Nebulous Mooch

We’ll be moving soon. The funny thing is that we have no idea where we’ll be moving. My husband and I have just about as many organizational skills as tadpoles. Speaking of tadpoles have you ever seen this?

Nature is beautiful and all that, but sometimes it is horror movie worthy.

Anyway, back to moving…

Part of the reason we’re moving is that realistically our flat is kind of dreadful. In this case dreadful means moldy and damp. Now that we’re moving out our landlord is trying to re-lease the place. She’s also trying to raise the rent by 50  pounds a month. The real estate company or estate agent or whatever you call it has been showing people around our home. Even though we’re packing things in boxes we have the keep the place looking nice so perspective tenants can view the property.

Normally keeping this place looking good would be easy, but when sorting through long forgotten drawers and random boxes in closets–oh wait we only have one closet–the task is a bit more challenging. This is a tiny apartment, but we have somehow managed to ram so much stuff in here its unbelievable.

We’ve recently sorted through our stacks of CD cases. My husband has put them all in a bag to go out, but he doesn’t know that the next time he goes out I’m going to build an igloo out of them. All I need to do is to buy a hot glue gun and the building can commence.  I think a CD case igloo would be a wonderful feature that would justify the new rental price for this place.

The funny thing is that when we rented this flat the estate agent seemed kind of shocked. Apparently, they had been trying to rent it out for a while with no success. We were desperate enough to move in anywhere so we took it. Now when new people come to view the property I can see by the looks on their faces that they arent’ going take it. If I ever get a moment alone with any of them I always mention the damp problem. That  doesn’t help the situation much.

If I build the igloo maybe it would make up for the fact that I keep telling everyone about the damp…and I’ll have an excuse to buy a hot glue gun. Every woman wants a hot glue gun.

The worst thing about renting an apartment, besides the fact that you’re  paying down some else’s mortgage, is sharing your walls and ceiling with neighbors. I’ve had all kinds of neighbors, but the ones I always remember most are the bad ones. There was the guy that would come home from a night out and blare techno music at 2 in the morning. Then there were the neighbors that had loud arguments almost daily. Let’s not forget about couple who had sex a little too loudly a little too often. Oh yeah, there was also the guy that would get drunk every night and yell profanities at no one.

I’m not saying that we’re perfect neighbors…all right I am saying we’re perfect neighbors. We’re friendly, polite and both play incredibly noisy musical instruments. Who wouldn’t want to live next door to us?

A new family had the privilege of moving into the flat above ours last week. They seem to be generally okay, but I do wonder what is going on up there. I know they are renting because my husband talked to the owner of the flat a couple of weeks ago and he said that he had new tenants moving in soon, but they seem to be making a some renovations.

Soon after they moved in, I spied a brand new door wrapped in cardboard and plastic sitting in the yard. Later that day quite a lot of banging around ensued. “What do you think they’re doing up there?” I asked my husband.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Maybe they’re replacing the doors.”

Then yesterday I swore it sounded like they were ripping up the carpet. “What do you think they’re doing up there now?” I asked my husband.

“Sounds like they’re ripping up the carpet,” he said. Then he went back to reading his book like nothing interesting was happening at all. I sat on the couch looking up at the ceiling and imagining the scene that must be happening upstairs–dust and nails flying everywhere as the carpet is ripped from the floorboards.

I’m curious by nature and if that curiosity was matched with a little more bravery I would’ve marched right over and knocked on their door. But since I’m just a wimp with a wildly active imagination, I can just sit around and speculate.

Guess what came through my mail slot this morning?

No,  not an envelope stuffed with cash.

Okay, I’ll tell you. I got a picture of a sad kitten named Stevie.

Doesn’t that just tug at your heartstrings?

Oh yeah. I almost forgot to mention that I also got my British passport!!!

I am now an official member of the two passport Bettison crew. We roll like that…with double the passport renewal fees and two expiration dates to keep track of.

In the UK, when you apply for your first adult passport you have to have an interview. I think this is funny because I was able to get through the entire naturalization process without any kind of interview. They didn’t even give me a spelling test and maybe they should’ve before granting me citizenship.

My passport interview was yesterday and I think I might have failed. It all started when the traffic was particularly bad getting to the interview office. Our car is on its last legs and overheats in traffic. My husband deals with this by turning it off when we’re not moving. I deal with it by stressing out and having an anxiety attack.

By the time I got to the interview, I was in such a state that I looked the wrong way when crossing the street and almost got killed. I can’t believe I still don’t know which way to look when crossing the street here. I was glad that wasn’t one of the interview questions.

