19 posts tagged “london”

So other than complaining about Spam and posting photos of dogs in Princess Leia slave costumes I haven't really written much here. My efforts at NaBloPoMo are pretty limited and I kind of don't care. I seriously, seriously have so little time and November was pretty much the worst month I could have decided to blog every day.

This weekend it snowed for a couple hours on Sunday morning, which was very cool for Liz. (And me.)

We drove all around Surrey yesterday and went up to Box Hill to look at the view.

 

Today Liz and I went around London and got caught in a freak hail storm which broke both of our umbrellas.

I saw this big spider again at the Tate Modern. (I also decided that people who tape a bloody bandage to a canvas and call it art deserve to be punched in the ovary.)

I went to St Paul's Cathedral again.

 

And I have so much work to do that I think my head is going to explode and my heart might spontaneously combust from all the stress and sheer fact that I have not slowed down in so many days and that there is no end in sight gives me a little panic attack every time I think about it.

Today in London it was fucking freezing. It was sunny and beautiful - but after being on South Bank for more than 15 minutes my thighs were numb and I couldn't feel my face. Liz says it's the coldest she's ever been in her life.

I guess that's the "Arctic Blast" they were talking about on the news...

Today we did a lot of touristy things, elbowed our way through the morons in Topshop so Liz could purchase an impressive amount of socks.

Last week I had a special little visitor. She brought me Turkish coffee and bought me about 1,000 caramel macchiatos from Starbucks, and in turn, I let her sleep on my king size Aero Bed and touch my left boob.

(It was a fair deal. Both are soft and lovely.)

The special guest would be a certain Secret Agent's BFF4L, Nadia, and all I can say is that I love her to infinity. Nadia is a fancy schmancy Anthropologist and is about 1000x smarter than I am - but I am proud to say that she is not above fart jokes, and forgave Iain when he pushed her down a flight of stairs. (Just kidding! She fell! And it wasn't a flight! It was like 4! Really, our house is safe, come visit!)

Anyway, she was in London because Very Important People wanted to meet with her about Very Important Things and I was thrilled because not only would someone FINALLY be coming to stay with us, but I would have a friend to play with for three whole days.

We giggled and swapped sex secrets and learned all about 3-ways (according to Company Magazine). We drank copious amounts of coffee and oooooo-ed and aahhhhhhh-ed over random light installations in London, and the stencil art on Leake Street that's still up from the Cans Festival.

All in all, it was a kick ass three days and I am very thankful that I had another American to be loud and crass with in small, quiet, British public places.

So the whole learning Japanese and French thing is going a whole lot slower than I had hoped for, as I forgot about that whole job thing I have and all the work I have to do. However! I have made time to read the Rough Guide books on Tokyo, San Francisco, and Paris that we bought.

While these aren't necessarily books you can read from cover to cover, I have read through the whole Customs, Etiquette, and the General Pointers section of each book..and I'm not gonna lie. I was a tad bit alarmed by what I read in The Rough Guide To Tokyo:

"In this very male, strictly hierarchal society, men always take precedence over women. so ladies shouldn't expect doors to be held open or for seats to be vacated. Sexual discrimination is wide spread, and foreign working women in Japan can find the predominately male business culture hard going."

Right. Okay. It's fine. I'm going to a different city, a different country, and their culture just happens to be a bit more misogynist than my own. It's fine. I don't need doors opened for me. It's cool....

...And then I read further on:

"The generally low status of women in Japan is reflected in the amount of groping that goes on in the crowded commuter trains - there are even pornographic films and comics aimed at gropers. If you do have the misfortune of being groped, the best solution is to grab the offending hand, yank it high in the air, and embarrass the guy as much as possible. Fortunately, more violent sexual abuse is rare; though most stalking, harassment and rape are seriously underreported...Women should exercise the same caution about being alone with a man as they would anywhere."

So...I know that there's a big problem with men groping women on trains in Tokyo. That's why they have the women only carriages. There's just something about seeing the phrases "low status of women" and "groping" in a guide book about a city you're really excited to go to that is really depressing. I also enjoy the sentiment that, "Hey! It sucks you've had the misfortune of being groped by some sleaze bag on the subway. Fortunately, you weren't raped."

I'm not really sure what to think about that. It, of course, doesn't make me any less excited or happy to be going to Tokyo, it just makes me wonder if any of you who either have lived or have visited Japan have experienced anything like this?

Out of all the 300-something pages in this book, which highlights all of the wonderful things about this city, only about 2 paragraphs touch on the supposed misogynistic, perverted part of Tokyo and the Japanese culture.

On the same token, in the The Rough Guide to Paris book, there's only a short blurb about how, oh by the way, Parisians are sort of RACIST.

"France has a bad reputation for racist attitudes and behavior...there are occasional reports of unpleasant incidents such as restauraunts and hotels claiming to be fully booked, and travelers of north African or Arab maybe unlucky to encounter outright hostility or excessive police interest."

They go on to say that if you are "unlucky" enough to have an "unpleasant" experience like they described, they give you the number of a support line to call as the "police are unlikely to be sympathetic". But! There is good news if you're a woman:

"Full-on sexual harassment is extremely unusual,  though female travelers from Anglophone countries may find ordinary male behavior chauvinistic."
 

Ordinary behavior, huh?

I was pleased to find that the Rough Guide To San Francisco had a whole section on Women Travelers, and they didn't really have one negative thing to say, aside from the fact that if you'd like to carry gas, whistles and pepper spray if you're traveling alone, that that would be a good idea.

A part of my heart always stays here...

"In the West Coast's most politically progressive city, women are treated with respect and courtesy almost everywhere, and commonly hold positions of power and authority."

That sentence just makes me want to lick the city of San Francisco.

While most people who are proud and love the cities they are from and live in don't want to admit that that "they're a tad misogynist" or that "yeah, some of us grope women on trains" or especially that "um, we're definitely a little bit racist", I still appreciate the fact that this information is included in these books....I think.

No city is perfect, no culture is perfect.

If you were coming to London, and I had to write a completely honest, unbiased paragraph on how women are treated here, I would have to mention that, "Yeah, the door won't always be opened for you, and some of my friends have had men grab their ass on the tube." But, on the same token, you also get the lovely British men that will give you their seat if you're struggling with grocery bags in a pair of stilettos on the train, and even a busy Londoner who will happily open the door for you, despite their gender.

Do you think that travel books like Rough Guides accurately depict the culture and the personality of the city their describing?

Advice...I needs it.

Hi everyone! How are you? You good? Good! I'm glad. [I'm glad you're good]

This week I finally got over The Sickness that I had last week. All I know is that I had flu symptoms, and my glands (in rather awkward places...) swelled up so badly I resorted to Googling my problems, which, let me tell you, was a bad idea. So bad in fact, I called Iain in a flood of tears explaining that I may have:

a) Sleeping African Disease
b) AIDS
c) The Plague
d) The Clap
e) Cancer
d) all of the above and would most certainly die or/and become infertile

These were all actual answers as to why my gland were swollen, paired with my other symptoms. Apparently swollen glands equals cancer and untimely death on the internet, so that's why I was more than glad when a nurse at the NHS informed me that no, I probably wasn't dying, and no, I more than likely didn't have African Sleeping Disease.

