Brats!

Listen.... hear that?.... no? Hmmm, that's strange.

That sound used to be the sound of my ticking biological clock. It seemed to be ticking louder each day, but recently, it's slowed...way....down. I wonder why... oh, right. It's because I spend 26 hours a week baby-sitting the anti-christ and his sister.

Since January, I've been back on the nanny train, saving every last penny given to me by parents who don't want to raise their own children and putting it towards grad school. While my savings account is growing quite steadily, I am now worried about two things:

1. That dealing with these children will scare me away from ever having children of my own.

2. That I will develop a drinking problem.

What, you think I'm overreacting? Let's take a look back at the last 3 months, shall we? The 8-year-old, let's call him "Adam" is, I'm pretty certain, the Spawn of Satan. He is, what they say, an "explosive" child. The first week I worked with him, he completely lost his shit because I didn't cut his kiwi the way he wanted it to be cut. I mean, he really lost it. Screaming, crying, jumping up and down. In the time I've worked with him, he has threatened to do the following to me (in no particular order): throw a rock at me, punch me in the eye, poke my eye with a knife, and shoot a rubber dart in my eye. I think I should start wearing protective goggles. He has also told me to shut up, calls me "missy," tells me that cleaning up is not his job, it's my job, and that he doesn't have to listen to me. Doesn't he sound like a little angel?

He hasn't hit me, but he does hit his sister with alarming frequency. Then he refuses to apologize because as he says, "I'm not sorry." See? Anti-christ.

And here's the kicker: They tell me he's gotten so much better than he used to be. How is that possible? Apparently, not only did he used to hit his sister more often than he does now, but also his nanny.

The thing is, this kid runs the house. His parents don't want to deal with his tantrums, so basically whatever he says goes. He refuses to pick up his toys? Mom and dad will eventually just do it. Yeah, this is an 8-year-old who still sucks his thumb. Constantly.

My weekday alcohol intake has definitely increased. I even suggested to Grayer that I stock up on the little airplane wine bottles, so I can have a little glass while I'm working. She suggested that could lead to a dependency. I know my kids are going to be awesome because I will not pay anyone to raise them for me. However, I am most definitely extra careful about taking my birth control every day. You can never be too careful.

Oops

I can think of no other word to describe this post. 'Oops' just sums it up.

Picture the scene: it's a Monday morning, I'm about to leave TWH's. I am not a happy bunny for the following reasons:

1.) It's a Monday morning
2.) I'm running late
3.) Work has been really stressful lately and I don't want to go
4.) It's a Monday morning
5.) I couldn't wash my hair because TWH doesn't own a hair dryer
6.) The clocks changed on Sunday so I feel cheated out of an hour's sleep
7.) It's a Monday morning

To top it all off, before I head to get the train I need to go round to my house to drop off my stuff as I was at TWH's all weekend. Normally if I need to do this it's not a big deal. It's a 10 minute walk and it's not completely out of my way. This morning however, was not a good day, and I didn't have 10 minutes. So there I am, standing in the kitchen with greasy hair, laden down with bags and running late. At this point I say the following:

"Not to freak you out, this is just a casual observation, but my life would be much easier if we lived together."

AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Hi. My name's Fenella and I'm an idiot.

I swear I did not mean to say this. It was a random thought that popped into my head and I just wasn't thinking clearly and I definitely wasn't thinking before I spoke. It's been 7 months, I am perfectly aware that mentioning living together after 7 months falls into the 'she's a little bit crazy' category. And I have commitment issues. Seriously. I don't want to commit to a two year phone contract, I'm paying £3 a month extra for an 18 month contract. See? Commitment issues.

Does it get annoying having to cart my things back and forth between mine and TWH's?
Yes. And girls need more stuff. (Apparently there's a Sex and the City episode all about this?)
Have TWH and I both talked about how we fancy a change from the area of London in which we live?
Yes.
Have we discussed moving to a different part of London together?
No.
Is 7 months too soon to be having this conversation?
YES.

Oops.

I hastily kissed him goodbye, wished him a good day and scarpered.

