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....

Rethinks

Ok it's been a long time since I posted anything of merit - and not saying that this post is going to be either; BUT I figured I should say something....or at least erase all evidence that this blog ever existed!

So rethinks. I've been a bit blue as of late - it happens. I sometimes think I'm a bit manic in that I can exist just fine and then Whomp...I'm feeling down. But hey ho, that's just the way it is. When I lived in Saskatchewan I blamed it on SAD, but now I'm not sure what to blame it on - life, manic, whatever.

So rethinks. I've realized I've lived in Leeds almost as long as I've lived in DC, and I still don't get the love, nor have I met nearing enough amazing and fabulous people. I'm not sure if it's me or Leeds - but I'm hoping it's me. This is because I'm in Leeds for the next few years (who ever though investing in a house would lose a girl money). So I've decided that things in Leeds have to change - I need to get out and meet people and hang out and do things...but I don't know how one does this...somehow in the past I've just fallen into friends - or not...Plus we all need one or two people who open doors for you (not literally of course but people in the know)....

So rethinks. How does one meet people that they might have something in common with. I've done the whole join a gym, take a sports class (bellydance is filled with freaks), take a night class (fun but non), join a book club (ok, I didn't join a book club but I did join a conversation circle) don't say no to invitations, etc etc etfc. But how do I meet the people who like music/politics/prada/brunch - I don't randomly go up to people at gigs - never have, never will...nor am I going to meet people clubbing because that seems to always be about pulling and I'm not in that position anymore.

So I suppose what I'm asking is - good people - how do you meet people...people like yourselves, who I have things in common with, that I'd want to hang out with, go to brunch with, go to gigs, etc?

I await your humble advice...if you are still out there...

Oh dear god

If Alexandre Herchcovitch is suggesting that this is the new trouser fashion, count me out. Thanks to The Guardian for this sneak peek at what YOU could be wearing next spring at the office....

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....

:)

xo xo

Can't help it - just had to share...

I LOVE GOSSIP GIRL...

It is possibly the most exciting program on telly at the moment (though probably not actually on telly in North America as they got the show months earlier than the UK).

And that is all I have to say for now....

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....

Hmmm

I'm questioning which is bigger guilty pleasure...

the desert of pear, gorgonzola cheese and a glass of shiraz...

OR

watching Mistresses?