Dusty Old Blog
No, I have not died, nor been so assimilated by America that I can no longer communicate with the outside world. I can't say my life has been that interesting lately, however. You'd think that I'd have more to write about, having moved abroad and all, but it's only America. It's just like Britain really, except it's hotter where we are, and they drive on the other side of the road and stuff. Working from home, and having a small child to look after, means that I don't get out much. I can feel what few social skills I ever had slowly atrophying. Hopefully I can do something about that before too much time passes and I become a weird shut-in.
I think I might start blogging again though. All I seem to do at the moment, other that work and change nappies (they call them "diapers" here - weird!) is consume movies and music and video games, so I might as well write about those.
Tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
You May Think It's Funny, But It's Snot Aidan has been unwell this past week or so. He's picked up an ear infection and a nasty cold, causing him to produce surprisingly vast quantities of mucus and bogies so sticky they give previous world-record holder Toxteth O'Grady a run for his money. The gunk in his lungs also causes him to cough, often to the point where he is sick. I'm not talking about a wee dribble on the carpet either, but vast fountains of milky vomit, more often than not aimed directly at his dear old dad. Still, he's a Glaswegian lad, and so not one to let a little tactical chunder spoil his evening, normally grinning widely a few moments later as his father drips his way to the bedroom to change his clothes for the third time that day.
Babies that age tend to get these little infections quite frequently, we are assured, while their immune systems build up a database of common bugs and how to tackle them. Despite being regularly showered in infantile secretions, I felt certain that my highly-trained 33-year-old white blood cells would keep me safe and healthy. But of course, I am also in a new environment, surrounded by many variations of the common cold not often encountered in Glasgow, and am now paying the price for my immunological hubris.
In short, I feel like shite.
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Monday, March 23, 2009
I Play This Game Several Times a Night
The rules are as follows ...
Turn off the lights. Hold the baby firmly but gently, his head on your shoulder. Start walking, adopting a steady, regular pace, and a slight bounce. If your grip on the baby is correct he should jiggle slightly. Eventually he will fall asleep, but if you put him down now he will wake instantly. Instead, start counting to yourself, at a rate of one per step, where a step involves moving both legs. If he makes a sound or a voluntary movement, start counting again from the beginning. When you reach 120 you can put him down, and start counting to 30. If he wakes up in that time you may be able to get him back to sleep by rubbing his tummy and sushing. If not, pick him up and start again from the beginning. If you make it to 30, congratulations! The baby is asleep. You may now creep out very quietly and enjoy what remains of your evening, but keep the monitor handy since you may be called upon to play the game again.
Who knew sleep was so difficult?
Labels: parenthood
link | 1 comment(s) | links to this postSettling
I suppose I'm coping ok in my new environment, though I have only been here for a month, and so am still in that 'holiday' period. The novelty is keeping homesickness at bay, though I do wish that Google Street View hadn't chosen this week to launch in the UK, resulting in a slighly tipsy and maudlin hour spent clicking through my old hood.
Working from home hasn't been the minimum-productivity skivefest I feared it might, though I've had a few unpleasant episodes of cabin fever, and I do miss the peace of my morning train journey, cold and rain notwithstanding. For someone used to being able to nip across the road to Tesco at a moments notice, living in a place where driving is not optional is hard going.
So yeah, I'm here. Now what?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Moved
Well, would you look at that? I appear to have emigrated, and am now a resident of them there United States! Goodness, how did that happen? I am a legal alien, which is quite cool and makes me feel like I'm David Bowie's character in The Man Who Fell To Earth, but then remember that song by Sting, which is substantially less cool, even though I'm not an Englishman. Nor am I in New York, but Allen, Texas.
I could bore you with the messy details of the move, but shant. It's probably much as you imagine, anyway. I've already blogged about the visa process, which is the most complicated part of the whole affair. The rest was just a matter of sorting out what to send off on a slow boat (clothes, DVDs, music, books), what to pack for the period until the slow boat arrives (five suitcases worth), and what to get rid of (everything else, either sold or given to charity). Oh, and saying goodbye to family and friends. That was no fun at all.
