Hillary and the Royal Mail: A Love Story

She walked onto new shores, with that glint of hope in her eyes. She thought the mail would be just like her postal service back home. Respectful, always there when she called, putting everything she needed and asked for in her box at a convenient and predictable time (except on Sundays). Hillary would come home to her messages in a nice stack. Some words of love, others asking for money, but no one’s perfect. She hadn’t even thought to imagine that service would be so different in her new home.

Recklessly, she ordered boxes and boxes of things she needed for her new flat. “They’ll arrive at my door!” she thought, “I don’t have to carry thirty square feet of mattress pad across three boroughs on the tube!”. Little did she know this relationship would not be like her last. That she would be shackled to her home for days during regular business hours to have even the hope of a chance to see her mailman and receive her packages.

First, it was an email. “We’ll be by with one of your parcels today.” So she waited for three hours (mostly catching up on youtube videos) until, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and thought she must take a shower or go mad. Naturally this is when her postie chose to arrive and her hopes of hanging up her clothes with the new coat hangers that were due to appear, were dashed. Another email came through minutes later, “I failed to deliver your order. I’ll try again tomorrow.” She knew what that meant. Hillary had heard of his kind. Just like the cable company. Keeping you waiting all day. Never vacuuming or doing dishes for fear you might miss the knock on the door and sentence yourself to another day of this anxious, anticipatory hell. She even went so far as to change her clothes in hopes that the temptation of being both half naked and trapped in her shirt would be too much for fate to resist and a knock would sound at the door.

She can’t help but wonder, how does a country that once ruled the world function this way? Building relationships based on fear and blackmail is no way to find love, or operate a postal service. She now sees why we had that revolution. The windows, the paper, the tea, and wasting your life away waiting for the Royal Mail. She ordered coat hangers from Fife. Hillary can only imagine waiting for all of your worldly belongings in Jamestown, wondering if they’re coming via freaking rowboat across the Atlantic while you fend off native peoples with nowhere to bloody sit down because all your chairs are in the parcel!

In the early afternoon the knock finally came! (And there was actually a person on the other side of the door, unlike the first three times she answered it to no one) And just like the desperate neglected girlfriend she had become she thanked the postman profusely and took her package into her warm embrace. He doesn’t know there is another way. And she still has five more boxes coming so she really needs not to piss him off. This controlling relationship will continue so long as she lets it. Or until she stops ordering things. Or moves back to America. But he still has something she wants, namely her stuff. And so she waits. Peeking through the curtains and running to the door at every noise until she gets what she craves.

London Called, I Answered

At first it was just a casual musing. “Gee, that study abroad semester in London sure was a lot of fun.” London was a happy memory while I went about the tedious business of adulthood. Trying out jobs, and cities, and questions. Sometimes things went well and sometimes they didn’t, but I started to wonder, “How hard would it be, really, to go back?” In this age of modern communication and convenience it turns out it’s not all that hard on paper. The other challenges I usually met with “Why should I go while I’ve got this going on?” until the last year or so when that became “Why shouldn’t I go?” This was enormously helped by my acceptance into what I hope will be a pretty cool graduate program.

The view from my bedroom... — The view from my bedroom…

Mere months later, after lining up every duck that got in my way, I’m here in London. This city of history, and accents, and Cadbury, the city that has spurred the best romance novels the world has ever seen, and supports the only monarchy anyone still cares about. It’s not exactly like I remember it- five years will do that to a place. But it’s still London. Full of delectable British people and an irrational number of fried chicken shops. As long as I don’t spend too much time in my tiny West London bedroom (must do something about these bare walls) I can remember why I came so far to walk on these streets instead of the ones back home.

I’m not sure what scribe of fate had a hand in todays script for me, but they clearly had fun with it. After a very lovely and normal lunch date with a friend of a friend that I hope will lead to more friends I decided to walk to my new school that I had never seen in real life. Honestly, part of me wanted to make sure it was a real place. First, I walked the wrong direction down the right street, engaged in some very pleasant eye flirting with the dishy security man in front of the Renaissance hotel and ended up at the British Library. So I popped in to visit the Magna Carta, Jane Austen’s writing desk and Henry VIII’s letters before turning around. As you do. The walking went on for a while, but I did find the school and persuaded them to let me wander about aimlessly. It’ll do, I think. Then I got lost trying to find a tube station hiding in a bend in the road.

