england - the third week: is this even real?

Well, it has been quite awhile. With every intention of keeping myself updating through the trials and tribulations of immigration, I found myself absorbed in a seemingly inpenetrable bubble of stress while filling out forms and attending biometrics screenings; writing took an obvious back-burner to the nervous breaking pot simmering for weeks.

The important thing is that I am here; my Ancestry visa (allowing me 5 years in the country) went through without a hitch, and I've been an expat on English soil since February 27th, 2010. I'm down to my last 2 packs of Canadian cigarettes, and the Tim Hortons tea-bag supply ran out mere days ago. This entry is going to be in simple point form; I will delve into a full entry later in the week, I hope.

• Brits drink more tea than anyone I know. That includes myself on home soil. I did not know this was possible.
• For a country notorious for its foul weather, I'm quite happy to say that England has been sunny almost every day, all day since I've arrived.
• Central heating is my enemy. The Boy has it set to turn on at specific times, none of which include 1:00 p.m. when I am waking up with frostbite.
• British 'bargain stores' (comparable to Bargain Giant, Dollarama, etc.) are nothing like ours. The items are actually of good quality, and you can decorate your entire home by spending 40 quid at Pound Stretcher... or Wilkensons... or Home Bargains.
• While duvets might not be my best friend, the variety of pretty covers and pillows that cost less than 20 pounds is mind blowing. My Canadians with a flare for decorating would go mad.
• Everyone here wears leggings and boots. I do mean everyone.
• Middle-aged women in the UK take MUCH more pride in their appearance than those back home.
• Sainsbury's chocolate chip cookies = life.
• ASDA (the UK's Walmart) makes pizza. It is the best fresh pizza you will ever eat.
• Beef in the UK, however, leaves much to be desired.
• British in-laws are not as awful as everyone seems to think. The Boy has got the cutest parents on earth.
• It still confuses me when I realize I am having a discussion with The Boy's sister (our roomate) about her day trip to Belgium. It can be visited - in one day. WTF?
• Drivers in England are the most polite people on the road. Honestly. The traffic, however, is horrendous.
• I have done more laundry since I got here than I've done in my entire life, to date.
• This country is every bit as amazing as I thought it would be.

the good; the bad; the... bad.

(Originally written Feb. 6, 2010)

Today, The Boy (with his darling little Yorkshire slur) requested a blog of his very own; one detailing, in depth, a topic we have been amusing ourselves with since we first began speaking to each other. From the comfort of his bed, self-rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth, my blue-eyed Brit cheekily ask, “Dahlin’, why don’t you write about why British men are better than Canadian men?”And because I am a woman; predictably unable to deny his precious drawl and the giggle I hear when one of us brings this up, I am obliging. This post is not a roasting of all men living in Canada and loving a Canadian woman. It is, however, a roasting of the stereotypes I have personally encountered, both myself and through my girlfriends, during my years spent dating on a tiny island in the Atlantic. For that reason alone, there will not be an apology post following.

#1: Girls, we have ruined the men here with our willingness to ‘pay separate’ each and every time we go out for dinner. In my twenty five years on earth, I’ve only had one man pay for my meal at a restaurant prior to dating The Boy; it was chicken fingers and fries at a sports bar, and it cost 10.00. We are expected to cover at least our share on most of the outings we find ourselves taking part in, so it seems. In England, I encountered the exact opposite; a look of absolute horror and insult was directed my way if I attempted to put my hand into my purse following dinner. I found in odd, and was slightly uncomfortable allowing when The Boy would pay for things, though he assures me I will get used to it. Still, I don’t think anything will ever humor me more than his face upon visiting Canada for the first time, and being asked my a waitress, “Will that be separate?”

#2: Where I presently reside (thankfully for only another couple of weeks), the men I meet seem to have a common goal: top unemployment. It is an honor amongst men to find yourself a seasonal job that will lay you off in the winter, allowing you countless hours to try out being a starving artist, or plenty of time to get high and drive around on your snowmobile. Some of the men I’ve dated have gone so far as to move thousands of miles away from here simply to take part in the bliss of living off of the government. As a woman, finding one of these rocket scientists is the jackpot - he makes $1400.00 a month by sitting on his ass, which is plenty more than you will make yourself in most positions. While visiting my cousin (and meeting my boyfriend) overseas, I sat through a conversation that astonished me. “If my job became redundant, I’d work in fast food before I’d ever go on the dole. It’s a pride thing. Sure, some people need it, but I am able-bodied and can work, and I am providing for my family.” Yes, ladies. I felt like my brain was a puddle as well. Work… Pride… Provide… those words were so very foreign to me before visiting another country. Now I find myself snickering at a recent Facebook post I saw, from a man in my town to a recently single woman: “yo, i just got my EI check, wanna go on a date?”

