Kettle's Yard and Diablo Cody

It snowed on Easter Sunday! I got excited and ran out of the house to take pictures without a house key. Oh well, caught up with KT and Will and Hannah before I got too cold. Pictures coming soon...

Work is going well, and my co-worker, S., and I are going to go see another co-worker of ours in a production of "A chorus line" which is nice because I like her and because I like going out, though I am not a big fan of musicals. Should be fun anyways.

Went and saw Kettle's Yard, which is this guy's house that has been turned into a museum. This dude, Jim Ede, was a curator for the Tate Gallery (a museum in London) and so he has great modern paintings and just a great house and they don't treat it like a museum, you have to ring a bell to be let in and they encourage you to do things like sit in the furniture and read his books. He did have a great house. Not fancy but comfortable and really really well designed and with great paintings. I had never heard of the painter Alfred Wallace before but I am now a definite fan.
There is also a gallery space at Kettle's Yard and they were showing some experimental animation and I saw it. It was nice, good rainy day afternoon (and it was a rainy day).

Then I went and spent too much money on that book that Diablo Cody wrote (she also wrote the screenplay for "Juno"). I thought that it would be cheaper (because I bought it second hand), but then I got to the till and found out that it was twice what I had thought. I bought it anyway because I am a coward.

opinion of the book: eh. Interesting, but ultimately, eh.

Ummmm.... that's really all the news from this week.

A Tale of Two Converse

For Easter my sister bought me a pair of white, Converse low-tops and a box of jelly bellies. Your inner monologue-voice is probably remarking something along the lines of "shoes? for easter? why not." But if you allow me to escort you back a few weeks, you will realize that white Converse low-tops are a brilliant gift.

Two and a half weeks ago I discovered that I was missing a shoe. A white, Converse low-top (keep reading! I promise that this blog will be more interesting than a brief story about replacing a pair of shoes). I wasn't terribly worried, as I lose and then find things all the time. I am not very organized. The Lost Shoe never came to light and I mourned it as a lost friend, because it had come to me via two friends of mine. My junior year I lived with two girls, J. and M. (and C. as well, but only for a quarter and while I like her lots she isn't necessary to this story). M.'s mother had bought the shoes for her because she needed white shoes for Jew Camp (I don't remember why). She then decided that she couldn't pull them off and gave them to J. J. wore them for a while and then decided that she didn't want them anymore and gave them to me. They were already broken in and a perfect shade of dirty white and had some hearts and stars that M. had drawn on them when she was a teenager. Plus, they were free! I didn't wear the shoes that often for the next few years, then I grew to love them and it was a stable, supportive relationship that was based on friendship that grew into love. They comforted and supported my feet (and were free!) and I made them look really cool by wearing high-end fashion. Ok, not really. Most of my jeans are frayed somewhere or have holes, but that's what you wear with beat up Chuck Taylors. Anyways, they were never found. KT and I think that they were thrown into the pile of shoes that lives in between an armchair and a stack of newspapers intended for the recycling, and was accidentaly gathered up and tossed into the bin. Or martians stole it. One or the other.
Which is why a complete pair of white, Converse low-tops were a great gift.

Your inner monologue-voice is probably saying to you right now "that's nice Em, too bad about your shoe, but why should I care?" Because that is the SECOND converse low-top that I have lost in Europe.

I was in France seven years ago for a five week language trip. We stopped at the Gorges du Tarne to regroup after our homestays. We went spelunking (cave exploring) in two groups. I was in the first group and the next group went the day after mine did. The cave was cold and wet and we came out caked in red clay. They had outfitted us with jumpsuits and helmets (with flames at the front, not battery operated flashlights, which was a mistake because someone accidently burned the helper-guide as he helped her up an incline.) So no ones clothes suffered, just our shoes. So, I lent my maroon converse to a girl in the second group because she didn't want to get her white shoes mucky. After they went spelunking we met them and went canoing down a river (that had mild rapids! wheee!). She took the shoes off and was rinsing them in the water when her boat tipped over and she lost hold of one. So, there's a maroon Converse shoe swirling around the waterways of France that once belonged to me.

I just had an image of myself traveling across Europe and liberally sprinkling it with converse low-tops.

