Lena Travels

East Coast

2011-05-03T21:40:00.001-07:00

When possible, I enjoy getting out of town for my birthday. It’s a distraction from the ageing process, and also saves me from the embarrassing task of deciding how to celebrate my own birth and who to ask to celebrate with me.

This year, it was New York and DC. I love the East coast, and it’s been a while, and the stars aligned to fit in several welcome opportunities:

To see family and friends

To travel on Amtrak

To see the cherry blossom in DC (slight fail on that one)

To hear Pink Martini at the Kennedy Center

To see the Gauguin exhibition at the National Gallery

I took the red-eye to New York, which wasn’t too painful. I would have got even more sleep had the cabin not been refrigerated. I asked the flight attendant for a blanket, and she told me that they are now charging $8 for blankets “so that you can have a clean one.” I told her I’d rather have a free dirty one, but they don’t seem to offer that option. I’m so tired of airlines telling us how they’ve come up with these new rules and charges just to give us joy and fill us with gratitude.

Once there, I got to see my cousin and her bloke and kid, and get the guided tour to Yonkers, where they live. We visited the Union Church, which has stained glass by Matisse and Chagall, because, as I have mentioned elsewhere, if your name is Rockefeller, you can say things like “You know what would really complement my Matisse window? Eight more Chagall windows,” and make it happen.

We also visited the ambitiously-named Philipse Manor, which was very interesting, if a little on the rustic side to qualify itself for our mental image of a manor. But it wasn’t a primary residence, after all, and at the time, it was probably considered quite luxe.

Lydia and I nearly disgraced ourselves by giggling hysterically at some of the cheesy items for sale in the gift shop, which proved that we haven’t matured since our teens, and at least shows that the ageing process hasn’t completely overtaken me. I managed to sober up just enough to buy a postcard with a hologram of a scary-looking sheep on the front, and even politely agreed with the clerk as she commented on how lovely it was and how amazing was the technology that created it.

We also drove through Sleepy Hollow, which I must admit surprised me a bit in that I thought it was an imaginary place prior to our visit.

The next day we went into Manhattan, visited the Whitney, made fun of some of the art, loved some of it, and got into trouble with museum guards for taking pictures (not OF paintings, I should mention, I don’t do that), which reminded my cousin and I of that time we got chased though a castle in Wales by the security guard, and again proved that la plus ca change, la plus c’est le meme chose.

We also window shopped, and I went to the Top of the Rock, and the view was truly phenomenal, even though I didn’t see Tina Fey anywhere, and we sight-saw, and ate, and it was all very New York and fun.

The next day was Amtrak from Penn Station to DC, so I got to fulfill an old goal of taking a train in the US. As we left New York, I was a little concerned that it would not be all that I dreamed of, as the tracks seemed to be routed through the ugliest areas possible--but eventually I got my green landscapes and trees, and cityscapes, and all was well. Except Baltimore. Maybe Baltimore has good points and charming vistas, but I did not see them from my train.

I arrived in DC, at the stunning Union Station, and all was sunshine and tulips. Though a bit thin on the ground as far as cherry blossom. I was staying with my friend Julia and her husband, and we lunched and caught up, and went to the National Portrait Gallery, which I highly recommend.

Friday night and Pink Martini were wonderful. I loved the Kennedy Center, and it’s in a beautiful setting. It was rather lovely to be able to wander outside and look over the Potomac in the early evening before the concert. Pink Martini always rocks the house, though I was a little disappointed at first to find that my beloved China Forbes, the usual lead singer, was under doctor’s orders not to sing, and was replaced by a woman rejoicing in the name of Storm Large. Which apparently is for reals, even though it sounds like the result of one of those Facebook posts that ask you to provide your cat’s name and first street you lived on and tell you that’s your porn star name.

Storm was a bit more Broadway and loud than China, but she did a good job, and you have to give props to the girl for learning all those songs in multiple languages, per PM’s signature multi-cultural style. But the real consolation prize was Ari Shapiro, who sang a few numbers, plus a duet, and was completely charming, delightful, and talented to a jealous-making degree.

Saturday it rained cats and dogs, which was fine, as we spent a good chunk of the day inside the National Gallery admiring Gauguins and tracking down the da Vincis, and sitting in restaurants. And there’s something quite fun about running around in rainstorms when you know you’re guaranteed a warm, dry bed at the end of the day. A rather special and unexpected sight was a formerly LDS, rather grand chapel in the middle of DC, among a group of very fine churches and other buildings. It’s a bit crumbly and not well-kept now, but I liked that the Mormons made our mark with some good architecture there a long time ago.

Sunday was another gorgeous day, and we headed to the National Cathedral for Palm Sunday Service. It was an Episcopalian service, which is close enough to Church of England for me to feel an affinity for it. It’s very different from LDS services, and although I’m quite happy with the way we run things, I also like the ritual and tradition there. There’s something rather solid and comforting about it, and I appreciate the perspective on Easter.

National Cathedral
Bishop's Garden
Cathedral
National Gallery
New York
at the Whitney
Philipse Manor house
Philipse Manor

Chicago, Chicago...

2011-03-31T21:35:00.000-07:00

I walked into the hotel, and a well-dressed woman took one look at me, dripping wet, and turned to her husband. “We’re taking a cab.”

Chicago didn’t live up to the horror stories about the weather, on the whole. It was sunny and bright most of the time, and rained instead of snowed the rest. And in other aspects, it more than lived up to its rep.

I got off the plane and went straight to the opera. Taking the L through the city, I was amazed at how beautiful it was. Shiny pretty buildings and bridges, and the river winding through them.

Chicago Lyric Opera is in a big, gorgeous Art Deco building that, I am informed, was built to look like a throne. It’s certainly very palatial, incredibly ornate without feeling overwrought, and the performance (of Puccini's Girl of the Golden West) was outstanding.

Somehow as I arrived and left I completely failed to notice the Sears Tower, which you’d think would have been tricky, given that it’s almost the tallest building in the world. But that’s why I hope never to witness a crime,--I am well aware that my powers of observation are not exactly at the Sherlockian level.

From there I met my friend Julie and we headed off to see As You Like it at the Navy Pier--also excellent. First thing next morning was the Art Institute, which practically left me breathless. They have outstanding examples of...everything. El Greco, Rembrandt, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, Pissarro, Seurat, Van Gogh, Turner, Constable, Whistler, Sargent, Kandinsky, you name it...

Due to loitering in the art institute for too long, I missed our appointment at the Robie house. Which ended up being fine by me, as the cultural marathon was impinging upon our eating time, so I took some time to have lunch and go shopping. Chicago has great shopping. It’s amazing what you never knew you wanted until you’re in a place with great shopping.

The food situation kept looking up that evening, as we had pizza at Giordano’s, which absolutely lived up to the reputation. A big, chewy, symphony of crust, sauce, chese, and sausage. We followed that up with jazz at the Green Mill. The doorman’s welcome (with a rich Chicago accent) was along these lines:

“Cover is 12 bucks, no talking, no moving, no flash photography, no cell phones, no texting. The first set just finished, and people are moving, so you might find somewhere to sit. If it isn’t moving, sit on it.”

We actually found great seats in a booth with a local couple, and listened to a fantastic band that converted Julie to the genre. We failed to find Al Capone’s table, or to be involved in a shoot out of organised crime bosses, but I was only a little disappointed.

Sunday was when the rain started, with considerable enthusiasm, it seemed. We got soaked every time we stepped outside the building, but still managed to fit in (besides a nap and tea at the Drake) a visit to the Contemporary Art Museum, which was a fun mix of adult playground, clean and creative artwork, and taking-one’s-art-way-too-seriously pretension, followed by thin crust pizza at Pizano’s (delicious, but we voted thick crust as the winner), followed by take-home cheesecake at the hotel, which we ate with much giggling using coffee stirrers as chopsticks, because the waiter didn’t put in any forks.

Julie was a delightful travelling companion, and put up with my teasing and childish humour admirably:

Me, cocking an ear: Ah, the classic Chicago song.

Julie: Isn’t this “New York, New York”?

I loved the trip, but once again found that travelling never seems to allow me to check a place off the list for good. I want to go back to Chicago. Maybe next time I’ll make it to the Robie House. And look up and see the Sears Tower.

My Nan

2011-02-07T19:41:00.000-08:00

We called her Nanny Alice because my brother Anthony was the eldest of her grandchildren and that’s what he could say. So my toddler brother’s lack of articulation created a name we all used.

She helped me learn to appreciate shoes, learn to vacuum, and make the most of life. She was resilient and positive and adventurous and funny and honest and strong. She taught me to whistle, and then told me that whistling wasn’t ladylike. She had my cousins and me to stay over on weekends, made sure we swept and helped to clean before going out, had the excitement of going on buses, took us shopping and to lunch and bought us gifts for being well-behaved and patient. I’m pretty sure she was the patient one. She let us spend hours trying on ridiculous clothes that we thought were fabulous. She made us knickerbockerglories and let us stay up late for midnight feasts, although I’m not sure that we ever made it until midnight. She let us try on her jewellery and dress up in gorgeous fabrics. She prayed by her bed and prayed with us.

She wrote poetry, and worked hard, and believed in being glamourous and in getting her hands dirty. She served others endlessly. She was unshockable.

My nan lived in Bristol during the war, and dealt with air raids and shelters, and rationing, and all that goes along with war. Our favourite story was the one about the bomb crater. Nan was on her way to work one day, and... fell in a bomb crater. Being Nan, she climbed and and carried on to work, scratching and bleeding--but when her supervisor heard, she sent her home for the day.

She loved flowers, and colour--I once painted her kitchen twice in two days because the first colour we tried was less of a primrose and more like the sun had walked into the room and was outstaying its welcome. We went with a pleasant blue after that.

When I was in college and not brushing my hair ever, she sat me down, took a comb to me, gave me a neat parting, and suggested I keep it that way. I was about twice her size by then, but I knew who was in charge.

She loved children, and was happy with them, even at the end when she had difficulty talking to adults. Deafness and dementia are tough barriers to communication. The dementia made her irascible, suspicious, and irrational. It’s a horrible thing to happen to a brain. But there’d be moments when the real Nan would show through.

The last time I went to visit, she was delighted to see me, and made a fuss of me. We chatted, she showed me pictures of my cousin’s baby, and she said she was sorry she didn’t have chocolate to offer me. I always tried to wear something interesting when I saw her because I could guarantee she’d notice and like it. She told me I looked lovely. I remember her once telling me I wasn’t a pretty girl--not in an unkind way, I think her point was that it didn’t really matter and I had other, more important qualities. One of her favourite things to say about me was that “I was always the same.” I’m happy to know that, instead of meaning that I wasn’t growing or developing as a person, she valued consistency and the qualities she loved in me. I always knew I was loved by my Nan, and she was a wonderful person to love and be loved by.

Lena is Extremely Courageous

2011-01-04T19:50:00.000-08:00

Walking out of the changing room might have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

OK, honestly, it probably wasn’t. But IT FELT LIKE IT.

Cindy invited a few peeps up to Lava Hot Springs for New Year’s Eve. It sounded like a great idea to me--I’m not generally a big New Year’s fan. I’ve gone to parties, gone to bars, stayed home, gone to dances, gone to city centres, gone to bed...and it’s never been as thrilling as it looks in the movies. I always feel like I should be in the middle of a glamourous party, wearing a fabulous gown, kissing the man of my dreams whilst confetti rains down upon us, having the absolute best time of my life. It can’t possibly live up to that image. Plus I seem to have something of a grand tradition of people dying or relationships ending around this time of year, which can also put a dampener on things.

But I liked the idea of the hot springs. Simple, relaxing, good company. It’s just that, standing in my bathing suit in the changing room, it seemed less of a good idea to go outside practically naked knowing that it was, like, dozens of degrees below freezing out there. And then knowing that, in the unlikely event that I were to survive out there, I’d have to walk back through the cold to the changing room, but this time dripping wet.

But I did it. Several of us did it. We so crazy! And once we were in the pools, it was rather fabulous. I’ve never been so simultaneously hot and cold at the same time. Our hair frosted over, our ears burned, our eyelashes became heavy with frost, I had icicles at the back of my hair, and if I left my shoulders out too long, they’d frost too, and would tingle exquisitely when I submersed them again.

We stayed there a few hours, and then headed to Cindy’s house, where we ate late night fries and other delicious snacks, and we toasted each other at the stroke of midnight, and played speed scrabble, sat around and chatted, and finally fell asleep in random areas of the floor. where Cindy’s extremely hospitable mum had put blankets. Cindy’s dog kissed or wagged us awake the next morning, and Boyd made us crepes, and it was all pretty great. I barely even noticed the lack of George Clooney to snog.

Happy New Year!

The Heat is On

2010-11-04T20:48:00.000-07:00

Hey, I have a blog!

It’s been a good summer. And now, as the leaves have turned to flame and are starting to fall, and the warm evenings turn to crisp ones, I would like to discuss a topic near and dear to my heart. That of how I’m going to keep myself warm this winter. Actually, we’re going to discuss an area a little south of my heart because I want to tell you about my heated seats.

So I got a new car. Which is very exciting, and I kind of love it, even though I feel like a tiny bit of a sellout for driving a brand new car instead of a clunker that says, “I don’t care about appearances.” Maybe if I never wash it I can send the same message. I can do that!

I had just a couple of requirements when looking for a new car. It had to be reliable, get good gas mileage, and have heated seats. That’s all I wanted.

The first time I experienced heated seats was in my teens. My parents had just separated, and my aunt had to pick me up one morning for some reason related to that--I honestly can’t remember the details, I don’t think it was anything dramatic. I do remember trying not to cry though, and it was a really cold morning, and my aunt turning on the seats, and it feeling like a warm bath. It was immensely comforting.

So apparently that’s led to some deep-seated psychological issues about seats.

I also hate being cold, and I especially like having a warm back. As a kid, coming in from the cold I’d sit with my back against the radiator to warm up. Again, comfort food for my temperature receptors.

As it turned out, once I test drove a couple of cars, I found that I also wanted responsive steering, decent acceleration, and nice looks (shhh). And then I found that the car I loved didn’t come with heated seats. Not an option.

But I found someone who’d install them after market. And my life is...well, a lot MORE complete. I adore them. I pretty much turn mine on as long as I don’t actually have the air conditioning going. If you see me sucking my thumb and clutching a teddy bear in my car, we’ll start to worry about the psych issues, but hey, maybe it’s therapy.

Mexico Pics

2010-07-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

A few minutes before the storm hit.
During the storm.
I feel I should point out here that Jessica is perfectly capable of holding her head up, but for some reason likes sleeping in that very uncomfortable-looking position.

I don't know what these are, but my mum kept trying to get me to pet them. She didn't pet one herself, however.

Anthony deciding what to wear for a night out. Um, my brother doesn't always look this sweaty and homeless, by the way. It was very humid.

Our hotel.

Home again home again, jiggety jig.

2010-07-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

Tonight we had dinner at the Mexican restaurant at the resort. Yes, you would think they'd all be Mexican, but remember--MexiDisney? It was delicious, and Jessica stayed wide awake through most of it, which is unusual for her. I think she knew we were leaving. So we went for a walk in the grounds, and down to the beach, and listened to the waves (and the disco down the beach playing Lady Gaga and Neil Diamond), and watched the stars and a lightning storm, and thought deep thoughts.

When we arrived, I thought ten days of this would be too much. Now it’s flown by, and I’d be quite happy to spend a few more days doing nothing. My sis-in-law says that means I’m finally unwinding, but probably need another week or so to really do the trick. She might be right, but my plane ticket says otherwise.

Ocean Dive 3. Certification Day.

2010-07-19T19:30:00.000-07:00

Whereupon Lena learns to love diving.

This was the day when diving officially became fabulous. It was a beautifully sunny day, and the sea was relatively calm, despite the red flags still on the beach. I’m starting to suspect they’ve lost all the other colours.

This time it was Ryan, a kid called Brandon, a Spaniard called Oscar, who was also certifying that day, and me. We headed down, and my ears were being a lot more cooperative. We did our “skills” on the ocean floor--fin pivots, regulator removal and replacement, mask flooding and clearing (I hate that one), and there was a decent current, which made it a little challenging.

Then we got to swim and have fun--and see a Moray eel, lots of little blue fish, more Lion fish (“very very poison” said one of the staff later), and a mermaid. Ha! I was just kidding about one of those.

It was just beautiful, and relaxing, and fun, and Ryan very kindly grabbed my foot and pulled it out of the way of more fire coral (where was he when my hand was getting ravaged the other day?). We did “out of air” testing on the way to the surface, and then we were done. I was the last to do my “out of air,” and it involved going down and up again, while the current made us drift, so we had to hang around in the water for a while afterwards for the boat.

It was glorious not to feel at all queasy, but just to float and enjoy the sun. So we got on the boat, and unhooked all our equipment, and Ryan made the announcement that both Oscar and I had certified today, and everyone clapped, and then they threw a bucket of sea water over each of us.

I decided to buy the video of the dive, and Tomas offered to edit in turtles and sharks as we didn’t get to see them today, but I told him I liked the original version. Although it was sort of tempting to see if he could CGI me onto the back of a dolphin or something. I'll see if I can upload it. It's rather soothing to watch.

Ocean Dive 2 (or, More Drama on the High Seas)

2010-07-18T20:58:00.000-07:00

Whereupon Lena redeems herself a little on the whole seasickness front and survives to blog about it.

If this is starting to sound a bit Ryan-heavy to you, you are not alone. Today, Chris was my instructor, as it’s Ryan’s day off, and as he introduced himself he said, “oh, you’re the one everyone’s calling “Ryan’s scuba diver.” He was saying how Ryan had done all the work to get me up to speed, but wasn’t going to be able to certify me that day. As it happened, neither did he.

It’s been raining solidly for two days. Warm, tropical rain, but it feels a lot less warm and tropical when you’re heading out to sea in it. It then turns mean and stings you through your wetsuit, as you crash up and down in waves, hitting your tailbone every few minutes. I stared fixedly at the horizon, willing myself not to get sick. We got into the water, and I had to demonstrate a few skills at the surface, like switching from snorkel to regulator underwater. I did it relatively successfully, given how choppy the water was, and only accidentally pulled off the mouthpiece to my snorkel after I had finished. A couple of divers went down, but our line to the bottom had come loose, the water was really crazy, and our instructors decided it was safer to get us back to the boat. It ended up being fairly dramatic, as we had to get to the other side of the boat, with waves throwing us about and ropes dangling free. There was one bit where Chris was yelling “Lena!” and reaching his hand out to grab me as I let go of one rope to swim to the other, and I thought (apart from “he’s pronouncing my name wrong”) how movie-like it all seemed, and wondered vaguely if we were actually in any danger.

(I said to Ryan the next day that it probably was nothing compared to what they’re used to, but it seemed quite bad to me. And he said no, he’d heard it was pretty crazy out there.)

We got pulled back to the boat, and they hauled us in with only minor bruising after I got slammed into the ladder by a wave. Then there was more fixed staring at the horizon, as we hovered around looking for the other divers, got them on board, and then went back to shore, and I am SO very pleased to say I did not throw up.

This scuba thing is reminding me of a notecard a friend once gave me with a picture of a girl with her legs around her neck and the caption, “Yoga. Not as relaxing as I’d been led to believe.”

Drama on the High Seas

2010-07-18T20:56:00.000-07:00

Ryan was talking to one of the instructors as we went out to sea.
“That’s the one who took the money out of my wallet.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the flashy new sunglasses.”
He says he can’t prove it, but he can guess from the sunglasses, plus the look in his eyes when he grabbed him by the neck, shoved him up against the wall, and waved his wallet in his face, saying “does this look familiar?”

Did I mention he’s Navy trained?
They said that, as there’s no proof, they can’t drown him. I said, “I guess you can’t accidentally bump into him and knock his glasses into the water, either,” whereupon they brightened up.
“No, we can do that.”

Loud Americans

2010-07-18T20:55:00.000-07:00

It’s pretty peaceful here, but there are some loud Americans who drink all day at the swim up bar. Actually, it’s a little odd, the Loud Americans sound decidedly British, but we have decided that it must be a phenomenon of how sound travels over water, because of course they must be Americans. Americans are famous for being Loud.

Ocean Dive 1

2010-07-18T20:41:00.000-07:00

Wherein Lena definitively proves that she suffers from seasickness and discovers why Fire Coral is so named.

Sometimes I think I should take up knitting, except I’d probably stab myself with the needles. That, and I’ve never seen a Lion Fish, two stingrays, Chromafish, or any other sea creatures while knitting.

I headed down to the beach bright and early for my first dive in the ocean. Ryan gave me a bunch of detailed info about what to expect, and why I shouldn’t be scared, but if I was scared, just to be honest about it and not pretend there’s a problem with my ear or something instead, because that would just “p!ss him off.” I assured him that I had not intention of faking or even being genuinely brave. He summed our plan up by saying, “Basically, we go down, we go for a swim, we come back up. It’s pretty simple.”

