A Day in the Life

Where in the world is Natalie?
 
My poor blog has sat empty since August, one lone picture of a blue man gracing the front page. As I wrote here, I was hired for a new job over the summer.

Since I signed eleventy billion confidentiality clauses and contracts, I'm going to call my current company Credit Dauphine. I am employed there as an editor, and it is a surprisingly intense amount of work. It has been an adjustment from my stay-at-home days. In addition to a new schedule and job, I continued freelance writing on the side, and kept up the usual balance of friends, family, a marriage, and time for myself. FitC sat quietly in the backseat. This month, I added NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) to the To-Do List, and it's been a joy. I'm still working on finishing, but even if I don't make the goal, it's been fun to work on a novel again.

A recent trend in the blogosphere is to do a photo essay of an average day; taking a photo every hour and chronicling what the blogger does during a random day. It's been a long time since I've shared anything, and I thought that an average day in my life would be a good way to go. I can't promise this will happen again, or if I will even have another moment to blog this month. But it's a hello, a how-are-you-I'm-fine-see?, a day to let you know that I'm thinking of FitC, even if I can't really do much about it.

And it was a very typical day; nothing really grand or unusual happened. One day last week, Jamie brought me cronuts. That was a good day. And earlier this month, I managed to write a huge chunk of my NaNoWriMo story in one go. That was pretty exciting. Oh, and last week I saw Cyndi Lauper and took a trip to Wilmington, N.C. But Tuesday, November 19th, was just a normal day. Come join me.

7:20 a.m.: My alarm goes off. I ignore it, like a true American.

7:50 a.m.: Whoops. I'm running late. Time to get dressed, make coffee, ponder the universe. I get dressed in a super hurry and discover later I'm not quite that put-together since the tank-top I am wearing as a camisole under my sweater is way too long. (British English translation: My vest under my jumper was in a bunch.)

A Few Things That Have Happened Lately

•  Yesterday I wrote that I wouldn't be writing this week. Humans are creatures of multiple contradictions. Looks like I'm blogging after all!

• If you follow me on my personal Twitter, you'll know I'm somewhat obsessed with the TV show Spartacus ending, and if I was a true Internet writer worth my salt I would have already written at least 20 feminist critiques and analyzed the show and its nuanced performances of gender reflected in hyper masculinity and the blatant examples of the failings of a patriarchal society but then I open up this picture of Dan Feuerriegel in a tub and I'm just like, hi. Um, hi.





Source: Coffee-table book In The Tub by TJ Scott, available at Kickstarter.



I mean, I just, what. I can't. With this. Abs. Seriously. Hi.*


I sincerely hope that there is another writer out there in the wilds of the Internet who can entertainingly dissect this show with a critical and informative lens the same way other shows like Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead are constantly dissected. I'm sorry it's not going to be me. Because, yeah.

• Bullet lists are still a thing at FitC. And everywhere else on the entire Internet for the rest of history.

• According to collective cross-over pop culture and literary knowledge, Hemingway stood at his dresser to write. A few of my colleagues praise the stand-n-write mode. Me? I dunno. I'm trying it now, safely away from prying eyes in my bedroom, and it makes me feel silly. But I can step away to pace, which I frequently get up to do when writing anyway, so I suppose it erases the whole push-away-from-the-desk-in-my-chair-to-stand step in my writing?

• There's a pond near my house with a pair of Canadian geese, and recently one goose got too close to the road and was hit by a car. And everyday this week I've driven by and seen the lone mate near its fallen friend and my heart breaks a little each time in ways that I never knew it capable of breaking for a small, mourning goose.

• I'm so sorry for that last bullet point. I know. I know!

• Here's some crocheted bunnies I have made. They are all going to good homes.
  






It's true what they say about bunnies. I left them alone and boom! Room full.

• If you're wondering why March has fewer posts than February and January, may I remind you that David Bowie has a new album to listen to? That's why.

