Big brother

I felt a frisson of anxiety when I googled myself (I'm not vain - honest it was the first time in years) and found this blog was the number one hit. If it is true that employers google employees these days, I'll have to be on my best behaviour from now on. Which is pretty unnerving.

My last name is intentionally nowhere on the web page. Has anyone linked to this using my full name? (I'd appreciate it if you didn't, just for the record.) Are there other ways for this to have occurred? I'm kind of creeped out.

And Rob and Jessi, thanks for the chocolate! So few people take my need for sweets seriously (ahem, Jeff). You guys are the best!

A tale of woe

I arrived forty-five minutes late for my seminar in London on Thursday because every stinking tube line in London was either experiencing signal failures, closed platforms, unexpected delays or 'incidents' - it took me two hours to make the trip from Paddington to Canary Wharf when the London transport board route planner said it should take twenty-nine minutes. You might think this would be enough bad travel karma for one week. You would be wrong.

I think yesterday we wrote the book on how not to do your bank holiday weekend. For example, don't book everything at the last minute on a busy week when you're going to be exhausted at the end of it. Don't have one cocktail too many out with co-workers the night before. Don't pack at the last possible second. Don't rush into work the morning you leave to fire off an important document you forgot to send the day before. Don't accept a rental car with visible damage to the hubcaps which suggests someone has already hit a few bumps in it. Don't get lost in the suburbs of Bristol because you're trying to take a 'scenic route'. Don't bother making a sidetrip to Glastonbury when the main point of your trip is hiking in Exmoor. (Even if you have unwashed hippie hair and find yourself among your own kind when you get there.) Don't assume that just because a North American car can handle the odd bump in the road that the tiny tonka-toy tires on European tin cans (ours was about the size of our new dishwasher and almost couldn't fit our suitcase in the back seat - there was no trunk) will be similarly resilient. Don't go off and explore a ruined abbey if it means you'll come back to a flat tire - though you almost couldn't tell because there's only two inches of rubber before you hit rim even when inflated. Don't wait until this point to discover that there is no spare tire (where would you even put one?) and only a tube of glue for patching punctures. Don't bother holding onto ANY hope at this point, because the aluminum-foil wheel rim will inevitably be bent precluding any repairs but a replacement wheel. And said wheel or a replacement rental car aren't going to happen at 4:00 pm on a bank holiday Saturday in a country where everything closes on Sunday.

We were forced to abandon our entire vacation, two and a half hours from our destination, because of a flat tire. Not even the roadside assistance guys, when they finally arrived, could handle the situation. It's so ridiculous that even now I want to scream. Last night, as we sat in the tow truck on the way back to Oxford (our only available option) the driver kept reminding us how he was supposed to be on his way home. Yeah, cry me a river, you're getting paid overtime and we've lost our one-night deposit on the B & B, the cost of a rental car for the weekend, whatever they'll hit us with in damage, and our entire vacation. I didn't even get to climb the damned Glastonbury Tor after all that. Or get my turn at driving.

We were so dejected we couldn't even talk the whole way home. It was an awful night. Today the weather is beautiful and we're aching to be out hiking on the moors, as we were supposed to be. So we coped with our depression in ways appropriate to our respective genders. Jeff bought a new gadget (an even cooler mobile phone) and I bought shoes. The magnitude of the crisis required two pairs. I may need to add another if I still don't feel better tomorrow. Send chocolate.

Underachieving since high school

You know how you get in those ruts sometimes? Or maybe it's just me, and my chronic lethargy. I'm a compulsive to-do list maker, because if I don't write it down I don't remember it (my memory has a very finite capacity). Lately I've been writing down things I've already done, just so I can cross them off. Or adding very small, easily achievable tasks. Like finishing a book. Or sending a postcard. Or buying more laundry detergent (note: store is 50 metres from my front door). All of which have been carried over to the next week's to-do list three times now. Other areas in which I have spectacularly failed to meet my own expectations:

Booking a hair appointment
I haven't had my hair cut since November. Because of the rather - dare I say it - 'edgy' cutting style of Coupe Bizarre, my formerly rock-n-roll 'do now sports eight inches of split ends and says nothing so much as 'unwashed hippie.' Make that 'unwashed hippie with malnutrition and hard water.' And yet ... and yet ... booking a hair appointment requires a decision and a risk. (Committing to an untested hairdresser and trusting them with my hair, which took years of determination and focus to grow.) And we all know that means I'll never get around to it.