So, to celebrate my newfound health, I attended a rather boring conference with the sole purpose of wanting to sit through an hour of a rather intensely geeky Masterclass, put on by a certain "University".

Said Masterclass was useful, but the "professors" were the most dry, unfunny, robotic people I've ever seen in my life.  (Which is why I would much rather have attended this Google Talk in Mountain View, aka The Place Of My Birth.) They didn't even attempt at making a joke, yet they were kind enough to provide us with a plethora of goodies, including a bottle of water and a packet of candy with a Google sticker on the front. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that they were not actually Google candy, but simply an assortment of sweets from another company and simply passed them off as their own. I'M ON TO YOU.

Yesterday's traditional festivities are something I generally prefer to ignore and not acknowledge. I had an angry post all ready to go in my head, and I realized that hating Valentine's Day is just too hip this year, so I decided against it.

Iain and I had planned about a month ago that this year, we would finally celebrate V Day together properly, and maybe do a dinner and a movie thing, and finally go see Cloverfield. No presents. And then about Sunday last week we realized we just couldn't be bothered, and that maybe we'd just go to the movies this weekend...but probably not. (Staying home and watching Top Gear reruns whilst eating pizza is so much better.)

Come 6 o'clock last night we met on New Oxford Street, ready to do our usual walk/shove to the Tube station when we decided to pop into Jessops ( a camera shop) and lust after some of the JVC camcorders we've been drooling over for the past couple weeks...

...and then we wandered up Tottenham Court Road to all of the electronic shops just to look at the other cameras that are out now and to "let the tube crowds die down"...

And then some man showed us the most glorious camcorder I've ever touched. It was blue. It was shiny. It was lightweight. It could fit in my hand bag. It was recorded purely on SD. IT WAS LOVE.

Then, some sort of wildly erotic exchange happened when this man said the magical words of "DISCOUNT" and "SPECIAL PRICE JUST FOR YOU" and next thing I know, Iain and I were walking out of the shop sweating, shaking, and giggling with ecstasy.

Iain got me the Sanyo Xacti VPC-CA65EX in the prettiest blue color I've ever laid eyes on. AND IT'S WATERPROOF!!! Plus, all the cool kid Bloggers in the states seem to think this is pretty nifty, too.

THEN we bought a 4GB SD card that you can fold and plug directly into your USB port. *quiver*

AND THEN he took me to the Eagle Bar & Grill were they serve ANCHOR STEAM...AND MACARONI AND CHEESE.

We sat there playing around with the Xacti and drinking and stuffing our face with American style food. It was probably one of the best moments that I've had in a long time. I was relaxed. I was content. We didn't intend on having a date on Valentine's day. Nor did I expect such a fabulous gift that pulls my face into some drooly, geeky smile whenever I think about it.

Last night was so much better than any Hallmark commercial or romantic comedy could have portrayed. Don't give me roses. Don't book us into some fancy restaurant where we'll feel obligated to be in good moods and enjoy the food and stare into each other's eyes longingly because we have to and because god dammit we payed good money for all this *romance*!!

Take me to a bar with good beer! Serenade me with the cheesy beats from some z-list DJ with a mullet! Seduce me with spontaneity! Shower me with 4GB SD cards, mini USB cables and waterproof cameras. *SWOON*

After last night, I think we're found that the best way to find romance...is on accident. (And with some really fucking cool gadgets.)

Dear Fellow Commuters,

Hi! I'm not sure if we've met properly, but I'm sure you must know who I am, seeing as you somehow manage to dry hump me, sneeze on me, slice my flesh open with the corners of your newspaper, and jab your gargantuan handbag into my rib cage every morning on the train.

For the record, my name is Cate.

I know most of the time I dress like a broke college student, but really, I'm not just going to London to shop or to catch my 9am Art History class. I have a job. A real live one. I have emails that I need to answer, phone calls to return, and a boss to fire me if I'm late -  just like you!

So, I know how important it is that you get on this train promptly, as I need to, as well.

But the one thing I have that you don't, is consideration.

Ah, yes! Consideration!

Consideration: con·sid·er·a·tion [kuhn-sid-uh-rey-shuhn] -Noun
1. the act of considering; careful thought; meditation; deliberation: I will give your project full consideration.
2. something that is or is to be kept in mind in making a decision, evaluating facts, etc.: Age was an important consideration in the decision.
3. thoughtful or sympathetic regard or respect; thoughtfulness for others: They showed no consideration for his feelings.

I know this is a difficult concept to grasp, but trust me. It works.

For example, girl with the ugly skirts that are that are the wrong length and cut for your body type that waits for the 8:19 train with me. Look. I'm not sure if you realize this, but every single morning you practically shove me under the train so you can get in the doors before me, so that you can be sure find a seat for your ass and the massive log that's shoved up between your cheeks. And whyyyyy do you need a seat every morning? Because you're too lazy to get up 20 minutes earlier to do your FUCKING makeup at your FUCKING house like the rest of the FUCKING women in the world.

Can you imagine how many lives you would change by doing your makeup in the privacy of your own home? You would change mine, because you wouldn't be raising my blood pressure so early in the morning. You would also change the people that have to sit next to you on the train, by not getting your shitty Wet & Wild eye shadow all over them, and digging your pointy elbows into their love handles, reminding them that they really shouldn't have had that extra helping of risotto last night. See? Right there? That's like 4 lives! Just but having a little consideration.

And the rest of you, well, you're no better. I know you're important. I know you've got somewhere to be. I understand that if you don't get on this train you will more than likely die, but seriously. Let me help. Help me. Help you.

1.) A vagina and a set of ovaries does not entitle you to a seat on the tube/train.

Girlfriends, you are not senior citizens. You are not old. You are not disabled. Look. I know that second X chromosome gets pretty heavy and that sitting down on the tube is lovely privilege, but it's just that, sister. A fucking privilege, not a right. Therefore, do not trample me or shove me on the train just so you can HAVE A FUCKING SEAT.

2.) If you see someone who is pregnant, give them a seat. (Even if part of you thinks that they're just fat.)

Pregnancy sucks. It sucks even more if you have to walk up and down the stairs at a train station, and get shoved on a smelly, stinky train with all the mother fucking media people that work in the West End. If you see a lady with child, offer her your seat. Yes, she may decline, but chances are, she appreciates the kind gesture. Would you rather be the asshole who let a pregnant lady stand for 5 stops, or be the polite gentleman/woman who offered her a seat?

3.) "Would you mind taking your handbag out of my armpit?"

