Costume Inspiration: Madonna, "Like A Virgin", 1984

For those who are too young, or too old, to have seen this at the time...here's Madge in all her glory!

Choosing wisely

You know you’ve married the right man when…

He buys you a set of fish knives & forks for your first wedding anniversary and thinks it's utterly romantic … and so do you!

This past weekend, the DEB and I had just celebrated our first wedding anniversary – (can it really have been a year already?!) – and we had an incredible time.

Anniversary cake and cupcakes

(in our wedding colours)

Our rellies from up North came and joined us, dividing their time between our new house and that of the DEB’s brother, The Guru. It was absolutely wonderful playing hostess to Uncle C. and Auntie D.

They arrived late afternoon on Thursday, and after getting them settled, I launched into Domestic Goddess mode. I prepared my first "dinner for the family". The trout was a huge success. Here is the recipe I used:

Tangy Trout

4 trout fillets

100g breadcrumbs

1 tbsp butter, softened

1 small bunch parsley, chopped

zest and juice of 1 lemon, plus lemon wedges to serve

25g pine nuts , toasted and half roughly chopped

3 tbsp olive oil

Method

Heat the grill to high. Lay the fillets, skin side down, on an oiled baking tray. Mix together the breadcrumbs, butter, parsley, lemon zest and juice, and half the pine nuts. Scatter the mixture in a thin layer over the fillets, drizzle with the oil and place under the grill for 5 mins. Sprinkle over the remaining pine nuts, then serve with the lemon wedges and a potato salad.

(I cooked the trout for a bit longer than suggested, and served with beetroot and spinach salad; asparagus; new potatoes and a parmesan cheese sauce.)

Our Darling Nephew, H., turned up for a surprise visit, and Hostess-with-the-Mostest that I am (or strive to be), I always have a bundle of sausages and a packet of chips at the ready in case he drops by. That's his favo(u)rite meal!

On Friday, the DEB and I took Uncle C. and Auntie D. to Charlecote Park for the day; and met up with The Guru and his partner,The Guru-ette, for an evening meal at The Peacock, an award-winning Warwickshire pub in the tiny village of Oxhill. Splendid.

Saturday was a busy-ish day, with last minute preparation for the Big Anniversary Bash on Sunday.

As noted in my “How should we celebrate our first anniversary?” poll, I was stuck on what would be the best way to commemorate the day. This is where gurus come in handy. A random conversation over dinner with The Guru in April, inspired me to opt for an evening “do” with a twist: Fancy Dress.

Who doesn’t love getting into costume?

Finally, my dream came true: a “We Are the 80s” fancy dress party! (Any excuse to remember the 80s, and dress up as Madonna is a good one as far as I’m concerned.)

The DEB glammed up nicely as Adam Ant, in full Prince Charming/Highwayman regalia – 'Stand and Deliver', indeed! And, I scoured the internet and successfully pulled together a Madonna “Like A Virgin”(MTV Music Awards 1984) outfit.

I found a designer, who calls herself “Princess Petticoat”, via eBay UK who custom-made a copy of Madge's iconic, billowy, white skirt. It was absolutely dreamy!

And, who isn’t a fool for tulle?

Princess Petticoat’s other specialty is custom-made versions of Carrie Bradshaw’s little tulle skirt from 'Sex & the City'. (Check her out on eBay UK!)

The party was a huge success, even the weather cooperated! Everyone really went for it. That’s the thing about Fancy Dress/Costume parties, it is so much more fun/funny when people make the effort and go all out. And in this regard, I was not disappointed in the least!!

Mr. and Mrs. Chef as 'Suzy Quattro' and 'Slash'

'Andrew Ridgeley' from Wham! and 'Adam Ant'

I have to say the very best moment was when the extended DEB family turned up en masse, and enacted a grand entrance through the garden. They came around the corner individually, for full effect to resounding gales of glee and applause.

The Guru-ette had fooled us all by saying that she was anti-Fancy Dress, and planned to take her cue from the Nirvana song “Come as you are”. She bowled us all over by turning up as Kelly McGillis’ leggy, blonde character from the quintessential 80s movie, Top Gun!

The other surprise was Auntie D. and Uncle C. representing "the definitive couple of the 80s”: Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.

Even so, top prize had to go to The Guru who struck terror and admiration in the hearts of all the guests as a frighteningly uncanny Gene Simmons.

There is an old proverb that says: “In birth, we have the family we are given; in marriage we acquire the family we deserve.” I’m happy to say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this proverb is true!

