4 steps back

Lame.

I've been acting lame.

Per my post from last week, my camel finally showed up. And its back deeeeefinitely got broken.

Well, I had one of my famous meltdowns this past weekend. I hate that. It's entirely destructive and not at all constructive, and I end up frustrating myself and everyone around me. And I usually end up in tears (women, I know you know what I mean: they're not "sad" tears, they're just "pent up frustration" tears).

I've been feeling really homesick since last week. I know, I know, I said I wasn't last week, but I have to finally admit it and get it out there. The only the problem is, I only just realized it last night, in the heat of an argument (isn't that when everyone usually has an out of body experience and says "whoah, what am I doing?!"). I've been pushing it all to the back of my head, and anytime anyone asks me how am I, or how I'm coping with the change, or that it must be hard, I just slap a smile on my face and tell them the fun bits, but avoid the not-so-fun bits. I've also been pushing myself to go out and socialize here more, because that's what people do during Christmas, right? As fun as it is to meet new and interesting people, right now I'd much rather be at home watching a bad movie curled under a duvet. I used to feel bad about that, because it sounded so numbingly boring.

Well, it's about time I let myself do whatever I feel like, and if I feel like crying every other day, then that's ok for now. And it's also time I stop making the mister take the brunt of everything, because the man will start living at the office. Literally. In a cot under his desk, god forbid.

I had a routine in New York. WE had a routine. A life. A way of doing things. Life is still lovely and good, but the day-to-day doesn't exist here yet, and I haven't had my gut instinct to rely on. It's on a pause at the moment. But to make myself feel better (and to reassure the mister), I keep saying "hey, considering I've only been here for 2 months, I'm not doing that badly." And I believe that, though sometimes Missus Angry comes out and eclipses Missus Sunshine, and all goes to hell. Ughh.

We all go through our dark days and confusing patches, but the love is there at the end of the day. The love I have for myself and my life. And for my marriage. And like he said to me today:

"Don't stress. It'll get easier with every passing day."

Thanks mister.

TFIF (Thank f*%£! it's Friday)

I have to say, I have had one of those weeks.. let me rephrase that: one of those months that has brought me to a breaking point. Today is the straw, and I'm waiting for my camel to show up.

Things have just piled on top of me and I haven't been able to compartmentalize, so I've taken it all and shoved it into a tiny little corner, thinking that the anxiety, melancholy and stress would all just magically go away, and I could just pretend to be made of steel. Shyeah.

I think I'm feeling the Christmas push. It's not homesickness really, though I do miss Mamo and Tato (mom and dad in Ukrainian), and Babchya. This will be my first Christmas as a London resident. In our flat, with the mister's family (in-laws that I am very lucky to have, because I adore them). And the good food, good conversation and good wine that will surround me will be amazing, but it will just be different. New and exciting, yes, but different. On one hand I want time to go really slowly so I can take it all in and appreciate it, but on the other hand, I'd just rather get it over with and start a brand new year. I know, it confuses me too.

I'm not a hard-core sentimental (though the mister would probably disagree), but I do long for familiar smells, crisp snow at Christmas, knowing where to go to pick out presents.. just something. I don't know how to react to the holiday yet, which is odd, because I usually really feel it about a week before. Here I'm a bit numb. I'm sure I'll feel it when we start cooking on the 24th, but right now, I'm not really that fussed about it. Maybe it's the moving, new job, new country, having to figure out a lot on my own, all of that all at once, preventing me from getting warm and fuzzy about the holiday..

Blecch, who knows. I won't spend time analysing it. It's Friday, and tonight I will have a night all to myself with lots of Chinese food, bad movies, light some candles and have a bottle of wine, burying myself under a warm duvet (read: probably pass out from too much wine, knock over the candle and set fire to the shag carpet, have really weird dreams and wake up on the living room couch because I forgot to stumble back to bed. Classy.).

Is it just me or do I sense a hint of disdain for the kind of hug she's getting?

I once saw a painting called The Embrace. It was painted by Egon Schiele, who happens to be one of the mister's all-time favourites. He (Schiele, not the mister) studied/worked with Gustav Klimt- who makes my knees buckle everytime I see a piece. They make love and relationships look so easy. The passion and electricity that's displayed between the subjects makes me want to go up to the painting and touch it, taste it, breathe it in. I can't help it, I'm a very touchy-feely person.

What they fail to tell you, however, is that in reality, the scene that's depicted probably happens only a few times a month, ideally when the two people in question aren't arguing or stressed and are on the same page. And one person ultimately has to ask the other person to pay attention to them for 5 minutes. You get what you want, but not instantly, that's for sure. And here's the script that usually goes along with it:


Mister: Hey, how was your day?

myshka: Yeah, ok I guess. Just a bit drained today.

M: Oh. Well, don't let it get you down. So, what are we doing for dinner tonight? Did we record the football? Oh, I'm going out with the guys tomorrow night..

m: Yeah, whatever. Fine. Great, glad you're having fun while I'm stuck here (this is a horrible tactic of mine to make myself sound really miserable- it's the adult equivalent of stomping my feet and whining to make the other person feel bad for me. No, I'm not proud of it.). Can you please slow down and let me tell you about how I feel? I'm stressed and I need attention.

M: Well, stop moaning to me about it and say something. You're being so miserable.

m: I wasn't moaning. I'm just sressed because so much stuff isn't sorted yet, and we have to start planning Christmas, and work is getting on my nerves because people think I know everything but I actually don't and I keep digging for information that no one seems to have. I feel invisible, we never seem to have time together, and I need lots of hugs and attention and I'm also PMS-ing, which makes me want to cry at the drop of a hat these past few days. I need you to tell me I'm gorgeous and that you love me despite me nagging and being so crabby. And I feel bloated and unsexy and just generally like a big emotional tub of goo.

M: So what exactly is the problem that you have to solve? Because it's not fair of you to just rant at me to make yourself feel better. You just end up getting me stressed out.

m: I don't need a problem solved! What is it with you men?! Why can't you just run up to me and give me a huge hug if you see my face looking sad?! Why do I have to ask for things and explain them to you??

