Moving home to Canada. A few months ago the thought was bliss. It still is bliss, but now my inner-head is overcrowded by mini meltdowns involving tears, cooking and cleaning frantically, feeling super low, random laughing fits at inappropriate times, racing thoughts and crying for no reason. Some could argue this is normal behavior for a woman, or me in particular (minus the cleaning). But, laughing uncontrollably when your husband spills boiler water over the television while trying to fix it and stifling a laugh when he hits his head during the fiasco is highly abnormal. Well, I thought my behavior was okay until Tommy gave me a dirty look and asked what I was laughing at.
Now that the shoe is on the other foot, meaning that Tommy is doing the moving, and I am doing the whole get-to-be-with-my-loved-ones bit, I feel that moving and leaving all behind was much easier for me to handle. It meant I had the license to be as emotional as I wanted, as irrational as possible, and make any excuse to binge on ice cream, wine and crisps. At the same time.
Now, I have to act all grown up. I have to swallow all the guilt I feel because Tommy has to leave his family and just deal with it. There is so much pressure to ensure the transition is as smooth as possible. You have zero control over the other person's happiness. A million thoughts! All things he had to feel when I came here. I had no idea. Being able to wear your emotions on your sleeve was soooo much easier.
Anyway, the other day I had a reality check that came in the form of my brother. I don't think he meant to give me that reality check, it was simply an epiphany for me. What it was, I'm not to sure. Only thing I know is that after having said conversation, I was cooking frantically (see above for list of erratic behaviors) and then when it was over, I cried.
In my mind, I have a vision of how this move will go. In this vision, I have incorporated everything required to physically move ourselves and belongings, settling in, emotional turmoil, keeping in touch with the other side of the pond, anything you can think of. But, trying to remember what it was like when I left, no amount of 'visioning' can prepare you for what it's like to leave. I haven't really put a lot of 'visioning' into coming back though. Maybe I should go and do that now. That's where mini meltdown number two will most likely enter. Watch this space.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
News
So, it's been eons since I packed my clothes in compression bags, stuffing them into my suitcases on the eve of my departure to London. It would be greatly disputed to say my life hasn't changed. I've been hardened by the challenges of living in a major city, but softened by being exposed to tireless love. Barf, I know. Whatever.
Anyway, this is actually my rant of why London sucks, or collaboratively, the whole of the UK. I am making huge generalizations, but I have to. It makes me feel better.
First, people in London don't smile at you. I used to love when you passed a stranger, and inadvertently smiled at them, they smiled back, vice versa, and it really would make your day. That was Canada. In London, people look at you like you're having a seizure, and run the other way. Or, if you smiled at someone, they might think it's because you want to have sex with them, leading them to approach you. Trust me, that is not what you want in London, because most are weirdos. I guess all big cities are isolating. But London can be a very, very lonely place.
People in England have terrible grammar. It's rubbed off on me too. But not only that, the English accent that Canadians have come to love watching movies, in fact, do not exist, unless the Queen herself is addressing you. Although it can be a beautiful accent, a lot people sound as if they have walnuts in their cheeks, shouting. These are usually 'chavs.' I'm sure I've discussed chav's before, if you Google it, the definition doesn't do it justice. They are much more annoying and a waste to mankind.
Media gone mad. People are media obsessed. Or Z-lister obsessed. The media covers everything from the nobody's of Hollywood, to the sex lives of our politicians. Teenagers in this country strive to be:
1) A page three 'glamour' model
2) A WAG (wives and girlfriends of footballers)
On a more serious note, I have found it difficult being a couple of full-time incomes, making more than the national average (which is a pittance), and not being able to buy a house. The economy is effed here. England have a made a shambles of their social system, leaving the working class to pay for the debts of the health service, and any tax you can think of, the people out of work, the people's homes that are out of work, and countless other things. Where the rich just get richer. There is no incentive to make yourself a hardworking person here. Because if you are on benefits (a.k.a welfare), you are better off not working, because you will get a supplement and home, and which most likely is more than what you would earn working the minimum wage.
This country is so diverse it is almost separatist. People aren't living together in harmony. Everyone has a chip on their shoulder. But I can't go into this rant without sound racist, which I'm not, so I won't. And this is also the political-correctness which is England, that has rubbed itself all over me. A few years ago I called a broken printer 'gay.' Us Canadians use this word very freely. Stop being gay (if someone is acting stupid), oh, that's gay (something bad's happened), you're gay (if you're cheesy/corny/insert anything here). So one day, I slammed the printer because it was broken and said 'this printers gay.' I got in trouble. This country is so damn PC it makes me want to vomit. I'm probably not even allowed to call myself a chink.
English people reading this may well tell me to piss off and go back to my own country. So I am. January 2012. Approximately.
Well, now that's off my chest, really, England isn't all bad. There are the 7 weeks holiday that I get (which I will miss...TREMENDOUSLY), with great access to other countries at a cheap price (nothing to do with England, but still). And I've always loved Europe, although England aren't specifically or particularly European, it still has the quaintness, which I love. (Side note: they really could do more to maintain their old buildings here.) I mean there are probably tiles at my favourite train station (Waterloo) that are nearly as old as Canada. There is a uniqueness equated with the 'oldness' that I love. But lets face it, I don't live in Waterloo station, although if I did because it would mean I was a bum (excuse me, 'homeless'), I would probably be better off with the perks I received from the city.
After family and friends, and my 7 weeks holiday, British Satire is what I will miss the most. This 'environment' has really allowed my sarcasm to thrive. Tommy says he has created a monster. Taking the 'piss' out of people is a full time hobby for me. No exceptions, my Boss included. (Please don't get me to define taking the piss, it would be like trying to define good 'Craic'). English people, if nothing, are extremely witty. You can have a laugh with anybody. (I know, I said they were weirdos, but really, it's part of the charm). You can have a laugh with someone you just met at the bus stop, having a small crack about the buses. But the wit of British humour really makes up for the amount of moaning the English do (which inadvertently I do a lot of myself these days, because if you can't beat them, join them).
Anyway, I wasn't going to write this blog until I submitted my papers to get Tommy to Canada, but people had too many questions. So if we change our minds, don't hold it against me. But as of now, everything we are doing is set motion for 'home.'
p.s. don't tell my mom, she doesn't know.
