I dreamt last night that I was the only living person in Paris. I woke alone in a hotel and went out to look for Shaun. He was gone, as was everyone else. It was just me: the last woman on earth.

I walked through a museum and stumbled upon the Mona Lisa. Alone and unseen, I touched her lips with my fingertips to feel the paint.

I had another dream that my brother Anthony was violently ill. In real life, last night was Burns Night. Traditionally, people eat haggis on Burns Night, but that sort of makes me gag, so we ate our neeps and tatties with low fat apple chicken sausages instead. Anyhow, I usually soak the pan in soap and boiling water before scrubbing it down properly. During the soak, white fats and yellowish juices glob and cluster and float in a way that gives me yet another reminder of why I hate meat cooked in our home. (Speaking of which, how sick is it that the FDA doesn’t have to put a label on meat that comes from cloned animals? I think that issue is probably the one and only thing that conservatives and liberals and all in between can come together in a collective “gross!” over. Even if scientists think it is same (eventhough we don’t know that over the long term), its icky!!!)

Anyhow, back to my brother. In the dream, he was living with his girlfriend in a nice two-storey home with a rec room on the bottom floor. A sliding glass door took you out to a patio with a pool. I was over and excited to get to know his girlfriend better. My brother, the girlfriend, and I were all chatting in the sun and drinking iced tea. But periodically, Anthony would go to the pool and into it, vomit huge quantities of the same gross, globby liquid that was in my soaking Burns Night sausage pan. I wanted to pull away from the girlfriend to take my brother to the hospital, but she seemed to always hold me back somehow, like she wanted me to think everything was fine or something.

Finally, I broke away to go into the rec room to call an ambulance, but I was distracted by the sight of my brother Julian rolling joints at the table. I walked over, grabbed his drugs and stormed into the bathroom to flush everything. He just sat at the table, looking sorry. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “I never, ever want to see you doing that. That is not okay.” Then I went on about how we needed to call paramedics and we couldn’t invite someone official like that over with drugs lying around.

I was getting really worked up at this point and I must have woken myself up.

“Do you think my brothers are okay?” I asked Shaun.
“Mmm hmm.” He slumbered.

But I couldn’t get back to sleep.
___________________________________________________________

Do you ever have scary dreams that you can’t shake?

::Random Tangent::
Our flight leaves for France at 4.00 today. We’re all packed and ready. I think 4.00 is the perfect flight time. No more of this getting up super, stupidly early crap. It’s afternoon flying for me.

Hello world!

Things have been busy; I miss me blog. I’ve been happily reading my lovely subscriptions in Xangaland, although I rarely have a second to leave a coherent comment. Just know that I’m enjoying your entries and thankful for the distraction.

Here’s what’s been occupying me:

Happy New Year! Now get back to work.
January has been a hugely busy month at the office. My boss and I (otherwise known as the Marketing Department) have been hard at work creating the festival magazine, preview flyer, t-shirts, 96-page guide, and website. We’ve also been fostering media partnerships, corporate sponsorships, and providing friendly responses to public inquiry. And lets not forget the media archive and image bank. And database maintenance. And press briefings. And meetings about meetings.

The festival I’m working on is nation-wide and unprecedented, making things all the more complicated. Today at 7.00 am, I began a 4-hour train journey to Inverness for a day of meetings; home sweet home didn’t come until 7.30 pm. And as more and more program elements are confirmed in coming weeks, the days are only going to get longer. But at the end of the day, I like knowing that I am working for something that has a good heart. I am grateful to play a part, and to get a paycheck. For the next five months, I get to play the worker bee. And I know what I lucky girl I am to be able to do that.

Make new friends, but keep the old!
I made a new friend! She’s an English chicka who is the girlfriend of one of Shaun’s mates from school. We had a few trial outings together and at first I had doubts that we could cut it as anything more than acquaintance. But I was wrong and I’m glad. Last weekend, we were at her flat until 5 am, lost in an endless game of Trivial Pursuit. Anyone for whom a game is an event is a friend of mine. She also lent me her favorite book to read–Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love–and I am LOVING it. Good book taste and a riotous board game player: she’s my kind of gal.

With the holidays past, I’ve also been reconnecting with my mates from the International Club. I can’t wait for them to meet my new pal!

I see London, I see France…
After months of pitching to his freelancing connections, Shaun is going on assignment to review a massive international comic convention happening in Angouleme, France this weekend. And I’m going with him!

