[Insert number here] Ways I am Slowly Becoming a Grown Up*

* Or basic things that most functional people do that I should not be proud of achieving only in my late 30s.

1. I have made an appointment at the dentist's. (This is a BFD, frankly.)
2. I have recommendation for a new dermatologist who, fabulously, is in network. And I am actually going to get my moles checked out.
3. I have bought a lovely detangling hairbrush that I have been using. Every day. For the last three days, admittedly, but it's a start.
4. I now carry tissues in my bag(s). All of them. 
5. And a Tide pen (other brands are available).
6. I clean my makeup brushes and implements every month.
7. I have a watering the house plants day of the week. And it happens on that day of the week.
8. I record on my calendar when my period starts and ends. I also use a ruby cup, because they are amazing. 
9. I have several umbrellas and I know where they are. I keep a spare couple at work.
10. I take my vitamins every day.
11. I semi-regularly clean my mattress protector and mattress. Not that there's an alarm in the calendar or owt like that, but it does happen. Including today.
12. I know how to clean out a blocked sink using vinegar and baking soda. Which is one reason why we always have baking soda and vinegar in the house. Bugger, just ran out of baking soda (see #11); will purchase more tomorrow.
13. We have a semi-functional landing strip. No, not one of those, you filthy thing. The home clutter filtering variety.
14. We regularly refill the bird feeder. We also spend a lot of time discussing which birds are frequenting the bird feeder.
15. We pay for digital downloads.
16. We have a wine fridge! I have annotated those bottles of wine that should not be drunk yet! 2024 is going to be a great year, clearly.
17. We still drink too much wine (and beer, and picklebacks, etc.) and don't get enough sleep. But we have a gorgeous room that is a sunshiney yellow place of warmth and comfort. And we're about to frame a glorious Georgia O'Keeffe print that will be what we see when we wake up each day. FRAMED POSTERS!
18. I have a jar of rendered bacon fat in my fridge for vegetable cooking goodness.
19. I am--stutteringly and sporadically and inconsistently--admittedly, trying to give up sugar and get on top of that family history of diabetes, hypertension, heart disease... 
20. I am concerned about and actively managing the green/brown ratio of my compost heap.
21. Each time I open the lid, I say hello to the nesting spider in the aforementioned compost heap. Is that odd or being a grown up? You decide!
22. I have Marie Kondo'd my bathroom products this year. Clothing will happen. I'm sure. Yep. But I did do it last year. That totally counts.
23. I am trying to keep my Goodreads to-read list under 800, because I know that I will not read these all in my lifetime. Having said that, I just added an amazing book. But, because I am Slowly Becoming A Grown Up, I removed one to make it a round 800 again. #Goals.

On Reading

I've been reading a lot more recently, thanks to my much longer commute and much shorter working hours.

Some of those books aren't about dragons.  Some.  Read about my capitulation to the rather fabulous mind of Zadie Smith here. 

Airwaves

It's clearly another sign of impending middle age that I am increasingly enamoured of Radio 4 and its sister station, BBC 7, which repeats old Radio 4 - and Radio One - comedies, dramas and so forth. As a youth I loved Radio One, with The Evening Session and then Mark & Lard being essential listening - I often didn't do anything but listen to the radio in the evenings and I was far from alone in the musical geek kingdom. I then switched to Fivelive for the sport, and stuck with it, ignoring the increasingly heinous phone-ins.

But now, in my thirties, it's all about Radio 4. While I still listen to Radio One's dance music selection (which is pretty unrivaled as a radio station, at least based on what I have listened to in NYC - that does not include podcasts which is a different story), it's Radio 4 that really fills my day with fun. Each week I avidly await the download on Friday of the Radio 4 Friday Comedy Podcast - which on great weeks is the News Quiz and on not great but still highly enjoyable weeks is usually The Now Show. I listen to Just a Minute, I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue or The Unbelievable Truth during my lunch break at work. Plus BBC 7 has provided great joy in the past few months with That Mitchell and Webb Sound (truly revelatory in its quality), old Round the Horne, Dad's Army, a fab adaptation of Strong Poison and general fun.