My family, ladies and gentlemen, my family:

'Ronald Reagan', 'Gene Simmons' (from Kiss), 'Graeme Souness' (legendary Liverpool Footballl captain), 'Kelly McGillis' (from Top Gun) and 'Mrs. Thatcher'

Cyndi Lauper in full voice - "Girls just wanna have fun!"

The DEB and I had an "Anniversary First Dance" (to the appropriately 80s theme from Starlight Express); and I “performed” the ‘Like a Virgin’ video for the DEB, in front of everyone…well, after the Vicar had gone home, of course!

(NB. The Vicar came dressed as "Blackadder", Mrs. Vicar won the "Most Creative Costume Idea" award for coming as "an extra from the film Ghandi; Their Son thrilled us all with his impression of Freddie Mercury from the group Queen.)

“The first year of marriage is often considered the year of adjustment. As you celebrate this special 1st wedding anniversary, reflect on the both the delicate and hardy aspects of your marriage and of your love for one another.” – Sheri & Bob Stritoff

According to tradition, first wedding anniversary gifts are of Paper. However, more moderns trends are for practical gifts that reflect, as marriage gurus Sheri & Bob Stritoff put it, “the delicate and hardy aspects” of one’s marriage and love.

The DEB and I attempted to capture a bit of both traditional and modern aspects in our gifts choices for each other. We gave each other 'hardy', practical gifts: I bought the DEB a pair of (sexy to me) Hunter wellies for men; and he gave me a pair of (sexy to him) women's Craghopper trousers for our holiday adventures, and the Robert Welch 'Fish service' I have been coveting for over a year!

My 'delicate' gift from the DEB was a precious bouquet of a dozen, long stemmed, red roses. I combined the delicate concept with the traditional 'Paper' idea by buying the DEB an antiquarian book of old English ballads and folk tunes.

I have found the one whom my soul loves.

- Song of Solomon, 3:4

The Meaning of Wife

Recently, The Times, and especially The Sunday Times, has been positively obsessed with “wifedom.” Over the past several months there has been article upon article in the Times’ Style magazine wherein writers have actively pondered on the page the concept of “the wife.”

Even the chatty and ever-entertaining Shane Watson has joined the fray, declaring her opinion that what men really want in a wife is: “a woman [they] can believe in.”  Very heady stuff, indeed, particularly from a writer known primarily for celebrity-jabbing.

Another writer in the same publication set about outlining what she believed were the current wifely archetypes in contemporary society, along with some real life examples for readers to emulate or to be admonished by.

My personal favorites (no surprises, here) were: “The Goddess Wife” - personified by Nigella Lawson, and “The Inspiring Wife” – personified by Michelle Obama.

Let’s face it, Nigella Lawson is a modern-day, brunette, Marilyn Monroe - who can cook. But, despite her sometimes over-obvious sex appeal, her hyper-confidence, and sexy smarts (she has an M.A. in medieval and modern languages), ever so often viewers can catch a glimpse of the other side of Nigella, the besotted schoolgirl underneath it all, who still gets weak in the knees at the very thought of “that sweet man of mine.”

“The Goddess Wife” is all about hearth and home, care and comfort. Everything she does, and everything she is, is about sensuousness, deliciousness, warmth, scrumptious indulgence, and ample luxury. She’s can’t help it, she’s just built that way.

“The Inspiring Wife” comes at caring from a different, though no less valuable, perspective. Michelle Obama is the perfect example of the “Inspiring Wife.” She is her husband’s equal (intellectually, socially, professionally, &etc.) and his champion.

But, she is no mere cheerleader encouraging him from the sidelines, nor is she his coach. What she is, as the article writer put so beautifully, “[Michelle Obama] is the reason Barack Obama gets up in the morning.”  She is his sunshine.

As “The Inspiring Wife,” she enkindles his greatness. The concept of “Ihe Inspiring Wife” is not a new one. My chief bridesmaid, Sarah, gave me a lovely gift the day before our wedding: a copy of A History of the Wife by Marilyn Yalom. In it, one of the countless relationships Yalom details is the remarkable marriage of John and Abigail Adams.

After Abigail had accepted John’s proposal, he wrote to her, thanking her and expressing his belief that by knowing and loving her, he would “Gain some of your sweet grace, My Dearest Friend, that will perfect my many Imperfections.”

Shane Watson’s comment touches upon this very idea: the wife as source of grace, a figure to be ‘believed in’. There is no doubt, upon reading the love letters of John and Abigail Adams, that John viewed his wife as clearly the very best part of himself.

