asylum cottage

Nesting and Blank Brained

2011-02-24T09:10:00.000-05:00

Oops.

Last week, I can't really explain. I just don't know where the days went. This week? It's as if I'm trying to get a masters degree in home ec. And honestly?

I don't really have anything to say. (hear that high-pitched "wheeeze?" that's the air coming out of my balloon.) And I've never really been one for filler. You know. Where someone is blank brained so instead posts a YouTube video, or does a photo shoot in the kitchen and shares the recipe...the recipe that they borrowed from Ina or Martha or Mario (some exceptions out there, obviously).

But me? If I have nothing to say...I'll spare you.

did you notice my partial sell-out? i made this yesterday, when i should have been writing. and it's so ridiculous, and i needed a picture for today, so i thought i'd share. but i refuse to tell you where i got the recipe or how i made it or even what it is. and i didn't even bother taking step-by-step photos. so there.

The Bitch is Back

2011-02-11T16:12:00.001-05:00

Ok, it's my dad's birthday today.

We got him this perfect card. There's a fat fairy on the front. She's wearing a sash that reads: birthday fairy. On the inside? One line: the bitch is back.

Let me explain. My dad? He absolutely hates birthdays. Loathes them. Hates anyone asking how old he is. And holds serious, serious grudges if you cross that line.

Take my wedding for example. We had put out pictures of our family and previous weddings. Grandpa and grandma in England, grandpa and grandma in America, you get the idea. Well, apparently some moron made a very naughty mistake.

Moron went up to my dad and told him that he looked a lot like his own father, as in my grandpa.

Dad couldn't let it go for months. "Kathleen, you know, the only negative thing about your wedding was that jerk who came up to me. Said I looked like my dad. I mean, honestly. What a j#$ to say I look that old."

I asked who said it to him. Was worried it was a new relative who my dad would forever hate (that grudge thing again. it's part of his new yorker charm). He couldn't remember. Perhaps he'd been over-served with whiskey. But God help the moron.

So I was chatting with my brother just a short while ago and this story came up. "Brendan, can you believe someone said that to dad? And that dad is still so upset?"

Silence.

Then this low, long chuckle.

"Oh noooo. It was me."

Thank goodness that whiskey erases memories.

all photos by the talented russell lewis. and dad, happy birthday. xx mulligan

Just Breathe

2011-02-09T19:57:00.001-05:00

I am so effing twisted up right now. As in my shoulders are turning on top of each other and a large object wants to burst out of my chest.

All that I want to do is volley back a cutting remark. One that makes your jaw drop and your tea splurt out of your mouth and onto your computer, followed by a gulping, "No! She did NOT just say that. In writing. In public! (and then followed by a gaspy whisper? "about the ex-wife!")

I want it to look kinda exactly like mackin ink's nasty spanking of a stranger. In her comments section. (read numbers 7 and 8. no really. read them.)

But it would be pointless.

Crazy doesn't change.

i hemmed and hawed about this. i'm not normally that cliche. but today? we're completely fitting the first wife/second wife stereotypes. interpret as you wish. and i'll go back to dreaming i am back in the maldives.

Uhmurica the Great

2011-02-04T14:23:00.000-05:00

The world just feels right.

You may recall my preposterous experiences in the British library. You know, with the drunk guy who kept slamming his face into his cupcakes and coming back up with icing on his nose? The librarian who chewed me out for plugging my laptop in? And the serious mistake I made in drinking all of my water and coffee about 15 minutes in to my planned stay?

Well, today I'm in absolute heaven. Nevermind the ban on concealed handguns. I have three words.

Outlets.

WiFi.

And yes, you guessed it.

Bathrooms.

it's nasty outside today. reminds me of england, actually. and i know, i know, i should be working. but the latest vanity fair keeps calling my name.

Gobsmacked

2011-02-02T14:08:00.000-05:00

I have been looking for a way to introduce my favorite British word. Thanks to the innkeeper from Asheville, I've now got one.

This guy was rather serious about his Trip Advisor reviews. He knew exactly how many were on there, when the last one was posted...you get the idea. He asked us to do our bit.

So we got back home, got on the computer, and gave it four stars. Job done.

We thought. We got a phone call. The innkeeper. Said he had seen our review. It was very good. Though we had made a mistake. We only gave it four stars.

And he rarely does this. Actually he never does. But.

Could we go back in and change it to five?

Cheeky little bugger. I tried to change it. Really did.

Lucky for him, Trip Advisor won't let me.

just some pix from a place that left me speechless. and the handstand man? walked across that bridge upside down the whole way. extra points if you can know where this is.

Sisterly Love

2011-01-28T10:09:00.000-05:00

Ok. Apparently, I am not the nicest older sister out there.

Or, to be more accurate, I wasn't.

There was the time that my brother was flapping around and gasping for air after his foot got stuck under a rock. In a lagoon. I sat, watching. Mom scraped and scrambled herself down some rocks to get to him. Dad dove in to drag him out.

He hit sand face first about two inches down.

That was probably God paying him back. Why? Oh, I don't know.

Perhaps for pausing to remove his footwear. Before he went in to save his son.

Over Christmas, B reminded me of yet another incident. He was playing basketball. We all were at the game. B really hurt himself. His neck. Had to be hauled out on a stretcher.

I drew a blank. "No way, I wasn't there."

He pulled out a picture. There was B sprawled out on the court. My mom. My dad. And the person behind the camera?

Me.

I'm hoping that posting this class picture is enough to make amends.

please, please tell me i wasn't that horrible. images by a now reformed older sister, and a school photographer who clearly was working with bad light.

Gilded Weekend

2011-01-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

I mentioned I'd been meaning to tell you about our weekend trip to Asheville. Have you been?

Well, D and I headed over there recently for two nights to check out the Biltmore Estate, hike along the Blue Ridge Parkway, and spend a few hours strolling around the town.

We got through most of the list, even if we did have to add a few twists. Asheville? Reminded me of my college town. But with a much higher ratio of granola-to-not. I was used to this. D? Well.

"Kathleen. Where on god's earth have you brought me?"

Blue Ridge Parkway was a check. So long as you count walking on the pavement rather than the trails as a "complete." Apparently the parkway is closed in the winter. (um. oops?) And the trails that we could access? Too covered with snow to follow.

Let's take a pause.

Did I mention that I was in charge of booking this fab weekend getaway?

I was holding out hope for the Biltmore. It didn't let us down. The gardens were beautiful, the sun was shining, and the house itself was clearly a marvel in its day. Finally, I'd nailed it. Then we walked outside and soaked the whole thing in. "Hmm," said D.

"You know, it really doesn't look that old."

I forget sometimes that he is a Brit.

my favorite bit about the biltmore? that they had an indoor pool in 1895. complete with underwater lighting. posh.

AWOL

2011-01-21T09:30:00.008-05:00

Ok, so I was just finishing up a post telling you about our weekend trip to Asheville, but now that has to wait. I was interrupted when I went to go get a computer lead.

Resulting in my meeting my neighbors.

Granted, I'm not sure I made the best first impression. I was in a mixture of pajamas and jeans (please, please don't ask). My hair was a wreck. I had a wild look in my eyes. And I was running up and down the neighborhood streets yelling one word.

"Sophie!"

Someone had escaped.

But I love my neighbors. Because the guy I met? Carey? Well.

He was putting up signs on telephone poles.

"FOUND. LOST DOG. SPRINGER SPANIEL. CONTACT XXX-XXXX."

And the finishing touch? His t-shirt. Sporting these lovely five words.

I think we need to bring him a massive "thank you" gift. Any thoughts?

images from here, here, and here. and i've resisted these posters because it seems like everyone has them...but now? might be time for a change.

Pretty Things

2011-01-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

I've been quite feisty lately, haven't I? I thought today I'd share something girly and nice.

Remember Jan the Florist? The bonkers one?

She didn’t disappoint come wedding day. Actually, the bouquets were abysmally sub-par. The other work? Simple…lovely…at least I thought so.

But my favorite flower of the entire day?

This one.

On my wedding dress.

photos courtesy of anna robertson and russell lewis.

Montes' Revenge

2011-01-14T12:57:00.001-05:00

I'm tired. I'm cranky.

I'm craving pickle juice.

Who is to blame for my bout of cocktail flu? Wine glass number two.

We had a very frustrating day yesterday, dealing with massive bureaucracies. Running from office to office, each one trying to fob us off on the other. Everyone offering definitively useless guidance. So we thought we'd have a nice relaxing night. Have a bottle of wine. Cozy.

So wine glass number two did me in. Embarrassingly irritating in and of itself. But the worst bit?

I'm leaving in twenty to go back and face the epitome of government bureaucracy.

The Social Security Administration.

images by russell lewis.

Ah, Sarah

2011-01-12T08:00:00.002-05:00

You might remember me talking about Sarah Palin in the past.

Well, I’ve gone from a place where—for better or worse—no one really knows much about her, to one where people like her. Openly.

We were walking by a bookstore the other day and saw her book on offer in the window.

“Get a signed copy!” read the accompanying sign.

I turned to D. Laughed. Said something about how it probably was a computer thingamabob-type signature.

A man walking into the shop stopped. Tried to be all helpful. “No, no. They really do have signed copies.” He punctuated it with a big sparkly grin.

I’m new here. I’m trying to be nice. So thank goodness Toothy didn’t hear what I had whispered to D just moments prior.

And no, I’m not telling. I’m trying to be nice, remember?

images from amazon.

D's Leaves

2011-01-07T13:30:00.000-05:00

I love living over here. I mean, America is great and all. The weather down here isn’t so bad either. But my favorite bit?

Payback.

D loved chuckling at my lack of inane and allegedly basic British facts. Like how you only hang your laundry on the line to dry. Or never drink beer with fruit in it. (though I’m more and more convinced he made half of this stuff up, especially seeing how much he appears to like american dryers and bud light lime. oh yes. he does.)

Now it’s my turn. On my turf. It was a Saturday. We had just pulled up to our new neighborhood and saw the neighbors working on their lawn.

D started tsk tsk tsking.

“These people. They’re so lazy. They’re blowing their dead leaves off their property into the streets, and it'll just blow back later. They don’t even bother to bag them up!"

Now. Here's the question.

Do I tell him that the county government collects them?

Or do I wait until after he’s bagged up the leaves on our lawn?

Yeah. I’m torn too.

hmm. i'm looking outside at dead leaves. would much rather be looking out at some gorgeous turquoise waters. the maldives. i miss them.

Guns and Butter...or Books

2011-01-05T20:18:00.000-05:00

Knock knock.

Are you there?

Just a quick note to let you know that D and I have moved to a new foreign place.

So, welcome.

To North Carolina.

here goes. the cottage. in the south. i may be a bit rusty, so please be patient. and fingers crossed there is loads of new material as d experiences married life. in uhmurica.

Father's Phrases

2010-09-01T05:37:00.000-04:00

Father has another one.

This might just be my favorite. Seriously, at the top.

Father sent D an email the other day about someone who had quite properly ticked him off. (d was married once before, and apparently this someone was giving father a hard time about the paperwork required for us to marry in church.)

Father's didn't waste any words in describing the guy.

"[He's] a self-important TWAT."

The guy in question?

Oh, just another priest.

Blind Football

2010-08-30T03:00:00.001-04:00

Ok, so carrying on with that theme I mentioned last week about me not being all that nice?

I was ready to make fun of blind people.

I took a little field trip two weeks ago with a friend of mine to watch an international sporting championship.

Teams came from Greece, North Korea, Brazil, China, Spain, England, and elsewhere to play football.

Blind.

They wear eye-masks to make sure there is a level playing field. They play on an outdoor version of an indoor soccer field, with walls and a smaller pitch. And the ball?

The ball has a bell in it. The kind of bell that sounds like one hanging from a cat's neck. (i've heard that there is quite a funny commercial of a cat strolling onto the pitch during one of these blind games and getting booted to space.)

And the oddest bit?

You have to remain completely silent during play. No cheers, no "oohs!" or "aahs!" or "eeeks!" Unless, of course, a team scores. Then you can bring the house down.

So I agreed to go for one reason: the laugh factor.

I left completely amazed. These guys were incredible. I didn't even chuckle out loud. Not once.

I followed the rules of being silent.

But a few muffled chuckles?

Only when they ran into each other.

Ring Around the Rosary

2010-08-27T02:30:00.001-04:00

Father let me down.

D and I thought we'd use Father to weigh in on whether the ring is part of the whole marriage deal.

Catholic priest? With this ring, I thee wed?

I was golden.

Ha.

Apparently, Father and D share a mutual hatred of man jewelry. D a ring symbolizing marriage. Father a ring given to him by then-Cardinal Ratzinger.

Father verbally slapped D on the back. "Good for you, D! It's just a modern notion anyway."

D had a massive grin on his face. Me? Well, Father quickly capped my planned retort.

"Kathleen. The wife still has to wear one. Just one of those things."

The upside?

I doubled my ring budget. And on the wedding day?

Well, I've got a little something up my sleeve.

all shiny baubles courtesy of blue nile.

The Boots

2010-08-26T02:30:00.002-04:00

I desperately want these boots. A friend said she wanted a pair of "urban wellies." But that folks out here would laugh if wellies were anything but green.

I don't think I'd really care. The only hesitation? The cost.

Do I pay over $200 for rubber?

Really, really, pretty rubber?

hunter wellies found here. hopefully maybe later on my feet too.

The Nutter

2010-08-24T18:33:00.000-04:00

August 4th was my 12-month mark. I didn't have much to write the last few weeks because things weren't so bizarre. They seemed quite...normal.

That didn't last long.

I wore Uggs. Last week.

My 80-year old neighbor plans to crash our wedding if not invited. She's serious.