And it was, on the whole, and was pretty fabulous. He had me take my snorkel off, because they don’t wear them in the navy, and he pointed out how crap the other instructor’s entry was, and told me to do it properly, and off we went.

As it happened, I did have a slight problem with my ear--probably a little infection from swimming in warm, child-infested pools. It made it a little difficult to equalise, so I had to go down extra slowly and swallow a lot, which became relevant later.

Being under the sea is just like it looks in all the nature videos, except with surround vision, and sound, and being able to touch things--don’t worry, I only touched things Ryan showed me and touched first. The exception to that was the Fire Coral, which I accidentally brushed with the back of my hand, and was a good lesson in why you keep your hands close to your body while diving, as it immediately left me with burning pain that lasted for a day or two, and a welt that is still there. It’s sort of the undersea version of stinging nettle, as one of the instructors explained it to me, or a jellyfish, which is how a website explained it.

But it was so pretty down there. There are a lot of disturbances in the area (hurricanes), so the coral isn’t the loveliest ever seen, but there’s a lot in the way of fish and Creatures of the Deep.

It’s sort of interesting. I had this image of diving being very effortless and floaty, and it is in a way--the swimming isn’t strenuous at all, and the breathing is easy enough, but there’s definitely a bit of a trick to using your breath to keep you at the right level. I will say, though, that I was quite prepared to feel scared or claustrophobic, and I didn’t. There was even one bit where Ryan gave me the option of swimming through a sort of tunnel (a short one) or going over it, and I was quite happy to go through and see fabulous coral formations and pretty white fish.

Every so often Ryan would beckon or point to something, like a fish blowing down at the sand, which looked like something out of Disney, or a nothingness in the sand that gradually resolved itself into a stingray and swam off. Or some kind of sea anenome that folded shut when he snapped his fingers in front of it. Or big spongy, rubbery...things.

The dive was going well, and I had lots of air left (I am proud to say I am an efficient breather), which we established after a moment of confusion after I checked the wrong gauge. And then. I realised I was drifting up, away from Ryan, and I was getting closer to the surface, as I started to feel sunlight. I think there was a little current. And I realised I was also being rocked side to side. And realised I felt quite sick. Ryan came up and asked me if I was ok. I pointed thumbs up, for let’s go up, he wanted to know why, and that’s when sign language failed me, as I don’t know the sign for “I think I’m going to barf and I’d greatly prefer not to do so into my regulator.” So we headed up.

We got to the top, and I explained, and he had me float, and asked if I was “going to belly.” I said I thought I might, and so he swam to safe distance and told me not to fight it. And then...

And then I hauled myself into the boat. As it happens, some of the other guys had already come up, so we didn’t cut things too short. We did miss seeing a shark on the bottom by a few minutes, but apparently that’s not a big deal because they’re “boring.” Ryan said so. He said, “THAT’S more interesting to watch,” poking one of my fins with a deprecatory toe.

So Ryan says I won’t get sick next time, but I’m not sure that my faith in Ryan is as yet quite all-encompassing enough to take that as fact. He thinks it was butterflies, and swallowing a lot of air, and he poured some hydrogen peroxide and alcohol in my ear and told me not to eat breakfast next time.

In case you wanted to know what the effects of fire coral look like.

Fambly

2010-07-18T20:38:00.000-07:00

My brother and sister-in-law, but most importantly, their baby, Jessica, have arrived! I freely admit to bias, but I think she really is an exceptional baby. She is very happy and curious, and sleeps a lot, and is pretty, and we are all pleased to see that she has her mother’s nose and didn’t get the D___ nose, which we are hoping to breed out.

She really is adorable, and Anthony and Becky say they’re considering “showing her,” which I had to point out isn’t necessarily a joke in the states. She smiles all the time, and her favourite thing to do (besides “reading” her dots and squiggles book) is to stick her tongue out at people and get a response. She was getting a little frustrated the other night as she was sticking her tongue out at the dog pictured on her pram lining, and he was completely failing to stick his out in response.

Scuba

2010-07-18T20:26:00.000-07:00

So, one of my 101 goals for 1001 days is to scuba dive. And the Mayan Riviera has the world’s second largest barrier reef. And I’m here! It’s like a cosmic sign or something. So I tried it out in the pool at first (they offer free intro lessons), and it was kind of fun, although I found I have a pretty strong instinct against inhaling under water. It’s presumably related to the same instinct that makes me unwilling to get close to or step over the edges of cliffs, and which a friend recently pointed out is a pretty functional impulse, despite being a challenge in rock climbing.

There was almost an international incident the very first time I tried it. There was some waiting around for private lessons to be finished, and then another delay, and another, and a few people were getting a bit shirty about having to wait. I’m not especially patient myself, but my as only other plans that morning were to a) lie by the pool and drink a refreshing beverage, and b) read a book, I felt I could safely push those agenda items a little later without my holiday being ruined.

So then, finally, one pair, including Toby (one of the shirty persons mentioned earlier) got to go, and I was next. But then Ryan, the Australian instructor, said he had to take another pair who’d just showed up and were leaving for their plane in 20 mins. Well, Toby didn’t like that, and neither did the couple after me. They were all up in arms and harangued the instructors, who clearly deal with sunburned tourists all day long and weren’t remotely discomposed by this. Ryan just scowled a little and ignored us. Toby flatly refused to hand over the gear to the new couple and gave it to me instead, whereupon I thanked him and the others and agreed that it was indeed very annoying and rude but that I felt confident that my life would resume its happy course eventually, and dropped the flippers and mask in front of the new girl.

So we scuba’d, and it was fun enough that I signed up for certification classes at the water sports office, run by some fellow British ex-pats. I asked the first one how he ended up here. “A job. Well, actually, i meant to go to Glasgow, fell asleep on a plane, and then next thing I knew, I was here.” I may adopt that smart alecky answer for future use.

Signing up, I had to fill out a bunch of health questions, including one about sea sickness. I hesitated and confessed my secret shame (see Oregon Coast, Whale Watching). Paul explained that that was only for extreme cases. He said he sometimes gets people who want to scuba but say they can’t go on boats. At which point he suggests they MIGHT want to think about another hobby.
“Such as hiking.”
“Exactly. Or mountain biking.”
“Perhaps rock climbing.”

The next morning I reported for class, and Paul said a cheery hello and announced that my instructor for the morning would be Ryan the laconic Australian. Hm. I was a little worried that he’d try to drown me after the fracas yesterday, but we actually got on very nicely--we even arranged it so that he’d be my instructor for the whole course. It works out nicely for him as he only he’ll only have one student to worry about, and it is nice for me because he’s an excellent instructor. He spent six years diving for the Australian Navy, so he’s quite good (and isn’t shy about pointing out where other instructors may lack knowledge). He told me a few things that he thinks are pointless that the course teaches, and taught me one or two things that aren’t in the book, like how to kill people using only my thumbs. No, really, he didn’t teach me anything too crazy and different, but there’s something sort of fun about feeling that you’ve got special inside Navy knowledge. It’s a bit like how my friend Christy taught me to slice melons in college, and I will always remember it because she said she was taught by the Amish (she’s from PA). A bit like that.

Lena Takes a Real Vacation

2010-07-18T20:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve got some catching up to do. This travel blog has been travelling, and though I couldn’t post while I was away, I had my trusty pen and paper to record all, for my trusty reader. I'm still waiting for some of my pics, so I'll have to update with those later.

Playa del Carmen

It’s all fountains and hibiscus and humidity and virgin piña coladas here. And there are hammocks on the beach. And coconut trees.

Being at the Iberostar in Mexico is, I think, rather like being in Disneyland in California. Disneyland is certainly geographically located in CA. It has CA’s wonderful climate. Many of the people who work there are from California, especially those who work on the cleaning and maintenance, while those with some of the more glam jobs are transplants. And yet, by visiting Disneyland, I do not feel that one gets a real sense of what it’s like to be a local and shop, work, and live in CA.

It’s similar here. And it was a little disconcerting for a day or two, and almost a little claustrophobic. Being in this magical Mexican kingdom with perfectly groomed lawns, and signs all in English, and not a single stray, scrawny dog in sight. But as soon as I started using the MexiDisney comparison, I felt a lot better about things. I could just enjoy the show and not think too hard.

Love and Loss and California

2010-06-17T23:12:00.000-07:00

Let’s get the bad news out of the way. Our trip to California began with me almost missing the plane, a) because I stayed late at work talking to my brother on the phone and hadn’t packed, and then b) rushed home and packed in a hurry, leaving various semi-important items out like moisturiser and swimsuit (which was ok because it gave me an excuse to buy a trashy bikini in H&M), and c) still left with Mara with just enough time to make our flight, but d) while staring at my boarding pass trying to work out why I didn’t have an “A” or “B” on it, realised that I was at the wrong gate, and it wasn’t “our” flight after all, but that I d) needed to run like mad to catch my own flight in a different concourse, which I e) did.

Mara made a comment later about how she'd always thought I was more together than that.

Then we got the rental car, which smelled like smoke, so we switched it for one that didn’t, in the process leaving one of our bags behind with someone’s laptop in it. And then we got somewhat lost driving to Mara’s sister’s house. But not really lost because we had gps! Just a lot of “hold on...yeah, do a u-turn here.”

I think by this time, Angie had probably started wondering what sort of travelling companions she’d landed herself with.

So there was much calling of airlines and rental companies to try to track down the laptop, which sadly did not happen. And then, unbeknownst to us, we apparently committed a $450 traffic violation (seriously, if I’m going to do something $450 worth of naughty, I would sort of hope that I’d be aware of it. And I thought we were pretty careful about the u-turns!), which we’re still trying to resolve.

So.

But the rest of the trip was so lovely! We were there for Tricia and Stephen’s wedding, and that was truly wonderful. It was great to meet their families, especially as talking to Brits in America always makes me feel a little bit at home. And the wedding went beautifully, and everyone looked very happy ever after.

Then Mara and Angie and I played for the rest of the weekend. Angie left a little earlier, presumably heaving sighs of relief to get out alive. Mara and I went to stay at her brother and sister-in-law’s place, and we went out for Indian food the first night.

I’d told Mara that I sometimes get sick of people asking me the same old questions about where I’m from. Very kindly, she tried to save me from the ordeal by telling her brother while I was out of earshot that he shouldn’t ask me a bunch of questions about where I’m from, which I’m sure he thought was totally normal.

I know she told him this because as soon as she’d left the table, he said, “so Mara says I’m not supposed to ask you a bunch of questions about where you’re from.”
I said, “Yes, I’m very sensitive about it. I like to think people don’t notice I have an accent.”

They’re a fun family, and we had a very amusing evening, partly because we ended up talking about the region where I’m from and Bristolian accents (it’s not that I object to talking about my homeland, it’s just that the same. old. questions. again. and. again. get old. And it’s not always fun to feel like the novelty act).

We had a delicious French breakfast in Berkeley, with citron presse’ and gingerbread pancakes; we scenically drove to Half Moon Bay, and looked for shells; we wandered around San Francisco, and the sun shone, and flowers bloomed, and we went to the Legion of Honour and the De Young, and saw a Giacometti sketch exhibition, and a Masterpieces from the Musee D’Orsay exhibition, and one of Amish quilts, and they were all uplifting and beautiful. And we saw brides everywhere. It was a weekend theme. Brides in white, and purple, and with green umbrellas, and with pretty bridesmaids, and stunning scenery.

You always hear that people in California never get out of their cars, but it's not true!

The reason for the season--Tricia and Stephen were married at the Oakland temple.

Brides everywhere...

View from the Legion of Honour

Angie, me, and Mara. Angie's a bit cut off here, but I looked hideous in the one where she wasn't, and it's my blog!

A Study in Contrasts

2010-05-16T19:18:00.000-07:00

I spent last weekend backpacking in Escalante with a group of friends. It was beautiful and tiring and dirty...SO dirty. There was a lot of wind one day, and it whipped the fine, dirty sand into our tents and sleeping bags and fingernails and toothbrushes and food. We hiked out and drove back on Sunday, got home quite late, and I was up first thing the next morning to drive to Midway for a conference at the Zermatt, which is a fairly swish hotel.

In Escalante we bathed in the river, and dried ourselves in the sun. At the zermatt, there were appropriately fluffy towels, a bathroom considerably bigger than my own, and the gym shower made me want to cry I wanted one of my own so badly. It had 13 jets, sides, back, overhead....it was a thing of beauty.

In Escalante, we cooked over propane stoves and tried to avoid getting sand into our meals. We had pasta and Indian food out of packets, and oatmeal and hot chocolate, and semi-melted string cheese, and lots of dried fruit. At the Zermatt, I ordered room service, and ate delicious pastries, and didn’t have to filter my own water once.

In Escalante, I hiked through streams with 37lbs of backpack, did yoga in the morning in the sand, saluting the sun in the outdoors, and I have a scratch on my bottom from using the woods as my bathroom. At the Zermatt, I worked out on the elliptical machine overlooking pools and mountains, while Dancing with the Stars played on the TV, and then melted my muscles in the steam room and sauna.

In Escalante I got to spend several days and evenings with wonderful women, and slept in a (sandy) tent with a good friend. At the Zermatt, I got to network with some great colleagues, and spent most of the evenings relaxing alone until I fell asleep in my king-size pillow-top bed.

And I want to be clear--the moral of this story is NOT that luxury hotels are overrated and I would much rather rough it all my life in the outdoors, in case that’s where you thought I was heading with this.

(Although I have to say, NOTHING tastes better than a meal in the outdoors after a long day hiking, and the Zermatt room service was a bit rubbish, to be honest.)

The experiences were both wonderful, and there are things I can take or leave about both. I prefer waking up in a soft bed to waking up on a sleeping pad, even if the pad is on sand. I definitely prefer waking up without sand in my bed. However, I prefer waking up to the sound of birdsong and the sun coming into the tent to the sound of air conditioning, an alarm buzzer, and a stuffy head. And being alone is wonderful, but the company of good friends can’t be beat.

I just love the life of variety. That pillow-top felt all the more soft and...pillowy after a few nights on the desert floor. And we all know how good it feels to take a shower when you’re really, really dirty. I like some chiaroscuro in my life. I guess it’s that whole principle of being able to appreciate good things after going through hardships to get there. I hope to learn more life lessons in the lap of luxury very soon.

100 Random Thoughts..

2010-03-24T23:03:00.000-07:00

...typed as they come.

1. So I’m going to do the 100 thoughts thing again.
2. It was pretty popular last time, and Jessica did it again and reminded me.
3. She’s really witty.
4. I’m worried that I only HAVE 100 thoughts total, so won’t have much to write.
5. And it might be like trying to remake...hm.
6. Can’t think of famous movie with bad remake.
7. See, have lost mojo already.
8. Oceans 11!
9. No, what am I thinking, I really liked that film. Hello, George Clooney. And good day to you, Matthew Damon.
10. The Italian Job. Not a patch on the Michael Caine version.
11. There you go.
12. People were saying Obama had lost his mojo too, and now look.
13. Health reform=Change, suckas!
14. That wasn’t very gracious of me now, was it?
15. But I do think that a few years from now most people will wonder what all the fuss was about.
16. So now health reform has passed, what would be next on the list of my personal priorities for change in the US?
17. Besides, you know, ending poverty.
18. And war.
19. And...actually, I think it would be plug sockets.
20. Mind did a little spark just now when I plugged in my laptop.
21. I hate it when it does that. Scares me to death. I want switches, like on the British ones.
22. And then America would be perfect.
23. Well, I could probably think of a few more things--ending strip malls, etc.
24. But I’d be digging.
25. Enough with politics!
26. Hmm.
27. “Give a man...ten thousand...”
28. That’s a song we’re learning in Citrine.
29. “Give a man...ten thousand...words.”
30. It ain’t easy.
31. And the general opinion seems to be that it sounds like cats being tortured.
32. But I rather like it.
33. Though I’m not sure that I believe the thesis, which is that if you give a man the said ten thousand words, he will write you a love song. You could give some of the men I know the Oxford English Dictionary, Encyclopaedia Britannica, and the collected words of Shakespeare, and you wouldn’t get a Valentine’s Day card out of them.
34. I actually like all the songs we’re singing. Fun rhythms and melodies.
35. Rhythms is a hard word to spell.
36. And I’m an excellent speller.
37. Which is kind of a useless gift in the era of spell check.
38. I find quite a few of my gifts are wasted on my current era.
39. Like having really white skin.
40. It would have been highly valued back in the 19th Century.
41. Now it’s just a risk factor for skin cancer.
42. And being able to embroider.
43. And...well, maybe that’s it. Oh, I like to read aloud. Not that I have a gift for it, but they didn’t have TV back then, so I bet people got sick of reading aloud.
44. Course, I don’t have a TV now.
45. Not yet. Maybe soon. It's my current dilemma. Everything I want to watch is online anyway.
46. It’s just if I want to watch something with someone else.
47. Which happens, what, once a year.
48. And my current, pretty much inoperable, TV doesn’t look pretty.
49. Which, let’s be honest, is probably a more pertinent factor in my desire for a new one.
50. Ooh, halfway there.
51. I brimmeth o’er with thought, apparently.
52. “oooooooh,,,,ah.” (More “Love Song”)
53. I’m up late again. Bad habit.
54. I heard that Margaret Thatcher only needed about 4 hours of sleep per night or something insane.
55. I wish I could get away with that little sleep. Except I LIKE to sleep and relax.
56. But things have been so busy lately, that I could use the extra time. And it wouldn’t kill me to make it into work on time once this month.
57. And then the silly people messing up my order at [business name redacted] means I’ll be running errands tomorrow in any spare seconds I have.
58. I posted something on Facebook to do with that, about wanting to write a scathing letter, and I think people overestimated my rage level.
59. Wasn’t planning on going postal, just a little indignant.
60. I think Facebook, although a time suck, is actually a positive thing socially.
61. Apart from people feeling left out if they know they’re not invited to parties and all that.
62. And the occasional person writing indiscreet or passive aggressive things on their walls.
63. But I actually have been in meaningful contact with some people I really like and probably wouldn’t have had meaningful contact with otherwise.
64. And really, even if it’s just a frivolous time suck, it’s a fun one.
65. Sleeeeeeepy.
66. Maybe I don’t have as many thoughts as I thought.
67. I can’t wait for vacation.
68. And hanging out with my peeps.
69. And ordering myself new shoes for my birthday.
70. This selfish buying-stuff-for-one’s-own-birthday thing probably contributes to the decline of Western civilization.
71. But at least I’ll be well shod when picking through the rubble!
72. So it’s been over a week since I spent most of my Saturday in purchasing and installing a new light fitting, and I still don’t like it.
73. So I think I’m going to forget searching online for something special and get something simple and cheap from Ikea.
74. And count this one as a $70 Learning Experience.
75. I must say I’m pretty proud of myself for installing the dratted thing.
76. Because it baint be easy, and don’t you be fergitting it.
77. (Not sure why the random lapse into country dialect. Lateness.)
78. Actually, installing the dratted thing twice, because I did it wrong the first time.
79. And so I do actually feel pretty confident about doing it again, which is good.
80. Except if I get overconfident and forget to turn the breaker off, which would be bad.
81. Very bad. Mustn’t forget.
82. “No I mustn’t forget. To say a great big thank you, I mustn’t forget.”
83. Random song flashback from Junior School assemblies.
84. They used to make us sing hokey Christian folk/pop. (It was a Church of England school).
85. I don’t think it made anyone any more religious, but some were quite fun.
86. I remember being alone in the house with my brother when he was doing some electrical stuff for my aunt, and he shocked himself. Scariest moment ever when I heard him yell.
87. (He was totally fine. Luckily.)
88. “Autumn days when the grass is jewelled, and the silk inside a chestnut shell!”
89. THAT’S how that song began. It was one of my faves.
90. Ah, Autumn. Actually, Ah, Spring.
91. It has been fantastic to have some sun and longer evenings, despite some minor complaining I might have done about getting up an hour early.
92. And I went on a bike ride today after work.
93. With my helmet.
94. You’d think I’d be mature enough not to be embarrassed about wearing a helmet on a bike, but I’m afraid I’m not. I think they look dumb, and I don’t like wearing one.
95. But am safety conscious so I do anyway!
96. I’m really glad Spring is here. The new year ought really to begin in the spring, it would be a lot easier to get into the mindset of new beginnings.
97. I wonder what this year will bring. Hopefully less crap than last year.
98. No, last year had a lot of good stuff too. Be positive, Lena.
99. Bring on 2010! I’m belatedly excited about it.
100. And now I have to sleep on that.

Be Careful Out There

2010-03-09T22:59:00.000-08:00

So, I’m in the temple, and a guy I don’t really know brings a young man up to me, and says, “this young man is going on a mission to London--you’ll have to give him some tips!’

