Happy Fourth of July!

The fourth of July is not only about this:



In my family, it is also about my Dad, who turns 63 today...



And it's also about my brother-in-law, who turns a whopping 30 today...



Happy Birthday to you both!!

Two months of Jack

Our first photo as a family



 

Jack Henry, born at 7:26 PM on April 30, 2009. 8 lbs, 11 0z, 20 inches long



He came via C-section, after 19 hours of labor (thankfully I had an epidural), four hours of pushing, and a few unsuccessful attempts to vacuum his poor head out of my hoo-ha.





 

 

We took him home



 

We gave him a bris (he didn't cry at all!)



 

And he just grew and grew.













Happy two month birthday, little man.

What a Father Looks Like

 



 



 



 



 

How do Mommy Bloggers post every day?

I can barely manage to post this photo!

Happy Mother's Day

Welcome to the world, little boy!

It's official. I'm a mommy!

I went into labor Wednesday evening, and got to the hospital in the wee small hours of Thursday morning. Details of the birth story later... For now let me just say welcome to the world to my little boy, still awaiting a name, weighing in at a whopping 8 lbs, 11 oz. and 20 inches long. He is awfully cute. We might keep him.

What's real is real

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."                  Kahlil Gibran

Yesterday I was reading Rebecca's post "The Almost Divorce" over on Girls Gone Child. Her blog is one of the few I found during my frenzied Internet search for other unmarried women who found themselves pregnant.  I've taken a lot of comfort from her story, especially her love story. She got pregnant with a man she'd been dating for only four months, and they decided to elope to Vegas and make it work. The key word here being "work." Because apparently the first two years were so rough that they were on the brink of splitting up most of the time.

In my case, David and I were together for a year and living together for four months when we got pregnant. We were also older, and in a more stable financial position. So this should have made it easier on us I suppose. But in reality this pregnancy has been unbelievably hard on our relationship. I have never been more in love with anyone than I was with David before I got pregnant. But somewhere between going off a strong antidepressant, living with radical hormonal changes, and surviving months of uncertainty through a particularly cold and depressing winter, I lost a lot of that feeling I once had. We have had fights so frightening in intensity that they make me feel like I want out. Glaring and seemingly irreconcilable differences between us have appeared from nowhere. We disagree constantly, we bicker endlessly. In fact I've never been in a relationship that has felt this difficult.

So when I hear about Rebecca and her husband now, how they weathered a storm every bit as powerful as the one we're going through, came out the other side, and love each other all the more for it, I feel quite a bit of hope that there is something salvageable here. Because when I'm not concentrating on the negative things about David--a horrible habit I've developed--I can see the wonderful things about him and something vague makes its way into my heart, something like the memory of love that promises to return. I sound awfully melodramatic here, but then melodrama has been part of the problem since I peed on that damn stick. Anyway, the point is, some people are lucky right away. Love comes easily to them, their partnerships are relaxed and tender and easygoing, they wax poetic about how much they love their significant others on blogs much more uplifting than mine. But it's not like that for all of us. Some of us have to fight for it, circle and spit and growl and conquer each other--and ourselves--all at the same time. This is my love story. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and hopefully the fight will lead to love far greater than anything I might have had that came free of struggle.

All dilated up and nowhere to go

So now I'm four centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced. That seems like quite a lot to me--should mean he could come anytime now, you'd think. But apparently some women walk around with their cervix wide open for weeks with no results. I fear I may be one of those women. It's gotten to the point where it is difficult to talk about anything else. Try as I may to steer any conversations away from my enormous belly and its contents, people just can't seem to stop staring and asking questions. It's like a train wreck. They can't tear their eyes away. It's just so vulgar, this belly! So blatantly ripe! So impossible to ignore! Ah, pregnancy.

