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Home, Humor, Husband, London

The London Chronicles: My (Land)Lord and Lady

“I know that atmosphere of the Parisian apartment building with the twin menaces of the concierge on the ground floor and the landlord upstairs.”
– Roman Polanski

The house itself was fine, we met the landlady who showed us around, but we had to meet her husband that evening and pass inspection.  Landlady is a Swedish woman, a bit harried, and perpetually busy working on her various properties.  I’m not sure what I was expecting her to be married to, but it certainly wasn’t a short Brazilian man who answered the door wearing board shorts and nothing else.

Landlord then spend the better part of two hours trying to scare us out of renting with emphasis on how strict he was with cleaning, and tales of how he’d tossed various Germans, French, but mostly American students out on their ear for failing to clean the house to his draconian expectations.  He hated Americans!  Every American renter he’d ever had was awful and destructive.

J. and I assured him calmly we’d do our best to change his opinion of American tenants.

But look!  He dragged us to the bathroom where he shoved the corroded remains of a bathtub tap beneath our noses.  The water here was practically acid!  And if you didn’t scrub the whole bathroom down after a shower, the mold would grow overnight, smother you, and you would die.  Surely we would reconsider living in such a place.

Not at all we said pleasantly, making a mental note to rely on bottled water for drinking.

While we were waiting, three other potential renters turned up and we had to move fast to assure him that we wanted the place while he threatened teased us with the possibility that maybe he would just rent it to someone else instead, ha!  Half an hour later we’d convinced him we were serious, and half an hour after that the papers were signed.

Immediately, Landlord became the soul of amiability.  He and Landlady regaled us with tales of their travels and adventures, with heavy emphasis on more cleaning and domestic disasters.  By nearly 10pm we were fast friends.

And I’m insanely jealous that J. gets to listen to all of Landlord’s stories while I’m stuck back in the US because I’m sure if I could turn anyone into a book, it’s this guy.  He has engaged in such epic housing battles that the council knows him by name.  He single handedly was responsible for the crackdown on prostitution in the Brazilian quarter.  A scooter he once owned was suspected to have been used in a murder mere days after he sold it.  You can’t make this stuff up, I just want to follow him around all day with a voice recorder!

Home, Humor, Husband, London, Travel

The London Chronicles: House Hunting

“I want to know what the devil you mean by keeping coming into my private apartment, taking up space which I require for other purposes and interrupting me when I am chatting with my personal friends.  Really one gets about as much privacy in this house as a strip-tease dancer.”
– P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

The school website told us to allow two weeks to find a place to live.  We had to do it in six days.

We’ve been living in the same place for over 2 years now.  That’s two years without having to worry about finding flatmates, divvying up utilities, spending all available time setting up and meeting appointments to view small and dingy rooms that look nothing like their photos online, and trying to determine exactly how much Ramen you’ll need to eat in order to make rent.  Two years of knowing where all the local shops are, having transportation sorted out, and a settled routine of laundry, shopping, and housekeeping.  Two years of being settled.

In other words, I – at least – felt woefully out of practice.  But we dove in with gusto.  Every morning we got up early and made our way to the school library to take advantage of the free internet and spent hours combing through university housing website.  We sent off dozens of emails and counted ourselves lucky if anyone responded.  We set up at least three appointments a day (which inevitably turned out to be on opposite sides of London, requiring an hour’s travel time a piece).  And time after time, someone got there before us, the landlord wanted to rent to females and neglected to inform us beforehand, the residents didn’t want to live with an “old married man” (not even 26, mind) who didn’t want to go clubbing and drinking with them every night, or just found somebody else instead.

I won’t lie, both J. and I were starting to have visions of him starting grad school living in a hostel with raucous German roommates, unable to set up a bank account or phone service without an address.  But then, on Friday, my second to last day there, the heavens opened and we found a place.

