FEELING DOWN

Yesterday I had a Bad Day.

I debated for quite some time about whether I should post my feelings or whether the blog should remain the realm of Happy Events Only. In the end, I decided that if this blog is to act as a record of our time abroad, it is only fair to include the not-so-good with the good.

About 95% of days rate as "good or better" on my Amanda-happiness meter. But every once in a while, when I don't get enough sleep or something unanticipated knocks me off kilter, I find it hard to step forward with my usual cheery outlook.

The first time I cracked up was back in November, when I called my dear friend Nicole on her due date to wish her a safe delivery, only to find that she was at that moment in labour. While I had certainly missed my friends and family during our initial months away, Baby Joe's birth signalled the first truly BIG EVENT that we weren't there for. I put down the phone from talking with Nicole's brother-in-law and wept.

Since that occasion I've been doing pretty well; our friends Colin and Jen thoughfully had Baby Kaitlyn while we were home and the holidays allowed us a chance to reconnect with all the people that we miss so much. But at the same time, it was a bittersweet reminder of all that we've left (temporarily) behind.

So we arrive at yesterday. For some reason - lack of sleep, bad weather, cosmic positioning - I was feeling down when I got out of bed and the feeling of down-ness culminated in an Amanda pity party later that evening. I lamented to Ray about how much I miss my friends back home, how I haven't yet truly connected with my colleagues over here (and fear that as long as I work in my current job, I won't find people who really share my interests), how I am tired of working in retail and wish a suitable animal-related job would materialize, and how I wish I had a consistent work schedule so that I could plan activities such as a weekly yoga class. I know, I know - would I like some cheese with that whine?

My suggestion that I try to convince my friends - who are off doing wonderful things like multiple degrees, vet school, post doctoral positions, saving wild animals, working in new jobs and starting families - to drop everything and move over here with me was met by Ray with a healthy reality check. He reminded me that while the nature of his (and potentially my) career is to lead us all over the world, and therefore away from those we love, it also gives us the opportunity to meet amazing people that we would never have had the chance to get to know had we stayed safely in Vancouver. And these people, over time, will also find places in our hearts - in fact, many already have - and enrich our lives in so many ways. You all know who you are, and I can't thank you enough for welcoming us with open arms. Those of you who we've left behind in Canada: you too, are all so special and I consider myself privileged to know you.

After I cried and ranted myself out, Ray the Super Husband hugged me, made me some chamomile tea, and gently suggested that I curl up in bed with a good book. Which I did, and ended up having a good night's sleep. Have I mentioned before how wonderful my husband is?? You only had to read this rant; Ray got the full 3D version with sound effects and snotty nose.

And - today is much better. The weather is still crappy (I observed waves in puddles!!!) but I've had some sleep and time to reflect on how lucky we are to be here. I know that I WILL get to know people better, I WILL meet other animal-crazy nutcases, I WILL find a job that stimulates my mind and my heart, and I WILL find time to take that yoga class. Although...although, gals from Vancouver, won't you consider dropping by for a Starbucks run??

HOME GEOGRAPHY

Building on yesterday's theme of kitchens, I'd like to take a moment to chat about another aspect of our Cambridge flat: its shape, and the impact that said shape has on communication between Ray and I.

Our Vancouver apartment was an open-layout cube, with a half-wall providing the only separation between the kitchen and the dining area/living room. Sure, our bathroom and bedroom were cordoned off by walls, but spatially you couldn't be further than 20 feet from any other person in the apartment. Sound travels awfully well over such a distance, and so whenever Ray and I had something to say to each other, we could just say it in a normal "indoors" voice. In fact, if Ray didn't respond to what I was saying, I could be certain that he was ignoring me, rather than unable to hear what I was saying.

In comparison to Vancouver, our Cambridge flat is set up in a long, narrow configuration that allows us to be about 40 feet apart - and separated by several doors - when one of us is in the living room and the other is in the kitchen. Ray and I have found communicating in these dimensions to have a rather steep learning curve, and we are still getting the hang of walking towards the other person when addressing them, rather than simply mumbling in any old direction. Clear diction has also become increasingly relevant, as any number of innocuous statements can take on a comical edge when mis-heard.

So count yourself warned for when you visit us: no mumbling, "outdoor" voices used inside are perfectly acceptable, and don't feel miffed if one of us responds to your "Where is the bathroom?" with "What? Why don't you like mushrooms?!"

TWICE IN ONE DAY

Because this is important, and warrants a heading of its own:

Dearest family and friends, who have posted comments or are just reading this blog, please send me your email addresses! When you leave a comment, I can't see your email address, and I have no way to get in touch with you even though I would love to chat personally via email.

Simply send me an email at amanda_grout@hotmail.com and I promise to get back to you. For those of you who regularly email me and didn't know I have a hotmail account: don't send anything to that address; I simply keep it as a spam-diverter for online mailing groups etc. And to use as a contact point when I do something silly like post my email address on a public website.