Here's an idea. If you have a massive handbag and you're in a confined space underground with lots of people surrounding you, take your It Bag off your shoulder, and hold it it front of you. No. Not like a baby, like a grocery bag. See? See how much space that just made? Look at you! Your growing up! And that bitchy looking art student has stopped hexing you!

4.) It's not your right to READ on the TRAIN

The Metro, The London Paper, The Financial Times, The Guardian...they're all fantastic papers, aren't they? And that book you're reading! It's awesome! However, you may notice that there are quite a bit of people around you. Therefore, if you just sucked it up, and put away your book./newspaper, see how much more space you created? I know all you want to do is stare at pictures of what Girls Aloud did last night. However, poking the woman standing next to you in the eye with the corner of London Lite isn't exactly considerate, is it?

5.) If you've been sitting on the train, this doesn't mean you also must get off the train first

How great for you! You've been sitting comfortably for the past half hour, checking your Facebook page on your Blackberry. However, you see all those people standing by the doors and in the aisle? Yeah. They're not so comfortable. They've had some weird guy rubbing his crotch on their backs for the past 30 minutes. Therefore, when the train stops, it's rather rude to hop up and shove past everyone, and try to get off the train first. Let all those suckers who weren't crafty enough to shove old ladies onto the tracks in order to get a seat off first. Jesus sees all!

6.) Get off your fucking phone.

You're not funny. No one cares what you did last night, or what you ate for lunch. (Good for you for only eating rice all day.) Your voice is irritating. No one cares how many sales you made at work. No one cares how much you hate your boss. You know what we care about? PEACE AND QUIET. We've been at work all day, too. Therefore, we all just want you to shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP SHUT UP.

7.) "Can you move down, please?"

No. No I can't move down. At least once a day, I'm standing on a packed train, under or over ground, and then some asshole jumps on the train 2 seconds before the doors shut for good and shouts, "Can you MOVE DOWN please?" Here's the thing, love. There ain't no fucking room. NO. WE CAN'T MOVE DOWN. TRY THE NEXT CARRIAGE. Or better yet, THE NEXT TRAIN.

I know these may sound like crazy suggestions, but trust me, they're just basic common sense. I'm writing to you, because I am sick and tired of getting pissed off and angry at every single person who practically shoves me on the escalator shoves me on the tracks so they can get by or get a seat on the tube. Yes. I know I need to center myself and realize that I don't need to get mad at everything.

But after I got hit in the head with the tube doors, last week, when some important jack ass needed to hop on the tube FOR ONE STOP, and not ONE PERSON asked me if I WAS OKAY. I've just had enough.

Therefore, I implore you. I beg of you. Please, next time you're on any form of public transport, try to pull your head out of your ass, and be a little more considerate, eh?

Love,

That angry girl who shouts at everyone and calls them cunts and yells I HATE PEOPLE in the middle of Waterloo Station

xoxo

Until yesterday, I never had really had a horrible, "It is so difficult being in another country." moment.

In England, everyone speaks English. (Or something like it...)

Everyone seems fairly patient. (Or is just too British to speak up and tell you to fuck off.)

And I've somehow never managed to get lost. Or not really not known where I was.

After a year of settling, I felt that I had managed to get myself to a point where I can just blend in with the rest of the Brits and as long as I kept my mouth shut, nothing about my appearance or my actions screamed:

 HI Y'ALL! I'M FUCKIN' AMERICAN! AND AMERICA IS THE BEST FUCKIN' COUNTRY IN THE WHOLE GOD DAMN WORLD! YEEEEHHHHAAAAAAWW!!

In fact, more often than not, I get the:"Where abouts in Canadia are you from?" question, more than I do anything else. A question to which I've finally stopped cringing at.

Now listen (MOM) I'm not saying I'm ashamed to be an American. (Where at least I know I'm freeeee). I'm proud of it. I'm proud of our "We ripped off everything from everybody else and call it our own", fast-food nation, bomb us and we'll bomb you back, cowboy-ed, jazzed, country music-ed, cry at NASCAR races, deep-fried culture. I really do.

And I'll have you know, SACRAMENTIANS, er , SACRAMENTO-ians that I defended your honor last summer, in a pub, against a big fat guy who said PSHAWED at me when I said I was from Sacramento and I didn't like Liverpool because when I was there, amungst many other reasonst, there was a GIANT PUDDLE OF BLOOD on a train platform that was surrounded my police.

I was all, "What's your problem? Did you just make that noise at Sacramento or Liverpool?"

Big Fat Guy: "How can you not like Liverpool?"

Me: "Did you not just hear me say GIANT PUDDLE OF BLOOD?"

BFG: "But you're from Sacra-MEN-TO?"

And he said it like I had just announced I'm best friends with Jade Goody. Or K-Fed's new girlfriend. Or like, "Yeah, but you're A BIG STUPID HEAD. What do YOU know?"

Me: "Um, excuse me?"

BFG: "Sacramento is horrible."

Me: "Have you EVEN BEEN THERE?"

BFG: "For like a day."

Me: "Fuck off, then. I didn't say I LOVED it there, but that's where I'm from. You can't fucking say that to me."

BFG: "Yeah, well, then like don't talk shit about LIVERPOOL."

Me: "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU FROM?"

BFG: "....Wales."

And that was the end of that. But I digress. All of this warm and fuzzy, "Oh, I'm like, soooo totally adapted to England." shit got blown out of the fucking park yesterday.

I started being big-girl-type-adult-person this Tuesday, and have paid a whopping £165 for a monthly travel card, so I can go in to my company's offices four times a week. I have big-girl desk and a big-girl chair, which I sit in and practice making the occasional sigh, pounding on the keyboards for a few hours, and then popping to Sainburys for lunch.  YOU FOOLS!!! (Hi, by the way.)

So, I'm now a real live commuter. I'm an Uptown-Girl. When people ask me where I work I can say, "Oh, you know. I work in town." I really do like it. Standing on the platforms, waiting for a tube, and before you can even hear the train you know its coming because of the gigantic wind that starts to pick up.

However, while I'm pretty good at getting on the correct tube and finding out where I need to go, the overground trains still confuse me. So, when Iain asked me to come meet him in BUM-FUCK-NOWHERE-TON yesterday, I was hesitant. I figured, hey, I'll get there. He'll tell me which train to get on there, I'll call him when I get off the train, and he'll explain how to get there.

So, after missing the 18:13 train that I was supposed to get on because of the FUCKING CENTRAL LINE which had "major delays" due to a "signal failure", I gave Iain a call.

"Where do I go? I missed my train."

"Just get on the one for BUMFUCKNOWHERE-TON-PART-DEUX."

"What? There's no trains for that! Not one...Fuck...Okay, should I got to Clapham?...No? HELLO? HELLLOOO?? CAN YOU HEAR ME??"

Despite charging my phone, it decided to die. Dead. Dead. Dead.

I could feel the hives forming.

Was I over reacting a bit? Sure. I had money. I had cash. I knew which train to take to get me within a cab ride home.

