“Seriously. I had to schedule a breakdown, and then I had to cut it short!” – C.
Minions, I have neglected you. But last Friday the world sort of stopped. I was stressed, I was tired, I was anxious, I was overwhelmed, and I literally worried myself sick. I went home early on Friday and spent some time in bed.
Of course, I had only a limited amount of time to recover from the vapors because I had stuff to do. Saturday I had a wedding (in addition to Venice’s birthday) and errands to run, Sunday was dinner at my godparents’ house (a 4 hour event at least) after which I had to dash home and make appetizers for… Monday after work, Sadie and Pieter had a Honey Do couples shower. Classic me, I made it all the way to GS’s house before I realized I’d forgotten the food in my fridge.
But health, good-humor, and cheerfulness have begun to return, and so, updates. Margot landed a full time teaching job (no small prize in this economy), Marie’s husband also got a job back East, Hambone had her baby boy, my sister-in-law had a dry run for her future lung transplant and got an emergency plan in place (still scary, but less so now), Dad, Venice, and J. all got older, and J. is going to Les Miserables tonight, staring Alfie Boe.
You know, the one who managed to stand out among these guys:
“It’s hilarious how tied up [our niece] was in the idea of having a sister, I think little boys are cute. Watch, God will give us triplet girls for that…” “As long as they don’t act like the girls I live with. If they do, I’m sending them back.” “Come on, darling, they’ll be half me.“ – C. and J.
Readjusting to having flatmates after living with a spouse is quite interesting. I’m lucky, because Margot’s a great flatmate. She’s funny, driven, seemingly indestructible, and unfailingly clever, one of those people who you just like being around because you’re practically guaranteed a good time, even if you’re doing nothing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not an adjustment. She is, after all, not my husband.
Our recreation is totally different, for one thing.
Hey, baby, you single? No? Pfft, wasted my best moves on you, then...
For example, Margot goes dancing and when she invites me along I decline, because where we live is a notorious marriage market, and frankly, I’m glad I’m out of all that! Nights out dancing are no longer fun: firmly not flirting with the overeager boys, disclaiming my taken status when asked to dance (in the interest of full disclosure) and trying to hide a grin when they back off hurriedly, as if they are complicit in adultery. I went dancing once or twice with girlfriends when J. and I were dating or engaged, but it was distinctly not as fun as it was as a Singleton. A good chunk of the dancers were hunting (aggressively) for a mate and the rest of us, only there for a good time, were in the way of that mission. Now I’m married, mission complete, and I’m a false start which they will resent should I wander into their path. It’s all frightfully funny, but not necessarily the way you want to spend an evening.
And for another thing, we’re at very different points in our lives – she’s recently graduated and job hunting, I’m (relatively) settled. She’s constantly putting in applications for a full time teaching job, and I admire her for it, but I’ve got a job. I’m all sympathy and willing to ponder the mysteries of our generation’s day and age…but my trials and concerns are different from hers. I am, in short, an old woman. I must be the most boring flatmate ever, but she puts up with me, and we get along great!
J., on the other hand, lives with two women who are daily growing in seeming hatred towards one another. That too must be the oddest feeling, living with two feuding females, neither of whom he’s related to as he tries desperately to stay out of it. It’s a foreign experience for him, he’s only ever roomed with other men and people he was obligated to love (me or his siblings). I’ve taken to calling his updates on the battle “Dispatches From the Front.”
This attitude, hilariously masquerading as "maturity," allows one to rise above most arguments.
I never got into a fight with any of the girls I lived with, it never seemed worth the energy. If you didn’t get on well, in six months one of you could move out and never see the other person if you so desired. There was no need for impoliteness or other unfortunate behavior in the meantime. I was the flatmate baffled when another girl would suddenly collapse weeping on my shoulder demanding if she’d done something wrong because I hadn’t spoken to her in an hour. I was the girl who unintentionally sparked a civil war in one flat because I put the newly washed silverware into the drawer in the wrong order (forks, knives, spoons, instead of the other proper way around), who was oblivious to the growing rage until the girl I’d offended demanded if I’d been raised in a zoo, flung all the cutlery across the counter, and promptly burst into tears. I patted her awkwardly, “there there-ed” a while, and promised never to put the forks on the left hand side again.
Margot’s gloriously sane by comparison. I like her lots.
“You’re Garfield. You’re a kitty and you hate Mondays.” – J.
I had a reliable morning routine with J.. Our alarm would go off, one of us would smack it silent. Fifteen minutes later, ditto. Fifteen minutes after that I would poke and prod him to get up and shower with many protestations of showering after him, he’d get up, and I’d go straight back to sleep. The probability of whether or not I would shower depended utterly on whether or not I needed to wash my hair. I’d be awoken for the final time when he would march back into our bedroom and order me up.
With him gone, I’ve had to go back to pre-marriage mode of getting myself up like a big girl. And, minions, I do not like it. I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person. These days mornings are cold, dark, and currently husband-less. I see no reason why I should have to leave the comforts of my bed, on a Monday in November.
I’m in a bit of a strop (if you couldn’t tell), so cheer me up this fine (wretched) morning! How was your weekend, my loves? I had a nephew’s baptism, a date with Margot, and the beginnings of seasonal shopping to leap into – and I’m not even talking Christmas. J., Venice, and my father all have their birthdays this coming week, Sadie and Pieter have a couples wedding shower next Monday, and I’ve a wedding to attend this weekend. I’ll be exhausted before Thanksgiving!
“Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them.” – Jane Austen
In the new version of Emma , Mr. Knightley notices that she is having a bit of a down day and says, “If you were to ask me, I would say that you were in need of a project.” Which of course, interfering busybody she is, she does. And if ever J. was in the house while I was watching it, he would chuckle a bit under his breath and refuse to explain why.
I didn’t get it until talking on the computer with him on Saturday about how life without him is rather dull.
“I’m running out of ideas. I’ve made and frozen two batches of chicken tetrazzini, turned the chicken carcass into homemade broth, cleaned the whole house, did laundry, reorganized the kitchen and my closet, mended a pair of trousers, and am considering baking cookies.”
And suddenly, with the same rumbling, cute chuckle, “You are in need of a project, love.”
Har har.
Anyone need to be married off? I have a lot of free time on my hands.
“A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow. ”
~ Charlotte Brontë
I woke up the other morning on J.’s side of the bed for the first time since I got back. Only half awake I was trying to snuggle up against him because fall is slowly moving in and it’s getting chilly in the morning. Bam. Marriage nostalgia punched me in the face, kicked me in the stomach, and laughed at my misery.
I self medicated: rented an entire season of a show, got dinner takeaway, and wolfed down a whole piece of cheesecake. Like I said: low point.
– J. gets to know the neighborhood and indulges his unending perplexity of all non-American sports.
“Yesterday I wandered around my neighborhood for a while to get an idea of where things are. Finsbury Park looks pretty nice; I’ll have to walk around there and see if what I can find. From the road I saw the remnants of a baseball diamond. Somehow I think they sully it with cricket.”
“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!
, Mr. Knightley notices that she is having a bit of a down day and says, “If you were to ask me, I would say that you were in need of a project.” Which of course, interfering busybody she is, she does. And if ever J. was in the house while I was watching it, he would chuckle a bit under his breath and refuse to explain why.
Small Dog Syndrome 