Ewokleshaw: The Battle for Endor

Does anyone remember two movies in the 80s: the “Ewok Adventure” and “Ewoks: The Battle for Endor”? I do, quite vividly, and for months I have been referencing them whenever Alex expresses how profoundly disturbed he is that I’ve never seen the Star Wars movies (I know, I’m a communist). Alex was convinced that the Ewok films did not exist and if they did, they were totally unaffiliated with Star Wars.

In fact, his objections were adamant enough that I was beginning to doubt myself. Was my memory is so irrevocably damaged that it had somehow managed to completely fabricate a crystal clear visage of a gang of short, fuzzy high-voiced creatures? Fortunately, tis not the case.

As of this morning, the good people at IMDB.com have confirmed that not only do the movies exist, but they were penned by George Lucas himself. I’m happy to report that my recollection of Ewok Deej (not to be confused with DJ “The Deej” Tanner) was grounded in fact after all.

This delightful little anecdote represents just one of the little triumphs of my week…and seeing as how it’s all about the everyday victories lately, it seemed like a good place to start, yes, a list.

Little victories of the week ending in 31 July 2008 (in addition to the Ewok thing):

1. I planned an exercise routine: If you want to eat a lot of food and not work out, I recommend moving countries. First of all, there are all of the parties and dinners that your friends throw for you before you leave. Then there’s the living out of a suitcase with no kitchen to speak of for months. Then, once you’ve arrived in your new country, there’s the Big “I want to go out every night to meet new people” Push. Combined with a lack of time/energy to exercise, the result of all of these things is a giant bum.

To combat its inevitable formation, this week I decided it was time to launch an exercise campaign. Because I’m totally non-committal about which gym I want to join (see Exhibit Wanderlust), I did something rash instead (see Exhibit Point-of-Purchase Impulse Shopping). I signed up for this: http://www.thebootcamp.co.uk/

For four agonizing weeks starting on August 11, I’m going to be hitting up Lincoln’s Inn Fields three nights a week to put my body through a rigorous workout routine. For the investment of time and money, I had better emerge from this thing looking like one hot piece of arse.

2. I got a complete paycheck: Those of you keeping count know that now is not the time to be living in London on an America paycheck. Today marks the first time I have received a full month’s pay in UK pounds since I’ve been here…In the words of Pinocchio, “I am a real boy now.”

3. I did something cultural. Okay, maybe it wasn’t this culture (since it was an American movie), but it was at an artsy locale. On Tuesday night, Alex and I went to the Barbican to see Wall-E. First of all, the place itself, which is just down the street from my flat, is very cool. It is a major mixed-use development built on a site that was bombed to bits in World War II. The cool thing about it, apart from the fact that it just looks bad-ass, is that it was built in the early 80s, way before the whole concept of live, work and play caught on. And it still really works.

More importantly, if you haven’t seen Wall-E, you have to go NOW. It was sosososososo good. If you don’t love it, then you are either dead inside or a robot (in a bad Katie Holmes way, not a good EVE way).

4. I took some time off. Tomorrow I’m heading to Greece! Woo hoo! I set off tomorrow afternoon, emergency swimsuit I overnighted from figleaves.com in tow, to meet my friend Kristen, who has been in Berlin and Edinburgh for work. We’re spending a day in Athens and the rest of the time on the island of Hydra. See how much fun visiting Europe can be? You get me as a travel partner!

So that was my week. Sorry for the dearth of posts—another accomplishment of my week is all of the work I successfully completed before my trip, so I haven’t been able to take my lunch hours to scribble posts.

Hope everyone has a good weekend, and I’ll catch you next Thursday when I return.

Grappling with the known

All my life, I have been afflicted with a dangerous condition. I inherited it from my parents, both of whom exhibited symptoms of it from the time I was two years old and continue to show signs of it today. It has profoundly affected my relationships and my career, and has been the basis for many of my major life decisions.

I have a serious and incurable case of Wanderlust.

For as long as I can remember, I have never really been content. Happy? Yes. Settled? No. I thrive on the new and (presumably) exciting….I work to achieve something, and just when I’ve started to get used to it, I’m on to the next thing. I’m one of the few people I know who is philosophically more afraid of the known than the unknown.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that it doesn’t always manifest itself in a lack of commitment or a grass-is-always-greener approach to life. It doesn’t always mean I have one foot out the door in relationships or a free-to-sublet clause in my rental leases (though there have been plenty of both). And it doesn’t mean that I shy away from life-long pals, because despite being non-committal in most areas of my life and moving around quite frequently, friendships seem to be thankfully immune to my itchy feet.

In fact, sometimes my Wanderlust has been a blessing in disguise. For example, it has most certainly been the driver behind me pushing the envelope professionally. (My theory: If you’re constantly seeking a change of pace, you eventually discover you’re setting it.) More importantly is that I have always thought that the fact that I’m constantly seeking change means that I am better-equipped to deal with the change that I don’t seek...like the unpredictable challenges of my move overseas.

I think generally (save for an initial emotional reaction), my Wanderlust means that I'm pretty adaptable....but in the past couple of days, I have been putting this theory to the test....

Last Thursday, Alex just found out that he will be travelling A LOT for work over the coming months, like two full weeks per month. TO NORTH AMERICA, no less. I have been trying to wrap my head around it for the past few days, and I have to say, it’s tough.

First, I went through a brief phase of anger (“How can he do this to me when I JUST moved here and don’t know anyone and have no life??”). Once those five irrational minutes were over (because CLEARLY it is not his fault), I was on to denial, followed by begrudging acceptance and shortly thereafter, self-pity (Elisabeth Kubler-Ross ain’t got nothing on me). I feel a little better now (I mean, there are far worse things), but I have to say I’m still sad, frustrated and thinking I should phone Alanis Morissette to educate her on the true definition of irony.

But today I started thinking about Wanderlust, and subsequently, about one of the things that attracted me to Alex in the first place. He’s the first person I have ever dated who made me feel like as long as I’m with him, I’ll have no idea where my life will lead. Instead of me leading the travel and new experiences and taking all of the risks, he’s right there alongside me, encouraging me to live life to the fullest. There has always been something really exciting about that.

Don’t get me wrong—I need constants in my life just like the next guy. I’m happy when our relationship is strong and solid, but I’m also really happy that I feel like anything’s possible within those guidelines.

Which is gradually and semi-painfully leading me to this inevitable conclusion: Change comes in many forms, and as long as I'm with Alex, it’s not always me who is going to be behind the steering wheel (especially when it’s on the right side of the car). He's seizing an opportunity and doing something challenging with his life. Maybe this is my opportunity to do some carpe-diemming of my own—to force myself out of my comfort zone, to start writing the Great American novel (??), to learn London on my own terms.

I wanted the unknown and I got it. Now, physician, heal thyself.

Pho, Green and Faux Magic

I had a sort of epiphany this morning. I was lying in bed (far and away the most comfortable bed I have ever owned), silently cursing my talking alarm clock (far and away the most irritating alarm clock I have ever owned) and lamenting about my splitting headache, when I realized something. Life here in London might actually have begun to nudge into the realm of the “normal.”

Here’s why. Last night, I went out with two people whom I can now legitimately call new friends, and did what I currently consider to be among my favourite things to do in London….not because they are particularly exceptional in any way (the things, not the people), but because they are just places near my flat that I like to go.

The reason this is significant to me is that most of the time, I feel like I’m still a tourist—out with people who (bless them) want to show me new places and take me to new neighbourhoods. So last night, when I just casually made plans locally with a couple of friends, I actually felt, for the first time, like your average 30-year-old opting for a casual night out in her city of choice. And I don’t know, it somehow feels like progress (and like someone is driving an anvil into my forehead).