My first thought is “Oh my poor child, they will eat you alive,” just because I think London would be a TOUGH mission. But I couldn’t say that, and unfortunately my actual response wasn’t more helpful: “Tips? Well, I don’t suppose giving you a list of the best nightclubs is such a good idea, ha ha.” (must...not...make...flippant remarks...to baby missionaries...in the temple).

So then the guy sort of gave me prompts, like “I hear the Indian food in London is amazing,” and I’d say “yes, definitely, eat Indian food. Yummy.” But the trouble is, I'm a) in the temple and not really in tourist information centre mode, and b) I’m a bit vague on what missionaries are allowed and are not allowed to do, other than be alone with women (I remember in Italy one of the missionaries teaching Sunday school walked out of the room for a minute and the other one got all panicky--I thought for a second he must be really shy, and then realised...).

So of course all the things that come to mind involve pubs (can they go in pubs? Americans sometimes get confused about what pubs are. I remember later they CAN go in pubs), or musical theatre (can they go to the theatre?), or visiting other spots in Britain (can they travel?) and wanting to warn him about going out late at night in Soho, or the East End, or...(or actually anywhere, as he looks about my niece’s age), or remind him not to read the Sun. It is only afterwards that I remember nice safe, touristy and interesting things like the Tower of London and the British Museum, and the National Gallery (except they have nudes--can they look upon nudes? Actually, if they can’t they’re out of luck because they're bound to run into a starkers statue at some point).

I am so full of admiration for these young men and women who have the guts to give up their time and youthful frivolities to go wherever they’re sent to share their faith, believing that faith is something pretty exciting and important that other people might want to hear about. Especially when you know they are highly likely to be mocked or disrespected or door-slammed in the process.

I hope my people are nice to him. I hope someone out there is looking for what he has to share. I hope he finds his own way to the British Museum.

Banff

2010-02-23T22:13:00.000-08:00

My friend Liz and I have gone for the last several years to the Banff film festival together. We decided tonight that the theme of Banff is “Watch more television.” For the last three years, the main features have been about:
A woman who got paralysed.
A couple who failed to cross the north pole and nearly died.
A man who kayaked across the Tasmanian sea and died.

So on the face of it, it doesn’t exactly seem to be about the joys of the outdoors. And yet we still left talking about our plans for adventure. Just not kayaking.

The kayaking story was fascinating. You start out not knowing the outcome, but it becomes gradually clear that this story is not going to end happily. The friends and family members of Andy, the kayaker, talk a lot about how some people need more stimulation to get that natural rush that some of us feel when we look at our credit card bill. It’s hard for me to understand taking such huge risks with your life, for something that seems (quite honestly) relatively unimportant, especially when you have a wife and child, as he did (not that I don't value the single and childless, but, you know). However, as one of his team said, the world has been led by explorers and adventurers. And we all take risks every day--how we calculate, perceive, and need those risks is very personal and varies hugely.

Another, lighter, film featured noboarding, which looked very cool. Like snowboarding without the bindings. As the idea of my feet being locked into position by the bindings is what’s always put me off snowboarding, this sounded like an excellent idea for about two minutes. Then I remembered the last time I tried skateboarding.

It was at an ad shoot, and my friend and colleague, Brian, had just got a longboard and brought it to the shoot. While the crew was setting up between shots, he let me play on it. I think I rolled about four feet, hanging on to him, and I still fell off. Mark came out and shook his head, “If you get her hurt, Brian...” (This was back when I was the client and they cared about my well-being). So no, noboarding probably not the sport for me.

Rockclimbing is much more appealing to me, because you can do it in nice weather, and (the way I like to do it) you have a rope attached to you, which gives me great psychological comfort as well as genuinely increased safety. One of my favourite films showed Paul, a man recovering from an accident that had left him unable to walk for a while, climbing “The Rainbow” in Tasmania (I think) with his friend. He had the use of one arm, and imperfect use of his legs, and as his friend pointed out, things that would be quite easy for many people were a bit epic for him. He made it to the top, and they sat there in the sun, looking out over the spectacular view. His friend asked him if he longed for his old body back, and he said no, this was who he was now.

“Some people say they’d rather be dead than in a wheelchair,” he said, matter-of-factly. “It’s...it’s not true.”

Soul Mates

2010-02-09T17:28:00.000-08:00

Once in a while I like to see how people found my blog through the interwebs.

Here are some of my favourite keyword searches that led like-minded thinkers here:

Fungal jokes
Fungal jokes
Friendliest people in the world
Travelssex [that was one disappointed googler]
Big spozzo
Leprosy and fungus
Last man on earth funny

From which I deduce that if you are lonely and infested with skin disease (or possibly thirsty in Italy), my blog is the place to be!

I must say that I am disappointed that Colin Firth Colin Firth Colin Firth was nowhere to be found in the search list. I'm going to work on remedying that. Colin Firth. In the mean time, I'll take pride in my status as the web's #1 source for fungus/fungal jokes!

Did you hear the one about the guy walking into a bar with fungus?

Me neither, but I'm pretty sure the punchline would involve a pun on the word "mushroom." I'll get back to you if I think of one.

World's 100 Wonders

2010-01-31T09:05:00.000-08:00

I copied this from Cindy, who copied it from someone else...

Pyramids of Egypt, Chichen Itza, Pompeii, Mont St Michel, Great Wall of China, Petra, Kashmir Valley, Topkapi Palace, Taj Mahal, Nile River Cruise, Prague Old Town, Carnival in Rio, Serengeti Migration, Easter Island, Golden Temple, Stonehenge, Galapagos Islands, Cappadocia, Amalfi Drive, Angel Falls (does the one in Provo count? No?), Grand Canyon, Colosseum of Rome, Meenakshi, Yellowstone NP, Machu Picchu, Fjords of Norway, Chartres Cathedral, Santorini, Antarctica Cruise, St Peter’s Basilica, Mezquita Cordoba, Matterhorn (does the one at Disneyland count? No?), Iguazu Falls, Egyptian Museum, Damascus Old City, New York Skyline, Bali, Borobudur, Dubrovnik, Marrakesh, Amazon Rain Forest, Valley of the Kings, Uffizi Gallery, Eiffel Tower, Ngorongoro Crater, Hong Kong, Rio Panoramic View, Ladakh, Great Barrier Reef, Sistine Chapel, Golden Pavilion, Niagara Falls, Angkor Wat, Burj Khalifa, Delphi, British Museum, Victoria Falls, Alhambra, St. Basils Cathedral, Burj al Arab, Forbidden City, Louvre Museum, Abu Simbel, Yangtze Riv. Cruise, Bagan, Canals of Venice, St Mark’s Basilica, Yosemite NP, Karnak, Versailles, Florence Cityscape, Ayers Rock, Teotihuacan, Carlsbad Caverns, Kremlin, Hermitage Museum, Banaue Rice Terr., Mecca, Varanasi/Ganges, Chambord Chateau, Bora Bora, Kathmandu Valley, Li River Cruise, Lijiang/Shangri La, Acropolis, Metropolitan Mus, Shwedagon Stupa, Neuschwanstein, Potala Palace, Mt Everest, Sahara Desert, Banff NP, Jerusalem Old City, Temple Em. Buddha, Leaning Tower Pisa, San Francisco, TerraCotta Warriors, Hagia Sofia, Baalbek, Portofino

Clearly I've got to get out more.

Where have you been?

Whale Watching

2010-01-25T10:08:00.000-08:00

Last weekend a few friends and I took a trip to Oregon to celebrate Lisa’s birthday. We rented a beach house, cooked together, walked on the beach, read, hot tubbed, and drank hot chocolate. It rained most of the weekend, and it was all very lovely and cosy.

On Saturday, however, the weather was relatively fine, and we had the bright idea of going whale watching. We chartered a boat, and headed out to sea.

Don’t we look cheerful? I wish there were “after” pictures.

The captain reminded us that if we were sick, to make sure the wind wasn’t in our faces, and that we’d be more likely to get sick up top than down on deck. I never get seasick, so neither warning really applied to me.

After about an hour, I came downstairs to see a couple of my shipmates looking a bit queasy. The sea was pretty rough. I was feeling a little uneasy myself, but then I had a cold. I never get seasick, so that couldn’t be it. The sea was pretty rough, though.

A few minutes later, I saw Lisa reach for a plastic bin--her back was to me, but there’s only one reason you stick your head over a plastic bin, heave your shoulders, and then reach for tissues. About a minute after that, I leaned over the side of the boat, wind away from my face, held my hair back, and broke my record for never being seasick.

Just to seal the deal, I threw up a few more times after that. Rather stupidly, none of use were wearing life jackets, and you know how weak you feel after getting sick. I was clinging on for dear life with one hand on the rail, leaning far out as the boat threw itself up and down and back and forth, the other still holding back my hair (upon reflection, it would probably have been a more sensible priority to have had two hands saving me from drowning). Catherine very kindly came over to make sure I didn’t go overboard.

We were all ill except Ann, who eventually told the captain to turn around and head home. We finally made it back to port, and there was some messing around with ropes, while Catherine murmured, “get me off this damn boat.” I was about ready to jump over the edge and swim for it. Lisa said, “Well, that was a completely miserable experience.” “Happy Birthday,” I said.

We wobbled back to the car, and Lisa and I begged the others not to drive anywhere until we felt a little more steady. We were pretty drenched by then, and cold, and the dry ones piled clothes and hats on me. I get cold pretty easily, so was shaking rather a lot, and being on the pale side to begin with, I’m told I look rather dramatically white when I get sick, so I gather I looked a bit pathetic. I remember trying to reassure them that I was ok and I didn’t have hypothermia, but as my lips were numb and I was under the strong impression that if I opened my eyes I’d throw up again, I think I was a little unconvincing. Eventually we drove home with no sudden turns, and with the heater going full blast, and I was soon in the bliss of the hot tub.

It was about 24 hours before we could mention water without Lisa experiencing waves of nausea, and before we all had our land legs again. But as Catherine said, it’s a birthday we’ll all remember, and makes for a good story.

Oh, we saw some whales, too. I so didn’t care at the time, but upon reflection, it was actually pretty cool.

The group.

Watching a lightning storm over the sea.

Sunny morning, our last day.

All of us.

Power and Love

2010-01-21T20:30:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago I was chatting to my dad, and mentioned that there’d been a power cut in my building. I got home, and the hallways were pitch dark, and I had to fumble my way to my door, imagining murderers jumping out at me along the way (because murderers can see in the dark, apparently, which, if it were so, would make “Wait Until Dark” a very different film).

A week or two after that, I got an envelope in the post with a little torch in it (flashlight for you of the United States). My dad said he thought it would be a good idea for me to keep it in my handbag in case of future power cuts.

Tonight, I got home, and the power was out. Of course, it happened to be the one in a thousand time that I’d gone out without my purse, so I repeated the whole fumble-door-murderer-jumping experience.

It made me think of my dad, of course, and about his gift. I read “The Five Love Languages” by Gary Chapman last week, being tired of everyone on the planet knowing their love language except me. It’s an interesting read, if a little simplistic. In case you are from Pluto and haven’t read it yet, the idea is that there are five chief ways to express love, and pretty much everyone has a primary love “language.” Your options are words of affirmation (saying nice things), quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. The book is full of examples of relationships that were failing because one person kept (for example) saying sweet things to the other, because that was their own love language, and the recipient only valued quality time, so they felt unloved. In the examples, the giver started offering quality time, the recipient thus received love, and they all lived happily ever after.

I don’t mean to sound cynical, I think there’s a lot of truth to it, and if one is continuously missing out on meaningful expressions of love, it is absolutely going to cause problems.

I just think there’s a little more to it. For example, I also think the responsibility is on the recipient to learn to interpret other languages other than their primary one. Just as we don’t go to Germany and get annoyed if people there speak to us in German, we shouldn’t completely devalue other people’s expressions of love or affection.

For instance, if I’d waited around for my father to give me words of affirmation, I’d have led a very sad existence. I remember getting ready for my brother’s wedding, and saying “does this look all right” to my dad. He said, somewhat reluctantly, “well, I probably shouldn’t say so, but you look very nice.” “Er, why shouldn’t you say so?” “Well, I don’t want you getting conceited.” I’m not sure why he thought that at the age of 30 I was suddenly in danger of getting a swelled head from one compliment from my father, but I let it go.

I happen to like compliments, in general, but it wasn’t my dad’s style, and I knew it, and it was ok. I still knew he loved me, because of things like the torch. And because he’d make sure I had his AAA card if I was driving further than five miles. And because he’d fix things in my house. Or make me a drink. Or tell my aunt to mind her own business if she asked about my love life.

I also think I was fine with not getting words of affirmation from my dad, because my mum is very generous with those. If ever I’m in need of a confidence boost, she will fill that need to the point of embarrassment. She’s also more physically affectionate. And I got plenty of quality time with both. So I was fortunate in getting love in multiple ways from both of them.

Now, I think quality time is probably my primary language, but I’m greedy--I want love in all languages. I think Chapman has a great point, in encouraging us to find out what means most to the people we love. I also think he’s absolutely right in believing that most of us express one or two languages most naturally. But I also think we and our relationships can only get better if we learn to speak and interpret all love languages. I love chocolate, but I don’t want it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, not every DAY. I admire my friends who are more fluent in some languages than I, and like the idea of increasing fluency in all, so that I can be a veritable polyglot of love. Doesn’t that sound...lovely?

Winter Nonsense

2010-01-09T15:59:00.000-08:00

Would anyone care to sign a petition to eliminate January? No? Well, perhaps it wasn't my best idea of the new decade.

Here’s the thing. I think January is pretty much the worst month ever invented, and February isn’t that hot either, and I don’t find either New Year’s Eve/Day or Valentine’s Day to be particularly redeeming holidays, thanks for playing.

And yet. There’s something sort of satisfying about the deep midwinter. You suffer for years and years through it, and then at some point, you notice that it’s still light when you leave the office, and that your face isn’t frozen to the pillow in the morning, and you don’t have to chip the ice off your toothbrush before using it, and before you know it, birds are singing, and crocuses are popping up, and you heave a sigh of relief that Spring has sprung and morning has broken, and you’ve made it through the wilderness, somehow you’ve made it through, and you feel a sense of achievement and fully entitled to enjoy the weather for a few days before it starts all over again.

At least, I think that’s what happens. It’s been a few decades since last April.

I know it’s not all bad all winter. There are some positively glorious snow days and post-snow days, when the sky is blue, and the snow sparkles, and one sends pictures to one’s friends and family in England so they can all be jealous that you live in a winter wonderland ski resort. That’s pretty validating.

But on the days when you get a few hours of yellow-grey in the sky before darkness and ice falls again, I wonder if it wouldn’t be nice to fly south for the winter. And yet.

I think there are a few reasons why I don’t. Let’s ignore the job-related, practical ones. Let’s instead talk about guilt. I think I’d feel a little bit as if I was cheating on Utah. Like I’d come back in March and Utah would say, oh, NOW you’re back. Just because it was a difficult time of the year for me, and I got a little chilly towards you for a while, you cut and run off to some other younger, sunnier state. But NOW, when it’s convenient for YOU, you’re back. Fair-weather friend. And then it would spit on my head with April showers.

And then, could I really appreciate the spring? Could I really enjoy the thawing of the earth if my own fingers weren’t thawing out along with it? I kind of think not. Surely people in San Diego can’t constantly be appreciating and luxuriating in their fabulous weather all year long, can they? Er...can they...?

This is why I don’t really get the idea of heaven. I can’t imagine really appreciating somewhere where everything was perfect all the time. Unless they wake you up every morning with a little horror flick of a January day on Earth. Maybe that’s it. A little contrast every morning to get the blood pumping and make us appreciate all the calming harp music later.

No, I don’t really think heaven is clouds and harps (although that is the image that comes to mind in Pavlovian fashion when I hear the word). I’m not sure that I buy any of the creative depictions I’ve seen in literature or movies (Lovely Bones, What Dreams May Come, etc). I’m not sure that my childhood ideas of riding a unicorn and drinking rainbow lemonade all day are quite on the money, either. I AM pretty sure that I will be wearing haute couture cocktail dresses a LOT, and some really fabulous hats, and it’s those sorts of convictions that keep me going to church.

I kid, I kid! [looks skywards for thunderbolt]. But what is your idea of heaven, pray? And would it be winter, spring, summer, autumn, or all of the above?

Thanksgiving 2009: 10 Things.

2009-11-27T15:52:00.000-08:00

1. I am thankful for a beautiful world and getting to see bits of it.
2. I am thankful I found my overpriced Lancome eyeliner that I thought I’d accidentally thrown away.
3. I am thankful for miracles.
4. I am thankful my house didn’t burn down either from cooking or leaving my straightener on.
5. I am thankful for all the babies expected in summer 2010 by my good friends and family.
6. I am thankful for the seasons.
7. I am thankful for Dancing with the Stars.
8. I am thankful for memories.
9. I am thankful for cheese.
10. I am thankful for you.

Uxmal

2009-11-23T23:59:00.000-08:00

Uxmal, however, was love at first sight. It was quiet--a few other tourists and no vendors. It’s also just beautiful-lots of lush vegetation making you feel like you wandered into the jungle and discovered the pyramids all by yourself. You can climb on several of the structures, giving you a better taste of the views, feel and smells that the former residents experienced. We had time to explore by ourselves, and sat and gazed for a while in the golden late afternoon sun, and imagined Mayans coming and going and performing their rites.

The experience wasn't exactly marred, but was not maximised, by our guide, who gave our tour in both Spanish and English. Sample:
Guide in Spanish: 10 minute screed plus extended Q and A in front of a building.
Guide in English: “We are speaking of the mayans, who lived here.”
(Possible slight exaggeration alert).

Later that evening we came back for the sound and light show. The trouble with knowing a language only slightly is that most of one's knowledge is completely useless. Of the spoken part, I understood bits like "the colour yellow..." "The men have..." and "...because..." So I can't tell you what it was about.

Well, ok, it was obviously a dramatization of ancient life there, with people chanting to Chaac, and praying for rain, and explaining the meaning of the colours in and around the temple (according to our guide, they represent life, and black represents death). There were translator headphones available, but our guide omitted to mention that beforehand. But honestly, I'm fine with only the gist. I dislike translator headphones on the whole, and the experience felt a little more real for being a little more mysterious to me. There was music, and a sonic rainstorm, and the lights were pretty spectacular, and I can understand lightning in any language. It was a beautiful ending to our trip.

A Wonder

2009-11-23T23:49:00.000-08:00

I had an interesting reaction to my first sight of Chichen Itza--I was distinctly underwhelmed. I blame the posters. For days I've been looking at pictures of this place, hearing about how it’s just been named a wonder of the world, and we got to the site and paid our fee, made our way through the turnstiles and crowds of tourists and vendors, and then suddenly there it was. Just like in the pictures, and we hadn't even had to walk uphill to get there.

However, our guide started telling us about its history, and about Mayan sacrifices, and the mysterious ball game that was tied to it all. He showed us carved symbols, and the cenote where sacrifices where thrown, and how the sun lights up the main pyramid at the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, and we walked around the site and explored a little. And I fell in love a little bit with Chichen Itza and its veiled past. I wanted to gaze at it more as we left than when we arrived.

We're of course lucky to have so much access to information about our world. But it does mean that the impact of certain things is lessened. Not that I'm saying we should avoid books and pictures for fear of losing the novelty factor of things--it’s just that, when people tell you you're going to be stunned by something, and you see it in pics, or read about it online, or watch TV programs on it.. It makes it a little harder to be stunned than perhaps it was for Spanish colonialists who may have happened upon it a little more unawares.

On our way back, we stopped at Kikil (sp?), where there's a swimming cenote. Now, I'd heard of these, but not really understood what the big deal was. We swam in it, and honestly, it was completely amazing. You descend down dimly lit stone steps, down, down, down to the limestone pool. It was beautiful, green, shaded with light breaking through, hung with vines, little waterfalls and sprays falling from the sides, and moss decorating the edges. It was like a tropical fantasy. We had less than an hour to spend there, and loved every second.

Flamingos

2009-11-19T21:53:00.001-08:00

Once I was with a group of teens in southern Utah playing games. One of them involved saying what animal we thought each person would be. Dogs, cats, lions, horses...and then one of the teens turned to me and said she thought I'd be a flamingo.

I'm still not sure what that means, but I’ve felt a small bond between me and the pink creatures since then, and I was excited to see my peeps today. Celestun is one of only a couple of places where pink flamingos live in the wild, apparently. We took a day trip to see them, toured around in a small motor boat, took pictures and watched them standing one one leg just as they do in books, preening, screeching, showing off. Apparently they get their colour from carotene, which somehow is filtered through their beaks. The water itself had an orange tint.

You can’t help thinking that God was having a bit of a laugh designing those things. As in “I’ve had a long day creating Kilimanjaro and it’s time for a bit of frivolity. I know...pink birds!”

