Turns Out You Can Always Go Home, But Be Prepared to Dig

From Buffy to Scarlett to Harry Potter to Shrek to Miss Jane Austen, my precious hoard

The leaves are blazing red and orange, fluttering restlessly in that crisp wind that calls to mind cold nights, warm fires and steaming cups of hot chocolate. The very air is like a siren-song to findingmoxie. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, but findingmoxie, you LOVE summer and you were born in the summer, how can you rejoice in the autumn? Well, after a long summer--and this year was the first proper, getting into broiling hot cars, sleeping without a stitch on, watermelon in the fridge summer--I simply YEARN for the feel of a fuzzy scarf wrapped around my neck and thick socks promising my feet a lovely winter's hibernation. But, for the rest of you, who may not embrace the creeping cold as much as I shall this year, I bring you news of summer. This past summer, to be exact.

The Findingmoxies spent summer in Los Angeles this year, as part of our gear up to move back to London. And before you imagine it as a temperate coastal Los Angeles, something achingly cool like Santa Monica or Venice, let me stop you right there. I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, a deeply inland enclave, some 40 minutes away from downtown LA and Santa Monica. It is not the distance to the beach that I bemoan here, but inland in southern California could mean arid desert at the worst and arid desert built over with asphalt and malls at best.

In fact, I loved the distance to the beach. When we were teens, we'd head out to the beach on the hottest days of the year, driving through the canyons, windows down in my friend's hatchback Honda Civic because the air-con didn't work and you could literally feel the minute you crossed out of the valley. The hot air that was blasting your face and bushing out your hair turned balmy, cool even and soothed your feverish skin. That moment is one of the best things about growing up where I did.

Pretty much how it was in my day too

Mr Findingmoxie and nearly every other non-California native assumes that summer holidays were a child's paradise, where the minute I rolled out of bed, I was outdoors on my bike, riding about town, glorying in the bright sun and taking frequent ice cream breaks, only to stumble home for dinner at twilight, the day's possibilities exhausted. Hmmm. Here's what really happened. I would wake up sweating, pjs stuck to me and my head feeling three times its size (what I now find comparable to a jaeger hangover). I'd have a glass of ice water for breakfast, open the back door to water my plants (my granddad and I used to garden together) only to be assaulted by the first blaze of sun, hustle back into the cool dim living room and settle in for a day's TV. Lunch was mac 'n' cheese out of the box, Little Mermaid was our preferred viewing and only at 4pm, when the sun began gilding the valley in shades of gold and shadows of berry, would my sister and I pour out into the backyard for handstands in the pool or where there was no pool, a lawless game of badminton (which we called badMINGton). That's right. We HID from the scorching sun. Actually, the best time to swim was at 10pm, the pool would be so warm, it was like a bath and the pool light shimmered through your limbs--that's as close to paradise a valley kid can get if you ask me. That's the life of a kid growing up inland.

So hot, BBQ feels room-temperature

4th of July Alfresco

Back in the valley with my parents for the summer, Mr Findingmoxie, wanting nothing more than to jump on his bike and cycle through Malibu Canyon and me, wanting nothing more than to live in the mall, where the air was guaranteed to be cool. Fourth of July saw us having a BBQ and valiantly trying to eat outdoors in 40/90+ degree heat, a standing fan plugged in by extension cord, 'cooling' the patio. We were giddy enough to ignore the sweat dripping down our backs and enjoyed ice-cold beers as long as we could--'bout half an hour--and then we were back indoors, putting on a rousing ping pong tournament.

Needless to say, I tried to sunbathe, guzzling ice-cold diet pepsi and toughing it out. But when I became too slippery to hold sun cream or my headband, I had to call it quits. (Which led to findingmoxie's first ever self-tanning spray experience. I know, I know. But I couldn't stay yellow all summer. And it was kind of fun, I had a hoot reading poetry aloud to myself in an 'English' accent to pass the drying time. FYI, brown girls can go orange.)

The end of the summer was inching closer and with it, Mr Findingmoxie was flying back to the UK to get us settled. It's a lot harder to fly off the cuff or by the seat of your pants when you've got a chatty cat, so we had to trust that Mr Findingmoxie would find a home that would take us all and more importantly, send for us! Facing weeks alone with a nearly comatose black cat, I had to come up with a pastime. I probably picked the stupidest pastime for August, but that realization came much later when I was sitting in the sweltering garage picking spiderwebs out of my hair. I decided to sort my childhood things that were boxed in the garage. This was parts obsessive-compulsive need for organization of all my things and parts convinced a forgotten treasure trove awaited me in 15 year old boxes.

