Snowmagedda-bout it!

When A and I first became serious enough to discuss marriage and a future together, and once it became necessary to begin researching the ins and outs of a life abroad, I found comfort and occasionally inspiration from other ‘expat’ blogs.  It’s reassuring knowing that there are others out there in similar circumstances, many of whom have blazed the trail before me.  

When I first decided to blog about my own transition, I did so mainly for the benefit of my family and friends as a means to share excerpts and anecdotes from my ‘new’ life.  Having kept up with the adventures and observations of other Americans who have already moved country, I did at times question my potential for producing much original material. On the other hand, I questioned whether it matters, considering that while some things are somewhat universal to Americans in the UK, my own personal experiences would be new to me, and novel to my originally intended audience.   Having similar experiences to other expats makes them no less relevant or worthy, and some things never cease to amuse. 

To that end, I’ve been recalling some rather humorous blog entries from last winter.  At that time, I was still living in the States, often giggling about a clever colloquialism which appeared to be en vogue … ‘Snowmageddon!’.  I’m referring to the reaction by other American expats to what happens in the United Kingdom when it snows.  This Kansas gal was perplexed at the headlines of the time, which indicated that life was coming to a complete standstill across the Atlantic, with major disruptions in all forms of transportation and varied hardship, and all from what appeared to be a small amount of snow!  Upon seeing the photographs, I couldn’t fathom it.  I’ve driven for years up and down a steep driveway, and across town in near whiteout conditions, in snow both light and heavy, shallow and deep, and ice to boot.  I kept bags of salt or sand in my garage at the ready, along with ice scrapers and shovels, and got on with life. 

Fast forward to 2010 and here I sit … snowbound … in the UK.  

I wondered what all the fuss was about.  Now I know.  On this subject, I feel I must respectfully disagree with my fellow expats who had a laugh about last year’s snow.  I admit that on the first day of snow this year, I did laugh at first.  Where I live, you could still see blades of grass poking through and a few bald patches of road with scattered snow drifts.  Cake, I thought!  (It would be in Kansas).  That is, until A and I tried to drive down the incredibly narrow roads and steep set of hills into town!  Ultimately A and many of his colleagues were ordered off work due to hazardous driving conditions in Cumbria.  This year is much the same as last, and once again across the UK airports have shut, some roads are closed, traffic is queueing or gridlocked on others, supplies of ‘grit’ are dwindling, some school days have been canceled, and once again life is majorly disrupted as Britain experiences what is reported to be the second year in a row of the worst snow in decades.  

I’ve stopped laughing.  I now understand.  

Still, in fairness, no two experiences are identical, and we’re all shaped by our own perceptions.  Perhaps some other expats reside in flat lands with straighter roads.  Perhaps they don’t have to drive across rural fells to work.  I’m not knocking their views, and in fact thoroughly enjoyed their humour-infused blogs on the topic. I simply don’t relate now that I’ve observed firsthand the difficulties posed by bitter cold, snow and ice where we live. 

 

I can’t complain too much, though.  All the seasons, even winter, look beautiful on Cumbria…

New Continent, New Bugs, New Healthcare

I had the pleasure of my first visit to a ‘surgery’ (doctor’s office) in the UK today … hence my induction into the NHS. (National Health Service).  I admit that I was a bit apprehensive not knowing at all what to expect.  Reliant only on the opinions, perceptions, and experiences of those in the know, (as well as the opinions, perceptions, misconceptions, and well-meaning advice of those whose only knowledge of the NHS comes from media reporting), I set out on a brisk walk into town for my ‘getting to know you’ new-patient appointment.  

Armed with prior medical records, current prescriptions, and a measure of uncertainty, combined with a good workout walking very quickly into town (given that I misjudged just how much time I needed and had to hurry), I naturally managed to work my blood pressure up just enough to make the wrong first impression.  Actually, my blood pressure reading was ‘good’ or ‘normal’, albeit not as low as it normally reads!   Not knowing how it all works, I nearly missed my cue to be seen by the nurse, as I waited expectantly in the waiting area for someone to come and bring me back.  Luckily, I was startled by a loud beep and happened to notice an electronic board above my head instructing patients by name to head to certain numbered exam rooms when it was their time. 

