doing that here either. I don't know if that ideal space exists. <br /><br />So yes, I am here. Disjointed, confused, stumbling blindly through life both real and cyber. My goal for this week is to read blogs, so watch yourselves. That is, if I can remember how to sign in and comment on them. Oh yeah, or if I'm not distracted by all of the quality reality television - damn you Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Millionaire Matchmaker!MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-28312425784150470072010-09-13T23:21:00.000+01:002010-09-13T23:21:56.865+01:00Bon VoyageFour months of silence, yet I consistently don't know what to say when faced with a blank Blogger screen. The gist is this:<br /><br />-I got a job in the US.<br />-I, and by which I mean only me, leave England after 8+ years on Wednesday. One day from now.<br />-I am terrified.<br />-I will be away from The Dude and P for two or three weeks, perhaps more.<br />-I have had one month to prepare for this and I have failed. Majorly.<br />-For the next few days I will mostly be crying and trying not to throw up repeatedly. This applies to repeatedly trying not to throw up, as well as possibly trying not to throw up repeatedly.<br />-This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.<br /><br />I'm not sure what the next month will bring. I will try my best not to beseige this place with my misery whilst I'm trying to sort out my new life over there alone. <br /><br />Shit. Fuck. Bollocks. Wank.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-8293837307461999232010-05-02T22:47:00.000+01:002010-05-03T00:20:13.412+01:00MamanWhen I was pregnant, I finally began to realise the weight attached to my own notion of motherhood. I never perceived myself to be the maternal type, and my relationship with my own mother, though loving, has some element of distance because we are two very different people. I have never been particularly fond of children, and even with one of my own, maintain a withdrawn, wary stance when it comes to the children of others. Since I had P, I suppose my Mom and I have grown closer, though I do feel as if my general emotional reservedness is at odds with her outgoing, emotionally bold personality. <br /><br />My Mom lost her mother when I, her first child, was not yet a year old. Growing up, I knew how profoundly her loss affected her - she was apologetic that I never knew my grandmother, and her mourning was two-fold now that she too had a daughter. I didn't think much about the daughter-mother-grandmother link until I was trying to get pregnant and had a dreadful nightmare that my Mom died right after I had a daughter of my own. I was lost as she had been, struggling to come to terms with new motherhood and grief simultaneously. It was a strange, lingering dream which annoyingly elbowed its way into my waking life and provided a very odd world for me mentally for quite some time afterwards.<br /><br />Since I had P, I haven't lingered on that dream much. I can't. As most of you know, I have some issues with anxiety, so the further away those thoughts, the better. My worry is often allocated entirely to P, and there is so much of it, there is not often much spare. This afternoon my brother called to say that my Mom took herself to the ER early this morning because she was having heart palpitations. Because "rational" is not a word often associated with my mental processes, I have been going to extremes all day. My brother has not seemed overly concerned, but then again, he's male, and I'm 4000 miles away and helpless. He often downplays all of my Dad's forays into alcoholic idiocy, so I know he's worried too and just masking it well.<br /><br />Being a negative person and extreme worrier, this only goes one way with me. Even if it's nothing this time, it has awakened an alarm within me so that from now until someone actually dies, I will think every phone call is bad news. I know it sounds horribly melodramatic and an exaggeration, but this is how my mind works. It has always latched on to one occasion where something went wrong, and thus every other time the same situation presents itself, I assume it to be bad. Once The Dude had head pain so severe that I rushed him to the ER, with me believing he was surely experiencing an aneurysm and would die before we got there. Instead, he was 26 when he discovered he inherited his mother's tendency to debilitating migraines. Nonetheless, with every twinge, every need to take an Excedrin, it's 11 years ago again and I'm bracing myself for the worst.<br /><br />Since my brother phoned, I have been catastrophizing. That's what us anxious people do, and who am I to disappoint? I am now starkly aware of my Mom's mortality, and cannot think of anything else. I think of it in terms of her being my own mother of course, but also her presence as the Granny P adores. I could be a mother defining my own mother to my child in purely anecdotal terms one day - soon? - just as she was 25 years ago. My mind then goes further, just to fuck with me even more, to remind me that as I'm trying to get pregnant again, I have possible dead-grandmother emotional baggage for that hypothetical child as well. Yes, yes, I know it all sounds so absurd, and to be honest typing it makes me feel a bit ridiculous. Regretfully, rational thought does not mix well with catastrophizing. <br /><br />My Mom rang about an hour ago, scaring the shit out of me as that blessed ring will do from now on. She wanted to tell me that all was ok, "so you'll sleep well tonight." Ha! She's in a difficult place - other than being more or less on her own to deal with this, she has to concern herself with my fragile mental state. She knows how I am. She often brings up the many times in my childhood when I would be too anxious to sleep and she had to stroke my hair and talk about our "peaceful place." Apparently her issue (something about a sinus which I WILL NOT Google, or I shall never sleep again) can be treated by something as simple as medication, or at its most invasive extreme, a pacemaker. <br /><br />Strangely enough, there was a line that had been bouncing around in my head all week, one which I read somewhere - I'm paraphrasing, but basically, the important things that change your life are the ones which happen in a second. We tend to ascribe all the gravity of our lives to the things we ponder over and over again - do I move back to the US? Do I greet infertility again to see if I can try my luck again? - rather than the ones which can change it all in an instant.<br /><br />I was in an awkward mental place prior to all of this anyway, so it's only natural that the weirdness should be extended a bit longer. I guess it's a combination of PMS (because OF COURSE my period is impending), and general mental imbalance, but I have been near tears or tearful for the past 48 hours. Now I guess I at least have a good reason to be so. I'm so paranoid, another fun aspect of my uh, issues, that I picture people reading this and rolling their eyes. Many of you have lost your mothers, or had mothers with issues more severe than what appears to be a rather harmless condition as far as heart things go, and here I am, rabbitting on like the most overreacting-nest person who ever overreacted. If anyone would like to talk me down off the ledge, you are more than welcome to do so.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-16662807164469170542010-04-25T20:35:00.006+01:002010-04-25T21:25:16.235+01:00Music Monday: It's About Damn TimeI don't even know how long it has been since I did MM. I could look, but that requires effort and I'm fresh out of that. As I <a href="http://twitter.com/MsPrufrock">tweeted</a> yesterday, my kid is being an absolute gobshite lately and a bit of a cow, so I feel capable of little other than dribbling on myself, staring forelornly into middle distance, and oh - hooking you up with some music. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dave Rawlings Machine: To Be Young</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KX_svEq0Hj0&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KX_svEq0Hj0&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Josh Ritter: Change of Time</span> (frick on a stick I wanted to not like him or this song given my brother's worrying it-puts-the-lotion-on-the-skin love of all things Ritter)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bhoME4ji6jk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bhoME4ji6jk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">She and Him: Ridin' in My Car</span> (I like this quite a bit despite my abiding hatred of M Ward)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WpiI2ab6trU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WpiI2ab6trU&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Beach House: Zebra</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/90ipyWYO3LM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/90ipyWYO3LM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />The Bird and the Bee: I Can't Go For That</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oUl8DC_yQ6g&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oUl8DC_yQ6g&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Broken Bells: The High Road</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-mkr19RSG6k&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-mkr19RSG6k&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Monsters of Folk: Dear God</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8wpGHGFV8Xk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8wpGHGFV8Xk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dawes: When My Time Comes</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LiQFgS4R-Ag&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LiQFgS4R-Ag&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /><br />Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros: 40 Day Dream</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hTegIE_nhFM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hTegIE_nhFM&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Cold War Kids: Audience</span><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KTrLsteldvc&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KTrLsteldvc&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Mumford and Sons: The Cave</span> (there are other songs I could choose from this wonderful band, however, I love this song so much I hae every faith that if I listen to it a thousand times, I will get the job I want and become infinitely fertile. It will be so.)