#3: It takes men in this country YEARS, it seems, to decide they don’t want to marry you. Or do, though that is a rare occurrence, and you must have done something drastic to make that happen. A good portion of my friends are in relationships exceeding 3 and 4 years, without any sign of long-term commitment from their men. They longingly look at wedding dresses on the internet “for other people”, spend each and every special occasion silently praying that a high-cut, yellow diamond is going to stare them in the face. Hell, I have a friend who told her boyfriend he could buy her a $14.00 ring from AVON and she’d be satisfied. Still, in all of these situations, dreams are shattered when the boys literally flee the scene… or cry… you get the point. Either way, marriage terrifies the men around here. I teased The Boy about the same ring 6 months into our relationship. His response? “Can’t I buy you a real one that just… looks like the AVON one, if you like it so much?”. Getting married and settling down young doesn’t seem to be quite as huge of an ordeal for them; it’s as simple a thought as, “I could go for another Carling. It would be rude not to.”

#4. Cooking in this province is woman’s work; then again, so is shoveling, and cleaning… and every single chore you can think of that does not involve lying horizontally on a couch. The men I’ve lived with, dated, and even a vast majority of my male friends, are the laziest species I have ever seen. They’ve spent their lives being coddled by mother’s who have done us, their wives and girlfriends, zero favors. My mother, after a full day of work, comes home and shovels the snow in our driveway. Then she goes into the kitchen to make supper for her husband (who has been home, on the couch, all day), and her son (who is 16, and have been home for hours before she arrived). If remaining on my tiny island were in my future, I would be practicing my gear changing skills on a snow-blower for the next storm.

Thank god for immigration. That is all I can really say.

when you get up&over it&over them.

My name? Not important. What is, however, notable is that I am in my mid-twenties, and a recent survivor of the often talked about ‘quarter life crisis’. The hump-years of my life were successfully conquered without the purchase of a motorcycle (that is reserved for middle-aged males), or a revolving door of men (it didn’t revolve, so to speak, though I refuse to deny it’s existence). Luckily, I am here; still living, still breathing, and perhaps with more ease than ever before.

I’ve partaken in week-long benders, and have both celebrated and suffered for them. I’ve paid thousands of dollars for an education that seemed fruitless while slaving away at my dead-end, small town job. I’ve cried over student loans and broken hearts. It’s the typical story of a twenty-something, and though it may bore you to tears, I’m going to tell you mine.

I was born in the eighties to a loving mother and a useless father (who, to this day, seems to think your children are a mistake if they aren’t in the NHL or playing Carnegie Hall). Before I was old enough to talk, my parents moved from mainland Canada to an island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean; a cold, rural nightmare at the worst of times, a quiet place of solitude during the best. I was a literary enthusiast from birth, a forced musician from the time I was toddler. I loved to read and write, and was quite good at it. I hated to play the piano, though I was even better at that for at least a decade. Piano lessons went out the window one fall afternoon when I was a sophomore (I threw my books down a man-hole and never showed up to another class again). My father was furious, and I am certain still resents me for it. However, I was graduating soon, and with an incredible GPA; there was a light at the end of my pristine tunnel.

The drunken blur that was my 2 years of university are going to remain just that; a blemish amongst others on the overall face of my twenties. Having my first taste of freedom following 18 years of living under the rule of a father I liken to Hitler himself, I vowed I would never again reside under his roof. The city, however, defeated me in the end, and I returned to the hole-in-the-wall my parents call ‘home’ with thousands in debt and zero in pride.

What followed was several years of searching for something. Booze, boys, drugs, musicians, plane and bus tickets; anything to fill the ever present and inexplicable void in my young life. I had adventures others my age could only dream of, and met people I could not have imagined, at 18, I would ever come to know. I’ve heard music that returned to me a love I’d forgotten I had for sound and words. I’ve fallen in love, and I’ve fallen down. I’ve woken up wondering if it was possible to feel so content in my life, and fallen asleep wishing my eyes would never open again.

What matters is that I lived it. Every single moment in my life, success and failure, has lead me to this moment; finishing my final weeks in that small-town job that I’ve grown to tolerate instead of despise. In July, I decided I was going on my final adventure before settling into a life of monotony and living with my parents. Two weeks in England later, I was in love with a country every bit as beautiful as my British Grandmother described it, and a boy so wonderful I find myself smiling at the mere thought of him.

It has been six months since what I had declared my ‘final adventure’, and that is where this blog will begin; my relocation to another country and another life entirely. I’ll piss and moan about customs, luggage limits, and trying to find time to work out in the midst of packing until I arrive there, I’m certain. After that? Who knows.
Wait… perhaps I’m not quite so boring after all.