It started with the bus, which Megdon (London Megan, not to be confused with Baltimore Meghann, who turns 30 today...woo hoo!) and I like to take from Tottenham Court Road to Clerkenwell because it’s located in between our respective workplaces. It’s convenient, relatively quick, and it avoids the delightful underground sweating associated with the tube in the summer.

Taking the bus in general is an achievement for me since I’m not even sure I ever took it in Chicago when I lived there. At first I was a little confused by the process (I actually called Megdon mid-ride once to ask her where the signal buttons are…as if I needed more of a “HELLO! I AM AN AMERICAN!” advertisement to my fellow passengers than whatever signals I’m currently giving off).

Anyway, the bus was packed so we ended up standing at the very front, up by the driver. This struck us as funny because we were standing on the left side on this double decker bus up against the windshield and sort of felt like we were driving (you had to be there).

I decided to put my camera on the dash and film our journey so I could share it with you, The OckleShow viewers, but I forgot one key detail—it picks up voices. After watching the video today and listening to me and Megdon discuss truly the most idiotic and superficial topics— “Hmmm….what new trend should I integrate into my wardrobe?”—I decided against sharing it, but I will provide this one pic:

(Trust me, you might think you want to watch it, but your brain cells are thanking you for kindly saving their lives.)

Once we got to my hood, we hit up Pho, my absolute favourite restaurant near my house.

The best thing about this place is not the very cute décor or the friendly staff or the affordability or the good wine list, or the delicious freshly made juices, but the fact that you can literally eat for two hours straight but still feel very nicely satiated in a non-full way at the end.

The list of about 15 Vietnamese soups provides an endless supply of delicious, healthy veggies, meat and noodles and the broth is so good I want to drink it with a straw at my desk all day long (would if I could). You leave feeling totally satisfied, hydrated and happy. Love that place.

Next we went to The Green, located just off of Clerkenwell Green.

The fact that neither is actually green (save for a few trees and lamp posts) does not take away from the loveliness of the place. Jason met us and we sat outside in the glorious warm weather having good conversation and enjoying some wine and beer.

When they finally made us move inside, two guys who were sitting at the table next to us started to talk to me. One pointed at Megdon, who was twiddling her fingers suspiciously, and asked what she was doing.

Me: She’s casting a spell. She’s a magician.
Guy: Really? Me too.
Me: Not as good of a magician as her. She’s world famous.
Guy: Well, I’m not world famous but I do make a living as a magician. I make magic tricks for cell phones.
Me: You're actually a magician. Really didn't see that one coming. Well, okay.
Guy: Do you want to see?
Me: Sure.
Guy: (takes out crappy phone). Okay, I’m going to flip through a series of objects on the screen. You choose one but don’t tell me.
Me: Okay.
Phone: Cars. Nails. Hammers. Rubbers.
Me: Ha.
Guy: What?
Me: Nothing.
Phone: Letters. Dogs. Paper Clips. Chains. Pens.
Guy: Okay. Did you pick one?
Me: Yep.
Guy: Don't tell me.
Me: I compute.
Guy: Okay, now I’m going to shake the phone and you tell me when to stop based on how many letters your word has.
Me: Um. Okay.
Guy: (shakes phone 1…2…3…4….5…) You’re supposed to tell me when to stop!
Me: Well you haven’t reached the number of letters my thing has yet.
Guy: (looks at me like I’m an idiot) None of the words have more than 5 letters.
Me: Mine does.
Guy: No it doesn't. I designed the software.
Me: I don't know what to tell you.
Guy: What was it?
Me: I thought I wasn't supposed to tell you.

(long pause)

Me: (bored) Not only does mine, Paper Clips, have more than five letters but so does Hammers and Rubbers.
Guy: Oh yeah. Hmm…(shakes phone a few more times). Okay, so here is your object! (shows me the screen of the phone)
Phone: Cars.
Me: THIS ISN’T MAGIC AT ALL, IS IT.
Guy: I’m not really a magician, but my phone is.
Me: What?
Guy: Let me try another one. I have to take a picture of you with my phone though.
Me: See ya.

Around midnight, Jason and I stumbled back to our flat. He made pasta and I took some yogurt and dumped some muesli in it (natch) and we were DE. LIGHTED. to find a marathon of our new favourite show on the telly! Whee! (the fact that I watched three episodes bleary eyed is likely the reason for today’s headache....well that, and the two bottles of wine).

I don’t know if you get it wherever you are, but if you haven’t seen the brilliant Australian high school spoof Summer Heights High, run-don’t-walk to the television/web site to watch it. Ja’ime kills.

So that was my night. Just like my nights at home, it was typically ridiculous and action-packed, just British-style. I’m exhausted today, but it was all worth it to feel just a little bit of good old fashioned every day.

No rules, just write

Last night, a guy kicked me in the face when SLIDING INTO FIRST BASE (no comment). Today, I have a fat lip, a big red mark on my check, a sore neck and an overall swollen and bruised left side of the face.

To me, softball seems like a dangerous game when you don’t know the rules. If that guy had known the first thing about softball or baseball, I wouldn’t be feeling today like I got into a bar fight last night…Which brings up an interesting point.

I remember my friend Steven (a Brit who moved to the States several years ago) telling me that the major difference he noticed between living here and living there is Rules. And it’s true. If you stop and notice it, Americans are just so much more legislated and regulated than Europeans…not only with actual laws, but with warning and regulatory labels slapped on everything from experiences (“you must be this tall to ride this ride”) to products (“putting this bag over your head and sealing it can lead to death by suffocation.” Yeah, thanks.).

In the States, there are very clear restrictions and regulations on most things, and when people break those rules, everyone else gets litigious. There’s a pretty strong culture of, “Here’s what you should do, and here’s what you shouldn’t. If you follow these rules, your life will be better.”

Also, EVERYONE is a rulemaker….government, corporations, parents, the media. Now that I’ve left, I notice the fear-mongering in the U.S. media so much more, like my beloved Today Show pushing stories like, “The hidden window danger that is threatening your child’s life,” or “Do you REALLY know what’s in your food?? Take action against cancer-causing preservatives today.”

Where you might see a “hot fashions” article on Cosmopolitan Magazine UK, you see 10 articles in the US version telling you how to catch your man, how to keep your man, how to please your man, etc. The implication is that if you don’t follow their rules, you run the risk of driving your “man” away, or worse, turning into a 30-year-old cat lady, alone and undesirable forever.

Not that I’m saying the American rules culture is a bad thing, necessarily. I think that especially when you’re used to it, there’s a great deal of comfort to be found in rules. They even the playing field, they let you know what you can expect, and they give you a sense of control in an otherwise chaotic world.

When I was in Thailand last year, the people were so laid back and the society so unregulated that your 10 am scheduled bus trip probably wouldn’t happen until noon, and you just had to deal with it. London isn’t quite so bad at that, but there are aspects of life here that astound me with their lack of organization or structure. Somehow things manage to get done, but you can’t help to think that with a little more explanation and a clear course of action, life would run a little smoother…but I suppose that’s the American in me talking.

With that said, I suppose it's not surprising that it's difficult for me to approach a task like this blog without inadvertently creating some rules and guidelines for it. Seeing as how this is my 20th entry, and I suppose that ought to be cause for reflection of some sort, I will share them now:

Try to maintain a balanced approach to my comparisons of the British and American culture. Okay, I said try. I really am trying!

