Saved by Percocet or paradise i miss you already

I finally got my very own visit to the ER. I have long complained that it is unfair that I have always been second fiddle. First fiddle is overrated though as I have just learned. 

And there is nothing wrong with me. Other than a 9 hour plane ride with what I thought was a broken wrist, a twisted ankle shoved under row 61 of Virgin flight 19, a mother in law tying my shoes and a father in law first twisting my arm to rule out various things and then rewarding my bawling with Percocet. Thanks. That is a lot more than the ER people here gave me, if you don't count 2 hours of waiting and a wrist brace. They were nice though, which is more than I would expect from anyone working in NYE. 

So many more exciting stories to tell from a week in paradise, but let me just say that sports or attempted sports is murder, a saying which happens to rhyme in German. Now onto a nap and figuring out how much of NYE with bonfires and bells can be salvaged. 

If i don't make it out of my den and in the unlikely event that we are not in the same city: Happy 2008 and lets see if we can end up in the same city for at least a few hours next year (I do airport calls).

Brixton: Adult Christmas Tale

Until last night all I knew about Brixton (south of the river Thames, a.k.a. the wrong side of the tracks) was based on the following tale: A man once lived in Brixton. A young man he was, full of love for his fellow men and women, a creative, open minded, a nice young fellow. Also, he was (is) English and polite and a tatsy worried about his reputation as we will learn in a moment. This young man, not so long ago, lets say during the festive season a few years back, disembarked from the London underground, climbed up the long escalator and was swiftly on his way home. Upon seeing this handsome clean man emerge from the station, the dirty and dark elements of Brixton came out of the woodwork. Not being able to feed them all (crack) but because it was the festive season and because he is good and loving he gave a lonely, sad looking homeless woman a pound (that is TWO dollars just for the record).

That was a mistake he was going to regret, a mistake that would change his life forever.

Upon receiving this gift, this woman, undoubtedly aware of the fact that there is no free lunch, jumped to her ragged feet and ran after him. How would she be able to repay his niceness? She had very little for herself, and even less to give. But then she used her cracked out head and she knew just what to do: "That was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me" she cried out. "I owe you a blow job". Our young man, irritated by a distasteful gift as such, after all it was the festive season, ran off and away. He ran until he could run no more. That night when he reached his house, he went to bed early and slept well. It was the last good sleep he was to have in this very house in Brixton.

The next morning, on his way to the tube, at the exact moment of reaching the long escalator into the inner workings of the underground system of London, shoved and pushed by the masses of commuters, he hears a scream: "you" he hears someone saying, "you", a woman says again, pointing at him as the crowd parts, "I owe you a blow job, come here, I owe you a blow job". "No" says our hero "you do not owe me a blow job", with conviction he turns to his fellow commuters "this lady, she does not owe me a blow job", but it was his word against hers and her word was louder, "Yes, I do, I owe you a blow job" she insists. What can one do?

He moved north, he sold his house and he never came back. This tale is based on a true story, which carries the moral of "a pound is two dollars and don't be throwing around with two dollars" or else "there are two dollar blow jobs to be had in Brixton" or finally, to remind us all that "sometimes it is better to give than to receive".

Last night we went to the scene of this incident our very selves, and while it did not happen to me, I was reassured that yes, it is true, they do offer them for two dollars and besides that, or maybe after that, there is fabulous sushi for the exorbitant price of 10x a BJ and cock tails for half that. Why go for the tail when you can have, well, the whole thing taken care of? Someone has got to get the unions involved.

Inspired by Pippi Longstocking

I figured it out, the meaning of life, the meaning of work!!!! It all just came together!!!

Woho, as Pippi Longstocking said: "If you don't go to school you don't get vacation".

And guess what I am getting? Vacation! Starting tomorrow. But really it's starting today because I just had a chat with the few dazed and confused economizers who are currently in the office about how honestly I think I'd rather be doing something else and nobody was shocked and also nobody was my boss, so it was a nice little practice run, but felt good anyway. Then economist No. 1 got everyone coffee, real coffee, not that stingy, economically friendly, instant junk.

Now I am mentally preparing my bathing suits, trying to remember if Miami in the 'winter' is too cold for sandals, stuffing my face with Armenian sweets and am pretty confident that next year I'll be doing exciting things and I am telling you, the meaning of life is all about not economizing and possibly about getting a monkey to sit on your shoulder and the meaning of work is to do it so you appreciate not having to do it. Or more eloquently put "work is the means of life; leisure the end" (don't remember who said this). A bit depressing that one. Hmpf, I better spend the rest of the day refining this thought because I KNOW the end does not justify the means and thus there must be a better means out there, a means that in itself spells out yay and stars and balloons.

What is it with girls and horses?

When I asked a former roommate of mine whether she could see me being a pony girl and she answered that in fact she could, I was excited. Apparently she envisioned me with ugly braids, braces, a true English school girl uniform, attending fox hunting events, brushing polo ponies and being all around spoilt and awful, but I took it as a compliment.

I still don't understand how she could say such a mean thing, but I am able to see past the incident and that's because I love ponies. Yep, love them so much, that I considered the word pony an adjective for a while, used when describing other particularly cute animals, such as a pony kitty, which in turn gave me a great idea for a porn name. If you ever sneak into the X rated section of netflix and see something starring pony kitty, you know it's me.

So yesterday was particularly special on the pony front. We went to the Olympia horse show, newly acquired husband in tow, and I was glad to see that the pony girl front is going strong even without me. Masses of butch looking trainers/mothers with twenty girls in mostly pink around them, the matriarchs voice coarse from yelling at kids and dogs over the last decades and chain smoking in the cold, faces weathered. I won't lie - as they put up some big fences in the arena and all those little skinny girl riders won their pretty ribbons, I was itching to be one of them, just one more time. That desire was somewhat subdued by a conversation newly acquired husband overheard at the ham and booze stand (only at horse shows!).

guy 1: So, lots of girl, around here, eh?
guy2: yep
guy 1: Any of them fit?
guy 2: No

A look around for confirmation and he was right. Also of course he said this before Swedish girl, who accompanied me and myself showed up.

Advice to men: If you are able to see past the unfit part and if you can tune out really well while someone talks A LOT about saddles and stirrups (yes) and cantering, being a boy in horseland might hold some potential. Where else is the gender ratio 99:1 in your favour and where else do tight riding outfits reveal all you need to know when choosing a mate? Did I mention you have to like the smell of horse poop? Opps, I didn't. Yeah, I guess that explains why men are just not going for it despite the odds. That and the butch thing.