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fNy8llTLvuA&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fNy8llTLvuA&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I hope to be back later in the week with an honest to god blog post about real stuff. We shall see.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-77851446964360675422010-03-30T20:05:00.003+01:002010-03-30T20:44:22.915+01:00HuzzahHeyyyy-oooooo! I've swept away the cobwebs and stomped on the spiders inhabiting this space. They will surely take up residence again when I've left this to rot for another few months. So, ignore the tumbleweeds, but don't get too excited and think that I have much of note to say.<br /><br />Where have I been...yes, where have I been. I have been trying to get pregnant in the UK or employed in the US, consistently failed, had mini-breakdowns, resolved to smite my ovaries because they are bastards, cursed US higher education institutions for being close-minded (or perhaps just exhibiting good sense), adoring my magnificent daughter, resuming my MA in Art History, consequently not getting enough sleep, shunning blogging in favour of the ease and lack of commitment of Facebook, and not running enough. I think that about covers it. <br /><br />Since I last blogged in January, I made some decisions. As alluded to above, I decided to give equal effort to the two things I want - a second child and a job in the US. Neither one of those options seem too keen to get things moving, but at least I am attempting to take action so that something will hopefully happen. Eventually. I bought myself one of those nifty Clearblue Easy Fertility Monitors that does all the hard work for me, because I tried the temp thing the first go round and it was all a bit much of a to-do. I barely even know what day it is or where I'm supposed to be, I'm sure as hell not put together enough to taking my temp before my eyes even open and then drafting it on a damn chart. <br /><br />I'll tell you something else - I always said that I was a completely rubbish infertile, and you'll be pleased to know that is still the case. I never used OPKs before now, and I have no idea what the lines on the wee sticks even mean. No clue. I hold them up to the light every morning, trying to glean what knowledge exactly, I have no idea. I angle them against the skylight, squint, furrow my brow, draw no conclusions whatsoever, and put them in the bin. Thank god the little machine tells me my business or else I'd have no clue. The penis goes <span style="font-style:italic;">where</span>?<br /><br />I have been trying not to think about what happens after failure. I have very quickly fallen back into the mentality that pregnancy is something which happens to other people rather than me. I may have been pregnant before, but like a lot of things, the passage of time wears away memories slowly. I can barely remember that time with any accuracy, and though the evidence of my successful pregnancy is constantly smacking my ass and saying "Hey sugarbum" with a flawless Southern accent, I seem to disassociate her with the actual process of being pregnant. <br /><br />Between cycles I don't much care which comes first - pregnancy or job. After a failed cycle, well, woebetide the poor Dude, who is relegated to a support position which largely involves staring blankly at me while I rage. Ah, the good old days, eh?<br /><br />So yes, I'm back in this IF sphere again, begrudgingly. I might even stick around for a bit. Who am I kidding? I'll be here for years. I hope to put off the fun stuff like wandings and flashing my doctor for at least a little while, but I'll need somewhere to vent the reality. Facebook is crawling with work folk, family, and severe Christ-worshippers who would fall of their pews if they knew what I'm really like. I need this blog for that, as short of personal emails, this is still the only place where I can be me.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-81631611860574928882010-01-17T18:28:00.004+00:002010-01-17T21:43:30.484+00:00SimplificationThough I may not be blogging much lately, I am doing a lot of thinking, if that counts for anything. In the past couple of weeks I've been trying to get my (metaphorical) house in order, though, like all the other times, it will all soon fall apart. Again. <br /><br />Anyway, while I was away, thinking and pondering, pondering and thinking - my FIVE YEAR BLOGIVERSARY passed. Five damn years. Not only does this mean that I have been writing this claptrap for that amount of time, but that I've known my Cheese Wife for pretty much that long. There we were, but babes in the infertile wood, and he we are five years later, both with drastically different lives. I'm thankful that there are more of you out there that I have known for just about as long, and happy that we're all still around in some capacity - whether it is still in blog form, email, or Facebook. I scoff in the general direction of all those who say you cannot form "proper" relationships in cyberspace. Do people even say "cyberspace" anymore?<br /><br />The wheels in my wee head have been turning, consumed with thoughts of my own personal evolution as a blogger. No doubt Mel would write about this subject (and probably has) far better than I can, but I'm just going to go and talk about it anyway. <br /><br />Within the last year, if not a bit more, my perspective on blogging has changed quite drastically. In the time before, I was perhaps a bit too consumed with trying to plump up my traffic, increase my profile, and befriend big(ish) names. I was never too ambitious, as I think a lot of the bloggers classified as A-list are not very good writers and/or entertaining and wouldn't sell myself just for the sake of squealing when one linked to me (she says, mentioning good writing after that awkward sentence). I was never so crass as to be obvious about it; I just cannot starfuck without feeling like a dirty, dirty whore. <br /><br />I don't know why I wanted more readers. I'm too much of a flake to handle the online friendships I have now, so I can't imagine, at least not conciously, that I wanted to make more friends. Perhaps it's a tiny amount of that basic, high school-ish desire to hang out with those that are considered the cool kids. For the most part, that isn't what it was about for me, since I didn't much care for that rubbish when I was in high school. Admittedly, there are some bloggers that are popular and that I think are downright fabulous, and even now in my devil-may-care phase, I'd be lying if I said I didn't secretly want them to read me, just once. Luckily, one of them, the aforementioned, almighty Mel, does pop in every once in awhile, and heck, I think she even likes me!<br /><br />I have always enjoyed receiving comments, as we all do, and I've always drawn a parallel (at least on my own blog)with good writing yielding a higher number of comments. Of course we know that isn't strictly true, as I have been to some truly dire blogs with dozens of comments, but I judge my own blog differently for some reason. I think we've all been in a position in which we have written a post we are really proud of, or is particularly heartfelt, but draws very little response. I like writing, and since I don't do that in an academic setting at the moment (though this is to change in a few weeks' time), it's nice to have occasional feedback, however informal.<br /><br />So yes, maybe it's the Citalopram setting my head right, perhaps it's because I'm an old lady now at 31 and will find joy in things like cats and pensions instead of blog popularity. It's not an issue of not enjoying my blog anymore - I can't invisage giving it up anytime soon, but I can't be bothered with all of the politics and preening. I'm going to go simple and just blog for blogging's sake. I'm going to keep on (trying) to read the same blogs I've known and loved for years, and not add any with the view of trying to garner new readers. I applaud those of you who have been that way since you started, clearly you're higher up the blogging evolutionary chain. <br /><br />Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go dig out the raisin I've just dropped in my cleavage, then commence with the burning of patchouli and listening to the Grateful Dead.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-75503586090733004282009-12-24T14:11:00.005+00:002009-12-28T23:42:33.645+00:00Music Wednesday: Merry Christmas you bastards!Yeah, ok, so I didn't quite manage to write this post for Sunday or Monday as promised, but such is my flakyness. Regardless, it's here now, with your requests as well as my own favourites.
