Yes. That's right. I'm not British.

I know I should get over it, but five years on, and the one thing that rattles me to the core is incinuations that as I'm not British, I have no right. I suppose this type of thing happens in any country where your accent/ethnicity/sexual preference/age/etc doesn't jive with the locals, but as we all know, it doesn't make it right.

It is infuriating. It makes me so angry, so upset, so frustrated, so pissed off and so astounded that my nationality should factor into an argument (where it has no bearing on the outcome), and yet, I know, and anticipate, that it will come to play in most contentious situations.

Today I've had the pleasure of dealing with a lovely citizen who insists that my 'incompetant' 'irresponsive' 'inadequate' team address her problem. Besides the abuse that we get to take, the actual problem is that her problem isn't ours. It's like calling the water company and insisting that they turn the electricity back on. And when you explain this to her, she goes off on a tirade about how rude, cocky, obnoxious you are...and then states, and 'you aren't even British, are you'?

To which I responded, correct. Calmly. Cooly. And then she continues to rant about how rude this makes me. And how 'dare I come into Britian and not take her, a tax paying resident, seriously'.

So in my collective calm rage, I inform her that I will not take her abuse any further and that I will be ending the...click. She hangs up on me. I don't even get the pleasure of hanging up on her.

I wish I knew of a term to express the emotions that this type of behaviour conjures in me. I want to cry. I shake my head in disbelief. I am angry. I want to smash things. I want to be calm. And I want to get one up on the offender. I'm taking suggestions for a new word, or at least, for words I can look up in the dictionary that best describe this feeling....

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers....or something like that

Ever have one of those weeks where you realize karma/the world/your god may be trying to humble you?

This has been one of those weeks for me.....

On Wednesday I went to my new uber expensive, far too posh and completely unaffordable gym. It was beautiful. Each machine has a television built into it (look at my carbon footprint skyrocket), the changing rooms are really pretty, there's free internet access and of course, there's the 'shaker plates' (power plates to be exact). However the gym is not conveniently located and really it's going to be a b*tch trying to use it on public transport alone. As I found out....I hoped a bus and was told that it 'kinda went past Bramley', so I decided to take a chance. Bad move. Where the bus should have entered Bramley it veered right into another neighbourhood known as Farsley (or something like that). Except the road to Farsley is between a river bank and another hill, so it takes a bit to actually get anywhere. So I panicked and pressed the button and was promptly dropped off at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. So I got off and walked back to the main area (about a 5 minute walk) and started climbing the hill to the next bus stop. I texted to find out when the next bus would appear and it was 25 minutes, and not even a bus that was going 'my way'. Then it started to rain. I trudged onwards and upwards, feeling mightly sorry for myself. And then, I heard a bus behind me. I looked around and there was the '49' - the bus I needed, and here's me, nowhere near a bus stop. As the 49 rolled past, I threw my hands up in dispair, pissed off at this turn of events.

And then the brake lights shone through the dark night and the bus stopped in the middle of the road. And I ran up, not quite sure to believe what had happened. And the nicest bus driver in the world let me on...and I will always have a soft spot in my heart for him.

Today I walked to the train station in the cold rain. The train was crammed, as per usual, so I had to stand, as per usual. Unfortunatley for me, I felt a lovely hypoglycemia attack coming on. I tried to 'breathe it out' - that didn't work. I squatted, pretending to look for something in my bag, and that helped. But as soon as I stood up to get off the train, the dizziness washed over me. I walked to the chairs on the platform, desperate to sit down. I did. I waited five minutes, breathing and plotting my next move. I was on a platform with no candy machine or muffin shop, which meant no access to sugar. Sweet sweet sugar, the food of life, or at least one in which you don't go dizzy and pass out.