After circling around for a while, our captain steered towards trees at the edge of the lake--rather quickly, I thought. Really, rather too quickly to stop in time...and then we found ourselves sweeping through a little opening into a tunnel of mangroves. The light was filtering through the trees, and the water was glowing ruby red in places. We stopped at a little landing, wandered around, looked at gigantic termite nests. We then drove to a nearby beach, and I swam in the gulf, and lazed on white shells, and we ate filetes in a beachside restaurant.

Driving to and from in the van was also pretty great. We sped past thatched huts, kids flying kites, coca cola logos painted on buildings, schoolgirls in pleated skirts, taxis powered by motorbike or cycle, and old churches. A bizarre cultural moment came listening to Beatles covers in the van, with a very sultry latina singing lines about renting a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear. A little surreal.

The Hostel of the Stupid

2009-11-19T21:52:00.000-08:00

Hola chicas! Buenos tardes, mis amigos! Cuanto esta? Gracias! Donde esta el bano?

There you have just about the limits of my Spanish (and I suspect that some of it may really be Italian), but thanks to the friendly people of Merida, it is sufficient to get me through a week in Mexico.

I travelled to meet a friend there, and after the first night, we left our expensive but bland hotel with unhelpful concierge for a picturesque hostel with an unpredictable hot water system, but totally charming hosts Linda and Florian who, as far as I can tell, spend their days eagerly waiting for us to return and wondering how to make us happier. Linda is a petite blonde, who said "welcome home" when we arrived, later said eagerly, "I want to show you something," and proudly led me to the beautiful open balcony above the square, and was thrilled when I told her we liked the hostel better than our hotel. Florian is skinny, blond, and be-pierced, and booked us three tours for roughly the price of one from the hotel, offered us spaghetti for dinner, and excitedly met us as we came back from our tour to hear about it. They nearly trampled each other to get a map when we asked where to buy a certain item in merida and sent us off with instructions on what to look for and to "negotiate!"

Sadly, though charming, it is clearly the hostel where stupid people end up. Both TLC and I forgot to a) charge our cameras and b) bring chargers. Because, you know, we're going to see one of the wonders of the world, so camera phones will cover that, right? There was no help for us. Florian just lost his charger, and one of the other tourists forgot his camera altogether.

It seems that there are constantly fiestas in Merida, which is great, except when you’re dropping off to sleep next door. TLC and I started giggling one night when we turned out our lights and immediately loud music and shouting broke out. As I said, on the bright side, the motorbikes and taxis almost drowned it out.

A few pics of our home in the city.

The Frozen Tundra

2009-10-11T18:41:00.001-07:00

I must admit that I’m not 100 percent sure about what a tundra is, but I’m pretty confident that I’m familiar with the spirit of it, and I’m all about living according to the spirit of things, which is why I still eat tiramisu.*

Early this year, I went to the Banff Film Festival, which is not in Banff, incidentally, but tours all over the place. The featured film was about a couple who decided to trek across the north pole all the way to Canada. They walked for months and months and finally had to be picked up by rescue plane because climate change was causing the ice to break up, and they were about to die, basically. They were incredibly tough and resilient and cheerful, even when the woman left some vital piece of equipment at one of their camps and they had to trek back for about three years to get it.

As I watched it, shivering sympathetically, I thought, “I would never ever even be tempted to do anything similar.” I have no desire to climb Everest or visit the North Pole or similar. I don’t like being cold, I don’t particularly like heights, I have a rich history of ankle injuries, and I’m not a thrill seeker.

So why was I about 11,000 feet up a mountain on Saturday?

This week, a friend invited me to climb Timpanogos and enjoy the fall colours. Well, I do like autumn. And I do like hiking. And Mount Timpanogos is so pretty!

So we began hiking, and it was a beautiful day, and there was a waterfall, and aspens, and sunshine. But as we headed up, it got colder. And windier. And snowier. And we met a few hikers coming down who had left their camp at two in the morning and said “it’s been one of the most miserable experiences of my life.” Others advised us not to try to summit.

As I trudged through what was most certainly frozen and what I’m pretty sure was a tundra, with the wind howling around, nose dripping, and wondering if my feet were actually gangrenous or just frostbitten, I suddenly realised that the scene was a lot like the Banff movie.

Now, OK, a particularly astute observer might have noticed one or two superficial differences. For instance, it wasn’t quite so cold that my eyes got frostbite, as the intrepid woman’s did, and we hiked for hours rather than, say, months, and there weren’t any polar bears (as far as I observed), and no-one had built them a fire in a hut at the north pole. So yeah, if you want to nitpick, I guess it wasn’t quite the same experience. But I felt I was living the spirit of the north pole trek!

We didn’t summit, and I’m just fine with that. We got to Emerald Lake, which was more like “Frozen Wasteland Ice Rink,” and dove into the hut at the top, where some wonderful, marvellous campers had lit a fire, and I got to dry out my socks, thaw out my toes, and re-attach them to my feet. We chatted to other hikers who had also decided not to summit today, and we all admired the one girl who had had foresight enough to wear actual boots instead of running shoes. It was rather fun, and I think we all felt pretty tough, and the views were spectacular, and the joy of warmed feet carried me back down the mountain.

And I guess what I’m saying is that I can see how people get suckered into climbing mountains and visiting poles. They come back from a little hike and look at their pictures while they’re sitting by the fire drinking hot chocolate, and see how pretty it was, and forget their blisters and start planning another slightly bigger one. And before you know it, you’re climbing Everest “because it’s there” and getting frostbitten corneas.

Look at my pictures.** Aren’t they pretty? I can’t wait to go again next year.

*made with brandy and coffee and thus considered non-kosher by some Mormons.
**For some reason I can't post any of my rotated pictures. If you want to see those, they're on FB. If you know why, send me a postcard.

Back By Popular Demand

2009-10-03T22:01:00.001-07:00

I think I can say that now that more than one person has commented on my absence.
I wish I could say that I was busy fighting tigers in Namibia, or building an orphanage in the Brazilian jungle, or negotiating the release of hostages in Honduras, but it was not so. In fact, I suspect there may not even BE tigers in Namibia.

But I have seen at least one tiger since last I blogged (in the zoo). And we all have friends who’ve helped build orphanages in South America, haven’t we? And Bill Clinton helped with hostages in Korea. So it’s almost true.

In addition to those exciting events, I’ve been doing other stuff. Oh, all sorts of other stuff. Summer stuff. That kind of summer stuff that, .come cooler weather, becomes a vague golden memory. Like camping. I went camping, and I believe blisters and sore muscles may have been involved, but all I REALLY remember is the beautiful mountains and lakes and streams, and freshly caught trout roasted over wood fires, and mysterious mountainous noises at night.

And a trip to Bear Lake, where my trusty car inconveniently decided it also wanted a holiday, and suddenly stopped working. But what I really remember is the warm beach, and the cool water, and the best raspberry shakes ever, and various other sunny summery images.

And gigs with Citrine, where I know for a fact that we had sound issues, and my feet ached from standing on the stage for too long, and the “Scottish” shortbread...wasn’t. But I best remember hanging out with my Sistrines, and enjoying the surroundings, and how good it felt when the music came together and people enjoyed it.

I hope y’all had lovely summers too, with lovely memories. I’ll blog more later. Right now I have a nicely timed and not-too-severe head cold which is just bad enough to give me an excuse to lie around all weekend and drink hot Ribena. It’s all very pleasant and autumnal.

Moby Dick or Shopaholic?

2009-07-27T22:10:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to lunch with an old friend, and we were joking about the novel I could write, coming up with ridiculous plots for it. I’ve forgotten them all now, but rest assured they were brilliant. I asked him if he thought he had a book inside him, and he said yes, in fact he’d written one as a teenager. “I wonder if I have it somewhere,” he said. “I hope so, I expect it’s dreadful.” We agreed that it was likely to be entertainingly awful, especially as it was a fantasy novel.

Once, a friend said my life would make a good book. “I mean, I’m not saying it would be great literature or anything, but it would be a good read,” she said, somewhat insultingly. “So, what you’re saying is, it would be a trashy novel minus all the sex,” I said. Other friends have discussed how fun it would be to write a screenplay together.

I know we’re not the first people to think we have a novel inside us. Far too many people think that, and far too many publishers agree with them, in my humble op. The nice thing is, I/we get to let our urge to write come out in fits and starts, through blogs. No need for plot, no need for a certain number of pages by a certain deadline. No need for discipline or well-constructed sentences, even. I like blogging, and I like reading others’ blogs. I do wonder whether all the writing practice is setting someone up to write the great British/American novel, or if it just substitutes pictures of kids, hiking anecdotes, and meandering streams-of-consciousness for what could be a new Hemingway or Austen.

I don’t personally think I’ve got the modern “Mansfield Park” within me. I’m not sure I even have “Bridget Jones Diary 3.” If I were to write a book, I’d want it to be a light and fluffy travelogue and/or romance. What would you write?

Busy Nothings

2009-07-02T15:54:00.000-07:00

I have two items of business to discuss, ladies and gentlemen.

1. You know how everyone in Utah right now is all, “It’s like we’re living in Seattle!” because of the weather? Well, I have a theory about this.

I hypothesise that, a month or two ago, while we were all asleep, a large comet hit the earth and knocked it off balance a little. It shifted the earth’s position a few hundred miles, and gave us a temperate, humid climate.

Guys, we ARE in Seattle.

I’m a little surprised that none of the TV meteorologists have mentioned this possibility. Although maybe they have. I wouldn’t really know, I don’t have a working TV any more.

2. Last month I took a work trip to Phoenix, visiting both Bryn and Britt in the process, and Britt told me I needed to blog about what happened at her house, which I frankly think shows a lack of delicacy, CONSIDERING.

She and I went for a swim/hot tub, and she wore a dress down to the pool as a cover up. I wore a swimsuit and towel.

Later, we walked back to the building, and Brittany said “oops.” Which is rarely a good omen. She’d forgotten the key to the back door of the building.
“So we’re locked out?” said I.
“Not exactly. We can get in the front...”

Which is all well and good, except they live on Central Avenue. Opposite a Metro Station. And while I’m not THE most modest person on earth, I do prefer not to walk down major thoroughfares in large cities dressed in a two-piece swimsuit.

Brittany appeared to think the situation hilarious, and openly, if insensitively, bemoaned the fact that there weren’t MORE people around to see and be entertained.

So if every you see someone walking around who seems to be inappropriately dressed, and you hastily judge them as crazy, take a moment to pause. Perhaps they are a trusting friend, who thought they were out for a dip in a private pool. Or perhaps they were trying on their Hallowe’en costume and got locked out when they took a moment to empty the rubbish. You just don’t know.

Sex

2009-06-03T21:24:00.000-07:00

I do hope that got your attention. I realise sex is talked about waaaay too much already in our society, but it would be a little sad if it didn’t get a second look as a blog headline. Also, this isn’t one of those tricky posts where one puts a headline up that SOUNDS provocative but really has a tame other-meaning attached to it--I’m not just going to talk about gender, I’m not talking about cows mating or something, this is the real deal. A little sex talk.

OK, maybe I’m holding out on you a LITTLE. I’m not sharing any juicy details about my own or anyone else’s super-sexy private life--I’m not sure that I’d be able to fill a whole blog post with that, anyway. I have kind of an ulterior motive...but it’s a good one, I promise.

Here are two points I want to make.
a) Sex can cause cancer.
b) You can win some pretty nice prizes by blogging about that.

a) You may already know, but most cervical cancer is linked to the HPV virus, which is sexually transmitted. Now, before you sigh and ask if AIDS, herpes, genital warts, and syphilis weren’t enough to take the glamour out of sex, don’t be discouraged. There’s always abstinence! No, it gets better. Because abstinence hopefully isn’t a terminal condition, and because EVEN MARRIED PEOPLE IN UTAH (previous marriage? previous indiscretion? current indiscretion(shame on you)?) can get STDs, some kind scientists developed an HPV vaccine. It’s pretty safe and effective and if you’re a chick you should probably get it. (Guys can’t get one yet, but I believe there are future plans for that).
a) http://www.cancerutah.org/prevent/ Please visit this link. And then blog. You were going to blog about something, right? Make it useful for a change. If you’re lazy, you can just use Twitter. And you really can win some cool prizes. I helped choose them. Including the spa package. I recommended the spa. It’s really wonderful. And I can’t enter the contest because of the fine print rules and my job. So you should.

Again: http://www.cancerutah.org/prevent/ Click on the big “Cervical Cancer Prevention Contest” link at the top.

Ow

2009-05-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

I guess there are people who don’t like massages--I expect they’re the same people who don’t like chocolate or babies. But for me, having my back rubbed, and having sore spots kneaded out of me is sublime.

I’ve had some neck issues for a couple of years. Over the last couple of months I decided to finally go for it and have semi-regular massage for a while to see if it could help. I’m not sure that it’s been as therapeutic as I’d hoped, but it’s felt great.

So, today, I got a call from the massage place, and was told that my regular therapist, Julie, was sick, and did I mind having...let’s call him “Chad”....take her place. No problem, I said, as long as he can do deep tissue.

Oh, he can do deep tissue, she assured me. What she didn’t mention was that he was a sadist who’d been kicked out of the CIA’s elite Department of Waterboarding and Torture for being Too Brutal.

Now, you need to understand that I really do like deep tissue massage. Though I can cry at the drop of a hat, I have really high pain tolerance for certain things--like when I broke my ankle and drove my stick shift to the doctor’s office--and then to and from the radiology department a few miles away. Not a brilliant idea in the end, because once they’d bandaged me up it was physically impossible to drive home and I had to call Heather and beg for a lift. But you get the idea. Also, (TMI warning), I have had electrolysis on a Very Sensitive Area. Without any pain gel or pills or anything.

Again, you get the idea--and previous massage therapists have commented on it, “You really DO like deep tissue,” etc. And I think I’ve become a little proud of it, as one sometimes does become proud of things that one has no reason to be proud of. So when Chad said “let me know if you need me to ease up,” I thought “ha.”

And then a few minutes later I thought “how am I supposed to tell him to ease up when his heel and full weight is between my spine and my shoulder blade and I CAN’T BREATHE?” And when he started digging his elbow into my thigh muscles I wondered if I could reach to kick him in the teeth.

They do Fijian-style massage there, where they walk on you and balance themselves with straps hanging from the ceiling. It’s great...except when it’s not. This wasn’t so great. Of course, I really should have told him to ease up right away, but I thought “no pain, no gain,” and Pride was a barrier, and when I finally did speak up, we were near the end anyway.

He did ease up when he got to my neck, but it still lacked...finesse. And instead of my muscles feeling all stretched out and gooey at the end, I felt tense. And a little uneven. And honestly, there was a spot on my neck that wasn’t feeling so hot.

He asked how I felt at the end. I mentioned that there was an area on my neck that was feeling...odd. “Odd?” he said. “Yes,” I said. Silence from both of us. He gave me a glass of water. I went home.

Right now, I feel in need of a neck rub. A gentle one. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow. If necessary, one of them can do a little extra work and fix me. I can be assertive when I’m not being Prideful.

LOL

2009-04-24T18:17:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I was due to give a talk in church. I told my roommate Margaret that I was going to have a secret theme, and see if anyone noticed it. The theme was to be the Sound of Music, and I was going to incorporate as many references as possible, for example, starting sentences with phrases like “I have confidence...” and “A wise woman [the abbess] once said “these walls were not meant to shut out problems. You have to face them. You have to live the life you were born to live.””

Margaret’s response was, “you do know that not everything in life has to be a joke, right?”

OK, so I didn’t go with the theme, but I think I did mention the Sound of Music once, just to Show Her.

Now, last week, my brother’s family talked in church--I wasn’t able to go, so they all gave me a synopsis of their talks, youngest to oldest, and before my brother said anything, my sister-in-law said, “and of course, Mike got up and thought he was a comedian.” He gave me a copy of his talk to read, and it is actually excellent (be obedient! It’s better in the end), but it’s true, there are a lot of laughs there. I told him what Margaret had told me all those years ago, and he had the same reaction as me.

“Huh.”
and then.
“Really?”
and then
“Hahahahaha.”

And then we proceeded to make jokes about it. How bad is it that that phrase itself has become a bit of a giggle to us? Do we D’s use humour as a crutch? Is that a problem?

So today, I was talking to my brother and happened to cry a bit, and apologised for being all emotional in the middle of his Friday and he said “It’s fine, I’m used to it,” and then sniggered and said “I HAVE to remember that not everything in life is a joke,” and then we both laughed and commented on how it probably wasn’t good that we’ve actually had to ponder that concept as rather a novel one.

So my two thoughts on this topic are:
That’s the second time that someone has said “I’m used to it” in regards to me crying this week (I’m really totally fine, just being a bit of a girl), so maybe I need to get a grip on the waterworks. And,
This whole “life isn’t a joke,” thing? I’m not so sure.

I don’t for one second claim to be a comedian, and, like Elizabeth in P&P, I hope I never laugh at what is wise or good, but whims or inconsistencies do divert me, and I laugh at them whenever I can. And there are a whole lot of whims and inconsistencies in all of us, right? So, I get Darcy’s and Margaret’s point, and I don’t want to be the girl whose first object in life is a joke, and secret themes in sacrament talks really isn’t my style, but I do think there are very few occasions that CAN’T be laughed about in some way and aren’t a little better for it.

Amen?

p.s. I should probably just mention here that Margaret is hilarious, tons funnier than I will ever be. She is also wise.

Finished!

2009-04-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if that title describes our accomplishment or my emotional state.

For the last few weekends, my Sistrines and I have been recording for our upcoming CD, and we are DONE. Expect me to be dropping lots of unsubtle references to that on here and FB as soon as it’s floggable.

Recording involved being in a smallish room in close contact with twelve other women with no air-conditioning all Friday evening and all Saturday for three weekends straight, singing phrases like “ooh....oh” over and over and over and over and over again and being told that my vowels were wrong. How fun does that sound? And we’ve actually come off pretty easily--Rowan and the band are still recording away.

But it was fun, sorta. At least, rewarding. Our performance standard is going to be raised a notch as a result of the intense repetition. And we managed to avoid catfights and hair-pulling pretty consistently. Sure, my fellow-commuters and I considered having a “no speaking” rule in the car to ward off being sick of each other, and we had sore backs from standing all day long (thank you, yoga stretches), and there were a few times when I wanted to snap my headphones in half and make for the door, and I’m not experiencing any wistfulness for being a real musician, BUT having a group working hard together to get something right is a good feeling. And hearing even the rough version made the perfectionism worthwhile for me. In fact, when we hear the final version, we’ll probably think we weren’t perfectionist ENOUGH. Well, maybe. I’m not suggesting we go back and re-record or anything.

Dinner Convo.

2009-04-20T21:29:00.001-07:00

It was a couple of years ago that Gwyneth made some comments about Britons being more civilized than you Yanks, and how we are very refined and talk about much more erudite things at dinner parties than say, work and money. It’s true, I was reminded of that this weekend.

Me: Have you watched DWTS lately? [Aside to teenage niece] There’s a really hot French guy on there.
Sis-in-Law: No, but isn’t the Bachelor chick on there?
Georgie Girl: The one who got...
Me: Dumped! Yes! She’s really good
Mum: What happened?
Me: OK, I’ve never watched this program, but the Bachelor supposedly fell in love with generic leggy brunette and asked her to marry him. Then weeks later he dumps her on TV for another generic leggy brunette..
S-in-L: No, she was a blonde!
Me: Even better. Holly, or something.
G: Molly.
SiL: Isn’t she dating the host of DWTS?
G: Ew, he’s...
Me: Too old. Tom Bergeron? No, don’t think so.
Mum: Holly?
G: Molly.
Me: No, the dumped chick.
SiL: Oh, I think it’s her partner she’s dating.
Me: Tony? No, he’s married.
SiL: Well, she’s dating someone.
Me: And now everyone is all “THAT shows HIM” about the Bachelor, because she’s a good dancer.
Mike: I bet he’s kicking himself. If only he’d realised she could dance.
Me: Exactly.
SiL: We’re going to sign you up for the Bachelorette.
Me: Thanks a LOT.
Mike: What? You could pick from all those great guys.
Me: Yes, I’m sure I’d meet such quality people on a reality show.
SiL: Don’t you want a trip to NZ? 
G: And the special OVERNIGHT STAY?
Me: Well, when you put it like that. I do want to go to NZ.
Littlest Niece: But if someone’s going to be my uncle, I want to see what he’s like first.
Me: Sweetie, if that happens, I promise you will meet him first and have a say in it.

You Are the Light

2009-04-04T01:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, you just have to be there. My friend, colleague, and fellow yoga bunny Kim told me earlier this week about glowga, a special class at Centered City Yoga. Naturally, I said I’d go.

What’s glowga, I hear you scream?

The idea behind it was that we are in a dark place in the universe right now, but light is persistent, and often the light comes from ourselves and others. There is a divine light within that can help us through difficult times.