Choices

Don't you feel that people who live in a country where their vote (sort of) counts should exercise their voting power or else shut up and quit the sniveling?

I have never voted my entire life yet I do bi-continental whining whenever possible. The latest sabotage is only a few short weeks past. Newly acquired husband and I trashed our local election ballot slipped under out door (Without the booths in some courthouse or other, ceremonially putting that piece of paper into that mail box or piggie bank looking container, this did not seem fun and also we didn't have a stamp). A few weeks later we burned the warning notice that arrived informing us that it was our duty to vote.

I don't vote in the motherland because I still mentally live in 1993 (bangles, bangs, Kurt Cobain) and some might argue I have lost touch with the more current issues. After Americanization the nice war veteran man with his registration desk blocked the way from the swearing in ceremony to the parking lot but we were in a hurry to get a celebratory pint in before returning to work. I justify this because I think my vote is useless in Massachusetts.

However, I am currently claiming US residency in Dade county, Florida, and it appears that last time or was it the time before, we had a bit of a, ehem, problem with counting and things. How do you say, make my brother president? Ask my governor.

I am not Haitian nor elderly, but when push comes to shove, the new and shiny machines (manufactured by whom again?) might just not be able to read my vote. Maybe there will be some extra choices on the ballots? Or some names missing? Or the mark, sign, circle (how does this work?) already made for me? Add to that the problematique of being an absentee voter who is pretty much a deserter and does not deserve a ballot all, even one with only one name to chose from on it, and you see my excuses piled up high. Do I actually believe all the conspiracy theories? Not really, but do I know what actually happened last time? No. Maybe the media was bought along with the presidency. Bad me, more conspiracy theories.

I might as well go to the London Democrats abroad party in that very pretty building they have, mingle with those Americans who make me believe that all of America will vote Democrat, the same people who last time around apparently could not fathom the outcome being what it was, who were genuinely surprised, the same people who have lost touch with all their compatriots, especially the ones living in the middle of that country, the ones with the big trucks and the shotguns and the mega churches. Instead of going through the pain of reacquainting themselves with those folks, they have created a happy place for themselves right here near the bosom of the Queen. During this joyous season we can be happy to know that Americans everywhere are just like us: making a difference, one cocktail at a time.

Boredom

Boredom
Originally uploaded by Kristian S. Solli

The only sound breaking the silence is the rasp rasp rasp of the ancient secretary filing her nails.

Typing these very words echos in the building, then subsides as I freak myself out and stop. It is so silent, was so silent yesterday, and will be tomorrow that I want to scream, nice and high pitched. How do people work like this?

I dared bringing my favorite chocolate into the office because I know there is nobody to eat it. Ancient secretary does not do sugar.

The two minor tasks that were on my list of things to do last Friday are still there because in this utter quietness and boredom I cannot even get myself to close YouTube and open excel. I feel too weak to move the mouse even vaguely into that direction.

Oh please, somebody give me something interesting to think about. I might not make it to see 2008 otherwise.

Careful - Brain Dump: for easier reading see mini lustings below

Reading Ayn Rand in combination with discussing fuel subsidies for the energy poor in rural Scotland has gotten me thinking about the sort of world I want to live in. Serious stuff. Lets start with this: I know what I don't want.

I don't want to live in a society where pool old ladies freeze to death in their homes to be found via the spring floods the next year, where people loose their homes in those spring floods and are left to make their kids sweep chimneys, where those kids grow up not having a chance at a decent education, life and achieving something more than just basic survival. Or even just survival.

If you are young or old and things are not working out for you, in my mind, it's easy, you need help and I am willing to pick up the tab, but given that life turns out to be a big of a progression, this totally doesn't work out as smoothly as anticipated.

Needy kids become needy adults and who is to say on your 18th or 21st or 25th birthday all of a sudden you have it in you to seek your chance to be happy, healthy and independent when all you have known is a parent who switches on the TV once they roll out of bed at 11 and call the pizza delivery to bring extra beer while they are at it?

That's not really our likely Harvard candidate, is it? Even the better if she is. Lets stick with or her sad brother for a moment though. Can it be that someone is somehow excused from ever taking responsibility for their own life? Lets assume for a second that had they been born in Borneo 200 years ago they might have been a chief fighter and it's only this crap society that made them paralyzed on his couch and beer guzzling? Don't the winners of today who would have been eaten by this chief fighter in Borneo 200 years ago, owe him help? But help to keep up the beer guzzling or what? I mean, can you force someone to do something they don't want to? Can you assume they want what you think is good for them? And once you are old and you spent your whole life beer guzzling, do I still feel the need to pay for your happy retirement (from beer guzzling) just because you are old? Also what about the Harvard goer from this family? She made it, maybe the rest just didn't try hard enough and should be left to beer guzzling because that is what they do best?

My first instinct is that I love my independence and I hate to be told what to do. Beyond that, I think, on average I trust myself more than any unknown person. If you were to tell me a thing or two about what I might need or should want in life, I am all about it, because I already hand picked you to be my friend and thus either we agree on certain things or we don't but I respect your view. In any case, I will not have an unknown entity, lets call it the state tell me what to do. I like my rights. So does beer guzzler.

In return I am willing to accept that the state is not responsible to figure my life out for me, instead that responsibility lies with myself. I don't expect to be handed things. Oh wait, really? I do expect health care, especially now that I pay taxes, I do expect help if due to bad luck or bad decisions I am temporarily in a bad spot, I do expect the cops to hunt down those people were they to break into my apartment and take my pretty things, I expect people not to take my pretty things, I do expect public transport to work for me, I expect to get TV reception (which I don't get) and so on. I do expect lots of things. I am very lucky that I am not lacking anything, but I do feel that given how good and virtuous I am now, someone should take care of me, in case things turn bad. So I think we have established here that not only do I like my rights, I do have a few expectations too. So does beer guzzler.

Rights are great , how about responsibilities? I do think every woman, man and child (when kid's meals are 29 cents on Wednesdays at least), have a right to eat their dirty double whopper. I don't necessarily want to exercise that right but I want to have it and I want you to have it, including beer guzzler, as long as that does not hurt people around you. Same for that great Argentinian wine. Same for riding motor cycles fast, same for traveling to diseased countries. Of course hurting others is relative in a society of socialist health care, which I already established I think is a right in itself. So what IS my responsibility then? How do I not hurt someone yet at the same time exercise my rights? This is getting very complicated.