I thought I could make it to the lift (elevator) and then to the starbucks for some sort of croissant or danish (tasty). I started walking and realised, nope, can't make it to the lift. I turned back and realised I couldn't make it back to the chairs. So I squatted against a wall (I hate the term squat because it just reminds me of peeing in a bush). And then, two sweet angles - a couple about 55ish, came up and asked if I was ok. I couldn't really see them (due to blurred vision as I was recovering from almost passing out), and I said I was 'fine, just having a bit of a low blood sugar attack'. They asked if I had anything to drink on me, and I said no, and then he said, 'here, have my orange juice'. And he handed me this litre of orange juice, which was clearly packed for the picnic they were going to have on their day out. I took it and had to chug from the bottle, and they made sure I was doing ok before they panicked about catching their next train. I desperately tried to give them money for the orange juice (since they didn't exactly want it back), but they refused and went off.

So yeah, somehow or another, I'm being humbled. And I got some tasty orange juice for free out of it all....

:)

Mother Dearest

Monday. It didn't matter that I had managed to get away earlier than usual from work and felt mildly liberated because of it, it still felt like a long day. Switching from one train to the next, I squeezed myself between the luggage shelves near the door rather than walk further into the carriage to grab a seat. I sat, swinging my legs, and resting my head, counting down the minutes till I would be walking home.

Beside me, a mother stood, leaning down on the buggy holding her son, about one. In tow was son two, about three. Assuming the worst, as I always do, when it comes to public transportation families during rush hour, I closed my eyes and willed myself away from the situation. I suppose the shiny puff bomber jacket with the accompanying gold hoops and tight pony tail were more the reason for the need to escape, but the kids still didn't seem promising.

However, I was proved quite wrong. The three year old, being a three year old, felt the need to explore and play. When permitted he explored the bits of paper left on the floor and excitidely showed his finds to his younger brother. Perhaps the cutest part of these adventures were his ruffled blonde hair and big smile, complimented by his argyle print sweater over his button up top - sooooo adorable. However, while he was having fun and not in any way annoying any of the disgruntled, child hating commuters, his mother was having none of it. Instead, she would hiss, 'SSSit down'....then smile politely to the rest of us, as if showing us her parenting skills.

As the train pulled away from the station, the three-year old turned his attention to the passing scenery. Soon the modern flats gave way to the rows upon rows of brick rowhouses, and the boy excitedly perked up....

'Mommy Mommy, are we going to go see Daddy? Are we going to where Daddy lives? Is that where Daddy lives? Does he live there? Where's Daddy? Do we get to see Daddy?'

To which Mommy replies, 'Shut up. Sit down. We aren't going to go see Daddy'.

The excitement fading, the little boy, turns from the window and, innocence boy wonder voice immediately replaced with impersonating Mommy voice of,

'No. We don't get to go see fucking Daddy. Fucking Daddy isn't around. It's because we're bastards. No seeing fucking Daddy today, not for little bastards.'

...true story....i kid you not.

I suppose the saddest part of this tale is that these cute little boys will, in ten years time, be terrorizing the streets and wearing their ASBOs with pride....

A year on...

Musings:

Musing One:

So it's been a year since I've started this job and just over a year of me being in the country. Strange how quickly it has gone! However, and I've known this from past experience, being away from home for over a year is just toooooo long. I really miss my family and friends, and sometimes you just need to sleep in a familiar bed! I think the missing also comes from the fact that on days like today, when you know everyone else is celebrating a Canadian holiday and having to do the whole 'family supper' thing, you really miss having the holidays to share with people. I can attempt to recreate the holiday here, but no-one really gets it - which is difficult...I suppose try as I might I don't 'get' British holidays, but I do try (I think 'fireworks day' is a great holiday)! When I tell people I'm making pumpkin pie, all they do is call me strange...le sigh

Musing Two:
FALL is an excellent season, and being out in the sticks/suburbs/back country/boonies/etc lets me appreciate it more (bonus to the back and beyond)! I went on an ace walk exploring our new neighbourhood yesterday and it was the most beautiful weather with some amazing colours. Right now a lot of the ivy on the houses are turning into a brilliant red colour and they look soooo pretty. I should have taken pictures of it all but at the time I just wanted to enjoy it. Plus at one point I wandered into a rough-as-f**k council estate and thought that just being there was a hazard to my health, let alone if I was advertising cheap electronic goods.

