Moroccan Spices in June

Morocco is one of the most beautiful places I’ve had the pleasure of exploring.

June rolled around and, a day after my Dad and Jules arrived to ‘doggy-sit’ Dexter for me I caught a zero-hour flight to Marrakech. I was going on a 10-day trip with a few guys from work to spend a little time in the famous Marrakech Medina and to embark on a five-day ‘trek’ to the peak of Toubkal.
For those of you who haven’t heard of Marrakech, it’s the third largest city in Morocco, a country on the North Atlantic coast of Africa. It’s a bustling place with a huge Medina (traditional, fortified portion of the city) and the largest traditional market (called a souk) in all of Morocco.
Days there are hot, and slightly sedentary with the exception of those in the endless maze of shops and stalls that make up the souk. Late at night, once it cools down, the large city square on the edge of the souk comes to life with everything from belly dancers and snake charmers to storytellers and musicians. Large outdoor areas are converted, with tables and chairs, into make-shift restaurants where you can enjoy snails or sheep’s-head, among other things. There are mountains of fresh spices, more olives than you can consume in a lifetime, and everything from jewellery to leather goods to t-shirts and knock-off Nikes. I really believe that if you’re looking for it, you can find it here... you can even buy geckos and turtles and the locals will give you tips for smuggling them home on the plane. This is a view of the square:

Compared to the other Islamic-influenced countries I’ve been to, the ‘Western’ influence in Marrakech is obvious. It is acceptable (practically encouraged) for a woman to walk down the street in a tank top or shorts and, to be honest; the locals can cat-call like professionals. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever been hit on more in my entire life.

The first few days we poked around and enjoyed the nightlife... then we got down to business.

The guide came and picked us up from our riad and took us into the Atlas Mountains to begin our 5-day trek up and around and finally to the peak of Toubkal; the highest point of Northern Africa. We had a guide who walked with us daily and a ‘mule team’ that was responsible for transporting our stuff on the mules, setting up the ‘dining tent’, and preparing the meals.
Our guide, Aziz, was a local Berber who was extremely well educated (two degrees and mountain guide certification and fluent in four languages, working on the fifth) and as nimble as a mountain goat. Come to think of it, all of the locals were impressively sure-footed and quick on the precarious and very dangerous mountain sides. We woke every morning at 7, packed up, ate breakfast, and took off for the day. We would ‘hike’ about 4 hours in the morning, stop for lunch, and then hike another 4 to 6 hours in the evening, depending on our morning progress.
I’m not going to lie... it was not easy. I was the youngest (by at least 15 years) and the only girl, but I still had a few moments of complete exhaustion.

We didn’t go straight for the peak. We took a round-about path to the top, stopping though Berber Villages, camping by a huge lake, and gaining an appreciation for the full scope of life in those mountains.
The kids in the villages often bombarded us with requests for ‘’Bon-bon?’’ (French for candy) and pens or paper or anything else we were willing to give them. I took a few packs of Starburst for just such encounters (on the advice of Julie) and ran out VERY quickly even though I was only giving them out one at a time.

On the third night we celebrated Paul’s birthday/retirement. He was turning 50 and officially out of the UK Air Force on the same night. The cook whipped up a ‘birthday cake’, we sang, and had a longer night than usual staying up and chatting and laughing. After all of the festivities died down I was left on the mats with our guide, Aziz, and my tent mate, Steve. Steve went back to the tent to change and ‘get ready for bed’ so I stayed on the mats with Aziz to give Steve some privacy...
Dim the lights... Aziz told me he had a confession.
“I’ve met many different types of people since I became a guide. Some I like, some I don’t. Your group has been especially fun for me. You are a small group and you all get along and you are all fun. But you are the most amazing person I have ever met. You are always laughing and smiling and you have such a beautiful smile. I already feel that I have very strong feelings for you.”
Wow... so this was a far cry from the “Hello pretty eyes,” and “3000 camels for your beauty,” that I was getting in the square.
I tried to be very diplomatic and gentle with him. I had explained to him earlier in the day that I had a boyfriend whom I loved very much, but apparently a man like Aziz is not used to being turned down.
He got a mischievous glimmer in his eye and pursued the subject. He asked me for my email address so we could ‘’continue to build our relationship’’ to which I politely refused on the basis that I was unwilling to be more that friends (the killer word, I know I know). He told me the story of a Berber guide friend of his that had met a European woman on her trek and they had fallen in love and were getting married that very summer. As sweet as the story was, I insisted I had a boyfriend already and I wasn’t interested in anything on the side.... He persisted.
He wanted to know if he could at least have a kiss “to remember me by” and insisted this would be a wonderful ‘souvenir’ for me to take home with me from my trip. (Apparently my photos and memories weren’t going to be enough.) Aziz is not a man that takes ‘No’ graciously...
Eventually I had to just get up and leave him there... poor guy.
Two of the guys I was on the trip with were in their tent right next to where all this happened...the heard everything. The rest of the trip (when Aziz was not around) they teased me mercilessly about being a ‘heartbreaker’ and each gave their vote that I should give Aziz a try.
Ah, men... always looking out for the each other’s interests.
The rest of the trip was no less fun (or interesting). We had a night where the guys on the mule team came in and taught us Berber and Morroccan card games and we had a night where we convinced Aziz and the mule team to sing traditional songs for us. They beat on empty water jugs and upside-down pots and sang quite a few songs... The two of us American’s in the group sang a few ‘American’ songs (not well, I confess) and the Brits sang some of theirs as well... we all sang some Christmas carols for them (as it was the only thing we were all certain we knew the words to).

We climbed all the way to the top of Toubkal and I saw a breathtaking view from the highest peak of North Africa.

We even had a snowball fight.

Aziz backed off a little but didn’t stop asking for my email or a kiss (apparently whichever I was willing to give him was fine by him) until the day we left.
Our last few nights in Morocco were spent back in the riad in Marrakech. I explored the souk and square some more, caught up on some well-deserved rest, and treated myself to a traditional Moroccan bath, called a Hammam... the details of which I cannot divulge. ;)

The whole experience was absolutely fantastic.

June was a good month.

The Flight and The Politician

I’m a pretty regular airline passenger. I started at a young age and have flown, by myself, more air miles than I care to count. I’ve been back and forth to Colorado and Arizona from Washington as many times as some people take trips to the grocery store from home. I’ve also flown internationally a few times... between Japan and the States and between the UK and the US. Of all the flights I’ve been on... all the whiney kids and crying babies... all the drunken, smelly, obese, shoulder-sleeping seat mates... all the turbulence and gag-inducing food... none of that compares to my first flight from London to San Diego.

I knew as soon as I found my seat that it was going to be an interesting ride. I was the window seat next to an older African man who, as soon as I sat down, began asking me if I could verify that his seat was actually his seat. The woman in front of us had already been having this discussion with him when I walked up, but he apparently did not trust her expertise and asked me. I showed him how to read the ticket, showed him where the seat number was, and just generally reassured him as we took our seats.

Then I showed him how to work the seatbelt.

Relaxeing before takeoff, I put in my headphones and closed my eyes... it was a red-eye flight and I had big plans upon my arrival that I wanted to be rested for.
About 45 seconds into the first song, I feel a ::tap tap:: on my shoulder. I pull out my headphones and, let’s call him The Politician, pointed at his ticket to ask more questions. He wanted to make sure he was on the right flight.
I showed him, again, how to read his ticket, and explained that he couldn’t possibly be on the wrong flight, because they wouldn’t have let him on the plane.
Then he asked where his bags were. He had seen me put my carry-on in the overhead compartment and wanted to know where his stuff was. I was a little confused... asking the obvious “Well, where did you put it?” but he didn’t seem to know.
As a side note... it’s been good practice for me, working at a NATO command, when it comes to understanding broken English. The Politician was obviously not a native English speaker... his accent was very heavy and he was lacking huge chunks of necessary vocabulary and grammatical finesse. I don’t say this as a judgement, because I can’t even ask for the bathroom in another language, I just say it as a fact. Every conversation I mention in regards to this encounter was far from a simple question/answer/statement format and took multiple ‘back-and-forth’s to figure out what exactly was being said.
Anyhow, I determined that he had checked his baggage and spent the better part of the next 20 minutes explaining that checked baggage was under the plane and that no, he couldn’t get it right now. I also had to reassure him that the bags would be waiting for him when we arrived in Denver (my layover) and everything would be okay.

Whew.... now that THAT’S taken care of...

Once off the ground, the flight attendants come around with customs cards for us to fill out before we land. We both get our cards and start filling them out. The Politician doesn’t understand what to do, so I show him his passport and the necessary info, then the fields he has to fill out. He seems a little confused, but appears to grasp the concept so I start filling out my own. As I’m finishing, I look up to check his progress and, sure enough, he has filled out his form EXACTLY... to match mine. He copied my customs form down to the Name, Address, and Passport Number. Apparently he’s me and he’s going to be staying with my friends in San Diego.
I ring the flight attendant (something I NEVER do) so she can bring him a new card and, God bless her, she stays and helps him fill out the whole thing.

I settle in for the flight... put my headphones back in... put on my dorky eye-cover... and recline.

Five minutes later, I feel the familiar ::tap tap:: on my shoulder. Mustering years of customer-service ingrained politeness, I take off my eye cover and take out my headphones to see what he needs.
He would like reassurance he is on the correct flight... again... which I give him. I then show him his own free headphones, and how to put them in, then familiarize him with the touch-screen in front of him and get a movie started for him.
Feeling proud of myself for not getting annoyed, I once more settle in.