Since his hotel room is in Paris (everything in Angouleme is booked so he’s taking the train in to the convention), I thought that it would be a fun opportunity for me to explore Paris while he’s out conducting business. (After all, I’ve never been to France before!!!!) We leave Friday afternoon and arrive early enough to enjoy a nice dinner and stroll about the city before bed. On Saturday and Sunday, while Shaun is off doing his thang, I’ll be getting lost in the Louvre, strolling through the parks, eating good baked goods and sipping heavenly coffee. At night, after sharing what happened to each of us during the crazy beautiful day, we shall kiss atop the Eiffel Tower like proper love cats.

Excited doesn’t quite describe how I feel about all the places I’ve visited since we moved to Glasgow in September. More accurately, I feel amazed. I feel thankful that I am able to see the world, to learn from it and grow in ways that aren’t even fully realized yet. These places that are new to me make me smile until my face hurts. Scotland, England, Belgium, France….is this actually my life? How?

9th 9th, 5th 25th
This year abroad is the product of our longtime, very focused goals and hard work, but my husband and I owe so much to our parents, our families, luck, and to each other. The 9th of January marked our 9th year together. Tomorrow is our 5th wedding anniversary. In many ways, we grew up together. We are still growing up together. It is a state that I never want us to outgrow, no matter how old we are lucky enough to live to. I like where this open, loving attitude has taken us so far. And everyday, I look forward to what comes next.

_____________________________________________________________
How’s your January been?

::Random Tangent::
Have you seen The Last King of Scotland yet or what?!?

Also, the sun is now up at 8.20 or so, with pink and purple streaks appearing as early at 8.00! This is a vast improvement upon December, when the sun was still snug behind the horizon when I went in to work at 9 am. Today, on the train ride to Inverness, I got to see a gorgeous pink sunrise over the snowy Scottish highlands. It was amazing. Next time, I’m bringing my camera. How has the winter sun been treating you?

Friendly note: this is the same as what is on The Loch Ness Blog at the moment, so if you are a reader of both, feel free to skip one or the other.

When I’m really scared I feel like something is going to sneak up behind me and chop my head off, so I frantically pull my collar up to protect my little neck. I’ve been waiting to write about the forthcoming spooky topic until the very thought it of ceased to make me want to change into a protective turtleneck.

So here it goes…

Two Good People, Up For a Spot of Fun
 My friend Squee came to visit me last week. When she moved to Michigan from England in our junior year of high school, we were immediate friends: we walked together at our high school graduation, we lived in Chicago at the same time for a while, she is babysitting our cat for us this year–she is one of the smartest, most interesting,
interested people I know in this world. Seeing her made everything right in me again. Each morsel of homesickness and every ounce of discontent was expelled from me, as only hours of talking to a true, longtime girlfriend can do. We had a great time walking through Glasgow, eating Scotch Eggs, and hunting for Nessy. On the last full day of Squee’s visit, the two of us took the train into Edinburgh.

After looking around the National Galleries, we came across a sign advertising haunted tours. Always up for a campy thrill, we giddily signed up for something called The Underground Tour. We were the only ones who showed for the tour–it was a Monday night, after all. The guide was a girl that was roughly our age. She sounded like she was
from Russia or Poland (or possibly Germany?), but had learned English with a Scottish accent. She put on no airs. She was honest. She was scared.

“Are you sure you want to go just the two of you?” She asked.
 “Yeah–why?”
 She looked sincerely uneasy, “I just have the creepiest experiences when its only a group of two.”
 But of course, instead of deterring us, this news made us all the more excited. Silly girls…

Setting the Stage
 The city of Edinburgh is built into massive hills. Many buildings are built on bridges that are hidden by slopes and for the most part, are unidentifiable to the causal observer as actual bridges. For little ole American me, the jumbled nooks, ancient crannies, hidden spaces, and cobbled alleys make Edinburgh a nearly incomprehensible place; it feels more like walking through an illustration in a Dr. Seuss book than walking through an actual city. It’s magic.

According to our tour guide, in centuries past, a bustling network of underground streets wove beneath the hills and bridges of Edinburgh. The underground streets had vaults in them that were used as workspaces by merchants and craftsmen, although this soon proved impractical–a few hours after it rained above ground, the water would seep through the earth and it would rain below ground as well. The underground spaces were then used as storage space, although the damp still made them less than ideal. Eventually, the underground spaces became refuge for
urchins, and were eventually forgotten about. Especially when really creepy things happened in them and the city went to great lengths to make sure they were forgotten…

The Story
 In the 1970s, a student living in an Edinburgh dormitory heard a hollow sound coming from the wall of his second floor apartment. He asked the landlord what was behind the wall. The landlord wasn’t aware
that there was anything behind the wall, except of course the slope of a hill that the building was flush against. But what then, was that hollow sound? Inquires were made to the council to see if they knew anything. They did not.