The nurse was a delight (much to my relief), and I soon relaxed a little.  The initial assessment with the nurse went well, and she did dispense some advice which resulted in a new plan for treating one of my pre-existing conditions.  Following the nurse appointment, I was seen by one of the doctors in the practice.  While certain things were initially ‘lost in translation’ (and he did joke that Americans need to learn to speak English, while I retorted something along the lines that English is my second language and I thought I was doing alright for an American), we appear to have successfully resolved all initial prescription and other issues. I will now see the doctor as needed for any new or non-routine issues, and see the nurse for routine follow up or wellness checks.  

While I intend to shy away at this stage from a debate over the virtues and drawbacks of the American versus British systems of health care, I will say that the experience was innocuous enough, and that it is a relief to know that I can get treatment for even pre-existing issues.  For anyone worried that I (or anyone else in my situation) might be an undue burden on the NHS, I will say that I suspect that part of the exorbitant cost of each one of the three + visas which I must procure as part of the lengthy process leading to permanent settlement in the UK likely covers my participation.  Additionally, once eligible to work, my taxes will contribute as well to this end.  I do think that a direct comparison of the two systems is inherently unfair, as each nation was founded at different points in time and on differing principals.  For anyone who worried, I’ve emerged unscathed, and honestly have only good things to say so far about the practice with which I’ve registered.  

The doctor did warn me that having moved to a new continent there will be lots of bugs that are new to me and that I can look forward to having lots of colds and viruses in the next year until my body ‘gets to know’ said bugs and things settle down.  

Hmmm…

Game face ON …!

English is my second language ... the language of food

A and I recently enjoyed a lovely Sunday evening dinner at the home of friends.  It was a fun evening, and I especially enjoyed exceptional and distinctly British cuisine.  As a cattle-fed girl from Kansas who grew up enjoying quality Midwestern steaks, potatoes, breads, salads, and much more, I have an innate appreciation for Sunday pot-roasts and the like.  In this case, we enjoyed various dishes including beef with horseradish and gravy (which I found comfortingly familiar), roast parsnips, carrots with turnips, other vegetable and salad, bread, and Yorkshire pudding.  

Yorkshire pudding is a dish unique to the UK.  I certainly never had the pleasure growing up in the States.  To my American ear, the term ‘pudding’ translates to a sweet milk-based dessert not unsimilar in consistency to egg-based custard or yogurt.  American pudding comes in a large variety of flavors, though most commonly chocolate or vanilla.  Yorkshire pudding reminded me of a mini German pancake in taste, consistency, and texture, but outwardly appears to look like a certain type of dinner roll.  It is astoundingly good, and can be eaten with or without gravy on it.  (Most traditionally with).  There is nothing like it, and it was worth breaking my long-standing low carb diet to sample it.  It is an interesting tradition.  The northern regions of England have a history steeped in mining and mining communities, as well as other hard working trades.  In the past, there were times when food and/or money were scarce, but those who worked hard needed adequate sustenance to carry on.  Yorkshire pudding was apparently served prior to a modest meal, and aided greatly in creating a feeling of fullness on a budget.  

 

After the meal, we were treated to another British original … sticky toffee pudding.  There really aren’t adequate words to convey the cacophony of flavor and amazing taste of this dessert!  Again, this ‘pudding’ in no way resembles American pudding.  It’s a very moist sponge cake of sorts with finely chopped dates (or prunes) and covered in a warm toffee sauce.  It was invented in the Lake District right here in Cumbria.  Again, a worthy excuse for a momentary lapse in diet!  

Aside from a great evening spent with friends, and delicious gastronomic temptations, I learned a bit more about the English language.  Pudding in America equals sweetened milk and gelatin, et al.  Pudding in England appears to equal bread in at least some form.  Of course I’m generalizing, and there are definitely exceptions which I’ll set aside for now.    

After dinner, a humorous discussion of British versus American (albeit Midwestern) ‘English’ language and pronunciation ensued as we compared notes and discovered disparities such as (AmE versus BrE):  basil (bay-sil  vs.  bah-sil), oregano (or-AY-gun-o  vs.  or-eh-GAH-no),  buffet (buh-FAY  vs.  BOOF-et),  pate (pah-TAY  vs.  PA-teh).

There are many more such gems.  I’ll likely always retain my American-English pronunciations socially (taking the often accompanying smile or giggle in stride), perhaps adopting British spelling where necessary (such as in a work or other non-social correspondence context).  As one who loves language, I look forward to the challenge of a multi-lingual approach to and application of ‘English’. 

In considering British and American English, and the language of food, I came across a quote from Adelle Davis who said: “We are indeed much more than what we eat, but what we eat can nevertheless help us to become much more than we are”.  