On the advice of my friend at work I vowed not to mention it ever again. But of course I mentioned it. I dropped him an email which began: "If my comment this morning didn't scare you off and leave you running a mile, I have good news..." His response? "Don't worry, it didn't!"

Whew. I feel I may have dodged a bullet on this one. Except I haven't heard from him this evening, and I hear from him every evening. But I'm sure I'm worrying over nothing.

I must, must learn to think before I speak. Seriously.

Speculums, swabs and stirrups

It's an STD update, y'all!

Two months ago I had a biopsy done to remove some nasty little cells all up in my cervix thanks to HPV.  Several weeks ago I finally got back a pathologist report on my cervical sample, which seemed to get sent all over the city for second opinions.  Yeah, my cervix gets around.  No big.

It seems like the answer isn't as straight forward as my SheDoctor and I had hoped.  We wanted negative margins, meaning all normal cells on the margins of the sample.  In some areas that didn't quite happen, meaning one of two things.  A) Those nasty little cells are still there or B) Those nasty little cells were taken care of when she was closing the wound.  After a quick follow-up, where she explained this all to me and took a quick look at my vajayjay to see how I was healing ("It looks beautiful, Grayer!"), she promptly made me an appointment on the other side of town with a specialist.  A gynecology oncology specialist.

1. I feel far too young to be at an oncologists office.  2.  My gyno/onco is a married man in his 40s.  3. This made me wonder if when they were dating, his wife was concerned that he knew more about vaginas than she did.  It would concern me.

He's a nice guy, we consulted, he drew me a diagram (This, is your cervix...) and helped me understand things better.  He used words like "multi-focal" "dysplasia" "aggressive" and "impaired fertility".  It was heavy stuff.  He kept looking at me for a response that I couldn't seem to come up with.  Maybe I should have brought someone with me like the nurse told me I could during my reminder phone call.  I guess that's what husbands are for.  To give a response during heavy consultations.

Then he asked me what I wanted to do.  Ummm...not another biopsy?  Ummm...not further impair my fertility?  Ummm....run away screaming and never let another metal object into my vagina ever again?  (Where is my nonexistent husband when I need him? He could cause a distraction!)  Or, he suggests, we play it by ear, with a Pap smear here and a Pap smear there (here a pap, there a pap, everywhere a pap, pap).  "We have to keep an eye on you Grayer. I don't care if I move to Omaha, I'll be calling you every 4 months to get you a Pap smear." (To which I responded, "why would you ever move to Omaha?") So we agreed, he'd examine me right then and again in a month, and then probably have another biopsy in a couple months.  Deal.

Wanted:  A man that will come at me with something other than a speculum and swab.  Preferably not with my feet in stirrups and a paper sheet on my lap.  No florescent lighting either.  It kills the mood.

"Good news, Grayer! You're healing beautifully!  You have a very normal looking cervix!" He excitedly tells me while looking up at me through my knees.  (Ok, I don't mean to brag or anything but this is the second gyno who's told me I have a beautiful cervix.  I'm totally adding that to a future dating profile).  Do you know what's so great about having a normal cervix?  That means that my first biopsy didn't deteriorate or shorten my cervix too much, meaning I could have another biopsy without further impairing my fertility (the shorter the cervix, the harder it is to go full-term).  Sweet! Wait, does this mean I had a long cervix to begin with? (Because that will also go on my dating profile).

Despite the dire consultation, my beautiful cervix and I left the office feeling pretty good.  The best news of all: I don't have to go back until May!  That's a whole blissful month and a half without metal and latex gloves up my whoha!  Hooray!  Now if I could only get a man all up in my bizness without a metal object...guess I need to start working on that profile.

The Rights of an Ex-Girlfriend

"So not that I'm stalking or anything, but my ex-boyfriend has a new girlfriend (well, I don't know how "new" she is, but she's not me :P ) and I can't help thinking how old she looks. Is that terrible? He looks old too. In fact, if you looked at a picture of him and a picture of the cute neighbour, you would probably immediately say that the cute neighbour is younger when he is in fact 8 years older than my ex. I fear that horrible karma is coming my way for thinking these thoughts, but it's hard not to notice." - Violet in a email to Fenella

No Vi it is not terrible and no, horrible karma is not coming your way. Why? Because you are an ex-girlfriend to this person. And you have rights.

