Bloggus Interruptus

You know how sometimes, with friends you haven't spoken to in a while, you forget to call them back, and then you feel bad, but you still don't call them back because you don't want to acknowledge that you haven't called them back, and then more time passes and you feel ever worse and less inclined to call, and finally, it has been too long and you assume they are too mad, and you're basically never going to call again and you decide that you might not even have liked them that much in the first place maybe, and then you run into them, and you remember why you liked them and you apologize and everything is fine, and then you promise you'll be better at keeping in touch but of course you're not and then you start the cycle all over again?

For me, that friend is The OckleShow. I have the best intentions, and I like her and everything, but she's draining and demanding, and well, sometimes I just need some space. By the time we reunite, there's just too much to catch up on...so much so that it makes me want to cancel plans, and make up excuses about how work has been crazy and my travel schedule has been nuts and I've contracted Hysterical Arthritis, which makes my fingers incapable of typing for short periods of time.

Sometimes I want to just say, "You know what, OckleShow? You're needy and selfish. Your mere existence in my life demands that I incessantly feed you with stories and my pathetic attempts at insight, and you're never satisfied. You just take and take and take, and give very little in return. Oh and also, your comments function is limited and you don't handle photo insertion very well."

But alas, even if I don't always like The OckleShow, it seems, somewhat inexplicably, that you do (traitors!). During week one of my current two week stint in the States, many of you have told me that you actually like her, with her bad photog skills, long-winded stories, and forced comparisons between totally unrelated things like acid rain and American politics. One of you even asked why she hadn't provided a brief comment explaining that I'd be in the States until next Sunday, at which point posting would return to normal.

So although brevity has never been my (or her? I've lost complete control of this metaphor) strong suit, this is that post. Sorry for the interruption in programming, loyal viewers. Tune in later in the week for a comprehensive update on my first trip back to the land of the free, home of the brave, and the resulting instinct to be like, "London who?" Til then, I'll be catching up on 90210 and Project Runway episodes....because those are two loyal friends I'll never lose touch with.

The OckleShow: Where American politics meets 5th-grade science

There are only four things I remember from grade school science class:

1. The devastating effects of acid rain (a phenomenon that was drilled into us with gruesome, eerily disturbing pictures of blackening statues with their noses missing)
   
   
2. The mystery of The Doppler Effect (I like to dazzle boys with this one, because well, boys like cars and it’s about the only thing I know that remotely relates to cars)
   
   
3. The magic of prop roots (I just recall wondering if I walked around bent over for long enough, if I’d eventually grow a third leg)
   
   And finally,
   
4. Parallax.

For those of you who were writing notes or making spitballs or whatever the cool kids did in grade school (I wouldn’t know), this is the phenomenon that occurs when a stationary object looks different depending on your position relative to it. In other words, if you look at an odometer at constant speed from the passenger seat of a car, it might look like it reads 60 miles per hour, but if you’re looking at it straight on, it looks like 65. (Boys, look out. By my count, that’s two things I know about cars.)

As the date of my big two-week trip to the States nears, this otherwise seemingly irrelevant factoid keeps popping to mind (and every time is does, a sixth grade teacher gets her wings!). I have only spent a few months here in old Blighty, but I do feel like my perspective has shifted slightly. For years, I was looking at the States head-on. Now that I'm 3,000 miles to the right of it, suddenly some things look better, but frankly, others look completely askew.

Take politics, for example. I can’t even tell you how many times I have started writing impassioned posts about the current political situation in the States (including a misguided “Dear America” letter), and then for reasons too convoluted and too sensitive to list here, I have diverted them to my Recycle Bin. Bottom line: It’s too hard for me to be impartial, and even though it’s my blog and I can stump if I want to, I don’t want to risk alienating the OckleShow’s already meagre (yup, r-e) audience.

I will say this, though (you didn’t really think I could leave it at that, did you?). Transatlantic Parallax has afforded me a view on the election from the world perspective, and it being the world's perpective and all, I think it's probably safe to share.

I'll start with what I think really sums it up: The BBC recently did a American election survey (post-“Palin Bounce”) of 22 countries. As Russell Brand alluded to so delicately at the MTV awards, all of them preferred Obama.