I'm looking forward to it!

Across the sea ... a look back

The other night I was falling asleep listening to the sound of rain pelting the window as the wind blew strongly in the night, and my thoughts were turned to the sea.  I imagined certain perilous Atlantic crossings of old.  Some few and some many hundreds of years ago, a number of people were seeking a better life on one side of the ocean or the other, while others were banished or exiled from their beloved homeland.  Still others were, like me, starting a newlywed life with all its uncertainties, hopes and dreams. Some left with the full blessings and well wishes of family and friends, and others perhaps in times of war or strife did not.  One thing in most cases was accepted as certain: many who crossed the Atlantic were never again to see the loved ones they left behind.  

People were apparently able to send the occasional letter, though likely old news by the time it reached the intended recipient(s).  I imagined how hard it must have been, and what brave souls made these crossings at risk of life and limb.  

My thoughts wandered thus as I reflected on my own fears of becoming increasingly out of touch, or having to work hard to remain relevant while watching friends or family make plans and live lives that at least in present tense don’t include me.  However, technology has indeed made the world seem smaller and the ocean less wide.  I am also reassured by the knowledge that true friendships and familial closeness won’t be altered by distance or the passage of time.  I am reassured by the amazing achievements we now take for granted, such as air travel, telephone, e-mail, texting, messaging, video chat, and more.  These days, a letter home (while arguably still a nice touch) is positively archaic.    

Those of you who think I am brave or bold to set out in this fashion should take note of those of generations past who were truly worthy of admiration.  Across the annals of time, I suspect that more than a few of my predecessors and I surely share a common bond: a deep and abiding love of home, and great hopes for the future.  

Holiday

This morning, I wished A a Happy Halloween.  He said I’m the only person who’s ever wished him that.  Although I can’t be sure, he may have said something else which I will refrain from printing.  

In spite of what appears to be a view that Halloween with all its trappings is a very American tradition, it does seem to have caught on in the UK!  We went for a drive last night and, to my delight, there were clever costumes on several corners.  The shops were certainly full of varied Halloween dress options.  Well, perhaps not exactly full … but they did have one third of an entire aisle dedicated to the purpose!  Someone even eagerly let off fireworks briefly last evening (though I suspect that was really a very premature keenness for the upcoming Guy Fawkes festivities the 5^th of November).  Missing, were the decorations on every porch, and jack o’lanterns carved from pumpkins lit from within by candles.   

I asked A if children come to the door in costume ‘trick or treat’ing, and he reluctantly admitted that there is the occasional knock at the door.   Needless to say we are buying treats to have at the ready!  (A can always take the leftovers to work with him where I am sure they can be put to good use).  

A muttered grumpily a few times this morning about my Halloween greetings upon waking this morning.  Perhaps it’s not as much a cultural disparity as it is a personal difference.   To be fair, not everyone was brought up to embrace every ‘holiday’ with gusto.  Even the word ‘holiday’ seems to have different interpretations on either side of the Atlantic.   In the UK, a holiday usually connotates a day or more off work – sometimes for a purpose (e.g. Christmas, New Year, and interestingly May Day), and sometimes not (e.g. Bank holiday for no discernable reason other than a day away from work).  In the USA, a holiday is simply a word we can use to describe every occasion worth noting, observing, or celebrating, whether we have an accompanying day off work or not (e.g. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, April Fool’s Day, Thanksgiving, et al).  

A mentioned what he refers to as ‘British’ disdain (or is it merely A’s disdain) for American ‘Hallmark Holidays’, which are viewed to be purely commercial opportunities for greeting card companies as opposed to actual commemorations of anything worthy.  He has a point … but only to a point.  I don’t excitedly awake in eager anticipation of celebrating, say, National Bath Safety Month, or Festival of Sleep Day (though I should consider this one!).  There are some interesting ones out there.  However, I admit that I do still get excited about Groundhog Day.  

It seems that A might merely be a ‘Grinch’ in general regarding certain ‘holidays’ while I in contrast still approach most of them with lingering childlike glee.   In any case, I look forward to discovering new excuses to celebrate as I learn a few new-to-me traditions in the UK. 

Happy Halloween!!

And, according to this site:
http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/october.htm

National Cookie Month … hooray! 

A Second Look

It’s true that you don’t always know what you’ve got if you’ve always had it.  Perhaps on some level you do, but we all lose perspective at times.   