• A Thing I wrote today: This week I am working temp in an office and writing two stories. After being unemployed for so long it's so much activity. It's like, WHOA whoa there. All this activity. Shouldn't we be taking a nap or something? I mean, isn't it time for a TV marathon break in this office? No? Man.

• I wasn't even going to blog this week. I blame Dan Feuerriegel.

*If you want to follow me on my non-anonymous personal Twitter, drop me a line and we'll continue this intelligent discussion.

Working Girl

As many of you know (and are tired of me telling you), I work as a freelance writer and will occasionally take a job writing in-house for a company. For the past two weeks, I've been hired to do some temp work as an editor at a newspaper while the current editor is on vacation. I started last week, which means that poor FitC didn't get any love. I also interviewed and accepted to cover another editorial job with a local magazine in the coming months, which is great for my bank account, bad for blogging.

Sadly, there was nothing new here last week and I'm afraid I have nothing new for this week. But please stick with me and know that I will be back to snapping pics and loving on David Bowie with my words soon enough. A working Natalie is also a happy Natalie, so I'm sending extra smiles and love to each and every one of you. Thanks for reading, and see you next week!

We Didn't Break Up

I promise, we didn't.

I am walking up a steep lane to a small cottage nestled in thick bramble. The wooden cottage door is swollen shut, but I must get inside, for in this small hidden cottage there is a pale white-washed room holding a stoic oak table. On this table there is a blue ceramic bowl holding a bright red apple. Inside the apple is a seed, and carved almost imperceptibly on this small apple seed is one word, "write."

First, I must make my way up the lane, through the door, into the room. Sit at the table, study the curves of the blue bowl. Weigh the apple in bare, sweaty palms. Decide to take a bite. It's not an altogether unpleasant task, just takes time.

It's taken a solid two months, but I found the seed. Hello, dear Flâneur in the City readers. I missed you. What's new?

Ta-Da!

Exciting and overdue news!

Long and annoying URL flaneur-in-the-city.blogspot.com is no more! 

Keep an eye on FitC; in the next 24 hours or so, it'll be http://www.flaneurinthecity.com! (Still long, but not obnoxiously so!) And no worries about losing the address; flaneur-in-the-city.blogspot.com will still work if you have it bookmarked or saved, you'll just be redirected to the new URL.

Hang on to your fedoras, y'all, because FitC just got fancy.

Like this, but with more glitter.

 Remember: flaneurinthecity.com!

In Which I Substitute Witty Emails For A Blog Post

Oh, man. It's like 2008 all over again, huh? Does that mean Obama will be re-elected and Sarah Palin will fade from media attention for 4 years? That'd be great.

Thanks to Jamie of Bibliophiled Away for all the witty banter, teen lit talk, and penis and hymen jokes. 

Round One

Natalie:
As I was writing this, my supervisor came by to talk to me. Whoops! Also, I'm tweeting about Cher. That's totally a thing.

Jamie:
And a special message for anyone peeking over your shoulder right now:

PENIS

I'm cruising to Asheville this weekend. And staying with my friend at the Grove Park Inn. I hope it's not a themed room. The swingin' 60's need to stay in the 60's.

I'm researching baby shower ideas on Pinterest. Surely there has to be more appetizing games than melted candy bars in diapers. For all the non-pregnant guests: take a shot any time any one mentions "baby."

Natalie:
Thank you for the very large penis. You know how I like 'em.

Tell the Grove Park Inn hello for me. I love that place. Try to stay on the haunted floor! Or at least visit and see if you can spot any ghosties. Probably the whole place is haunted, anyway, since no one has ever proven ghosts can't use stairs. No one's ever proven ghosts can't drive, either, so be sure to hide your keys.

You can eat all the poop-chocolate you want, as it's against my religion I just made up to eat out of diapers. But have fun. I'll have the booze, thanks. In fact, I may just walk in singing Justin Bieber's "Baby" for good measure.