Of course, this came as no surprise to me. I am constantly barraged with questions from Brits about how McCain is possibly managing to gain ground when the country is so clearly on a rapid downward spiral economically, socially and globally thanks to Bush (their words, not mine). They are usually looking to me to somehow explain the opinions of 300 million people, a feat that is of course not only impossible (although moose-hunting fans, you’ll be happy to know I have tried my best despite having never shot a gun or seen a moose) but also completely fruitless (I admit, I didn’t know what the Bush Doctrine was either).

The thing that scares me the most about the survey was not the possibility that America’s international relations could be worsened by a McCain-Palin victory, but that many countries already feel the States is too far gone…that our current administration has done irreparable damage.

I came here still naively believing in what they drill into you when you’re growing up—that despite recent setbacks, the US of A is the strongest international power, spreading peace and democracy worldwide. Not only is that so clearly not true anymore in the opinion of many non-Americans, but we are in a position to lose more ground (and turn it over those world powers waiting in the wings, many of whom don’t necessarily share our belief system) if we don’t gain a little international perspective of our own and start mending some bridges. And I don’t mean The Bridge to Nowhere.

Then there’s the economy. As you can imagine, the ripple effect of the Wall Street financial crisis is being felt here and all over the world. Of course, it seems ridiculous to people in the UK that the U.S. headlines read “lipstick on a pig” and “childhood sex education” when all the while, the international markets are staggering under the weight of the American-led credit crunch. It's my firm hope as an American, that come Election Day, people vote based on issues that really matter regardless of party preferences.

And closer to home, there’s healthcare. I’m living in a country where access to doctors and prescription drugs has never been free-er or easier (even with my cushy private plan in the States), and along with Katrina, the diminishing middle class, and the skyrocketing unemployment rate, I can’t help but wonder when—or why— the States stopped caring for its own huddled masses. We need to hearken back to our forefathers and remember what the country stands for, because without that, in my humble opinion, we're lost.

But awww, it's not all bad. Come on, America, I criticise because I love! There are copious redeeming qualities that I never fully appreciated until I left—like the constant opportunity to reinvent yourself (though Katie Price, god bless her, has made some headway here), the built-in charity of the people, and the aforementioned unwavering optimism.

At the end of the day, despite my newfound insight, I can’t wait for my flight to take off tomorrow. And no matter how long I’m gone or where life takes me from here, I imagine that’s how I will always feel heading back to the States. It will be nice to take a break from the side view and see things head on for a while. I call this phenomenon "Parrelaxation" (or alternately, paralackadaisical). You can add that to your science books, courtesy of the O Show.

Classing up the joint

Since I've been here, I seem to have developed this voracious compulsion to sign up for things. First was Boot Camp, which just finished last week. It was expensive and time-consuming, but I was powerless against my mouse-clicking finger once it determined that doing 1,000 push-ups on concrete per week was something I needed to do. It’s the sort of thing I would have considered in the States (and actually did consider while I was in Baltimore) but never would have actually pulled the trigger on for reasons Time, Money, Laziness or Commitment Phobia.

And as if signing up the first time weren’t impulsive enough, today I signed up again. This time, it’s for the morning session—three times a week, in October, at 7:40 am, in the British autumn (read: rainy and cold). Brutal. Not only did I sign up, I actually stalked the web site until G. posted the October dates, and was then the first person to turn over my hard-earned cash for more body-thrashing. I’m actually surprised I didn’t throw my underwear at him or ask him to sign my chest. Regardless, it’s official: I have become the Claymate of Boot Camp.

In addition, I just dropped a cool £200+ on a creative writing course that will consume every one of my Saturdays for 6 weeks. I decided that if I’m ever going to find out if I can write fiction, now is the time, when I’m living in arguably the most literary city in the English-speaking world (not to mention home to the richest author on planet Earth). Never mind the fact that I swore off taking any more classes on my last day of grad school ’02; apparently I’m a glutton for punishment and my full-time writing job and this godforsaken blog is just not enough weekly verbal purging for me.