We kitted ourselves out in shorts and tops--the advice was the more skin, the better. Our yoga instructor handed out glow-in-the-dark body paint and glowing plastic string, and we proceeded to decorate ourselves and each other with swirls and dots and other designs. The paint looked and felt a lot like glue, and didn’t seem to be very glowy, so I was a bit worried that we’d got the wrong bottle. But when the lights went out, it was fantastic! Some people were polka dotted, Kim had a big heart on her thigh and an om on her back, the guy in front of me had one big spiral on his torso, and I was a mishmash of swirls and streaks, with my midriff glowing particularly brightly. We did yoga by the light of each others' bodies, with musicians playing as we moved. About halfway through, our instructor noticed that we were fading, so he turned on the blacklight for us to recharge, and we danced to Staying Alive as our glow brightened.

It was hot and sweaty and we stuck to our mats and flaked glow paint til my mat looked like the milky way, and I got some in my eye during shoulder stand, and I found I have terrible balance in the dark, and then there were strobe lights and we danced again, and then we chanted and sang along to the music, and then did savasana as we were sung to, and our instructor quoted poetry and Leonard Cohen to us, and I loved loved loved every second.

The instructor seemed to enjoy it too, as he says he’s going to do it again. I will be there. You should too. Namaste.

Blasts from the Past

2009-03-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

Late on Friday afternoon, my co-worker Kelli sent Kate and I a YouTube vid of the kids’ song she and her baby sing and dance to every morning, saying how it always makes her happy. In return, I sent her this:

--and got back this, which I also fondly remembered:

Kate, who’s a few years younger, joined in with this, which we felt explains a lot about her generation (violence! loudness! power!), and then Doug heard what we were doing and jumped on board with this (I adore the Spotty Man!):

We ended the day watching more random childhood videos in Kelli’s office (they nearly collapsed when I showed them Bagpuss--I never realised before how Depression-era the opening looks) and dancing along to the one that started it all...this:

Any childhood faves you’d like to share?

Pero, a Chocolate Biscuit, and a Birthday

2009-03-21T23:35:00.000-07:00

What’s cosier than a warm laptop, a mug of pero, pyjamas, and the aforesaid choccie biccie, with a little Missy Higgins on the playlist? This is how I’m ending my Saturday.

Today was my dad’s birthday. Wasn’t sure if I’d feel something extra or different today, but I really didn’t. I think probably because birthdays aren’t a huge deal in our family. We remember them--if you forget it’s a no-no, but we’re not too princessy about them. Gifts are sometimes optional. In fact, one of my fond memories of my dad is related to that. I’d always get a call on my birthday--usually on the answering machine, because of the time difference. I got home one year and hit play, and as expected, there was a message from my dad. I got to the end and thought “wait a second.” I played it again, and sure enough, there wasn’t a “happy birthday” within earshot.

I called him the next day to berate him for forgetting, and to ask where my present was (we rarely got the hang of mailing things early enough internationally, so “it’s in the post” became a bit of a joke). But honestly (and I told him this), I kind of liked that he called me mid-week without being consciously obligated. It’s like the men who send roses when it isn’t Valentine’s day (not that I know any personally, but I’ve heard legends)--it’s a little more meaningful when Hallmark hasn’t guilted you into it.

So I don’t know that I’m obligated to do something “special” today. I couldn’t visit my dad’s grave, for obvious reasons. I thought about going up into the mountains and beginning some kind of tradition, but in the end it felt like it would be just manufactured. I think about my dad a lot--right now I don’t need a ritual. I sort of doubt they celebrate birthdays in the next life, anyway, but I’ll assume that if they do, my dad knows I’m thinking of him. Or even if not.

Another Excuse Not to Write a Real Post

2009-03-18T21:58:00.000-07:00

I went to a work lunch today that showcased winners from some Cannes advertising competition. I had to leave early, so I'm sure there were gems I missed, but my favourites are below. See, advertising can be art. Or just really funny.

Beautiful--really pretty simple technology but used skilfully, and totally fascinating.

I think this ad is phenomenal. They've used Richard Burton and the poem in a way that doesn't feel exploitative, it feels like that's exactly what Dylan Thomas had in mind as he wrote it. It's beautifully and creatively shot, and for me, it captures that very alive feeling you get sometimes when you're driving at night, and you're alone, but not lonely. And of course, overtly reminds you that driving itself can be a pleasure rather than just A to B. I kind of miss that feeling.

This one had me giggling for some time after. I think because it took me several seconds to realise what was going on. I adore the sheepish co-worker.

Schweppes, VW, and whichever candy company, you are WELCOME for the free advertising here.

Lena Dies a Little Inside

2009-03-05T22:33:00.000-08:00

Bloggers, do you ever just feel like you’ve lost the ability to blog? That you have NOTHING left to say that even your mum would care to read? That you would fall asleep reading your own blog post?

C’est moi!

So, we’re working on this big proposal at work. Really big. I mean, big as in we are mildly worried about whether or not it will fit into its two-inch binder. I have
put blood (wonky staple caught my thumb), sweat, and maybe even a couple of tears into that thing. I really hope the readers like it.

The somewhat twisted thing is that I am also somewhat enjoying writing it. I like writing, I do. Even technical writing. I really like taking other people’s prose and editing it. I’m not ashamed of my nerdiness.

But it has somewhat killed my ability to write about anything else. I have actually lost sleep over this thing. I keep thinking about additions, and edits, and making it flow, and...

I’m barely able to write Facebook updates, let alone blog posts. The only updates that come to mind involve being tired and hoping to make it to the weekend, and I consider frequent use of either of those as being on a par with “Lena is eating lunch [unnecessary exclamation mark]”

Note. If your Facebook update is any of those things, I still love you.

So this post is just to say that I have nothing to say. At least, not in any readable way.

I went skiing with my niece and nephew.
I saw an interesting Werner Herzog movie about the South Pole.
I went for dinner and a great motorcycle ride with my friend Jeff.
I rehearsed with Citrine in preparation for our CD recording.
I inhaled hot chocolate and “orange” “drink” while cleaning the dairy at Welfare Square.
(I think ATMIT is really cool.)

See what I mean?

Let’s hope for a rebirth of my brain cells in the near future. In the mean time, Lena is going to bed!

p.s. Thanks, Tim for sending the pic today--that expresses it perfectly.

God Bless America, and England, and Canada, and even France

2009-02-24T17:46:00.000-08:00

I don’t have anything I particularly want to share about my life right now, so let’s take a look waaaaaay back at 2008 (cue swimmy harp music and wavy images).

Some time around August, you may have noticed a change in Lena. Maybe her carbon footprint increased a little, maybe she hankered after fast food a little more, maybe she put on a few...eh, whatever--making American jokes is no fun when it’s mostly Americans reading them.

But yes, amid the more important events in my life such as finding clips of Colin Firth on youtube and blogging about going to the dentist, I somehow omitted to tell certain people (i.e. most of you) that I became a US citizen. Now, don't panic. I'm still a British one too. I still like Marmite and hot water bottles and don't like ice in my drinks. I still scoff when Americans say things like "different than," "aluminum," and "World Series." I still mock the guy/woman who has to give the little explanation of the upcoming programme on "Masterpiece Theatre" (guys, just because they're wearing period clothes doesn't mean it's hard to understand).

But, I:

Can't get deported (again).
Don't have to pay an exorbitant fee to the INS every few years for the privilege of a new green card.
Can work for the federal government (Lena for secretary of state?).
Can vote.

This is very nice. But I must confess I'm not overly emotional about it, and that is perhaps why I haven't mentioned it to y'all before now.

I took the citizenship test (Francis Scott Key! Betsy Ross! 10 out of 10!), I went to the citizenship ceremony (the largest in Utah history), I took the oath and all, but I was very much aware that there were people there for whom this meant a lot more than it did for me. It was wonderful to see. It really felt like the poor, the oppressed etc, had come to find a new home here in the states, and becoming a citizen was the crowning moment of that for them. But I've never had to struggle for my freedom, I come from a nation that has a lot to be proud of and a fascinating history, and getting citizenship wasn't something that affected my personal identity.

So, America is lovely. Gracious skies and amber waves an' all. It stands for great things, and I really respect that. I just can't promise to get chills when I see the flag wave, or hear the national anthem. I hope you do.

Lena’s Mum Has Ideas

2009-02-14T13:56:00.000-08:00

My mum called me this morning.

Mum: Lena, what do you think about going blonde?

Me: What? Why? [suspiciously] Is this a “have more fun” thing?

Mum: I just thought it might be a nice change. You could get highlights.

Me: But I like my hair colour.

Mum: Yes, of course, it’s lovely, and with your skin... [stream of motherly compliments]...But it might be a nice cheerful change.

Me: I suppose it might be fun to switch things up. But don’t you think I’d end up looking a bit washed out with my pale skin?

Mum [very positively]: Not with YOUR clothes.

Me: What’s that supposed to mean?!

Mum: Nothing! You always look lovely! I just meant that you wouldn’t have to change your clothes!

Me: I’ll think about it. Maybe in the summer.

Mum: I also thought, how about getting a bird feeder?

Me: A bird feeder.

Mum: Yes, you could hang it on your balcony. I have one, and it’s so delightful watching all the birds come and play. It’s like spring.

Me: Yes, I expect it would cheer me right up.

Mum [giggling]: I could buy you a bird book!

Me: I could buy an anorak!

It's not fine.

2009-02-03T20:58:00.001-08:00

So, here's the ad with me in it. Behold me over-act.

Um, I must say, the "American accent" isn't quite as noticeable as it was in my head. Which is probably a good thing.

100 Random Thoughts..

2009-01-24T20:39:00.000-08:00

...as fast as typing allows.

1. I probably should have gone grocery shopping today.
2. Because what am I going to eat tomorrow?
3. And I probably should build up my food storage if I’m going to be laid off.
4. Probably should have done that a long time ago.
5. I hope I don't get laid off. I’m kind of irritated at people that borrowed beyond their means who contributed to the likelihood of me being laid off.
6. Though if I was laid off I could spend more time reading.
7. No I wouldn’t, I’d have to be sending out resumes and interviewing, which is probably my least favourite thing in the world to do.
8. Other than sleeping in airports.
9. Or getting up early in the cold.
10. I wonder if it would be easier or harder to get up if I wasn’t sleeping alone.
11. I hope my carpets are drying out ok.
12. I don’t want to wake up to mouldy carpets.
13. I still love Cliff the plumber, even if he contributed to the minor flood in my closet.
14. Mind a blank.
15. Chocolate.
16. Nah, not really hungry.
17. What is this song on my ipod?
18. I swear I don’t even recognise half the music on my ipod.
19. Does it make me pathetic that I’m spending Saturday night doing laundry and writing down my stream of consciousness thoughts?
20. I wish my stream of consciousness thoughts were a lot deeper.
21. I could cheat.
22. Nah.
23. I CHOSE to stay home tonight, anyway.
24. I was actually looking forward to it, and cleaning, and getting things together.
25. Not that I’ve accomplished all that I meant to.
26. But that’s a typical Saturday.
27. And the mini-flood didn’t help.
28. The temple open house was nice today.
29. The bride’s room chandeliers were tops.
30. And some nice paintings, though I saw the same prints repeated multiple times, 31. which makes me think the church needs a few more good artists.
31. Maybe I should have gone to art school after all.
32. Are you kidding me? Artists would be suffering even more from this economy.
33. My brother always said I should have been an engineer.
34. I still have hopes that Obama will help.
35. I have a crush on Obama, let’s face it.
36. Whoever it was who said it last night was right, Obama does sound like a first name.
37. President Obama. President Barack. President Obama.
38. Like Drs who say things like “I’m Dr. Dave,” to be all friendly.
39. Whereas I don’t really want a personal relationship with my doctor.
40. Really? Only 40?
41. I still can’t believe the customer service chick at t-mobile asked me what the difference between London and England was this morning.
42. Sometimes it would be nice to have a customer service call without having to give my life story.
43. But I guess it’s nice that they’re friendly.
44. I wonder if there’s a way to stop my ipod playing podcasts when it’s on shuffle.
45. And christmas music.
46. Ray Charles, that’s more like it.
47. I need more happy songs.
48. A-M was right, it’s difficult to write happy songs that aren’t about relationships. And aren't "What a Wonderful World."
49. I like Jess’s idea of having an imaginary enemy.
50. A nemesis. There’s an underused word. Also “vexed.”
51. My nemesis would have a black fedora, and...wait, I’m visualising Dick Cheney.
52. Can’t decide if my superpower would be flying or having extreme beauty. You could get a lot done with either.
53. Flying, for sure. Less emotionally complicated.
54. Agh, another hideous song.
55. When is apple going to develop themed shuffles depending on your mood. Not playlists that you have to pick yourself.
56. Because that’s way too much effort, and the joy of shuffle is the surprise.
57. I need to polish my shoes.
58. I need another Saturday.
59. Wonder when the next public holiday is? President’s Day? Did we already do that?
60. I like looking at the city at night.
61. It’s pretty dark tonight. But at least it’s clouds not smog.
62. I guess we Brits really do talk about the weather a lot.
63. Speaking, of, wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.
64. Must get an early night tonight.
65. Mustn’t forget to get up and meet Liz at the Spoken Word.
66. When apple has finished making the perfect computer, maybe they can move on to gene therapy and tweak my brain so that I start enjoying getting up early.
67. Lots of meetings tomorrow.
68. Crap, am I conducting?
69. No, that’s next week.
70. Can’t stand conducting. Always forget to announce at least one thing.
71. Even though it’s written on a piece of paper that’s right in front of me.
72. Must write thank you notes.
73. Right after this extremely important blog entry.
74. About three quarters of the way there.
75. And then I can read my book.
76. Which I’m quite enjoying.
77. (The Last Chinese Chef).
78. Work book group book.
79. Must get the other book group book, too, whatever it is. I think Heidi emailed it.
80. The title, not the book.
81. Haven’t really felt like reading, which is funny given that it’s been freezing outside and is perfect reading by the fire weather.
82. Except have no fire.
83. Maybe I could get one of those gas things.
84. Except have no gas.
85. And possibly no job, shortly.
86. Should probably buy food instead.
87. Great, am back to beginning.
88. Which would be a lot more poetic if this was item 100.
89. Could always go back and cheat.
90. Nope.
91. Blank mind.
92. Sad thought.
93. I totally agree with what Tiffany wrote about preferring to be in thirties than twenties.
94. Despite life stresses and occasional misery.
95. When you stay in on a Saturday night, you realise that no-one is emailing you. I thought my blackberry was broken for a while.
96. I do love my blackberry.
97. Must think less materialistic thoughts. Someone may still be reading.
98. Flowers.
99. Stars.
100. What a wonderful world.

Yurting

2009-01-24T19:04:00.003-08:00

I could write about my yurting trip. I could write about the clear air and the peace and sunshine and the sparkly snow, and the pure pleasure of tiring ourselves out skiing and snowshoeing, and the stars at night that were so bright and thickly sprinkled and looked within kissing distance. Perhaps I could mention that afterwards I soaked the soreness from my muscles and mind in a steaming hot tub with friends out in the winter air. But why waste a few thousand words, when I can steal some of Julie’s fabulous photos?

New Year's Resolution

2009-01-12T18:35:00.001-08:00

Write shorter blog posts.

"That is a right bastard."

2009-01-12T18:32:00.000-08:00

I like to keep this blog pretty frivolous and shallow. Frivolity can be hard to come by at times (the shallow part comes naturally), but not impossible. As several of you know, my dad died Christmas Eve, but being a man with a sense of humour, I think he would have been amused by a couple of attendant occurences.

My brothers and I of course had to pass on the news to several people, including one of dad’s lesser-known cousins. All I’d heard about cousin Christopher from my dad and uncles was that he swears a lot. My brother called him, and after various “yes’s, no’s, and thank you’s,” he put down the phone with a thoughtful expression and gave me the recap.

He’d told him the news, and Christopher said, “Well, that is a right BASTARD for you, isn’t it?” He went on to eff and blind his way through the conversation, at one point saying “Excuse my language, it’s f---ing terrible,” and telling us what bastards doctors are. He called back a little later to tell us all to get blood tests and that he wouldn’t be coming to the funeral because he hated funerals and didn’t like seeing people be sad.

He was really very nice and well-meaning, and I am sorry to say that my brother and I for the rest of the week found great enjoyment in saying “well, that is a right bastard,” in a broad Somerset accent when any little thing went wrong.

Over the last couple of weeks I had to call lots of banks and other businesses, and everyone was incredibly nice (except for one total witch at Continental Airlines), with one or two little faux pas.

We came home the day of the funeral to a couple of messages on the machine. The first one:
“Mr D___, this is [Insurance company] calling about your car insurance--we haven’t heard from you, and as you know, your insurance renews at the beginning of the year. Please call us as soon as possible about this.”

Now, I had called them the week before to explain the situation and make arrangements, so that was a little irritating.
This was the second message, left shortly after the first, clearly after someone else in the office had updated her.

“This is [insurance company]--I’m calling to apologise for my last message. Er, very sorry about that. If you could call at your convenience, to confirm some details, we’d appreciate it. Again, I do apologise.”
You could tell the poor girl was totally squirming.

Really, everybody was very kind, and no-one said stupid things about “knowing exactly how you feel,” or it being “all for the best.” I think probably the biggest misconception is that the grieving process is a nice smooth downward exponential curve, and perhaps it is like that overall, but for me right now, it’s more like something you’d see on a heart rate monitor.

No one feels like they know just what to say to someone who’s lost someone they love. Our instinct is to try to say something that will somehow make it all better, and that’s not possible. I think, on the whole, it’s better to just say something than nothing. And saying “I’m sorry” is as good as anything.

Of course, the niceness can be hard to take. I kept getting to a point where I felt like I was getting a grip, and then someone would tell me how hard it must be, or how awful it was that it was Christmas. That would set the tears off again. My brothers and I talked about it --that we’d be ok until you see someone’s reaction, or someone says something that brings the feelings back. I told my brother that I’d be fine if people would stop being nice to me, like the official bereavement person at the hospital. “Yeah, you want them to treat it like just business -- like getting your car registered.” “Yes--except then we’d be complaining about what a cold-hearted cow she was.” A little later, my uncle called, and as I hung up the phone, I was in tears once more. “Is someone being nice to you again?” asked my brother. I nodded. “Bastard,” he said.

All I Want for Christmas is You, Steve

2008-12-17T23:55:00.000-08:00

Steve Jobs, that is. I just became a Mac girl. It’s a beautiful thing to be a Mac girl. At the risk of sounding like a Mac ad, I will just note that Macs are pretty, they greet my peripherals like old friends, without the need for disks, downloads, or constant rebooting, but most of all, they give you, to quote Blur, an enormous sense of well-being.

See, to be perfectly honest, I don’t even know how to use 90% of my Mac’s functions yet. But it seems like a lot of my favourite people have Macs. Creative people. Intelligent people. Beautiful people. Stuff White People Like explains the shallow appeal of being a Mac person better than I can, but basically--I feel a little bit cooler now.

Just Say No

2008-12-10T21:11:00.000-08:00

My job involves me doing silly things sometimes. Which wouldn’t be so bad—we all do silly things sometimes, right? Except that they all seem to end up getting broadcast on TV. This isn’t even so bad except when it involves being in an ad that gets shown over and over and over again.

The first time I was in an ad, it was very Hollywood. Well, it was IN Hollywood. We were shooting out there for budgetary reasons—we had period sets and costumes, and wheatgrass juice, and those are easier to find in CA than UT. I got to have my face spray-painted with foundation, had porn star lashes stuck on my lids, and it was all very fun until I remembered how much I want to scream when people spend more than about fifteen minutes messing with my face and hair. And when I realised I couldn’t sit down in my dress. My presence in that ad was unremarkable except for the (negligible) length of the dress, and people usually don’t know it’s me in the ad unless I (or a “kind” friend) tells them. I get a little teasing a.k.a. sexual harassment about it once in a while, but the ads are coming to the end of their run, at least in Utah, so that’ll be that. It really was kind of fun, I was glad I did it, and said at the time that I probably wouldn’t want to do another.

Ha.

If you work at an ad agency, you are apparently fair game for “friends and family talent” (i.e. the budget is really small, so they can’t afford real talent for any but the essential roles).

I was at a shoot, minding my own business and chatting to my client, and asked the creative director who he was going to use for the last ad. “You,” he said. “In that case, I want make-up, and lots of it,” I said. It appeared that he was serious, so I got a bit of powder, lipstick, hairspray, and a jacket from wardrobe, but not the dark glasses and wig that I was rather hoping for.

The bit I’m in is over very quickly, which is all to the good. The worst of it is, I’m doing an American accent. For those of you who have heard my American accent, you’re probably smirking right about now. My American accent is not really for public consumption. It is not good. It’s more of a party trick, and, quite frankly, sounds a lot better if you have a few drinks inside you, which means it’s wasted (ha) at most of the parties I go to. It is definitely not the sort of thing that should be sprung on an unsuspecting public who may be prone to strokes.