Where In The World?

It’s been a long time and I shouldn’t have left you without a dope beat to step to. Forgive my extended absence. 

So what’s new? 

First off: Your favorite feckless flâneur found herself a job. For now. It’s a freelance in-house temp position, and I signed a contract to have my butt in a cubicle from 9-6 until May. This is a good thing, as blogging doesn’t really pay the bills. Unless those bills are attached to ducks, and those I can pay with stale bread and water. Which is what I would be stuck eating if it weren’t for my dear Mr. B providing me with vittles as I wrote for 10 cents a word for the past few months. 

Via TrueWildlife.

Now that I am getting paid to write 8 hours a day, my blogging will have to be limited to the weekends and after work. My goal is to produce content (fancy speak for writin’ lots) during my free time and schedule posts throughout the week. This hasn’t actually happened yet, but when I do, I’m sure it will work fine. Right? 

Second: If you’ve ever wanted to do a guest post for all the fame and glory that comes with free blogging for an extremely small and limited audience (that mostly consists of people Googling “David Bowie’s penis,” my friends and family -- sorry Mom! -- and like-minded lovelies) now is you big time to shine, shine like a child star on public access Saturday morning television! Come! Join me! Be a GUEST BLOGGER! 

And if all that fame and glory isn’t enough for you, I am also looking of Flâneur in the City photo submissions, since being stuck in a cubicle means I can’t run around taking pics until my heart and memory card are full. 

I have a couple of posts in the works, and my draft folder is full of stories going back to April of last year, because that’s the kind of organized and prompt individual I am. (SUPER organized and timely, that’s the kind.)

In short: I love you all, and I’ll talk to you soon.


UPDATE: Yes, the opening line is from this song. Consider it tonight's jam:

Aaliyah featuring Timbaland, "Try Again"

American Holiday Break

Hello, friends!

This week is Drunksgiving Thanksgiving, an American holiday that involves lots of cleaning-up for the relatives and a very large dead bird taking up space in the old Frigidaire. FitC will return next week with the regularly scheduled Weekly Flâneur and Friday QuoteDay, and whatever surprises I can come up with.

Until then, here's a picture of me as Elvis to keep you company.

Thank you, thank you very much! 

See you soon, loves!

Oh My

Greetings from my office, the local coffeehouse with free WiFi!

My home, Casa de Chaos, has suffered sporadic to zip Internet access this week, causing yours truly to go through serious celebrity gossip and blog withdrawal. On top of lack of Internet access (get it together, Time Warner!), my trusty companion, my MacBook, the lifeline of all my non-self-destructive vices and addictions, has run out of memory. I actually didn't know this was possible, but it's true. I suppose my hobbies of taking hundreds of pictures, writing novels and downloading movies has taken its toll on Sir McBook; there is no room for anything new until I either make room or upgrade. Which sucks. Today I was driving behind a car that boasted the slogan "I'd rather be Shaggin" right on the license plate. The slogan was accompanied by a pair of shoes, so I suppose it's some sort of dance? (Google says it is a Southern swing dance.) But! Shagging! On an official State plate! Shagging! Sadly, I could not capture this magical moment in time because I left my camera at home today with the knowledge that if I took any pictures, I couldn't load them. Oh, Sir McBook.

The Internet gave me this image, so it's not a total bust:

I'd Rather Be SHAGGIN.

All this also means I haven't been able to repeatedly listen (and analyze) Gaga's new single, "Judas," since I cannot connect long enough to download it or YouTube it, and even if I could, there is no room for it on my poor bloody McBook. I had plans to write about it, natch. Also in the works were half a dozen unfinished posts saved in drafts on my dashboard, just waiting to be loved and finished. My lovely, lonely FitC becomes a hollow ghost of last week's news, and not a single Bowie or cup of tea to warm its waiting pages.