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<br />May @<a href="http://problemuterus.blogspot.com/">Problem Uterus</a> suggested Bruce Springsteen's "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Santa Claus is Coming to Town</span>" and Barenaked Ladies' "<span style="font-weight:bold;">God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen</span>":
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<br />I don't care what anyone says, Christmas isn't Christmas without a little Bing.
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<br />Little Drummer Boy</span> (with David Bowie)
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">White Christmas</span>
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<br />My new sister in Mid-Atlantic statedom, <a href="http://creatingmotherhood.com/">Cali</a>, wanted <span style="font-weight:bold;">Happy Christmas (War Is Over)</span> by John Lennon (I'm assuming, rather than the Celine version) and "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Christmas Time is Here</span>" from A Charlie Brown Christmas:
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<br />Since we don't get that 1964 jem "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in the UK, I must rely on YouTube for my annual fix. Hurray for "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Holly Jolly Christmas</span>" and "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Silver and Gold</span>":
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<br /><a href="http://elizasmom.com/">Eliza's Mom</a>, always the musical brainiac has suggested The Killers' "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Don't Shoot Me Santa</span>", and yes, EM, they are wearing some pretty vile/fabulous Christmas sweaters! Her other recommendation, because she pretty much rocks, is Porn Orchard's "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Christmas Sucks</span>":
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<br />And because I'm a big old dirty hippie who loves folk music, here is Kate Rusby's version of "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Here We Come a Wassailing</span>":
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<br />I could go on and on, because despite my gruff, cynical exterior, I love Christmas and all its pageantry, with Christmas music ranking right up there in my all-time list of favourite things. I won't project my holiday love any more, except to leave you with what is obviously the best contemporary Christmas song I know, and Major Bedhead and Molly agree with me - "<span style="font-weight:bold;">Fairytale of New York</span>", by the late, great Kirsty MacColl and The Pogues. Cover versions follow, just for fun:
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<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NrAwK9juhhY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NrAwK9juhhY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>
<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">
<br />Billy Bragg and Florence and the Machine<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>
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<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fQkLAhWsbi4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fQkLAhWsbi4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Paloma Faith ft Scouting for Girls<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>
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<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QZT7eNhsmos&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QZT7eNhsmos&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>
<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">
<br />KT Tunstall ft Ed Harcourt<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>
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<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b01FoO4ZDcY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b01FoO4ZDcY&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>
<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">
<br />Martha Wainwright & Ed Harcourt<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>
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<br />Happy Holidays to you all!
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-fnOup6sgjwXS4B3i8RfSuwXegBndk6i30oNQFGnNx57fpkNoci8O-SvnzpUX08UxTFGtVbNHUbd2-Shd_Y4OnN_s2Ff8bX7ogQoUAtp1PYpew97uNAfMjF-_OnoivUM-dSDDg/s1600-h/Santa.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 1px; height: 1px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-fnOup6sgjwXS4B3i8RfSuwXegBndk6i30oNQFGnNx57fpkNoci8O-SvnzpUX08UxTFGtVbNHUbd2-Shd_Y4OnN_s2Ff8bX7ogQoUAtp1PYpew97uNAfMjF-_OnoivUM-dSDDg/s400/Santa.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418828732038673522" /></a>MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-68602958243799474672009-12-14T22:13:00.005+00:002009-12-14T22:59:54.889+00:00Not so musical MondayAt 10pm I sat down for the first time since I got home at 5.30pm. I did manage to eat dinner in that time, a rather delicious Katsu curry I started making as soon as I got in. Regretfully, my dinner consumption usually takes about 40 minutes and involves minimal sitting. Instead it's grabbing a bite here and there when not being moaned at by the Tiny Dictator that her belly is rumbling, but somehow it knows it's not hungry for dinner but sweets. Arguments ensue, I'm told that I'm not very nice and have thus lost the friendship of my only daughter for being so bold as to ask her to eat her dinner. <br /><br />After preparation of two lunches (tuna sandwich for me, homemade cheesy pasta with tuna for her), two lots of dish washing later with a quick tidy of the kitchen, and it's 10pm. The Dude was insistent that I should go to bed and watch an episode of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" with him, but who wants to go from work - kitchen - bed - work with no proper relaxing in between? Now he is relegated to the bedroom and I get to cosy up with the laptop and a new (to us poor UK residents anyway) episode of SVU. I'll go to bed at 11pm anyway, but somehow that extra hour of alone time will hopefully be enough so I don't wake up tomorrow with a major case of the post-Mondays.<br /><br />This is such a stupid Mommy blogger thing to say, but fuck it - what do you do to not feel as if your life is just one endless cycle of things that wear you out? I just cannot physically find the time to do things I need to do - Christmas cards for example. When? I suppose I could take a few hours one night and work on them, but at the risk that everything else would fall behind. I bring work home with me most nights, but I rarely get a chance to sit down and do it. Dinners and lunches need made, kitchens need to be cleaned, dishes need done, toys need to be picked up. <br /><br />Somehow I don't feel stressed out with the hectic nature of the moment, I'm just tired. I can't believe I used to have time to sit down and write here two or three times a week, let alone reading what other people are writing. I can't work out what was different then, as I have the same job, same kid, same husband doing the same job. When are things not like this anymore? Retirement? Jesus...<br /><br />Jumping subjects entirely, I'll be doing a Music Monday next week (21st) featuring holiday music. I have some ideas of my own, but want some other recommendations. What songs put you in the holiday mood? Email me before next Sunday, barrenalbion at gmail dot com, or leave a comment here.<br /><br />I'm going to go put my favourite Christmas sweater on and brainstorm.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipj_JGdYYhdkmt69xpXLvJ-KU_WazS1nWwAW-QTKKoW-3npTYdHf9lTzHdUpFWfNJ6Yvj5k6Ug1_mcNvKXb6hs0Y-rTaiBXIJ7EstHLV7oPKVUbixvIf_Ul41k2kX1noXiu6Gs5A/s1600-h/ChristmasSweater.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipj_JGdYYhdkmt69xpXLvJ-KU_WazS1nWwAW-QTKKoW-3npTYdHf9lTzHdUpFWfNJ6Yvj5k6Ug1_mcNvKXb6hs0Y-rTaiBXIJ7EstHLV7oPKVUbixvIf_Ul41k2kX1noXiu6Gs5A/s400/ChristmasSweater.