With curiosity (and probably a few drinks) goading him on, the student broke through the wall one night, expecting to find an extra room, or perhaps a closet.

Imagine his surprise when he unearthed a passage into a long forgotten underground street.

These days, the underground street is dark. It smells like earth and the ceiling drips and echoes. Other echoes happen too. You never quite know where they are coming from. There is emergency lighting that flickers for no apparent reason. There is a turbulent mix of anger and melancholy rotting away in the space; its hard to describe, but you can feel it in your gut, on your skin, breathing at your neck.

The tour guide led Squee and I to the first part of the street, reported to have a low supernatural level: 1. You get a prickly feeling from this part of the street. You know when someone holds their hand an inch or two from your body and teases, “I’m not touching you”? It felt like someone was doing that; it felt like standing in a crowd.
Something was human about the energy. It wasn’t scary, exactly. Just really, really creepy.

On level 1 we went into a vault where homeless people hid when not having a home became a criminal offense in the olden days. We huddled together in the center of the room: you could sort of feel ghosts sitting with their backs against the walls: hungry, sick, and waiting.

Next, we walked up the stairs to level 2. Instantly, I was terrified. The energy shifted. I didn’t feel a human presence anymore. Something animal stirred in the shadows, and each step we took brought us closer to its matted fur, its low growl, its yellow eyes. I clung to Squee.

“Are you whimpering?” The guide asked.
 “Yes,” I said.
 “I just like to know where sounds are coming from.”

Walking timidly to the second vault, clammy cold washed over me, followed by steamy heat. The guide explained that these were “pockets” of supernatural activity. We were walking through ghosts.

Close now to the second vault, a wave of intense nausea hit me. I was sure I was going to pass out. Most of you readers know that I pass out frequently at the slightest provocation–there is no stopping me from
slipping into unconsciousness once I start. But this time, in the underground street, was different. Just as the brown dots that mark the start of my descent began to crowd my peripheral vision, I sensed
something terrifying: a dog pacing around me. I felt him sniff. I could smell him too. I knew, without a doubt, that something really creepy would happen if I did pass out–that I would encounter the animal in
those lucid moments of unconsciousness. I regained my vision and squeezed Squee’s hand. “We are NOT going into that vault,” was all I could say. My terror only grew after hearing that I’m not the only one who’s felt the animal presence at the second vault.

The guide told us a story. A few years ago, a spiritualist rented out the second vault from the haunted tour guide owner for his coven. But after moving in, the place would get trashed every night after locking
up. The coven leader was sure that kids were coming in to vandalize the space, so he stayed one night to catch them in the act. In the morning, he was found cowering in a corner, pointing to a circle he’d drawn in the middle of the room.

“Don’t go near that!” He screamed. A ghostly beast had attacked him where the circle was drawn. He now rents a vault in level one and regularly cusses out the haunted tour owner for bringing people in the
vault that the beast inhabits. Claws are heard scrabbling and scratching across the floor. Some people leave the vault to find they’ve been bitten…

The third level felt like calamity. But it was a human feeling, and this relaxed me some. Squee, however, was suddenly more afraid than she’d been in all the tour. “What’s that smell?” She blurted. Immediately, I pulled my scarf further up onto my face so that only my eyes were showing. I did NOT want to smell anything.

“What do you smell?” The guide asked.
 “Wood? Something…burnt?”
 “We are NOT going in there,” I declared again.

The guide wrapped her coat tight around her. “Lots of people say they can smell burning in this vault,” she said. And then she told us another story.

In the seventeen hundreds, a huge fire raged in the streets of Edinburgh for days. When running from the flames got to be too much for the citizens, a number of them took refuge in the underground street that the modern-day dormitory was built flush against. The citizens figured that stone of the underground was flame retardant, so they
should be safe from the blaze. But as the fire raged on, the underground stone street grew hotter and hotter. The people inside were cooked. Literally baked alive.

So gruesome was the deaths of these citizens, that the city closed the street off and its existence was buried until the 1970s when that student broke through the wall.

At the end of the tour, we were offered a shot of whiskey and some shortbread. Squee tried to calm herself with a biscuit, to no avail. We were shaken beyond the fun frivolity of snacks. I was flat out nauseous.