I’m not sure if this signing-up impulse is motivated by my newfound desire to take advantage of the vast and diverse offerings of the uber-metropolis (something that has been missing from my life for the past 5 years); or the urge to find a sense of community in an ocean of unfamiliar faces; or the avoidance of any lingering homesickness that might emerge if I stop long enough to let it. Probably a combination of all three.

All I know is that I might as well get them in now. Once the book tours and press junkets start, I’m not going to have any time to indulge my more frivolous of hobbies.

Marrying outside the gift box

As many of you know (because some of you are partly responsible), I have been to a lot of weddings in my life. This is in part because I have dated guys with thousands of relatives, and partly because I have successfully managed to stay in touch with a plethora of people from various stages in my life. Also, I’m really, really super popular.

In partaking of these numerous and sundry nuptials, I have seen many a crazy thing.

A wee sampling:

• A Scientology ceremony based on readings from L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics


• A portrait, sitting on an easel on the dance floor, of an extremely unattractive just-married couple, buck naked, posed with a strategically positioned cat


• Audible vomiting, done by the brother of the bride during the ceremony


• A tattoo across the bride’s back of some other non-groom guy’s name, thanks to an ill-chosen strapless dress


• Tables named after Lord of the Rings characters and a groom who walked in to the Imperial March


• A bride’s father’s testicles (love you, Erin)

The only thing better than witnessing these fantastic events is the fact that I’ve had the pleasure of dining out on the resulting stories. Conversation hit a lull? Let me tell you about the time I heard a bride scream the words, “Oh my god, my dad’s balls!” When it comes to getting the conversational juices flowing, let me tell ya, it works like a charm.

These glorious matrimonial moments are fodder for the OckleShow Dinner Theatre not only because of their trainwreckery, but also because they depart so deliciously and defiantly from the boring, manicured wedding mould (yeah, it has a “u” here. Who knew?). Good or bad, planned or retina-burning shock of your life, what makes a wedding memorable is the stuff that’s uber-personal...and unexpected.

Take, for example, Alex’s friend’s wedding in Ramsgate/Broadstairs, Kent last Friday night. The bride wore bright yellow. They served fish and chips for dinner. The entertainment was a beach band wearing Lycra unitards. The party started at the pub at 10:30 a.m. The best men’s speech included a slide of a stripper’s breasts.

It was such a fun time.

Case in point, the beautiful couple. I am obsessed with the dress, and on the rainiest day ever, it was like the sun...

...especially later, when it was positioned slightly closer to the sky...

My wedding buddy and fellow Midwesterner, Jen.

Life as it should be...

The beach just outside the reception hall.

The next day, a little worse for the wear, but no less happy to be taking in the local sights.

On Saturday, we headed back to London in time to have dinner with my dad's cousin in my latest Dining With Long-Lost Relatives series. On Sunday, Alex and I went to see Matthew Bourne's interpretation of The Picture of Dorian Gray, aka the hottest ticket in town right now:

It was almost unrecognizable from the book: Dorian is gay, the ballerina is a boy, the mentor figure is a woman, the portrait is a perfume ad, it's set in modern times, and oh yeah, the whole thing was done in modern dance. It was AMAZING. If you're in the UK, don't miss it before it's gone!

So anyway, now it's back to the grind. I was supposed to go to Dusseldorf tomorrow for work, but it has been cancelled at the last minute. Since this weekend is the last I have in town before I leave for the States next week, it will be all laundry all the time. We got a new washing machine...AND a cleaning lady who does our ironing!! Yep, I am one happy gal.

Sofa so good

In addition to the early signs of a Britney comeback as seen on the VMAs last night, two other very exciting things have happened in the past week.

1. We finally got a sofa, which is also, believe it or not, a newfangled Danish-designed full-size bed once you figure out the complex unfolding, flattening and yes, unzipping process.

And 2. My first visit from friends (and subsequent use of said sofa bed) has been scheduled for Thanksgiving weekend. I'm beside myself with joy (and fear not, I fully intend to insist that I dress like a pilgrim and they dress like American Indians for our scheduled Turkey Day lunch on Saturday...it will just be like our forefathers did it...only flip reversed). Anyway, can. not. wait.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I'm going to put to use some of the pics I've had stored on my camera for some time now...photos of London I've taken when the mood has struck. Again, I'll ask that you excuse my paltry photog skills and instead focus on how much these make you want to be my SECOND visitor!