Luckily, there is free WiFi and caffeine in this world. Settling in to my teen dream coffeehouse (yes, still with the kindertots), I am finally able to write on my beautiful FitC, and check up on my stats to see who has dropped by for a visit. And what do I find?

A new link to FitC!

Well, stroke my ego! I love it when I get linked to by other blogs and sites. My narcissism needs to be fed, and other links are my Seymour. Feed me, feed me!

I click, excited.

The site is ... well. Of an Adult Nature. A Site of Ill-Repute, as it were. And smack-dab in the middle of Starbucks, in full view of a table full of squealing teenagers behind me and louder than the melodic strums of Simon & Garfunkel playing on the coffeehouse speakers, my screen becomes filled with lady bits and man wands. With my volume turned on high. 

Whelp. They know I'm here, at least.

Playing Catch-Up

Back from RiverRun International Film Fest, aka, one of the world's most well-organized film festivals. I have always been in awe of my film fest friends (Lou and Mags in particular, organizers of past events like the Charlotte and the Doha Tribeca film fests), the amount of coordination it takes to ship in, entertain, and herd film makers and critics away from their cameras and computers, and choose the films and woo the venues and keep the sponsors happy and sell tickets all for the love of the medium is mind-boggling inspiring to me. North Carolina is full of stubborn, wonderfully artistic people that fight tooth and nail to make our state one of creative integrity and I'm proud to be witness to it in its myriad forms.

My own creativity has been slow this week; it's one of those weeks where everything seems absent of time, and I keep forgetting today is Wednesday and not Tuesday. Closer to the weekend, but oh, poor neglected Flâneur in the City! Absent of posts for a whole week, and after I met so many new people that graciously nodded after I begged them to read my blog! (Well, graciously nodded and backed away slowly from my blabbering. And I may have mentioned David Bowie's penis more than once. But still! Agreed to read! It counts!)

I have been working on laying out my thoughts on Miss Representation, and everything I've written so far needs a loving edit. It was an amazing movie, as expected, and there was a lot to mull over and process. Update on it all coming soon, my dears!

To my new readers, welcome, and to my forever readers, thank you. I do love you all and I appreciate the time you spend indulging me. Keep with me, my friends, and as ever I promise to entertain you!

For now, here's some baby pandas on slide. Oh, yes. FitC: Home of David Bowie, Feminism, and Baby Pandas.

Oldies But Goodies 3: Comic Book Girl

Still feeling lazy, my loves, so here's another oldie-but-goodie from the vault. Did you know I used to work at a comic book store in Wilmington, NC? 

November 11, 2002
Truth, Justice and the American Way

I encounter a variety of customers working at the comic book store. The majority of them are men, the comic industry plays into the male psyche beautifully. The common hero is the underdog male, mundane in existence by day, cape wearing vigilante by night. A classic reflection of one's secret self, the longing to be something other than what one is. The second aspect played is that of approachable female. Comics are entertainment, fantasy. And given to pen, women in the comic world can perform impossible contortions while wearing the least amount of clothing and still have a personality. Even feminist icon Wonder Woman skips around in a near bikini. Obviously, your "real life" woman isn't going to fight crime and the forces of evil in high heels. The combination of underdog hero and stunning femme fatale make a delightful afternoon read.

That being said, the customers have a variety of tastes, some that would make an eyebrow raise.

Such as: The man who cleaned out our adult-only box of 75 cent porn. 75 cent porn is really just a pamphlet, the size and style like the opening of a centerfold. They are for promotional use, previews for magazines, with all the features and nudity involved. This man came in and bought $20 worth of 75 cent porn.
As I was adding up his amount, I had to clear my throat and say, "You know, we carry most of these magazines" and point him in the right direction.
But, nope. He just wanted the promos. Whatever floats your boat.