Once out onto the street, we noticed that we were drenched with sweat, yet shivering, flu-like. “I never want to see or go to any place like that ever again,” we affirmed.

But after a cheerful (well lit) pub outing brimming with some of the best conversation I’ve had in months, we forgot the tangible horror of the haunted tour. By the time our train pulled back into Glasgow Queen Street Station, we were back to our usual invincible selves.

It wasn’t until we were back in the flat, telling Shaun all about it from the beginning, that the goosebumps, the overactive tear ducts, and the shivers reminded us that we experienced something truly terrible.

“I want to go on the tour!” Shaun said.

 “Promise me you won’t ever go,” I said.
 “Why?”
 “Just promise.”
___________________________________________________________


Have you ever been to a haunted place?



::Random Tangent::

If The Last King of Scotland is playing at a movie theater near you, go
see it. It is the finest movie I’ve seen in some time. And the Scottish protagonist so perfectly embodies the emensly friendly, open hearted attitude that I encounter so frequently here in Scotland. The movie is
actually about Uganda under the mad dictatorship of Idi Amin, but the protagonist is a Scotsman living in Uganda. The acting is unbeatable; Forest Whitaker is perfect and an actor named James McAvory is my new crush. Gillian Anderson is in it too! So go see it–you’ll love it (aside from one scene that I had a
nightmare about last night). It’s an incredible movie.

At 5.30 this morning, my eyes flew open and I lept out of bed. My friend Squee was coming over today! The last time I woke like such a giddy freak, it was to see what Santa had put in my stocking.

But stupid Bristol airport is stupid and cancelled all the flights because they are stupid. Now my friend can’t get here until tomorrow morning. Waaa.

With arrangements already made for me to have today off work, I managed to be productive, dispite my waaa-ing. I made apple carrot muffins that I like. And I booked a long weekend on the Isle of Mull for when Shaun’s fam comes for a visit in May. The sun came up at 8:46 AM. It set at 3:59 PM.

Now what?

I am feeling very uncreative. I am feeling like a person who has seen the sun for less than 7 hours for more than a month. The Scotts have a word for this type of gloom: Dreek.

EDIT: I feel much better. A quick google told me that come June, the sun will rise at 4:35 AM and set at 10:06 PM. That’s lovely.

Ready for a really boring (but possibly informative) post? Here it goes!

Since we’ve moved to our Glasgow apartment, my hair and skin has been outrageous. Boring blog topic, I know. But I must stress this: I’m a very healthy and hygienic person–and I know the rules about good skincare. But still, even with topicals prescribed by the doctor, the nastiness persists. I ignore it 98% of the time, but every now and again a few dozen painful cysts can get a person down. Recently, I mentioned my face issue to my cousin who jokingly remarked, “damn, what’s in the water there?”

Damn, what is in the water?

With too much time on my hands today, I did a little googling and found this article, which mentions that “high levels of calcium or magnesium in a city’s tap water” can inflame a persons face.

A little more Googling told me that calcium in the water is called “hard water” and you know you’ve got it if the following things are true about your pad:

• Clothes laundered in your washer feel harsh and scratchy (check!)
• Dishes and glasses are spotted when dry (check!)
• Film on glass shower doors, shower walls, bathtubs, sinks and faucets (check! And I scrape that gook off weekly, too!)
• Water flow may be reduced by deposits in pipes (check!)

And most annoyingly of all:

“Bathing with soap in hard water leaves a film of sticky soap curd on the skin. The film may prevent removal of soil and bacteria. Soap curd interferes with the return of skin to its normal, slightly acid condition, and may lead to irritation [known by Chicagoartgirl23 as massive, unrelenting ZITS]. Soap curd on hair may make it dull, lifeless, sticky and difficult to manage.”

Calcium is what’s in the water, man! Now do I get it out?

Our water is supplied by the city and we lease our place, so this complicates things more than if we just owed a place; in that case, I’d whip out the credit card and get some water purification magicians to come do something about it. I think my parents used to have a big water softener thing in the basement–maybe my building has one. Is it broken? Is there some sort of magical talisman or tablet that you feed it to make the water good?

I’m going to talk to our landlord about it next week (since our flat is owed by the university, they are closed during the university holidays, which stinks), but in the meantime, do any of you Xanga homeowners know anything about fixing gross water? Many thanks!
_____________________________________________________________________________________
For those of you who own a home: how did you learn all the handy-man (and woman!) type things that you need to know to take care of one properly? Is it just trial and error?

