Working Thanksgiving

I really miss Thanksgiving. Today Lorne asked me how I do it. You know, be away from family all the time, especially over the holidays. Really, really if you just don’t go on facebook it’s sort of easy to forget. Sort of*. But I don’t really want to forget. I would rather just enrich my current situation/location/relationships with the greatness that is Thanksgiving. Instead, I just use this day to be consciously thankful for everything. (Like the Met line to Uxbridge being on time, though I was not – re: making of the cornbread as described below.) Including being in London. Even if that really means I am not with my family when I want to be.

Whilst I am thankful that I am employed, I was not so grateful that I had to go to work today. So I organised an international Thanksgiving lunch at work where everyone brought in a dish from their homeland (our office comprises people from: England, America, India, Portugal, Ireland, Germany, France, the Netherlands, Norway, Czech Republic, Hong Kong. We are only an office of 17). This meant that when I should be in bed. At home. In America. I was actually waking up even earlier to make cornbread dressing for my colleagues. It was tedious, but it felt good. I felt glad to be awake, enjoying the morning sun, acting on a promise to my colleagues to bring food and my tradition to the office. I felt thankful that I had that extra hour to drink an entire [large] cafetiere of coffee in my bed and pray and be thankful while I waited for the food to cook. I felt thankful that I am 27 and growing up and learning how to make my own tradition…even if it’s not what I really wanted. I was thankful to be thankful.

So here I am, with a full Thanksgiving belly. At work. Trying not to fall asleep at my desk and very thankful that I’m not wearing pants. Because they would be totally unbuttoned right now.

*Until your family calls you and reminds you that you are far away and missing out. And then you succumb to temptation and go on facebook and gobble up everyone else’s holiday and leave bloated with jealously and homesickness**

**Thankfully, this has not happened yet. I am 27 and mature, people. I’m better than that. Also, it’s not even 2pm. And not many people are awake in America so there isn’t much to gobble.

a very merry unbirthday

My eldest sister pointed out what I had always suspected: at the age of 27 everything changes. You are suddenly in your late twenties and basically an adult. Even people who went to med school or lived at home and took 7 years to get a speech com degree are finally expected to make a little money and contribute to society. So, I would like to share with you just how I relished my last day as a wuhman-child:

Woke up early due to extreme dehydration. (Very intense birthday party-related aerobics, obviously.) Laid in bed for a while. Got up at about 10:30...ish and went out for a greasy spoon brekky with Lorne and NaNeil. Watched TV for an entire day with

aforementioned breakfast companions. Ate an entire birthday cake with my birthday co-conspirator (Lorne, who turned 27 on Friday and therefore really had no excuse to continue acting like a lady-child). Dumped party dishes into dishwasher. Ok, watched Lorne dump dishes into dishwasher. Whilst eating cake. Ate Doritos for dinner (second big bag of the day) and watched a movie (was a film in French and therefore tres cultural, successfully balancing out the fratboy dinner). Went to bed. Did manage to wash my face and brush my teeth on this very productive day. Once.

Today, I went to work early like a grown-up and worked on thank you cards. I suddenly feel so very mature. Blogging at work is less mature, but it is my [3rd] coffee break. And my birthday. So lay off me.

Hello?

Yes, I know it has been a long time. So long that you are probably no longer following this. And I don't blame you.

I was going to write a beautiful diatribe laden with wit, excuses and an explanation of how and why I often fail at life and will never be growed up, but then I realised that someone had already done it for me. I cannot explain it any better than Hyperbole and a Half.

So, with my birthday just around the corner, I am going to try and begin anew. Start afresh. Attempt, and fail, but attempt again at being an adult. Which is why I purchased a domain. Because maybe if I am actually paying for the website I will keep up with it.* So as soon as I figure out how in the world to work the template, you will be redirected to my [eventually] very sweet new site



*Should be noted that I actually purchased the website over 2 months ago and still have done nothing with it, but that is neither here nor there.

