Nesting...

It's what pregnant women when they are expecting a baby in the home. Some how I've started doing that to prepare for a husband.

As soon as he left, I kicked into gear on the bathroom. I've been here for about five years now. It's a sweet little house, little being the key word next to what most people feel they need to live in these days. And with only one bathroom. The rest of the house is very cute, and came to me with fresh paint, new carpet, new furnace, and other nice new shiny things. But the bathroom -------- it was the room from hell. Pepto pink PLASTIC tile covered the walls and ceiling. The only way to get rid of it - rip the walls down to the studs, and put up drywall.

Until a friend at work told me she painted her plastic tile!!! I didn't have the nerve to try it - but finally, with nesting mode kicking in, and wanting to have a nice little place for us to start a life in, I got brave.

I could not be happier!! Why did I wait so long!!? With a huge amount of help from Daddy and Sharon, we installed cabinets and light fixture, the three of us working together like two nurses with a brain surgeon, handing Dr. Papich the needed tools as requested. And we didn't even kill each other in the process. This past weekend I finished the last of the paint, put up the shower curtain and some temporary curtains on the window. All I wanted to do was stand there and look at it.

So - here are some photos of my ittsy-bittsy-yellow-polka-dot---potty. From the ugly stage to where we are now. Still not totally done, I need a towel bar and a robe hook hung, and some knick-knacks, but that will happen. I'm just happy to now show off a bathroom I don't have to appologize for, and is as cute as the rest of the house.

As always - click on the photos to make them larger.


Pretty in pink? I think not!!!











And the rusted medicine cabinet was such a nice touch.










Yes - that really is plastic tile on the ceiling! And with all that nice oozing glue between the tiles! The guy who did this was a real architect too, notice how nicely they are cut to fit. For the sake of your own sanity as well as mine, I've left out the corner where he just painted the wall pink because the tiles didn't fit, or the ones pieced in like jack-o-lantern teeth around the window.

This is half way in - there was not turning back now!! I sing the praises of Gliddon Gripper - totally amazing stuff.









Dr. Papich during a very delicate procedure.













After the work - now it's just pretty.













Next to go is the lace on the window, but it was better than the plain blind.












Just another glamour shot of my bitsy bath.











Must get that door knob back on so I don't lock myself in the bathroom again....good thing Sharon was around to let me out!!

The photos just don't do it justice - but trust me, after living with the plastic tile from hell, this is just bliss.

Hurry up ----- and wait.

His medical is done - they poked and prodded, and apparently he has an eye that does not work correctly. DK with glasses? Could be very sexy. hehehe

The police report has been ordered and should arrive around mid February. The letter has been sent to request the extension of our petition.

Now all we do is wait. We wait for his police report to arrive, then he sends off the checklist to the consulate telling them he's ready for his interview. Then he makes yet another trip to London.

So - for those wondering what's going on. Nothing. Nothing is going on except waiting. We have done everything we are required to do at this point, all we can do is wait for the process to take its course.

In the mean time, I am in major nesting mode. Re-doing the bathroom, buying stuff for him so he can inhabit THE CRATER (the basement actually), and then next is transforming the extra bedroom into a dressing room, and moving furnature and stuff around. I'm trying to keep busy and keep my mind occupied so I don't go crazy with waiting.

It's amazing how much more patient I'm becoming through all this. ---that's not a joke (mother), I'm really serious.

Anyway - this is avoidance behavior - must get back to work.

~Liza

Drama! Do we really need more drama??

Simon made it home safe and sound. Sigh......

So we are back on the visa journey again, and start looking at what to do next. We know that he has to have his medical appointment (they want to make sure he's not bringing any strange buzeezes to America, because we don't have any here), and order his police report (just so they know if he's a cereal killer or not - we must protect our Cheerios at all costs.)

Looking through all the paperwork and talking through how long stuff takes, we realize that our original petition is going to expire on February 21!!!!!!! OH NOOOOO!!!!!!

The police report takes at least 40 days, and he still wasn't scheduled for his medical. So he takes the next day off work to get it all sorted. He schedules the medical for the 16th, and goes to the police office to order the report. Meanwhile, I spend a Monday afternoon trying to find out what the heck we are supposed to do if our petition expires. Do we have to start all over at the begining? God forbid - I don't know if I could live through it again!!!

I learn from the wonderful and helpful people on the forum we belong to which is devoted to such things, that we need to request an extension. It needs to be a notarized letter, sent to the consulate in London.