But I knew Iain was worried. And I didn't know which train to get, and even if I did find BUM-FUCK-NOWHERE-TON, how could I find where Iain was? And what if he left to come and find me? Would he go back home? To a different train station?

Worst of all: I DON'T KNOW HIS PHONE NUMBER BY HEART.

I know. How fucking lazy and dependent on my phone is that? SHAMEFUL.

So, even if someone let me use their phone, I was fucked, because I only know MY phone number, and then a whole bunch of people I don't talk to in the States.

Don't panic! You're fine! It's all good in the hood.

That's when I remembered I had my laptop, and the USB cable to my phone which didn't seem to charge my phone before, but maybe it would now. Plus, if I have my laptop I can go online, and then I can use Skype to either get Iain's number, or text him. It would be okay. I WOULD BE OKAY.

So, I bust out my laptop and try to charge it, to no luck. And it certainly didn't help that I didn't have my fucking power lead for my laptop with me, which means I had a whole 8 minutes of battery life because the old fucker is 453 years-old in laptop years.

There OF-FUCKING-COURSE were no Wi-Fi connections available upstairs at Waterloo Station but it said that there was a T-Mobile Hotspot near by, which automatically makes me think STARBUCKS!!! I knew where a Starbucks was in the station so I hauled my panic-stricken ass downstairs, and managed to find a corner to set up in.

I was GENIUS. I was so RESOURCEFUL. I was nearly at MCGUYVER status, I felt. Sure I had broken out in a rash, but I WOULD BE FINE. Eat it, Sydney Bristow.

Well, apparently the Starbucks in Waterloo Station is the only one that's NOT a fucking Hotspot...so there goes that plan.

After smacking my phone on the table, removing the batteries, removing the SIM card and then putting  it all back together again, I still couldn't get the damn thing to work.

That's when I rememberd I had my USB memory stick on me, so I plugged that in, hoping that anywhere, somewhere I had saved a document with Iain's mobile number.

Nope.

So then I went rummaging through my purse, I checked my passport and my Visas to see if was written on there any where (it wasn't), and then finally remembered I had Iain's business card that had his Skype number on there. If I could call that number, then it would go through to his mobile and then I would be SAVED! SAVED I TELL YOU!!!!

But, before I could rejoice in how FUCKING SMART I was, some tall, skinny foreign man came up to me, and threw down a map over my laptop and phone and started pointing dramatically at a unnamed location on the map.

"BLACKIN-FLACKIN-DOOKIN-RAH-HA-"

It really freaked me out.

"Um, dude. I have NO CLUE what you're saying. Where? Where did you need to go? WHAT?"

"DOOOKIN! FLACK! BLEKINDOCHIN! RAMAMAMA!2

"Seriously, I can't help you, I really-"

And then, looking like a Super-Hero on his off day, some man rushes over to my table:

"NO! TELL HIM NO! Go away! Go away! YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!!!!"

Now, my first thought -naturally- was that clearly, this man was trying to put a religious voodoo curse on me, and that this kind man was concerned for my karma, and was protecting me.

Why I thought that, I'm not sure.

Why it didn't occur to me that this man was actually con-man / thief / mugger who was trying to steal my laptop, memory stick, and mobile phone I DON'T KNOW.

The guy quickly left, empty-handed, and I was freaked the fuck out.

The Super-Hero's girlfriend was like, "Oh my god, he was trying to take your stuff!"

And then, as the guy was like 50 feet away from me, THEN it sank in and I started to get mad:

"YOU SHIT!!!" I yelled. As if that scared him

I looked at the couple, and was so angry, pissed off, panicked, scared, and just wanting to be able to call my husband, that I started to cry.

Cry like a woman who just had her purse snatched by a masked man in a bad soap opera.

"Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you. I had no idea."

Then, barely looking at me, they started talking to each other,

"I've never seen that happen before! Not like that!

"Did you see that! I can't believe him!"

"Holy shit! I can't believe that!"

"I've never seen that before!"

So then I rudely interrupt them and, through tears, was all,

"Fuck. What's funny is that if he stole my phone, it wouldn't have worked, because I think it's broken. That's why I'm sitting here. I'm basically stranded and my phone's broken and I can't get a hold of my husband."

And then they stared blankly at me, and turned back to each other,

"He totally left when you said something."

Not, "Are you okay? Did you need to use our phone?"

Furious, embarrassed, and still panicked, I quickly packed up my stuff and got the fuck out of there. I hate people seeing me cry.

But as I was sniffling away trying to get to the escalators, I was intercepted (like a football) by two rather, um, manly looking women who flash me their tits badges and are all:

"Metropolitan Police!"

And my first thought was, "Holy god. I have a Visa! DON'T SEND ME BACK!!"

I was sort of shocked because I had no idea they actually flashed their badges like that. Well, that and I was just stopped by two undercover cops after some man just tried to mug me.

"Are you okay? Did you get a good look at him?"

And then I remembered I was crying and got really embarrassed because I didn't want the tough lady cops thinking I was just crying over some guy trying to steal my stuff. I needed A PHONE. I WAS LOST! I'M AN AMERICAN LET ME IN!

One of them ripped the sticky pad I was holding out of my hand and started taking notes, then kept asking if I got a good look at him, and then handed me off (like a football) to a proper uniformed police man, complete with the phallic looking helmet.

He looked at my boobs and asked me for a description while everyone within a mile starred at the crying American tourist girl being interviewed by the cop.

Strangely, aside from trying to give him the correct information, I was incredibly worried about being PC in my description:

"He was um...God. I always told myself I would make such a good witness..ha..."

"What did he look like..."

"Um...he was, um...how do I say...middle...um, middle eastern."

"Like Eastern European?"

"No....more east."

"Arabic?"

"Yes. Sure."

"Was he tall?"

"Yes. Ish."

"Like, as tall as me?"

"Yes."

What was he wearing?

"A shirt. I don't know. He was really skinny though."

And then he let me use his phone to call Iain...which went straight to the Skype voice mail I didn't' know we had, so I left him some awkward message that was like,

"Hi Iain. It's Cate. Um. My phone died. Then some man basically tried to mug me. I'm here with the police, now. He's letting me use his phone. Pick me up where you usually do. Thanks!"

Then, the police man was like, "Do you need anything else? Are okay? Are you shaken up? Do you need anything?"

"Um, is there a phone booth up stairs?"

"Yes, to the left. But are you sure you're okay? Do you need anything?"

And I was like, "Um...No. I'm okay."

And then he did the thing all police men like to do whenever I've had something happen that involved the police (aside form being arrested):

"Okay, well here. Here's my number in case you change your mind."

Not, "Did you need to use my phone again? Do you need a ride home? Can I call someone for you?"

I'm pretty sure he just wanted to hear that I wanted a naked hug. Or a sponge bath.

I went upstairs, and found the phone booth. Sadly, I couldn't figure out how to use it. How embarrassing is that? They weren't straight forward American phone booths where you put in god damn quarter and dial the number. There were OPTIONS and CREDIT CARD SLOTS and graffitied instructions.

