Saturday, November 26, 2011
New Holiday Songs
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Saturday, November 05, 2011
We went to the Anne of Cleves (as in named after Henry VIII's wife) for our first Guy Fawkes celebration. Technically there should've been a bonfire, but we opted for family carnival, bouncy houses, and fireworks instead. What a fun night in Weybridge!!!
Friday, November 04, 2011
What are you doing this week end?
It still sounds so bizarre to say, "Yeah, we're going into London tonight to meet friends. What are you doing this week end?" like it's no big deal.
Technically for the folks who live here it would sound like Arlington folks saying, "Yeah, I'm going into Dallas for the evening". Going into the city for a night out is kind of cool because somehow hanging out with other urban-ites sounds sophisticated and cool. But it's a whole 'nother layer of cool for the urban atmosphere to be London.
Because it's freakin' LONDON, people. And I live here now.
Truth.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
simple things
We found a place where we can enjoy burgers with American cheese, edimame, AND beer. Cheers to Giraffe, the kid friendly restaurant in Walton on Thames!!! And Thanks for being totally cool when my son announced to you that he had a poopy diaper..
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Leave it be, lady.
"I'm just going to say it. Parents these days! Lettin' their kids play video games at the dinner table. It stunts their growth, you know.."
Husband nods, all shifty eyed.
"They won't be able to have conversations," the wife said a little too loud to be private.
I turned their table next to ours and said, "Excuse me? Seriously? First of all, welcome to the modern world. Secondly, it's been a while since we've been to a restaurant. A long while. And do you know what happens at restaurants? Conversations, that's what. Adult ones that don't involve topics like "going tee tee in the potty", counting to ten in the correct numerical order, or reading Tinker Bell. Don't I deserve one night a month? One? Where I am not singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider? One where I'm not begging my three year old to take a bath, eat his supper, or go to bed? Seriously. ONE FREAKING VIDEO GAME while we wait for the waiter to come with food that isn't mac-n-cheese, chicken nuggets, or pancakes? One game that is actually educational - choose the color, the shape or the number? SCREW YOU LADY and your uninforned, hoity-toity rambling!"
What I really said was... nothing. I said nothing. I felt the weight of her comments on my back as my son, for 10 minutes, colored on his DS (using words like "stylus" correctly) while Rich and I sipped wine, ordered dishes that included incredients like aubergine, and talked about how ridiculously hard our day had been.
Husband nods, all shifty eyed.
"They won't be able to have conversations," the wife said a little too loud to be private.
I turned their table next to ours and said, "Excuse me? Seriously? First of all, welcome to the modern world. Secondly, it's been a while since we've been to a restaurant. A long while. And do you know what happens at restaurants? Conversations, that's what. Adult ones that don't involve topics like "going tee tee in the potty", counting to ten in the correct numerical order, or reading Tinker Bell. Don't I deserve one night a month? One? Where I am not singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider? One where I'm not begging my three year old to take a bath, eat his supper, or go to bed? Seriously. ONE FREAKING VIDEO GAME while we wait for the waiter to come with food that isn't mac-n-cheese, chicken nuggets, or pancakes? One game that is actually educational - choose the color, the shape or the number? SCREW YOU LADY and your uninforned, hoity-toity rambling!"
What I really said was... nothing. I said nothing. I felt the weight of her comments on my back as my son, for 10 minutes, colored on his DS (using words like "stylus" correctly) while Rich and I sipped wine, ordered dishes that included incredients like aubergine, and talked about how ridiculously hard our day had been.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
He said, she thought - and that rarely turns out well..
He was kissing me good night - in a very platonic British way which still sometimes feels a little awkward (especially when he does it to my husband) - when it hit me. Well actually, he thought it hit him first, hitting me in a more informed way, but then it was supposed to shoot back to him, wrapped in a glossy package of understanding.. by osmosis. Instead, the point I was trying to make rebounded itself over his right shoulder, flew into the chilly Surrey air, finding its tarmac a street gutter.
I must have flinched.
Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."
I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"
Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"
Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.
"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.
I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.
For the record, I am. Completely blessed.
If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.
Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.
And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.
In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.
For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..
After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them? What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?
All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.
I must have flinched.
Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."
I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"
Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"
Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.
"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.
I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.
For the record, I am. Completely blessed.
If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.
Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.
And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.
In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.
For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..
After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them? What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?
All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Cornwall Holiday 2011
Cornwall Holiday 2011, a set on Flickr.
Our first official family vacation in Cornwall, England. We rented a cottage in a tiny town near Sennan. The cottage is called Kitticarn and was an excellent hub from which we visited Tintagel, The Eden Project, St. Ives, Lands End, Padstow, Penzance, St. Michaels Mount and Marizan. As a bonus we stopped at Stonehenge (pictures forthcoming) where I ran into a student (as it always happens). We also stopped in Exeter to buy a coat..
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Boho Rebound
I bit the bullet, my back against the wall; my cupboard was bereft of coffee, my body begging for it. I went downstairs to Boho , the little tea and coffee shop two doors down from my above-the- shoe-shop flat. I hadn’t been there since the owner summarily chided Jack (and me by proxy) about being too enthusiastic on the premises.
The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.
By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.
I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.
The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.
The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.
Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.
And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.
But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.
We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.
The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.
By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.
I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.
The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.
The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.
Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.
And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.
But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.
We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.
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