So beer guzzling brother of Harvard-going hard working beating-the-odds-sister has the right to be beer guzzling and also the right to get his stomach pumped whenever necessary because I would want that right? Or not because he in fact is not paying taxes? Is it about paying in that qualifies you to get something out? Is that the responsibility bit of the bargain? Harvard-going sister on a freshmen year binge weekend certainly has the right to be taken care of, after all she will contribute great things to society just as soon as she becomes that social worker or Aids fighting scientist. So, is contributing great things, even future great things, living up to your responsibilities? But his poor granny who watched her own kids turn into beer guzzlers, worked hard her entire life, failed miserably, and now had a heart attack from all her fried chicken...oh come on, are you going to let her die? Not in the place I want to live in! So is the responsibility bit really about being a good person. A good person by whose standard?

Is it a value judgement about how people live their lives that makes them eligible to claim their rights? Whose value judgement? I trust my friends judgement and I trust my own. I bet beer guzzler does too. I want to have my burger and eat it too, don't you?

Mini lustings in Germany

When I think of wanderlusting I don't think of the old continent, but nevertheless, rucksack full of goodies, newly acquired husband and I made that rugged trip on Ryanair back to the homeland of Christmas markets and Therme's. You can imagine what we got in the first place: sugar hearts, Gluehwein, Feuerzangenbowle, wieners the size of dogs, lollipops the size of wieners and merry Germans. The wiener and merry German theme contined as well in the Therme.

A Therme for those of you without German lusting experiences, is a thermal bath usually as part of a public indoor pool, in this case equipped with two giant slides for the little ones and two small and steamy whirlpools for the, well, bigger (but not always) ones. The added bonus at the latter is that it is located in a so called textile free area. Textile free to me has a ring of avoided child labor, but instead it confirms the cliche of the naked German on your beach. You thus dutifully remove your swimsuit, put it on a small shelf, hope it will be their upon your return and get in the tub with some lusting men and women of all ages and sizes.

Call me a prude but as newly acquired husband and I soak up the sexual tension oozing from big man with small penis (as I was unable not to notice when it dangled it over my head upon his entry into the pool), I am just glad that my mother aptly estimates that her entry into the mix may add a bit of a conversation stopper. So she keeps strolling, towel a bit un-Germanly tight wrapped about her and disappears into the sauna. Newly acquired husband and I made a dash for the slides and so everyone's pride, honor and emotional balance is still intact.

Survival of the Christmas Party

Done! Christmas party at the newly acquired husband's was a success. Met the managing director who attempted to shake my hand whilst I was fishing out a straw that had in a strange twist of events fallen into my shamefully wide exposed cleavage. Gracefuly recovered via cheek kiss. Stayed away from the canapes counter to my usual free food oriented mentality that no matter how rich I shall become or not become, I don't foresee being able to shed permanantly.

As the music shifted to rock and roll assaults from wild flying dancing couples mounted into the teens. Spiky heel of one of them in thigh of mine and it was time to go. But not before getting into a fight with the bathroom lady who refused to let me walk into the stall with a water bottle. Just so it's clear, if I want to drop something into that water bottle that does me better than just good old booze, I will do that in the dancefloor just as easily as in the privacy of the loo. It's not like there aren't people humping poles and kissing under Marry kiss-mas signs to divert the attention away from me.

Now onto my own Christm-aka/Hanu-mas/Eid al Hanumas party. We are a multicultural office of eight who between them don't share a single belief except the trust in the principles of economics. Those principles, guided by the law of the homus economus, the rational human, states that venue prices are up due to high demand and that in January venue prices are low due to, well, low demand, and so we shall wait and celebrate when all you sentimental, silly people have wasted your millions. Then, when we are done counting our profits gained from the opportunity cost of NOT having a Christmas party, we will all sit around a table, newly acquired husband in the middle, laughing at excel jokes, avoiding eye contact, bonding over world bank contract intricacies, sharing stories of economizing adventures and rejoice in general awkwardness which will finish in time for everyone to take the tube home; wouldn't want to squander what has been gained by precision, foresight and good planning.

American Teeth

If I could have or be anything truly American, I would like to have or be American teeth. American teeth holders are carefree, coke guzzling creatures who are unaware of the glory they hold in their mouth. Something about the fluoride in the water.

It turns out I was uprooted and planted in that soil too late for the fluoride to do me any good. Or maybe I was too carefree and (rum &) coke guzzling. A few traumatic dentist sessions and now I am scared and scarred of and from the dentist. Unlike a true Yank in London, I actually identify with the English on this matter mostly because there are many many human warning signs wandering the highstreets displaying openly what happens to us from the old continent: smiles that scare the daylight out of you.

I just returned from the place of horror, where my heart beat was on high for a good thirty minutes while a lovely lady used sharp edged gadgets to poke around my gums and subsequently scolded me for the gushing blood. Do I not brush? Well yes I do, but I don't go poking for the roots. Then, the release, only partially pacifying. I am off the hook, FOR NOW, but the video (yes, video) made of my mouth reveals that unless I shape up and train my mouth to be cleaner in every sense of the word, next time will be ugly and will involve more tools.

Then I go to Boots and shop for an electric toothbrush. I have received a bit of training on digital cameras lately and this comes in handy. What model do I want? Top of the market is Braun, good homeland brand, who seem to have left the competition in the dust, followed by the Hydro Floss Oral Irregator, which rather than compete with Braun seems to compliment them. Irregator? The name seems promising. Colgate Motion and Sonicare trail behind. Overall, I feel good about Braun, seems sturdy, nice grip and as any camera geek knows, it is always beneficial to buy the brand with the most distribution in case you need to borrow or buy extra lenses while shooting the Antibes-Cote d'Azur motor rally, or more relevant here, need to purchase brushing heads in Kilburn Park. There is the 8000 series with different specifications, but this is a bit out of my price range. I might have to wait until they come out with a newer model that will make the current 8000's affordable. So finally I settle on a 7000 series piece, which has patented 3D technology and due to the festive season is half price off. Merry Christmas to me.