The Rights of an Ex-Girlfriend:

1. The right to imagine what it would be like to run into your ex for the first time after your break-up. You are of course looking fabulous and feel fabulous. Him? Not so much.
2. The right to have a bit of wallow and eat a lot of ice-cream if the real-life run in consists of you looking hungover/dishevelled/sick/anything less than fabulous with lipstick on your teeth and an ink stain on your shirt.
3. The right to occasionally stalk him on Facebook.
4. The right to occasionally stalk him on Facebook – even if you’ve dumped him as a Facebook friend.
5. The right to wish that you find someone else before he does. (Not that you don’t want him to be happy. You just want to be happy first.)
6. The right to look at photos of him and his new girlfriend (obviously this has occurred after you have found your fabulous new boyfriend) and feel relieved to see that she is not as pretty as you. (Not that you’re a horrible person. She is still pretty, just not as pretty as you).
7. The right to ask your friend to look on Facebook at photos of your ex and his new girlfriend because you don’t feel you can give an unbiased opinion. (From what I can tell from the back of her head Vi you are prettier).
8. The right to laugh hysterically when you find out that your ex’s new girlfriend is 5 years younger than you. And you’re only 23. You also have the right to tell loads of people this and say that he is clearly going through an early mid-life crisis. (A personal example there).

Most importantly, these rights do not result in bad karma. Just don’t waste too much time on them because Mr Darcy (Pride and Prejudice version or Bridget Jones. Delete as applicable.) could be right around the corner.

The Perfect Whoopie

The Whoopie Pie. A little piece of Pennsylvania deliciousness. And my latest baking obsession.

Throughout our childhood in Central PA, Grayer and I split a lot of whoopie pies (one of the joys of adulthood: eating a whole whoopie pie by yourself), but here in Georgia, they're hard to come by. I've found them at places such as Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, and I get super-excited and buy them, only to be disappointed. I can tell they are store bought and not made by the Amish, as truly delicious whoopies are.

So, I began a Quest. The Quest for a whoopie recipe that produces the perfect, Amish-tasting whoopie pie. And by Amish-tasting, I mean tasting like it was baked by the Amish, not tasting like an actual Amish person. That would be gross. I've always been a big fan of baking, so I looked forward to the challenge. It gave me a chance to use my Kitchen Aid stand mixer (the only truly nice thing I own) and throw on my ipod and sing at the top of my lungs to Glee ballads (when my roommate isn't home), but after a few failed experiments that left me with runny filling and flat whoopie, I was more than a little frustrated.

That's when I bought The Book. The Whoopie Bible. I'm pretty sure it's going to change my life. When I finished my first batch of whoopies, I noticed they looked exactly like the picture in the book. When I whipped up the delicious creamy filling, I took a taste, and it tasted exactly like the creamy fillings of my childhood. I did a happy dance.

Since then, I've been on a whoopie binge. I've made at least one batch of whoopies a week ever since, experimenting with the different flavors of whoopie and creamy fillings. I've made classic chocolate, oatmeal, chocolate with coconut cream filling, and the completely awesome Death by Chocolate: chocolate whoopie, chocolate filling, with the edges rolled in chocolate chips. And the best part: my roommate actually paid me for those. She was in charge of birthday treats at work, so instead of going to the store, she funded my whoopie baking. Fantastic. This weekend, I'm going to try The Chipwich. Chocolate chip whoopie, classic creamy filling, edges rolled in chocolate chips.

My whoopie obsession means that I've been going through baking supplies at rapid speeds. I've been buying butter, eggs, and brown sugar pretty much every time I've gone to the grocery store. And today, I actually bought one of those industrial sized tubs of Crisco. You know, the ones you see on the shelves and wonder, "who needs that much Crisco?" This girl, that's who. I mean, most people have to throw out their small tub of Crisco after two years. I've gone through two of those in less than a month, so the big tubs are an economical advantage.

Obviously my latest baking obsession isn't exactly the healthiest, but it's making me (and everyone around me) a lot happier. Isn't that what matters?