So - I get sick with a horrible cold. I stay home in bed on Tuesday, not thinking it will be the end of the world. I go to work on Wednesday, letter in hand, and have it notarized. I run to the post office, and to FedEx - neither of them could get the letter to Simon before Friday so he can hand deliver it to the consulate in London when he is there on Monday. Oh my - NOW WHAT!!?? Why in the world did I have to get sick when I did? If I had mailed it one day sooner he could have picked it up. Oh well, what can you do, right?

So I emailed the consulate (THANK GOD for the Internet!!). They wrote me back a couple days later and told me that the thing does expire - but that we do NOT have to start the whole process over!!! All we need to do is have a notarized letter of intent that we still intend to marry within 90 days of his arrival in the States. HUZZAH!!! We have such a letter!!!! It's now winging its way to England as we speak, and he will take it to his interview once it's scheduled.

He also received a letter from the police today that he should have the report by the 19th of February!!!! Coolness reigns.

I keep having to think, that once this is all over and we don't have to deal with immigration any more, we will look back and say ----- oh, it wasn't that bad.

:-)

~Liza

Sad dreary day.

He’s gone.

The house is cold and empty now, just me and the Muff, in a messy house, the remains of a wonderful two weeks. He’s arrived safely back in England, after a two hour delay of his flight (no surprise there).

Now we begin yet another count down till he’s here for good.

Back to work for me today – not really in the mood for it. Over 100 email messages waiting for me, so better get to it I suppose.

Counting the days till I can see him coming into the room to give me a kiss.

~Liza

Meat on Stick!

It is, ultimately, the simple things in life which are pleasant.

Not that getting down to North Carolina is simple - it is not. It involves no less than four different modes of transport (not counting Shank's Pony); a Jeep, some sort of ex-Vietnam bus (I am convinced that the bus which ferried us from the parking lot to the airport had run GIs into Hanoi hotspots, or perhaps transported arms to the Contras), a Chrysler PT Cruiser with more bling than a group of chavs who mugged Mr. T and an overgrown cigar tube with wings filled with liquid explosive, made from a million different parts all made by the lowest bidder.

Still, despite the inherent complexity of getting to NC (here's a question - if I wanted to transport explosives, would I do so in the same manner as people who have already done this before, and been caught doing so? I like to think not. Why, therefore, are the airline security check procedures based on what has blown stuff up previously? Do we, perhaps, not need to think outside the box here, people?) we managed to get there.

North Carolina is very pretty - is it certainly "the South"; which I distinguish from "the North" by virtue of being between it and the Equator. These things are not difficult, people. It also appears to be the place where there are less Confederate Flags than Hazel Park and less Stars and Stripes than Grovesnor Square. Go figure. There was a monument or something there - raised by ex-Confederate soldiers as a testament to "Southern Ideals".

Excuse me? In Europe, we call such people recidivist traitors. We imprison them. We hang them. We place them in gulags. We certainly do not allow them to erect monuments. An ideological war was fought, a kind of intellectual trial-by-combat, and you lost. Get over it. Here is a late-breaking news-flash; slavery is not a good counterpart to "self-evident" truths.

However, there appear to be other Southern ideals - such as the cooking - which are better counterparts to this. Perhaps the line "All men are created equal, but some are more equal than others" was invented for this very situation; after a week of eating everything that was placed before me (and, when you go to an "All you can stuff down your throat in a hideous orgy of consumption" Southern Bar-B-Q Restaurant, that is rather a lot) I am now far more equal than I was before. I did, however, avoid putting the butter on everything.

Ultimately, North Carolina is very pleasant and friendly - everyone says "hello" and asks how you are. I am not sure if it is done to reply - perhaps not. The defintion of a bore might be Someone who, when you ask him how he is, tells you but that might also apply to a Northerner in a Southern town. I suppose I count as an Easterner. It is a unique experience.

One night when we were there, Otis (Liza's stepfather) and I lit an enormous fire and sat around it and drank Maker's Mark whiskey. It is a scurilous lie with no foundation in truth that the two of us drank three bottles of said liquor over a period of less than a week. It was that guy.

Otis and Lin (Liza's mother) are really nice people - we spent ages talking about all sorts of stuff. Otis is very much into theatrics and Shakespeare in particular. On our little Christmas night (which went on for an age as it seems a family trait to be unable to buy a single present when fifty will do) we had "Dinner Theatre"; Otis gave a sterling rendition of the opening monologue from Richard III and I did (with the help of a cheat sheet) the Battle of Agincourt speech from Henry V ("Once more into the breach, friends, Romans and countrymen, now is the band of brothers until the last sylable of recorded time" . . . or am I getting confused again?)