For example, after some recent outings, it appears that A doesn’t view Cumbria (or Scotland for that matter) with the same eyes that I currently do.  With typical American enthusiasm, I manage to exclaim in one form or another (gasp, sucking in breath, ooohs, aaaaahs, wide eyes, squeals, happy remarks, et al) regarding the stunning beauty of the landscapes that unfold around every bend in the road.  As A drives, I happily click away with the camera as if I could somehow document each beautiful vista in a way that would come close to doing it justice.  (Not an easy feat in general or at speed from a car window).  

A occasionally fails to match my fervor and zeal for wanting to explore every corner of this beautiful country.  It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it … indeed he loves it!   Still, when I tell him I want to holiday in certain corners of the UK, it doesn’t hold the same appeal for him as, say, Africa, or Egypt, or other exotic corners of the Earth.  I suppose that if the tables had been turned, I might have had a similar attitude, so I’m not criticizing.  I’m just recognizing the challenge which now presents itself:  to get A to see his world with my eyes and recall the reasons why it’s worthy of silent (and sometimes not so silent) wonderment.  

Lost...

Who knew the basics could be so challenging?  A and I went on a brief outing to the ‘shop’ (grocery store) today.  It was a little bewildering though we ostensibly speak the same language (-ish).  All the fluids were in millilitres instead of fluid ounces.  The food labels list units such as ‘energies’.  It took me ten or fifteen minutes to locate the most basic product because many brand and product names are unrecognizable to me.  For example, I was in search of shaving gel for women.  I looked and looked on the aisle it should have been on.  There was a huge section of men’s shaving cream.  I finally had to ask a clerk, who looked puzzled and asked’ shaving gel… for women?’.  We did eventually locate it – there were exactly two on the shelf to choose from and they were rather tucked away at that.  

Another thing I’ve noticed is that we are often asked the question ‘are you alright’?  It seems that this has two potential meanings in the UK.   In the context of a shop or similar it may mean ‘can I help you’?  In passing, it can also mean ‘how are you’ or ‘hello’.  To the American ear, it typically means something more like ‘is something wrong … can I phone an ambulance for you or get you a glass of water or a chair’.  This may give me a complex at worst, or just take some getting used to.  

When it was time to check out – it got more interesting.  Although this may vary by shop, in this shop I found that in addition to paying for bags – they do not bag your groceries for you, nor do they wait for you to bag your own.  You must toss them rapidly into your cart as they fly off the conveyor and once paid – move your cart out of the way and bag them wherever you can find a little space to do so.  

Afterwards, we filled up with ‘petrol’ (gas), which is sold by the litre (and shockingly expensive!).  The upside is that the cars here get far superior mpg.  

It’s amazing that I can feel quite so lost in a place where English is the primary language and which for all intents and purposes is as modern as the world I left behind.   I can see so much that I’m going to love here … I just hope that people can allow for my learning curve while I shuffle aimlessly along like Paddington Bear. 

Consolation prize:  They have Costa Coffee!!  

Homeless, jobless, carless, countryless ... so why am I smiling?

A few short days ago, having just dismantled my apartment, given away, stored, shipped, and/or otherwise packed up my belongings, I stood in the airport waiting to board my flight when it occurred to me that for all of my ambitions and achievements through the years, I was at that moment officially homeless ... jobless ... car-less ... country-less (in a manner of speaking).  I was feeling a bit displaced, a bit nervous, but nonetheless very excited and happy.  On paper I may be a bit less than impressive in status now, but in actuality I'm thrilled!  Our journey begins here ... now that I've joined A in the UK!  

The actual journey wasn't without its bumps.  I managed to acquire a rather unpleasant cold mid-flight and by the time of landing was miserable.  Our flight was significantly delayed and we missed our ground transport from the airport.  It was cold and damp, and we were laden with more luggage than I ever care to carry again!  We are eternally grateful to our friends and neighbors who ended up packing us and our considerable luggage along with theirs like sardines into their station wagon estate and driving us the no less considerable distance home.   Home.    Home!   I still can't believe this is now home.  

I wonder how long it will be before it stops feeling like I'm merely on vacation holiday?  

Hopefully I'll always feel a little this way ... !

Rather under the weather ... where would I be without hot tea, milk, and sweetner?  Happily settling into life with A in the UK ... will write more when I recover from these past weeks, and my cold! 

"Dwelling In Possibility" ...

