Words Cannot Describe.

I have no idea how to even begin to describe what just happened to me.

I wish that I could have been taking notes throughout the last 45 minutes, but I think that would have been socially inappropriate, and in all fairness, there was so much blogging material that even though I will probably only remember, and communicate 10% of this experience, it will be more than enough to provide for a very long blog-entry.

This is actually the perfect way to return to the blog after a month-plus hiatus. I know some of you have said things like "You just have so many funny things to write about" and it is implied that the reason for that is the fact that I live in Oxford, which--let's be realistic--is a 'funny' place with weird archaic traditions and some interesting people. And I have always thought that isn't true, but today that thought was confirmed.

What I am about to describe is hands-down the most unbelievable thing that has happened to me in the past two years and it happened in the good-ole US of A.

I don't even know where to start, so I am just going to launch in. Buckle your seat-belts.

So, I am currently attending a research methods conference at the University of Arizona in Tucson. And this morning, after the first session had ended I came to a coffee/art shop where I could get my new favorite rasperry mocha. As I am standing in line, I hear somebody behind me say/shout "Hey, lady!" (And you should know that it wasn't the "Hey....lady"-I-am-trying-to-get-your-attention version, or the "Hey, lady?"-I-have-a-question-for-you version. It was the "Hey-I-am-using-lady-like-it-is-your-name-and-we-know-each-other-well" version.)

And to confirm, my analysis of the 'version' of "hey lady" that was being used, it was followed by "I know you right?" (Ok....so this reveals that it was context rather than just some great insight or inference into what was meant by "hey lady" that led me to my previous conclusion.)

I responded with...."Um....I am actually just in town for a few days. So no?"

To which she said "Red-headed-lady, don't I know you?" and "What are you in town for?"

Me: "A methods conference." (Don't worry, I won't give you the transcript for the whole conversation...I just have to give you the feel).

Her: "What kind of methods? Educate me."

Me: "Um...statistical methods."

Her: "Oh yeah? What kind, can you explain it more than that?"

Me: "Um....(mumble, mumble) just statistics that you would use with case studies. I don't really understand it well enough to explain it more than that." (Implied meaning--I don't want to talk about this.)

Her: "Oh. So, like, what kind of case studies do you do?"

Me: "I am looking at local education politics."

Her: "OH MY GOSH. **** (insert word of choice here) YEAH.....(to the guy at the register) Let me buy this pretty ladies coffee."

(Translation: I am going to buy your coffee. Then, you will be forced to be polite and talk with me for an indefinite period of time.)

At this point, I try to pay for my own coffee (I am cheap, but I am pretty sure that I will pay a high price for not paying for my own coffee. I am right on some level.) to no avail.

From here, I can't really explain exactly the way the conversation unfolded because the conversation was ALL OVER THE PLACE (and when I say conversation I mean monologue to which I contributed a lot of nodding and polite laughing and questions.). I have never experienced such an unfiltered conversation. Here are the high-points:

I was called "pretty lady" a number of times. This made me kind of uncomfortable.

Speaking of uncomfortable, we 'ting-tinged' (her word-- I would call it 'cheers') our glasses, but had to do it 'Italian-style' (because she has family in Italy, and Mexico, and...who knows where-else), which means that you have to make eye-contact--or else it is bad luck. I thanked her for buying my coffee (this was about five minutes after she had paid for it), but she had forgotten that she paid for it. While we are on the subject of luck, I think she is an authority on these things. For starters, when I told her 'good luck' at getting a position at a bi-lingual school (it seemed like a nice thing to say as a way to try to exit the conversation....rookie mistake), she told me that she didn't need luck because this was a long-time in the making. (I tend to disagree since she doesn't have a teaching certificate....details.) Furthermore, she's a healer (and a masseuse--I was supposed to refer my friends to her. So if anybody needs a masseuse, I'll get her card--which she is printing today. I saw the design, if you're interested). And she knew she was going to meet me today. (She also thought that she already 'knew' me, so I don't know if that calls those premonitions into question at all....but I'll take her word for it.)

In the middle of a sentence about getting a job at the bi-lingual school, she noticed my earrings. She like them and asked to see them. I moved my hair out of the way which allowed her to confirm that she had similar ones. She asked if they were metal. I said I think they were just plastic, but that I am sure they are pretty similar. She asked to see them again. I moved my hair. She asked for me to take one out. I did. (Yes, I don't know why I just went along with this, but I really didn't know what to do, or what my choices were at this point.) She confirmed that hers were different and fisted the earring. At this point, I was pretty sure that I would never get it back and would be leaving the coffee shop with only one earring.

She talked about something else for a little bit....I think how she doesn't live in Tucson but wants to move there (after she gets out of the work she is doing in Los Angeles....and San Diego...and the community college she attends in a third city)...

And then we were back to earrings. She told me that she had a similar pair that were metal that would look really good on me (I can imagine that this was pretty easy to picture since they were almost exactly like the ones that I ACTUALLY had on.) I said that was really ok. She said that she really wanted me to have them. I just said ok. At this point, I was fairly confident that she would forget about it.

And the conversation went on. Basically, all it took was a new word to launch a rabbit trail. A woman on the cover of TIME who was from Burma launched a short monologue about "I should move to Burma. No, I should live in Thailand first...." I was just an observer who wished she had a notepad.

And I was lost (slash trapped) in this conversation for about 25 minutes (that seemed like years). Other highlights include:

• A two minute discussion about tattoos. Her mom hates them. She is not sure how she feels about them. But she needs to get a few more. (No, I did not explore the relationship between those statements.) She has a 'mom' tattoo. It doesn't exactly say 'mom'. But she got it in Tucson. Her mom asked where. She wouldn't tell her. Her mom basically asked "Who defiled your body?" So she knew better than to answer that question. Then she asked if I wanted to see it? I froze. Thankfully, it was apparently on her ankle (she started to take off her boots). I asked where she was from (for the fourth time, but we still hadn't quite finished that conversation).
• When she found out that I was a student in England, at Oxford, she said that she knew somebody who attended the really good research school near Oxford. (Huh. I didn't pursue that further.) She also talked about how bad the food is there--aside from fish and chips. Then she said she should start a pastry shop there. So much revelation in this short conversation.
• She will never forget my name because she has a cousin named Lindsay. We don't look alike, but it would still help her remember because I am "cute" and her cousin is "crazy"--not the good kind of crazy, but ACTUALLY crazy (I believe her). I am not sure how this will help her remember, but I nodded.
• A peer of mine from the research conference was sitting at a nearby table. I was talking to her while my 'new friend' used the restroom (yes, this would have been a good chance to run....but I felt like it would be rude.). When my 'new friend' came back, she asked my peer to explain what the conference was about. As an example of how the method could be used, my peer said that you could look at "Why some people use drugs" and look at things like family background, mental health, etc. My 'new friend' said that this seemed like a really good idea and that all those things made sense for why people would use drugs. I believed her.