In addition to the fine food cooked by everyone (I think we all had a hand in something somewhere - although all I did was cut up some chickens, while everyone else made fine things, including - from Liza's grandmother - Continental-style pastries whose name I will not attempt to type or else my fingers may tie in knots) Otis and I roasted MEAT ON STICK!!!!! in the fire.

There is something primal about the roasting of meat on stick. It affirms the manliness of the roaster, and shows a strong, masculine afirmation of his dominance over the lesser things of the world (i.e. sticks and meat). Armed with a stick, meat, fire and sufficient liquor to make the bringing of such things together in close proximity a good idea, one can take on the world.

It is my firm belief that - if someone cannot roast an innocent hot dog on a length of stick, then how can he be trusted? Such a man is like the fellow with a made-up-tie, or a sock down his pants. There is something untrustworthy about a person like that.

It was not, I fear, something the ladies understood. Never mind; Otis and I roasted things on sticks. We drank beer.

Life is good.

Darknight

Merry Christmas From the NC Side

Sigmund Freud is alive and well in Michigan

We have now returned from North Carolina (the adventures therein will be the subject of further entries) and have gone for some grocery shopping.

It is this which looms large in my consciousness at this time - observations on the nature of grocery shopping in the USA vis-a-vis the same experience in England.

Firstly, let us speak of feminine hygiene products and sausage - and Freudian comparisons thereto. There is an aisle in the store which contains said products for the female. At the head of this aisle, there is a display of packets of sliced pepperoni sausage.

Right . . . am I the only one who finds this to be a little . . . apropos? Disconcerting? We have products which have (let us be fair) emancipated the modern female to do roller bladeing, skydiving, swimming and so forth while wearing tight white trousers and / or Brazilian cut bikinis without either a) embarrassment or b) attracting sharks. The modern female is no longer rendered persona non grata for a week out of every four. Levitican laws notwithstanding, these products have done much to integrate the female into the full enjoyment of life.

(As an aside, how many women reading this want to go roller bladeing during their period? I mean, come on. Most women I know want to stay at home and eat chocolate and drink red wine and watch Patrick Swayze movies. There is nothing wrong with this, but don't market a product to the strains of "It's my life" pretending it can overcome four and a half thousand years of Original Sin - you are asking a lot of a bit of cotton wool with a string attached.)

Anyway . . . said (emancipating) products are placed next to a metaphorical emasculation product . . . is this a victory for Germaine Greer or what? Is this the First Church of the Magdalene's lobbyists really earning those tithe-dollars? Have I thought about this too much? And could I rip off Sienfeld's style any more if I tried?

Okay, let us discuss what else I saw there. Jack Daniel's alcopops. Yes, you heard me right - JD as an alcopop.

Okay, goys and burls, let me let you into a secret. I drink Jack. I drink Jack or Maker's Mark - both of these are Southern-style Bourbons whose claim to fame according to the marketing man is that they have a good-ol' Southern style to them. Not sure what a good-ol' Southern style is - often these things say on the label "As served to Conferderate troops before the battle of Gettysburg". No wonder they lost.

Because this is the truth of the matter - such things are an acquired taste. They are, perhaps, a taste which is best not acquired. It is said that Coke will dissolve a tooth or clean a penny - Jack not only eats its way through the ABC suit, but is banned in most Middle Eastern countries.

(So is all alcohol - this is hyperbole.)

(Note for the Americans in the audience - hyper-bole is not a large form of tree trunk.)

One is not supposed to like these things when one first drinks them. They are not supposed to be palatable initially. Drinking them is a rite of passage - and a more threatening and impressive one than killing a non-threatening animal the size of a small car with a .45 calibre rifle at 200 yards with a scope and two shots. Look, just don't get me started on the whole "hunting in Michigan" thing - "I'm proud of my son" said some fool of a father on TV. Yeah, he killed something that never hurt him with his own gun before he was old enough to celebrate with a drink afterwards. God Bless America - it sure needs the help.

Anyway, speaking of youngsters and alcohol - WTF is going on with the concept of a Jalckopop? (I am patenting that). I get the idea of a vodka-based alcopop - vodka has very little taste. It is, essentially, something added to soft drinks in order to get a little sloshed without the disgusting taste side effects of the usual rotgut. White wine based drinks are another one favoured by girls who spend three hours getting ready and wear more make-up and jewelery than clothes.

