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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.