The one programme that beats all of these, however, is Bleak Expectations. I don't know how funny it would be without a familiarity with Charles Dickens - I suspect less but not significantly so. I am familiar - and a big Dickens fan, generally - and I find it absolutely side-splitting. This weekend I was forced to stop what I was doing on several occasions because I couldn't concentrate due to laughter. I've contemplated purchasing the entire series on several occasions, but I always pull back. I think it is partly because I like the episodic nature of listening to it on the radio. Somehow that seems much more serendipitous, the offering up of the show to you on the airwaves, rather than it being part of a library you own. Or maybe it's just another version of the grass is greener - something that is not your own and readily accessible is more alluring.

Boring Post About How Backing Up is Soooooo Important

Veronica Mars and Back Up.

Yesterday I got the mac equivalent of the blue screen of death. Just a whirring little circle and the apple. It's a dreaded thing, and I could hear the hard drive scrabbling away at itself, trying to boot, but just not getting there. Heartbreaking to hear my little machine struggle so, in what sounded suspiciously like its death throes.

And death throes they were - the apple genius bar confirmed something nasty had happened to my computer. Even after diagnosis, the genius bar dude looked confused, which somewhat confused me, until he remarked that I looked far, far too happy for someone who had just lost their hard drive. Then the light dawned - "Did you back up?"

For once, yes. I could answer yes. And, no less, as recently as Tuesday. It was the culmination of a series of "sensible" choices - when the hard drive got drowned by Clem last year, choosing the extortionate option that preserved our warranty and TOH's excellent decision to purchase an external hard drive to which I back up each week - which made me far more excited today than I should have. Particularly as it now proves that being prudent and sensible make me excited and, therefore, I am not gently slipping but careering, head first, into middle age.

Rats.

Red Light

Behold!

Our very first Christmas tree. The cats have shown an almost complete lack of interest in it. Which is probably good for the tree but, I can't deny, a little disappointing. They did enjoy the threading of tinsel into the banisters, so that's something.

So This Is Goodbye

Dr. TOH and I have two more nights left in our apartment. This is the apartment in which we first lived together. Now, it's hard to imagine a time when we didn't live together. But this was our first home. So it will be sad to say goodbye to it.

Living in that apartment opened up not just another chapter in our relationship, but opened our eyes to a whole social world outside our university-based friends, simply because our neighbours were friendly when we moved in, and we jumped on their overtures. Together with them we tried out restaurants, took swimming classes together, did football training before work, ate marvellous food, played ping pong. That simple generosity and open nature is something I hope I've taken on, although our lack of familiarity with the current neighbours belies that hope. Nonetheless, I want to take it into the next building we live in. Because I have learned, finally, that neighbours should be there for one another, and that's when good neighbours become good friends.*

So while it's sad to leave it, it's worth remembering how much we valued being next door from a wonderful set of people. Because now we're off to the outer boroughs, we get to be a lot closer to a lot of people, including our former neighbours. We get to explore a new neighbourhood, a new park, a new set of shops and restaurants. Find our bearings there.

Five years is a long time in any place. It's time to move on.

*Sorry, could not resist it.

On a Wing and a...*

So, without wanting to go into too much detail, next week is going to be a little rough. I know this in advance, which is always strange, I think - most unpleasant things are anticipated only just beforehand, unless they are exams, I tend to find, and after last year, I'd hoped that was over.

Nonetheless, it's looming. Today, a colleague offered me her prayers. I always find that offer difficult to deal with - internally it feels hypocritical to accept, because I do not believe it and I feel dishonest in accepting it; yet it would be ungracious to get into a theological debate with someone who I appreciate on a daily basis for her support, friendship and general fabulousness. So, indeed, I just said "thank you," recognizing that it's something of great value to her that she has gifted to me. Of course, not all gifts should be received with grace: if it were KKK memorabilia that meant a great deal, I'd doubtlessly rebuff it with (more than) a few stiff words. But this was something she really thought would help me, and she wants what I want: a safe and good outcome. Clearly, I'm not still comfortable with this, but I think I've made a decision that this is an internal struggle that can be left to wither away; out of all the terrible things that happen to people on a daily basis, this really is a minimal existentialist crisis.