It has occurred to me that several of my recent blog entries have touched on things I’m leaving behind as I transition towards life in the UK.  This is a natural tendency for anyone making such a change, and I’ve subsequently been inclined to document this process from that vantage.  Nonetheless, (and to borrow from Emily Dickinson for a moment), it seems I could afford to shift focus a bit, and to ‘dwell in possibility’.  

To that end, I’d like to highlight a few of the things I believe I am gaining.  Of course, this is a challenge unto itself, as I probably won’t realize even half of them until I’m there!  However, looking forward, a few things do come to mind:

1. A wonderful life partner!
2. A sense of accomplishment for daring to make this incredible life revision
3. Residing closer to France (a great indulgence for every American girl!)
4. An average work week of 37 hours and lots more vacation leave
5. Breathtakingly beautiful vistas
6. A field of lambs near our flat in Spring
7. A thinks I need to include haggis in this, but I’m not quite there yet. (!)
8. The National Trust!!!  http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/
9. Costa Coffee (notwithstanding the accompanying caffeine addiction)
10. My favorite type of weather (and hopefully cute ‘wellies’ to go with it!)
11. A notable lack of tornadoes
12. BBC!
13. Antiquity
14. The Queen’s English
15. Opportunities to form new friendships

This is but a start … I’m confident there will be many more.  I’m also sure I’ll blog about them in future. 

Stay tuned!

 

What I'm leaving behind...

An inspired photo by a Kansas photographer capturing the beauty of our State!

My Closet Addiction

Today, I mourn.  Not anything serious or life-altering. Probably not anything that will matter in 5 years time.  You see, I am an American clothes horse, and I’m facing the anguishing prospect of severe editing of my wardrobe for the practical purpose of, say, actually affording shipping costs, or better yet – not filling an entire room of our flat-to-be with my two walk-in closets and two dressers full of clothing?  *Sigh*. 

How did I get to be this way?  I don’t think it’s exactly another Imelda Marcos with her shoes.  I’m not a spend-a-holic or in debt.  The answer is two-fold: 

1)       Fluctuating weight over time, hence collections of clothing in 3 different sizes. 

2)       We have closets!!!

Excepting newer construction, it appears that a fair number of British homes (including A’s) don’t come with closets. By contrast, in the Midwest USA, I’ve never lived in a house that doesn’t (and spacious ones to boot).  Granted, there is a certain charm to an armoire or wardrobe as a furniture piece, but there is a limit to what they can hold!  (Unless, of course, you are the lucky children in ‘The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe).    

One theory about this (which I haven’t independently verified so accept at your own risk) is that there were once taxes levied ‘per room’ in homes, and that closets were counted as rooms and thus were not worth the extra taxes.  Perhaps that’s true, and perfectly sensible.  Perhaps that’s a convenient story by a certain man who is trying to gently persuade me to pare down and not feel bad about this trade-off.   As I’ve been spoiled to date with generous closet spaces, I now have to decide if my three-tiered collection of apparel is worth the extra fees in baggage or shipping. 

So, back to the mourning.  There are three well-known stages of grief.  First, shock. (I’m long over the surprise of lack of closets in the UK, and after all, there is much else to love there).  Secondly, denial.  (I’ve spent this past summer there, as clothes editing is never going to happen to me!).  Thirdly, acceptance. 

Hmmm…  I’m still looking for ways around this third one…

Gainfully unemployed

After 16 years working in one capacity or another for the same company, in the same industry … I am now officially the very thing I never imagined I’d be.  I’m gainfully unemployed. 

In this case it’s really not an oxymoron.  Frightening? Yes.  Contradictory? No.  It’s a state of being quite foreign to my very nature.  It’s a thing that is soberingly and unjustly true of too many these days ~ through layoffs, downsizing, lack of opportunity or jobs.  As someone who was driven by a desire for stability and security in her 20s, my career was something that I built and nurtured, and never something that I took for granted.  When you work at something long enough, it ends up forming at least a part of your identity. 

So how can one be ‘gainfully’ unemployed? In my case only as a necessary part of the process of preparing for life with A in the UK.  My profession doesn’t really exist there in a recognizable form due to some fundamental differences between the US and UK with regard to health care, insurance, negligence laws, litigation, and other details I won't bore you with.    Although I’ve gained much from the hopefully transferable skills I’ve acquired through the years, I believe that change can be a very good thing in life.  To that end, on Friday I leapt out of the proverbial plane with a parachute, pulled the ripcord, and am hoping for expecting the best.  It’s a leap of faith, but a rare opportunity and a challenge I am ready to embrace. 