M: Because I'm not a freaking mind reader, you crazy woman. So, you still haven't said anything. What exactly do you need then?

m: I just need a big hug.

M: Oh. Okay.


Mission accomplished. Amazing what great medicine that love stuff is. I just have to remember that sometimes I need to speak up to get a little extra.

All I want for Christmas...

This past weekend I kept giggling with excitement at the prospect of decorating our flat for Christmas. I've been so productive lately- after work, I've been cooking dinner every night, baking, cleaning, we've been signing our Christmas cards.. and it's thrilled me to no end (yes, yes, organizing gets me excited). It feels like our life has a little bit of routine and sense to it right now. So I told the mister Sunday night that come Monday, I will be Christmas-ifying our flat. Yeah!

How far did I get? Little white fairy lights bordering our balcony windows. Not too bad, but not the vision I had in mind. I might as well just get a pre-tinseled neon plastic one and get it over with.

The next step? Buying presents. No clue what to get anyone. Most of all the mister, who is notoriously difficult to shop for, because he never wants anything (I now understand why it's such a female trait to run up credit card bills for Christian Loubotins, and men are just happy to run up a bar tab watching football with their mates). I know that the holiday is not about presents, but I do love finding that one special thing for someone, scouring the stores like an urban archaeologist until I happen upon the exact thing they need/want.

As for me, I'm pretty simple (or hugely complicated, depending on how you look at this): it's a running joke that I'm a fan of jewelry. But not just any sparkly thing (though those are lovely as well), but rather something unique, quirky and feminine, totally wearable and a touch of rock and roll. The mister designed the most amazing engagement ring and wedding bands for us at a jeweler called Stephen Einhorn, and I keep recommending him to people. He's amassed quite a cult following, as he's an incredible designer that only uses ethical stones. Anyway, my point was that the reason I love jewelry is not because I'm flashy, it's because I wear it like a story- each piece has a history to it, which gives it a certain life.

However, this year, our first Christmas permanently in London, I really don't want anything except my family around me and lots of hugs, wine, and good food. That's the best present ever.

Well... maybe a tree would be nice. Preferably not the pink bedazzled kind.

Desperately seeking Myshka

I used to have The Missus as my moniker, and I realized something: As much as I am proud of the fact that I'm a missus, and I adore my marriage, that's only a part of who I am. Myshka has been around since I was a pudgy little lump with a big face, and it's important for me to not forget that. And thanks to my friend Amanda, for helping me see that sparkle again.

Myshka means "little mouse" in Ukrainian, and I was called that when I was little because of many things: I was born premature, I seemed to get into everything and poke my nose in everyone's business, and quite coincidentally, I love cheese. My parents have never called me by my given name, ever. Always Myshka. I miss hearing that name (probably because all adults have moments where they don't want to grow up), and I think as we get older we should remember the things that made us feel like kids. Hard to do, but nice to think about once in a while.

Part of settling down here in London is remembering who I am and what I want. Sounds easy, right? Well, I'm the kind of person that wants to make sure everyone is happy and never want for anything, ever. It's unrealistic, but I think if I really try, I can do it. Wonder Woman, eat your heart out.

I'm realizing that there is a delicate balance: I can do that, but as long as I don't sacrifice myself in the process. Because no one is going to take care of me and what I want unless I attempt to help myself first. I think this is what's been frustrating me for the past few months, and I only just realized it. Hey, it takes time to understand yourself, right? I know lots of women out there who are exactly like me, and with age, they get wiser to the fact that loved ones respect you and understand you more when you are true to yourself. They'll always be there for you no matter what, but they can't fight your battles for you all the time.

My early New Years resolution (and I never make them) is to just take time for me and remind myself that I'm not only the missus, I'm the executive, I'm the horse-lover, I'm the jewelry-maker, I'm the hostess with the mostess, and I'm the one that tells bad jokes and laughs at her own punchlines. And the millions of other colours in between.

That's Myshka.

The British can't walk*

*Thanks to my lovely mister writing on his blog about how Americans can't park, I feel that it is my duty as a loving and sarcastic Myshka to create a sequel of sorts...

Is every walkable space in London too narrow, or do people have a strange fascination with invading your personal space and shoving you aside as they walk?

As I walk to work in the morning, I notice two things:

1. People walk right into you as if they had no depth perception.

2. Yet they manage to be really polite as they look at you with ambivalent disgust for you to get out of their way.

It's quite the experience. On my lunch break today, I was at a department store that I've grown to adore, House of Fraser, and I swear, no matter how poshly everyone is dressed, women just run into you and don't say anything. I'm serious. It's like they wander around in this haze, moving like cold molasses, and either step in front of you as you're trying to look at something in the mirror, or their hand brushes an arse cheek. Sorry, but no matter how friendly of a person I am, I still like my personal space, and it's really unnerving if someone just walks around me or in front of me like I know them, and brushes up against me too many times.

Though in New York, it's quite the opposite, so that's not great either. People are wary and suspicious of you, even if you're just walking on the pavement. New Yorkers have a certin gait to their walk, the "don't mess with me I have stuff to do and if you get in my way I'll just maneuver around you and walk out into the street if I have to" walk. It's true, I was the same way: I always took the easiest route possible, and that was usually manageable in two ways: avoid the crowds and talking to people, and walk out on the side of the road with no foot traffic, that way I have a clear route in front of me (and I have no fear of New York taxis, so I always used to dodge and weave. Not a recommended tactic).

And this is how I've come to understand Babchya (not her real name, it's the word for Grandma in Ukrainian). Babchya is my kooky grandmother and I adore her. But I never used to understand her little Babchya-isms, and one of them was taking her hand and nudging people out of her way at a grocery store if she wanted to grab something. No "excuse me", just plainly shifting people out of her way. And if she's interested in someone's shopping trolley, she will unabashedly remove that item from the trolley and ask that person about it. Or stalk them to copy what they've bought. I'm sure I'll be that same crazy old lady someday.

The point of this post is to say that both cities have their advantages and disadvantages, but I think it's fairly reasonable to ask that some lady not rub up against my arse as if it were a cashmere sweater.

And no, it won't be on sale, either.