Then, there is the sweetest old man that comes in before his night shift. Apparently, just across the river is one of the largest computer-something factories in the Southeast. Mr. Work-boots starts his day at 7pm, and ends somewhere in the early morning hours. He is always polite, remembers my name, and wears the same scuffed work-boots everyday. He first came into the store on a slow Tuesday afternoon, looking at me with surprise and an exclamation of,
"Well, hello there new gal!"

I immediately smile. It's a treat to spoken to so kindly and comfortably. 
After some chatting, he asks,
"Do you go to church young lady?"

Me: "I...well, I haven't really found one I'm comfortable with here in Wilmington."
Him: "When you do, make sure it's Baptist."
Me: "Um, yes sir."
(I'm itching to ask him why, the inner religion scholar preparing to burst through, but I keep my mouth shut for once.)
Him, pointing to a truck in the parking lot: "That there is my wife. She is the finest lady in the world."
Me, smile and nod. His wife sits patiently in a pink cardigan, the image of grandmothers and baking comes to mind.

I am filled with lovely thoughts at that moment, this sweet old couple sitting in rocking chairs by pictures of grandchildren. Mr. Work-boots in the comic book store to buy the hero comics that he grew up with. A nostalgic visit to his childhood, when 10 cents would provide a world of fantasy.
I gather his comics from his box (customers list the comics of their choice and we collect them in their box -- a service that ensures the comic of choice is not sold out, and if one collects a large amount, saves time from having to search. Plus, we get to know what genre the customers like, so we can recommend others they may enjoy). I find his box to be overflowing with a large stack of comics, which I assume will be the latest Superman issues.

Much to my surprise I glance down at the cover to see an illustrated naked woman mooning me.
I am taken aback as I go through the stack at the register. Every comic was from the "bad girl" section; scantly clad women blasting aliens or grotesque monsters while still managing not to smear their lipstick. Compared to these girls, Lara Croft is a nun.

Mr. Work-boots pays, and scopes up his comics with a smile.
"Now, you remember to find yourself a nice church, ya hear?"
"Yes, sir." I reply with another smile.
As you can see, he is my favorite customer.

Whew.

Hello, dear ones. You know what? I'm a bit more burned out than anticipated. The dissertation was bound and turned in last Friday at noon, and since then just looking at the computer makes me tired. Y'all, that's been days now.  If my MacBook* could talk, it would be whining from neglect.**

"Natalie! Play with me! Natalie! Type on me! Natalie! Scream at me while you fight your dissertation word count! Natalie! Cry salty tears over my keyboard while you question your life choices and ponder if it's too late to become a potato farmer or rocket scientist or any other career that can actually generate an income!"

In short, I took a little writing break and may continue it. I'm not sure. I have a few thoughts and posts planned, but after that I may keep it light for the rest of the week. We'll see. But please know I'm not abandoning you. I love y'all too much to leave for too long!


*I always pronounce it in a faux-Scottish accent, like I'm Lady freaking Macbeth. Mach-Boook! Always with an exclamation point.

** Give it time. Talking Mach-Boooks! are just around the corner.
They'll probably use the voice of Justin Long, since he's a Mac, not a PC. (In the States, Justin Long stars in commercials as the cool embodiment of a Mach-Boook!; not too sure how far those ads reach!) But not, like, chain-smoking, Drew Barrymore-dating Justin Long; wholesome, Disney-movie Justin Long. He'll probably sound like that stoner guy I made out with in the 9th grade, the one who spoke slowly and clearly and profoundly about the shape of stars, while we both wore our baggy corduroy pants and flannel shirts. And not the cute flannel shirts that the girls are wearing now, but the baggy over-sized Kurt Cobain inspired shirts stolen from a perplexed dad's closet and that made a 14-year-old body look like that of an anorexic lumber jack, along with Converse sneakers and peace sign jewelry, because who wouldn't get all hot and bothered by red flannel and some peace sign earrings? 

Flannel today:

Adorable. 

Flannel in the '90s:

Artistic representation of yours truly.