Try to be positive. I’ve written some really depressing “I miss my family and friends” rants that never made it on here in an interest of upholding this rule.

Keep people out of it. With the exception of a few people who don’t mind (and poor Alex, who didn’t really have a choice), I have tried to keep from mentioning or showing anybody I’ve met. There’s really no sense in dragging innocent bystanders into my apparent newly developed need to purge my life online.

Don’t talk about my relationship. I’m not saying that I won’t break this one at some point, but I think some personal things should not be for public consumption.

Don’t be long-winded. Herein lies my biggest failure to date….which is why I should just stop. Now.

Thank you all for reading.

The (Big) B**b Tube

update: 9 Dec. 2008. I can't deal with people hitting on my blog because they are searching for porn. Therefore, I have taken to the title with asterisks.

I have watched A LOT of bad TV in my life. Living in the States, I was always amazed by just how high my threshold was for ridiculous, soul-sucking reality shows. Even though I was likely haemorrhaging (yes, it too has an extra letter in British English) active brain cells, I loyally watched from start to finish such gems as Rock of Love I and II, My Fair Brady and Love Cruise.

That said, upon my arrival here, I think I might have finally found my limit. Ladies and gents, I present Big Brother in the UK.

Now, before you Brits get your knickers in a twist, claiming, “You Americans took it from us…blah blah blah,” I’ll have you know that I never really watched the American one either. I dabbled in it around the time that the good-looking doctor was on it, but I have never logged on to the web site to voyeuristically watch the housemates sleep or eat Cheerios or whatever (hey, no judgement…I actually referred to the day I met the Bachelor’s friend as the best day of my life).

Also, host Julie Chen is so bland that I can actually feel myself experiencing cognitive dulling while watching her. So yes, it’s a bad show in the States, but if I may be so bold, it’s an even worse show here.

Okay, where to begin…

First, a disclaimer:

As a bad TV junkie, I’m willing to admit that when something becomes a cultural phenomenon, it’s usually because at first, it shocked and appalled the nation and pushed its widely accepted standards of decency or normalcy to a new limit.

Exhibit A: Jerry Springer. When this trainwreck first arrived on the airwaves (or at least once it evolved from a somewhat respectable political show into the perverse social commentary it came to be), Americans (at least all but those of a particular socio-economic group) were likely appalled by such episodes as “My neo-Nazi skinhead brother is sleeping with my sister’s bestiality-loving lesbian girlfriend” or whatever. Now, when the re-runs come on and it’s all “beep this” and “you’re a beeping dirty-beep mother-beeper,” most people just sigh dispassionately and change the channel.

But you can imagine that if someone who’d never seen the show watched it (like someone from outer space), then they’d be shocked all over again. So with that in mind, I’m willing to concede my lack of an adequate adjustment curve and say that this is merely the observation of a newcomer and not a disparagement of a national jewel.

/disclaimer

Now, a list (natch):

1. The announcer guy.

I’m trying to think of the cultural equivalent of using a guy from Newcastle as the un-seen narrator for a show, and I imagine it’s probably akin to heading to rural northern Minnesota (ooh dontcha knoow) or the local packie in Southie Boston (where you buy wicked cold beah) to discover the Next Big Thing in Voice-Overs. Just not a good strategy.

England’s a smaller country and all, so maybe this guy’s accent is more widespread and easy-to-understand to the natives, but to me, he sounds like this:

Ett’s teeyoo thairtay pay em. Da reeoomatts air en da gayairden.

Translation: It’s 2:30 p.m.. The roommates are in the garden.

Leaving aside the complete and utter tedium of that statement (we’ll get back to that in minute), this guy is almost incomprehensible to the untrained ear. Worse than that, you kind of think he’s kidding…like he’s “doing a funny voice.” Fortunately, I now know he’s not, so the next time I meet someone from “Neeyookissle,” I will not laugh and say, “Come on. Talk NORMAL.”

Another day, another cultural mishap successfully averted.

2. The aforementioned tedium.

Big Brother is on ALL of the time here. Seriously, I haven’t analyzed the TV lineup or anything (yet), but it seems to me that 24 hours a day you can access the show, the recap of the show, the recap of the recap of the show, or the nail-biting elimination episode (which seems to drag on for hours).

Call me old-fashioned, but even with my exceedingly low standards, I STILL find myself seeking some small thread of a plotline or a story arc in my entertainment media. Fortunately, American television likes to indulge my preference by editing and packaging its Big Brother episodes in easily digestible narrative nuggets so that I can refer to the episode later as, “The one where that blind dude held a knife to the fat guy’s throat for accidentally using his toothbrush” or “The one where the hot twins and the cocky guy got it on in the hot tub even though he has a girlfriend.” You know, the glorious stuff of water cooler chats.

Here, it’s Just. So. Tedious. The passing minutes are reported with remarkable earnestness by Mayor Monotony McNeyookissle (because I don’t know his actual name) and supplemented by statements like, “The roommates are sitting at the table” or “The roommates are contributing to the population of the earth” or “The roommates are exhaling carbon dioxide.” The only thing potentially more boring than those people together in that house is me, watching those people together in that house (and then telling you guys about it).

3. The talking wall.

If I recall correctly, the American version of the show has the obligatory confessional, where the housemates go to dole out heavy-handed sh*t-talking and cry about completely asinine things like someone stole their peanut butter or “it’s so stressful” being here sitting around smoking cigarettes and boozing to the point of emotional tears every day.

The difference here is that in the British one, the confessional actually talks back. “Big Brother” is this disembodied voice that comes from a hole in the wall that looks like those splatter paint machines that we girls used to use at birthday parties when we were kids. When it speaks, the camera actually focuses on the hole, and you half expect it to spit out some super-cute t-shirt that you can wear with one of those totally 80’s slides and black stirrup pants.

But no such luck. All you get is some dude asking leading, slightly judge-y questions and referring to himself in the third person: “Big Brother wonders if you didn’t act impulsively when you shouted at the housemates.” Fortunately for everyone, Big Brother is not from Newcastle, but still, you can almost hear George Orwell turning in his grave.

4. The elimination episodes.

If Julie Chen and Davina Mccall had a street fight, JC wouldn’t stand a chance. Davina, the drug addict-turned-singer-turned-Eric Clapton girlfriend-turned model-turned-Big Brother hostess, is hands down the best part of the show. Once a housemate gets eliminated, he/she goes through this magical door that leads to a huge outdoor studio. A whole bunch of people with nothing better to do stand around, usually in the rain, waiting for the opportunity to boo the poor bastard when he/she walks out the door.

There’s the usual preening and sarcastic bowing by the contestant and then he/she joins good old Davina for a post-elimination interview. Everyone there is taking the whole thing SO SERIOUSLY except for Davina, who probably had one of those soul-crushing “this is what my life has amounted to” moments early on (similar to what I imagine Jerry Springer had in the 90s) and rather than hit the heroin again, clearly just decided to say, “Screw it. I’m going to have fun with this.”

In every interview, Davina somehow successfully manages to make the contestants feel like she’s interested in them, while simultaneously managing to communicate to the discerning viewer (me) that she’s soooo above it. Sure, she’s the host of the dumbest show ever, but the joke’s on them. Pure genius is our Davina.

Anyway, there you have it. Apparently I do have some television standards after all. In the meantime, I am CRYING inside over the fact that the latest instalment of Project Runway has just begun in America and I’m not there to watch it. Guess I'll be forced to find something else on TV to tune into. Hmmm….I wonder if Big Brother’s on.