Getting there.

Things are slowly shifting and settling, sort of like a bunch of leaves finding their place on the ground after drifting in the cold air.

I've been quite the nervous ninny since I've moved here (even for the little whie before we even moved from New York). My loved ones have borne the brunt of my wild mod swings and my inability to feel like I belong here yet. And I adore them for that. Especialy the poor, patient mister who only sees me once a week because of his schedule, and all he's gotten is a whiny Myshka, and not the Myshka that he wants and needs. Oh dear.

I know that I'm still settling in, and it'll still take me about a year to feel at home, establish some new friends and just know my way around here without using my (well-worn) copy of A-Z. For those of you who are thinking of moving to the UK, run out and grab a copy of this little book as soon as you land. It has every single street that you would ever need to find, a tube map on the back, and it's the size of your palm. Genius.

Our flat is also "settling". And by "settling" it's a nice way of me saying "every other day something falls apart and the contractors never show up to fix it, and we're paying way too much rent to have to deal with this ridiculousness". We keep fantasizing about one day in the near future when we will finally buy our own place and design it the way we want. Oh, that's so dreamy.

My job life is also settling. I finally landed one, and I start in a few days. I'm so excited, and it's a perfect role for me. And I celebrated my decision yesterday by going for a horseback ride. It is one of the best feelings in the world, to wrap my legs around a 2-ton animal and feel my body move in perfect rhythm with the horse's canter- the faster the better. It will always be one of the things that puts a huge smile on my face, and I love that exhausted feeling I have after I ride- my legs throbbing, face flushed and sweaty and being out of breath. Goodness. Take that out of context and it sounds quite sexy...haha.

Yes, things are well on their way to becoming more of a routine, which is a lovely feeling. It makes me feel like there is a method to all of this madness. And though I know that the mister tries his hardest to calm down his days but can't seem to be at home as much as he likes, my routine will also be the method to his madness. That's the kind of Myshka that the both of us need.

When the hell did it become only a month before Christmas?!?!!

I don't get how the time flies that quickly. We've been here since the beginning of October, and it has felt like ages in one respect, and milliseconds in another. And it's frightening that Christmas is around the corner and though it's my favourite holiday, I have a distinct feeling that I won't be able to appreciate it until about April. It's been a retarded whirlwind of sorts.

The mister and I haven't seen much of each other, mostly because of us working, and a lot of that work involves the mister settling into his job and spending time with people in the business that he wants to get to know better. Granted, there's a balance that we have to remind each other of, the balance of working/networking/making sure the homelife is taken care of. It's a hard balance for people with high-powered jobs like the both of us, but there's no other way to do it, otherwise, my opinion is: if you don't want to figure out the balance, then don't bother getting married.

I met someone the other day that said "Marriage is amazing but it's tough and you have to make sure that as long as the two people in the relationship are ok, then everything else will be ok. Lots of compromise, lots of patience and understanding, but above all, both people have to realize that it is a fundamental lifestyle change. There are things you have to stop doing and start doing once you get married."

Now, as boring as that sounds and I'm sure people out there are saying "What?! I don't want to change, I am who I am, and that's too bad." I totally get that, and marriage doesn't mean changing the person you're with into something unrecognisable, but you have to come to the realization that it's not just one person anymore. You are now accountable to not only yourself, but another person in the decisions you make and the consequences that result. Some habits are hard to break but have to be broken, and there are some characteristics that you have to retain to make someone the colorful and fascinating person that they are. It's all a pretty hilarious, fun and sometimes fragile balance to maintain. And you have to remind yourself 50,000 times not only how to be YOU but also be the new YOU that is a part of WE. It's a constant education.

On the other hand, all of what I've stated, plus the trillion more fun stuff and hard stuff is what makes marriage so freaking cool. You have this person next to you that calls you out on your behaviour but that supports you no matter what. Your biggest cheerleader, the one you trust your heart, soul and life with. The one you fancy. The one you inspire. The one that challenges you. The only one in the world that even in a room chock-full of gorgeous and witty people, will look at you like you'll always be sexier than any of them. The only one that even after a nasty row, will still really like you and want to hold your hand.

Maybe I'm a bit of a romantic (yeah, okay, I'm a BIG romantic), but it's those romantic feelings that get you through the tough stuff and remind you why the hell you decided to marry this crazy person in the first place, and that you cannot imagine life without them.

And that the same crazy person is waiting to hug you at the end of a long day.

Talking killer geese

I swear, I can analyse dreams to the point of scary accuracy. I don't even have to know someone well, they can tell me what they dreamt about, and I can start telling them who they are, what they know and what they're afraid of. It's really fun. I do that for my own dreams every once in a while, but hey, who the hell really wants to pick themselves apart? It's more fun doing it for someone else..

But I've been stumped. I swear, this is the funniest dream I have had in a long time, which is a good sign that the Myshka's brain is very active and very kooky again, but it really threw me for a loop. I've been laughing about it all day, really.

Synopsis: I was chased, cornered, tackled and sat on by a 4-foot tall talking goose.

I'm not joking, I woke up feeling exhausted-- like I'd actually been running full-tilt away from a pack of angry, threatening geese.

Let me start from the beginning, then- and let me preface this by saying I do not take drugs, I wasn't drunk, nor do I have multiple personalities and live in some alternate reality:

The mister and I were in a field on some autumn day, just having a walk around, it was a large green field bordered on the edge with a thick forest. In the distance we saw a pond, and next to that pond a whole gaggle of HUGE geese where just hanging out, some sitting, some walking around- there were about thirty of them, and they were the size of a toddler, all hovering around 4-feet tall.

We started getting closer, to see how close we could get without disturbing any of them. While I was walking closer, at some point I noticed that Tom had gone off to take care of something somewhere, and after that point, I was aware that I was all alone in this field. Me and the geese.

I proceeded to get close enough to see their faces quite clearly. I was about 30 feet away when one of the geese started looking at me, and kept direct eye contact with me, so I stopped moving. It then started glaring (I have no idea if an animal can glare like a human, but this one was), and moving towards me. I started backing up, as it looked pretty upset.