[If I were GOOD at doing an American accent I would use it to order water in restaurants, thus avoiding the “what?” “water;” “huh?” “WATER,” both-of-us-stare-pleadingly-at-my-dinner-companion-until-he/she-translates sequence that typically ensues. ]

But our creative director seemed to think that doing an American accent must be easy because of Minnie Driver and Hugh Laurie (cheers, mates), and so I mumbled my way through a line that didn’t have too many tricky vowels and hoped that speaking softly would disguise the flaws.

I dunno. Maybe they can dub it later.

Thanks in Boston

2008-12-03T22:10:00.000-08:00

My friends Margaret and Chris decided they wanted to do things a little differently this year at Thanksgiving: No pumpkin pie, no turkey, no overly fussy plans, no massive family gatherings. As I am not particularly emotionally tied to ye olde yankee traditions of Thxgiving, they asked me to grace them with my company. They had me at “no pumpkin pie.” I’m tired of pretending to like that muck.

Here's the product placement couple.

We made delicious food, including Bakewell Tart for dessert, their gracious and charming friends Seth, Karen, and Adam joined us, and much fun was had. We talked about politics and sex and religion, and sang a festive song or two.

The aperitif hour ended up being the most non-traditional. Wee Alice had been sick all week and not in her usual sunny frame of mind. Chris took her for a drive as a last-ditch (successful) attempt to lull her to sleep, and when they got back, I sat in the car with her and a book while he attended to the meat in manly fashion. After a while, there was a knock at the window --- Mags was standing there with stem glasses, a bottle of sparkly, and a plate of Brie and its accoutrements. We sat in the car and had girl talk in whispers, and finished off the Brie. One of those things that you can’t and wouldn’t plan, but wonderful.

There was lots of lounging in pyjamas, and eating tart at inappropriate hours of the day, and more talk, and music, and cheesy movies, but we also got to see the sights of Cambridge and Boston.

I had tea with my old college friend, Duane.

We went to the ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art), which had the most fabulous exhibition(Click on slideshow at the left). Beautiful things from ordinary objects. Paper plates formed into what look like balls of chenille wool. Semi-hemispheres of mylar that looked velvety, but also like coastal boulders, and on which I had an almost irresistible urge to dive and climb.

We visited the Gibson House, and even though we waltzed in without an appointment, we got a personal tour and I experienced the most gratitude of the weekend when I compared my washing machine and dryer to the boiler, mangle, drying room, and other nightmare apparatus that represented wash day back in the Victorian era. Though of course the house owners had a washerwoman to come in two days a week and do all the scrubbing and ironing. That wouldn’t be so bad. If you weren’t the washerwoman.

We wandered round the Back Bay area a little and researched chocolate croissants on Charles Street. And then it was time to hoof it to the airport.

Is too a colony. See.

These people were posing their dogs sitting on the ducks. Surprisingly successfully.

They really love their ducks.

I am thankful for friends.

Thanksgiving 08: Still Thanking

2008-11-26T14:11:00.000-08:00

It's time to get our gratitude on!

If I'd thought ahead, I would have been a lot more specific in last year's thankful list, because I am still thankful for all those things, but don't want to totally repeat myself.

So here's the 08 things I like in my life (now 20% less generalised).

1. The fantastic weather we've had this year. I feel like I talk about it constantly, but it's been wonderful. Long, cool spring, long, warm autumn, picture-perfect sunny weather everywhere I've travelled. Let's not think about global warming. Shh.
2. Sushi.
3. You.
4. Modern medicine.
5. A family that doesn't hassle me about being single, because you know some do.
6. Yoga. Specifically, half moon pose.
7. Citrine.
8. My church calling, despite the constant mental balancing act between the guilt of not doing enough, and the mild bother of the time it does take.
9. Having two passports. I love anything that makes me feel like an MI5 agent.
10. Traditions.

In My Quest for Total Self-Absorption…

2008-11-15T16:22:00.000-08:00

…I found that, using google analytics, you can find out what keywords people used to find your blog. As I’m procrastinating putting my laundry away, I thought I’d share a few of my favourite searches that led people to me, and let you ponder the implications for me and my blog.

“What happens if you don’t shower for a week.”
“What happens to your body when you have leprosy”
“Scratchy lump on tongue”
“pome of beautiful”
“lena needle grateful dead”
“Colin Firth.”

Remember, Remember

2008-11-11T22:39:00.000-08:00

Remember, remember,
The fifth of November,
With gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I see no reason,
Why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

On the fifth of November, we Brits like to honour a grand old tradition. We commemorate the overthrowing of a plot to blow up the houses of Parliament about four hundred years ago, by a group including one Guy Fawkes. Guy Fawkes was caught, hung, drawn, and quartered. Some people prefer to say that it’s about honouring Fawkes’ attempt to blow up the government, so, you know, whatever you prefer to celebrate, it’s an excuse for fireworks.

The central event of Bonfire Night aka Guy Fawkes Day is the burning of the Guy. Kids make an effigy of Fawkes, and in the evening, we stick him on a bonfire and burn him. Now, I’m not sure that burning effigies of late medieval criminals quite fits Blair’s image of New Britain, but to me it’s rather a nice reminder of the democratic process—that government is put in place by the people and should probably stay that way until peacefully removed by the people.

So my family and guest family member Trish got together to burn the guy and celebrate being British.

And Bonfire night happened to fall the day after the US election. However one feels about the results (personally: HURRAH!), it was certainly a landmark one. For one thing, I got to vote. And it was a fantastic night of seeing the voice of the people in action and being celebrated.

It seemed sort of poetic to be celebrating two triumphs of democracy in the same week. And comforting to remember that government by the people has survived and thrived for a long time. And is likely to continue for a while.

Birdbrains

2008-10-26T20:25:00.001-07:00

I'm delay-blogging. Imagine I'm blogging by satellite phone. This is from last month's trip to England. We slowly drove behind these birds for several minutes while they ran down the road in front of us. I finally got out of the car to herd them away -- and as soon as I stepped outside, they all flew off. Because I'm much scarier than a ton of petrol-fueled metal. My sister-in-law says that if I hadn't been in the car, my dad would have just run over them, but I like to think that's not the case.

The Quest Continues

2008-09-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

In which Lena talks with great perseverance of Dovedale and Matlock &c.

Next stop, Lyme Park. Now, the Mr Darcy link is a wee bit weaker here, but, recognise this...?

Yes, ladies, this was linked to so many wonderful moments, including the very famous and inspiring wet shirt scene, which Jane Austen must have edited out of her final draft of P&P as being too racy for Regency England, but which Andrew Davies wisely reinstated in the Official Standard Colin Firth Version.

Let’s all take a moment to remember the wet shirt scene. (sorry, can't embed for some reason).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hasKmDr1yrA

Ready? Then I’ll continue.

Here’s where Darcy ran down the stairs after removing the wet shirt etc, and replacing it with a very fetching ensemble involving breeches.

Here's where Elizabeth wandered around with the Gardiners.

Here’s where Darcy asked Elizabeth if he could introduce her to her sister!!! (you have to be JA to make drama out of such a moment?).

Here are some pretty pictures of the grounds completely unrelated to Jane Austen.

We drove through the Peak District, near Matlock, and through Dovedale, as mentioned by Elizabeth when she's having her awkward conversation with Darcy.

The Jane Austen/Darcy quest ends here, at Sudbury Hall. Several of the rooms were used for interior shots in the Official Approved P&P, including the grand staircase.
And Queen Adelaide (consort of William the nth) lived here for three years, if you want other kinds of historical detail.

On our way back, because it was (sort of) on the way, and because Tim and Jess made me want to see it here and here, we stopped by Warwick Castle. By this time, it was nearly closing time, plus it costs eighteen quid to visit, so we decided to defer closer inspection for another time. This is what it looks like from outside the gate.

So, no I didn’t find Mr Darcy on this trip. Not so much as a wet shirt in sight. But I did get to see some of the beautiful settings and buildings that inspired Jane Austen, and the landscape that her characters discuss. I got to see the rugged Derbyshire dales (plus a little bit of Cheshire), and some of the finest buildings and design work in the nation. And now, when I read the books, they may be, if possible, even more real and alive to me.

A Quest (part one)

2008-09-30T04:53:00.001-07:00

“One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other” – Jane Austen

Several years ago, at a social gathering at my house, the female members of the group started having a spirited literary debate. Well, sort of – we were discussing whether or not we thought Mr Darcy and Mr Knightley were virgins at the time of their marriage. I can’t actually remember what side of the debate I was on at the time, but I do remember feeling very strongly about it. Z interrupted to say, “These are FICTIONAL characters, you know.” Before any of us could respond, James said drily “not in this house.”

It’s true. I’ve been a Jane Austen groupie since I was about nine. I’ve visited her house in Chawton, her grave in Winchester cathedral, the Jane Austen Centre in Bath (pretty much a waste of time). I’ve read her novels, her juvenilia, her letters, and various biographies and works of criticism, an excellent Choose Your Jane Austen Adventure book courtesy of Heidi, plus some really bad “sequels” – those are always a mistake. I’ve seen the movies (even the one with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, which is hilariously far from both the book and any semblance of the Regency period).

But this week, I was on a mission very close to my heart:

The search for Mr. Darcy.

The sexiest man in literature (don’t even talk to me about that co-dependent brute Heathcliffe).

I was off to Derbyshire.

It’s time I saw more of the Midlands anyway, and the Peaks have always sounded lovely. But it certainly didn’t hurt that I would get to visit Fitzwilliam Darcy’s old stomping grounds.

So, we drove up, watching the colours of stones and bricks of houses change, seeing hedges turn into dry stone walls, and the landscape become a little more dramatically peaked and valleyed. Our first stop was Chatsworth. It’s been surmised for ages that Jane Austen had Chatsworth in mind when she wrote about Pemberley, and there are a few details that make it likely. First, it’s gorgeous – an amazing house, with marvelous grounds landscaped by Capability Brown who was particularly expert at making things look naturally beautiful, and who today would probably have been a plastic surgeon. Second, it’s one of, if not THE most stately homes in Derbyshire. Third, it’s believed that Jane Austen visited it. And, total trivia, the woman who’d been Duchess of Devonshire* up until a few years before P&P was published was the rather notorious Georgiana (currently portrayed by Keira Knightley in The Duchess, who is apparently taking over Helena Bonham Carter’s 80s job as Official Period Actress of Britain). JA usually took her character names from her acquaintance or family, and Georgiana isn’t one of them, as far as I know. To add to the interest, bits of the Kiera P&P were filmed here. Exteriors, and the sculpture hall.

The gift shop is hilarious – lots of Duchess bits and pieces (peacock feather wreath, anyone?), the usual “you can garden like Chatsworth too!” type of books (they never mention the hundreds of gardeners, immense acreage, and famous 18th century landscapers in those books, I find); but best of all, they have lots of Mr Darcy kitsch – i.e. reproductions of that painting of Colin Firth as Mr Darcy that Elizabeth gazes at when she visits Pemberley. Now, I adore Colin as Mr Darcy, but I do not want a low-quality reproduction of an imitation Regency painting of him acting that role to hang over my fireplace. Even assuming I had a fireplace. I was quite tempted by the mugs, though.

The interior is full of lovely things, including Landseers, Tintorettos, a Rembrandt, beautiful furnishings and treasures – silver chandeliers, toilet sets, pistols, pottery. I also like that the place isn’t just a museum of the past – the current Duke and Duchess collect contemporary art that complements the interior beautifully (though I did overhear one or two people being a bit sniffy about the juxtaposition of old and new).

The grounds are also beautiful, with more contemporary sculpture.

I don’t know how this baby balances like this.

Back when people didn’t have Wii’s or flat screens, they had mazes. All the cool aristocrats had one.

There are all sorts of fun little secluded gardens, which were probably helpful when Georgiana (the Duchess, not the shy sister) and her husband and friend were conducting their rather complicated affairs.

And of all this, I could have…never really had a chance of being mistress. Though I did find out the heir only got married last year, and looks quite pleasant. Sigh. Really though, it was rather lovely to look out from the windows and see what Elizabeth saw…

*Chatsworth is the home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, even though it's in Derbyshire.

Brotherly Love

2008-09-21T15:25:00.000-07:00

One of my brothers and I have a cell phone we keep in England for shared use, due to the annoying American system of cell phones being on a different bandwidth from the rest of the world. Knowing his thoughtful nature, it was no surprise that he left me a little message from last time he was over here. As I turned on the phone yesterday, the words “Hey, fatty,” blinked on.

The really annoying thing is that I’m not sure how to change it to something equally derogatory for him.

On Being a Chick

2008-09-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

Apparently I'm having identity issues lately, what with the age and gender posts. Expect one on what it's like to be white any day now.

So, I do like being a woman. Love the clothes, makeup, talking about emotions, blah blah. I haven’t had to deal with glass ceilings or discrimination or serious sexual harassment. I open my own jars, change tires, and I replaced my toilet once! With a broken ankle! (OK, Adri helped).

But in a few ways, men have it better. [disclaimer: the following are gross generalizations based on one woman's experience. Said woman's experience may not be typical of your results. This blog disclaims all responsibility from insult to readers who are superior to the author (and many men) in the areas described. ]. *

Men can go jogging at night without fear.
Men know which end up the batteries go without looking at the little plus and minus signs.
Men can put the tent up right first time.
Men don't get scared when they attach jumper cables because they think the car may blow up, even when they're certain they put them on the right terminals.
Men can move heavier things without help.
AND, men know things about cars and don't feel that they are constantly being ripped off by their mechanic.

I try to fake it. I usually talk to my brother before going to the mechanic, and have him tell me any lingo I need to know, and what questions to expect. However, I've been caught out at least once. I once delivered my carefully prepared spiel and then looked blank when the mechanic asked me how many cylinders I have (um, an even number…shall I risk a guess... 4? 8? Good grief, I’ve looked under the bonnet enough times. Why don’t I know?). I don't think for one minute that he needed to know. He was just testing me.

This is bothering me today, because I have a CAR ISSUE. About a month ago I had a little blowout, and what with bent rims and old tires, got a whole new set of both. After spending an amount of money that could have bought three of the yellow patent leather handbags I've been coveting lately, and probably shoes to match, I drove off with my new rims, which I still suspect may look a bit too pimped for my ride.

Then driving to choir practice a few nights ago, with a full car, some scary sounds started emanating from the rear right. It wasn't a wheel bearing. And that is where my female brain reaches its limit of diagnostic ability.

I took it to a mechanic, and they told me that the wheel and tire were the wrong size and were rubbing against the wheel well. Clearly the tyre company should have known this, right? Jerks.

I took it to the tyre company, and they took a look. The guy said things about damage to the side, and struts, and other car words. He said there was no problem with the wheel and the other mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Then he mumbled something about looking into a different kind of tire and calling me back.

Now, if I were a man, I think I’d have a better chance of knowing whether or not he was being straight with me. Or, at least, I'd have a better chance of him THINKING I knew if he was being straight with me. As it was, I wanted to be assertive, but I wasn’t sure who to be assertive with.

So I called my brother. Guy brain. I started from the beginning, telling him there was a weird noise coming from the back. "That'll be the new tyre rubbing," he said immediately. OK, fine. He explained the tire issue to me in little words, he told me what to tell the tire guy, and that if he gives me any trouble, that he will come up to Salt Lake and "talk to him." (that sounds a bit like my brother is a mobster, but he's really not).

So, I guess the tire issue will get fixed, and it isn’t a big deal, and no-one will die. But I still hate dealing with mechanics.

* i.e. if you are a woman and way better than me and all men in dealing with cars and tents and jogging, and think I’m a sexist pig, don’t tell me. It’ll just make me feel bad about myself. And you know how emotional we women can get.

Being Big

2008-09-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

I went to see Big, the musical, on Saturday. I enjoyed it (apart from the ending, which seems out of tune with the rest of the play) and it got me thinking about childhood vs adulthood. Big reminds us not to leave our childhood TOO far behind us, and seems to lean towards the “best years of your life” perspective about being a kid.

I’ve always disagreed. When I was in my early teens and loathing school, and getting my mum to write me notes so I could skive, I took some comfort in the fact that my dad also disagreed – and he was an adult, so his opinion had a bit more validity than mine. I was just hoping fervently that life would get better at some point.

It did. There were wonderful times in my teens, and yet I still love being an adult more. In a lot of ways, it’s actually lived up to the expectations and beliefs of youth. I can stay up as late as I like, read all night if I want, drive, eat whatever I choose, go to nightclubs without fibbing about my age, hang out with my friends all the time, I don’t care that I don’t look like Christy Turlington any more, and I don’t have ANY HOMEWORK. Plus I get paid for going to work. I always slightly resented the fact that I didn’t get paid for going to school.

Sure, there are consequences and flip sides to all of those things, and there are hard things about being an adult, but on the whole, I like it.

One of the wonderful things about being a kid, though, apart from the endless, sunny summers and meals waiting for you all the time, and having your mum be able to kiss anything better, is how you laugh ‘til it aches on a pretty regular basis. That kind of laughter is a little harder to come by as I get old and wrinkly.

But I've had it a few times over the past couple of weekends. First, going down the river at Lava Hot Springs last weekend in a big chain, almost having my arms pulled out of their sockets, screaming “bottoms up,” as rocks and little rapids approached.

Then on Friday night playing round the world ping pong at a party, as our group got smaller and smaller, and we ran around making ourselves dizzy more and more…

Then Sunday night playing a variation of Catchphrase (I really DON’T spend all my weekends playing catchphrase, despite blogging appearances). I was on the winning team--we won rather thoroughly and were very bad sports about it. We giggled helplessly as the other team struggled to guess things like “hat” (“helmet!” “visor!”) as part of “cat in the hat,” while somehow my teammates were thinking and guessing as one. It was beautiful. Of course no-one cared deeply about the outcome (well, let’s hope not), so we were free to gloat and patronise the other team to our hearts’ content.

For some reason, this all made me laugh until I was weak. It felt so good.

Despite certain stereotypes...

2008-08-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

Last night, playing Catchphrase:

Sidney: Um, all mormons are this...bread can be too...

About five of us simultaneously: WHITE!!!

Sidney (looking disgusted): No...

Turns out the answer was "wholesome."

How High the Moon

2008-08-13T21:57:00.000-07:00

Sarah and Trish very kindly wrote nice things about our party here and here, so I don’t have to boast. Suffice it to say I enjoyed it lots, and it made us want to do it all over again and invite all the people I forgot to send invites to this time. I also wish I’d taken more and better pics, but here are a couple.

As with most parties, I often enjoy the set up as much as the actual event. This one was a good team effort. We met at noon, and began cleaning, stringing lights, and pulling tables around. An interesting piece of trivia: the tables at Lindsay Gardens pavilion are the heaviest in the western hemisphere. Who knew? (And may those who helped us put them back in position after the party be blessed with happiness and green traffic lights for the rest of their days).

Our (I use “our” loosely) greatest feat of athleticism, however, involved getting the overhead lights up. We had big white globes, that you can't even SEE in those stupid pics, attached to miles of extension cords, and Rachel the arborist was in charge of climbing into the rafters minus ropes, while Marie and I looked on nervously and (at least I did) calculated our ability to catch her weight if she fell, and thought about how it would put a bit of a dampener on the party if they main hostess was in hospital with a cracked skull.

Then we took “shifts” at the site, watching over our efforts until party time. I had the most beautiful nap lying on the sun on one of the tables (another trivia fact: Lindsay Gardens pavilion tables are extremely comfortable to sleep on when you’re filthy dirty and tired).

And getting filthy dirty only makes it more pleasant to shower and get all tarted up and dance the night away…

We’re famous in Japan.

2008-08-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

So, my favourite Jock and I were helping Rowan with some music workshops for a group of kids. Basically, R was leading them in singing exercises in parts, and we were trying to keep things going without messing them up too much. It was great; the kids were enthusiastic about everything, and clapped wildly at any opportunity. As R was introducing one of the exercises, she started telling them the story of how she learned it. Our group was all Japanese, and had one woman interpreting. So, R got as far as "I sang at Carnegie hall a month or two ago," when the interpreter decided to take a phone call and ran out of the room, so she had to skip the rest of the story and go straight to the exercise. The kids all applauded enthusiastically, and didn't seem to see anything untoward in R apparently just randomly boasting of her accomplishment for no obvious reason to a bunch of kids from Japan.

As they were leaving, R gave them copies of an arrangement she’d written, and some of them wanted her to autograph it. The next thing we knew, one of the kids wanted me and Tricia to sign, too – and not being up to “I really don’t have anything to do with this music and I’m not even a musician – you don’t want my name scribbled over your nice new copy,” in Japanese, we went ahead and signed. So of course all the other kids wanted us to sign. So we ended up with the bizarre experience of signing about thirty autographs that night.