I devoured Yalom’s book while lounging and sleeping by the pool in Tunisia. And contemplated what kind of a wife I would like to be. From the title, it may sound uber-academic and dry as toast, but is really a super, super read. So fascinating to consider the twists, turns and changes that have happened in relation to wifedom over the centuries.

In the past, being a Wife was considered a vocation, a privilege, an honour, an occupation and a gift. I think it is still all of these things today, though I think we are uncomfortable using such florid language.

There was a time when being a wife was considered a great calling, and women proudly defined themselves by the distinction: “I am a wife.” I believe we have lost that, and with it perhaps a great possibility for feminine pride and expression.

When I was growing up, and especially when I was in university, the notion of “just being a wife” was completely alien and abhorrent. We were encouraged/taught/urged to look disdainfully upon young women who “lacked ambition and brains,” who had come to university only to find a husband, and obtain their “Mrs. degree,” and little else.

In this same vein, India Knight did a piece recently where she, too, was thinking through some of these post-feminist issues. She interviewed several high-powered professional women who were attempting, as so many women do, to “have it all” (career, family, kids, life).

The general consensus amongst the women interviewed was that they would not wish their life choices on their daughters. They hoped that their daughters’ lives would be better, different and freer than their own. That their daughters would choose to have lives that were more centred on creating a family, building a home and serving their community, than their lives had been.

A dear friend of mine, wrote me recently from Dubai to congratulate me on getting married. Along with her good wishes and advice, she expressed her own sense of being at a crossroads:

Being married teaches you how to be a wife.                                                                      ...In my neck of the woods…all I have been doing for the past month, going on two months is move, organize, decorate, shop, mother, mother sick children and eat like crap. I read an email today about a novel about Hemingway's wife selling for half a million and wept. It wasn't the money, really. I just got my first check for my book by the way. It was about the fact that I miss writing, I need it as much as I need my kids. Anyway, when are you getting back to work?

This is how I began my reply to her:

I am happier now than I have ever been in my life, and I am more lost than I have ever been. I feel and am more centred, grounded, and anchored as I have never been, nor ever imagined. Anchored, and yet I also feel frighteningly adrift.

In the past, I have always defined myself by what I do, and not by who I love or, who I am in relation to someone else. All of that has changed. And I feel/know that it has changed for the better. And what of work? Ugh. I just wasted a colossal amount of time applying for two jobs I don’t even want, one of them in London, how would that even work? Why did I bother? The problem is that is muscle-memory and the force of habit. I have spent my life applying for jobs, that’s what I know how to do. Facing myself and a blank computer screen? Yikes!

As I embark on this new journey into wifedom, I am searching for examples, and trying to embrace my own uncertainties. For years my life has been guided by the mantra: “Career first, career first.” Now, I feel the sand shifting beneath me, and the turning of a tide. Could the new mantra be: “Family first?”

While she was still here, my friend, Sarah and I shared our mutual admiration for that wonderful HBO series, John Adams. I remember telling her that one of the things I loved most about that series (apart from Laura Linney’s fabulous portrayal of Abigail Adams) was very real sense that one had while watching it, that the Founding Fathers, those great men of history, had no idea what they were doing at the time. The founding of America was not some grand design enacted with stealth and precision, they were making it all up as they went along!

And perhaps, that is the answer, the best notion toward a vision of marriage and wifedom, we are all making this stuff up as we go along. We can only do our best and try.

Unless, of course, your goal is to be “The Slacker Wife” (sadly exampled in The Times by Madonna Ritchie). “The Slacker Wife,” as the name suggestions, does “bugger all,” and causes those around her no end of grief.

Birds of a Feather

Dearest A.,

I am glad you're back from the 'savage lands' of the USA! It's been a long sojourn and I'm sure filled with important and excellent things. Good for your Darling English Boy for winning you back for us! It may take time to adjust, but you belong with us!

-- excerpt from a letter from a wonderful English mentor of mine. Dated 12 Feb 2009

This letter arrived just as I have been contemplating my place in this, my new world. I hope that she is right, that I do indeed "belong" here. It feels right, it feels true and best. The longer I remain here, the more at home and at peace I become.

I think one of the absolute smartest decisions I ever made was joining the Barford W.I. It meant putting myself out there, walking into a crowded room full of strangers and saying, "Here I am." But, my life seems to have been full of such moments, so the prospect was not as harrowing for me, as it might be for some. That is not to say that I wasn't shaking in my boots, because I was!

In the W.I. I have found only welcome, friendship and fellowship (or should that be sistership?). Not to mention the fact that my jam-making skills have improved. Improved? They were non-existent before!

