i was somehow hoping against hope that it couldn’t be true. first squeaky-clean alex rodriguez was implicated… but somehow that was okay, because he plays for the evil empire. then earlier this year, our previously beloved manny… but somehow even that was okay, because he no longer played for us.

and then this afternoon, the truth hit me squarely across the face in black and white:

Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz, the sluggers who propelled the Boston Red Sox to end an 86-year World Series championship drought and to capture another title three years later, were among the roughly 100 Major League Baseball players to test positive for performance-enhancing drugs in 2003, according to lawyers with knowledge of the results.

which means the one thing, the *one precious thing* that i was praying would remain untainted… is no more. that dear memory has been sullied, tarnished, and i can never look back on that moment of glory in the same way again.

someone took one of my greatest joys, and slapped a big, fat, ugly asterisk on top of it.

unless you know what my red sox have meant to me through the years, i’m not sure i can accurately convey just how disconsolate i am. i can’t say i’m surprised, because when some of the biggest and brightest names in the game have admitted to doping, nothing surprises anymore. i never wanted to be that cynical.

but i am surely saddened to the very depths of my fandom, which, out of naivete or just wishful thinking, has somehow remained pure and true.

until today.

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back in april, when the metropolitan weather office was optimistically forecasting a “hot and dry” summer season ahead, i sniggered. in may, when they began warning of a genuine heatwave and recommending people paint their houses white, i laughed. i nearly bust a gut laughing – that info practically became the punchline to the running joke that is british summer. it may take me a while to catch on, but after 6 years here, i’ve finally come to understand its cruel annual tease.

still, in spite of my cynicism, some part of me was kind of hoping it would prove true. sadly, this morning’s news was an all too familiar refrain: august will be wet and cold. as per fucking usual.

so, unsurprisingly, no sun outdoors. luckily, i’ve got my own supply in…

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there are some days as an expat, when you just wake up with your head in the wrong country.  you feel yourself moving through the time and space where you are physically present, but it feels like floating in parallel universe – there is a disconnect, a doubling of vision that you just can’t seem to shrug off.  a bout of wrong country-itis, like a feverish dream.  i’m gliding through my regular workplace, and when i catch a glimpse out the window, am genuinely surprised to see a london skyline instead of a boston one.  my brain has slipped into a different groove, like a record player needle sliding sideways with jarring effect onto a different track.  perhaps it’s a symptom of the similarity of big cities that allows your mind to play tricks on you – all the samey-sameness of crowded pavements, grey buildings and public transport, so that on any given morning it feels i could be heading to work in any generic urban setting.  or maybe it’s something about the light that morning that reminds me subconsciously of a particular previous life, and creates an alternate reality if only for a few seconds.  i’m not sure why it happens, but it’s disconcertingly random, and is the only true twang of homesickness i generally get these days, so it blindsides me with the intensity of it – the force of here and now crunching up against the mental holiday.

and as much as i keep shaking my head to try to clear the fog and bring the picture back into focus,  no matter how hard i try, i can’t seem to shake the hooked pangs of longing that have gotten under my skin and into my veins, trailing along behind me with the mist of memory, for the rest of the day.