Just think. I got ALL OF THIS and a free cup of raspberry mocha. I think that's what Michael Scott would call a win-win.

Blogging Break Over. Welcome Back.

I have a confession to make.

Over the past few weeks, I think I have been playing around with the idea of discontinuing the blog. I mean, as you loyal readers know all too well, I have a few favorite topics--like public transportation and fashion--that I have pretty much exhausted. British culture is a lot less novel than it used to be, and I recognize that I am saying a lot of the same things and I can imagine how boring this repetition must be to read. Simply put--I have hit an 'artistic rut'. I feel like I have run out of material.

On the other hand, maybe the problem is an abundance of material. The past couple of weeks--including a trip to Israel and my first Christmas away from home--have been completely overwhelming (not in a bad way but just as a statement of fact), and I don't know if I have processed any of those experiences enough to be able to boil them down to digestible anecdotes or punchlines. And...I sense that there might be a line that I don't want to cross in terms of publishing things for all the world to see (potentially--I recognize that my 'world' for this blog is in fact much, much smaller)--like my....interesting....experiences getting into and out of Israel.

So, to convert all of this to a formula.....(because I am at a research methods conference after all)

lack of inspiration + overwhelming amount of complicated experiences to draw from= no blogging

But, the good--or bad, I am not sure--news, is that the blogging break is over.

Boom.

Alanis, This one's for you

So, if you are faithful readers of this blog (or have just familiarized yourself with the archives) you will know that I spent some time writing about 'irony' as inspired (and completely obliterated as a term of any meaning, whatsoever) by Alanis Morsette. I will not re-type all of those thoughts here. I will just summarize it briefly as:

What is irony? No, Alanis, that isn't ironic. It's just really bad luck. Is anything in my life ironic?

And uncertainty has hung over each of those questions. But today, by the end of this post, I think that I might be able to say....'maybe'. A more certain degree of uncertainty than I have allowed myself previously.

I am just going to power through this post with a series of thoughts/anecdotes. Some might appear ironic, and not be. Some might be ironic, but not appear to be. And some are not ironic--I just think they are funny.

1. Today, I saw an adult dressed as Paddington Bear. Bright blue trench coat, red hat. He/she was also wearing a yellow reflective vest, so he/she could have been Paddington Bear goes to work. (And it is even more fitting that he/she is unisex--I don't know if Paddington Bear is a boy or a girl. Also, this fits into that third category.)
2. The British take great pride in their 'gentlemen sports'. When I played cricket last year they always told us not to talk trash because it was a gentleman (or lady in my case) sport (insert profuse apologies for forgetting to include me, here). Then they would ask when the tea would be served. I don't think this is ironic, but it was certainly a paradox to be sitting in the Liverpool section when Liverpool got beat by Tottenham on Sunday. I know that creativity is part of what it means to be a gentleman (or at least a Renaissance man). And I guess singing in choirs is something that gentlemen do. So I guess there is something gentlemanly about how 'creatively' some of the words that I heard were being used, in one of the largest 'choirs' I have been around. Who knew that four letters could communicate so much? (I think this is just a paradox.)
3. Today, I got my textbook in the mail for the Spanish class that I will be taking next week. (That's right. I am going to learn the whole language in a week.) I can't find any English in the thing. I am not sure if that is because the whole thing is in Spanish (there is definitely a lot more Spanish than any book I have ever seen before) or because it is a German Spanish book. (Yeah, I'll let you think on that one for a while. And I think this might be ironic. But Alanis has muddled my brain so much that I can't be sure.)

What are you doing with your life?

I know that some of you are wondering. In my time back in the states this summer, I had several people infer that it was unclear what I actually did with all of my time in Oxford. And...I had a hard time explaining it. That is partly because:

1. I am not always sure.

2. The answer to that question changes from day to day, week to week, term to term.

But, I can give you a pretty clear picture of what I have been doing for the last two months that might help to illuminate that question.

• I have been managing spreadsheets. Yes, I know this isn't the glamorous life that you were picturing, but it is true. Sometimes I think I am getting a second degree in Excel and GoogleDocs. I spend at least some time every day managing attendance lists for various events that I am helping to coordinate in Oxford, but a spreadsheet has become the central component of my academic work this year as well (more on that in my second bullet-point). I think the best way to summarize this--and good news--is that I am learning how to behave like an organized person without actually being more organized. I have a fundamental personal paradox which is a tension between organization and clutter. On one hand, I recognize that I need to function in a largely organized and systematic way, but I lack the discipline to be as coherent in applying that organization to my life. I am cluttered, my room is perpetually disordered (note that I did not say messy) and I used to lose a lot of things until I developed coping mechanisms (called bags, purses, and big pockets with zippers). Spreadsheets are like a coping mechanism for my brain.
• I have been developing the fine art of being a pest. I know that for those of you who know me well or who have been around me when I am pursuing something that I am really committed to, this doesn't seem like a new skill. But, I suppose the difference is the degree of systematic pestering. I am talking about a professional level.

Here's what I mean:

My main job this term is essentially to interview 24-30 people in the United States. Due to the restrictions on my research (aka, the 'I can't tell you or I would have to kill you code' that I signed), I am not going to say anything more than that. But these folks are in two different time zones in the United States and none of them really want to talk to me. Sure, some will, but no one is excited when they hear from me. So, I have discovered the science/art of how to get people to do something that they don't really want to do.