::tap tap::


Seriously, it’s like this guy is on a “just when she’s about the fall asleep” timer.

This time he wants to know if we’re almost there. We’re a little over an hour into a good 12 hour flight... we have a short conversation about the distance left to travel and I show him the flight tracking thing with a picture of an airplane over the Atlantic Ocean.
Food comes while we’re having this conversation and we both tuck into our meals...

After food and clean-up I figure I’ll try again. Eye cover on, earphones in, and relax.


::tap tap::


Now it starts to get ugly.

He wants to know if we’re there yet. I give him some more explanation, and he communicates to me that he has an appointment in Denver with his daughter, and he can’t be late, and he needs to be there soon. After 20 minutes of attempted placation, he decides he’s had enough of this airplane business. He wants off.
He asks me where the exit is and if we can stop so he can get off... Yes, I’m serious.
I get a little worried here and try to explain that we are on a plane at 30,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean so No, getting off is not really an option. He starts to get more aggravated and I’m using my most patient and clear means of communication, but he’s fed up. I page the flight attendant again and we both try to calm him down and explain. We’ve teamed up on him, so with two against one he gives us another 45 minutes or so.
We determine this is his first time EVER flying and he’s already flown from Ethiopia to London and is on the second leg of his journey. The nice woman from before comes back and clarifies a little... saying she was on his Ethiopia flight and had already helped him make this connection because, it seems, nobody really explained to this man what flying entailed before putting him on a plane. His daughter in Colorado had bought him the tickets and, apparently, he had no idea how long this trip was actually going to take.

Alas, it seems there is nothing we can do to placate him despite what has now turned into a few HOURS of calm explanations.

He gets so fed up he gets to his feet, hell bent on getting off this plane.
The situation quickly deteriorates.

A large male flight attendant comes back to assist and try to get him back into his seat but he’s not having it. He starts yelling and pleading.

“Make me to suffer NO MORE!”

“I want OFF!”

“I am not a politician. You see me and judge me a pure man! If you judge me pure, then make me to suffer NO MORE!”

“I am a wise man. I am not wise in the ways of this but I am wise in my ways. Many children I have many!! Do not punish me. I am of pure and MAKE ME TO SUFFER NO MORE!”

He was pacing up and down the aisles, pulling out his hair (literally) and getting on his knees to bang his fists on the floor. I felt absolutely horrible for him because he clearly had no idea what was going on.

A few other flight attendants came back to help. At one point one of the pilots even came back. We tried sitting him down and drawing him a diagram of a plane because he didn’t seem to understand we were in the air and, of course, looking out the window didn’t help. I assume he thought we were on a bus or something that could just pull over and he really didn’t understand the time change thing because he was convinced he was late for something. Also, apparently he had some medication he needed to take, but it was in his checked baggage.
One of the flight attendants got out handcuffs and duct tape, but we were all trying very hard to calm him down and communicate with him. Of course, there were a few ‘tough guy’ passengers who were standing up and ready to ‘take him down’ if he went for the door. Absolutely ridiculous if you ask me... some people just want to be seen as a ‘hard ass’.

Finally the Captain said something that got him calmed down a little. We started asking him questions to distract him... Where are you from? How many children do you have? What do you do? Etc etc...

It worked and we got him into a seat about 45 minutes before we landed. Of course there was security waiting for him at the gate, but I’m hoping the just escorted him to his family and he didn’t get in any real trouble.


You can’t make this stuff up...

May

May would have probably passed by uneventfully, but it was Justin’s birthday and I’m nothing if not an ambitious gift giver.
It was a last minute decision, but a great one. While brainstorming a good birthday gift for Justin with Mark, I decided to give him what I knew he really wanted. Last year, that was tickets to a UFC fight in Vegas... this year, it was me.
I found some really cheap last-minute tickets online and Mark and Ryan pitched in on the surprise... and we played Justin like a fiddle.
I had been talking to him regularly about his upcoming “Ocho de Mayo” birthday party. He was excited about dressing up, grilling, and beer. I was giving him a headache about the necessity of a birthday cake, which he seemed painfully indifferent toward. I was also driving him crazy with a tease of “I got you THE BEST birthday present EVER.” After last year, he was pretty convinced I couldn’t pull anything better out of my hat (what beats a trip to Vegas, a fancy hotel room, and tickets to your favorite sporting event to see one of your favorite fighters?), but I was adamant and even made a bet (which I don’t recall the terms of). I made him promise he wouldn’t ‘open’ his present without letting me see the look on his face, and from that look I would be able to judge whether I had won the bet or he had.
We were talking nightly on Skype, so the day before his birthday I threw him off the trail by telling him I would be going out that night with some friends so I wouldn’t be calling him... I was also playing ‘disappointed’ that his present hadn’t ‘arrived’ yet and he was on strict orders to let me know when it got there.
Next came ‘The Flight From Hell’... a topic I’ll have to address later.
When I got to San Diego, Ryan picked me up from the airport. He was technically on duty, but he snuck off to play his role. Meanwhile, Mark was at home using every ounce of his creativity to keep Justin there. Justin had asked Mark earlier if he wanted to go to a movie... thinking on his toes, Mark ‘looked up’ the movie that Justin wanted to go to and told him “We just missed a showing and the next one isn’t for a few hours.” Peculiar, yes, but Justin bought it. :)
Justin started to get more restless, and looked up another movie himself. He invited Mark along, but Mark was being as uncooperative as possible. Finally, Mark went and got in the car with Justin to go to the movie and, as they’re about to pull out of the driveway, told Justin they just couldn’t go. He weaved a web about Ryan taking off from duty to come home and that Ryan was bringing Justin’s birthday present with him so they absolutely couldn’t leave.
From Mark’s report, Justin was NOT happy about this.
Meanwhile, Ryan and I are on our way back to the house. We stop by the store for some birthday cake candles and when we arrive I stay out in the garage... ear pressed to the door. Ryan goes in and they pull an ice-cream cake out of the freezer, put in and light the candles, and start singing “Happy Birthday”.
I walk in and join them.

The look on Justin’s face was absolutely priceless... a literal Jaw-Drop. Keith, Mark, and Ryan are laughing and everyone is absolutely delighted... but Justin has crossed over into this gaping state of shock. I walk all the way across the room and hug him... kiss him... and the look on his face STILL hasn’t changed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so surprised in my life. It was perfect.

I was only in town for the extended birthday weekend... and I got to catch up with a lot of friends in the very short time I was there. Justin’s birthday party was tons of fun...

May was a good month.

rewind... April

It’s been so long!
I missed you so!

I have had the busiest April to October I could ever imagine... that’s my excuse for my prolonged absence, but also I’m really regretting not making time for blogging. I made so many memories this spring/summer/fall that I’m sure they’ve begun crowding each other out of my tiny little brain and I don’t want to lose a single one of them.
I’m going to attempt to update everyone (and remind myself) over the next few posts... so bear with me.

Hmmm... So the beginning of my absence was marked with my first set of international visitors. Mark and Justin came out in April for a few weeks and we had such a blast! Ryan was supposed to come with, but a mean old DMV lady told him he didn’t need to pay extra to have his passport processed ‘express’, so he didn’t, and he didn’t get his passport in time. Yet again we learn that the DMV is NEVER to be trusted... even if the lady behind the counter looks like she’s been working there since the invention of cars themselves.
While Mark and Justin were here we did quite a bit of the fun ‘London Tourist’ stuff... we rode the London Eye, went to Big Ben and the Parliament Building, took photos in Trafalgar Square, absorbed the awesomeness of Camden Town, and saw the West End Show ‘We Will Rock You’. And rock us, it did. There were a few workouts, a Jason Mraz concert, and the boys got acquainted with Dexter. I don’t remember many more specifics of their time here... the above plus a couple drunken evenings and some Mario Kart. I think I recall a long discussion about our collective genius and, at one point, we were planning on starting a group blog with the sole purpose of documenting the awesome things we say when we’re elbow deep in discussions about nothing. We jotted down notes on a scrap paper that has since been lost to time and forgetfulness. So it goes...



What I do specifically remember about their visit was the overwhelming renewal of hope. Last winter was long and much more difficult for me than I was willing to admit. Moving out here was a huge decision and I was harboring a lot of fear that I might allow geographical distance to put an emotional distance between me and the awesome friends I have made over the last few years. I suppose the platitude “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” was especially applicable in this situation and I found myself missing my ‘family’ in San Diego something fierce. I was determined not to let it get me down, but it was definitely a battle within myself. When the boys came out, and everything felt the same again, it was like taking a big breath of fresh air. Refreshing.
It was hard for me, again, when they left... but the ‘goodbyes’ held much less finality, and it started to feel like the familiar ‘goodbyes’ you say to your Grandma after a visit. Not the “Goodbye, and I hope to someday, maybe, see you again,” but the “I’ll definitely see you as soon as possible and I’ll miss you until that time.”
Thanks guys.




So April was a good month.

not even news-worthy

Tristan rides to tube to and from work everyday… a fairly typical activity for a Londoner (Londonite?). Yesterday he didn’t make to work on time though.
At Finchley Station a man decided to throw himself infront of the oncoming train. That’s right… he jumped off the platform and into the front of an oncoming train. Tristan was there for it and said it was grisly and awful. Women were screaming and crying (I’m betting some men were too, but they don’t get as much press)… there was blood everywhere… he even saw what remained of the body.
I came into work this morning and I couldn’t find anything about the event in the news. Anywhere.