But then Pervert Police Man and his Penis Hat showed back up. Perhaps he wants to let me use his phone? Or give me a pound? (Pun intended.)

"Is this your pen? Did I steal your pen?"

"Um...no. That's your pen."

"Oh. Okay. Then. Right."

And then he left.

I finally decided to just get on a train that would take me the closest to home as I could.

Which turned out to be a train with technical difficulties as well, and it got stuck 1 minute away from the station I needed, for 15 whole minutes.

Then when I got off the train, I realized I had travelled outside my "travel card zone" but some nice man let me exit the station anyway,  despite me ACCIDENTALLY BREAKING SOME BULLSHIT TRAIN LAW.

I got a taxi driver who charged me out the ass, but I had enough change to pay to get me home.

And when I got home, I realized I had keys, but that they were copied keys and it took me 10 minutes of crying to get the door open.

Then I realized the alarm was on, and because it's Iain's brother's house, I don't know the alarm code.

So, I had to go in, set off the alarm, and try to get online as fast as I could to get on Skype, call Iain, and get the code to turn it off.

15 minutes of the alarm going off, I finally call Iain. It took 15 minutes because none of the phones in this house work (?!!?), and I had to search around for a Skype handset or headset or ANYTHING THAT I COULD USE TO CALL HIM.

Keep in mind, this entire time I'm SWEATING and breaking out in 24 different kinds of hives, and CRYING LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER.

Iain raced home, we bought pizza, and I made myself a PINT sized Cosmopolitan.

I was home. I was safe. I was away from Waterloo.

However. It was the first day that I was SICK AND TIRED of not being surrounded by people who talked like me, and looked like me, and were loud like me.

Why no one actually comforted me, or offered their phone to me, I'm not sure.

And what pissed me off even more, is that the mugger guy picked ME because I looked like a fucking American tourist.

A young, female, American tourist. And what better target than that??

It was just very frustrating, but I'm just glad that the mother fucker didn't steal anything...and that I'm safe.

Safe, at home, and with a phone full of battery life.

Despite all of the Dragon Drama, the idea of looking for our new home seemed sort of fun. Sort of exciting. Sort of, like we were playing grown-ups.

Maybe even sort of disgustingly romantic, you know, in a, "Awww! We're starting a new chapter of our lives!" kind of way.

...But suddenly we found ourselves with 2 weeks left to move out, and we done ain't got no where to live.

I know, I know.

Now everyone is going to get all concerned and be like, "You haven't found somewhere to live yet? OMG! What are you nuts? Get crackin' lady!!!" To which I would say, "God! I am! We're trying! It's haaaaard!" and then throw myself on the ground and throw a tantrum because I HAD NO IDEA IT WAS THIS FUCKING DIFFICULT TO FIND A MOTHER FUCKING PLACE TO LIVE!!!!!

Look, there's one town we've been looking at. And it's magical. We drove through all the side streets, and high street, and the little neighborhoods, and I squealed the entire time. The trees! The houses! THE PUBS AND RESTAURANTS!!

People think we're being picky because we don't want to look a the surrounding towns, one of which is "Punk Ass College Student Hell....with a really nice shopping center and the Thames" and the other is "Town With Ugliest Piece Of Architecture In All Of Surrey....but really affordable housing." When I tell people I don't want to live in these towns, people get all defensive and go, "Oh no!  It's looooovely there. There's so much to do!" and then I tell them to SUCK IT and that I don't want to live there.

Sorry, I think waiting for the right place is important so that you don't spend the next 6-12 months of your life going "Sure we saved money, but I wake up and remember where I am and start screaming."

The place where we want to more is more affordable than the borough we're living in now, has an excellent rail station, and IS CUTE. We really like it, and it's not like there's a shortage of flats to rent in this place.

However.

I'm about to fucking go on an Estate Agent and "Helpful" Online Search Guides to "Help You Find A Home" ANNIHILATION!

Everything started off hopeful. I went on the gem of a website that showed us all of these amazing flats and maisonettes to let at the end of April, so we called up a rather well known Estate Agents *cough-DEXTERS-cough* and spoke to some perky broad, we'll call her Heather.

Heather said that the properties that we wanted to view were already let, but she'd be happy to show us some other ones. So we meet her at 5:00pm in front of the first property.

5:00......5:04...........5:09......5:16....5:21............5:27..........5:30.....

5:FUCKING-35 a blonde in a Mini-Cooper merrily pulls up to the sidewalk and out pops Little-Miss-Estate-Agent-Sunshine who "is so sorry and didn't expect her colleague to-" (that's all the explanation we got) and was just super excited to show us this property.

The flat was really nice, of good standard...but tiny. Teeny tiny. It's like, the cats would've preferred to stay in their own litter box, and never come out, because they had more room in there.

What bothered me more than the size of the place, was Heather's narration of what the apartment looked like, "As you can see it's of really nice standard, with an excellent location." It was like she had memorized the brochure and watched us to see what we were looking at. Oh, are they looking at the windows?

"...Very high standard shutters!!....Stripped hardwood floors!!!...A larger than usual kitchen!!!....Exceptional view of the well kept communal garden in the double bedroom with ensuite shower room.!!!!"

I always feel really awkward looking at apartments that I know I hate and would never live in because I feel like I'm in the Estate Agent's house, and need to be as respectful as possible.....As if they built the house with their bare hands, birthed their children in the ensuite tub, and had years and years of sentimental memories living and breathing in the walls of the apartment.

Me: "Erm...It's nice. Just sort of small..like really small -"

Iain: (clearly not caring that Heather birthed her babies in the tub) "-Like CUPBOARD small!!"

Me: (giving Iain a 'She installed these wood floors with her teeth, Iain, HER TEETH! What are you thinking??' look)

"-Really, really, realLY lovely though! Really! You're right, it is a larger than usual kitchen, and it does have an exceptional view! I simply adore it!!!"

She said that the next places that she was going to show us "weren't of a equal standard as this apartment, but as it sounds like you're willing to compromise a bit of the standard for some more room"...We were like, "Okay" and she added before we left the property, "This will be good so I can get a feel for what you want."

So we follow her to the next place. We're on this Flat Hunting High, like we're just waiting for her to show us the next enchanting location where we might call home.

"And we can buy curtains! And plates! And maybe a garden! A GARDEN! Do you think the next one will have a GARDEN?!!?"

And I saw Heather's car park....

"Why? Why? Why is she stopping here? Is she getting out?? Is this the place? OH my god."

We pulled up to this shitty, horseshoe shaped apartment complex that was painted green, and obviously built sometime NOT THIS CENTURY. I thought she was joking, but she bounced up to the warped green door with half-peeled off "NO SOLICITING" sign, managed to swing open the door, stepped over the pile of undelivered mail, and lead us into the flat...

