Why the conservatives will rule the UK starting tomorrow and why The Sun is genius

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Working girl

I was on the train yesterday and got to thinking about all the different jobs I've held. I think my mind wandered in this direction as it was early afternoon and my day off, and whenever I'm out and about on a day that most people are working I wonder about the other people who are out and about and seem to have the freedom to not be at work on a Friday afternoon. Are they on their lunch break? Are they en route to a meeting? Do they work nights? Are they an actor or pro boxer or inventor? Are they unemployed ? Independently wealthy?

I've always been a worker. My first real job was at 11 or 12. I was hired by a neighbor who lived on the 5th floor of my apartment building to assist him in a local election campaign. I wore a round, navy blue button on my lapel that read 'Caz Grascz for Freeholder' in white text. (Both names rhyme with Jazz). I did not know what a freeholder did (actually I still don't), but I liked Caz and wanted him to win more than anything. He had a big personality, and knew how to relate to children. He wore a plaid sports coat and porkpie hat, had a big nose and a shiny, reddish complexion, and his real name was Casimir which I thought was neat. There was something about his speaking voice that reminded me of Earl Scheib.



My job was to stand next to him as he knocked on doors, smile as he gave his pitch, and when he was finished I'd offer a leaflet from a small stack which I kept neatly organized in my hands. I remember thinking, at the time, that I was hired for my intelligence, and that maybe I had a future in politics. I wore my campaign button to school and the other kids thought it was dumb, which only made me more loyal to Caz. Sadly, Caz did not win and I have since lost the button. I'd kill for that button now.

Since then, I've had so many different jobs. I've been a baby sitter, a zoo docent, a TV extra, a clerk typist for the US Navy, a bartender (I lasted one day), a publicist, a refugee advocate, a PA to a man who had an addiction to strippers, a telephone market survey conductor, a data entry zombie, a hauler of recyclables (I wore overalls and leather gloves), a face painter at children's parties, a receptionist for an orthopedic surgeon and a proofreader, to name a few. I've worked at a Japanese bank, a Manhattan emergency room, a Bronx grammar school, a record label, and the United Nations.

I once almost took a job selling knives door to door, but despite the rich writing material I knew such a job could provide, I couldn't bring myself to do it. What kind of weird people buy knives from a traveling salesman? Whoever they were, I did not want to meet them.

My most favorite "almost job" was as a translator for Mexican heart throb Luis Miguel. He was in town to promote his record and his regular translator cancelled last minute or something. I got the call from my temp agency but couldn't get there fast enough. They gave the job to someone else.

protect our home planet

Are you familiar with NASA's mission portfolio?

I was not, until I stumbled upon it while doing a little Snow Day web surfing this afternoon. Their list of missions is absolutely, delightfully lunatic (no pun intended).

With all the news in the last year about the Mars Rover, you are probably aware that NASA is exploring the possibility of sending people to the Red Planet (and in style, too. See photo).

But did you know that the Rossi X-ray Timing Explorer Mission "observes the fast-moving, high-energy worlds of black holes, neutron stars, X-ray pulsars and bursts of X-rays that light up the sky and then disappear forever"?

Or, that the Chandra X-Ray Observatory "probes the mysteries of space with unprecedented x-ray images that help to unravel the structure and evolution of the universe"?

Or what about the Cosmic Hot Interstellar Plasma Spectrometer (CHIPS) project, which "uses an extreme ultraviolet spectrograph to study the 'Local Bubble' surrounding our Solar System"?

Local Bubble? Is your head spinning yet?

I've had so much fun troving the nutty descriptions on the missions list, that I've fashioned my favorite phrases into the poem below entitled "protect our home planet". These are lifted directly from the scientists' descriptions, people. Enjoy.

beyond the termination shock at the very edge of our solar system
the x-ray universe
supermassive black hole systems, pulsars and the origin of cosmic rays
constant vigil for the atmospheric "triggers"
unlocking the secrets of Saturn

relativity gyroscope
asteroid sample return mission
gamma-ray bursts
flyby studies of Pluto
fine-scale magnetic fields and the associated plasma structures on the Sun
a journey through our solar system and beyond

the basic physics of particle acceleration and explosive energy release
total solar radiation
interstellar gas clouds
stardust returns samples

where the Sun's influence ends and the dark recesses of interstellar space begin
the most powerful explosions in the universe
protect our home planet

I don't think he's in there

Is CNN trying to be cute, pairing its latest headline ("Manhunt on for London bomb suspect") with this photo:

















I take a special interest not only because I work in London, but because the nutjob they're looking for dumped the bomb a few blocks from my office, on the street I walk down every morning to get my coffee. So, CNN, don't be cute please.