::Random Tangent(s)::
Tomorrow my friend Squee is in town for the weekend! I can’t wait. I’ve hired a wee car for the two of us to drive up to Loch Ness to hunt for Nessy, eat Scotch eggs and Jaffa Cakes and too many chocolates, and generally squeal about town like giddy, ferral cats. It will be so good to gallop around with my pal; I’ve missed her.

In unrelated news, this book I’m reading is SO GOOD. I also loved Shteyngart’s other book, Absurdistan; he is such a delightful and funny little pervert. Read him!

Today, a really random thing happened. While I was innocently walking upstairs to our flat, a woman lept out of nowhere (silently! With stealth!) and scared the shit out of me.

“Hiya,” she said, causing me to gasp in horror.
“Hi. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
“There’s a cat upstairs and I can’t go up there. I’m afraid of cats. Deathly afraid.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Deathly.”
“Do you want me to go up and chase him down?”
“Then he’ll be down here.”

Weird predicament, eh? Lucky for her, the cat owner opened the door to her flat and the cat ran back in. The woman looked perfectly sane, but who is terrified of a housecat? I guess I shouldn’t talk–I gasp in horror when little brown birds come near me. But they look like rats, especially when seen out the corner of your eye. I think I’ve been living in cities for too long; I have more than my fare share of memories of Chicago rats seething around Jewel Osco and Blockbuster and our old North Ave apartment dumpser. I wasn’t freaked by little brown birds until I moved to Chicago and kept seeing rats. Now any small, brown, moving thing on the sidewalk makes me squeal like a pig.

What animal scares you?

Dear Roddy Doyle,

I read your book, Paula Spencer, on New Years Eve. I liked it very much and skipped a party because I wanted to finish. Actually, I skipped the party because I don’t make friends just to stop being lonely. I read for that. And sometimes I clean. Other times I draw. I’m not a very good artist.

Anyhow, I wanted to thank you for writing it. It was thoroughly good. I mean really great. I can’t think of the last time I enjoyed something more. Which probably says more than I’d like to admit about my bookishness; I’m living abroad this year and am fresh from a vacation to Brussels and still my favorite place to be is behind a book, snuggled deep in words and ink and dead trees. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like an ungrateful, wasteful brat. Even if I am the one footing the bill.

Other people could use the money I spend on vacations more than me. For instance, my cousin is missing a few teeth that will cost $3,000 she doesn’t have to replace. I should probably cut down on the vacationing and make more use of my library card and give my cousin the money to have her teeth fixed. My goals can wait. After studying for years to become a doctor of pharmacy, she’ll be interviewing for jobs soon. Without teeth in her head. Once I had to interview with a hellish outcropping of zits. It was really humiliating. Imagine doing that with no teeth. She deserves better. Paula would give her the money, if she had it. But do I really have it? It’s hard to say…

In your book, Paula gets by day to day, narrating her own existence, trying to scratch out purpose. And it was really good of you to see how universal that craving is; Paula felt it, and although her life is worlds away from mine, I feel it too. Like Paula, my mind swims nonstop sometimes with contradictions and disagreements; a constant, battering banter. You write women well.

I also liked your book The Commitments. I watched the movie after reading it and loved that too. I even bought the soundtrack. It’s a really good soundtrack. My mom once told me that her boyfriend really likes it too. It is really great. I think next I’ll be reading the memoir that you wrote about your parents, Rory & Ita. I always look forward to scanning the table of contents of McSweey’s Quarterly, to see if you’ve another story in it.

Well, thanks again for doing your job and doing it well. I’m living in Glasgow this year and it’s been raining for days. I guess your books should be depressing, but they aren’t, are they? Warm and funny is more like it. Your stories make the gloom, the new years eves spent far from true friends, pass easier.

Best wishes,

ChicagoArtGirl23
________________________________________________________________
While I have no plans on really writing Roddy Doyle (why would he want to read my ramblings? That’s what blogs are for!), I’m curious: have any of you ever written fan mail to anyone?

::Random Tangent::
Dig my new profile pic! I have no idea what it is, but it was at the Natural History Museum in Brussels. We laughed really hard when we saw it. All the wall panels were in French, so I had no clue what it was. But it is def. ferral. I can almost hear it growling…it is quite possibly my favorite thing in all of Belguim. Just look at it!