I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck in Excavation Me. And it was glorious. Gloriously hard, gloriously funny and gloriously enlightening. My body became a lean-mean lifting machine as I hauled boxes around and up stairs. My sweat was the sweat of the righteous. And oh, what I unearthed. I unearthed old journals, all my precious things from long before I thought of things as precious, my Buffy madness in its entirety, a tea-stained pocket dictionary which practically wrote my Masters dissertation on its own, all my Nancy Drew books, a seriously clunky pair of mary janes and a seriously rad Egyptian mummy rucksack (which is back in rotation, oh yeah).

Found

Best of all, I unearthed that ridiculously enthused, slightly awkward, chatterbox of a girl I left behind in my parents' garage. I had always found her deeply, deeply embarrassing and would cringe away from memories of her--like everyone else about their twelve year old selves, I imagine. I mean, I used to scribble in a journal from front cover to back cover. What could I possibly have had to say that would justify writing it ALL down? And having read through some excerpts, not much. After all, nothing much happened in the valley. And yet. And yet. There was something endearing and hilarious about this girl who wrote every single thought she'd ever had and every single conversation she'd ever had (not too many, I chattered and very few people chattered back, yes, I was that child). She dreamed where her life was going to go--and I'd forgotten this, but this gauche valley girl wanted to be an international jet-setter, when she wasn't busy sleuthing or flirting with tall, dark handsome men, think Anne of Green Gables meets Nancy Drew meets Scarlett O'Hara meets Amelia Peabody--and unabashedly wrote it all down. And I LOVED her for it.

The Impractical, roller-skating in a bikini

the serious neighborhood journalist

the clown

the princess

It was like meeting all the versions of myself in one summer and they all became superimposed over the valley landscape. Suddenly, when I was driving to the gym, I would recall my favourite streets, where my long ago friends lived and where the cool kids I used to tutor lived. It was surreal and wonderful. At the risk of sounding all new-age, by the end of the summer, I felt as if I had taken in and absorbed all these holograms of me and finally, finally found a central findingmoxie. Me in its purest sense. I know it sounds like hooey, but the feeling was indescribable. It was a massive sense of well-being, peace, and pride. Maybe everyone else was already there, but after this last year of upheaval and loss, I needed to make that peace. It was like coming home. The best kind of home--the kind you carry around with you.

Anyway, if your stuff is living in boxes somewhere, jump in and excavate. It's the new yoga.

On the Midnight Train to Georgia

Around this time last year, we were gearing up for our biggest challenge yet: a full transatlantic move. Sure, findingmoxie, young and timid, once flew across the seas to play house with Mr Findingmoxie. Determined to bring only myself, the permitted two suitcases (oh, the glory days of yore, when transatlantic travel meant one was allotted two pieces of luggage), and my entire shoe collection (sent on by USPS and Russian freighter, arriving 3 months after myself), I was splendidly ruthless and practically traveled with only the shirt on my back. For me, that is. Now, the literary student in me wonders if, years later, I can imbue that ease of ruthlessness with meaning. Was it a clue to what would come? This literary student is also well aware of the impact of vague foreshadowing. This is your cue to feel yourself inching onto the edge of your seat. Maybe. If it's a slow news day.

Five years after my disembarking at Heathrow, Mr Findingmoxie and I were paying someone else to chuck our precious things into a freight container, bound for the US of A. We were chock full of emotions, a veritable molotov cocktail of excitement, sorrow, nerves, nostalgia, eagerness and straight up terror that we would forget something that would set either government against us. We truly loved London and our lives in London, but we had set plans in motion for a life in the US years before and things were coming to their natural conclusion. Away, we would go.

Now, you're thinking you know all this and that this walk down memory lane seems a bit unnecessary. Well, dear reader, forgive me, but you'd be wrong. We were suddenly in California and you watched us wiggle our fledgling wings, take tentative hops and eventually the tiny hop off into the great wide open. But where we thought we would soar, we fell into a free-fall. Charles Dickens totally gets it:

'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.'

That's it in a nutshell, folks. So many aspects of our new lives thrilled us, but Newton's Law wouldn't cut us a break (this one's for you, Mr Findingmoxie, some sciencey goodness). 'To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction' and the reaction in question was a host of things that we didn't love, that didn't feel right to us in our new world. So, we were having serious doubts. We weren't sure if the findingmoxies were simpatico with life in California, life in San Francisco. And we were still looking for work. The double whammy.