Anyway, this is actually my rant of why London sucks, or collaboratively, the whole of the UK. I am making huge generalizations, but I have to. It makes me feel better.
First, people in London don't smile at you. I used to love when you passed a stranger, and inadvertently smiled at them, they smiled back, vice versa, and it really would make your day. That was Canada. In London, people look at you like you're having a seizure, and run the other way. Or, if you smiled at someone, they might think it's because you want to have sex with them, leading them to approach you. Trust me, that is not what you want in London, because most are weirdos. I guess all big cities are isolating. But London can be a very, very lonely place.
People in England have terrible grammar. It's rubbed off on me too. But not only that, the English accent that Canadians have come to love watching movies, in fact, do not exist, unless the Queen herself is addressing you. Although it can be a beautiful accent, a lot people sound as if they have walnuts in their cheeks, shouting. These are usually 'chavs.' I'm sure I've discussed chav's before, if you Google it, the definition doesn't do it justice. They are much more annoying and a waste to mankind.
Media gone mad. People are media obsessed. Or Z-lister obsessed. The media covers everything from the nobody's of Hollywood, to the sex lives of our politicians. Teenagers in this country strive to be:
1) A page three 'glamour' model
2) A WAG (wives and girlfriends of footballers)
On a more serious note, I have found it difficult being a couple of full-time incomes, making more than the national average (which is a pittance), and not being able to buy a house. The economy is effed here. England have a made a shambles of their social system, leaving the working class to pay for the debts of the health service, and any tax you can think of, the people out of work, the people's homes that are out of work, and countless other things. Where the rich just get richer. There is no incentive to make yourself a hardworking person here. Because if you are on benefits (a.k.a welfare), you are better off not working, because you will get a supplement and home, and which most likely is more than what you would earn working the minimum wage.
This country is so diverse it is almost separatist. People aren't living together in harmony. Everyone has a chip on their shoulder. But I can't go into this rant without sound racist, which I'm not, so I won't. And this is also the political-correctness which is England, that has rubbed itself all over me. A few years ago I called a broken printer 'gay.' Us Canadians use this word very freely. Stop being gay (if someone is acting stupid), oh, that's gay (something bad's happened), you're gay (if you're cheesy/corny/insert anything here). So one day, I slammed the printer because it was broken and said 'this printers gay.' I got in trouble. This country is so damn PC it makes me want to vomit. I'm probably not even allowed to call myself a chink.
English people reading this may well tell me to piss off and go back to my own country. So I am. January 2012. Approximately.
Well, now that's off my chest, really, England isn't all bad. There are the 7 weeks holiday that I get (which I will miss...TREMENDOUSLY), with great access to other countries at a cheap price (nothing to do with England, but still). And I've always loved Europe, although England aren't specifically or particularly European, it still has the quaintness, which I love. (Side note: they really could do more to maintain their old buildings here.) I mean there are probably tiles at my favourite train station (Waterloo) that are nearly as old as Canada. There is a uniqueness equated with the 'oldness' that I love. But lets face it, I don't live in Waterloo station, although if I did because it would mean I was a bum (excuse me, 'homeless'), I would probably be better off with the perks I received from the city.
After family and friends, and my 7 weeks holiday, British Satire is what I will miss the most. This 'environment' has really allowed my sarcasm to thrive. Tommy says he has created a monster. Taking the 'piss' out of people is a full time hobby for me. No exceptions, my Boss included. (Please don't get me to define taking the piss, it would be like trying to define good 'Craic'). English people, if nothing, are extremely witty. You can have a laugh with anybody. (I know, I said they were weirdos, but really, it's part of the charm). You can have a laugh with someone you just met at the bus stop, having a small crack about the buses. But the wit of British humour really makes up for the amount of moaning the English do (which inadvertently I do a lot of myself these days, because if you can't beat them, join them).
Anyway, I wasn't going to write this blog until I submitted my papers to get Tommy to Canada, but people had too many questions. So if we change our minds, don't hold it against me. But as of now, everything we are doing is set motion for 'home.'
p.s. don't tell my mom, she doesn't know.
Monday, 25 January 2010
The Age Complex
So, it's official. If you haven't noticed, in the last few years, I have become obsessed with getting old. Well, growing old, not necessarily getting. It all began when Tommy and I swore to spend the rest of our days together, when I felt that marriage was for the old folk. Since passing our two year anniversary of wedded bliss, I realised that it wasn't for old people, and that we were still having fun, going out partying, romantic meals, and using our annual leave for some fun in the Sun. So, why do I have a complex about age? Because I simply don't feel my age, but my body is still moving on.
How is my body moving on you might ask? A lot of people argue that I have been given the best genes for ageing, that I don't own a wrinkle to my face, and that I still look in my teens. The teen look wasn't what I was going for, I was hoping for a sexy twenty something, but hey, if I have to wait til my 30's to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, then that's fine.
However, this stupid growing body of mine is making me feel that I won't be able to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, because every woman has an internal clock, and it seems more and more people around me are popping babies out and the pressure is on!
I can't remember the exact moment this happened, but I used to be scared shitless that I would get pregnant and that my mother would shout at me in Cantonese and tell me how I was a disgrace to the Man family and then ultimately disown me, and possibly force me to abort before I ruined my life because I'm too young and irresponsible to be a mother, versus, now, where my mother is asking me the exact date on when I plan to give birth and how many grandchildren I will give her. And here I am wanting to give in because I think the little sprogs of mine and Tommy's will be wonderful, a fiery girl and sweet little boy.
But I'm not ready.
There is still so much I want to do. I can't argue that I haven't had a fun life, but it hasn't been enough. Whoever created woman was a cruel one, as saying the best years for producing is between 20-30 is hardly enough time to squeeze in all the fun, is it? Plus, let's not forget to mention the late blooming maturity of our counterparts, who haven't fully developed until 35, which makes our chances of finding our dream partner even more rare, and if younger women start finding older men, then what will older women do? Resort to younger men! And then everything just gets all mixed up. And these are things that only OLD people think about.
