London Footnotes

Introducing...MY NEXT BLOG!

2009-10-27T06:09:00.003Z

I can't believe it's time to retire London Footnotes. Honestly, I feel like I just started it. But here we are: life, racing forward at full throttle.

And so we enter the next phase: The Great American Road Trip! Please join my travels on the blog specifically created for the next few months on the road: Moonpies and Cherry Slurpies. I thought the best possible name for my blog would be one composed of my diet for the next three months, and also the very things that make America grand: chocolate-covered, marshmallow-stuffed cookies, and cherry-flavored iced carbonated beverages. Please forgive me in advance for spelling slurpee wrong, but I like to think that just adds to the blog's charm. Plus, you know, now 7-Eleven can't sue me for making fun of one of the world's most awful drinks for three months straight. And by 'awful,' I mean, 'truly, truly awful.' (Moonpies, on the other hand, are untouchable.)

Please join me on my next great adventure!

Hugs,
Sharona

Admiral Boom washes my clothes.

2009-10-21T14:55:00.004+01:00

You know that part in Mary Poppins where Admiral Boom sets off his cannon to mark the hour, and everybody in the family grabs a vase or a lamp to prevent it from falling and breaking while the house shakes? That's EXACTLY what it's like when my washer here goes into its spin cycle. It just now hit (although 'went off' is probably a better choice of words), and since I didn't have the wherewithal to do my usual run-and-grab, there was a domino effect as all of the cutting boards toppled over (their bang startling me so much I think I let a little out), knocking over the basket of tea bags, which then up-ended the sugar bowl. It was awesome. Or at least, it would've been if it had happened to somebody else. As it is, I just spent a significant portion of time trying to get all the sugar off the floor before the mice discovered it and threw a party.That's right, little mouse friends. I hear you squeaking. Don't think I don't speak your language.

I've got to go hang up these clothes now. Somehow they've got to be dry for packing tomorrow. I'll have to put them in the airing cupboard and hope for the best.

Next time I see you, I will probably be on American soil and blubbering through my last London Footnotes post. Thank you so much for reading this past year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to change my pants.

North Dakota: it's not where you think it is.

2009-10-20T17:58:00.011+01:00

The other night I had a small leaving-do with the friends I've made here over the past year, and the topic of my road trip came up. I made fun of the fact that I'm ridiculous for planning a road trip in the dead of winter, and one girl made a joke that it was going to be like one long endless Fargo. Once we explained to a shocked-looking companion that we didn't mean the pregnancy part, we meant the long endless snowy road with nothing but fence posts to pass the time and distance part, the topic resumed. Then somebody asked me, 'Hey! Where's North Dakota?'

I.
had.
no.
idea.

Of course I lied about it--after all, it's not like they knew, and I couldn't let my countrymen down by proving myself to be another dumb American--and waved vaguely in the air, 'sort of top-middle. Above South Dakota.' He holds up two index fingers: 'So if this finger is Oregon, and this finger is Chicago, where would it be?' I lowered Chicago slightly (to make it look like I knew what I was doing), then waved another finger vaguely between the two: 'It'd be, like, right here. With Minnesota and Wisconsin right here.' To indicate Minnesota and Wisconsin--one state in my mental map--I waved again. This appeared to satisfy him, I sighed with relief, and the conversation resumed on a much-less demanding course.

It has since occurred to me that I'm going to start driving across this landmass roughly a week from Sunday.

I know.

So today I typed 'United States of America' into Google maps. Just to, you know, 'check it out.' I wanted to see how badly I butchered North Dakota's location (turns out I had it somewhere up in Canada) and I wanted to see if Minnesota and Wisconsin were in fact two separate states (they ARE. And BIG ones). Now I'm hooked: this map is FASCINATING me. It turns out that between Diana in Memphis and Gina in Pittsburgh, I'm going to be going through KENTUCKY. And WEST VIRGINIA. Dude. That's WILD. KENTUCKY. WEST VIRGINIA. And then also I had totally thought I lied to a friend a few weeks ago when I said that of COURSE I was going through Mobile, Alabama, because really, what road will ever lead a person through Mobile, Alabama? but then it turns out I CAN TOTALLY GO THROUGH MOBILE, ALABAMA. Between New Orleans and Memphis! Isn't that INSANE? And I can even knock off a corner of Mississippi while I'm at it! MISSISSIPPI!

This trip is getting wild. I can't even handle it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a way to make St. Louis fit between Ohio, Chicago, and Wisconsin...

126 Restaurants in 90 days. And they say I don't have vision.

2009-10-19T17:45:00.004+01:00

I picked up Gourmet magazine today because of the headline '126 American Restaurants Worth the Money.' I figure since I'll be driving across much of America, I may actually have the opportunity to hit several of these...at least if my planning goes well. Otherwise, I'm going to end up back in SF with chalupa-hips. (Although, let's be honest, I probably will, anyway.) I'm considering the idea of photographing myself daily during my journey, with the eventual creation of a flip-book in which you can actually see me physically growing. It will be pretty sexy. Then I'll sell it for mad bank and it will be a huge best-seller and then Oprah will have me on her show and be like, 'So tell us, Sharona, how did you manage to accomplish such a daring physical feat?' And I'll say, 'Well, Oprah, it took three months on the road, and a lot of fast food, and I kept having to move my tripod back a few inches further each day to fit me into the frame, but it was a small price to pay for all this fame and fortune. Would you mind if I have a little snack?'

I just got done watching these sweet video clips. I wonder if Volkswagen can make packing fun? I think I'll write them a strongly-worded letter. I hope they get back to me before Thursday, since I've got a plane to catch.

Stratford-upon-Shakespeare and a host of non-sequiturs

2009-10-16T12:13:00.010+01:00

* standing on a podium * 'It's been a week since my last blog post...' * smattering of applause *

Brussel sprouts are the big Christmas thing here. I'm just now realizing this, despite having spent Christmas here last year. I was looking through seasonal cards at Borders last week, and half of them had brussel sprouts on them. In the shape of Christmas trees, snowmen, reindeer. I also learned that brussel sprouts taste better after they've been bitten by frost, which is why they're harvested so late in the year. No doubt another reason they're served at Christmas. All of them. At once.

Last week in Edinburgh I got a book by Alisdair Gray called Ten Tales Tall & True. A rhyme adorns the fifth page: 'This book contains more tales then ten/so the title is a tall tale too./I would spoil my book by shortening it,/spoil the title if I made it true.'

This rhyme is the reason I bought the book.

I'm in Stratford-upon-Avon this weekend for a wedding. Everyone in London exclaimed when I told them I'd be here, 'Oh, Stratford, how beayoooootiful!' 'What a precious, quaint little town!' 'Did you know that's where Shakespeare is from?' 'There's a lovely river running right through it!' Interestingly enough, none of these reporters had actually ever been here. This makes me love Stratford for no other reason than its fine marketing job.

So far it seems neither little (by, say, Upton or Peebleshire standards) nor quaint, and I've seen more carparks than theaters, but I also haven't gone properly into the town center yet, so my opinions (currently) aren't worth a grain of proverbial salt. I hope to explore it more thoroughly Sunday morning, when all wedding festivities have calmed and the town isn't yet awake. I'm sure I've missed the precious bits in my fly-by drive. * determined to find precious bits if it kills me *

Right now I am in the lobby of this huge, gorgeous hotel-spa-golf-course-resort-thing less than five minutes outside of Stratford, where the wedding reception is to take place tomorrow night and consequently all wedding guests have congregated. The gardens are beautiful, really something, straight out of Pride and Prejudice, labrynths and roses and cobbled paths and ponds and fall colors and a bite in the sunny air, and I feel that if I were to stroll about the grounds, it would only be a matter of time before Mr. Darcy materialized. I can finally understand, looking out over the jointly manicured-yet-rugged landscape, why grounds-strolling used to be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon. 'Would you like to take a turn about the garden?' 'Why, yes, I would. The pond is looking positively lively this fine fall morn.'

It's 12:34 at this exact moment in time. I don't know why that excites me since I'm not ten anymore, but there it is. Excitement.

Speaking of excitement: a porter carried my bags to my room for me this morning. I think this is the first time that has ever happened to me. I felt like a princess swishing through the lounges as he wheeled his trolley subserviently behind me. I imagined people murmuring in our wake as we swept through. I also felt alarmingly Californian--unusual since I'm not from there, originally-speaking--as it struck me too late that everybody else--given their stares--probably carried their own bags, and I looked very tall against the porter's diminutive stature, and also self-entitled. But he offered, and I'm only human. (And by 'human,' I mean, 'lazy.') I also no doubt had 'American overtipper' stamped all over my regal forehead. However, as a result of all these attentions, and the manor-like setting, I do feel like a princess--or at the very least, an Elizabeth Bennett--and this is my court, and soon I will be taking a turn about the garden to improve my constitution. After which I shall take a turn about the spa to check out the facilities that I won't be using, then returning here to a tall armchair in a window overlooking my sunset grounds as a waiter-with-a-white-towel-on-his-arm proffers me a list of scotches to ease me into my evening. (That I won't accept, of course, Mother.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I have centuries to time-travel...and I think the portal is in that garden. Maybe Stratford-upon-Avon is magical, after all...

2009-10-10T22:23:00.003+01:00

Sky blue, sky blue, sky blue, sky blue, sky blue.

I love comments. I do. My self-esteem is directly proportional to how many blog comments I get. I can refresh my blog for hours just looking for * one more. * On days that I've written a post that I'm really pleased with, I haunt my blog for feedback (usually nil) and then on days that I've flipped one out that shames me with its brevity/witlessness/fatigue, I get a handful of remarks. But regardless of where it occurs, I love that handful. I NEED that handful. It's what sustains me, makes me post another day, makes me shout (okay, murmur) into the void.

Then today I read this by Okie (also linked above), and while I know that posting nothing but a link means I won't get any feedback myself, that's absolutely okay. Because this is too nice not to be shared.

Scotland and Sherwood Forest, in no particular order

2009-10-07T19:41:00.009+01:00

I landed in Glasgow on Monday afternoon, for a relaxing week in Scotland. So far my days have been spent reading, sipping from the bottomless cup of tea, and eating tiny little ham and coleslaw sandwiches. I can't get over how good they are, or how many I can pack away. When you're only eating tiny squares, you somehow manage to convince yourself you haven't just had the equivalent of three full sandwiches (or more likely six to ten, if we're being completely honest).

Tomorrow leads me to the far-off land of Edinburgh--or rather, to a tiny village just beyond. I'm looking forward to it. I'm visiting a woman who is so incredibly talented in the kitchen she makes me want to retire my apron and subsist entirely on ready meals the rest of my life, because WHY when there's someone like that in the world? It's like when you think, 'Hey, my photography's pretty good,' and then you go to Flickr and think, 'I may as well shatter my lenses now.'

Ah, well. So is life.

Whatever that means.

More as events warrant. In the meantime, some photos from Nottingham and Sherwood Forest last Sunday:

The above and below pictures are (nearly) identical, except that the one below I zoomed out to get more trees and to the top I've applied a focused filter. Can you please tell me which you prefer? I've looked at them both so many times I feel blind. I can no longer see the forest for the trees (so to speak).

A day in London, in pictures

2009-10-05T09:11:00.011+01:00

I'm having trouble figuring out what to post. Not because I have nothing to share, but because I've been a bit camera-happy recently and now I've got too much. Somehow my camera has become my journal and I photo everything: walks, places I eat, books I'm reading, sunny parks and foamy cappucinos. It hardly matters how important my activity--snap-snap-snap--there it goes. I don't usually do anything with these photos--I don't fix them, crop them, sometimes even look at them--but they're there. Sometimes I may look back--maybe while looking for something else entirely--and see one or two and think, 'ohmyGOODNESS, I remember that deli!' and the moment, the day, even what I was thinking about or reading comes rushing back instantly. It's a crazy rush, a mad trigger. But usually there they sit, in my archives, untouched by time or attention.

I remember I saw a movie once ages ago where the main guy kept taking photos of these divey motel rooms and his girlfriend said something like, 'Why do you take pictures of the hotel room and not the Eiffel Tower?' to which he replied, 'I want to photograph the things that I'll forget.' And while the rest of the movie is a complete blank--I may have changed the channel five minutes later--that part stuck with me. And it has, in part, guided my own picture-taking philosophy: there's nothing too big or too small to capture--what matters is that you don't forget. It doesn't have to be a good photo, well-framed and balanced and perfectly lit. Just take it, capture it, immortalize it.

So...here's last Friday in pictures. I don't feel like doing explanatory captions today, but if you have a question about anything, do feel free to ask. In short, my day consisted of Brick Lane, Rochelle Canteen, some classic London shops, a gallery, and Late at Tate Britain, where a couple deejays performed some classical works in a very nonclassical style. It was a good day.

I am SO almost done.

2009-10-01T12:20:00.011+01:00

As you may or may not know, I have had a HECK of a time planning my road trip itinerary. (And by 'a heck of a time,' I mean, 'I haven't even looked at a map yet, but I'm pretty sure New Orleans is near Memphis and that both of those are near Austin, so right away it's all looking pretty good.') But part of the reason I haven't really 'touched' the itinerary yet is because I've commissioned Map Wizard Dusty to help me, and he lives in OKC. So of course I have to wait to tackle this project until we can get together. Plus I like to plan things on the fly. It lends an element of excitement, nausea, and panic that really gets me going. Some people do drugs: I procrastinate.

The downside to waiting for The Dusty Hour (Dusty, I apologize in advance that 'The Dusty Hour' now means 'The Very Last Possible Second') to plan is that you--yes, you, and don't hide behind your curtains, I know you're there--will get approximately... * 45 seconds * notice before I knock on your door demanding a free meal and a couch to crash on. But I'll also come armed with a six-pack (of Diet Coke, Mom), so we'll still be friends.

But just in case Dusty figures out who the AntiChrist is in the next 48 hours and gets himself martyred (sidebar: does one 'get' martyred? Is that just my inner okie speaking again? Professor Gray, please to clarify), I've got a back-up plan!: The Pioneer Woman's book tour. That's right. SHE PUT IT ONLINE JUST SO I COULD FOLLOW HER. It's SO obvious. I mean, LOOK at it: she planned her tour for the EXACT same dates as my road trip, and starting it from the same place I'm starting mine. Coincidence? Methinks not. I'll be verifying her need for me when I show up at the Tulsa signing with my handmade 'I heart Ree' tee shirt and start licking her new cookbook. I think I'll buy eighty copies JUST BECAUSE I CAN. Plus in the length of time it will take her to sign all of them, I'll be able to hide away in her luggage.

p.s. Once, when Dusty and I were super-popular thirteen-year-olds, we made a three-dimensional map of Middle Earth for an English project. It was fantastic. We made trees out of toothpicks and dyed-green cotton balls, and tin foil rivers, and crusty clay Misty Mountains, all to scale. I know. Our awesomeness blows my mind, too. I hope that we approach my road trip map in a similar fashion, as I like to 'conceptualize' journeys before I take them. And then when I'm on the road, I'll be able to instruct my navigating passengers to look in the backseat to find out how close we are to our destinations: 'Do you see that brown foil strip? That's the Mississippi. I think we just crossed it. Now look for New Orleans. No, no, it's marked by a string of beads. Do you see it? How close are we? NO, I don't need to turn on my GPS. I've got this MAP.'

a virtual choctaw hayride

2009-09-30T09:23:00.012+01:00

You know how when you have a sore throat, you should be trying not to strain it? You should be speaking as little as possible and definitely not shrieking at sports teams or calling to someone across the street? Well, I've been doing okay with all that--very conscientious about my current limitations--all aided in part by the fact that I could care less about sports and the only people across the street are construction workers who do enough calling on their own. Until this morning, when all attempts at voice preservation flew right out the window.

It began with breakfast.

I was reaching for the eggs for my morning scramble when I saw the butter. And the bacon. I glanced toward the cupboard and with my x-ray vision, I saw flour. All of the sudden, I KNEW. It was biscuits and gravy time. I immediately turned to the Joy of Cooking for a drop biscuit recipe (I miss you, Pillsbury Flaky Layers), pulled out the gravy fixin's, and a few short minutes later...bliss.

(photo from The Pioneer Woman Cooks Biscuits and Gravy)
(I read this recipe post whenever I need a pick-me-up. It totally works.)

Then...here's where I lost voice control: while in the biscuits and gravy zone, I turned my itunes to Alison Krauss. I know. I KNOW. I may as well have strapped on my overalls right then and there, because I was headed down a slippery slope straight back to my Okie roots. And--as usual--Alison BEGGED me to do a duet with her. She needed my accompaniment and wouldn't take no for an answer. So the next thing you know, I'm pushing away my empty, gravy-covered plate and pulling out my air dulcimer. It was like I too was aiming for my 27th Grammy.

So yeah...now my voice is gone again. And it was so worth it, because heck.*

I may as well just get a pickup for my road trip now and call it a day.

(picture courtesy of my sister, who is selling her 1971 Ford. If it weren't for the mileage, I'd be all OVER this.)

*More of a sidebar than a footnote: Only in Oklahoma do you hear 'because heck' as an excuse for doing something. Occasionally it's accompanied by reasoning: 'Because heck, Harold, the dog was hungry! How was I to know he'd choke on the bone?' But just as often as not, the excuse is left behind and all you get by way of explanation is 'because heck' all by itself. And everybody understands. 'Because heck' can also be substituted with 'well, hell' but that's in less holy circles. We disapprove of such language in our buckle of the Bible Belt and leave that particular variation to our drinking, smoking, hell-bent brethren. Because heck!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to drink some tea and start whittling this bar of soap into a clipper ship. And don't even get me started on the peas that need shelling.