Her 47-year old son set a massive mound of garden clippings ablaze. After dousing them with gasoline. In the rain.

Oh, and our darling little Soph? Possibly a darling little slut who got knocked up by a Newfoundland.

But the highlight this past week? The middle-aged American.

I heard her at the bus stop. Asked where she was from.

Chicago. Lived here 15 years. Followed her then-boyfriend now-husband. Who now lives with another woman. Has done for the last three years. They're still married. She's waiting for him to make up his mind. She lives in 107. I should come round for tea.

I should. That data dump only took three minutes.

Clearly she was lonely.

But I'm clearly not that nice.

all fabulous truffles from the trufflegirls.com. oh, and the wedding is in 31 days. i'm going to be writing randomly these next few weeks. probably more than two posts a week. for my sanity. visit?

The Superheros

2010-08-12T12:14:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I mentioned my nephews. Matthew and Josh.

Matthew is at the tail end of a twelve-month obsession with Harry Potter. Let me rephrase that.

Twelve-months where he has believed that he is Harry Potter. He talks to Hermione. Introduces people to Dumbledore. And earlier on? He wore gargantuan fake glasses.

All of the time.

He wore them to the shops. To nursery. To A&E. You name it. They were on his nose. And if they weren't?

Well, you'd hear about it.

He hasn't been wearing the glasses as much lately and I'm a bit bummed. I've been kinda sorta really hoping he'd sport them when he walked down the aisle with the rings. (ahem. the ring. story on friday.)

Anyway, I need not worry. Why?

I got a text from their mom today. She's had to do a bit of negotiating with the boys. Harry Potter is out.

But Spiderman and Buzz Lightyear want to carry that ring down the aisle.

The Father

2010-08-04T08:15:00.000-04:00

There are a few things you don't expect when meeting with a priest.

Like a throw pillow on his couch. One that reads, "One martini, two martini, three martini....floor."

We saw the father on Sunday to chat through all things marriage. We're supposed to do it in at least three sessions, if not more.

He read that bit out loud from his cheat sheet of what we had to cover. Then paused.

"Oh God."

He decided we'd do it in two sessions. Maximum.

The foundation of a Christian marriage? Covered in about three minutes.

The importance of love? Covered in about two.

The importance of sex?

Yes, you read that correctly. The father spent a good 10 minutes talking about it. And not just in the typical, "only for procreation" sort of way. He talked about a 90-year old lady who came to confession. She coughed up to numerous "unpure" thoughts after passing a man on the street. The father loved that. "Can you believe it? At 90!"

D cringed. Visibly.

And then the father came up with a new recruitment campaign.

"If only people knew what we Catholics really thought about sex! We'd have loads of converts."

images from bald monk, kyle may, and sgt. gooch, with all pictures via flickr.

The Difference

2010-07-26T09:39:00.000-04:00

I was in DC last week. My first time back in over a year. I saw loads of sushi places. Massive grocery stores. And friends.

Friends who kept asking me the same two questions, over and over again. "What exactly do you do all day?" (they tried to ask politely, but you could tell they were all just so confused.) "How is life different there?"

That first question? I still stumble coming up with an answer. But the second one? By day two, I was all over it.

You see, it all has to do with reward points. You know how in the US, if you spend enough on your Amex or Visa or Mastercard you can get things like free travel vouchers, an iPod, or some speakers?

Well where I live?

You can get a chicken coop.

just a quick note while i'm away, and before i forget. i'm in the land of lobster now. see you back in the uk next week. pictures from peter b. tzannes and hddod via flickr.

Granny Town

2010-07-16T01:30:00.002-04:00

I know that I've joked a lot about the grannies around here. And grandpas.

But it's true. The hospital here was ranked at the top of the national list for most patient deaths.

I was appalled at first. Then a friend who worked there pointed out a critical--and fine print--fact: most of the patients who checked in were geriatrics.

And this local street sign? Too good not to share.

i'm off to the states for two weeks. i can't wait. though the pending heat and humidity? i foresee many a bad hair day in my future.

Pavel's Revenge

2010-07-14T04:23:00.000-04:00

You might remember Pavel. My bus driver who asked me to practice English with him?

And I lied and said my husband wouldn't let me?

Well, my brother is here this week. We took the bus into town the other day and Pavel was less than friendly. I realized something important on the way back home: he through B was my hubby.

Yesterday, his thinking was practically confirmed. B took the bus into town on his own to grab some bits. He was the last one to hop back on, loaded up with bags of groceries for the feast he cooked last night.

He lodged the bags between his feet. Gave Pavel his fare. Bent over to pick his bags back up.

And nearly shot head first into the little granny sitting in the handicap seats.

Pavel.

Pavel, the nice bus driver who always waits for everyone to be seated?

He had floored it.

it is a crappy, rainy day out here...so trying to cheer it up with a few photos i took in a local garden.

Yummy Bits

2010-07-09T06:44:00.000-04:00

I feel like I am fairly resourceful when it comes to shopping for food out here. I can pretty much find what I want, or at least a suitable substitute. I pride myself on not resembling that stereotypical American who leaves Kansas and only wants to shop at American stores or PXs.

But lately?

I'm starting to get annoyed. Maybe it's the summer.

I can't get lemonade here. I mean, American lemonade. I can get British lemonade, which seems to cover fizzy (aka sparkling) water and sodas like 7-Up and Sprite. But good, old fashioned, summertime drinkin' American lemonade? Nowhere to be found.

Hot dogs. I can't find normal, Oscar Meyer hot dogs. The British version just doesn't seem to cut it. Molasses? Forget it. And decent chocolate chips for baking?

Ha.

And pretty soon, I might have a hard time finding a dozen eggs. Or half a dozen bread rolls.

It's not that you won't be able to find 12 eggs or six rolls anywhere. It's that the EU wants them marketed and sold by their weight. So a dozen eggs becomes 372 grams and six rolls becomes...

I have no idea.

pictures from sjdbora, tessa turtle, nessguide all via flickr.

Health and Safety

2010-07-07T04:18:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you about my afternoon at the library.

A drunk and drugged out man (we'll call him DD 1) is sitting across the table from me. I can't move tables because this one is the only one--in the entire library--with access to a working power outlet.

DD 1 follows a cycle. He passes out, wakes up, takes a bite of one of his many cakes, and passes out again. This continues for an hour. Half-way through, he passes out into a cake and wakes up with icing on his face.

He doesn't even notice.

DD 1 dumps out some loose tobacco. Proceeds to start rolling a cigarette. (need i remind you that we are in. a. library?)

DD 2 then arrives. He starts yelling and cursing. Pounds the table. Starts to roll his own cigarette. Continues the pounding and cursing.

At this precise moment, the librarian walks towards us.

And tells me off.

Apparently, I'm not allowed to plug my laptop in at the library.

Why?

Health and safety.

talking about cake so early in the morning is making me hungry. even the image of DD 1 isn't enough to stop my craving. i must do some baking today. all photos from Sugarbloom Bev, via flickr.

Mr. J

2010-07-02T12:11:00.000-04:00

Mr. J is my neighbor's husband.

My 80-year old neighbor who hasn't gone by herself into town in 18 months. Who whinges about everything possible. And who is incredibly, ridiculously nosy.

They've been married for some 60+ years. He is the most happy, chatty man I've ever met. The other day we started chatting over the fence and he started telling me about March 22, 1983.

The day he caught a 33-pound salmon. He said he'd show me a picture at some point. Two days later, he dropped off his fly fishing register and about 50 pictures from his fishing life.

I was flipping through those photos and just kept thinking how it was so nice to see someone who had been married for so long and still be so happy.

And then I realized something.

He hasn't actually lived next door for 40 years. Mrs. J made him move over an hour away. Why?

"He drives me nuts. He talks too much."

Ah.

photos courtesy of mr. j's collection.

13p

2010-06-30T02:30:00.002-04:00

I ripped off a bus driver. Pavel would be upset.

I was several miles from home on a ridiculously hot and sunny day without walking or running shoes on. I mean, ok. So I was technically able to walk in my shoes. But did I mention that it was hot?

My appointment had been canceled. I decided to take the next bus home. One problem: I was 13 pence short and nowhere near an ATM.

So I boarded the bus, threw a load of coins down, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when the driver didn't count my change. Then I thought of Mr. H.

Mr. H is my future father-in-law. He was once left stranded 40 miles from home with no car. No mobile. And no money. He boarded a train anyway and spent the entire ride chatting with the ticket collector.

The collector who never asked him for his ticket.

As Mr. H got off of the train, the collector was coming back from his rounds and mumbled something about the rabble trying to get a free ride.

Mr. H nodded and agreed, and said one last thing as he waved goodbye.

"Cheeky gits."

Oops

2010-06-24T02:30:00.000-04:00

I clearly do not have my own children just yet.

I went to some nearby gardens with that friend of mine who is always put together. If you didn't believe me before, I was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and pumas. We were walking. Through gardens. Of course jeans and pumas were appropriate.

She looked like she was heading out for a fashionable tea. With heels. Sigh.

Even more amazing, she and her wedges maneuvered her two young boys through waterfalls, hedge mazes, gardens, and muddy crossings. She didn't get a drip of mud on her. I, meanwhile, stepped back at one point to allow her pram through and my foot went 12 inches down into soppy wet dirt. Sigh.

Then we found the swings. I was pushing her oldest boy and he was teasing me. "That's not a big push, that's a little push! I want a big push!"

So I pushed. The poor kid went flying. Holding on to the ropes for dear life as his bum went rocketing off of the seat with his little legs dangling below.

It wasn't intentional, I swear.

Sigh.

photos by ph0tomas, TLW photography, and toomanytribbles via flickr.

Caroline the Calligrapher

2010-06-23T10:53:00.000-04:00

D and I are in possession of some absolutely positively gorgeous wedding envelopes. We love them. (heavy use of the royal we here.) They get special treatment. I never let grubby paws near them, and whenever I have to bring them somewhere they are snugged into a ziploc bag.

The royal we are tring to find a fab calligrapher, as my handwriting frequently gets confused with that of a 16-year old boy with ADD and a cocaine habit. "We" did some digging and got set up with a member of the local calligraphy society.

Caroline. Caroline who sounded exceptionally posh on the phone.

Wrong.

Caroline is mad. Quite mad. And when we walked into her home-slash-studio, I thought D was going to have a heart attack. He's a bit of a clean freak. (we whisper OCD now and then.) We passed an open, schooner-sized can of Budweiser. And a random weight thrown on the couch. Covered in filth. Her, ahem, studio? Junk everywhere. Including a random, full black pepper grinder on top of some rather hideous seating cards.

And her penmanship? Well. Let's just say that she and I must be related.

As we left, D had a few choice words. And a few insightful questions. "What on earth was that black pepper grinder for? No, wait. I don't want to know. Can you imagine if you had to sit on that couch?"

"Or lick it?"

Um, no honey.

I can't.

some beautiful calligraphy by emilie friday that richie designs flagged for me. do you think she has a twin in england?

Bugs Bunny

2010-06-18T09:17:00.000-04:00

Did I mention we are a full house this weekend? We have two tired adults, one chatty step-daughter, two clueless English springer spaniels, and one seriously cranky Alsatian.

Sophie and Badger, the spaniels, are keeping me sane. Largely because they are absolutely, positively, bonkers. And today I learned that I have toughened up a bit since moving from DC to the land of sheep, cows, fields, and no-sushi-within-an-hour's-drive. The test?

My reaction to Sophie's presents. The last time that Sophie brought me a present, it was a living toad on my kitchen floor. Oh, and let's not forget the time that I yanked a three-pronged stick out of Soph's mouth, only to notice that the prongs had nails at the end.

Soph is less than pleased that Badger is competing for our attention this week, so I guess she thought she had to go big or go home. We were out in the field behind our house and she came bounding towards me with a massive stick in her mouth. Then I realized that the stick was flopping around. That it had fur. Two legs. A cotton ball tail. And no head.

She just about made it to me before Badger decided he wanted in. So he went for Bugs. The two started a disgusting game of tug-of-bunny. Sophie won. And by won, I mean she ended up with the bigger piece.

And me? I only let out a teeny squeal.

This, my friends, is progress.

Pick the dress

2010-06-16T02:30:00.001-04:00

We're stuck.

We need a dress. For a maid to a bride. We don't want to call it a bridesmaid dress because after reviewing a ridiculous number of websites over a ridiculous number of months, we've decided one thing: we can't go that route. Won't, really.

So these are the parameters. It should be blue, but not navy or royal. Think more like a purpley-indigo-y-blue. Like the blue in here:

We want shorter rather than longer. Fun rather than stuffy. We're getting tired of strapless, but we're open to it. Ideally, it'll be below $300 (or 206 quid). And the best thing? It only needs to fit one person. One person who is taller than me and is about three sizes smaller. You get the idea. A person who just bought these shoes:

Can you help? Please?

(logo thanks to the trufflegirls. shoes from nine west.)

Yuck

2010-06-11T05:37:00.000-04:00

I stepped in it yesterday.

Literally. I was in en fuego productivity mode. Running errands and crossing off to-do items left and right. I was on form. Focused.

Though not, apparently, on the big pile of dog yuck right outside of Marks and Spencer.

I skidded. It was so big that I actually skid right through it. I nearly took out a little old lady and her walker.

Everybody saw. Meaning that everybody heard. (my american comes out a bit in circumstances like that.)

There were no trees or grassy bits around. So I shuffled and muttered and stomped in puddles and did all sorts of things that would result in the "crazy American" arrow being sketched in over my head.

The last time it was this bad? 10th grade. I was sitting in physics class scraping mud off of my shoe and onto the leg of my desk. Classy, I know. Then I realized that it wasn't mud.