* I will never, ever, be able to think of this phrase without We Need To Talk About Kevin. That book certainly leaves an impression.

Squashed

I really am in a place I never, in a million years, dreamt I would be. I'm sitting in an office on Park Avenue, as an attorney. That's weird enough as it is. But tonight, Matthew, I really am going to be an attorney: I'm going to play squash. With a friend that works for a financial company. I may even join the squash ladder at the health club of which I will, hopefully, soon be a member.

Who on earth am I? I just can't work out if America has untapped all this previously unexplored... corporate-ness, or if it really has created it in vitro, taking my essence and doing something with it that naturally I should not be able to do. I do know that I would be utterly unrecognisable to my eighteen-year-old self. Everyone says things like that, but I really feel coming here veered me off onto a course over which I feel I have little control. Things just keep happening. It's all very Once in a Lifetime. But that's not to say I don't like it. I'm just constantly surprised by where it's all led.

Furnished

We just bought a bed. Other than the flight to Africa for the post-Bar trip, it's the biggest single purchase of my entire life.

Ulp. Still. We've been on the same futon that TOH bought when he first arrived in NYC, 6 years ago, since we got here. The only reason that even has a frame is TOH woke up when on the floor with a roach crawling across his extremely manly, chiselled chest. So it's about time. It's just... weird. One of the things about this place is I'm reluctant to make the big ticket purchases, in part because I feel it's a waste. Because we'll do all that when we're grown up, back home. It's part of the impermanence of living here - we're not staying so we shouldn't buy these things that we can't take home, or wherever we end up next. I can't get used to getting paid, and I can't get used to the fact that we're going to be here a while. And how much more grown up do I need to be before we invest in these sort of things? I carry a pack of tissues, breath mints and a Tide (stain removing thing) pen with me everywhere. I prefer midweek drinks in bars where I can hear my friends speak. I'm grown up. Sort of.

It is a truly gorgeous bed. Hopefully it won't become the cat hair magnet that the undertow of our current bed is. Wishful thinking, I'm sure.

Chicken

I am, it turns out, a total coward. I am refusing to watch any election coverage that isn't by The Daily Show or Stephen Colbert. I know, pathetic. But I can't bear it. It's just excruciating.

However, I am justifying this to myself by arguing that I am "being a grown up." You see, I'm sick of being angry all the time. If I watch it, I'll be furious. Furious as to the lie-peddling, the childishness, and the sheer insult that is Sarah Palin's nomination. And I'm really, really, really bored of being angry at everything. So it's no more blogs, no debates (other than the VP one - which, I imagine from this clip, will be a little like watching a car crash - macabre, but you can't pull your eyes away.)

Today, however, I'm just too tired for anger - for anything. Work is... exhausting, and yet, talking to everyone who is also working, I am definitely getting off lightly. I'm also, of course, sad at the passing of Paul Newman. I know very little about him, other than his movies, salad dressings, and the famous "steak" quote about his famously monogamous and happy marriage. He seemed like a good bloke. And his utterly staggering beauty was, of course, a bit of a bonus. So, it's off to juggle with the Netflix queue, and get us out the classics.

Oh, and if he wasn't a nice guy - I don't want to know, kids. Just warning you.

Working Girl

Lame, I know, but that's what I am.

It's... odd, to say the least. My office is nicer than last year - lighter, brighter, nice and quiet still. Unfortunately I'm on the kitchen floor, which is going to make it terribly easy to head there to see if there are leftovers; I managed to resist a little when I was two floors down. I'm slowly easing into things, and it's pretty enjoyable. Obviously, the massive crisis facing the economy is scaring me a little - I am worried about how much work we'll have, which piles on the pressure regarding what work I produce.

But it's nice, thus far; familiar, and people are so friendly and I'm enjoying it, sort of. It's all just a bit real, really. And the best news I've had is that bagel fridays are not just for summers, but all year round. That really did make my day. Tragic.

J to the Dizzle

I graduated.

Ulp.

Path to adulthood firmly in front of me with very little room for escape.