For now it feels like we are just visiting, and it hasn't quite sunk in that we can NEVER GO HOME AGAIN!
Friday, January 16, 2009
A Day In The Life
Recent travels and travails have left my Google Reader account straining at the gills with unglanced-at posts. Catching up on my lunch break, I see that Moosh has nominated today as a day-in-the-life day. I haven't done one of those in ages, so let's have a crack. I may end up not bothering to publish this if the rest of the day is deeply dull.
6.30am - The alarm goes off. Yesterday I received notification that my passport and visa would arrive today by courier some time between 8am and 6pm, so I set my alarm super early so I could get into work for 8. Fumbling to silence it before it woke the baby, I almost allowed myself to sink back into sleep, but managed to force myself out of bed for 6.45.
I fed and watered the cat, brushed my teeth, had a shower, got dressed and took the bin out, all without waking Rebecca and Aidan, woke R up briefly to say bye, and got out the door in time to see the 7.26 pull into the station. Tantalisingly close, I knew there was no chance of getting it, but thought there might be a 7.38, so sauntered over to look at the timetable and discover that there was, in fact, not such train. Rather than wait until 8 o'clock, I chose to take the bus. There was one already at the stop, and I had change, so I hopped on and asked for a "one-thirty" from the driver who looked at me like I was from Mars.
I hadn't had time to make lunch, and was paranoid about leaving the office in case the courier came while I was away, so after getting off the bus I popped into Marks and Sparks to buy a sandwich. I've been feeling a bit "meat-off" these past few days, so bought a cheapo egg mayonnaise sarnie before going into work. I was the first person in and got to turn on all the lights. I quite enjoy that, and the quiet of the place when I'm the only one in. Not enough to make me get up early unless I have to, though. I got myself some cereal from my stash in the kitchen, and went to my machine. I'd left a lengthy defrag and shrink process running on a VMWare image when I left the night before, and it had failed due to lack of disk space, so I deleted an old, unneeded image and kicked it off again while reading email and news, and started unreportably dull worky stuff once it had finished.
At about 9.30 a colleague brought over a large, black, plastic envelope and said that there was a guy at reception who needed to see my ID. Once authenticated, I tore it open, and as expected it contained my passport, containing a new visa sticker, and a large, heavy brown envelope, with instructions printed on it in large black letters indicating that it should not be opened or tampered with under any circumstances, and must be presented to the immigration officer when I enter the US. This attracted a bit of attention from various workmates who didn't know of my moving plans, so the cat is very definitely out of the bag now, even though it wasn't really a secret any more.
At about 11.00 the Friday cakes arrived, though as usual there were a fair number of savoury items from Greggs, and I consumed a sausage roll, thus making a mockery of my earlier advances towards vegetarianism. In my defense I suspect its actual meat content to have been pretty low. Now lunchtime is here, I am regretting having bothered to buy a sandwich, such, along with my usual monster bowl of Alpen, I'm really not hungry. I shall save it for later.
***
Around 3.20pm R phoned. She had been in town meeting some of the other mums from our NCT class earlier in the year, and was now heading over to Mono. Since I'd gotten into work early, I said I would come and meet her just after 4. At Mono I found her with Aidan sitting on her lap, looking quite happy. We split a veggie curry and strange carbonated elderflower drink. In the toilet I noticed a bit of graffiti that made me smile. Someone had written "This place would be better if... it wasn't so shite," but a second person had scored out the last part and replaced it with "it had a bouncy castle and the girl behind the bar with no smiles would kiss me." I'll miss that sweet, silly, and, yes, twee side of Glasgow, I think. It's not all neds and jakies. Just mostly.
I read for a bit while R took Aidan into Monorail to show our friend Russell who works in there, and then we bundled up and went back out into the damp evening. We had waited a bit too long, however, and rush-hour was in full swing, so on the way to the station we went into Tinderbox for coffee and Portuguese custard tarts. A, by now, was sound asleep, as is normal for him if he's outside and moving. When we were done we finished walking to Central Station, but it was still packed and the next train was not for another half hour. I was a bit nervous about A waking up and being pissed off, since he hadn't been fed in a while, and the taxi queue wasn't too bad, so we took one of those instead of struggling to get his stroller on a busy commuter train.