Classy Kilburn

It's been over a month since I last posted. Whilst I highly doubt that people have been anxiously awaiting an update, I still feel bad about it. Like there is this enormous pressure to make this a good one and please the legions of fans and followers. I worry even my dad has given up on me. Unfortunately, I have no such fantastic overture back into my blog. Instead, I will let some pictures from my fabulous London life speak for me. These were taken on the main road near where I live. It just goes to show you that money can't buy you class...but sequence bustiers can point you in the right direction.

Let there be night

I feel that owe my beloved bedmaker a little credit. I slighted his efforts in the last post, and now I must give credit where credit is due: The bed is complete. Just look at it. What a beaut. Hard to believe that only a few short nights ago it was nothing but a pile of little metal poles. Ok, well...maybe it’s not that hard to imagine. It was finance over fashion, people. And the sepia [sort of] hides the fact that my “bedroom” is slightly monochromatic and in need of some colour and decor. Flourishes all in due time. And yes, the nightstand was once a computer box. Going to have to upgrade soon as it is starting to cave in after a few midnight spills...

Serendipitous sniffing

Today, as I crammed onto the Jubilee line at Kilburn, giving my utmost concentration to maintaining my balance without having to touch anything...or anyone, I suddenly felt something warm and soft sniffing? my leg. Horror. I look down and, much to my delight, I found my favourite guide dog resting her sweet little head against my leg. I had to contain myself. She was on duty and I am a grown up. I glance up to find the whole family present: my lovely sightless neighbour, his wife, their 2 young daughters and [of course] his eyes. As I was hopping off I suddenly heard one of the little girls yell “not yet, Nicky”. A name not unlike the bestest dog in the whole wide world (my Nicholas, RIP).

Blackout Swan

Late last Saturday afternoon I was sitting in Orrery Epicurie (not good, btw) on Marylebone High Street drinking tea and thinking about how it was about this time last week that I fainted during Black Swan, when my thoughts were interrupted by a man and his seeing-eye dog as they passed the cafe/deli/whatever it was on the other side of the street. I love when London feels small. I had seen this same man and his same incredibly beautiful, sweet looking black lab earlier that week at Kilburn Station (a station that people don’t tend to use unless they live around there, and is not super close to Marylebone) taking his young daughter to school…as she jabbered his ear off.

I was in the area because I had been out for dinner with some LSE friends on Friday night at Ishtar near Baker Street and I had left my makeup case, so I had to return the next day to retrieve it. Whilst I do admittedly struggle with vanity, I do not carry around my makeup case wherever I go. No, I had it with me because I have come to the conclusion that any amount of time on the Met line magically transports from a normal being to haggard beast, so I carry my beauty supplies to work with me on Monday, get ready at the bright, spacious vanity in the bathroom there, start each workday with a fresh face…and then I bring the bag back home on the weekends. I went out right after work. I left my makeup bag right after finishing my Turkish coffee and scoffing at how the “optional” gratuity was not, in fact, optional. (I know, I’m horrible - I’ve become stingy and European about tipping… But it was more the principle that if it’s optional…it should be bloody optional.)

The restaurant is a nice enough little gem. I think it was reasonably priced, but I am not quite sure because 2.5 years in London has meant that I have an incredibly distorted view of “reasonably priced”…even for someone who isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, categorised as being in the higher earning bracket. Come to think of it, maybe £5 for hummus isn't reasonably priced...even for London. It was an upscale Turkish restaurant, but in my option really just meant - Turkish food + nice decor. It claimed to serve “modern

Turkish cuisine”. So modern, in fact, that some of it wasn’t Turkish at all. Salmon and new potatoes? So I went for the grilled selections in hopes that they would be more authentic, and I chose quite well (although it came in one of those sliced wraps that looked strangely similar to a southwestern wrap from Chilis...). I went for the Sarma Tavuk Beyti (sounded Turkish enough), which, upon further inquiry, I discovered was considered one of the 2 “signature dishes”. The portions were generous and well spiced, and the Turkish wine was quite friendly as well. Then came my Turkish coffee. And my good fortune. CJB was inspecting the dark, silky grounds for The Grim when she discovered that I am not doomed for imminent death, but just plain romance.