Made it to the platform only to hear “Ladies and gentlemen, there was a man on the track at Aldgate, the train will be 11 minutes late.” This is a very British and polite suicide report to which my fellow travelers replied with very quiet and insensitive grumbles. So we all mush onto the very late train and I snag a seat- of course, looking around avidly for a pregnant woman to give it to before she has a chance to glare at me when I take it. A couple stops before I get home, as I read the Evening Standard (my horoscope said that a big change in my life would make things confusing, but things would work out positively soon) a man on the train hands me a page ripped out from the book he was reading with his number written on it before stepping off. I smiled politely and when the doors closed me and a few other passengers/witnesses burst out laughing. I made it home only to tumble down the stairs from the platform when my ankles refused to take another step without an explanation for this crazy walking behavior.

In the strange haze of jet lag I made it home with a skinned knee, a phone number, and a sudden urge to eat lots of dried cranberries. I managed to put together a slightly healthier dinner, ordered more pillows for my bed so that I can nest in them, and questioned all my life decisions before writing this and crashing while staring at a pile of half unpacked neutrally toned shoes.

Being a Lady While Being a Lady

There are plenty of things that are perfectly within your realm of control to ensure your perpetual perception as a paragon of class and practical perfection (that was quite a bit of alliteration- I apologize). You can plan your outfits to be weather, event, and circumstantially appropriate. In fact you definitely should, because two out of three of the above is not going to cut it. Your heeled wedges are perfect for the mild summer breezes and the grass at the afternoon outdoor wedding, but if the rustic chic barn is a mile from the freaking parking lot then you will be sweaty and angry with a broken ankle when you make it to cocktail hour. In this situation you should really go with a nice ballet flat and possibly make new friends that realize the wisdom of a shuttle bus.

You can also stock your purse with all of the hydrating mist spray, hand sanitizer, bottle openers, and pens that it will fit. But, first, remember that being that prepared makes for a very heavy bag and sanitizer is not going to help you with imbalanced weight induced scoliosis. It also means it’s really hard to find the things you really do need out of your purse, like keys. Do you really need something else in your bag that possesses the power to explode at an inopportune moment? Pen, paper, and eight tootsie pops are obviously requisite.

Then there are the things that we can do nothing about, regardless of all the planning in the world. A door that is too heavy to open when your arms are full of important and precariously balanced papers. Spilling… well there are really an innumerable number of things you can spill. Wardrobe malfunctions. Periods. To continue being a lady in these kinds of scenarios takes commitment and calm. Raging lunatic is not ladylike, solves nothing, and looks good on no one. So put the papers down and then open the door. Asking for help is completely acceptable and is not a threat to global feminism. As for the spilling, a Tide pen should really be one of the pens in your stash- and if you’re like me then a spare shirt is not a bad idea. Wardrobe malfunctions can take many forms but most can be solved with a safety pin, some duct tape, or mole skin. As for periods- do not panic. Assess the crisis, excuse yourself from public interaction, do damage control insofar as you can, and call in reinforcements as necessary.

Maintaining your composure is the real key to being a lady. You are more than anything you have and anything that happens. And there’s always wine.

Slut

Quite a bit has been said about the use of the word, and what it means, and what it doesn’t mean, both literally and sociologically. Whether they’re aware of it or not it means something different to different people. And that’s entirely separate from the people who use the word as a weapon. There are interwoven issues of misogyny, and religion, and group dynamics that also come into play. So I just want to lay it all out there – mostly for the express purpose of explaining how stupid the whole thing is.