In the end, it was a combination of factors that led to our decision: the doubts, the lacks, the trickling away of our savings. And so, we decided to haul our cookies back to London, becoming possibly the only people to EVER orchestrate two transatlantic moves within one year. Silver lining, we nailed it this second time around. Well, except for my crutches being packed when I wasn't looking and then having to be unloaded and unpacked by embarrassed movers . Yes, here's a tip on moving, do not schedule a half marathon a week before your impending move. It is literally shooting yourself in the foot, or knee, as it were.

Nearly a year later and the molotov cocktail is back. Only this time with a heap of regret, a lump of guilt and a pinch of hope. Hope that we'll find a place where we belong and hope we'll forge a hearth and home independent of geography. Because let's face it, my home is where that GingerBeard is and his is wherever I lay my pretty head.

And with that, peace out, California, it was grand and you'll always be in my heart, but maybe we're better on long holidays than the nitty gritty of real-life hustle? KIT and stay sweet, old buddy. Hey London, remember us? Well, make room, because the findingmoxies are on their way.

I Believe in Miracles (You Sexy Thing!)

Hoofing it on the Golden Gate

Back in February, my old college roomie came for a weekend stay and we pored over glossy fashion magazines, cozed under sofa blankets while topped with dozing kittens, watched a solid amount of teen dramedy Greek (WATCH THIS IMMEDIATELY) and in general drove Mr Findingmoxie crazy with our inactivity and inability to get out of the house in under an hour. In the midst of all this girl-fest, Scraps started talking about a concept that changed my view of my unemployed time. Having recently gone through a long stretch of unemployment herself, she decided that the time would not be wasted. It would be her Unemployed Renaissance. She taught herself how to knit, she baked new recipes, she made her own facial products, and she ran. And it was like being smacked in the face with inspiration. I desperately needed a theme, a concept to give structure to my days.

And so, the Moxissance was born. I began reading all the classics that I was never assigned, began an HTML course online, began writing creatively again and bought a trampoline. But Scraps was not done. She whispered the words  San Francisco Half Marathon. I was floored with possibility and apprehension. I had always wanted to run a race and like everyone else, was shamed by seeing pensioners run across the finish line at the London Marathon year after year. And I enjoyed running--that is, when I was actually doing it, but it had been a long while since I'd hit the treadmill. Fear crept in and reminded me that all my years of yoga had given me a dodgy hip that didn't even like sitting still for too long, how on earth would it submit to 13.1 miles of pounding asphalt? I had also never met a shoe, heeled or sneaker, that wouldn't give me a blister if I pushed long enough. Shimmying around the fear, though, was excitement. I could do this and it would be great. It would be an achievement that I could smile fondly upon when I have more coral than bone in my hip or allow me to bare my teeth when faced with insurmountable odds. I wanted this.

 I admit, I did drag my heels quite a bit. From February to April, I swung back and forth. Finally, I joined a gym and began running in mid-April. Let me tell you, it was discouraging. I huffed and puffed, sweated and yeah, I cried (thanks a lot, CNN for tugging at my heartstrings while I'm sweaty and vulnerable). One day, I kept on pushing and suddenly, it was good. I felt strong and began thinking, maybe I will register for this marathon thingy. Piece of cake. I bit the bullet and put my money where my mouth is. Now, I had to kick asphalt to get my money's worth. I developed a game plan. A shot of espresso, a handful of Gatorade chews, and a jaunty walk down a massive hill to the gym ensured a good run. Any deviation meant bad luck on the treadmill. I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I was going to be a superstitious runner.

Just over the finish line

Five miles came and went. I positively loved five miles. I felt like a warrior queen at five miles. Seven miles was not so easy. I was less a warrior and more a wounded bird. Eight miles was my wall. The wall of walls. I felt about a 100 years old at eight miles. I spent a week trying to get past eight , without blistering or without twinging in my hip. My runs began to feel like whole lifetimes were passing as I beat out a rhythm on the treadmill. My headphones began to irritate my inner ears. My left foot kept blistering in the same spot and I kept waiting for a friendly, protective callous to form. Not my luck, I'm afraid.