Back home, R folded up the stroller while I took Aidan upstairs. When I got in I sat down on the sofa to take his jacket off, but as I did so I felt a bolt of pain in my right knee, sufficient to make me yelp and use some choice language. I've been having trouble with that knee for a while now. It's ok while standing or walking, but if I sit with it bent for too long it stiffens up and gets sore, at which point it emits a loud "click" when straightened. Putting weight on it when bending down or getting up also hurts a fair bit. My doctor diagnosed inflammation behind the kneecap, though was at a loss to explain why I should be experiencing such a thing, and prescribed anti-inflammatories. They ease the symptoms a bit, but can't quite knock them out. In any case, it's never hurt as much as it did at that point, and for a while I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to walk on it. I handed Aidan off to Rebecca when she came in, and sat for a little while. The pain faded after about five minutes and I was able to get up without difficulty, but it definitely doesn't feel quite right, and putting weight on it hurts more than it ever did. If it still feels this way by Monday I am definitely going back to my doctor, even though I am convinced he fills himself full of Valium at the start of the working day, such is his distant, laissez-faire attitude to his patients.
I messed around on the internets for a while, and played with Aidan on the floor (getting down gingerly, but I was ok once I was there). At about eight-ish I took him into the bedroom and put his pyjamas on him. Then R came in, and gave him a feed in the dark in an effort to get him off to sleep. Sated, he dozed off in her lap. We didn't want to move him into his cot straight away, hoping that he would ultimately fall into a deep sleep that would see him through the night, or at least a few hours. His sleep patterns have been chaotic ever since we got back from the US. This is partly jet-lag, and partly because we allowed him to sleep in the bed with us while we were away. We knew we were fostering a bad habit, but when you're so tired you want to die and you know it will help him sleep through, it seems worth it. I crept out and fetched my laptop, and we had a look at flights for our move. We found a good deal on KLM, but are loathe to actually book anything until the missives are concluded on the flat and we can definitely put a date on it.
After a short time we put Aidan down in his cot and tip-toed away. In the living room I played with my DS for about half an hour, before I heard Aidan wake up and start crying over the baby monitor. Normally it takes several attempts to get him into a proper sleep. He will doze off for a while, then wake and start crying, or at least making a fuss. I can usually send him back off by picking him up and rocking him for a few minutes, as in this case.
Once back down, I went into the spare room/office and started writing the second part of this post, but I was interrupted by half-a-dozen restless-baby moments, and reading about the forthcoming remake of The Prisoner. I'm a massive fan of the original show, and was saddened to hear of Patrick McGoohan's death the other day. From first appearances, I fear that this remake will be... how can I put this?... a load of arse. I do like Ian McKellan (Though it appears that he will be Number 2 for the duration of the show, unlike the 1960's series where a different actor took the role each week.) but casting James Caviezel - Hollywood's most generic looking actor - as Number 6, a character who is supposed to represent personal individuality , is surely a mistake. I'll try to watch it with an open mind when it comes on, however.
Now, to bed. Hopefully that'll be Aidan down for a while. Or not. Every day is different.
Look at that - no posts for months, then three 1000-worders in a row. I suppose I've been keeping mum on certain things and it's caused a bit of a backlog that's now overflowing. Sorry about that. I expect the torrent will slow soon enough.
Labels: diary
link | 1 comment(s) | links to this postThursday, January 15, 2009
Visa
So yesterday I was at the American embassy in London for the final stage of the torturous visa application process - the interview. Here's my description of the day, as written for the excellent Dive Into America forum, without which making sense of the whole horrible mess of forms and regulations would have been far, far harder ...
I turned up at the Embassy in plenty of time, carrying just my paperwork folder, having left my phone and other items with a friend I was staying with. I was on my own, my wife staying at home in Glasgow, since we have a six-month old son and didn't want to have to drag him down to London. The embassy building itself was a little underwhelming, being a grey 1960's concrete slab on one side of an otherwise picturesque square. I had imagined something far grander, but I digress. The day was cold but dry, and there was a very short queue to see the first security guard. She checked my passport and appointment letter, asked if I had any electronic items (to which I said no), and sent me on to the security checkpoint.