How do I, oh how do I live

People keep asking me how I’m settling in, and honestly, it’s tough to know. Even on my six-week anniversary of being here in London, I still feel a little like I’m on vacation, or at least in some sort of temporary state that will ultimately result in me going back to where I came from.

Part of the reason why I think this might be the case is the constant hectic weekends—the travelling, the one-off events, the unpacking and getting organized, and the seeming inability to just hang out. So when this past weekend approached, the first one with few plans and no travelling, I had really high expectations. I think I was hoping that somehow, all of a sudden, a sense of permanence would descend upon me like a giant security blanket, and I would finally feel tethered, sound and normal.

So, you ask, am I magically settled in now after my weekend?

Well, let’s review:

Friday

Continuing my flatmate Jason’s quest to teach me about my new neighbourhood one pub at a time, Alex, Jason, Megan and I headed out to Exmouth Market, a very cool street located north of my building. Our first stop was Café Kick, which is, believe it or not, a Brazilian slash Portuguese foosball bar serving Mexican food and Cuban drinks. I imagine it would be where Pelé would hang out if he were in London (back when Pelé was relevant, whenever that was). It was a fun, sort of off-the-beaten-track kind of place that served freshly made mojitos and caipirinhas (mmmmm….tastes like rocket fuel mixed with brown sugar).

From there, we headed to a very cool place (and Jason’s favorite bar in London) called Medcalf, named after the butcher who used to keep his shop there. (I figure Medcalf is a pretty good name for a guy who chops up cows for a living…Sometimes I like to think of things that I should have done career-wise that would have fit my last name …like being a shepherd—“Flockleshaw”. Or a tax accountant—“HR Blockleshaw.” Or a clockmaker—“Ticktockleshaw.” Or a professional skateboarder—“Tony Hawkleshaw.” Really, I missed my calling with the whole writer thing.)

It was a very fun night completed with a requisite trip to a gourmet pizza-type place in the area. Good times were had by all.

Saturday

Saturday morning bought with it sunny skies (the Force is strong in this one) and a brand new set of dining room chairs, courtesy of my wonderful flatmate and Charles and Ray Eames. Seeing as how until today, my choices for sitting in my flat were (a) chaise lounge, (b) inflatable chair, or (c) bed, this is pretty exciting stuff. I still feel a little like a broke college student—albeit one with a penchant for the modern classics of furniture design—but at least now I can eat my Ramen and grilled cheese sandwiches while seated at a table.

Because it was my first weekend in town, Alex and I conducted part one of my much-discussed but long-delayed walking tour of London on Saturday (to be again put on hold while I’m out of town for the next two weekends…At this rate, I expect to have a rudimentary understanding of where I am in relation to everything else by 2010).

Our first tour stop was Hampstead, a village with more millionaires within its boundaries than anywhere else in Britain. Think Liam Gallagher, Gwyneth Paltrow and Emma Thompson. We didn’t see any of them, but I swear we saw Keith Richards handing out fliers outside of The Gap.

In addition to all of the usual suspects—great shopping, amazing restaurants and delightful little streets full of oldy-worldy buildings and well-coiffed people—the neighborhood also lays claim to Hampstead Heath, which rivals any urban park I’ve ever been to largely because of its largely uncultivated, wild feel. (I asked Alex if the yellow straw-like meadow had a name and he said, “grass.” Hmmm….I was just glad he didn’t say “lab.”)

In fact, it feels so raw and untouched that when you’re standing in the middle of it, you feel like you’re in the midst of a British period film. I half expected to trip over Kate Winslet and Colin Firth engaged in some sort of corset-ripping tryst. No such luck, though. I guess I’ll have to settle for a Gap-promoting Keith Richards. If only the flier has been advertising for the new “Rolling Stone-Washed Chino.” (Aha! Take that, Dads of the world. I just beat you to a joke.)

After walking for a couple of glorious hours, we arrived for late lunch at the flat of one of Alex’s friends. He lives in Berthold Lubetkin’s HighPoint 1, what I later learned is considered one of London’s best, most innovative examples of early Modernist architecture (“later learned” being the operative phrase…even after six years surrounded by architects, I’m still not entirely sure what qualifies a “masterpiece”). It was definitely a cool building with stunning 360-degree views of London and some interesting original design features that even an architectural neophyte like me could appreciate.


Once we enjoyed a delicious summer feast, Alex and I left hastily to make our way to the next stop on our bustling social agenda—a Clerkenwell karaoke bar. A friend of mine from Baltimore had put me in touch with a photographer friend of his who is living in London as a student. It was her birthday, and though we hadn’t met, she had generously invited me to join her and her friends for her party.

Alex and I were exhausted from our busy day, so we decided just to stop by for one drink and say hello. After we’d introduced ourselves to my friend’s friend (who seems really lovely, by the way…gotta love second-degree connections), we joined the end of a long table full of people who all seemed to know each other quite well.

Alex looked miserable, so as a joke, I decided to sign him up for a song. I was practically daring him to stop me, but he just sort of looked at me dejectedly—we both knew we’d be out of there long before they got that far through the list of already requested songs….

Which is why we were so surprised when ten minutes later, the first song of the evening was called. Yep, of the huge group of people who’d gathered for this girl’s party, all of whom had been entering songs since we got there, the first person called was the person farthest removed from the social unit.

Imagining my own paralyzing fear over being in that situation, I started to panic that I’d inadvertently scarred Alex for life. But without even flinching, my ballsy boyfriend got up from his chair, gave me a meaningful look that I like to think meant “I will sing this song for you” but was probably more like “I hate you with the intensity of 10,000 suns,” and made his way over the microphone.

He then proceeded to sing, with remarkable gusto, this song:


Yep, in front of a room full of stone-cold sober randoms, Alex kicked off the party of a total stranger with Leann Rimes' “How Do I Live.”

God bless him. I couldn’t have been prouder if I were the country diva herself. Once he returned to the table, he said something to the effect of, “I believe our work here is done” and without even finishing our drinks, we were off like a band of crazy dive-bombing, shock-and-awe karaoke crashers. The only thing that would have made it better is if he’d said, as we were leaving, “You got Leann Rimes’d, b*tch.”

Sunday

We’d decided to have a barbecue at Alex’s house, so the day began with a trip to my new favorite grocery store, Waitrose. Unlike a lot of the other urban-format supermarkets, it always seems to have everything I’m looking for, even eggs, which I have learned are not stored in the refrigerator with the milk in Britain, but rather are kept on the shelf, next to the cereal. Does that seem safe to you? No, me neither, but I’m no dairy expert. (note: I continue my quest for canned green chilies. Americans: Feel free to bring me some next time you’re in London.)

In Richard and Katerina’s perfect-for-entertaining house, the event itself proved extremely successful, and though we had far too much food, everything was delicious.

We all completely stuffed ourselves, which made what we did afterwards all the more challenging.

Alex recently acquired a Wii Fit. If you haven’t heard of this amazing contraption, you must. Stat. Basically, it’s a video game that provides you with a board you step on. The board does everything from weigh you to determining your balance during yoga, to providing a step for aerobics class. Everything is monitored by the system—your fitness goals, improvements in your strength and agility, etc—and it doles out some pretty tiring workouts. The one that probably provided the most entertainment was hula hooping. There’s really nothing funnier than watching someone hula hoop manically without a hoop…except maybe seeing your boyfriend belt out Leann Rimes in front in front a crowd of strangers.


And that pretty much sums up the weekend. Do I feel more settled after it? Probably not….but I imagine it will take more than a weekend to make me feel that way anyway. But if this mix of new experiences, spontaneous hilarity and fun times with fun people is edging towards the norm, I’m happily on my way.