Is there no summer in this country?

It's getting on to late June here, and we are still sleeping with our down comforter. We still wear woolly slippers around the house. The weather forecast in yesterday's newspaper kindly reminded "don't forget your jumper." I am debating whether or not to put the thermostat up this afternoon. I have goosebumps as I type this.

The English don't seem to notice there is anything wrong. I was at an event* the other night in a venue that was at a normal temperature and droves of people were fanning themselves with their programs and asking me whether I wasn't "bloody boiling."

We've decided the best remedy is to head up to the Scottish Highlands for holiday in a few weeks. I figure that after being subjected to a week of even colder, wetter weather, it will seem positively balmy down here.

^^^^



*Even more noteworthy, Mr. Bean was at the event (opening of a children's art exhibition)! Possibly the most awesome random celebrity sighting ever.

Scottish People Make Me Feel Dumb

Without fail, I always feel like a fool when I converse with Scottish people. Why? Because I often have trouble understanding them, often when they are asking a question. I usually just say something that I hope answers what I think is their question but it often comes off as totally non sequitur.

Take this exchange from earlier today:

Scottish man in my office: Jahve a nigh wig in then?

Me: Uh, yeah, um it is really cold in here today.

SMIMO (puzzled expression): Tis, yeah. (pause) So, jahve a nigh wig in then?

Me (brain racing): Um...OH! Did I have a nice weekend? Yes, I did, thanks. And you?

Thank you, Judi Dench

Not only is Judi Dench amazing on the big screen, I can now admire her for simplifying my relationship with my hairdresser.

Without sounding too much like a Cosmo woman here (Lose That Last .5 Pounds Now! Hottest Spring Accessories for Under $800! Find out Which Part(s) of Your Body He Secretly Wants to Airbrush!), I think many women have frustrating relationships with the people who cut their hair. I know I do. I usually bring tons of photos of (usually unattainable) styles torn from magazines. We discuss what I want. I'm usually worried he or she is not totally listening. And then I always wind up with the exact same hair cut, give or take an inch.

One exception is the six month period last year when my hairdresser in Brooklyn convinced me to sport a reverse mullet. This short-lived look is, unfortunately, captured on both my drivers license and passport.


Yesterday, I had a breakthrough. Instead of bringing my normal cache of supporting materials, I just went in the salon door and asked Sinéad, my new hairdresser, to cut my hair exactly like Judi Dench. Why didn't I think of that before?

High Street Haikus

Because a certain person might be finalizing negotiations on a job that will take her out of the house and into the warm glow of daily social interaction, and owing to the recent wardrobe issues that same person has noticed, today was shopping day in London.

The goal was to find a few pieces to liven up my late winter look, and maybe help me transition to spring. You know, things that would make me look smart, put together and stylish at my almost-in-the-bag new job (I will divulge all details when and if it's finalized).

I hate shopping. I detest the crowds, the blasting artificial heat, the repetitive taking off and putting on of clothing (especially in winter). And I'm a frugal person so I always feel guilty for spending money, and with the current exchange rate (£1 = $2) I have a harder time than usual buying clothes.

But London is such a stylish city, and people here have so much fun with clothes. The trendy high street shops like TopShop and Miss Selfridge are completely irreverent, with lots of loud, fun, daring stuff. You'd have to be the wettest wet blanket not to approach shopping here with at least a little twinkle in your eye.

After 4 hours, my eye twinkle was long gone but I did have a new sweater, a new purse, and a few new haikus:

Marilyn Manson
playing at this high volume
makes me want to leave

All the clothes in here
are plaid neon tent dresses
Who authorized this?

Trendy tunic dress
you are just a little short
I am not Twiggy

Gram & the Squirrel Gene

I'm thinking about my grandmother today--it's her birthday this week. She would have been 93. She passed away in 1979, when I was just 4, and I've always wished I'd had the chance to know her better.

(Grandma & Grandpa laughing, Hudson County Park, Bayonne)

She was a woman after my own heart:

She loved reading and travel; had a natural talent for languages (and spoke, read and wrote fluent Lithuanian, Polish, Italian, Russian & Slovak); was a fantastic cook and baker, and was an expert seamstress, having spent many years working in garment factories. She had an artistic side as well, and embroidered, crocheted, and dabbled in countless arts and crafts.