In the little security building I was asked to remove all metal objects from my pockets, this I did, and the guard spotted my car keys. I thought I had left all electronic items at home, but had forgotten about the remote for the car and was sent back out. I nipped along to Gould's pharmacy, which is just a couple of minutes walk along the road, and had to pay £5 for pleasure of having them look after my keys. (Actually £6, for storage and a packet of Smints, since I didn't have enough cash and they don't take cards for purchases under £6.)
Back at the embassy I went through security, round to the door for visa appointments, and into the building proper. At the front desk I was given number 5023 and shown into the waiting room, which was uncomfortably warm and pretty crowded. My heart sank when I saw the screen indicating that they were currently serving number 1021, but thankfully realised that there were two queues - one for non immigrant visas with numbers beginning at 1000, and another for immigrant visas starting at 5000. According to the screen, there were seven people ahead of me in that queue.
I sat and waited, wishing I had brought a book, but probably too nervous to concentrate on it if I had. At one point an alarm went off and a recorded voice announced "Blast Warning! Move away from windows! Duck and cover!" which was somewhat disconcerting until a rather sheepish voice came over the tannoy and said "Er... please ignore that last message."
After about an hour I was called up to a window and asked for my identification. He then told me to wait while he fetched my file, returning with a folder and the large brown envelope containing my chest x-ray. He asked when I was planning to move, and I replied "mid February", and he pointed out that I would only have until April to make use of my visa, since my medical had taken place in April last year, and the chest x-ray is only valid for a year. (We had originally received an appointment last year, and rescheduled, but I went for my medical at that time anyway. I knew that the results of the medical were only valid for a year, but though that was fine so long as you had your visa appointment in that time. It turns out that you have to TRAVEL in that year - something to be aware of.) He then asked for each piece of my documentation and copies thereof and took my fingerprints before sending me to the cashier's desk, where I paid my $400 and brought him back the receipt. I was given a form to fill out for the courier, specifying the address to which my passport would be returned, and asked me to sit down again.
Another hour of waiting passed uneventfully before I was called up again for the interview. This time it was a very pleasant American lady, who returned the original copies of my documents. She took my fingerprints again and asked where my wife was, the year in which we were married, pointed out that because my wife had not earned enough to file taxes that she was invalid as a sponsor, but that my joint sponsor was acceptable, and asked why we were moving to the states. She also wanted to know if my wife had a home in the US. I answered "no", but was about to show her the rental agreement on the apartment we had found when we were last over as proof of intent to domicile, when she asked about my home here. I told her that our flat was under offer. She asked how much we were selling it for, and seemed happy with that. I had brought along the offer letter, but she didn't ask for any proof. Finally, she asked about employment, and I explained that I was transferring to the US division of the company I worked for now, and told her how much my US salary would be.
With that she said that she "couldn't tell me that my visa was authorised" because they still had to run a fingerprint check, but that as far as she was concerned everything was in order. She told me to take the courier form to the desk by the entrance to the waiting room, and that I should expect my passport, and the legendary sealed brown envelope of mystery, in 3-5 working days, wished me luck with the move and told me to have a nice day. Elated, I paid the courier and headed back to my friend's flat (via Gould's) to phone the missus with the good news.
A pretty standard tale for these parts, I suppose, but if I have any advice it's to make sure that your pockets are emptied of ANY electronic device whatsoever (Would they have knocked me back for a digital watch, for example? What about an analogue one?) and bring a pen so that you don't have to borrow one to fill out the courier form, and a book to fend off boredom.
(Incidentally, I receive a text today to say that the courier should be delivering my passport and visa tomorrow. Not bad - they quoted me 3-5 working days but got it to me in 2.)