Lena Gets Herself Some Religion

2008-08-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes three hours of church seems like a long time. I’ve been blessed with a long attention span since kidhood, but still, three hours sometimes just feels like three long hours of people telling me to be better than I am. The clock ticks slowly on, I’m sleepy, I’m hungry, whether I’ve eaten or not, my attention fades in and out of the lesson, while I resist the temptation to check my phone for messages and facebook status updates, I think about what I’m going to eat later, I have side conversations with Rachel and Marie about whether or not my ensemble of teal and lavender works (we say yes!), and I experiment, surprisingly successfully, with independently moving my second toe.

Sometimes I go home, dive into the fridge, and don’t feel like I got anything out of it other than reinforcement of a good habit – like when you have a horrible morning running, but you feel good that at least one got one’s rear out of the house. I know that lots of people say that you get out of church what you put into it, and on one hand, yeah, sure. On the other hand, they must never have sat through a REALLY BORING lesson. But thankfully, there’s usually enough moments that make it worthwhile even on the THREE LONG HOURS days. And today, I appreciate the people that helped give me those moments. The lessons were not boring, despite my almost complete inability to focus on them. And I now actually want to be a somewhat better person, which we can all be thankful for. That want will probably have faded by next Sunday, by which time I’ll be ready to stick on a dress again and go through another three hours of soul work.

California, oh California.

2008-08-03T18:23:00.000-07:00

California was so sunny and warm and pretty, it just makes a girl laugh with joy. To wit:

We got some culture at the Malibu arts fest. In between making catty remarks about all the real-life Malibu Barbies.

We ate.

We made decadent dessert.

We went to the beach. We saw lots and lots of dolphins playing in the water. I failed to get a picture of any of them.

So here are a couple more artsy shots of rocks and water instead.

I surfed.

Ok, maybe that was someone else surfing. But it's Malibu, I had to get a surf shot in.

And a highlight of the trip: Cher's house! We know it's Cher's house because someone said so.

Cher! Famous Cher!

Wait a second, that headdress is reminding me of something.

Who'd have thought that outfit was inspired by nature?

Nightswimming

2008-07-29T19:27:00.001-07:00

I like swank hotels. I like mints on my pillow. I like nice little bottles of toiletries and lots of fluffy towels, and toilet paper folded into aeroplane ends, and people making my bed for me and turning it down. (though, apart from the chocolate mints, which are delicious, I think turn down service is ridiculous – as if people are really too fastidious to come into contact with the coverlet on the bed, or to turn back their own sheets. I can’t think of anything more silly except perhaps this)

I like people calling me Miss all day long and making my stay “more comfortable.” I’m not saying I think it’s good for my soul. I just like it.

I’ve had a great few weeks where I got to catch up with old friends and new babies, and I saw a few of them in Phoenix. I had a conference out there, hence the swank hotel, but I arrived early to visit las amigas. It was a lazy, hot holiday weekend and I wandered round in a sort of responsibility-free daze. After a looonng nap on Sunday, Bryn dropped me off at my conference hotel, and following a few preliminaries, I went for a swim at dusk. It was one of those warm evenings after a hot day when you aren’t sure whether the water or the air is warmer, and you glide around enjoying the reprieve from the hot-oven-blast daytime temperature. There were pink clouds, palm trees, the electric sound of what I believe are cicadas, and flaming braziers above the spotlit pool with little fountains and sprays all over the place, and only the occasional dive-bombing French child to break the serenity.

The only downer was that it was actually a pretty fantastic conference, so I had no excuse to blow off a session or two and go sightseeing. Ah, my unswerving dedication to duty. Ruins my vacation at every turn.

(Speaking of the conference, one of the highlights for me was when they showed a clip that I have been trying and failing to find on youtube. It’s where a well-known anti-tobacco advocate throws water over an industry executive’s cigar when he’s smoking on TV in violation of fire code, and the executive gets really mad and tries to start a punch up. It’s made funnier by the fact that the executive hits like a…well, like someone who’s never hit anyone before, and while I’m all hurrah for pacifism, it does point to the fact that starting your career of violence on television at the age of about 60 (hm, he’s probably actually 45 and looks older because he SMOKES) isn’t the best plan. )

The only reason I can think of to live in Phoenix is so I could be called a Phoenician, because that does sound fascinating and exotic. I realise it’s not news to anyone that Phoenix is hot in July, but I can’t help mentioning it. The air just feels thick with heat. And it just doesn’t get cold at night. Which actually made late night and early morning swims delightful.

Bryn probably thinks I don’t love her because I never take pics of her self or kids when I stay with her, but somehow the camera never leaves the bag.

So here’s Britt’s spawn. He looks like he’s about to cry, but I promise he loved being tickled.

Britt and me out for life-saving gelato.

And here’s Phoenix at night.

And this is the Dial building, which apparently was built to look like a bar of soap. Can you see it?

Lena Goes to the Doctor and Nothing Happens

2008-07-13T16:54:00.000-07:00

I think it’s important to note at the outset of this post that I do NOT have fungus growing all over my body. Got that? Lena = No Fungus. If anyone asks “what is Lena?” you will all chorus “fungus free!”

Having said that, this would be a better story if I DID have fungus (which I don’t!), but in that case you can be sure that you would never, ever hear about it, so be grateful that I don’t (no sirree!).

So I went to a dermatologist this week for a long over-due skin cancer screening – where they look you over and photograph your moles and make sure nothing nasty is growing. I know at least two people my age who’ve already had melanoma, so it’s not a bad idea to do it.

While I was there, the dermatologist noticed a couple of patches of dry skin on my torso that made her pause – she took a scraping, as she said that it might be “tinea verylongword,” a fungal condition that is hereditary and can OVERSPREAD YOUR BODY. Fungus. All over your body.

So, while there is totally no shame in having this condition which I personally do not have, you can imagine I wasn’t thrilled. She said the good news is that it’s totally treatable. You just take a pill, go and exercise really hard, then don’t shower for 24 hours. Then repeat the process in a week.

While waiting for the (negative!) test to come back, I was thinking two things. One, that that bit in Bridget Jones where she tells her smug married friends that the reason so many girls after thirty aren’t married is that, under our clothes, we all have scales over our bodies, and which is really funny when you read it and think “that’s what I’ll say to my grandmother next time she asks,” isn’t so funny when it might be true. The second one was: “what kind of a crazy medieval witchdoctor cure is THAT?”

A friend said that it reminded her of the bit in the Bible where the guy with leprosy has to go and dip himself in the river seven times.

Fortunately, I don’t have to compromise my hygiene through not showering, sitting in dirty rivers, or waving dead chickens over my head because I don’t have leprosy. Or fungus. Or skin cancer. Which is nice to know.

Capitol Reef

2008-07-07T18:56:00.001-07:00

Ah, nature. Don’t you just love nature. Behold

I joined la Familia D in Capitol Reef Thursday eve. We had dinner, lounged around a bit, played with my new headlamp (I heart camping gear) and retired to our tents. I was sharing with Littlest Niece, so we read Mr Sneezy together before bed. (One day the Smithsonian will beg for her unmatched collection of Mr Men books).

I awoke to birds singing and leaves rustling, and felt at one with nature, free from schedules, bereft of limitations and constraints – well, until my brother told me to go and put a bra on.

After fortifying ourselves with bacon and egg sandwiches, and ritual moleskin and sunscreen application, we spent the day hiking. We walked through the streams, drank warm plastic-flavoured water, slid down waterfalls, swam, ate trail mix, and generally had a delightful day.

The kidlets had spray bottles for cooling purposes, and amused themselves by spraying every animal in sight. The deer actually took it very well. One lizard seemed a bit surprised, but we decided that it probably made the lizard’s day, and that he will probably remember that day as when the Miracle of the Cooling Spray occurred, and next year you will see thousands of lizards round the rock upon which it happened, with little lizard crutches and eye-patches, hoping for more lizard miracles.

[Please don’t email me if you’re a member of PETA and want to explain to me that the lizard was trying to get WARM on the rock and we RUINED its day. I kinda don’t care].

Nephew cooling off

Littlest Niece can climb all by herself.

Georgie Girl

More cooling

Rocks

Indian smoke-house

Sulphurous rocks

The Kingdom of Gondor.

The "Sheep Dip."

Georgie and Mikey

We got back to the campsite and were immediately hit by that floppy kind of tiredness that gets you after hiking, where all you want to do is sit around and eat your dutch oven dinner. We played rummy, and argued gently over how many coals should be on the dutch ovens, who needed to get up and light the citronella candles, and whose tent is the best.

Camping is worth it, if only to make you appreciate modern conveniences, like when you go home and wash off the squashed bugs and what you thought was a nice golden tan in a nice hot shower. (Littlest Niece was the only one who remembered toothpaste, otherwise we would all have been even more disgusting than usual). But camping holds additional blessings, including reminding me that this crazy kind of landscape is mere hours away…

The Last Man on Earth

2008-06-21T16:30:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend tried to set me up with a guy with whom she thought I’d have a lot in common. Well, she was right—we do have things in common…including the fact that we’ve already dated each other.

Does that mean I’ve officially dated every eligible man in Utah, and I am now doomed to cycle back through them all, over and over again, until one of us gives in and agrees to marry the other? I’m not the first person this has happened to, I’m sure. It’s a small dating world in SLC.

I feel like there should be a loud overhead announcement. “You have reached the END of the line. Please get OFF the dating train and go and buy a cat or three. Mind the gap.”

Me Dad

2008-06-15T19:21:00.001-07:00

It’s Father’s Day, (I know it is a hallmark holiday, but still), so here’s a few random lines on Pa D…

When I was little he would amuse himself by making me odd combinations of food for supper if my mum was out for the evening, and seeing if I would eat it (apparently I was very good and always did). Then he’d plait my hair for the night and tie the end in a knot.

He videotapes literary adaptations for me.

He taught me to check the oil and change a tire on my first driving lesson. He’s an impatient man, but somehow showed endless tolerance teaching me to drive. He would simply grab the wheel if I did something scary.

Several people have said lately that he looks a bit like Indiana Jones. No fedora, though. Occasionally a trilby.

He checks my room for spiders before I arrive.

He doesn’t like people fussing over him. He was recently visiting relatives, and they made the mistake of worrying about his health and the long drive he had ahead of him on the way back. He said, “Tell you what. How about you lend me a spade, and if I feel ill on the way home, I’ll dig myself a grave and jump in it?”

He minds his own business.

My dad chooses cards carefully. He can’t stand sentimental cards that say people are “special.” He says there can’t be that many special people in the world. He says if he DID buy a card with the word “special” in it, he would cross it out and write in “run-of-the mill.” It’s probably true—he’s done it before with words like “darling.” To give you an idea of what he does like, this year I got a birthday card of a man ploughing a field.

He stocks up on my favourite foods when I visit.

He mails me chocolate.

He was in hospital once when I flew back to England, and after dropping my stuff at home, I went to the hospital to see him. One of my rather fussy uncles was also visiting him, and was worried about me – would I be OK driving there, having just got off the plane? Would I be able to find the place? Would I have any change for the parking meters? My dad’s answers were “she’ll be fine,” “if she doesn’t know, she can find out,” and (my favourite) “if she doesn’t, it’s her own damn fault.” He didn’t mention to my uncle that he’d left me a message with detailed direction on where to park, and also money for the car park.

Also while in hospital, I confessed that I had broken the wing mirror off his car, and hadn’t been able to get it back on again. “Don’t worry,” he said, tiredly. “I’ll do it when I get out. You won’t be able to. It takes a LOT of swearing.“

That’s my dad.

Magic

2008-06-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about technology and how I don’t understand it. I don’t mean like in a George Bush way. I have been instructed in physics. I know how to link to How Stuff Works. My brothers have helped teach me things like how a steam burn is worse than a water burn, and how to change a tail light bulb (I get unreasonably proud of myself for doing CAR STUFF).

But there are several forms of tekknowledgey that, no matter how often you explain them to me, involve a mental leap that I can’t make without screwing up my eyes really hard and steering off the road. I call these forms “magic.” For instance, vinyl. How do all those little bumps and grooves in the record translate to rich, vibrant music that you can bump and groove to? It’s magic. Slightly dated magic (arguable, I know), but magic nonetheless. Radios. The antennae can pick up “frequencies” from thin air and turn them into polyphonic sound? I don’t THINK so. Magic. Don’t even get me started on fax machines.

It’s not related to the complexity of the technology, you’ll note. iPods? Totally science-based. Nuclear physics? Bet I could do it if I put the time into it.

Time for a Fling?

2008-06-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

A Highland one. What did you think I meant? We have a choir performance this weekend. I've sort of been discouraging people from attending (just because we're newish, and I want us to be perfect before friends hear us), but I was lectured on my responsibilities today by a fellow choir member, and I suppose she's right -- the point of being in a performing group is not to actively drive away your potential audience.

So, Citrine is performing at the Highland Games (Scottish Festival) at Thanksgiving Point on June 14th at 2pm. Here's more info on the games:

SCOTTISH FESTIVAL & HIGHLAND GAMES

When
June 13-14
Friday: 5 pm – 10 pm
Saturday: 9 am – 10 pm

Where
Electric Park

Admission
Friday Night: $7.00 Adults & Children
Saturday: $10.00 Adults & Children
Both days: $16.00 Adults & Children
Saturday Night Concert Only: $5.00 Each

Summary -
Scot or not, all are welcome at the 34th Annual Utah Scottish Festival & Highland Games, June 13-14, at Thanksgiving Point. Join 12,000 of our closest friends at this increasingly popular event for Scottish dancing and Highland athletics. More than 40 clan tents, 5 fabulous musical groups, ethnic food, vendors, 9 pipe bands, tattos, kid's games, and much more all set amid Utah's own Highlands.

Hear cannon fire signal the Tattoo’s beginning and see an ancient tradition when the Chieftain calls for the clans to gather by torchlight. Fireworks conclude Friday night. Saturday, see athletic events at the U.S. National Highland Athletic Championship. See cultural displays, Highland dance, kilt making, and weaving demonstrations.

Come if you want. Or not. We'll do our best.

Lena is a Construction Worker

2008-06-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

Arthur and I went to Ikea for the first time yesterday. We sat in the ikea 70s chairs, raced shopping carts down the self-service aisles, and each bought bookshelves.

The bookshelves were heavy. At Arthur’s house, she decided it would be best to slide the package down the stairs instead of carrying it, so she put down her end. As she failed to keep me apprised of her thought process, the whole weight landed on me and nearly knocked me down the stairs. For the record, she claims this is not true.

With the next package, we were more unified. We both agreed to slide it down both flights of stairs. As we let it go, we both watched it slide down…towards her parents’ valuable, spindly-legged table, laden with decorative photographs and objets d’art. We both raced after it, but fortunately it stopped of its own accord a few inches from the piece. We turned to each other and agreed that we needed to think ahead a little more.

Amazingly, we got all the shelves unloaded without major physical or material injury, and assembled without too much disassembly and re-assembly necessary (though I banned Arthur from hammering after three misplaced holes in the back of one set. In her defence, it was late by this time and the light was bad).

Now for the furniture re-arrangement.

Lena Goes Undercover

2008-05-30T07:18:00.001-07:00

I had a rather spicy day, assuming variety is still the spice of life. Studio 5 interview in the morning, a visit to the Super Colon in the afternoon, followed by a pub crawl—all in the name of work.

Here’s the super colon, if you’re curious:

Yes, it’s a big model of a colon. The gut kind, not the typographical kind. It’s to educate people about colon cancer. It wasn’t my idea.

Also for work, we’ve been preparing for a media event relating to secondhand smoke. We flew in a researcher(from your alma mater, Tim and Jess), who studies the effects of smoke on air quality, and we decided to make the most of his presence by doing a little bar hopping so he could do what he does.

Our ivy league professor, N, turned out to be quite young and fun and in a band, etc, and after a few drinks shared some excellent stories about his mildly misspent youth.
A few of us went out to dinner, then to a series of increasingly smoky bars, with an air monitor stashed in N’s bag, and me writing notes on our progress.

“I feel so subversive,” I said, taking notes surreptitiously.
“Really?” He said, a little dubiously.
“Well, I WANT to feel subversive. It makes my life seem more exciting.”

We went to increasingly smoky bars, with only one slight hitch, when one bouncer wanted to keep our prof’s bag. “Er, we’ll go and put that in the car...” we then went out and put the equipment in our purses (N noted that bouncers appear a lot less suspicious of we innocent-looking women than of him) and came back.

We stank of smoke by the end of the evening, and I’m a little worried that our prof will be a bit hungover for our event, but it was a good evening of data collection. N. was impressed with our conscientious scientific method (although he noted that it probably helped that I wasn’t drinking). And we ended up with satisfyingly shocking results.

Smoky bars=bad for you.

Rumours: Not just a 70s album any more

2008-05-23T22:36:00.000-07:00

Today, at a work event, I tore into one of my co-workers because of some little mistake she made. She was really upset and came back to the office distraught—I think there were even tears. I feel so terrible about being such a witch... or I WOULD, if I had actually BEEN there and IF that had HAPPENED TO ANY DEGREE WHATSOEVER.

Fortunately, none of the people that heard the rumour actually believed it, primarily because I am British and they couldn't imagine a Briton acting so improperly. I won’t tell them about Naomi Campbell if you don’t.

Instead, a couple of us plan to add to the rumour. One friend says I kicked her. In the next version I plan to key her car.

Mere days...

2008-05-22T22:05:00.000-07:00

...after whining about how BUSY I am and how I don't have a SECOND to relax, pictures are posted on the internets suggesting that is not precisely the case.

I'm the one with my derriere in the air. Don't I have amusing co-workers?

"Damme cinque" is one Italian phrase I do remember

2008-05-19T21:16:00.001-07:00

This morn I saw a couple out running. They high fived each other as they stopped at a light. I could practically hear chariots of fire music in the background. I've decided that whenever I'm running with a friend, we will high five each other at every light. There is no better way to give the impression of having run 17 miles before breakfast and found it delightfully energizing.

Bene, migliore,, il la cosa migliore*

2008-05-19T21:09:00.000-07:00

My nephew loves movies. He often sees situations as a director would – for instance, I was saying recently that I didn’t think I’d ever sky dive. He said, “if this were a movie, the next scene would be of you jumping out of a plane.”

This time last year, I was in Italy, living la dolce vita very literally. Life was sweet. Temporarily, I had no real responsibilities other than a bit of work, no social or church obligations, but lots of time to do exactly what I wanted. It was wonderful, and all the better because it was temporary. I like having obligations in my real life. But, one thing I did take from Italy was the knowledge that it is good to take some time to slow down and enjoy the moment. I had lost that for a while, as I rushed from work to gym to party to church. I decided I would avoid over-scheduling myself in the future.

So, as my 11-year old nephew could have predicted, one year later, I’ve been running myself a bit ragged. There are lots of good things going on– new job, great church job, social things, gym, yoga, book group, choir, etc, etc. Please know that I am NOT looking for pity. I am well aware that “too many fun things to do” is not among the Top Ten Great Trials of Life. But, as a wise friend reminded me last night, there are good things, better things, and the best things, and I need to do a little choosing between them. I was telling her about my week, and she asked if I’d actually taken time to shower (I had, for the record). We were talking about which things add to and enrich my life and which things are just more stuff. Not that anything’s bad – as she says, I’m not considering dealing crack – there really aren’t any activities that are no-brainer I-should-probably-stop-that-immediately. But sometimes sleep and a real meal should probably trump some of the other things.

As an effort to step back a bit, I deleted a few things from my agenda on Saturday. Instead of brunch, church educational conference, family barbecue, Living Traditions, and party, I went to the park with my friend Juli who’s visiting from out of town, and we sat by the lake and watched the geese and their little goslings. I got to enjoy the beautiful weather, catch up with a good friend, and remember what it felt like to do exactly what I want. Which is the best thing to do, once in a while.

* bad translation of good, better, best. Ugh, I’m forgetting all my Italian. Maybe I should sign up for a community cla…oh wait.

Me Mam

2008-05-11T17:47:00.000-07:00

I think I heard this in a movie: “Everyone loves their mother. Even people who hate their mothers love their mother.” Fortunately, I love my mother without the hate, but the statement does illustrate how hard it is to write about your mother without sounding like everyone else who writes about their mother.

However:

People love my mum. She used to have a flower shop, and people would come in and tell her their life stories all day long. When I was in my teens, sometimes my friends would spend more time on the phone with her than with me, telling her about their boyfriend issues.

She is a really dreadful liar.

She taught me to read. It’s been useful.

She taught me not to care a lot about what other people think of me.

I was going to say that she taught me that I could do anything I wanted to, but I feel like she didn’t teach me that. She just believed it, so I believed it too.

She can’t wink one eye at a time. She just sort of squints.

She taught me that you have to learn to say no when you are overwhelmed, because other people aren’t going to say no for you.