This is one of those lose/lose situations, unfortunately. You see, if I am bad at my job, then I don't get the interviews that I need, I can't finish my thesis, and I fail (ok, that's dramatic). If I am good at my job (and I am afraid I have to say, that sometimes I am good at this job), then that means that I am successfully bothering people into submission. I don't know if this is a life-skill or a resume builder that I really want to have.

But this process has taught me, that few people respond to your first e-mail. But lots of people respond to your second one if you send it five days later. And even more people respond if you e-mail them a third time and put some parts in bold font.

So that is what I do everyday. I look at my excel spreadsheet and color-code contacts based on how many e-mails they have received from me, how long it has been since I last heard from them, etc. And then I systematically 'persist' (that is the nicer term for bugging/nagging/relentlessly contacting).

So, yeah, there are times when I do normal and respectable things like read books and write papers. But lately, amidst the dreaming spires....my work hasn't been all that glamorous.

What's up in England...

Not much. Same old, same old. (Which on one hand, is a good excuse for not blogging--nothing to report, and on the other, a terrible excuse--what have I been doing with my life?! More on that later.)

But as I sit in Starbucks having just finished a venti (that's right--the big guy) Peppermint Mocha, I have some news. Christmas music is playing here. And a Christmas tree was erected a few weeks ago on Broad Street (one of the two main thoroughfares--if you can call a street that isn't open for through traffic a thoroughfare). And these two facts (among others--like the fact that 4500 miles from Delhi--not to be confused with 45,000 miles from Dehli, as I would call it--started its Christmas menu on November 15th) has led me to a conclusion.

That my mother would love it here? (Yes, that's true. No, it's not the conclusion that I have come to.)

The conclusion that I have come to--the epiphany that I have had, if you will (After all, epiphanies are a dime a dozen when you drink a venti-anything at Starbucks. But again, more on that later.)--is that without Thanksgiving, England doesn't know when to start celebrating Christmas. (It's ok to gasp with astonishment at the implications of that realization. I understand.)

It's true though. Take it from me. I come from a household where I think there is the equivalent of a New Year's countdown leading up to the dawn of Thanksgiving day (at least in the head of my mother). No, she doesn't love turkey that much. (After all, what is there to love about turkey? In preparation for a Thanksgiving feast for 100 that I am helping to plan today, we concluded that the turkey doesn't even have to be well cooked. In fact, stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce are all concessions that the turkey will be dry. And even if it's not--no one can tell, because it is covered in so much stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce.) So, if it isn't the turkey, what is it? Well, my friend. Thanksgiving is the day when it becomes 'acceptable' to listen to Christmas music.

On that third Thursday of the month of November, my mom's step is lighter, her smile is brighter (as if that's possible), and life is just grand because Manheim Steamroller can return. Sandi Patty can grace us with gracious festive music (Ok, that's a joke. My mom doesn't listen to Sandi Patty. Anymore.) Josh Groban is officially the man. (Like there's a time when he's NOT the man?!).

Our family has semi-sporadic Thanksgiving traditions. Sometimes we are home, sometimes we are at one or the other grandmother's/grandparent's houses. But whether we are cooking cornish hens, or riding in the Camry (shout-out dad for being committed to joining the 200,000 mile club), there is one constant--the music of sleigh-bells and chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

And the other constant is probably my bad attitude about it. I really don't dislike Christmas music that much (in fact, I would listen to Mariah Carey sing Christmas music all year round...and do.), but it has almost become part of the Thanksgiving tradition for me to get as far away from the 'away in a manger' music as possible.

So, Christmas is already in full-swing in Oxford. And if I am going to faithfully play my roll, I have to eye-roll and tell you it is a travesty. England needs to throw some tea in the English Channel, declare independence from itself, and come up with a holiday of thanks and over-eating so that they can have a starting point for the Christmas festivities.

There, I have done my duty. I have played my part.

But, if I am to be honest with you, Christmas is here in Oxford and I am loving it. My mother's enthusiasm for the season is pursuing me across the ocean. I will thank of my family (both formal and informal) throughout the season and be thankful. I am thankful to have 24 years of happy Thanksgiving and Christmas memories (with four Thanksgivings with basketball family and one with my Rhodes family).

Thanksgiving will come and go this year and I will probably hardly even recognize it (because I will spend it at a black tie awards dinner). So, do me a favor. If you are reading this on the other side of the Atlantic, next time you see my parents, give them an extra hug for me--and roll your eyes in front of my mom when you hear Christmas music fire up on Thursday. Even if you love it, pretend like you don't.

Day Trip 1: Bristol

They say a picture's worth a thousand words, right?

Then, let's just call this my longest blog ever.

A Few Moments When I Wish I Were in Buckle-Country (Part II)

**Spoiler alert--you should read (Part I) first
**Caveat--yes, I did just create these posts back to back; but I thought the story was too long to be one post.

**Disclaimer--ok, maybe it's not really that good of a story.

So, I go into Tesco Metro (because apparently all of the grocery stores cloned themselves six times over the summer and there is some serious food-provider competition going on around Oxford. I fear that the grocery store to person ratio is going to rival the library to person ratio soon), the largest of the two local stores that are located directly next to each other. If you care the advantages of the Tesco Metro is that it sells everything. The disadvantage is that everyone is there....and standing in line. I hate the lines and for this reason, don't love Tesco Metro, but I thought it was my best chance to score some coffee filters.

So, I go downstairs and head to the coffee section. I don't know about you, but if I were playing the 'If I were a coffee filter where would I be?' game, I would answer 'With the coffee!' every-single time. Because of my confidence in where the coffee filters should be, when they weren't there, I immediately decided to get some help. So, I asked one of the stockers where I could find the coffee filters (thinking I had overlooked them in the coffee aisle, etc). His response was, "If we had them, they would be over in aisle 13 with the home appliances." This certainly isn't where I would put them, but it seemed reasonable enough. So, I went to aisle 13. I couldn't find them. But lucky for me, there was another worker in aisle 13. After looking on my own for about 3.5 seconds (because persistence is one of my greatest virtues) I asked him where I could find the coffee filters. He responded "If we have them, they would be over in aisle 7--with the coffee." I was about to tell him they weren't there, but he took the service one step further and walked over to the aisle and confirmed that they were not.