Musing Three:
Royal Mail has gone on strike again (they've been on and off strike all summer - resulting in waiting in line to post packages for over half an hour). They went on strike on Thursday to Saturday PM, and are back on strike today till Wednesday. This means we won't get mail delivered for almost a week and as it is, they have said that delivering mail is of the lower priority (isn't that their job) for when they do return to work. Now everyone who knows me knows that I LOVE getting the mail (call me grandma). Not getting the mail is not pleasing to me. Not getting it for an indefinate period of time is also not very pleasing...nor is knowing that I paid the post office a nice chunk of change for re-delivery and that I'm not getting my total number of days worth is upsetting me - and will be expanded on in a nice letter, which I'll attempt to post, but probably won't get anywhere because they will have gone on strike and refused to deliver the letter.

I'll get back to work now - saving further musings for another day.

'lyrics' to express the moment

Our house. It's our castle and our keep.
Our house. At the end of the street.
Our house that is where I will sleep.
Our house. At the end of the street.

M picked up the keys today at lunch.

After work we are gonna have a picnic and sit (on lawn chairs) in our new living room.

Then we will clean.

But we will be cleaning OUR house...and not a rental.

I'm sooo excited.
I just can't hide it.
I'm about to lose control and I think I like it.

The cauliflower controversies

Today I attended our Annual General Meeting (AGM), which was preceded by a catered lunch. As per typical British catered meals there were numerous mayonnaise based sandwiches on white bread with the crusts removed (hehe) as well as quiches, sausage rolls and cheese pastries. Fine. Then on the middle table there was an assortment of raw vegetables with different dips. Also fine...except it wasn't.

Apparently the raw veg was causing a quite a few of my colleagues a bit of confusion, as they could not comprehend why anyone would serve cauliflower raw. Statements were thrown about, such as:
-who eats cauliflower raw?
-who would think to eat cauliflower raw?
-I'd never eat it raw!
-you're crazy for eating it that way!

All of this was a shock to me. I've always viewed cauliflower as an acceptable raw veg to eat. It's tasty raw - it has a bit of a tangy bite to it! It is fun to dip in ranch-style dressings (but then again the Brits don't have Ranch dressing so this is in itself an anomaly), etc.

Pressing further into this debate I asked my co-worker (granted this next bit is based on one Brit's opinion and therefore I shouldn't be passing it off as representative of the country, but I am), whether she would eat broccoli raw. She concluded that while it can be done, because it's like eating carrots raw, she's never done it. Nor has she ever had cauliflower or broccoli in a salad.

I'm perplexed, and saddened by this news. The poor little broccoli's and cauliflowers of this great nation are not being given their fair dues! They should be enjoyed to their full extent, and not just treated as a side for Sunday roast dinner!

I suppose this is yet another area in which I must campaign for justice to be done. I think it can be done while also crusading that mayonnaise based sandwich dressings aren't exactly orgasmic to the palette.

Red Tape Blows

Can I just say that attempting to understand the DVLA's website is impossible? I'm trying to figure out how to go from a Canadian one to an exchanged one to a full UK one, and it keeps dropping the thread of logic...Oh and they want my passport, driving license, birth certificate and work papers sent through in the post...which uh, is NOT going to happen! Can you imagine if I had to leave the country? Or had to say, prove my identity?

Grrr........

M is playing 'my hands can moonwalk' on the computer screen...his talents never cease to amaze me...

Nights Out, Lost Time and Workplace Oddities

A couple of random events/topics that should be discussed have sprung up over a relatively short period of time, and I thought it best to tackle them all in a mega blog.

a) Nights out: I am quite an avid fan of 'nights out', though one wouldn't know it by my recent track records. Since moving to Leeds, M and I have seemingly come to favour Thursday nights at the pub vs. Friday nights at the club. While this is nice, it has made me a bit anxious and a bit unsatisfied. However it seems whenever M and I head for a night on the town in Leeds, things go astray.*

This past Saturday was meant to be a bit of a blow out, as it was both the Aussies and the Scottish lad's big farewell shindig. We all met up at a club that M hates (more than the Pat, not quite sure?) and which I can tolerate but wouldn't choose if I was calling the shots. We drank a fair amount (on top of the pre-drinks) and when 2 AM came we stumbled out onto the street to the afterclub.