I weighed over 10 lbs when I was born (no epidural), and my mum is 5’4” (well, more like 5’3” but she lies (see second item above)) and used to have a 23” waist. Thanks, mum!

She can make anything. Not just knit sweaters. She used to buy the wool, spin it on her wheel, and THEN knit the sweaters. I’m surprised she didn’t shear the sheep.

Also, I swear we ate kind of ordinary food growing up (no complaints, it just wasn’t haute cuisine) but if ever I’m making anything special, I know that I can call her up and she’ll give me three ways to do it and some tips on garnishes. I don’t know who got to eat her salmon en croute and oeufs a la neige, but I’m glad she knows.

She taught me that when a guy invites you to his apartment to get his coat, he doesn’t ALWAYS want to get his coat. Yes, I know sometimes the guy is just cold. I’m just saying. It was a good thing for a naïve girl to learn.

She taught me to chew with my mouth closed. And which fork to use.

It’s not just that she loves me. My mum thinks I am WONDERFUL. I mean, really outstandingly terrifically great. She thinks I’m much better than all of you. It’s ok. Your mums think you’re much better than me.

Call it Soccer if You Want to. Just Don’t Call it Boring.

2008-05-03T23:24:00.001-07:00

I went to see ~~David Beckham~~ LA Galaxy play Real SL tonight. What a terrific match! RSL began strong, and were leading 2 nil for a while. Then LA’s skilz kicked in and it ended up a draw -- 2 all. Who says football is a low scoring game?

I went with Tricia and her dad, Dennis. I think all our neighbours loved Dennis, as he kept shouting scottishly at the ref and players. At one free kick, the man in front was yelling at the goalie to break his nerve; “Not only are you the worst goalie in the world, you’re ugly!”
Dennis added “AND YOU SMELL!”

It was a bit confusing who to cheer for. I mean, there’s the home team of course, but ~~lust~~ patriotism made me feel obliged also to cheer on Beckham. Oh, and then we also had to cheer for Kenny (number 16) who is Scottish. So basically, I was delighted when anyone did anything good, which made for a very cheery evening.

Trish took better pics than I, but I think even in these you can see how ~~sexy~~ talented Beckham’s legs are. (Number 23).

Why I’m still single*

2008-04-27T21:06:00.000-07:00

Reason #34: I make men uncomfortable at parties.

Man from Texas: Now, are you from Russia or Bulgaria?
Me, thinking he was kidding: Actually, I’m Romanian.
Texan: Oh, see I spent some time in Russia, so all you Eastern Europeans sound alike.
Me: [yikes, he’s serious] Sorry, I’m really from England. But I know foreign accents can sound similar.
Girlfriend: People even accuse her of being from Australia sometimes.
Texan: Well, Australia’s not so bad, is it?
Me: Not at all, but I think it’s like somebody thinking you’re gay, when you’re straight – it’s not that being gay is so awful, it’s just that you don’t want people thinking you’re something you’re not.
Texan, looking very flustered: Well, that’s quite the analogy…I mean, well….
Me: I’m sorry, have I embarrassed you?
Texan: I’m not gay.
Me: I didn’t think for one moment that you were.
Texan exits swiftly.

*(I’m thinking of making a handy laminated list of reasons for people who ask. Maybe a fridge magnet)

Le Ballet

2008-04-26T23:25:00.000-07:00

Marie and I went to the ballet this afternoon –my favourite performance of Ballet West’s so far.

It began with a Balanchine piece – and as the curtain went up, there were audible “oohs” from the audience. It was all floaty pale blue tulle, cool lighting, Tchaikovsky, beautiful lines and movements, and was the kind of thing that made me remember why every little girl wants to be a ballet dancer at at least some point in her childhood. (What’s the boy equivalent? Pro footballer?)

They followed that with a Hamlet and Ophelia pas de deux, also gorgeous, very dramatically lit and choreographed.

The title piece of the program was Nine Sinatra Songs, from Twyla Tharp. I loved it; elegant, sexy, camp, beautiful, like the man’s music. It made me want to put on a sparkly frock and go and dance and drink cocktails at a glamourous nightclub; the kind that doesn’t exist any more, and perhaps never did—an amalgamation of Rick’s Bar in Casablanca and something mob-run in Vegas in the sixties.

Citrine

2008-04-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

I’m in a group. A choir. Called Citrine. We sing a mix of folk and modern songs, either written or arranged by Rowan.

Here are some ways in which Rowan has described our singing:

Bouncy.
Leprous.
Hilarious. [As in, “That was hilarious. You must never sound like that in a performance or I will scream with laughter.”]
SUCKNESS!
Too Bulgarian.
Babyish.
Boring.

“Boring” was the one that really cut.

But Saturday night, we sounded pretty terrific. You can read more about that here and here. It’s quite a buzz, singing in front of a big group and hearing all the work pay off.

Here’s one of my favourite giggles from the weekend. As we were packing up the condo, Angie came in to help me with the bunk beds in my room. I was kneeling on the top one while making it (and hitting my head on the ceiling more than once).
Me: I don’t think I’m doing a good job of this.
Angie, trying to make me feel better: It doesn’t look like anyone made a good job of making them.
Pause:
Me: I made them all.

Here's our official pic.

Here's a slightly less official pic.

Here's me all glam.

A couple of pics from the drive down.

Rowan and I just casually relaxing after the performance.

And one more.

A Life of Leisure

2008-04-25T10:42:00.001-07:00

I was talking with some friends at work about how you see people out and about town during the day and wonder who they are and what they’re doing. Don’t they have jobs?

For two days, I am of those people. I don’t start my new job until Monday, and went to the spa yesterday, where I had the pleasure of writing “none,” under “Occupation” on their form. This morning I went for a wee run in the park, and observed my fellow layabouts.

Here’s who was in the park, according to my deductions.

A Soviet spy, who was posted here in 1980 and told to await orders.
Two old college friends having a girls’ weekend.
A trust fund baby, wondering what he’s supposed to do with his life.
A young mother, who is SO glad to get out of the house on a beautiful day.
An amnesiac Turkish pianist who comes to gaze at his reflection and try to remember…
A blind man, who feeds the ducks to hear them quacking.
A retired accountant, who walks the park doing sums in his head.
Two nurses between shifts
An ex-trapeze artist.
A woman between jobs who remembers when she could run round the park quite a few times without feeling like either a lung or eardrum was about to burst.
An elderly couple who are more in love with each other than on the day they were married.

And if you're stuck in your office, here's what it looks like outside.

I Am a Cake

2008-04-18T22:07:00.001-07:00

You are what you eat, right?

Well, it was my b'day yesterday, and I was spoiled deliciously, to the tune of:

Cake the night before from a special bundt cake shop that Arthur and I had considered knocking over last week (not for money, we just wanted cake, and it was shut. Wouldn't you like to hear THAT story on the news?).

Cookies mid-morning from my co-workers -- who sang (festively, if not tunefully)

Cookie at lunch

Cupcakes post work from my roomie, who tracked down one of my favourite cupcake destinations online and got me these pretty things when she should probably have been studying how to treat diabetes, not cause it.

Big beautiful trifley thing at choir practice (choir members sang not just tunefully but in multiple parts)

I also have it on good authority that my mum is working on dessert.

For my next birthday, I would like insulin and needles. Thank you.

Ever-decreasing Circles.

2008-04-13T22:21:00.001-07:00

I have been doing a lot of running around recently. Church, work, choir, social stuff. Good but a little overwhelming.

But this weekend was really fun. Friday night I met Arthur for dinner and we went to a concert in someone’s basement, followed by friends n' s'mores at Angie's.

Saturday was the spiral jetty. A group of us drove halfway across Utah to see it. You drive and drive and drive north, and then you drive west, west, west, on increasingly rough, dusty roads, waving at jealous cows as you drive over cattle grids. Then you can’t drive any more, so you walk, and over the hill you see…the spiral jetty.

Several people have asked me what it is. It’s…well…it’s a jetty…and it’s in a…spiral shape. It’s a spiral jetty. It’s an art installation in the Great Salt Lake, made of dark volcanic rock, contrasting against the bright white salt that spirals with it. It’s been covered by water for a long time, but the lake is low enough that you can walk on it now. It’s also edged by what, from a distance, we thought were lumps of salt, but turned out to be clumps of white, salty foam.

You expect the salt to be slushy, or like a layer of ice that will crack when you walk on it. But it’s pretty firm and smooth. We played with the foam, tasted the salt (salty!), took our pictures, and made our way home. It was a fantastic day for it, with good company, and it felt a little like an excursion to a different planet.

A good few hours away from running in circles.

Scratchy Like a Burrito

2008-04-04T19:20:00.000-07:00

I went to the dentist (three more weeks of free dental ins!) today, and got a "fluoride treatment." I will have to google this and find out if it's of any use. I suspect it's like those "engine treatments" the guys at Jiffy Lube are always offering me, which bump up my simple oil change to the price of a porsche payment whenever I'm weak enough to accept them. Probably no more useful than fluoridated toothpaste. To the car or my teeth.

Well, as the hygienist was finishing up, she told me I could eat and drink that morning, but "avoid anything sticky, like caramels, or scratchy, like burritos." Now, I can think of many things that are scratchy foodstuffs, like shredded wheat, or fortune cookies, or the top of creme brulee, or those things that claim to be "Hawaiian haystacks," to which I was introduced in America, and I will give a million pounds* to anyone who has actually eaten one in Hawaii, because I DON'T THINK SO.

But a burrito? A yummy, refried bean-filled, salsa-edged, cheesy, pillowy burrito? I would use a burrito to polish my shoes. They are not scratchy. Just think, she probably says that to dozens of people every day. Do you think any of them question her out loud? I didn't. But I did have a crunchy eggroll for lunch.

*You know when you're little and betting people "a million pounds" about something or other? Did American kids just bet a million dollars and feel slightly less confident about their bet, or did they bet "one point five million dollars" or whatever the exchange rate was? And how would they know the current exchange rate when we didn't have the internets back then? It must have been hard growing up in America. You guys didn't even have this...

Free Falling

2008-04-02T22:41:00.000-07:00

I have a new job. Starting in three weeks. I’m quite scared about that. It doesn’t really help that (very well-meaning and dear) people keep giving me kindly warnings about how it’ll be “a change of pace,” and “quite a culture shock,” and pointing out all the sucky things about my new job. I did actually work fairly hard once in a while in my current job, people. And I did not grow up in a convent, despite my clean-living and innocent ways.

I feel really good about it, SO THERE. I have loved my job, but I’m excited about branching out, learning new things, a change in environment. Having said that, I am fully expecting that the next few months will be somewhat miserable, as I flounder around trying to find the photocopier and getting used to tracking my time in 15 minute increments. No longer will I be able to call M. and say, “please take care of this,” because it will now be my job to take care of it.

And I will miss my view. Here it is. Goodbye view. Wish me luck.

Kitchen Nightmares, or The Curse of the Rice Pudding.

2008-03-11T19:53:00.001-07:00

Doesn’t that sound like it could be the title of an Agatha Christie novel? Why am I never blessed with such brilliance when trying to think of headlines for news releases? I suppose we all have our gifts, and mine is a narrow one.

That seems to apply to my cooking skills, too. I am a somewhat erratic cook. I enjoy cooking, though tend to enjoy making things like millefeuille with my own painstakingly rolled pastry rather than more useful, life-sustaining things like casseroles. Sometimes my culinary efforts turn out well. Sometimes they do not.

F’r’instance (is that apostophe’d correctly? It looks weird), in the last six months, I have set fire to my oven twice while on the phone with my friend Elle. These occasions involved some kind of fruit crumble and toad in the hole. I’m pretty sure Elle doesn’t think I’m safe to be left alone in the kitchen.

What really seems to be my Waterloo, however, is rice pudding. Shouldn’t be hard, right? Milk, rice, sugar, any trimmings you feel like, stick it in the oven, bake. Now, twice I have forgotten about my rice pudding, gone out for the evening and come home to find dry, burnt rice (though I was just glad not to have burnt down the house).

I thought I’d be clever this time and make it on the stove top. Can’t forget about it bubbling away right in front of me, I thought. A few minutes after thinking that, I got distracted by a Pottery Barn catalogue until I vaguely wondered ‘what is that noise’ and looked up to find rice pudding bubbling and hissing over the stovetop and a saucepan burnt beyond recognition.

Why? Why is rice pudding beyond me? What does this mean, other than the fact that I have a complete inability to multitask (which I thought I learned when I broke my nose trying to move the washing machine in stockinged feet while talking on the phone. Yes, I know, some of you didn’t need to learn that particular lesson by experience)? (This is a very parenthetical post, I note).

Miss Marple would probably say how that reminds her of her old char-lady in St. Mary’s on the Wold (or whatever the name of her village was), who always missed a certain spot when she was dusting the piano and that turned out to be the clue to why she murdered her cousin Reginald). M. Poirot would put me at ease, saying how rice pudding is not a gentil dessert, and wouldn’t I prefer sirop, and then lure me into a room full of brilliant chefs and point at me accusingly.

One of these days I will blog about something brilliant and competent I did.

How are YOUR pants?

2008-03-08T17:59:00.001-08:00

I found a tailor who promises to stop my beige trousers sagging– she’s from Ukraine, and when we were arranging pickup, she said, “You call first. You call,” she paused and looked me in the eye, “And you say, ‘how are my pants?’”

From My Box

2008-02-27T21:15:00.001-08:00

Overheard in my office this morning:

Secretary 1: So, I went to this wedding reception last night, and it was so much fun. There were all these people from England there, and you know how they usually are, all...

Secretary 2: Stiff?

S1: Yes, but they were really a lot of fun!

S2: Really!

I'm stiff, not deaf.

To sleep…perchance to dream. *

2008-02-26T21:45:00.000-08:00

My goal for this week has been To Get More Sleep. I need a lot of sleep, especially in winter, and lately it hasn't been happening. And, as a Health Professional, I have Degrees and have read Professional Journal Articles that tell me that Sleep is Important. The fact that you can gain the exact same knowledge from reading Shape magazine causes me to question the value of the money I spent on my education, but I try not to dwell on that too much. Shape doesn't teach you biostatistics, after all.

So, I made it to bed around 11 PM -- well, 11:30 PM for two nights in a row, and woke up with the bloom of youth on my cheek and feeling peaceful and well rested, wouldn't you think? If you would, you would be mistaken. I never usually remember my dreams, but for the last two mornings I've woken up to the most horrific ones. One was sci-fi horror, and involved someone trying to kill me with glowing blue bullety things, until I killed him in a way that, frankly, I thought I was far too nicely brought up and gentle to do. The other involved me in a weird Jane Eyre-meets-Brothers Grimm story where someone was trying to force me into marriage with some guy who someone told me was my ‘real’ father. Ew, right?

Believe me, I am NOT asking for interpretation of these dreams. I'm pretty sure it can't be good, and I'd rather not know. And before you ask, the last movie I watched was To Catch a Thief, preceded by Sense and Sensibility, and I am currently reading How Green Was My Valley and the Relief Society manual. I’m also not on drugs, licit or otherwise.

Maybe sleep deprivation wasn't so awful after all.

I’m going to bed soon. Wish me luck.

*Does blogging about my dreams mean I’ve reached a new blogging low? I think it might.

Kute Kiddie Korner

2008-02-17T18:53:00.000-08:00

My niece “Gertrude,” apropos of absolutely nothing:

“I wouldn’t want to eat the neck part of the chicken because that’s where all the throw up comes out of.”

Five Ways to Spend Valentine’s Day as a Single Girl

2008-02-14T22:16:00.000-08:00

1) Buy YOURSELF chocolates, flowers, and take a big bubble bath all by yourself. Maybe throw in some rose petals. You’re the only one who’d appreciate them in any case.

2) Go out with the girls for Greek food. Share rice pudding. Talk about clothes and shopping online and how men honestly kind of suck sometimes. Giggle a lot.

3) Go to your Relief Society-sponsored Girls Night In. When this was announced at church, my friend Balthazar leaned over and said “I’d rather stay home and cry myself to sleep.” I must agree – I mean, sweet idea, but I don’t need the pity, thanks. I feel like this is for the people who call it “Single Awareness Day” and are kind of bitter about it. Let’s let the couples and marrieds have their day – they have to spend the rest of the year cleaning up after each other and wondering where the romance went.

4) Stay home and cry yourself to sleep.

5) Find the cure for cancer, solve global warming, and save the whales. That’ll show ‘em.

Guess which I did.

Vermin and the Phantom Dustbunnies

2008-02-13T17:12:00.000-08:00

Sadly, that is not the title of my new favourite band; it is a DESCRIPTION of what is happening in my HOUSE. [Warning: Readers who are easily shocked should be aware—there may be a lot of capitalised words in this post.]

I got home, and noticed that in the kitchen, there was fine grey dust over the counter by the fridge, and big clumps of dust on the floor next to it. This is weird because I cleaned behind the fridge and vacuumed the coils only last week. I asked my roomie if she knew what it was- she didn't, and had a far more important issue to share. She had seen a MOUSE that evening by the dishwasher!!! Now, I'm not particularly creeped out by mice, per se. I have dealt with them and with traps before, and I find spiders much scarier, but I do object to having my castle infested by rodents. Ick! Gluh! Blech!

I immediately went and bought four traps, and the nice lady in Smiths reassured me that she didn't think I was a dirty squatter who eats off the floor. She says that it's the cold weather driving them indoors. My mum says the same thing, and that it doesn't mean I'm living in squalor and never wash. I could tell the Smiths lady definitely thought I was a girly wimp for wanting a somewhat humane killing method, though. I must admit I doubt the effectiveness of traps that aren't springloaded and don't have cheese bait, but we'll see.

We pulled the refrigerator out, rather apprehensively. I must admit I was imagining a scene of horror, reminiscent of plague-era Europe, with a mice-nest, roaches, rats, and possibly an open sewer. But no, just more dust. Which is just as well. If I actually saw a cockroach I think I'd have to burn the place down and move out. Hm. Perhaps reverse the order of those two.

It gets creepier. This morning I walked into the kitchen, the traps were still empty, but there was MORE DUST. In the EXACT same places. So I spent MORE time vacuuming and cleaning. I was so discomfited I put shampoo on my shower pouf this morning and nearly went to work without a bra. It's got to be mouse-related, right? Or do I have a dusty poltergeist? Please, do any of you have explanations? (Note: explanations should not involve giant spiders, cockroaches, or anything else likely to give me nightmares. Perhaps explanations could involve fairies.)

Now none of you are ever going to want to visit my house again, and I will end up a sad lonely spinster without even a dozen cats for company, because condo rules don't allow it. Of course, if they did, this whole problem could be eliminated, because the cat would KILL and EAT the mouse. Though, are cats even mousers, these days? They're probably too busy with their custom built scratching posts and iPods.

I am trying not to be paranoid about mice running over me in the night and am instead working on imagining the mouse as one that might be found in a Disney movie – it talks, sings, and perhaps will make me a pretty new frock.

Tagged

2008-01-30T20:18:00.000-08:00

Mel tagged me. I met Mel when she came to interview for a job where I worked. She was wearing a very cute green shirt, was super nice and friendly, and I and my colleague (we were co-conducting the interviews) were embarrassed because we turned up wearing matching outfits that day and we both had British accents so we felt like the “Foreign Twins” double act or something. Then that Sunday Mel turned up at my church, so let’s all be glad she got hired, or it could have been very socially awkward.

These are the rules (lifted verbatim from Mel):
• Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog, as we all want to know them. (I'm sure you are all DYING to know these, but please read them anyway so I feel like you do.)
• Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs. (If I tag you, just do it and don't complain.)
• Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

And here are my factoids:

1) I collect vintage girls books, from the 20s through the 50s. They are hilarious, but very innocent and fun and full of great mind-moulding lessons on HONOUR and PLAYING THE GAME, and being a GOOD SPORT.
2) Cats like me. I worry slightly that it means I smell like catnip.
3) I can do a pretty solid headstand.
4) For work, I once took part in a “Crazy Cooking Show” (or some title like that) where I played straight woman to the host, who was acting like a mad scientist with the dangerous chemicals in cigarette smoke. This is the kind of stuff I get paid to do. Random bonus fact – my brother called me “Boob Job” for about a week after he saw this program, as I apparently wore a very…er, enhancing top in it.
5) I won a ride in a police car when I was about six, in a colouring contest. And I didn’t even like colouring!
6) I once lost my voice for two months (whisper volume only) after having my tonsils removed. Because of this, I will always love speech therapists.
7) Mel and I once trained for a half marathon together. And I don’t think I’ve ever been in such good shape since. Or up as early.

Bryn, Mel and Jairo, Marie aka Tiffany, Jess, Ninny Rose, Ans, Rachel, I tag thee.

Seattle

2008-01-28T19:56:00.001-08:00

Work took me to Seattle, so I took an extra day to visit the amigos. Read all about it here. Or just look at the pictures.