I immediately got the bathroom pass and ran outside in high school horror. Shuffling, muttering, and stomping in puddles. Praying that I wouldn't get caught. Because it was a big no no to be outside during class time, and I remain the person who always, always gets busted.

Guess who found me?

Mr. Durso. The principal.

some good smells from the garden to offset the post...teeny strawberries, roses, and sage.

Sarah

2010-06-09T08:42:00.001-04:00

I've been Palin'd.

Did I mention that D is a bit of a prankster? He enjoys making me jump. Never seems to get old to him. He'll hide behind doors. Tables. He'll even head outside in the pitch black then shove his face against a window. Right as I've just turned to look out said window to spy on my neighbors. (yes, that's what i get. i know.)

Our nighttime routine is pretty set now. I rush to get upstairs before him. If I don't, think Pink Panther. I end up switching on lights, kicking doors back, and throwing socks, shoes, and remote controls behind tables to try to identify his hiding place.

Then he dragged Sarah into it. Sarah Palin. A life-size cardboard cut-out of a woman about whom I have very strong opinions. The kind that would certainly result in a reprimand. Or jail time.

D loves her largely because I don't. He loves even more that one of his friends found the cut-out.

So he brought her home. He's hid her behind doors. In showers. And the worst? In the loo.

Strike that. The worst? When I put her in the garage, facing the door. All set to frighten him next time he went to get his training kit.

But I forgot I'd done that. Guess who scared herself?

My opinions about that woman are becoming significantly stronger.

you didn't think i'd post pictures of her, did you? a few snaps from our recent outings.

Nasty Bunny

2010-06-04T04:31:00.000-04:00

Very few things scare D.

Except bunnies.

One bunny in particular, actually.

Nasty Bunny. (D's words, not mine.)

D was about eight. They were living in Germany. Him, his mum, dad, sister, and two new bunnies.

D couldn't wait to play with his new friends. He jumped into the pen. Slowly walked towards them. One cowered in the corner. And the other?

Attacked.

Full on, teeth bare, straight for the shins attacked.

And the way D tells the story? Well, let's just say it explains why he's been talking to about having a friend shoot the rabbits that are threatening my vegetable patch.

Nasty bunny PTSD. Who knew?

Sunshine

2010-06-02T02:06:00.000-04:00

There is something great about this time of year in the UK: it is light out for ages. Sixteen hours, 20 minutes, and 14 seconds of light for today, to be exact. We can still squeeze in dinner outside after 9 pm. On those rare occasions when it's not cloudy and rainy, of course.

The crappy thing about this? Sunrise at 0448. And staying at a friend's place whose flat seems to rely on saran wrap for blinds.

Good morning, London. Let's see how cranky I get today.

image from luporosso via flickr.

Loos

2010-05-28T02:30:00.003-04:00

Public restrooms are a weird thing out here. They seem to be all over the place. Around corners, down alleys. I can't help but think it's a tad shady.

I headed to the library this week to get some work done. Loaded up on coffee and water. Sat my big bum down in the stuffy little chair. Plugged in my Mac. Put on my geek glasses. And went to work.

Two hours later I'd drank all of my coffee. All of my water. Figured I'd refill on the way back from the restroom.

Only there was no restroom. Anywhere. In the entire library. I figured my geek glasses were messing with my eyesight. Asked the receptionist where the library was hiding it.

The directions were less than clear. But they included words and phrases like, "outside," "around cathedral grounds," "down alley," "public loos," and "just a few coins."

Um. No thanks.

i wish we displayed books like this. pictures via a book lover never goes to bed alone.

Chatterbox

2010-05-26T02:30:00.004-04:00

D has been talking a lot in his sleep lately. It started while we were on vacation. I'm not talking a word here or there. I'm talking full on conversations. Laughs. Jokes. (yes, i know, it could be worse.)

So last night I said something to him about it.

He didn't waste a second.

"It's the only time I get to speak."

Point taken.

just a shot of one of our recent walks. bolts of yellow popping up all over the countryside? one of the reasons i love it out here.

And we're back...

2010-05-21T03:40:00.000-04:00

It was like a bad joke.

We stared down the ash cloud. Maneuvered through check-in. Sauntered up to the metal detectors. And then?

Grannie cut me off. Walked right through without even looking at me. I politely said something. She snarked something back. As I was being polite, I didn't respond to her.

Instead I shouted something to D about pushy old Brits. She just might have heard me.

I saw her everywhere after that. Behind me in line at Boots, when I had to purchase something embarrassing from the pharmacy (10 points if you can guess). When I saw her, she nudged her Golden Girl-attired friend and pointed at me.

Then laughed.

Two hours later we were at the gate. Waiting. With 150 other people. I went to smile at the lady sitting across from me.

Grannie. I nudged D. But grannie one-upped me again. More whispers, finger points, and giggles with her friend.

We sat in 37A and B.

Guess who sat in 36?

images from hansIH and supagroova, both via flickr.

We're Off

2010-05-07T05:31:00.000-04:00

My head hurts.

I have not been able to wrap it around British politics. The month-long campaign season. The first (ever!) prime ministerial debates. The fact that the runner-up gets first dibs at the black brick house at No. 10.

Or the fact that D decided to get up at 0415 today to watch the returns.

Forty-five toss and turn minutes and I went to go get him. We ended up watching it in bed. I saw each side gain eight votes in one hour. Note: this is a cure for the toss and turns.

And the cure for the hurting head?

Seven days in the Canaries. We leave Sunday.

image from floridapfe via flickr.

Two Sugars

2010-05-05T02:00:00.004-04:00

H was up this weekend and she was very matter-of-fact about something.

She wasn't sure if she was ever going to get married.

I asked for the pros and cons. Thought this might have to do with the fact that her mum and dad got divorced. (i read that in a magazine somewhere.)

She gave me a con: she doesn't like being the center of attention. Is a tad shy. Wouldn't want everyone staring at her on the big day.

But the pro?

"It'd be nice to wake up in the morning next to someone..."

My mind started racing. In my ridiculous attempt to be the cool, understanding, yet responsible future step-mom, I was thinking how best to explain that age eight was a bit young to be thinking about waking up next to someone.

Then she finished her sentence.

"...so that they could go fetch me a cup of tea."

Smart girl.

images from such pretty things via flickr.

Busted

2010-04-30T02:30:00.003-04:00

D and I tend to like our food. A lot.

Unfortunately, D's curious streak flared up last week and he decided to crunch the numbers. Turns out that we spend a tad too much on our groceries. Like an embarrassing tad. (let me note that D is a tall, fit, strong man. who routinely eats for three. and can go through an entire package of cookies or half of a carton of ice cream in one sitting without any sign of said sweet binge ever appearing. bastard.)

So, we set a weekly budget. Four days in and we were doing well. Then I found it.

A brand new, untouched carton of creamy frozen vanilla goodness. He denied and made counter-accusations. Challenged me to check the fridge, said I wouldn't find anything.

I accepted. He started to squirm a bit when I walked right past the kitchen fridge and straight to the one in the garage. The one we never use. Where I saw this:

Potato chips? Raisin bran? Refrigerated?

I laughed so hard I nearly weed.

(for brits: potato chips=crisps. for americans: "weed" as a verb has absolutely nothing to do with gardening.)

Lightening

2010-04-28T02:30:00.005-04:00

My bum is a bit big.

This is not a new realization. I've known it for a while. Come to terms with it. But this weekend was a first.

I backed into an electric fence.

An electric fence used to keep cows in check.

It works.

image courtesy of the mother [insert plural of the nasty word here], aka "speedrite," who make the fence. and the crappy signs. that, if they appear at all, are positioned only near gates. and which, if they are present, have a supermongo-sized logo and a teeny tiny sketch of that hand touching arrowhead-looking things and look nothing like said sign in the photo above. and absolutely none of which have the word "electric" printed anywhere.

Boy meets girl

2010-04-23T02:30:00.003-04:00

I thought I'd share this story.

Two people. On loan to the Middle East.

She had a problem with coffee. Needed her morning lattes every day before work. Luckily, there was a Starbucks near her apartment.

He hated coffee. Tea. Anything warm (which was unfortunate, because it seems that's all anyone drank over there). But fresh orange juice? Required. Luckily, there was a Starbucks near his apartment.

They spotted each other on a Middle Eastern Monday (really a Sunday). Nodded and smiled. She heard him place an order in perfect English. A good sign. She checked her watch as she walked out.

The next day, they both just happened to show up at nearly the same time. But he'd been a tad early and she'd been a tad late. He was pulling out of his parking spot as she was pulling in to hers. They waved and smiled.

She got there first the third day. Turned out he was new. She'd been there a year. They went to exchange numbers. Then remembered to introduce themselves.

Later, she'd admit that she stalked him.

He laughed. That third day? He had gotten there first. Didn't see her car. So he drove around the block once to wait for her.

All that was two years ago yesterday. All this has happened since. And all of it?

Totally worth it.

all images by russell lewis. and yes, we know that sophie is adorable.

Says it all

2010-04-21T02:30:00.002-04:00

Ok. So a good friend of mine is coming out to visit. She is from DC. She is Persian.

Does that say enough?

I told her we'd have all sorts of fun and see all sorts of things. Hiking in Wales. Clay pigeon-shooting. ATV riding. Horse and foal feeding (we share a fence. they like carrots).

She feigned excitement. Took it all in stride. Decided she'd do a little internet research. Found the tourism site for our little city. Got all excited. "Ooh, there's a link to nightlife! Let's see what is it says..."

It was blank.

Yup. That about sums it up.

the photos? just a few things from here of things that i'd never seen before. at a wedding. white peacock, anyone?

More Naughty Neighbors

2010-04-16T02:00:00.003-04:00

Neighbors are really hit or miss. You can have the little old lady kind that strings out their undies in full view, the man with whom pen.ny built a lovely through-the-looking-glass friendship, or even the kind where their apartment stench permeates through your friend's bedroom wall.

That kind had been dead. For 30 days. And that stench will permeate all neighboring belongings, making moving out quite a smelly and absolutely revolting bitch.

But we really can't forget that kind that leaves presents. On your balcony. Almost weekly. Well, whether or not you can consider them "presents" really depends on your opinion of the objects.

I have a very good friend who spent a very good many years living in New York. She had a fantastic apartment that happened to luck out with a ginormous, astroturf lined balcony, nestled in the Upper West Side. She had been there a few weeks when she found a few DVDs strewn across the astroturf.

Cue bow-chicka-bow-bow music.

Porn. All different kinds for all different tastes. This continued for years. Not a few days. Not a few weeks, but years. By the time she moved out, she would have had quite a stash (I'm foggy on whether or not she kept it all...for laughs, of course).

We could never figure out where it came from. Was someone running an independent label in one of the apartments above? Was there an addict up there, tossing it out the window rather than have it discovered?

Or did someone just think it was freaking hilarious to toss porn out to an unsuspecting New Yorker's balcony? Because if so, kudos to that idea.

images from lord chutney, domk, and elle rigby.

Beaten

2010-04-14T02:12:00.000-04:00

H and her two cousins are here.

I've only recently realized that the amount of work required to take care of ourselves and our house rises exponentially with the addition of little people.

Don't get me wrong, future sis-in-law has been a big help; especially with D off at work these last few days. But still?

I'm not so good at the instant-pseudo-super-step-mom thing. I can become cross. Not at the little people, but at the big ones. Not at our guests, but at the live-in one. I apologize, but always later. Call me weak, but I'm not used to the multiple hours of never-ending laundry loads, dishwasher refills, snack creations, and fun provisions. It gets to me.

I was trying to explain this to a friend last night, one who I thought would understand because she can get the same way at times.

She essentially suggested, with near disdain, that I was weak. That I shouldn't be so melodramatic about it. That I should just get on with it and put on a happy face or not do it at all, because getting on with it and letting big people see that I was having a hard time was, well, melodramatic. Pathetic, even.

I burst into tears. Had one sleepless night. And now? At 0707 in the morning?

Off to make some little people some homemade waffles.

Not today

2010-04-09T02:30:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was not my day.

Is that sort of thing contagious? Because yesterday's yesterday was definitely not D's day.

I'm thinking I might have caught it when the unthinkable happened. As in when the container of salsa that D put away came crashing down on me, the sink, and the floor and in utter outrage shattered into a gazillion pieces. Had I put the salsa away, the outrage and ensuing glass carnage would have been expected. For it to happen on D's watch? Unthinkable.

I had planned a fabulous day. A run in the morning, followed by some time in town looking for a much wanted but not needed dress for a friend's wedding tomorrow, followed by a fabulous hair cut and color.

The morning started off at 4 o'clock. AM. I never fell back asleep.

I went for a run. I made it through all of Tik Tok by Ke$ha and about 1:34 of Justin's Carry Out before I succumbed to the most painful running cramps and stomped back home like a 7-year old whose recess was cut short.

I wiggled into a fabulous dress. Fabulous on top. On the bottom, a bit snug. So "snug," in fact, that the saleslady didn't even work a pitch; just pointed out that if I was self-conscious in the dressing room, I'd feel worse in real life.

I sat down in the salon chair. Was told they couldn't do the color because they had forgotten to do an allergy test.

I returned an hour later, for the hair cut. The girl was running at least 30 minutes late, could I just come back?

I agreed. Texted D. Told him I'd caught his unlucky.

He wisely told me to bolt. Not the kind of day you want your hair in a stranger's hands.

About this same time last year, I found a four-leaf clover in our backyard. (swear!) I put it between two pieces of wax paper in a big book, with just the stem sticking out.

And then our dog ate it.

pendant from zippandesigns, images from nate.follmer, sheshoots, and zoe cohen.

Stars in their eyes

2010-04-07T01:00:00.003-04:00

I really would love to have some fun with this.

