I was watching a “Modern Family” episode the other day that perfectly described my relationship with Jock. Bear with me for a moment if you’ve seen it.
One half of the family (we’ll call them the “dreamers”) believed themselves completely able to lodge a pumpkin across the length of a football field. The other half (the “realists”) guffawed at the sheer idiocy of such a ridiculous idea.
The dreamers, not willing to give up their, well, ‘dream’, went to the football field with a rubber launching gadget and a pumpkin while the realists stood back waiting to be proven right.
Of course, the idea was ridiculous, the pumpkin barely got a few feet and splattered all over the ground, and the realists gloated for a few seconds while the dreamers were embarrassed and shamed. That’s when the magic happened (says the dreamer, and smiles).
The realists realized their cruelty (I like to call it “stomping on a poor, starving kitten after he rushed to get the last sip of milk”)…ah hem, anyway…and rushed to help figure out why it didn’t work and figure out a solution.
Now, if I weren’t a dreamer, I would never have written a book, left my job at Kelly Services to start working for a new startup nor would I always want the window seat on a plane simply to finally know what it was like to fly. But if Jock weren’t a realist to bring me back to earth, I would have spent all our money already, I would have published my book many months earlier when it wasn’t ready and I would have made countless other mistakes. Plus, we never have to argue about who gets the window seat. He prefers the aisle with extra leg room.
I like to think that I remind him that amazing things can happen if you let them and that sometimes dreaming makes life that much more exciting.
Somewhere in the middle, we slept in a loft on Knowles farm, got lost for over an hour and a half on other country roads in Wales, watched as the most lovely couple in the world walked down the aisle to exchange vows, toasted champagne, listened to a doting father boast about his beautiful daughter on her wedding day, ate the best paté in the world, danced in heels til our feet got swollen and took some pictures in a fancy dress photo booth (images below to prove it).
And no, we won’t talk about another bouquet landing at my feet – because, my God, that would just be RIDICULOUS!
One bouquet at a wedding thrown in my direction. Fine. Second bouquet at a second wedding, I’ll admit, I may have dove for it.
But a third bouquet??
I stared at it as it sailed past all the hopeful bridesmaids, the bitter friends and the gleeful wives (yes, there were some wives mixed in – hoping for another marriage?) towards my head on the far right side of the hill. I summoned all my telekinesis power to inch it in another direction so as not to look the desperate fool that I apparently am becoming at weddings. But alas, I stepped an inch away, and the darn bouquet landed at my feet…AGAIN.
Jeers and bewilderment from the crowd as they didn’t understand my torture and embarrassment. What woman could dare step away from a bouquet coming towards her head, they all thought to themselves (some said out loud). Surely, had they known, they would have pushed me out of the way themselves – thinking Selfish Cow, how many bouquets do you want to steal from other women??
As the bouquet smashed to my feet, I unwillingly picked it back up, and tossed it back to the bride. “I’ll have another go,” she yelled back, catching it, and smiling in understanding. I nodded modestly, and picked up a loose rose, tucked it in my ear and watched as she expertly tossed it to her willing sister in the front row.
The rest of the night I fielded many questions as to why I let the bouquet go astray, and I understand! What single gal wouldn’t want to catch it? Well, I have my pride! And as a three-time bouquet catcher, I will not be marred as the “one who hogs the wedding bouquet spotlight.” No, it’s time to let the other women shine, and let them hope that they might be the next to get that ring on their finger. I’ve had my time.
Time to sip some more Jameson.
The rest of the wedding couldn’t have been more perfect. Her lacey dress was glamorous, sophisticated, modern-yet-vintage and they both were glowing.
The ceremony was in a church that only holds one wedding per year (hence why Gini from our bed and breakfast referred to it as “The Wedding”), and the sun shone the entire day. Everyone was in great spirits, dancing the night away to a live band crooning out oldies to the tones of Marvin Gaye and James Brown, and mixing cider with beer with champagne and shots. Gemma thought of everything – her attention to detail was impeccable.
Besides the cab getting lost on the way back to our farm house, and taking nearly an hour to find it – it was an incredible time. I’m so so happy for Gemma and Liam.
These type of weddings make me believe that true love is possible, and will last.
Plus, it was so great to be able to catch up with Jock’s family. I do miss them all, as I know he does as well. Little Olivia (Jock’s third niece) has grown up so much in a year! She’s walking and babbling, and I swear she said “Meagan” once! Ok, maybe it was more like “Magum.”
We picked up his other nieces from school a couple of times, and I love seeing them growing up to become wonderful little girls. At one point, the middle child, Grace, said to me – “Can you hear yourself speak? Do you know you are speaking like an American?”
I am! It’s our good friends, Gemma and Liam’s, wedding in a small town at the very West of Wales called Pembrokeshire. We’re stopping off in Portsmouth back at Jock’s parents house before picking up Tommo and Greg in Bristol, and then heading off to the wedding.