The day I hit ten miles I felt like bursting with pride. My body had different ideas. As soon as I got home on a wave of triumph known as the 37 bus, I promptly threw up. And then, burst into violent hives. I won't lie, that was a psychological setback. I hadn't even run outdoors yet. I hadn't even factored wind resistance into my endurance and I was already covered in red splotches. Scraps tried to talk me down from this one and told me to take it easy. I was too deep into the throes of my obsessive compulsive need for perfection, however. I needed to take it to the streets.

Two days later, I plotted a seven mile run outdoors, from our door to the sea. I nipped through stop signs, jogged in place on corners, dodged pedestrians, ran into the wind, the sun warm on my face, and stared into the glittering blue line of the sea on the distant horizon. I was energized, over-heated, embarrassed, enthralled  and so very happy to be alive. It was a grand old run and  I knew I was ready.

Now, what to wear? You think I'm kidding. I assure you, I'm not. This went on for a while and involved multiple visits to sports shops. Outfit sorted, the day of the race crept close. Scraps flew in and made me watch "The Spirit of the Marathon," a documentary about marathon training. Fear twisted my insides. I focused on mantras for the good times and mantras for the bad times. I went to bed with a heavy sense of dread and woke up on Marathon day.

Mr Findingmoxie had gotten up earlier (to the tune of 4:30AM) to pick up our rental car to drive his runners to the race as we'd learned the hard way, there was NO trusting SF public transport. A fact that was proved again when we were hailed by another runner, who had been waiting for a bus for nearly half an hour. We needed the good karma, so she joined our merry band. Scraps and I were in different waves and when she left me, I nearly hyperventilated and could not get my bloody numbers pinned to me. My hands were shaking and finally, I gave up having the stupid thing on straight. And then, boom, off we went.

My final stats: Tag Time 2:47:46

It was a gloriously sunny morning and running along the piers, the Bay Bridge at our backs and the Golden Gate around the bend, I was pleased as punch. Even though it was a ridiculously early start, there were some awesome folks out supporting the marathon with signs and shouting slogans (personal favourite was 'Your Feet Hurt Because You're Kicking Ass.' Yes, yes, I am). I was so touched by these enthusiastic, kindly early risers that I high-fived everyone who had a hand out throughout the entire race--because, gosh-darn it, they EARNED it. God knows I would never have lined a race course at 6am and probably never will.

The first five mile marker came out of nowhere and I double-checked my Casio in disbelief. I had beaten all my previous times. I was killing it and yet it felt like I was slow and steady. Rad! I was definitely going to make the Golden Gate Bridge before they opened it back up for traffic. And I suppose that's what you call hubris. Halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge, my left knee begin to twinge. I noted it and continued, thinking that like all twinges before it, was just a kink that needed stretching out. Another half mile and it was getting hard to ignore, so I thought I'd walk for a bit--which killed me a little since I'd set a goal of running the bridge in its entirety. It's the small victories, people. But I needed my knee to finish, so I took a break. But walking hurt as well. Not as much, but still, that was worrying. I spent the next 2 miles walking, hoping it would heal itself.  It never did.

That's when the rage kicked in and burned through my veins. I had worked so hard, I had been doing great on my time. Mr Findingmoxie was waiting for me at the finish line and Scraps was already scheduled to finish faster than me and now they would have to wait even longer? NO. Just no. "The Spirit of the Marathon" rose up to remind me that runners run. You don't stop, you just keep running. So, I started to run. I limp-ran, ignoring my left knee, putting more weight on my right leg. And it sucked, but I was proud of myself for not giving up and it was that spirit of determination that got me over that finish line 4.5 miles later.

It was truly amazing to come across the finish to cheers and hugs. I'll gloss over the part where we were so cold our teeth were chattering, even with dry sweaters and foil wraps, where the Irish coffee we were promised had run out and where I spent the next 3 weeks hobbling on crutches and a knee brace. And still haven't been able to run properly.

Instead, I'll tell you, it was totally worth it and I am eyeing a Berkeley Half Marathon next Thanksgiving.

The Trick is Not to Expect It, But to Delight in It When It Comes

Les Findingmoxies

One of the boons of dual citizenship  is the surplus of holidays and traditions. Add some ethnic flavour to the pot and you can bilk a few more holidays out of the universe. Which basically means we've got Guy Fawkes Day, 4th of July, Cinco de Mayo, Persian New Year, Boxing Day and Burns Night.