I am 32 years old today

I was looking over some of my older posts, and found one from  my 27th birthday back in 2004. I was living in Israel, a poor student with a great set of friends from all over the world and most likely a nominal drinking problem. I was still a born-again Christian. I was still dating dear Jef. I was the same and I was entirely different. In the five years since, I have survived two failed relationships and entered The Relationship, left behind the religion of my childhood and converted to Judaism, lived in New York with another set of wonderful friends from all over the world and a slightly worse-than-nominal drinking problem, lost a job and fled to South America, nurtured The Relationship long distance before finally moving to Scotland, got pregnant unexpectedly, and moved back to my hometown with my love and his child inside of me. All in all I'd say it's been an eventful few years. How did my life bring me here? And where will I be in five years time?

I have always wanted to be a mother, and at 32, surprise or no surprise, I've actually had quite a late start. I wanted to live my life first, do daring and extraordinary things, take risks and make bold and irreversible choices. I wanted to have a life defined by intimacy and adventure, and void of shame and regret. And I feel like I've done a good job so far of living that way. But the problem is I am not done. I want to continue living that way. And as I turn another year older and get closer and closer to being a mother, there's always that fear, a little niggling anxiety, that I won't be able to. Because my old lifestyle, in a way, required a dogged and innate selfishness to achieve. Not in an "I'm more important than you" way, but in an "I'm not going to compromise because people think I should" way. But now it's not just me. Suddenly it's me, and it's David, and it's a little boy, and they matter more than I do, and compromise is inevitable, loving, and necessary. It's natural, and it's a whole new adventure, but it's still scary. It's my birthday and I'm just not ready to give up myself yet.

Still no sign

I don't think he has any intention of coming out early. He seems quite comfortable to stay inside me forever. Even though at my last checkup I was 1 or 2 cm dilated and 70% effaced. Even though his head has dropped low and now rests, lovingly, in my pelvis, so that it feels like I'm walking around with a grapefruit between my legs. In spite of these signs, the rest of his little body is clinging tenaciously to my ribs (I think he's wrapped his legs around them) in an effort to Stay. Exactly. Where. He. Is. To be fair, it's a lot to ask for a first baby to come early. But I just want what's left of my body back.

Not that we're actually ready for him. The changing table is in a million pieces on the nursery floor. The crib is on back order until May. The name situation remains unresolved. Margot and Shannon are pushing for Henry, David's choice, and while I admit it grows on me, I stil have my feet firmly planted in a different camp. (A SECRET camp! Sorry). A mother knows her child! I know what he wants to be named! But anyway, there's that. Plus we haven't organized the diapers (apparently this is an important task), ordered a breast pump, or finished packing the damn bag. Most importantly, we haven't found a mohel. 

Ah, the mohel. For those of you who don't know, this is the guy who snips the Jewish baby boys on the eighth day. It has to be on the eighth day, so planning is critical. But there's a little glitch in my planning. You see, I never picked up my conversion papers from my Rabbi in New York. Don't ask me why, I just was always afraid to, as if in obtaining them I would have to go through another session with the beit din, asking about my commitment to Judaism. This means I have no proof of my Jewishness to give to a Mohel, who normally simply asks for your parents' Jewish names. Which mine obviously don't have. So I called my Rabbi (I was shaking) to ask for them. He was terribly surprised that I didn't have them, but agreed to look for them without so much as an "Are you still keeping kosher?" This is good, as I didn't want to mention the fact that I am having a baby out of wedlock with a man who is only half Jewish (the wrong half).

Unfortunately, my papers appear to be lost. To remedy this I had to call the other Rabbis on my beit din, the original signers of the Declaration of Rebecca's Jewishness, and get them all to sign it again. They agreed to, but getting three Rabbis together is, oy vey, quite a struggle. It took me two months to organize my mikveh! So now I am waiting for my papers to be faxed, at which time I can go for an orthodox mohel. If I don't get them in time, I'll have to go reform. Not that I have anything against reform, but when you're a convert you want your life events to be as kosher as possible lest anyone question you (or in this case, my son). More on this "who is a Jew" stuff later. For now, suffice it to say that this is a pretty big stress on me, and pretty much the only good thing about my son staying put for now.