Then there is the whole thing about increasing inflexibility despite heaps of stretching, sore knees after running or when going downstairs and achy bones in the morning which I never experienced a few years back, and the other day I bought my first anti-ageing product, because I swear after I work nights a small insy teensy wrinkle below my eye gets longer. And it's there. Everyone can swear blind, Tommy says I'm crazy, friends say I'm paranoid, but that bloody wrinkle is there.
I know we can't have it all, but I still want to explore the world, move up in my career, and be full of vitality with freedom poured to the brim. I have a husband that supports this and won't tell me what to do. And when you have choices, it's not a good thing sometimes. Well, for the mean time, I think I'll still continue to enjoy myself, and will plough on with the night cream and anti-ageing day cream with SPF 15, because I swear the freckles on my face ARE NOT sun spots. They're age spots.
How is my body moving on you might ask? A lot of people argue that I have been given the best genes for ageing, that I don't own a wrinkle to my face, and that I still look in my teens. The teen look wasn't what I was going for, I was hoping for a sexy twenty something, but hey, if I have to wait til my 30's to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, then that's fine.
However, this stupid growing body of mine is making me feel that I won't be able to enjoy the sexy twenty something look, because every woman has an internal clock, and it seems more and more people around me are popping babies out and the pressure is on!
I can't remember the exact moment this happened, but I used to be scared shitless that I would get pregnant and that my mother would shout at me in Cantonese and tell me how I was a disgrace to the Man family and then ultimately disown me, and possibly force me to abort before I ruined my life because I'm too young and irresponsible to be a mother, versus, now, where my mother is asking me the exact date on when I plan to give birth and how many grandchildren I will give her. And here I am wanting to give in because I think the little sprogs of mine and Tommy's will be wonderful, a fiery girl and sweet little boy.
But I'm not ready.
There is still so much I want to do. I can't argue that I haven't had a fun life, but it hasn't been enough. Whoever created woman was a cruel one, as saying the best years for producing is between 20-30 is hardly enough time to squeeze in all the fun, is it? Plus, let's not forget to mention the late blooming maturity of our counterparts, who haven't fully developed until 35, which makes our chances of finding our dream partner even more rare, and if younger women start finding older men, then what will older women do? Resort to younger men! And then everything just gets all mixed up. And these are things that only OLD people think about.
Then there is the whole thing about increasing inflexibility despite heaps of stretching, sore knees after running or when going downstairs and achy bones in the morning which I never experienced a few years back, and the other day I bought my first anti-ageing product, because I swear after I work nights a small insy teensy wrinkle below my eye gets longer. And it's there. Everyone can swear blind, Tommy says I'm crazy, friends say I'm paranoid, but that bloody wrinkle is there.
I know we can't have it all, but I still want to explore the world, move up in my career, and be full of vitality with freedom poured to the brim. I have a husband that supports this and won't tell me what to do. And when you have choices, it's not a good thing sometimes. Well, for the mean time, I think I'll still continue to enjoy myself, and will plough on with the night cream and anti-ageing day cream with SPF 15, because I swear the freckles on my face ARE NOT sun spots. They're age spots.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Thankful
I have never been a fan of Christmas, until the last few years. Before, Christmas was a time to earn some overtime, and quietly hope that the day will go by quickly until all returns to normalcy once more. This year, like every other year, I worked, but it was different. I like Christmas now. And being at work on Christmas reminds me of how thankful I should be.
I was walking out of my patients room, and I asked him if there was anything else I could do for him, and he said "Can you pull this cracker with me?"
The worst thing about working on Christmas is realizing how much the patients have changed over their treatment. You watch their personalities diminish, their smiles fade, and energy wane into nothingness. They are a shred of hope, and not much more. And they too, were like how I was before, wishing that Christmas would be over. And convincing themselves that this so-called significant day really is just another day, and in a few hours, it will be over. And the worst feeling at Christmas, coupled with Valentines day, must be the feeling of loneliness.
So when my patient asked me to pull the cracker, I was thankful for the family I have, my family and friends that have been kept healthy, and don't have to spend this occasion, so overly built for up for months, in a hospital. I was thankful for my security. And that fact that I could be there for them, even if just for a few hours.
And although opening another gift bag filled with toiletries we'll never use may not be exciting, I am grateful for the gesture.
So when you're down in the dumps, and think you have problems, just remember that there is someone out there, not that much farther from you, that is having an even shittier time.
Happy Christmas!
haha
I was walking out of my patients room, and I asked him if there was anything else I could do for him, and he said "Can you pull this cracker with me?"
The worst thing about working on Christmas is realizing how much the patients have changed over their treatment. You watch their personalities diminish, their smiles fade, and energy wane into nothingness. They are a shred of hope, and not much more. And they too, were like how I was before, wishing that Christmas would be over. And convincing themselves that this so-called significant day really is just another day, and in a few hours, it will be over. And the worst feeling at Christmas, coupled with Valentines day, must be the feeling of loneliness.
So when my patient asked me to pull the cracker, I was thankful for the family I have, my family and friends that have been kept healthy, and don't have to spend this occasion, so overly built for up for months, in a hospital. I was thankful for my security. And that fact that I could be there for them, even if just for a few hours.
And although opening another gift bag filled with toiletries we'll never use may not be exciting, I am grateful for the gesture.
So when you're down in the dumps, and think you have problems, just remember that there is someone out there, not that much farther from you, that is having an even shittier time.
Happy Christmas!
haha
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Good Faith of Scammers
Some would say that I am skeptic. And some would argue that I'm a realist. I would like to say that I am bastard at being pessimistic and question a lot of things, but overall, what I am at crime for is still believing in the good of all people and giving even criminals benefit of a doubt.
We are in the midst of trying to move out and get our own place in London. And after some dead end research for the property market, government schemes, and schemes to help out 'keyworkers' like myself, we've realised that this city is so expensive, that our best bet for our freedom is to rent. So, here I was looking at flats online, and where do my fingertips lead me to? Gumtree.com. Wonderful website, love the thing.
I was all excited about the prospect of having an apartment for 600-700£ all inclusive of bills, and maybe even council tax (aka property tax). I got three responses out of the four people I contacted. A reverend in South Africa with a wife in DC, someone who works in the hospital in Italy, and a studio manager of a recording company living in Manchester all email me back. I get what I deemed good responses with positive information.