It’s in Zone 2 and only about 30 minutes  by tube from the school.  The tube station itself is a 10 minute walk from the house, as is the High Street with all the local shops.  The house itself is privately owned by a pair of eccentrics (more on them later) and shared between three students – a girl from China, a British guy, and now J.!  Each have their own room (which was larger than our hotel room, incidentally), the rent is half of what we’d initially budgeted, and utilities are cheap.

Saturday we moved him in, unpacked, and stocked the fridge with food and wandered the neighborhood.  Turns out it’s the center of both a large Hasidic Jewish and a Brazilian community.  Apparently the only languages spoken in the area are Portuguese and Hebrew.  We saw a large number of men in large fur hats and black satin coats, accompanied by women in grays or black dresses meeting up and wondered what the occasion was, before thunking our heads.  Duh.  Saturday, it was Shabbat.  We found a Rabbinical and Hebrew school just down the street from Sainsbury and a Brazilian takeaway restaurant.  Gotta love London!

In spite of all the crazy we did manage to catch two shows in the West End and an afternoon at the Tate Britain, but this was primarily a working vacation and in the end we were able to land J. a place to live.  Vigorous huzzahs and appropriate sacrifices to the gods of flat hunting are in order.

Next time: the landlords!

Home, Humor, Husband, University

Scope Creep

“If the psych boys ever got hold of him, they’d never let him go. No. This is a family matter.”
– Louis McMaster Bujold, Memory

I apologize for thinking that it only produced self-congratualting jerks. I mean, I knew J. came out normal and well adjusted, so did Janssen's lovely husband, but I never really gave the institution in general credit for a well rounded education. I herewith apologize. Sort of. History still rules!

One of the reasons I like J. so much is that we have largely completely separate interests.  You’d think this might lead to marital incompatibility, but au contraire!  It means that we’re constantly introducing each other to new things and are obligated to at least try them out once.  I expose him to opera, he takes me hiking, etc.  Occasionally this is not only interesting but useful as he has a whole brain chock full of things from business and accounting that I never learned in a liberal arts degree.

For example, his upcoming move to London.  As it turned out, my good friend Margot may need a place to crash for a while before she jets off to South America for a job (my friends are nifty!), the timing of which just happened to correspond with my grad-school-induced widowhood!  In any event, she need a place to store some things as she figures out life plans, and I needed an excuse to pack up the back room and get it stored, so we decided to kill two  birds with one stone and clear out my space so she could occupy it for a while.

I press ganged J. one evening and we packed up our entire collection of books (no mean feat), our fine china (a present from my parents which I’ve never even used because I’m terrified of breaking it), and our desktop computer and stacked it all in a closet awaiting transport for storage.

Then, on fire with my success, I turned a baleful eye on my front room.  Before I knew what had happened I had cleaned out our closet and reorganized all the coats, athletic gear, shoes, and luggage.  I vacuumed everything.  I dusted.  Everywhere I looked I saw lists of things to be done and my stress level (exacerbated by recent events and circumstances) rose slyly, but steadily.  Finally when I lashed out at J. for leaving the dishes undone, he crossed his arms and declared, “You, my love, are experiencing scope creep.”
“And just what’s that supposed to mean?!” I frothed, clutching the Swiffer Sweeper manically.

And he explained.  Personally I appreciate that he used a business reference rather than a (in my opinion likely more accurate) psychiatrist term.

But see?  A problem properly cataloged and my worldview expanded.  He also sat me on the couch and told me to watch some mindless TV for an hour to calm down.  How handy!

Home, Humor

Now Is the Winter of Our Discontent!

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
– Albert Camus

Will someone please tell me which of the jealous domestic appliance gods we’ve angered recently so that we can sacrifice the appropriate item (sock to washing machine, milk to back of fridge, etc.) and get on with it?

Wednesday when I got home, I noticed it was a bit chilly but I had to quick turnabout to go pick up J. so I just adjusted the temperature and figured all would be well by the time we got back.