Arriving at work before 9:30 am
Did I say I was a morning person in my job interview? Did I say I spring out of bed each day full of energy, ready to bring fresh new ideas and enthusiasm to the projects at hand? Did I say I was invariably punctual, polished and professional? Well, that's what you get for believing someone with the hair of an unwashed and malnourished hippie living in a flat with hard water.

Spending more than five minutes in the kitchen
There is photographic evidence to prove that I am not starving. But I can't seem to regain any motivation to actually cook. Dinner means one of three things: a) I've eaten so much junk earlier in the day that I'm not hungry; b) I throw together a prewashed salad with pre-crumbled feta and tomatoes small enough that they don't need to be cut up; c) I microwave something from Marks & Spencers. I've never been one for cooking, but this is ridiculous. There could be some relation between this, my lack of energy, and my inability to achieve glossy, shampoo-commercial locks. But damned if I can see it.

Buying a car
The only things I'm worse at than the little decisions are the big decisions. And this is a biggie. Especially as I'm too scared to test-drive anything on the wrong side of the road. Hey, look at that - something else I've failed to do. Six months here, only six months left before I need to apply for a British driving license, and no UK driving experience. I'm outdoing myself here. But there's more!

Applying for a British credit card
Wouldn't you rather get charged an arm and a leg every time you use your foreign credit card? Anything to avoid having to sit down and read some boring paperwork. I'm really good about doing my taxes, too, by the way. If it weren't for my mom I'd probably never be able to return to Canada.

Hooking myself up with a mobile phone
Jeff has even acquired a used phone for me in an attempt to vault me into the 1990s. But, see, getting it set up requires choosing a phone plan which means a decision AND reading boring paperwork. And then I'd have to change my blog name.

Responding to emails
Many of you will already be aware of my shortcomings in this area. I wish I could say it's because I've been breathtakingly busy with a flashy social life, gruelling workout schedule and meteoric career trajectory.

I need an annoying but un-ignorable super-motivating Richard-Simmons type person (but not in short shorts) to get me off the sofa. Oh dear, have I just admitted to needing a LIFE COACH? Gag.

Off to London for a seminar tomorrow. And then hopefully (if I can borrow Jeff's mobile phone) to meet up with the lovely Kathrin. She's a go-getter. Maybe I'll be inspired ...

P.S. Still raining.

The rains, they have begun.

A recap of yesterday's weather:

8:00 am: rain
9:00: 5 minutes of sun
10:00: drizzle
11:00: great grapefruit-sized chunks of hail
11:30: torrential rain
12:00: fire and brimstone
1:00: plague of locusts
2:00: rain
3:00: rain
4:00: rain
5:00: rain
6:00: drizzle
7:00 pm onwards: no idea as I wasn't about to leave the house again

A recap of today's activities:
Running in and out of the flat with my clean laundry every ten minutes as thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, rain came down, and sun shone in erratic cycles all afternoon. At one point I just stood outside staring at the sky for about twenty minutes, paralyzed with indecision, being rained on gently as the sun tried to break through the clouds. Why do people have clotheslines in this country?

Amidst these trials, however, I am always cheered by dancing nerdily to nerdy indie rock. And by watching others doing the same. Here are two particularly commendable examples, which you've probably seen already. I definitely haven't been getting enough out of my treadmill workouts.