blindsided – bon iver

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it’s getting late, and i’m starting to get anxious.  check the clock – 10:00 pm.  too early? the ache in my shoulders and neck tells me it’s not.  my eyelids are beginning to burn with the desire to close.  my ritual ablutions – contact lenses, wash face, brush teeth.  dim the lights and slip between the cool, heavy sheets, head sinking deeply into the pillow.  ahhhh.  i hear street noise outside, and feel a knot starting to form in my stomach.  relax, i tell myself – you’ve lived in noisy places for a long time, you can tune it out.  but my mind begins to click and whir – what if i can’t drop off?  jonno’s still awake – what if he awakens me when he comes to bed? what if i’m awake all night? what if i can’t function tomorrow? what if i have that sick, laggy feeling and can’t be on point for my important meeting? it’s okay, it’s okay – if i can’t fall asleep by 1:00, i’ll take an antihistamine.  concentrate.  relax your toes.  now relax your ankles.  relax your calves.  relax your knees.  relax your knees.  relax your knees.  shit, this isn’t working. *it isn’t working*.  okay, okay, listen to your meditation podcast.  damnit, jonno’s climbing in bed now. why does he always come to bed just as i’m falling asleep?!  don’t worry – just curl up next to him.  listen to his breathing.  slow, deep, steady.  try to breathe in rhythm with his breath.  wow, how can he fall asleep just like that?  the streetlight’s too bright through the window – flip over.  try your eyeshade and earplugs.  whatever you do, don’t look at the clock.  fuck, it’s 1:00.  should i get up and take an antihistamine?  i hate taking it, though, i’m so muzzy-headed the next day.  give it another few minutes.  but all i can hear with these earplugs in is my own hyperaudible pulse and breath.  take them out, it’s quiet now.  drifting, drfiting.  who’s shouting in the street like that?  what’s going on?  gotta check from the window.  just a couple of drunks.  they’re wandering off now, back in bed.  1:40.  stop looking at the clock, you’ve functioned on no sleep before, and you can do it again if you have to.  checking the clock won’t help you sleep.  unfurrow your forehead.  brain, shut the fuck up please, you are not helping.  empty your head.  jeezus – jonno’s got his restless legs tonight.  fantastic – why do i have to sleep next to mr. twitchy??  how am i supposed to sleep when he keeps kicking me?  maybe i should head into the other bedroom.  but then i’ll have to unplug my alarm clock, bring it into the other room and reset it.  just give it a few minutes, i’ve got to fall asleep soon, i’m soooo tired, i’ll fall asleep soon.  oh dear god, cat, i’m going to murderize you – why are you awake at this hour?! oh wow, it’s 4:00, i must have dozed off.  but that cat won’t shut up.  i’ll put him in the other room.  crap, now he’s scratching at the door.  can’t have that.  ohpleaseohpleaseohplease zeke.  please.  pleasegobacktosleepplease.  oh god, i’m getting all worked up – that’s not conducive to sleep.  i’m just so tired i could cry.  i am crying.  it’s 5 am and i’m crying.  fuck!!!!  why is jonno’s alarm going off?!?!?!  he doesn’t even get up until 7, why does he set it for 5:30!!??!! i’m going to throw that stupid thing out the window, i swear to god, i’ve asked him a million times not to set it for 5:30.  he doesn’t even wake up! i wake up and have to wake him up to turn it off!! okay, quiet, if you just relax you can get another 45 minutes.  great, the cat heard the alarm go off, thinks he’s getting fed now.  maybe if i feed him now, *just this once*, i can get a few more minutes.  oh that will never work, he’ll just wake me up early every morning to get fed.  don’t give in. don’t give in.  also, don’t kill the cat.  also, don’t kill the husband.  god it’s bright in here already.  pillow over head.  tomorrow night will be better, as long as you don’t get all wound up.   you get too anxious.  just rest your eyes, quiet your thoughts.

alarm. 6:15.

shit.

i’m so tired – the beatles

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my dad is pretty crazy.  he turns 60 in just a few days, and when i was recently home, i spent father’s day with him.  it goes like this: the plan is originally to go out for some brunch, so when i arrive at about 11:00, i’m dressed to head out to a restaurant.  after a few cups of coffee and some chat, my dad says, “we can go in a just a sec, but i just need your help with something first.  it’ll take two minutes.”

so he, my stepmum, and i all head outside to the back garden.  it was raining pretty steadily earlier,  and had now thinned to a persistent drizzle, but we are definitely getting damp.  my dad shows me a tree he’s been working on taking down – a 30 ft pine in the corner along the neighbours’ fences that caught some fatal tree disease and needed to be chopped down.  the tree was probably half down, with a good 12 feet of trunk remaining, and at the top, a large, 6 ft log was suspended by a chain.  as he clambers up a ladder perched precariously against the tree, he tells us he needs us to pull on a nylon rope which would lift the weight of the log enough so that he could unchain it from its mooring, and lower it safely to the ground on his side of the fence.

so, like fools, my stepmother and i are planting our feet in the mud, heaving at a wet nylon rope to try to lift this log in the air.  of course, the log gets caught on an errant branch, so my dad begins poking at it with a big sick, trying to swing it free.  that doesn’t work, so he begins hacking at the branch with a handsaw.  it comes free from the first branch, only to get caught on another on the way down, and this scenario repeats itself a few times before finally, a half hour later, the log is on the ground.