Housewifery!

Going to play with Nick in London tomorrow! Hurrah! No babysitting, the only beers I am going to encounter are going to be my own, and I get to hang out in a big city, with Nick! Hurrah for Nick! AND because I haven't been spending any money, I am going to take the train! I love the train! I am going to make myself a train mix to listen to, while riding the train! The train!

Umm, nothing exciting today. Baby-sat, made mediocre soup (cooked it for too long and the beans disintegrated), generally was a housewife all day.

Maybe something liiiiiiiike..

This!:



But actually, most likely more along the hair falling out of a ponytail, rice cereal all over the shirt, rings under the eyes type of housewife. Which is good too.

Man Mumbles Muzzily

Yesterday a regular showed up during the day, instead of in the evening when his friends are there. We will call him Pint of Carling (PoC) because that is what he drinks and he makes a big deal of my knowing his drink, which I know despite his being neither creative nor charming and the fact that he drinks a really run of the mill drink (pint of lager? everyone drinks pints of lager! puh-leeze) (the secret to getting a bartender to remember you/your drink is 1.) to order something simple and memorable, maybe in a different glass or with an exact number of ice cubes, like Simon who orders a double vodka in a coke glass, filled to the top with ice and topped off with soda. easy peasy so the bartender won't mind but different and 2.) going to the bar A LOT and ALWAYS ordering the same unique beverage). As his friends weren't around to talk to him, he talked to me. Actually, he talked at me. I can't understand his thick, regional, British accent and he had drunk quite a few pints by the time he ambled off. Also, from what I COULD extract from his muzzy speeches he wasn't talking about anything interesting (the fact the he's a builder (=construction worker) and that the television is going digital and about tv shows that I had never heard of, because I do not have access to tv here). I said "yeah" a lot and gave him a lot of tight-lipped, un-encouraging (not discouraging, un-encouraging. that spelling was on purpose) smiles. The conversation went something like this:

Our Hero: (perkily) same again?
Pint of Carling: yeah. muzzlemuzzlemuzzledronebuzzz...where do you go, when you go out?
OH: oh, I don't go out that often, but I like the Eagle.
PoC: wizzlewazzlebuzzdronewhumpfwhumpf... what's you're drink?
OH: beer usually, but it depends.
PoC: Oh, whooshhibblehobblespinklydoinkeydoinkhoohahsnapcracklepop
OH: yeah?
PoC: You know Brut bottles, the aftershave, you know Brut? In the army whizzmumblemumbleqwertyrowbibblebabble...
OH: Sure (nods heads sagely, has a faint idea that he is talking about aftershave)
PoC: The label after that one (gestures towards a bottle of Smirnoff over OH's right shoulder, it has a red label) it's black. Over there they call it afterdark (I don't really remember) because it's over 100% and they can't classify it.
OH: Like Everclear?
PoC: Those girls and their cokes out there (note: there was no one else in the pub at this point)... buzzbuzzsoxrockspoxhoobywhatyinthespimspamtincanblarblarblar... with bottles of vodka in their purses, you know what I mean (and leers at OH as if he's said something naughty, which sends the alarm bells clanging in OH's head and she wonders if he's hitting on her and that she'll have to find a way of politely putting him off without irritating him and the other regulars, then realizes that he's talking about people going to a pub and sneaking booze in so they won't have to pay for it, and the emergency subsides)

OH smiles and mumbles something about having to put glasses away and she escapes for a few minutes (but he lingers, and she has to talk again, though she gives up all hope of understanding him at this point because he is about 7 pints under and could be speaking in tongues for all she knows. that's enough third person for a while).

On a better note, I had a nice converstation later that day with another regular (whom I could understand) about immigrants in schools and the language problems and gang problems that come with many people from other cultures converging in one place (do you converge on or do you converge in? amend the previous sentence in your head if you know the correct form/care). It takes all kinds to keep a pub afloat.