And she loved animals. She always bought nuts for the squirrels, seeds for the birds, and food for the many stray cats in her neighborhood. In winter, she'd leave a garage window ajar and make bedding out of old clothes so the cats had a warm place to sleep. She even shoveled them their own path when it snowed.

According to my mom, "The squirrels would haunt her. When she was hanging clothes on the clothesline upstairs, they would shimmy up the drainpipe just to greet her. The cats also followed her up the block and waited for her under parked cars."

And, "She always prayed to St. Francis for the animals."

My mother continues, "She once told me a story about winning a contest in school for writing an essay and she had a choice [of prizes]--money or a turtle. She chose the turtle."

My mother shares these qualities and has spoiled many a squirrel in her day.

And then there's me, with my mealworms and office littered with knitting needles, piles of fabric, and embroidery floss.

It's very comforting to know that my interests, talents and predispositions come from somewhere. When I was growing up, we had virtually no contact with my father or his relatives, and no extended family to speak of on my mother's side. I suppose for that reason, silly as it sounds, this kind of connection takes on great meaning for me. It's an anchor, of sorts. A way to feel part of something larger and worthwhile in a way I never did as a kid. Traits like red hair run through some families; in ours, I guess, it's the squirrel gene.

I knew I recognized that face

Tagging onto Scott's guest post, I came across this recent photo of Axl Rose (from a story chronicling Miss America's decline into boozy disgrace--nothing like a photo with Axl to confirm your drinking has gone too far) and my immediate thought was, "My God, he looks like the Burl Ives snowman."

I don't mean to ruin Christmas for anyone, but you've got to admit there is a resemblance:













OK, this is my last post to mention Axl (at least for a while) or else I'll have to add him as his own blog post category.

Amazing movie!

Spent the evening with Kristine, who had me over to her new home in Brixton, London, for some dinner, popcorn, and one of the most satisfying movies I've seen in a long while. If you don't know it, definitely check out All About Eve, which won best picture in 1950 and features smart, very funny dialogue and a gloriously bitchy Bette Davis. And also a stunning Marilyn Monroe in a small role.

Click here to listen to one of my favorite lines, where Bette Davis's character, seething and having a self-pitying tantrum, turns down an offer to go out for a drink to cool down:

"I'll admit I may have seen better days . . . but I'm still not to be had for the price of a cocktail, like a salted peanut."

Um, I think your software has a few bugs

What do a Catalan operatic soprano, an Argentine concert pianist, a martyred Carmelite nun and the lead singer of the Finnish metal band Nightwish have in common?

You guessed it! They're all women I resemble, according to a free facial recognition dohickey on www.myheritage.com. You upload your photo and after a dramatic "facial scanning" animated graphic runs, it tells you which 'celebrities' you most resemble.

Take a look at my results:



I'm a bit baffled by these results. I mean, I'll take an Elisha Cuthbert comparison any day, no questions asked. But Victoria de los Angeles? Ok, maybe it's the dark eyebrows. Fine. But I really have no clue as to how I resemble Edith Stein or Tarja the rocker. Maybe because I'm not smiling? Did somebody tell them about my clashing teenage desires to either marry Axl Rose or become a nun? Anybody?

Best Present!

Scotch-Brite sponges and an OXO vegetable peeler may not get YOUR blood pumping but, in this instance, they amount to the nicest gifts I've received in a long time, arriving yesterday by mail from Jen and Chris.

Why is this an awesome gift? Because I'd mentioned to Jen, in passing, that good sponges are hard to find here. And in the course of their visit our veggie peeler went missing and all Scott could find at the kitchen store was one of those dreadful old fashioned aluminum ones; I had expressed surprise that they didn't carry better brands, like OXO.

These were unglamorous blips in a week's worth of conversations and activities which I quickly forgot but Jen filed away.

When I opened the package I was tickled. How thoughtful that she'd actually remembered these things!

And that's the essence of a good gift, whether it's a package of sponges or something more exotic. The object doesn't matter--the real gift, as far as I'm concerned, is the giver being attuned to the recipient. What a nice feeling.

Blog post by candlelight

I am seated in my living room keeping company with a fleet of candles wedged into empty wine bottles. I have a nice glass of Shiraz and a blanket. The power cut out about two hours ago, and I have no idea when it will return. I was in the middle of a document when it happened--a tentative lamp flicker, followed by an ominous electronic cluck and then total darkness. So now I'm writing out a blog post by hand which I'll post later on. Feels kind of like a snow day.