For all their drool-worthy abs, chiseled chins, and muscled glory, the domestic gods are cruel masters.

Foolish, foolish C..  You know the domestic gods hate you.  When we got home it was colder – our furnace had thrown up its hands in defeat and was slumped uselessly in its closet, clicking and wheezing occasionally but for all of our pleading, threatening, and dancing around cabalistic signs and fires…nothing.  The handyman was duly summoned.

I had to take off work as J. had class so I went home…and waited.  He was an hour late and then only stayed about 10 minutes, the ultimate underlying problem being that our furnace is from the Neolithic Age.  Our pilot light, clogged with the grime of ages, mastodon hairs, ash from Vesuvius, and soot from the Industrial Revolution, can’t stay lit very long.  The quick fix is a thorough cleaning – which the handyman advocated but was, of course, too busy to do that evening.  I smiled tightly, pulled out my diary, and briskly inquired when he would be available next.  He stuttered, “Saturday,” and I wrote it down firmly in dark, indelible strokes.

The real solution is, of course, and entirely new unit.  And since apparently we’re not the only people in our building to have our furnaces give out recently, I’m hoping the landlord will fork over the funds.  In the meantime we’re guarding our small, flickering light like Vestal Virgins and wearing sweatshirts to bed.

Home, Humor

Presenting My Lord and Lady…Beepington?

“Beep beep!
– Roadrunner

My Lord and Lady Stompington are long gone, but the creaky floors above us remain.  Our newer neighbors, whom we have never actually met have their own quirks (including loud, ahem, conjugal activity.  And even more inexplicably, always vacuuming directly after said activity.  We still haven’t figured that one out) but by and large we prefer them to the clay-footed, bowling ball dropping, riverdancing jerks who went before.  But yesterday they almost lost their Small Dog Family stamp of approval.

While J. worked on finals, projects, etc. yesterday, I was busy being a phenomenal wife.  I cleaned the whole flat and did two loads of laundry… and nearly went completely round the twist before noon.

Hi!

Because the smoke alarm in the flat above us apparently needed its battery changed, it beeped precisely every thirty seconds.  All day long.  For the first hour or so I tried vainly to locate it, pressing my ears to the walls and moving incrementally about the apartment with me head cocked to the ceiling.  The second hour I paced in circles fuming and pondered angrily as to why the neighbors didn’t shut the blasted thing off.  The third hour I lay on the couch, waiting to switch out laundry loads, and glared upwards.  It didn’t shut off until nearly 9pm at night.  You may imagine my wrecked mental state at the time.

Family, Home, Humor, Travel

Real Live Grownup

“My outer child is holding my inner adult hostage.”
– Unknown

I have this problem.  Going home to see family.  Desperate for my family to think of me as a Real Live Grownup, before every visit I agonize over what to wear, debate whether or not I should get a more mature looking haircut to make me look older, and lecture myself very firmly to avoid bratty behavior, and so forth.

"Where's C.?" "Drat! We must have left her in Calais! Should we go back?" "Nah. We'll see her at Christmas."

See, a couple of weeks after I turned 18, my parents shot off to Belgium leaving me with my grandparents to fend largely for myself.  I got myself off to university in the States and all settled in needing only rides to and from airports.  I didn’t see my family for six months until Christmas.  And then not again until I went home to work for the summer.  Ditto the next year.  My junior year I stayed in the States for most of the summer except for a two week holiday home to England and didn’t go home for Christmas at all.

My point?  Lots of people, like J., leave near enough to their families that they grow up (fully) with them.  All the major milestones are covered and both child and parents can transition through the chrysalis stage and watch the child-butterfly emerge into adulthood pretty seamlessly.  (This is in ideal circumstances, I know it’s not as easy for everyone, but bear with me).

Alternatively, I go bumbling along more or less on my own gumption for huge stretches of time, growing up and developing into an adult, but largely out of view from my parents.  Then, when I do finally get to see them, I’ve none of the requisite adult child skills or abilities to interact maturely with them.  I slip into bad habits from six years ago, ones that (I could have sworn) I’d outgrown.