I told a couple of the people that I worked with what happened and the responses where all somewhere between dismissive (“So What?”), flippant (“That’s not surprising.”) and mocking (“I wish I had seen that. I would have laughed my…”).
It all really got me thinking about the whole situation.

At first, I think I just felt the general compassionate horror that Tristan had to bear witness to this. Seeing a person die isn’t easy for anyone (I would think)… and especially not in such a gruesome manner. Maybe we’re all a bit desensitized by modern movies, TV shows, and video games… but I think most people can still separate the real from the fake, and to see what used to be a person now smeared all over the platform has to have some sort of impact, right? Plus, how would it feel to have to tell your boss, “Sorry I’m so late. I watched a guy jump infront of a train today and they shut down the station until they could pick up the pieces.”

Then I got to thinking about who this guy was… and wondering what exactly his goal was (besides the obvious, of course). I suppose I have some understanding of depression… I was, afterall, a teenage girl at one point. Seriously though, I think a lot of people have had their own experiences with their “low points”… different though they are for everyone… and it makes me a bit sad that something drove this man to this point… or rather, that he allowed himself to be driven to this point.
What really gets me though is the manner in which he chose to end his life. Was it a split second decision? Did he just get off the phone with his boss who fired him or his wife who left him and saw the train coming and thought ‘Oh well’? Or did something happen yesterday or last week that led him to plan this? And if that’s the case… what pushes someone to suicide in such a spectacular and public manner? Was it a final “F*** you” to whoever he felt had done him injustice? Or maybe he just felt so anonymous in his life that he wanted to be noticed in his death…?
Times like this I wish I knew a little bit about psychology.

The other person I keep thinking about is the poor driver of the train. I believe all the trains that go through that particular station have drivers (I know some of the trains don’t)… I can’t imagine going to work… one day the same as the next… and having a person jump out infront of me. Does the driver feel responsible in some way? And what about the people that have to clean up the tracks? What about all the people stranded at the station… waiting to go home or get to work… kids riding the tube after school… parents with their children, having to explain…? Uck… what an awful situation.

I suppose the final sad note in this whole situation is that it didn’t even warrant a blurb in the news. Part of me thinks this is a sorry oversight, but another part of me applauds the local media for ignoring this instead of using the gruesome details to sell a few copies. The Brits I work with said things like this happen all the time and they simply stopped covering it in the news… whether that is to stop encouraging it or what, I don’t know… but the whole thing is just, well, sad.

double parking

The gym that I go to has a parking lot the size of a shoebox. As such, cars double and triple park, blocking each other in on the regular. The management has a sign-in sheet at the entrance that you fill out with your name, car make and model, color, and license plate and a note that says “Please allow up to 10 minutes for necessary car movements.” (or something along those lines).
I was just finishing up my set and heading over to do some ‘extra credit’ pull-ups, when my car was called over the announcement system. I had already finished my workout for the most part, all I had left was my ab stuff, but in the interest of kindness I figured I could do that at home, so I grabbed my jacket and keys and went to the door. I literally got there as she was hanging up the phone from announcing my name… that’s how fast I was. As I’m signing out, one of the trainers says yells over to me something about how short my workout was… basically just teasing. I yell back up at him that 30 minutes isn’t bad for lifting, considering I do my cardio before I come and as I’m saying this the woman that is apparently waiting for me claps… in my face… and says “Enough Enough. I’m going to be late.”

This bothers me for a few reasons:
1. She clapped in my face. Excuse me, but if I don’t know you (and shoot, maybe even if I DO know you) keep your hands out of my face… especially if you feel the need to bang them together and make an extremely unnecessary racket.

2. In the 5 minutes preceding them calling me down to move my car, they had called two other cars down. I was the first one there of the three (although I was the last one called) and I was so fast the lady announcing my information had not even hung up the phone. When the sheet says allow for up to 10 minutes and I’ve taken all of 10 SECONDS, don’t rush me… I’m ALREADY doing you a favor.

3. I was not taking any EXTRA time in what I was doing. As I’m talking to the trainer I’m signing out of the gym and putting on my jacket… the whole evolution, INCLUDING me talking to the trainer, was taking all of 10 additional seconds. Infact, her interruption was more of a distraction than the farewell’s.

After giving the lady the confused and annoyed look she deserved, I finished my goodbye and turned to leave. As we’re walking out of the building she’s on my heels saying “I really need you to hurry up. I can’t be late for work again or they’ll fire me. You have me completely blocked in and I can’t afford to lose my job.”

Again:
1. This lady looked old enough to be my mother if not my grandmother. What kind of job do you have that you go to work at 7pm and if you are 2 minutes late they will fire you?? I think even McDonalds gives you a little more leeway than that.

2. It is not my problem that you are chronically tardy and the 10 seconds it is taking me to put on my jacket will be the proverbial straw-that-broke-the-camels-back that gets you fired. Since when does 10 seconds make that much of a difference anyway? In my experience late is late… if 10 seconds is going to make that much of a difference maybe you should wrap up your workout a little earlier next time.

3. Everyone blocks everyone else in. It’s a known fact. The paper clearly says allow for up to 10 minutes, so what are you doing harassing me when you should have been prepared for a situation like this? What would you do if I was in the bathroom when they paged me? Or in the shower? Or in the pool?

4. What in the world gave you the notion that I give a crap about your personal problems? First, you invade my personal space and now you’re using precious oxygen to tell me you personal sob story?

I shoot a “I came down as quickly as I could. And I was much faster than anyone else so you should be grateful for that,” and vault over the side rail to my car. I was in a good mood after my workout… still riding the endorphins and good feelings from an earlier conversation with one of the trainers… and I wasn’t about to let this old nag ruin it.

I get to my car, and sure enough there’s her little POS… bumper-to-bumper with my car. That’s right… she’s hit me. Granted, there’s not really any damage that I can see… and my car is an old junker anyway… but there it is… her bumper and my bumper getting as cozy as lovers.
It’s obvious from looking at where she was parked and looking at where I’m parked that there was no way she was going to get out until I moved, but apparently she had attempted pushing my car out of the way. I point this out to her and say “It looks like you hit my car.” I’m not really expecting anything, but she’s made a nuisance of herself and I wanted to point it out.

She responds “No I didn’t.”

Bear in mind I’m standing all of 6 inches away from where our bumpers are kissing.

I say “Yes you did. I’m looking at our bumpers right now. Your bumper is rubbed up against my bumper. It’s rubber, so I don’t think there’s any damage, but you should be more careful.”
She looks at what I’m looking at and dismissively states “I’m not touching you. I’m in a hurry. Just move.”

1. Lady, your impatience is completely unwarranted. You shouldn’t park in the back end of a parking lot and expect NOT to be blocked in.

2. You car is CLEARLY touching mine. Yes yes, I know it’s a crappy 80-something junker… but it’s MY crappy 80-something junker and if I wanted to throw a fit about the fact that you decided to let our cars get intimate I damn well can. Especially considering the magnificent pain in the ass you have decided to be up to this point.

3. Don’t dismiss me like I don’t know what I’m looking at. I don’t care if you’re 40 or 400… I’m not stupid and I know what I see. Pulling a rude dismissive tone with me when I’ve already gone out of my way to be nice to you is not something likely to make me want to continue to cooperate kindly.

Sometimes I wish I was as much of an asshole as the people I constantly encounter. Seriously, who told these people that it’s okay to treat other people like this? I’m the young one here… I thought it’s the ‘punk kids’ that have no manners ‘these days’. What is UP with rude old people?!

Anyhow, I didn’t care to make a scene… people like this get their comeuppance eventually… so I just got in the car and started it up.

Sure enough, the wheels of fate and karma turned, and as I started up the car to move, the other two people who were trying to leave and the two people that had to move so those two people could leave decided to join us in the parking lot. Of course, these 4 cars were in between us and the exit, so we both had to sit there for about 5 minutes while two moved out of the way, the other two left, and the original two re-parked.

I wonder if she got fired.

Note to Random Guy in Shopping Center

I went to the local shopping center today. As I was walking outside in the sunshine with Katharina a group of guys walked past us in the opposite direction. One of the guys started checking me out, made eye contact, slowed down, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and, with a slight smile, said to me "You have really beautiful eyes."
That was it.
He kept walking and so did I.

Thank you random guy for making my day.

ball boy

In complete contrast with the London I first experienced, the weather here has been absolutely beautiful. The sun is shining… birds chirping… light breeze blowing… it has been lovely. We took the opportunity this morning to go to the park and enjoy a little bit of the weather since we're not sure how long it’ll hold out.

The park where I run has a few football (soccer) fields, a basketball court, and a couple of tennis courts so we took my racquets and newly purchased balls and went and played some tennis. Dexter was the ball boy… a job he’s VERY good at, though the net seems to give him a LOT of trouble. Enjoy.

celebrating right

So the Exercise that has been bringing me into work early and keeping me at work late for the last two weeks is FINALLY over. Woo Hoo.
To be honest, I can’t REALLY complain about how things have gone the last couple of weeks. With the exception of coming into work early, and a higher than normal volume of dumber than normal users, things have been basically business as usual.
Everyone who has been here longer than me (which is basically everyone) has been telling me that this is the smoothest an exercise has ever gone, in their collective memory. I like to think I get to take some credit for that, though I’m sure there would be plenty of scoffing and guffaw-ing if I were to say this out loud.
Anyhow, smooth or not, we’re celebrating the completion of the exercise.
And… in true NATO fashion… we celebrated right.

With beer.

At work.

In uniform.