We want to be just like Charlie Sheen

Yes, the rumors are true: Grayer and I have joined Twitter. (We're hoping Fenella will soon follow in our footsteps...) We too believe we are rockstars from Mars and have Adonis DNA, so why not? Well, mostly we just figured that we don't always have enough time to post on the blog, but we do have time to provide updates in 140 characters or less. So if you were looking for an excuse to join Twitter, now you have it! And if you are way ahead of us and already on Twitter, you should follow us at @GrayerBickers and @vibickerstaff. We'll follow you right back!

Take me home, country road

My version of snowboarding.  

I've returned from my "spring break" trip to Montana, visiting my best friend Greenley, her man, and her dog (my favorite pup in the whole wide world).  It was the first time I've seen them in a year, and needless to say, we made a scene at the airport.  Greenley and I are not meant to be apart.

Montana is gorgeous.  The mountains.  The wildlife.  The cute mountain lodgey buildings.  The snow.  The high male to female ratio.  What the what?  Greenley, why didn't you tell me that before? I would have visited months ago!

It's true, in the picturesque town in which they live, there are far more men than there are women.  And the women that do live there are already taken.  And you have to factor is the male tourists who always seem to be coming through town. Finally, a state I can get on board with! Men's men, with beards and outdoorsy scents.  I should have made it a longer trip.

Perhaps my new life plan will be to move to Montana and attract mountain men and tourists alike with my natural pheromones.  I'll go snowshoeing a lot because I'm outdoorsy and awesome and hopefully large wild animals will not be attracted to my natural pheromones because my natural pheromones are pretty potent.  I'll buy mace, just in case.  I'll drink beer, Montana men are good at drinking beer and so am I.   Since two-year-olds can ski in Montana, I best be learning how.  I can already snowboard with the best of them.  Unless the best of them can actually make it down mountains without falling every 20 feet in which case I can't snowboard with the best of them at all.  Also, I can't turn left.  I can hardly even go straight.  On a snowboard that is.   So really I just need to find a 20 foot run that veers to the right and isn't very steep and I'll be golden.  If I do fall, I'll blame in on the altitude, then I'll go drink beers in the lodge.  I'll find snowpants that really accentuate my curves.  Yeah, that's totally possible.  These Montana mountain men won't stand a chance.

Grayer's Dream Man

I. Have. Found. Him.

Seriously.

I actually first found him a few months ago but I was having a really stressful day at work - I was extremely close to having a nervous breakdown and (no offense to Grayer here) writing on the blog about it wasn't my first priority. Then I forgot about it. Sorry.

However, thankfully lightening does strike twice. I saw him again yesterday. OK, so he works in my office so I guess it isn't that strange that lightening struck twice. I saw him in the canteen (where I saw him before) and the very first thought that hit me (the same thought I had the first time I saw him) was: Oh my God. That's Grayer's dream man.

I have actually only met Grayer on two occasions, (in Peru when she came to visit Violet)and this was before we had started this blog, so we really only know each other on a cyber level. Yet, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Grayer. This proves just how much this is Grayer's dream man.

Bearded? Check.
Employed? Check. (And for a charity - good sign)
Young? Not older than 26. (Guess)
Funny? Not sure as I haven't actually spoken to him.

I also don't know his name, whether he's single and I also haven't ascertained that he won't dump a girl via Facebook. However, I have a really good feeling about this. I shall endeavor to find out more information.

In the meantime Grayer, start looking for jobs in London. Cupid's mate Fenella is ready with a bow and arrow.

Walking into Spiderwebs

Today I reached a milestone. I received (via facebook) the invitation to my 10-year high school reunion. Obviously I've always known this day was coming, and I knew it was coming this year, given the fact that I can do simple math and add 1 plus 10 and come up with 11. But that still didn't quite prepare me for the actual moment when I saw "10 year Class Reunion" in my inbox. 10 years?! When did that happen?!

Let's make one thing clear: I'M NOT GOING TO MY 10-YEAR REUNION. You know when I made that decision? About 10 years ago. Here is exactly what will happen if I go to my 10-year reunion: I will walk in the room, look around, realize I see absolutely no one that I am interested in talking to, and I will turn around and leave and go back to my parents' house, where I will most likely join them in watching Hogan's Heroes on netflix. So no, I'm not going. I really don't find Hogan's Heroes all that funny.