However, as with any awesome thing, there is a cost and to maul a metaphor, the other side of that coin is missing out on events in the lives of your friends and family. So it happened that Mr Findingmoxie's sister got herself hitched one lovely June day eight hours ahead of us.

Not to be left out of the festivities, I immediately wanted to invite all our Bay Area peeps to Casa Findingmoxie for a dawn prosecco raid. Mr Findingmoxie, ever the voice of reason and restraint, postulated that perhaps our peeps would not wish to don their glad rags and quaff prosecco from earliest light. I scoffed, but relented. Although, I'm sure this was a disservice to the locals. Mr Findingmoxie gracefully accepted that while others would not answer the call to raise prosecco, there would be no stopping us.

The day dawned bright and sunny in San Francisco (and surprisingly, in Sheffield eight hours earlier. Seriously, every time I've been to Sheffield, it's either been rain or snow, never sunlight). I had the perfect dress I'd been saving, sparkly and vibrant. Mr Findingnmoxie donned his wedding suit and even Dexter submitted to a bow around his neck. A major cat feat, I know. My last endeavour to wrangle cats into a festive cheer involved two kittens, two homemade birthday hats and a camera. Every time I got one hat on one kitten, I turned around to find that the other had chewed his off--argh, how else would Scraps know that Oregon and Dakota loved her on her birthday? Finally, I had to give up in hysterics. As for Dex, it helped that the ribbon was a welcome break from the Cone of Shame that the poor little tyke had worn for the last two days. Booted, suited and bowed, we met the morning with deliciously flakey quiche and our favourte bubbly.

Dex, taking some down time from the festivities

Giddy in  the way that only early morning bubbly guzzling can induce, we set up the tripod and posed for our family portrait. The morning passed in a blur of laughs, top-ups and catching glimpses of the actual event through the reporting of our on-site correspondents.

And let me tell you, it was possibly one of the most enjoyable wedding celebrations in which I've ever taken part. No hauling a clutch around all night, no seating arrangements, no small talk with strangers, ridiculously easy access to my tipple of choice (knowing that it's the good stuff), no queueing up for anything and no pacing ourselves (uh-oh, you'd think, but no!). Only thing missing was the dancefloor and the musical cheese.

Lunch rolled around to find us gloriously merry.  As we headed down the road to have a burger, there was a certain cachet to being the the giggliest people in the neighbourhood. And man, never has a burger tasted so damn good.

There Are No Ordinary Cats Anywhere

My Buddy, My Body Pillow

As promised, I come bearing cuteness. But first, a little background.

You are interrupting

When we fostered The Six, as Mr Findingmoxie and I have come to call our little cast of To Kill A Mockingbird (see all entries from July to Sept 2012), many of you probably chalked it up to crazy cat lady syndrome. Now, I don’t entirely deny that, but we did have a method to our madness. Mr Findingmoxie believed he was allergic to cats and rather than simply adopt cats we would only have to return once the sneezing started, I reasoned that fostering might be the altruistic and guilt-free way to test Mr Findingmoxie’s allergies. Granted, I did not quite imagine The Six. I had something more like The Two in mind—in what would essentially be a gentle introduction to the joys of kitten- and cat-hood for Mr Findingmoxie. But when I saw those six tiny feral faces HISSING at me, I knew that I had a higher calling. Besides, I figured that with The Six, there could be no doubt either way if Mr Findingmoxie was allergic or not. It was pure math: if he could countenance six, then two cats would be a snap. And Mr Findingmoxie could never resist an argument based in maths.

Fiyero's Tiny Little Face

A long, hard and gloriously adorable summer of fostering ensued. The good news was that Mr Findingmoxie was not allergic. The bad news was that I may have slightly miscalculated on how much Mr Findingmoxie would love kitten hijinks. In that volume, anyway! All the best laid plans…and so on. 

We had always said that we would have cats in the states once we moved back and so I headed to the SFPCA. I was immediately introduced to a skinny, panther of a kitten with bat ears and enormous eyes. He was cautious, but soon lost himself in a game and burrowed into my lap, hunting after his toy. And just like that, with his tiny little face rubbing against my knee, he was mine.

Another little black kitten in a pen nearby caught my eye, but he was already playing with another family and I assumed was practically adopted. I set my sights elsewhere, telling myself there were other kittens for me. But I really couldn't get that kitten off my mind; it was a niggling feeling that I was finding difficult to dismiss.  I was nearly talked into adopting an adorable tabby with pretty manners when I gave in and asked about the other black kitten. Yes, he was available, the other family was still deciding. I high-tailed it over there and met a chubby bundle of pure love. This bub just threw himself into my arms and rumbled loudly. He didn't even need the pretense of a game. I couldn't believe the other family walked away from this little gem. For a giddy moment, that niggling sense became the hand of FATE and little chubs was coming home with me.

