Skip navigation

Trivial

1. I much prefer Bonfire Night to Halloween. This may mean I’m British now.

The bonfire we went to this year was a fundraiser for the local Scout troop and featured a hastily constructed pile of wooden pallets, assorted food stalls in an open building that quickly filled with smoke, a  bouncy castle, and a relatively impressive firework display.

Except for the egregious lack of Staffordshire oatcakes and hot cider (I even took an empty Thermos I co-opted from Stephan with me, just in case), it was our favorite Bonfire Night so far. Closer (walkable, even), cheaper (and fundraising-er), more authentic (although without the Guy Fawkes effigy, which was fine by me), AND I had my first ever toffee apple (delicious).

The music was pretty good too, but if it were up to me and my mad DJing skillz, the playlist would solely comprise songs having to do with fire—how we didn’t start it, how we don’t need no water, and how baby, you need to come on and light mine.

2. I know some of you thought it couldn’t be done, but we totally have British friends now. And let me tell you: it is not easy trying to explain the subtle connotative variations between “white trash,” “trailer trash,” “hick,” “redneck,” and “hillbilly.” All in the name of cultural literacy, people!

3. Since most American football games are played in the middle of the English night, we record them on our new DVR and watch them on the weekends. What I’ve learned this season:

a. Stephan is jealous of my affinity for NBC sportscaster Al Michaels, whom I also credit with my current inability to say “coffee” without a Brooklyn accent.

b. In a delightfully American move, Chad Johnson, number 85 of the Cincinnati Bengals, legally changed his name to Chad Ochocinco. Did you know about this? And if so, why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t give up all my rights when I moved here!

Easily Impressed

One of the things I love about England is how uniforms are mandatory at most schools. Which, let’s face it, is adorable. Like the little boy of approximately six years whom I saw in London this one time: gray cap with a red emblem, probably a gray and red striped tie, gray jacket, gray short pants with a red stripe down the seam, and gray knee socks with two red stripes at the top. Riding a Razor scooter.

The uniforms around here are not so fancy (sweatshirts and trousers, usually), but I still like them, especially when they involve boys in neckties and girls in knee socks. And just when I thought anonymous uniformed English children couldn’t get any more endearing, there was a pack of ten-year-old boys in the grocery store this afternoon who spent their presumably hard-earned pocket money on candy apples. Candy apples! What will they think of next?

English moppets FTW.

Marital Strife

Not to be one of those annoying couples that claims they never fight, but we almost never do. And we’re pretty good at speedy resolution, so no one has ever had to sleep on the couch.

This may not long be the case, however, as we do have this one ongoing issue that as yet is unresolvable:

Whether I am singing along with Chicago’s “Look Away” with the appropriate level of sincerity.

Yes, we actually fight about this. I contend that a) it’s in the perfect key for me to sing at the top of my lungs, thus making it appear as though I’m not taking it as seriously as I very well may be, and b) come on, IT’S CHICAGO, for crying out loud. And it’s a BALLAD. A ballad about being so distraught over an ex moving on that you ask her or perhaps him to kindly look away if you happen to burst into tears when your paths cross. If there were ever a song that warranted the tiniest bit of singalong insincerity, it is this one.

Stephan’s contention: JUST KIDDING. He can start his own blog if he wants to garner support for whatever cockamamie argument he dreams up! (Hi Stephan! Love you!)

Though I can’t quite embrace their generally sickening sentimentality, ballads are ranked number one in singalong fun, so I’m trying to stockpile an adequate supply for non-Stephan-offensive singing.

And so I turn to you, dear Internets, for suggestion. What we’re looking for here is something along the lines of “This Kiss,” “You’re Still the One,” “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” and their ilk. I don’t know why the best ones are from country artists, but I am an equal opportunity ballad lover. Bonus points for songs featuring both male and female vocalists (Stephan’s preference, which I am happy to indulge).

And…go!

Not So Eensy-Weensy

I apologize for the spider-centric posts of late, but I just have this one tiny additional story to tell you. Okay, so remember the previous reference to the annual and prolific spider invasion? It’s now over, thank goodness, but when we got back from the US, I had ten or so spiders to usher outside, and for a few weeks there, two or three new ones every day. I can’t bring myself to kill them, and let’s just say that spider mitigation is 100 percent my responsibility.

ANYWAY, so there we were, minding our own television-watching business, when one of us whimpered and assumed the fetal position. At first I thought it was in response to some horrible thing on television, until I tracked what Stephan was pointing at: the largest spider I’ve ever seen in the wild, maxin’ and relaxin’ under our radiator. He was like practical joke big. His body was about the size of, let’s say, a cashew, and his leg span was easily three inches.

As mentioned, I usually deposit them gently outside, but there was NO WAY this guy was being set free to terrorize us again. Sorry dude, but you must have missed that day of Survival Of The Fittest training: if you grow too big, you become a threat that must be eliminated.

He was too big to smash, and he was too big to fit under the rim of a drinking glass like normal, so I had to catch him under a Gladware container and he was NOT happy. I dropped him in the toilet and he wiggled around for the few seconds it took for me to operate the lever, and then he was gone.

Gone, but not forgotten.

Three repercussions I in no way expected:

Guilt—Most of the spiders I deal with just sit complacently under their glass until I deposit them outside, whereupon they thank me for my graciousness and wave a cheerful goodbye. Whereas this fellow scrambled furiously about and tried to swim his way out of the toilet. I’m pretty sure I heard him call me a name that I can’t repeat here because my mom reads this.