An AlExhibit at the OckleShow

In my humble opinion, the only thing better than having a week of festivities devoted to you is having them devoted to your significant other. It’s like being one of Britney’s backup dancers (a.k.a. “my ideal profession,” once upon a conservatorship-less time)—all the fun (seeing friends, going out to dinner and drinks) without any of the liabilities of fame (being the center of attention, having to make the rounds, writing thank yous).

More importantly, because it has pretty much been The OckleShow 24/7 since I got here, it was nice to be able to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to spend some time toasting my exceedingly patient, unendingly accommodating boyf (even if only until my next episode of neuroses).

First of all, last Wednesday, Alex turned the big 3-2, taking a bold step into the sphere of the “thirtysomething” like Elliott and Hope before him. After boot camp, natch, I took him to a trendy-ish new restaurant in Clerkenwell called The Modern Pantry.

/an aside:

Someone asked me what kind of food they have there, and I almost said, “New American,” forgetting, probably for the 10 millionth time that day, what country I was in. Turns out what they actually serve there is “Modern European.” I have news for you culinary sophisticates of the world: New American, Modern European...it’s all pretty much the same, save for the courgette/zucchini, coriander/cilantro linguistic disparities. But I digress…

/aside

The restaurant was delicious, the service was good, and they even put a candle on his lemon meringue (Why does that sound so much like a euphemism? They really DID put a candle on his lemon meringue…………nope, still sounds dirty even with the added emphasis).

Then, on Thursday night, Alex had a “leaving do” (translation: going away party) at a place called Babble (does Parker Posey know they are using her pic to promote their bar?) in Berkeley Square (for you anglophiles, it's pronounced not like the town in California, but rather, like the sesame street dog). This get-together was in honour of his departure from his old company and his impending arrival at an exciting new job that starts next week. It sounds like it will be hard work, but he is no doubt up for the challenge and the many new opportunities it will afford him. (Fortunately, this week he is taking holiday time and “hanging out” to um, offset any future stress…).

On Sunday, he hosted a birthday picnic for his friends, which unfortunately, due to the torrential downpour, turned into a birthday pub-nic. Still, there was a good turn-out (despite the inclement weather), Alex had a great time, and I ate my first hamburger in over a decade (I genuinely don’t know what came over me, but omg, I have been missing out!).

To view the event, check out my exceptional photography and photo editing skills below. Before you ask, yes, everyone there was a demon who destroys pure souls with his/her crimson eyes. What of it??




Anyway, it was great past few days dedicated to a worthy recipient. Happy birthday/new job, Alex! (and also, because I forgot it in the midst of all of the activity last week, a very happy birthday to Mr. Timberly Drummond as well).

The Kingpin of Queens Way

I generally make it a point to not do anything I’m not naturally good at. Case in point: golf. I’m terrible at it and therefore, patently refuse to do it. I’m sure I’m capable (after all, I have mastered the art of putting on uneven pavement), but without having grown up playing it (tennis, baseball, volleyball) or having an inexplicable natural aptitude for it (yoga…seriously, Alex’s Wii Fit tells me I’m a Yoga Master), I’d rather be doing something else. I’m sure that doesn’t suggest a can-do attitude, but what can I say, I’m the teensiest bit competitive (translation: I’ll kill you.)

On this list of things I have no business doing and therefore generally elect to avoid is bowling. At best, I’m lucky. At worst, I’m unworthy of functional fingers and arms. I have actually been That Girl Who Somehow Manages to Throw the Ball Behind Her not once, not twice, but three times (incidentally, I also gave my dad a black eye with a golf club once…). Basically, I’m not just bad, I’m also a menace.

Or so I thought. Check me out (I’m Alic) on Friday night at Queens Ice and Bowl in Bayswater:


Oooohhh yeah. That’s a 140, fools. Read it and weep. In America, I’d get laughed out of the blue-collar club. In England, I’m a virtual Roy Munson (kudos if you got that reference).

Hmm...it makes me wonder what else I’m good at here in GB. There could be a whole host of latent skills London Alice possesses. Gentleman, protect your faces…The OckleShow’s going golfing.