Try to nap without Dex and Fiyero. Dare you.

And that’s how I met Fiyero, my little panther princeling, and C.K. Dexter Haven.

Kitty chaise lounges

Paws clasped at sunset

How Fiyero and Dexter met is a whole other story. Given that they weren't littermates and had not shared a pen, it fell to us to introduce them properly. Now, cats can be very contrary and cannot be coerced. We had to take it nice and slow. The shelter recommended separate rooms and letting them see each other for a few minutes at a time. What ensued was a week of tiny kitten tantrums (i.e., hilarity).  Imagine a dog gate in the hallway, where I sat on one side with Fiyero, Mr Findingmoxie with Dexter on the other side. Now imagine both kittens jamming their tiny kitten paws through the gate and smacking each other in the head frenziedly while the humans shook with helpless laughter. Good times. 

Needless to say, before the week was out, we started to see this: 

In which Dexter wears Fiyero like a scarf

Then, we started to see this:             

And it was good. 

Fiyero, for want of modesty

So, may I present Fiyero, the princeling panther, who loves prosecco corks. He loves their wobbliness and knocks them all over the flat (prosecco is now a hobby we can both share!). He loves chewing on plastic, even if it is just hanging out of the fridge for a second. He inhales catnip, licking it up in a frenzy and going frantic with energy. He plays fiercely, but always retracts claws when coming in to people contact. Fiyero loves hiding under beds and blankets, snuggling down into a warm dark corner. He is MAD for his tubes-tring toy and stands in front of the fridge, purring and kneading his feet in place. He lifts his face up for head-rubs. He crawls into your lap and butts his head into your cheek for cheek to cheek rubbing and then settles into your arms like a baby. Fiyero sleeps on his back, tummy in air. He contorts across you and purrs. He gobbles up dry food like it is crack and it is going out of style. He walks on tiny cat feet with a light and elegant step. He dangles off the cat tree and fights Dexter for the top spot. He may get carried away with playing and always FINISHES the game, which usually ends in him play-bullying Dex. He loves chasing and tumbling with Dexter--possibly WAY more than Dexter loves being chased and tumbled. 

Dexter adopting Persian New Year

Dexter, the Faithful Hound

Dexter is the cat who should have been a dog. He comes running when you call and when you speak to him, he maintains eye contact very politely until you are out of words. He follows us around and needs to be in the same room. He loves watching Mr Findingmoxie cook--or he loves watching Dr Who on the ipad (as Mr Findingmoxie does when he cooks). He does have favourite toys and will GROWL lest you try to take them away. He will growl even if you have no interest in taking them away, but I suspect it's a game he likes to play. Anything with feathers must be destroyed. Dexter is also like a koala bear and loves being carried around room to room, while being stroked. He talks to himself, grunts when he jumps down from heights, gets his nails caught in things and forgets how to retract, hanging there helplessly. He loves eating from Fiyero's food bowl before finishing his and thinks I don't notice this. The little rascal. 

Long story short (too late!!! you cry), you can't say the findingmoxie tribe doesn't have any personality. We may have too much. And frankly, we wouldn't have it any other way. Well, Mr Findingmoxie could probably deal with a little less. 

UPDATE: When I began writing this post last month, Fiyero was a little under the weather. He wasn't eating as well as he should have been and seemed a bit tired. We took him to the vet and it was there that he was diagnosed with FIP, the same kitten disease that took Boo Radley. I was faced with a horrible decision,  watch Fiyero get weaker and weaker because I was unable to let go or put him to sleep before the illness hit his central nervous system and he really suffered. For a week, we watched him and tried to entice him with all the naughty foods he was never allowed--to no avail. He stopped eating and only wanted to sleep on my lap. Soon, he no longer wanted to cuddle and just wanted to be alone. Dexter stopped sleeping with him and I realised I was watching my kitten slowly starve to death. It was the most harrowing decision I have ever ever had to make, but it needed to be done. We were with him at the end and I hope he knew how very much he was loved and adored. I am just grateful that we had the chance to give him a home and a happy one at that. 