Waste a lot, want a lot

During the six months leading up to my move, I thought a lot about consumption. Not the illness people used to die from in the olden days when they were busy trying to ward off scarlet fever and whooping cough, but rather, the good old-fashioned human instinct to acquire, use and throw away.

It all began with my aforementioned dreaded basement. It had originated innocently enough as a place to store all of the boxes that had been following me around since I’d left home at 18. However, it ended four years later as a deep, dark jungle of junk (a “junkgle”) made up of stuff that had been gradually left there to rot by me and my steady stream of roommates.

This might not sound so bad, but see, the situation was significantly worsened by the Mouse Infestations of ’05, ’06 and ’07; fearing a standoff, I gradually grew more and more scared to go down there. As a result, I admit that my basement suffered from increasing neglect and fell victim to nature’s desire to re-claim it as its own (see Mold-stock ’07 and Rat-gate ’08), eventually resulting in what I’m sure would be a far more effective torture chamber that whatever the CIA could come up with.

When the time came to get out of Dodge, clearly the basement posed the biggest challenge. During one particularly horrendous day down there cleaning, I couldn’t shake the thought that this entire situation was so completely unnecessary. How on earth had I acquired so much crap? I clearly didn’t need it—I’d hardly touched any of it since I’d moved it. Not only that, but from top to bottom, my house was chock full of completely unnecessary belongings.

I had always wanted to be one of those people who only bought things for her house that really meant something to her, but instead I realized I was that person who made impulse point-of-purchase buys and couldn’t leave Target without spending half her paycheck. I mean how many baskets does one person need?? (if you’re me, apparently the answer is about 44, though I’m happy to say that I currently own zero.)

For the next six months, I worked diligently to remove all the excessive detritus from my existence. It wasn’t easy. I made several trips to the garbage dump (remember: NOT HEALTHCLIFF THE CAT-LIKE AT ALL); I paid a company called 1-800-Got-Junk to come in and look at me judgmentally while removing an embarrassing amount of “Lack” and “Billy” from my basement (I am convinced that when life on earth ceases to exist, all that will remain is Twinkies and Ikea furniture); and I even held an in-house garage sale affectionately known as The OckleShop (you WISH you had this last name) where I guilted my friends into buying one of my 10,000 copies of Trivial Pursuit with half the cards missing.

Despite my additional forays with Goodwill and Craigslist, I was still left in the end with more than I needed. At the 11th hour, I was forced to do a “Baltimore Sweep” (also known as leaving your crap on the street corner and then counting the seconds until people magically appear as if from nowhere to fight over it, regardless of what it is).

Despite being a giant pain in my ass, the whole thing was extremely therapeutic, and I highly recommend everyone do a full contents purge at least once in their lives. It’s amazing how little stuff you actually need once you try. If you pull it off, you might even be able to offset the Catholic guilt that starts you thinking about how much some kid in Africa might really have liked a Trivial Pursuit board game with half the cards missing to replace the dirty pots and pans he's been playing with, and leads to you feeling like A Bad Person.

The good news is that since I’ve been in the UK, I have noticed a marked difference in the way people live, and I think it's helping with in my quest to live lighter. Perhaps by virtue of us living in an extremely dense city with very little personal space or because Europeans just don’t have that American manifest-destiny culture, but there’s a refreshingly pervasive sense of measured purchasing and waste awareness here that I’m finding to be quite inspiring.

(((Aside

This is true except for in one oddly specific department: Letters used in hideous words. For some reason, the Brits add a completely unnecessary superfluous letter in the following words: paedophile (that’s pedophile), foetus (fetus), and leukaemia (leukemia). Odd. Even more odd is that I inserted this here, but I’ve been trying to work this observation into a blog for a week. Sorry for the awkward segue.

/Aside)))

In the interest of taking this opportunity in my life to evaluate some of my less desirable living habits, now seems like a good time to put my “insatiable consumption” (as The Pope referred to in yesterday’s Australia speech) in check. Generally, I’m not in the habit of quoting the Pope, but maybe that will earn me some points back from the whole mass-mouse-murdering debacle.

Happy weekend!

Blame it on the rain

In the midst of all the excitement over rainbows, Gossip Girl and animals (apparently I am an 8-year-old girl), I forgot to create an inventory of things that I dislike about London as a counter to last week’s love list. Well, I’ve given it some thought, and in the interest of being positive, I am choosing to refrain from creating such a list (for now…I retain the right to re-visit it in the future).

That said, I do need to get an issue I find particularly harrowing off my chest. While cliché and certainly not unexpected, I believe it still warrants my extra-special strain of abuse. I present: the terrible London weather.

When people first move to Chicago in the winter, we look sympathetically at their frozen eyelashes or their fingers showing the early signs of frostbite, and we say, in our most reassuring voices, “Oh, but the summer’s great.” At first, they might not believe it, but they’ll stick around for a while, and right about the middle of March (okay, maybe mid-April, mid-May) when they’re borderline suicidal over the gray and the ten comfort pounds they packed on during the winter, the sun will finally emerge from behind the clouds and suddenly all will forgiven.

For three to four glorious months, Chicago is a sunny, happy, rip-roaring good time partly because the weather is so great but probably more because it’s all relative.

Here in London, when people say, “Oh but the summer is great,” they are just messing with you, because “Um, no, it’s not. Unless by ‘great’ you mean ‘gray’ because see, the first one sounded like it had a ‘t’ and I’m SURE you didn’t mean to say that.” When someone says that to me, I want to shout at them like some sun-deprived mentally unhinged hermit, “Either you’re severely delusional or extremely mean-spirited. WHICH ONE OF THESE PEOPLE DO YOU WANT TO BE?”

The climate here essentially has two settings: 1) raining and 2) about to rain. In some ways, the former is better because at least you know you won’t be leaving the office/house. When the latter occurs, and suddenly you’re caught somewhere with a million other people trying to conduct an elaborate game of bumper umbrellas above your head, then you’re pretty much up a creek, so to speak. I don’t understand how there can be any shortage of water in the world when it’s falling from the sky here every. damn. day.

You know that standard insult-to-injury scene in a movie when the person is having a bad day and to make matters worse, a car drives by and splashes water all over them? That actually happens here…like all of the time. Here, everyone has a permanent rain cloud over their heads. I feel a little like I’m stuck in a cartoon TV ad for anti-depressants, except that the cure is sun and apparently my healthcare plan only covers the half-assed generic version. Or something.

The reason I bring all of this up is that this weekend will be the first since I got here that I can just chill out in London. Because it's summer and I’m an idealistic Chicagoan and American, I have planned many outdoor activities in an effort to force it to be sunny by sheer will alone. I don’t believe in weather forecasting (I’m sorry, but it’s not a real science if you’re only right 10% of the time…I can look at the sky too you know), so I’m going to have to go on blind faith.

Here I go: “You know, guys, it might be raining now, but the weekend’s going to be great.”

The fox and the sound

I miss rats and mice.

God, I couldn’t even type that without gagging. Okay, clearly I don’t miss rats and mice. As many of you know, I was TORTURED by a five-and-a-half-year standoff with the rodent population of Baltimore. I have maimed, suffocated, trapped, drowned, run over, and poisoned at least 30 disgusting but freakishly intelligent (I’m not kidding…I swear Baltimore’s Darwinian Uber-Species was curing cancer during its break from torturing me) rats and mice during my lifetime. Don’t judge me—it was killed or be killed.

Anyway, rats and mice are a formidable opponent and they took years off my life in stress and emotional turmoil. But at least they were normal, urban creatures.