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415229983317046738" /></a>MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-49734665644389032692009-12-02T22:26:00.002+00:002009-12-02T23:29:39.376+00:00Vignettes of a trip abroadThe jig is up. I haven't blogged in fifty years, so if you are unfortunate enough to remember who I am, you probably don't even remember my allusions to a secret. The secret is, I flew to the US a couple of weeks ago for a real, live job interview. I *still* haven't heard whether I got the damn thing or not, though I suspect much like the magic period that turns up right when I waste urine and a tenner on a pregnancy test, I'll get an email right after I hit publish. Before you ask - I have no idea how I did. I am confident in how I presented myself in the four hours of various kinds of interviews I've had with my hopeful employers-to-be at anonymous university outside Philly, but you can never predict such outcomes, can you?<br /><br />I was only in the States for a few days, but sans The Baggage, I managed to squeeze more into that period than I usually do in a month-long trip. I have a cluster of trip tidbits that I wanted to mention, so I'll just dispense of proper grammar and paragraph structure and just list things numerically. I may have disappeared from blogging for a bit, but worry not, my laziness remains intact.<br /><br />1) On the flight to the States, I watched three films - The Time Traveller's Wife, The Ugly Truth, and a third which I have just now forgotten. Regardless, I have a lesson for you. If you have just left your family for the first time ever having only been away from your child for a maximum of 9 hours, DO NOT watch The Time Traveller's Wife. If you do, you will sit snivelling like an idiot, wiping your nose on the airline-provided blanket, ignoring the sidewards glances of the guy seated on the other side of the aisle, with your finger hovering over the "stop" button in case it all gets to be too much. I read the book and know it's a bit draining, so how I managed to not transfer this knowledge to my film decision making, I don't know.<br /><br />2) The night I arrived I met the wonderful, glorious, hospitable, gorgeous <a href="http://awfulbutfunctioning.blogspot.com/2009/11/merging.html">Tash</a>. I've neglected to meet up with her on past trips, and though we did not get to an XPN event, I greatly enjoyed the limited time I spent with her. I'm still paranoid that she probably felt I was way too comfortable, as I pretty much helped myself to her computer, drank her tea, and got all cosy in her kitchen. The lovely woman pretended I wasn't the rudest person in the world, and in my defense jet lag messes with my head a bit. My sense of tact which is always present starts to dissipate in fairly large increments once I've been awake for more than 18 hours. Tash's house is quite possibly, nay, IS, the most beautiful residence I have ever set foot in. I offered to move in straight away, and Tash gracefully deflected the offer and moved on to another matter quite quickly. We even hugged before I left, and let me tell you, I'm not much of a hugger so that Tash is one lucky broad.<br /><br />3) My Kindle, which does not have 3G access when in the UK, enabled me to sit at lunch the next day and download books. It will take me years to get over the marvel of being able to sit on your toilet (if you so desire), order a book, and start reading it 30 seconds later. Unfortunately for constructiveness and my marriage, I downloaded Dragonfly in Amber. I've gushed about this series (Outlander) before, and just like the first book, I cannot.get.enough. I don't know what it is, because some of it is hokey as hell and the sex scenes just make me laugh, but they are so addictive. That, and I desperately want to have lots of The Sex with Jamie. It's weird to lust after a fictional literary character. I spend way too much time brainstorming about who would best suit Jamie in a film version, then pleading desperately with fate to actually make a film version. I don't think I'd be able to watch it, lest I suffer from some sort of death by rapid orgasm and expire in a public movie theater.<br /><br />4) American rest stops. I love them. I don't know what it is, and maybe I've been away too long so as to find such ordinariness compelling, but I could sit in one for hours. I stopped in a wee one on the PA Turnpike to get a coffee, and my eyes couldn't dart around quick enough to take all the American goodness in. I think it's just such a symbol of Americana, with so many different types of people moving in and out with such rapidity. There's something so old school and mid-20th century about it.<br /><br />5) I met someone else on my trip - see, I told you I was industrious! Guess who? She lives out Philly way, sassy as hell, and has been a blogging friend of mine since her first infertility blog when she called herself "Holly". It's <a href="http://www.failuretonap.com/">STATIA</a>! Let me just say, I'm the first one to admit that my real self is not nearly as outgoing and bold as my blog self, but Statia is the real deal. Blog Statia <em>is</em> real Statia. Bitch. We met for coffee in a great little coffeeshop round her way, and she even paid for my drink. She's a classy broad, that one. The best part is, even though I was dressed like a common post-interview streetwalker, she didn't even ask to cop a feel before she bought my drink. So well-mannered. Much like my time with Tash, my visit with Statia was hours upon hours too short, but we crammed in a lot of talking into not much time. I'm endlessly pleased that I bothered to fit her in this time, even if it was mainly to shut her up about my apparent constant dissing of her when Stateside. I loved that we were able to keep the antagonistic banter up in real life, as if we'd known each other for years. Oh wait. We have.<br /><br />I'm sure there is more to my trip that would involve tales of my Mom's alleged ghost, by which I mean one which haunts my Mom's house, not the ghost of my still-alive Mom (who is here in the UK as we speak), Aunt Florence's recent begging episode, my mental insistence that if I get this job I should reward myself with a slew of art, and my annoyance with my home city that it is now cool - despite not being remotely so when I actually lived there.<br /><br />My goal in life now is not to get this job, but rather to read some goddamned blogs. I miss blog-reading, but my life in the past six months has been entirely composed of visa paperwork, job searching, job applications, resume and cover letter modification, email correspondence with job folk, child rearing, home maintenance, work stuff, and a touch of animal husbandry. I can't wait until I have a series of evenings in which I can sit on my ass and read blogs. It would be like a dream come true.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-88085364317518865432009-11-16T20:10:00.004+00:002009-11-16T20:45:44.567+00:00Music Monday: In with the newIt's been awhile since I've gotten my shit together enough to do this. I regularly send myself emails with band names and song titles in the hopes that one day I'll put it all together for an MM post. Hey - what do you know...today is that day!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Choir of Young Believers: Next Summer</span><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LBYBY1dYiAk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LBYBY1dYiAk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Raul Malo: Every Little Thing About You</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uzwuBq04LLA&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uzwuBq04LLA&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros: Home</span><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/id4vnQE0ok4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/id4vnQE0ok4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Fanfarlo: The Walls are Coming Down</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/d7LxBIBfoDo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/d7LxBIBfoDo&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Imogen Heap: First Train Home</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-MYa0_3Py6U&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-MYa0_3Py6U&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Editors: No Sound But the Wind</span> (this one is for you Rachel!)