Brighton, Bert's, Bill's, and The Lost Boys

2009-09-29T09:07:00.016+01:00

Yeah, okay, so...I didn't really find any audio books that 'felt right' for my road trip at the library yesterday, but I * did * check out a pasta, pizza, and polenta cookbook (I know, right, like I need to find more ways to gain weight other than sitting at the computer all day?). But come ON. It's pasta, pizza, and polenta! What more could a girl ask for? * nudging the scale out of sight *

Today, however, I am earning the triple-p's because I have so many errands to run that at LEAST a zillion miles will be covered by foot. Maybe more. And then tonight I'm having JAPANESE for dinner, which we all know is about as healthy as you can get, as evidenced by one, the size of the average japenese person, and two, the abundance of raw fish on the menu. * Pretending not to see all the tempura and noodles *

Omigosh, speaking of amazing Japanese places: check out this place I went to on my last trip to Brighton. It was recommended to me by several locals (yes, I am not above stopping people on the street for food recommendations) as 'huge portions for super cheap. And it's GOOD.' I was lucky enough to nab a table on the sidewalk (it was a warm and sunny weekend, how lucky was I??), although eventually, due to the massive, un-ending line out the door, ended up with two strangers sitting with me. And they--in all their dreadlocked glory--were totally cool. They too kept going on about how great the value was. It was like a Brighton-wide pavlovian response: you say 'Pompoko' to ANYONE, and they immediately say the words 'So big! And cheap!' In fact, I dare you to test this. A bowl of noodles says I win. And all reports were true: I got a huge bowl of chicken katsu with a poached egg and so many noodles that I couldn't even get CLOSE to finishing them, all for £5.

I just realized when digging through my Brighton folder to find this picture that I never posted any Brighton pics! (And I have another 500 Cornish ones to go through, but we won't talk about that now.) So here we go! Forgive me in advance for the very food-centric nature of the below. My trip was definitely an exercise to test my stomach's capacity. You will be pleased to know it did very well. * patting it proudly *

Where I had lunch the Friday I arrived...

It's both good and bad that the walk to my b & b required me to go past Bert's Homestore fifteen times a day...although this time I DID manage to abstain from any buying. Mostly by forbidding myself to go in any further than the doorway.

Ahhhh...the Maison Mascara. My home away from home.

And the reason I stay at the Maison every time I go to Brighton. I was in that tub with bubbles up to my ears at least four times a day, not gonna lie. I watched late night t.v. from it, I read from it, I drank coffee from it...I'm lucky I even left my room.

And don't let me forget to mention the newest perk of the Maison: breakfast in bed! You check off a little menu when you arrive telling them what you want and when you want it, and ta-da! A tiny little knock at your door the next morning, and breakfast is served! I barely had to leave the tub.

Plus right down the street from the Maison is Uncle Sam's, the best burgers in England, I kid you not. They're like a cross between In-and-Out and Sonic (please, stop for a moment and salivate with me), and you could easily toss back at least two. I hear. There's no seating--it's just an ordering counter in a tiny pink space the size of a closet--but with the beach at the end of the block, you wouldn't stick around, anyway.

You won't believe it: this was also the weekend of the Brighton Food and Drink Festival! I KNOW! I couldn't have planned it any better...

But of course the ENTIRE weekend wasn't about food...

Shopping in The Lanes.

Shopping on the beach.

Shopping in the North Lanes.

And another lunch (please don't count how many lunches I had in a 3-day time period) at Bill's Produce Store! You will be pleased to note that they still had the peppered steak sandwich on the menu, although it wasn't served on the onion foccaccia, which was a bit disappointing. So then I requested regular focaccia, which they were willing to do, except oops! It's 3:00. All out of focaccia. And every other bread on the menu except for sourdough and granary. Bill, how DARE you make your bread fresh each day and then run out. What kind of operation is this?? I'm kidding, Bill. I love you. But next time put some aside for me or there's going to be weirdness between us.

And miscellaneous photos:

For more Brighton photos, go here. You'll see some fantastic graffiti and the Brighton Pier amusement park by night. Which was scary. I don't know if it was the gusts of wind swaying the dock every five minutes, or the fact that there were only ten of us in the entire park, or just residual scarring from watching The Lost Boys recently, but...yeah. Terrifying. You have to go there.

The London Design Festival

2009-09-28T10:21:00.008+01:00

I was going to go into this whole dynamic story of my trip to one of London's Design Festival hubs last Saturday, but then I got distracted by this funny twitter article and watching Flight of the Conchords on youtube, so all of my visions have dissipated. That's the problem with blogging: you have to* get on the internet to do it.

But the Festival! It was [insert hyperactively gushing adjective here].

I KNOW. PIERRE PAULIN. Words cannot describe the way my heart skipped when I entered the Artifort room. They had a DOZEN of his chairs. Or maybe just five or six. I didn't count, because I was too busy leaping over photographers to jump into this one. And I didn't leave it again until I was lured away by the floor monitor offering me candy, which in hindsight was a total ploy to get me to stop humping the chair.

Veuve Clicquot (motto: 'bringing you unaffordable Champagne, one glass at a time') was the event sponsor and they built an entire lounge area out of...labels? Either way, you felt buzzed just going into it. And no, you couldn't steal those bottles on the floor. They are WATCHING you. And offering you candy and maps to other floors.

I also discovered my new favorite designer: Duffy London, you. complete. me. This canvas was the first thing to catch my eye from the design collection: it's actually backlit and it GLOWS. Yes. I kid you not. A glowing chandelier canvas. I could NOT get enough of it. Because it's AWESOME. And Duffy London doesn't stop there: they've also got these fantastic lampshades, and wallpaper, and mirrors that reminded me of playing with Lite Brite as a child, and and and! * head exploding * It was lovely.

Check out this sweet lounge. You see that bright backlighting? That's not because I suck as a photographer; it's because I took this picture in heaven. This is what I imagine my personal afterlife to look like. Sans the two strangers. Unless they're there to massage me, in which case they can stay.

I lounged around The Rug Company sipping fresh mint tea they were serving. For FREE. Because they're not Veuve Clicquot, they're wonderful. I could still peer at the Veuve crowd over the cushions, though. Like a spy, or a hobbit. I was totally cool.

Prototype THIS, Alexander. I mean...uh...shoot. Nice chair.

I've got to head to the library now. I have a mega-vision of burning kazillions of books-on-cd into my itunes>ipod for the Great American Road Trip. It would be great to go with American classics while on the road--Flannery, Raymond, maybe a little F. Scott or Ernest--but my selection may be limited by the fact that I'm looking in a British library. I'll probably end up with the entire series of James Bond or something.

*I know, I know. 'Technically' I could pre-write my post in Word and then just paste it in--a handy trick back when I was blog-posting during the workday**--but now I just can't be bothered...

**Only during lunchtime, of course. Hire me.

On travel writing and Padstow, Cornwall

2009-09-25T12:22:00.019+01:00

I just signed up for a Lonely Planet account with the views of eventually soliciting road trip companions--although I've received so many warnings of 'You'll be raped!' from well-intentioned friends that now I'm all paranoid-like--but anyway, until I figure out if that's a direction I want to go--soliciting the company of strangers, that is, not rape--I've at least taken the step of joining this huge travel community. And part of the profile set-up process includes a section for blog information. And, you know, I've got one and all, so I typed it in, and then it asked if I want it to be considered by the Lonely Planet team as a possible Blog They Like, and of course I clicked 'yes,' because hey, cool, a Lonely Planet Blog! They may think I'm useful and/or worth pimping out to other travelers! But now, after doing all that, I've come back to my blog and--wait a tick! I don't actually talk much travel! So now I'm all thinking I should do a post on backpacking through Laos and eating steamed dragon balls sold to me by a legless orphan in a busy marketplace, where I also took the opportunity to bathe myself for the first time in two months from the town well using nothing but the dirty rag tied around my neck before recycling the water for drinking purposes, that way when Lonely Planet comes to check me out they'll be all impressed, like, 'HERE'S a real traveler,' and then they'll include me in their blogroll and never look back, at which point I'll be free to resume writing about sitting at the kitchen table all day and they'll never know I'm a total fraud. Or that I'm prone to massive run-ons. It will be the scam of a century. Even hotter than the recent one I heard (thanks to a documentary just aired over here, although after some research, it appears this rumor has been ongoing for a few years now, get WITH it, England) about how America faked Neil Armstrong landing on the moon just to win the Cold War. Though I'm not gonna lie when I say I would probably be just as proud if the latter were true. Because awesome. We could do that.

I should probably post some more Cornwall photos now. Because, you know, I've got a travel blog. It's what I do, Lonely Planet.

These pictures were all taken in Padstow, the foodie mecca of Cornwall thanks to Rick Stein. Apparently he owns about half the town's property, as evidenced by the Stein Bakery, Stein Deli, Stein Patisserie, and the Stein I Can Cook Whatever the Heck I Want and You'll Eat It Because I'm Rick Stein. Word on the street he gets mad when you call Padstow 'Padstein,' but really, can you blame anybody? And also, how cool would it be if a town took on your name because your effect is so huge? Heck, if a town started to call itself Padselby, I'd be SO DOWN WITH THAT. In fact, I'm starting a movement right now: everyone, this is Padselby. Welcome.

on throat coat, cornwall, and cough syrup

2009-09-24T16:39:00.008+01:00

Right now the dishwasher is humming and the kettle is whispering and the soup is gurgling. These sounds are my company today, and they're keeping me warm.

The Cornwall pictures are coming along...I'm about a third of the way through, which feels really nice. But then, everything feels nice today. I don't know if it's because I'm doped up on enough cold medicine to tranquilize a horse, or because I've had so much Throat Coat tea that hallucinatory effects are taking place, or if it's just the general sense of well-being that comes from making soup and cookies from scratch and having them both cooking away at the same time, but either way...everything is so...nice right now. Except for that burning smell...hold on while I leave my stupor to check on those cookies...ahhhh. Done. They look so nice.

For some strange, inexplicable reason, I just took some time out to do a photo shoot with my tea box. Because, you know, I don't have loads of other stuff I could be working on. But it beckoned, and I think it wanted the glory of being the single item that's soothing my throat right now:

But I'm not gonna lie: it tastes like *ss. (Mom, I put that asterisk in there for you. Because really, it tastes like ASS, but I didn't want to offend you. I love you.) I don't what the heck this slippery elm talk is all about, but I can tell you, the flavor doesn't seem far from licking a tree. But man...my throat is coated and feels so much better than it did this morning. It's so nice.

I was going to put a couple of Cornwall pics in here, but my blog seems to have taken a different direction ever since the tea got demanding. In fact, I'm not really sure where I'm at right now.

Ah. Cornwall pics. That's right. Here are just a few of the zillion I'm working through (and by 'working,' I mean, 'zoning'):

Can you imagine how it would feel to live in that tiny little hamlet across from the water? One word comes to mind.

Yeah, I KNOW.

Every night, a sunset to knock your socks off. It didn't matter how foggy and cool the morning was--by noon, the sun was bright and crisp, and by dusk, everything glowed.

This fisherman reminded me of Elton John the second I saw him. I couldn't begin to tell you why. The hair? The glasses? The coveralls? The fact that he had a piano in the back of his boat? Perhaps we'll never know.

Alright, I gotta go. This tea is trying to kill me now. I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

I missed you.

2009-09-23T12:13:00.005+01:00

I'm BACK!! I actually landed in London-town on Sunday afternoon, but the lovely Heather was still here, so of COURSE I was slightly distracted--and infinitely busy pretending not to shop--to get fully online. But she left this morning back to San Francisco, so here I am! And so thrilled. It feels like it's been AGES since I've slouched at this computer drinking eighteen cups of coffee and posting too many photos on my blog and basically being a complete slacker all day long.

Speaking of posting photos to my blog! I had intended to upload some Cornwall pics today, but then I saw that I took over a thousand. Seriously. What was I thinking? Did I REALLY need to shoot the same beach seventy times, each with a slightly different expanse of sand and cliff? Why, when I'm shooting, can I not remember how impossible it is to sit at the computer later and pick out one photo from three dozen nearly-identical versions? These will take some time to go through. In fact, you'll probably see them...never. Kinda like how you saw my Spain photos two years after the fact, and then only about five of them.

Nonetheless...I'm so glad to be back!

Cornwall: it really IS another country.

2009-09-15T15:08:00.007+01:00

‘Can you tell me how to access the wifi?’

‘The what?’

‘The wifi. Wireless internet?’

(merry chortling) ‘Oh, we ain’t got that kind of fancery up here.’

No mobile signal and no internet for five days: I haven’t just entered a coastal village in Cornwall--I’ve entered the Dark Ages.

I initially thought the 'quaint and charming' holiday cottage came with wifi. I don’t know why I thought this. Delusion, maybe, or the fancying notion that it’s almost 2010, doesn’t EVERY accommodation come with wifi? After arriving late Sunday night, however, it quickly became apparent that 'quaint and charming' not only meant no wifi, it meant no phone signal, poor plumbing, no toilet paper or bath towels, and an electrical box that you feed with pound coins to avoid getting plunged into darkness. It's pretty hilarious, actually, though that can only be said because the price to stay there for a week is an absolute steal, and the location--the coastal village of Crackington Haven--is so beautiful it takes your breath away.

A trip 'into town'--not Crackington Haven, which seems to consist of a pub and a post office--but the nearby metropolis of Bude (consisting of a pub, a post office, and a surf shop), has yielded one lone internet cafe, which is where I am posting from right now. I feel drunk with power having a connection at last and am loath to leave it, but with the beach right outside the window and the loads of weight to be gained on the fabulous local seafood, well...sacrifices have to be made.

I really can't wait to tell you about Cornwall, though, when I'm at a computer that doesn't charge by the minute. It's a stunner--not just in terms of the coastline (which strangely resembles a lot of northern California), but in terms of the villages that dot it. They are sweet and cobbled and tiny and full of fishermen and fresh seafood--and oh, the seafood! I can see now why Cornwall is known as the British foodie mecca--it's absolutely overflowing with gorgeous cuisine, all locally and organically sourced and impeccably prepared. It's the land of Rick Stein and Jamie Oliver, and the bar these chefs have raised reveals itself nearly every place you stop, from the fish and chippies to the pasty bakeries and farm shops. You really can't go wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a coastline to hit and a waistline to pad...life is GOOD.

It's only a WEEKEND. I don't need to PACK.

2009-09-11T11:15:00.007+01:00

I think I've frightened off Heather. I don't know if it was from my walking on her heels all day, or staring at her while she slept, or licking her spoon at dinner or WHAT, but either way, she's headed off for the weekend to a 'family reunion' (likely story) and her dad came and picked her up this morning (like that was her dad), and now she is gone...

But I'm healing, pulling it together, and looking forward to her return on Sunday. In the meantime, I'M GOING TO BRIGHTON! I love the Brighton. It has the best eating and walking and shopping and bathtubs-in-bedrooms that a girl could ever ask for. This time, per LeaLea's recommendation, I'm going to seek out The Lollipop Shoppe (how have I missed it before??) and then heading straight to Bill's Produce Store, where I will, at long last, get to try the peppered steak sandwich that I was eyeing last time I was there and which had better still be on the menu or we are going to have WORDS, Bill.

I still haven't packed yet, even though I'm leaving for my train in an hour. I'm shockingly sleepy right now, considering I slept for over eight hours and had a hearty pancake breakfast with Hedder and am now sitting down with my blog and a coffee. These are all GO TIME conditions. But I'm thinking about that lovely, rocking train, and that lovely, bubbly bath awaiting me at the Maison Mascara, and all I want is a little catnap. I don't feel like packing. Packing is lame and I'm horrible at it.

I'm currently going back and forth about whether to bring my laptop with me ('I'll have time to post!' 'You're on vacation! No computers on vacation!' 'But what if I need to google a restaurant??' 'Ask somebody where to go or look in your guidebook!' 'But but but!') Ultimately, it's probably a good thing my computer weighs eighty thousand pounds, because my compulsive need to check email pales only to my compulsive need to not carry heavy crap. Plus, you know, I'd have to pack it, which isn't apparently something I'm into right now.

Alright, I should go...at the very least, Brighton will appreciate it if I'm wearing pants.

See you all soon! Kiss hug.

Happy Heather Day!

2009-09-10T13:17:00.004+01:00

Omg guess who is sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type?? GUESS!

Okay, I'll tell you because I can't stand the tension. IT'S HEATHER!

Seriously, if this doesn't flip your skirt, I don't know what will. When she wakes up, we're going to go hit the town and get some lunch and top up some phone and oyster and WOOO HOOOO all things good and exciting and fun because HEATHER'S HERE!

Seriously, I've got to go poke her. This is too much excitement to bear.

This has nothing to do with the missing Glasvegas singer.

2009-09-09T13:08:00.006+01:00

Today has been a wonderfully productive day and it's only one in the afternoon! This only bodes well for the rest of it, I have to say. So far I have completed a scavenger hunt for a friend's wedding (and I made those mother effing clues RHYME, biyotches, because that's how much I owned it), did some route-markering for the road trip, emailed a handful of relevant people about my move back to SF (anybody got a room to rent? Anybody?), and polished off a load of dirty dishes that were threatening to overrun the kitchen. I know, I know. I'm awesome.

Now I'm heading out to run some errands! I'm checking the prices on some Camden chairs (not for me! I swear! I'm done shopping!), looking for a London design magazine (again, not for me! I swear!), getting my favorite mega-burrito, and returning a book to the library! Man, I amaze myself. I am a TOTAL maniac on the floor today.