Have I mentioned before how UN-military my current military job is? This is officially the second time I’ve been force-fed booze while at work.
It’s awesome.

The first time was just a week or so ago. A US Army O-5 was promoted to O-6 in a ceremony overseen by a US Navy O-6 in a NATO headquarters in the UK. Wrap your head around the uniqueness of that one. This is in the same week that a French Citizen, married to a US Air Force E-8, was sworn into US Citizenship in a NATO headquarters in the UK. There are quite a few special circumstances and situations around here.
Anyhow… at the Colonel’s promotion there was cake and champagne, and since it was late on a Friday only us ‘lackeys’ were around afterward (the privilege of rank being that they decide themselves when they want to go home on a Friday… usually around 11). Here we are with cake and champagne for 50, and there are about 6 of us who have hung around after the ceremony, so we were literally being force fed the champagne because nobody wanted to take it home. Not that you caught us complaining. THAT was a good Friday and today was a good Thursday.
Times like this, I love my command.

another day in the park

So I figured out what it was about GuyInThePark that bothered me so much. Dotted all along the path that runs around the park are park benches, nothing strange there… and some of them are covered. They’re like little garages for people (I assume a necessity due to the frequent rain here). A few times, while running, I’ve noticed a homeless man holed up in one of the covered benches. He’s all bundled up in his coat with his bags of things under the bench and he just stands there, looking out onto the football fields and playground, watching people from his semi-covered hiding spot. That IS kindof creepy.Anyhow, today was the third day in a row that I’ve seen GuyInThePark and I realized that he had reminded me of that creepy homeless man at first. After a second (and third) look, I’ve realized that’s not the case. The day after my initial run in, I recruited Katharina to go jogging with me… half a block out of the house on the way to the park, I discovered how GuyInThePark knew what road I live on… he lives there too, just a few houses down. We saw him going into his house, and he stopped, smiled, and said hi to me again. As soon as I saw him I realized how differently he looked outside of the ‘potential creepy homeless man in the park’ situation and, to rub it in, Katharine told me I was ridiculous in my earlier description and he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.Yeah yeah, I know.Fast forward… day 3, on the way to the park, I walk past him again… him (presumably) on his way home and me on the way to the park. He stops again, say hi again, and asks me to dinner. I politely and firmly declined and he smiled and told me to think about it. I have a feeling he’s going to ask again the next time he sees me. Either way, he’s not nearly the intimidating figure I had him made out to be in my imagination that first day… I’m still not interested… and definitely going to be careful… but I feel a little silly for my overreaction.
That’s that.

Speaking of today at the park… I went for another mile-jog with Dex. I’ve shaved a couple seconds off everyday, and am feeling quite good about it (although my knee is acting up again). The weather here has been holding out beautifully… I couldn’t ask for better (especially not this time of year). It still rains a little almost every day, but mostly during the day when I’m at work or at night while I’m asleep, and not enough to really make a mess of the roads and fields. I mostly keep Dexter off the grass when the fields are muddy… he’s a blonde so every speck of dirt shows… but today we ran into a guy with a 7 month old Beagle, so I let Dexter romp around with him for a while. This is the aftermath.

I suppose you can’t see it THAT well, but he is good and muddy. Especially considering it actually DIDN'T rain today, so the mud was not as plentiful or fresh as usual. I should have taken a better picture of my shoes too, because the tread on those bad boys were oozing with mud. The thick clay-like stuff too… not the stuff you can stomp out. Dexter got a thorough hose-down after this run, and he was none too pleased about the cold water. He's still good in the bath, but he's getting bigger every day and it'll be an odd feeling when I can no longer pick him up with one hand by the scruff of his neck.

flirting or stalking

Not sure what to think about this…

I went for my usual jog with Dexter today. Ever since I found the nearby park where dog leashes are optional and the trail is just about a mile long I’ve taken Dexter there almost every night. In just two weeks I’ve shaved over 40 seconds off my mile time from the first time I ran. Also, the daylight lasts longer every day and the weather has been holding out (dry and bright) so I’ve gotten to play fetch with Dexter after the run (his favorite part).
Anyhow… today I was approached in the park while I was playing with Dex. A man who looked to be late 20’s said hello to me from the trail and approached me out in the grass as the sun was starting to go down. He was probably over 6 feet tall, very dark, and spoke with a thick (non-British) accent. In retrospect, he was very nice. Asked me my name…told me he’d seen me running with Dexter around the neighborhood… told me his profession (electrical engineer)… smiled a lot… and showed interest in me which I suppose was no more than an average guy in a bar.
I know I’ve said before I don’t like meeting guys in bars… it just seems sleazy. Meeting a guy in a park seems like such a nice “how we met” story… so wholesome and “middle America”. So why was I so instantly judgemental and on edge?

He noted I wasn’t wearing a ring and asked me my marital status…to which I lied and said I was living with my boyfriend.
He asked me for my number… to which I replied my ‘boyfriend’ would really dislike that so I had better not.
He asked me if I would like to walk for a little bit with him… to which I lied and said I was already headed home.

I suppose if I was a guy trying to hit on a girl in a ‘non-threatening’ way, I probably would have employed the same tactics… but I (as the girl) wasn’t having it.
So what is it? Is it a classic case of a woman saying she wants something until it’s actually put in front of her?
Did I judge him based purely on how physically intimidating he was?

OR, was it my sixth sense telling me that something about the situation wasn’t right and I should bail out (better safe than sorry)?

Either way, I’m not sure what to do about my favorite jogging spot now. He said he lives on the same street as me (and even named the street) and part of me is nervous that he knows that and is watching me… BUT part of me thinks I’m just being paranoid and he’s just a guy trying to hit on a girl he’s seen jogging in the park.

Ugh.

FOB concert

So I have been to my first big concert in London… in the O2 no less.
It.
Was.
Awesome.
I bought tickets for Kelly, Claire and myself for Christmas (maybe a veiled attempt to force them to be friends with me for this long) thinking they would be as excited as I was. As it turns out, they didn’t even know who Fall Out Boy is. I burned them both a couple of CDs with my favorite FOB songs, which apparently didn’t work, so they went to the concert… good sports… with no idea who they were going to see.
The seats were good and the opening acts were good… I’m pretty sure we were three of only 15 people in the whole place that were legally old enough to drink alcohol, and the other 12 were parental chaperones… overall… great night.

And in my attempt to post pictures in this blog I’m including one of my two favorite pictures from the whole night…

This is the beer man, and he is awesome for a few reasons:


1. He looks like a Ghostbuster, only his 'backpack' dispenses cold beer.
2. As I mentioned before, as 3 of only about 15 people 'of age' there, he was very friendly and attentive to our beer needs.
3. Did I mention he looks like a Ghostbuster?

dream confusion

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer. Long, detailed, colorful, specific, and vivid…and I almost always remember them in their entirety. I remember, as a child, telling my Grandma the details of me dreams on an almost daily basis (thanks Grandma for feigning interest every time without fail). Infact, I can still remember quite a few of them completely.
Now, that being said, I know dreams are a mix of things from your subconscious and things from your imagination. I’ve had dreams where I woke up to a revelation… definitely me trying to tell myself something in my sleep. A few have been a little harder to decipher… dreams that have taken some thought and some bouncing around to figure out. I’ve also had dreams that were random and strange and didn’t mean anything to me.
So last night I had a dream and I’m not really sure what the hell it means…

First, I was back in highschool (not age-wise, just location-wise kindof). I was back on the basketball team and the damn coach wouldn’t let me play (just like in highschool) no matter how hard I tried and no matter how well I played. I was talking to someone from my past (not someone I talk to anymore) about how much I wanted to play and thanking her for being such a good friend even though she was the star of the team and I was the girl riding the bench. I really felt like I owed her something
Then we (the whole team) went to the store to buy a bunch of stuff. Somehow I end up completely naked, pushing a cart up and down the aisles. People are looking at me strangely, but in my dream shopping naked isn’t necessarily ‘wrong’ it’s just ‘frowned upon’. Thing is, I’m not so much embarrassed about being naked, I’m more embarrassed that I have to get dressed. I want to put my undies back on, but I don’t want anyone to see me do it so I keep walking up and down the aisles, continuing my shopping. I would rather be naked with people looking at me disapprovingly and judging me, than let them see me put my undies back on.

I guess the basketball thing means I feel inadequate… but I DON’T really… so what gives?
Why the blast from the past?
Why do I feel like I owe somebody something for my non-success?
I know ‘naked in public’ is supposed to mean you feel exposed or vulnerable, which I guess might be a little true (new country, new job, new friends, etc)… but what’s with me being more embarrassed to put my clothes on than I am to leave them off?

I don’t get it…. Your interpretations are welcome. We’ll see what tonight brings. ;)

cultural education

Part of the reason I moved to England (and even joined the Navy) was travel and cultural education. I want to experience as much of the world as I can in the short time I have on it, so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to move to another continent. I suppose the decision making process there is the topic for another post (or maybe that’s all the more you need to know)… getting to the meat of this one.
One of the things I’ve noticed about Europe is that the continent and all of the countries and subsequent provinces/cities/etc within act like a super super super concentrated version of the USA and all the states within. Europeans, in general, are very proud to be such… and the pride that each person has of their individual country reminds me of what you experience when you meet a Texan or a New Yorker. Of course, this is a super generalization… I understand the language, historical, and cultural differences that run longer and deeper than the USA has even been around, but this is my blog and my opinion so I’ll state it however I want to.
Anyway, part of the awesomeness of this is that by moving to London I get to be a Londoner, which is part of not only the English world, but the British (being the UK as a whole), and European as well. Circles within circles within circles, if you will. To add to my cultural experiences, I’ve got a couple of Germans living with me (one from Munich and one from Berlin, which are, apparently as different as the aforementioned Texans and New Yorkers) and I work at a NATO headquarters (and the 26+ nations represented within that). After a long Sunday night, and a rough Monday that started earlier and ran longer than usual, the ‘smart’ thing for me to do on Monday night was to take a bath and tuck into bed early, which, of course, I did NOT do.