OK Go: Here it goes again
Mates of State: It's all in your head

Addendum: Another YouTube classic I'd forgotten about - he has his own web site too, where you can also see the original version from his first round-the-world trip.
Matt

Perhaps I was Amelia Earhart

Have I mentioned that I'm deathly afraid of flying? Overseas flights particularly scare me, since large expanses of water cause knots in my stomach. (I'm also freaked out by large ships and submarines.) I'm a feet-on-solid-ground kind of person. Once I'm on the plane, fatalism or sedatives keep me calm. But in the weeks before an overseas flight I get panicked about making sure my affairs are in order. I've almost wondered if it's a past life thing, even though I don't really buy into that stuff. In any case, this certainty of doom means it takes a lot of psychological pep-talking for me to plan a big trip.

I had just decided I didn't have it in me, financially or time-wise, to go back to Canada again in September, even though I was heartbroken about missing Chelsea's wedding. Then all hell broke loose at Heathrow and now I probably couldn't have forced myself onto a plane around September 11 anyway, even though many others will and will be just fine. I'm worried about encouraging people to visit us, now, too. (You can quote statistics about the number of flights each day and car accident death rates, and argue that when your number's up your number's up. That's the thing about irrational fears - reason doesn't help.) I had started to consider ways to extend the European sojourn while we're fairly young and unencumbered by offspring. But for the past few days all I can think about is how much I wish I were only a comparatively safe VIA rail trip away from my family and friends.

A quick and inelegant rundown of what we've been up to:
We went to a lovely wedding at Christ Church Cathedral last weekend. The cathedral is beautiful, the choir was haunting, and it almost made me reconsider church weddings. During the civil war in the 1600s, Charles I resided at Christ Church when he made Oxford the royalist stronghold against Cromwell (there are remants of the war all over Oxford). His queen lived at Merton college, and he used to visit her through a little gate in the cathedral yard. After the wedding we all got to proceed through this gate, which is almost always locked, to a reception of champagne, Pimm's and strawberries and cream in the gardens of Corpus Christi college. (The vice-president of our university dorm at Queen's was at the wedding - since the groom was Dutch and the bride American it makes it an even more unlikely coincidence.) Naturally the celebrations ended up at a pub along the river. After that we had friends visiting from Canada, which necessitated more champagne and punting.

Otherwise, work is busy and stressful but good experience. The coworkers I am playing soccer with are improving really fast, and the numbers are if anything increasing. Women of my age here didn't have much opportunity to play as kids, so they are having a blast. And we even have some men coming out. The only problems is that noone can afford a house in Oxford, so they all have to drive home to neighboring towns after practice. This considerably reduces the amount of alcohol consumed at the pub. I miss the number of pitchers the Panic squad goes through! Jeff's job is also a bit stressful at the moment, mostly because there have been unforeseen challenges in getting projects off the ground. He's getting backup come autumn so things should fall into place. We haven't been travelling much other than day trips because it's nice to relax at weekends and catch up on miniscule loads of laundry and dishes in our micro-appliances. It's a chance to throw open doors and windows, hang sheets on the line, and freshen everything up. (I've brought back rolls of acrylic screen from Canada so now I just need to figure out how to rig it up.) We've also grown quite attached to a nearby village and conservation area, within an easy bike ride of Oxford.


A view from the hills of the Port Meadow (green space - look for the sailboat on the river) and behind it our neighborhood in Oxford. You can see how dry it has been here by the colour of the hills in the background and foreground.

Only in England

I absolutely adore this kind of story, and there seem to be so many of them here.
The Mole Man of Hackney
Best quote: 'Tunnelling is something that should be talked about without panicking.'

But, lest it seem that I always poke fun at Britain, there is much to be learned here too. Part of the reason the English countryside is so lovely and accessible is the fact that the government protects its green space. Last year almost three quarters of new homes were built on 'recycled' land in urban areas, curbing the type of sprawl that blights North America. I think that's pretty darned cool.