And then tomorrow, HEATHER ARRIVES! She's going to be in and out of London and Barcelona for the next two weeks, and will be staying here in the midst of her travels! I cannot WAIT. We are going to party like it's 1999. Except for next week, when I'll be in Cornwall. But after THAT, watch out, London! Here we COME!

boot sales and bootlegging

2009-09-08T13:32:00.010+01:00

The Old Butcher on the Corner: Say, have you been to a boot sale yet?
Me, slightly confused: I've been to shoe sales before, but never specifically 'boot'...are they different here?
OB, chortling merrily: No, no, a BOOT sale! Like a CAR boot!
Me: OH! A trunk!
OB: YES! All these cars drive into a lot and sell things out of their boots! A boot sale! They're great fun!

I have to admit I was intrigued. People selling things out of their trunks? This can only lead to excellent, semi-illegal dealings of black market goods. Of course I couldn't resist. So I did some research, and narrowed it down to two boot sales this past Sunday: one on Holloway Road, a rougher part of town, and one in Battersea, a nicer part of town. I was curious to see if the difference in neighborhood would effect the quality of wares...

Holloway Road...where I have never seen more broken electronics, bootlegged dvd's, and questionable designer sunglasses in my LIFE. It was awesome.

I also overheard the following snippets of conversation:

No, man, I can tell you, that stereo WORKS. I mean, I can't plug it in or anythin' to show you, but it's good, it's good.

Hey! You broke the cork on that jug! No, no, don't try to tell me the cork was already rotted away, it was ALL THERE a minute ago. You have to buy that.

This, this is very old, very valuable, one of a kind. You put this saint in a good spot, you get good luck.

Despite all the trappings, however, I managed to score a 50p copy of the Bill Bryson book I want to take with me on my road trip. This will happily replace the one I'm reading right now that belongs to the library, as they may not appreciate me marking up various pages and then stealing it.

Then we have the Battersea Market. The crowd here was much different than the Holloway crowd, where you worried about getting pick-pocketed or having someone accuse you of stealing a cassette tape. Here, there was slightly more space between the rows of cars (though not between the people), the items for sale didn't look like they had been stolen the night before, and the delicious smell of frying food wafted across the lot.

It was also crazy busy. People were selling used clothes, boxes of dusty bottles, china, wooden elephants, toys, EVERYTHING. Part of me saw a romantic treasure in everything, and part of me was compulsively santizing my hands every eight seconds.

One of the sellers there had some great old wooden toys. 'His neighbor' gave them to him to sell. Everyone's got a story like that--the handbag came from a cousin, the vase from an aunt--because if you aren't selling things that you got for free, or that are yours, you get classified as a 'trader,' with all of the legal implications that come along with the title--including small things, like accountability. Plus, saying a bag came from your cousin sounds much nicer than 'it's a knock-off from the Philipines.' This man's story I believed, though, because his toys were so FUN, and I'll always believe a person when it's in my best interest to do so. Check out this fantastic taxi:

I know. Killer cute, huh? I didn't get him, but I should have.

A brief detour

2009-09-07T14:24:00.008+01:00

I was going to do a blog post this morning when I still high on caffeine, but then I remembered a last minute doctor's appointment and had to hightail it across town.

Then, while I was across town, I decided to do a bit of shopping. (Not to actually 'buy' anything...after all, how frivolous would that be when I'm about to move halfway across the world? I just wanted to take a LOOK, and maybe TOUCH some thing, and it's just so NICE to stroll through beautiful shops with a coffee in hand on a rainy day...I wasn't even going to fall for these Concetta Gallo dessert bowls at 20% off....certainly not.) (Okay, maybe just a COUPLE...but then, what good is two? Maybe just FOUR...)

And now, a few hours, several cups of coffee, and one engorged tote bag later, I'm home at last...

But TOMORROW! Tomorrow we'll be back on track, blogging and doing chores and reading up on the highways of America. Without a DOUBT.

If Dolores Park and Pac Heights had a love child, this is what it would look like.

2009-09-04T09:34:00.015+01:00

Primrose Hill has been on my to-visit list since...well, since I moved here a year ago, really. But it was also one of those places you can be like, 'I'll go next week,' and then next thing you know you're moving away and thinking, 'SON OF A!' So then you sprint over, camera in hand, and then think, 'Oh. I think we've got one of these in San Francisco.'

As far as 'parks on a hill with a view of the city' go, it was remarkably similar to Dolores Park. Except bigger. And with really wealthy, over-dressed people, AND the chance that you may run into Gwyneth and Jude (but not Madonna, who I hear kicks it in East London, but again, all hearsay, don't use this information on Jeopardy), and with a few dozen more tourists. 'They say' the best time to go is sunset, but this time of year that's 8:30, which means by the time the sun went down, I would have been too busy chewing off my arm to take a photo. I personally called it a day around 6:30 because HELLO, feeding time!, and headed down the hill to Lemonia on Regent's Park Road (which, by the way, was amazing, DO IT. Also, make a reservation, because then you feel like a stud when you pass the crowd at the door and get seated immediately).

Primrose Hill is an authentic London village, both in the denotative definition ('any neighborhood that doesn't have its own tube stop,' which is a definition people from Crouch End are quick to point out), and in the connotative definition (small, intimate, charming, self-sufficient). It's also one of the loveliest parts of London I've seen yet. It felt very...SAFE. And quiet. And all the dogs you passed were tiny and groomed, and the owners were smiley and gracious, and everybody appeared to know each other, and it made you think how nice it would be to live there and wear big sweaters and have your own stall at the annual street fair.

You can tell by the shops alone what sort of person lives here: the kind that are into pets, paper, and patisseries. Islington, where I live, is lined with vinyl shops and antique stores. Cool in a John Cusack sort of way, less cool in a stepping-around-piles-of-dog-crap sort of way.

For all of London's usually-appalling weather, there is a significant bike community here. Although some of the hardcore riders would be pressed to tell you that most of the summer bikers are 'fairweather posers.' I don't believe it. I mean, this girl above looks like she pushes her bike ALL the time.

Dolores Park? Or Primrose Hill? Wait. There aren't any drag queens. Definitely Primrose Hill.

This is the view you hear so much about. It makes you feel like you're a million miles away from London while being in the heart of it.

When you finally get to the top of the hill, you feel like this guy looks.

Yep. From up here, you can see the BT Tower, and the London Eye...

...and St. Paul's With Its Many Cranes...

...and my personal favorite: 30 St. Mary Axe looking for all the world like it's trying to hide behind some buildings. Come ON, St. Mary, we can see you back there. You're a giant GHERKIN.

My favorite row of houses...living here has GOT to be like permanent Easter.

Is it just me, or does that stroller look like a lawn mower? OMIGOSH, I just had A BRILLIANT IDEA: somebody should invent a lawn-mower-stroller! You could use it to cut the grass AND lull your baby to sleep, all in one go! I can see the commercial now... (fade into a tired mother, pushing an old, unwieldy stroller): 'How many times have you taken your baby for a walk to put them to sleep and found yourself circling the same park for hours at a stretch, while your chores list back home grows beneath your weary feet? Well, now you can knock off one of those chores while you're walking, using the LaMoStro--the one and only stroller that also trims your lawn! The humming and vibrating of the motor will sooth your little one to an instant slumber while your yardwork takes care of itself!' (switch to a view of the happy, invigorated mother next door, effortlessly pushing the LaMoStro around her pristine lawn, while her good-humored baby sleeps with a smile on his cherubic face. She waves merrily at Worn Mother trudging up her weed-covered drive.) (fade out to: 'Naptime will never be the same again: LaMoStro.')

Oh, this is gonna be GOOD. I can FEEL it.

And once the millions start rolling in, I'm SO getting this house. Primrose Hill won't even know what hit 'em...

Computer fasting

2009-09-03T08:22:00.003+01:00

Today, other than this blog post and some emails to which I've already responded, I'm staying off the computer. Because here I am, with entire days stretching at my fingertips, and I'm spending them all here. Which is pretty lame, because there's so much to do in this city, every day and every minute. And spending hours on this computer makes my world view very small. It's one thing if you're on your computer all day for work; it's another thing entirely when you're on it all day for fun.

So if you email me and don't hear back, it's because I'm on vacation. Over here, on the couch, with my book and my tea and a guidebook of London, which I may apply toward an activity...or I may not. After all, that's the beauty of leisure time. You can do as much or as little as you like...

* brewing kettle * * settling in *

You. Tell me what to name my next blog.

2009-09-02T10:02:00.010+01:00

I just had a load of pancakes for breakfast. I don't know what I was thinking. It's ten a.m., and all I can think about is taking a nap.

I'm getting progressively ready for my soon-coming Great American Road Trip. I've checked out Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent from the library, and reading it so far I can say that I'm not only getting excited about all the bad diner food in my future, but I've also managed to strike through Mark Twain's house as a potential stopping point. So that feels pretty good. I'm also coming to the conclusion that the really Big Stuff, the national parks and whatnot, are all out west, which I will be hitting somewhere near...December or January. Peak season. So I've planned that well. Not that a little snow or 'closed' sign has ever stopped me before. But what I really want to see--just as much as giant crater lakes nestled inside of majestic mountain ranges--is rural American living at its finest. I want to go to church potlucks in Alabama and pumpkin festivals in North Carolina and see maple syrup being pulled in Vermont and eat a freshly caught lobster in Maine...you know, the good stuff. (That said, let me know if your church is having a potluck on the week I happen to be passing through. Because I will SO be there.)

It's just occurred to me that much of my to-do list appears to be centered around food. I wish I could say with a clear conscience that I was also interested in hiking and trekking, but...let's be honest.

It also just occurred to me that after two months of nothing but driving and eating (occasionally getting out of my car for a photograph or two), I will no doubt gain about twenty pounds. Awesome. By the time I get near the end of my journey, it will be like, 'Hey, where's the geyser in this picture?' 'I think it's somewhere behind Sharona's rear.' 'Is that a corn dog in her hand?' 'I think so.'

Naturally, I'll be shooting and blogging from the road so that you will (be forced to) feel like you are journeying with me. You will endure endless photos of New England in the Fall, you'll get to see what a highway in Illinois looks like, and you'll have to hear all about where I stopped for lunch. It will be GREAT. Plus I figure if I maintain my blog as I go, you'll know where to go search for my car if there are too many consecutive days of silence*.

But before I can hit the road, I once again need help coming up with my new blog name! The Great American Road Trip has already been taken (by someone who drove to ALASKA, so I begrudgingly admit he earned it), and so has On the Road, by some * hmph * who is totally wasting it. Especially since I would've loved to continue naming my blogs from Beat themes. I've also considered 'The American Road Trip,' but that's really just because I think it'd be funny to have a blog named TART, not because of any great affinity toward the name. So as you can tell, I'm not making it real far in this particular stage of the creative process. I need you. If you have any good road trip blog names up your sleeve, PLEASE let me know.

Also, any tips on the best road atlas to get?

*I will of course be ALIVE, just slightly dazed and confused. You are MORBID. But you should be forewarned that I am a TERRIBLE driver. Really appalling. I hit pretty much every stationary object I see, and the only reason I've never hit a car is because they're moving too fast. In fact, much of my blog may be spent lamenting the death of trees, mail boxes, light poles, or fences. You will probably be able to trace my path across America by the trail of destruction alone. Anybody who joins me for a leg of the journey, feel free to take the wheel, notably if you feel your life may be in danger. But rest assured that I probably won't kill you, just concuss you.

I'm going for it: Camden Passage pictures.

2009-09-01T11:48:00.008+01:00

At the risk of my head imploding, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and post the pictures I took of Camden Passage last week. Please note that Camden Passage is the greatest antiques market EVER, even though sometimes the vendors are a-holes. Because then there are other vendors that are FUN, and that's just life.

The antiques market as an industry I find really interesting. On one hand, the antique shops here look nearly identical to the ones back home: dusty furniture, chipped tea cups, yellowed doilies, rusted tins. But on the other hand, antiques here can actually be OLD. I mean, you can buy brooches in this country that pre-date California, let alone pre-date Californian antiques.

Not that I'm an authority on the industry, because I'm really not. I don't really get how it works. I mean, can you find English antiques in America? Are there international antique shipping laws? Can you only buy American old stuff in America and English old stuff in England? You think I'd know more about this subject, having grown up in Jenks, Oklahoma (town motto: 'The Antique Capital of America'). (Seriously.) However, unlike Camden Passage, Main Street Jenks is primarily busied by old people shuffling from shop to shop, occasionally buying things, but probably more likely stealing them. Camden Passage is slightly more self-conscious, and busied by hipsters, collectors, and random weekend revelers who wander through on their way to brunch.

Ah, well. I don't go to antiques market to learn about antiques, I go to get ripped off.

And now for the photos! I would like to point out that none of the below displays have been altered to suit my photographic purposes. All chaos is naturally occurring.

Of course, not all of the antiques are necessarily ancient...I would venture to guess this fork dates as far back as the 70's.

This guy was awesome. He asked me if I'd send him the photos I took of him and when I said sure, proceeded to write down his snail mail address. He commented as he scribbled his post code, 'Everyone says they'll send me the photos they take, but they never do.'

Almost a post of Camden Passage photos.

2009-09-01T09:26:00.006+01:00

Okay, this is probably the funniest thing I've seen all week. Though it is only Tuesday. I seriously cannot get enough of this cantankerous old man. Make sure you scroll to the bottom and click 'more,' because you do NOT want to miss his opinion of kale...

I'm currently trying to figure out how to post last week's pictures from Camden Market. Not from a technical standpoint, but from a mental standpoint. For some reason, I have a hard time posting photos too much longer after their taken-point. It's like they've lost their relevance or something. And since I was so busy last Saturday posting about Christopher Lambert to even touch them--and then of course I spent Sunday and Monday enjoying the bank holiday--these pictures now seem MONTHS old. And I feel like once I allow myself to post photos willy-nilly, then all order will be lost and the second law of thermodynamics becomes blog-applicable and OMIGOSH EVERYBODY PANIC! IT'S BLOG ANARCHY!!

I need to go clean my room. I can't handle this.

A quiet Saturday night, in which I turn into a prune

2009-08-29T18:22:00.009+01:00

I was going to go to a movie tonight, but then I passed HMV and thought, 'Or I could BUY a movie for ten pounds and keep it forever!' So I did. Highlander was of course the obvious choice, given that one, I'd never seen it, two, I'll watch anything with Sean Connery in it, and three, I was once exclaimed at incredulously, 'You haven't seen Highlander?? Aren't you AMERICAN??', which I thought was an interesting thing to say about a movie dealing with a Scottish guy from the Highlands. Also, I've always fancied myself a bit of a undiscovered mystical warrior, just waiting for that moment in life when someone will approach me while I'm hustling at a pool hall in the middle of the Arizona desert and say, 'This is not for you. You are the Chosen One,' and then next thing you know, I'm wearing a tunic and being taught how to Fight With Integrity by a guy with a long ponytail in the heart of a Japenese forest.

Looking at the back of the box, I see that Sean's (yes, we're on a first name basis) character's name is 'Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez.' I mean, I don't want to be too hasty here in assuming that's a Latin name, but...Sean? Really?

Also according to the box, Villa-Lobos Ramirez (okay, for current peace of mind, I'm just going to have to assume that's just an old, lesser-known Scottish clan) is the one who teaches Highlander 'the ways of the sword.' I LOVE the expression 'the ways of.' It just REALLY pleases me for some reason. The ways of the sword. The ways of the sushi. The ways of the pedicure. Everything becomes an art form when you say it like that.

I'm going to watch the movie from a bubble bath, I think. I've long since discovered all movies are better from the perspective of a bathtub. Especially chick flicks (does Highlander count as a chick flick? How hot is this 'Christopher Lambert' guy? Even more notably, how hot was he in 1986 when I was five and this movie came out?). As for how it's possible to watch a movie from the bathtub without a flat screen installed in the opposite wall (complete with waterproof remote control), which I've JUST NOW REALIZED is my life's dream, right behind being discovered as the Chosen One, it's easy--just put your laptop on the toilet lid or the bathroom counter (make sure it's dry!) and watch it from there! Sure, putting expensive electronic equipment in the bathroom is a possible 'hazard', but as long as you aren't, say, dripping bubbles all over the keyboard when you want to turn up the volume, you're FINE. Trust me. I'm very experienced in the ways of the bath.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Mr. Lambert and Señor Connery, who are anxious to get this show on the road...

Saturday, let's do it.

2009-08-29T13:30:00.007+01:00

It's getting cooler here, even with the sun out. It feels like fall, though the trees haven't turned yet, and the sun's light is whiter and crisper than it was a shimmery yellow month ago.

I'm off to Angel by way of Camden passage, the best London antiques market ever. I should really photograph it; it's been on my list. I also need to drop some books at the library and run to The Waitrose and The Borders. And I may get my first London pedi EVER at this sweet new place on Cross Street. (Yes, it's taken me a year.) My favorite San Francisco pedi place had me too spoiled, I think, and gave me the ridiculous standard to which I hold all other salons. Then last, but not least, sushi for dinner from that yummy Japanese place on Essex Road whose name I can't remember because I always call it That Yummy Japanese Place on Essex Road. I hope the old man makes my rolls; he's generous with the innards. The girl always does a 3:1 rice:filling ratio, which just chaps my hide. If I WANTED a huge lump of sticky rice wrapped around a piece of fish the size of a pinhead, I'd make it myself. Alas, seeing her behind the bar won't really deter me: when I want unagi, I want unagi.

Time to hit the dusty (cobblestone) trail now...hay mucho para hacer.

Out with the new, in with the...new

2009-08-28T08:36:00.006+01:00

I just heard 'My Sharona' on the radio. Please don't tell me it's experiencing a revival. Apparently there's also a commercial on t.v. that uses it, judging by the number of times I hear 'I heard your song on the t.v. last night! My son/daughter/husband/girlfriend wanted me to call you and tell you, but I thought you'd probably get tired of that!' No way, are you kidding me?

Now there's some manic pop song playing. I've got to turn this off.

That's better. Okay, so where was I? Nowhere? Good. Because I'm about to take you somewhere, and I didn't want to have to worry about proper transitions.