My experience with the SFPCA was truly amazing though, the Vets were all so kind and caring, all costs were waived because we had adopted Fiyero from their shelter, and later, I received a touching condolence card. Thank you, SFPCA, for making a difficult time a bit easier. 

I could not face deleting this post, or finishing it until now.  I still miss Fiyero and I know Dexter does. But we are good. Taking it one day at a time--or in Dex's case, one happy, gluttonous feeding at a time. 

In Which F. Scott Fitzgerald Teaches Us Excellent Posture and Faulkner, That the Best Stories Are Never Told. Apparently.

I considered calling this blog entry ‘Into the Abyss: How I Got Lost in the Nothingness of Being.’ But, sitting on a wobbly chair in a jazzy coffee house, the blue sky having finally peeped out (after two interminable grey days—think California time, where two grey days is a LIFETIME instead of the usual in Londontown), that title seems like a bit of a downer really. No, you say!? And I have to say I appreciate your incredulous sarcasm.

 I feel compelled to point out that it is an honest downer. Here’s what happened. (By the way, I may also have watched a couple of seasons of Monk since we last met). Anyway, here’s what happened.

When we last met, Mr Findingmoxie and I had just found a lovely flat in San Francisco, the sun was out, and our futures looked bright. That is not to say that there weren’t the usual blights upon otherwise happy days. But somewhere along the months, the same blended into the same, days bled into weeks, and we began to feel very Victorian indeed. And by Victorian, I mean long stretches of ennui broken by snappy segments of determined self-improvement. Taking inspiration from our friend, Scraps, we decided to turn our term of unemployment into a renaissance—a moxissance—where we would pick up skills and hobbies we had always imagined taking up. And so, we toiled through online computer programming courses, accepted a dare to run a half marathon, taught ourselves how to chop a whole chicken via youtube, trekked through Faulkner and Fitzgerald novels, wrote a few vague starts to a novel and a children’s book, choreographed a trampoline workout, powered through seasons of TV and kicked ass at being a stay-at-home cat mama. 

To stave off the dreaded ennui, I tried to set a schedule of hourly installments of activity. For instance:

10:00-11:00 Read The Sound and Fury

11:00-12:00 Look through job listings/apply

12:00-13:00 Lunch and telly

13:00-14:00 Write stories/blog

14:00-15:00  Catch up on correspondence (those of you who were my unlucky correspondents can totally take a moment to snicker here)

15:00-16:00 Physical fitness (trampoline, yoga or running)

16:00-17:00 Shower

17:00 Ukulele practice?

17:15 BEER-THIRTY?! Catch up on seasons of TV.

The more sage among you will realize that this schedule fell apart pretty quickly. Maybe it is my ‘Goldilocks complex,’ but any endeavor I undertook meant that I had to get comfortable and my comfort is fickle. By the time I settled comfortably to a task (fetched a cup of tea, warm socks, found the right musical accompaniment, plugged in my laptop, etc.), I only had a quarter of an hour left. Curses!  For me, oddly enough, gainful unemployment meant there were less hours in the day. Yeah, I still haven’t been able to work out the math on that one. I only know that if I planned to achieve five tasks, I actually got through two, tops. Le sigh.

Soon enough it became sharply clear to me that while I chose Mr Findingmoxie as my life companion, I didn’t think he would end up being my ONLY life companion. Suddenly, all my words had only one focus. I think I can safely say that we both felt the strain. Keenly. Marriage can be a delight, but you need the chaff of everyone else to find the wheat of your chosen partner. The dangers of becoming seriously co-dependent or seriously independent of each other loomed over the findingmoxies.

And so, the ABYSS opened. What am I supposed to be doing? What am I supposed to be feeling? Am I not utilizing my experiences to the fullest? Why aren’t I happier to be back in the states? What the heck do I want to do? And the ever popular, am I overthinking everything, again?!

I honestly don’t have any of those answers. Still. But The Nothingness of Being has faded. Mr Findingmoxie staggered, but stood strong under the force of all my words. Two little kittens to look after gave me much needed focus to my energy and love. The sun, after all, shone nearly every day. Some days, the Nothingness seems like a gift, a blank canvas with which to do anything in the whole wide world we fancy. Other days are simply Bleh with Nothingness. But such is life.