I have called people a slut (of both genders). And there will be people in the future that I call a slut. Some of them will even deserve it. I love words, and I think everyone should use as many of them as possible, but they should be used properly. To me, a slut (in it’s modern iteration) is someone who has no respect for themselves or the people they surround themselves with, who chooses to express these sentiments in an offensively sexual way (Offensive, in this case, meaning inappropriate to the given circumstance, i.e. no panties under your mid-thigh length dress at your cousin’s wedding. Your grandma is there. You are being a slut.) I am not the underwear police, wear whatever the hell you like, but there are times and places where other people’s feelings do matter more than your right to assert your preferences. Otherwise we wouldn’t have relationships, or be humans…

In the common vernacular ‘slut’ gets thrown around quite a bit. In sincerity, it seems to be a reaction to frequency or quantity of sexual activity (real or perceived)engaged in by someone of either gender or to how women dress. Now, the etymology of the word can be traced back to our good friend Chaucer, but no matter which language you slice it with ‘slut’ used to refer to someone literally dirty, like with dirt, from outside. There is no arguing that the meaning has changed and developed in the intervening six hundred years. At the first ‘slut’ was synonymous with ‘kitchen maid,” but it only took a hundred years or so for the word to mean ‘prostitute’. It’s not for me to say what kitchen maids got up to in the 15th century that contributed to this change.

German schlutt “slovenly woman,” schlampe “a slattern”

Dialectal Swedish slata “idle woman, slut”

Dutch slodde or slomp “slut,” slodder “a careless man”

Middle Dutch slore “a sluttish woman” (sorry, Kardashians)

*Strangely, just like that old standby ‘bitch,’ ‘slut’ also referred to a female dog for a while there.

So the reference to promiscuity is not entirely out of nowhere. The reaction to what women choose to wear is significantly ridiculous, even if the case is made that she is wearing “clothes that a prostitute would wear” (what about male prostitutes? No slutty gigolo uniform? I digress). In an age where E!’s Fashion Police have a segment titled Starlet or Streetwalker, it is just not a definitive way to categorize anyone. If you weren’t listening to #YesAllWomen, or the very real statistics that most rape victims were wearing sweats, jeans, or pajamas when they were attacked, or the common decency to realize that there is never an excuse for rape, then let me just plainly state the fact that nothing that anyone is or isn’t wearing is inviting, suggesting, or asking you to rape them. Ever. For this and many other reasons, calling someone a slut because of their clothes is stupid. Saying “You look cold” is at least honest, if not entirely complimentary.

Now, as far as sexual promiscuity is concerned, the label tends to be attributed as a snap judgement regardless of whether in response to a rumor, a direct confession, or a vague imagining. You had sex? Slut. You gave two different people your phone number? Slut. You spoke to people you were attracted to? Slut.

What is that?? Jealousy? Why do we have to, even in jest, imply that pursuance of intimate relationships, in whatever way we choose, is shameful? Or that there is a right way and a wrong way? No one knows the right way. It’s bad enough trying to navigate the judgments and preferences of the person you’re attracted to, much less everyone in the vicinity, everyone you speak to, and, possibly, invisible deities. There should be just as much support for the search for love as there is for the finding of it.

I’ll leave you to your own opinions regarding the incorporation of misogynistic and patriarchal values of purity and social hierarchy into our interpersonal relations that means a ‘slutty’ woman is so much worse than a ‘slutty’ man. To value women only as sexual entities and then punish them for being successfully sexual, neither of which is minutely acceptable. The only thing I’m going to say about religion (other than my blanket policy that everyone should be free to believe and practice what they want to, or not, and to respect that freedom for others) is that it’s an insult to the construct of modern society, and men in particular, that some religions impose dress and conduct codes specifically to combat uncontrollable sexual urges, temptation, and the seduction of beauty, by hiding women. We can cure diseases and create space shuttles and snowboard. Yet, we can’t expect men to behave as rational human beings when confronted with long hair, knees, or, god forbid, cleavage? Get a grip. That is not a tradition worth perpetuating. Unlike pie. Pie forever.

Careful who you’re calling a slut.