Now to get into said afterclub we had to stand in line. Somehow or another, M and I ended up in line, and three random blokes were behind us, and the rest of the group was behind the blokes. We had been standing in line for about 15 minutes and M and I agreed that it was about time to let the three blokes behind us in front of us so that our group could be together. However at this same time, a gaggle of girls came up and tried cutting in front of M and I.

Now this is not something I tolerate. So I told them that they were not going to be able to cut in front of us, and I pointed to them where the end of the line was. They stared at me and then decided to let M and I go first but to cut in behind us. So I told them that this was unacceptable, and that they needed to go to the end of the line. To which they refused.

There was little I could do so I turned my back and made some snide comments to M about the rudeness of said girls. At about the same time a group of lads in front of us were telling the girls that they could cut in line with them if they wanted. The girls were a bit pre-occupied in discussing how they didn't need to listen to 'an American'. Which of course I was waiting for - I mean, it's one of those things that seem to be a pretty common 'insult' when one lives in another country**. So I turned to her and said 'I'm not an American and I'm not so stupid as to think that you're Irish, so learn your fucking accents'. To which she replied, 'well fine then...Canadian. Who cares? At least I'm English'.

Now I found this comment more than a little insulting, as did M. M was seething at this point and he turned to her and said, 'Well I bet she contributes a damn sight more to the economy than you ever will'...This comment (which made me proud of my boy) was followed by a brief moment of silence and then there was the oh-so-popular-and-oh-so-pathetic-retort of 'Well, at least I'm not ugly'...To which M snorted and said something along the lines of 'have you looked in the mirror you fucking slag'.

I also noticed that as soon as the girl blurted out that 'at least she was English', the line seemed to go a bit 'silent'. At this point the lads in front turned their backs on the whole situation and began to ignore the girls. I at this point was feeling a bit low and a bit pathetic. I can only imagine what its like for people who have more than an accent to 'differentiate' themselves from the mainstream...I mean, according to these girls, apparently my accent was cause enough for them to treat me like shit...which is taking it a bit far I realise, but I mean, it was a pretty fucking low blow, though one that happens more often then people would like to realise.

I made a petty comment to M at this point about how 'this is why I have problems with YOUR country' and he responded to me 'Don't you think I'm not embarrassed about this all either?'...we let things go at this point but I am sorry to M about stereo-typing all Brits into that nastiness. Anyways, unfortunately once we got inside the club I didn't see the girls anymore, because i was planning on doing some toe-stepping, drink spilling, drunken falling over dancing on them...but alas it was not to be.

B) Lost Time: I did a double take walking back home on Saturday night. We walked through the train station and I saw the clocks read 5:30. I was shocked that it was that late and then I couldn't figure out where the last hour had gone in the club. Then I remembered that it was time-switching day, and that in effect, somewhere during the night, an hour HAD been lost...though not to booze.

C) Workplace Oddities: Yesterday I was at meeting with an organisation that I do a lot of work with. We were learning a new software for this project we are jointly working on, and it involved going through a few exercises to gain the basic skills. There were about six of us taking the training, and we were all logged on to this one guy's personal work account (on our own separate laptops).

At one point in the training exercise, we needed to insert a picture into the file. Now there was no specific 'picture' to insert, so basically we had to use one of this guy, "Ess'" pictures. Knowing that I myself have a few pictures of questionable work content sitting on my computer (drunken nights out of various friends, etc), I turned to Ess and asked him if there was a folder which we SHOULDN'T look in to grab a picture, or if he knew of a picture we could use with easy access (desktop, etc).

Ess replied that he didn't think he had any pictures saved. So I said, 'oh, ok, well, I'll just go to the 'my pictures' folder and grab one from there' (There's always some shitty default sunset picture in that folder). So I opened up the folder and staring me in the face were about four or five pictures of Myleene Klass in a bikini (or not, with her arms placed strategically). Ess, who was sitting beside me, turned and saw these lovely pictures and turned bright red, saying ' I'm so embarrassed'.