Then, the goose started running after me, taking really long steps, and at first I thought it was funny as I was running away, but then I got quite anxious and panicky, and I started legging it through the field, yelling for the mister to help me.

Before I knew it, I felt a cold hard beak with rough teeth clamp down on my forearm and drag me down, tackling me to the grass, face first. This thing was freakishly strong and heavy, and proceeded to overpower me and sit on my back. I kept yelling, but all was quiet.

The goose then started talking. I know, I know. How do you think I feel, writing this?

It said to me: "Stop yelling, you're being ridiculous. Nothing is going to happen to you, so just calm down and I'm going to sit here for a while and rest."

Now, the duck was so heavy, I found it difficult to breathe, but I tried to take short, quick breaths, waiting for the mister to come and save me from this preposterous situation.

Then it sunk in that the goose was speaking to me. And I thought hell, when will I have the opportunity to speak to a talking animal again? I might as well as it a question (yes, I rationalize in my dreams as well).

So I proceeded to ask the best question that came to mind:

"Do animals like to be petted ad stroked and gushed over?"

And the goose actually answered. It said: "well, you'd be surprised. We've all decided to just put up with you humans because all of you are so insecure and need attention. We don't enjoy being petted, but we've all agreed to just deal with it because you feed us."

And as I lay there, pondering that question with a 4-foot goose sitting on my back, I turned my head and saw the mister's trainers out of the corner of my eye, and I was relieved that he had come to help me (probably thinking to himself.. "jesus. I leave you for two seconds..."

And then I woke up.

Don't make any conclusions about me, I'm a normal person with an active imagination.

Who happens to dream about oversized wildlife.

Poor turkeys have nothing to give thanks for today

Over in the UK, today is Thursday. No special occasion, and I quite like that. Why do people feel a need to eat until the point of mental, physical and sartorial exhaustion? And then pass out on the couch, pants unzipped and turkey grease on their lips? Mmm. Yummy.

The thing that I like about the American holiday "Thanks"giving, is exactly that, though I shudder to think how many children describe it as Food Day. It's actually a day to be thankful for what we have, I think. Once, on a totally average day, the mister and I sat around a big table with a handful of our friends and everyone said two things that they were grateful for. It's a really fun thing to do, and I think it lets you discover more about who your friends are.

I'm thankful for my husband, my family, my health, my smile, my body, my future, my giggle, my ambition, and my heritage. I'm also thankful for cool shoes and my iPod alarm clock, but I digress.

So, it's getting progressively colder here, and it gets dark at 4pm. The cold here is really damp, not like bracing, can't-feel-my-face New York cold, but a damp cold that sits with you all day, residing in your bones, and making you wish you had a fire to jump into. And when it's cold AND rainy, I swear I end up smelling like "wet dog" (thanks to my wool coat and usually running out the door without an umbrella).

I'm getting progressively warmer on the job front, which is exciting. I've given up trying to force myself to take the handful of job offers that I've gotten. It's pointless if I don't pick the exact right thing. No dream job exists, I'm aware of that, but I have to be able to "feel" it. Trust my instincts. Know that in 6 months' time, I won't be cringing every time the girl next to me laughs. I also don't want any recruitment companies to shove me into a company somewhere just because they have to make their fees off of me. I have no patience for that.

All I can do is wait and see. And pretend that the TV perched on a cardboard box in our unfurnished living room is actually a roaring fire.

So many things to learn

When I was little, I was always in my own little world. Being an only child didn't help either (sorry, don't mean to offend anyone out there), because I was encouraged to be "me, myself & I". My parents are wonderful, but they did me a disservice by constantly sheltering me and overprotecting me and making sure I knew I was the princess. I wasn't spoiled, but I was pretty damn sure that I tried to get my way a lot of the time. And anytime I was upset, I was given license to vent my feelings and stamp my feet (to a certain degree).

Ok, so this paints me as a pretty rotten kid. But I swear, I was quite fun, playful, happy, gregarious, and constantly cared about people- almost to my detriment. I wanted to make sure everyone was happy with me all the time and that people liked me. It never happened that way, hilariously enough, because I had braces, didn't shave my legs until I was 13, had short curly hair and was a bit chubby. Not the coolest kid on the planet.

Now that I'm all grown up, I tend to underestimate how much of my childhood shaped the person I am today. I am still child-like, giggly, vivacious and I still find my greatest joy in making the person I love happy. However, some of he gnarly bits of my childhood still remain as bad habits. The tempermental, impatient, negative (it's the Ukrainian in me- we're all a bit melancholy in our genes) and selfish sides are my biggest hurdles to overcome. Why? I have no idea. Everyone has an evil twin inside themselves, and mine has almost all but disappeared, save for these few traits. It's annoying as hell to see them come out of me, because I become the Myshka that isn't exactly fun to be around. I'm really tough and opinionated and passionate, but mix those together with the bad habits, and you get a very fiery woman. I'm trying to learn and change and grow as a woman, and sometimes these are little road blocks for me, and make it hard for me to operate normally in my day and in my marriage. The mister is really good at being a grownup, and in my eyes, he is a lot of my inspiration for being a well-rounded fun person that doesn't look at the dark side of things. But there's only so much that someone outside of myself can help- I have to do that on my own, from within.

Honestly, what really sets me straight is reminding myself how blessed I am. I am healthy as a horse, I have a wonderful life in London, I have 2 families that I adore to pieces, and most of all, I have a man who promises to stand by me, adore me and witness my life, for better or worse. I'm a very lucky Myshka.

All I can do is recognize this evil twin and remind her of what she has to lose by being a big baby. And that every day is a new opportunity to start fresh and remind the important people that you fiercely love them no matter what.

Iceland

Strains of sound
Curl and wind their way
Up the path today.

The stones dig beneath my feet
The wind stains my hair with salt
My purpose is ahead of me, without fault.

I see the silhouette in front of me
The spire cutting the grey in half
A chill goes through me, the sun keeps hiding its laugh.

I touch the white wood in front of me
My feet falter, but I open the gate
The black door in front of me contains my music, my fate.

The darkness of my dress competes with the clouds
The wind whips my hair in front of my eyes
I can’t see for a quiet second, but the louder seconds follow.