I have to admit that I found the "If we had them" claim to be baffling and incredibly unhelpful. It completely eliminates my ability to be certain whether I have looked in the right place, or whether I should be looking at all. But I thought that maybe the store just hadn't been open very long so some of the employees were still familiarizing themselves with the inventory. And, this is a smaller grocery store, so maybe I shouldn't expect them to carry coffee filters.

So, I walked out a couple of miles to the biggest grocery store. If they didn't have coffee filters than I had discovered the scam of the coffee machine (this was before I discovered the permanent filter, mind you). After looking in the coffee aisle--to no avail--I just found a stocker and asked him where I would find the coffee filters. When he started his sentence off with "If we had them..." I should have just walked out of the store.

For those of you who are wondering what the answer to the question "Where would I find coffee filters?" is, the answer is "In the specialty store in the covered market." But that isn't really a very good punchline to the story. But at least you know what to expect if you ever need help finding something at the grocery store--it's like the song that never ends.

A Few Moments When I Wish I Were in Buckle-Country (Part I)

In case you haven't heard of it, "The Buckle Game" is this game that kids (ahem, for me that should say 'college students') play where your sole aim is to walk into The Buckle, walk to the back wall, touch it, and walk out, without anyone greeting you. In all honesty, if you do it without five people greeting you, it's kind of like a moral victory.

The whole thing pokes fun of the aggressiveness of salesmanship at the retailer (they sell on commission after all). Kids (college students) love it. The Buckle hates it (and I think deep down inside, loves it). Urban legend holds that when new Buckle-ers are getting trained, they are told about The Buckle Game and instructed to do their part to carry on Buckle's great name as a place of eager service. (I am not sure if anyone has told them that the people playing the Buckle Game are not complimenting them, but that is another blog post....AND, urban legends are not meant to be made to 'face the facts' so to speak. That would be an unthinkable double standard.)

Contrast that experience with the fresh waves of customer (dis)service that have been washing over me since my arrival to the prim-and-proper land.

I bought a drip coffee-maker this year because it was just too much work to use my french press every time I wanted a cup of brew last year. I mean, the thing only made a little over a cup, and it was pretty obnoxious to try to rinse out the grounds--especially since there are no garbage disposals here, so it was this very complicated straining and trashing process that almost felt like making coffee by hand (if there were such a thing. Don't question the analogy--go with it.) So, anyway, I decided to buy a drip coffee-maker. I had some beans from the United States (that I had basically had to stick in the holster of my belt loop because I was so over-packed) and I was ready to go. I bought a coffee maker for 7 GBP (which works out to about $10 and translates into DIRT CHEAP). This is the first time that the old 'you get what you pay for' adage hasn't come around to bite me in the bee-hind (Don't ask me about the 5 GBP duvet cover. Yes, it sounded too good to be true. Yes, it was. Yes, it was more like 5 gigantic kleenexes sewn together. No, it has not been keeping me warm. No, I did not learn my lesson. I thought I said not to ask about the duvet cover?!). Buying a 7 GBP coffee-maker is to my stinginess what my one good golf drive is to my golf-game. I may be completely delusional, but that one success causes me to forget about what happens 95% of the time and believe that the best is yet to come.

But the challenge for me came in finding coffee-filters to put in the coffee machine. Sure, I later discovered that the coffee machine came with a built-in personal filter. But before I knew that, I wondered why it was so hard to find coffee filters (if you could easily buy a coffee maker)? After I knew that, I still didn't care, because it was this very system of having to clean something out every time I made coffee that had inspired me to buy the coffee maker in the first place (and the permanent filter left little coffee granules in the bottom of the pot).

This is the story of trying to find coffee filters at the grocery store. If you didn't know better, you would think this wasn't going to be a very good story. But you know better....

To be continued.

Life is beautiful....

I thought that there was going to be a beautiful sunset on this day, so I headed out to the old monastery to try to catch it. I thought that I had captured the day's best light (and had rolled around in the nettles enough for one day) so I headed back home. Just when I got back, the sky exploded in red.

In that moment, I could only imagine the limitless possibilities for breath-taking beauty, and while I recognize that I will only observe, describe, and capture a tiny portion of it, I was reminded to always be watching.

Food: Highs and Lows

Tuesday was a great day.

It was the day that JIF returned to my life. For those of you who have not been without JIF or who do not love it as much as I do, let me just tell you that while grainy chunks of peanuts in oil may satisfy your hankering for some peanut-flavor, it does not quiet the inner pangs for that comfort food (chosen by all choosey mom's...or mums).

My life has been improved, but the lives of my roommates and friends, people from all nations--Australia, Turkey, Austria, South Africa, New Zealand, England, Texas--have been changed.

But for every exhilarating culinary experience (yes, peanut butter is my pinnacle--it is still the simple things), there are some....less exhilarating meals.

1. Eel. I have to admit that if I hadn't known what it was, I would have just thought it was a white fish. I was pleasantly surprised with its flaky texture. I was deterred by the rank fish smell. I don't know if it was marinated in anything, but all you got was 'fish'.

Here's the good news. I had this at a formal hall (multiple courses) which has two inherent benefits. First, my main course wasn't eel, so it's not like I went hungry. And secondly, it was a risk-free-eel-trial. I had already paid for the food and it wasn't like I had a choice between eel and something delicious. I had a choice between trying eel and not trying eel. That's a choice I can make.

2. Pâté (yes, I had to copy that off another page because I couldn't get the appropriate accents here).

According to Wikipedia (the true source of all knowledge), this delicacy is 'a mixture of ground meat and fat minced into a spreadable paste'. I don't know about you, but I don't really dream about eating my meats as a 'spreadable paste'.

Unfortunately, this particular treat is a popular favorite at Jesus College formal hall. MMM. This last time, the presentation was particularly disturbing.

First course came out and looked charming enough. There was a little espresso cup of 'something', with a few crunchy pieces of bread and some sort of tomato chutney/relish. Fine. I would even go so far as to say that I thought it was cute.

But then you look a little bit closer to your cup and realize that it looks like a solid. You know the custard shops that advertise custard so think that you can tip it upside down quickly and the thickness of the shake (combined with physics) will prevent it from falling out? Well, this takes that to the extreme. You could turn this cup over and leave it upside down for infinity, and it would never fall out.