On hair and God

Ever heard of those people whose hair is so straight that things fall out of it? Hairpins head south, bugs in the rain forests don't have the ability to hold on and nest? Two cans of hair spray and a southern ladies determination make it curly for a mere four hours? That is me. Until I went through puberty - again- and everything changed. I cannot determine whether it is the weather or the hormones in the English beer, but I got curly hair. We are not talking Shirley Temple style (I reserve that for weddings), but we're talking hairdresser using the "ringlets polish and shine". This is great news because my entire life, in accordance with the grass is greener on the other side rule, I have wanted just that, specifically black curly locks.

And this is even better news the more you think about it. It means there is a God and he has heard me. It means miracles can happen. Miracles better than a perm.

Right when I had given up, stopped asking, there, You gave it to me. I don't mean to be ungrateful, but if it's not too late, God, if You haven't ship that second part yet, can You keep the black? It's just too late in life to work that into my persona. But thank you so so much for your help until now. Best wishes. -C

On badness

I learned an important lesson today. Some people are bad. There have always been bad people throughout the times, but the badest people of our time must be scammers. They are so bad I wish death upon them, slow, painful, crudly administered death such as death by pickax. I will want to watch first row and throw their Nigerian Aids worker bullshit right back into their faces.

Have you been scammed? Mr. http://www.419eater.com/ puts it nicely.

"Does somebody want to transfer millions of dollars into your account?Does someone want you pay you to cash cheques and send them the money?Met a new friend/penpal on a friendship/dating site who's asking you for money?Has a dying person contacted you wanting your help to give his money to charity?Have you sold an item and are asked to accept a payment larger than the item amount?"

The dying person thing really does it for me cause all I can think of is the "dead" canoe guy Darwin who resurfaced a week ago or so in London and who had lost all his memory since June 2000 BUT remembered that he was a missing person and strolled into a police office. Then, the more he thought about it and with help from his wife he also remembered scamming the life insurance which his wife kindly cashed in and just in time a photo of the two of them in Panama a few months ago appeared all over the news. What is it with dead people and scamming? When you are dead, you need to STAY DEAD. Just like my little paul.hinggis@yahoo.com should be. Go ahead, sell him some viagra all you bad people out there.

On water and wine

Before I, who as of yesterday has turned to tea over wine, run out to purchase that bottle of booze to bring to the party of the girl who decided last weekend that she does not drink and feels better that way, I have a few questions for the world. How does one make it through the holiday season or more generally how does one make it through life in London without drinking? What does one do when one is not drinking?

In all seriousness, there are a lot of things in my life I am excited about right now and things I am looking forward to and things I do while supposedly working and after finished with the supposed work. Dealing with that giddy strung out or mood flat-lining hung over morning, which by the afternoon gives way to an exhausted dry eyed head ache is just not that high up on the list.

But what to do? Must I join the volleyball club or the knitting club or start volunteering with pre-pubescent girls? I am afraid even that latter activity would involve drinking. That is simply what people do. Or maybe it's the people I know. Or maybe they are all waiting for someone to tell them what else there is to do. But what else is there to do?

This week alone is filled with house parties, pub quiz nights, Christmas parties and then a weekend at my parents house to round it all up. Will I be able to sit with a straight face at the pub guessing Big Brother winners from the past five years sober? Will I make my poor parents drink their dinner wine without me? Will I go to newly acquired husband's work Christmas party and neglect the open bar? What will I do with my hands? I already quit smoking! How will I bridge the awkward silence if not by taking that extra big insightful gulp?

And it gets worse. As above mentioned friend said, and I am quoting "let's be honest, if I stop drinking I will NEVER find a boyfriend in this fucked-up country."

That is so wrong, and given her genius I can assure you all that she is the one person who will manage to pull even when sober but generally speaking, she might be right. Hello knitting club.

Yuppy Bitch

Yuppy Scum! Originally uploaded by Magillicuddy

I think I am turning into one.

I started being suspicious of myself this one time, where else, in Starbucks. I had been waiting for five whole minutes for my drink, had seen people come into the door, order, receive their drinks, pour chocolate in top of their cappuccinos, pour coffee out to make space for more chocolate and I was still waiting. I was unable to convince anyone that they had forgotten to put in my order and I was angry, late for work, alternatively sweating in my coat, freezing when the door opened and carrying too many bags. You know that face very important, older, grumpy, pant suit wearing, pumps clad ladies made when they step in dog poop? The face gin and tonic drinking business travelers make when a dirty family of nine sits next to them: mouth turned downward, face turned into a mask. The look often comes coupled with a scanning of the room in order to find accomplice and rolling of eye in the direction of accomplice once accomplice has been found.

I was making that face.

I am only two years removed from thinking a Frappuccino is a luxury, three years removed from working at the equivalent of Starbucks, four years removed from thinking myself an anarchist and if my right brain excuse keeps going, I might very well be grateful in a year from now to be working at there again. Must remember that I am a nice person, the kind of person who smiles at people, the person who looks up when walking, the person who holds the door open even for those frowning pant suit bitches, the person who is amazed that anyone can remember the insane combinations of extra skinny, non fat, super foam, double shot, especially hot, triple sweet coffee options and would never in a million years put on the time-is-money-and-my-time-is-so-expensive-you-better-crank-out-that-coffee-asap-bitch face.

If I don't mend my ways now, I might end up with a face that is stuck in meanness mode even on a friendly day when the coffee was served hot and skinny and at the speed of light.

La Fromagerie

Marylebone.


Half filled with cheese chambers, oranges, cakes and wild pork sausages, the other half with hold ladies wearing feather hats seemingly displeased about the lack of any servant kissing their hand.

And always a queue. And always that couple, or maybe two, who will sit, and enjoy watching the queue get longer as they sip their last glass of wine, never actually lifting their heads from the civilised but elegantly animated conversation they are having, but quite apparently gaining satisfaction out of the corner of their expensively adorned eye. One can tell by how the sips get smaller, the swashing in the mouth more languid. How long can you make that glass last?

So, it's amazing cheese. Amazing. One platter comes with cheese and honey and I must say, that is probably the best thing to happen to Saturday brunch since eggs Benedict. Maybe there is something in a person who is willing to pay 25 quid for a cheese brunch that makes them haughty. Haughty they are. Like the Gatsby's. Conversation is subdued. Until we get there and make it loud. I know the waiter makes funny faces to us standing in the queue about those slow wine sippers, maybe even a spiteful comment but he does the same about us loud talkers. I have seen him do it. Do they like us or do they know how to hide disdain?