The door slowly opens and the music surrounds me in a warmth I’ve never felt
Eyes peer around to see me, searching for an answer to questions of themselves
I walk slowly forward, wind pushing me, pulling me. Let me see.
Let me see him first, let me hear his laugh, let me hear him say
It’s you today. It’s you from now. It’s you that I need to smooth my furrowed brow.
A rush of lights and smiles and hands to guide my way
Leading me down a wooden floor to where he stands, looking at me like his heart knows no other way.
My heart competes with the beat of my heels on the floor
Silence is the canvas for my breath
I see my birth, my life, my death
In his face, his touch,
All in front of me
My hands shake as he,
A gold band in his hand,
Promises me eternity.

Reclaiming*

Why is it that as adults, we find it difficult to remember what it's like to feel like a child? Are we so jaded and single-minded that we don't know what wonder and amazement and naked joy feels like? These are obviously unanswerable questions, but it's nice to put them out there.

I had lunch with my old boss the other day and he reminded me of that. He said "When it feels like your days are hard and frustrating right now, try to fake yourself out by convincing yourself that the 'hard' bits are the 'exciting' bits. Like not knowing where to go food shopping, or not knowing which bread to buy. Make everything an adventure and it might help you get the energy back to deal with the transition." (he probably put it more eloquently than that, but you get the point.)

I do appreciate the fact that I've always had that child in me, that wonder, that distant "ooooh..look!" while I'm walking down the street and forget what I was supposed to be doing. That's the purest form of my nature: a child-like curiosity and excitement about life. It's been in hiding for a little while, just because I'm trying to focus on so many little things in this city, everything taking just a little longer than normal to sink in. We tend to forget, as adults, how to giggle, how to sing, how to love. So, in order to bring the little Myshka out of hiding for a bit, I'll reclaim some of what I love and what gives my life that unadulterated joy:

peanut butter sandwiches
the colour green
giggling so hard my stomach hurts
silly jokes (i.e: why doesn't a cannibal eat clowns? because they taste funny.)
watching a band play in a small venue
berries and cream- fresh whipped cream.
the smell of the mister's skin
hot croissants and butter
sunrises in Paris
chilly mornings waking up on a boat
holding hands
horseback riding (or doing any sport) to the point of exhaustion
5 hour dinners with lots of wine and friends
happy/sad crying at a film, opera, etc.
singing fun little songs to myself
making jewelry
singing along to songs by Journey and Chicago
picnics
board games
kisses. lots of them.
happy coloured shoes
dressing up for a night out
horses' faces
sleeping on a boat at sea
hot chocolate in front of a fire after skiing
seeing my wedding band sparkle
having a good current events debate
the way a kitten sounds when it first meows
speaking different languages
challenging myself
sunflowers and peonies
going on road trips
monkeys
sliding on a wooden floor with socks on
dancing little dances that I invent
hearing the mister laugh
burning dinner (but honestly trying not to. it's hilarious)
falling alseep to the ocean
filing and organizing
feeling sand under my feet
the smell of the outdoors on me when I come home
finding something so unique I know it was made for me
hugs. lots of hugs.
working really hard at a dream and not giving up
travelling and imagining the next country we'll live in
smiling. lots of it.

This is such a small chunk of who I am, but I'll stop the list now- not just because I don't want to bore anyone, but because special stuff is meant to be saved for me. Everyone has their box of magic, and I just have to remember that I have lots of deposits to make into mine.


*Disclaimer: I'm trying to formulate thoughts for this blog, but forgive me if I don't tie the threads together eloquently, as I'm competing with a table of 4 loud Indian girls with voices like chainsaws sitting next to me, and they keep slamming their fists on their table or clap to punctuate their conversations about their respective lives. I dare think what they're clapping for, all I've heard is "size", "he wants it too much" and "position". Great. I doubt they're clapping because one of them found a rare Amazonian flower that contains the cure for idiocy. Unfortunately.

Long ago, in a land far away called Starbucks...

I've turned into one of those people I despise. The pretentious writers/webdesigners/stocktraders who sit at a Starbucks sipping lattes (that have gotten so expensive, they should probably just start making the cups out of gold) and looking very pretty whilst they plan out their futures. Though there is an entirely different reason I'm here, and I'm not sipping a latte. In fact, I look like a lost little traveler, in jeans, trainers, hair pinned back and my rucksack by my pink-Conversed feet.

I am in Starbucks because we don't have internet yet, and Starbucks has gone hi-tech and installed wireless.It's been 12 days now, and we don't have a phoneline or internet. Plus, we have about 4 fuzzy channels on our TV. Our bed is still on the floor, and we have no dressers to put our clothes in. Life is good. I think it's quite an exercise in patience for us to go through this. Life for us, like I've mentioned before, is never boring. We're constantly moving, constantly uprooting ourselves, constantly shifting our perspective to save up for our dream of conquering the world.

It has been so tempting to just run out and buy the first cheap particle-board dresser we trip over, but we've had to gain a larger picture which is: why buy crap when we can invest in proper furniture that won't need to be repaired with duct tape in a year? It's a very tough question to ask ourselves, but it's an important one. The mister is working hard and travelling, so it's better for us to be patient in buying our furniture and letting ourselves focus on work, rather than adding more to our list of things to do. I have now taken on the project of making our home livable-it's in that in-between stage at the moment, where items reside for about a day, and then they're moved to a different part of the house. I hate that feeling. It's very unsettling. So, I've pretty much unpacked everything, sorted out our papers and filing, and put away in the closets what I can. The rest I'll have to wait for our dressers.

I haven't found a job yet, still in rounds of interviews. I won't go on about that, because although it's frustrating, there are loads of people out there without even a roof over their heads, and some who live in unhappy homes, so I have nothing to complain about.