I am ready for this baby to come out now

So I have managed thus far to avoid stretch marks, but now, at almost 37 weeks, tiny little lines are starting to appear around my belly button. Which itself has admirably refused to pop out. However it appears to have done so with considerable effort, as the area around it is purple. Purple. The same color as my linea negra. Which, by the way, is crooked. A normal linea negra is straight as an arrow, a permanent but at least symmetrical reminder of childbearing. Mine is rebellious. Punk rock. It looks ridiculous. In fact, everything about the way I look is ridiculous. People constantly tell me, as they have told pregnant women from the beginning of time, how wonderful I look. I do not look wonderful. I fear I will never look wonderful again. Or maybe I will, but I will never be the same. This is nothing new. I am not the first to sit and moan about it. But it is new to me, and the fact that it is entirely out of my control, in spite of the gallons of tummy rub butter and truckloads of fish oil, is hard to deal with.

But of course I know it is worth it, he will be worth it. But perhaps he could be worth it in the next couple days? Before the stretch marks turn as purple as the war zone that once was my navel? Before my hips FALL OFF in the middle of the night? I swear they are hanging on by one small but very determined nerve. But the number one incentive for him making an early debut: My sisters are all in town. They came for my nephew's first birthday, and all has been chaos. So much so that I am actually not prepared at all for the baby coming early. But I'm not as against it as poor David, who turns white as a sheet at the though and starts insisting that he's not ready, that he hasn't even packed the hospital bag yet (he is FIXATED on this bag, as if it represents All That Is Fatherhood), that he hasn't read any of the books, that we don't have enough diapers. All of this is true, but I sincerely doubt it will be less true in three weeks. There is just too much to do, and he works too hard and I have too little energy or actual ability to move to get it done. I make endless lists in an effort to feel less overwhelmed, but every time I cross one thing off I add three more.

So having my sisters here, while it has been a huge distraction and I've basically accomplished nothing in Project house nor Project Baby since their arrival, is a good thing. Because if we don't manage to pack that bag? We can just call them and tell them to rustle things up and bring 'em to us. If we don't get that bedroom painted? We can hand them some rollers and leave them to it. If we don't have enough diapers? Why, they won't sleep until they've stocked us up. They are whirling dervishes entirely prepared to be at our beck and call IF ONLY THIS LITTLE PERSON WOULD COME OUT SO THEY COULD MEET HIM.  Before they fly home next week. So I am ready. More than ready. Nearly desperate.

Snow in April. Lovely.

After a few weeks of almost Spring, winter has of course come out with one last dying gasp. Outside there is what is hopefully the last blanket of snow I will see for a long time. I am ready for some sunshine.

I am also ready for this baby to be out. Pregnancy is a magical time, but it would be just as magical if it were, oh, one or two months shorter. More magical, I submit. Because there is so much I want to do, and I just can't. I am not, not have I ever been, comfortable with the word can't. I'm more than happy to throw the word won't around, but can't? As in, am unable? No, no, no. And right now I can't go more than a few hours without a serious rest. I can't make it through an entire night actually sleeping. I can't  fid the energy to clean my house, let alone paint and finish furnishing. I can't do everything. 

David is being wonderful, however, at picking up my slack. Over the weekend he surprised me with a trip to the spa for a manicure and pedicure, which felt so good on my swollen feet I almost fell in love with him again. He also routinely carries anything and everything that must be carried, does all the dishes, keeps the house clean, and forces me to lie down and take it easy--albeit a bit more angrily than tenderly--but I suppose I can be a bit stubborn.

Things are better between us. At least they're stable. It's a whole other post to explain the strange dynamics of this the most important and currently most infuriating relationship in my life. Best summed up right now by this little example: The other night we got in a huge fight over the baby's name. For a long time we were hovering around James Kerry for the baby, James for my grandfather and Kerry for David's dad, but even then we were just hovering and couldn't quite attach ourselves to it. Then we get the family phone-chain call that my cousin Marne had finally produced her week-late son... and his name, dear friends, was James Gary. JAMES GARY. Which pretty much cancels out our plans. At first I was pretty upset, but seeing as I was having doubts it may have just been the sign I was looking for. So after much soul searching, I thought I had landed on the perfect name. I shared it with David, who not only point-blank refused, but who laughed in my face. This made me (hormones, people) very angry, and resulted in a large screaming match that went something like this:

Me: You just hate it because I like it!