Labels: move
link | 2 comment(s) | links to this postMonday, January 12, 2009
Washing Up
Some years ago, I registered my real name as a .com domain, under which I wrote a personal blog. Nowadays this would be considered a spectacularly silly thing to do. Unless you are a celeb, or at least someone who is using a site to promote themselves and their ideas, it's always better to blog at least semi-anonymously. It's ok to point friends and family to it, but you never know when a prospective boss, say, might search for your name and find a foaming-mouthed rant about your current workplace, or even just evidence that your personal tastes or politics are at odds with their own.
The Internet was younger and more innocent back then, of course. Something of a niche hobby. Even mentioning that you had an email address would be enough for most people to scoff and call you a geek. But as time went on everyone and their granny got on the net, and having my name plastered all over an online journal, no matter how innocent its content, began to seem less and less like a good idea. In addition to which, the blog at myrealname.com had attracted a number of trolls who liked to hang out in the comments and post abuse. A change of domain was therefore required.
I didn't really spend an awful lot of time coming up with washing-up.co.uk. I could probably have thought of something better, but my criteria were less than exacting. It was semi-abstract, available, and didn't contain my real name. In addition to which, it was a sly dig at my other half, who steadfastly refuses to take a turn at a particular household chore.
There was another reason for choosing it. We were also thinking, at the time, of moving to another country, and I thought that if anyone asked me what the domain meant, I could explain that it was because I didn't know where I would "wash up", and feel very smug and clever.
Except nobody did. And I never blogged about moving.
Part of the reason for not blogging about it was because, for all of my best intentions, this blog was never really anonymous. Oh, I was careful to scrub every mention of my real name from it, but Google pagerank is too smart for that, and washing-up.co.uk is now the #1 hit for my name. At least I shook off the trolls for a while. But in any case, I didn't much want to accidentally tip-off work that I was planning on upping-sticks and leaving, nor go into detail about something that looked from time-to-time that it wouldn't happen at all.
But now, it looks like it really is. The three of us are planning on hopping the pond and setting up home in Texas. And soon. Scarily soon.
We began the process of applying for my visa about two years ago. This is never rapid, but it was hindered by a combination of laziness and uncertainty on our part, and plain old bad timing. The final task that has to be performed in order for me to get a visa to live and work in the US, is for me to attend an interview at the US Embassy in London, accompanied only by a thick bundle of complex paperwork. I was initially given an appointment for last April, but the visa, once issued, has to be used within six months, and with R heavily pregnant we really didn't think we could orchestrate a move in that time. After informing the embassy of this, we were told that we would receive an alternative appointment. When it finally arrived, it was for a date on which we would be in the States for Christmas. Appointment number three came, and is on Wednesday.
Our original plan was to sell our flat before R had the baby, and move to rented accommodation that we could drop as soon as my visa was ready. Thanks to the knackered economy and dead housing market, this never happened. However, just before Christmas we were made an offer on the flat, approximately the same time as my visa appointment letter arrived. Ahead of us, then, is a mad scramble to move out of the country at the same time as moving out of our home. Providing the god of bureaucracy smiles upon me and grants my visa, of course. (Which is, worryingly, not guaranteed. Although I think we have everything in order, I have heard horror stories.) Even though we started planning this two years ago, it seems like it's all happening very quickly, as though we've been on that first part of a roller-coaster where you are winched slowly to the top of a steep hill before being nudged over the edge.
There is much I will miss about Glasgow, and Scotland in general (including many friends), and the pros and cons of moving have been chewed over again and again. The clincher is, simply, that I have lived here for 33 years and I have the opportunity to have a go at living in a foreign country - and easy as it is to forget, America really is a foreign country - so why the hell not? If I don't, I'll always wonder "what if?" Fortunately the nature of the work I do means that I can do it anywhere there's an internet connection, so I will be keeping my job when we move and working from home. I think this scares me more than anything - will I go completely batshit insane without all those other faces around every day and a commute to ensure that I get out of the house? Fortunately, the interwebs really do make the world a smaller place and there's no longer any good excuse to lose contact with a friend no matter where you live. In addition to which, I may well be back in Glasgow on business once in a while. (Or with my tail between my legs if I cannae hack it.)
Progress will be blogged and Twittered of course. Wish us luck!