But a Bourbon-based alcopop? That is some hideous concept - the drink itself was a kind of mouthwash pink. It came in a beer-style bottle and a little cardboard case carrying four of them. Supposedly, this makes you look hard and tough.

Lads, let me break this to you gently - you are drinking something the colour of a tart's boudoir - you look about as gay as Liberace and less-tough than that kid in third grade the nerds stole lunch money from. Don't touch the Jalckopop with a bargepole - unless you are going to use said pole to push it into the canal. And, hey - such cruelty to fish can't be any worse than shooting them. I guess they only do it in barrels here.

Butter - this is another thing. Butter. In England, you do two things with butter - you put it on bread products, or you cook with it. Not here - here it is two things; i) whipped and ii) a condiment. Let's address these travesties one at a time.

Whipped butter. It ceases at this stage to be yellow - it goes white. It is also - because of the vast quantity of air in there - easy to spread straight from the fridge.

Hello? If I wanted something that was easy to spread straight from the fridge, I would eat margarine! Don't usurp my homogonised ("Hehe - he said homo!") industrial-plastic-manufacture-by-product's position in gradually turning my arteries into silicon based tubes! Damn you, with you healthy farm-house spread make usable via the fiendish technology of a whisk! Butter is supposed to be a chore - it is supposed to come in lumps which tear the bread into slivers. Don't you understand? If spreading your toast is easy, why, everyone would do it! No-one would need oranges for marmalade - think of the Californians and the Floridians! They need the tax-dollars - they are, after all, living in a tornado-shy and on a fault-line.

Okay, here is the big problem - a condiment. It just gets stuck on everything here - I made Liza some rice last night, and she put butter on it. She sticks it on greens and potatoes and meat and omelettes and fish and giraffes and . . .

(More things which are "not large tree trunks", there.)

Anyway, they sell many forms of "pseudo-butter". Some of them have names like "I can't believe it's not butter" and so forth. We have these too. However, I am - as an Englishman in Detroit (it's like an Englishman in New York, but further north-west, with less jobs and nicer cab-drivers) - perpetually thinking "I can't believe it is butter" - for the butter here comes in silly little sticks; these appear to be the de facto measurement for butter. "A stick". "A stick and a half". Four sticks make a pound.

No, 16 oz make a pound. Four sticks make a very small fire or a malformed tepee.

I am going to market a product called "F*** me, it's butter". It will be butter - and nothing else. It will be yellow. It will come in one pound blocks. It will not be in sticks. It will not be whipped. It will say on the side "Not to be used as a condiment. A portion of the profit goes to supporting rich dotcom millionaires and retirees who have gone to live in a State with perpetual sunshine, but a bad disaster record."

And that brings me on to another thing; weights and measures. I can understand that the gasoline is measured in gallons - we do it in litres, because the "ccs" of our car engine capacities are cubic centimetres rather than concert chambers, and we tend to get miles to the gallon rather than gallons to the mile. It is still a liquid sold by volume.

Okay, why do I have to order a "24 oz" beer? Why is flour measured in "cups"? Only in the USA would I order a beer and a clam chowder and have to order the drink by weight and the food by volume.

Sticks and cups and weight for liquids - what is this? Is this some Federal conspiracy to stop people from knowing how big stuff is? "Maybe then they won't notice the fact we are paying $1642.34 for a toilet seat!"

Cheese and pasta, people - pasta and cheese. Let's get this entirely straight - pasta is not a hard thing to cook; you boil it until soft as you like. In water. Measured by volume.

Cheese sauce is pretty simple to - you have some hot milk, you whisk in flour, you melt in grated cheese. The work of five minutes. None of these ingredients are complex - none of them are hard to find. They do not require specialised skills or stores or storage. One does not need to be a master with five year's experience to remove the wrapper from cheese; Monterey Jack is not the Japanese Fugo Fish.

So why the Sam Hill are there, not one or two, but about a million different kinds of "pasta with cheese" Instameal (TM)? How can these people make a living? "Hey, Tarquin - we need a new product! That Jalckopop didn't go down too well - we've got guys too-queer for CNN holding up liquor stores." "Don't worry, Tony - I've got it. More pasta and sauce crap - kids love it." "Thanks, Tarquin - have some stock options."

In short, shopping in the USA in an experience. One I would recommend to anyone with the patience of a Saint and the capacity to withstand multiple cardiac shocks. I will leave you with one final note, something that I found really surprising.

You cannot buy brown-shelled eggs. All the eggs are whiter than snow - haven't the chicken farmers heard of the Emancipation Proclamation?

Darknight