Here in London, we have foxes. You know, those fuzzy, allegedly cunning, orange and white critters with the bushy tails? This might not come as a surprise to those of you familiar with the whole concept of urban foxes, but to me, this information seemed like a biological absurdity akin to say, fish living in a tree, or me living in the country.

Alex had told me that the urban foxes were "the size of a lab.” Picturing this creature,


I was obviously terrified. What kind of big-ass Old Yeller-style foxes skulk—can labs even skulk? No, amble—around dense urban areas in the middle of the night? How do these ecological freakshows even find a place big enough to hide during the day? The whole thing was truly mystifying to me, but Alex insisted.

On Friday night, I finally saw my first urban fox, and I’m happy to report that this elusive London nocturnal is not the size of Old Yeller, but rather is the size of well, a fox. When I promptly pointed out to Alex that it was much smaller that I’d anticipated based on his description, he laughed and said, “Oh you thought I meant a labrador retriever. No, I said a lab.” Since the fox I saw was much smaller than any laboratory I’ve ever seen as well, I still have no idea what he was talking about. But then again, I'm not science-y.

Anyway, my point in all of this is not about the animal itself, which is kind of cute in a way, and certainly far more desirable than a rodent, but instead is about the sounds they make. Oh. My. God. I only ever heard it one night, but suffice it to say that their “screams” sound like someone being tortured in the streets. That’s some scary Clockwork-Orange sh*t for those city dwellers forced to lie in their beds and listen to it.

Which brings me to another weird London-based animal that I only just got introduced to on Monday night: the blackbird. It makes midnight mating sounds that emulate a car alarm. I guess I’m just wondering one thing: Were there not enough sounds to hand out when civilization was being created to prevent this sort of mix up from occurring? I’m just waiting to discover the urban elephant that makes noises like a police siren or the rare, city-dwelling armadillo who sounds like a drunken domestic dispute.

XOXO TV

Sometimes something so sublimely exceptional and happiness-inducing occurs in my life that it defies the need for my usual hyper-explanation and analysis....

I bought a TV. It gets tons of channels. One of those channels shows Gossip Girl. Nuff said.

Misty Water-Coloured Memories

Every year on my birthday, my paternal grandfather, a proper patriotic Brit, sent me a card containing some money, a short note, and a little drawing of a Scottie dog. In the 28 years of my life that he was alive (even though I was crap at correspondence and only saw him every few years), on April 29th, a card unfailingly showed up wherever I was bidding me well wishes from England. Nice, right?

Well, as it turns out, there was another slightly more unseemly motivation to the tradition. Invariably, the cards would also have a P.S. scrawled along the bottom. “Are you still Roman Catholic?” “Are you still an American?” “Are you still Irish?” he would write in that angular handwriting that everyone in Britain of a certain generation seems to have (seriously, take a look sometime…it’s eerie).

My grandfather was obviously hoping that somehow, at five, eight, thirteen years old, I’d spontaneously declared independence from my parents, changed religions and denounced my heritage, and was set to board the next flight to the Land of the Righteous, aka the United Kingdom, where I would claim my rightful position as a royal subject of The Queen.

He even tried different tactics over the years. Around the time he entered his 90s (maybe talking dogs come with the territory), the little Scottie dog began appearing with speech bubbles full of things like, “Be proud of your British heritage!” and “God save the queen!” Before long, I began to take issue with that dog, who, like my grandfather, seemed unwilling to accept that fact that for reasons largely beyond my control, I was not a Union-Jack-waving, Protestant-card-carrying member of the British regime, but rather was a Catholic half-Irish Australian with an American accent.

Sure, he only wanted what he felt was best for me. The irony of course is that when he finally got what he wanted, he was gone. If he’d known that just two years after his death, I’d be living in London, dating a guy who is about as British as they come, and for all intents and purposes, living as a Brit, he would have been absolutely thrilled.

So, this weekend, when I was hanging out with my uncle John and aunt Jo in their beachfront house in Gosport discussing times spent in London and how much Grandad would have loved to have seen me living there, I couldn’t help but find this to be a bit curious.

If I were a religious, or perhaps even superstitious person, I might have taken this as a sign. It truly was the most beautiful rainbow I’ve ever seen, and from the top floor of my aunt and uncle’s house, it seemed to be almost designed for us. In the absence of a talking Scottie ringing the doorbell and bidding me welcome to London, it would have been a pretty good way to send a big old “ello govnah” from heaven, dontcha think?

Anyway, potential miracles notwithstanding, it was a great weekend. I successfully navigated my ridiculous anxieties on Friday (thank you all for your well wishes…love reading your comments!), had a great dinner with friends Christy and Jason later that night, and then spent Saturday and Sunday in Gosport with Jo and John (pictured below).

They have built an eco-friendly self-sustaining home overlooking the Solent. They spend some of the year there, and the rest at their home in the Spanish countryside. (In fact, while we were there, they were packing up their battery-charged SUV to head down there.)

In order to get to their house, you have to go through Portsmouth Harbour, a nice town centered around the famous Spinnaker Tower.

I got back early enough on Sunday to go for my first real run around the city. I was a little bit scared of getting lost, but managed to find my way down Fleet Street, past St. Paul’s Cathedral, across Millennium Bridge and past the Tate Modern and back again. As far as runs go, it was a pretty amazing one.

This week I finally seem to have some time to relax, hang out, and explore the city my grandfather so wanted me to enjoy. Hope everyone else had good weekends. xoxo

Head Case

There are two rather unpleasant things I have discovered about myself since I’ve been here: 1) I am a total stalker. I know this not because I quite literally email several people I don’t know every single day and essentially beg them to be my friends (which I do), but because I feel no shame in doing it. It’s like I think it’s NORMAL at this point. In fact I think I’ve forgotten how to interact with people like a sane, productive member of society.

Which brings me to 2). I have social anxiety disorder. I’m convinced of this. I have always been kind of shy, especially in big groups of people, but this is getting ridiculous. I feel like I have reverted back to my pre-teen self….like I haven’t had 30 years to accept me as me and all that crap. I actually find myself avoiding times when I actually have to—oh holy hell—speak to people.

Take the first week I was in the office, for example. There was an email regarding a little happy hour on the third floor. After quite literally psyching myself up to walk the 10 steps up to a place where alcohol lives (this really shouldn’t be hard), I finally took the plunge. I got up there only to realize that I really didn’t know anyone, they were all looking at me rather suspiciously and then carrying on their conversations, and somehow I was going to have to attempt to insert myself into the situation...and ehhh…I didn’t waaant to. So I grabbed a beer, made a looooong, slooow, production of opening it….and went back downstairs.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, I was followed. The HR Manager had spotted me in all my freakishness and had sent someone downstairs to retrieve me. Dy. Ing. After sputtering some BS about needing to send out and email, I followed her back up the stairs and made some small talk until I had managed to finish the beer in about four chugs, and got the f*ck out. Tell me that’s not troubling behaviour.

Tonight, there’s a happy hour at a pub, and I’m going to try my darndest to leave some distance between me and raving psycho by not blurting out anything like, “I gotta go,” or worse, “please be my friend” upon being introduced to someone. That is if I go….suddenly I’m feeling very much like I will need to be sending very important emails during that time…..

Crayfish and Fairies and Lambs, oh my! or Things I Love About London So Far

(in no particular order)

The Free Evening Papers

Every night, on the way to the Tube, I am accosted by some well-meaning but aggressive man handing out newspapers. At first, I ran from this man and his countless clones. (I have been conditioned over the years to avoid two types of people on the street—those handing things out and those who say, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question about your hair?”)