Ulp.

Misplaced Priorities

There's so much going on right now that I should be processing, mentally, and then blogging on, such as: the House bill that would bring criminal liability to contractors in Iraq; the speech by Harold Koh at my school yesterday, which was exciting, inspiring, funny and wonderful, and has prompted me to restart writing my international law thesis (that nearly KILLED me last year - so all things in moderation); and the birth of a daughter to one of my very best friends, which is a watershed in my life, let alone hers.

Instead, however, I am getting increasingly (and quite embarrasingly) overexcited about the prospect of seeing LCD Soundsystem tomorrow. I can't quite believe it's nearly here. All other thoughts are therefore blown from my brain and I can't think straight. Tragic, but true.

Are We There Yet?

I don't really want to head into the world just yet. Early mornings, responsibility for decisions, all that. Yet I think I'm itching to do it, subconsciously. I'm not sure I'm enjoying being at school that much - I think it's time to move on.

However, one of the things I will miss, beyond measure, is the exposure to the wonderful, wonderful people at my school. There are so many incredible people here, but one of the best is Professor Jennifer Gordon. I am working with her at the moment, providing research for a project on transnational labor citizenship. She is an extraordinarily bright, hard-working, inspiring person who looks for solutions, pragmatically, in order to make lives better for workers and immigrants. Read about the project in the editorial from the NY Times last weekend...

Counting Down

I have started the beginning of the end of my summer of work. It has been so much more instructive than I could possibly have hoped for at the start. It has also been an incredibly long summer, what with finishing exams so late, then Malawi, then straight here into work. Therefore I cannot articulate just how much I'm looking forward to some basic R&R and reading of lovely fiction books and just being a slob for a while. Not that I'm not a slob right now - our bedroom currently impeaches me on that point - but the need to laze is becoming increasingly urgent.

However, it really is hitting me that next year is my last year of school and then I don't really have any more excuses for not delving into the world of work. And not just any old work, but one where I am challenged intellectually, where I have to take responsibility for what I produce, that sort of thing.

I'm scared.

This is all a bit much.

So for now, I shall think of the DVD of extras waiting for me at home (First series, finally, after many viewings of the second) and catching up on The Soup. That hopefully will spur me on...

Far From Me

There are some days when I forget about not being at "home" back in London. It just doesn't seem to have a negative effect upon me; it's not hard to not be there.

The last couple of days have not been like that. It's when something bad happens, something that would normally require you to put your arms around someone and give them a great big hug, or you would need the comfort of their arms, that it really really really really... sucks, for want of a more eloquent word, to not be there. And what really hurts is that even if you were living in John O'Groats, you could jump in a car, or on a train, and get there. It would take a while. The distance seems so incredibly far from here, despite it only really taking about ten hours in total - the same time as it would for me to drive (or, more accurately, pay someone else to drive because I am not allowed to do so, seeing as I can't) to Lewisham.

I've been thinking about distance, off and on, for a while anyway, as one of my dearest friends is due to give birth in a couple of months. Her daughter won't know me as anything other than this university friend of her mother who flies in from time to time. She'll know of me, that I'm not doubting. Yet when I think about my mum's friends that I grew up with, who are some of the most important people in my life, they would talk of very good friends of theirs who weren't around and those friends didn't really impinge on me; if they really mattered, they would be around. But to put severe distance between the people here with whom I have developed bonds seems unthinkable, too. I want to see their children grow up.

An amazing woman I heard speak said that when you migrate, you begin to live in two worlds. My thoughts on this have developed further. It's not just two worlds, but it's almost like a horcrux theory (sorry non-HP peeps). It's like you've splintered your soul and one bit is kept in the place that you loved, lived, grew up in, fought, cried, laughed. It's still alive there, and is linked inextricably to that "container." And the other is here with me, just a little less intact than it was. But you can't go back to that fragment and be fully the same person by reuniting the bits. London will always be my home, and I intend to go back there to live - so that, apart from anything else, my children can know the place that formed and moulded me. Yet my relationship with it has changed, and I cannot repair that. I just have to move on and accept that our relationship is not worse, just different. And convince myself of that I will, I'm sure.