I actually had to go to the store for matches--thankfully the little grocery store still had power. So aside from lacking matches, a telephone and source of heat not dependent on electricity, a battery operated radio and a flashlight, it's nice to know our household is so well prepared for disaster!

I Love Technology!

Check this out--click the little play button below

New Chairs!

Thanksgiving is next week. We have friends coming all the way from Philly to visit us for the occasion and prepare a huge feast. We did not have dining room chairs, which would have presented, er, logistical problems.

I was convinced that given how ridiculously expensive things are here, we wouldn't be able to find anything we liked within our budget. I mean, Ikea wants £76 for this soul-less chair, for God's sake, so I was sure that anything old and rustic would cost 10 times more.

So you can imagine my glee that for just slightly more than £76 each, we were able to find 6 lovely chairs in Petworth, an old market town about an hour from here.









There are 4 Oxford windsor chairs, made in the 1840s in the High Wycombe area of Buckinghamshire, and they bear the maker's mark, which is so touching.

Then there are 2 Thames Valley windsor chairs, which are equally lovely. There is a knot on the seat of one that has fallen out, so it has a charming hole.

If you don't look good...

I broke down and cut my hair yesterday, part of the continuous cycle in which I shear it off, and then slowly wait for it to grow back (+/- 6 months) during which time I start to think "hey, maybe I'll grow it long." When it reaches the point where I no longer feel I can go out in public, I remember why short hair is so much more flattering and interesting on me, and then off it goes.

With no hairstylist recommendations (believe me, I searched) in London, I chose Vidal Sassoon for no other reason than that they seem to value intensive training, and that was the closest thing to a failsafe.

I was hoping the experience would be a bit more dramatic than it turned out to be, that there'd be avant garde hairstyles left and right and that I'd have my hair analyzed by a team of experts in black turtlenecks who would produce the most amazing look ever for my bone structure and hair type.

Instead, my stylist confided, when I complimented her on her short style, that she'd had to cut it off after a bleach job gone bad. Great. She then immediately cut the back and sides much shorter than I'd asked. By the time she was done with me, I looked more like Dorothy Hamill than the sleek models on the Vidal Sassoon promotional materials.

But hair grows back. And I have had worse haircuts. And at least I won't look back on my France photos and wonder why I was sporting a Florence Henderson mullet (which is what my hair had begun to resemble).

Here are some photos:

Front



Back

You Could Get Hit By a Bus Tomorrow

England, like many of its European neighbors, is such a sensible country. There's a big organic food movement. People are loyal cross walk users and wait their turn in orderly queues. They drive smaller cars and preserve buildings and historic sites. They're really into community gardens and gun control. They recycle everything, including textiles. And my local Borough Council just launched a community improvement campaign asking the public to pledge to do things like let 1 car in on every journey, eat 5 fruits and veggies a day, and spend time with someone from a different generation.

It's like living in California, only people are less outgoing.

Another very sensible thing they do is put really huge, scary warnings on cigarette packages (although British kids can still buy candy cigarettes). For now they say things like "Smoking can cause a slow and painful death" and "Smoking may reduce the blood flow and cause impotence" but starting next year the warnings will also show scary pictures.

But don't be fooled into thinking that this is a country of the goody-two-shoed. To counteract the wet blanket health advisories, you can purchase cheeky stickers to cover the government's labels. They're made to look just like the official warnings but instead egg smokers on, including my personal favorite, "You could get hit by a bus tomorrow."

That's the spirit!

Worth crossing an ocean for...

Thanks to my mom's friend, Paula, who captured my mom's priceless expression upon walking into her 70th surprise birthday. Look at that face! My mom has also volunteered to share her eggy parm recipe on my "bog" as she endearingly calls it. Coming soon...

Sobremesa

A number of people have asked about the name of this blog.

It's a Spanish word with no equivalent in English I'm aware of. It refers to the time spent gathered around a table talking after a meal. I've always loved the term--sobremesa is one of my absolute favorite times. It's social. It can be relaxing and at the same time energizing. But most importantly, for me, it's a time to savor, digest, and appreciate.

When I decided to do a blog I thought Sobremesa would be the perfect title to reflect my intentions. It is so easy to rush through any given day without noticing or valuing small, common things, let alone deriving genuine happiness from them. Maintaining this blog helps me remain observant and curious. It inspires small bursts of creativity. It helps me see beauty in the pedestrian. It reminds me to savor, digest, and appreciate. And when I'm doing all that, I'm happiest.

For better or for worse, what you read here is what I'd probably be chatting about if we found ourselves sitting around the table after dinner.