Then, the person who claims he lives in Italy emails me and tells me that it's difficult for him to get back to London, and he won't do it for willy nilly. And what I need to do is send Tommy a money gram through Western Union of first and last months rent (1240£), and scan the receipt and send it to him. When he knows that I have the funds, he will fly back to London to show me the flat.
What kind of a dumbass does this wanker take me for?
Google is my bestfriend. I type in 'gumtree scams,' and what do I get? A group on Facebook (love Facebook too) that describes the textbook method of how this scam is performed! Basically the person can use that receipt to claim the money! I am disgusted! With no way of tracking the money back, or anything! And more so I am pissed off with myself for letting jackass strangers get me excited about nothing!
So, I send the guy an email and say, "is there no way that you can arrange for an agent to show me the flat, as I would feel really bad if you flew back and I didn't want the flat. Plus, I am weary of money grams?" and he sends me this loaded response about how he isn't a crook and that he's 50 with a wife of 28 years and two successful sons, and he would never risk his good Christian soul and will not risk career, freedom and future for anything in the world and that he's not out to swindle me.
Right. And I'm the First Lady of Mauritius and I have a pair of balls.
So I write back: "I did not ask you for the address, I asked if you could arrange for an agent to show us the flat. Those are the normal customs in the UK, you obviously have never lived here before and are a scammer. I've reported you."
And then he has the audacity to write back that I have to send the money order to my partner and blahblahblah everything he said before about the money gram before he can show me the flat.
My response?
"Are you copy and pasting this stuff without reading what I've just written to you? You're a CROOK! Look it up in the dictionary. You can cash the money with the scanned receipt! "I will not risk my career, my freedom and my future for anything in the world! " Good luck with that."
GRRRRR! I am vexed at the prospect that I even bought into this bullshit for half a day! It just goes to show how many crooks there are in this world, and naive and gullible people like me who just want to get a product out of a honest days hard work and make a worth transaction have to worry about everything. Friggin' Ebay, credit card scams, hackers who can get your bank account password by typing patterns!? And ordering things online and never getting the product! It's amazing how anyone does business these days!
I can't wait til Reverend's wife emails me back! That bitch sent me some nice photo's of a flat and a picture of her and her "daughter." Call me Ms. Marple, but I googled the postcode and building name that so-called Reverend's missus gave, and it's an apartment they rent to people long-term but NO ONE can own them. It's for tourists.
I want to laugh and cry at my indictment. What irony! I feel like I am still a tourist.
Moral of the year as quoted by Tommy the great? "If it looks too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true." Or some other famous phrase he used. Hit him.
We are in the midst of trying to move out and get our own place in London. And after some dead end research for the property market, government schemes, and schemes to help out 'keyworkers' like myself, we've realised that this city is so expensive, that our best bet for our freedom is to rent. So, here I was looking at flats online, and where do my fingertips lead me to? Gumtree.com. Wonderful website, love the thing.
I was all excited about the prospect of having an apartment for 600-700£ all inclusive of bills, and maybe even council tax (aka property tax). I got three responses out of the four people I contacted. A reverend in South Africa with a wife in DC, someone who works in the hospital in Italy, and a studio manager of a recording company living in Manchester all email me back. I get what I deemed good responses with positive information.
Then, the person who claims he lives in Italy emails me and tells me that it's difficult for him to get back to London, and he won't do it for willy nilly. And what I need to do is send Tommy a money gram through Western Union of first and last months rent (1240£), and scan the receipt and send it to him. When he knows that I have the funds, he will fly back to London to show me the flat.
What kind of a dumbass does this wanker take me for?
Google is my bestfriend. I type in 'gumtree scams,' and what do I get? A group on Facebook (love Facebook too) that describes the textbook method of how this scam is performed! Basically the person can use that receipt to claim the money! I am disgusted! With no way of tracking the money back, or anything! And more so I am pissed off with myself for letting jackass strangers get me excited about nothing!
So, I send the guy an email and say, "is there no way that you can arrange for an agent to show me the flat, as I would feel really bad if you flew back and I didn't want the flat. Plus, I am weary of money grams?" and he sends me this loaded response about how he isn't a crook and that he's 50 with a wife of 28 years and two successful sons, and he would never risk his good Christian soul and will not risk career, freedom and future for anything in the world and that he's not out to swindle me.
Right. And I'm the First Lady of Mauritius and I have a pair of balls.
So I write back: "I did not ask you for the address, I asked if you could arrange for an agent to show us the flat. Those are the normal customs in the UK, you obviously have never lived here before and are a scammer. I've reported you."
And then he has the audacity to write back that I have to send the money order to my partner and blahblahblah everything he said before about the money gram before he can show me the flat.
My response?
"Are you copy and pasting this stuff without reading what I've just written to you? You're a CROOK! Look it up in the dictionary. You can cash the money with the scanned receipt! "I will not risk my career, my freedom and my future for anything in the world! " Good luck with that."
GRRRRR! I am vexed at the prospect that I even bought into this bullshit for half a day! It just goes to show how many crooks there are in this world, and naive and gullible people like me who just want to get a product out of a honest days hard work and make a worth transaction have to worry about everything. Friggin' Ebay, credit card scams, hackers who can get your bank account password by typing patterns!? And ordering things online and never getting the product! It's amazing how anyone does business these days!
I can't wait til Reverend's wife emails me back! That bitch sent me some nice photo's of a flat and a picture of her and her "daughter." Call me Ms. Marple, but I googled the postcode and building name that so-called Reverend's missus gave, and it's an apartment they rent to people long-term but NO ONE can own them. It's for tourists.
I want to laugh and cry at my indictment. What irony! I feel like I am still a tourist.
Moral of the year as quoted by Tommy the great? "If it looks too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true." Or some other famous phrase he used. Hit him.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Twenty-Seven
Someone (Tommy), once said to me that the ages of 24-27 were wonderful ages. I have had no qualms about turning 27, with spending my last day of being 26 in Cairo checking off one the biggest things on my "To-Do Before I Die" list, marvelling at the Pyramids and the Sphyinx. I still don't feel old, I don't think I look 27, with the big three-zero looming at large, I'm not fretting. Why? Someone even wiser said that the best years are 25-25. Yay!