Tristan and Katharina just arrived Saturday, but they have friends from their time in Germany that already lived here in London. Unfortunately those friends are moving back to Germany on Tuesday, only allowing for a day or so overlap to get together. They invited me along Monday night to go see them and, the masochist that I am, I decided to go. Glad I did….
It’s not that we did anything particularly interesting, it’s just that I got to see, even more so, how much my ‘experience’ of the world is limited. I would’ve considered myself ‘well traveled’… and suppose, in a way, I still do (compared to most of the people I’ve known in my life)… but I had NOTHING on this crowd.
For starters, I was the only person in a room of 7 that spoke only one language. I’m fluent (or at least used to be) in American Sign Language… but that doesn’t do me much good in England (yes, sign languages vary as much as spoken). Second, I would say I’ve lived in 3 different countries (I’m counting my few short months in Japan prior to the Navy), but again, this was the lowest number in the room…

A run down of the players:
Katharine- speaks German and fairly fluent English and French
Tristan – speaks German and English
Mr O – speaks Ukrainian, German, and English
Mrs O – same as Mr O
The Blonde – speaks Polish, Ukrainian and English
Some Guy – speaks Ukrainian, German, French, and English
Cheesy – speaks Ukrainian, Russian, German, and English
Me – uh… American English anyone?

Aside from conversations about who was from where, with what descent, grew up where, has lived where, etc, what I found most fascinating was the WAY everyone spoke their perspective languages. For example, although Ukrainian was Mrs O’s ‘mother language’ (as they call it), her English was American (vocab and grammar) with a very distinct German accent. Some Guy and Cheesy were both originally Ukrainian as well, but their English was British with a British accent (I kid you not). The Blonde was sporting American with a Polish accent, and Tristan and Katharine are both speaking American English with an almost American accent (at least compared to the others). The other thing that is funny, is at some point or another they would all revert to their ‘native tongues’… so a couple would be conversing in Ukrainian while a couple others were speaking German… they would randomly throw words from other languages into their conversation, and even forget which one they were speaking when they would turn to someone else. Of course, I didn’t know WHAT was going on about 75% of the time… all I could catch were some of the numbers and the words that sound the same in English… but it was awesome.
Also, I got into a bit of a debate with Cheesy that I found interesting.
Earlier in the weekend Katharine and I had gotten into a discussion with Kelly and Claire (my Londoner friends) over which English (American or British) is the ‘correct’ English. I say American because it is more widely used and understood… they say British because it is the original. The biggest support of my argument is the fact that the foreigners I have met that have learned English were taught American English in school (not British English which is, believe me, VERY different). They are taught American spelling, American grammar, American slang, etc. I’m sure a lot of this is supported by TV, music, Hollywood, and the fact that the majority of ‘world wide blockbusters’ are American films… but the fact of the matter is that everyone I meet that speaks English understands me, but I don’t necessarily understand them. Londoners, naturally, disagree with me… which leads to my debate with Cheesy.
As we were discussing languages and accents I pointed out that I found it interesting that he spoke English with a British accent and not a German or Ukrainian accent. I’m not sure how the discussion changed from there, but somehow I got myself into the usual American English vs British English conversation… what I found interesting is the fact that Cheesy took the side of the British, and not so much for the fact that he thought England was so great, but because it was a big part of his ‘European pride’. Despite this, the majority of the rest of the room was on my side, having been educated in American English themselves. Cheesy fought the good fight, and even got to the point that he said something I hear often: “Americans just THINK that they’re so popular and that the rest of the world cares.”

This leads to my next side topic: Have I mentioned before that nearly 99% of the people I have met over here feel the need to tell me that they think Americans are full of themselves?? What fascinates me about this is:
1. It is the OTHER country’s choice as to whether or not they know US politics… it’s not my fault they followed our presidential election so closely.
2. It is the OTHER country’s choice as to where they get their entertainment… I’m not the one playing US movies in theatres, playing US shows on TV, or playing US music on the radio…
3. It is the OTHER country’s choice as to what they teach in school… I’m not the one who chose American English as a mandatory subject in their schools…
And finally… I’m the one who’s living in a foreign country… doesn’t that get me even a little ‘open-mindedness’ credit?!

I digress…

Aside from a little bit of irritation with Cheesy (which is why he gets the crappy nickname, by the way)… the night was awesome. His comments were simply that little bit of sand left in my shoe after a wonderful trip to the beach.
I’m really enjoying meeting new people from all different walks of life… and Tristan and Katharine have been a lot of fun so far. This cultural education thing isn’t so bad.

I’ve even learned how to call Dexter “little shit” in German.

Sunday football

The nice thing about staying in and relaxing on a Saturday is that you get to start your Sunday off early. As summer approaches the sun comes out earlier and earlier and stays up later and later… The weather has been beautiful recently and thanks to the Asshole at the track (see previous post) I found a beautiful park nearby with a mile-long path around it. I have yet to go running there without seeing children playing and other people with their dogs and I can let Dexter off the leash as long as he is ‘under control’. It’s great.
Tristan and I got up early and went for a run…again, a benefit of having someone around. I got my fastest time so far (which is still too pathetic to mention here) and felt great afterwards.
Claire came by and picked all three of us up at noon and we took a cab out to Watford to watch the Carling Cup Final at Walkabout (an Australian pub). I must say, I already know one of the things I’m going to miss when I leave the UK is the pub atmosphere… especially during a football (soccer) game. The game didn’t start until three, but it was a good thing we got there before one because the place was completely packed even before the time the game started. Out here, everyone comes out to the pubs to watch the big games instead of sitting at home. Everyone yells and screams at the screen… random people argue and cheer with each other as if they are old friends… and my favourite part is the chanting and singing. Each team has a variety of songs and chants that the fans use for all different types of happenings throughout the game. There are also assorted chants and jeers that are directed at each team from the opposition’s fans. And everyone seems to know them… it’s awesome. Also, when they play a game on TV here the only time there is a commercial break is during half-time… you get 45 minutes of action, 10 minutes to pee and refill food and drinks, and 45 more minutes of action. In yesterday’s game, we got even more than that, as it went into over time and ended in a shootout. Again, awesome.
I find myself becoming a fan of the sport too… after watching a few games, it’s easy to see why this is the number one sport in so many parts of the world. These guys are literally running their asses off the entire time they are on the field…they are tremendous athletes. Also, anything can change at any given moment and the fouls provide plenty of fodder for debate and interpretation (“He clearly didn’t do that on purpose!” or “He clearly did!!”). I don’t even have ‘a team’, but I find myself getting involved and cheering or jeering with the rest of the crowd… it’s infectious enthusiasm and a lot of fun.
Tristan and Katharina went home after the game and Kelly, Claire and I went to a pub down the street from my house. I went home at a responsible time (considering my new working hours this week), but the fact that I started drinking at noon caught up with me and today has been ROUGH.
Totally worth it.

going out and staying in

I’m going to try harder at blogging on the weekends, since I never really do.
Friday I went with Claire and Kelly to a pool ‘club’ in Harrow. Kelly has been playing pool/billiards since she was 11 (maybe even younger) and is quite good. This place has the small British billiards tables (with red and yellow balls), snooker tables, poker, and a bunch of big American pool tables. It was nice to play the familiar game for a change… although Kelly and Claire both play by their British rules (which are a little different)… and they don’t call them stripes and solids… they’re stripes and spots. I pumped some money into the jukebox and made everyone listen to my American selections, and we had a pretty good time overall.
Saturday morning I got up nice and early and went with a co-worker (Jon) up to Lakenheath. Lakenheath is a biggest American military base within a reasonable distance… I think it’s even the biggest in the UK… anyhow, it’s a 2 hour drive up, so once a month or so a few of us will carpool up to handle banking, hit up the Exchange, and get some American groceries and American fast food (hooray for Taco Bell!) at American prices. This particular trip was mostly to satisfy my banking needs and to get Jon a new TV. He had recently invested in a big beautiful rear-projection TV in which one of the bulbs promptly burned out. When he investigated the cost of replacing this bulb (there are three total) he found it to be much more expensive than he had expected… now he’s considering just selling the TV as-is, rather than sinking any more money into it. Of course, buying a brand new TV is more expensive than fixing the current one… but boys and their toys… Anyhow, I was particularly useful, having done research on TVs a year or so ago when I bought mine. He had pretty much decided on a 50” plasma when we got there, but I talked him into a 47” LCD… it was a little more expensive, but higher-def, LCD, and a trusted brand. We got it back to his place and tech-savvy Brigid helped him hook it up and get it working. It really is a beaut.
This evening my friend Tristan and his girlfriend Katharina arrived from Germany. Tristan was a German exchange student that I became friends with back in my junior year of HS. We’ve kept in contact over the years (thanks to Myspace) but haven’t really talked much. When I got settled out here I emailed him and told him I had just moved to London and wanted to plan a trip to come visit him in Germany, to which he responded “I’m moving to London in February.” Small world and all that. He got a job at a hotel downtown (he just completed his apprenticeship in hospitality) and Katharina came with him in hopes of landing herself one as well. Katharina has an interview on Wednesday that she is VERY nervous about, as her English skills are a little rusty. We’re working on it…
We had some chicken and salad for dinner (so nice to have help with the cooking and conversation with my meal instead of just TV) and I didn’t have to do the dishes for the first time since December!!
When I moved out here it was the first time EVER that I got a place by myself. Since the first time I moved out I have always had roommates… multiple roommates… and always males (except for a couple months a few years ago). It was a big change to go from feeding 3 grown men (plus myself) at every meal to feeding just myself… cleaning up after 4 people (but having 4 sets of hands to do so) to only cleaning up after myself (but doing it alone)… always having someone around, even when I didn’t want them around to NEVER having anyone around, especially when I wanted someone around… I’m a happier person when I’m living with people than I am living alone… I enjoy everyday ‘relationships’; the good and the ‘bad’.
Anyway, I think I finally got used to living alone… watching TV in my underwear and buying groceries and tp for one… and now I’m back up to a 3 person household and all of the advantages and disadvantages that come with that.
The nicest thing for me about this whole situation is the timing… at work we’re beginning a two week stint of 12-hour days. Without needlessly explaining what all I dislike about this arrangement, I will say I was worried about leaving Dexter alone for that long. Enter new roomies that can let him out, play with him, and feed him dinner. Hooray!
The other awesome thing about having someone around… Saturday night was spent infront of the TV watching a movie. There is something very relaxing and comfortable about just sitting down with some friends, watching a movie, and relaxing. No forced conversation, but a person there if I want to comment… not just me talking to myself.