Thirtysomething

Today is the day that age-thirty jokes stop being riotously funny to Jeff (lord knows I've heard enough of them since March). Annoyingly, he's ageing far better than I am, and in another ten years will probably still look thirty.

For his birthday, his parents sent a beautiful bound copy of his PhD thesis, on paper expertly selected by his mom. It has pride of place on our bookshelf, but doesn't begin to tell the story of what went into that degree. I've been along for the ride since he first decided to pursue physics, and I've been blown away by the hard work, commitment and courage he's shown to get this far, especially during a few rough years. He's come through it all with an impressive record of publications and awards, and I'm enjoying tagging along and vicariously experiencing Oxford academia as 'doctor and the missus.'

Along the way he has built a canoe, become a great photographer, learned some Spanish and kayaking skills and become a certified scuba diver. He can pick up anything easily, and I jealously guard my editing manuals because I MUST be allowed one area in which I can be the expert. We have a dynamic of him pulling and me digging in my heels, and I would never have tried sushi, gone canoe tripping or spent a year in Scotland if it weren't for him.

We met when we were nineteen, when Jeff was a member of the International Socialists and wore big combat boots (and a moustache, which I was fortunately able to get past). We bonded one evening in a university dorm over our respective CD collections, excited to find someone else into the same bands. Total nineties cliche! We have grown up together, and I adore him more each year. I mean, really, what's not to love? He's super smart, goofy in all the best ways, and cleans up pretty good, too.

Happy birthday, old fart!

One year short of a Beatles song

When I was packing to move here I ran out of time to choose some pictures and easily transportable tchotchkes to remind me of home. So in celebration of my dad's recent birthday, I have only a lousy photo of a photo. Photos from the 70s and early 80s have an odd finish - almost like a woven texture. And they acquire an orangey-gold glow that makes everything seem softer and warmer like it took place in late afternoon sunshine. But the glow doesn't exaggerate my dad's dashing good looks.


Or his seventies rockstar hair.

My dad was a varsity athlete and trained as a tank commander. But he also wore sandals, drove Volvos (LONG before they were popular), voted NDP, grew alfalfa sprouts and made yogurt, lobbied for and helped maintain conservation areas and nature preserves, and refused to let me play with Barbie dolls. He was a demanding dad, but he devoted more time to us than most parents I knew. He coached sports teams, took us on hikes and attended every excruciating music recital. After a day of work he still had the energy to sit on a child-sized chair and pretend to be impressed by a plate of Lego blocks in a make-believe restaurant. He drew cartoons of insects to stop me being so afraid of them, and the characters still appear on my birthday cards. He once got a speeding ticket because he was belting out the hits from 'Sesame Street Singalong' with us and paying no attention to the speedometer. I owe my appreciation of puns to him, and also my crazy eyebrows. He's working on my appreciation of red wine, which he no longer drinks out of Tupperware cups (see photo).

Happy birthday, Dad! I hope it's another great year.

This will get me through an English winter

My favorite things about the cottage: big skies, eating every meal on the deck overlooking the water, and toasting heavenly sunsets with wine.





We had fifteen people at dinner one night in Quebec. Being immersed in extended family after close to ten years is really strange. So much has changed, so little has changed. My inner socially awkward teenager always emerges in spite of a decade of adulthood. But it was a great holiday, with lots of swimming, biking, canoeing, and fresh local food, in one of my favorite places on earth. It was wonderful to see everyone, and I feel grounded again now.

(It's surreal to start a new life among total strangers who don't have any reference points about me. I am coming across bland as white bread in my attempts to get along with everyone. I need someone to really tick me off so I can be the surly, cynical and slightly arrogant person inside the deceptively affable exterior. British Gas is coming pretty close. After six months they still can't find our account and have yet to bill us for electricity. The collapse of the Empire suddenly seems a bit more understandable.)

Jet lagged

I'm back. I'm tired. I have eight million emails and phone calls I owe people. I desperately wish I were back in that hammock with a cold beer.


On the upside, it's a very comfortable 18 degrees here this evening.