Him: No, I hate it because it's a stupid American name.

Me: You suggested it originally! You just forgot and now that it's MY idea, you think it's stupid! Because you hate everything I like!

Him: This is because you have horrible taste!

(Unintelligible screaming, declarations of "you poop on everything I love" and "we're so incompatible" and "how can we bring a child into this world", etc)

Me: I wish you weren't so terrible.

Him: I wish you weren't acting like such a cow.

Me: You're calling me a cow now?

Him: No, I said you're acting like a cow.

Suddenly I found myself struggling not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Struggling, and failing, and then we were both laughing, and he was chasing me around the house saying "come here, I love you," and I was all "(snort) no, I'm still mad (hiccup), I hate you (guffaw)" and the like. Yeah. So that's pretty much us right now.

One April Fool

It's now been nearly five months since I've written anything on this blog. For those of you who don't know, the dark days of October and November were due to the unexpected arrival of an embryo in my womb, lovingly placed there by my boyfriend the day I arrived back to Scotland. Those dark days turned into even darker days as we moved back to Cleveland--more specifically, moved in with my parents--and settled in for four months of terrible winter. We were pregnant, unemployed, living with my parents, and cold ALL THE TIME. It was very, very unpleasant and not much worth documenting. But we have made it through to Spring, and things are looking up. Coming back to this blog is, in  a way, like coming back to myself after a long and painful absence. Where have I been the past several months? What have I been doing? Surviving, I suppose. But that's just not enough to satisfy me anymore. I'm done with surviving. I'm ready to live again.

Here goes nothing.

I feel so much hope for my country.

David and I just got back from our highlands tour, and I promise to catch up with pictures and posts as soon as I can. For now though, just want to say how happy I am. We stayed up in our bed and breakfast in Inverness on Tuesday night until 5 am, watching the results and Obama's speech and history being made. It's hard to be away from home at times like these, but to be honest this election was a global phenomenon. People were celebrating in the streets here, and in countries all over the world.

It feels right to be going home now. Especially since David's dad can come visit, since he said he wouldn't step foot in the States if McCain won.

Why do I always leave the depressing ones up so long?

I feel a bit better. It's been rough, mainly because I went off the Effexor. For lots of reasons that I'm not quite ready to sure with the blogosphere just yet. But I am on my way to wellness... David is taking me back home. It's not that I don't love Scotland, because I do, or that I haven't had a great time here, because I have, it's just that I have no place here yet. I am here, on a tourist visa, for a boy. I have no other reason for existing here. I'm not doing mission work, I'm not studying, I'm not working. And that kind of purposeless existence is a recipe for mental disaster when it comes to my complicated psyche.

So we are going back home. In two weeks. I have lived in David's hometown, now he will live in mine. Yes. we are returning to Cleveland, there to stay for a year or so. After that, who knows. But at least I will be able to work in an actual job and feel somewhat useful and not like a lump of cold oatmeal. Hooray!

Will we come back to Scotland? Most likely. I want to give this place a chance, a real chance, when I have a proper visa and can really make a life here. Stay here permanently? Not so sure about that. I need the sun! But everything is up in the air for the moment, except the fact that I am going home. Home!

I am not well

Again. I am tired of not being well, but there's really nothing I can do about it. It's a season, and I'll get through it, like all the other winters I've lived through, and there will be sunshine on the other end. But until then I feel paralyzed and helpless. I wish I could hibernate until it's passed.

Homeward! (Again)

On Thursday I fly to Amsterdam, there to meet my dear friends Luise and Famke, and catch up on the year or so that has passed since we last saw each other. From there we're to board a train for Brussels, where our lovely Palestinian friend Shadi is throwing a big party to celebrate his marriage to a yet unknown Belgian girl. The party is in some tiny Belgian village an hour or so outside Brussels, and promises to be yet another of those sought-after "how did my life bring me here?" moments that I like so much. There will be posting of pictures, I promise.

I get back on Sunday morning, spend the day packing and head back to the States first thing Monday morning for two weeks. Two reasons for this visit: 1) The annual family clambake. Not to be missed. And 2) Miss Kati Griess, of Isla de Lesbos Latinas fame, is bringing her lovely wife Esther (a brand new recipient of a ten year tourist visa) to Cleveland for the first time. Again, not to be missed.