I tried to downplay the whole situation and said something about how we all have embarrassing pictures***, and that I'd use the one of his boss in a meeting (which was also in the folder). A few minutes later, one of the other guys also discovered the Klass pictures, and there were a few admiring sighs. I suppose I should be offended, but being the only chick in the room, I figured it was best to try be as 'manly' about the situation as possible. That being said, I still chose pink for my chapter colour.


Notes:
*A couple of weeks ago at a fabulous gig, M and I somehow became involved in an altercation with a highly strung gay boy and his not so fabulous fruit fly. What made all of it a bit strange was that it began with me tapping the fruit fly on her shoulder and asking her to make way for a random girl who was trying to pass, at which I was attacked by the boy for DARING to place my hands on a pregnant lady...hmmmm...

**(Often times I don't even deny being an American bc I like the fact that people don't even know who they are so offended by)

*** OF course I was thinking of drunken pictures, not semi-porn pictures...clearly I don't think like a guy.

Na Na Na Na. Na na na na. Way eh. NA-An.

A couple of weeks ago a group of us went out for a 'Bradford Curry'....which essentially means a 'proper' curry -- though the usual British love affair for something known as 'chicken korma' was also on the menu...

Anyways it was quite tasty. But what was even tastier than the curry was the naan.

There is no way anyone else has ever had a naan this big. No way...

3.5 months later

Fuck yeah! It only took 3.5 months to get my broadband connected -- that's 2.5 months longer than first expected. You gotta love this Western Nation, with its excellent infrastructure and cutting edge technologies!

Thoughts to end the year

So this will probably be my last post for 2006...I could go on about my resolutions, my desire not to make resolutions, etc but I have decided to focus on a topic that was brought to my attention by my colleague at our xmas party.

Everyone in the world 'knows' that the Brits have bad teeth, right? It's like Canadians know that people take the piss out of our use of the word 'eh' and Americans are generally hated because they 'all voted for Bush and they are all arrogant'. While there may be some truth in all of these stereotypes, for the most part thats just what they are (That being said I still have my toothpaste imported from Canada due to a lack of dental association approving any toothpaste in this country -- most likely due to a lack of professional dental association).

So rewind to my Work Christmas Party. My collegue informed me that he had been unaware that Brits were 'known' for their bad teeth...to which about two or three collegues went 'what? Really? I didn't know that!'

Apparantly a large majority of Brits don't know that North Americans mock their teeth....with the reference in Austin Powers not seen as a blatant mockery but just as an 'ugly hero'....In fact, the Brits refer to what we would call 'British teeth' as 'Polish teeth' (or so I've been told).

So that made me wonder what other types of nationalistic stereotypes exist, and do the citizens know about it? How many cultural references fly past a group who do not know what the 'rest of the world' thinks about them? (Aside: does this also harkens back to what each South American country calls 'titty-fucking')....

Further to all of this, I began reading a book about the Worlds biggest mistakes. I'm only about 20 pages in and thus far it's focused on the plight of women to make themselves look good (corsets, foot binding, etc). It goes on to discuss the prolific use of Ceruse (modern day equivelent is foundation) which was made with white lead. I guess in order to get the 'white face' look which hid small pox, dirt, etc, the ladies would smear this paint on their face. As time went on and lead posioning set in, the skinwould start to yellow, age, sag and peel off. The eyes would go puffy and in due course, teeth would fall out. This usually happened over about ten years. Anyways, eventually you'd die of lead poisioning, looking haggered, etc. Now I won't draw modern day comparisons to botched plastic surgeries but instead, perhaps draw a historical link...

I guess Queen Elizabeth I was a fond user of ceruse as well as mercuruci suphide for blush. As she aged, her teeth continued to fall out (yet she was settig the fashion precendent for the court). I guess the French Amabassador at the time made a comment about her appalling teeth and the effects the ceruse had had...

