Inner Advice

Stop it, Natalie.
Stop procrastinating.

Thing is, I’m really excited about what I’m doing. I love school, I love earning my Masters, I love my term paper topics, I love my work. I just have a hard time focusing. Which is probably why I started blogging again – it’s an elaborate way to procrastinate with something to show for it. Entertaining my friends and strangers online provides a delicious sense of accomplishment without actually have to do any of my module work for a whole hour. That, my dears, is how you seriously avoid end-of-term madness.

Minion Positions Still Available

Cartoon By: xkcd. Similarity to my random thoughts: Shocking.

Written: Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Titled: Today's Library Adventure

Two things to get off my chest, and then I will continue working on my article.

1.) I actually wrote “I need some William fucking Faulkner up in here” in my essay notes. Poor Faulkner.

2.) I’m not sure I will know how to write outside of London. Screams of “Bloody hell!” coming from the street seem to motivate me.

3.) OK, 3. I am very distracted by the big pigeon-esque birds that tend to hang out in the rose bushes by the kitchen window. No idea what they are. Not moorhens or magpies. But pigeon shaped, with green necks and about the size of large chickens. And they are too lazy to fly when people walk by. I will not waste time Google-ing “big bird pigeon-esque thing.” Especially while in the library. Because Google safe search is off and some weird "Sesame Street" porn would probably pop up. And I really don’t want that on my server.

4.) Fine, 4 things. My usual carrel was occupied by two greasy undergrads making out. Gross. Get a room. There are rooms here in the library for that kind of thing. Seriously. Plus there’s like, 3 stairwells on this side of the building. One attached to the archives room. No one even goes into the archives room. And, there are no shared rooms in the dorms on campus. Because the British are civilized like that. No one is forced to enter freshmen-hood sharing a room with a complete stranger who may or may not drop acid and bring home a senior with bad facial hair. And then leave said senior in the room as said acid-dropper wanders off to puke somewhere, leaving behind a naïve and sleepy roommate, who brought her teddy bear to school with her so she wouldn’t be lonely, who really just wants to go to sleep and tells the bad-facial-haired senior to get out -- because, seriously, what does he think is going to happen? A threesome? And what kind of guy hooks up with a drugged-out fresher anyway? -- giving the acid-dropping roommate reason to be pissed off when she returns to find her bad-facial-haired Romeo gone and pull the passive-aggressive move of playing really bad Dave Matthews Band music loudly and on repeat. Not that I would know anything about that.

5.) Forget I said 2. Two is dead to us. It’s five now. Maybe more. I don’t know. Anyway. I moved to another study carrel. It’s in the 3rd floor silent study area, and there’s a picture of a very stern older woman taped to the wall giving me a loud “Shhh!!!” I’m sure she’s very proper and British. I’m also sure she hates Dave Matthews Band as much as I do.

6.) In 10 days I leave for America. Actually, I should say the States. Since there is more than one America. I’ll probably get run over by a car there since I now look left instead of right when crossing the street. Except that no one walks in America, so I probably won’t walk across the street. I’m sure someone will drive me across the street in their SUV.

7.) I’ve decided this list should only have 6 things. You’re welcome.

8.) Until now, when it has 8.
Dear rude person in the carrel next to mine:
You are in the silent study room. Why are you watching YouTube? Seriously. Go to the 4th floor. There are kids making-out up there. You can watch YouTube to your hearts content and they’ll never notice. Where is that stern British Shushing lady when you need her?

9.) I would describe to you what this rude person looks like, so that my friends on campus could aid me by ridiculing said person when seen and also be warned to never, ever sit next to him/her when in the library. But then I would feel kinda stalker-ish. Also, like I had minions to do my bidding. But I don’t have minions. Yet.

10.) I actually just wasted time debating which would be a funnier end to that last statement:
“But I don’t have minions. Yet.” OR “Though having minions would be awesome. Sign-up sheet for those wanting to be minions will be posted tomorrow.” Hmm. Actually, I think the latter.