For now, I am surviving the days. I am unbearably homesick! Must be because it's fall and I'm desperate for apple picking, Amish country, and carving pumpkins. And crisp air. And piles of leaves. And hot apple cider. And long walks. And fires in the fireplace. Oh, nostalgia.

I've been feeling a little down lately

Mainly, things have been rough with David. There has been much discord in our little flat. I even spent the night away with a friend last week (Though it wasn't all that dramatic, since he drove me there and all. But still, I didn't speak to him in the car.), but when I showed up at work the next day at 7:30, he was standing outside the deli smoking a cigarette and saying he was sorry. Then he worked in the deli, apron and all, for an hour to make up for it. We seem to have a pattern of A) David saying something stupid, B) Me getting upset, C) Both of us shouting and/or loudly ignoring each other, D) David apologizing and doing something very, very nice. Last night it was cleaning the apartment. The ENTIRE apartment. I sat and watched television, and didn't even notice at first what he was doing, until I saw him on his knees scrubbing the toilet. Without any kind of pleading or nagging on my part. At all. He just up and did it. I walked around and the place was spotless, and he was vacuuming the floor and sweating and looking pleased with himself. I nearly cried. A man has never, never done something like that for me. Flowers, yes (though he got me those too at one point), little gifties, yes, a variety of aimed-to-melt-an-ice-princess compliments, yes. But cleaning my house? Just, you know, because? A first for me.

Yeah, yeah, I know I'm lazy

So basically I've just been enjoying myself at the festival and haven't bothered to share. But it's over now, culminating in last night's amazing fireworks display over the castle, dutifully attended by young David and myself in the company of two other hip, fashionable young couples. I brought some wine in a plastic bottle. It was lovely.

Festival highlights:

• Free comedy. What else can I say?


• Matthew Bourne's modern ballet take on "The Portrait of Dorian Gay"--oops, I mean Gray. Homosexual ballet sex, serial killers, strobe lights--what's not to like? 


• Hemingway's Havana, already described.


• Sketch comedy trio the Penny Dreadfuls in "Aeneas Faversham Forever," a Victorian murder mystery comedy. They gave us free decks of cards!


• David's friend Laura Lindo's play for children, which she wrote and directed, about two children in hospital:the Blue Boy getting a heart transplant, and the Pink Boy who gives him the heart. Wonderful. Makes me want to write plays.


• Children of Cambodia, a group of children from the streets of Cambodia who are learning the nearly lost arts of Cambodian folk dance.


• Seeing Jasper Fforde, an amazing writer, at the Book Club, asking a question, and having him look me in the eye for five minutes while he answered it. Felt SO important.


• Drinking in the big outdoor Spiegeltent with friends.


• Mrs. Napuk, who took me to see a million things and is always good company.

Festival Lowlights:

• The guy in the bar who said I was "nice," and asked where I was from, adding "and don't say America." I said America, and he told me to fuck off. Being slightly drunk, I asked him why he would hate everyone from a country just because he hates George Bush. He looked uncomfortable (I think he realized he'd been an asshole but was too Scottish to back down), and his friend looked really apologetic. So I said "I'm Jewish too, now there's two reasons to hate me," wished them a nice evening, and left with my round of drinks. There was some crying. But Laura Lindo offered to beat them up, and that made me feel much better. 


• Actually, I think that's the only bad thing. What can I say, I LOVE the Festival.

So sad that it's over. I'm back to work now, although with less hours. I've been reading books on an almost nonstop basis, and writing some as well. There's still the rain to contend with, but I'm holding my own against that at the moment.

Festival time in Edinburgh

August is the month of the Fringe Festival. This basically means that over the course of the month, there are 5,000 shows going on in the city in over 300 venues (from playhouses to cathedrals to bars to hilltops to the back of some guy's van) at every hour of the day. The city doubles in population. Basically, there are people EVERYWHERE. And many of them are performers, and many of them are performing in the streets, and many of them don't speak English, and many of them are lost, and many of them are just drunk (but these ones are usually Scottish, to be fair).