More than anything else, the W.I. has provided me with a window into British culture, in all its fascinating--and often side-splitting--glory.

Last month, at our first W.I. meeting of the year, our guest speaker was Nikki Cockayne, a lady Falconer from here in South Warwickshire. (Where was that on "Career Day"? She has a super job. She trains birds for television costume dramas, theatre and films.)

Here is an extract from the Barford W.I. President's meeting report:

At the January meeting members were delighted to be introduced to Pedro, Winston, Shylock and Mopsa by Nikki Cockayne. These were birds of prey – a kestrel, a falcon, a barn owl and a tawny owl.

They were all stunning and Nikki gave a fascinating talk and demonstration with her birds. Several members were brave enough to hold the birds on a well-gloved hand and get up close and personal. There was not too much flying around (by the birds) so those of a nervous disposition were fine. Thanks must go to Louise Cleife who efficiently did the equivalent job of the man behind the horse with the shovel!

The President's report only touches upon the sheer hilarity of this meeting. One the birds took flight and actually landed on a member's head! We all laughed until we cried. And I fulfilled a dream of holding a kestrel on my arm.

From birds to birdbrains...

Later in the month, the Barford W.I. were set to compete in the Warwickshire Round of the annual "Federation of Women's Institutes Quiz Challenge." This was to become my first true introduction to the British phenomenon that is "The Quiz Night".

The Barford W.I. is renowned in these parts for making a very strong showing in the annual quiz. Last year, the Barford Team made it as far as the finals! As a newbie, I could but dream of what one day might be.

The Barford W.I. 2008 Warwickshire Quiz Teams: "Barford 1" and "Barford 2," had been selected long before I joined. But, as the fates would have it, the Team 1 stalwart, Hilary, was laid low by the flu, and a Reserve Member was needed.

For me, proud nerd, devout history buff, and ferocious Trivial Pursuit player that I am, this was my moment, my dream came true, my hope beyond hope! I thought to myself, all I have to do is shine like a star, help the team WIN and my place in the Barford line-up, and Quiz History, would be set!

Oh, the naive ambitions of the proud and foolhardy. During the long-ish car journey to the Quiz, as we navigated the dark, foggy, Warwickshire back roads, Ann, the driver, mused aloud with a smile, "Gosh, I do hope I have prepared enough." Prepared? Prepared what? I panicked to myself quietly. "Well, I did remember to memorise the current and past Presidents of W.I." Diane remarked softly in her warm Scottish accent. "Oh, we'll be all right then." Sue, sitting next me, said reassuringly. Heaven help me, what have I got myself into, was all I could think.

Clearly, this was to be no ordinary "take your chances" Quiz game. This fact was confirmed as soon as I had arrived along with the rest of "Barford 1" to the village hall in Ashorne. All the women present were sociable and friendly, but one thing was clear: these ladies were serious, and they were taking no prisoners. Every single woman there was "in it, to win it."

Some W.I.'s had even attempted to increase their odds by putting forth more than two teams! (And in some cases, more than 3 teams!!) Personally, I think this is a grossly unfair advantage. But that could just be a case of sour grapes. Yes, we lost. And, we lost big. "Barford 1" came in 8th out of 21. ("Barford 2" came in 10th.)

But the embarrassment wasn't just limited to the end result. Oh no, I also successfully managed to embarrass myself and my team, completely. Being unused to "proper Quiz etiquette," I committed a heinous, public faux pas.

At the end of round one, the Adjudicator stood up to announce the first round scores. A hush fell upon the room. She began solemnly: "Barford 1...8 points." At which point, possessed by a spirit of impending victory (or insanity), I yelped. Aloud. No, truth be told, it was more of "rebel yell," although, more of a "Whoo-hoo!" than a "Yee-haw!" Nevertheless, it was utterly inappropriate.

All around me, a sea of bemused British female faces. That is, apart from my team mates, god bless them, sweet Barfordian souls that they are. Blushing, red faced and a little taken aback, they were nonetheless amused by my extreme team pride and enthusiasm.

Thankfully, the Quiz Mistress also smiled, and with her gesture, it seemed that the air returned to the room. My cheeks burned with the thought of whispers going 'round the room: "She's American."

How had I allowed myself to become a "loud, American" cliche? Perhaps, this cliche, is not so cliche, after all?...

My feeling of "having let down the side" continued as the Quiz progressed. Determined to prove my smarts I was ready to "rock 'n roll"--as I am often wont to do--in Arts, Literature and Popular Culture. I dazzled my team by knowing Madonna's proper name (Madonna Louise Ciccone).