I have received several movie scripts in the last few months. I thought perhaps they were from desperate writers hoping that the actress who played Clare on the old 90210 was foolish enough to make her email address readily accessible to the masses. I deleted the first two, figuring it would stop.

It didn't.

Kathleen -
I have a script for a space drama called PEOPLE WHO FELL FROM THE SKY. In the year 2259, on the Rangers Training Planet of Nokomis, [blah blah blah]. By the end of reading 'PEOPLE WHO FELL FROM THE SKY' you will be itching to kill...yourself [yes, I took the liberty of removing a few words to make this statement more accurate]. If you like to see a copy of my script, then don't hesitate to contact me.
Thank you for your time,
[desperate writer]

I decided to write back to this one. I felt bad for desperate writer, who per Google apparently was a pocket-money-budget film writer in Canada. I thought I should let him know that I was in no way placed to help him.

Hi [desperate writer]-
I'm so sorry, but I think you have the wrong person; I'm in no way involved in film. Can I ask where you got my email address? I've received several script offers in the last few months, and not sure why people keep sending them to me. Thanks. --Kathleen

I was very proud of myself, having done such a good act.

Silly me.

I received a one-liner back:

Maybe you should change your email address.

If anyone would like to contact desperate writer about his script, or just to tell him he's a total jackass, please just let me know.

images from OMG it's Shortiie, Cliccath, and Bumfluff.

Candy Time

2010-04-02T04:43:00.002-04:00

I will be in a sugar coma come Sunday. Lent will be over, and I've already got several bags of specially imported Sour Patch Kids just waiting in the cupboard.

We'll just ignore the fact that today, we taste cakes. It doesn't count if it's work related. Wedding planning work. Right? (please say "right!!")

Happy Easter!

image from JolieNY

Jan the Florist

2010-03-31T02:00:00.003-04:00

"I'm sure I've been here before."

I was referred to Jan the Florist by our wedding caterer, also named Jan. I was hooked when Jan the Food said that Florist was, "barking mad, but in a good way!"

She arrived wearing a marigold colored sari, an aging orange sweater, brightly colored shoes, fire-stained lips, and kohl rimmed eyes. Combined with the clearly British heritage and possibly-but-not-overly-obvious-posh accent, I liked her already.

But what sold me on Florist was her bluntness. She came in and said she'd could have sworn she'd been to the house before. Said it must have been before my fiance bought the place. I gave her a possible name. "Yes!" Her eyes lit up. "You know her? She had brown hair, shoulder-length...."

I smiled. Held back a laugh. Told her the name was my fiance's ex-wife.

"Oh SHEIT!"

Cursing within the first two minutes.

Fabulous. In the non-sarcastic way.

images by Carl Loves Somerset, batikart, and Ben Heine.

Sugar sugar

2010-03-26T03:00:00.001-04:00

I still can't shake the absolute horror of my first local waxing experience. I actually met another victim, who was violated by the exact same violator in the exact same way. And my new, fabulous waxer? Told me a story about the same violator, who apparently smacked a girl's bum mid-wax. For no real reason. What game is she playing?

I could never, ever do that job. However, I did learn yesterday that I am absolutely fabulous at creating homemade sugar wax. I was channeling my Arab sugarer, Najwa, while I cooked up the sugar, water, and lemon juice mixture. The only real difference was that I had all of my teeth. And I wasn't trying to sell knickers to a vulnerable Western woman, bracing herself for the pending pain, because my sister needed the money since sister's husband had committed suicide and sister was pregnant with their seventh child (i bought five pairs out of guilt and promptly binned them on my way home).

But while I was great at making the wax, I was absolutely rubbish with it. I figured I'd start off smartly, with my legs. But then, instead, I decided to be bold.

Thank Allah that stuff melts off with water.

(courageous? check out this recipe for sugar wax. and if you're not scared off yet, check out these steps to learn how to sugar. and then of course tell me how it went.)

images from gail des jardin and lccavender.

2010-03-24T03:00:00.001-04:00

Poor Pavel.

I clearly have lost my edge. Pavel is my bus driver. Or you can call him "Paul." He's Polish. We bonded. Temporarily.

He always looked rather mean. Or angry. Or annoyed. Or all three. We never really talked. Then one day he randomly burst out that his hometown in Poland had gotten the most snow it'd had in 50 years. Sharing from Pavel was huge.

The other day the sharing continued. He introduced himself and asked me my name. I didn't see him again until yesterday. He asked if I could wait a minute before I got off at the bus station. And this, ladies and gentleman, is where I stumbled.

I used to be able to dumbly laugh my way out of loads of awkward situations or come up with ridiculously effective excuses. It worked very well in the Middle East, where the local males believed that blonde hair, light skin, a friendly demeanor, and an American accent--irrespective of build or bulk--translated to "looking for a good time." (this skill came in particularly handy when, in a rather important meeting, a local told me that the way i pronounced a word was, "sexy.") But at the end of the day, I was always able to get myself out of sticky situations without offending. Or being offered money.

I've lost my bag of tricks. Pavel used his broken English to tell me that his Slovakian friend who he used to practice English with just went home. I didn't get a sketchy vibe at all. Honest. I just didn't want to become the local English tutor to the Polish population here. I was bracing myself to say "no, I can't have coffee with you to practice English" when he asked if we could practice via text.

First mistake: I said sure thing. It wasn't coffee, it was impersonal. It was a text. Easy.

First warning: Pavel's bright blue eyes lighting up his wrinkly and greying face. A little too excitedly. This is where I started to get concerned.

Second warning? Pavel taking out his phone and showing it to me...and me seeing my name already in his contact list.

I nodded and smiled and tried to get off the bus before actually having to give my number. Pavel quickly pointed out he didn't have it yet.

Second mistake: I gave it. The real thing. I didn't even screw up a digit. Read out all 11 numbers. Automatically.

This was not good. I hemmed and hawed and was slightly told off by the other half in a rather exasperated tone (and he never, ever gets exasperated) and ridiculed by my future sister-in-law. Apparently I did not understand the local Polish ways. I was supposed to be smarter than that. So I took an earlier bus back to make sure I got Pavel.

And then I told a lie that made me cringe, only because I am so not that future wife.

"Sorry, Pavel. Husband said no practice."

He took it well. But I seriously need to start driving.

2010-03-19T03:30:00.004-04:00

Naked Danish bungee jumping.

Some of you might remember the story I told here about the perfectly put together woman with the gorgeous leather driving gloves who just happened to lose her teeth before her wedding day. Despite this revelation, she continues to surprise me.

We were talking the other day about how life can shift a bit from when you are a single-young-professional to a partnered-youngish-kindaworkingouttahomer. How your Monday morning stories are sounding a lot more like Frank the Tank's weekend plans than Carrie's tales.

How you would never, ever let a promoter promoting a new, ahem, product, for safe sex talk you into bungee jumping naked. In Denmark. Tandem. With your naked Danish boyfriend.

She interrupted my laughing to tell me it got worse.

As soon as they made it safely to the bottom, there were the cameras. As in video cameras. And microphones. Attached to which were the journalists. She smiled and nodded her way through a five-minute incomprehensible Danish interview while her boyfriend did all of the talking.

They were confronted by his mother when they got home. Who pointed to the television. The jump had made national news. And the boyfriend? Asked if they supported using, ahem, said products to promote safe sex.

"Nah," he said. He points to her. Camera pans. She's all grins and nods. "She's been using the pill for years now."

She's grateful for one thing: that YouTube didn't surface until many years later.

2010-03-17T03:30:00.003-04:00

I am starting to feel like I am walking around with a sign just asking people to provoke me. First, there was Go Ahead. (who, allegedly, is going to be "severely" reprimanded and whose employer gave us a decent-sized credit for the hassle.) I wondered if I'd been a bit harsh towards him, but you all seemed to agree. I needed that validation.

Kind of like the time I got on the elevator at work and stood in the back left corner. With another woman already in the back right. We hit the next floor and some vaguely familiar guy gets on and stands front left. But rather than have his back to me, he turns. To face me. About 12 inches from my face. And says?

Nothing.

For four floors. Just faced me. I was stunned stupid. He finally spoke as he did a 180 to walk out on 2. "Have an absolutely lovely day." I turned to the woman back right, who confirmed I wasn't crazy. "F*ing weirdo" she said. (i realized later that he was the guy who left stalker notes on my girlfriends' cars--yes, he clearly was a repeat offender. he even waited at a side entrance with a plate of cookies for one of them.)

Then yesterday. I was at Boots, debating between this unnecessary pedi kit and that one, when I suddenly felt one hand on each shoulder and, two seconds later, was standing two feet to the right of where I'd been originally. I'd been blocking someone's way, and they decide to just remove the obstacle. I was going to let it go, until I made eye contact with a woman who had seen the whole thing. "I can't believe that!" she said.

Validation. I marched right up to the man, tapped him on the shoulder, and as his bald spot turned I saw the massive hearing aid. I proceeded to tell him it wasn't ok to just move me. He shook his head, waved his hand, and said, "Oh love, that's ok. You're fine." Me? I'm fine?!

I gave up. Walked past the validater. Who dead faced me. Completely.

Apparently it is very un-British to go tell a geriatric not to move you.

2010-03-12T09:44:00.000-05:00

Wow. I seriously hate some people sometimes.

And I probably shouldn't write in anger. But really? I find it cathartic. So cathartic that I'm posting twice today.

My other half is away for a while and we can't make outgoing calls. I call the phone company, they connect me to the billing department, and I'm asked for my number. Four separate times. By the third time I was enunciating as slowly as someone speaking to a deaf and old grandmother whose native language was Polish. The idiot on the other end kept screwing it up. And seriously? It's not that difficult. And honestly? I was getting very frustrated, especially because he kept interrupting me and saying that it was my fault not his.

So anyway, on the fifth time that he needed the number, I asked if he was ready, and he said, "Go ahead." Then in a snarky, prissy voice added, "Please speak slow-ly."

I lost it. I asked for his name. You know what he told me it was?

Go Ahead.

I think my scalp nearly popped off. I asked him to please spell it for me, on the off-chance that maybe this was a non-Western name that I wasn't familiar with and maybe I didn't have a legit reason to really lose it. You know what he said? "G-O...(insert appropriate pause)...A-H-E-A-D."

So I finally took two minutes to list the 11-digit number. You could have sliced ice with my tone. He said something ridiculously snarky, so I asked to speak to a manager. He said he was more than happy to transfer me, and what was my name? "Transfer Please." He said, "No, what is your name?" I repeated it. "Transfer Please." I was about to spell it out when he said, "Right, you're first name is 'Transfer?'" I said, "Yes, just like your name is 'Go.'" He then told me that since the name I gave wasn't the same as the account holder's, he couldn't transfer me.

Livid.

I hung up. Redialled. Got an absolutely lovely woman named Rosario who made everything better. At the end of it, I asked if she there was anyone in the billing department who went by the name "Go Ahead." She was utterly confused, asked me to repeat the name about four times, and then said no, absolutely no one by that name worked there.

I have a phone call scheduled with the manager tomorrow.

2010-03-12T02:00:00.002-05:00

I swear. I didn't know what I was looking at.

My brother was here for his spring break, and Pictory is taking submissions for their spring break theme. So it got me thinking.

Or, really. Remembering.

Spring break. Jamaica. First one for many of us.

We had booked with a tour group and were sitting under a straw umbrella with the obligatory company representative for the olbligatory "on arrival" brief. He told us about changing money. Food. Alcohol.

And then? Drugs.

"Contrary to popular belief, drugs are illegal here in Jamaica. Even marijuana."

At that exact moment, and I mean exact, something fell from the umbrella. Something that was bundled up. Something that looked a lot like dried out leaves.

This is when, I swear, I didn't know what I was looking at. (yes, i realize that this statement will shortly bring my entire "college experience" into question. i was a bit of a dork. admitted.)

It was weed. Falling out of the sky. Or at least the umbrellas. In Jamaica. On spring break.

Ridiculous, right?

and yes, i am committing what is probably a cardinal blogger sin by reposting an old photo. no excuses. i just like it. and it seems to fit with this.

2010-03-10T02:00:00.014-05:00

Only my brother.

Honestly. The boy was in London for less than 12 hours with two of his closest guy friends.

There they were, three rather preppy-but-don't-want-to-admit-it-American-guys wandering around an unknown part of London looking for a good bar their first night in town. They run into a British couple, who offer to take them to some good places in London. (a- this is not unusual for my brother. he makes friends everywhere. talks his way into everything. like backstage at a DMB concert. or onto that bar stool next to Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson to take a shot with them. b- i confirmed that said British couple was not actually a Russian pimp and his prostitute.)

My brother and his friends said thanks, but that they didn't want to interrupt date night. Non-Boris and non-Svetlana quickly clarified: he has been trying to (insert crude rude/gesture here) her for years, but she wouldn't let him because, she confirms, she is a "big fat (insert water-stopper term) who really just likes girls." Should this have been a clue?

Anyway. Fast forward to backseat of cab, where brother, two friends and new acquaintances are chugging wine out of bottles on their way to some bars. Sweet.

First stop? A brightly lit alley. Brightly lit by neon signs and other fluorescent lights that are screaming the words "Gay" and "Heaven" with arrows leading the away. My brother and his two equally and overly straight friends were severely, and I mean severely, disappointed to learn from St. Peter that Gay Heaven was not accepting any more souls that night.

Next stop. A "really great club," as they were told. A great club if you are that straight American guy who likes shirtless men rubbing up on you all night. Or grabbing your thigh and comparing it to a tree trunk. Or stroking your back and wide shoulders and saying, "Oh my god, so broad!" Or asking if you'd like to go take a "wee" while winking at you.