my dad has mist on his glasses, bark bits in his silver hair, mud on his jeans, and bleeding knuckles.  “okay,” he says.  “let’s go eat.”  i turn to him and say, “you know, it just wouldn’t be father’s day unless you were 10 feet up a ladder, hacking at a tree in the rain.”

that’s the kind of thing my dad does all the time.  i am consistently getting emails from him about all the crazy things he does.  how he jumped into the ocean in a speedo and santa hat for charity (though i really didn’t need to see the picture!).  how he challenged his 30-something staff members at work to a stair climbing race.  how he’s sailing his boat down to north carolina singlehandedly.  how he’s planning to bungee jump off the same dam james bond did in the opening scene of “goldeneye”.  how for his 60th birthday, he wants to jump into boston harbour.  how he was dancing in the square in venice with wild abandon when the police came along to break it up.  how he was dancing in harvard square to some street performer playing folk music.  even as a kid, he was always the father who used a real butchers bone in the halloween costume, who brought his honeybees into school for show and tell, who tried to build a log cabin in the woods, who learned to ride a unicycle and juggle at the same time, who liked to jump and click his heels together to show off.  he was the kind of father who was always full of loopy ideas and enthusiasm in equal amounts, always singing and dancing and trying new things and throwing caution to the wind. and dancing, always dancing.  the kind of unselfconscious dancing that doesn’t need a rhyme or reason or even a partner.

and i was always the painfully shy girl dying in the corner of embarrassment.  my personality could not have been more different from my dad’s.  i was the kind of girl who was terrified to do anything new for fear of getting it “wrong”.  my deepest desire was to not stand out in any way, shape, or form.  to be unexceptionally bland and undistinguishable in every way.  attracting no attention, blending seamlessly with the wallpaper.  i was quiet and sober and easily flustered.  i hated being humiliated by my dad’s exuberance, as wanted nothing more than to slip through the floor cracks every time he acted goofy or silly.  and anything i was uncertain of, or didn’t know how to do well was out of the question – i was so fearful of looking foolish, that i never tried anything at all.

i bring all this up, because the other day, my friends dragged me along to something called ceilidh dancing.  i honestly hadn’t a clue what i was in for, and would never have agreed to go if i’d only known it was a form of scottish square dancing.  so when we arrived at the big school-style auditorium and people began lining up in kilts and the fiddle began warming up, i parked myself on the bleachers and settled in with a beer.

you know how it goes next: prancing and dancing and  drinking and sweating and laughing harder than i have in a very long time, with plenty of bruised toes to remember it by the next day. my dad would have loved it.

this didn’t start out to be a story about my father – only about this dance i went to the other night and wound up enjoying immensely in spite of myself.  but i guess i couldn’t help it.  it seems, somewhere tangled deep in my dna, even with all my years of cringing and blushing every time my dad unhesitatingly did something kooky or made a fool of himself, it turns out i am my father’s daughter after all.

i stand corrected – vampire weekend

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the reason i’ve been so quiet this week?  i got an iphone.

i know that i’ve prattled on about this to friends already, but this device is the new love of my life.  for someone as addicted to being connected as i am (and i have been a heavy addict since 1994), this is either my salvation or downfall.  probably both.

i’ve already had two people threaten to do bad things to my precious iphone, should i ever whip it out in their presence.  and i can’t say i blame them.  i apologise in advance if i become an iphone twat – one of those people who rudely text/tweet/surf while mid-conversation, or sit in the corner at parties streaming videos, or who only want to talk about the newest apps.  i don’t want to be one of those people.  really, i don’t.

i fear, though, that it may be inevitable.  i am thoroughly entranced.  taking it out gives me a little shiver of thrill every time, while i think to myself, “ah… this is 21st century living.” yesterday alone, i sent a voice message to sing “happy birthday”, read the new york times on the way to work, listened to a live stream of my favourite boston radio station while trying to write a report in my open-plan office, checked facebook and email and my diary between meetings, checked the tube service and played a quick game of pac man on my journey home from work, got a reminder to buy sugar on my way past the shop.  in the past few days, i’ve watched read books on it (jonno appreciates i no longer leave the light on to read at night), tracked my run route via gps, watched a red sox game from bed, and emailed a video of my cat.  it does everything but brush my teeth.

and so my advance apology is only half-hearted, at best.  so far, i am happiest around other friends who are also iphone twats – we’ve been known to sit together in the pub, geekily tap-tap-tapping along simultaneously, oblivious to what others would perceive as the height of rudeness.  and i was never prouder than last night when i could whip out my phone to correctly predict the last tube departure, ensuring we all made it home.

i’m sure the novelty will wear off eventually – but it might be a while.