But, then, the humiliating change of fortune as I was blindsided by two questions centred on iconic Americana: "In what American city was Coca Cola invented?" I KNEW the answer was Atlanta, but I didn't trust myself, and said: "Chicago."

Then, the ultimate: "What was Judy Garland's real name?" If only this had been the sort of quiz where you can phone a friend. I mean, really I should know this! I used to live in the West Village, for goodness sake, just blocks away from Stonewall, and how many gay men do I know??! And, I worked in the theatre! But, for all that, I could not recall her name to save my life. Of course, I know now that it is: Frances Ethel Gumm. I will go my grave knowing that name. ARRGH!!!

"Never mind," said Diane in her soothing Scots voice. But I did mind. And, I vowed to myself then and there that I would redeem my wounded reputation. A week later, I gave Di a call: "There's a quiz on up at The Granville next week, let's do it."

Di is splendid, and always up for a quiz challenge. The ever supportive and super-smart D.E.B. made our third team member. We were ready.

"This is going to fun." The D.E.B. said, putting his arm around me as we huddled together against the cold, and walked up to our favo(u)rite water hole. "Fun?!" I exclaimed, "No, we have to win."

To my surprise, the atmosphere at the Granville Pub Quiz was completely different to that of the W.I. quiz. (Where, I failed to mention, two teams nearly came to blows disputing the correctness of an answer.) All the teams at the Granville Quiz had very cute or cheeky names. The D.E.B. dubbed us "Shakespeare in Love" -- as it was a pre-Valentine's Day quiz. There was one team present who called themselves: "Norfolk and Chance" (say it fast, and with a slight Irish accent). And funnily enough they did walk away with the wooden spoon for having the lowest score.

This quiz was so much fun! Everyone laughed and joked. The wine flowed, and all the questions seem to fall in our favo(u)r: "Which pop diva played Wallis' girlfriend on the American television sitcom 'Different Strokes'?"; "The line 'If music be the food of love, play on' is from what Shakespeare play?" Excellent.

We blasted through the Classic Film round (Thank you, Dr. Zhivago!); and Di and The DEB rocked out in the "Character Couples" round that wanted to know the names of British soap opera pairs and partners, even though neither of them watch much telly. The DEB reigned supreme on science and technology, and shocked me by knowing some obscure fact about Christina Aguilera. But my absolute favorite moment was the "All or Nothing" round.

The "All or Nothing" round, as the title suggests, is exactly what it implies. You answer as many questions as you can, but if you get any answers wrong in that section, you lose the entire section, right answers and wrong ones alike. Of course the point is to get as many as you can absolutely right, but there's no room for guessing.

So, in this round, the last question of the night surfaced: "What is the name of Hank's wife, in the American television cartoon series 'King of the Hill'?"

I closed my eyes. Peggy. A voice in my head whispered. I knew I was right, but I wasn't sure. I could hear the Southern drawl of the be-spectacled, cartoon Everyman, Hank, saying her name. "Peggy," I said aloud softly to my team mates. Di's eyebrows lifted and she smiled, "You sure?" I took a breath, and said "...Yes..."

Without hesitating, The DEB wrote the answer down onto our sheet. The Adjudicator came round to collect the sheets. "Wait!" I implored, "What if I'm wrong?" "Sweetheart," said the rock-steady DEB, taking my hand in his, "it's just game."

As the scores were tallied, I apologised profusely to my beloved team mates. Then, after "Norfolk 'n Chance" were awarded the "Wooden Spoon" for their total of 11 points, "Shakespeare in Love" were declared the winners with 81 points! This time, the rebel yell was a collective one! "Whoo-woo" and "Yee-haw," indeed!!

My chum, Di, with a fine, feathered friend

A farewell to Autumn, and recent developments

It snowed! Yes, snow. In October. And, yes, I did have washing out on the line as the snow began to fall. I can not believe that winter is upon us, already. Perhaps, this is just a fluke and autumn will return.

Can't believe with how cold it is now, that the D.E.B. and I were out having a lovely, sunny, autumnal trek through Elliot's Meadow just this past weekend. 

Our "walking license" had just arrived in the post (I applied for it about 6 weeks ago), and we were keen to use it! With our license, we are free to take our darling hound, Lucy, and range about the south side of the River Avon, through Elliot's Meadow, around Sherbourne, to Ogg's Farm. Of course they tell these detail in the letter that accompanies the license, but do they provide a map? Of course not. So along the way, we were sure we were in danger of trespassing, and very possibly upsetting poor Mr. Ogg ...    