I don’t remember everything being so small. I mean, I do, but I think I thought I had imagined it. But no, the houses and cars and streets and buildings all remain very small, and dare I say it? Quaint…
The past months have been a learning time for me – learning to readjust to working life, learning how to live in the midwest, and almost re-learning a bit of my independence. When we lived in England, I was very reliant on Jock for most everything – directions, money, car, friends, social life and support.
Now that we’re back in the states, a lot of that has changed. We’re both working, I am making my own friends, as is he, and we don’t have a car, so directions aren’t needed. It feels good to reclaim that, and now that I’m back in England, I feel like I’m looking at it all with fresh eyes – the past, England, his family and what it was like to live here. I could certainly live here again…
I don’t often admit this, but I think there was a bit of shame in me living off someone almost completely. Granted, I was writing my novel, and tending to my running, etc…but in the back of your mind, you can’t help but feel a bit useless for not bringing in money or contributing in that way. Jock, at this point, would shrug and say ‘it was what it was,’ and we had to make ends meet, and I would have done the same, etc. All very true, but as much as you tell yourself that, it still feels (for lack of a better word) icky.
I look forward to seeing all of our old friends and reconnecting.
I can’t say what it is yet, but there are more changes to come in the next year. Everything feels so exciting.
I was watching the movie, “The Adjustment Bureau” on the plane ride over here (while the woman next to me rested her baby on my lap and took a nap, and her other son screamed in my other ear…and did I mention the 50 Americans all wearing purple shirts that literally had a big crown on it with the words “What Makes a Man a King?” – embarrassing) -
ANYwho…the movie, “The Adjustment Bureau,” is mostly about these “angels” or “men in suits” who tinker with a human’s free will. They adjust events so that everything goes “according to plan.” I’ve often felt this throughout my life, why I dropped my bottle of water on the way to the plane, or bigger events – like walking down a back alley in Amsterdam only to run into old friends from LA, or in September walking into LaGuardia just at the moment that my 2005 roommate from Paris was flying out – but I really do feel like there are angels who have my back, and steering me down the right course.
But more on that later…(and why my plans are coming together)
Now, it’s time for some tea.
P.S. I got into the country safely, obviously. I was questioned by the guard, but he said I would probably have to be detained each time because of the Visa that got denied a few years back. Such silly legal advice we got. But he was very nice, and said that the more often I come into the country, the better it will be.
It is literally DRIVING me mad. Or at least it was.
No, not the half hearted “Have a nice day” messages I get from the over worked and underpaid supermarket staff so drilled in “customer service” they sound like a monotone robot.
Nope, not even the size of printing paper over here. Printing paper? – I hear you ask. Yes, printing paper. Why can’t we have a universal size the entire world uses? Oh we do. Just everybody in the entire world except the USA. What is this 8.5″ x 11″ you talk of? You’re telling me I can’t even print out my CV (no, not a Resume) onto a glorious bit of A4? I seriously long for a bit of A4, no really, I do. I repeat, A4 paper size is the standard letter format of all countries in the entire world except the USA!!! Mr America, I know you like to be bigger, but come on, its f***ing paper.
(Although I do like the thought of Obama, at a United Nations conference, handing out the US update on the Iraq situation using his silly sized paper and Mr Cameron chuckling to himself thinking “…..even their paper is fatter than ours….!!”
Nope, not any of the above, quite simply, what is driving me mad is the actual driving out here. Not the fact you drive on the wrong side (before you kids start I am aware that 78% of the world drives on the so-called RIGHT side!) I can handle that, it’s fine, its just as a Brit I like some rules on a road.
I like to cruise along at a reasonable speed in my flat cap, listening to the Beatles, having a spiffing time, and when I see a light turn to red I slow down, apply my handbrake, and wish all the crossing pedestrians a jolly good morning. Chicagoans prefer to charge along at 50mph in a 30 mph zone, swerve across 3 lanes just to get one car ahead and upon seeing the light change red accelerate to get through it for fear the burger joint might shut (it won’t, it’s open 24 hours, everything is open 24 hours here), all the while continuously honking their horns at anyone who slightly breathes in their direction.
What’s with the horn honking over here?
I like rules. In the UK you sound your horn to warn other road users of your presence, or, just to be crazy, as an unwritten rule, sounding it to get someone’s attention. Here I just don’t get it.
My first day: Honk Honk, “Meagan, what is it, what’s he honking for? What have I missed?”
“No idea, dear”. Honk Honk.
“What now babe? Is there a ridiculously over-sized petrol guzzling vehicle trying to get past?”
“No idea, dear”. Honk Honk.
“Seriously what now?”
Meagan calmly, “Maybe they are just warning you they are there?”
Warning me?? I have got eyes and can see they are all the way over there in Lane 8 of this super highway, I’m in Lane 1, nearly 20 miles away. This is ridiculous. Honk Honk.
“OK now I’m pissed,” (sounding more American!). So I swerve across 3 lanes to give him something to really Honk Honk about, see the light has just turned red and accelerate to 50mph. “Damn I need a burger.”
My rage has past. I now drive like an American, fast, across lanes and aggressive. (OK I was a little like that before). I’ve settled into the mayhem, I no longer thank people for letting me out in traffic because no-one lets you out, you push in, with aggression. I don’t apologize for cutting people up or blocking an intersection because nobody does in Chicago. It’s just the way. Its what you do. Followed by a Honk Honk.