There is something to see or do at all times. Should I suddenly be overcome with the desire to see Shakespeare in Rosslyn Chapel (remember the Da Vinci code?), I can. Should I feel the need, at one o'clock in the morning, to catch some sketch comedy from Finland, I can. Should I be frantic to watch a hundred other people dancing soundlessly to different music on a hundred different headsets, there's a spot in Edinburgh for me. 

I spend a lot of time scouring the city for free comedy shows, as I can't afford to pay the 7 to 15 pounds most shows charge. I have seen some really great, and some violently awful (indescribably so) stuff in the past few days. I have been to a few "real" (read: you gotta pay for it) shows as well, though. I saw Hemingway's Cuba, in which his daughter-in-law told stories about Hemingway between sets of Cuban music and dancing (awesome!). A funny note: She told us how she had married Hemingway's son Gregory. But she left out the bit where, later in life, they divorced and Gregory became Gloria. An anatomically correct Gloria, no less. Fascinating. I also saw a Jewish singer/songwriter from London who performed in a classroom at the Royal College of Surgeons and looked genuinely shocked when real people turned up. He was very good, actually, but his greatest show at the Fringe (and by that I mean the show where he had an audience) was semi-ruined by the old lady who became overheated and started moaning during his last song. Ah well, that's showbiz!

I miss both my babies now.

As soon as I stop enjoying myself so damn much I'll post about family vacation at Hilton Head. But for now, here is me and my beloved. Is it just me, or do we look like brother and sister?

Pack it up, pack it in

I'm off to these great United States for a month of actual summer. The highlight? Seeing this guy:

They're scrapping our car

Something about the f***edupedness of the steering column making it beyond repair. And thus we reach the end of a very long and irritating journey. So, yeah. 

In other news, I am coming home! A week from today I shall arrive in a warm and sunny place, and will be able to wear actual tank tops and pretty skirts without all that pesky shivering and goosebumping. Life is good.

Still no sign of the Micra

It's out there. Somewhere. But we can't get it until the police "release" it, which of course they won't do, because they thought they already did when they said "Your car is here, go and get it." This bit of verbal assent is simply not good enough for Mr. McFie. For him, apparently the entire police force must show up at the garage and hand in individual release forms signed by their mothers. Only this will convince him of the fact that we are allowed to take our own car. Until then, there will be a $40 a day "storage" fee, thank you very much, for the burden of having to hold someone else's car.

Luckily the insurance is covering this. But still. 

I feel very fragile lately. I am somehow acutely aware all of a sudden of consumer capitalist culture, how evil it is. Just how everything costs. The fact that behind every activity, every little thing we do during the day, someone is standing with his hand out, looking to make a buck. It's not that I have to worry about money necessarily, I know I'm very lucky that way. It's just that there is so much want, and want, and WANT, and so many people buying up beautiful things and places that should belong to everyone, and so many bills and fees and fines, and all of it makes me want to run away to Alaska and grow my own food and be a hermit. Is there a Unabomber inside me somewhere, just dying to get out? 

Maybe.

Our car has been recovered. Supposedly.

So the police found our car on Monday. But we still do not have it. Apparently they had to impound it, to a little garage owned by a certain George McPhee. So David called them to see if we could get our car, after which he sent me this email:

Wow! Well, the good folk at George McFie's had this to say:

We have your car. 

You can't get it. 

The police haven't authorised us to release it. 

Yes, I understand the police told you to call us and pick it up.

No we can't release it. 

Yes, I understand the police told you it was available to be picked up, but we can't release it until we've heard from the police.

No, we can't release it - we have to hear from the police.

No, we can't phone the police ourselves - we have to wait to hear from them. 

Sir, your attitude isn't helping this situation.

The release fee? It's £150 at the moment.

Please sir, your language isn't helping. 

Okay, then, thank you, have a good day.