11.) After writing all this over the course of several hours while I actually did do some work, I preceded to go home and explode a bag of Parmesan cheese all over my computer. It’s been that kind of day.

12.) 12, because it has a “2” in it, and that makes me less of a liar in the first sentence of this rant.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Photo of Underground entrance outside Waterloo Station, Sept. 2009

Written Sunday, Sept. 27, 2009
Titled: Sunday, Lazy Sunday

It was dumb really, the things I didn’t bring. I think of the dollar stores in Charlotte, N.C., the 99 cent bins in Target, the buy-one, get-one free specials in Dollar General. Clothes pins. Black socks. Pencils. Extra toothpaste. Bobby pins. Hand towels. Thinking I would buy them here, when the exchange rate for the dollar is so bad – my previous European experiences didn’t prepare me for that. Here, in London, I am a practically a pauper. Not the first or last, but the American currency in my pocket is lessened by nearly half. I counted pennies as an undergraduate, and I can do it again.

Laying in on Sunday – the lazy day. It’s cold. The radiator in the flat doesn’t quite get hot – warm, at best, like a cup of tea left to cool too long. It grows cold in regular intervals. Must see someone about that.

It’s different here, in London, than my time spent in Italy. I almost don’t feel like I’m in a foreign country – the students around me thus far have all been Americans, the language an accented version of my own, and the high-speed connections make the world a smaller place. When I lived in Italy, it was still in the time of dial-up; WiFi didn’t exist, and even if it did, it didn’t exist in Dorf Tirol, a remote corner of the Italians Alps. Not that it would have mattered; I didn’t have a laptop then anyway. It was an expense I couldn’t afford. There were cell phones, of course, the permanent attachment of the 2000’s, but I couldn’t afford one that would call America either. So it was me, a pen and paper, a book of stamps, and the occasional mile hike to the village from the castle to use a pay-phone that chattered at me in Italian while I counted my Lira for phone cards.

England, London, has been good to me in that respect. I have a mobile that calls overseas, I have my trusty MacBook to pen my words, and a little invention called Skype will very well be the salvation of my relationship to Mr. B during my time here. Without it, I wouldn’t have a way to talk to him for hours upon hours and then some.

Technology, and lazy Sundays, are a wonderful thing.

Yay! Healthcare! We Have...wha? WTF, Stupak?

Two Things about Healthcare:

1.) Yes! Thank God for the following (via Feministing and the BBC, parenthesis mine):

• Expand coverage to 32 million uninsured in the U.S.
• Create insurance exchanges. The uninsured, self-employed and small businesses could purchase insurance through state-based exchanges. There are subsidies to help purchase insurance through the exchange for those who make between 100 and 400 percent of the federal poverty level.
• Expand Medicaid to cover those who make up to 133 percent of the federal poverty level. Undocumented immigrants are not eligible for Medicaid.
• Close the so-called Medicare "doughnut hole," a costly gap in prescription drug coverage for seniors.
• Ban higher premiums and denial of coverage because of preexisting conditions.
• Ban higher premiums for women.
  

(Being a woman is no longer considered a preexisting condition for higher cost -- since us ladies are always gettin' ourselves domestically abused and havin' babies and whatnot. What were we thinking?)

• Require coverage of maternity care.
• Allow children to continue being covered by their parent's plans through age 26.

(This takes into account that most college graduates do not immediately find jobs, or work entry level jobs that do not offer health care. AND takes into account that not everyone goes to college or University, but perhaps trade school or is in the arts, a field that offers a heaping dose of poverty with creative fulfillment.)

• With some exceptions, require all U.S. citizens to purchase insurance or face a $695 annual fine.

• Require those with 50 or more employees to insurance or pay a $2000 fine per employee every year if any employee receives federal subsidies for purchasing insurance. The actual employer mandate was removed by the Senate.
• Ban undocumented immigrants from purchasing insurance with their own money in the new exchanges.

(All of this will hopefully change the following statistics for the better:)

2.) But...

• Ban the use of federal funds to pay for abortion in the exchange, which experts say will eventually eliminate even private insurance coverage for abortion.