Insomnia—Although this was a good two hours before sleepy time, the adrenaline and the remembered creepiness kept me up for a while.

Irrational Terror—I could not bring myself to use that toilet for the next three days (note to nosey parkers: don’t worry; we have two others).

Stephan and I later discussed how the whole experience was much creepier than, say, finding a tarantula, because as big as the tarantula is, it’s basically a small rodent whose presence is more easily monitored.

We plan on leaving this hypothesis untested.

Shortlisted

Top 5 reasons being in the US for the month of September is AWESOME:

1. Super nice people we know have not yet winterized their boats. And then let us ride in them.

2. A Starbucks to sell me cinnamon dolce lattes on every corner.

3. Ability to wash all laundry for the week in one giant load of clothes and then dry, fold, and put away with no ironing whatsoever. In the space of three hours. Without having to go outside.

4. So gorgeous of weather the entire time we were there. Really, Pacific Northwest, job well done. Definitely your most pleasant month.

5. Annual and prolific spider invasion back home is out of sight, out of mind.

Top 5 reasons being back in the UK after the aforementioned month in the US is AWESOME:

1. New neighborhood cats who invite themselves in when you are putting out the aforementioned spiders.

2. Control of one’s own destiny, specifically in regards to the ambient temperature of the home in which one is staying, Adriaan.

3. Canal walks on which one sees a Eurasian kingfisher for the first time.

4. New DVR allowing us to watch American football sometimes when we want to.

5. Stroopwafels from the Amsterdam airport.

Welcome home, me.

Mystery Solved

On one of our super fun weekends back home, we went out to the Oregon Coast for the weekend with these people we know.

There were lots of pelicans there. Seriously. It was almost scary, like in The Birds, or in a short story of a similar nature I read this one time in which the protagonists exhibit concern for their bird-surrounded circumstances with the classic line, “But was it only a semicircle?” (No, no it was not.)

Chilling, I tell you.

So then, in real life, this more or less happened:

Stephan: I’ma go down there [where the pelicans are] and get me a baby.
Person 1: Don’t you mean from a stork?
Person 2: No wonder [you guys] don’t have any kids yet! Stephan doesn’t know where babies come from!

On Husbands

Yesterday was our three-year anniversary, and as a married lady of great experience, I thought I would take this opportunity to share some marriage wisdom that I only recently discovered.

Basically: say what you mean (and mean what you say, I guess).

What I say: I’m doing laundry today.
What I mean: Time to move whatever you want washed from that giant pile in the corner to the actual laundry hamper, located in the opposite corner of the room.

What he says: Okay.
What he means: I am happy to know that my supply of clean clothes will soon be replenished, but it does not even cross my mind to act in any way that might cause my clothes to enter the vicinity of the laundry hamper.

And then we are both surprised when I have to do laundry again three days later because Stephan’s clothes didn’t, technically, make it to the laundry hamper.

Don’t let this happen to you!

What I said today for the first time: I’m doing laundry today. Please indicate in some way which clothes you would like me to wash.

And he did.

Only took me three years to figure it out.

The Classics Never Die

Surprise, America! We are back to visit!

Lots of fun so far, including this trip down the gorge, in which my sensitive eyeballs were bombarded by the rays of the sun, which, although large, is so far away that it appears small.

This is what it looked like for normal people:

normalgorge

And this is what it looked like for me:

ambergorge

Why, you ask? Because I was wearing these:

amberglasses

They were in my mom’s car, and no one knows whose they are.

They are mine now.

Introducing: Ennui-imals™

Q—What do you call an animal suffering from ennui?

A—An ennui-imal™.

Like this guy at Shugborough Estate who is, in fact, awake here:

goat

Or this guy, sullenly building Hadrian’s wall at Birdoswald:

hadrian1

Though he may just be sad that someone stole his mustache:

hadrian2

Or these ladies at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum in Glasgow:

gray

Reading Aloud (from the most uninteresting book of all time) by Albert Moore.

Haggis in the Morning

So this one day we went to Glasgow on our way to the Edinburgh Tattoo. Stephan and his dad went to the Science Centre, and his mom and I went to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, a parting of the ways that was greatly appreciated by all.

The museum is split up into “life” and “expression,” the former of which is OMG GIANT SPIDER GIANT SPIDER!!

giantspider

Yes, this is a specimen of the world’s largest spider, the Goliath bird-eating spider (Theraphosa blondi), alternatively known as the Goliath man-eating spider. It can grow to a legspan of 12 inches across, with fangs an inch long, which come in handy when it’s killing and eating mice. And birds. And men, apparently. This particular fellow is about the size of my (totally normal-sized) hand, but his relatively diminutive size does not make Stephan like him any better.

Kelvingrove also featured an organ recital in the afternoon, which was enhanced by two live videos of what the organist’s feet and hands were doing, which made it so much more interesting. Did I mention that the entire museum was free and also awesome?

kelvingrove

Last but not least, a speciman of this little guy, the elusive wild haggis (Haggis scoticus). A creature native to the Scottish Highlands, two of his legs are shorter than the others, allowing him to easily traverse the steep slopes of his natural habitat. The object next to him is an example of a prepared haggis, available in fine Scottish grocery stores everywhere (primarily Scotland).

haggis

There was some other stuff, like art and galleries, but why don’t you just go back and feast your eyes on that delicious haggis for a while. Yum yum!