Now, I have to admit that I couldn't figure out exactly what the solid-waxlike substance was on the top of (what we later determined to be pate). But I can tell you that I am pretty confident what foodgroup a 'solid-waxlike' substance would have to be. And no, it is not a fruit.

So, I broke through the cholesterol-in-a-cup covering to find pate underneath. I tried it (because its formal after all). I am not even sure I tasted it, but conceptually, I just don't approve.

Choosey mums do not choose pate.

Don't Question my Fanhood

That's right world. Eat your heart out. I am wearing the helmet of the undefeated Kansas City Chiefs.

Here's the back story. I had said that if the Chiefs were undefeated at 4-0 when I left the United States, that I was going to buy a jersey. I was confident that if they reached the 4-0 mark in our division which is less-strong (ok, weak), that they would coast to a play-off appearance. I wanted to be ready to root them on from afar.

But then I was confronted with a dilemma. The Chiefs got a bye-week in week four leaving them undefeated but a win short of the 4-0 mark. In other news, I was already compulsively over-packed and was having a hard time justifying even one more piece of clothing. Sure, clothing is super-light, but it was the cumulative weight of 100 effectively weightless pieces of attire that had pushed two large bags north of the 50 pound mark.

So, I had settled that I would just wear the Chiefs t-shirt that I already had with pride. I didn't need a Chiefs jersey, and I was bailed out of my bold statement by a technicality. But then, I went with Luke to a discount Chiefs apparel store. As tempted as I was to buy a Brody Croyle jersey, I decided that I could hold off. But then I came across this bad boy. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up--I could protect my brain and represent my pride. And let's face it, I can wear this helmet everyday. While I could wear a Chiefs jersey every day, that might actually be weirder than the helmet. It's hard to believe, but I think it's true.

So the Chiefs have arrived in Oxford. I hope they start making me proud.

And now, for a few caveats:

1. As far as I am concerned, the Chiefs are 3-0. Boom. I have heard whispers of trouble, but I refuse to be swayed. Call me delusional. You should.

2. Yes, this is my posture at every stop light. I got passed by 'Lance Armstrong' the other day and have decided that I need to step up my game.

3. No, no one knows who the Kansas City Chiefs are here (other than the Americans and a few well-informed Canadians and Australians.

4. No, I would not have worn this helmet last year. At this time last year I was still under the allusion that I could (and should) try to blend in here. I have given up that pipe dream.

You (all those who read the blog last year as well as those concerned about my personal safety) will be glad to know that I have purchased a new bike--Chiefs red of course.

The More Things (Don't) Change, The More They Stay the Same

In three short months, I have managed to forget a few things about English life. Or perhaps more accurately, things that had ceased to surprise me, that had become routine, now seem as unusual to me as they did at first. In some instances, experience these things again has been a reminder that has caused me to chuckle or appreciate with new freshness life in Oxford, in others, old frustrations have returned in waves, and in some, the surprises have been downright dangerous.

Here are a few of the things that I had temporarily forgotten:

1. Cars Drive on the left side of the road.

Yes, this was one of the 'dangerous'. I was walking a family of Canadians to Jamie's Italian (they were only walking in the wrong direction about 1.5 miles from the restaurant). As I was showing them some good old fashioned midwestern hospitality, and motioning to the route that they could have taken to the restaurant, the mother gasped as I was almost hit by a car. Lesson learned. (This might have had more to do with the fact that I just wasn't paying attention, but I do need to get readjusted to the flow of traffic.)

2. It is still ok for women to wear white (yes!) even after labor day. (I told you mom).

Also, surprisingly enough (or not), it is still ok for men to wear pink pants, red skinny jeans, and other fashion statements that I would find questionable. Just to clarify, I am not surprised that they can be worn at this time of year, but rather that they can ever be worn. But if I am being completely honest, I am not surprised at all--I just forgot what it was like.

3. Pedestrians still refuse to use sidewalks. Shocker.

This is one of those unfortunate surprises that is not surprising at all. It has always been difficult to navigate amongst people off for an afternoon stroll, window shoppers, and tourists--especially on the weekend--but let's just say that when your bike has two gears (which you cannot choose between), and tends to catch when you have bursts of pedalling, this pedestrians-in-the-street phenomenon takes on a new dimension of irritating.

At one point yesterday as my bike popped, caught, and swerved, I thought of an arrangement that I think could work for everyone. Hey, pedestrians--I'll make you a deal. If you refuse to walk in the street, I will NEVER ride my bike on the sidewallk. No, this wouldn't involve any changes as a cyclist, but it seems to be a fair arrangement and one that would make all of our lives safer, easier, and less angry (ok, maybe that would just be my life).

To be continued...(so much material to work from)

Shaking off the Blogwebs

It is hard to get started after such a long time off.

I have heard some people say that they think in tweets--apparently all of their thoughts are 150 words, or 500 characters, or whatever constraints are placed on tweeters. Obviously I don't tweet. But while we are on the topic, let's just say that if tweets are defined by characters and people actually think in tweets that is incredibly impressive. And everyone who is spending mental energy on that should apply that mental energy to something else--like alleviating poverty.

But even though I have never tweeted, I think I can kind of understand the concept of thinking in tweets. By the end of the year, I kind of thought in blogs. Seriously, I would be in some bizarre situation or experience (like the time a fellow bus-rider started an impassioned speech about how Rosa Parks was the only reason why we could even be on the bus, and how women are (apparently? This was news to me...) the only ones who are supposed to ride buses. Apparently the men are supposed to walk. It was a very informative bus-ride--but I always learned a lot on buses.) and start collecting the details needed to make it blog-worthy (Though let's be fair, there are times when nothing is required to make a given experience blog-worthy). (Insert what I said about how we spend our mental energies here.) "What does it mean to think in blogs?", you may be wondering.

Well, thanks for asking.