So, yay, healthcare, kinda, unless you're a poor woman who chooses to have a legal abortion, which is a medical procedure. Then, well, good luck to ya.

A Reminder

Ad seen in Waterloo Station, Saturday, March 20, 2010.

In case you forget to love your vagina, the London Underground will remind you.

Actually, it's an ad for the Mooncup, found at Love your vagina.com, a Web site searching for the top 5 euphemisms for your Vajayjay in the UK. I find it be a rather effective ad campaign -- I was certainly intrigued. And the Mooncup (a reusable device that catches menstrual bleeding, thus eliminating environmental waste and providing an economical and gentle solution to the massive amounts of time and money spent on cotton tampons and pads) is not something that normally gets any mainstream attention outside of feminist blogs or magazines. It's a lot less insulting than the millions of Tampon commercials and ads that have very little to do with the product that they are actually selling. If Kotex was to be believed, women bleed blue liquid and ride horses bareback throughout their entire cycle. It would have been better though, had the ad actually featured the Mooncup, rather then a dumbed-down hint -- it's as if our delicate sensibilities and fear surrounding female autonomy must still be protected. But props to them for actually using vagina in their url, and starting a dialogue about the alternative methods for handling our natural cycles.

(Annnnnd now if you Google "love vagina" my blog will be one of the bazillions that come up. Awesome.)

Traditional Bagheera Interlude (Part Three)

(Part One, Part Two in Catching Up)

The hardest part about coming to London? Sure, the visa paperwork was a hassle (I ended up having to pay for a rush delivery to ensure my visa would arrive in time for my departure). Moving from the Mayflower building, my little apartment nest in the sky, was an ordeal (my belongings are scattered across the great state of North Carolina now, in various hide-a-holes and attics and trashcans).

But the worst?

Leaving behind my friends and family, my solid and loving support system.

Thanks to technology I can still Skype and chat and leave pithy and witty Facebook comments on my friends pages, but it is a hard lot, to leave behind the ones that I would see daily, the ones that I would dance with, drink with, laugh with.

Included in that is my little man, Bagheera. The UK is rabies free, and the island country intends to keep it that way. Any animal coming in must be kept quarantined for 6 months. Six months. That’s a long time in cat years.

I spent a lot of time agonizing over what to do. Poor Bagheera would suffer me picking him up and crying into his downy fur for hours. How could I make him understand? We were going to have to be apart, and I didn’t know where he would be. I couldn’t stand to have him quarantined. So the decision was made that he would stay stateside.

We were blessed, Bagheera and I, with the generosity and kindness of one Miss Katie-Rose, who opened up her home to Bagheera and loves him as much as I do. Sharsta-star, my homegirl, sister, and constant companion, worked her magic and introduced me to Katie-Rose and her wild child kitty Nico. Katie-Rose and Nico were welcoming to Bagheera, on the condition that when meeting, it did not turn into a kitty bloodbath between the two spoiled alpha males. They would either hate each other or love each other. Luckily, it’s the latter.

They are now plotting to take over the world. Or the tuna. Whichever comes first.



Pic of Nico and Gheera, pre-world domination.

Photo credit: The lovely Miss Katie-Rose, who put on her superhero cape and saved my education and my sanity.

London Calling (Part Two)

Oh, so you moved to London? That’s nice. And when was this? Last month? A few weeks ago? Surely, to make such a move would require time and planning, and of course the scholarly desire to chronicle your every step via Twitter/Facebook/Blog?

Ha.

Princess of Procrastination, est. 1981, logging on now.

I was born late. (No, really. I was. Ask my mother.) And I continue to stay a few steps behind on all the things I want/dream/scheme/need to do. And instead of plotting out my time wisely and efficiently, carefully calculating my options and taking into account time limitations, I compensate for my lateness by rushing into whatever lies before me head-on, fate on my side, and reflect back later on the momentous tasks that managed to be performed beautifully. Perhaps I work best under pressure. Perhaps destiny allows and knows what has to be, and frees me to rely on instinct and faith. Perhaps it’s sheer dumb luck.