I've also noticed that throughout my time here in this cafe (though it's become so generic it doesn't feel like a cafe anymore- it feels like a pit stop for urbanites to mainline espresso into their veins and leave without saying thank you. Very impersonal.), I've found it nice to hear people's voices. Right now, I feel very disconnected from people, places and things. With the time difference it's hard to reach family in America, and my friends here have very busy lives (4 girlfriends of mine have had kids in the past year). Other than the mister, my horses (I have to start my riding again) here and my in-laws are my saving grace, because when the mister is travelling, I know there's always someone to have a glass of wine with (though lately I've taken to long showers with the music playing and Sex and the City DVDs). No, the horses don't drink, I meant the in-laws.

So, until I get offered a job, I should probably feel lucky that not only do we have a flat and a very happy marriage and future together, I get to blog in the late afternoon and reflect- something that not many people get a chance to do.

I do have one complaint, though: Starbucks needs to make chairs suitable for skinny people- my arse feels like it's writing its name in the wood.

I am living the narcissist's dream

It's taken me ages to post. Not because of laziness, I'm proud to say, but because zero internet, unpacking boxes, and overproductivity. Is that even a word? Oh, forget it. I don't even know what day it is right now.

I've been interviewing for jobs left and right, and meeting people and shaking hands and hearing about how great I am. I'm exhausted. It's flattering to have people rave about me, but the amount of interviews required to land a job are enormous. First Round, Second Round, Third Round, Maybe Round, Hmm Let Me Think Some More Round, I Need You To Meet Some Of My Colleagues Round, I Think You'd Be Amazing Round... you get the picture. Selling oneself isn't easy (not in the prostitute way, don't get the wrong idea, although I'm sure it's exhausting to conduct what is essentially a naked job interview).

I'm not used to repeating to people over and over again about how I'm so great and so amazing and how much I love my job. But I use a tactic in the first 15 minutes of an interview to make it less painful: I'm literally telling people "Listen, I'm fantastic at what I do. I'm not someone who spouts bullshit to people, I love the industry that I work in, I'm very honest with people, and I'm good for a drink and a laugh. It's that easy. I won't bore you with any fancy talk." It sounds arrogant, but it works. Every time. I'm lucky that I'm tall and can be imposing in 4-inch heels, so I can get my point across and my foot in the door (literally. I'm a US 9, which is big for a girl, I know). And I have a husband who has a brilliant reputation in the same industry, so we feed eachother inspiration now and again. Anyway, it's an adventure to say the least, and if all else fails, I'll join the circus.

The other thing that's preventing me from writing is that we don't have the internet set up in our new flat (I love saying that. Yes, we found a home, and it's dreamy). Funny, I never used to care when I was living in New York, as I had the computer at work and I could always use it if I need to do anything online. Didn't need it at home and quite liked the feeling of disappearing into a non-electronic world after work. However, not having a job yet means I don't have easy access to internet if I need to contact someone about a job, or do any banking online, so it's a bit frustrating. The mister is so busy at his job that we barely have time to spend together, let alone discuss house stuff, so neither of us feel like we can get organized. Maybe that's why unpacking things in our place makes me feel like at least something is getting sorted. I think I'm a person with Procrastinative ODD- my own word that basicaly means I like to organize things but I have to "feel" the moment to do it, otherwise I just leave it to another day.

Speaking of leaving it to another day, this post has languished in the "Drafts" box for too long. I'm going to publish as is... and start another one in a moment.

Life has a lot of life in it.

Okay, I need to try and post regularly, I can't believe it's been nearly a week since I have, time has spun my head around a bit.

This past week has been one giant learning experience, for many reasons. Though, being a nouveau-Brit, realizing that there are crisps here that are Chicken or Prawn flavoured is a learning experience in itself. So you can imagine the warp speed at which my brain is processing useless and useful information.

My patience has been tested in a lot of ways, and my stubbornness is probably the cause of it. I'm always open to new experiences, new cultures, and, having lived in Italy and Oxford when I was younger, I thought pompously "okay, London. I'll figure you out in a day and a half.". And so far, London has pretty much laughed its arse off, and has challenged me every step of the way. And I respect that it's an aloof country to get to know, and makes me want to step up to the challenge. here's some of what I've observed so far:

Food: Typical ingredients listed on the side of a box of cereal in America: Sugar, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Salt, Maltodextrose, Tiny bit of wheat, Sugar, Ultra Industrial Strength Government Engineered Corn Syrup, Sugar, Some random vitamins in smaller doses than you would give a hamster, Sugar, Yellow 5, Orange 52, Red 7, Riboflavin, Niacin (we have no idea what those are, but we'll throw them in to make us look good), Flavouring (why not), Calcium (not really, but if you add milk, then technically there'll be calcium in there). Okay, I exaggerate a bit. But I never checked ingredients, as I was brought up in a very "just eat what you like in moderation" home, and I'm lucky to be very slim and athletic, so I don't watch calories and fat really. When the mister and I got married and then set up home in New York a couple of years ago, he and I went grocery shopping one day and in the bread aisle I heard him gasp very loudly. "What?!" I yelled and ran over. "Look at this," he said, "there's corn syrup or sugar in all of these loaves of bread. What the hell is sugar doing in bread for that matter, let alone something called corn syrup?" I scanned the shelves to prove him wrong, but he was right. It was everywhere. Sugar and corn syrup was even present in things like plain Cheerios, bacon, "healthy" yogurt, ice cream, peanut butter, jams. It became a perverse game for us, living there, to find things without sugar or corn syrup in them. Eventually, we just had to break down and buy expensive groceries at the local open market, or the Whole Foods. Here, the food is blissfully free of anything like syrups or dyes, and TV advertising is not allowed to air kids' snack/sweets commercials. I am so happy to be living in a country that doesn't brainwash its people into thinking Yellow 2 is good for them. It's like the government is telling them "come on- you'll like it, and you'll want more of it, because it's cheap and has pretty colors and it tastes sooo niiiicceee." The mister and I are resolved that when we have the little ones, they will not grow up in a house that's filled to the brim with lollies and cakes to keep them on a sugar low and get them to be quiet. My mum gave me carrots to chew on when I was teething, and so help me, I am obsessed with them and any vegetable that tastes like that, like ochra or sugar snap peas or radishes. There's something to be said for shoving a carrot in your child's face to get them to be quiet, instead of the thing that will rot their teeth. Maybe someday there'll be corn syrup popsicles! Mmmmm!