I no longer hear the Honk Honk’s. I join in now and again, just for fun. I pretend that each Honk Honk is the drivers way of telling the world he needs a shit, and he needs one quick so get out of his way. It makes me laugh to think that.
I have an excellent resume on crisp 8.5″ x 11″ paper. God bless America.
~Bloke who Brunches
P.S. – For all you A4 paper fans, I am aware Canada too does not use A4 paper – no surprise, they always copy the USA
P.P.S. – for my good American friend Marc over in LA, Meagan presented a Gorilla in her post, I gave you Jock the Gorilla from Bristol, now I give you Jock with a Gorilla in Uganda.
Although Chicago is still in the same nation I grew up, it may as well be in a foreign country.
I’m moved enough times, that I know you gotta have a plan of action when it comes to meeting new friends, getting jobs – setting up shop. (I didn’t realize I actually had a plan of action until now. A month into my move and the plan that I’ve always incorporated is somehow starting to pan out. I can see the connections coming to life.)
My approach to Chicago is the same as how I approached living in Los Angeles, Bristol and New York – find connections however and wherever possible.
First, I narrow down my interests, my history, my friends and my relatives.
For example, I know that I love reading and socializing. As some of you know, I began a Book Club for Women when I lived in Bristol called “The Ladies Who…” Obviously, I wouldn’t have been able to do it with just me sitting there, so it was a success because of the people who were involved. Had I not known a few women in Bristol, I would have set up one with a Meetup.com club. For me, this killed two birds with one stone – one, we created a theme once a month for the fun, social part and two, we read a book to discuss. This fulfilled my love for reading.
There is a book club in Chicago that I’ve joined – our first meeting is at the end of the month. Very excited to meet new ladies!
I also love speaking French – so I join a French club. In Bristol, I was never able to get up and go to one. I joined one, but I never once attended. I think a part of me was scared that I wouldn’t be able to speak as well as I used to and I convinced myself that there was no point. I have now joined one in Chicago - here’s to me getting off my ass and doing what I’m saying I’m going to do. (Side note: working at a temp job right now, meeting is taking place with the European staff and I spoke French! I was even told my French was excellent. Get that? Excellent. Or, J’ai un bon accent! Merci bien, mais ca fais longtemps que j’ai pas parle. Il faut pratiquer!)
Next, I reach out to alumni groups. My mother reminded me of the Trojan Family that I belong to, and why I didn’t think to hit them up before, I have no idea. USC is a massive school with an amazing alumni group.
I have gone to one USC Football game so far in the Chicago area, and I met some of the nicest people. Sure, our rally cries each time the team scores a touchdown can be a bit, how do I say this? …Exuberant, at times, but it gets us all united (annoys the hell out of the rest of the bar), but makes us feel every bit the University of Spoiled Children that we are.
Lead guy stands up, revs up the alums with a hand dig/fist pump and a bellowing out of “OHHHHHHHHHH” starts us off. That’s our cue to spell out “S-O-U-T-H-E-R-N-C-A-L-I-F-O-R-N-I-A” in an upward escalating, fashion to a rhythm created by our drunken, sweater-wearing forefathers. Remembering how to spell “Southern California” is part of the testing that’s involved with initiation and acceptance into our fine university. Then, to make sure the rest of the bar knows what we’ve spelled, we scream as loud as we possibly can “SOUTHERN CAL-I-FORRRRRRNIA!”
In case you want to watch a live version, here we go:
God, I love College Football. God, I love USC alums.
Anyway, I’ve made some great connections through them, helping me to find jobs, volunteering at high schools to get more Slutty Chicks…erm, I mean, to get more ‘SC students.
Through emails, facebook, blogging, linkedin and twitter, it’s amazing how many connections I’ve found out that I have here. Melissa, a girl who I went to school with during the 2nd Grade in Tennessee is now going to school out here. I missed her awesome Toga party this past weekend because of my sister’s baby shower, but I fully intend on getting together.
And the best part about living here is the amount of help that people want to give out. There has been an endless supply of suggestions, connections, recommendations, referrals. Which is why I haven’t really stopped working in over three weeks now. My dad randomly emails a headhunter on LinkedIn and she gets me a job with midVenturesLAUNCH (it lasted 10 days, but now I’m blogging for them 10 hours a week). Katie, the wife of one of Jock’s friends and now my friend, works for a promotional company on the weekends and now I am set up with them as well.
I have an interview for a restaurant through another connection. A guy I guest-blogged for when I was in England referred me to his company in Chicago. The list goes on.
Then, as for Jock – he just goes to the closest Irish or English pub and he finds people of his kind. Men have it so easy! I swear every English knows each other, and if you disagree, you haven’t met this Englishman named Jock.
Resources, interests and past history is the best source of connections, I’ve found. Technology has made moving so much easier as well. If we can just learn to use it to our benefits, it opens so many doors.
P.S. The Bloke Who Brunches will be back on the next post…
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