When I got to the building the interview would be in, I couldn’t figure out how to open the door. The front door was locked and I dealt with this problem by pulling on the door as hard as I could and saying, “I can’t open it.” I guess I thought I could use brute force to yank it open. If I’d taken a minute to calm down, I would’ve noticed the button I needed to push to get buzzed in. Why do I always have such a problem with doors?

By the time I got to the interview office, I was all panic on the inside, but  I managed to keep a calm exterior. I sat down at the desk across from my interviewer, Dawn, who gave me a little speech about the importance of preventing identity theft and then told me that the interview was to be casual, and that she would just ask me some questions from my passport application. No problem right? That’s what you would think.

After she established that I had filled in my application form myself, she started asking the questions, and everything I had ever known in my life rushed out of my brain. The interview went something like this.

Dawn: When was your mother born?

Me: I really should know that, but I don’t.

Dawn: Do you know how old your mother is?

Me: I’m sorry, but I don’t. I know she’s older than me.

Dawn: When did your parents get married?

Me: Nobody knows that. I had to call them  to find out.

Dawn: Okay, when is your husband’s birthday?

Me: I’m drawing a blank. Please don’t tell my husband I don’t’ know when his birthday is.

Dawn: When was your naturalization ceremony?

Me: I think it was in July. I brought me certificate with me I’ll check.

Dawn: You can’t check just tell me when it was.

After getting out of the office I checked. It was in August. About midway through, I told Dawn that I thought I was failing the interview and she just laughed. When I got outside and told my husband about all the questions I didn’t know the answers to and he said, “I can’t believe it. How do you fail your own identity test?”

He can’t complain though because when he pulled out of the parking garage he failed the which-side-of-the-road-do-you-drive-on-in-this-country test. Luckily, there was no one else on the road at the time.

Now I just have to wait to see if my passport arrives in the mail.

Our washing machine broke down last week or maybe it was the week before. Anyway the landlord only just replaced it the other day.  Not having a washing machine for as long as we did helped shed a new perspective on  life and laundry.

The good thing about not having a working washing machine is watching the dirty clothes pile up and knowing that as long as no one runs out of underwear I don’t have to do anything about it.

The bad thing about not having a working washing machine is watching the dirty clothes pile up and knowing that eventually I’ll have to wash them.

I was going to write a list of good and bad things, but that’s all I’ve got. I guess I didn’t gain as much perspective as I originally thought.

Our landlord bought us a slightly used washing machine to replace the old one. He got it from the same place where he got our dodgy fridge. When the delivery men hooked it up one of them noticed that the drainage hose on the machine was cut. “Someone’s gone and cut the end off this,” he said holding the hose up to my husband. Then he rammed the hose onto the pipe coming out of the sink and said, “That’ll do. Pop a jubilee clip on that one and it’s good as new.”

I don’t know what a jubilee clip is but it sure sounds great. If it will make an old, dirty, cut hose as good as new I’m sure I could find a lot of uses for it around this place. I wonder if putting a jubilee clip around my wrist would make me 25 again.

The night before my citizenship ceremony, I decided to read the paper they sent me that told me what to expect on the day. Much to my horror I realized that we would sing the national anthem at the ceremony.

“You better memorize it. There’s nothing more embarrassing than being the only one who doesn’t know the national anthem at your citizenship ceremony,” my husband said. He would know since when he became an Australian citizen he only knew the first line of the Australian national anthem. In my opinion, all you need to know are the first and last lines. You can just move your lips for everything in the middle and no one ill know the difference.

I practiced the song until my vocal cords hurt. I was ready to belt it out the next day at the ceremony.

We got to the courthouse early. It was full of people wearing their nicest clothes, except for the one guy in a T-shirt and denim shorts. The woman in front of me in the registration line thought that she was going to have to sing God Save the Queen alone in front of all those people upon receiving her naturalisation certificate. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was told she didn’t.

Darn, I thought. I was hoping they’d arrange us into little quartets and we could bust out some impomptu harmonies Boyz to Men style. I’m dating myself, aren’t I?

The end of the ceremony finally came and they asked us to stand for the national anthem. The music started. I cleared my throat ready to sing and nothing happened. The music continued to play and everyone continued to stand there silently. Then the music ended and everyone sat down–everyone expect for me. I stomped my foot and said, “What the heck!!! I wasted two hours of my time memorizing all three verses of this song and we’re not even going to sing it.” Okay, I didn’t really do say that, but that’s what I was thinking.

Now I know God Saves the Queen. The next first time I’m at an event where they sing it, I’ll be ready.

Just One More Thing: 

As I was learning the words to the song I started wondering what it must be like to be the Queen and have everyone sing to you. Talk about awkward. It would like when the waiters all sing Happy Birthday to you in a restaurant only with less happy and more God save.

