Don’t Try This At Home – A Horrible Warning

I am a person who tries things. So, I at least know as much as an infant. You just have to try things. Sometimes they make you burp, poop or cry. Sometimes they make you laugh. At some point, though, we consider ourselves adults who have pretty good handle on what we (and others) ought to like or dislike, without having to try them first hand. I seem to utterly lack this ability.

I am an individual who has tried some things that people with more sense have warned me against; I am probably not a good example of anything aside from a stubborn smartass. My current theory is that being a stubborn smartass is at best a very long, winding road to achieving all your hopes and dreams. I suspect that some of my peers have found their path to self-fulfillment to be shorter and more enjoyable by being generally more sensible and affable. 

“If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll just have to be a horrible warning.”

~ His Burial Too (c) Catherine Aird 1973

I have tried being sensible and affable, but it is terribly boring and emotionally draining. Despite my best efforts, I’ve found myself doing exactly the things that people have warned me against, such as: advertising for roommates on Craigslist, telling my boss what I actually think, moving overseas where I have no friends or family, working from home and eating black pudding. I can only theorize that the reason the universe has allowed me to continue on this path is so that I can warn others. 

So if you, too, are inclined to ignore advice, get easily bored, or perhaps you are my mother, wanting proof that I’m still alive after having missed our last three Skype calls, keep reading. I’ll keep the warnings coming.

In your best interest,

A Mock run Amok


The Big Blue Box of Booty

It’s here, it’s here, it finally arrived!

Seeing that shipping container show up at the right address, on time – how it looked just like it had in January, driving away from the apartment – how the braces held up through shipping, so that boxes failed to spill out onto the road when the doors were opened – how it was full of our crap, and not someone else’s crap or 8,000 toaster ovens –

It was like betting $5,000 on a hand of cards at the casino and coming out even. Uneventful, anticlimactic, the best I could ever have hoped for.

Of course we considered donating or selling it all and starting from scratch. However, it was quickly apparent that no one wanted my smelly derby skates nearly as much as I do. In fact, we had 500 cubic feet of stuff that we figured we wanted more than anyone else, and would rather not have to buy again.


It took three months of online research, screening companies, comparing quotes and reading online forums to finally decide how to get our stuff to the UK. We were warned about customs fees, train yard fees, tarif fees, fees for having fees, fees for having a container in a yard, out of the yard, running into bad weather. Apparently, if your container is lost at sea, you don’t have much recourse. International waters, anything goes.


We still did donate or sell lots of things. The purge actually began 8 months before we moved – first clearing out a four bedroom house, then paring the apartment into what was worthy of being packed. I would not be surprised to find that my fiance had my name on the short list for hoarders.


All our most precious things have been on a long journey, not unlike our own, across the pond. And today, after having been packed and stacked in Chicago, they are here in Southport 7 weeks later, where they are to be immediately stacked and packed them into a relative’s garage, where they are likely to remain for another 7 weeks. But not before I triple my wardrobe by fishing out three more pair of yoga pants.