It turns out the student visa won't pan out before the course begins, so I won't be attending University here after all. I KNOW. Brutal. Because I was SO EXCITED about designing lamps and vases and being the next Jasper Morrison or Philip Starck. But now I have to wait an entire TEN MONTHS before I can show the world my genius. Do you what ten months is in my world? A LIFETIME. You can make a BABY in ten months. (Not me. You.)

In the meantime, I will have to return to Los Estados Unidos, mainly because if I don't, I would officially be living here illegally, which would DEFINITELY screw my next visa application. So I'm going to head back, keep my passport clean, and eventually try again in a few months.

On the bright side, the next great adventure is already in the works! More details coming soon...

2009-08-27T12:14:00.000+01:00

i can't write anything today, but i wanted to say hi.

hi.

What is a penguin doing on my lawn?

2009-08-26T17:55:00.007+01:00

I just posted, but it was too melancholy and I had to take it down. I'm not a blogger in order to burden you with my woes, I'm a blogger in order to burden you with mindless ramblings and the occasional barrage of photos.

Interesting. That is pretty much my blog in a nutshell. I had no idea.

I'm just wrapping up my sixth cup of coffee (don't worry, I switch to decaf when I start twitching, which was about three mugs ago), and now I'm thinking I should switch to something slightly healthier, like Diet Coke. Which I actually HAVE, randomly enough, because I had a migraine on Sunday and thought it would help. Then I never actually opened it. So now it's sitting there in the fridge mocking me, saying, 'You know you dislike waste even more than you dislike pop, so you may as well just open me up and DO IT. DO IT DO IT! DRINK ME! IT'S DRIVING YOU CRAZY THAT I'M TAKING UP PRECIOUS TINY ENGLISH FRIDGE SPACE AND YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T THROW ME AWAY!' The cacophony this coke makes every time I open the refrigerator door is deafening. I'm thisclose to buckling and downing it all in one burning, fizzy go, before retiring to a dark space to drown in bloated self-loathing. 'Waste not want not' is such a satisfying motto to live by.

But before I go rip open that door to confront this carbonated enemy, let me leave you with this: my new favorite website, where they use poorly chosen real estate photos to make great fun. It's un-buh-LEEVABLE. Please go there. Please. Just for ONE SECOND. You will seriously LOVE it.

I've got a nest on my hand and I can't stop admiring it.

2009-08-25T14:32:00.003+01:00

Okay, I'm currently having weird flashbacks to when I posted a photo of my toes on here. And I'm also thinking that my fingers and toes look a little bit too much alike for comfort. But pushing that alarming idea aside for a moment, I wanted to show you my new ring! The wonderful, fabulous LeaLea got it for me as a belated birthday gift and it came in the mail today! She knew I loved a similar one she has, and asked the ring maker to make one for me! You heard me right: this is a handmade, one-of-a-kind treasure. * you are allowed to envy me here * This is perfect on so many levels, what with having a thing for big rings and a thing for birds. I'm slightly worried that wearing a symbolic egg on my hand might excite the fertility gods, but since I've already told my mother I'm pregnant, I'm not too worried.

Vampires DO exist. And I'm going to need some repellant.

2009-08-25T10:22:00.010+01:00

I'm currently determined to do a post a day. Except for Sundays. You know, the Sabbath and all.

I've killed three mosquitos today. I don't get this. I never encountered mosquitos when I was living in San Francisco, and so had reached the conclusion that mosquitos don't live in cities. I also made the assumption that mosquitos don't like cool climates. And yet here I am, in a city not known for its warmth, and here they are. Are they breeding in all of those lush English gardens?

I'm not complaining, though. I am about to head off to Oklahoma soon, to visit the fam and apply for that there student visa, and then I will encounter mosquitos to be reckoned with. In Oklahoma, mosquitos outnumber humans three hundred to one, and come in two different sizes: one is so tiny that it's invisible and you find yourself swatting at your legs and arms in a state of high paranoia while seeing nothing there. The second type of mosquito is as big as your head, and drones like a warplane as it zooms in for the kill. This one, when successfully nailed, will leave its smeared, blood-filled carcass all over your arm, leaving you with both a sense of triumph and nausea. In the brief sprints between house and car and store--the only times you will be outside in the summer heat--you are likely to be bitten at least twenty times. If you dare to sit outside in the warm twilight of a quiet evening, surrounded by citronella candles (an activity you would think would be peaceful and calming), you will be spending the entire time swatting maniacally at the air in a state of increasing anxiety, while the humidity gives you a sticky sheen of sweat to act as mosquito bait. And no matter how wildly you bat your hands, and how many you manage to clap and kill, they WILL break through your defenses and you WILL end up looking like a leper. So today's mosquito situation could--and will--be worse, very, very soon. My three bites will be morphing into three thousand, and I will reek of the greasy repellant I'll be coating myself with eighteen times a day.

Even with the blood I will be losing when I get there, I'm starting to get excited. I can't wait to hit Sonic, Arby's, Braum's, IHOP, and the Cracker Barrel. I can't wait for Gramma's biscuits and gravy, Auntie Sharon's scrambled eggs, and my mom's enchiladas. I'm going to eat Pillsbury cinnamon rolls until I implode. I'm going to drink red kool-aid until the corners of my mouth turn pink, then switch to sweet sun tea. I'm going to get wired up on sugar, then sweat it out, then wonder why the mosquitos are seeking me like missiles. I'm going to get dressed in my Sunday Best for church, and suck in my stomach when I greet people I haven't seen in years, and then head back to Gramma and Grampa's for a giant sunday roast and a doze in front of the t.v., where a Nascar race will be competing with Matlock for my Grampa's attention.

It's going to be GREAT.

I GOT IN!

2009-08-24T16:58:00.015+01:00

Okay, so before I retire to the couch with my book for the ultimate luxury of a real-life, bon-a-fide, nothing-niggling-in-the-background afternoon off, I want to tell you the good news: I got offered a spot to study furniture and product design at an art school here in London! Hence all that portfolio talk as of late and all the stress and anxiety that's dangled me over the brink of madness so many times recently--but now it's over! I got in!

A bit about my interview this morning: I knew in advance that I was getting interviewed by the Head of the Upholstery department (let's call him 'Pop-Pop'), so right away I wanted to dress in a way that would make him think 'upholstery.' I decided to wear brown corduroy culottes, a navy blue tank top made of recycled vintage prints, and a pair of slightly-heeled walnut-colored sandals. If there was ever a look that said 'really cool chair,' it was this one. So I'm feeling good, I'm feeling upholstered, and I even get there early and find the right building on my first try. I am TOGETHER.

Then the lobby starts filling up with other applicants. We're all crammed onto benches and leaning against walls, secretly checking each other out. After all, we're all applying for any spots that are left open, and I know my program only takes 30 a year. The girls are gorgeous and glammed up, wearing long necklace chains and bright red lipstick and carrying collages, and the guys are spiked high, wielding giant black portfolios and looking smug. And here I am, with a small black binder tucked into a tote bag, looking like a seat cushion.

Then I get called into the interview room, and find myself face-to-face with the interviewers. Pop-Pop was just as I had anticipated. But then there was the second interviewer, the wild card, the one I didn't expect. Unlike Pop-Pop, this tutor did NOT smack of upholstery. He smacked of art and hipness and designer-confidence. In fact, I think I saw him ride into the building on a motorcycle in full leather gear earlier that morning. He appeared to be the polar opposite of the kindly, blue-eyed Pop-Pop, twinkling away at the table next to him. Let's call this other tutor 'Craig.'

Craig opens up by describing the design program. He wants to make sure that what they offer is what I'm looking for: 'If you want to design, say...a watch [here he flicks his glittering Omega], then this is not the course for you. We don't teach mechanics, we don't teach load-bearing. See this chair I'm sitting on? Chairs have to be built to hold 16 stone. If you weigh more than that, then...well, you've got bigger problems. [chuckles to himself] But that's not my point. My point is that you don't get taught that here. There's no engineering, no applied science. You are here to learn DESIGN.' 'So, like, vases?' Pop-Pop looks pleased, hammers the table: 'YES!' 'And lamps?' 'YES! EXACTLY!' Craig looks happy that I have understood the concept so far. He goes on: 'And the study is very self-directed, based on what your personal focus is. Say you decide you want to re-design light switches. We would LOVE that. It's DIFFERENT.' I decide to try a furniture-design joke: 'So I shouldn't say I want to design chairs?' Pop-Pop roars with laughter. He knows full well we are in Chair Central here. Craig requests my portfolio. I explain that I wasn't sure what exactly a furniture design portfolio should look like (Pop-Pop chuckles sympathetically), so I created one that covered a few different disciplines (drawing, building, shooting, and writing). Craig opens it up, expresses approval at the layout. He gets to the sketches first. This was by far the most nerve-wracking section, as I haven't drawn in some time. I'm pretty sure a couple of these sketches even pre-date my period.

But then...three deep, the sketch that solidified my position not only in the furniture design course, but in their hearts forever...Please note that I was very worried about including this picture at all, because one, reproducing a cartoon is no doubt death to a portfolio, two, drawing cartoons is something every teenager on the planet can do and is very much an art phase to be grown out of, and three, come ON, it's a REPRODUCED CARTOON. Not even an ORIGINAL. Alas, I couldn't stop myself, because it's a picture that makes ME happy, and everybody needs a pick-me-up in the middle of an interview, and if this doesn't make you overjoyed, then you have no soul:

Craig stops here: 'Do you like Calvin & Hobbes?'
'Do I like them? I LOVE them!'
'I have the entire box set!'
'Do you?? I want it, but my whole collection is piecemeal!'
'Mine was, too, but I wanted to treat myself! Can you believe how selfish he was to stop drawing after only ten years??'
'I know! And now he's just painting for fun in Arizona or something?? Crazy! He's too brilliant for that!'

Craig looks at me for a moment, and then I know: we have just become bff's. A similar dialogue occurred at the emergence of the Wind-Up Birds in the 'build' section ('Did you name them from Murakami's work?' 'I did! I love Murakami!' 'Me, too!'). This was no longer an interview for an art program--this was a book club between nerdy-comic lovers, a kindred spiritship.

They then dismissed me for a few moments so they could discuss my application, but I hadn't even sat down on the chair in the hall before I was called back in. AND OFFERED A SPOT. I think I may have shrieked like a beauty pageant contestant, but I could be wrong. It got a bit blurry for a moment there.

But lest I get too excited, the next hurdle awaits: will my student visa get approved?? Back to the States in a few short days to find out...and if it doesn't, then we're back to San Francisco and looking for the next best thing!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go curl up with Bill Watterson collection to celebrate...and maybe write him that long overdue love letter...

my morning at the market

2009-08-22T15:15:00.006+01:00

Okay, so before I get down to the business of frying, let me first share with you photos of this morning's trip to Borough Market. Borough Market, despite being south of the Thames, is actually not that far from Islington. It's just a short bus journey, through a relatively scenic part of town. However, Saturdays are Breakfast Burrito Days, which usually means a food coma that pretty much steals my mornings and hands them eagerly over to my book and a lounge chair.

But this morning I made it out! * applause here * I only took a couple of photos, though, for several reasons:

1. I have tried photographing Borough Market before, and the results are always disappointing. I don't know if it's because it's always so crowded that you're guaranteed to get an unattractive person walking in front of your camera, or because I've already covered the Sloane Square Market, and all other market photos will merely look like reproductions, but regardless, I rarely get a satisfactory photo here.

2. My hands were full of mmmmmmmmmm jamon.

3. After eating your weight in breakfast, you just get a bit lazy.

But the aforementioned aside, I did take a couple of photos as a visual aid:

I know you can't tell by this, and now I'm wishing I had taken a close up, but the plates you see on the right all have FISH painted on them. It's absolutely riotous. It's seriously like some bass fisherman from Oklahoma painted a load of trout, made his wife embroider some tea towels, and BAM! Ended up at one of London's biggest markets selling platters, mugs, and chopping blocks. It is bizarre. And wonderful. I want to call it high art, but even I have to draw the line somewhere. And I think ironic fish is that line.

This dog was on his way to a meat stall. Some call him a 'pet.' I call him 'lunch.'

I do. Oh, I do.

Okay, so I will admit that I DO struggle with a certain level of base paranoia, but SERIOUSLY. I think my chorizo sandwich is sticking his tongue out at me. MOCKERY. Mockery by chorizo. A whole new low.

I personally say 'Yes, London Bridge.'

Please take a moment to look at this billboard with me. I see this (for some reason) on a regular basis. And every time, I am startled by it. One, I don't know WHAT it's advertising. And two, are they TRYING to cause an accident?

Exactly.

Frying will occur here today.

2009-08-22T14:14:00.003+01:00

Okay, so the other day I woke up with a mad craving for doughnuts. And not, like, Krispy Kreme or Daylight Donuts, but homeMADE doughnuts. So of course I started looking online for recipes and found this great looking Paula Deen recipe for sweet potato doughnuts with maple icing. (Am I alone when I say I LOVE her?) So I checked my cupboard and it's all systems go, except for one minor ingredient: the maple extract. I hoofed it to the shops to find it, and hit a wall at every turn. They've got vanilla, almond, rum, strawberry, rose water, orange blossom, linoleum, cardboard, etc., but NO MAPLE. Of course.

This happens every time I try to use an American recipe: I always come up one ingredient short. The other day I was craving fudge (the way they make it back home, not the toffees they sell here under the name), but you can't get semi-sweet chocolate chips. Dark, milk, and white, sure, but semi-sweet? Uh huh. Barkin' up the wrong crazy tree, lady. So there went that. Then there was the afternoon I was craving panir-stuffed jalapenos wrapped in bacon. I was willing to substitute cream cheese for panir, no problem. As for the bacon, well...there is no other place that can outdo this country for its bacon selection. But then...no jalapenos. ANYWHERE.* So again I was forced to abandon ship. But this time? This time is different. This need, this command by a higher power, for me to make sweet potato doughnuts will not be so casually tossed aside.

So I'm going to make them anyway! After all, it's only the ICING that will suffer, right? How integral can it be to the entire recipe?** In fact, I think not having any icing will make my doughnuts HEALTHY. Because there's nothing better for you than deep-fried sweet potato.

And if this whole thing doesn't work? I've got a PERFECT backup plan.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got weight to gain.

*I've since found some on the bottom shelf of a dusty Tesco aisle packed three into a bag, right next to the golden syrup. Awkward and suspicious, but I'll TAKE it.
**Famous last words.

Not that I'm narcissistic, but...I look GOOD.

2009-08-21T20:21:00.010+01:00

Okay, so you know how sometimes when you're bored, you start to imagine what life would be like if your face was on, say, a billboard, or in an art gallery, or on the cover of a fashion magazine*? Well, WONDER NO LONGER, because the WORLD'S GREATEST WEBSITE does it for you! All you do is pick a format (out of the KAZILLION irresistible options), upload your photo (or, say, the photo of someone you want to mess with), and VOILA! Within seconds, you get this!

If I were an artist debuting my first show, it would probably look alarmingly like the above.

Let's just say that after our amazing day together, I am NOT surprised Dave did this. I've been telling him that there's just no future for us now that I'm with Richard Curtis, but he refuses to listen.

And so a dream can be laid to rest...

Until tomorrow, when I put myself on a wall mural and a bus stop and the dollar bill and a postage stamp.

*I might be alone here.

Struggling with a portfolio playlist

2009-08-21T10:10:00.014+01:00

I'm currently struggling with my biggest hurdle of the day so far: creating an itunes playlist that will get me in the mood to work. This is HUGE.

In college, my roommate Leslie had a playlist for EVERYTHING: a 'brushing our teeth' playlist, a 'cleaning our room' playlist, a 'putting on mascara' playlist. It varied wildly every time, a total grab-bag of soundtracking. There was rarely an event that did NOT involve a musical backdrop, and my day often looked like this:

(Me, making my bed.) Leslie: OOH! WAIT! WE NEED MAKING OUR BED MUSIC! (And yes, she'd make me physically wait while she bounded across the room to pick out an album appropriate to bed-making.)
(Me, standing in front of the closet.) Leslie: OOOH! WAIT! WE NEED GETTING DRESSED MUSIC!
(Me, getting my book.) Leslie: OOOH! WAIT! WE NEED GOING TO THE BATHROOM MUSIC!

It was brilliant.

Without this, my musical tastes would probably not be as varied as they are today, because while Leslie could (and did) enjoy twenty different albums a day, my musical m.o. in those days could best be described as 'single-song-fixation.' I'd have one current favorite, and play that song on repeat, over and over and over again, until the day came that I hated it and never wanted to hear it again. (There's probably a metaphor for my life somewhere in here, if I had the inclination to find it.) This led to another common scene in our room:

(Me, enjoying 'Tainted Love'.)
Leslie: Sharona?
Me: hmmmm?
Leslie: Is this the third time I've heard this song in the past fifteen minutes?
Me: Maybe.
Leslie: Uh huh. That's what I thought. WE NEED SOME GETTING RID OF TAINTED LOVE MUSIC!

And now here I am, about to get started on the day's portfolio'ing, and all I can think is, 'I NEED SOME DOING MY PORTFOLIO MUSIC!' How am I supposed to do ANYTHING without the appropriate soundscape??

So my itunes is up, and now I've got total music-A.D.D. Initially I thought, 'Of COURSE Damian Marley is portfolio music!' But then after I was welcomed to Jamrock, my head started to spin, and my pulse started to race (although that could've been the coffee), and I had to change it. I rapidly flipped over to David Gray. Then I got depressed and didn't want to do anything but take a walk in the rain. Moving on to Alison Krauss and Robert Plant, my desire to work on my portfolio changed into the desire to climb into a pickup and hit the road, maybe teach myself the guitar and get a bloodhound.