I found this video and thought it was funny. Even her husband has to sing the song. He doesn’t look like he really knows the words though. I’ll post the lyrics below the video so you can sing along. I know you want to.

God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter her enemies,
And make them fall.
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all.

Thy choicest gifts in store,
On her be pleased to pour;
Long may she reign:
May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice
God save the Queen.

The week before I decided that I was on death’s door something very exciting happened. My naturalisation application to become a British citizen was approved. When they said I’d get my picture taken with the Queen I thought she’d be there in person.

We get mail that was intended for someone else all the time here. When a letter for Sharon Pain or Mike Jones or some other such strange person comes through our mail slot, we write wrong address return to sender on it and pop it in the mailbox when we’re out for a walk. Even though I am tempted at times, I never open the envelop to find out what’s inside.

When emails come to the wrong address it’s a different story though. I kind of have to open it. I got this email not too long ago.

To Whom It May Concern,

I’m Denise Yeung representative of Vroyal Pte.Ltd. We are considering the purchase of the following product

Product Name : Garmin GPSMAP 696
Manufacturer Part Number: 010-00667-40
Quantity : 5 units

Please refer to this order as “Purchase Order #CH/06/11″. If this order cannot be processed as requested, please contact me at this email at your earliest convenience.

Please send the quotation by email with complete details of specification, terms & condition, warranty/guarantee.
May feel free to contact on E-mail.

Best regards,
Denise Yeung

I would love to be able to fill Denise’s order for the Garmin GPSMAP 696, but I’m not a warehouse and I have no idea what she is talking about. I emailed her to let her know that she contacted the wrong person and I got this email in return.

I’m Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you but I’ve been on
holiday and just returned to the office today. I would like to change
my orders with 20 units
of Garmin zumo® 660 (Part Number: 010-00727-00). Please let me know
the grand total includes freight via Fedex International priority. I
already to arrange
the payment today after you give quote for 20 gps units. I’m waiting
your reply soon.

With best regards,
Denise Yeung

Wow, the order has gone up from 5 units to 20. I wonder how much I could make from this transaction. Too bad I’m not selling GPS systems (that’s sat navs for my British friends). I do have a stepson who likes maps and is pretty good at giving directions though. I wonder if she would accept one of 17 year old boy instead of 20 GPS systems. As an added bonus he could name all of the world’s state leaders for her. Hmm…maybe I should write her back to find out how much she’s willing to pay.

We bought a car in to keep in Florida not too long ago. It was for convenience because we go back and forth between the UK and Florida so often. It was also for prestige because we’re all about looking good. That’s why we have 97 Saturn as our Florida car and a 96 Peurgot 106 that sounds like a tractor as our UK car. Nothing says luxury like a car from the late nineties.

Anyway, when we got the car we told my parents that they could use it. They only have one vehicle and our car would just be sitting in their parking lot most of the time. My mother was insistent that they wouldn’t need to use it. “I don’t want that responsibility,” she said. “I can take the bus.”

My father has been driving it occasionally and my sister needed to use it for a while. That’s fine with us, but the other day we got a phone call telling us that the car broke down. When I say broke down I mean serious everything-stopped-working-stopping-in-the-middle-of-the-street broke down. That’s the kind of broke down that I have anxiety about whenever I drive anywhere. That’s the kind of broke down that ends up costing you more to repair than the car is actually worth. Anyway, guess who was driving it. Have you guessed yet? It was my mother.

My mother will probably read this post and never drive the car again. That’s too bad because even though she drives everywhere at 95 miles an hour the needs to be driven.

I hate the self-checkout at the grocery store because that computerized cashier is way to suspicious. Every item I bag weighs too much and the live person supervising self-checkout always has to check my bags. It takes me 1,000 times longer (that’s no exaggeration) to get through self-checkout then it does to see a real cashier. Though the computerized cashier cheerily thanks me for shopping after I pay the bill, she isn’t much for small talk.

I usually go to the basket line in the store to avoid the empty accusations of the self-checkout computerized cashier. The other day while waiting in the basket line an elderly woman got in line behind me. She had a shopping cart (trolley for my British friends) and clearly shouldn’t be in the basket line, but I was minding my own business that day so I didn’t say anything. When she got to the counter she took a basket from beneath it, sat it on the belt, and started unloading the contents of her cart into it. There was a lot on stuff in her cart and she had to carefully balance the pile of groceries in the basket.

She kept her cart with her. She probably needed it to put the grocery bags in after she paid. She had taken care of the basket requirement for the line though.

That’s the good thing about being old. You can do something like that and no one will say anything to you about it–no one except the computerized cashier over at self-checkout. She would accuse you of stealing whether you’re 18 or 85.