<br /> -Also, has anyone seen how friggin' good the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Saga-New-Moon-Soundtrack/dp/B0029O08WA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1258403541&sr=8-1">New Moon OST </a>is? Damn. <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b7aMfB6nwQw&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b7aMfB6nwQw&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" <br />height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Florence & the Machine: Raise it Up</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HVGSrSUABY4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HVGSrSUABY4&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ellie Goulding: Under the Sheets</span><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Navl4fYI-Zk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Navl4fYI-Zk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />I hope that keeps you busy for awhile. Check some of these out, even if you usually skim by my MM posts. There's some good stuff in there!<br /><br />Next post - the news? Who knows? Not I...MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-19374063526253806832009-11-08T21:02:00.003+00:002009-11-08T21:36:58.952+00:00You've got a ... friend?Here it is - I'm a shit friend. I'm a shit friend in real life, and I'm shit in the virtual one. In my head I try, but when it comes right down to it, I'm lazy and far too scatterbrained to maintain the sense of dedication and loyalty that is required in friendship.<br /><br />I'm sure one or two of you will emerge from the shadows to refute this to spare my feelings, but don't bother. We both know that you've sent me lengthy and important emails that I've either taken a year to respond to, or never bothered to at all. In some cases, you've been worried about me and enquired to others as to my whereabouts, concerned that one of my morose posts has lead to my self-imposed exile from society. The kicker is - I know about this worry and STILL don't take two minutes to let you know that I have not done a swan dive out my third story window. I am <em>that</em> filled with disregard it seems.<br /><br />Don't worry, it's not the sheltered, hidden nature of the internet that encourages me. I've always been like this. When I was 19 and was going to college in my hometown, one of my best friends who moved away to a college a few states away came back to visit and never called me. I was offended, until she pointed out that I never really responded to her repeated emails, so she didn't bother contacting me. Fair enough. Eventually I made it up to her by emailing regularly, if only for a little while. Ironically, we find ourselves in this same awkward position these days - we're Facebook friends due to our 20 year history, but she ignores every attempt I make at contact. I get it, I've been fired. I've sacked others before, now it's my turn to be on the other side.<br /><br />My family always trades tales of my complete inability to maintain any type of correspondence relationship. As you may imagine, moving 4000 miles away has not helped matters. I read the emails they send, then when I fail to respond, tell them months later that life was just so hectic, blah blah blah. Yes, my life is a touch busy, but no more so than anyone else's. I work full-time and have a kid. So do millions of other people. Not only do those people manage to do degrees, take tae kwon do, and cook delicious dinners, but they also email their friends every once in awhile in order to maintain long-standing relationships. <br /><br />I do feel terrible about it all, though apparently not bad enough to modify my behaviour. I go through bouts of talking a big game, pretending that I'm on top of life enough to make more of an effort, but progress is fleeting. It's upsetting enough doing this via emails and phone calls, but I'm also dreadful at sending post as well. Birthday cards? Maybe, and most likely to be a month or so after your actual birthday. Present for the new baby? Ok. It will be for your toddler and not so much a newborn, but I'll get around to it. Eventually.<br /><br />I do wonder what all of this says about me. In my head, I'm a good person. The Dude is forever telling me that I shouldn't think of other people so much, or be so generous. How these traits co-exist with my complete inability to not be an inconsiderate shithead, I have no idea. I think perhaps it's because it's all theoretical with me. I do feel horribly/fantastically about your difficult/joyous time. It will probably depress/elate me by association, and I'll tell The Dude how very sad/happy I am for you. The glitch, the immense stumbling block of insurmountable adversity, seems to be my ability to tell you that I feel that way. Even if I manage to get that out of me, there will be no ongoing dialogue, because I'll just leave it at that. The intent to do otherwise will be there, but....<br /><br />I could go on and on with a lengthy list of those I've wronged in this way. I see your names every single time I look at my mounting unread feeds, and I'm sorry. I do wonder what I do to deserve such loyalty, as my inability to comment on your blogs and reply to your emails is not commensurate to your dedication to me. I apologise the use of "dedication", but other than the even scarier cult-like word of "devotion", I can't think of an appropriate, much more mild word.<br /><br />So, to all of you, mea culpa. I'm not going to pretend things are going to change, because they won't. Well, when I put it like that I sound like a prize asshole, which is perhaps the whole point. Anyway, I am sorry. I would love to be an attentive, ever-thoughtful friend, but I don't think that is how I'll ever be, regardless of how much I want it.<br /><br />Lest anyone think this reads like a suicide note, particularly bearing in mind my recent hysterical posts, don't worry. This is something that is always on the tip of my fingers waiting to be unleashed. In actuality, some good news has shined on these shores. Possibly. A bit early to say, but all will be evident in the next couple of weeks either way. Regardless of the outcome, you can then send me your usual fabulously supportive messages, and I will then not respond. That's just my way.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-56474246533460192002009-10-28T07:25:00.002+00:002009-10-28T07:48:32.528+00:00SubtextI left something out last night in writing my miserablist post, for good reason. I got in my head that I could be pregnant, so I had the added pressure of the test-or-not-to-test situation. Being cynical old me, despite the physical signs which were to the letter echoed in a post by a newly pregnant blogger, I already anticipated a negative. <br /><br />Life is never to fail in its disappointment, so when I tested this morning, I was met with a rather forceful "Not pregnant" on the pg test screen. Whose bright idea was it to get something which puts my failure into words for me? As if the lack of a second line isn't enough, I need the cruel truth glaring at me in text form. <br /><br />The three of you who are still following my blogshite will know that this is the only month that we have been trying as such. Can you imagine the luxury and bold taunting of fate which would be involved in a natural conception within the first month of trying? Haha! Clearly one of the side effects of Celexa is delusions.<br /><br />My issues with a prospective pregnancy are manifold, but the gist is this - failure is the story of my life right now. Can't get a job? Check. Can't reproduce? Check. Can't manage to get your husband a Visa because you are either a fucktard or don't make enough money or possibly a fucktard who doesn't make enough money? Check. I know it's my hypersensitivity talking, but when things are shit, it seems its opposites slap you in the face everyday. Other people are getting jobs in the fields they want; my absolutely clueless manager maintains her job easily, thus depriving me of a position that may actually get me the jobs I'm trying to get; others' fecundity is suddenly very obvious to me again, just like the old days. <br /><br />I've posted before about how proud I was to have left Infertile Bitter Old Crone territory, but I've found myself swiftly back in there, after ONE MONTH. I guess my departure from the club was only ever going to be temporary. You think you have it bad having to read all of my moaning - pity The Dude. He has to put up with me moping, crying, and being all woe is me day in and day out. Oy.<br /><br />I've saved another aspect of my immense daily failures for another post - friendships and consideration for other bloggers. That post will feature tumbleweeds rolling by, as the whole point of the post will be how I totally suck at supporting other people, and a byproduct of this failure is that the smart ones aren't bothered with me anymore anyway.