Life and Times of an Eighty Year Old Twenty Something

It’s come to my attention that I am the oldest person that I know. The first event that led to this realization occurred last week when I was driving and couldn’t figure out what glowing LED light had burnt out that was causing my car to look so dark. Then I realized that my electrical system was in good working order – I simply hadn’t driven at night-time in so long I forgot what the inside of the car looked like in the dark. Hadn’t even been in a car at night in months.

Then I looked back to the preceding week. I had spent the weekend crocheting a baby blanket (with a decorative edge – I know the fancy stitches). I had done a load of laundry comprised entirely of leggings and over-sized sweaters, and absolutely nothing else. I own more than one pair of six-inch stilettos and all I wear is brightly colored knee-high socks. I had missed a text message from a friend asking me to go to a bar because I had fallen asleep before she sent it. At 8 p.m. It was not difficult to determine that I am living the life of someone almost four times my age. And a particularly boring and introverted octogenarian at that.

The most disturbing part of this whole scenario, that is my life, is that it’s been difficult to muster up any real indignation at this state of affairs. I genuinely like spending some quality time with my nine pillows of an evening, in comfortable and unattractive outfits. But it’s doing nothing for my social life, and it’s going to be really tricky to revert back to my concert-hopping, tight dress wearing, giggles at everything alter ego when I really am eighty, and look like I should be at home in a shmata, minding an elderly menagerie.

In an effort to shake things up I have made an effort of late to leave my house for purely recreational reasons, and wear some of those dresses taking up real estate in my closet. And it turns out I’m perfectly capable of having fun. I actually really like it. But I’m still going to crochet baby blankets. And spend some Saturday nights in an enormous jumper marathoning cinematic interpretations of YA series’. I’m entirely comfortable with my own company, and sometimes I’m my favorite person to spend time with. We like all the same things.

Might work on that bedtime though.

The Thing About Dick

Now before you get too excited, I do mean Nixon. And before you get completely turned off, this has nothing to do with his politics – or even politics in general.

There is plenty to dislike about Richard Nixon, and he certainly has his share of character flaws, but there is one thing about him that I can’t help but admire. Something that has actually been helping me through some extremely challenging decisions and obstacles. Shockingly, there are some things Beyonce can’t help with.

When doing some research I found myself at Nixon’s Presidential Library, which is both an amazing research facility and an interesting museum. Apart from the gifts from China, and the glitter-walled space room, there is memorabilia from his early life and political campaign. The thing I never thought to think about, the one thing that felt relevant and relatable was how many times he tried and failed before he became the President of the United States (which makes it all the more tragic that he screwed himself over – but that’s really not the salient point). He lost and failed and messed up constantly. And he still became a Congressman, and a Senator, and gave a really sweaty speech on television, and became the President for a while. I’m not saying that I would do anything the same as this man. The elections he did win were mostly due to somehow insinuating that his competitors were communists (this after serving on the House Un-American Activities Committee).

I’m not saying that it was to any particular person’s benefit that he was eventually elected to such powerful roles, but I’ve become extremely focused on the sort of person he needed to be to keep trying. To do things he didn’t enjoy, and fill roles that were a means to an end, repeatedly, when there was not often hope of success.

It’s easy to envy those who deserve great things, and to whom they come easily as a result. We create justice in our entertainment (punishment for the bad, reward for the good) and marvel at reality when it follows suit. But that trope is not of much comfort to me, or to anyone who does everything right and has arrived at the end of the tunnel only to find that light was a flashlight someone dropped – and now it’s out of batteries. But I can admire the patience and fortitude it took to cultivate something meaningful, where it wasn’t simply given, though I really don’t feel the need to blacklist everyone in my way to do it. I believe in taking the good from whatever you’re presented with, whether it be unethical former Presidents or very limited offers for future endeavors.

Right now I can count my lucky starts on one hand, but I have hope. Hope that my silver lining attitude will pay off, even if it’s not in the way I expect. Hope is enough, for now.