Two of them had had enough. Ran for the entrance. The third American was left stranded at the coat check. And in what can only be described as a most definitely NOT equally-or-overly-straight reenactment, told me how he threw money at the coat clerk, grabbed the coats, lowered his head, ran towards the door, and, sensing the presence of the other two said, "That's it! We're out of here!" without ever looking up.

The lesson learned? And, I quote, "Honestly. That must be what it feels like for girls when drunk frat guys won't leave them alone. I felt so...so...violated."

I half expected to see a tear.

2010-03-05T05:59:00.000-05:00

I do not feel well today. At all. So instead, I'll share a glimpse of Hay-on-Wye, a gorgeous little English town with loads of secondhand and antiquarian bookshops. On each street.

And then there's just the bookspots. Where you browse the books outside, no shopkeeper in site, and just drop your money into the slot.

Ever wish you loved books even more?

2010-03-03T02:30:00.001-05:00

How do I know that I'm not a good person?

I see about four or five early teens riding their bikes in the mini-cul-de-sac in front of our house. They are on those trick bikes, some with one pant leg rolled up, one with a hat tilted to the side, going back and forth along the curb. You can picture it. I immediately make a face. Turn to my other half and go, "Ugh, little thugs."

Surprisingly, he defended them. Said they were probably good kids. He's typically much more critical than I am. Especially of little thugs. Especially when we are constantly overhearing thuglets downtown dropping all sorts of words to make me and the grandmas blush.

One little thug ran into another. I readied myself. For the nasties coming out of his mouth.

"Oi! Hey, you...you...NUMPTY!"

Numpty. Not choice word A. or B. or XYZ that definitely turns your ears red. The kid said numpty.

The other half just turned and gave me a big smile.

Cheeky git.

2010-02-26T02:30:00.003-05:00

I am not a good Catholic. At all.

I never go to church. I haven't been to confession since I bumbled through it for my confirmation. And I'm still not so keen on that whole idea of having to go through a priest to get my message heard. If I ever even send it.

But for whatever reason. Every year. I give up something for Lent. And I stick to it.

I traveled two hours this week to a little village outside of Birmingham, where I'd been told that there was an amazing wedding dress shop with gorgeous dresses at fabulous prices. I confirmed ahead of time that they had the dress I wanted to try. So two hours and way too many trains and street crossings later, I arrived. And the sample? Sold. Over the weekend. "Oops," the over-bleached blond giggled.

Death stares. My best.

I then went to another dress shop that a friend had recommended. I walked in. And the first thing that hit me? The smell of fried chicken. I tried on two dresses out of guilt and then left.

The only thing salvaging my 4-hour round-trip to the Birmingham area was Selfridges. More specifically, the Krispy Kreme there. You can't get those here. At all. So I had purchased original glazed (we'll leave the actual number of original glazed out). Rather than shove two in as I walked to the train, I behaved. Waited until the train was moving to eat my alloted two doughnuts.

I was just about to open that gorgeous green and white box when I remembered what I'd given up for Lent.

Sweets.

(thanks to krispy kreme for the pictures that made you salivate.)

2010-02-24T02:30:00.004-05:00

Naughty Brits and their television. I'll warn you now. If you are at a computer where work monitors things, and screens for certain not-so-appropriate words, maybe save this one for home.

(i won't put up pictures for your boss to pass by and see, just in case you're a risk-taker and want to read at work anyway. and for my friend who used to work at playboy: yes, some people are not supposed to look at that sort of stuff at work. and no, their coworkers probably didn't invite them to lunch on their first day to eat pizza and watch some new french porn.)

Ahem.

What I am amazed by is what is ok to put on TV after 9 pm. I know, I know. Europeans are a bit more comfortable with nudity than we Americans are. They find it more natural. Less shameful.

Fine. I can buy that.

But a documentary called "Penis Envy?"

I cross-my-heart-bra, swear on our dog, blah blah blah, that we walked into the living room and this show was already on the screen. SWEAR. They had rows of various enhancers lined up on a table. I was just about to turn to the other half and comment about how you would never (emphasized in my most serious tone) see this on US non-porn television when I lost speech.

They weren't just showing the enhancers. They were clinically demonstrating how to use them. That particular bit I most certainly had never seen on the small or big screen. US or elsewhere. Ever. I changed the channel immediately. Cross-my-heart bra I did.

But possibly my favorite show is called "Embarrassing Bodies." I love it because it is so unbelievable.

This is a show where people who are so ashamed/mortified/disgusted (shall we say, embarrassed?) by aspects of their own bodies that the only solution is, clearly, to go on national television. We have seen a woman who talked about how mortified she was that her breasts never fully formed that she couldn't be intimate with men, hated going to the pool, etc. So then she stripped down and showed what were most definitely embarrassing breasts to the British population. She's getting implants now.

Or the man who had a similar development problem that curved left. Or right. Not sure which. But regardless, he had surgery too.

And then there was the woman who has had recurring bouts of unfreshness for the last four years and has gone without a partner for as long because it is soooo awful and...I won't describe it. She was so horrified that she agreed to have the equivalent of her annual with a camera more up in there than the one that filmed that "do-not-have-sex-or-you-will-have-a-baby-and-have-to-go-through-the-same-ridiculous-messy-incredible-pain-as-this-unwaxed-woman-on-the-projector-screen" that they made the girls watch in 9th grade.

I don't even have any more words.

2010-02-19T02:00:00.002-05:00

As a friend of mine would say, "Holy inappropriate, Batman."

I saw Cinderella at the local arts center last night. Cinderella was about a 5' 10" brunette and not what you would envision. At all. The fairy godmother? Promoting herself on a .com site. Ugly stepsisters? Named Gorgan and Zola, with Zola clearly inspired by Dame Edna.

And Prince Charming?

Decked out in a short little number with thigh-high, black pleather, 5" heel boots. With earrings. And a ponytail. Kept up in a bow. Missing?

An Adam's apple.

When I read the program and saw that a definitely girly-girl sort of woman was playing Prince Charming, I just gave it a quick second glance. Didn't really care.

Until I realized that the woman wasn't even attempting to look, sound, or act like a boy. Was going for more of that tartish, definitely female, definitely street-walker look. And was clearly projecting this tarty image while courting Cinderella.

Did I mention this performance was for kids?

We were there with H. And you know what?

Didn't even faze her. She knew a guy was playing a stepsister (critiqued his outfit and coveted his heels), and that a woman was playing Prince Charming (noted the head shot, end of story). The naughty double entendres flew over her head (we strenuously hope). She squealed and hugged her dad at the good parts, shouted back at Zola at the right moments, and asked to meet the princess after the show.

And yes, Zola's heels? Definitely worth a covet.

(some of my favorite photos of cross-dressers and tarts. meet stevie nix--s/he spelled it out for us--stormy vane with carolyn, and some random woman we saw at a ski resort in kitzbuhel. and no. carolyn is neither a cross-dresser nor a tart.)

2010-02-17T05:05:00.000-05:00

So...how much is too much for a wedding dress?

10 hours combined travel. Four bridal boutiques in as many days. Countless dresses. No tears. And me?

Drained. I even dreamt about my wedding dress search last night. It was very much like this recurring dream I have where I'm still at university but haven't attended two classes all semester because I forgot I was still in school and the finals are in three days and I. am. screwed.

So we'll talk instead about my friend Carolyn. Who travelled from one side of the Atlantic to the other for all of two days of dress shopping. And also managed to cram a fairly legit English countryside experience into 48 hours. So just what did she sample?

Topshop shopping in countryside-"city" centre-limited-selection Topshop. Four train rides. Victoria sponge cake...frequently. A ride on the blue rinse brigade bus. Fish and chips at a traditional, middle-of-nowhere English pub ("damn good" should be inserted in there somewhere). Quad bike riding through hills. Chutney. And chutney. And chutney. (the girl has a bit of an addiction here). Roast Sunday lunch/dinner. A run through the fields, dodging whatever the sheep and cows had left behind. Oh, yes. And clay pigeon shooting

And my favorite bit? The fact that after nailing the traditional clay shooting, she then hit three stacked clays from a ridiculous distance in about five shots using something that looked to me like a sniper rifle (i really have no idea about these things). Even better? The shock on our buddy's face. That a girl could shoot so well. An American girl. From California.

Yeah. I'll say it.

Props to that.

2010-02-12T02:30:00.004-05:00

The rings.

Or the ring, as my fiance would prefer.

I never dreamt about my dream wedding. Never had a pre-engagement Monica binder, and still can not get a handle on colors, themes, and all the bits and pieces that make a wedding special. But I always assumed my husband would wear a wedding band. It wasn't even a question.

Until now. He doesn't want to wear one. Ever. Not even if I found a wood piece, spray-painted it some silvery/titanium color, and he only had to wear it the day of the big day.

This has absolutely nothing to do about trust, skeeviness, etc. He is the most loyal guy you will see out there, so no nasty comments about that, please. He just hates "jewelry." Hates the idea of anything foreign on his hands. (and no, i don't really think a wedding band and a guido gold-plated necklace fall into the same jewelry category either.)

A big part of me thinks I should just get over it. If he hates them, he hates them. What's the big deal?

The smaller part, which is totally beating the crap out of the bigger one, wants him to wear one. Definitely on the day. And initially? Future anniversaries, big events, etc. And eventually? Daily.

I've thought about tying things on his ring finger while he sleeps. I'd start off small, with a piece of twine. Or floss. I'd gradually increase the size until we get to ring-equivalent. See if he gets used to it.

I know, I know. Compromise is key. But this one? I really want him to want my way.

(did you see the turquoise and think of her too? i know. engagement ring here, band that probably will never appear on his hand here, and forget me not here. and for those of you getting this twice, apologies. the initial version that posted didn't have the photos. oops.)

2010-02-09T19:19:00.000-05:00

Oh no.

This could be bad.

I am utterly. Completely. Loving.

Some poof.

Mom and I went for the first wedding-dress-try-on session this week. I stepped into my first wedding dress, stepped out into the dressing room, looked at my mom, and braced myself. For those mother-daughter-bonding moment tears.

I got about a 10 second glance and a nod or two before Mom returned to the bridal designer magazine she'd been flipping through. Later, she said she'd seen my face in the dress (definitely not wowed), and determined she needed to identify some additional styles. Fair enough.

But the poof? The problem? I'd gone in thinking I'd want lace. Or something more straight and slender, like this gorgeous slinky dress that Karey over at mackin ink had flagged for me.

Instead, my favorite dress all day was a skirt. Not the bodice (hideous), but the skirt. Of a label called. Brace yourself.

Hollywood Dreams.

I have left it intentionally small out of shame. I will not wear a dress designed by Hollywood Dreams. Especially when all the photos make you think that the inspiration was actually in Bollywood.

More to come.

i sent my mom the link to this ian stuart dress and she laughed. "you're kidding, right? oh. well, it's different." she liked the marchesa one one worn by zanna here. and as for hollywood? i think we all know now how i prefer to stay away from hollywoods. i'm really hoping that ian can come through.

(and it's wednesday here, so i'm posting. sure, it's tuesday still in dc. but the big parents-meet occurs in 12 hours, so i wanted to clear my plate early.)

2010-02-05T02:30:00.000-05:00

Mary T. and Brian J. have arrived! They've been to the UK before, but never to the end of the train line.

We've got 10 days packed with plans for sight seeing, wedding planning, and the big important event of the parents meeting. And you know how I know this will be a great visit?

My dad, from Queens, has already walked in a field. With sheep. Which is a rather impressive first for that New Yorker.

And as for my mom? I can already smell the pancakes cooking downstairs. And I can just picture the jug of recently imported Maine maple syrup waiting on the table. Provided I get down there before my other half has a chance to tuck in. His sweet tooth is rather famous.

2010-02-03T01:30:00.002-05:00

"The G-spot!!"

Definitely among the top five things you never, ever expect an 80-year old proper-looking British man to yell.

An 80-year old man who is killer on the drums.

In a jazz band. A really good one.

And performing before a crowd of about 60 other similarly-aged grannies and grandpas.

Equally stunning? They all broke out laughing at his punch line. And they had all driven to a jazz concert on a Sunday night. Night as in 8 pm. Not as in the typical American grannie/grandpa "night" of 5pm, right after the Denny's special.

Only in England.

2010-01-29T03:52:00.000-05:00

I had just hit "publish" on Wednesday when I realized I completely forgot to mention one of my firsts out here.

Haggis.

I feel like haggis is to the Scots what apple pie is to the Americans. Except haggis is a main.

Made from sheep. Offal.

And originally? Or perhaps traditionally? Stuffed in a sheep's stomach.

I've eaten some rather non-American things before. I've had camel, which my colleague at the time accurately describe as tasting like overcooked pot roast. And I've been to a Kurdish supper where the rice and goat dish was served with the entire goat. Skull and all. And hands down the worst? Bedouin everything-but-the-camp-watering-hole pepperoni pizza. Don't ask.

So I went to my Burns supper, had my haggis, and came home rather pleased with myself. I had done something British that my other half hadn't. (when I asked him if he'd ever eaten haggis, i received another, "did i balls?!?!") I told him it wasn't bad, with a bit of unexpected spice.

He chuckled and said, "Oh, those were the dried sheep testicles."

It wasn't until several hours later, and several "Oh my god what did I eat?!?!" comments, that he admitted he was lying.

I think. He may have just been trying to shut me up.

check out bbc for the stomach photo and here for the haggis all served up!

2010-01-27T04:08:00.003-05:00

What's the worst thing that a bride can lose just a few days before her wedding?

I had a lovely ladies-who-lunch lunch the other day with a new friend. I initially felt like somewhat of a poser, since my ladies-who-lunch period was short-lived and ended about seven months ago. Right around when I realized that not working, paying for health insurance, and covering the leftover bit of your mortgage was not/not what the doctor ordered for your savings.