Also, 2006 is over. This is the first new year that I was sad to let an old year go. 2006 was really remarkable. I got a promotion. For the first time, I presented a paper that I co-wrote and was published at a Writing Center conference. We lived in a Chicago neighborhood that we loved. We walked to the beach every evening. I ran along the lakefront to see the sun rise, I rode my bike to work. My mom graduated from college. Shaun edited his first book, had his first profile in a magazine. He got into his dream school. We moved to Scotland. I got a job that I don’t hate. We went to Belguim. We hiked in the highlands. My family healed itself. Momentum was tangible. Things were good. I only hope that things keep moving, that we can keep it going. I miss my cat really bad. And lately, I dream of babies. Please, nobody comment on that last bit. It’s too unbearable.

Happy 2007.

Home from Brussels.

It was beautiful. I loved it. If only on my first day did I not eat something that was to wage war on my stomach for the rest of the trip. Thursday night in the hotel, the Soprano’s episode where Christopher’s fiancee has IBS was on tv. Christopher tries to reassure his fiancee: “[so and so's] grandma had colon cancer and her entire asshole rotted out!”

I don’t think we’ve ever laughed harder at anything on tv.

Anyhow, an actual blog (with pictures!) of our Belgian adventures is up at The Loch Ness Blog. Enjoy!

15 years ago, Anthony and I were opening our Christmas stockings when our brother Julian, squished within our mom’s protruding belly, heard the commotion and wanted in on the action. Anthony was sticky with spit from a fruity candy cane and I was savoring my millionth Andies mint chocolate of the morning when mom clapped her hands and announced: “Okay. Let’s get showered up. I’m going to have a baby today.”

She was so calm that I wasn’t sure what to think. But I wanted to do a better job of welcoming my second brother in to the world than I did my first. So I dressed in my favorite outfit, a hot pink maternity sweatshirt with giant black dots that I got from a garage sale, worn as a dress over black leggings. I crimped the ends of my hair and gelled my bangs back. Surely my fetus brother, roaring to get out, appreciated this effort.

If I remember correctly, once we were showered up, Anthony and I were allowed to take one present with us to the neighbors place, where we waited until our Uncle John picked us up to take us to Grandma Pacella’s house to join the rest of the family for Christmas. I’m a little fuzzy on that though.

I do remember being at Grandma’s and leaving to go to the hospital to see mom and Julian. Anthony was too little, I think, or had a cough or something–I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think he was allowed to come. Or maybe he just wasn’t allowed in the room. I only remember getting to hold my new brother. He was a dark haired, warm little bundle. I loved him instantly.

When mom and Julian came home from the hospital, he was put in a little brown cradle set up in mom and Tony’s room. Anthony and I peeked in at him, squirming around and squinting at us curiously. He was a calm little bean. I remember Anthony looking at our new brother; his long lashed little boy eyes wide with wonder, his stubby little boy legs running in place with goofy excitement.

I remember cuddling baby Julian while I read in my bedroom. There is a picture of us in one of my mom’s albums, where the two of us have fallen asleep that way, my cheek on his fuzzy little head.

When Julian was a toddler he had a stuffed animal dog called Doggy, pronounced “Goggy.” Julian liked the taste of the leather paws on Goggy, so he sucked on the dog’s legs relentlessly until the toy carried the reeked of rancid milk, halitosis, and mildew. Goggy “disappeared” one day. Jujie got over it eventually.

Aside from chewing the dog, Julian didn’t do much as a toddler. In fact, he was so chilled out that everyone was starting to worry about him. But soon enough, he found joy in making people laugh. He was such a goofy, funny, sunny little boy. And to this day, he is still the only one in our family who truly knows how to relax properly.

One summer, when he was still in diapers, Julian used to run away all the time. Our family would innocently be going about our business, when you’d hear my mom cry, “where’s Julian?” We’d all scatter and search the neighborhood for him. Most of the time we found him laughing, running naked and free in a neighbor’s yard, having discarded a poopey diaper on somebody’s front porch. Once we found him inside the rabbit cage in the back yard, cuddling the terrified bunny.

That same summer, Julian was completely obsessed with the book, and especially the movie, Ricky Ticki Tavi. It was on his mind every waking second, it seemed. One evening, Julian was dismissed from dinner early to play in his room. Mom was enjoying some quiet time in the living room and I was going about my chore of loading the dishwasher after dinner. Things had been quiet for some time, when suddenly things got too quiet.

“Where’s Julian?”