The invitation did give me quite the laugh, though. First of all, the sheer number of people who RSVP'd "yes" in the first few hours it was out there is amazing. You just KNOW they've been waiting for this moment for, well, 10 years. So much so that they would plan their entire summer around the occasion. I mean, it's not until August. Second, the party starts at 5:30pm. Dinner is served at 6pm. This is a 10 year reunion, not a 60 year reunion. Are we already in need of an early bird special? And third, is this really necessary? Aren't all the people who are going to attend already living in the same place? Don't they still see each other every weekend anyway?

You may think I sound bitter about high school. I'm not, really, I've moved on. I can safely say that I've spent the last 10 years exploring the world and having a lot more fun than I ever did in high school. High school wasn't all that much fun for me, mostly because I couldn't wait to leave. I knew pretty early on that the small town thing just wasn't for me and had made my plans to escape starting in elementary school. I wasn't terribly popular (ok, I wasn't popular at all), even though I was president of the German Club and therefore kind of a big deal. I'm also pretty sure everyone thought I was a lesbian. Not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian, but that doesn't really help you in high school. I'm pretty sure it started when a friend of mine (ex-friend of mine) most likely developed a little crush on me, and instead of dealing with it, she got really mean and told everyone I was a lesbian. Or it could have been because I never really had boyfriends in high school and was hard-core about playing softball. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? (I mean, I went to an *NSync concert senior year! There is nothing lesbian about that!)

Thank you, Class of 2001, but no thanks. I think I'll pass on this one.

Just dig it

For the past several weeks I've played in an indoor volleyball league.  I joined this league for one reason (aside from actually wanting to play volleyball): to meet boys, duh.  Boys like volleyball, I like boys and am good at volleyball, surely something will come of this.  I signed up as an individual and was put on a team, a team which I expected to be half made up of boys.  There were two boys on our team.  Both shorter than me.  Both suck at volleyball.  Ugh.  I set my eyes on our opponents.

Every Sunday for the past month and a half I've had my eyes on the opponents.  Where were all the cute boys?!  Why is it so hard to find a cute boy who has a reliable serve and a decent vertical?  One that's aggressive at the net yet not a ball hog?! One who thinks sporty girls are sexy?! Why can't he have a beard and cute smile, a job and a sense of humor?  Where is he?! Oh, there he is, on the pink team.  Of course we didn't play the pink team until our second to last game.  But oh how glorious that game was.  The pink team was primarily made up of decent looking guys, who are all good at volleyball, who were by far the nicest and most fun team we had played all season.  I was smitten.  I loved the team, but mostly I loved the cute bearded guy.  There was just something about him,  I just wanted to...get him alone.  I was feeling some chemistry between us while both up at the net on our respective sides, so I decided to make conversation.  Cue most random awkward comment.
Me:  Are you guys related?
Him: Which ones?
Me: All of you? (In my defense, they were all around the same height, had similar build and coloring and plus, they were all wearing pink!).
He gives me an adorable puzzled smile.  Then clearly makes up a story of how actually those two are brothers through some sort of insane incest that I couldn't really follow because he's so pretty.  As if an explanation he adds, "they're from the Midwest" right as a ball drops and he playfully accuses me of distracting him (Dude, I'm from the Midwest).  Luckily the game got kind of serious because my next question would have been, "Is anyone in your family taller because I'm a little concerned that our future children might be short."

My team lost, but it wasn't because I was trying to hit on the other team, we really just suck.   Over the course of the week I decided I would ask him out and came up with a plan.   I was going to try get the guys on his team to join forces with the two good girls on mine for next season, and in the meantime ask him out to drinks.  I got my girls to agree to it.  My evil plan was working.  Until it didn't.  At all.