Pubs: You don't tip the barman. Ever. That was my very first mistake. I ordered a pint, And he gave me change, but I told him to keep a quid. He looked at me like I had just asked him to jump on top of the bar and bark like a dog. I felt my face flush immediately afterwards, and I asked someone "I wasn't supposed to do that, was I." And they looked at me in sympathy (and I detected a hint of glee), and whispered "no. and next time, when all else fails, reach for the pint in the middle. You near had a fight on your hands when you took that guy's pint by mistake." Great. The last thing I want is to come home and explain to the mister that I lovingly befriended some East End cabbie's fist.

Pubs are also the common places to enhance your social or work-related relationships. Buying someone a pint is the equivalent of a handshake, a smile, a "good to know you". People meet here, spend time, talk about life and work, and then bugger off home. It's a bookend to a day. In New York, it's a different kettle of fish. Or, I should use the term "barrell of monkeys", because that's what everyone ends up acting like after they start compulsively hitting the bottle of Absinthe at 5:05pm, as soon as they bolt from the office. New York is a strange one- people go to bars mostly to try on a character, escape from themselves, and pick up men/women (though I'm sure London has its fair share of that as well). Doesn't matter who you are, how old you are, whether you're married or single, everyone wanders down to the bar (the best ones for these events have neon signs. Real classy joints.) and tries to let go, get drunk, and end up doing something stupid. I have to say that I'm very impressed how people handle the social/networking/having fun issue over here. Very rarely have I seen people totally lose it (well, not yet anyway). I witness very lucid conversations and behaviour even after 10 pints of beer (I say other people, because I would probably have a lucid and thought-provoking conversation with just myself after 10 pints of beer). People have a certain level of respect for eachother, whether it be friends or colleagues, to not be disrespectful and inappropriate, and if they want to get totally pissed, someone usually manages to pour them into a cab and make sure that they're still breathing. Though I am annoyed by how often it happens (and how often girls spill out into the sreet and fall off chairs in their state), I am fascinated by that psychology- the New Yorkers keep to their own games and expect someone to buy them a sparkly pink drink because they want to hook up, and the British manage to welcome you in and buy you a frothy pint. In New York, it was too much to ask to take a girlfriend down to the local bar for a pint without having to put on 4-inch stilletos, a 3-inch layer of makeup and a shirt that should be called a napkin. Sorry, that's not my scene. I want conversations, not pickup lines.

Cabs: Cabbies here are amazing. They know London as if a map was burned into their brain. Plus, they're really nice people (usually) and manage to make you feel safe. The cabs are clean and roomy. New York cabs seem to smell like old plastic, sweat, and curry. And the cab drivers want to fight you for a 25% tip if you only give them 20%. I can't tell you how many times I've given the guy $20 and he pretends that I only gave him $10. Here, the polite thing to do before you get into a cab is to tell the cabbie directions, then get in. And you can actually get out and then pay him. if I had done that in New York, the cabbie would've started swearing at me in some language with too many Qs and Zs, and threaten to have me killed, because he thought that I was ditching the fare.

Real Estate Agents: We started looking for a flat to either buy or rent, and before we started, I said to the mister "What percentage is their fee? How much will we have to pay them for finding a place for us?" He looked at me like I had 3 heads. "Sorry? What do you mean?" I explained to him that anytime I've found an apartment in New York, I had to pay the agent one and a half month's rent as a fee for him taking the time out to show me his "magic book" of listings. The mister laughed and said "oh, honey. it's ok, they find our place for free- it's the landlord that pays them to find good tenants." WOW!!! Why has this idea never caught on in New York?!? Now I look back and think it's a total scam for them to do that!! Well, as soon as I heard that, I was out the door on rollerskates trying to find a place. Luckily, after looking for 2 weeks, we finally found one today. It's amazing and I totally love it and we can move out of the in-laws place soon (not that I don't love living there, because I adore my in-laws, no joke- but we need our own space, really.), and we only had to pay deposit and security. First bread with no sugar in it and now this?!? Genius.

Words to use or not use: I was recently told by my mum-in-law that I shouldn't use the word "cute", as it makes me stand out as an American. And she's right. Here, people are very frugal and very precise with their language. In America, everyone is "awesome", "cute" and "cool", and the word "like" is used every 1.4 seconds. It's a very general language. Here, the word "cute" is reserved for tiny children and puppies, and no one really says "Ohh myyy gawwwd" (I've never used that either, but so help me, when I've heard it, I've felt like slapping people). "Lovely" is common, "nice", "brilliant" is a popular term, and most commonly used terms are "please", "sorry" and "cheers", or "thank you". Unbelievable how unconsciously people do it over here, and I've had to remind myself to do it so I don't look like a moron (read: stupid American). And I'll be honest and say that i adore the slang used sometimes: "div", "donkey", "boss", "minger", "lost the plot" (you can fgure out what they mean). I don't know why, but they just have a certain panache. It does help having the accent, though.

I don't want people to think I am totally anti-American (though, don't get me started on the politics or healthcare system of that country because I'll start ranting), but I have to say, I'm proud to be a Ukrainian. I'm born American, but a European in spirit, manner and attitude. My family is both Ukrainian and British, and I am fiercely aware of anyone who labels me anything other than that. It's a pride that, in my humble opinion, people should carry with them, wherever they come from. Pride in your country, your family. Pride has been misconstrued a bit over the years, sort of like "feminism" or "diet" or "religion". I am a feminist in that I am proud to be a girl, a woman, a wife, and if I'm lucky, a mum someday. I'm not a man-hater, bra-burner, nor do I believe that just because a man in the army can do 937 pushups a woman should be able to do the same. Pride is having a strength of conviction in who you are and where you come from. It may make me seem aloof or intimidating to people, but that's who I am. Get to know me first, then hate me if you like. I can't tell you how many women have refused to get to know me because the way I carry myself is threatening to them. I could go on and on. Anyway, the idea of this post was to say that I'm living a life in a country that I am happy with, that I love, that I am proud of so far. All of this may change, and I'm going to realise it's disadvantages in the future, but I have to freedom to say how I feel and for a long time, America's been letting me down very passively, and finally I feel like I found a home.