Hope to hear from ya'll soon.

COVET THY NEIGHBOUR'S KITCHEN

The bible says "thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife", but it certainly doesn't say anything about coveting thy neighbour's kitchen. I have to come out of the closet and profess that I am a kitchen covetor.

The kitchen in our Vancouver apartment was my happy place, a kitchen dearly loved for its innate setup, the wonderful foodie tools we stocked it with, and the many many memorable meals whipped up within its boundaries. The kitchen in our Cambridge flat is the opposite - at the opposite end of the house from the living room, narrow, stocked with questionable appliances (stove the size of an Easy Bake Oven) and crockery, and with few memories as of yet. But - BUT - our new kitchen does have the advantage of a window which looks out over our garden, across the lane, and into a neighbour's kitchen.

Before discovering the neighbour's kitchen I had never considered myself a voyeur. But through those lovely french doors (of the neighbour's kitchen - not mine!) I spy slate flooring, hardwood cabinetry (with under-shelf lighting, no less!!), granite countertops, and gleaming sinks and appliances. Me likes, me WANTS. I could do without the two children that I see running about every now and then, but bring on the solid earth tones and high end cooking gadetry.

So on those cold winter nights while I stand on my ancient, linoleum-covered floor, with my white laminate cabinetry and decrepit stove, under the glare of a fluorescent light, I gaze out the window into The Other Kitchen, and dream of one day fixing meals in a similar abode. Until then, covet I shall.

QUESTIONING

Why is it that...

...the morning after I work a night shift (to bring in new stock and rearrange the entire store) and don't get to bed until nearly 4am, the doorbell rings not once, not twice, but THREE times before noon on the following morning? And that only one of those three rings was for me?

...someone and/or their dog has decided that directly outside our back gate is the perfect place to stop for a poop? Two close calls for my shoes in less than a week - coincidence? I think not.

...in England, toilet paper is sold in packages as small at two - TWO - rolls? Which marketing guru came up with that one? Buying only two rolls of toilet paper in a single package is the equivalent of trying to buy a loaf of bread that consists of only two slices.

...no matter which odd happenings fill my days, I find myself really enjoying our life on the wee island?

THE VERDICT IS IN

...And not to gloat or anything, but I am the clear victor!

From a sample size of approximately a dozen friends and family, all except two voted that Ray's shirt qualifies as a "dark", particularly when washed for the first time. The only two who wobbled on their verdict were Joan (Ray's mom, and therefore bound by biology to stick up for her baby boy) and Steve (our friend, who I suspect responded that the shirt could go either way because he has similarly dyed Geidre's clothes with something dark of his in the past).

Gosh it's hard being right sometimes.

LEAFLETTING CAMBRIDGE-STYLE

Most of you will be familiar with the annoyance of returning to your parked car (at a shopping mall, on the street, etc.) only to find something stuck under your windshield wiper. Hopefully that little piece of paper is some advertiser trying to suck you in, rather than a parking ticket - but I digress. Here in Cambridge, Land of The Bicycle, leafletting takes on a whole new dimension.

You see, my bicycle has a nifty, stereotypical-Cambridge wicker basket affixed to it's fore regions. Most of the time, the basket proves itself extremely useful for carting my handbag, groceries, and miscellaneous sundries about town. Perhaps someday it will even serve as the passenger seat for a cat - kitted out in goggles and a leather jacket, no less. But at least one day a week, the basket serves a sorrier purpose as the repository for various advertisers' leaflets.

The first time I arrived back to find something in my basket, I thought passersby had decided it looked like a welcoming trashcan and tossed their garbage into it. Hey, at least they didn't drop it on the ground! But no - upon closer inspection the "trash" revealed itself as an advert for Wong's Spicy House (or some such establishment). Since that date, I have be wooed by restaurants, bookshops, yard sales and Falun Gong followers. Hmph.

My poor basket would be horrified to know that it in fact fulfills the role of a lowly windshield wiper, rather than that of the glorified trunk/boot that it thought it was.

BAD HAIR DAY

Must remember that, after spending more than 30 minutes washing, brushing, drying, brushing, straightening, and again brushing my hair to perfection...I now live in Cambridge. One step outside the front door and the wind has swept my manicured 'do into something that looks far more beast-like than when I first rolled out of bed.

The wind also affects how I travel about town. As I cycled up King's Parade yesterday I was treated to a first-hand lesson in the effects of headwinds and tailwinds: for most of the journey I battled a fierce headwind that slowed my progress to a pitiful pace. I have in my possession a bicycle with only three gears and yet the wind made it feel like I was pedalling against the tension of gears several notches higher. And frankly, I don't like to work that hard. But hark! I was huffing and puffing and pedalling like mad up the road, when suddenly my headwind switched to a tailwind, and it was like my little red cycle became my red cape, and I was flying, and I WAS SUPERWOMAN.