(when we sat down, i bunched my hair up in a messy faux-bun and started to tug up on my cardy uggs. she gently pushed the stray hair away from her face and delicately removed two gorgeous, whiskey-colored kid driving gloves. poser status confirmed. and i covet those gloves.)

We were talking about the wedding plans and she proceeded to tell me about her hen night. Four days before her wedding. Limited food intake due to wedding stress. Bunch of girls heading out after work. Vodka bar. Deluge of vodka.

Fast forward to morning.

Lady was still dressed in her finest office/hen night attire. Under her duvet. Yawned. Realized something was missing.

Her front teeth.

She proceeded to panic. Not because she had no teeth. She actually had four fakes. But because she had no idea where they were.

I will spare you the gross details but they were found. Eventually. In the bathroom. (no, really. we will leave it at that.)

Perhaps I have a shot at those gloves after all.

2010-01-22T01:30:00.002-05:00

Rat poison. Burnt. In your broiler.

Problem?

I may have mentioned the critter a little ways back. That pitter patter of freakishly small feet that I heard in the walls. That the other half reacted to nonchalantly, because apparently this house has hosted the pitter patters before. Because apparently, it's not so rare when you live in the country.

I thought the critter had...departed. We (I use that term liberally) had put some little critter kryptonite in key areas that access the house, including our main garage. Where we also keep the extra dog food. And where we stored the extra kryptonite sachets.

After two days of reassuring silence, pitter was back. But the poison we had put out? Devoured.

The 1/4 bag of dog food kept on the top shelf? Food gone, bag destroyed.

And the leftover poison sachets? Eaten. All of them.

Even the other half was slightly concerned. This was no ordinary pitter. We calmed ourselves by thinking that maybe there were a few. That a few checked out, and a few stragglers remained.

We hadn't been able to figure out how to get to them, and then the other half saw the light: if he moved the vent above the oven, he could put the poison in the crawl space. That had to work. Right?

There was some...droppage. We'll skip whether I was vocal or not prior to and after the droppage about placing rat poison above a cooker (because I'm so not an "I-told-you-so" kind of girl; there's no need when a look or 10 will suffice).

I was assured that it was all cleaned up. No problem. Move along.

Until yesterday, when I was grilling up my favorite new greasy product. (sigh. yes. sausages.) They had just come out of the broiler, I was just about to put them on my bread, and then I saw the teal-colored beads. Flashlight in the broiler confirmed my fears: lunch was ruined. And I just might die from inhaling toxic rat poison fumes.

Unfortunately, Google doesn't answer that age-old question, "Are burnt rat poison fumes toxic?"

Other halves do. But their answers include a few strong sentiments and words like "crazy" and "neurotic."

Pitter Watch 2010 continues.

2010-01-20T01:30:00.001-05:00

Gordon Brown. David Cameron. Before I moved out here, I knew that one looked like a big fist had smashed down on the crown of his head as a baby and smushed his head down and his ears out. The other? Not a clue.

But now? Now I know that the incumbents and the shadows have entered campaign season. That the sniping already has begun. That British politicians are exceedingly and entertainingly open about their nastiness towards each other. And that the voters out here have a sense of humor.

With a twist of artistic license on the side.

(david, people. people, david. and to see this out here? made me laugh out loud on the bus. i think i scared the little old nana sitting across the aisle. or maybe she was having a flashback to her elvis years. uncertain.)

2010-01-15T01:30:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been behind the curtain?

You know, when you're in one of those shops that has a flimsy bit of cloth separating the pure from the...not.

Well I have. And it was...incredible. I had gone without for months. And made to feel an outcast for wanting it. So when I pulled that curtain back and stepped inside, I was elated. I was surrounded by other outcasts. All staring with glazed eyes at shelves full of what we were all looking for. All sorts of things to suit different tastes.

Jimmie Dean. Oscar Mayer. Ballpark. Spam, if that even counts.

Pork, my friends.

I lived two years in the Middle East, in a country where there was one small bit of one supermarket that had a few kinds of lunch meat and seriously weak attempts at hot dogs. It was so bad that one guy I knew, a self-processed pork addict, used to travel to the U.A.E. with a cooler to bring back every variation of US-processed pork product available. Honest.

So let's just say I'm experiencing a bit of gluttony now that I'm in the UK. Because these people? Absolutely loving their pork.

It is everywhere. Takes up most of the shelves in the grocery stores. Sure, you've got the basics like bacon. And sausage. And then you've got the special items. Some of which are so British that I'm not quite there yet.

Like pork pies.

And Scotch eggs.

But hands down one of my new favorite meals? Bangers and mash. Which looks really gross so I won't post a picture. But trust me. It's delish.

This is why I'm no good at serious dieting. Because after two years of minimal pork intake, the flood gates are open. I'm eating my weight in it.

Weekly.

pork pie photo found here. scotch egg photo found here. bangers-and-mash curious? here. and if you're really brave? here.

2010-01-13T05:09:00.002-05:00

It's snowing. Again.

And yesterday? Snowing. But eerie. For a moment.

I felt like I was at Hogwarts, and Snape was heading out towards me (yes, I loved those books). Heavy, black wool cloak over black robes, accessorized with black shoes, black cap. Except it was someone as 180 from Snape as you can get.

Our Father.

I have never met a priest who makes me chuckle so much. Granted, I've never really talked to a priest for any length of time, so maybe they are all like this. The only ones I really remember are the Irish Catholic one who royally screwed up a child's name during the christening because he was...ahem...overserved. At 11 am.

And then there was that one my mom used to talk about quite a bit. Which was funny, because my mom goes to church not-so-quite-a-bit. But this priest made the discussion threshold because he was such a nice man that he played house with the choir lady.

Ahem.

Father started talking. About our lack of attendance at church. About how we probably will go to hell for that. Or at least he'd send us there. About how Jesus probably would be nicer.

Me? Nodding my head back and forth, shamefully. My other half? Nodding his head back and forth.

Laughing.

So then my other half starts telling the Father about how "we" have been lazy lumps in the morning since getting a new duvet. And I cringe. Because clearly there's still a chance that the good Father doesn't realize we are living in sin. I readied my head for more shameful nodding. And then he spoke. Squealed.

"Ooh, there is nothing nothing as good as a new duvet!" And he motioned as if he was curling up in one right then and there. We didn't even get the evil-eyed "I know about your sin-living" stare.

He was on a roll. Next stop: alcohol. About how he can't have it now, since his blood is as thick as a "strawberry milkshake." And how about when he was a young monk in Italy, he went out for a meal. And some wine. But he realized something: he couldn't exactly stumble through the streets of Rome dressed in his black robes.

"That's when I told the brothers that we needed to go out in groups; it'd be harder to notice a group of monks wobbling home if we moved in formation."

Lovely, isn't he?

2010-01-08T04:38:00.002-05:00

There are a few things when it comes to snow that I never really expected. I never knew it snowed in the Middle East until I saw it. And I never expected the families there to have sleds at the ready. Though the washing machine repairman who swam out of my laundry room at the first sight of flurries?

Not surprising. At all.

But the great Great Britain? I definitely thought my neighbors would be a bit better prepared and able to deal with snow than they are. And now that Brits have seen this photo from NASA, forget it:

Yes, it's cold. And yes, it's snowy. But...well, let's just say that the British are starting to remind me a lot of that washing machine repairman.

Surprisingly, I'm not so bothered by the cold. Or the snow. I stay warm. Even if I do look a mess. My neighbors first see a lump of four layers of clothing, huge puffy jacket, mismatched hat, gloves, and scarf, and oversized white boots. Clucking and tsk-tsking they note my appearance, shivering in their Hunters and puffy vests.

Then they hear the nasally "Heel!" as the lump tries to loop the lead over that mad spaniel's head to keep her back from the grazing sheep (because one thing I read out here is never, ever let a dog off the lead around sheep. or cows. apparently). Then the clucking and tsk-tsking turns to head nodding in understanding.

"Ah. It's American."

But I'm warm. So I'm not too irritated. But what does set me off?

The constant news coverage. Where they constantly list the temperatures.

In Celsius.

I'm really sick of doing the math.

2010-01-06T01:30:00.002-05:00

Oh wow. Something is dawning on me.

Maybe I didn't like my old job because I don't like working?

Let's not answer that. Let's instead cast it this way: Maybe I don't like those jobs where you spend a good chunk of your day working alone?

Because this whole part-time-working-from-home thing is turning into the part-time-procrastinating-at-home-thing.

I feel like I'm back at my old desk.

Except there aren't loads of other people around to chat with. In person or online. About the latest oh-my-god-can-you-believe-what-he/she-assigned/said/did-last-week/night-in-that-meeting/bar-with-that-deliverable/coffeeguy/waitress?!?!

And there isn't a Starbucks just down the way for that shot of espresso to really boost my efficiency (or in layman's terms: that excuse to get me away from the computer screen before they find me half asleep on it.)

And not helping at all is the fact that I can freely scour the internet for all sorts of pertinent information without having to worry that someone is clocking my time spent doing searches on wedding photographers, milliners, and the best place for afternoon tea. (and i'm thinking some sort of half-pillbox half-veily-netting thing in place of the full-on veil. i know!)

I will make this work. Eventually.

(if you are reading this and you just happen to be in the end-of-the-train-line-english-countryside and you just happened to have recently hired a woman named "kathleen" who also happens to "work" from home and just happens to write in american-not-british-english, it is 100% purely and totally a coincidence. i'm also sure your kathleen is honest and bills by the hour.)

2009-12-25T06:57:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas!

(my devilish, soon-to-be-nephew...debating between whacking his cousin H, or my other half. and he calls me "uncle kathleen." how can you not love him?!)

2009-12-23T04:15:00.001-05:00

We went to a party just the other day where I learned a few useful points about British living:

1. The recession has even affected the average British couple's bar tab, dropping it to 4600 quid this year from last year's high of 7200 quid. (or to save you from doing the math, $7333 from $11,477.)

2. The average British male member of this average British couple will believe that living with his average British female counterpart means they are dating exclusively. He may even propose to said female counterpart.

3. This average British female counterpart will refuse said proposal, since she is still dating other people. But if they are still living together in five years, the male will have more success with his request. (whether or not the female will still be seeing other people remains unclear.)

4. Several glasses of Christmas cheer eases a British male's concern about his foreign, non-stick-shift-wrong-side-of-the-road driving partner from steering his pride and joy home. So long as it is done jointly. She will steer, brake, gas, and clutch, and he will shift the gears. no further comment, officer.

2009-12-18T01:00:00.004-05:00

I think I'm in.

I think.

We went up to Manchester earlier this week to stay with my future-in-laws. Let me just say that I love these people. Very welcoming. Very devilishly smiley. And very willing to get a laugh at your expense.

So they keep a tidy house. Sorry. Immaculate. I used to wonder where on earth my other half developed this pattern of vacuuming not once, not twice, but at least four or five days a week. "It's the dog," he said. "It's the mud on the floor," he explained. "It's those invisible dust mites that I hate walking on," he surely thinks but clearly doesn't have the guts to voice out loud. (even he knows that'd bring a little crazy.)

No big surprise that you take your shoes off as soon as you enter the front door at #13. Not a big deal, really. I do it at our home. But let's review, shall we?

Return from walking their dog in the rain. (Four brownie points earned.)

Walk on tiptoes from kitchen past living room towards front door. To remove muddy shoes. (Minus six brownie points. Should have removed shoes in kitchen. But not spotted by future in-laws. So add eight points.)

I got cocky point tallying. And then it happened. His mom called me into the living room to look at something. So I did what all hoping-to-please-you-and-oh-by-the-way-marrying-your-youngest-son girls do. She called. I went. Crossed the threshold. With the shoes.

It was like a dwarf running straight into an electric fence. Dopey and Happy until you get the shock of your life and jump back to Never Never Land.

But at least she's comfortable with me. And apparently keeps giggling every time she thinks about it.

I do too.

2009-12-16T05:37:00.001-05:00

"Mary Mother of God!"

Ok, so definitely not the worst of the swears I've heard out there. Just surprising when a priest is uttering it.

And no, this wasn't said in the middle of a Hail Mary while my brother and I tried to knock each other's elbows off the pew. This was said in response to something Vidal might just-a sort-a kind-a suggested.

Our Father. Who art hilarious.

And very, very dry. As in the English way. Not the gin and tonic sort of way.

So this father is pretty unique. The first time we met him, he asked why Vidal and I hadn't been to church in ages. I had gone to Catholic school for a bit so I knew what to do: lie. But my elbow-fight skills were too rusty to save Vidal. Who gave an honest answer: "I've just been too busy."

"Bollocks!!! Bollocks bollocks bollocks!"

Not the words you typically expect to hear from a Catholic priest.

But a word that was nothing compared to what he used a short while later.

The full f-bomb. Multiple times.

Granted, he was quoting someone else. But still. Right?

I left slightly in shock. Vidal left in love.

So back to Mary. We have found the perfect venue and the perfect church. It was Catholic. Back in the 1500s or so. But now it's Church of England. And the big boss-priest in this diocese won't let two Catholics get married there. One Catholic and one CoE? No problem. Two Catholics? No way.

Yet.

Father is working on a few options for us. Trying to figure things out. Including going above the boss-priest and straight to the Archbishop. Did I mention Vidal was in love?

But just in case that doesn't work, Vidal told Father he had another idea. Vidal would just convert to Church of England.

Enter the Mary reference. Then Father continued. "Catholics have spilled blood for this religion, you can just become a Prod for a day! Now for even considering the idea, three Hail Mary's. Now."

Which all would have been slightly frightening. If he hadn't been laughing the whole time.

You're starting to fall in love too, right?

