Desperate English Housewife in Washington, chapter 3

Standing still…..

I am not particulary good at standing still and waiting. It’s a Myers Briggs thing – character trait and all that.  According to this I am a Resource Investigator and this could be verified by all and sundry who work with me. I gotta find out and move on, shape it, implement it.

The quandry here is that I am unable to access any information about houses, schools, location, moving, getting the cats over there (oh, I’m welling up). I am reliant upon my husband to provide me with this information, and his versions of what to expect often differ from the pieces of A4 paper that sporadically come my way.

Now, let’s talk cats.  My parents are a little incredulous that I am even considering taking the cats. When we moved to Gibraltar in 1991 my cats Tess and Tabs were given a temporary home with someone lovely luvvy from her amdram society. Marvellous stuff, good for them. We had a gorgeous fat cat called Pudding who came with the house in Gib, so my cat cravings were satisfied for two years, even if she was sick on my bed a lot. Oh hang on, am I getting my stories mixed up?  The truth is I might have been sick on my bed after a heavy night out in Main Street and blamed it on Pudding, although if I remember rightly, my mother was not convinced. Bacardi and coke sick has a significant pungence, and even I know Whiskas don’t make that variety.

Anyway, Pumpkin and Pieface are coming with me, no matter what.  Even if I have to sell precious items of clothing to afford to take them there. Apart from my Whistles coat.

How are my parents taking the move? Perhaps they might comment on this blog…? You see, my mother is particularly close to Harry, having been at his birth and everything. So, my mother and Harry have a bond. They spend a lot of time together and Harry’s sweet, innocent Oedipus complex with me also extends to my mother. There will be tears…..

The torture scene….

The cliche “oh, it’s like being on a rollercoaster” is nauseatingly over-used in my opinion. I prefer to liken this journey of preparing mentally to go to America as having one’s head held over a dark, vile vat of water (envisage Liam-Neeson-esque-torture-scene) and every now and then one is unwittingly plunged into darkness, and you’re struggling for breath, your vision is blurred, you can see nothing in front you, frustrating darkness encompasses you and no one is frigging well helping you….and then….you are dragged out and presented with some glimmer of light – in this instance a list of houses where you might live. Hooray!

Today a friend seemed to read my mind by asking the question that I inwardly fear the most (that is not: will you ever wear an A-line skirt with flat shoes in public, or would you ever spend a week without applying fake tan), but “aren’t you afraid of being alone…?”

I think I’m pretty darn good at being in my own company. I have enough experience of it. However, this will be an entirely different concept in this new suburbia. Others may live in hope that they are blessed with the delights of a 6 foot, bronzed and buff Hispanic gardener who does not speak much English, but who recognises the desperation in the eyes of a lonely 30-something at home alone all day with a meatloaf the oven and a pile of ironing to tackle during The View…… but not me.  Ugh, not me. Please, not me.

Gotta get me a job. Gotta shape that resume (note, not CV).  Do I sell the Englishness or do I try and achieve some awkward-sounding Americanisms within this…? For example, change:

Managing a communications team with responsibility for the corporate image, brand and reputation of the University.

to….

AWESOME team building achievements with outstanding results that are  OFF THE SCALE.  As a comms team we BRING IT and PUT IT DOWN.

Sigh.

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