Then one day, I realized that these men are not in fact threatening purveyors of excessive litter and/or peddlers of porn, but rather, are Information Fairies sent to Earth to make my Tube ride home more enjoyable. The papers provide just the right amount of sensationalized news and celeb gossip (what WILL that Pixie Geldof get up to next??) to distract me from the 8,000 armpits (some smelly) in my face. They also tell me what will be on my TV that night….if/when I have a TV, I imagine that will be useful information. Ahh, junky journalism, how I love thee.

M&S Simply Food

Happiness Thy Name is Healthy and Convenient Dinner Options. I cannot get enough of the full range of easy, healthy takeout sandwich/salad/easy-to-heat-up-dinner places that line the streets in London. They even have picnic sections—that’s genius I tells ya. People say the food in London is bad. I say they haven’t tried the crayfish and mango salad from Marks or the spicy shrimp and soba from Planet Organic. Also, I’m totally digging the plethora of Vietnamese, Thai and Indian options. Fish and chips be damned.

Monthly Pay

At first, I wasn’t sure I’d like getting paid at the end of every month rather than every two weeks. I didn’t know if I’d be able to effectively budget for thirty (thirty!!) days. In fact, it turns out that I think it’s much better! For months, Alex has been trying to spreadsheet me (it’s much less fun than it sounds) and get me to figure out how much I should be spending per day. I have been resisting mostly because, well, ignorance is bliss, but I’m finding that it’s actually a quite effective way to manage me money. Well, gosh darnit, look at me all growed up.

Tights

Like every perpetually cold girl out there, I love me some thick opaque black tights. As those of you who worked with me in Baltimore know (if you’re out there….who the hell is reading this thing anyway?), I wear tights and dresses from the moment the weather turns marginally cold until about a month after it warms up again. For this reason, I love that the women here wear tights and leggings year round.

It makes me think of wearing my school uniform from grades 1 to 12 and how ridiculously comfortable and warm I was in my wool skirt, tights, just-peeking-out boxers, and big ugly stretched out sweaters and turtlenecks. Those were the good old days of clothes; and here, not only do I get to hearken back to those days (with a few adjustments), I can be semi-fashionable doing so. Incidentally, I’m also liking the look of these new genie parts I’m seeing everywhere (and yes, I took a pic of some unassuming girl with my phone as I walked down the street).



So what if they’re not the cutest? Comfort and warmth is the name of the game, people. Stay focused.

Pub culture

By the time I left Baltimore, I was about THIS CLOSE to tiring of the Irish bar. The no smoking thing helped, but can’t they just change up the décor a little? Maybe replace some of those beer signs with, I don’t know, art or busts of dead people or something? I just wanted a change of scene, but I’m never going to be a club person. So what’s a girl to do?

Enter the pub, the definitive, varied, and low-key but high-brow solution to my public drinking woes. Obviously I’d been in many pubs before, but there’s a culture surrounding them that I don’t think I ever fully appreciated. See, pubs in London are not just for Friday and Saturday night debauchery or buckets of cheap watery beer (don’t get me wrong…I’m not knocking the Miller Lite, but stay with me for a minute here). Instead, they are stops on the path of life. See, London sucks time…getting from point A to point B takes a significant investment of your day and with so many people (and so little customer service…see Things I Hate list to come tomorrow), nothing is ever quite as easy as you expect or hope it to be. The pub is where you stop to rest in the middle of it all…meet a friend here, follow up to a Sunday lunch there, get out of the rain, tired of walking with your shopping bags, suddenly the sun came out and this place has outdoor seating, I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m tired, I’m wide awake. It’s great. The fact that the beer is 10 times stronger helps too.

To illustrate, I include a picture of the view from my window. You can’t really tell, but there are three pubs lining the short road to my house—The Sutton Arms, The Slaughtered Lamb, and one whose name I can never remember so we’ll just call it The King’s Men or The Horse and Cock, because either is pretty likely.


When I walk home in the evening, there are people spilling out of these places—men in suits, women in tights/leggings, natch—and I don’t know, the casual drinker in me just feels happy to be young(ish) and in possession of expendable income.

Double-cheeked kissing

I’ll admit. At first, I hated this. We Americans are huggers after all. For women, this means one-arm-above-one-arm-below hugs and for men, it means the requisite “I’m not gay” hand clasp and two pumps on the back (crotches as far apart as poss). Here in the UK, the action of seeing/meeting someone requires slightly more finesse. For starters, it’s hard to know what someone is actually going for….is it the single-cheeked kiss? Or will he/she be coming back for to take care of the other side? Misinterpreting the action can be awkward and/or embarrassing, so you have to have your wits about you. Then, when the double sided kissing is actually occurring, there’s this weird moment when you pass in front of each other’s faces. If someone moves too quickly for the other there’s the risk of accidental lip plantage and that’s just no okay.

All that said, I’m getting used to it, and in fact, I’m starting to even get on board with it….not fully, but I’m getting there. Maybe it’s because I see it as a challenge—you will not out-sophisticate me, you European! The other day, some guy did the double-cheek plus one to me. I’m trying to adjust, but that’s just wasteful.

I was going to attempt to put my hates in here as well, but I THINK I’ve given you enough to chew on for today. So provocative, my blog. Life-changing, really. Who’s reading it again?

Better Get to Livin'

“The day we’re born, we start to die. Don’t waste one minute of this life.” Those are the ever-so-cheesy, but oh-so-true words of the incomparable Ms. Dolly Parton. This weekend, I had the privilege of seeing the icon of all that’s glitzy and good in concert at the 02.

First of all, let me just say this about her: Homegirl can sing. For a 62-year-old, she has the vocal stamina of someone a quarter of her age, and she wails with nary a sign of strain (at least none that’s detectable on her hyper-Botoxed face).

Thanks to Alex’s connections to the venue, we were sitting quite close to the stage, and I’m happy to report that her boobs are just as perky, her waist is just as tiny, her hair is just as big, and her bigger-than-life-but-as-wholesome-as-a country-walk persona still intact. In short, even though she’s older than my parents, the original Dixie Diva is still a bad ass.


One of the songs off her new album, “Backwords Barbie,” is the aforementioned “Better Get to Living,” and I have to say, this weekend was one of those times that I really felt I was doing just that. Not only was it packed with a variety of fun experiences and good company, but it was also chock full of VIP moments that made me feel quite diva-like myself.

On Friday night, I went out to celebrate the 4th of July with my new friend Megan and her friends. Ten of us headed to Chelsea to a bar with a great outdoor patio (and ample American flags hanging from the rafters), and then to a place called The Big Easy for red, white and blue margaritas and a ridiculous amount of ribs, chicken, seafood, and other Louisiana fare. Despite the fact that it’s the sort of place that I generally avoid like the plague in the States, it was a great time, and I left satisfied I’d had my fill of Americana (and junk food) for this Independence Day.

On Saturday, Alex and I slept in (for once) then donned a suit and dress (respectively) and headed picnic gear in tow to the Henley Regatta. An hour outside London, this annual event draws competitive rowers, far-flung spectators, and thousands of England’s young, boisterous revellers looking for any excuse to sit outside and drink.



We arrived at the event only to discover that Alex’s friends were moored in their rented boat at the start line, so we set off on the mile-and-a-half walk to find them. Two hours, tons of people-watching, a half bottle of champagne and a Pims lemonade each later, we arrived at the start, a little worse for the wear but no less enthusiastic to be finally through the throngs of people lining the riverfront. Then we discovered a problem: the boat was moored on the other side of the river.