<br /><br />Jesus - THE MISERY. Is 7.45am too early for a non-drinker to start on the hard stuff? Insert your eyerolls here; I sooooo deserve it.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-69677820813349629222009-10-27T20:20:00.003+00:002009-10-27T20:43:49.261+00:00SangryIn my brief blogging absence, I've been pondering what to write about. Some good ideas have occasionally popped up, though the stumbling block seems to arise when it comes to actually <span style="font-style:italic;">writing</span>. It's a step that is difficult to skip in blogging. As soon as Google finds away around that, I am so signing up for the Beta.<br /><br />I still have those ideas rolling about my head, waiting for me to have an evening in which I sit down with the laptop and want to do more than haunting gossip websites. However, I was forced out of hiding by BlogHer, who threatens to do my kneecaps if I go two weeks without posting. I need that extra $25/year, so here I am.<br /><br />As those I interact with on Twitter will know, this past weekend sucked ever so slightly. I had to call an ambulance for The Dude on Saturday night, Sunday morning P woke up vomiting, and yesterday the American Embassy bent me over a table like I wasn't even one of their own. FYI - apparently having funds more than 10 times the poverty guidelines is not sufficient a financial basis to start over in the US. Now you know. <br /><br />Strangely enough, I'm more scarred by the Embassy experience (which I wasn't even present for) than The Dude being carted off to the hospital with chest pains. That right there is at least 8 kinds of fucked up. In case you're wondering, The Dude is fine and was fortunate enough to experience esophageal spasms rather than a heart attack. It's all good in the hood now. <br /><br />I'd like to recount my discussion with the 999 dispatcher for interested parties, as you couldn't make this shit up:<br /><br />Her: Could I have your postcode please?<br /><br />Me: Yes, it's SE4 0YU (not really, but let's pretend it is)<br /><br />Her: Hmm. No address is coming up. Are you sure this is the postcode?<br /><br />Me: Quite. ::spells it again using NATO phonetic alphabet::<br /><br />Her: Yes, that's what I'm typing luv. It's not coming up. Are you sure dear??<br /><br />Me: Very. ::provides AND spells full address::<br /><br />Her: It's not here luv, at all. Is it a new-build?<br /><br />Me: No, it's an old building. Not much around here is a new-build.<br /><br />Her: Luv, there is absolutely no record of this building on our system. At all. Don't take this the wrong way dear, but - go and get a bill and repeat to me the address listed exactly as it is on the bill. Can you do that dear?<br /><br />Me: ::first checking that The Dude was not yet dead after all this nonsense::<br />Ma'am, I don't mean to be disrespectful, as I appreciate you're doing your job, but I can assure you that as a literate person residing at this residence for 6 years, I am supremely confident that my address is exactly as I have recounted to you.<br /><br />Her: Ok then luv. I know you're not trying to be difficult. OH! Here it is! It was in the system wrong! Hur hur! Now, about that ambulance...<br /><br />How is that for a story to tell the grandkids? <br /><br />When The Dude rang me from the Embassy to tell me of the fuckery surrounding his Visa, I cried and yelled into the phone. No, really. Bear in mind that his Visa has been approved pending the submission of suitable financial sponsorship, but I have spent hours and hours gathering all of this information for them to look at it for 2 minutes and say it's not sufficient. I was so enraged I couldn't even talk to my Cheese Wife last night, as if just by being American it's her fault the Embassy told me my ass was too broke to sponsor my alien husband. Bastards. <br /><br />I would like a good rest of the week please - I don't know what that entails, but I'd prefer a lack of ambulances, vomit, and bureaucracy if at all possible.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-89150911880803092312009-10-08T22:16:00.002+01:002009-10-08T22:47:07.954+01:00Small, small worldI must tear myself away from obsessively watching the 12 photo slideshow of my dream house which I discovered on my lunch hour today, so in an effort to divert my attention, I thought I'd talk about small world-ism. <br /><br />The world is a massive place, stuffed wih billions of people. Yet, in my 31 years I've encountered quite a few small world-isms, and heard some from others which make me feel as if the world's population must be rather overestimated. That, and perhaps the world, like my ass, is flat. <br /><br />My first run in with small world-ism didn't actually involve me, not directly anyway. My uncle was a cop in downtown D.C., and pulled over a man who made an illegal left turn. Upon inspecting the man's driver's license, my uncle noticed that he was from Harrisburg, PA, hometown of amazing, witty, and charming folk. They got to talking, as it transpires, the illegal turner was our family dentist. Of all the cops in DC, he chose to make a wrong turn in front of my uncle.<br /><br />The other day, again, on my lunch hour, I had a random look at a work-related email that I would usually delete. A name on a spreadsheet attached to the email caught my eye, as it was a unique one that matched that of a girl with whom I went to high school. I do some grade-A stalker googling, and it turns out, this girl, now presumably a woman, is in fact from my dinky wee high school near the capital of PA. She wandered out of our small town, got her PhD from a university down the road from me here in the UK, and is now registered at my university. It would be weird to meet another Pennsylvanian here, let alone an acquaintance from my own high school.<br /><br />I've saved the best for last, and as it involves a blogger, you simply must pay attention. Soon after I started blogging, I was waxing unlyrical about my life here in the UK. One of my most very favourite bloggers ever, AmyEsq (Amy or those associated with her, if you read this, please tell me if/where you're blogging now - I've had a brain lapse), commented that she was pretty sure she was familiar with one of my photos, that of a pier. We exchanged some emails on the subject, and as it happens, Amy's husband, a young British guy of surely dazzling intellect, went to university in my UK seaside town. The university I slave for. As a matter of fact, he was a student of my department, with lectures in my building! Tell me, does it get more small world-ish than that?<br /><br />I'm not trying to increase audience participation, but I would like to know of your small world-isms. That way when I'm at a party and can think of nothing to say, I can label you as "my friend" so that I can recount your tale and others can gasp in astonishment at its wonder.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-24751104113716145002009-10-05T20:54:00.004+01:002009-10-05T22:31:47.834+01:00Music Monday: Running Music IIMy brother, kind music-loving soul that he is, recently made me a running CD. It's just as well, as my current one is stale, to say the least. With C's contribution, I'm up to 62 songs. <br /><br />Ladies, I bring you, "SWD is the WMD". SWD - that's me, that is.