I know, I lure you in with promise of perfect posture and bore you with angst. Never fear, you shall be rewarded. This much I can do for you. According to Fitzgerald, you have to walk, rising from the small of your back, rather than slumped on your hips. Seriously, doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a game changer. And Faulkner? Well, I’m told it’s more powerful to allow every single character but the main one share their story. The main character is then made larger than life. I am still struggling to accept this. Frankly, silence has always seemed like marginalization for me, but I’m sure Faulkner would point out that that’s my own hang-up.

There, you’ve been schooled.

In any case, I hope this means we can be friends again. I promise not to disappear again. Oh, and cute cat photos will probably be de rigeur again. So, hang in there!

Where The Women Are Strong and The Men Are Pretty

So, chicks, where we last left off, Mr Findingmoxie and I were embarking on our flat-hunt in the city of San Francisco. Now, this wasn't our first rodeo and we had picked up a few tricks from our London hunting days. First, you must always go in with a chequebook and if you like it, slap a ring on it immediately. Hunters who decide to mull it over a pint of stout or a good night's sleep will never ever get the flat of their dreams. Fortune favours the brash, so move quickly and without showing any hesitation. Second, be prepared to be shown many squalid and truly horrifying tenements. Don't become dispirited by this nightmare  sequence. You need to see the bad to recognize the good. Think on Jane Austen. There must be a Wickham before there can be a Darcy. However, that is not to say that we were expecting the SF flat hunt to be a cake-walk. Not at all. Mr Findingmoxie had read a handful of alarming articles, ruminating on the state of the rental market in the city and it was reputed to be FIERCE. In any case, a reconnaissance was in order, so we piled into a car and went out to find our new stomping ground. 

 

When I last lived in San Francisco, I found the city beautiful and believed the source of its beauty was purely geographical--a city of hills on a bay, the East Bay sprawling out on one side of the bay and the ocean stretching out on the other. Bookended by two soaring bridges and around every corner, a new breathtaking view of water, sun and dizzyingly steep streets, how could San Francisco not be a stunner? 

Well, the prodigal has returned and now all I can see are the buildings, glorious painted ladies in all colors, shapes and sizes. Houses in the Sunset district are compact and bright, perched near Ocean Beach like an tier of whimsically iced cupcakes. The homes in the Castro have stairs that lead up from the street, towering ever higher, like tropical birds perched in tree branches. In the Haight, homes verge on the psychedelic, more color on one house from trim to base than you'd ever expect to see in a whole street of homes. In Cole Valley, the apartment buildings change from style, shape and era, nevermind the colors. Sounds mad, doesn't it? In San Francisco, it just WORKS. And frankly, it can make you feel giddy and charmed that honest to goodness grown-ups live in a real-life Candyland. 

Having sussed neighborhoods, we were ready to jump in the melee. I would consider the findingmoxies fairly respectable, in fact, verging alarmingly on yuppie--saved only by the weird and wonderful awesomeness of our friends. Both of us clean up real good, know our way around a smile and a witticism, and on the whole, are productive members of society. Most days. But as we went from flat to flat, meeting agent after agent, and explained our circumstances--no jobs lined up, just immigrated from London, flush with hard-earned savings, Mr Findingmoxie without a credit history in this country, living in LA, but stating our references as housing agents in London, and so on--we started to FEEL shifty. Seriously, we sounded like fast-talking charlatans, selling beachfront property in Arizona. I won't lie. It became demoralizing. Even I wouldn't have given us a lease.

It was looking hopeless, chicks. But we kept on and one day, we saw this flat in Cole Valley that was privately owned by a family. Halfway through showing us the flat, the landlady turned to us and confessed that she liked us. And she wanted the flat rented out that day. Mr Findingmoxie and I looked at each other. Suddenly, we were like that brainy girl in high school who slouches, wears glasses and her hair in a ponytail, never believing in herself until that popular boy becomes her lab partner, spends afternoons studying with her, realizes she's AMAZING and tells her so. I'll tell you, WHAT A RUSH. We practically fell over ourselves to apply for the apartment and assure the landlady that yes, we were as amazing as she thought we were. Next thing we know, we're signing a lease in her apartment while admiring the tigers painted onto her Tibetan rugs. 

Two weeks later, we moved in. Without any furniture or electronics. In fact, we are still waiting for our furniture. But, I trust Jane Austen and know that until you spend 3 weeks sitting on folding chairs, you cannot truly appreciate a sofa.

Our yellow apartment building....

And so, we present to you, our new Casa findingmoxie! For your viewing pleasure, we've recorded a video tour of our lovely new flat, bare as it is.