The real irony is that my parents do think of me as a Real Live Grownup, this inadequacy I feel is strictly in my head.  My parents are fantastic, they’ve never treated as if I were younger, stupider, or less capable than I am.  The problem is me.  When I go home, I’m seized with the desire to wrestle with my siblings, pout when I don’t get my way, and roll my eyes at individual family members.  An exact copy of me as a snotty 17 year old.  Because I literally don’t know how to act 24 around them.  It’s disgraceful.

I imagine there is some disconnect for them as well.  After all, in one year I graduated, got a job, and got engaged, and planned a wedding completely apart from them.  They were great sports about it all, but I wonder if they ever feel like they’re scrambling to catch up on me too?

Note: not six and eight anymore.

It’s getting better, but I’m really still an idiot in a lot of ways.  See, this disproportionate view of development goes in the opposite direction as well.  When I moved out, my sister was six, she’s now 13.  Gio is a freshman at university right now, both he and Buddy are several feet taller than me and eat acres of food just to keep alive.  When I moved out, my father was still in the midst of a nice, international career, my mum was mostly still raising kids.  Now Dad is retired and Mum is teaching Western Civilization at university.

Where my family is concerned, I will probably never be a Real Live Grownup.  The sense of constant vertigo is too strong.  In my head, my brothers are still shorter than me, my sister is practically an infant, and my parents are at very different places in their lives.  Coming home and looking two feet up into Buddy’s eyes or sharing clothes with my sister or visiting a new house (usually in a completely new country) is just too much to keep up with.

It’s just as well.  Being a kid in my family isn’t too bad!

Home, Humor, Husband, Marriage, Weekend

A Tale of Two Kitties

“Why the windows are full west!”
– Jane Austen

Small Cat Syndrome?

J.’s nickname for me, despite my legendary Small Dog Syndrome personality condition, is Kitty.  Not from any simliarity to my real name, but because apparently I have a cat-like tendancy to hide things.  Not consciously, but it would seem that after I use certain things they have the obnoxious habit of vanishing into the ether.  I also do admit to tucking somethings away in their “designated place,” the geographic location I immediately forget.  This means that our marriage is a constant smorgasbord of rediscovered treasure.

Hairpins turn up in the oddest places, especially considering I almost never use them, but we find bushels of them every time we vacuum or dust.  Pens!  Everywhere!  They breed in my pockets, purses, and cup holders.  Despite practically never carrying cash, coins (of mutiple currencies!)  rain from me like I’m some fairytale maiden who got on a witch’s good side.  I lose my glasses at least once a day.  They have been found, variously, in my jewelry case, under the couch, in the shower, beneath my pillow, and in my purse which both of us had searched thouroughly four times previous only to finding them smugly nestled besides my wallet.  The possibilities truly are endless.  And without fail, whever something turns up from somewhere it doesn’t belong, J. rounds on me with a pointed finger and an accusatory voice.  “Kitty!”

Just so we’re clear, and so my mother doesn’t wring her hands and ask where she went wrong, our house is not dirty.  That’s the amazing part.  We’re minimalistic in our decor, specifically because neither of us like clutter.  We deep clean once a week.  There is absolutely nothing to attract the wildlife.  People comment on its cleanlines when they come over.  And yet, when I go to plump the pillows – voila!  That book I misplaced a week ago.

And apparently the way to really unearth all the things I’ve “mislaid”  is to install new windows.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful.  Our old windows were nearly a half century old, leaked heat out, let cold seep in, and were generally a source of larger than necessary utility bills.  The largest one in our flat faces west and made summers in the desert a misery!  It got so hot during summer that our blinds would melt – or at least warp to a fantastic and almost unuseable degree.  So, new windows equalled better utility costs, temperatures human beings can survive at, and less destruction of our abode.  Plus someone else was installing them.  Terrific!