Love, Your Daughter

This weekend is Mother’s Day and it seems the ideal time to reinforce the virtues of daughterhood. Of course we should appreciate our Mums, and all of the things they do for us, and their incomparable unconditional love. I’m just not sure there’s enough said about expressing those feelings through trying to be the best daughter that you can all the days of the year.

Whether your mom is your best friend or a weekly phone call, she knows you better and in a different way than anyone else ever will- so now it’s time to show her that you know her in a light that no one else can see. You know when she’s just being polite. That she makes meatloaf all the time because she likes it, not just because she knows you do. And you definitely know when she hates your sweater. So wear the top that she likes, wait three seconds at all of the stop signs, and make it clear that she is worth putting as much into being her daughter as she puts into being your mother.

My mom has been an endless and effusive font of support and love that forever cements her position as a goddess in my eyes. For the times I really need it (most of the time) and the times that I’m showing her how independent she’s made me, there simply aren’t enough ways to say “Thank You, I Love You, Everything Good About Me Is Because of You”. When I simply can’t stand every other person on Earth, she is the one I want to be with. And to be eating pasta with. And, possibly, also be drunk with. My mom is my favorite person. I’m so proud to be her daughter, and today I get to say all of these things at once.

Everyone should write their mom a love letter. This one is mine. Go write your own.

I Love You, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day! xxx

Revelation

“There’s a book that I need, that I can’t find; and I never will, because it’s in my mind.” – Hillary of Troy

DVR-BF

I’m not saying that I want someone who I’m with to change an unreasonable amount to accommodate me, but if they could come equipped with features not entirely dissimilar from my DVR that would be kind of great.

Whoever decided that abandoning all of the carefully honed habits that you cultivate into perfection as an individual, and reordering your life’s priorities to put a person your brain would like to share parts with at the top, was romantic, is more than mildly delusional. Why did I figure out what I like if I don’t get to do it anymore?

But someone who saves up all of the things you have previously decided you’re interested in hearing about so that you can choose (in small doses) convenient segments to spend time with them. Moments that you can fully commit to, that you can plan around the rest of the pieces of your life. Now there is something I can get on board with. A relationship that is all about the best, pre-sorted parts of each other, with reminders when important issues have been in the queue for too long, might be the key to lasting monogamy in our On Demand world.

Obviously every relationship would then have one person in the box and the other with the remote, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. There’s always going to be a power dynamic, this way there are simply actual batteries. Considering the alternative relationship involving batteries, it’s my personal opinion that DVR boyfriend would be preferable.

Everything else in my life has power switches and privacy settings and notifications, why not my entire romantic life? If anyone finds a guy who seems to have a lot in common with a cable box, please, tell him to get in touch.

Retro Active

It’s all well and good to be confident, forward thinking, and motivated to construct your own destiny, in fact it’s very good. But if who we are is the sum of who we have been and our dreams of who we want to be, then our pasts cannot be ignored. More worrisome, sometimes the past cannot be avoided.

We spend our lives amassing a network of friends, coworkers, and even family that become the framework of your future, and who give you something to talk about at cocktail parties. But what about when the framework seems to be constantly forming more durable and reinforced bonds in the wrong direction? Is it even possible to rip apart the welded bonds of your past to restructure your destiny? Both the easiest and the most difficult way to accomplish this is to abandon your old life altogether and start from scratch, which is both freeing and terrifying. It’s also nearly impossible with modern technology, but you can still achieve a fair approximation of it if you’re brave.

The more reasonable option to get yourself back on course has to start with knowing where, exactly, you would rather be. So much easier to plan out a path when you have a destination. On paper all of this makes a whole lot of sense, but the real challenge comes when you have to emotionally distance yourself from the life that is holding you back to seize the one you want with both hands- and the optimistic hope that it will all work out the way you want it to.

Risking everything to go after what you want is one of the most terrifying things you can do, but in my experience it is also the most fulfilling and rewarding. It almost never happens the way that you envision it, but I can’t say that I have ever come to regret throwing caution to the wind either.

Make a plan. Keep your (emotional) baggage limited to a small carry on. And take a chance.