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wanted to draw attention to a fantastic article on the challenges of advancing women’s rights globally, and what a staunch and prominent feminist like hillary clinton as secretary of state brings to the table.  a truly worthwhile read.

Hillary Clinton is not our first female secretary of state, but she is our first explicitly feminist one. She’s been an iconic figure in the movement for women’s rights globally ever since she gave her historic 1995 speech at the United Nations Conference on Women in Beijing. Denouncing a litany of the abuses to which women worldwide are subject, the then-first lady declared, “Women’s rights are human rights, once and for all.” The New York Times said it “may have been her finest moment in public life.”

Clinton’s confirmation hearings offered a clear sign that she intended to prioritize women’s issues. “If half the world’s population remains vulnerable to economic, political, legal, and social marginalization, our hope of advancing democracy and prosperity is in serious jeopardy,” she said. “The United States must be an unequivocal and unwavering voice in support of women’s rights in every country on every continent.”

Five months into her tenure, we’re beginning to see what that vision looks like in practice.

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this kind of thing makes me so angry: tories think they should impose a 3 month “cooling off” period before people can file for divorce.

it just demonstrates and reinforces the same idiotic stereotypes that so many conservatives have – as if people take an irresposible, cavalier attitude towards ending a marriage, or that it’s too easy for people to make life-changing decisions.  a distorted perception that bears absolutely not resemblance to the truth of most any divorced person i know.

my divorce was amicable, quickly resolved, and without a doubt, the right decision, arrived at after several years of counselling – and it was still the worst experience of my life.  the idea that some stuffed-shirt could or should tell me that i need an additional 3 months to “cool off” is beyond insulting.  i don’t know anyone who ever comes to a decision to divorce as a result of some sort of impetutous, overheated whim.  no one takes the decision to dissolve their life with their spouse lightly.  no one.  deciding to divorce is a painful and heavy moment.  so who are these people that need to “cool off” to make sure they’re doing what

divorce in the u.k. is already more difficult than in many places:

- you cannot divorce until you’ve been married for a full year
- there is no “no fault” divorce
- unless you accuse your spouse of adultery or unreasonable behaviour, you have to be separated for 2 years first
- even if your spouse has left you, you have to wait two years to be divorced

the idea that adding another 3 months to an already emotionally wrought and drawn-out process will somehow dissuade people from frivolously divorcing is, frankly, insulting.  and what about people who’ve been psychologically or physically abused? should they be forced to stay married for an additional 3 months to salve the conscience of a group of politicians?

the clue to the kind of thinking that prompted the report can be found at the end of the article:

Mr Duncan Smith told the BBC that compared to their grandparents, young people had “very high” expectations of marriage “far beyond actually what it will deliver”.

He added: “It’s ironic really, given the nature of family breakdown around them, they have this incredibly high expectation of it.

“And so the idea of compromise from day one, two living as cheaply as one, seems to have disappeared.

“You do not need a £20,000 themed wedding to be a happily-married couple.”

ah, that’s it – today’s young generation of selfish, spendthrift couples who need a lesson from their elders. oh, well that’s okay then!