Let's recap birthdays of the last decade.
17,18, 19, 20...probably all school days, weekends spent inebriated as result of going to some dive downtown Hamilton, Border or Fever.
21, big birthday, finally can drink everywhere, but no recollection.
22, just before going to Dublin for 5 months over summer, spent in London (Canada) getting drunk with my best highschool friends, going back to their place at 3am to birthday cake baking in the oven. Best birthday so far.
23, due to my loyalty to an asshole boyfriend, not many came out for my birthday. Friendless, unhappy, intoxcated at some shit bar.
17-23, raining, snowing, hailing, always. Never failed.
24, sunny day and finished university with career kicking off nicely, i celebrated for one week with 6 days off work, seeing friends, getting drunk, eating like a rich man, day spent at the spa by self, and went to The Keg with Michelle & Steph. Perfect.
25, sunny (in England!) Steph visits me in London and we get so drunk on the eve of my turning a quarter century old, I had to send my beloved boyfriend to do touristy things with Steph. Day spent in bed recovering for dinner with good friends at Poncy steak restaurant. Perfect.
26, Easter Weekend spent with friends, eating, drinking, seeing little nephews. Day spent spending bday money. Sunny. Perfect.
27, no snow, no rain, no hail. 26 degrees celcius spent in Sharm El-Sheikh Egypt, having rum and cokes before noon. Tanning, and falling asleep on sun lounger. Dinner at Naama Bay, got pissed drunk with Tommy, bowling crossed eyed at 2am. Husband has to undress me to get me into PJ's. He gets accussed of sexually assaulting me. Perfect.
I'm not dissing my "younger" birthdays, but the purpose of this exercise is to prove the saying "growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional." Birthdays and becoming more "seasoned" are more care-free. The age we are at is more significant. We're no longer forced to do anything to fit social norms set by our elders. We're not wishing our days away til we finally achieve what we're supposed to achieve like finishing school, graduating or being able to buy booze legally. These days are about living life. Getting engaged, getting married, buying a house, giving birth, watching little ones grow, going on wicked holidays, seeing the world, no one to answer to except yourself (and husband occassionally). Life is just beginning.
Let's recap birthdays of the last decade.
17,18, 19, 20...probably all school days, weekends spent inebriated as result of going to some dive downtown Hamilton, Border or Fever.
21, big birthday, finally can drink everywhere, but no recollection.
22, just before going to Dublin for 5 months over summer, spent in London (Canada) getting drunk with my best highschool friends, going back to their place at 3am to birthday cake baking in the oven. Best birthday so far.
23, due to my loyalty to an asshole boyfriend, not many came out for my birthday. Friendless, unhappy, intoxcated at some shit bar.
17-23, raining, snowing, hailing, always. Never failed.
24, sunny day and finished university with career kicking off nicely, i celebrated for one week with 6 days off work, seeing friends, getting drunk, eating like a rich man, day spent at the spa by self, and went to The Keg with Michelle & Steph. Perfect.
25, sunny (in England!) Steph visits me in London and we get so drunk on the eve of my turning a quarter century old, I had to send my beloved boyfriend to do touristy things with Steph. Day spent in bed recovering for dinner with good friends at Poncy steak restaurant. Perfect.
26, Easter Weekend spent with friends, eating, drinking, seeing little nephews. Day spent spending bday money. Sunny. Perfect.
27, no snow, no rain, no hail. 26 degrees celcius spent in Sharm El-Sheikh Egypt, having rum and cokes before noon. Tanning, and falling asleep on sun lounger. Dinner at Naama Bay, got pissed drunk with Tommy, bowling crossed eyed at 2am. Husband has to undress me to get me into PJ's. He gets accussed of sexually assaulting me. Perfect.
I'm not dissing my "younger" birthdays, but the purpose of this exercise is to prove the saying "growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional." Birthdays and becoming more "seasoned" are more care-free. The age we are at is more significant. We're no longer forced to do anything to fit social norms set by our elders. We're not wishing our days away til we finally achieve what we're supposed to achieve like finishing school, graduating or being able to buy booze legally. These days are about living life. Getting engaged, getting married, buying a house, giving birth, watching little ones grow, going on wicked holidays, seeing the world, no one to answer to except yourself (and husband occassionally). Life is just beginning.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Things That Scare Me
Many things in the recent months have lead me to review things that are important to me, and priorities in life. This is one of the things that scare me. I wonder if, to some extent, I am very immature and childish inside that getting older every year scares me. I'm not afraid of laugh lines or wrinkles, sagging eyes or breasts; anything superficial? Not afraid. I have deep faith in genes, and pray to the greater good that I will turn beautiful like my mom at 40 and continue to go the gym and have an amazing sex life with the help of kegal exercises. (hahaha).
I've delved into the health thing before, and it's becoming more prominent day by day working in Haematology and convincing myself that lymphoma and leukemia suck and that I don't have it, especially now that I've caught a cold three times since fall and don't ward off infections like I used to. And to boot, I go and catch gooey-eye-pink-eye in the midst of it. What's crazy about haematology is that I've even discussed the possibility of storing umbillical-cord blood in case (IF I EVER DO) have babies that that they might get leukemia and require cord blood to save their lives.
Little things that scare me are things I enjoy like while I'm typing this, SkySport News is running in the background as noise on the tele even though Tommy is no longer in the room and I find it soothing. Same with Sky Sports Radio, whatever it's called. Sometimes when it's on, it almost feels like Tommy is sitting next to me, although, clearly snoring in bed or at work.
Other little things that scare me is my attempts at my "quit swearing" resolution and never sticking to it, on top of that, the more upset I am, the more I say Fuck, it's like my grey matter is at a loss for words. I realise the F word no longer has the same emphasis as it used to when women swore, and it definately has zero effect to express how angry I am, because I can say Fuck even when I'm happy, telling a joke, and possibly even during sleep talking.