I think I'll try Jack next (Johnson, not White), and see if that works...although maybe listening to a little 'Steady as she goes' for the next straight hour wouldn't hurt...

musings and ramblings

2009-08-20T09:49:00.006+01:00

I think I'm going through hot flashes. Either that, or I really need to put down this third cup of coffee. Generally speaking, I drink coffee until I get nauseated, then I eat something to build up my stamina, and then I hit it again. I'll show YOU who's boss, little man!

Speaking of, I need to stop going through ex's facebook profiles. Why do I DO that? To my credit, I'm not the one doing the befriending, just the accepting. But STILL...have we REALLY moved on that much?

Today I was looking at art on Etsy (my mom's a killer-awesome painter, so I was thinking she should OBVIOUSLY be selling there), but when you click on the abstract art category, there are over 26,000 pieces. I wish I could put that number in all-caps. TWENTY. SIX. THOUSAND. It's CRAZY. It also explains why I stick with categories like 'vinyl wall art' and 'wooden hedgehogs.'

The clouds have finally rolled in, heavy rains predicted. I'm slightly relieved, because this means it's OKAY to stay in and use the computer all day. When it's sunny (notably in a place rarely sunny), you just feel so GUILTY, so PRESSURED to get out there and enjoy it. But today, as wind buffets the trees, the horizon darkens, and the newly-descaled kettle boils, I get the pleasure of knowing the kitchen table is the best place to be.

Back to work!

This will be the best three minutes you spend today.

2009-08-19T19:16:00.004+01:00

Who's the best cat in the United States? It's you, Champer-Damper ! It's you!

I do NOT procrastinate.

2009-08-19T09:17:00.009+01:00

So far this morning (it is currently 9:17) I have done the following:

-folded all the laundry that was hanging on drying racks throughout the flat and put it away,
-ironed,
-descaled the kettle (by the way, Oust is a MIRACLE worker!),
-pulled out all the drawers in the refrigerator, emptied them, sprayed them down, wiped them out, and then realized that just wasn't going to be enough, so then banished them to the dishwasher,
-pulled out the racks in the oven, sprayed them, wiped them down, and put them in the dishwasher with the refrigerator drawers just to teach them a lesson,
-ran the dishwasher on its 'mega-nuke' setting (which means the cycle should be done sometime next week, and everything inside should have been burned to a sanitary crisp), and
-made that quiche that I had planned to make last night.

So now I'm sitting down with my second cup of coffee and my book, debating about what I should have for breakfast (part of that quiche? greek yogurt and honey? scrambled eggs and toast? all of the above?), and thinking about sitting out in the early morning sun for a little while. LATER I'll start on my portfolio...

More photos of the Fringe!

2009-08-18T09:18:00.026+01:00

Now that I have blown my entire morning watching Google is My Roommate, videos of my friend's freaking adorable babies, and looking up curried egg salad recipes (I still haven't found one I'm wholly pleased with, so please let me know if you've got a good one!), I figured, 'I should do a blog post!' Because seriously, I can spend my life Meandering About the Information Superhighway and wind up hours later with nothing to show for it but a back-ache and a sense of disorientation.

Tonight I am determined to make a quiche, if for no other reason than the fact that one, I impulse-bought a quiche dish last week and am determined to use it, and two, I have loads of random food bits (one zucchini, a handful of mushrooms, a spare tomato) that need to be eaten, and what better way to do it than a quiche? One could also argue for an Everything Pizza, but since I did that last week...

But before I leave you to start whipping some eggs, I will subject you to more photos of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where I spent the entire time missing my brilliant college roommate Leslie, now a successful stand-up comedienne in New York City, and wishing she were there, even though she's currently busy rocking the New York Fringe.

Wait, wait...Forgive me while I take a minute to upload the photos...I'm going to see if there's a way to upload them through picasaweb versus my desktop picasa, which only lets me do four at a go--infinitely frustrating when you're one, impatient, and two, ready to force forty pictures down a reader's throat.

hmmmm...methinks there is no shortcut. Blast. Here we go, then...slowly but surely! (This reminds me...once, when I was a (too tall for my age) teenager, I poked fun of my mother Shirley's tiny stature but remarking 'Slowly but Shirley!' whenever we walked anywhere. I don't think she appreciated it. I was some pretty funny stuff in those days. I also found great humor in telling her I was pregnant on a regular basis, just to see how she'd respond...which is actually a joke I still enjoy to this day, though she's getting wise to it and no longer takes my complaints of nausea and bloating seriously. Someday, when I AM in my first trimester, she's gonna regret that.)

I digress.

This is a photo I like to call 'Still Life with Fruit.' (The above, not the below.)

The Fringe was full of spontaneous (or perhaps scheduled, I'm pretty ignorant here) street performances. This guy and his brother had a humorous, highly-dramatized circus act going, which drew a large crowd...

I love it that these shops are next door to each other.

'Self-portrait.'

Some people took advantage of Edinburgh's influx of people to host mini flea markets...all the pottery you can carry for five pounds! (I'm exaggerating here, otherwise I would've come home with an insane number of ceramic jugs. I can't resist a useless bargain.)

Edinburgh is FULL of these little charming side streets.

One of the comedy venues...

And another one...

There was also the fantabulous Edinburgh International Book Festival going on at Charlotte Square! I know what you're thinking: did my head explode with all of the irresistible choices?? Yes. Yes, it did.

And there were BOOK signings! I don't know who this particular author is, but apparently he appeals to chicks and the occasional gay man (who you can see when you enlarge this photo).

I don't know who this guy is, either, but judging by his look, I would say he's definitely an author of some sort. And since I couldn't find Bill Bryson, he had to do. If you recognize him from any of your book jackets, do let me know so I have a sense of satisfaction having caught him in the wild.

A lovely couple, no doubt on their way to a reading or an art gallery.

And one of the many gorgeous Edinburgh skylines.

And me! Please note my super rad super new silver puffy O'Neill's vest. It IS reversable for a more 'normal' look, though I figured at a comedy festival, that'd be a waste. You will note it bulging open in an attractive fashion. Please tell my mother it's because I am obviously with child.

Signspotting at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival

2009-08-17T16:00:00.006+01:00

Last weekend's trip to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival was AMAZING. For many reasons--there were back-to-back comedy shows, live circus acts on every street corner, a nearby book festival (in which I heard someone SWEAR they saw Bill Bryson, a fact that I could not confirm despite investigating every nook and cranny of Charlotte Square, although I still like to hold on to the belief that I was * thisclose * to tackling him and getting a photo with him and overall making him feel very uncomfortable)..and then there was the fact that I was in Edinburgh, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where pretty much EVERYTHING takes on a magical air.

The below exhibit at the Princes Mall was put on by the Signspotting Project, in which fantastic signs from around the world were displayed here to be enjoyed by all...

The above sign's caption:

Beach huts, classic cars, and fish and chips: what more could you want out of a Sunday afternoon?

2009-07-08T19:06:00.005+01:00

Before I give you the impression that Southend-on-Sea is nothing but a live reenactment of Sybil, let me tell you about the rest of my lovely day there...

This is me pretending to drive a 1953 Austin named Archie. (Deee, please note the fabulous kickin' awesome birthday bracelets you got me! They made this car look GOOD.)

Archie had a bit of trouble getting started. First, he had to be cranked, then he needed his spark plugs lovingly caressed, then he needed his bottom wiped. He was a darling.

Please note: in England, a wrench is called a 'spanner.' And instead of referring to idiot guys as tools like we do back home, they call them spanners, as in, 'I went to this dinner party and got stuck talking to a total spanner all night.' I thought it was interesting that calling a guy something from a toolbox was universal and that the English chose to specify which tool.

Archie, beaming merrily and innocently away:

The best part of Southend-on-Sea is of course the beach huts...

Except maybe the fish and chips:

Which came wrapped like this...

And blossomed into heavenly this, by far the best fish and chips I've EVER had:

Please note the grease on the paper. That's how you KNOW it's good...

Southend-on-Sea has an identity crisis.

2009-07-08T18:55:00.003+01:00

Southend-on-Sea's main strip is slightly confused. Town motto? 'We can do it all.'

The London Zoo

2009-06-18T09:12:00.004+01:00

And because I am so in the blog zone it is SICK (cue my third cup of coffee), here are some London Zoo pictures!

Now before I get started, let me throw in a disclaimer: I typically don't like zoos. Not because of 'the inhumane treatment of animals' or anything remotely honorable like that, but because they're just so effing BORING. You walk to a fence. You stare at a lion lying apathetic and innert in the sun. This is entertaining for approximately...one and a half seconds. You try to make eye contact, in the hopes that if he sees you and your happy, beaming face, he will become enthralled and do something thrilling, like stand up, but he doesn't, and so you move on to the next enclosure. You briefly skim the description printed on the wooden podium of the exhibited animal: 'The okapi, or Okapia johnstoni, comes from central Africa...' and rapidly zone out. Turning your gaze to the fabricated central African zone before you (consisting of a lot of dirt and a single tree), you strain to find this exotic beast. He is nowhere to be found. Perhaps it is feeding time in that dank, smelly warehouse located at the rear of the African plain. And so it goes: hours of trodding, squinting, waving, yelling, and moving on. Honestly, if I want to see loads of sleeping and pacing animals, I'll just go back to my desk job, where at least they occasionally get feisty after lunch.

But THIS zoo, far from being dull as dirt, was as wildly entertaining as the Cirque du Soleil.* Not because of its miniscule size (which was nice), nor because of its fabulous location at the top of Regent Park (which was nice), but mostly because of the fact that the animals were just plain SASSY. All three of them. Check out the way they posed for my camera:

This is one I like to call 'Another Day in the Jail Yard.' You can tell he's torn between the mess hall and the weight room, and wishes someone would start a pick-up game of baseball:

This was taken in the Butterfly Sanctuary. Initially you would think (as I did), 'A butterfly sanctuary! How charming! A hot and steamy little rainforest with hundreds of butterflies fluttering around you!' But then you go in and find yourself sweating and surrounding by all of these darting, flying creatures, who were doing their best summertime-moth impressions, and it was actually a bit alarming. All of the swooping and diving around your face is far from relaxing or magical, and you find yourself--as you instinctively duck and jerk back--wishing for a flyswatter. Needless to say, I loved it.

And last, but not least, we have this guy, who I think by his expression needs no introduction:

And the one who stole the show:
This cat, while perhaps not a 'technical' zoo animal, was prowling the enclosure of the above bird. He stalked about the tall grass, eyeing his prey, and totally plotting a coup. He was by far my favorite exhibit of the entire day. One, it was the first time I saw an animal doing anything that was remotely natural, and two, you've got to respect a domestic housecat playing predator to such a wildly exotic and possibly aggressive bird. I couldn't help but secretly hope for some kind of live discovery channel action but alas, the wire mesh proved too much of a barrier, not to mention the bell around his neck (obviously his owner knows how he spends his days), so he could only lurk about threateningly, ruffling the bird's feathers.

And so concludes my tour! I would follow up with a recommendation, except, well...you've kinda seen it all right here.

*I'm lying to you. There is nothing in the world more entertaining than a show that ties midgets to giant balloons and sends them afloat.

A Condiment Conundrum

2009-06-18T07:57:00.007+01:00

So forgive me while I COMPLETELY disregard photos altogether for a minute here and get on my Go America soapbox. One that I never actually knew existed until I got to this country and discovered this. Funny how you don't realize what's really important to you until you are deprived of it. For example, (climbing up on soapbox now), hot dog relish. This country has Heinz Ketchup (and dare I say, it's used even more here than in united-states-land). It even has French's American Mustard (if you don't have the courage to use the burn-your-nostril-hairs-Colman's). But one thing it does NOT have is hot dog relish. I KNOW. I know. It amazes me, too.

So cue last night: dear, sweet Katy texts me, 'Going to Trader Joe's! You want anything?' Instantly, 'RELISH!' And then, because she's an effing genius, she replies, 'Sweet or dill??' Now here is a girl after my own heart: she even knew to ask what type. (Sweet, of course.) I was thisclose to asking for hot dogs, too, at the risk of near-death from the lack of refrigerated mailing, because GET THIS (now about to stomp on soapbox): there is not a single producer of chemical-free hot dogs in England. I learned this from Whole Foods, where I went to find some organic ones. They didn't have any, and I found out (oh, yes, I asked) that the demand here isn't high enough to warrant importing them, so they had to find a domestic producer. And that's when they found out that there is not a single domestic producer of chemical-free hot dogs in all the land. Therefore, they cannot be sold at Whole Foods under their organic standard. Hence, no hot dogs at Whole Foods. Apparently some producers are willing to SPECIALLY MAKE them, but only if the sales are guaranteed to be at xyz figures. Which of course can't be done. Voila!

(Climbing off of soapbox now) Unfortunately, my craving is such that I'm willing to take the risk with the domestic, chemical-laden variety, if I can figure out where to find THOSE. Bring on the cancer, folks! Rona's got relish coming, and she needs a vessel...

Richard Curtis wants me.

2009-06-02T20:52:00.005+01:00

Okay, so you know the screenwriter who did Love Actually, and Bridget Jones's Diary, and Notting Hill, and Four Weddings and a Funeral, and The Boat That Rocked, and, like, LOADS OF OTHER AWESOME STUFF BECAUSE HE'S THE GREATEST EFFING SCREENWRITER OF ALL TIME? Well, for my birthday (which is Saturday, so you still have time to send me gifts), HE SIGNED ONE OF HIS MOVIES FOR ME! See below for the kickin' cover. And I don't think I have to read much between the lines to know a love letter when I see one. It's pretty obvious we're going to get married and have loads of babies:

p.s. This good fortune befell me courtesy of THE COOLEST WOMAN EVER that I nanny for, who just * happens * to be a close and personal friend of Dick's.

p.p.s. I feel that we're close enough that I can call him Dick now.

I was blind and now I see

2009-05-22T18:20:00.003+01:00

Whoa. Okay, so you know how everybody tells you that red bell peppers are like, great sources of antioxidants? (Whatever that means.) And vitamin a and what have you? Well, get THIS: red peppers also have THREE TIMES the vitamin C content of an orange. THREE TIMES! Apparently just half of one of these guys is your daily dose! What I want to know is, why aren't they blending THESE into smoothies?? Seriously, next time I'm sick, forget the o.j. I'm making fajitas, and that is THAT.

While we're on the subject, I had a delicious baked red pepper today with melted halloumi and pesto on top, served on a bed of olive-oil drenched basil leaves. HOLY DELICIOUS, BATMAN. I feel healthier already.

I think that I shall never see / a poem lovely as a tree

2009-05-22T09:00:00.002+01:00

One of the things that struck me most in Greece were the olive trees. Notably, their color. They're silver. I know what you’re thinking: ‘No effing way.’ Or maybe, because you don’t really care about trees, you’re thinking, ‘That’s probably the ouzo talking.’ But SERIOUSLY. I can’t make this stuff up. I’m not Garcia-Marquez. Take THIS, for example:

Look at the tree on the left. All nice and yellow and sunset-y. Look at the tree in the middle, happy and gay and green. Now look at the one on the right. Holy. Crazy. SILVER TREE. This is the olive. It’s un-buh-leevuble. You should see a whole grove of them. It’s pretty much the most unphotogenic thing in the world, or I’d post a photo of one here. Aw, heck. I will anyway. Just so you know, this is NOT under-exposed. I took about a kazillion of these photos trying to find one that worked (less sky! more grass! less grass! more leaves! more sky!), but apparently trying to make a grove of olive trees look good is like trying to put a leprechaun in your pocket. Something else I've tried on a number of occasions.

Check out this netting. Apparently when the olives are in season, they just roll the nets out to cover the ground and catch them. And when olives aren't in season, they roll them up like you see above (and below).

I liked the mystical look of all these black shrouds draping down the mountainside. The gravelike aura they gave was wonderfully spooky. It also made me glad that I had a leprechaun in my pocket.

Little Shop of Horrors

2009-05-20T11:08:00.004+01:00

I have to go buy some art supplies for my mom today. This is a very dangerous thing for me, as art stores are my kryptonite. Not because I am an artist--no, no, then it wouldn't be so bad--but because as soon as I step foot into an art store, I'm convinced I'm THISCLOSE to my life's fulfillment in the creative arts. That maybe, if I just had the right tools, all of that latent talent would reveal itself, and my new paints will fly from my new brush onto my new canvas, and galleries will seek my magnificent works, and in only a few short weeks, the SFMoMA will call to interview this Fresh Young Talent, demanding to know where I've been hiding all these years. Or if I don't feel like painting on canvas, I can tackle my new textiles that I will stamp with my new rubber pads, on which I will carve designs with my new knife, after squirting my new textile paint onto my new piece of glass, rolled out with my new brayer roller. I'll be the next Lotta Jansdotter! I think as I survey the colors in the shop and imagine hand-stamped leaves adorning the corners of the new pillowcases I'd buy that afternoon.

And then I come home, arms overflowing with supplies, brimming with enthusiasm and ideas. Supplies that will never be touched more than once every six months, when I need to decorate a postcard.

This is why I can't go in art stores and have forbidden myself more than passing entry. But maybe a little bit of stationery can't hurt? Maybe some vellum, with glassine envelopes? That will inspire me to write more letters! I NEED it...But NO! No, today, I will be strong. Oh, yes. I will be strong.

'Boats on Water,' or 'My Recent Trip to Greece.'