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i’m going to admit, right here, right now: sometimes, i have no idea why i’m married.

the thing is, i’m not alone.  i was reading bitch ph.d’s analysis of sandra tsing-loh’s piece in the atlantic the other day.  they both talk about the impossible standards we as a society set for marriage, the upshot of which is:

The Good Marriage is Supposed to be:

sexually monogamous
between one man and one woman (even though, or rather because, men and women Are Different)
for their entire lives
begun early enough that they can have children, plural, (if they want to), without having to go through infertility treatment
passionate, again, for their entire lives
respectful at all times
mutually supportive, at all times
economically successful
able to accommodate two careers, if so desired
a friendship
something you “work” at, but it’s not supposed to feel like work
flirty–but only with each other
not jealous
a PIllar of Society

more than these unwritten rules, as a society, we bully, cajole, and shame people into *never, ever admitting there might god-forbid possible be anything wrong* with our perfect unions.  it starts when we’re young, when we feed children fairytales about “soulmates” and fateful signs like magic glass slippers that are supposed to tell you s/he’s “the one”.  men grow up believing they must be strong protectors and providers, and women grow up fantasizing about their wedding day.

if i’m honest, in my heart of hearts, i think it’s all bullshit.

my parents divorced after 20 years of marriage, in spectacular meltdown fashion.  i got married early, and divorced even earlier.  the idea that we’re bound to be with just one person in a world of over 6 billion is ludicrous.  the idea that we will stay in love with one person into old age is ridiculously improbable.  that all the vicissitudes of children, and careers, and money, and sex, and health, and family… that all that will leave our personas unchanged, leave our relationships untouched… well, it’s bullshit.  change is inescapable and impossible to predict. what on earth makes us think that the way we feel about each other is immune to those kinds of seismic forces?

and yet, we’re not allowed to ever admit to imperfections.  to be brutally honest and say that there are days when we would happily walk out the door.  to allow that, hell yes, it feels like work sometimes.  that sometimes we deliberately inflict pain,  and sometimes we are cruel and nasty and take it out of the other person for no good reason.  or that even worse, we too argue about the indescribably mundane money and sex. that some days we fantasize about being someone different, being with someone different, however fleeting.  and i say “we” with confidence, because i know i am not alone.  people who say they never think or feel that way are flat-out lying.

we have unachievable expectations of our relationships, and unbelieveable guilt when we don’t meet them.

being in a relationship where you have to keep up pretenses that everything is always okay, all the time, is exhausting and incredibly isolating, and it puts every other couple under additional pressure to do the same.  it’s so incredibly, pathetically phoney.  when my first marriage was crumbing, we knew sometime after thanksgiving that it was over.  and yet, we decided not to tell anyone in our families until well into the new year, for fear of “ruining their holidays”.  so we pretended for 3 more months to keep up appearances.  much worse than the breakup, was the amount of control it took not to break down during those three months.  i look back on that time and think…why?

but for some reason, we continue to perpetuate this illusion.  for those who are single, we don’t want to sour them against the dream of an ideal partnership.  and for those who are paired, we don’t want to admit that our relationship might not measure up against (our perceived image of) theirs.  no one wants to be the first to admit to shortcomings.  the stakes are too high – when we live in a society that has invested so much in the construct of marriage, foibles are not allowed.

even when anyone who’s ever been in a long term relationship knows they are very, very real.

marriage is a fantasy that the reality can never live up to, and the odds start out against you and only get worse as time goes on – as personalities and pettiness and pedestrian problems grate.  even under the best of circumstance, the statistics tell us there’s only a 50/50 chance you’ll make it.  so yes, there are days when i have no idea why the hell i’m married.  through a combination of work (yes, work), luck, and grace on the part of my significant other, they are exceedingly rare.  i am, in the main, very happy.  and against all odds, i hope to stay that way. (even as i write that, it feels like i’m qualifying my previous statement; i’m not, but i don’t wish to alarm readers who know me and my husband in real life!)  but every time i paste on a faux happy-wife smile for the sake of others (and i freely admit to having done that), i wonder who i’m doing the greater disservice to: myself or my audience?

in spite of all the bullshit that goes with being married, and all the bullshit i admit to participating in, and all the bullshit beliefs we buy into… i’m still married, and glad of it.  i feel like i shouldn’t say that after my diatribe above, but i’d be lying if i didn’t.  so while i will admit to days when i don’t know why i’m a participant in this crazy and unrealistic institution, i will also admit to wanting to believe in it with all my heart.

in a world where 50% of all marriages end up crashing and burning… there’s also 50% who stay together.  we all line up at the altar thinking we’re in that other half, and we don’t complain about the glass slipper that pinches, because hell, at least we’ve found one that almost fits, so we should just shuddup and feel lucky already.