Well, at least until the next country we discover.

Tough. Like chewing on an old boot.

I have no idea why I title these blogs the way I do, but I'm not explaining them. That's what my little creative world is like.

Sunny day number 2 today, which is lovely. Amazing how much I rely on the sun, coming from America. There, we can have bright and sunny days in the middle of dead winter. Here, it's more like gray cloud cover every day, and then once the sun comes out, the British try and tan (read: turn a curious shade of pink). I now understand what a treat it is to see sun and feel it on my freckly face- it helps me pour myself out of bed and put my clothes on (pants first, then shoes) to go outside and explore.

I've been feeling less adventurous lately, which isn't like me. I alternate between wanting to ride on each bus route to the end to see where it'll take me, to feeling a bit overwhelmed and frustrated witn my new environment. I feel like the skin that I'm in right now takes a bit of getting used to. It's the "new" Myshka that has been waiting to come out for a long time, which is a powerful feeling, but she's not fully realised yet. I never thought I'd say this, but I love having a job. And part of me is a little nervous and lost without one. I know, I know, people who might read this (there are probably all of 3 of you) would think "what?! don't complain! I hate my job! I wish I wasn't at work today!". So, this is not to make anyone envious, angry or dismissive- this is exactly how I feel and I can't apologize for it.

I like challenging myself. I like working under stress and deadlines. I like when my brain is fried at the end of a work day and the only think that can help is a glass of wine and bad TV. I like to feel like I gave it my all and tomorrow is another day to start fresh and see where the adventure goes. The mister and I are the same, in that respect. And I'm lucky to have a husband who understands what I'm going through and is patient for me to come back to my old self.

See, the "usual" Myshka is: a klutz, laughs at her own jokes, likes to dance to disco, loves to dress in strange outfits where the colors tend to clash, and is pretty much all tomboyish angles and elbows (could be a reason for the klutziness). The Myshka now is a bit subdued. Sort of like an emotional flu, and I need a good shot.

Am I whining? No. Actually, to vent a bit to a strange and anonymous audience is quite theraputic. And I'm not exactly saying anything new here. People go through this all the time in different countries, cultures and languages. It's nice to know that deep down we all feel a version of the same thing.

Now, to be superficial for a brief moment: what I CAN'T get over? I am increasingly shocked about the prices of beauty services here. No, seriously. I know America is all about convenience, so I'm sorry I'm comparing, but I never thought that in order to get a manicure I'll have to potentially sell a small body part. Here's what I mean:

regular manicure: US: $10 UK: £15 (the equivalent of $30 now)
brazilian (strip-you-bare) waxing: US: $75 UK: £50 and up ($100)
haircut: US: $100 UK: £80 ($160)

Now granted, all of these things help women look and feel good, but pssst, all of you who are charging these insane prices for things, I have a secret to tell you:

--a manicure is when a woman sits across from you and spends a minute slapping the equivalent of house paint onto your nails and then tells you to dry them under a lamp. It's not brain surgery, and it's not like the woman is grinding the paint in her own workshop the night before.

--a brazilian waxer is someone who puts hot wax onto areas that only your spouse sees, and rips out the hair by the root. The price would be worth it if she put you under hyponsis first so you could erase the white-lighted pain of the procedure.

--and yes, there are people making a fortune at being a celebrity hairstylist, but I have to say, once you get the hang of it, and you've graduated from using the rounded-end arts and crafts scissors, it's not that hard. So many friends of mine have been in bands over the years, and I managed to get quite a following with the cuts that I did. I should've started asking for cash payments instead of beer and snacks.

Yes, I understand it's all in the art of the procedure, and you do want someone that excels at their craft, and not some woman in a back alley who learned how to wax from practising on her pets. This is just my point of view as a new Brit, and honestly, if I had the money, I would immediately set up a nail salon that gave out £5 manicures. Screw it, actually, it can be all under one roof- you can get your nails done while you get waxed and get a haircut. It's like being in a Formula One race and pulling over for a pit stop. Except you happen to be naked from the waist down.

Until then, I'll be practising on the mister (no, not the waxing bit). He actually doesn't mind, as long as I don't use pink nail varnish.

Packing, leaving, landing, settling. Rinse and repeat.

Funny. I'm writing this in a place that i had no idea we'd be, six months ago. Let me explain.

Me and the mister have a bit of a history of adventure travel. Fate kind of plopped us down at a work dinner one night two years ago, and that was it. The next 10 months involved lots of transatlantic travel to see each other (New York for him as he's British, London for me), planning a house sale and job move for him, and in the middle of all of it, planning a wedding in Iceland (which bless him, he did most of the planning. I have no idea how). Then after Iceland it was Italy for our honeymoon, back to London to do a second wedding, and then moving to New York to live and work. And that's all with only 3 suitcases. I have no idea how we did it.

Back in New York, it was fun for a while, in a very transparent sort of way, but then the mister and I decided we were moving to London. For a lot of reasons, all personal. All related to family. It just made sense, and I felt very grown up all of a sudden. You know how when you're young and single, all you think about is the next day, when your next hot date is, and whether you can pay the credit card bill this month? And you make fun of people who seem to have that grand plan, that exciting love life, because you much prefer not answering to anyone, blah blah? Yeah, funny how things changed when I met the mister- everything became very clear (but still with plenty of hot dates together).

So, that's how we decided. A few months ago, we both looked at each other and said "let's go for it." We're always on the same page with our gut instinct.

I feel lucky that we got here without anything except a few suitcases and our senses of humour. We're in the process of looking for jobs, and we're picking where we want to live while staying with family. My brain is a bit overloaded because I've never really lived and worked somewhere long term except New York. My whole life was in New York, pretty much. I've travelled, I've gone to school in foreign countries, but this is different. This is us. Our adventure. Our story.

Well, it's mid afternoon now, and I have another interview to go to. I swear, I feel like I should have a trenchcoat and a suitcase full of carpet samples and go door to door. I might as well, I feel like I've met every single company in the city by now.

So here we are. London. And this is where the adventure begins. Two kids and their cameras. Me and my juice box.