<br /><br /><strong>Radiohead: Bodysnatchers</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cAIHRIO73e8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cAIHRIO73e8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Moby: Extreme Ways</strong> (sorry about the shoddy video - all others had been disabled)<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/I8SQ1EtCL8Q&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/I8SQ1EtCL8Q&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Ludacris: Get Back</strong> (My current foul-mouthed favourite. Those with sensitive ears and more sensitive sensibilities are best off avoiding this one)<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QMDgAevEJds&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QMDgAevEJds&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Elbow: Grounds for Divorce</strong><br /><br /><object width="580" height="360"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IdmwHljfN4Q&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IdmwHljfN4Q&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="580" height="360"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Rage Against the Machine: Guerilla Radio</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/g76HLHzobDc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/g76HLHzobDc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>The Killers: Jenny Was a Friend of Mine</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/G13k0ULE0bA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/G13k0ULE0bA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>MGMT: Kids</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bIEOZCcaXzE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bIEOZCcaXzE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Incubus: Megalomaniac</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jyvo6gY9zLA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jyvo6gY9zLA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Lupe Fiasco: Pressure</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5stZf9NEVIU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5stZf9NEVIU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>The Roots: Rising Down</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9jB1MT4Tkvg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9jB1MT4Tkvg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Ben Harper and Relentless 7: Shimmer and Shine</strong><br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OfHKhPdKkFM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OfHKhPdKkFM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br />N.E.R.D: Thrasher<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vQN84nR1VFw&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vQN84nR1VFw&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-42006258066157502092009-09-29T21:22:00.002+01:002009-09-29T22:19:48.154+01:00DrainedFor once I am inspired to write, but my energy levels are not complying. It's my ridiculously busy time of year, and today was my first full work day in my office in over two weeks. I've been flitting about, rushing here and there, and once at home doing the same thing until Bossy Boots goes to sleep at 8-8.30pm every night. Wah, wah, wah.<br /><br />This is a bit of a waste of a post, as it's largely going to consist of me moaning about shit, sorry. I am apparently just about ready to start my period you'll be pleased to know, which means I am in total insane snappy lady mode much to The Dude's immense and all-consuming joy. <br /><br />My first pet peeve may seem random - mail order brides. Ok, that probably isn't very PC anymore, but I'm sorry, that's what they are. You can call it what you want, it's still buying a woman and trapping her in a life of domesticity and breeding so your nasty old ass can bang some young hot thing. In exchange, she gets to live in England, and...and...something. I am pretty confident that I live in the mail order bride capital of England, as I see mail order brides and their crusty husbands on most days. <br /><br />I'm sure these women left dreadful lives behind, but they come to the UK and endure endentured servitude for the privilege of residing in the UK. Is it worth it? The Dude's family, acquainted with men who have bought women, see it from a very live and let live perspective. They view it as saving a poor soul who would otherwise be living in a shanty town, occasionally gathering rubbish to trade in for a few cents. Here, they get the glory of living in a council flat with some old bloke who couldn't find a woman to marry without cash exchanging hands. Bliss!<br /><br />2) Men who grab or scratch their junk in my presence. Dude, I would balk at my husband doing that when we're hanging out at home watching The Office - do not DARE stand in front of my desk and adjust yourself. I do not want to think of your twig and berries at all, and I certainly don't need to be reminded that they sometimes itch or need shifted. For some reason, Middle Eastern students do this all the time and I so want to kick them out of the office. However, at the heart of things I'm just a dainty little mouse and would fear the confrontation. Shame, since I could do with out the junk shaking.<br /><br />3) Sidewalk hogs. I get that you want to walk alongside your friends, but if someone is trying to run or walk by you, get out the way! Three of you do not need to walk next to each other at all times so that I must pick up my child and walk into the street to bypass you. Also, if I am running toward you, please, just walk single file for a moment so I am again not forced into the street. Not too long ago I shouted at some old dears for not budging an inch when I tried to run by them. Gone was that reserve mentioned in number 2 - it must have been period time then as well. Stupid old cows.<br /><br />4) The constant assault on working MOTHERS by the media. Working <em>parents</em> are not a problem, just a mother. I know this subject only affects a smattering of you, but I'm blogging about it when I get my brain and energy back, so prepare yourselves. Or as I typed originally, "yourselfs". See what I mean?<br /><br />5) Loud talkers. Shut the fuck up - no one cares about what you're saying nearly as much as you do. There is a person in a position of power at work who barges in our quiet, constructive office and announces her arrival like she's on some red carpet. Get over yourself.<br /><br />6) Periods. Harbingers of doom. Signifier of barren wombs and bad attitudes. Cramps. Crying because your husband decides to do us all a favour and go grocery shopping before he collects you from work rather than after when he knows you'll be tired. No, not grateful tears, angry tears because you wanted to pick out your own hummus. <br /><br />7) The evil age of 3 - P is hilarious, amazing, and clever. However, the tantrums and smart assery of this age, jesus chrysler it's hard work. This kid, after being reprimanded for being dreadful, says things like, "I've had a horrible day because you and Daddy were cross with me" and "I don't like you very much right now Mum, and I don't want to be your friend because you shout at me." We are only cross with her when she deserves it, and I am not a shouter unless she's running onto oncoming traffic. This is not to mention the screaming, dear god, the SCREAMING. Four is good, right? Right?<br /><br />8) The sun. It's autumn in England (actually, is it officially?) but the sun shines every damn day and it's still 20 degrees Celcius. Every day. You could roast a chicken on a spit in my stupid office and it's insufferable. Unlike my Cheese Wife, I cannot tolerate the sun. I hate the thing. Give me a cloudy and cold day over a sunny hot one any day of the week. Lordy, I am so goth.<br /><br />Phew. I feel better now. Apologies for the absolute rambling nature of this post. Once my head is back I'll try to do a post good and proper. I think. Maybe.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-9413706275754582262009-09-22T21:16:00.003+01:002009-09-23T21:18:04.284+01:00Girls' Day OutDue to a school closure, P and I had long-planned today's Girls' Day Out. When originally asked what she wanted from the day, all I got from P was, "I want to do some playing." Really kid? Playing? You don't say! What else do three year olds do <em>but</em> eat, sleep and play?<br /><br />We crammed a lot into our time; bus rides, the park, lunch, shopping for cheap tat jewellery at Claire's and a bucket of dinosaurs from the toy shop, a viewing of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, and a gourmet cupcake purchase for The Dude. She selected one with bright pink frosting, rightly assuming that the colour would please him greatly. <br /><br />I am utterly, all-consumingly shattered right now, but high on the fact that I have a daughter I can do these things with. I'm not much of a girly-girl, ok, other than my fancy shoe and Johnny Depp fixation I'm really not at all a girly-girl, but I love visions of lunching and shopping with P - two girls out on the town. <br /><br />I am rather sentimental about it all at the moment anyway, so pardon me for sounding like the classic working Mom, proud of the fact that she's spent ONE WHOLE DAY with her child alone. A colleague recently lost her two year old due to SIDS, so I've been quite precious when it comes to P as of late. I don't know this woman very well, but she's about my age, and she was pregnant with her first not long after I was. I never saw her daughter until the week before she died, when I passed them as I was leaving work; I was holding P, she was holding her daughter. I was comparing her daughter's size to P's, as I do obsessively - a residual long-lasting effect of having a baby born early with serious reflux. <br /><br />I know it sounds so stupid, but with death I always struggle with the whole notion of here one moment, gone the next. With children this is multi-faceted, because I have spent far too much time trying to remotely fathom what the mother is going through. I don't even have the words to describe how little I am able to comprehend the whole situation. <br /><br />This is why I'm teary each time P says something like, "We two girls love each other Mum!" and "I'm so excited about Girls' Day Out! No boys allowed, right Mum? No Dad, RIGHT MUM?" In ordinary times my heart would twinge slightly, now I inadvertently go to that dark place I'd rather not go and wonder how I would deal with never hearing similar things again. <br /><br />It doesn't bear thinking about, but I don't know how to banish those thoughts from my head these days. At night I try not to listen to each breath she expels from the next room; as soon as I start, I'm awake for ages ensuring that one follows the other as it should. I attempt to convince myself that such dreadful occurances are thankfully rare, but I've always been cursed with the overriding thought that if these things are going to happen to anyone, they'll happen to me. I also hate myself for being so melodramatic about it - these concerns of mine are based on the actual experience of someone I know, and I am carrying on about what ifs. This poor woman has to live it, and here I am agonising about hypotheticals.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-74541439555494482502009-09-18T23:23:00.003+01:002009-09-19T01:23:46.702+01:00When is the timeAfter at least a year or more of mostly internal deliberations, I've arrived at a decision. I think it's time to try and surrender my uterus to a sibling for P. It's only within the past six months that I've felt remotely interested in trying for another baby, but my concerns about the logistics of life have gotten in the way. <br /><br />I voiced my doubts the first time round as to whether I was ready, or even truly wanted a child. I'm still unsure how much of it wasn't due to my long-term ability not to not be able to get pregnant and my innate hatred of failing to accomplish something I'm intent upon achieving. Regardless of my reasons for pursuing treatment, it's a decision that enriched my life to an extent I wouldn't have thought possible.<br /><br />Because of this, it's hard to genuinely believe that I am confident in my decision. It's strange - something happened along the way that made me go from being all, "Second kid? Fuck no!" to "Ohmigod. Babyeeees are soooo cute!" in a short space of time. I suppose things settled in such a way that I felt comfortable where I was as a mother, thus allowing me to consider that I could do this again. If I allow myself to deliberate too much, I worry that my optimism is a bit too bold, and a year, or a year and a half from now I'll read this again and laugh at my abject ignorance. <br /><br />Even once I thought I was ready for a second child, life got in the way. Where would we live? Certainly not this dinky two-bed flat which is bulging at the seams with the three of us. As our plans are to relocate to the US in the near future, there would be no point in buying a bigger place in the UK. Job? I am applying for jobs in the US on a weekly basis, desperately hoping that someone will finally think I am capable of being employed in that country once again. Having a kid would obviously delay that for awhile. Quite awhile. <br /><br />Recently I've decided to stop analyse so friggin' much and just jump right in. You can only debate a subject's pros and cons for so long before it dawns on you that there is no path to the right answer; it will never present itself. The pros are unchanging, the cons generally strong enough to withstand every angle of pondering. We'll move eventually, I'll get a job in the US at some point. However, we all know these girl parts weren't so keen on reproducing when I was in my early 20s, so now at 31, depressingly, the clock is ticking. <br /><br />I'm giving myself some time to get used to the idea, perhaps a couple of months. I need to try and wean myself off Celexa, which may be the biggest challenge with this whole gig. Those in the know - does one <em>really</em> need to kick the SSRI habit before trying to get pregnant, because, um...EW! I'm having some anxiety issues at the moment WITH my pharma pal, I would not be remotely interested in having Teh Secks if I was too busy having panic attacks and doing my fainting goat impression. I may as well just skip the hors d'oeuvres and go straight to the IVF.<br /><br />Who knows what the future of this blog may bring? Will I be talking about pussaries again? Taking photos of my beloved Puregon Pen partying on my gut? Regardless, hopefully it will all lead to my pregnant lady boobs being ogled again by construction workers. After all, that's what we're all really fighting for.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9862855.post-15115687273077908072009-09-12T21:16:00.003+01:002009-09-12T21:56:16.526+01:00No Easy FeetThis post is about running, which is why I called it "No Easy Feet". Get it?? Get it?? Yeah, ok, it's lame. It is all I could come up with aside from "Fuck my shoes", which would possibly get me banned by Blogger and would certainly not have my post appear on the BlogHer ad strip. Instead, you get poor punning. <br /><br />So yes, running. I totally fell off the wagon when in the States, running only once. That one time was sufficient for me; it was hot as hell and I'm pretty sure every trace of liquid present in my body pre-run was shed along that 5K trip. As I have mentioned before, I ate my prodigious ass, stomach, and upper thigh weight in naughty foods, and gosh darnit if you can't tell in my mid-torso corpulence. <br /><br />I don't regret it, as my usual monk-like asceticism regarding food was finally relieved and goodness was all that sinfully bad food delicious. It just meant I'd have to work harder when I got back to the UK. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that my running shoes (Brooks GTS for those taking notes) take a good 3 years to become adapted to. When I bought them in June, I went from easily running my normal distances to struggling to do half thanks to the adjustment period. <br /><br />My problem is that I have arches under which you can drive a medium-size truck. I'm also a redonkulous overpronator, so I need the running shoe equivalent of those black boots with the leg braces attached. I'm pretty sure a civil engineer was drafted in to design these shoes, they are so intent on correction of poor form. Pre-Brooks shoes, I was wearing an old pair of Nikes with collapsed air cushions thanks to my overpronation choking the life out of the cushioning. It took me at least two weeks for my body to adjust, in which time it felt with every run that I had cinderblocks attached to my feet.<br /><br />Now I'm back at that point. I'm keen to get this thing moving again, but it's such a chore at the moment I'm using the will to run. I get to about 1K before I'm cursing my ability to be even slightly spritely. I feel heavy, as if I'm clomping along the seaside like an oafish, out-of-shape lump. I keep telling myself that I worked through it before, I will do it again with some time, but it's hard to maintain that attitude when you can't even run 5K without wanting to tear your legs off. <br /><br />I don't know why I'm blogging about this - short of gifting me a pair of normal feet there isn't much to be accomplished by rambling about it. If anyone else has had to suffer through a shoe adjustment period, I'd love to hear about it. While you're at it, if anyone can tell me what they do to persevere through a workout despite your tired self wanting to give up, I'd like to hear about that too. Shoes aside, I'm having some trouble just working through difficult parts of my runs. It's not a matter of endurance, but rather me lacking willpower to carry on when challenged. Despite all my big talk on here about exercising, I'm a dreadfully lazy person and often just stop when I can't be arsed anymore. If someone has a magic way of sticking it out, teach me your ways! I'll be waiting here, wearing my shoes, thinking of going running, but opting to watch Rock of Love 3 instead.MsPrufrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06533722219016814501noreply@blogger.com8