THE MAN IN MY LIFE

Yesterday was Ray's 25th birthday, and my lack of posting was not due to this event being low on my priority list for reporting; rather, we were out celebrating and I didn't have time to blog. So today gets to be Ray's Day!

I won't gush on and on as it will only embarass him, so let me just say that quite simply, he is my best friend, and that every day I consider myself privileged to be sharing my life with him. This is not a distinction that I give lightly. And those of you who know Ray, which in theory is all of you reading this blog, probably know firsthand why he is such an amazing person. So here's to Ray, and to his first 25 years!

What's in store for the next 25? Well, we'll be starting out with a trip to Paris sometime in the next month, depending on our work schedules. A new book or CD just doesn't cut it when it's your quarter-century and you are living four hours from the French capital - so the trip is his birthday present. Don't worry, we're not foisting ourselves upon the cultured folk unprepared: we have purchased guide books, maps and a French phrasebook (and are banking on our highschool french coming back!!). The phrasebook has quickly become a source of entertainment in our household, useful for such gems as:

Je ne savais pas que je devais declarer cela. (I didn't know I had to declare it.)

and

Tu es completement imbu(e) de toi-meme! (Your ego is out of control!)

Apologies for the lack of an accents in the above quotes. What can I say - we are certainly enjoying brushing up on the French language...now we just have to wait and see if it actually works when we're in the country.

And - aha! Many thanks to the anonymous soul who has posted a reply to my query about why the interior lights of London Tube trains flicker; see their answer in the comments section. Given the technical quality of the report, I would guess that an engineer may have had a hand in the answer...

THE JURY IS SEQUESTERED

The shirt in question:





Note that to handicap the issue slightly in Ray's favour (because he doesn't have a chance of winning this bet any other way!) I've placed his photo uppermost, but MY photo, while lower in position, is clearly superior in fidelity due to the uncluttered, white background. Ray has engineered his shot strategically against that dark chair (which blends in well with the shirt, don't you think?), while I have scientifically presented the data.

So cast ye votes! And remember, while it may be Ray's birthday tomorrow, I am the author of this blog, and copious compliments will rain down on those who agree with ME.

Light shirt my butt.

LAUNDRY CONTROVERSY

Ray requests that I "let it be known" that I have destroyed far more laundry in my day than he ever has. Furthermore, he protests my description of the offending shirt as a "dark". For my part, I vow to photograph said shirt and post it on this blog, for you all to vote as to its "lightness" or "darkness". A tenner says I'll win this one.

RANDOMNESS

Time for another jumble of thoughts, none of which warrant their own entry:

1. Why do the lights on the London Tube trains flicker on and off with unsettling regularity? Can one of you Brits please explain this one to me?

2. Jet lag sucks. No way to be eloquent about it - I have suffered mightily this time around. Could barely get out of bed on our first full day back in the UK, suffered from headaches for a further couple of mornings, and am just now - 5 days after getting back - starting to feel what accounts to "normal".

3. Ray managed to dye my whites an interesting shade of grey, because the new dark grey cordouroy shirt he received for Christmas was deemed as a "light". Lighter than what?

You have to admit that #3 is particularly good for a chuckle.

CAMERA ABUSE

Ray and I had our neighbours over for coffee the other night (coffee because they, like us, are not from England) and we decided to show them our holiday photos. It was with some degree of consternation that we noticed, upon downloading our photos, that while we were home a total of 21 DAYS, and have in our possession an awesome digital camera, we only managed to snap about 30 photos. Approximately 20 of these photos were of my mom's cat, Muffin (I know, I know, what sort of name is that for a cat!?), who DOESN'T EVEN LIKE TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED. It's not like she sees the little grey machine and whips in front of it with a winning grin and the cha-cha. So, apologies both to Muffin and to those of you hoping to catch a glimpse of what our Canadian homes are like.

Here are the few shots that we managed to get of the holidays - note that most were taken the second night we were home, and the alcohol - er, good cheer - that we were all feeling may account for the fuzzy quality of some of the photos. It sure can be difficult to hold the camera steady at times! The wackiest of the pictures are compliments of my little brother Kyle, who has had limited exposure (pun intended) to digital cameras and has yet to learn restraint:















And I bet you are really curious by this point to see a sampling of the Muffin Photos:





If this doesn't qualify as camera abuse, I don't know what does. Particularly in light of the truly amazing photos our friends showed us of their well-documented, photogenic trip back to the States...I have decided to add, to my list of New Year's resolutions, #10. Take more, and better quality, photos!