First, it should be said that there are a few 'types' of blogs. You have news, politics, or other commentary blogs which feature the author's opinions on a given topic--personal experience is not required. Then on the other end of the spectrum, you have what I will call "Dear Diary" blogs that are incredibly personal and replace facts and opinions with feelings. Obviously, there is a full spectrum of blogs between these two and I fall, as is often the case, somewhere in the middle. I suppose you could say that this blog is a 'commentary of personal experience' blog--I cut out feelings, am less than concerned with facts, and you are left with my opinions as revealed by random life-experiences. I suppose that is kind of like politics, or at least the political attacks (ahem, ads) that are being lobbed between candidates in the run-up to the election.

So with that context in mind, it should be said that my kind of blog requires a few things--some of which are positive and others may be....less than positive.

First, it requires an eye for the exceptional. Eeyore would not be a particularly good blogger. Ho-hum life does not make for interesting blogs. And here, I am not talking about an actual difference between the life of Eeyore and Pooh, let's say (Ok, who decided to name a cartoon character Pooh...?). The difference is not in available material, but in our perception. I am convinced that exceptional moments occur to each of us, but we do not always cultivate an awareness for them. I would say this attention to detail has certainly been a positive result of blogging.

Second, it seems that blogging almost always (unless you are talking about the extreme version of the 'personal experience' kind) requires a bit of a dry, ironic, sense of humor. A snarkiness, if you will. (I know that some people would call this 'sarcastic', but I am convinced that we have about as clear a definition for sarcasm as for 'irony'--and that's not real clear. But while we are on the topic of irony--see a previous post for the start of this monologue--I think I have actually found a good example. Customer service in the UK is awesomely bad. By American standards it is just bad, but I find myself enjoying the freedom to walk into a retail store without anyone asking me if they can help me. The only time it is a problem is when I need someone to help me and no one can be found. But, suffice to say that the customer service is poor. And if you read the blog last year you know about my disdain for the banking system. But, if you call the bank, it is the most incredible customer-friendly experience--especially if you compare it to the woman who tells me (about 30 times) that the insurance company really values my business but just doesn't have anyone to talk to me right now. That customer service dichotomy is ironic. Boom.) Anyway, before that rabbit trail, we were talking about a dry, ironic, sense of humor, which is required (seemingly) in the blogosphere. This might be a negative result of blogging. I am not sure that my cynicism needs to be fed.

And now I would write that blogging takes perseverance and commitment and blah, blah, blah, but I am tired. (My stamina has run down over the summer). So I am just going to stop (which might be another requirement--"Thou shalt know when you are rambling about a boring topic (aka, when you are trying too hard)."

Hopefully I do better next time.

And then I got beat by a three year old...

I think it's time to write about something completely, 100% positive, for a change.

That's right. No discussion of public transportation, or the foul smell that often accompanies that experience. No mention of long waits, inefficiency, or any of those things. Just a great moment from today.

I went for a run a little before dusk tonight. The timing of my exercise is all part of a masterful strategy to keep myself running. You see, I don't live in the best neighborhood, and have made an agreement that I won't be out gallivanting by myself at night (I have to say that this is something I typically try to avoid no matter where I live, but I digress). I have promised to take a taxi when I come back after the buses have stopped running and get all of my running in during the daylight hours. There have been some interesting 'new experiences' as a result of my new location (like the time two police cars drove in front of me down the trail I was running on to chase what we will call 'unidentified males who must be assumed to be alleged delinquents' into the forest--which I proceeded to continue to run around), but in addition to all of the adventure, the one thing that I really love is that I feel like I live in a neighborhood. There are tons of parks and they are almost always full with organized and semi-organized games, parents playing with their kids and families just hanging out. I really like that.

But in addition to that, the people are really friendly, and I have enjoyed my interactions with them. And tonight just adds to that experience.

So, as I mentioned, I was out for a mid-evening run (because if I run far enough that I have just enough time to get home before it is too dark, then I am forced to keep running), and had just turned at the half-way point. I was passing a popular bus stop and was relaxed by the number of people who were around (strength in numbers you know). I was checking out my surroundings--as any street-smart person would do, of course--and was puzzled by a sign that advertised that 'We Sell Mattresses'--which appeared to be in front of a random souvenir/things-that-no-one-needs-but-someone-will-pay-for shop, and I wasn't even really paying attention to this couple with their small daughter who were talking in front of the sign. As I looked forward after gawking into the junk store, I saw that the little girl had run away from her parents, and could hear them calling to her over the music streaming through my headphones.

It only took me about 2 seconds before I thought, "Is she trying to race me?" Well, I was about 20 minutes in to the run at this point and pretty set on my pace, so I didn't think about speeding up. And then about 10 ft later, it was confirmed. I had just gotten beat in a foot-race by a three year old.

She ran down the wide open platform area where the bus kiosk was located, and then when the side walk narrowed, she kind of awkwardly lunged across in what must have been the natural reflex to break the tape. Then she looked over her shoulder and just grinned up at me.

It was awesome.

I kept hoping that that little girl would have the same qualities she just demonstrated--fearlessness in front of foes with more advantages, determination, and competitiveness--when she is learning to read in 1st grade, learning to multiply in 5th grade, writing a five paragraph essay as a freshman, and applying to a selective college at the beginning of her senior year. If she is like the typical kid in the school district where she lives, then there are probably plenty of things in her life that are similar to racing a bigger, taller, older runner. But hopefully, she will win those races too.

And I ran the rest of the way home with a cheesy grin and lifted spirits. And I might have even run a little faster.

Isn't it ironic...Don't you think? No, Alanis, it probably isn't

Inspired by a friend who recently referenced Ms. Morisette's best-known (to me) song, let's talk about irony real quick. (No, in case you were wondering, I don't think rain on your wedding day is ironic, neither is meeting the man of your dreams and then his beautiful wife. This is just called 'bad luck'. Google it Alanis. And thanks for ruining the collective understanding of the literary term. Forever.)

Every time I go to buy a planner/agenda/schedule (something that I didn't even use until I went to Oxford), it seems like the year is divided by whatever system you are not on. I mean, if you are in school, you always manage to find a really great one that is based on the yearly calendar (starts in January and ends in January), and its great that you get it half-price because nine months have already passed, but when you go to write down anything past December 31st, it really is no help.

Then, if you are really into New Year's Resolutions--say, it seems like when you go to pick up your new planner on January 2nd, the only ones around are based on the school year. Although, that actually turns out pretty well--you know your resolution isn't going to last past May anyway.