assholes and angels

I suppose it started on Saturday. I woke up to what is possibly the most beautiful day I’ve seen since I came to the UK. It was sunny, bright, crisp but warmer than usual… all of the elements that bring people, bleary eyed, out of hibernation… one of those days that makes you realize spring is coming. (YEAH!)
I put on some workout clothes and running shoes, grabbed my ipod, put Dex on the leash, and headed out to explore.
Dex and I walked up into Harrow On The Hill proper, which is really only about 10 minutes away from me (albeit uphill the whole way) and in our exploration of the old buildings and church and school grounds came across a big beautiful track. There were about 100 people nearby playing tennis on the 10+ tennis courts and countless others whacking golf balls on the nearby hill and sitting and chatting on the surrounding benches.
The track was inviting to me… I’ve been running regularly with Dex on the streets and paths around my house, but can’t remember the last time I ran a measurable distance and timed myself. I took Dex off the leash (he’s very good about heeling and staying right next to me) and proceeded to run a mile. We’re not going to discuss times, because it’s nothing to be proud of, but it felt good.
We walked around a little more afterward, Dexter was praised by random passers-by, we played in the grass on the hill behind my house, and finished our little outing.

Fast forward to Monday (sparing you the gory details of the rest of my weekend)…

Spring is truly on it’s way… Ever since I started working here I have arrived at work in the dark and left work in the dark. I’ve taken to wearing my running clothes to work so that as soon as I get home I can throw Dexter on the leash and run in whatever twilight remains. Monday the sun was still out when I got home, so I decided to head up to the track again and time myself running another mile. I was in a great mood… excited about my new discovery… happy about the sunshine… pleased with my own dedication… all good.
Half way through my mile I notice a guy standing on the side of the track with his dog (a black lab) yelling and gesturing at me. I pop out my headphones and “damn, there goes my time” walk over to him.

I promise… the things to follow are no exaggeration.

He is screaming at me…. SCREAMING.
“What the f*** are you doing?!? You can’t have a dog on the track!!! What is your problem!!”
I’m a little shocked, not sure how to answer, and can only stammer out an “Excuse me…?”
“I said what the F*** is your problem!! You can’t have a f***ing dog on the track!! You have to wear special shoes to even BE on this track! How f***ing stupid can you be?!?! How f***ing ignorant are you?!”
At first I’m a little defensive and I try to explain that he’s just a puppy (with trimmed nails), we were only running on the track, we didn’t go on the grass (the only signs that I can see say to stay off the grass). I try to explain we didn’t mean any harm by engaging in running on a track :::gasp::: and I was unaware of any special requirements to use the track. The whole time he is screaming over me. Then:
“You are so f***ing stupid!! There are signs EVERYWHERE!” (at which point he gestures to a sign on the opposite side of the track from which I entered by a public road).
I walk over to the sign which says:
“Harrow School Track
Please contact Headmaster prior to use.”
(as he continues to curse and berate me at the top of his lungs)

Again, I try to explain I didn’t see the sign, as I had come down the public road on the other side of the track and not the small path that led past the sign… I try to explain that I meant no harm and I didn’t know… I try to explain that I had been here on Sunday and engaged in the same ‘outrageous behaviour’ with about 200 witnesses (none of whom said anything to me) but I can’t barely get a word in as he continues to, and I am being literal here, scream at the top of his lungs all the curse words and personal insults he can think of.
Finally I just pick up Dexter (who can’t figure out what is going on, and why he can’t play with the black lab) and start to walk away.
“I’m sorry for running on a track. I didn’t know. I’m leaving”
“I’m going to call f***ing security on you. I’m getting someone down here. I just can’t believe how f***ing stupid you are. Ignorant American!!”

Now, I know this may be hard for some of you to believe… but up to this point I have neither raised my voice, insulted him, nor even cursed (and I am known for having the mouth of a truck-driver). I think, honestly, I was just so taken by surprise I didn’t know how to respond… BUT, with this final threat and insult I turn and scream back at him,
“CALL F***ING SECURITY. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO TELL THEM?? Somebody is RUNNING ON A TRACK?!? I’m already leaving, but go ahead and call! ASSHOLE!!!” (I don’t think it’s possible to put more venom into that one word, but if I could have, I would have.)

So I leave the track… in a state of shock. I head home and am, of course, hit with the dozen or so things I should have done differently.
Part of me wishes I had a big, mean looking dog scare him with. (I know a 20-something woman and her yellow-lab puppy aren’t exactly intimidating.)
Part of me wishes I had found a large rock to hit him over the head with, or possibly a stick to take to his kneecaps.
Part of me wishes I had let him call security, maybe on the hopes that what I was doing wasn’t actually as terrible as he was saying/screaming (nobody said anything on Sunday, after all).
Part of me wishes I had called security myself, and when they arrived played the ‘this man just attacked me’ bit… see if I could squeeze out some tears and hysteria and get him arrested.
Mostly, I just wish I had said something along the lines of,
“There are a dozen ways you could have told me I shouldn’t be running on this track and you picked the meanest, nastiest way possible. You are a bully and a horrible man and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

I know it lacks the zing of some of my other ideas… but the dramatic difference between the class in that statement and the ridiculousness of his behaviour would have left me feeling like the much bigger person… not that it would have gotten through to him.

Anyway, as I’m trudging home… angry, frustrated, berating myself… I round the corner and bump into my neighbour, Maggie. Maggie the classic kind, British-Grandma type that lives next door, and she has been lovely to me since the day I moved in. Maggie has a big black, grizzly German-Shepherd-mix named Jack that she has walked twice a day, every day, for the last 11 years… as she was when I bumped into her. She said hi, asked me what was wrong, and I unloaded my story on her. (Just what the doctor ordered.)
When I finished, she asked me “Is this a middle aged man with a black Labrador?”
“Yes, yes it is! You know him?!”
“Oh yes, I know him. He tried to tell me off once for having Jack off the lead. I gave that rude man a piece of my mind. He is a terrible man. You didn’t know honey, and you did nothing wrong… he’s just an awful man who takes out his unhappiness on other people.”

We walked together up the hill, through a 100+ year old graveyard and Church, down some paths and back home again. Call it luck, fate, or divine intervention, but having somebody to talk to was exactly what I needed, and running into Maggie was the best thing that could have happened.

I bought Maggie flowers the next day... and I'm still considering going back to the track with a rock for Asshole.

further proof that intelligence is not a requirement

I was walking Dexter last night and came across a man with a huge Staffordshire Bull Terrier (the favoured breed here in England). Of all the people I work with that have dogs, the two that I’ve actually seen are both Staffie Bulls… but this one was about twice the size, on a chain link leash with a mean looking chest strap. He looks like he means business, and his owner was a large, intimidating man that completed the look.
Staffie’s are really sweet dogs that just have a bad rep, like Dobermans and Pit Bulls, so after I asked if he was nice I stopped and let Dex sniff and socialize.

“He’s beautiful! He’s the biggest Staffie I’ve seen. What’s his name?”

“Deefa.”

“Diva? Oh, he’s a she?”

“No, he’s a he. His name is Deefa.”

“I’m sorry, Deeva?”

“No, Deefa…. As in ‘D’ fa’ Dog.”