There is something beautiful in the clash of primordial and refined, which becomes apparent in this restaurant. One is viewing wine enthusiasts off for a cheesy lunch, waiting in line, having to stake out and defend their place the old fashioned way (no reservations, no putting names on no lists) and one gets to watch them watching the slow wine sippers, smelling the cheese chamber and balancing their pre brunch glass of wine. It's so refined a place you may start on your bottle even before you are seated, making it a lot more difficult to fight the primordial urge to pour that last sip of wine down the throats of those slow wine sippers or, more civilized already, defending your place in line by pushing. Pushing is not ok. One is to gently sway and delicately inquire about a particularly special ingredient of the displayed cheese related salad and hope the old ladies waiting to be hand kissed won't notice. But they do. Thus, charmingly one waits, making this a queue, not a line.

We don't use the phone no more

Thanks to some Turkish equivalent of Night Nurse/Niquel I am all better and back in the office, armed with the latest insights into human behavioral oddities.

People don't use their phones no more and I think I know why. It involves having to be coherent on the spot, being able to articulate your thoughts without gesturing, without making bold statements, or EMPHASIZING THINGS. It means you have to respond right then and there and nothing except a lot of 'like's' and attempts at changing the subject buys you time to think. Also it can feel a bit disconnected when speaking on the phone as if all of a sudden it is obvious that we are all strewn across continents, one of us drinking the morning coffee, the other one that last glass of wine, and when you add the necessity to speak in a language other than English or whatever the default happens to be, without even the verbal version of spell check, I do get a bit flustered. Besides, have you ever gotten a phone call at a convenient time? Exactly. No. And that is why I know I am bound to get you as you are running out the door, watching a movie, in the car or worse yet yelling at boyfriend/girlfriend.

And that might just be why people don't answer their phones ever. Being home for a full two days, a bit of cabin fever set in and I decided to pick up that apparatus after all. Nobody, I mean, not a single person across any time zone picked up their phone. Not even my mother. Nobody. You know who you are. But I got wiser than that. You don't answer your phone because you know you can call back, don't you? Yes, but what if you don't know who is calling? I have observed my very own behaviour and here is my conclusion: While I know who you are most of the time, I don't know who you are when you are calling my landline. That's right, I got no caller ID. So even though I might be doing something really really important or might be too inarticulate to say much at all, I won't take the risk of not answering because after all it could be National Geographic.

What happened to be good old days of sitting holed up in your room, Guns' n Roses posters everything, phone in hand, your best friend who you just saw in school twenty minutes prior on the other side of the line, and nothing in the world more important than the four hour analysis of whether Jonny really looked at you or into the distance or worse yet, at someone else.

So call me, ok?

T'is the season to be coughing

The first cold of the season has arrived at our doorstep. As newly acquired husband bounces out of the house and into this place of workship where posters are drawn, prizes are given out,amateur music videos created in the hallways and they have team huddles and deep dives, I stay at home feeling too good to be sick and too bad to be healthy. It's called working from home.

The first round of the day has me reading the news, writing a lot of emails to co-workers so that it is clear that I am really working (which I am, co-workers!), then some soft style medication, essentially all that herbal stuff that and maybe a Nutella sandwich. At this point I am contemplating a nap, just when the monsters come out of the woodworks.

Lady living above us finally dragged football bouncing, screeching child out of the door, screeching gets louder, then subsides. Lady next door is gently humming a tune or possibly not so gently because I can hear it. "It's the season to be jolly...tralalalalaaa" and now that is stuck in my head. Lady above us now returns with only one wailing child in tow, he goes back into his living room above my head and it becomes clear that it has not in fact his brother who was doing the ball bouncing. Fabulous. Oh, now comes Mom, doing something that sounds like she is dragging some sort of apparatus along the floors, WHY do you do that? Ah, she is vacuuming. People apparently do that on Wednesdays. Why don't we ever do that?

Time for round two: taking that nap. In the other room I go to let vacuum lady have her space. I lie down, the phone rings, I don't answer it. I am working people! Other lady stops humming, leans on wall that separates our two apartments and now she starts screeching. This is a different family, not the one with the priorly screeching child, "you are a liar, you are a fucking liar". Oh, he is so in the dog house. Poor guy. And that voice! Would not want to live with her. I return to the living room, vacuuming all done above my head, but now we got a helicopter circling across the dark dark gray sky. People, I give up, working from home is hard, but I guess it's better than being a lazy sick girl.

Round three: lets get out the heavy artillery. Yep, here she comes: Night Nurse. Finally. One more bite of Nutella and then sweet dreams to me.

P.S. Anything, anything at all you may know about Korea and petrochemicals, you call me. I got more specific instructions for you.

MRS

It appears that the English way of welcoming back a newly married gal is to ask her how it feels being a Mrs. This is distinctly different from the US way, which in itself nuanced ranges from "how is the old ball and chain?" (Texas), "May your honeymoon never end" (Florida), "You got married?????????" (Boston), "When are you going to start making babies?" (cross-regional).

I can handle being a Mrs, it oozes gravitas and makes me laugh at the same time while turning around to see who that person is they are talking to. Surely I will grow up one day, but what I really want to know is what comes after the Mrs? I am a Mrs of who? Given that my last name stayed with me, am I Mrs. B? My mother?

Let me digress for a moment. In Spanish culture there is a beautiful old fashioned way to make it equally obvious to men and women that other men and women are available or unavailable, lets make this more clear, unmarried or married, married by no means meaning unavailable, especially not in Spain. The male species in its married form is called senor and the female senora. The unmarried form for the former is, oh surprise, senor and the latter, senorita. But it has not always been this way. There is a senorito. Well, there was. Why, in this already confusing day and age of wedding ring optionality (for men - it appears that girls are more into jewels or how should I interpret this?), would one also take away the senorito? I have an idea: maybe that way nobody, or no womanbody, may have the wisdom to tell the difference? Nah, not likely.

Back on track. In Spanish culture there is also a beautiful way of knowing whose Mrs. one is. One is the Mrs. of one's Daddy and Mommy in that particular order without becoming one's Mommy by default. Wonderful. One is born with a name that is a combination of Daddy's first last name and Mommy's first last name, thus, voila, making a uniquely named little person, who if female may or may not make that transition from senorita to senora, but regardless never having to change her initials or turning into her own mother. Or anyone else's mother. And that, with all due respect is a good thing.