Turning 40, getting married, ‘retiring’ my career, moving house, moving country, all in short order.  I overheard a colleague imply to another that it’s like yanking me out of every aspect of life as I know it.  I may as well be going to Mars the way some see it.  It’s not for everyone.  It’s not easy to explain.  I’m not going to try. 

I’m going to ride these currents to distant shores like an explorer, and make the most of my days.  Platitudinous, but true ~ life is what you make of it, and, happiness comes from within. 

I can’t wait to share my life with A …

… wherever that takes us. 

Six Hours

My phone rings.  It’s 6:30 a.m.   This may not be so difficult for some of you, but for those of you who, like me, are NOT a morning person… you can imagine the drill.   Phone rings, and rings, and rings, while I fumble clumsily for what seems an eternity because I can’t locate the handset in my semi-conscious state.  Not to mention I want to throw the thing at the wall for the raucous noise it’s making.  Upon finally locating the earth-shattering bell that pierces my fog in a most disagreeable way – I groggily answer.  On the other end is the most chipper voice of A from six hours into the future… around his lunch time. 

I can barely form an intelligible sentence.  A is full of life and laughter and interesting tidbits.   He sometimes wants to discuss important issues… though I sense sometimes that he wistfully tables anything really important until I’m marginally functioning. 

This is our daily routine… for the past 3+ years.  We can rarely do the ‘my lunchtime / his early evening’ chat due to frequent scheduling conflicts.  This is not to say that we haven’t been able to have a decent conversation in three years… quite the contrary!  We do carve out quality time… and quantity (even if in varying states of wakefulness). 

Fast forward a few hours…

A’s phone rings.  It’s 11:00 p.m. GMT.  It’s 5:00 p.m. CST.  My workday is finished and I want to tell A all about the day, discuss important issues, laugh or vent and hear about his day.  I’m a mile a minute and somewhat animated… A is now the grumpy groggy one. 

Thank goodness for weekends!

Can’t wait to share a timezone…  :)

Ringing in the year...

This may not be the most original blog entry you’ll ever read, but there is something about turning 40 that has, through the ages, caused many to want to write about it.  Now, it’s my turn.

There’s a lot of buildup to this milestone birthday, including an expectation that one will mourn their ‘youth’ or that turning 40 will somehow make one feel especially ‘old’, or ‘over the hill’, or some other strange and magical feeling that comes with this rite of passage.  Perhaps it’s a good thing I didn’t take my cue on how to feel from certain earlier memories.  For example, I remember watching members of my family attain that age, and seem to recall that in one case their friends held a ‘wake’ (in jest!), and in another case a rather large billboard was placed on a busy road in front of their place of business letting everyone know.  In that same spirit, I recall that for myself, turning 30 was rather traumatic (insert tongue firmly in cheek).  My sisters managed to present me with a host of gifts for the geriatric set… including denture cleaner,  and Depend^® (adult disposable briefs for incontinence for those who don’t know this brand name), and many other…you know… really useful items for a person having just left her 20s. 

What some are not told (*looking accusingly at friends and family with a smirk*) is that something happens in that decade between 29 going on 30 and 39 going on 40… that causes one not to mind.  Perhaps it’s just me.  Perhaps it’s a function of the fact that I’m in a very happy transitional time in life and excited about all this next year has to bring. 

There appears to be some truth in the Abraham Sutzkever’s saying “If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older”.  After all, I still get excited about birthdays!  Even this one.  In fact, I found myself staying up until Midnight, counting down the last minutes of my 30s, and happily ringing in my 40^th year much as if it were New Year’s eve into New Year’s Day.  However, there was no celebration in Times Square, no ball dropping, no champagne toast, no good luck kiss, no Auld Lang Syne, or fireworks.  It was simply a quiet acknowledgement with a confident smile. 

I think I’m going to love being 40…

For now, I won’t look much farther forward than that. 

And now for something a little bit sentimental...

On the first day of August this year, I found myself sitting in a comfortable booth in a popular restaurant downtown (that’s in the town centre to you non-locals!).  I was waiting for a friend of mine to meet me for a bite, and some much needed girl-time.  While waiting, I could see another booth nearby which triggered a memory which made me smile from ear-to-ear.   It was the booth which I sat in exactly one year ago today, on one of the happiest days of my life to date.