It was huge...but with blue and red carpeting, yellowish, aged walls, and was basically my worst nightmare. It was the kind of place where even if your fucking grandmother lived there, you wouldn't take off your shoes or touch anything without gloves...or breath the air.

Heather walked us through the flat, "As you can see, it's quite spacious, with a wonderfully sized reception room, and..." Through her stale narration and complete IGNORING of my horrified expression and muffled bouts of laughter as I walked into each room, I found myself picturing myself living there.

Do you want to know what I saw?

Me. Pregnant. Barefoot. In the kitchen smacking mice over the head with a frying pan, pink curlers in my hair, puffing on unfiltered cigarettes, while our 8 children ran in and out of each room throwing the dead cockroaches they found in the tub with each other screaming, "TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH THE COCK......ROACH! Aahaahahahahha!!!!!" And then for some reason Iain would be working in a factory.

Heather: "So what do you think? So much room, huh?!"

Me: "No. No. Definitely not. I hate it."

I was over trying to protect her feelings. Heather would never birth her babies in that tub.

"Oh, okay, this is good though. I'm getting a better feel for what you like!" she chirped. And then she hopped in her Magical Fairy Estate Agent Bubble and floated to the next location which was "very close to the station".

And the we drove up to the Station...and started to pull in to the parking lot at the apartment complex that FACED the fucking station.

We started laughing.

"Oh my god. IS SHE SERIOUS!!!"

But then she drove through the parking lot, to the back of the buildings, behind the apartments, and near a long row of water damaged, deteriorating sheds....and parked.

"What is she doing. Are we parking here? What are we doing? Honey....oh my god. No. NO."

Then she got out of her car, fumbled with some keys, and walked up to a doorway of a big square building that was attached to the back of the apartment complex.

It looked like either the janitor's quarters for the station, or a storage closet for extra supplies for the apartment complex. Or where Dragon stored his illegal immigrant relatives.

I became quite concerned when she opened the door to this building, and began to go inside, eagerly beckoning us to follow....

Follow her right past the huge, green "NO DUMPING" sign that was plastered against the front of the building, and into the "flat". I couldn't keep a straight face. We inched into the small doorway, searching her face for some sort humor, and found none. She was totally serious. She shut the door, and pulled open another door that was directly behind it,

"And here's the shower room..."

We followed her upstairs to the SHITASTIC apartment and listened to her in astonishment as she really actually tried to SELL US ON THIS PLACE. "It has really nice fireplace...quite spacious...nice wardrobe..." We stood in the kitchen for a moment, and despite our horrified faces, she looks at us hopefully and says, "So! What do you think?"

Us: "Um. No. Not at all."

Her: "Oh, really? I actually think it's quite nice." (aka You're being too picky)

Us: "This isn't what we're looking for at all." (aka Whatever, bitch. YOU would NEVER live here.)

Her: "But it's really close to town! Very close to everything!"

Us: "Yeah, but we don't like it."

Her: "But it's so close to the station! You said you wanted somewhere close to the station."

Us: "This is like IN the station." (aka SUCK IT.)

Her: "But you can't actually see the station!" (aka You pain in the ass! Just TAKE IT. I need my BONUS.)

Us: You can hear it! And the view is horrible! We don't want to live in a complex."

Her: "Well...I think you should still see the next one I have to show you." (aka BONUS QUOTA BONUS BONUS.)

Us: "It's not in a complex is it?" (aka Because if it is, I'll fucking cut you.)

Her: "Well...Its in quite a big building." (aka Yes, in a huge, big, complex..)

Us: "...We don't want to live in a complex." (aka Are you retarded?)

Her: "You never know! It's so lovely, I really think you'll like it." (aka You'll see it and you'll fucking like it. BONUS.)

It then becomes quite obvious that no matter which ones we said we liked or didn't like, she was going to show us the same 4 place regardless, as she clearly had a quota of which houses she was supposed to show that night. AND A BIG BONUS AWAITING HER. I was pissed.

We get to this apartment complex that looks like a retirement community, or place where runaways from asylums go to make a quiet new life for themselves. The actual flat, of course, was shit. Huge! But a HUGE pile of shit. The hallway smelled like bleach, the linoleum looked like it came to life at night, and the décor looked like it was from Sears in 1959.

Her: "As you can see, it's really QUITE MODERN."

Us: "..........." (aka We hate you)

Her: "Well, I really quite like it." (aka You FOOLS.)

Us: "..........WE DON'T."

Since this little incident of MIND BLOWINGLY HORRIBLE FLATS we've become a lot more aware of the political, money-driven, business-hungry ways of Estate Agents and these "Find A Flat" websites.

Every! Single! Flat! we call an Estate Agent about to arrange a viewing has either been let, or we arrange a viewing, only to have them call us the morning of the viewing to let us know it was let right after we called.

Some offer to show us other places, most don't.

"Register with us and we'll call you as soon as anything else comes up."

Yeah FUCKING RIGHT.

These shitty ass Estate Agents will keep things up on their own websites, as well as "Find-A-Property" just so you call them. That's it!!! They get your fucking hopes up and then go, "Oooooo, yeah. That let yesterday." Yet you drive by the house, and To Let sign is still up.

The other shitty thing these places do is for when you search for a "One Bedroom in LaLa-Land" you get a shit load of properties that pop up in your price range...

However, they're all "Let!" or "Let Agreed!" or "Under Offer!". Some websites let you exclude ones that have already been let out of your search, but some fucking don't. What the fuck is the point of THAT?? To see what you COULD have had? That doesn't fucking help ANYONE!

I have gone to ALL of the popular "Let Search" websites, and practically all of the Estate Agent companies in the town that we want to move, and we still can't manage to find a place that hasn't been let already. No one updates their websites, and most are extremely NOT HELPFUL on the phone...SO HOW THE FUCK DO YOU FIND A PLACE TO LIVE???

It's lying! It's unfair! And I'm so sick of the politics and the policies and Estate Agents and Landlords. They make everything so fucking difficult when all they really have to do is be HONEST and DO THEIR JOB the way its meant to be done. I'm exhausted from looking online trying to find a home. I'm tried of calling up these Estate Agents who don't know anything or don't call you back or never email you, or fail to show up on time to a viewing.

So when I emailed a certain Estate Agent late one night about a gorgeous 2 bedroom Maisonette in Cute Town, in our price range, with a garden, and a garage (!!1!1!) I didn't really expect to hear back.

But then she called me back the next morning. And then we arranged a viewing.

The moment we pulled up to the property, I felt it in my gut, "Oh my gawd, this is our home."

Then the moment we actually walked in the flat, I flipped out and had a Domestically Induced Orgasm right there on the Parquet wooden flooring. It! Is! GORGEOUS!!!

So, we basically took it right there on the spot (my that sounds dirty) and screwed the other two couples (again, filthy) that were viewing the property after us. I like to think of it as sweet SWEET revenge on all the other people screwed us first.