We went outside, calling for him, searching the rabbit cage, peeking over the neighbor’s fence. Then mom checked the garage. The van was missing. We ran out to the front driveway and saw something that made my mom’s jaw drop to the ground.

The minivan was crashed into the Dixon’s house, which was kitty corner and across the street from ours. At the very moment we laid eyes on the disaster, Julian squirmed out of the driver’s side, unscathed, running towards my mom.

“It’s okay, mommy! I wore my seatbelt!”

How Julian managed to put the key in the ignition and get the car rolling downhill in neutral is beyond anyone. And even though he ended up crashing, he did a pretty good job of steering. He stayed on the pavement and avoided the big trees in our yard near the end of the driveway. When asked by a family friend a few days after the incident why he stole his mommy’s van, he replied in earnest, “I was going to the library to rent Ricky Ticki Tavi!”

For a while when they were elementary aged, my brothers decided that they would only wear robes in the house. They called their felt robes “robe-ins” and wore them unashamed, totally nonchalant. Anthony would usually change into clothes and hide if I had people over, but not Jujie. He would wear his robe and chill with me and my friends, joining in the conversation as if he were seventeen instead of seven. My friends thought this was hilarious. My brother’s nickname among my friends is “The Little Heffs,” referring of course to Hugh Heffner, who also enjoys a wardrobe comprised exclusively of robes. Whenever I get to see people from back home, one of the first questions I get asked is, “how are The Little Heffs? How is Jujie?”

I hope Julian doesn’t mind me writing all these potentially embarrassing things about him for his birthday, but something tells me that he won’t. Julian’s heart is light and friendly. He knows funny well. And these stories of his boyhood are just that: funny.

Julian (also called Ju-ju, Ju Ju Bear, Bear, Jujie, and sometimes, by my friends who found my family’s endless use of pet names for Julian hilarious: Jujamakooge, and Joojamakige) likes art (his imagination is endless and his style is original and textured and really good), music (he plays violin and not in that screechy, dreadful student type way; in an award winning, beautiful way), and Monty Python. He was looking forward to German class this fall.

Julian is fifteen this Christmas morning. He is entering that beautiful, amazing, frustrating time when we figure out how our identities, our uniqueness fits into society. A time when we might feel pressured to change, to be things we aren’t.

To Jujie, from Truje: this fifteenth year of your life will be grand. Be you. Who you are, what you like, what makes you laugh is more beautiful than you can imagine. Big hugs!

Julian (foreground), with cousins Nick and Alex
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The day Julian was born was my favorite Christmas. Do you have a favorite Christmas?

::Random Tangent::
This Christmas, Shaun and I are nestled in our Glasgow flat with movies, neglected New Yorker magazines, long walks in the fog, and good cooking. Christmas Eve I cooked up some delicious salmon with ginger/orange marinade, purple sprouting broccoli, and runner beans. For Christmas we’ll be eating fresh tortellini with garlic spinach and sun dried tomatoes. And lets not forget the Queen’s Speech, 3 pm on Christmas day! The BBC will be streaming it online (we don’t own a TV, so this is good), for all who are interested. I miss my friends and family heaps, but our upcoming vacation has proved to be a fun distraction from the homesickness. Tuesday (Boxing Day!), we are off to Brussels. (YAY!!) Pictures and stories coming soon.

And last but certainly not least: Happy Holidays to all in Xanga-land. Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing. Thanks for sharing. Human connection is alive and well here. And I am really grateful for it. I hope 2007 is charmed for you all.

Last night Shaun and I played pool with an English couple. They called the “solids” “spots.” I wondered if they also called “shirts vs. skins” “shirts vs. pants.” Of course, that would require Englishmen to go shirtless and centuries of stereotypes make me think that would never happen anyway. The English couple we hung with were nice people. They do not swear. I feel like a potty mouthed, raunchy, vile thing around them sometimes. I feel American.

In other random thoughts, my favorite word in a Scottish accent is “girl.” Say it with two syllables and flip the r: girr-el. It sort of rhymes with squirrel, but not if you say squirrel in a flat, American way. Squirrel also has two syllables in Scotland.

I do not like how the word “idea” is pronounced in a Scottish accent. Idears. Even if only one idea is being discussed, someone has “an idears.” With an r. Plural.

I like watercress as a regular sandwich topping. I like wild rocket as a side salad. I like Cadbury chocolates and cheap bags of kiwis. I like delicious prawns. I like the giant hill that we hike up on evening walks. I miss being able to drink coffee at night; diner culture is non-existent here. It’s all about the pub. A proper pint is what you get. Cafe’s close at 6.