It was an ordinary Saturday in August 2009.  The twenty-second day.  A was in town for a visit, and my birthday was coming up in a matter of days, so I was having a pretty good weekend already.  A suggested that there were some errands he’d like to run near the center of town, and then we’d have lunch at one of my favorite local spots there.  It was hot, and though I wasn’t overly keen on running errands in the stifling heat (that knowing A likely involved looking at technological gadgets and the like), I was nonetheless looking forward to spending the afternoon with A.  I also had a good friend in town for a visit, and A and I were going to be meeting her and some other friends for dinner. 

I can’t recall on what pretense, but somehow A and I ended up stopping by the church.  Before I understood what was happening, A was on his knees asking me to become his wife!! 

Looking back…for all of his British reserve and lack of sappiness (soppiness to you Brits!) that accompanies it, he has nevertheless accomplished some rather extraordinarily romantic gestures in the course of our relationship.  Without being showy, verbose, or displaying an excess of emotion, he has managed to take my breath away on more than one occasion.  He took me to Paris (every American girl’s dream!) and we’ve traveled a fair bit together in the past 3+ years, he sends me flowers just because, he installed my new dishwasher himself to save me paying someone else to do it, he painted my living room and helped with numerous house projects, he hung a birthday banner on my garage so it would be the first thing I saw upon arriving home, he planted a rosebush for me just because I love roses, and a favorite was when he arranged for a private dinner for two overlooking the harbour in his town! 

Yet, there was something so incredibly special about the way A proposed to me… on an ordinary Saturday in summer… at the very place in which he wished us to marry. 

Later  that same day, we met up with friends for an early dinner as planned ... sat in a comfortable booth and shared our very happy news.  I couldn’t stop smiling!

Fast forward a year, and here we are… one month and ten days until I get to reiterate the yes answer I gave him on that hot August day…

I do.  (I do, I do, I forever do!)

One single mouse click and nothing is ever the same...

Some pretty amazing things can happen with a single click of the mouse. 

* Life-saving medical procedures

* Space exploration

* The world gets smaller

In my case, I can think of two such instances. 

One unremarkable day just over three years ago, I was surfing through blogs and came across one where a somewhat obscure but meaningful-to-me poem had been posted.  I dashed off a comment and *clicked* the mouse to send it without thinking another thing of it… or anticipating the life-change that this simple gesture would lead to.  You see, the blog I posted a comment on was A’s.  My mouse-click led to a reply, which led to a back and forth conversation, which led to a correspondence, which led to… well, you get the idea and here we are just over 3 years later about to marry and begin our life together. 

Just yesterday, I *clicked* the mouse on the send button after completing a form at work online… effectively tendering my resignation in the coming month. 

I think one can grasp the enormity of that .  I've worked for the same company since 1994.  We all knew this day was coming.  My local employer has known for months of the new life I’m preparing for and transitioning into.  Still, there was something simultaneously frightening and exhilarating  about making it so.  It was, of course, bittersweet.  

I have no idea what I will end up doing next.  It’s a huge leap of faith toward a new chapter  that I’m excited to begin. 

I am starting to not recognize my own life. 

All with the *click* of a mouse…

An About-Face(book)

I am a hypocrite.  That is, I’m thinking of becoming one. 

It was I, after all, who recently wrote a mini-dissertation on the many pitfalls of having a Facebook page.   After long maintaining a proud stance as one of the few hold-outs to this phenomenon, and after many debates with friends who have tried in vain to convince me to sign up only to be met with stubborn resistance born out of the many reservations which I carry, I am nonetheless strongly considering exercising that well-known woman’s prerogative.  I’m changing my mind. 

I still mean every word of my previous blog on this subject.  I still have those same issues with the concept.  I don’t kid myself about just what it is that I may be considering getting into.  Forget logic, or reasoning, or practical concerns.  In this case, it was one simple observation by a dear friend that finally turned the tables, and it is the first and only thing that has resonated with me thus far. 

Over dinner last night, my friend K had once again been trying to convince me to get a Facebook page.  We were re-hashing the usual arguments.  I said to her that I have this blog which is a nice way to keep friends and family informed once I move away.   K then pointed out that a blog, while entertaining or informative, is a one-sided vehicle. It doesn’t enable me to keep abreast of what others are up to.  It doesn’t allow access to the minutiae of someone else’s day so that I can reach out when needed with a reassuring sentence or two.  Once I move away, there is the time difference to consider.  It won’t be as easy to just pick up the phone or meet for coffee whenever. 

I recognize that I’m a bit late in considering this, and that some of you may already be bored with FB or over it.  For my friends who are not, perhaps you will soon make room for one more. 