Treading Water

I am not the tidiest person at the best of times, nor the most domestic, but this whole working business has really messed up (hee!) my house arrangements. I honestly feel as if part of the point of this summer is to learn how to balance things - going out, sleeping, being a good partner - with the demands of work. Not that this is the most realistic form of work, although it's not the easy ride that some people would have you believe.

I'm not sure if I'm coping well, yet. At points I've felt as if I were drowning, a little, but luckily at those points the people round me have brought me back above the surface. But what I am becoming increasingly aware of is that my tendency to take too much on is going to send me insane if I don't curb it. I am full of admiration for my friends who manage their social and work lives so well. I am learning, however, that sleep is the number one priority to keep me compos mentis, and the gym is a good thing, too. From those all things will follow as they should. Hopefully.

Here Comes The Fear

My top fears about this summer (in no particular order):

1. Addiction to the crackberry - I am already an obsessive email checker
2. Not being able to read GFY at work.
3. Business Casual - I can do business. I can do casual. Business Casual - not so much. Plus the whole switching from heat to aircon to sweltering heat... that requires another of my weaknesses.... layering.
   
4. Disappointing people. Seriously - I will have responsibility. Not just to myself to do a good job, or to my employers, but to my school so that other students will be wanted; to my F&F to be around to talk and hang out; to my paper that needs to get re-written.
5. I will melt with the heat.
6. The FRIZZ (see 5 above). Is there a product strong enough to prevent it?
   
7. That I will stop going to work for two days in July--or, at least, I will get no sleep--because I will be too busy reading the new Harry Potter

That's it. For now.

Swifftastic

This week I have been forced into discovering the joys of a swiffer. Mainly because we are now the proud (adoptive) owners of two mightily hairy beasts. We should have called them Esau and Esau.

It has been, not to make too frivolous the trevails of those actual parents we know, like allowing two small, troublesome and attention-seeking toddlers into the home. Although I'm not convinced that toddlers would desperately jump into the shower after we've got out in the attempt to drink from the tap. Which is what they are doing, as demonstrated here:


It's all very odd.

Sort of grown-up.

But great.

I have, however, become one of those horrible people who talk about their cats in the way that people talk about their own progeny. So I shall stop, forthwith, unless solicited, after this week. I promise.

I Never Can Say Goodbye

This holiday home has shown the two sides to nostalgia. One, indicating that going back to something is a really, really, really, really, REALLY bad idea and it should never be done because you cannot regain the glories of the past. The other showing that what is genuine class cannot be lost and in fact should be revisited.

What rubbish am I spouting forth? I watched two old tv shows that particularly brought this to mind. First, on my return to London I watched (too much of) Robin of Sherwood, the old itv series. The first two episodes of the Jason Connery era. Holy macaroni they were DREADFUL. DREADFUL. Despite the presence of the everlovely Clive Mantle and everyone's favourite cockney psychopath Ray Winstone.* IT WAS BLOODY AWFUL.

Fear was in my heart for my second viewing. This Life was, as I may have mentioned, somewhat pivotal in my teenage years. I watched This Life +10 and it was fantastic. Anna was still Anna--quick-tongued and witty, infuriating, spiteful, impetuous--my total heroine, still. Miles, despite his TRULY OFFENSIVE HAIR** was utterly glorious--snide, cocky, with a lovely voice and buckets of sex appeal. I was reminded of just how bloody awful Egg was; I never understood why people liked Egg. He was awful: selfish, philandering, unpleasant... ugh. It was not perfect, of course, but the original show wasn't. Instead it was as the original--quick, realistic, uncomfortable. I thought it was excellent. Goes to show that sometimes it is worth going back...***

*Who, incidentally, is apparently unrecognisable and wonderful in Cold Mountain. That may actually be a reason to see it, but I remain unconvinced as of yet.

**You should all count yourselves bloody lucky that I couldn't find a photo of it. Instead you get him from Pirates II, where he's all dirty.

***NB this does NOT apply to Pump Up The Volume which may be the WORST MOVIE EVER MADE.