The right brain allowance to be crazy

I decided when I was 10 years old that I did not want to be in hippie school, that I wanted exams, loved abstract concepts, logical things and that formal learning was for me. Forgive me then for thinking that I should be an economist, an academic maybe, but not a creator, an artist.

This lady up top here changed it all. She won't do her dance for me here, but you can make her dance over there: http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=25642

As she swings merrily in a clockwise fashion, I am pleased to learn that us right brainers are all about symbols and images and are "big picture oriented" and that I am on the other side of the spectrum of logic and detail and that makes me so happy. I am told that I am impetuous and live a 'fantasy based' life, which means I can't help myself from buying a super duper high res new camera because a) risk taking behaviour is what I do, responsibility is what I don't do and b) I am an artist. Besides obviously my strong point is spacial perception and those 10 mega pixels will really help me with that. Getty would not accept anything less.

Who would not want to argue with their brain?

Seriously, can it be this easy?

Obviously, there is a little left brain left in me and using a reality based approach with a strong focus on facts I form a practical strategy as those people are known to do: I watch her again. Incidentally, this time she is doing her thing on a slow and old computer and lo and behold, clockwise she goes, stops, looks at me ( I swear) and then the other direction she swings. Is this a conspiracy to get those fast computer owners to slow down, go outside, buy themselves a creme brule latte or something really crazy like that, giving up on math and science, turning to religion, stop knowing it all, start believing again?

P.S. My fellow economist is also right brained according to the lady and he still loves electricity regulation and just now got extremely giddy about gas pipelines in Southern European countries. I guess there really is no easy way out of this.

Aladin forever

If you have been to London and you know me, chances are good that I have taken you to Aladin.

I love Aladin and I think Aladin loves me back. Aladin gives me free poppadoms every time I come in and I have been coming in for a few years now. Lately I have noticed that other guests are also getting free poppadoms (unless they are silly enough to order them in which case they do get it, but there goes the free aspect), but maybe all of us have been coming to Aladin for a long time.

It's the best curry on Brick Lane and they are so nice, oh so nice at Aladin. I have come into the restaurant with many people, but the worst and original constellation involves two other girls. Let me introduce them by means of a little ditty.

One time at Aladin we spoke about Kant, Emmanuel Kant. I am not sure how and when we found the time to speak about anything but the boy she (friend A) met at Soho bar one night when given the instructions to "find someone to tie her over until we return from spring break" who is now her husband and father of her child. In any case, the time was found and upon hearing this poor philosopher's name mentioned, all she could do was whisper very loudly "The guy's name is cunt?", bend over laughing, not whispering now, repeating "cunt, cunt, cunt". So she is loud. Loud and honest and always willing to learn. I love her.

Meanwhile the sitter-by's silently (at least in comparison with us) drink their self-brought beers and eat curry. I do hope they were eating the kurma cause nothing will even get your attention when you are eating Aladin Kurma. Now you know about my favorite dish.

On a different occasion, friend B decides to really give the world a piece of her mind on a topic that shall not be discussed in detail, but which necessitated her listing many many, more than I thought available, porn related adjectives of a blond, lets face it, insults, insults of your average blond really. She is a bottle of wine into it, unable to distinguish between a whisper and a WHISPER and I, similarly disposed, am beginning to notice despite our sorry state that we are loud, we are obnoxious and oblivious to the fact that we are loud and obnoxious oh, and loud.

Yet every time we walk back I detect a smile, (maybe a smirk? No, a smile) on the face of the waiter. Maybe he too is excited to hear about Kants and porn because God knows, he will. Now that is goodness, that is acceptance and that is the best kurma in town and now that I think about it, more often than not, we have been given the table right by the door.

If you read any of my previous posts you will know that I am never bad, no matter how hard I try. As such, the worst that ever happened to me personally at Aladin is that I decided to give a little lecture on feminism and the skewed world order to the now newly acquired husband in a time when he still had the option of running away, which is what the looks of the blokes on the 'blokes night out' table next to us suggested he do. Yet it is impossible to undo the kurma effect which inspires kindness and so he did not leave. Now it's too late. Ha.


Seated away from the door and with friend A long shipped back to America (and well aware of Mr. Kant's brilliance) the two remaining members of team shut up already had a wholesome time at Aladin last night and since we won't be there the rest of the week, I strongly recommend you go and order the chicken kurma or if you want to have it all, the veggie balti kurma, go ahead, also have some samosas, the regular nan and maybe some egg fried rice and definitely don't order the poppadoms, remember that!

That damned box of chocolates

...you really never know what you are going to get.

That's a problem if you ask me. I love chocolates, as a matter of fact I love chocolates so much that people from the office have begun bribing me with 'souvenirs', when they return from a trip, be that a trip to Tesco. It's really a bit sad that they feel the need to do so, given that I do get paid for the work that I am doing. Fact is, it does raise my motivation and it does create guilt, but in most unexpected ways. How do you say no to doing that quick little task for someone who just trekked back from Montenegro, realizing he has forgotten to bring the local speciality, as a result hits the duty free on their layover and returns with Serbian chocolates to make up for it. You end up doing two things. Firstly you will do that little little task and you will do it with a smile and secondly, you will eat the chocolate. This should be the easy part.

Take the Serbian chocolate as an excellent example of why this is not as easy as it looks. It turns out you really don't know what you are going to get and that's a problem when you, like me, like chocolate but are narrow minded about the definition of said substance. Banana flavored goo in a dark chocolate coating in, this is important, a pretty pink shiny wrapper is not chocolate. White, undefined goo in white chocolate coating, again, in pretty pink shiny wrapping paper is not chocolate. Nougat goodness in milk chocolate coating, you guessed it, in pretty pink wrapping paper: that's chocolate.

Eating the wrong one and spitting it out into your hand: that is guilt.

Now how to solve the dilemma? One might imagine reading the description on the box might help. It does not, language barrier aside. Quality Street has begun a good campaign to outline the flavors on the box, but even they have green mystery triangles and surprise blue squares and guess what, those are the ones left in the box till the end because nobody wants to end up spitting white goo into their hand, especially not when everyone is watching, smiling, observing how much the child loves chocolate and the child is me. Back to the Serbian dilemma: they do have hearts, triangles, squares and funny looking towers, BUT that does not mean anything. For a while I was imagining the left side held more true chocolates and the squares were also a safer bet, at least within that left side territory, but I was proven wrong. Again and again.