In the end, it wasn’t some foolproof assurance of privacy, or a hole shot in my every former argument against participating that has made me at least reconsider. 

It was simply my desire to be a better friend. 

~ Of course I sheepishly confessed my hypocrisy to A (another FB holdout).  He cheekily asked me what’s next… and how long it will be before I take up smoking, or drinking, or…?   No need to worry, A.  At least FB doesn’t come with a Surgeon General’s warning, and there is no risk of exposure to second-hand FB.   ;)

A *sticky* situation

I recently saw a set of sticky notes which made me laugh.  You know the kind you generally see in offices for the purpose of relaying a message to someone… but with a twist.   The heading states ‘Complaint’, and then there are lines and boxes to fill in labeled ‘To:’, ‘Whose Fault:’ (mine, yours, ours, other), ‘Desired Outcome:’ (apology, explanation, litigation, restitution, promotion, change).   I think every couple should own a set. 

If I were filling one out today, I think I’d outline a cultural divide which I’m going to have to work on narrowing (translation: which I’m going to have to cross entirely as I won’t ever be met in the middle on this one!) to survive life in the UK, and to keep A from scratching his head in disbelief and bewilderment at times. 

At the risk of worrying my British friends and acquaintances who don’t see this side of me, I have to confess that as an American (who still presently resides in America), I can at times become, shall we say, animated.  I suspect this won’t be as big a problem in person as it tends to be over the telephone.  A and I will be discussing for example some difficulty I may have encountered, or a controversial political subject, or some type of injustice, or really any topic about which I have an impassioned view, and at some point in the conversation A perceives I am starting to shout, when I haven’t shouted even once.  While our telephone connectivity is dodgy at times and I believe this is a factor, I also realize that A is sometimes mistaking American animation for shouting.  I am starting to understand why Americans are viewed in other parts of the world as loud.  What A doesn’t understand is, if my calm speaking voice is say, a 4 or 5 out of 10 in volume… my animated voice may be  a 6 , 7, or 8.  My true shouting voice (rarely used in life!) is capable of a 10 or higher.  I think by contrast, I once heard a British female telling someone how very angry she was… at a very controlled level 3! 

Clearly, I am going to have to dial it down a couple of notches once overseas.  


~

Complaint: Mistaken intent ~ animation versus shouting to the American and British ear

To: A and perhaps to all of the UK

Whose Fault: Mine, No One’s, American Culture, Accident of Birth, ?

Desired Outcome: Change.  My adaptation to British culture for purposes of reduced misunderstandings in this regard 

Chipping away at the mountain that grew...

Who knew that a mountain could grow so fast?

I'm referring to my endless to-do list that seems to have grown exponentially in the past week.    While I’d love for every entry in this blog to be a glowing account of how wonderful this life-transition is, it wouldn’t be authentic.  While this is no doubt a special time of wedding planning and moving overseas, the reality is that it takes a lot to accomplish it all!

Here are some highlights from the list.  (I suspect that if I were to try to line up all of my tasks end-to-end, they might form a footbridge across the Atlantic!).

~

A few more appointments with wedding vendors

• florist
• cake
• photographer
• DJ and/or other music-related items
• wine selection
• reception venue

Many other misc items pertaining to events following the wedding cermony

Dress fittings and alterations
Shop for a veil
Buy postage, put together and mail wedding invititations
Printing ceremony programmes, guest book, placecards and various such items
Schedule rehearsal
Finalize elements of the wedding ceremony
Figure out wedding rings
Flights!
Hired car

Accommodations for guests and for myself upon moving out of my apartment
Figuring out dates to give advance notice of termination of everything – from rent, each utility company, cable, internet, phone, and any other service subscribed to

Figuring out last day of work
Coordination of benefits from work – and all the nightmares and headaches accompanying this (COBRA healthcare for a short transitional period, rollover of 401ks to IRAs and the exhaustive paperwork and research of current and potential tax liabilities now and in future between the USA and UK and tax treaties and all the hedging of my bets that results from my best estimates of what will be… oh you don’t want to know!)

Securing an international accountant
Dealing with a system for banking from afar and any belated refund checks that might appear after I’ve physically left the country
MOVING out
Arranging shipping / transport of personal items (even clothing is heavier than you might think!)


(these are but a few!)

~

I wonder what I will do with myself when I arrive in my new country of residence and I wake up one morning to realize that the manic pace of daily life has suddenly ceased?

quietly celebrate, I should think…


… and then start a new to-do list