Is this ironic? No, it's probably more of the Alanis Morisette variety, but my definition is distorted as well. But I'll tell you what is ironic--that I am blogging about paper planners, which I am sure are replaced by many people with blackberries, iPads, and Google Calendars.

Isn't it ironic....

That trains are the most expensive when the majority of people ride them? I mean, don't business principles teach us that increased demand drives down prices? And now, YOU (DC Metro) are price gouging me during rush hour?! (You know it had been TOO long since I talked about this).

Ok, you're right. This isn't really that 'ironic'. And everything I just said was untrue--when you have a decreased supply (in this case space on a STINKY public transportation vehicle) as a result of increased demand, you can charge more...even if said space is really stinky. (Yes, I was checking my armpits all the way home today to make sure it wasn't me. By the end, I couldn't be sure. Me and the stink were one.)

I am racking my brain, but have just come to a realization. My life is not ironic. I take this as a challenge.

I'll be back.

All I have done since my last post is eat...

Yes, I am back in one of those 'posting-funks'. Apologies for the irregularity of these messages. I have been hosting a few visitors--a friend from high school and my brother--and have been enjoying the opportunity to explore the city a bit more. But, the drawback is that any 'update the blog time' which I might have otherwise had has been spent watching tourists allow their children to swing from bar to bar in the metro, elbowing past tourists who stand right inside the metro door because they MUST hang onto that bar for dear life--thus blocking all of the remaining aisle standing space from the rest of us, and walking all over town while observing the overly large fannie packs (think a backpack of the groin region) and eavesdropping on entertaining conversations ("Yep. We should stop at the CVS on the way home and pick up some Cokes." Living it up in the big city.)

But when I haven't been doing those things, I have been having some fantastic culinary adventures. Just to tickle your tastebuds from afar and give you a few items to put on your food-to-do list (or your 'bucklet list' if you will--and if you are a certain relative of mine).

1. Good Stuff. Yes, that's the name of the restaurant. It's owned and operated by Spike, the former Top Chef contestant (yes, that is my favorite show). It is basically a classic burger and fries joint, but oh-so-much-better. If you have ever watched Top Chef and wondered "Would I like that?" The answer (in this case at least) is YES. I had been flipping through a Rachael Ray magazine about a year ago when I came across a Roasted Marshmallow Shake. Unfortunately, I never got around to trying it, and also, unfortunately, I didn't realize that the "Good Stuff Cookbook" from which it came was an actual place. Well, Saturday, I finally had the 'real thing'. And let's just say that it is probably good that I didn't try to make it myself, because it wouldn't have been as amazing. The fries were fresh cut and sprinkled with herbs with four different kinds of mayo sauces to dip in (yes, it was heaven.), and I am still thinking about the burger. (In other news, I am still trying to lose the weight that I most definitely gained in that hour. But, I would do it again. Every day. For the rest of my life.)

2. Unnamed-Ethiopian-Restaurant-on-U-Street

If you ever really want to find it, just go to Ben's Chili Bowl (apparently Barak Obama's favorite joint--at least that is what the 700 tourists lined up outside have been told). Once you get sick of the line at Ben's, just look across the street for the nearly empty restaurant that might have even lost power for the night (yes, that is a true story). Head on over, and enjoy being seated right by the front window. It is like being the mannequins at a department store. As you eat with your hands, you can be the selling point for others to come in and dig in to Ethiopian for the first time as well. As far as food goes, no utencils are required--that is what the "nerf-football" (as my brother has dubbed it) brown tortilla-like (but not really like) substance is for. Just wad that up and break into some egg yolk, meat of your choice, fresh veggies, and 'cottage cheese' (not like any cottage cheese I have ever had, but good all the same).

3. Jaleo--owned and operated by a judge on Top Chef--aka, he could have judged Spike (from Good Stuff)--enough said.

Pretty yummy Spanish tapas located right around the corner from the International Spy Museum. So after you work up an appetite after pretending to be Jack Bauer in Operation Spy--a terrific little simulation for young and old alike--you can get some bueno food. (Take that Spanglish). It is perfect for those who want to watch their intake. They will charge you entree prices for bite-sized dishes. It's like 100 calorie packs at a restaurant--buy yourself some self-control. The only difference is that instead of what appear to be freeze-dried oreo cookies that you get in your handy snack packs, you can get some legit flavors. My favorite was the greenbeans served well-seasoned with mango and ham. I'm serious. It was real good.

Randoms: For those moments when there just aren't words...

Yesterday, a co-passenger on the blessed DC Public bus that I was riding on hawked a lugie. Twice. Just to demonstrate how hard of a hawker he truly was, I was sitting in the front of the bus and he (I assume it was a he; it sounded like a he-hawker) was in the back. In other news, I had my headphones in and the volume up--all the way. I almost gagged when I heard it. I don't even want to think about what happend post-hawk (ergo propter hoc--that's for you Advanced Comp students everywhere). Let's just say I was thankful to be out of 'spit-shot' even if I wasn't out of earshot.

While we are talking about buses, it took me 8 hours to get home from Chicago (I flew. I know some of you were thinking that I might have driven--or run--in that time. Yeah, either option would have had to be really fast, but 8 hours?!). Just to put this all in context, it took my parents 9 hours to drive the rest of the way to Independence. I will no longer list 'convenient' under the list of things that public transportation is. Cheap? yes. Eventful? always. Smelly? Usually. Fast? I suppose all things are relative. Reliable? You don't want to see me when I get angry. Let's change the subject.

In other news, the 86 and 82 do not take the same route as the 81 and 83. Sure, it may seem like a good idea to get on them and 'see where they go' because they are sitting at the bus kiosk and you are impatient and don't want to wait. But don't do it. All you are going to get is:

1. Lost
2. Sweaty
3. And a long walk home

Just to throw in a little British reference for you, you may remember that I was quite frustrated initially--and throughout the year--with the inefficiences of the banking system. Tomorrow, I have to try to figure out how to transfer money to an RBS account (from a random bank that I have to figure out how to get to via the bus) in order to pay a bill that is due on Friday. Sound like a recipe for adventure/disaster? I think so.