Domesticated-ness has grown and grown over the last few years since my episode of buying curtain "hold-backs," cleaning and cooking. I now look up recipes in my spare time to keep things fresh in the kitchen rather than going out to tantilise my taste-buds at a wonderful restaurant night after night, splurging and dipping into the savings and using credit cards. Don't get me wrong, we probably eat out at least once or twice a week, but the ability of being responsible is getting frightening. What's more frightening is being in the full knowledge of my dance with debt in the past, that I've been named the "bank manager" in my relationship. What a silly man. I must say that I have used spreadsheets, countless of calculators to ensure that we have reasonable spending money, travel money, drink money and saving money.
I am embracing the age of 26 and turning 27 and have no qualms about growing older, just growing up I guess. Never in my teenage years or early twenties did I ever mention the word having and children in the same sentence. (No, this is NOT happening anytime soon). I do believe I have the stamina and can deal with the lack of sleep that comes with babies. I've changed diapers in my line of work, and the way I see it as little diaper better than big diaper. What I am afraid of is being a failure of a parent and inflicting my bad traits on the little'uns, such as my bad language, my fieriness (which my family made no effort of hiding in their wedding speeches and tea ceremony), my strictness, countless of things that I am aware of and also are the mirror image of one absent parent.
Although just acknowledging these traits alone aren't good enough, I'm sure there are heaps that I can bring to the table, and all wrinkles will iron themselves out eventually. Fingers crossed.
I've delved into the health thing before, and it's becoming more prominent day by day working in Haematology and convincing myself that lymphoma and leukemia suck and that I don't have it, especially now that I've caught a cold three times since fall and don't ward off infections like I used to. And to boot, I go and catch gooey-eye-pink-eye in the midst of it. What's crazy about haematology is that I've even discussed the possibility of storing umbillical-cord blood in case (IF I EVER DO) have babies that that they might get leukemia and require cord blood to save their lives.
Little things that scare me are things I enjoy like while I'm typing this, SkySport News is running in the background as noise on the tele even though Tommy is no longer in the room and I find it soothing. Same with Sky Sports Radio, whatever it's called. Sometimes when it's on, it almost feels like Tommy is sitting next to me, although, clearly snoring in bed or at work.
Other little things that scare me is my attempts at my "quit swearing" resolution and never sticking to it, on top of that, the more upset I am, the more I say Fuck, it's like my grey matter is at a loss for words. I realise the F word no longer has the same emphasis as it used to when women swore, and it definately has zero effect to express how angry I am, because I can say Fuck even when I'm happy, telling a joke, and possibly even during sleep talking.
Domesticated-ness has grown and grown over the last few years since my episode of buying curtain "hold-backs," cleaning and cooking. I now look up recipes in my spare time to keep things fresh in the kitchen rather than going out to tantilise my taste-buds at a wonderful restaurant night after night, splurging and dipping into the savings and using credit cards. Don't get me wrong, we probably eat out at least once or twice a week, but the ability of being responsible is getting frightening. What's more frightening is being in the full knowledge of my dance with debt in the past, that I've been named the "bank manager" in my relationship. What a silly man. I must say that I have used spreadsheets, countless of calculators to ensure that we have reasonable spending money, travel money, drink money and saving money.
I am embracing the age of 26 and turning 27 and have no qualms about growing older, just growing up I guess. Never in my teenage years or early twenties did I ever mention the word having and children in the same sentence. (No, this is NOT happening anytime soon). I do believe I have the stamina and can deal with the lack of sleep that comes with babies. I've changed diapers in my line of work, and the way I see it as little diaper better than big diaper. What I am afraid of is being a failure of a parent and inflicting my bad traits on the little'uns, such as my bad language, my fieriness (which my family made no effort of hiding in their wedding speeches and tea ceremony), my strictness, countless of things that I am aware of and also are the mirror image of one absent parent.
Although just acknowledging these traits alone aren't good enough, I'm sure there are heaps that I can bring to the table, and all wrinkles will iron themselves out eventually. Fingers crossed.
Monday, 2 February 2009
Be Careful What You Wish For
Snow, is beautiful. I love snow. I have loved snow since the day I moved into the 14th floor of my Bold Street apartments 7 years ago, and had underground parking and dumped the shovel at the house we moved away from. Gone were the days of getting trapped in mountains of snow from the inconsiderate ploughers that only cared about the road. My favourite is the crunching noises it makes as you step in it and make fresh footprints, and how piles of snow can sit softly on equally light tree leaves and branches. All about snow is sheer brilliance. Since I've moved to London I have been annoyed at how snow falls and melts in a few minutes, or if there is snow, it only sticks over night and quickly turns into grey dirt by morning.
So, I guess I should have been careful for what I wished for, as today we got a whole whopping 15cm and there were: no trains. no buses. might as well have no tube. no gritters putting dirt on the road to melt the snow. no shovels. Just thick layers of ice from people stepping over the snow that made it so slippery to walk, that had I been 20 years older I would have broke my hip when I fell as I was trekking home from a night shift.
London has never been busier in the morning as everyone was walking to get everywhere. I caught a tube to my nearest tube station and waiting around for a never arriving train to get even closer to my house, and after 30 minutes decided to make a 40 minute trek home. Not the first on my list of to-do's after a 12 hour night shift.
People in London are so funny when it snows. There were people taking pictures of the white stuff everywhere. Pictures of trees (pretty)...pictures of people's wet boots, garbage bags on streets that had snow on them, anything with snow on it pretty much. People were having snowball fights at 8am and some guy walloped a ball that went right past my head as I was in a horendous mood after wiping out in the snow and for the first time, I gave a random stranger in London a piece of my mind without worrying about being stabbed.
The neighborhood drunk was all kitted in her winter clothes at 10am and she was staring at the snow as I walked past her. One can of cider in the snow, and in her hand, she was pouring cider into the snow and watching it go yellow. Seriously.
Our mayor is a twit who should probably spend more time managing his overly bleached hair rather than a big city like London. It's been known for days that it's going to snow, and the city is doing nothing to help the streets or the roads. No gritters are out. If Britons only used what they douce their food in to salt the road we wouldn't be in this predicament. Like, no buses? Blasphamous! It's 15cm of snow! We don't even own a shovel!
Headlines today: London Crippled By Snow. Britain Battered By Snow From Russia. No Transport.
And now another 15cm of snow is "pelting down." Honestly. It's not even that much snow.