Saturday morning at 8:30am (who does that?  On a weekend!) my phone shattered the tranquility.  The landlords told us the contractors wou!d be by in an hour to rip massive holes in our walls.
“J.!  Get up!  Clean everything!  Move move move!”
Despicably undomestic as I am, I’ve got enough feminine pride/residual 1950s guilt to not want total strangers see my house a “shambles.”  Poor J. was dragged from his bed and forced to dismantle window blinds while I made the bed, dusted (before a bunch of workman came to chip away my windows…yeah…) and fell to scrubbing even the bathroom with religious fervor.

It was when we invaded the office/storage space/Room of Requirement that things started turning up.  Piles of papers neither of us could identify.  Chords to appliances we have never owned.  Boxes for things we never ordered.  A couple of cups we never missed.  Ribbons, Christmas gifts bought months ago, a couple of paintings…  J. was laughing uproariously by the time we finished.  We’d thrown out masses of stuff and I’d taken to sulking from his teasing.  “Kitty!”

Then we headed back to the front room to move the couches.  And found sweet, sweet justice.

Beneath the sofa I found an external hard drive, a leather business folder, two textbooks, and a pile of notes.  All J.’s.  The dumbfounded look on his face was priceless.  I danced in a circle around him crowing, “You’re a kitty!  You’re a kitty!”

Naturally ten minutes later, he found my glasses.  Again.  The status quo resumed.

Small Cat sulks.

*Second picture from Hyperbole and a Half.

Drama, Family, Home, Humor, Office, Work

Coming to America, and Other Challenges

“Is this Plymouth?  We’ve just come from Plymouth.  We’ve gone round in circles, lads…”
– Eddie Izzard

I’ve decided to just stop panicking.  First of all it’s exhausting and unsustainable, and second panicking will have absolutely no effect on my fate anyway.  For all I know, Chief is just as puzzled as the rest of us seem to be and just wants to get my side of the story.  Of course, he could also be preparing the Iron Maiden and Rack, but I’m choosing to be optimistic.

So, we’ll continue as if nothing is wrong until next Monday.  Play along.  There’s every chance that I’ll lose my cool and completely disintegrate into a useless puddle sometime over the weekend and I may need you to drag me out of whatever darkened corner I’ve thrown myself, in the fetal position, into.

In other news, my whole family seems to be finding life Stateside a bit of a chore.  Mum is putting a house together, Dad is job hunting and running his small business, Gio is pacing rings in the carpet trying to work (in spite of torrential rains at our Uncle’s house where he is staying) and waiting for university to start, Buddy and Snickers are “looking forward” to (another) new school.

Family, Friends, Home

To Paraphrase…

“I had to scrap and entire post about my future library because you beat me to the punch.”
“That just means you have good taste too!”
– C. and Vodka

The term “Someday House” entered my vocabulary at a very young age.  My family has had many houses as we’ve flitted from country to country and continent to continent, but my mother and father would often (usually in the middle of a Great Purge) get a far-off look in their eyes and say, “In our Someday House, we’ll have…”

The insides change, but for some reason, my SH's exterior is invariably Georgian. This particular house with a yard for dogs, kids, and croquet please!

A Someday House is more than a Dream House.  The latter you just wish for, the former you actively plan for and will absolutely achieve one day.

The first time I used the phrase, “In our Someday House-” to J. he was completely baffled.  These days I can smugly note that it’s part of the Small Dog Family common vernacular.  We are slowly building our Someday House in our head together (awww…) and it’s shaping up to be a rather nice one, though I say so myself.

I was talking with Sav and Vodka the other day about future homes, and let the phrase “Someday House” slip.  I felt a bit silly saying it to Outsiders, but it turns out they both loved it!  We then had a long in depth conversation about our Someday Houses, and I was planning on blogging about my desire for a library…when Vodka did it first!

Go check it out, she said everything I was thinking, only better!