I like lots more. I miss lots more. But it is early. And my breakfast blogging time is drawing to a close. Now its time to put on my makeup and head to work. I’m hosting a press conference today. Time to play nice!

One last thing: this book I’m reading? It blows chunks. I see this Jodi Picoult person everywhere and thought I’d give it a try. I hate it in the same way I hated the movies Love Actually, The Holiday, and What Women Want: I wonder if the raw stupidity of the fluffy story will actually kill me. I try to get through it to see what the general public is in to these days. So I can relate. And I leave understanding why my friends are few. God, I am a snob. Sorry kids. Especially if you like those movies and Ms. Picoult. I’m sure you are a very good person with exquisite taste.

Which reminds me: in high school I once sincerly loathed a girl because she thought the [brilliant, spectacular, genious] movie American Beauty was lame. What does that say about me as a person? Judegemental much? Yikes! Must get better about this kind of thing….
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What’s on your mind this morning?

For nearly seven years I’d been happy as an only child. I had my cousin Sheri to keep me company at my dad’s house and my overactive imagination to keep me occupied elsewhere. But then one morning, eighteen years ago, I padded down the kitchen stairs for breakfast and my grandpa told me that my mom went to the hospital in the night; I had a new baby brother. Then grandpa gave me a plate of sunny side up eggs and I cried. I was convinced that the baby in my mom’s tummy was a girl. And I liked my eggs scrambled.

Waaaaaa!

When Anthony came home from the hospital, his head was shaped like an egg and he cried until he was purple. Late at night, Mom would hold him to her while she swayed around to a Van Morrison CD in the living room; it calmed him.

When Anthony was learning to hold his head on his neck unassisted, I was learning to read. I remember sitting on the nubby old couch, my googley, squirming new brother in one arm and an unwieldy hardcover (sharp-cornered!) book in the other. I was as frustrated with the awkward seating arrangement as I was with trying to sound out the words, but I remember wanting so bad to share the book with him. I wanted to make it work.

When Anthony got a bit older, he had a yellow playpen with white mesh sides. We liked to make each other laugh by smashing our faces against the mesh; I can still feel his damp little palm running over my mesh-mashed face, laughing hysterically.

One summer, when Anthony was a toddler, I had set up what I liked to think of as a sort of sorcery nook, on the side of our house by the chimney. I had collected Anthony’s baby food jars and filled them with grass, pine cone bits, feathers, and other items that I liked to pretend had magical properties. One afternoon, Anthony wondered back there and managed to break the glass and step on it with his bare baby feet. My parents whisked him away to the ambulatory clinic; when my step dad told me how he’d been cut I felt like a murderer. My face was hot from shame and I cried alone in my ex-sorcery nook, chucking the hateful jars into a garbage pail, cringing to think of my new brother’s little feet stumbling onto glass.

For years, Anthony hummed and slammed his face into his pillow to get to sleep at night so we nicknamed him The Hammer. Then it became Hammer, than Ham Bone, then Hammy, and sometimes just Ham. I wonder if anyone but me calls him that anymore…

So what’s he like? It’s a hard question for me to answer. I left home at 18, when he was 11. I’ve missed a lot. Too much. But here’s what I know:

He’s tall. Really tall. And handsome. Sometimes he’s shy. But sometimes he’s the first to shake your hand. He likes to look nice; even when he was little, he’d always want to change into something fancy-ish before seeing our grandparents. Now he pimps any car he owns, he buys teeth whitening strips, he uses hair product. He is funny in the same dark, goofy, irreverent way that is as hereditary as height in our family, but some people will never know that: he is a pretty guarded person. Babies and toddlers flock to him, inexplicably. Any family function we go to, his little cousins (the girls especially) squeal with delight when they hear that Anthony has arrived. He shrugs and blushes and does absolutely nothing to deserve the attention. But the kids just like him. And so he doesn’t fight it and he lets them. He is smart. Really smart. He hates school more than anything in the world. He’s had an astoundingly glamorous girlfriend for a few months now; he loves her, truly. There are other, sadder things about my brother, but on his birthday they are not important. Especially not this birthday.

My brother is eighteen today. An adult with a whole world of choice and no real past to speak of. I want him to know how sacred that is and how gently to treat it. I want him to feel new again, clean and good again. I want him to know that being a sister is one of the happiest, saddest, biggest, and best things about my life.

Happy Birthday, Hammy. I love you.

The siblings three: Julian, Anthony, and Truly