I looked at my phone today to check the time (I don't often look at my phone, which is why I can start this story with that sentence) and noticed that I had a text message. I thought to myself: "hurrah! I love getting text messages!" and eagerly opened it up (no pedantry, please. I realize that I did not physically open my phone to get to the message).
It was from a temp agency that I half signed up with (did the internet sign-up and never got around to going in for the rest of my registration because I got a job that I actually wanted). The agency places people temporarily as secretaries and data-entry people and telephone answerers etc. BUT! to me, lucky little me, they sent a message asking me to call them because they need a cleaner on Mondays.
A CLEANER?!?
I decline to call them back.

In Which Our Hero Valiantly Refrains From Adding Another Recipe.

Today's highlights were all food related, which leads me to post an ode to food, specifically today's food. I need to think of more synonyms for food, like "repast" and "sustenance" but then I have to work them in without: having to try too hard, or sounding disjointed. But that's my problem, not yours.

Started off as usual with bran flakes and sultanas (are they raisins? I dunno. They taste like even sweeter raisins.) which, as I have said, is my usual morning repast (HA! Emily: 1. Imagined Adversary: 0.) but Sainsbury's bran flakes are nicer than any other bran flakes I have had (the sibling heartily agrees with me) and are substantially less reminiscent of cardboard. But then I made the ragu for a lasagna that I was planning for tonight's dinner. It was ok, the tomatoes were surprisingly acidic and it was a really beefy-tasting and beefy-in general sauce. This part is really setting the scene for the dinner part of the post, so bear with me.

Then I went to work. I walked and listened to my iPod instead of biking and really enjoyed it. Which is not part of the theme, but whatever, it's my blog. C. told me that 2 of the regulars, St. and D., are "loops" (her word, not mine). One has schizophrenia and the other (she said) smokes too much weed (is that a mental problem? I have met kids who smoke so much that they are perma-stoned, but they're pretty functional).

For lunch C. or T. usually makes me a plate of chips (french fries) which in England constitutes a meal. But instead C. gave me a plate of both lentil, green bean, and tomato curry as well as lamb roghan josh with rice. Good, but really spicy and heavy on the cardamom (out of the ordinary food experience #1).

Then at 4 T. got back from walking the dog (she is a tiny, absurd, black mop of a half-grown puppy with a little ewok face, named Stella). He produced a pastry box and told me that I could take a chocolate cake from it and have it for my tea (note: this is the first time during my stay in England that anyone has mentioned tea-the-meal, people talk about tea-the-beverage all the time but, surprisingly, never the meal). It was... it was... indescribable. It was about 2.5 inches high and 2 across and was 3 layers of cake with chocolate mousse between the top 2 layers and ganache between the bottom 2. The whole thing was covered in luscious, buttery chocolate (caveat to the repetition challenge approached in paragraph 1: chocolate has no synonym. And no substitute. I am talking to YOU, carob).
That was the highlight of my day, and extraordinary food experience #2.

Once I got home I started work on the lasagna with the lackluster sauce. It was useless to fiddle with the sauce and try to make it a stand-alone masterpiece because the ragu is not the point of a lasgna (or any sort of casserole, the point of a casserole [according to me] is how well ingredients fit together and compliment each other). The second obstacle was that I hadn't bought regualar mozzarella at the store, it was fresh mozzarella (apparently "dry" mozzerella is an American thing). So grating was out (the cheese is too squishy). Instead I cut it into thin slices (too few slices it turned out). Also, KT and Will do not have a plain old square pan for things like lasagnas. So I had to cook it in the grill pan (it has 2 parallel troughs in the bottom, one at each end, which caught a lot of the sauce). I was also worried that the sauce was not runny enough to cook the no-boil noodles.
Ultimately, though, the lasagna was great, though generic, Which is fine, because it meant that there were no problems. Despite an excessively meaty sauce, a strange pan, too few slices of the wrong cheese, and potentially problematic noodles there were no issues . The sauce had depth and wasn't runny, the cheese was nice: stringy and salty, and the noodles were a perfect consistency (not squishy, not tough as toe-nails). And possibly best aspect of all: even though KT, Will, and I ate ourselves into people-skins stuffed with lasagna (KT and I each had 2 servings. Will had 4), there are leftovers for lunch in the fridge.