MORE ON CANADIAN ACCENTS

Every once in a while, I am overcome with a (perverse?) urge to respond with "abOOt" when, upon learning that I am from the Land of Beavers and Never Ending Winters, a Brit excitedly askes me, "You're Canadian? Tell me, how do you pronounce "about"?"

The first couple of times I encountered this question I was terribly confused, but upon recalling my experiences with Eastern (as in east of Manitoba) Canadians and their grammatical oddities, it all became clear. Ah, the good ol' "no doubt aboot it!" of Canadians-not-from-the-West.

If we Westerners have a similarly endearing pronounciation of common words, please let me know because I can't wait to foist them upon the next person to give me a hard time about aboot.

CANADIAN ROUNDUP

This will be a bit sketchy, as it's been an awfully long time since I've had a chance to post in the blog, and my memory isn't what it used to be (retail causing atrophy of brain cells, as it were). If I've forgotten to mention a major event involving yourself, please send me a scathing email and I will rectify the problem post-haste.

We had a fantastic visit home with our family and friends - you know who you are, and thank-you for giving us places to sleep, food to eat, and for making us feel very loved. We love you all too! A special highlight of our trip was meeting the two newest members of our friends' families: Nicole and Jason's baby son Joseph and Jennifer and Colin's baby daughter Kaitlyn. Next time we see the wee folk they'll be walking, and, if they are anything like their parents, solving differential equations while waiting for their diapers to be changed.

As mentioned in a previous entry, our trip to Vancouver Island was a hoot and we followed that up with three days in Vancouver where we visited up a storm and still only managed to see about half the people that we had hoped to spend time with. Ah, the trials of having many friends...it's a tough life, but someone has to lead it.

Our final week at home was filled with snowy days and a lot of sitting around on our butts. It was great! We topped off the holiday with a final trip to Vancouver before our flight, where we stayed downtown and had a relaxing morning in town before heading out on an evening flight. The trip from Heathrow to Cambridge went remarkably smoothly, particularly considering how sleepy we were and the fact that we had to wrestle our luggage from the airport, to the Paddington Express train, then onto the tube, then the train to Cambridge, and finally into a taxi to get back to our flat. I feel like a travel pro now.

Being away for a few months has given me the following perspectives on Canada:

1. We Canadians really are friendly
2. We Canadians really do have an accent
3. Maple syrup really is the nectar of the gods

Note on the accent - being immersed in the Queen's English has resulted in me no longer actually noticing the accent, and when I first arrived back in Canada, for about the first five minutes only, I could ACTUALLY HEAR THE CANADIAN ACCENT. Kinda twangy, actually.

THE WALKER ROCKED ON

Setting the scene:

My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, Marian and Brian, and Ray and I went to Port Alberni for our New Year's Eve celebration. By the end of the evening, I had had a terrific time...

Here's what went down:

Our evening started in a fairly conventional manner with a family/friends dinner out (not even very rowdy, I might add!). After stuffing ourselves with all sorts of food that we didn't need after the culinary orgy that is Christmas, we headed out to the local watering hole to Get This Party Started. The only trouble being: the local watering hole was none other than the Royal Canadian Legion.

Ray and I entered the dance hall only to notice the disturbing reality that we were interupting a sea of white haired folk performing no less than a polka. Worse, the White Haireds noticed us, the Not Yet More Than Two Grey Haireds, and I could see tongues start to wag. Just what the heck where these whipper-snappers doing at OUR party? Did the kids get lost on their way to a disco?. No joke, Ray and I were a full two decades younger than the next youngest people there - and those people just happened to be my parents and aunts and uncles.

Ignoring the odd looks (hey, fun isn't restricted to a certain octogenarian set!), our group staked out a prime table which became our perch from which to enjoy libations and watch the boogey action. Thankfully the DJ noticed that a younger crowd had arrived (and by this, I mean everyone in our party lowered the average age by at least a decade) and shut down the polka in favour of newer tunes such as Bon Jovi and Ray Orbison. That was certainly enough bump-and-grind for those replaced hips, thankyouverymuch.

We actually had a great time dancing and Ray and I even got to practice waltzing (learned in a series of intensive lessons prior to our wedding). As Ray circled me about the floor, I happened to notice a walker sitting against the far wall, perhaps abandoned at the thought of a little shimmying and shammying. The humour in this finding should become apparent when I reluctantly admit to the world that I hurt my hip as we were dancing - Folks, I injured myself while dancing at the Legion - and I had to limp back to our table. As I was sitting out yet another dance, a particularly frail-looking gal got to her feet and, swaying to the music, made it through the dancing crowd to pick up her walker. As she shuffled past my table on her way to the door, she shot me a sideways glance as if to say that I still had a lot more to learn. And perhaps she was right - as I sat injured, THE WALKER ROCKED ON.

PS. Granny and relatives: when you read this totally tongue-in-cheek account of our evening, I hope you know just how much fun I had!! I have the bestest family in the world.