Jobs for the OCD

Tackling some jobs around the little gothic manse here in the midwest. For those who border on OCD, or even for those with full-blown symptoms, might I recommend scraping paint? Ours comes away from the siding in swaths, making it very satisfying to pick at the loose edges and peel sheets away. (Curse you, Behr Paints.) Medium-length fingernails does help.

And during breaks whilst down off the ladder, there is plenty of weeding to be done. Another OCD-friendly job, the most satisfying efforts are directed against the spurge in the lawn and flowerbeds. This small scalloped-edge round-leafed plant spreads by sending out runners which occasionally kiss the soil and put down roots. If one snags a runner, it is possible to pick out long strands of it which snake their way through the other growth. Much more socially-acceptable an activity than other things one might pick...

Phantom Itch

Things I have wondered in the past 48 hours:

-- Where is the flush button on the top of the toilet?
--Why do I turn on the hot tap, or the cold tap, but not both at the same time?
--Why do I feel nervous whilst sitting in the front passenger seat of an American car?
--Why do I drift left as I drive on empty roads with no other traffic to guide me?
--Near lane, or far lane?
--Why is it so quiet at meals? What day is "fruit crumble day" here?
--Where is the library, and why do I have to get in a car to get there?
--Where is the light switch, and which way to I flip it?
--Where is the switch thingy on the outlet plates?
--What am I going to do with old bread crusts?
--Why are 2-litre soda pop bottles so fat?
--Where on the bandwidth is Classical FM?
--What do I need with all these extra clothes? What should I wear today?
--Will the fire alarm go off tonight?

I think I'll have a latte, Richard. No, wait...that was in a parallel universe.

And do I really want the phantom itch to go away...

This Is Not a Holiday

I realize as I have occasion to talk with people from the States that I am not quite prepared to answer the question, "Are you having a good time?" Not that there is anything necessarily inappropriate about the question itself. But I would find such a query much easier to answer were I spending a week at the beach or a month in the mountains. Being here is somehow different. That difference is not simply one of duration. One can tour on holiday for four or five months and indeed find ways to gauge and describe a time enjoyed.

But being here involves other things. There is a sense of home here. Friends, some of whom we have had in our acquaintance now for 7 years. There are familiar smells and sights. Certain words have meaning and significance here which they do not possess over there. There is a home church, where there are now new friendly faces and a feeling of welcome. There are shared activities and shared purpose. The intensity of being here involves a significant investment in the being of here. And, of course, there is laundry and shopping and cleaning and daily obligations to be fulfilled. Occasional weekends away are punctuated by a feeling of relief at being back in our own home, in our own beds, with our familiar routines around us. The same floorboards squeak to us as we walk over them, and certain noises put brackets around the hours of our day.

For those who have been left behind in the States, there is some awareness of the great amount of effort and disruption which accompanied our departure. Things had to be sorted and managed, and we are definitely NOT there during these months. What may not be as apparent is that there will be some of the same feelings of dislocation and removal for us upon our return. We are living two parallel lives which, for the most part, do not intersect. And the shifting between them is much more than a holiday to be simply enjoyed. It is a life lived among others, in places which are as dear to us as the home which awaits our return.

To my English cousins -- about iced tea

Mother's Day on March 14 in Great Britain. I get lucky on those years that we are here, because I get two of these. March in the UK, and May in the USofA. Not a bad arrangement, actually. My celebration here included the spectacular (81 miles of torchlight along the northern border of the ancient Roman Empire) and a wonderful meal at a Mexican restaurant. Good Mexican food is hard to find here. Bad Mexican food is hard to find. We managed to find a restaurant which provided a reasonable approximation of popular TexMex chain-restaurant food. Quesadillas, with real guacamole (not green-tinted sour cream with pimentos in it). While we were at it, I thought I would shoot for the moon and ask for iced tea. The Brits drink lots and lots of tea. None of it iced. But the cheerful waitress was very happy to oblige. "Of course you can have iced tea!"

As my dh went to the loo after ordering, he noticed the bar staff talking among themselves and casting glances in our direction. Several minutes later, a cute young gal on the wait staff came by the table and asked, "So....just how would we make that iced tea?" We discussed the brewing of a pot of tea and then pouring it over ice. She seemed relieved. "That is what we were thinking we might do." And we did receive exactly that. Each of us got our small pot of tea (the normal delivery system for the hot version of this beverage, in this country) and a small glass full of ice. And we did just fine. "Do you need lemons for that?" she asked. No thanks, not for mine.

