Natural Spring Blooms Spark Urban Contemplations

Driving home from work the other day I noticed shiny new movie posters adorning the walls of the little bus stops that dot the winding, leafy Surrey roads. It wouldn't have been a big deal in the dead of winter, when the grass is contemplating brown and the gnarled tree limbs seem to cower from a foggy grey sky. In fact, apart from the car bumper in front of you and the suicidal bike riders darting around and in-between said bumpers, I would wager that the winter weather bus stop posters are a most effective form of advert, as they are a spot of color among the haze.

Spring, however, is completely different.

Where Texas has it's gorgeous bluebonnets, Surrey has its daffodils, or 'Daffs!' as the flower traders declare on their signs, 'only £3.50 per bundle!' The daffs are incredible here and grow like the gorgeous wildflowers that blanket the Texas Hill Country do - everywhere and in the most unexpected places. In addition to the innumerable happy yellow flowers, the trees in Surrey are in full blossom.

Jack and I were walking home from the park last week end when he stopped, took hold of my hand, and shouted, "Momma! That tree looks like it has icing on it!!" It was a gorgeous cherry blossom tree, the pink blossoms so thick that I admitted there could be no other description for what it looked like - creamy pink icing. We immediately went home and made cupcakes.

Add to this the fact that the days have been summer-like and pleasant, and all anyone wants to do is be outside.

But I digress. My point here is to say that movie posters, no matter how new. or glossy they are, ought to pale in the midst of such natural beauty. I shouldn't have noticed them, but I did. Thus, this post.

Mirror Mirror. That's the name of the movie. The posters depict Julia Roberts, considering the shiny red apple in hand, and the promise of a re-created Snow White fairy tale that is supposed to revive all Snow White stories in the same way that Cinderella was given new life a few years ago in the forms of Ever After, Ella Enchanted, and The Princess Diaries. Roberts plays the evil witch, obsessed with being the fairest one of all who, in what can only be called the extremest form of envy, decides to murder the newest one to win the beauty competition ((ahem.) Scholarship program).

In the 19th century Brothers Grimm version, Snow White is the daughter of a beautiful queen who desires and creates a beautiful daughter, "that was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood."* When the little girl is 7, "she surpassed even the queen herself" in beauty. "Her jealousy gave her no peace," and she therefore decides to order her daughter's slaughter, the little one's guts to be brought back as proof and to serve as the queen's supper.  The rest follows, that the man ordered to kill the little girl couldn't follow through, she meets the dwarfs, the queen finds out, devises several other plots to murder Snow White by playing on her naivete and kindness shown to others, successfully puts Snow White into a coma with one bight of glossy red apple...you know this part.. sad dwarves, glass coffin, and a hot young prince who becomes obsessed with the beautiful dead woman and has to be in her presence 24/7 lest he becomes sad. One day, sans kiss, Snow White coughs up the apple stuck in her throat and happily marries the prince, much to every one's relief. The queen, in an odd turn of events, attends the wedding, is clamped into a pair of metal shoes at the after party which are ceremoniously held over a fire, charring her feet to the bone, and then is made to dance at the wedding until she dies.

Anyway, upon seeing the movie poster, I started to wonder about why this type of story is so popular now. Is it too obvious to say that as a middle aged woman, I am afraid of aging and feel intense jealously with regard to youth and beauty? Does the story simply mirror the seasons: the gnarled tree limb's jealousy toward the icing blossoms and daffs? Is it to acknowledge the obsessive nature of humans, whether it be towards something we desire (beauty, wealth, something that someone else possesses) or this major need for things to stay exactly as they are? What is it? Does it matter? Should it?

In any case, the bus stop became a place of contemplation for me.

*Source: Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1812), v. 1, no. 53, pp. 238-50. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. © 1998-2002.

It's All Rubbish

I told Rich he would eventually be one of those crotchety old men who wander the streets mumbling some nonsense that others won't understand, his fist shaking in the air, and me (his loving wife) would walk ten steps ahead and occasionally turn around to yell, "No one cares, you old codger! Shut up and move on!"

This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.

It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.

One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right,   he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.

And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.

Still, it disappears.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.

Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.

And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."