Itchy Feet and Solitary Drinkers

Getting Itchy Feet. Been in England 4 weeks and I am getting a little bit antsy. It's frustrating to look at guide books etc. and try to find places that I want to visit in the future because I want to visit them nowww.
Enough whining.
Today while I was working a day shift at The P. a tall, Middle-Eastern kid approximately my age wearing a swanky leather jacket over a dougboy belly and a huge expensive watch on his wrist came in. He ordered a double whiskey and downed it in 2 minutes and asked for another. He sat down for that dose and I noticed that his hands were shaking. He asked for a third and went into the other room. I wanted to run after him and ask him what was wrong (pure curiosity) but didn't know how to go about it. Instead, I thought of some interesting possibilities:

1.) lovelife gone awry.
2.) He was middle-eastern (thick accent too) and in my head's version of the world the middle-east isn't terribly stable and maybe his father is an oil magnate and maybe his sister was kidnapped and is being held for ransom.
3.) Lost too much money at the track.
4.) Less interestingly, he just got kicked out of school.
5.) Even less interestingly, some project of his just lost funding and he let his whole department down and everyone was counting on him and he failed them.
6.) This is where I got depressed about my lack of ingenuity and quit thinking of scenarios.

The day shift is always interesting because that's when the solitary drinkers show up. For example, the Professor (my boss tells me that he is a lecturer) showed up today, but he only drank 3 double-vodka tonics instead of the impressive 5 I once served him (10 shots of vodka all before 3:30 pm). And then there's Simon and his drinks. He shows up around 4:30 and calls me "darling" and "my lovely" and always asks me how my day has been. He's less patronising than he initially was, and always seems genuine rather than lecherous when he asks me how my weekend has been. He's really into being a regular and part of that involves charming the barmaid so that she knows your drink and your name. And I do. He drinks a double house vodka tonic in a coke glass full of ice and topped off with soda, and his name is Simon.

Funny story about regulars:
I was baby-sitting Hannah and pushing the pram up the street and I passed Stevie (rather creepy regular). As I was pushing a pram that was obviously full of baby, and I am old enough to legitimatly pass as a mother I gave him a huge, radiant smile. He grimaced/smiled and walked a little faster in the other direction.

Positive Feedback Mechanisms

Kind of what the boss did today. I.e. when I was getting ready to leave work today he looked around the door and said "you did really well today, Emily." And I smiled. Today WAS a good day, despite the positive feedback. It was about time to have a good day, too. Good days put things into perspective, and give me a border between Now and Then. As in: Now I can see that boss being a jerk was clearly boss being a jerk, and had little to do with me (thanks. Esteli, for the support, it was really nice to read your comment) because Then I didn't know what I was doing. Then is not Now and is over (because it is now Now), and I have figured out the thing that makes Now not Then anymore (assuming that Now is better than Then, which in this case it is, because I am not nostalgic for Then, no siree!). I am not sure if that was clear, but I have decided that I don't really care. Maybe if I diagram it mathematically:

Now ≠ Then instead, Now > Then put another way, Then + A Good Day = Now

But this is where my analogy falls to pieces and has no real relation to math because A Good Day is entirely incalculable, and you can't reverse the sum of A Good Day, Now, and Then. (Har de har har, that was really really terrible and nonsensical and I promise that it will never happen again).

The P. showed rugby matches, all day, and about 20 people showed up, and stayed all day, drinking pint after pint of Guinness. I had to be on my toes about collecting the empty glasses because at one point we were on the verge of running out of Fosters glasses (the ones we use for lager and Guinnes in general, if the lager is not Stella Artois because we have those glasses) and then I would have had to use the Stella glasses. Which wasn't a big deal, but oh well, there was no one else in the pub and I had a good time barging and banging around picking up glasses while the game was going and generally being a nuisance. When I left there was a large crowd of cheerfully wasted lesbians (I assume, because they looked pretty butch and English women go out of their way to look really feminine) and a couple with their son snuggled together on one of the couches and some twenty-something guys, as well as some older guys. Everyone was happily buying each other pints and had rosy cheeks and smiles and would cheer or boo at the screen with vigor.