“Oh.”

four blogs

I’ve started about 4 blogs this week… starting with last Friday.
I wanted to talk about how awesome it is to have my very own ‘local’… A pub next door with a good atmosphere, cheap drinks, and people that love Dexter (and more importantly, let me bring him in).
I was going to blog about Saturday and Sunday… going skiing at the indoor ‘ski slope’ in Milton Keynes (interestingly enough, the second place I’ve done indoor skiing)… my trip downtown to watch My Bloody Valentine (loved the 3D)… and karaoke on Sunday night…
Monday brought London’s record snowfall. There was LOTS to talk about there… everything from the trains and tubes to the buses shutting down completely… the DJ’s on the radio begging people to stay off the streets… driving my death-trap to work…building a snow-woman and snow-dog with Dexter in the backyard (more accurately, I built them while he ate the snow around us and attacked my poor snowdog)… and watching some teenagers build an igloo in the field behind my house.
Then, of course, I got sick. It makes me feel old that when I go out in the snow and ‘play’ a little the result is getting sick. Tuesday was miserable... I have the strangest cold/flu ever. None of my usual cold/flu symptoms… just a massive headache, sore neck and back, dry-hacking cough, and really upset stomach. Dexter is no help… he’s just pouty that I’m not taking him for a run twice a day. Lucky me… It’s now Friday and I still feel as icky as I did on Tuesday.
Of course, these are just the things in my personal time… work has been the busiest I’ve seen since I got here. We’re prepping for an exercise, going through a big software integration, conducting a wide-scale hardware transition, and there are only 5 of us to accommodate it all. I had thought this week would wiz by… I’m not adverse to working and was actually looking forward to staying busy this week… Boy, I had no idea what I was thinking. The phone has been ringing off the hook and I have to deal with all the angry German, Polish, British, and other foreign (to me anyway) nationals… Of course, when people are angry and trying to explain their issues in a language foreign to them (English, that is), their accents get thicker and words poorly substituted… which only serves to confuse me and, in turn, further frustrate them. It’s really a vicious and exhausting cycle.
In all… work frustrations, combined with being ill, and topped off with a dose of nasty weather has left me drained. I’m not actually in a bad mood, which is surprising considering the grumps I’ve been surrounded by all week… but I am ready for the weekend.
This morning was just the icing on the cake too… of course, it snowed some more last night… the roads were complete shit… and I’m driving a light little rear-wheel drive POS with tires as bald as Mr. Clean. A trip that takes me 20 minutes on a normal morning with some traffic took me almost 90 this morning. Seriously. The whole last 1.5 miles of the drive I did not break 6 MPH… and I know this for a fact because my Tom-Tom told me so. I’m supposed to have lunch with the Admiral this afternoon and I have no idea if that’s still going to happen or if they’ve cancelled completely... AND, all of the work I’ve been busting my butt on this week is looking as if it’s going to carry over into Monday. Uck.
So this was my week… something that isn’t too unlike the weather. Monday morning I woke up to a blanket of clean, pristine snow… the world looked neat and tucked away and I loved the sight of it… but I find myself on Friday up to my knees in muck… something that had me so excited, backfiring in my face.
Here’s to the weekend and all the potential it holds.

the side of the road

I AM familiar with the saying “if it’s too good to be true, it probably is”… but I also try to live my life along the lines of believing people are as honest as I am. I should know better.
So… the BMW… soooo excited about it in the beginning and now I just feel dirty. I bought the car from a guy on base for £200 (about $300)… First off, I know what you are all thinking… how much car can a person reasonably expect for £200? Well, in answer, at a base like this (in a foreign country with a very small American community) it is common for cars to be passed along from person to person over the years as they come and go. Some of these cars go for cheap, some for the same price every time (like the one I bought for £200, was bought for £200, was bought for £200 before that, etc, etc), and some are just handed down for free.
When I started the process of purchasing this car, there were a few things I noticed right off the bat… the Tax Disc was expired (kindof like the registration in the states), the tires looked a little worn, and the ‘check engine’ and ‘oil service’ lights were on. None of this bothered me, as the tax and tires I could take care of relatively easily and for little expense… as far as the service lights, the previous owner ASSURED me that those lights were ‘always on, and had been so since he got the car’. I asked about the oil, he said he had just had it serviced… “Okay,” I say, “Sounds good, but I want to get it checked out to make sure”. I don’t mind putting a little money into the car, as I bought it for so cheap in the first place.
Long story short, it took a couple of weeks to get an appointment at a reputable garage… I gave him the £200 as ‘good faith’ money, since I would be driving it until then and we did NOT sign the title over since I told him I wanted it fully checked out before I officially bought the car. I’m sure this will come as no surprise to anyone but me… the car needs about £1100 ($1600) worth of work… the rear brakes, rear tires, cam belt, fuel lines, gaskets, brake fluid, etc… AND, when they went to drain the oil so they could change it… there was none to drain. GREAT.
I read the laundry list of problems to the guy and told him I was no longer interested in the car and I wanted my £200 back. I didn’t use profanity, accuse him of anything… I didn’t even curse his unborn children for the despicable lies the told me to my face:
“It’s in great condition”
“I’ve never had a single problem with it”
“I just got it checked out, but if you want to I’ll pay to have whatever it needs fixed, fixed before you buy it”
Nope, just told him I wanted my money back and he could have the keys…(even though I’d already paid the £50 for the MOT and another £100ish for the oil change and inspection)… to which he replied “Oh, that’s not my responsibility. I’m not giving you back your money, it’s your car and your problem now.”
Now, if I was really going to be a bitch, I would leave the car at the garage… it is still registered in HIS name thus not, financially, my responsibility to pay the bill and pick it up. But I’m not a bitch (though at times like this I wish I was)… and I’m not so back-handed to consider driving the thing around and getting a dozen or so speeding tickets from the speed cameras (that would be sent to his house, as he is the registered owner).
The problem escalated… other people in the ‘office’ got involved… to the point that I’m sitting down with the senior-most Army guy (his boss) and the senior-most Navy guy (my boss) discussing my options. HE won’t even come down to discuss the situation with me… when I had tried to sit down with him and ask him what he proposed as a resolution he said “I don’t have to have a plan, ‘cause it isn’t my problem, and I’m keeping the money.”
Yes… this took all day.
Ultimately I’ve decided to just keep the car and just drive it until the wheels fall off (or the cam belt snaps, or the rear tires deflate, or the…). I’ve already sunk about £200 into it, so even IF he gives me back my original £200 I’m still in the hole. Plus, with his attitude, I’m not sure exactly WHAT could be done to pressure him into giving me back my money.
At this point I’m only in about £400 ($600), so if I get a month or two out of it I’ll consider that breaking even (and lesson learned)… and around here I rarely even go as fast as 40mph, so if it does die on me I’ll just leave it on the side of the road and call someone to junk it… maybe I’ll get £50 from a scrap yard. Besides, if I never spend another second trying to have a reasonable discussion with ‘the seller’ it’ll be too soon… I don’t want to have to deal with him for another minute.
The whole situation still makes me feel used and left on the side of the proverbial road… kindof like my BMW.

free-style

I dropped my car off at the garage to get it looked at this morning, before work… I was meeting another guy there, who was going to do all the talking for me (as he is British, car-savvy, and male… thus less likely to get ripped off), and give me a ride into work.
As we leave the garage, he gets about 100 yards down the road and as I ask “Why is your car so squirrely?” as he proclaims “Daam it, sounds like I got a puncha!” He pulls over and sure enough, flat tire (or ‘puncher’ to the British folk). We turn around and head right back to the garage to get his car put in next to mine to get fixed… and call work to have somebody come pick us up.
Now, I’m going to be VERY careful here… I try not to blog about the things that make me angry or upset (at least not at specific people) and I try not to ‘dis’ people in my blog… but this is too funny a story to go untold.
There is this guy I work with… Without saying TOO much that might get me in trouble, I'll just describe him as a caricature of a real human being... hell bent on perpetuating stereotypes.
He pulls up to the garage to pick us up, music BLARING, bass thumping, window down, cigarette smoke pouring out, seat reclined as far as it will go (though he is hunched up over the steering wheel).
Now, just to make this clear, I ENJOY rap music. I like it. Not all of it, of course, but some, if not most. At first, I can’t quite figure out WHO exactly he is listening too… the rhymes seem very basic and lacking the creativity I usually enjoy, the beats are standard, the language is atrocious… 'n**** this and n**** that' and 'mutha f******' every time in between. After about a minute of listening, the voice starts to sound familiar… then VERY familiar. I ask,
“Who is this we’re listening to?…? …is this?…no…. it can’t be…. is this YOU?!?”
“Yeah, this is my rap. Hu hu hu…” (his laugh)
He ‘freestyles’ his own raps that he puts to music… burns them to cds… and listens to them (almost excusively) at TOP volume as he drives around.
His name is Ernest (how very gangster, I know)… but his rap name is MR E (not sure on the spelling there. My favourite quote from the 15 minutes of rap I was blessed with listening to is:
“they call me mr e, cause I’m a mystery, but there ain’t no mystery, ‘cause I’m mr E, and you can’t f*** with mr e, that ain’t no mystery” (swear to God)
I was laughing out loud almost the entire ride… not to be rude, but because I couldn’t really help it… I was desperately trying to remember as much of his ‘raps’ as I could because I wanted to quote them here… but every time I’d hear one that I was sure was as ridiculous as it could get… the next one would trump it.
Most of them I can’t write here because, as I mentioned, almost every other word was ‘n****’ or ‘mutha f*****’… but he did manage to mention sodomizing my mother, sister, and daughter (“I’ll do her in the butt, cause she’s a slut”)… all in the same rap, one right after another… he mentioned the difficulties of living on his ‘streets’ (he lives here in London, like me)… and he was VERY adamant about “we gon get to the top, cause we don’t stop”…
My favourite hook was “ass and titties!! ass and titties!! ass and titties!! a…” over and over and over and over (I kid you not).
After the fourth or fifth ‘track’ like this, I tried to explain why I was laughing so hard (without insulting his rap), I told him that I found it funny that he listens to himself so much… he countered with:
Him: “Do you ever write down poems?”
Me: “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Him: “Have you written down a poem?”
Me: “Uh, yes, I suppose so… when I was in high school.”
Him: “No, no. Have you writ one yourself?”
Me: “Yes, a few, for projects back in highschool.”
Him: “No, I mean now… do you write your own poems now?”
Me: “No, I’ve never been much of a poet.”
Him: “Whatever… yes you do. All chicks write poems. And when you write them don’t you read them back to yourself? Cause you enjoy reading what you wrote? … All chicks do that. Don’t lie. … Well, this is my poetry, and I want to listen to it as much as I can.”
Ignoring the sexist portion of that, I asked him if he thought that was a bit narcissistic… and mentioned he might consider expanding his musical selections. He then called me ‘close minded’ and said I was racist for calling him ‘egotistic’. The conversation continued:
Me: “I did NOT call you ‘egotistic’. I said ‘narcissistic’… which means you’re fascinated with yourself and love yourself… it’s not quite the same as ‘egotistic’. AND, what exactly did I say that was racist??”
He laughed and said “Now you’re backpedalling. Hu hu, that means I’m right.”