Basically, we're just relieved. RELIEVED and thankful and SO FUCKING EXCITED to move in to our little dream flat that I can't even handle it.

And as long as Pearl doesn't turn out to be our  landlord, I think everything will be okay...

At this time tomorrow I'll be flying high, far far away from the ground, but closer and closer to the homeland!

But before I leave the Kingdom, I thought I'd give y'all a tour of London...in 3 minutes.

We filmed all of this on Sunday, and saw more of London's landmarks and touristy-type things in one day, than some Londoners ever see in their entire life. (And after walking around that much and having to bushwhack through the tourists, I can totally see why.)

Hope you enjoy! See some of you tomorrow! Catch ya later, my Vox loverlies...

All together now:

Here I am!

I took a little blog hiatus, as for the past couple weeks I didn't really have anything other than gratuitous amounts of bitching to offer on the internet...so I just kept my mouth shut, and my fingers far away from the Compose link.

I take myself too seriously in my own head and heart, the last thing I need to do is to puke it all up in a post, and have my inner bashing and Emo moments of shame published online.

That's what my frantic emails to my old therapist, and midnight phone calls to my imaginary friends are for.

However.

I had a lot of strange, yet utterly fantastic, things happen to Iain and I this week. I find myself either laughing hysterically or crying in disbelief that we have finally reached this point in our lives, and have actually arrived at this stage in our "Ultimate Plan To Take Over The World"™.

Last February, I was still waking up at 3:30 every single morning, making Matcha green tea lattes, and wallowing in a pit of long distance relationship despair. (I was also suffering a suspicious elbow injury which I later figured out was probably do to all those late night "special phone calls" to England, but that's beside the point.)

My head was full, my heart was heavy, and my stomach so anxiety ridden that it was constantly angry with me for only feeding it espresso, taco bell, and croissants; thus causing it to seek revenge by giving me horrible cramps and numerous fits of constipation, or its counterpart, diarreaha. (Isn't sharing fun??!!!)

Throw in a bit of sexual harassment from my customers, a boss that hated me, and the never ending fretting over how the hell I would-

A) Afford the move to England
B) Quit my job without my Boss slicing my throat and beating me to death with spoiled Frappuccino mix
C) Explain to my mother that I was moving to England...like for reals.

Never mind everyone asking me where I was going to live,

("With my Internet boyfriend! DUH!)

Where I was going to work,

"Um...I have a couple of ideas."

(...Which actually meant: "Fuck no. All I know is I'm getting the hell out of this place, and never making someone a 'Ven-tay, 'atra Crrramel  Frappachacha' ever again...ever!")

And what kind of Visa I was getting,

"Um, a Working Holiday Maker's Visa...well, I should be getting that anyway. I'm just waiting to hear back from the Consulate"

....Which I did a few days after I sent my application off:

"Dear. Miss.CupCate. Your application for Working Holiday Maker Visa was denied, as you are a US National, and are therefore NOT PART OF THE COMMON WEALTH."

What I thought 'common wealth' meant when I read over the initial application, I'll never know. My ($200) bad.

How I lived through the stress, judgement, disapproval, and disappointment from others regarding my move, I really don't know. Well, I do, actually. It was probably due to my blind faith that everything would work out, Iain's practical planning, and the fact that we could no longer be apart from each other.

We were actually at the point where if we had to be separated for one more month, we would sell all our possessions, buy a small house boat, and live along the canals of Amsterdam. By day we would juggle and recite beat poetry to tourists (Iain's mad crazy on the bongos). And by night I would do nude interpretive dances to Iain's "Afro Celt Sound System" CD in the Red Light district...

Thankfully for us, and sadly for Amsterdam, it never got to that point.

Considering that our online romance originally sparked while I was flaunting myself under the name Adzurro on MyForeignBride.com (I think it was my offer to "take in lover man who presend me apartment in spa plase of egypt" that hooked him), marriage was always in our plans. **

When I moved over to England, I had just over $1,000 in my US  bank account -er- make that £500 due to the US Dollar's incredibly astounding strength as a currency! Thanks Georgie!

Iain and I knew that until I could get a visa that allowed me to work, we would be living off of dented cans of chicken broth and boiled pots of rain water.

That's just how it was going to be.

However, the thought of financially depending on Iain, and having to ask him to buy me tampons every 28 days was so traumatic that the idea of shaving my head and assaulting innocent vehicles with golf umbrellas seemed totally plausible.

I was an independent woman! The shoes on my feet? I bought 'em! The car I was driving? I bought it! The watch I was wearing?? I bought it! Cuz I depend(ed) on me!

If I wanted to go out to dinner, buy an appetizer AND a dessert, and then go to a movie....I could totally afford it.

But no. Not any more.

The shoes on my feet? He bought 'em. The house I live in? He bought it. The clothes I'm wearing? He bought it.

Cuz I depend on him.

(All the ladies! Who are Dependent! Throw your hands up at maaaaaaeeee!)

Iain and I weren't exactly thrilled with the idea, as he's had past partners do the, "Oh I'm sorry, when you said that we would both have jobs, I thought that meant that my 'job' was to sit at home all day coloring and writing haikus about Xena ...." thing. While our poverty situation was based on the fact that I could not work because it was THE LAW, it was still difficult for me to have to depend on him, and to be draining our financial funds, rather that contributing  to them.

My god, the things we have learned about patience these past 10 months...

We've learned that you cannot force things to happen against their will, or speed time sensitive processes that are  simply that: time sensitive.

We've learned to accept our financial situation. We don't like it, as, well,  it makes EVERYTHING hard.

Not having money makes everything panicky.

Gah! The cat has fleas, we can't afford to take him to the vet!

Blarg! Does my tooth hurt? I think my tooth hurts. Holy shit. We can't afford the dentist!

And then I would lay awake at night imagining having to take our cat to some backstreet vet from Compton who's office consists of an ironing board used as a examining table and keeps his medical instruments in a tool box...or having to knock out my tooth with an ice skate like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

I think my worst moment was when my STUPID ASS FUCKING BANK (Washington Mutual) decided that July 3rd would be a good day to charge me $75 worth of "International Cash Withdrawal Fees", which depleted my account. Why is July 3rd significant? OH Washington Mutual FUNNY you should ask! July 3rd is significant because it was 2 days before Iain's BIRTHDAY and I was buying him his fucking birthday present. Needless to say, I cried in front of the cashier, all the way home, and then to the cats.

Never mind my HOME MADE birthday gifts, or Iain's self-paid Christmas gifts from me, there are also the effects it has on your own entertainment, social life, and self-esteem.

I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but one of the greatest financial obstacles I've had to overcome would be having to start a new life, make new first impressions, and try to give off my impression of who "Cate" really is to my new community....without any of the usual suspects.

For example...Starting a new year at school always involves shopping, doesn't it? Buy a new binder, new backpack, new glasses, new shoes, new tops....this is the NEW ME, and every accessory and possession must represent that.

Our accessories tend to define us, don't they?