The closest to a strategy I have come to is the above eluded to "observe, memorize and repeat" series of steps. Observe what economist 1 just shoved into his mouth, memorize the shape, wrapper (if, mind you, if they choose to differentiate), positioning and then repeat the action.

It works so well I just came back from a trip to the neighbors rubbish bin ("just gotta run out, anyone need anything from the post office?") and my hands are still sticky. Boo.

flickr set me straigt

I went to a prep school. It wasn't my choice. I guess it's never really anyone's choice. I was fresh off the boat, an anarchist at heart but unsure if that meant the same as socialist or the opposite. I was wearing flannel well into the mid 90s, and I tried to be bad, I really did, but didn't know any insults in English (until you can swear competently in a language you shouldn't do it; things like "it went to shits", "I f*** you" and "I am pissing for you" will result and people will think you are cute and your mission of insulting and being bad will fail). Tried dying my hair all kinds of crazy colors, but I like my hair and the craziest I dared was red and it turned out orange and apparently they figured that was close enough to the required 'natural color' and let me be. Because I couldn't really talk much at all, I was nice and polite and even with a lot of effort did not manage to break the dress code. I wanted to but I didn't like short dresses because those were not deep, dark and secretive at all and nobody seemed to care about the flannel, which retrospectively I consider cruel and wish that someone would have done something about that. Thanks facebook for making sure I can never forget (note: please help your foreign exchange student and don't let this happen to anyone else). So yes, I did graduate and now I can speak of the horrors of private education in the USA.

One day the rough path that life had set out for me gave way to a brief interlude of freedom. Or so I though. Possibly to justify the school fees or possibly because the school was not entirely designed to be a conspiracy against the young and anarchistic minded, whatever the reason, we had a darkroom and the luxury of taking photo classes to help us broaden our horizons (and get into the right colleges). Under normal circumstances I might have missed the announcement of photo classes due to energy spent engaged in loathing of the people who had done this to me, but my fortune was good. Maybe to show this foreign exchange student that there was life outside of flannel, a nice boy took me to the photo lab to help me beat out of the way the hoards of art-expression thirsty students and got my me on the list for the class. I am sorry I forgot your name. It's all a bit of a blurr. The first day I showed up with my snapshot camera only to be introduced to this really complicated machine, which appeared even then to set us back ages in terms of technology: an old fashioned SLR camera. This is obviously way pre-digital. German girl needed a dictionary first to translate the explanation of aperture and f-stop and generally got the feeling that once again they were going to undermine any creative musings. I got that feeling when the first lesson was on not touching your face before touching the film or photo paper because apparently your face is greasier than anything in that whole darkroom. Really? The second lesson was on what not to take pictures of.

Cutting to the chase: No puppies, babies, kitties, ponies and also no nudity (see above paragraph on the repressive culture of the school). Funny; that rule really stuck with me.

The very first thing I did in college was a project on nudity (incidentally my photo teacher, apparently not entirely deranged, had predicted that this would happen to all of us) but for years I stayed away from puppies, kitties, ponies. I took many crooked and definitely dark, deep and secretive shots of the homeless, the drunk, the funny looking, the badly dressed, badly shaped and generally down and out. Really getting that 'angle' into their lives seemed to be the answer. If you are in one of my early pictures, be very concerned. A bit later, poverty in general seemed like a good place to find inspiration: not cute, not fluffy. So instead of offering a hand or dollar or something for crying out loud to the old nice ragged man in an unnamed Andean country carrying a bundle on his head that was larger than my dorm room, I held my camera into his face (at this point outfitted with a zoom lens that rivaled even his load) and the charmingly rustic hut he calls his home. Following that, I did so many self-portraits that I can trace the exact pattern in which each freckle of mine evolved over the course of a given summer and can now use this for future predictions; I did self portraits in bath tubs, on beaches, in pools, on couches, tried the swing set but failed and I was totally into disconnected, random shapes (ideally dark and with a bit of poverty oozing out of them), eventually took the plunge and photographed kids, but not babies, and only if not cute and this is starting to annoy me, but yes, poor and maybe even a bit dirty, after that tried landscapes and even today I can really do a great reflection on a serene lake or that autumn alley, leafs on the sides of it, leading into seemingly unending forests, but all this time I followed the golden rule: no puppies, no kitties, no ponies and I sure love ponies, and kitties and puppies for that matter are growing on me too but taking pictures of them is cheating. Cheating was a big one in that school code. Unlike in that European country where I received my primary education, you just don't cheat in school. Don't. Really. Believe me.

Lets fast forward a few years. It's 2007, memory cards have taken the place of film, you can set your ISO to 3200 with a simple flick of a button, you never have to spend frantic afternoons trying to roll your film onto those horrendous wheels when developing it; and somehow it seems that everyone, prep school or not, got into photography, real photography, at some point. I have been told that Kiosk ladies in Russia, business men in Japan and everyone in between ('between what' I guess is the question? I simply mean everyone, everywhere) when probed will list their most creative hobby as photography. Where better to watch the democratization of this art form than on one of the many picture posting forums? The great realization I came to thanks to flickr is that life is nothing like prep school. I also realized that people LOVE babies, ponies, kitties and doggies and they are not at all shy about it, as a matter of fact they act like it's not even cheating to have an entire career in photographing only the aforementioned subjects. I have to admit I did once, not that long ago, post a picture of one kitty and one puppy (I promise, only one and it was only to show off the pretty beach and the rucksacking through Turkey activity on our part, which obviously is perfectly legit to photograph) and guess what? They are my top scorers (right after that picture I tagged 'nude models' and 'school girls').

And here is the winner

WHY

I need to get this one off my chest. I am obsessed.

Lets get the obvious part out of the way: my heart goes out to any and every little kid who something awful happens to, anything that ranges from getting lost in the mall, being forced to drink pomagranate juice, being in day care with mean kids, having to wear neon colors because their parents liked the 80s and obviously those who become victim of a crime. Now that this is out of the way, I just need to figure out a way to get Maddie out of my life but I just don't know how. I think I am part of the problem.