Their jollity spilled over into the next room and T. and I would occasionally comment to each other that we really liked this crowd. I silently added that I liked it much better than the football crowd. They are large oafs and talk exactly like oafs (low and with some sort of idiot muted tone to their voice, a lot like when girls pretend to talk like guys, or as if they're speaking through blankets) and have no sense of humor and are hard to understand because they are so sullen and oaf-like.

And then as I was leaving T. complimented my work. I was elated (hurrah! I figured it out!) and Pissed. I wanted to run after him, grab him by the shoulder and point out that a lot of grief could have been avoided had a) I been trained properly and b) he'd been nicer and more open about pointing out my mistakes as I made them.

Grrrr. + Hurrah! + Tipsy Rugby Fans = Today.

To be Fair...

I have embroiled myself in a murky situation. I am currently very unhappy with my job. I get told off at least once a day, which is something that I, and I believe most people, dislike. T. has a short, sharp, temper and allows me the pleasure of experiencing it frequently, but he almost always says some sort of implied apology "I always get grumpy in the kitchen..." type of thing later and is sunny the rest of the day.

For example:
I, apparently, have been late to almost all of my day shifts (12 - 5). Even though I would show up as soon as the big hand reached the XII. But I found out recently that I am supposed to be behind the bar BY 12. And this is where it gets tricky: was I supposed to know this? Was I being dense or out to lunch/incompetant? Because it is a standard practice, in the US and out that when an employer asks you to be in at a time they mean they want you to be completely ready to work by that time. Or did T not inform me properly of his expectations?
That resulted in the worst telling off of them yet.

Or another example:
A table was not cleared for a while. I was helping other people and so was unable to clear said table. But is this a real justification? It's one of those situations where I feel if I were stronger/faster/smarter/more alert I could have helped everyone in line AND taken care of the table at the same time all without being told to do it. As a result of that telling off I watch people until I see the last forkful of food enter their mouths, and then I leap over tables and push patrons out of the way in order to grab their plates.

Most of the other situations were like that. Was I being useless/incompetant/spineless? Or did I honestly not know? Are my excuses legitimate? Or should I have known better?
The really upsetting thing is that I can't shake the feeling that I really am useless and unaware. I may tell myself "to be fair, self, it's probably a little of both. You being a little bit of a slow learner and them being unimpressive bosses" but there's always the part of me that whispers "it wouldn't be a problem if you were smarter/stronger/quicker."

I am looking for another job.

Tom, who drinks IPA

A regular at the P. is Tom, who drinks IPA. I know this because he once said to me "I'm Tom, and I drink IPA."
Someone once left about a fifth of a pint on the bar. I saw Tom sidle up to it and regard the glass for a moment. He put his own pint down next to it, picked up the forgotten drink, looked from side to side, downed it, and put the now empty glass back on the bar. He then slipped away with his own beer. I was stunned.

Post Birthday Post

It was my 23rd birthday last Sunday. Nick came up from London and we went out (see previous post) he also stayed for dinner the next night. For dinner Saturday night KT and Will resurrected what was left of the white bean and kale soup (see previous x 2(?) post) and tweaked it. We had eaten all of the kale out of it so KT and Will added lots of cabbage and more beans. We were all sitting there eating it and suddenly Nick stops and gulps and says, very politely "Um,excuse me, did I just swallow a lump of cheese?" Caitlin and I laughed excessively because it had been part of the parmesan rind that I had cooked with the soup, neglected to remove and, then stored in the broth for a few days, then reheated, and fed to Nick. I assume that it was a very unpleasant experience and I tell the story as a cautionary tale to people who flavor their soups with parmesan rind and then forget about it. Also because Nick was so shocked and presumably grossed out yet so incredibly polite about the whole thing.
Sunday was my actual birthday. Nick and I wandered around Cambridge all day (ate a "full English" breakfast, bought books at a church book sale [that had 5 copies of Pride and Prejudice, 2 of which we bought], drank cappucinos and toured some of the colleges etc.). For dessert that night KT made a rockin' bread pudding with rhubarb sauce and Will found a candle and they sang me happy birthday and gave me 2 scarves.
A very good birthday.