Despite pleading with the lifeguards to row us over there in their little boat, we seemed to be out of luck. Fortunately, we discovered a turn-around point and our friends in the boat came to get us. The rest of the time was spent luxuriously sailing up and down the river, looking down (literally) on all of crowds we’d left in our wake (also literally). The icing on the cake was this—two of the six people on the boat were a couple named Emma and Mark. Once they’d heard I was from the States, they asked me, “Did you watch the recent Bachelor?” Did I. Turns out their best friend and best man in their wedding was none other than Matt from The Bachelor London Calling. Best. Day. Ever.

Yes, I took a picture of a picture of The Bachelor (the guy on the left). What's your point?


Continuing the VIP trend, Alex and I went breakfast at The Woleseley the next morning, where we’d had brunch one year earlier. Not only was it delicious as usual, but it also involved a star sighting…Mark Almond of Soft Cell, singer of "Tainted Love," was sitting near us, as he had been exactly one year earlier.

The rest of Sunday was filled with Dolly—bookended by special trips to the 02 VIP Lounge, naturally. All in all a great weekend! Hope you all enjoyed yours as much as I did. Now it’s time to get back to working 9 to 5.

The Other Red White and Blue

It took leaving the U.S. for me to make the most traditional 4th of July weekend plans in recent history.

True, while those of you on the other side of the Atlantic have been gallivanting around the American countryside today, heading to the beach, or to friends’ houses or home for the holiday, I have been sitting at work, staring woefully at my computer screen. Yet this weekend, when you are partaking in all of the activites I most closely associate with the 4th, I will, oddly enough, be doing many of the same things.

I’m not sure how it happened—it certainly wasn’t by design. Little by little, a full weekend evolved that had all of the ingredients of the typical American Independence Day celebration: fireworks, barbeques, boat trips, fried food, and country music. Most are just coincidences, but far be it for me to not capitalize on this patriotic twist of fate; I’ll happily chalk it up to the universe giving me resounding permission to drink a few for the Red, White and Blue.

So in the spirit of celebrating our country (as I sit here staring out at the beautiful weather, on a Friday afternoon, generally thinking it's a good thing to be alive and free), I'll share a little perspective I have gained on the ol' Stars and Stripes since being abroad.

Despite the many negative connotations of Americans (which Brits and Europeans are not shy to express), there is an unequivocal noble trait that even the U.S.’s biggest detractors can't deny: We are a distinctly optimistic people. Sure, sometimes idealistically so, but the prevailing, steadfast and passionate belief in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is at best inspiring, at worst begrudgingly respected across borders.

Even surrounded by the caustic wit and worldliness of my fellow London dwellers, I’m eternally grateful that some of that apple-pie positivity has been permanently etched into my view on the world…and I plan to preserve it (no fruit pun intended) wherever life takes me from here.

So while I’m taking part in many of the same activities as my fellow Americans this 4th of July weekend, I will be thinking of all of you and celebrating our right to be shiny, happy (if occasionally morbidly obese) people. Happy Independence Day to everyone. Without it, we’d still all be Brits.

My Fair Lady

Where I come from, block parties are raucuous affairs. Kids are running everywhere, there's often some sort of Slip n' Slide scenario, and adults stand around with bottles of beer and cook burgers and hot dogs until it's either too dark or they're too drunk to be handling open flames.

In posh Notting Hill, home of Stella McCartney, Bjork, Robbie Williams and countless other celebs and young hot politicians, things are a bit more civilized.

Based on my experience at the Nothumberland Street Fair, I provide a brief education: First of all, for all of you heathens out there, unless we are Jennifer Lopez we refer to such events not as "block parties," but as "street fairs."

Secondly, cooking over open flames is for cavemen and vagrants; we either have the food brought in by a local caterer or we cook our many gourmet courses in our well-stocked kitchens. Note: The correct wine pairing is essential.

Third, tablecloths should be recently laundered and floral centerpieces brought in that day to preserve freshness.

Fourth, when night falls, we should be well-stocked with candles; the jazz quartet will play appropriate evening music.

Fifth, and finally, all children shall be dressed in dresses and suits befitting England's upwardly mobile youth. Oh, and the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

We were invited to this grand event by Alex's boss Jayne, who occupies a beautiful home next door to none other than Maid Marion (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio). Mary Elizabeth was out of town, but that didn't prevent me from obnoxiously snapping a picture of her house (you can take the girl out of the block party, but you can't take the block party out of the girl).

Following great food, company and conversation, we bid our farewells around midnight. As we were leaving, we noticed the only remaining fair attendee, awash in the street light.

When Alex asked him if he'd mind being the subject of our late night photography, he responded in a posh accent: "Certainly. As long as it will be kept in a nice journal." Classy Old Northumberland Place Man: Your wish is (sort of) granted.

Quenching My Firsts

I’m convinced my physical makeup is 70%water, 20% muscles and bones and 10% peanut butter and jelly. I literally ate it every single day of my life from age 5 until 18, and probably most days since then. I love peanut butter and jelly. It is, in fact, what I like in my belly.

So when Alex told me the other night that he had never experienced this American dietary mainstay, I was straight-up dumbfounded. In fact, I believe his exact words were, “Ew.” Now, in his defense, jelly here is actually what we Americans know as Jell-o, so you can sort of understand his aversion. Regardless, I whipped up a Peanut Butter and Jam sandwich (heavy on the crunchy PB with raspberry jelly, natch) and gave him a bite. Soon, a bite turned in to him eating the whole half, which turned into me making another one so he could have another half. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a believer.

My satisfaction resulting from this delightful little domestic exchange was twofold: First, I “cooked” something delicious for Alex that he’d never had before (this will likely never happen again unless I screw up some rudimentary recipe and accidentally “invent” something), and secondly, I was, for the first time (damn it!), not the one experiencing a first this month.

Observe:

The first time I met my cousin's daughter, Freya.

Despite her having been around for going on five years, I have never actually had a chance to meet the adorable Freya. Fortunately, Alex and I were able to meet my Australian cousin, Gervaise, and his girlfriend, Sarah, in the river-side town of Richmond upon Thames for lunch on Sunday. It's at the end of the tube, but worth the time it takes to get there--really great shopping and beautiful on-the-water dining. (note also, the first time I have had really bad roots in London. I'm in denial over having to spend money and time looking for a new colorist....)

Next, the first time I ever witnessed THIS in a softball game.

The guy on the left is the first baseman. The girl on the right is the one who hit the ball. The girl in the middle is the runner from first to second. The fact that scenes like this were not out of the ordinary in my first RTKL-UK softball game in Regent's Park should reveal a thing or two about the nature of "the game" here. I caught someone out and then tagged the base to get the runner for the second out; everyone looked at me like I was crazy. When some guy ran directly from first to third, he got less suspicious looks than I elicited for my (legal) double play.

Next, the first time I ever spelled something with my body in public.

This, believe it or not, spells "No Name." I am the E. As part of my company's summer party, we broke into teams to do a scavenger hunt around London. One of our tasks was to spell our team's name in front of this pavilion. I think the n's should be fired.

And finally, the first time I took a picture with an aging rock star.

If you aren't too blinded by my extra four chins, you'll see that there in the back is this guy:

That's Kevin Cronin, lead singer of Midwestern 80s rock band, REO Speedwagon. We sat with him for an hour or so in the British Airways departure lounge. He seemed cool, but his agent has "Can't Fight This Feeling" as his ring tone. LAME.

Anyway, clearly I have this photo thing down now, so I'll try to keep the pics coming. Miss you desperately! More soon....