Road sign in Sherbourne Village

The D.E.B. and the Princess Puppy about to cross the stream

(I had dashed across right before them, only to discover my Western Chief wellies had sprung a leak!)

Another interesting development this weekend - we attended All Saint's Church in Sherbourne, very nice indeed. Especially as services there start at a reasonable hour (11:00 am), and next Sunday they will be using the Book of Common for the Sunday service. This could be it! And as an added bonus, the All Saint's Church-warden is a lovely American woman called Gayle who has lived here over 20 years. Funny how those American connections keep happening in such wonderful ways.

 All Saint's Church (C of E), Sherbourne

The Barford Village Shop is set to open this coming Saturday!!!! The official ribbon cutting ceremony (bring your own scissors) is set for 12 noon, 1 November. 

This is the best and biggest news ever for us Barfordians. The new shop is fabulous! (Those in the know have already had a sneak peek and a preview.) They carry a wide selection of fresh veg, produce and diary, baked goods – all local. Newspapers, greeting cards, and the new post office will be there. But, with the same hours that Jane was doing when the post office was in the Memorial Hall: Monday, Tuesday and Thursday from 2:30-5:30 p.m. (Yes, you have to be very organized with your mailing and other post office business in these parts.) There is a loverly selection of wines and beers on offer, including my new favo(u)rites: Ubu (a local Warwickshire brew), and Timothy Taylor’s Landlord – Madge’s (Madonna’s) brew of choice.

Beer is not only a national obsession in this country, it is a national hobby and pastime. And a pastime I have come to enjoy. Immensely. There are few things finer than a yummy fish and chips dinner washed down with a pint (or two) of Ubu. Carbs, with a side of carbs. Heaven, absolute heaven. My waistline and the training ambitions for my “Women’s 5K Fun Run” in Helsinki, Finland next May have all fallen by the wayside.

Did I mention that the new village shop will also have a coffee bar with wireless internet!!! That’s even better than our super Sainsbury’s in Warwick. They have a Starbuck’s, but without wireless internet. I think that it is possibly the only Starbuck’s on the planet that doesn’t have wireless internet.

The D.E.B. and I have done our civic duty as upstanding community members and purchased a share each in the shop. In addition to being “shareholders,” many of my W.I. chums are also volunteering to help run the shop. I have been thinking about it, and perhaps I should. I will certainly support it as a customer.

Other big news in Barford includes: the U.S. Presidential election, and the whereabouts of my absentee ballot, which has yet to arrive. “Remember us when you exercise your right to vote,” someone said to me the other day. It is a privilege that I don’t take lightly.

Beauty’s where you find it

If, as Madonna (or ‘Madge’ as she’s called here) so wisely instructed us in the 1990s, "Beauty's where you find it," I’m in trouble. I’m struggling to find it here in the wilds of South Warwickshire.

Recently, I came across a rather interesting piece by Tad Safran (“American Beauty?” 11 December 2007) in The Times--my new favo(u)rite newspaper--that really made me think.

Okay, yes, there is no doubt that he was more than a wee bit harsh on the general female populace of Great Britain by labeling them (all) as: “unkempt and lazy about grooming.” Indeed, the words “sweeping” and “generalization” come readily to mind, as do the words “gross” and “exaggeration.” 

However--stay with me--however, Tad’s provocative essay did make me think about US-UK cultural differences in relation to beauty.

First, I hasten to add, I am not referring to the manic, extreme, irrational approaches to beauty that we Americans are (in)famous for. I’m just talking about the standard, runoff the mill, girlie-girl, “nothing-else-to-do-on-a-Saturday-so-let’s-grab-some-sushi-and-get-our-nails-done” approach to beauty, or, as I like to call it “maintenance.”

In his critique, Safran acknowledges, that one source of the US-UK beauty divide is the high cost of beauty treatments in the UK. I say, “Amen, brother!” 

And I would add to that the lack of choice or selection of salons and/or places to have beauty stuff done is another deterring factor. Pull up a chair, sister, I have a laundry list of examples, and I’ve only been here two months!

First off, outside of London and other major cities, as the Italian New Yorkers say, “Forget about it!” 

In the past two months I have been fleeced, ripped off and any other word you can think of to describe being stripped of copious amounts of cash and getting very little in return. 