Oldies But Goodies 2: Skinny Dipping

Since I am still working on my dissertation (due Friday!), it's Oldies But Goodies week at Flâneur in the City. Here's another wee Natty adventure, recycled from one of my old Blogger blogs. I've had various blogs on Blogger for about 9 years, and will most likely continue. Blogger is the site I have used the longest in my Internet life. Wonder what will come next?

May 28, 2002 
Skinny Dipping

I'm a 21-year-old co-ed, living in a mixed-gender dorm at a major University, that just so happens to be on the beach. Attending classes during the summer.
This said, the worse thing I could do would be to hop naked into the ocean during a full moon, on a deserted beach.
Haven't you seen "Jaws"?
Have I learned nothing from years of horror movie openings?
The naked co-ed is the first to go.
Perfect shark bait.

This also said, what is the it that I do my second weekend at college?
Hop in the Atlantic ocean, naked as a jay bird.

My partner-in-crime and I were walking the beach in the moonlight, which in its strange perfection resembled a movie set, dream yet reality. The yellow moon was bright and beckoning; I couldn't resist her pull. She made a silver path to our feet. Calling.
There were fireworks in the distance, stars by the dozens, the Moon -- she as bright as her brother Sun.
We stood in her pull, wandering closer.
The ocean licked the hem of my sundress, and suddenly I am to my knees in tear-tasting waters.
I want more ...
"I want to go in," I say.
My partner-in-crime answers, "Will you? I'll go if you do."

We move up the beach, towards dry sand.
It only takes one swift movement to yank my sundress over my head.
My bra unsnaps, I was barefoot to begin with. Bracelets, rings fall to the sand.
Everything off?
Might as well do it right.

Naked, naked, naked I run.
The Moon is my path, lights my feet to the sea.

So cold ... 
The waves crash, an icy shock down my body.
Yet I laugh.

My partner-in-crime is a few feet away, we wave to each other, we dive, the waves overtake us both.

I taste salt, I become salt.
There no tears left in me.
They lay cast into the moon and sea.

Oldies But Goodies

This week will be filled with deep breaths, endless nights, copious amounts of tea and coffee, and a heaping sense of bravery that rests somewhere dormant in my soul. After this week, I will no longer be a student. This week, my MA dissertation will be complete, and with it, my first book. I need your good thoughts, my friends, and prayers if you have them to spare. God knows that I didn't make it this far on my own; I do get by with a little (enormous) help from my friends.  
Looking forward has made me a bit introspective, so I thought I'd dig up an oldie but goodie for tonight's post. 

June/08/2003
As it goes
Location: Wilmington, N.C.

I was fascinated by the nightly fires outside my third-floor bedroom window the first week in my new apartment. I don't know if there were no cops at that hour, or if fireworks were not considered enough of a disturbance to bother with, but at 1:00 a.m. the picnic tables by the pond sparked a popping orange. It scared me, that first night, I who claim an unease near uncontrolled fire. By Saturday I had made my peace with the firebringers, the young couple that silently appeared, and with beer bottles in hand, lit the pond. By morning there was no sign of the lighted fireworks, not even a trace of ash.

I shut the blinds and turned off the bedroom light. The pair huddled a few feet away from their pyro fantasy. It was a damp May night that I kneeled in an old men's shirt cast off to Goodwill and propped my chin on the windowsill to spy. The scheduled spontaneity of this event gave me a strange sense of comfort. This random celebration of costly fireworks wasted on a Tuesday night; the silent couples' silhouette revealing fingers intertwined in the reflection of the sparkling lights.

What private holiday was I witnessing? Was this a lovers ritual, to snap a lighter and create colored fire from tubes of packed chemicals? Was this something of the mundane, of boredom, or simply just because? The frogs paused in their cantos at the sudden sounds, the ducks long flown to quiet. I picked at the threads of my beige carpet and watched this mini-celebration, content to be a voyeur to another's joy.

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.

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.