So this is my thinking -- the French dude saw the queen's hideous smile and made a comment about how this makeup was causing teeth to fall out and eventuially into how the Brits had poor dental hygiene...and the Brits have yet to shake this label (unless you ask one bc they wouldn't know they'd been labelled). However British history wouldn't focus in on the trivial matter of bad teeth or lead make-up, and would instead focus in on battles won against the French. The French, in retaliation to the arrogant pumped up war victories the English were claiming, would retaliate that they had beautiful women and tasty food...thus starting the bad teeth/bad food labels of the English...

Anyways this post really is all about the fact that a lot of Brits don't know that they supposedly have bad teeth..hehe...how funny is that, eh?

Happy New Years!

Remove the Fucking Price Tag!

In an attempt to perhaps breathe some much needed life into this blog (does anyone still even read it now that I've left the vast majority of my readership in the cold tundras?)...I am about to open yet another debate on fashion faux pas's (?)...

I have generally noticed that women in the UK tend to buy a lot of their shoes from clothing shops and not shoe shops (ie. Le Chateau vs. Aldo). While I still contend that these fashion shops overcharge for uncomfortable, low-quality pleather shoes, I can accept that their shoes reflect the most current trends out there...which is why there is such demand (however as a Naturalizer convert where fun and exciting LEATHER shoes are sold at a decent price and are of the utmost comfort level, I will do my best to avoid purchasing any more foot crushing shoes from the likes of topshop, zara, dorthy perkins, etc)....(See this link for confirmation that shoe sales are higher in clothes stores than shoe stores, well, increasing anyway: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=419273&in_page_id=1879)

Moving on. So since the majority of shoes are purchased in clothing shops, they tend to be crudely priced on the bottom of the sole with a very large and obvious white price tag. And when you purchase the shoe you don't get a pair from the back shelves in a nice box, you get them handed to you in a bag, with a glaring large white price tag on each and every sole.

No problem. Common sense dictates that you go home, remove the lable and then prance around in the shoes until your feet feel as if they've been run through a wood chipper and pressed to extract every last bit of blood...usually within an hour of wear with most of these styles. Right? WRONG!

The women of England (I can't speak for N. Ireland, Scotland or Wales) instead go home and put the shoes straight on. They LEAVE the ghastly, glaringly obvious white lable on the bottom of both shoes and head out the door! Are they oblivious to the fact that while they may have matched (unless we get into the whole black/brown debate) every last detail of their outfit, that those walking behind them get the view of the price tag, and that's ALL anyone can see? It's disgraceful!

Today I wanted to tell the woman in front of me...I wish I could compliment you on your shoes but frankly I haven't noticed them. Instead I've been mesmorized by the white pricetags that are so blatantly calling out to me : I bought overpriced shoes the other day and now I'm wearing them! Look at me!

Sigh...for some time I thought I was alone in my thoughts but just last month a reader wrote in the daily paper and said something along the lines of 'I'm not from this country so I don't understand why British women seem incapable of removing the price tag from their shoes!'...So it's not just me...If I had any british women readers I would hope that they would pass on these words of advice: REMOVE THE PRICE TAG ON YOUR SHOE; but alas, I fear I have no readers..let alone the group I most desperately need to reach....

I'm fearful of all the white tags I'll soon see as women of England step out onto the streets post xmas in their new shoes...oh the horror...

Sometimes I hate people

This post is about work, and the comments that people make while at work. When I was young and not jaded to the world, I thought that the people I would be working with were intelligent...the following examples proove otherwise.

Example A:
Regional meeting discussing what to work on for the upcoming year, where a program to reduce social exclusion is being discussed...

Prick One: But why do we want to examine exclusion...from my understanding, isn't exclusion about people who choose not to work because they don't want to?

Awkward silence follows before comment is dismissed...

Example B:
The next comment was emailed in to our offices as we were reviewing an application for a wind farm. In general we are quite supportive of this type of application bc of the sustainable energy it produces, the economic impact it has, etc etc.

Prick Two: Highways Agency cannot support this development because the wind turbine could fall over and block the roads.