(and this is the last time we will call him vidal. vidal wasn't too keen on that. in fact, when i asked if he was ok with it, he asked, "do i balls??" so, um. i guess that is a no.)

2009-12-11T02:24:00.000-05:00

There's been a raccoon sighting.

Sure, they're not native to the UK, but it shouldn't be too surprising. I mean, we've had toads, snails, and an unidentified four-legged critter that lived in the walls. (emphasis on "lived.")

But this raccoon? Me.

Ok, so I light my hair. Highlights, low lights you name it. I've done it. And I've spent time in a past life finding the perfect colorist. And I've paid (probably? maybe?) too much money for it.

Until recently, when I used...well, I used this:

(please stop cringing. i've done enough for all of us. really. and cross-my-heart bra i don't need this brand for their 100% coverage guarantee. yet.)

I've lived abroad before where I just "tried out" a new colorist. Bad idea. Believe me. Maybe it was the Arabic, or maybe it was because the head stylist was constantly high (confirmed when he invited my bubbly, PR, Queen Noor look-alike friend to come over and "smoke some good sh#t.")

So with no good referral, the only option left was for me to buy a box. Obviously. And out of embarrassment for that purchase, I had to do it myself. Obviously.

I missed a few spots.

Spots. Streaks. Doesn't really matter. I missed them. Many of them.

Several ponytails and headbands later, my fiance returned. And after several laughs and thwarted photo attempts, Vidal excelled at his first task. (he'll hate that nickname. but help me tell him he should be flattered. apparently vidal sassoon is still alive, is british, and recently received one of the highest orders that her majesty bestows. did you know?)

So today, I'm heading into the "city" to change my cut and color. To Diva.

Fingers crossed I'll come out looking like one.

I know, I know. Be careful what you wish for.

2009-12-09T05:29:00.000-05:00

I am having one of those mornings.

You know, where you panic that you've started up the washer with the satellite tv remote in it?

Or where you go to get your second glass of smoothie and the carton is not in the fridge where it should be, but in the cupboard right alongside the glasses?

Or, scarier, that you knew to look in the glass cupboard?

Yeah.

I am hoping that this is what happens when you haven't worked in nine months.

Hoping.

(given my track record today, probably best if i keep this short and sweet.)

2009-12-04T08:25:00.000-05:00

I might have made a new friend yesterday.

She's non-English, a recent transplant here too, and equally shocked at the attitudes of some of the wedding venue owners around here.

So we shared some stories. One wedding venue owner (let's call them all nasties for short) chided my maybe hopefully new friend for her wedding "vision." She wants a more laid back scene for her reception...a few sets of tables and chairs, lots of high tables, but she doesn't need seats for every single person, child, and extended relative. This nastie said no. Called my friend unprofessional. It couldn't be done. One bum, one seat. That's the rule.

Well then these bums will wed somewhere else, thank you.

Like maybe this place:

It looks pretty, right? (this photo is theirs, fyi). Maybe without the sheep on your big day, but overall, not too bad.

Unless you want to go to the bathroom.

I'll admit, the nastie of this place rubbed me the wrong way right from the start. She didn't look anything like the nice English country home owner in her pictures. (and I just deleted some rather snarky words I had written...I will put them back if someone can guarantee I can't get sued for them).

So this bathroom issue. Basically, this is a beautiful house and they are happy to take your money for you to get married in it, but not for you to have your reception in it. For that, you need a tent. Outside.

And once your guests go out into the tent, they aren't allowed back into the house.

It was time to be snarky. I'm sorry. But sometimes, amidst all of this peace and calm and green, you need to be a bit of a snit. So I said it. "Um. So what, we need to hire port-o-johns for the reception? Do you provide the ink so we can stamp everyone's hand to keep track of who goes where, or do we provide it?"

Yes, my American came out. And she hated it. Completely ignored my suggestions and pointed out that the guests could use a tunnel that went underground. A tunnel that led to a bathroom that was under the house.

I wasn't allowed to ask if they should all bring shovels too.

2009-12-02T03:56:00.000-05:00

You'd think by now I'd be used to cooking with grams not cups, with gas marks not farenheit degrees.

I'm not. So needless to say, cooking Thanksgiving dinner brought back memories of high school calculus. The bit where four of us sat in the back of some remedial math class "teaching" ourselves calculus because we couldn't fit the normal calc class into our schedule. Four high school seniors left to teach themselves calculus? Bad idea. I learned nothing yet still managed to confirm my status as a dork.

And hey, did you know that there is an equation to turn an American Thanksgiving into one for British guests? It goes something like this:

One shopping list + complete frustration at not finding half the things on your list * dragging your fiance to two different grocery stores the day after he gets back * ((two fresh pumpkins that you thought you'd cook to make pumpkin pie because they don't sell canned pumpkin here) squared to your fiance telling you to relax and that even though he's never had it he really doesn't like pumpkin pie anyway so what's the big deal * total restraint because he did just get back * (panic that the first grocery store didn't sell turkey because hey dummy, Brits really only cook turkey at Christmas)) / f* the fresh pumpkins they're now decor + total shame of hosting Thanksgiving without any pumpkin dish / (why am I cooking all of this food for people who don't even care about this holiday???) - the pumpkin green beans and fresh rolls because they won't even notice anyway.

So when you get the answer and are finally satisfied and proud of your ghetto Thanksgiving dinner, you then divide again by the number of times your British guests mention that they are excited to try pumpkin pie.

Seriously?

Seriously.

Oh and X=Y.

I think.

2009-11-25T02:00:00.001-05:00

No words today.

Ok. Maybe just a few.

He comes home tonight. And right now I'm still scrubbing paint bits off the floor. Then later today? I'm meeting up with two of my favorite friends.

Mani. And Pedi.

Mani, Pedi, and I have a Thanksgiving to hostess and so he's got loads of potatoes and apples to peel; and as he always says, "no rest for the weary." (i need to have him explain what that means at some point.)

Back next week. And just in case you chose work over horrid Thanksgiving travel, or work over surfacing from your food coma by watching TV all day Friday, here are some pix from some of my walks to help you procrastinate. Hey, I do what I can.

This one seemed to be flirting with Soph...

...and then a key marker for me: the little run down shack...important because it's near this mud lake that I frequently seem to forget about until I notice my running shoes are stuck and my socks are soaked. (i use "lake" because i feel like puddles eventually go away. fair, or no?)

...and of course, one of the tricks I've taught Soph while he's been away:

Pretty good, no? (and even if she adopted this tactic because she preferred it to me throwing her over the gate, i'm still claiming credit for the teaching bit. tough love, right?)

2009-11-20T02:24:00.000-05:00

Destroyed. By a dictaphone.

Or maybe it was a transcriber. I'm really not sure.

I had an interview. I had sent my resume to a local law firm on the off-chance that they needed some part-time research/writing help. They called. I went in.

Nevermind that I wasn't really sure what the position really was. Then they told me.

It was for a Joanie (aka a secretary).

The panel interview itself went well. I think. Up until the point that one lawyer asked me five words I'd use to describe myself.

Um. Still stumped.

And they kept asking me if I was good at typing. And yeah, I kept saying yes. (and thank you, mrs. scott, because your 8th-grade keyboarding class is the only thing I learned in school that I actually use.)

And then they asked me to take a typing test. And as soon as I saw the test, there was trouble.

There was a cassette player on the table. Yes, cassette. And there was a pedal-type thing under the desk. And icky headphones. That clearly had been in some other not-quite-Joanie's ears.

A transcriber. Or dictaphone. Or-1960s-throwback-can-I-get-you-more-anything-Mr-Draper? contraption that I'd never seen in real life and think I maybe saw Dolly Parton use in 9 to 5. But I'm not sure.

I haven't been that stressed in a while. Push left for rewind. Push right for fast-forward. I think. Face the computer. But tilt your head a bit, because otherwise the icky headphone wires get messed up and you can't hear a thing.

It was my worst nightmare. It reminded me of a step class. Of which I've only taken two in my life. Because I am not coordinated like that. You get my upper body or lower body. But not both. I just can't use both at the same time. I look ridiculous. Ask any wedding DJ.

And then there was this whole language issue. It took me 10 stressful left foot/right foot moves to realize the voice was saying colon, as in the punctuation, and not Cah-o-lyn, as in Carolyn.

The guy walked in 30 minutes later. Surprise. Recovery. Told me I could go. I'd done more than enough of the test. Those "things" are hard to use. Have a nice day.

On the way out, I was the one who said, "Good luck."

Probably not the best of signs, right? But if I don't get this job, is that really a bad thing?

2009-11-18T03:48:00.000-05:00

I slept like crap last night.

I moved out here with no job, no license, and plenty of time. Which, for me? Not a good thing.

So, as you know, I've been redecorating. Which really just means repainting. My other half is coming home in about a week and I still have walls with paint samples thrown on them. Samples that I wish had never been thrown because then I could just arrange things back the way they were and pretend this all never happened.

I am so damn sick of painting. It seemed like a great idea. A way to make "his" "ours." I broke down several months ago, making an overly dramatic mess about how if my friends walked through the door, they'd have no idea that I lived here.

Which they wouldn't have, because that whining dribbly mess was very much NOT me.

Somewhere between quitting my job, getting denied a visa, sitting in adult-style detention with a host of people of questionable immigrant status, and learning to look right before crossing a street, I lost a bit of me. Ok, a lot of me. Apparently a lot of me was tied into my job. Not that I loved my job--I didn't. But it was mine. I had friends. I was ok at it. People asked me questions. And not the "Ooh, I love your accent, love, where are you from?" kind of questions. (and yes, i recognize that there is a bit of an ego issue here.)

I find things to pick apart. It's what I do. Did? So since I can't be critical at my job anymore, I'm critical of...everything. My baking (i made a whole load of sweets but he won't eat them. clearly i did something wrong. i mean, he just ate an entire box of cookies. shouldn't he want these!?!?) My appearance (hmm, heels or flats? the flats are more practical. i can wear them right into oh my god i might as well just call this dressing-like-a-mom cottage). My cleaning (i'm not working. he is. i should be the one to clean. i really should. no, really....hey honey. what pile of dishes? what cobwebs? what den of vipers? why are you vacuuming again?! did i not clean enough? note- i didn't. and i don't.)

And now I'm doing it with the painting. Sure, there have been highlights. The vet said that the dog didn't eat enough paint for me to bring her in. And I didn't step in a gallon of paint this time and literally leave my mark in the house. But I couldn't fall asleep last night because I was spinning about everything I should have known to do but didn't. Every little spot I really should go back and caulk and repaint. Every little drip I need to attack with a cotton swab and turpentine. Every little possible thing that wasn't perfect that I know folks might notice but that in a different life I wouldn't have cared about. Or definitely wouldn't have let put a dent in my feelings.

Um. Crazy?

Yeah, I think so too.

You see, this is when I really do miss my job.

For the checks.

The checks I would have written to some EU migrant worker to come in and repaint the whole damn place for me.

An EU migrant worker who didn't speak English. And if we ever ran into him in town, I'd wave...and then tell my other half it's that sweet but really slow man I always see on the bus.

2009-11-13T03:14:00.000-05:00

There are times that I forget that there are more than just two of us heading down this crazy engagement path towards forever. And then I remember. And my initial feeling of excitement is followed by terror.

Time to talk about H. H is half of my other half. She is fantastic. She's sweet and funny and creative. She's seven. She lives with her mom. And she constantly has me on my toes.

She is smart. Scary smart. Months ago we had gone for a walk and stopped to get some ice cream on the way home. I gave her the pound coin and she marched in and back out with her popsicle in hand.

And as seven-year olds can, she wanted to go do something else. And I said no. Correction. I thought I'd be all adult and negotiate. I asked if she could stick with our original plan as I had just bought her ice cream.

"Well," she said, and I could see the wheels spinning and me about to be crushed underneath them. "You didn't buy me ice cream. You gave me the money and then I went in and bought it. Right?"

I had no response. She was completely right. And she said it politely. And I'm still new to this whole future step....well I'm so new I can't even write it yet. I'm tense even just avoiding writing it.

I will admit that it has taken me a while to realize who H is...that she is my other half's child and not just some cool kid he happens to know. But the more I get to know her, the more I miss her when she's not here. And the more upset I get when we have to say goodbye.

So a few weeks ago we were on yet another walk (I need to be careful with these) and she started talking about the wedding. She said she was so excited for her daddy and I to get married, because then she'd have two moms.

I heard the brakes clawing at the pavement in my head. Largely because I wanted to make it clear that H only had one mom, just like she'd only ever have one dad, and because I really don't want to rile up Momma H.

"H," I said. "Your Mum is your mom, but why don't we come up with another name for me. Something like..." and I started to think what I'd want to be called. Cool friend Kathleen? Fairy Princess? She-Ra....

"Oh, ok," she said. "You mean like....step-mom?"

SCREEEEEEEEECH.

"Yeah, H. That'll work."

And then there was yesterday. I was up in H's room straightening up some bits and I found some drawings she had hidden in her wardrobe. Including this:

If I do have to use the s-title, at least it's for a pretty cool kid. I mean, she did make my shoes stand out from the others.

But is it too early for a drink?

2009-11-11T02:00:00.001-05:00

I love him. But I'm gonna kill him.

I thought having several months off would be fabulous--I would spend more time outside, read more, practice a foreign language, and put my fingerprints on his-now-our home.

Status check? Questionable progress on most, but I did negotiate a peace agreement for redecorating that would rival the Camp David Accords.

I decided I'd implement the accords while my other half was away. For better or worse, there are no Targets, Pottery Barns, Crate and Barrels, or Restoration Hardwares out here. I don't even get a John Lewis or Habitat. So I'm trying to make do with DIY shops and "pikey" places, which is what my fitter and tanner half calls white trash. But apparently bus routes avoid pikey.