In New York, in my former little enclave on Bleecker Street, there were 4 nail salons in a 5-minute radius. At my favourite, Gigi Nail (oh girls, how I miss you!), you can get a wonderful manicure and pedicure, what really amounts to a two hour royal treatment, including a short back massage, for $25.00 USD. (That’s a mere £14.96 GBP)

I’d walk away from Gigi Nail feeling like a queen AND a Good Samaritan for leaving a $10.00 tip! So, all in, $35.00 (£20 GBP and change!) 

For the love of Isis, you are lucky – at least in this part of Britain – to find a “nail salon” that will only charge you £35.00 GBP ($57.00 USD) for a slap-shod pedicure, and a haphazard manicure that looks like it has been completed by a 3 year-old! An angry, colo(u)r-blind, 3 year-old.

I'm not exaggerating. A few weeks ago, the D.E.B. and I were going to see David Tennant and Patrick Stewart in Hamlet at the RSC, and I decided to treat myself to a “salon day” (nails and waxing) in lieu of the big evening. 

First, it was a Monday, so most of the salons in the area were closed. Closed? Closed?! What’s that? I’m sure that somewhere in New York City there is at least one nail salon that is even open on Christmas Day! Or at least Christmas afternoon.

I trudged desperately about the town, like a homeless person looking for a place to sleep, and I found one salon that was open. The staff were all very friendly and nice. I really liked them. They made me a cup of tea. 

The only problem was the lack of what in the US would be standard beauty equipment. For my “pedicure” I was placed in an ordinary armchair, and instructed to soak my feet into a Rubbermaid plastic sink bowl. I thought they were joking. 

No electric massage chair, no heated Jacuzzi/whirlpool tub in which to soak my feet and cares away. This was not a “salon pedicure.” This was letting your best friend give you a pedicure in her kitchen, because she’s in her sixth week of Beauty School and needs the practice. That is all well and good, and as a good friend I would do that, if I had a friend who were a Cosmetology student, but I would do it as a favo(u)r, with lowered expectations, and certainly not expect to pay that friend $127.00 USD (£78.00 GBP) for the privilege of being her guinea pig!

I cannot even describe the shambles that was the manicure I received on this occasion. No electronic drying devices were available to dry my nails? Suffice it to say, when the manicurist started blowing on my wet nails herself, I asked for a hair dryer. They, in turn, looked at me in disbelief, and thought I was insane. Of course, my nails were smudged and ruined before I even left the building. What a complete and utter waste of time and money.

I can’t even begin to decry the saga of trying to find someone to do a decent wax job! And I don’t just mean waxing of the "Brazilian" or "Hollywood" variety, I mean I can’t even find someone to do my eyebrows decently! 

Back in NYC, I would go to Gigi Nail for a wax treatment (eyebrows, bikini, & etc.) once every four weeks. For some reason, here, I go, get waxed and then need to go back in less than two weeks. So, either, my hair has suddenly and miraculously started growing at a rapidly increased and alarming rate, or the waxers I’m going to are just not up to snuff.

So, two months in and I am well and truly ready to throw in the towel. I am tired of throwing away money, and walking away disappointed. But, I refuse to become in Safran’s words a “lazy, unkempt frump.” Oh no, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to Boots, and spent £12.00 GBP on self-waxing product by Veet.

I was giddy at the prospect of liberating myself of my UK beauty salon nightmare, and trying something new. In this, my new Veet “home waxing and individual crucifixion kit” did not disappoint. It was a new experience, to say the least.

I coached myself somewhat unconfidently through the strange directions: “Heat waxing strips with hands.” Ponderous. I have always had notoriously cold hands, so how does this work then? Should I go and use someone else’s hands? After successfully heating my hands, then heating the strips, I proceeded to smooth the strips into place. Always one to go for a leap into the deep end, I started with the most sensitive area first. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer, blinding pain of trying to rip off the Veet, duct tape-like, waxing strip that was now permanently affixed to my bikini area by what could only have been cement glue. Shedding a single tear, I rolled over in silent, utter agony, with the hope that I would not lose consciousness.  The only thing worse than the pain I was experiencing was the complete humiliation of having to call out for help after finding I had subsequently laminated myself to the bathroom floor.

Beauty is indeed where you find it. And the pursuit of beauty is anything but trivial, for it comes at great price and sacrifice. 