2009-05-15T18:56:00.013+01:00

I was originally going set up an online photo album of the recent shots I took in Greece* and just provide a link to it, but then I realized that I am TERRIBLE at looking at other people's online photo albums, no matter how matter how much I want to see pictures from their vacations to Egypt**, so why should I expect you to go to the effort to look through mine? So instead I will FORCE you to look at them by posting some of the shots right HERE:

The first couple of days there were stormy, which was great for two reasons: one, it made the sky so much more dynamic than a sunny day can ever do, and two, it made me nostalgic for my childhood spent in the heart of tornado alley, Oklahoma. I didn't realize how much I missed the wall-shaking rumbles and room-lighting flashes and the black-and-orange sky of a good, honest springtime tempest until our mountaintop villa started shaking during dinner on our second night. I've got to start planning my vacations back home better. If I don't sprint through hail on the way to a tornado cellar at least once on my next family visit, then I haven't planned properly.

'Boat on water.'

'Men playing cards.'

Seeing these two playing cards in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in a taverna on the water, made me realize that somewhere along the career path, I made a wrong turn.

'Another Boat on Water.'

I know what you're thinking: 'Did you photoshop that boat into the photo?' No. No, I did not. But I DID make it appear using the power of my mind, so I still cheated.

*Sidebar: I recently had the pleasure of spending ten days in Corfu and got back a week ago. It was rad. I am now dog-sitting in Kensington, which I dare say is as much a leap in lifestyle as Greece was. I would post photos from this, too, except I'm spending most of my time at Whole Foods.

**I'm actually lying. I don't at ALL want to see your vacation photos of Egypt. But your wedding album, now THAT would be a treat.

one herradura reposado and a secret treasure in my purse

2009-04-22T21:08:00.008+01:00

So get this: tonight I went to this great margarita bar* that I've now been to a handful of times, and got into a discussion with the barmen over corn tortillas: more notably, the lack thereof in London. It came about because I had ordered nachos and the chips were obviously freshly-fried corn tortillas (and consequently de-LISH), and I wanted to know where they got them. Of course they came from their distributor in Spain (la la la), but maybe if you look this store or that store or DEFINITELY online at this site, you can find them. Dear sweet souls have no idea the pilgrimage I've undertaken in the quest for Anything Mexican since getting here. Flour tortillas, sure, I've found those, but they're only sold in eight packs, and only in one size. Old El Paso and 'Discover Mexico' have an effing MONOPOLY over here, and you'd better dang well like fajita size. Dream on, burritos and soft tacos. Corn tortillas? Impossible.

At the end of my personal happy hour, one of the barmen came over: 'Put this in your bag. Quick.' What was it? A BAG OF CORN TORTILLAS. And not just EIGHT of them, but THIRTY. I instantly had flashbacks to the Mission Tortilla section of Safeway as I hurriedly tucked them away, already dreaming of the hot frying oil in which I'd cook them.

And that's when I knew: bartenders really ARE the most useful people in the world to know.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go freeze my precious booty. What a banner week.

*I don't say this lightly, as London has maybe THREE--no, two--great margarita bars. No, three. No, wait. Two.

He will be mine. Oh, yes. He will be mine.

2009-04-21T17:57:00.011+01:00

Guess what I did yesterday?? I went to Wembley Stadium! And do you know WHY I went to Wembley Stadium? TO MEET DAVID BECKHAM! Also, to work at the launch of a spectacular non-profit. And it was FABULOUS. I got to do the following:

1. Step on the pitch of Wembley Stadium. And lick it.
2. Watch Beckham play tennis against Andy Murray, and Andy Murray play football against Beckham. And lick...oh, wait.
3. See the efforts of two sporting celebrities as they joined a hugely worthwhile cause: the prevention of malaria.

This photo was taken through a blue mosquito net: both yesterday's football goal and the tennis net were made of it! HOLY AWESOME, BATMAN.

A springtime haiku

2009-04-07T19:10:00.003+01:00

A blossom drifted
Landing softly on my arm
And then it was gone.

2009-04-05T09:15:00.004+01:00

And of course before I could post any of my faboo Deee photos, I came to Scotland, where I've taken another three hundred. To be followed by next weekend's Caroll (or Caro', as I like to call her) visit, in which there will be ANOTHER three hundred, leading me to a solid weekend in which I will post approximately 1,200 photos in one go and disappear again for another month.

I'm like the model blogger.

Wreaking havoc all over town...

2009-03-30T16:21:00.004+01:00

Deee and I made her poor coworker and travelling companion take pictures of us EVERYWHERE. Including this skate park on the South Bank. It was AWESOME. For us. Probably not for him. He was forced to endure shrieks commanding him to 'Count to THREE before you snap!' and 'Don't forget we want our feet!' It turns out all of our instruction was unnecessary--he totally rocked every shot. Except for the three dozen with our eyes closed.

2009-03-29T13:35:00.003+01:00

Deee's in town! Deee's in town! Deee's in town! MILLIONS OF PICTURES COMING SOON!!

2009-03-22T19:01:00.004Z

Random thoughts float through my head constantly--CONSTANTLY!--but now that I seem to be blogging once every two weeks, none of them seem worth spending the time to write. So I am posting this just to break the seal.

I've missed you, my little blog. Please don't ever let me go so far away again.

Oh dark night of the soul...

2009-03-05T09:19:00.004Z

It has just occurred to me that they don't have Girl Scouts on this island. And even more important than that, they don't have GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. Who's going to set up tables in the fronts of grocery stores to sell me thin mints?? Who is going to bring me their daughter's order sheet at work so that I can buy three boxes of tagalongs, fifteen boxes of thin mints, and forty-six samoas?? Who is going to single-handedly destroy all of my healthy resolve in the course of one month every spring?? WHO, PEOPLE?? WHO??

Tornados are FUNNY.

2009-02-21T16:14:00.009Z

I did it. I just broke down and went to a tanning bed. I didn't mean to; it's just that I recently got back from a weekend in the Canaries, and my skin is oh so nice and brown, and the thought of wasting back to a sickly London pallor was just too much for me to bear. I thought perhaps I was more equipped than most in making this decision--after all, I used to work in a tanning salon in college, I've read all the pamphlets and leaflets and health and safety fliers around the issue. And--you know--informative decisions are guilt-free decisions, right? So I went to this place across the street, one of those tiny local places with 'perms manicures tanning bed' written on the windows. I climb into the bed--if one could call this space-shuttle-time-machine-esque cylinder that--where I soon experienced fans that would give an Oklahoma summer a run for its money. They felt sort of like...okay, like this: remember in 5th grade when you took a field trip to your city's science museum, and you touched a giant orb and your hair stuck straight up and you learned, 'hey! electricity's funny!' and then you went into the earthquake room, and the floor shook for three minutes while images of pompeii flashed on the black walls and you learned, 'hey! earthquakes are funny!' and then you went into the tornado room, because you lived in Oklahoma, and for some reason they think that you may not know what a tornado is like, and they turned on some fans that blew some crazy wind and they jacked up the air pressure and turned up the sound of a train roaring until you couldn't hear and you learned, 'hey! tornadoes are funny!' This tanning bed was like that: a miniature version of the tornado room. The buffeting of the fans combined with the heat of the bulbs made me feel like I was home again, and ten years old, struggling to walk against the hot wind coming off the great plains, and I just learned, 'hey! tanning beds are funny!'

One Thing Fantastic and One Thing Frustrating

2009-02-07T14:28:00.006Z

One Thing I Love Love Love:

Egg cartons. Just THINK about it: here you have items that need to be delivered. And these aren't just ANY items, these are incredibly FRAGILE items, items that consist of a viscous liquid inside a thin, delicate shell. And they need to be delivered en masse and frequently. But you can't put them in a bucket, a box, or a bag. To wrap them individually would be both inefficient and expensive. So what came out of it? The EGG CARTON. Seriously. Look at this beauty. You cannot get more efficient than this: it does not waste material or space. This design has existed since 1911 and has not been improved upon since--with the exception of a curved edge here and there, or a thinner cardboard, or a taller internal divide. This. is. design. perfection. And it makes me happy every time I open the fridge. Thank you, random Canadian newspaperman, for making the world a better place. (Also, CANADA? Who saw it coming? Dude, they don't flaunt it often, but when they do...ba-BAM!)

One Thing That Drives Me Crazy:

I know what you're thinking: check out that hot bar! Are the cocktails innovative, is there lounge seating, is there a decent happy hour, a mixologist, and a deejay? The answer to all of these questions is no, no, and NO. Because it's NOT a bar, IT'S A NEON SIGN STORE. This leads me to One Thing That Drives Me Crazy: neon sign stores. They drive me absolutely nuts. They have got to be the most misleading of all storefronts. Every time I pass one (and I know what you are thinking here: how often do you pass neon sign stores? Well, I'll tell you this: WAY TOO OFTEN, like the one on Fillmore Street in San Francisco, just north of Haight--you know who you are--and this one I photographed above at Mile End here in London), I get ALL excited, all 'oooh, what's the name of that bar, I'm going to check out its zagat review!' and then I look at the name, and then I see THIS, and oh how my spirit deflates like so many balloons at the birthday party of Edward Scissorhands:

I fall for it every time. I really do. I am drawn to the lights like a moth to a flame, only to be told lights are the only thing for sale.

Who knew?

2009-02-04T21:08:00.004Z

I used to think cobblestone was the worst thing to walk on. I was wrong. It's cobblestone covered in ice.

And life just gets better.

2009-02-03T13:12:00.000Z

Okay, forgive me for my current Weetabix obsession, but check it: according to Katy, you can get wb at Trader Joe's (yet one more reason to LOVE LOVE LOVE that store), and Dinana did some Weetabix hunting and found THIS! How could I have enjoyed Puffins cereal all this time and not known it was part of the Weetabix food pyramid?? Wow. I was blind and now I see.

Snow Day, or Why Mother Effing Russia is WAY Too Close (Geographically Speaking)

2009-02-02T12:54:00.011Z

So it turns out that there's some freaky-deaky cold front whipping through England from RUSSIA. Yes. MOTHER EFFING RUSSIA. That crazy thought aside, the bitter cold of yesterday--with a wind so sharp it burned the nose and ears--has morphed into snow. All night snow, all day snow, and according to reports, snow tomorrow til forever. It's apparently 'the worst downfall seen in southeast England in 18 years.'

And of course London has completely shut down. All bus lines have been suspended due to the 'dangerous conditions' (I can hear my Wisconsin friend laughing at this) and the tube has ground to a shuddering halt, leaving only a few trains limping around town in a self-pitying fashion, carrying the grisliest of public servants. Because this is a day in which NOBODY is leaving their home and in which EVERYBODY has turned into a pajama-clad telecommuter, doing little more than watching weather reports, experiencing strange bouts of giddiness, and sneaking in the occasional film from the safety of the blankets on the couch in between 'calls' to coworkers in the pretense of discussing the Business of the Day.

I am trying out my new slow cooker today; in six short hours, I will have chicken and dumplings and a glass of grenache-mouvedre to warm the soul. And it is good.

2009-01-28T21:07:00.003Z

I have several items to discuss today!

One: it rained, like, three days in a row last week, and I was SUPER BUMMED, and thought, 'London is ALWAYS raining,' which led me to realize how one can easily reach that conclusion based on one week alone. But THEN I got Orla Kiely wellingtons at Sunday's sample sale and was so psyched for it to rain again and THEN the SUN came out for TWO DAYS and oh how sad I was and then today it rained again and I've never been so pleased. Thank you, wellies, for making rain lovely and exciting and good.

Two: I can't remember number two. It will no doubt come to me next time I'm walking one of the babies, which is when all of my good ideas come.

Three: I emailed Weetabix my blog tutorial on their product and got the world's funniest email in response. I seriously can't even handle this:

'Dear Sharona

Many thanks for making contact.

Welcome to the wonderful World of Weetabix!

We are delighted to hear you enjoy Weetabix so much and are spreading the word too!

There is no right or wrong way to enjoy Britain's favourite breakfast cereal. Cold milk, hot milk. A little sugar or none (Weetabix already contains around 4.5%, 1.7g in a 2 biscuit serving). Some even take it dry with butter and jam! It all goes to show what a versatile product Weetabix really is.

We hope the attached might inspire you and your friends to try Weetabix a few different ways.

Thanks again for getting in touch.

Kind regards,

Orla Kiely just puked on me.

2009-01-25T18:46:00.002Z

I KNOW, right? How lucky am I? However, it is less like Orla HERSELF puked on me, and more like her SAMPLE SALE puked on me. And I'm so, so happy about it. I will take photos this week of today's drunken purchases; I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

I love you, Brick Lane. I love you, Orla Kiely. I love you, sample sale on a rainy day. You complete me.

It is NOT Day Two.

2009-01-20T22:46:00.003Z

It didn't rain today. This confirms my theory: the infamous London rain is a myth. 'Watch out for the worst few months of your life,' they all inform, gleeful about their cold, wet wet winters. But so far...it's rained once since December. And before that, MAYBE a half dozen times since October, random short downpours, mid-afternoon or mid-dle of the night. So yes...my suspicions hold fast: there is no such thing as Famous London Always Rain.

Day One is officially renamed 'The Day It Rained in London.' No, wait. The Day It Rained HARD in London. Yes. That is right.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go curl up with a brick of Weetabix. Kisses.

A breakfast cereal tutorial

2009-01-20T09:23:00.009Z

Would you like some cereal?
Yes, please!
* clunk *
What is that?
Cereal! Do they not have this where you come from?*

Introducing Weetabix. According to their website, they are 'the UK's favourite breakfast.' I am here to give you a Weetabix tutorial.

When you first open the Weetabix box, you will find these bricks (for lack of a better word). You do not pour Weetabix into a bowl. You pick out a brick, and put THAT in your bowl.

Then, if you are six years old (or me), you put a bit of sugar on top. And by a 'bit,' I mean, 'a lot.'

Then you pour in the milk.

Now here is where it gets exciting. In the length of time it takes you to put the milk back away, your Weetabix is softening. Take this opportunity to break it apart with your spoon.

Then mush it around using the bottom of your spoon. This is just for fun, really. This is also where your mother would tell you to 'quit playing with your food.' Once you've really worked it into a good pile of sludge, it is ready to eat!**

Weetabix: the Wholegrain Cereal. It's like a party in your bowl.

*According to the Weetabix website, Weetabix entered the US market in 1968. It doesn't mention when it left.
**You will be surprised at how tasty it is, for a food resembling something you'd feed your cat.

It rained today!

2009-01-19T21:17:00.002Z

Today was Day One of the infamous London Rain. I label it Day One in anticipation of a Day Two. I anticipate a Day Two given the dark and torrential nature of today; it was a downfall so intense that it does not seem to be self-contained or fleeting, but instead rather ambitious and focused. If it does NOT rain tomorrow, then I shall have to rename Day One 'The Day It Rained in London,' which just isn't the same.

I am a member of the Unsuspecting Public.

2009-01-17T17:07:00.002Z

I seriously suck at story-telling. I'm not kidding. I do. Like just now, I sat down to begin a story starting with 'Last Thursday' and ending with 'and this is what I saw.' Simple, right? But then, three sentences in, it read like it was written by someone who speaks English as a second language. And not proficiently, like a German, but poorly, like a [I just realized I can't insert anything here without sounding racist. Dammit.] At any rate, I had to give up and delete the entire thing. This happens frequently in my world.

So, to keep the story short and as un-story-like as possible, since that seems to be the only way my higher power will let me do it: last Thursday I saw four hundred 'commuters' break into spontaneous choreographed dancing at Liverpool Street Station. I was on the mezzanine, looking down, and they went through a medley of songs, dancing in complete unison. It. was. fantastic. Absolutely one of the most thrilling things I've ever seen. Due in large part to the fact that it was unprecedented, unexpected, and unexplained.

Later I went online to find out what it was. I knew it would be on youtube within seconds, as every single bystander had stopped to watch (train and bus schedules were thrown out the window that day, as everybody's priorities were usurped by blind fascination) and whipped out their cell phones to record the show. Turns out it was an elaborately produced (and dare I say brilliant?) ad by T-Mobile, something about Life is Sharing or somesuch. They intentionally hid their video cameras while they taped the dancers, as they didn't want anybody to figure out what was going on. They also captured the viewers with their mobiles out, sending the videos to friends. After all, Life is Sharing. Or somesuch.

And this is what I saw. Please click on 'watch in high quality' if your bandwith gives you the luxury.

And this is how they pre-advertised. I should really try to watch more t.v. Without it, I apparently fall under the category of 'Unsuspecting Public.' So true...so true.

2009-01-13T12:32:00.006Z

And sometimes the LIGHTS flicker. I KNOW, right? It's so obvious. Some might say this is because the building is, like, three hundred billions years old and faulty wiring and blah blah blah, but seriously. I'm not stupid.

I have a ghost.

2009-01-13T08:54:00.008Z

I have a ghost. Albeit a helpful one. And this morning he helped me make my coffee.

This is what happened. And there's really no other explanation other than the intervention of a spirit with unfinished business: I pulled the shots for my coffee and poured milk into the steamer, but didn't push the button to steam the milk because I wasn't ready for the cup JUST yet and wanted it to be as hot as possible. I turned my back to finish washing the dishes, and when I turned around again, not only was my milk steamed, but the lid to the pitcher was on top. Now I know what you are thinking: surely you capped the pitcher without thinking about it, AND pushed the button. I can see how this would be possible, as when one makes repetitive motions every day, it's easy to make them again without thinking or noticing. Except I NEVER put the lid on the pitcher because I love to watch the steaming process, the milk swirling around and around, faster and faster, gradually growing taller and frothy and smooth as air. It's one of the greatest pleasures of my day. In fact, I haven't used the lid EVER. So I certainly would have noticed a motion that would involve me putting it on. Apparently my ghost, though, was thinking Safety First.