So, I guess I should have been careful for what I wished for, as today we got a whole whopping 15cm and there were: no trains. no buses. might as well have no tube. no gritters putting dirt on the road to melt the snow. no shovels. Just thick layers of ice from people stepping over the snow that made it so slippery to walk, that had I been 20 years older I would have broke my hip when I fell as I was trekking home from a night shift.
London has never been busier in the morning as everyone was walking to get everywhere. I caught a tube to my nearest tube station and waiting around for a never arriving train to get even closer to my house, and after 30 minutes decided to make a 40 minute trek home. Not the first on my list of to-do's after a 12 hour night shift.
People in London are so funny when it snows. There were people taking pictures of the white stuff everywhere. Pictures of trees (pretty)...pictures of people's wet boots, garbage bags on streets that had snow on them, anything with snow on it pretty much. People were having snowball fights at 8am and some guy walloped a ball that went right past my head as I was in a horendous mood after wiping out in the snow and for the first time, I gave a random stranger in London a piece of my mind without worrying about being stabbed.
The neighborhood drunk was all kitted in her winter clothes at 10am and she was staring at the snow as I walked past her. One can of cider in the snow, and in her hand, she was pouring cider into the snow and watching it go yellow. Seriously.
Our mayor is a twit who should probably spend more time managing his overly bleached hair rather than a big city like London. It's been known for days that it's going to snow, and the city is doing nothing to help the streets or the roads. No gritters are out. If Britons only used what they douce their food in to salt the road we wouldn't be in this predicament. Like, no buses? Blasphamous! It's 15cm of snow! We don't even own a shovel!
Headlines today: London Crippled By Snow. Britain Battered By Snow From Russia. No Transport.
And now another 15cm of snow is "pelting down." Honestly. It's not even that much snow.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
Do The English Have Bad Teeth?
One of the most common questions I get since I've moved to England is: "Do English people really have bad teeth?"
The answer is this: The English can't be blamed for the poor teeth because the dentists do this to them! You see shows like Eastenders, where people have yellow teeth from having too many fags and drinking tea. In real life, this holds true as well.
The other day in all my eagerness of finally getting a break at work, I was chowing down on my dinner when I bit into my fork and chipped my front tooth. It was hardly visible, but it was cutting my tongue, and when I looked in a mirror I felt like a knacker who couldn't afford dental care. Which is true, who bloody can afford dental care in England.
I was doing some research and found that veneers start at £600. Who receives public healthcare and can afford £600 for chompers? I know I wasn't going to spend that. Tommy suggested to wait til Cuba and get dental care there. Haha. Very funny. Just to get a check up is approximately £35 and that was with my staff discount in the hospital I work at.
I had a friend that needed a filling desperately because he actually had a hole in his tooth. He came to me one day and screamed with mouth open: "Tell me the colour of my filling." "24 carat gold" I replied. He shrieked in horror, as he thought it was white, and I rubbed my eyes as I thought I was seeing things, I didn't realise gold fillings still existed.
I went around asking randomly if anyone knew of a good dentist. No one did, and Tommy said his was a glorified mechanic. I believe they all are. Much to my luck, I was recommended to a walk-in clinic that was prompt, and only charged me £16.20 to check up and file down my chipped tooth. Although I do feel that it looks slightly crooked and uneven, and the non symmetrical-ness of my tooth is annoying me, I am trying to convince myself that it gives my smile character.
Who can blame me for being posh, I'm from Canada where many people get yearly check-ups (although I am guilty of the once in a 1/2 a decade check-up), and parent's work insurance cover teeth cleaning, fillings, root canals etc. Everyone who once had crooked teeth got braces before they were out of puberty, and if your parents couldnt afford it, you got them anyway.
So I wait for a clean bill of teeth and am told I have tooth decay next to my previous cavity. Gr. Lovely dentist tells me I "qualify" for a silver filling under NHS (public sector), and pay £43.00 and it's 90£ for a white filling. Of course I can get that too. Hello! I am not walking around with all that bling in my mouth! White filling all the way please!
But it will have to wait til after Christmas. I can see how I might prolong this process until I begin to feel pain and my tooth will possibly rot. And then all my other teeth will rot by the time I move home to Canada from drinking tea, and indulging even more into the acidic drinking culture. Plus, bad teeth I'm convinced now, are indeed contagious, because I have never had so many problems with having my teeth done. Naturally, now that I live in the land of bad teeth, I get tooth decay, chip my teeth that have never been chipped, and part of my wisdom tooth is starting to poke out.
Ah, if anything living in London has taught me, that is the value of a dollar...or a pound.
The answer is this: The English can't be blamed for the poor teeth because the dentists do this to them! You see shows like Eastenders, where people have yellow teeth from having too many fags and drinking tea. In real life, this holds true as well.
The other day in all my eagerness of finally getting a break at work, I was chowing down on my dinner when I bit into my fork and chipped my front tooth. It was hardly visible, but it was cutting my tongue, and when I looked in a mirror I felt like a knacker who couldn't afford dental care. Which is true, who bloody can afford dental care in England.
I was doing some research and found that veneers start at £600. Who receives public healthcare and can afford £600 for chompers? I know I wasn't going to spend that. Tommy suggested to wait til Cuba and get dental care there. Haha. Very funny. Just to get a check up is approximately £35 and that was with my staff discount in the hospital I work at.
I had a friend that needed a filling desperately because he actually had a hole in his tooth. He came to me one day and screamed with mouth open: "Tell me the colour of my filling." "24 carat gold" I replied. He shrieked in horror, as he thought it was white, and I rubbed my eyes as I thought I was seeing things, I didn't realise gold fillings still existed.
I went around asking randomly if anyone knew of a good dentist. No one did, and Tommy said his was a glorified mechanic. I believe they all are. Much to my luck, I was recommended to a walk-in clinic that was prompt, and only charged me £16.20 to check up and file down my chipped tooth. Although I do feel that it looks slightly crooked and uneven, and the non symmetrical-ness of my tooth is annoying me, I am trying to convince myself that it gives my smile character.
Who can blame me for being posh, I'm from Canada where many people get yearly check-ups (although I am guilty of the once in a 1/2 a decade check-up), and parent's work insurance cover teeth cleaning, fillings, root canals etc. Everyone who once had crooked teeth got braces before they were out of puberty, and if your parents couldnt afford it, you got them anyway.