They played before us, so when they were done and only three people on my team were present, I invited them to play with us.  Perfect.  I casually discussed next season with them while figuring out how they know each other (they grew up together outside of Boston, so they're practically related) and throwing in random unfiltered thoughts, "I've had Ghetto Superstar stuck in my head all day."  (Good one, Grayer, good one.  Though it did make the cute one laugh (sense of humor: check!).  On a sidenote: I think I'm becoming a socially awkward scientist).   Things were going swimmingly until the rest of my stupid team showed up, at which point they were no longer needed and headed out, before I was able to seal the deal.  They high-fived me goodbye and I watched them wistfully leave the gym while I had to play the stupid game. I wouldn't be there next week for the final game.  I was watching my future husband/father of my vertically-challenged children, walk away.  What was I supposed to do, leave my game to run after him and ask him out for drinks?  That's pathetic.  I played the rest of the game pissed off.  My serving got better.

My one shining hope was that playoffs would be next week and although I'd be on vacation, my two girls would be there.  I had dinner with them after the game and drilled into their head their single objective of next week.  Seal the deal with the pink team, by using all means necessary, preferentially means of giving the cute one my number.  There.  It was in their hands now.  Until it wasn't.  At all.

My team sucked.  We didn't make the playoffs.  The pink team did but my girls wouldn't be there to seal the deal or give him my number.  It seems as though as quickly as he came in, the cute bearded boy is gone from my life.  Goodbye, my almost lover (and by almost lover I mean I did know exactly three things about you, one of which was your first name, yet I find that completely substantial criteria to become lovers).  Insert: Sad face.

All I can do now is move forward.  It's time to mend this broken heart.  I'm currently trying to stuff a week's worth of clothing into a carry-on sized suitcase.  This would be a breeze if I were going someplace warm.  That's what sane people do.  They go warm places in March.  I'm not sane.  I'm going to Montana.  The weird thing is, I can't freakin' wait.  It's been a hard winter for me in Boston but now I'm actually excited to frolic in the snow with my two best friends, one of which is currently living there.  I have exactly two goals for this trip: 1. Learn to snowboard and 2. make out with a ski/snowboard instructor.  Not necessarily in that order.

Mama don't preach

Grayer and I got drunk emailed this weekend. And no, it wasn't from an ex or a friend having a good time. It was from our mother.

Our parents don't drink. At all. It's not like they have a glass of wine at dinner or have a cocktail every now and again, but never get drunk. They never drink. Period. If someone gives them a bottle of wine as a gift, they will wait until we come home for Christmas to open it. Before we were of drinking age, bottles of wine would remain in the cupboard for years, just going to waste. Therefore, they are completely clueless about all things alcoholic. A few years ago, after a trip to Curacao, famous for their rum, they thought they would be super-cool and send me and Grayer some rum-filled care packages. While Grayer got some delicious flavors, I received a bottle of rum raisin rum, because as my mom said, "you like raisins." Thank you mother, but just because I tolerate raisins in trail mix, oatmeal cookies, and bagels doesn't mean that I'm passionate about raisins (who is?) and want a raisin flavored adult beverage.

The alcohol ban isn't because of a religious belief or anything. They just don't like alcohol. Unless it comes in the form of a sugary, sweet concoction, which brings us back to the drunken email. My parents are yet again on a Caribbean vacation. They have been known to order fancy drinks on these types of trips, but they are usually of the virgin variety, and seriously, is there anything more lame than a virgin daiquiri? This time, however, they (or at least mom) isn't skipping out on the alcohol. The main topic of the email was what cocktails she had yesterday. And she didn't call them drinks, or cocktails, or even booze (which is what she usually does, a vocabulary preference that has always baffled Grayer and me). No, she called them "My drinkie-poos." Drinkie-poos! Then she rated each of her "drinkie-poos" on a scale from "OK" to "yummy." 3 out of the 4 drinks received a "yummy" rating. I had to read it twice before I said out loud, "Holy shit, Batman! My mother is smashed!"

I quickly contacted Grayer, who not only agreed with me, but had already responded by telling her she sounded wasted. I mean, this is a woman who doesn't drink at all. One mixed drink would leave her completely hammered, but 3 in one day? Yes, the woman is blitzed.

At least, I hope she is. Because if there is anything more pathetic than a woman in her mid-50s getting drunk from a fruity tropical drink, it's a woman in her mid-50s not getting drunk from virgin daiquiris, then using the word "drinkie-poos" in an email to her adult children while completely sober.

Either way, she has just received a new family nickname: Boozer.