Northern England Reveals Its Charms

2009-01-08T14:05:00.007Z

Jane Austen lived here.*

In her letters, she referred to her estate as 'Hot Toddy Hall.' She did this in an attempt to protect her privacy as well as to offer her correspondents a revealing glimpse into her personal life.**

This was Jane's local church. She rarely set foot inside, as she was usually nursing her hangover from Saturday night's festivities in Hot Toddy Hall.***

This was Jane's local butcher and deli. She loved their duck liver pate and could often be heard on the children's swings after dark, whooping into the wee hours.****

And so concludes my tour of Northern England. Please let me know if you are interested in any more of my tours; there are many neighborhoods in London I would love to walk you through.

*I'm making this up. I really have no idea where Jane Austen lived.
**This is also not true.
***This is probably true.
****'Whooping' is not a metaphor.

I carried a watermelon?

2009-01-07T08:08:00.001Z

Slim Jim's Liquor Store was recently rated in the Top 5 London Bars 2008 by Urban Junkies. When I told the manager, 'That's cool,' while sipping a brandy during a break in the day's shopping, he proceeded to put in on the bar's outdoor sandwich board. Quote, unquote.

Another Brighton recommendation

2009-01-06T12:51:00.012Z

A long overdue return trip to Brighton was last weekend's pleasure...this time with personal recommendations a la Isabel, a fanciful girl who used to live there and knew the ins and outs of the shopping, eating, and shopping. Armed with the list she gave me, this Brighton itinerary expanded to include The Lavender Room, Cath Kidston, One in the House, and Bert's Homestore. None of these shops was a disappointment and it took all of my restraint not to blow my bank on the goodies inside. (Please note: I would have photographed each of these shops, except the weather was roughly thirty degrees below zero and I couldn't get my frozen fingertips to grip the camera, let alone operate the tiny dials.)

I did, however, photograph Bill's Produce Store, yum incarnate. The walls were lined with produce for purchase, and if the brunch I ordered was any indication of their quality, then I think little on the shelves would disappoint.

This was my eggs benedict. Please note the sumptuous bread, the thick slices of ham, and the about-to-explode poached eggs...the whole thing was absolutely taste-tastic. I can't wait for my next visit so I can return for their peppered steak sandwich, served on housemade onion foccacia with horseradish and mustard creme fraiche. Brighton hooooooooooooooooo!

HERE I AM!

2008-12-30T10:28:00.014Z

When I first sat down to this post, I thought, 'I wonder if people think that I've fallen off the face of the earth or died or something?' Then I thought, what if I WERE dead?? Nobody would know! Should I prepare a post-mortem post for a close friend or family member to put on my blog on my behalf after I'm gone?? What would I say? What would my Facebook status be and who would change it for me? Should it be 'Sharona is...no longer inhabitating this earthly realm'? Is that too obscure? Does it just sound like I'm high? Maybe I should I be witty about the whole matter: 'Sharona is...preparing a lightning bolt with your name on it.' Will people post loving farewell comments? Will they say a word about me at my upcoming high school reunion? As I started to sniffle over my loss, I suddenly thought, 'What is WRONG with me?'

Less related to death:

My boxes finally arrived from San Francisco. I am alarmed to find that I packed three jars of organic peanut butter and two large costco-sized containers of tylenol p.m. As a friend says, 'That's a helluva sandwich.' On the bright side, the winter is now going to FLY by.

So far London hasn't been as rainy as expected. It's cloudy every day, to be sure; the sun a darting mistress, but in terms of wetness, I've had to open my umbrella a mere half dozen times in the past three months--always on a Saturday afternoon and always when I want to take a photograph of something. The rain has not yet been combined with a blustery gale, which is a small but appreciated blessing having dealt with the sideways-rain of San Francisco on many saturated occasions. When I express this 'dryer-than-expected' sentiment at parties, however, I am always warned: 'You haven't seen January or February yet!' So I am NATURALLY looking forward to that. I will let you know how it is in t-minus-two days.

'How are you finding London so far?' is the number one question I am asked--by curious Londoners, by American ex-pats, by anyone and everyone I meet, from the line at the cafe to the holiday dinner party. I struggle with this one on many levels. If I sing the city's praises ('I love it! There are endless places to go and see and so many restaurants I want to try!') I end up sounding a bit delirious. So to lend some sincerity to the sentiment, I feel the need to express a 'point of struggle.' Most people expect the weather to be the most difficult acclimation, so I stick with that: 'But the cold! I am having a terrible time getting used to the cold!' As a result of this bizarre dance this question always puts me to, I am beginning to wonder, how DO I find London? And how should I best answer this question? Perhaps literally is the way: 'Using the tube map. And you?'

I'm off to develop the photos from the week I just spent in the fairy tale that is Scotland...land of castles, pints, and grazing sheep. None of which I actually photographed.

What's in a name?

2008-12-18T10:00:00.001Z

Her email is the sort of address that one is assigned: jenn435@maildotcom. You never pick this address. And yet, I never thought you settle for it, either, when the domain suggests it as a viable alternative to your first choice, 'jennlastname.' Even 'jennbirthday'--while impossible for anybody else to remember--makes sense.

Alas, when jenn435 sends an email, I don't need to open it to know what it's going to say: 'You're an amazing woman,' it reads. 'Now send this to nine other amazing women, including me, for good luck.' In Monotype Corsiva, size 18, hot pink. Lime green blinking graphics remind me that kittens are cute and purple angels wish me blessings. I think about forwarding this on to my grandmother and aunt before realizing that they sent me the same thing last week and consequently already have wealth unforetold.

So what do you do with these mass emails from friends so old you no longer have any connection with them? Do you let them know that you first became friends with them when you were eight, an age at which you taped together empty toilet paper rolls to make binoculars, trampolines were all it took for street cred, and any friend big enough to pull you in your wagon was worth hours of your time? Notably when their grandmother lived across the street and rejoiced in making an endless stream of molasses cookies, which meant you could turn down your parents' offering of an after-school apple? Do you tell them that things changed when they dropped out of high school to have their first baby while you opted to get a degree, leave the state, start anew?

You hit 'reply.' You type in the e(mail)quivalent to the secret handshake you shared to get into The Club in which your sisters weren't allowed: 'Luv you! Ur amazing, too!' Hitting 'send,' you realize that while this may be your lifelong e-burden, it was worth it. Because of her, you know pig latin, and how to throw pine cones at cars from the safety of a hidden tree branch. These are the lifelong blessings she's given. What's a forward full of fairies?

Pub Cricket

2008-12-17T11:06:00.003Z

I got into a discussion with a Welsh gal named Marie on Saturday night on the subject of road trip games--or 'car journeys,' as they call them here. Apparently where she hails from they don't seek out 50 states on license plates, or yell at cows, or poke their siblings when the parents aren't looking. No, in Wales-land, they play a game called Pub Cricket. In Pub Cricket--and stick with me here, because it's about to get convoluted--the first person to spot a pub gets the number of points that the pub has legs. 'What?' you are saying, in baffled confusion, as did I. 'LEGS? Pubs have LEGS?' 'Yes!' she replied. 'For example, say you pass a pub called The Horse and Carriage. That's an eight-pointer! You have to figure it takes at LEAST two horses to draw the carriage. And how many legs do two horses have? Eight! So you get eight points!' 'So...if you pass a place called The White Lion, you get four points?' 'Exactly! And the Crowned Prince would be two!' 'What if it's called The Queen's Head? How many points is that?' 'It depends. If *I* see it, it's two points, because the Queen's Head used to have a body. If my brother sees it, zero.'

Now I can't pass a pub without counting its legs. I am currently TOTALLY winning this game, though 'technically' I'm the only player...

Best Venn Diagram Ever

2008-12-16T09:21:00.010Z

I remember my first Venn diagram. I was in fourth grade, and I remember thinking, 'This is math?' It was but a precursor to the year spent under the torturous gaze of my ninth-grade geometry teacher, a woman with a strange, dark streak who seemed as though she would not be out of place at a seance or ritual sacrifice or, say, a ninth-grade geometry classroom. However, Venn diagrams and evil spirits aside, geometry was a subject in which I did well because I do see math as more of a letters subject, all logical and magical and makes-me-want-to-travel-through-portals-into-other-dimensions, which I actually believe is possible because why NOT?

That confession aside, please see the best Venn diagram ever, sent to me by Jeremy, the same man responsible for helping me pack up my San Francisco life before this current travel abroad and also the sort of person you would want with you were you to cross into otherworlds. You just know he'd bring the towel.

And now that I've gotten supremely off-track and made absolutely no connection between the introduction and the actual item being introduced, please let us switch mindsets altogether from the wonders of dimensional travel to the wonders of everyday life:

Holy. Effing. Awesome.

2008-12-14T10:26:00.005Z

Seriously. Katy just sent me this BACON FLOW CHART. Click on it to check out the hilarity.

It's amazing what you can get with a baby strapped to your chest.

2008-12-11T20:12:00.003Z

Today as I took Baby 3 for his walk (an outing we make at least twice a day given that the baby bjorn is like crack for him and the only thing that will soothe him when he's grizzly), we happened past a local library. On a whim, I stopped in. I knew that I couldn't get a card due to the fact that I don't have proof of address (in the form of a utility bill or rent check, for example), but it was worth going to check it out and get in out of the cold.

Within minutes, the librarian was cooing over 'my child.' I felt no need to correct the impression as I subtly inquired, 'How do I go about getting a library card?' 'Oh, just fill this out! And would you like a card for your child, as well? And take this flyer about our children's programmes!' Five minutes later, I walked out with a shiny card in my pocket, a baby coo'ing on my chest, and a book tucked under my arm. From now on any time I need a door greased, I'm takin' this little guy with me. We are unSTOPPABLE.

Now to the liquor store...

Just when you think the world has gone dark...

2008-12-09T10:15:00.013Z

It gets dark here early. Like 3:30 in the afternoon early. This has succeeded in making me more of a homebody than usual; the sort of person who races home in the cold to fuzzy slippers and fleece blankets and a mug of tea and declines to go out, even when going out means making new friends and trying new places. I keep telling myself that when spring comes I'll start making an effort, but really when given the opportunity, I can completely sequester myself for months and have very little human contact with very little regret.

I did that my last semester in college when I had my own studio apartment above the garage of the chair of the university english department, a nutty old man who only charged 250/month and let me paint the walls yellow, brick red, and avocado green, a la Amelie, my obsession of the minute. It was my first time living alone and I loved it. I listened to Philip Glass, took bubble baths, tasted wine for the first time, and taught myself chess theory. I learned that I was happy eating the same thing for dinner every night (quesadillas) and increasingly found myself declining invitations to meet up with friends. However, the more I withdrew, the more antisocial I became. I lost the ability to converse easily and I lost the patience for small talk. Large groups began to irritate me, and small groups I couldn't lose myself in, so I avoided them all.

Here the weather is doing the same thing to me that living alone did back then. It makes me think, 'Why bother?'

And then a package full of sunshine arrived last Thursday. Katy, wonderful, future-wife Katy sent me so much goodness that I can't even handle it. It was a package to bring a girl to tears. And if I were back home, living in a bubble, I would've popped that bad boy just to hump her with gratitude. I really can't thank her enough for this.

Here are just a few of the goodies that have renewed my sense of life and purpose and woke me from my winter-induced apathy, goodies that brighten my perspective every time I open the cupboard door...and yes, biscuits have the power to brighten my day.

Napkins of infinite wisdom:

'Porn for Women', courtesy of Chronicle Books: each page features a male model doing some sort of domestic chore with vigor and enthusiasm, like knitting booties with a caption reading 'I'm so excited for your sister to have her baby!'

And last but not least...BLUE BOTTLE COFFEE, from Deee's and my favorite kiosk at the Ferry Building Farmer's Market and also where Katy and I would take turns doing runs before church on Sundays. Katy aptly picked the flavor 'Giant Steps,' (I don't know WHAT she's trying to say there), and it's so good I'm tempted to drop some grounds in the tub with me and bathe in it.

Now off I go to my childminding job, with a spring in my step, coffee on my breath, and porn in my pocket. Life is good.

Overheard

2008-12-04T20:14:00.001Z

Drunk old man: Ah, God bless me, I'm lovely!

The Death Cold

2008-12-04T12:24:00.011Z

For over a week now I've been struggling with a little thing I have come to term The Death Cold. There seems to be no cure, no amount of sleep, no thousands of mgs of Vitamin C that can nuke this bad boy. At last I broke down and went to Boots to buy cold and flu medicine, only to find that my old beloved friend Nyquil (and sure, Dayquil, join in the party, though really, let's be honest, your nightlife brother steals your thunder) is not sold here...What would I drink (I mean, sip, in the quantity of 2 tablespoons) at night when I couldn't sleep? What would wipe out all of my ills? And so I resorted to the label-reading of all the new-to-me products on the shelf. Eventually I came to the conclusion that either the English are healthier, and that is why they seem to only have one cold and flu medicine, just under different labels, or two, the world has conspired against me and is delightfully planning my demise, hands rubbing together in scheming glee. Deciding at the end of a fruitless twenty minutes just to try all the medicinal options before me, I struggled to the register with caplets, tablets, syrups, teas, and lozenges overflowing in my arms. I spontaneously tossed some antibacterial handwipes and two Miffy kleenex boxes onto the precariously balanced pile before dumping it all unceremoniously onto the till counter.

And so the attack began: two caplets in, one fizzy vitamin c drink. One vapour-action dissolving lozenge, one mug of sickly sweet and tangy lemon and honey flu tea, two more caplets, one more fizzy vitamin c drink. A tablespoon of the cough syrup down, causing a violent gag reflex due to a flavour that can best be described as 'bile-forward with a vomit-like finish,' causing the entire bottle to be promptly binned with a swear word and a silent prayer to the absent Nyquil gods. And so goes the diet, for five straight days.

Is progress being made? I don't know. I definitely feel like my body's not my own, which can probably only be an improvement given how I treat it when it IS my own. Other than that, a sort of homeostasis seems be in place, the two warring halves of sick v. well each making headway at various times of the day, only to eventually call it a draw, as though they're staring each other down across a battlefield, daring one another to try and pull something funny. 'Okay, you can make the nose run, but I draw the line at adding a cough. You at least want a tickly throat? Okay, then relinquish some fatigue. Hey! Don't you DARE draw that mucus gun unless you're prepared to give up a headache. Okay, agreed.' And so the camps skirmish and symptoms attack and then retreat, taking turns, and no side seems to be winning the war...I fully anticipate my body remaining encamped here indefinitely, eventually pulling out playing cards and trading cigarettes.

In the meantime, if I seem a bit dull lately--and I mean dull here in the lack-luster, not-as-brightly-shining sense of the word, not the ennui-inducing sense of the word, although many apologies if the latter is the one that is more descriptive--then I promise you it is only a spell and it will ideally be over soon. After all, I've got a vitamin cannon up my sleeve.

Laundry in London

2008-12-02T11:59:00.012Z

I'm trying to do laundry right now, but the washing machines here...well, make it a bit difficult. They are apparently designed with midgets in mind. With a loading capacity of approximately three shirts, four socks, and a pair of underwear, you must run approximately fifteen loads for a day's worth of clothing. Washing your bedding? One sheet per load, please. Throw in a pillowcase if you dare. The wash cycle takes about 45 minutes (unlike the fifteen minute cycles in the Land of the Giants), while the dryer cycle takes...oh, wait, no dryers here. Unless you make a decent income and therefore expect a certain quality of life, or have a baby and forced your spouse to get you one, as the prospect of hanging four billion teeny tiny onesies over drying racks would no doubt push you over the brink of madness. But any home outfitted by the lower or middle class since, say, 2007, is most likely dryer-less. I don't mind it so much given that I hung-dry most of my clothing in San Francisco, but there I had the luxury of a sunny bay window and a pleasant ocean breeze to do the trick. Here you would only open your window if you had a death wish and thought biting gales of frigid rain were a pleasure. And so you rely on the radiator: those ancient sources of heat lining the walls of each room, often broken, and with a surface area rivalling that of a tea saucer. Luckily, given that one can only wash a hanky at a time, this seems to work out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go put in a pair of socks.

the lakes

2008-11-23T20:13:00.008Z

I've got half an hour til Baby 3 wakes, so I'm feeling totally high on life and ready to post some photos from the Lake District...And before you start expecting mountain vistas and reflective bodies of water, let me clarify: when on the road, you can really only see...trees. Lots and lots of trees. I'm sure on the other side of said trees were panoramas to make the heart flutter, but--like oh so many trips to Yosemite when your glimpses of the majesty are sentenced to the gap in forest where they create turnouts for your car and wooden signs announcing your location, where tourists congregate en masse with cameras, guaranteeing that every photo from Yosemite is of the same mountain range/glacier/meadow-and-lake--well...it was like that. Beautiful, stately, pristine, and mostly out of sight.

And so the photos below are of the tiny views, the everyday sights. The Family McQuade had allotted a handful of cabins in a park that was designed around Activities for the Whole Family, and the entertainment (from pottery painting to rock climbing to bowling) never ceased...it was nature the way it was meant to be done.

Apparently you can paddle boat around the lake...however, given that I couldn't feel my nose, hands, or feet, I was not about to pedal around in a wet, plastic seat to see if I could find more trees to look at.

The handsomest devil around: Patriarch McQuade, and the man whose 80th birthday was the cause of the weekend festivities.

You might think, 'Wouldn't this be a nice path to bicycle down?' But you'd be wrong. And that's all I'm going to say on the subject.

Nature at its finest...this glowing beacon of the night contained a heated indoor water park (imagine huge slides and fake palm trees), a bowling alley, a half dozen restaurants, and shops shops shops. Why hike outdoors when you've got miles to see in here?

You will be happy to note that bowling is consistent no matter what country you are in...you will still get stylish shoes to sport over psychedelic carpet and balls that glow in the dark. So if you're ever abroad and feeling homesick, just head for the nearest bowling alley...you won't even know you've left Kentucky.

Even the waterfalls were multi-hued...this, THIS is the land of the free and home of the brave.

And a photo of the renowned trees.

