My Pajamas Need A Good Washing

I've been a little stuck lately. So, I thought I'd write about it and maybe in the process, get unstuck. I'm not stuck in a writer's block way. I have plenty to write about. I'm stuck in an overall, general malaise sort of way. Where I look at my blogs with no recent posts, at the comments that I haven't replied to, at the hundreds of emails I haven't opened, and I can't seem to lift a finger to do anything about them. Maybe you've felt this way before too. When you know something isn't quite right deep down inside you, but you can't put your finger on exactly what it is. So, I think I'll pick possible reasons out of the air and see what comes up.

Is It The Weather?

Since I'm most recently from Arizona, where there are days in late July or August when you curse the never-ending and brutal sunshine, I've always enjoyed the reprieve of rain. I love chilly days, rain or snow, maybe a little wind tossed in for audio effect. I like to be inside, safe and cozy, sipping hot tea or coffee, reading a great book, while the tempest swirls outside my door. I love to stand up here on our 6th-floor Paris balcony and watch the dark storm clouds loom and then boil across the sky. I don't even mind being outside in the rain, as long as I'm bundled up and wearing my trusty hat. Rain brings back my childhood Pennsylvania memories, of the smell of earth worms, and the searing cracks of lightening that set the stage for the inevitable, deep-throated rumblings of thunder.

Weather. It's all good. Except when it goes on and on and on. It's been cold and cloudy or snowing or raining here in Paris since before Easter, and according to the 10-day forecast, it's not ending any time soon. Which reminds me...

Sometime around 1982, when I married a Welshman and moved to a little village in Surrey called Jacobs Well, just outside of London, it rained every day for months. At first, I didn't have my own car, so after my husband drove off in his blue Ford Sierra to the Atari office in Slough, I sat in my bedroom and looked out the front window across the country road called Blanchards Hill, and the fields of what I think was a former estate of Henry VIII, which he gave to some noble who helped him ditch his first wife Catherine of Aragon, in favor of Anne Boleyn. I remember that there was a little chapel on the premises that I could walk to, but I can't find any mention of it after hours of searching online. But I did find my former cottage on Google Earth:





















This was an odd time of my life. It was neither more nor less odd, than when I lived with a drug smuggler, or his attorney, or with my Mexican lover. It was just one of several "odd times" in my life. I had been living in Laguna Beach, California and was on my Christmas vacation when I met my Welsh husband-to-be. When my consulting contract was finished at Beckman Instruments in Brea, California the following February, I moved to England to live with him. I had been living in a beach town alone, working hard, and making really good money, when suddenly I was living in a foreign country, with a man I barely knew, with no job or work permit (yet), no friends in the neighborhood and no car.

And it would not stop raining.

I sank into what people today would call depression. In that little cottage in England, with the bedroom at the front, with its view of green fields, on the edge of ancient history, I sat and stared outside, then read books, and then slept. I consumed 3-4 books a week: P. G. Wodehouse; Rumpole of The Bailey. In between books, I slept. I would awake long enough to watch my husband dress for work, make him a coffee, and send him off with a kiss. Then I'd go back to bed and sleep. I'd awake with a guilty start near 5PM, and rush about to get dinner ready in time for my husband's arrival. After dinner, I would fall asleep in front of the TV, until my husband woke me up to take me back to our bedroom. For more sleep. In between books and husband, I would do laundry, and because I had no dryer, and because of the relentless rain, I would stand in our spare bedroom, again looking out over the fields, and slowly iron our sheets and pillow cases, and the rest of our laundry, until they were dry.

This cycle was rarely broken. Even after my husband brought home a gorgeous British-racing-green convertible Triumph Spitfire for me to drive.

My companion during the day was Sylvester the cat. We found Sylvester at the local RSPCA. He was more than happy to curl up and help me sleep some more, which didn't encourage me to go out. If I wanted to go anywhere in the car, I had to gather up courage and face the left-hand shift, the knuckles of my right hand bruised from slamming them into the door while trying to shift gears with the wrong hand, the left-hand rear-view mirror, driving on the opposite side of tiny country roads, where at every turn you encountered some sort of obstacle that forced you to drive into the oncoming traffic lane. I loved that car, but I never mastered more than three destinations: our veterinarian, the grocery store in Guildford, and the little nearby village of Cobham. That was it. Each trip felt like I was going to the moon, and then back again. Forget about driving into London to meet my husband for lunch or dinner. I'd take the train for that.

The rain finally stopped. I ventured out more, but not much more. I enjoyed the English summer in my back garden, despite the nettles, with daylight only fading after 10PM. Sylvester the cat walked the garden's perimeter, marking his territory with a push of his whiskered face or a jiggling tail-high spray from his very bad butt. My husband and I barbecued like Americans, and entertained his friends from Warner Home Video, Lloyds Bank, Pinewood Studios and K-Tel Records. On the weekends we had the pleasure of the company of his two young children, who introduced me to the local outdoor markets and later played Atari games with me, upstairs in the attic. It was my reward for the many months of rain.

But by the time I obtained my work permit, I convinced my husband that we should move back to the states. We had started our own software company (for video rental stores - to help them manage their inventory and rentals - I know, waaaaaaay ahead of our time) and there would be much more opportunity for us there. Our partners could manage the sales and support in the UK, while we opened up the US office. I think I just wanted to get back to what I knew.

For too many reasons to list here, the relationship didn't last. My husband went back to England and disappeared. He had sold the Triumph Spitfire to our friend and business partner, so when he returned, he "borrowed" the car until he could get settled. He took it back to Wales and kept it, and since they had been old friends, the title to the car had never been transferred to our business partner. Our former partner lost the money, and his car. Needless to say, our software company didn't last either.

And so, here I am, more than 25 years later, in Europe again. This time, I'm in Paris, where I can't speak the language very well, but continue to learn. There are other differences. I live in an apartment in a lively, vibrant city, versus living in a cottage in the burbs. I'm not reading very much, but I'm writing huge amounts of good, solid prose of my own. When I lived in England, I was completely disconnected from the politics of my home country, as well as the politics of the world. Now that I'm in France, I am deeply connected to and actively writing about US politics, I'm learning about French politics, and I have a broad, global perspective. I'm much older now, and experienced. I venture out more, but mostly with some gentle prodding from That Guy. I don't sleep all day, but I'm beginning to realize (although neither my cat nor That Guy have noticed) that my flannel pajamas might need a good washing.

Now, if only the rain would stop, and spring would finally come.