The Toilets Don’t Flush the Same and Things More or Less Awkward

So first of all, I’ve learned a new way to greet people.
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”


It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”

And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**

So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.

Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.

And they don’t have them here in England.

In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)

Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***

Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.

“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.

*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.


** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.


***Probably this is a paraphrase

Shoe Shocked

Muslim culture’s tradition of taking off one’s shoes at the door before entering someone’s home leaves this Western girl feeling insecure and uncertain about how best to move forward. In my culture shoes are essential. I’ve been taught that feet are dirty, that you can’t walk into a restaurant, convenience store, or any kind of market without them or if you do, you take a serious risk of either being kicked out or at the very least reprimanded by clerks and/or forthright patrons. It is an unwavering rule – No shirt, No shoes, No service. I’ve even found myself having acrimonious thoughts towards little children who sashay barefoot into places with their thoughtless mothers. How could any responsible mother allow her child to be subject to the many hazards and germs that foot to floor contact elicits? Worse, how could any responsible adult let another person leave germs and other hazards behind for unsuspecting, shoe clad people to muck through? If it weren’t a big deal, then why do shoe stores offer hosiery for trying on shoes? “Forget your socks? No problem. Have a footie,” reads a sign at DSW. It comforts me. At least I know that if someone tried on a pair of shoes I might buy, I can rest assured that probably no one’s stinky feet have actually touched my inner soles. Even in my childhood household, shoes were required in the kitchen, just as hairbrushes had to stay out.

It is these thoughts that hung over me as I stood on my sweet Muslim friends’ doorstep yesterday. Without more than a couple of natural movements, four people breezed through the front door, leaving their shoes in a nonchalant, cluttered pile. I, on the other hand, hesitated.

At least three years have passed since I remember walking into their home, not noticing that everyone had removed their shoes but me. Several hours into the visit I realized my error. Of course, the family was too nice to mention it, but I felt incredibly rude for being insensitive to that particular cultural norm. I remember trying to tuck my clunky shoed feet underneath furniture so as to hide my faux pas, and yet all I could stare at was everyone else’s toes.

And here, again, came the moment; it was time to behave as everyone else did and take off my shoes at the door. I felt like the others were watching me in anticipation. I was sure they were thinking, “Will she do it right this time?” or “Remember last time when she left her shoes on? They were sliders. She easily could’ve removed them!” or “Westerners. How arrogant!” Of course they weren’t thinking those thoughts. They’re much too kind to expel that kind of venom. Plus, rationally I am aware that not everyone has such specific memory about my flaws as I do. It probably wasn’t important to them in the first place. Still, as if I were stepping over a gated fence, I put one foot through the door and then the other. I slid into the nearest chair close by, and leaned down to take off my shoes. I kicked them to the side into the pile at the door and quickly curled my toes under my feet, afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed my angst.

Just then, a neighbor apparently walked by, as all of a sudden one of the little girls popped up and said, “Look! It’s so and so and her son!” She was pointing out the window behind me and hopping up and down excitedly. Everyone else perked up, too, looking around my form out the window. “Invite them in,” my friend said. “Yes do! Hurry!” another echoed. The little girl ran out of the front door, skipping over the pile of shoes, and insisted that her neighbors come in for a moment. Of course they did, as the hospitality of Islam encourages, and they also took off their shoes, adding them to the pile.

The woman stayed for a cup of tea and immediately drummed up a conversation about the circumcision of her 9 year old son which would be happening next week. She asked questions about what circumcision entailed, specifically, how to keep the “affected area” treated and dressed immediately after the procedure, and what the benefits of having it done were. They talked about the Islamic philosophy of circumcision, of characters in the Bible who had it done (one very specifically with an axe while he was in his nineties), the fact that someone’s grandfather did the procedure so rapidly, that he engaged in a competition with a local medical doctor to see who could circumcise the most boys in the fastest time. It was a circum-size-off! Boys lined up in two rows – one for the doctor, one for the grandfather, and someone ran a timer. Apparently, and according to the reenactment gesticulations of “snip and throw,” everyone in the living room smiled and nodded, one person even applauded, at the news that the grandfather won by a landslide.

During this entire conversation – which happened to be as bizarre and non sequitur as it is to you, the reader, as it was to me, the listener - all I could think about was finding a pair of socks.