MY NEW BEST FRIEND!

2008-11-21T18:32:00.008Z

It's been a week since I've posted, for a number of reasons...the first delay due to a long weekend spent in the Lake District (photos of...trees...to come--try to get excited), and the rest is due to...well...apathy. But today, Something Big Happened and it is DEFINITELY news-worthy.

I met my new best friend.

Oh, yes. It has finally happened.

I was shopping at Habitat when I saw her. Our eyes met. She smiled. I played cool, because that's how I roll, but then when she was fully past, I slowly rotated and began to follow her. I watched her shop from behind a decorative tree full of ornaments for sale...I saw her touch a tapestry, then when she moved on, I casually strolled past it and took a good look--just to get a feel for her taste. After all, I'll be buying her Christmas and birthday presents soon.

A moment later she was gone...like so many mists on the surface of haunted lakes, I felt lost and scared without her. I resumed my shopping, still high from our contact, but disappointed at a lost opportunity to tackle her, force her into a photo with me, and then have her sign everything on my person with the sharpie I always carry in my purse.

Until half an hour later, in the midst of perusing the shop next door. I was buying Christmas decorations. Loads and loads of Christmas decorations. I didn't mean to. I'm really not the Holiday Decorations type (mostly due to apathy, not any sort of principle on the thing). But this Christmas is different...I'm going to be in London, away from friends and family. And as a result, I find myself seeking creature comforts this season--I'm eating food from my grandmother's church cookbook, I'm wearing fuzzy socks, and I'm decorating for Christmas like it's the last one I'm going to spend on this earth.

So there I am at Heal's, arms laden with wreaths, ornaments, dragging a plastic tree half my size. I look like Christmas just threw up all over me. Glitter is all over my hands and face, my hair has been caught in the pine bristles, and I've got some sort of silver sparkley thing that looks like a disco ball dangling from my arm.

And there she is. In front of me in line. She looked at me, then laughed lightly: 'Getting ready for Christmas?' That's when I knew: this was her way of asking me to be Best Friend's Forever. 'YES!' I replied, 'A THOUSAND TIMES YES!' I instantly regaled her with stories of my holiday season abroad (hoping for an invitation to her country estate) and discussed the merits of waiting until the day after Thanksgiving to put up Christmas decorations. She nodded understandingly, while slowly backing away: 'Right, right, one must wait until the right time...well, nice plastic reindeer! Must be on my way...!'

We didn't trade names, of course, as we both understood that I already knew hers, and mine wasn't relevant. I like to think that when she goes home tonight, she's going to be thinking of me...maybe with a pet nickname, like 'Christmas Girl.' Something like that, something we can laugh at together in years to come.

Oh, yes. Emma Watson, I look forward to the start of a beautiful friendship...

The Ultimate Lullaby Playlist

2008-11-14T11:55:00.002Z

Mommy 4 recently shared with me a lullaby playlist she created for her little one. And it was so fantastic I nabbed a copy for myself...this is the rare sort of music selection that is great for young and old alike and has the gift of instantaneous transfer to the happy place. If you can say 'yes' to any of the below, you definitely need it:

a. It takes you two hours to fall asleep, and that's WITH the medication.
b. You get agitated at work and need a way to unwind that doesn't involve a flask or the torture of small animals.
c. You have a small person in your household, one that needs to go unconscious on occasion so that you can pull out the flask and small animals.
d. You've completely exhausted every one of your itunes playlists and want to music-eff one more.

If any of these described you, then you need 'The Rockin' Lullabies of Baby Four':

1. I Bid You Goodnight (Aaron Neville)
2. Didn't Leave Nobody but the Baby (Alison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, & Gillian Welch)
3. Baby Mine (Bette Midler)
4. Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) (Billy Joel)
5. Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra (That's an Irish Lullaby) (Bing Crosby)
6. Godspeed (Sweet Dreams) (Dixie Chicks)
7. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (Elizabeth Mitchell & Lisa Loeb)
8. Russian Lullaby (1958) (Ella Fitzgerald)
9. Golden Slumbers (George Benson)
10. Slumber My Darling (Gilbert Kalish & Jan De Gaetani/Paul Dunkel/Donald Anderson)
11. Lullaby (Jack Johnson & Matt Costa)
12. You Can Close Your Eyes (James Taylor)
13. When You Wish Upon a Star (Johnny Mathis)
14. Over the Rainbow (Judy Garland)
15. Brahms' Lullaby (Linda Ronstadt)
16. What a Wonderful World (Louis Armstrong)
17. All the Pretty Little Horses (Mary Stahl)
18. Daddy's Little Girl (The Mills Brothers)
19. Hush-a-Bye (Peter, Paul, and Mary)
20. All Through the Night (Peter, Paul, and Mary)
21. Rockabye Baby (Vocal Version) (Sherry Goffin Kondor)
22. Lazyhead and Sleepybones (They Might Be Giants)
23. Hush Little Baby (The Weavers)
Bonus Track from Rona: Lullaby (Pedro the Lion)

If any of you would like a personalized Rona-copy of this mix (all copyrights above board, of course), complete with decorated covers, please let me know. I may get it to you sometime next year, along with your Elephant Art. The price of each album will be determined by whichever Trader Joe's good I'm craving at the moment, at which point we will execute an international swap. All proceeds will be split with Mommy 4 for her creative genius.*

*That is, if she reads my blog and catches me pimping her work.

Scotland: the Place

2008-11-12T15:06:00.008Z

So I was sitting here, staring at my screen looking at the below photos and thinking, 'So...what?' I didn't have a word of description in mind. The pictures are of...Scotland. Specifically, Edinburgh and the village of Peebles and Loch Lomond. But my mind...a complete blank.

It's mid-afternoon here, a time of day better thought of as Sharona's mental naptime. If I'm not physically unconscious, I am remarkably mentally comatose. This is not a time where surges of free-flowing prose occur. No, those only come in early morning or early evening after a single (not a double--that just gets messy) glass of wine. They do not ever, under any circumstances, come at the time of day that I can fall asleep on the toilet. Alas, here I am.

And so I put on some Rodrigo y Gabriela and brew a cup of coffee. As the first fast-paced guitar notes race through the room, I sip and look at the photos again. And while I may not have any witty captions with which to entertain, I feel okay. And maybe that's all it takes to blog post some days: just a little okay-ness.

Introducing...Scotland: the Place.

Edinburgh. There are apparently all sorts of famous statues and whatnot around here.

I remember once a girlfriend telling me I should look into travel writing, and while I nodded and pretended to agree, all I could think was, 'She has obviously never actually READ my blog.' I could see my travel book now: 'So then when you get to this corner, you'll see a really cool building. I don't the name of it, or the history behind it, but it's REALLY photogenic. I want to say the structure is gothic in design, but it could be victorian or edwardian or georgian or something.'

Above and below: Loch Lomond at sunset.

The above photo was taken on the bus on the way from the village of West Linton to the village of Peebles. I think these are either the pets of the driver or the pets of the three passengers that take this line. There's pretty much one bus that does this route, and it only runs about four times a day. And apparently to catch it, you just stick out your hand wherever you are. Country lane, village main street, doesn't matter. Per the bus driver: 'The only formal stops are in town. Out here, I just stop if I see somebody flagging me down. If I'm in a good mood, that is.' He then chuckled heartily and blew past a little old lady.

This is Peebles. I love Peebles. I mean, yes, I recognize that it is only about four blocks long, and it's lined with gift shops and tea shops and pubs, but dangit, that's pretty much all I need for a good time...so I decided to skip Edinburgh and spend my day here, instead. I got a charming tea towel and a miniature wok with a cat painted on the side (yes, that is the sort of treasure you can get in Peebles) and a blue knit cap. I'm lucky my bus-dictated window of time was only four hours long, as I could have inflicted twice as much shopping damage. I didn't even make it as far the bookstore specializing in Scottish literature or one of the half dozen bakeries or delicatessens. Yes, this is what Peebles is known for: 'At least six hours of entertainment.'

I ended my afternoon by taking tea at a charming little tea shop in a courtyard accessible by a tiny covered passage between shops. I ordered a tea cake, which as far as I can tell is made by generously buttering a hamburger bun, throwing in a handful of raisins and a smattering of cinnamon, and then sticking the entire thing in a panini press. And it was de-LISH-ous.

Oh, heavens. I forgot to finish 'Brighton Does.'

2008-11-09T19:23:00.004Z

Story of my life...I began the next adventure before closing the old! I am here to finish up the Brighton Does series...here is the last set of photos I would like to call...um...Brighton Does?

2008-11-08T09:24:00.004Z

This is seriously so cute I just puked in my mouth. Stick it out to the end.

Scotland: the Cast of Characters

2008-11-06T20:30:00.008Z

Last weekend's visit to Scotland was an action-packed adventure: we hit a Halloween party, went guising (that is what the Scottish call trick-or-treating), visited Edinburgh, went hiking at Loch Lomond, dined with the Grandparents McQuade in Glasgow, and spent a day touring the shops of Peebles...but before I post all the photos, I want you to meet my weekend's generous hosts:

Introducing...the Family McQuade-Ferrier! In no particular order...

First we have Aiden...he is 5, makes armies out of marbles (each troop is color-coded, and they fight a giant), and sets up chess boards per the below, although you get the idea it changes every time:

Please note: the rules are also made up as you go, and you will find that he is nearly impossible to beat.

This is Daddy 'Robert' Ferrier. He made wonderful curry on Saturday night, and with notable flair.

Robert and Aiden skipping stones in Loch* Lomond. Marie gave Robert a handful of flat stones to pass to Aiden, but they never made it that far.

This is Jude...8 years old, he is the best violinist-video-gamer-reader-alarm-clock I have ever met. He is a natural in front of the camera and no doubt has a career of modeling ahead of him when he's not exploring the principles of quantum physics.

Robert again, this time modeling outdoorswear rather than aprons. Yes, a true renaissance man.

This is Marie: chef, writer, and the most efficient mother in all the land. Also, if my one weekend was any indication, the hub of the village social life...she knows EVERYbody, and gets a new party invitation every time you blink an eye.

Robert and Marie watching Aiden...he is up a tree (see below), conducting the fall colors. That, and knocking down leaves with a stick. A few moments after this, he falls from the tree, shooting in a perfect vertical between branches before catching himself with his arms, at which point Robert reached him and lifted him down. The fall (and catch) looked like something out of a cartoon. It was very exciting for all involved. You also get the sense that Aiden is utterly indestructible, as this was merely one of a half dozen near-misses that afternoon. He also tripped and banged his chin on the one post on the entire trail and later fell in the loch up to his waist. It's really a miracle we survived the day with this whirlwind of adventure:

And last but not least...we have Grampa McQuade. Jude and Aiden couldn't get enough of him...and really: would you be able to?

*'Loch' means 'lake.' But don't call the lochs lakes unless you're looking for kicks and just like to hear the wonderful Scottish accent saying 'loch' over and over again as they are forced correct you. Which I do.

The perfect wake-up

2008-11-01T10:51:00.004Z

Last night Jude (8) and I, after discovering our bedrooms shared a wall, struck a deal: when he woke (rather, an hour after he woke, given his 6:30 a.m. self-propelled launch in the world), he would knock on my wall three times. Then he would pause. Then knock three times again. And so on and so forth until he heard a corresponding three knocks back, indicating a wake-up has occurred.

And so this morning it came: * tap tap tap * * tap tap tap * * long pause * * tap tap tap * I roused, disoriented, wondering whether or not they had construction going on or whether or not there was a bird having a heydey at my window until I remembered. Rolling over, I * tap tap tap'd* back. Silence. A moment later the door peeks open: "Are you awake?"

It was perfect. I'm now going to see if I can convince him to play his violin to wake me tomorrow morning...and then I'm going to steal him forever.

The perfect little village in the perfect Scottish countryside

2008-10-31T10:38:00.004Z

I have officially arrived in Scotland for a wonderful four-day weekend to visit part of The Family McQuade (Marie, Robert, Jude, and Aiden) and so far I am LOVING it. We're in a village a half hour from Edinburgh, and to get here we drove through lush, green rolling hills dotted with lush, white grazing sheep under lush, dark gray skies, occasionally slowing through windy lanes bordered by tiny stone cottages that pre-date the existence of America. Driving through the village proper, we passed a white church standing sentinel over a perfect green park through which a group of children wearing colorful peacoats and caps traipsed hand-in-hand, no doubt on their way to a pumpkin patch or perhaps a lifesize gingerbread house. My particular room here has an entire glass wall overlooking a valley of more lushness and more impossible greenery, and I am tempted not to leave my perch on the window seat for the duration of my stay, unless it is to shift to a spot in front of the fireplace or refill my tea.

Tonight we head out to take the boys to a Halloween party. I'm excited to see how the Scottish do Halloween; I feel like I'm getting an inside scoop by having the privilege of participating with a personal, child-filled family.

In the meantime, back to my perch in the window!

Brighton Sleeps and Brighton Shops

2008-10-29T10:38:00.000Z

More of the 'Brighton Does' series...today I give you photos of the bed-and-breakfast I stayed in while in Brighton...it was a gorgeous little boutique hotel called Maison Mascara, and I of COURSE reserved the super duper luxury suite because one, there was a mid-week special, and two, that's how I roll.

Please note the huge Egyptian cotton duvet, so heavy that it pinned me down and made me toasty warm and happy.

Self-portrait. And despite the apparent crawling on top of furniture, I did not follow this up with jumping on the bed. At least not that I'm admitting.

Yes. My super duper luxury suite came complete with tub-in-room. So of course I rested my weary shopping feet with a hot bath before dinner...and then I rested my heavy dinner tummy by taking a bath before bed...and then I woke up and rested my...oh, wait. Needless to say, it was amazing I left my room at all with this amenity at hand.

Then there was the shopping...I had a to-do list of two items: I needed a pair of gloves (apparently sooner than I expected) and a zippered pouch to hold miscelleneous small items cluttering up the bottom of my purse. And it turns out Brighton is the BEST place to buy...anything, given the hundreds of stores packed into a maze of teeny tiny alleys (otherwise known as The Lanes).

Junk Funk is where I got the Greatest Zippered Pouch in all the land. I must photo it for you--it's a soft squooshy turquoise leather with birds on it and a white satin interior. I love it so much I want to go back and get one of each design (the orange one with robot, the green with giraffe...). They'd make great Christmas gifts, if I were generous enough to share...

First Snowfall of the Season

2008-10-28T22:19:00.008Z

Half an hour ago I made the mistake of looking out the window. And what is currently happening outside? A BLIZZARD. That's what. This photo of the back porch shows what has already accumulated. Looks like a greeting card, doesn't it? A GREETING CARD BY A SADIST. If you look closely at the photo, you can see the snow coming down.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hide under the covers until spring.

Brighton Eats

2008-10-28T10:36:00.006Z

As my life becomes increasingly hectic with the needs of Mommies 1-10, vacations like last week's to Brighton seem like they may become fewer and farther between. However, now that Mommy 9 has hired me on three days a week, and I'm with Mommy 1 the other two days, I am considering paring down the remainder of Mommies, as watching their little ones in the evenings would create a child-minding schedule that would drive the most reasonable of humans to the brink of insanity. And since we can all admit that I already live my life on said brink, let's not tempt the crazy gods, shall we?

So let's tour Brighton together...this is the first of a posting series called 'Brighton Does.' Today, Brighton Eats.

This is Pokeno's Pies. According to my book, it is 'lauded by national food critics,' and while I can't actually verify this report, I can at least say I got one heckuva good chicken and butternut squash pie. (Can we now boast that Pokeno's has been lauded internationally?)

Gravy optional. To which I say POUR IT ON, MOFO'S! And don't be slow about it!

I met a Brighton local at the Sloane Square Market a couple of weeks ago, and I can actually thank him for recommending all of these places. His suggestion for me to try pre-dinner cocktails at Misty's (happy hour 2-for-1) was perfect--their beer garden was cozy and charming, and the bartender Ivan knew his stuff (which is a rarity in the average London pub-tender, so I can't imagine how Brighton typically fares).

Sidebar: what exactly defines a beer garden? Is there a such thing as a cocktail garden? Or just a straight up drink garden? Someone please to shed some light on this.

The Drink Garden.

Then dinner at Coriander! Coriander (below) is a North African-Latin fusion restaurant with an attached deli. The food was great, the restaurant was crowded with locals (as evidenced by their hearty greetings of Chef Dave, who occasionally emerged from the kitchen to make the rounds of tables), and the entire experience felt very warm and intimate.

And the next morning, before catching the train* back to London, I stopped at Sejuice, a tiny smoothie place in the Lanes (Brighton's shopping district).

Sejuice was great: I told Mr. Dread that I was fighting a cold, and he instantly added ginger to my citrus-laden beverage.

Also, is this not the sort of guy you'd want serving up your smoothies? He's got organic written all over him.

*A note on the trains: a train to Brighton from London takes a little less than an hour. This is like the transportation equivalent of taking Bay Area Rapid Transit from 24th Street Mission to, say, Walnut Creek. An easy day trip, basically. But if you tell people here that you are going to Brighton for a day and a half, they recoil: "Isn't that awfully far for just one night?"

And that's how to get a job.

2008-10-27T21:24:00.011Z

Yesterday, 2:47 p.m.:

Mommy 9: The baby totally shifted and his head is RIGHT ON MY BLADDER. I can barely walk right now.

Me: Really? When is he due?

Mommy 9: December 15th.

Me: That's what YOU think. He's so coming early.

Mommy 9: Don't SAY that.

Me: No, I'm serious. He's on his way. AS WE SPEAK.

Yesterday, 11:32 p.m., voicemail:

"I just had the baby. Can you start tomorrow morning?"

And so began Day 1!

I didn't realize monkeys were so particular.

2008-10-24T17:58:00.004+01:00