It was also "Mothering Sunday" which is some sort of English mothers day. For mothering Sunday Will wanted to take a picture of Hannah holding a sign saying "Happy Mothering Sunday!" and frame it for KT. So we spent something like 2 hours trying to get a good picture of the baby holding the sign. I would line up the shit and Will would dance around yelling "smile hannah, smile. Hi hihihihihihihihi, HURRAY FOR THE BABY!" and other similar things to get her to smile. We got some good ones, but then realized that in order to have them printed they needed to be on the cameras memory card, but they weren't because we had just put them on my computer to see them and choose the best one. So we had to go throught the whole rigamarole again but Hannah was out of smiles. She wasn't unhappy or fussy, just unwilling to smile. I ended up pinning the sign to her shirt and taking pictures of Will walking her around the flat. We got a decent one but we were both over the project by then.
Here is the cutest picture of Hannah:

Nick + Emily = Goo(f?)d Times

If it looks like a duck and swims like a duck, it probably is Emily and Nick. We come to you after a successful infiltration of the King's College Pub. That's right, BOTH of us are writing this post!

After meeting Emily at the Parkside coach stop in Cambridge, the evening started off with an intruction to Hannah and bean and cabbage soup (with an emphasis on the cabbage). Emily and I decided we needed a proper night out.

So we headed to the Eagle for a stiff drink before braving the King's College pub (because technically we weren't allowed in). While Nick headed to the bar to get drinks, I went to find us a table. The only table that I could find was in a fireplace. I am not yanking your chains folks, it was fo' sho' in a fireplace. We both have the bumps on the backs of our heads to prove it.

After observing that Emily was the only woman in the place defying the rule of ordering a glass or wine or mixed drink (or at least a Shandy [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shandy]), we decided it was time to move on. After getting turned around several times, we finally found ourselves at the imposing gate of King's College. Emily finessed the mobility-student-abroad cover, getting us past the porter and into the surprisingly modern pub.

While Nick claims that I "finessed" getting past the porter, it was more of a hubbub as Nick and I both claimed that I was a member of the college. The porter bought it (SUCKER!!!!) and let us in. The pub was reminiscent of a university lounge that happened to sell liquor. Nick and I bought our drinks and took over a couch to gape at the local fauna. Man, they were totally drunk. Some guy all dressed up but with an unbuttoned shirt sat down infront of us. I decided that no, I was no longer Emily-the-BA-from-UCSC, I was Emily-semester-abroad-from-UCB-who-was-studying-modern-english-history. Simply because it meant that I belonged, my university had name recognition and as KT studies modern English history I figured that I was just foreign enough and with enough special knowledge to make the lie work perfectly. It seemed to, but then the guy was so drunk that he spilled my beer, offered to buy me a new one, toddled off and never came back.

We met our new drunken friend by observing him as he lost his balance in a tousle and landed face-first on the floor. He explained his inebriated state as part of the celebrations following his [what we would call] crew "bumping," to which we're both still unsure of the meaning. Apparently, he had gotten into a "fight-club" with a friend of his as was evidenced by the blood stain on the sleeve of his shirt. After finishing my beer and realizing that Emily's was not going to be replaced, we went in search of the loo. From searching several twisting and turning corridors, we found our selves in the uni Bop, which was a depressingly empty attempt at a club.

Nick turned the corner, took a one second look at the dance floor and laughed like it was the funniest thing on earth. I burst out laughing as well because I know exactly what an unattended uni dance with bad music looks like (Nick says that the few people attending the bop laughed sheepishly with him). We laughed all the way back into the pub and down the other hallway into the toilets. Which were fancy. There were seats at lighted mirrors in the girls room. I wanted to take up residence there, it was so comfortable. But not really because it was a semi-public toilet. I was feeling over-whelmed by then and so I convinced Nick to leave. While trying to leave King's College I encountered the door out onto the street, which was ancient and locked. The porter waiting there to let people out explained that it was locked because it was after 11. Clearly, Nick and I would appear to be outsiders if something wasn't put right, so I said in my blondest/drunk-bimbo-est voice "oh, it's after 11...?" and went through the door. We were out scot-free. I am not sure if I can get away with it again. Maybe on a friday instead of a saturday?

We laughingly stumbled our way home along the route of a 400-year-old canal to end up at Caitlin's to write this post for you. Cheer's from Cambridge!