I’ve been in London since September 2009. My home is in the cozy outskirts of central London, close to Putney, Hammersmith, Wimbledon and Kingston. Southwest London, for those who know, and in Zone 3, for those who really know. I am cloistered away on the only campus University in London, working diligently (well, as diligently as procrastination will allow) on my MA in Creative and Professional Writing.

Roehampton University. My home away from home.

When it came time for me to remove the coils of capitalist society and dive back into academia, I took a chance and applied to a school in the late month of July, 2009. No way, I thought, but sent on the application anyway. To my surprise and confusion (I truly believed it to be some mistake, some other Natalie), I was accepted and gifted a scholarship. Leaving me a scarce 10 weeks to attain a visa, clear out of my apartment, store my stuff, find a place for my kitty to live happily in my absence, arrange my finances, attain a student loan, pack what I would need for my move, and mentally prepare myself to leave behind all of my family and friends for a foreign country by September 16th.

No biggie.

Remember Me? (Part One in Catching Up!)

OK, fine. I’m blogging again. Hi. Remember me?

I’m Natalie.

All that I have written thus far in this space was a chronicle of my daily life in the year 2008. This chronicle included my last days at the newspaper where I worked. Yes, worked. Past tense. I was an employee of a company that declared bankruptcy. And I think they held me on as long as they could, but come December 2008, the week before Christmas, I was taken into a conference room and told to pack my things. Merry Christmas. I was also given a legal document to sign, stating that I would never speak negatively about the company. Which put me in a bit of a conundrum over the state of this here blog. I was unemployed, and legally bound to follow the motherly advice of, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” I was safe with everything I wrote before, as an employee, but now I couldn’t be as free with my words. So I stopped writing here, signed off, and crept away. Another archeological ruin of the Internet, waiting to be deleted or rediscovered.

Since then, the company I worked for was sold. Powers changed. I believe the legal binding still stands – I can’t say a negative thing. But I can still write my personal adventures, and rest safely in the knowledge that nothing negative was published on this space. And with time, wounds heal. I can exhale, shake up the ol’ blog, and know that I won’t write anything that will get me sued.

Being unemployed was depressing, yes, but also? Kind of awesome.
Hang out with grad student friends on Spring Break at 3 in the afternoon? Sure.
Baby-sit a toddler in the middle of the morning? Available.
Lunch with working friends, then home for an afternoon nap? Yes, please.
Mid-day visits to my mom’s work, errands with my dad, walks in the park, books on the sofa and endless cups of tea on the balcony with the cat were amazing blessings; the gift of free time, of meandering the neighborhood, of watching the morning sun drift across the living room. My apartment was never cleaner, my clothes never more organized, and days would go by without my car moving from its place in the driveway. I spent weekends living at Mr. B’s, and still had ample alone time to suit my introverted nature. I pinched pennies, tapped into my savings, picked up some part-time work assisting an established writer and spent a few months trying to sort out which direction to take, which path to walk. I managed to get by, though the future was never quite certain.

And during this time, I didn’t write. Didn’t lift a pen to chronicle my days, didn’t carry a notebook to jot down my thoughts, didn’t blog or type or journal or anything, really, of any greater length than a Facebook status update or a grocery list. I was burned out, the lingering stress of my working environment clung to me, like the scent of cigarette smoke to woolen cloth. It took months to shake the resentment, the stings of the daily racism and sexism, the gaping void of deposits in my bank account, the feelings of worthlessness in a busy capitalist society. I wasn’t meant to be a silver spoon, there was no trust fund keeping me from the working world.

For the first part of unemployment, I channeled all my energy into cleaning. I rearranged the entire apartment, cleaned out closets, washed everything, scrubbed the stains that were older than I was from the corners of my 80-plus-year-old walls. I donated. Purged. Tossed. The flat smelled of lavender soap and incense, masking the scent of bleach and borax. Soon there was nothing left to clean but me.

I had to pull myself up, dust off the compass, and get on with it.

So. I moved to London.