So I wait for a clean bill of teeth and am told I have tooth decay next to my previous cavity. Gr. Lovely dentist tells me I "qualify" for a silver filling under NHS (public sector), and pay £43.00 and it's 90£ for a white filling. Of course I can get that too. Hello! I am not walking around with all that bling in my mouth! White filling all the way please!
But it will have to wait til after Christmas. I can see how I might prolong this process until I begin to feel pain and my tooth will possibly rot. And then all my other teeth will rot by the time I move home to Canada from drinking tea, and indulging even more into the acidic drinking culture. Plus, bad teeth I'm convinced now, are indeed contagious, because I have never had so many problems with having my teeth done. Naturally, now that I live in the land of bad teeth, I get tooth decay, chip my teeth that have never been chipped, and part of my wisdom tooth is starting to poke out.
Ah, if anything living in London has taught me, that is the value of a dollar...or a pound.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Read For Some Misery
It has been ages since I've had anything to write. Life at the moment is interesting but stagnant all the same. Nothing overly exciting to type about, with the exception of a fun trip to Ibiza. I usually wait until I have a moment (typically on a bus) where I have a massive urge to write about something/anything, and here I am.
A little over a month ago, I started a full time job on Haematology, at one of London's biggest hopsitals. But because London's so big, I'm not sure how really big, big is. Make sense? Haematology has been great to me, my first month was lovely, young people with cancer all on the verge of getting better and going home. Come back from Ibiza, and everything is downhill. Last week was a draul, (not sure if that's even a word, if it is, it means drag) and I thought maybe it was because I had spongy brain from drinking and too much Sun.
Remember the movie, The Truman Show, where a cloud of rain follows Jim Carrey around, I'm sure i've used this analogy before, but currently, Haematology feels like this. Not because I'm hating it and on the fine line of quitting, because I intend to keep this job for a very long time (very satisfied for a change), but because its feeling very depressing. The ward looks and feels grey. The people are grey. Everything feels as if it's in black and white.
It has been a long time that I have cried over work. It's sad to say, but based on my experience, it really is easier when an older person dies. At least a friend or family member can say that person had a great life. A wonderful, prosperous, abundant life. When you die at early 30 and you spent the last decade fighting cancer, you were simply, or not so simply dealt a bad fucking hand of cards.
I always try to remind myself that there are patients who are well that I never see, and that people do survive. But how do you comfort the wife that found out her only chances for conceiving were maximised and axed the same day her husband died? How do you explain to them that you understand how bizarre it is that only yesterday you were laughing and having dinner at home? I never experience the same dread as I do whenever I'm minding my own business and a family member comes up to me, speechless, an evident look on their face, but manages to direct me to the room. I know what they want me to do. I know they think their loved one has died. Their loved one's had that weird gaspy last breath thing. You can feel the grey become more grey.
Everyone hangs on to each other as I, the so called professional, looms over their loved one and places a stethescope to their chest. I can only imagine the hope they must have, because even I have hope at this time, I press the stethescope on, harder and listen more intently as I look at the clock and count for one minute. Thirty seconds pass and no breath, 6 pair of eyes are staring at me waiting for a nod or a shake, I pray for a breath, a thump in my ears, but I hear nothing. A minute passes, I can no longer tolerate the spot light, I shake my head lightly and apologise, and say I will get another opinion. I know this is cruel, because I should know what I'm doing and give them a definitive answer, but I can't take the responsibility of being the bearer of bad news. I apologise as if I am the cause of death. Another nurse comes in, agrees with my assessment, and as we leave the room, she tells me she is the grim reaper, and that people die when she's working all the time.
Perfect. I get to work with her tomorrow again.
A little over a month ago, I started a full time job on Haematology, at one of London's biggest hopsitals. But because London's so big, I'm not sure how really big, big is. Make sense? Haematology has been great to me, my first month was lovely, young people with cancer all on the verge of getting better and going home. Come back from Ibiza, and everything is downhill. Last week was a draul, (not sure if that's even a word, if it is, it means drag) and I thought maybe it was because I had spongy brain from drinking and too much Sun.
Remember the movie, The Truman Show, where a cloud of rain follows Jim Carrey around, I'm sure i've used this analogy before, but currently, Haematology feels like this. Not because I'm hating it and on the fine line of quitting, because I intend to keep this job for a very long time (very satisfied for a change), but because its feeling very depressing. The ward looks and feels grey. The people are grey. Everything feels as if it's in black and white.
It has been a long time that I have cried over work. It's sad to say, but based on my experience, it really is easier when an older person dies. At least a friend or family member can say that person had a great life. A wonderful, prosperous, abundant life. When you die at early 30 and you spent the last decade fighting cancer, you were simply, or not so simply dealt a bad fucking hand of cards.
I always try to remind myself that there are patients who are well that I never see, and that people do survive. But how do you comfort the wife that found out her only chances for conceiving were maximised and axed the same day her husband died? How do you explain to them that you understand how bizarre it is that only yesterday you were laughing and having dinner at home? I never experience the same dread as I do whenever I'm minding my own business and a family member comes up to me, speechless, an evident look on their face, but manages to direct me to the room. I know what they want me to do. I know they think their loved one has died. Their loved one's had that weird gaspy last breath thing. You can feel the grey become more grey.
Everyone hangs on to each other as I, the so called professional, looms over their loved one and places a stethescope to their chest. I can only imagine the hope they must have, because even I have hope at this time, I press the stethescope on, harder and listen more intently as I look at the clock and count for one minute. Thirty seconds pass and no breath, 6 pair of eyes are staring at me waiting for a nod or a shake, I pray for a breath, a thump in my ears, but I hear nothing. A minute passes, I can no longer tolerate the spot light, I shake my head lightly and apologise, and say I will get another opinion. I know this is cruel, because I should know what I'm doing and give them a definitive answer, but I can't take the responsibility of being the bearer of bad news. I apologise as if I am the cause of death. Another nurse comes in, agrees with my assessment, and as we leave the room, she tells me she is the grim reaper, and that people die when she's working all the time.
Perfect. I get to work with her tomorrow again.
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