On my way to work today I passed not one, no, three stores, regular selling cheap booze and canned peas in Kilburn sort of stores with her picture in the window. Yesterday in the gym (the gym being the only place I get to watch TV due to the fact that we more or less live in a bomb shelter that no aerial antenna can penetrate), Sky News tells me that Maddie has her own category on their channel, no, not only is she not captured under "News" or "Politics" or "Media", all of which would be fitting, but instead she has her very own headline which is listed right under "UK News". So here are the topics in order of importance, "UK News", "Madeleine", "World News", "Pictures" and so on. It turns out yesterday she got 14% of hits on the web version of the channel which makes her a top story. Still. And that after 6 months or so of gone-ness. I don't know if that means that 14% of all Sky News viewers viewed that story or what, but it seems like a big deal. And she manages to hold that position in spite of riots in Paris, Musharraf's dealings in Pakistan, the finding of a book made out of human skin, murder of British student Meredeth in Italy which I had thought would take the lead, lets not forget that a cyclone just devastated entire parts of Bangladesh killing thousands, besides the ordinary UN scandal that is ever brewing (fair enough, I don't even care about that one), other children disappearing (do YOU know their names?) and last but not least the discussion whether or not Mourinho would make a decent England coach. Why? And How does she do it?

Yes, she is cute, yes, her Mom is pretty, yes, the whole family is pleasant and perfectly middle class, no, it's not entirely clear if friends/family know something we don't know, yes, Sir Richard Branson donated money to the campaign, yes, there is some reported tension between the British vs. Portuguese police, yes, the pope gave his blessing, yes, her Mom will get drug tested but why why why do I know all of this?

Because Maddie has her own category, because the media can't get enough, because people like me are the problem. BUT WHY?

My year in books

I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' (now shredded to pieces due to newly acquired hubby's violent reading behaviour) and because I was immediately addicted 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' which made me worried that when things really suck on a regular basis, they suck a bit more if you are a girl. Who is also poor. Interestingly enough being hot or not appeared to be unrelated to exactly how much it will suck. I read these two in a cabin on a beach during a tropical storm with much rum and no way out, so no wonder I could not stop reading, but I think under less exciting circumstances I shall have felt the same.

Now I am trying to make my way through 'The Golden Notebook', which is more work, less fun (and not all that Nobel so far). I feel somewhere in that ranting parallel story business on feminism and communism in the 1950s in London there must be something worthwhile, but being on page 200 I have not gotten there yet.

Shantaram was an early year favorite. I wish I had not read it yet so that I could read it on a wanderlust inspired trip in the future. Would have to be taken into account when calculating baggage allowance, but certainly a favorite.

I also tried to catch up on some motherland literature and managed to hit all young male struggling with their self-fulfillment and physical or mental place in the world sort of books. Lenz' Heimatmuseum, loosely translated as 'Heritage' hits No. 1 in that category, followed by Guenter Grass' 'Tin Drum' and the looser for me is the 'Green Heinrich' by Gottfried Keller. I wanted to kill Heinrich. Thankfully he does that himself, but about 700 pages too late and not even intentionally. Heimatmuseum on the other hand, not exactly cheerful throws in a good measure of the history of Poland/Germany and the story of being caught in the middle when the borders change.

On that note, 'Sophie's Choice' while dwelling disappointingly little on how she makes the choice in question is quite genius in my eyes. I don't believe I am getting genres right, but there is something very 'Kerouak' about the book yet the many layers and lies of the past and present that creep through every sub story make it more than just the musings of a Brooklyn wanna be writer who drinks too much cheap wine and loves the mysterious Sophie.

One more 'out'

A nice tropical elopement like the one we just returned from, if you believe the NYT, is actually the old fashioned way to get married: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/26/opinion/26coontz.html?ex=1353819600&en=edea6bb06d38c5fc&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
Did you hear that?

Given our new world order however, there is that legality part to be taken care of in order for the state to know to whom to dish out all those generous benefits (?) in the case of an untimely death of either one of us.

If you are from Florida this quest for legality has been made compatible with the 21st century marriage doer and is quite easy to manage. Incidentally if you are not from Florida this is even easier. Undoubtedly a scheme to increase tourism in those under 75 years of age. In the latter case you show up at the courthouse armed with 80 bucks and proof that you are in fact old enough to know what you are getting yourselves into. Bring the spouse-to-be and off you go, all stamped and legal. However, if you are lucky enough to have a sunshine state driver's license you will be granted one more "out" in the shape and form of a three day delay until your union becomes legal, at which point you must return to an authorized representative of the legality contingency who can be a Priest, Rabbi, chartered accountant or legal secretary.

The three days waiting period is their way of giving you time to sober up. I am not savvy in Florida stats so I am not sure why Floridians needs special protection, but they get it. In any case, when we do make it back to Miami in a few months we don't have time to spare for return visit to those legalizers as we need to be swimming in oceans, eating Cuban food and focusing on not being sober.

But we did not despair and found someone to certify that we have in fact worried about all the implications of being stuck together way before we will show up at that courthouse, thus qualifying for that immediate stamp of approval. The following procedure is apparently known to ensure that you will be as ready as can be come the big day:

Open google and find yourself an online spiritual leader (I personally especially appreciate the fact that there are Disneyland approved ones) who makes you think about a nice chunk of questions everyone should have asked themselves way before letting their relationship get to this stage. So, well done there. In the spirit of our times, our Reverent makes the religious questions optional, dwells on how to handle each other's family as well as communications techniques and dishes out a stern reminder that a wedding is only to last one day and a marriage a lifetime (now mind you, our wedding appears to be lasting a lifetime too but that is a different issue) and if that was not easy enough, you will be informed that watching a movie with Michelle Pfeiffer counts as having completed the assignment. You then convince your spiritual leader of choice that you have spent at least 4 hours contemplating the above mentioned issues. This get you a 'marriage course certificate of completion'.

The best part is that once we paid your 20 bucks to the good minister, not only did we get the ok to be married asap, but beyond that, we are also promised a discount at the courthouse!



I love Florida.

And there she was

I have a name.

It was a bit of a tough decision. My favorite would have involved Schadenfreude and although I can't say that I don't indulge in a bit of that here or there, it sets the bar rather low in terms of expecations I have for myself.

Wunderkind on the other hand seemed too optimistic and Fahrvergnuegen's Umlaut takes this out of the realm of drunk type friendliness.

Let's see where this shall lead me.