and even though i may not like the odds, it seems i’m willing to play them all the same.

revelator – gillian welch

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a few years ago, we bought a secondhand television (£50).  we buy a monthly cable package (£40).  we pay for our electricity quarterly (£100).

all the ingredients you need for watching television, yes?

oh no, not so fast.  here in britain, if you wish to *use* the television, electricity, and cable you’ve already paid for, you need to pay the government an additional £142.50.  per year.

see, the uk has this public commodity called the bbc.  it’s essentially the same thing as pbs back in the states – publicly subsidised media which is supposed to provide independent, impartial and educational media to the masses.  now, leaving aside the matter of bias (because it’s simply not possible for media to be entirely free of bias, and the bbc is no exception), the bbc is funded by this “television license”, which is collected annually from every household which owns a functioning television.  this pays for 8 national television channels, 10 radio stations, the online website, and some regional/local media. (other services are paid for through other funding streams).

lots of people argue that they don’t use any of the bbc services, therefore should not have to pay the tv licensing fee.  personally, i have no problem with paying for public services i don’t use – i do it all the time, in fact.  i pay for roadworks when i don’t drive, education when i have no kids, libraries which i don’t visit, etc.  i believe these things serve the greater public good, and i’m happy to have money withheld from my paycheque to contribute.

what i have a problem with, is the notion that this television licensing fee is not a flat tax.  because while it may have begun in 1946, days when few people owned a television, and the bbc was *the* only broadcaster, (and therefore only taxed those people who actually used the service is supported), in 2009, the idea of television as a luxury which is taxed only for the 98% of families who own one, is just dumb. even sillier, it’s not the *television itself*, or even the actual service (e.g. transmission), but the *reception* of the service, which is taxed.

i don’t have to buy an annual water license for receiving my water, or electrical license for allowing current into my home.  yet every year, i have to pay for allowing television airwaves into my living room.

furthermore, the method of collection is so blatantly inefficient as to be laughable.  the idea that you have to renew your license each year, means that there is an amazing breadth of scope for omission/evasion.  if they don’t have you on their database as having a valid license, they first send you a standard warning letter.  more than 20 million warning letters are issued each year.  if that fails to produce the desired response, the tv licensing people come personally knocking at your door, and try to get you to allow them into your home.  they have “tv detector vans”, which can tell if you have a television operating in your household.   they make around 3.5 million personal visits each year.  they threaten prosecution, tell you that you’ll be “cautioned and interviewed”, and could be subject to £1000 fine.

according to their 2009 report, the bbc spends they spent 4% of all revenue from the television tax on collection and enforcement.  £181 million each year is lost through evasion, about 5% are evaders.  the cost of collection is £122 million, of which, £73.4 million is spent on direct collection and enforcement.  of the 3.5 million visits, 603,000 end up as “sales” (i.e. people purchasing a license), which roughly adds up to income of £84.4 million pounds.  £20 million was garnered in prosecution fines.

in other words: they spend £73.4 million a year to collect £84.4 million pounds, plus an additional £20 million from people they prosecute (minus prosecution costs, natch, which they’ve neglected to specify in their report), and continue to lose £181 million per year.

doesn’t sound terribly efficient to me.

if all this rigamarole sounds antiquated, bizarre and farcical, it’s because it is.  for fuck’s sake.  stop the intimidating and inefficient harassment campaign.  collect the television tax like every other tax applying to household utilities – either at the point of service (add an additional sales tax to cable, satellite and internet services), or as paycheque withholding (like we pay for almost all other publicly subsidised infrastructure and services).  easy peasy – no opportunity for evasion, no need for enforcement, no adversarial intimidation.

good god, even traffic enforcement is more advanced than the tv licensing regulation!  why are they still stuck in an era where people require little pieces of paper that prove they’re entitled to operate a television?  we no longer live in 1946.  the bbc need to stop pretending that we do.

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just when i begin to think i just couldn’t be more fed up with this city, it has a way of turning around and surprising me into falling in love with it all over again.

an incredible sunny warm summer evening.  husband on the barbeque.  wimbledon on the television. and this view at the end of the couch.

you’d be too lazy to blog too.

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