Why do I even bother?

3am

I went out briefly last night… met Kelly and co at Trinity after I left the gym. The Chelsea game was on, which is occasion for a few drinks at the pub…not that it means much to me yet.
I left at, what I thought, was a reasonable (if not late) time for someone who gets up at 6 to run with her dog… 9:20ish. Kelly commented that Dexter is running my life. I guess I couldn’t really argue… I didn’t agree but there wasn’t much of an argument I could present that would get me out of there so I gave it up.
Apparently Dexter has some 6th sense… and knows that I had this conversation and didn’t deny how high a level of control he has.
Dexter woke me up at 3 o'clock this morning... for no real reason. He usually sleeps through the night, so if he was waking me up I assumed it was an emergency. After our previous bedtime debacle I didn’t want to risk it. I begrudgingly took him down to pee and he didn't do much... not enough to quantify an emergency at least.
This is completely inexcusable... next time I think I’m going to lock him in the closet or something. He steps on my face when he wants to wake me up... it's effective, I suppose, but also a VERY unpleasant way to wake up.
Especially at 3 in the morning.
Especially when you have a dog with a record of leakage (the business end that close to my face… not a pretty first-thing-to-see-when-you-wake-up).
Especially when you find out he just wants to play.

I’m contemplating puppy soup for dinner tonight.

spell-check

I just realized that Microsoft Word Spell-check Auto-correct has made a fool of me. Apparently there is some “backwards-ass British spelling pack” installed on the computer at work that auto-corrects a bunch of words to the British spelling.
Favour
Tyre
Odour
Why all the extra vowels?? A ‘y’ instead of ‘i’? Seriously?
I could tolerate these ridiculous spellings on signs and such since I’m in their country and all... but now they’ve screwed with what I write. The automatic capitalization I can deal with… but I think it’s a downright nasty trick to switch the words around as I write them…
I’m now convinced… spell check is the devil. Pick up a dictionary kids! If you don’t know how to spell it, look it up…
This is uncool.
I’ve been duped.

a case of the Mondays

Going out on a Sunday night is a bad idea… and some great cosmic force (God, Karma, whatever) has punished me for my folly.
After a weekend of nothing but bleach, hot water, cardboard boxes, and packing paper I decided to go out Sunday night. Kelly and Claire (the only new friends I’ve managed to make in this country) insisted I meet them at a pub in Ruislip and have a few well deserved drinks, a nice dinner, and some social time with living people… so at 7pm that’s exactly what I did… Kelly’s boyfriend was there, along with two of his friends. They’d been drinking since early that afternoon, and Kelly and Claire had started at about 3 or 4 when the Chelsea game came on… so everyone was having fun. Naturally the evening began with the classic UK vs USA conversation I’m forced to have every time I’m introduced to someone new. One of the guys I met, Rob, had one of the thicker English accents I’ve encountered so far. This, combined with his already inebriated state, made it almost impossible for the two of us to communicate. He immediately began flirting with me… and I’m not talking the classy, discrete and tasteful peppering of charming comments amid a stimulating conversation… I’m talking about him telling me I have to take off my shirt if I miss my next shot at pool, saying if I miss my next two shots I have to take my pants off too, asking to see my tattoos (which, of course, requires me to lift up my shirt), and inquiring on my feelings towards orgies. Of course, thanks to his drunken English accent, I didn’t understand half of what he was saying to me, which only serves to make everyone else laugh harder and encouraged him to ‘flirt’ more boldly (if such a thing exists).
The other friend took the argue tactic and began debating with me on everything from pool and darts, to music. Apparently I’m stuck up because I can’t name a bunch of British artists but he can name a bunch of American artists. I attribute this to the fact that the American artists are more popular, thus more widely recognized, because (one could deduce) they are better artists. He attributed this to the fact that I am “ignorant” and all American’s are “stuck up”. A delightful conversation… really.
At first it was all fun… I know it may not sound like it from the above description, but I was having a drink, relaxing, playing some pool, laughing (at the jokes and myself) and just enjoying the company. Even the arguments and ‘flirting’ were entertaining in their own way. BUT, as the alcohol consumption continued… and time wore on… it began to get old. Rico Suave lost whatever ability he may have usually had to turn crass comments into funny compliments and The Great Debater began to repeat himself and resorted to insults when he couldn’t remember what his point was. By the end of the night I had Cassanova asking me every 5 minutes for whatever sexual favor he could come up (literally), even to the point that as I’m getting in the cab to go home he’s astounded I'm not giving him a kiss goodnight and trying to lure me out of said cab and back to his house to ‘spend the night’.
Awesome.
I finally get home-sweet-home… stomach a’rumbling since we never did make it out to eat. I’m starving and it’s 11:30. I make myself some food, which involves chopping, defrosting and cooking since that’s all I have, and get to bed around midnight.
Now, as you might recall, I started this post by saying some cosmic force saw fit to punish me for going out on Sunday. From the above story you might assume that tweedle-dee and tweedle-drunk were the aforementioned punishment, but you would be wrong… ho ho, yes indeedie, there was more to come.
I woke up around 5 am to use the restroom… I usually get up at 6 to walk/run with Dexter before work so I was already mildly irritated to have my sleep interrupted so close to when I would be waking anyway, but I trudged to the bathroom and trudged back, trying to keep myself as close to asleep as possible. As I got back in bed Dexter (who had dutifully awoken when I did and followed me to the bathroom to protect me from whatever it is puppies protect their owners from) jumped up on the bed and began to tread quite close to my head. I reached out to keep him from stepping on my face and pushed on his little puppy belly and it was too much for him to handle.
He peed.
On me.
On the bed.
Did I mention on me?
Now I suppose it’s my fault. If I had to go I should have assumed he did too, right? But I didn’t take him out. And, I know he is not fully the master of his own bladder… sometimes he leaks when he’s excited, he leaks when he’s trying really hard to hold it, and he leaks when I yell at him when his bladder is almost topped off. This is not usually a problem as it doesn’t happen often and when it does it’s usually on the tile floor downstairs… quick cleanup. But this… 5 am after a night of drinking, on me and the bed, an hour before I have to get up to go to work. And on top of it I can’t even yell at him for it because I don’t want him to leak any more and make the situation worse.
Ahhhh Monday.

Roommate Wanted

A 5 bedroom house is WAY too much for one person to keep clean by themselves… I'm spending my entire weekend cleaning, unpacking, and organizing and have only finished one living room, one bathroom, and the kitchen… the other living room is only partially done and I still have a pile of ‘junk drawer’ stuff with no home… I've done laundry, deodorized the garbage can, washed the dishes (cooked dinner, and washed them again), cleared the back porch of puppy poo, and cleaned the couch that came with the house completely (washed the fabric cushion covers, hand washed the suede cushion covers, and scrubbed the couch seat and leather trim)… I switched the TV stands around (I like them better this way), organized the cables behind the TVs, set up the side tables, cleaned out Dexter’s kennel, hung some coat hooks up, and began the process of stowing my American appliances away. It's a lot... really... and it's taking all weekend… and I still haven’t made a dent in the bedroom or main guest room. It is a massive pain in the ass moving things around and cleaning all by yourself. I suppose I’ve always been spoiled by the presence of roommates… somebody to hand you the hook you dropped while you perch precariously on a surround-sound-speaker-turned-step-ladder with your finger marking the spot you carefully measured as 'just right'... or stand back and tell you how something looks here, no there, no here again. Someone to chat with you and keep your mind occupied while you do some repetitive, brainless, cleaning. Sometimes someone to even lend a hand to make the work go faster. Dexter is more the kind of company that manages to get underfoot while you’re carrying a heavy glass TV stand… or pee on the freshly mopped floor because you forgot to let him out… or nap on the couch and only look up when you drop something you’re cleaning as if you say “Excuse me, can’t you see I’m sleeping here?!” The worst part is, once all the unpacking is done (weeks from now, I'm sure) I’ll still probably have to do a full cleaning like this every weekend. It’s amazing how quickly dust bunnies breed under the couch and how paw prints appear on the floor as if you have a whole litter of puppies instead of just one.
I’ve decided I need roommates… it’s not as if I don’t have the space. I have two rooms in the house I never even go in… and two that I’m only using for box storage while I’m in the process of unpacking. I think household chores are reasonable rent even… because that’s really the only thing driving me crazy right now. So there’s the invitation/ad… Ever been curious about life in the UK? Want to live in London? Know how to mop a floor? Come live with me and my yellow lab!!! Bring a scrub brush! We’ll see if I get any bites.