Blue Monday: Sniffles and My First Faux Pas

Have come to the end of a very blue Monday. I’m battling what is either a bad case of hay fever/allergies, or a cold. Whichever, it has brought with it a quite annoying ringing in my left ear.  All of this has me longing for the comfortable familiarity of my former home. Drugstore giants Duane Reade and CVS were never far away. In my little corner of the Greenwich Village, there were in fact three (3) large Duane Reade stores less than 7 minutes walk from my apartment. Out here, in the rural Warwickshire countryside, Boots – a wonderfully elegant alternative to Duane Reade or CVS, more akin to Target -- is a half hour bus ride to Stratford-upon-Avon, or a 20 minute bus ride to Warwick. Ugh. Thank God, then, for Sainsbury’s, and of course, the D.E.B.

But, access to a drugstore (chemist’s) is only part of the problem. On days like today, and I think whenever one is under the weather, or “poorly,” one hankers for the familiar. I need/want remedies and cures that I know, love and trust. Heaven knows there is probably no difference whatsoever between Benadryl and Benalyn, or Nurofen and Advil. As Shakespeare wrote, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell just as sweet.” Now, I love the Bard more than most, so I have always taken his words to heart, but sometimes, when a girl needs Tylenol, just she needs Tylenol!

All this has made me think I should have done a better job of greasing the wheels in New York City, and convinced someone, anyone, to send me routine care packages full of American necessities: any and every variety of Tylenol; Popcorn, Indiana - Gourmet Popcorn (Sea Salt flavor, mmm…); TIDE laundry detergent; Lysol spray, (“Crisp Linen” scent); real Diet Coke, Nutter Butters, and a manicurist.

But, a part of acclimatizing, is, well, … acclimatizing. So, I’m sure the British remedies will do their best.  

Committed my first faux pas this weekend. At the St. Peter’s-C of E  “Harvest Supper,” no less. Thankfully, I did not, as I was wont in the ‘90’s, get drunk and start performing a karaoke rendition of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”. No, this infringement was far worse. Suffice it to say, the lesson I learned, the hard, but utterly polite way, was that most Britons over the age of 60 have not yet “forgiven” Wallis Simpson, and still view her as a “selfish, American, two-time divorcee from Baltimore.” Yikes.  And, I made the mistake of feeling the need to “stand up for my fellow countrywoman.”  Double Yikes.

Don’t you just hate that awkward silence that happens after you’ve said something truly asinine?  You can just see and feel that metaphoric tumbleweed drifting slowly across the room. Realizing I had rushed in, where a more angelic—or at least more sensible—woman would have feared to tread, I attempted to dig myself out of the hole I was in, by musing, “Well, for whatever else, she (Wallis Simpson) certainly had incredible style.” The women around the table had to agree with me.  The tumbleweed cleared, and we were all friends again. Phew!

In the end, it was a truly incredible evening. The D.E.B. and I actually had a super time, and even led our table to victory in the “Search Your Pockets & Your Handbag” relay. A miracle, really, given that Mavis on table 3, had us stumped when she was able to produce the requisite “unworn pair of tights.” (Don’t ask.) Ah, the English and their “party games.” (As if I don’t already carry enough useless items in my last season’s Kate Spade!)

We, the victors on the “top table,” celebrated our win with an extra bottle of red wine and a huge tin of choccies (chocolates).  In the midst of this afterglow, the very dear gentleman, with whom I had had my Wallis Simpson impasse, smiled broadly across the table from me, and reminded me that Winston Churchill’s mother was American. He then leaned forward, as if to indicate a shift to a more serious tone, looked me straight me the eye, and said with great earnestness, “We are all pulling for Obama, you know.”

The American presidential election, so remote and distant as it sometimes feels and seems (I must say, I’m pleased to have avoided the “party games” that seem to be running amok in the States right now), this moment reminded me that there is no remoteness, no distance in our world.  Whatever our differences of time, place, age or opinion, our collective destinies are, and have always been linked. America has had, and continues to have, a significant impact on British history, culture and life. More than we Americans are even aware of sometimes. 

p.s. Spent the evening unpacking countless boxes that just arrived from New York. After wading through mountains upon mountains of bubble wrap, and those dreadful, dreadful “plastic peanuts,” I am painfully aware that, true to my Southern belle upbringing, I have accumulated an unreasonable amount of china, silver and stemware -- the way some people collect stamps, or rocks. 

p.s.s. D.E.B. sits across the room from me as I type. He is strumming away softly on his guitar. He is so talented and creative. [Between us we have amassed five (5) violins, two (2) mandolins (both his), two (2) guitars (both his), and one (1) cello (mine). We are more musically stockpiled than the Von Trapp family in The Sound of Music! ] Sitting here, watching and listening to him, my thoughts drift… how magic it would be to create life with this man. This man, so like me—same birthday—and yet so different.