I did ask for a second larger glass of ice to facilitate the cooling of the tea. It was very nice. I closed my eyes and could almost imagine being back in the states.

Cold Comfort

Having succumbed to the persistent and perennial cold virus, I wished for a little relief in the form of a brief hot steamy shower before bed. This did not seem too unreasonable. A small simple comfort.

Alas, I was forced to settle for two out of three. "Hot" did not seem to be happening, at least not out of this antiquated plumbing. I remained hopeful until the end. Standing in one corner of the shower, a cautious distance from the tepid jet, I imagined that the tepid stream was becoming slightly warmer. I would have done better to have fetched hot water up the 4 flights of stairs in a bucket. And so, after 10 minutes, I gave up.

The bad news: no hot shower before bed.

The good news: our rooms are cold enough that the tepid water was sufficient to generate a respectable amount of steam.

Cold comfort.

Washing Machine Time

I am living life somewhere between Real Time and Washing Machine Time.

Doing laundry here is a long process which involves a fair amount of human intervention. Not that I am complaining, too much. Pastoral depictions notwithstanding, I am much happier with my present arrangement than I might be with a sturdy rock next to an icy stream. And the industrial-sized washers and dryers here are much newer and more reliable than they were the last time we visited. These, however, cost $$ (or the British equivalent) and are located -- 1, 2, 3...4 flights of stairs below the apartment.

We do have a faculty-reserved alternative. It took me a week to find it with any reliability. It is located on a half-landing, a mere 3 flights below (none of these flights, however, are narrow spiral stone stairwells). The single washer and dryer offer an inviting alternative and require no money to be operated by mere mortals. They do, however, serve as a portal into another dimension.

Down the staircase, and next to a window seat, the nearly-hidden room opens into two small chambers. The washer dominates one space. Red numbers cheerfully add additional minutes to the duration of the wash cycle -- do I want my clothes clean, or merely bathed? Do I want my cottons shrunk or merely swished? Do I want extra rinsing? Perma-press enhancement (which seems to ADD indelible creases to the items washed)? -- all of these represent additional minutes of mechanical care. There is a dial which seems to do something to the spin cycle, in increments of 500s. 500 whats, I haven't determined.

But, do not forget, mere mortal, that you have entered the realm of Washing Machine Time. The cheerful LED which indicates 58 minutes, for instance, does not obey the conventional laws of modern time measurement. Returning 72 minutes later, one still finds a small 16 blinking on the display. Should you decide to stand and wait for the final "3" minutes, it will cost you 10 minutes of your mortal life.

The dryer operates a little more predictably. No matter how many minutes things are put in to dry, they come out damp. It is somewhat daunting to have the quickest setting require minutes in the vicinity of three digits. This part of the process alone, can take all day.

I have wondered whether life could be prolonged by living more of it in Washing Machine Time. Would an hour of my life-span really last for 97 minutes if it were lived in the hidden alcove of the laundry room? I suspect the truth might be that it would only seem as if my life were prolonged unnaturally, were I to remain there all day. I don't intend to find out.

Spud Duds

It was a lovely pub supper. Everything a pub should be. It was rainy outside, and we arrived (on foot) rather wet and cold. The fire was cheerful and the room was just the right size. Not cramped, but not spacious. Very comfortable, with benches and tables and stools tucked in around in all the corners and around the edges. The hosts were helpful and had a great sense of humor. The food was excellent. Everything tasted as if it knew where it had come from. The fish tasted like proper fish, without being fishy. The potatoes were clearly potatoes, and the other vegetables had a sturdy presence on the plate. The steak pie was clearly filled with large chunks of melt-in-your-mouth beef. The beer was good, the tea was hot, and the ice cream settled in around the small gaps left by the dinner. Mushy peas were declined, as was the "toffee lumpy bumpy", the "spotted dick", and the "lemon sponge." Maybe next time...In all, it was the quintessence of a British evening. As we left, the ringers were pulling on the bells in the village church tower (rounds and titums, Liz).

Baked potatoes here are called Jacket Potatoes. I wonder what it says about the culture that British potatoes wear jackets whereas American potatoes are found in their skins. It bespoke of a more formal attitude even about food. It comes to the table fully dressed.