So the other afternoon it was 42 degrees out. And drizzly. And dark. Really, really dark.

I had just spent the afternoon buying bits for the house. Including a 5' x 7' throw rug. I had to carry it all home. On my bike. Thank God no one I knew had a camera. Or acknowledged me.

Then yesterday afternoon, it was 42 degrees out. And drizzly. And dark. You get the idea.

And this time I was walking home from our local DIY store. With three gallons of paint. One box containing a light fixture. And another fixture in another bag because I was indecisive and bought both. Because it's fun to look like a vagrant on a 1.5 mile walk home.

I was a bit grumbled because I was soaking wet and cold. But I was being bratty. I mean, I didn't have to work, and I wanted the place to be so nice for him after being gone for so long. He had been working hard, you know.

And when I got home, he called. To say hi. To say that he missed me.

And as I was ringing rain out of my hair, he said he'd only seen sunshine since he arrived. And that his tan was coming along great.

He clearly didn't see the "stop now or owe her big time" sign flashing in sparkly diamond- and ruby-colored light. Because he continued.

He was going to visit one of my favorite countries next weekend. And get my absolutely-most-favorite-was-just-thinking-about-it-on-my-vagrant-march-home-Thai massage. And then he was going to lay out on the beach.

[insert choice word here. or a few. i did.]

But I love him. Really. Especially since this clearly equates to a few sparklies upon arrival, don't you think?

2009-11-06T01:00:00.001-05:00

(For men: If I am or soon will be related to you, do not read this. If I will never be related to you, do what you want. But we will never, ever acknowledge that you read this. Ok? Ok.)

I think finding a good waxer is one of the worst things you can do trial-by-error. I got a few recommendations, made a few phone calls, and finally found a place here that offers a "Hollywood." (which i learned after many embarrassing conversations with strangers is what most of us from the states would call a "brazilian.")

Things started off normal. Table, dropped knickers, wax, inane chit chat about that guy who lost his bonsai trees.

And then. I can't even write it. No, I really can't. Every string of words to describe what happened next comes out completely vulgar. And I'm not medically smart enough to use terms that would just make it clinical. So the only thing I can come up with is this: You know how most waxers pull the skin taut from the outside? She took another approach. (ladies in england: this is not normal, is it?!)

I left feeling slightly violated and thinking back to other groomage appointments. There was the Middle Eastern spa where I should have paid a bit more attention to those HSBC ads you see in the airport terminals, because one woman's "shway" is another's "leave nothing and destroy everything."

And then there was New York.

My first.

In this hole-in-the-wall place that my friend swore was great. Which I still find unbelievable, since the waxer was the meanest, loudest, scariest Chinese lady you can imagine. Who didn't really speak English. And did I mention it was my first time?

My eyes were tearing up. I kept wincing. So she paused, put her hands on either side of my thigh, and said, "IKNOWWHYITHURT."

I looked at her, hoping she'd tell me how to make the pain go away. And when I saw her big toothy grin, I started to relax.

Until she started shaking my thigh. Vigorously.

And then she said it.

"YOU. TOO. JIGGLY."

Wow.

Maybe Hollywood isn't that bad after all.

2009-11-04T05:13:00.023-05:00

I had something completely different for today. 180. But it was so...boring. And forced. And I spent all of these words introducing my dog and what presents she's brought into my house lately. And why waste so many words when I can accomplish that quickly here:

and here:

(that's a toad, by the way. not a frog, but a toad. and yes, it was in my kitchen. and yes, it was as ugly and awful as it looks.)

So I had just finished what I was going to share today and shut the light off to go to sleep. Then I remembered that I hadn't put the empty milk bottles outside for the milkman to collect. (and yes, I know, those jokes pop to my mind too.)

But I was cozy, which was a pleasantly shocking discovery because 40-something-degree weather does not equate to keeping the heat on at night out here. And I realized that the real meaning behind the British "stiff upper lip" is that it froze there. So I decided to check to see just how cold it was out there, and on the way back I wandered over to my email.

And there was my friend. I'd call her a cheerleader, but cheerleaders mostly encourage you to do good things. And wave pom-poms. And my friend encourages you to do fun things. And waves a "ooh this'll be a good story" smile. She writes regularly here. And now she is writing here. In her handwriting. (it's a font now, did you know?)

And when I saw her new writing, I immediately wanted to put two big hands over my writing and mouth really slowly and in an exaggerated way "do not. stop. here." So instead I just started over.

Now, where were we?

Bottles? What bottles? Are you trying to distract me?

All I know is that it's 7 degrees outside. Celsius.

Have fun doing the math.

2009-10-30T02:00:00.125-04:00

I have a naugh-ty neighbor. Not the kind of naughty where she throws sticks at my bike. The kind of naugh-ty where she seems to incorporate you-know-what into every single conversation we have.

She doesn't look like she'd be naugh-ty. She looks like a grandma.

An 80-year old, lived-through-the-wars-and-doesn't-have-her-real-teeth-to-show-for-it sort of grandma, to be exact.

She tells dirty you-know-what jokes about people. And dogs. She talks a lot about you-know-what and dogs. She threatens to cut the you-know-whats off the dog next door if he doesn't stop barking. And she's repeatedly told me about her childhood dog who was a bit too you-know-what with the you-know-what and ended up with a whole litter of we-don't-know-who's-the-daddy.

And then there was the bus stop incident. Where she read the following newspaper headline to me and a few little old ladies: "Intelligent Women Have Better [You-Know-What] Lives."

So, with all of these naugh-ty comments and jokes, I did something that was naughty. I spied on her laundry line.

Why we all have laundry lines out here and why every one seems to actually use them is not the point. The point is that I was nosy and I wanted to know what this naugh-ty neighbor hung on her line. And you know that you want to see it too:

Let's just hope she's really, really intelligent.

2009-10-28T06:36:00.001-04:00

I rely on three primary modes of transportation while out here: the bike, the bus, and the taxi (and yes, in that order). The bike gives me an adrenaline rush (I wasn't joking about those roundabouts), the bus never fails to make me question my math and English skills (to be discussed), and the taxi...well, the taxi tends to educate me.

The taxi also is a bit curious to me, because I seem to keep getting the same drivers and they all seem to speak English as their native language. I'm not sure if that just means this town really is tiny, or if it's that only a few drivers have heard of Asylum Cottage, or if the dispatch recognizes my "accent" and sends the drivers that are fluent in American.

But back to this educating thing. There was creepy guy. He's friendly enough but, um...well his massive frame in his tiny seat always seems to be engulfed by empty soda bottles and crinkly bags that used to contain chips. And he's got really, really long pinky nails. Like, yuck shiver gross long. And somehow...well, somehow during my first cab ride home with him I came to find out that he is seriously into Japanese swords. There's the katana and the kanakanawakshi or something, which most people often confuse, and one is for ritual suicide, and the other...well I don't know what came next because I noticed an extremely important text message that I just had to attend to, as I'm sure you can understand.

And then. And then there was the driver whose story hit a nerve. We both proudly have "visa denied" stamps in our passports. We commiserated about the visa process of our countries. "We speak English!" we both said. "We have employable skills!" we both cried. I was intrigued. So I asked about his story. He went to America on vacation with his British girlfriend. Check. Who he then exchanged for an American girlfriend. Check. Who he then married. Um...true love? Ok, check.

He employed eight Americans in his company. But he overstayed his visa. So Homeland Security sent him home. With his naughty stamp.

So then I spoke up. "Wait a second. You ran a business that gave jobs to Americans, and they are denying you to come back for 10 years because you overstayed your visa?"

"Yup," he said.

I started to get irritated. Surely, surely they would look at the bigger picture and excuse someone for overstaying by a day or so, maybe even a bit longer.

"So how long were you there again?"

"Eight years."

"And how long did you overstay your visa?"

"Oh, about 7 1/2 of them."

Oh.

Jackass.

2009-10-23T01:00:00.008-04:00

So I'm going to tackle something a bit different today. This won't be standard, so if this is boring or whatever just come back next Wednesday. It'll be back to normal on Wednesday.

I went in to London this Wednesday for an interview with this great company. And the job? Well, the job is one that I'd actually be pretty good at and is in an industry that is not all that foreign.

It felt...familiar. And strange. Kind of like a, "this could be your life" sort of moment. Or, as someone smart said, kind of like that movie, "Sliding Doors." But there were problems. I'd have to spend a lot of time in London and just a little time here. I'd have to travel to places I'm not so keen on traveling to anymore. And I'd have to jump back into the hours that I'm really not so interested in these days.

I can pinpoint the cause of all of these problems. We just have to go back 18 months ago yesterday. To the day that I had randomly met this person in a Starbucks in the middle of nowhere. A person who didn't even drink coffee. A person who I had seen two days before and decided to stalk by showing up at the Starbucks at the same time the next two days. And who apparently had seen me two days before and made the decision to stalk me too. So maybe it wasn't so random afterall.

So back to Wednesday. And these "problems." I left the interview and headed to Paddington to catch my train back. They typically list the trains based on their final destination (or maybe that's the only way they do it, I don't really know). I looked up at the board and I saw our town listed. And I just smiled. Not a huge, goofy, American smile that showed off all of my American dental cared-for teeth. Just a little smile to myself.

Because I knew. I knew that I had made all of the right choices. I knew I didn't want to go back. I knew that I just wanted to take that train home.

Where I could have the life I really wanted with the stalker who had been crazy enough to offer it to me.

2009-10-21T01:26:00.002-04:00

It's actually true. British people name their houses. You can be a Lord or a Lady or a migrant worker from the latest EU member and each live in a house with a name. Some name their homes based on their surroundings, like Pheasant Garden, Hillcrest Manor, and Yew Tree (which I'd never heard of before moving here and still wouldn't know how to describe). Others appear to have turned to vintage Nick at Nite reruns for inspiration, with names like this:

and, a bit more subtle, this:

But it seems like once you've moved into a house, you're stuck with the previous name. Why? I have no idea, but I do feel bad for the people living here:

As for us? Well, the original owners of our house clearly named it based on their surroundings. And we clearly inherited the name.

You see, our house was built in the late 1800s...on the grounds of a mental institution.

And for those of you whose coffee hasn't kicked in yet, just check out the title of this blog.

Fitting, no?

2009-10-16T12:00:00.001-04:00

I make sure to read the online papers every morning. If not, I probably would spend hours a day ironing (lie), gossiping with my 80-year old neighbors (lie, only because I have no gossip out here), and eating (true).

As for a hard-copy paper? I snag that once a week, on Thursday.

Thursday is local paper day. Where else can you read a story about someone having stolen so-and-so's bonsai tree and so-and-so really wanting it back? Or the top priorities of the National Sheep Association? (Note: I probably shouldn't be mocking that one.)

Or this headline:

"Sheepdog freed from dough vat"

At first I grumbled about the lack of proper capitalization and thought this had to do with working dogs and taxes. Then I read it again:

"Sheepdog freed from dough vat"

Little hint: don't over-think it.

And then yesterday...well, yesterday the headline wasn't that great, but it was enough to draw me in. And then I laughed. Immediately. Out loud. Making me a horrible person.

Why?

Because this article wasn't a funny story and most definitely didn't have a happy ending...at all. But I can't help myself. I have to share the headline and the first bit. You have a right to know if you are a horrible person too:

****

WOMAN FAILED TO SEEK HELP

A woman who burned her face while cooking bacon refused to call an ambulance.

****

I think that's enough for a Friday.

2009-10-14T04:53:00.000-04:00

These are the wellies I mentioned last week:

These non-breathable pink plastic options are perfect for taking the dog out, kicking the apples that have fallen into your lawn from your tree into your neighbor's hedge, and trudging through a field to pick up pony poop.

Yes, pony poop.

Let me take a step back. An American friend of mine in the Middle East decided to make a special brew for her plants. "Poop tea," she called it. So this petite blonde bubble bounced into the streets, with the German cars and goat herds, to collect the poop right off the pavement. She came home, placed her prize in a jug of water, and put it on her windowsill to steep. Yes, steep.

I cringed. I gave her a look. I asked why.

Then I mocked her. Incessantly.

Oops.

And now I'm talking about a pony. I really don't know how I got here. Or why. But I blame the garden. If we didn't have a garden, I wouldn't have needed a compost bin. And if I didn't have a compost bin, I wouldn't have needed to fill it.

We started with the basics: dead leaves, leftover salad, and egg shells. (Someone, who shall remain nameless, decided he would contribute to my project by tossing in homemade custard--it had eggs, and egg shells were ok...see the logic?)

But custard aside, it wasn't enough. We didn't have the Miracle-Gro of the compost world: manure. Then I looked beyond our back garden gate and saw this staring back at me:

I changed into my wellies, grabbed a bucket, and climbed over the fence. I marched through the stinging nettles with my pink protectors until I found what I was looking for. I bent down to pick IT up...

And then I had a moment. One of those moments that I hadn't had in a while. One that was so forceful I just had to utter the thought out loud:

"What. the f@$%. am I doing."

I haven't been back.

2009-10-09T17:41:00.021-04:00

In the last ten months, I’ve moved across the Atlantic…twice. I quit my job of nine years, traded my heels for pink wellies, and said yes to a left-handed sparkly. All of this for the low price of my first case ever of body-covering hives, a bit of a bimble through anxiety and insanity, and a (very brief) detention at Heathrow airport.

And what have I learned?

That I am not good at growing parsnips. That a coin purse is required. That it is not the most frustrating thing in the world for your schedule to be at the mercy of the bus system or the weather. And that it is possible to make it to Sainsbury’s and back while biking through those damn roundabouts.

Welcome to Asylum Cottage.