There you have it then. To add to our frustration, in the two weeks before the car was stolen we got two parking tickets ($60 each). Plus we got photographed going 63 in a 50 zone on the highway (a relatively unmarked quarter of a mile where they slow the speed limit down by 20 mph to go under a bridge, then photograph everyone who passes and charges them $120. Nice little moneymaker). So that's a total of $240, before the $300 to GET OUT OWN CAR BACK AFTER IT WAS STOLEN. Lovely.

Automobile Woes

Our car got stolen. Well, not our car exactly, but the one we use courtesy of David's parents. I am so, so sad about this because I am American and therefore do not feel complete when I don't have a car. The evening after we reported the car stolen, the police phoned to inform us that they had someone in custody who may have been responsible. Apparently he matched the description of a certain ned who was trying to steal a van and happened to be driving, yes, our car. Unfortunately, this especially productive thief was no longer in possession of our car by the time they picked him up, and we are awaiting his interrogation to see if he might spill the beans about where our precious baby blue Nissan Micra ended up.

If you are wondering what a "ned" is, allow me to refer you to the wikipedia definition:

"Ned is a derogatory term applied to certain young people in Scotland, akin to the term chav in England. The stereotypical view of a ned is a white adolescent male, of working class background, who wears fake Burberry, who engages in hooliganism, petty criminality, loutish behaviour, underage drinking and smoking or general anti-social behaviour."

David seemed to believe that "Ned" is an acronym for "Non-Educated Dipshits," but I was later informed by his friend Simon that the proper term is "Non-Educated Delinquents." They wear tracksuits and drink a delightful tonic wine concoction known as Buckfast, or "Buckies" affectionately. And they look like this:

Or, alternatively, this:


What I find especially disturbing is that whoever stole our car may have been wearing fake Burberry.

Shakespeare by the sea

Last night we drove up to St. Andrews in Fife to see a production of Romeo and Juliet in the ruins of St. Andrews castle. I could explain to you how wonderful it was, but it's probably best you see it for yourselves:

St. Andrews Castle

St. Andrews Cathedral (or what's left of it)

Everyone packed picnics. And umbrellas - but luckily it only sprinkled.

We sat in the front row. This required us to be there early, much to David's chagrin. But he's getting used to it.

How many more days til the weekend?

I had a great one last weekend. The weather was perfect for once, and there was a little festival in the Meadows (the park by my house). I went with a couple of girls to check out the stands and sit in the grass, while listening to a string ensemble and eating crepes. Ah, bliss.

The Meadows

People who might be my friends?

Kirsten, looking pale and very English

Girls on the grass

Caught One

Sex and the City yielded a possibility - nice girl, new in town, wants to meet up for drinks. Making friends in a new place is officially like dating. We met, liked the look of each other, and now we're going on a date. Will we take it to the next level? Could she be The One?

In other news, David and I have been having a go at each other a bit this week. I can count at least four meltdowns. Ah, growing pains. One thing I love about him: He's like my family. There's no carryover. So we fight, maybe even yell, sulk for a minute, and then it's all "Wanna order a pizza?" We just can't be bothered to stay mad. I take this as a good sign. Now if only he would let me mold him into the perfect man, everything would be wonderful. I sincerely hope you can sense my sarcasm.

I Need friends. Now.

Tonight I'm joining a bunch of girls from a meetup group to watch Sex and the City. Among them, hopefully, will be someone who will hang out with me and save me from my current state of extreme estrogen deprivation. I am a huntress, ready to pounce on anything breathing with two x chromosomes. Watch out, female population of Edinburgh! I am on the prowl.

Um, that doesn't sound, like, creepy...right?

Especially in the month of June

We have big plans for today. Sunday has turned out to be our "get out and do something" day. I submit as evidence photos from last Sunday's adventures, a trip north to see the highland games at Blair Castle. What are the highland games, you might ask? They are nothing less than enormous men in kilts throwing various heavy objects in shows of strength, while vendors hock there wares (mostly burgers) and little girls dance highland jigs on a stage to the side. In other words, they are wonderful. See for yourselves:

Blair Castle Highland Games

Bagpipe music could be heard from all directions, at all times

There was many a kilt to be seen as well

The contenders...

...throwing heavy objects

Squinting in the sun

Highland dancing!

The pipers of Blair Castle

And the imposing castle itself