I swooned at the cinema just as the movie was ending. Literally loosing my conscious self in a movie has happened to me only once before – during Revolutionary Road – but the friends I was with never noticed because I bent over to return the blood to my head and passed out so gracefully that they thought I was just looking for something in my purse… for a long time. I don’t know their excuse for not noticing that soon thereafter I started stripping off my clothing and trying not to vomit in said purse…

This time I had been holding out for a long time. I couldn’t believe this was happening again - I’ve totally seen [and been fine with] more blood than this. Ugh, but I was also hot. So hot. And breathless. And weak. I could feel my pulse because it was so weirdly slow it was draining all my energy from me. Movie, please END. Sip of coke. No help. Gulping air. No help. Remove jacket. OhmygoshI’mgoingtovomit. I throw my purse into N’s lap, tell him to watch it and head for the door. I need air. And maybe to puke. Luckily, N knows me and my history with slow, graphic, but not necessarily gratuitous, blood scenes and he followed me out…otherwise he would have found me lain across the exit to the cinema. Just as I reached the door it all went black and I went down...down…down. I was moving. Bumbling along in the black lighter than my usual self. Down, down, down again because I needed a little nap. Wait, no! Back, back, back. Um, well maybe after the nap. Just for a second. Silence. Resting. Hmmm… Suddenly I can feel: I feel my legs (bent, pushed together) swirling around in a jerky motion. Suddenly I can hear, very far away: “are you ok?” “should we call someone?” “no, she’s fine”. I’m fine. Where the hell am I? Wait, who’s fine? Are they talking to me? I can see: Omygosh there is someone trying to push my knees into my chest, or lift them above my head… and N keeps pushing my head so that I face the left. What’s to the left? Where the hell am I again? I can think and reason: Balls. I’m lying on the floor outside the cinema aren’t I? I fainted? I sit up…ish (Oh, gonna puke. Lay back down.) “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just mortified.” All my senses are back, including the always important sense of personal shame that comes with lying down outside the cinema as people exit the movie. My kind helper leaves after I assure her that I am fine, sit back up prematurely to prove it and then fight the urge to vom all over her and disprove it. A kind middle-aged woman who works at the cinema bends down to see if I am ok. “What movie did you see, honey? 127 Days?” “Uh, no. Black Swan.”

Homme Improvement

There is a reason why it is called "do it yourself"... because, alas, you have to do it yourself. Many moons ago I purchased a bed. This came in 2 parts:

1.) A crappy mattress

2.) A crappy frame

The frame, which goes by the alias "Bed in a Box", requires some assembly. So, I asked my darling, dear, sweet N to please help me do this as it is a two (wo)man job. He unflinchingly agreed. How could I be so blessed? Fast forward 7 weeks:

<-- The bed frame... in all its unassembled glory.

Last weekend we decided - "Oh, who cares about the stupid bed?! Life is too short to care about sleeping on just a mattress... Asian people do it all the time! Let's have a nice relaxing weekend and put it in the calendar* to put that sucker together on Wednesday night!" [Carefree laughter. We are so laid back you can just see simple material needs and worries, such as bed frame assembly, roll insouciantly off our backs.]***

***Some poetic license has been taken and obviously the conversation was a little less histrionic... But you get the idea.

Why I find this picture...annoying...:

1.) It was taken today (slightly over 24 hours since Wednesday)

2.) It apparently reflects some "progress"

I came home Wednesday night hoping to find my bed frame almost complete. Promises kept. Projects coming to fruition. Instead, I found..."progress".

Last week, the bed went from "in a box" to "on my floor next the mattress". Last night the bed went from "on the floor next to my bed in plastic wrap" to "4 parts unwrapped and placed on the bed". That was the progress.

My response? Obviously, a pat on the back, unfathomable gratitude aaaand this shaming post.