Our appearance, our clothing, our fashion tells a story about us.

How many occasions do we run out and buy a new dress, T-shirt, or complete outfits for?

Job interviews, cocktail parties, dates, weddings, birthdays, Fridays, bad days, dinner parties, award ceremonies, meeting the parents, travel days....

I've had to go through every single one of these occasions, and let me tell you, our bank account hasn't exactly let me go shopping for them. "Recycle, re-wear, reuse!" has been my motto. And it's been fucking difficult.

I've had to make my very best impressions be about ME.

I haven't had a new manicure or haircut to make me feel empowered at a job interview.

I haven't had that new, sexy dress to surprise my husband with on his birthday.

Not even the new, posh sweater to help me "feel sassy" when walking into a room full of new people.

I've had to try and repress those, "God, I'm wearing the same jeans as I did last time I saw them, and I hate this stupid shirt that I've worn a thousand times..." feelings that I used to convince myself that I was ugly, unattractive, and therefore unworthy of everything.

Around the time I wrote my "Real Beauty" post I had a meltdown in our local Starbucks (Yes, that was me in the corner crying into my chai) because I thought I needed a hair cut. I needed new jeans. I said I needed a new shirt, a dermatologist, a gym, a house full or organic lowfat hippie food, new shirts, new underwear, a new bra, etc, etc. Basically, the message I was sending Iain was,

"Hand over your credit card and let me buy and fix everything wrong with my wardrobe, body, face, and hair. Money will fix how ugly and fat I feel."

I never actually said that. But my message was basically, "Money will fix how ugly I feel about myself." He offered to get my hair done, cut out our already limited funds so I could join a gym, take me shopping if it would make me feel better.

 I stopped crying. I looked at him. And something snapped,

"No, thank you, sweetheart...but no. If it's not my hair, it would be something else."

And it would. All of the money couldn't turn off the negative, horrible things I was telling myself.

I then told myself that if I couldn't feel pretty and good enough about myself in my old jeans, Converse, and worn out tshirts...then there's no way I could feel beautiful and worthy of love even if I were wearing the Burberry Prorsum dress of my wet dreams.

However, on the same token, I'm starting to learn that just because you're leaning on the "our credit card debt is large enough to fund a small country" side of things...doesn't mean you can't enjoy life.

Iain and I don't have a TV.

Truth be told, we'll like to have one, and will have one when we can justify spending the money on a TV license...

But we talk to each other. We go for walks, because HEY! walks are free.

We still go out for drinks, even if we can't afford it, because Iain and Cate going more than 1 week sober = getting the shakes, cold sweats, and severe hallucinations.

("Honey?...Do you hear the bagpipes? Is there a man playing bagpipes in bathroom?")

We've tried to focus on the future, and that this stint of surviving off of one income is only temporary.

However, as level headed and accepting as we've tried to be of our situation, it's caught up with me the past two weeks. Probably, because I knew the end was near.

'The end' meaning that our second round of 'Will she or won't she get deported?' would be happening in the form of our  appointment to get my Spouse visa.

This appointment was scheduled for this past Friday, and considering what a hot fucking mess our last appointment in LA was, we weren't exactly all warm and fuzzy with the idea of going in front of yet another UK government official and having him decide the fate of our lives.

However, this time, I didn't get us lost, or break out in hives, NOR did I have diarrhea! (high five!)

In fact, we were so prepared, and on time, and organized that I feel like I could now teach a "How To Stay In The UK As A Foreign Bride" class.

The whole process only took 2.5 hours, and unlike last time when they practically demanded a blood sample and pound of flesh...the only documents they asked for were my application, our passports, and our fucking marriage certificate.

That's it.

The immigration officer -who I love dearly and plan on sending a naked Christmas card to- was efficient, quick, and didn't treat me like the Ukrainian Bride Con-Artist.

Amazing.

And now, here I am, a legal UK resident who can stay for 2 years (after which I can apply for settlement) and...

I! Can! WORK!!!!

Me! I can work now! I can work and make moneys and buy things and pay bills just like a real grown up!

And I can even stay up as late as I want!

We just sat there staring at my visa.

"Dude. You're a resident, now."

"Dude. I know. I can like...work."

"You can buy things!"

"Holy fuck...I can buy my own tampons...."

Of course we're excited that I can stay here legally for the next tour years...but I CAN BUY MY OWN TAMPONS, NOW!!

The ultimate glory of all this is that I actually have my new gig all set up!

As of late, I've been doing some oober freelance  writing/blogging (I think the legal term would be 'Volunteer Writing') for the lovely folks at Shiny Media, who found me a few months ago on Vox, and were like, "Hey, do you want to write for us?" to which I was like, "Dude!  Totally!.......As long as I don't have to make you Frappuccinos!!!!...Wait, I can't actually work yet. How about I work for free for a couple months! Cool?" and then we laughed, high-fived, and did a super secret handshake.

How super neat is that?

They have saved me from said head shaving and the "umbrella on car" action I described earlier, and I like contributing to their blogs <<<<<<THIS MUCH>>>>>>>>>.

So now, I'm trying to wrap my mind around having a grown-up writing job, being a freelance writer, and now doing things like going to swanky awards ceremonies in Soho, drinking free wine, and being asked to accept a Shiny Award on behalf of Vox.

(No really, you guys will get your award. Sure it looks nice on my coffee table, but I swear! You'll get it!)

I even have BUSINESS CARDS.

Okay, I may have had business cards before, but these say "Freelance Writer"....not "Assistant Manager/Coffee Master/Espresso Wench".

The only problem is, is that basically, my brain and psyche like to do this really cool thing where I like to tell myself that I'm a horrible, undeserving, useless, worthless human being when anything good happens to me.

Hmmm, maybe this would be because ever since I was little I was given the impression from my "supportive friends" that if I did anything deemed praise worthy -such as getting all 'A's, being the lead in the school play, or never getting detention- that I didn't deserve it, must have cheated, and was an unworthy, greedy, miserable bitch.

...And that NO I wasn't going to be invited to Shannon's birthday sleepover.

Now as an adult, I have this whole "I don't deserve this" complex and can often be heard moaning, "SHANNON! INVIIIIIIIITE MEEEE?!?!?!!" in the night...

However, it's ironically getting better as my successes become greater, despite the counter affect of my "supportive friends" getting greener and faithful "out for blood" haters (kisses to y'all, by the way) become more psychotic.

The beginning of this new week, marks something wonderful. It's the end of the "emotionally trying but positively influential" prologue, and the beginning of the REAL chapter one.

Our second month of marriage, my first month of pay, and the end of dented cans of chicken broth.

And now we can finally buy the cats new shoes!

** I kid, I kid. Marriage was in our plans because I was a knocked up. I somehow convinced him it was his, so then he decided to marry me. Sucker.***

***Seriously, though. We met on MySpace. I wasn't really knocked up. But, for some reason, he really did want to marry me. Go figure.