If you have any ideas about meals that can be prepared with a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a sharp knife, please send them my way. I can already tell that I am going to get tired of cereal, sandwiches, and salads (and Lean Pockets--I don't know what I was thinking) real quickly. Maybe I'll get tired of eating too? Or not.

Fun....Priceless?

Hey, Mastercard. I don't buy this fun-(or-whatever-you-want-to-fill-in-the-blank-with-here)-is-priceless bit.

I can tell you exactly how much fun costs--at least in the world of my mother.

A pack of 12 legal pads costs $5.79 (according to Office Depot). A pack of twelve COLORED legal pads will run you $20.99. The colored legal pads are 'fun'. So, in this case, fun costs $15.20, or $2.53 per pad.

If you are in the market for sports bras (I have a friend, ok!), that colored undergarment will run you about seven bucks more than a dull grey one. Don't try to argue that no one will ever see it. That overlooks how much fun you will have every time you see it in your drawer or put it on in the morning. Fun costs $7.

Here are a few other things that are 'fun'.

• Bright colored tshirts (ok, some of you may be picking up a trend here...)
• A purple cell phone (nevermind whether it has the features you want)
• Eating at new restaurants

None of these are to be confused with items that are on the 'Bucket List'. Those things are like a euphoric level of fun. But that is a-whole-nother can of worms. And the subject of a future blog post I am sure.

**Permission was secured before poking fun of my mom's 'fun'.

Fashion and National security

As if the conspiracy and hypocrisy of the skinny jean were not strong enough already, I have anecdotal proof that other industries are in cahoots with the 'skinny movement'.

A few weeks before I left Oxford, I found these great new pants. Let's just say that MC Hammer would love them and that I could probably still fit in these pants if I gained 50 pounds. They are fashionable sweat pants (well, I suppose the 'fashionability' of these pants is up for debate). Due to the fact that I love sweatpants but have finally been shamed into not wearing them in public (at least not ALL the time), these updated/European-style Hammer pants were a glorious discovery. I love them. And I wear them. A lot.

They are especially great for travelling. You can avoid that, 'I am a complete slob in my workout clothes' look that I achieved faithfully for years, while still maintaining the needed comfort for international and domestic flights alike. So, every time I have flown for the last 2 months, I have worn these pants. And almost every time I have flown, I have been patted down.

Coincidence? I think not.

You see, the first time, I got the full-body pat. I thought that I was just being randomly checked, or that I had somehow attracted suspicion. But then it happened three more times. And on those subsequent times, they only patted me down from the waist down. And then on the last time, after patting down the girl in front of me (who was wearing gaucho pants), the woman said 'I am going to have to check you too'. It only took me about 5 seconds to figure out what me and the girl in front of me had in common--we were not wearing skinny jeans.

So now, in addition by a fashion industry that pedals increasing snug-fitting clothing, airport security has decided that loose-fitting clothing also poses a potential national security risk. Now that sounds like a conspiracy if I have ever heard one. Next thing you know, you are going to hear about the 'skinny special interests' who have been lobbying for tighter airline regulation and soon will seek to outlaw any clothing that does not appear to have been spray-painted on. I know you think it is crazy, but just wait.

The clothes will get tighter, MC Hammer and his fashion legacy will be forgotten, and those of us who cling (only metaphorically of course) to our comfortable clothing that allows us to breathe normally will only stand out more and more. The day is coming my friend.

Let me Give you the Skinny

I have just returned from a week of vacation. My ivory (bordering on clear) skin is rosy, and I am holding my breath that my red fades to some version of tan instead of bubbling and peeling. But I’ll take what I can get. The best part of vacation (ok, not the best part, but a good part) is making sure everyone who didn’t get to go on a sweet vacation knows that you did. And it will be a good reminder for me as my bum is going numb from sitting for 8 hours a day entering information into an excel spreadsheet (can you hear the anticipation mixed with excitement in my voice?).

As we (or I, in this case) speak, my parents and I are driving down the interstate in Indiana. We just left Michigan City, Indiana, a city of great tradition and history. You see, my family and I have been vacationing on the beach of Lake Michigan since I was three years old. And over the course of two-decades, you manage to develop a few traditions. Some include Jack in the Box in St. Louis (yes, I thought that Jack in the Box was THE greatest when I was growing up), completing math worksheets for prizes on the ride on the way up, and there was even a period where we jazzed up the Chrysler mini-van and removed the middle seat and installed a TV, VCR, and Sega Genesis. Sweet.

But the Chrysler mini-van rests in pieces in junkers across America, I have wised up regarding the truth about Jack in the Box, and my math days are long behind me. But one tradition has remained strong—the Michigan City outlet mall. Two and half hours (including stops at several blueberry and vegetable farms) from our final destination, we start every Saturday morning off with some back-to-school shopping.

This year, I decided to work on applying some new self-discipline to my purchasing habits—what I am calling “if you don’t need it, don’t buy it”. Yes, I know. This is a novel concept. But it took lots of inner-dialogue to arrive at the conclusion that while, “No, I don’t have that shirt in that exact style in that exact color, but you already have two v-neck tshirts so even though those are $1 off, you probably don’t need to buy 14 more so that you can wear them for two weeks straight without ever doing laundry.” A valuable lesson to be sure.

But there was one thing that I never even considered buying.

The “Super Skinny Jean”.

Let’s just be frank about skinny jeans of all varieties—particularly the ‘super skinny’ design. You see, when I saw the physics-defying pants on the hanger, the irony and contradiction of the label hit me right between the eyes. Because, I thought, surely they don’t make those in sizes larger than 6. I mean, after all, those of us full-sized, normal, healthy, and fit women who wear larger than size 6 are many things, but we are NOT super-skinny (and there is no reason to feel badly about that fact). But let’s not pretend that super-skinny jeans will miraculously make us look super-skinny. They will likely just look like we bought our clothing 8 sizes too small, and further more the only thing that will be super about them is that they will be super-uncomfortable.

And furthermore Gap (that’s right, I am talking to you), ‘super-skinny’ jeans for the 0-6s are a bit redundant. I have never seen a pair of 0s that makes ANYONE look super-fat, let alone full-figured. So let’s rethink the strategy a little bit.

Check back soon. More to come...