*Fun fact: They call it "diary". When you pencil someone in...you pen it in your "diary". Which can be a little confusing... At first I thought everyone journaled here - that they liked to keep copious notes on their life activities in their personal diaries or something. That's sweet. And reflective...

New Year's Procrastinations

Welp... this day did not get off to the productive, rousing start that I anticipated when I wrote my “To Do” list yesterday. Instead of leaping out of bed at 8am sharp and seizing the day as planned, I lay in bed for 2 hours, tumbled out at about 11 and stuffed my face with a pain au chocolat. So much for that salubrious breakfast to start the day off right. I then mulled around in pajamas* for an hour or so - checked facebook, judged 2-5 people, read the news and eventually... slowly... acquiesced to the demands of my “To Do” list.

1.) Get up;

2.) Get dressed.

But it’s totally fine to have a slow and ineffectual start to the day as it keeps to one of my New Year’s resolutions: to not let slow, delayed starts inhibit me from starting at all. Which is also why it is totally ok that I didn’t start my New Year’s resolution to post on my blog at least once a week until today – 3 weeks after the New Year commenced. Perfection is very 2010. For 2011, I’m seeking slow, steady progression - breaking up the monotony of gradual success with plateaus and the odd bender (to keep me grounded and humble). Perfection is so incredibly tiring, arrogant, judgemental, envious, impossible and will either drive you mad, drive everyone else mad or become so discouraging that you will be unable to do anything good with your life at all. Gone are the days [for me] of trying to have (i.e. project) it all. Something that I think is especially pertinent for women: I feel like we have to have jobs (good ones, preferably of entrepreneurial sort...so we can have families and gardens and stuff...), the perfectly decorated house, a fantastic body... and wardrobe to match (but God forbid you be vain), be able to cook, clean, socialise AND have the stamina to drink like a man and keep up with politics too (but don’t drink and know too much...that’s intimidating... and [not to mention] bloody unattractive...). You must be simultaneously brilliant, humble, deep...but only depth of the digestible nature so as to not be patronising and irritating. And this must all be accomplished while producing the most minimal carbon footprint possible. To be honest, I just came up with these New Year’s resolutions this morning on the walk home from N’s house. I was merely trying to compensate for past sins (re: pain au chocolat) by walking home when I was suddenly inspired to synchronously start a resolution and keep one (i.e. not be inhibited by slow starts). Man, I’m good. Maybe I should rethink that perfection one... it might just be impossible not to do.

I’m currently at a higgledy piggledy wine bar in my old haunts (the hood of my pre-studio, Swiss Cottage frat house) sipping the house white (the cheapest thing on the list) listening to old British men talk about the Kings Speech and their wives, whilst my crural inspiration (Tina Turner) belts in the background, thinking that the monochromatic London sky is actually the perfect backdrop to the city – it really makes all the beautiful, imposing buildings, vibrant clash of old and new and [of course] the filth “pop”... It all seems very romantic, but I’m really only here because it’s next to the Laundromat where I’m doing a mass wash of the clothes that have been fermenting at my flat since before Christmas. Never again will I let this happen. It was a hot mess trying to find enough washers to accommodate my soiled raiment.

So this post was basically pointless other than it was the stepping stone to me completing my new New Year’s resolution. If I continue my slow, steady climb to becoming an average or acceptable human being, then there should be much more to come.

Potential monographic topics:

v Epic journey across to Atlantic to Mexico to spend a week with N and the family in my actual second homeland

v A myriad of gastronomic delights enjoyed in London - which has been named [for the umpteenth time] the food capital of the world (N, please post a link to that article or something...I’m too lazy to look it up)

v Weekend trips in Oxfordshire

v My theatre 2011 experiences (I am a “Friend” of the Old Vic so I anticipate some regular theatre-going this year)

v Whatever self-deprecation I feel like oversharing with y’all

*Fun fact: They spell it “pyjamas” here...Weird. Makes me think of little indigenous people, no?