In Which TV Teaches Me to be a Better Person

This morning I was just hoping to survive. I was curled up in bed, under layers of fleecy robe and full togged duvet and yet, I simply couldn't stop my teeth chattering. My skin actually hurt--like, it actually hurt to be in my skin. Even in my awkward teen years, never did I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. This would have made young findingmoxienager seem like Beyoncé on a bad hair year. Pretty confident, considering!

I lay there, trying all the breathing exercises I had unintentionally absorbed during 5 years of yoga and hoped that achieving a 'meditative' state would ease the chattering and set my body at ease. Not so much. It was certainly worth a try. After a good while, I realized that sleep was not coming back for me and hauled my cookies, fleecy robe, duvet cover and all into the lounge where I threw all my hard luck onto our ginormous orange bean bag. I flipped on the television in the time-honored tradition of sick days and waited for something to give.

And it did. Maybe it was the power of distraction, of being pulled away from fretting over oneself and being given an alternative reality. Or maybe it was just the cure-all of teenage drama. Oh yes. What took away my aches and shivers? Nothing but a heavy dosing of juicy US teen dramas. I started with a strong hit of Gossip Girl (in Paris!) and felt an easing. By the time, One Tree Hill was on, I felt lighter. I cannot even convey how amazing the change was. I mean, one minute I was lying in bed, alternating between moaning and clicking my teeth, and the next, I was reclined on a bean bag, chuckling and rolling my eyes (in a good way!) at Blair's typically grandiose expectations and Chuck Bass' shellacked hair. And wishing someone would give Serena a haircut with some life. Oh and that that they would stop calling each other B and S. I mean, honestly. Not. Buying. It. And since we're all girlfriends here, secretly, ever so secretly, crushing on Chuck Bass, shellacked hair and all. Don't know what that boy has that speaks to me, mojo, charisma, whatnot, but whatever it is, he has it in spades.

Lolling on the bean bag, I got ambitious. I turned to House and hoped that while I had little interest in watching it as a series when hale and hearty, it might be worth a sickie one-off. And then this happened:

It was a gift. I won't lie. It made my day. I found myself smiling as if I hadn't a care in the world. Though it won't make me rush out and buy a box set of House, to catch up on all I've missed out on, I doff my hat to you, House. But if House suddenly becomes all about handsome, stubbled men singing 70s soul music, drop me a line and I'll be on it! I tell you what, it was strangely hot watching suited men sing karaoke. I know, I could get that any weeknight at the Silver Cloud in the Marina, but not in London, friends. Not in London.

So this here is a proper journey in my restoration and I ended the day with some truly hilarious Benidorm (British sitcom about an inclusive holiday resort in Spain). It's mostly laughs and me well onto my way of feeling myself again. But what's this? Thong wearing (abusing, more like) old gent, Mel, nearly drowns after knocking his head on the bottom of the pool in an effort to teach belly-flopping Geoff how to dive correctly. It was funny, I promise. But then Mel, moved by his near death experience (his whole life flashed before his eyes and it was blurry because he didn't have his glasses on), proposes to tiny old Madge, because 'life isn't a rehearsal. This is all you get.' BOOM. The words drop like a bell tolling the hour. Portentous, resonant, striking home.

This is all we get, kiddos. I definitely need to get cracking. Tomorrow, when I'm back on my feet, that is.

On Green Dolphin Street

There are books that you read to get through time. Purely escapist books that drag you under their surface and you sink happily, knowing that in a few hours time you'll be shaking it off and striding off without a backward glance. These books do not have power over you; there isn't any risk involved. You have simply chosen to give them time and mind and once the last page is turned, you will emerge unscathed. I suppose these have been my diet of late. Sebastian Faulks' On Green Dolphin Street is NOT one of these books.

I have always respected the power of novels. I know that 'like wine through water,' there are novels that can 'alter the colour of my mind.' I know this. It is one of the things I suppose I have loved most about reading--the fact that it is not just a passive activity. A novel IS the monster under the bed; the fears and lies you have promised yourself you would let lie like sleeping dogs. It is that ledge you play with, dangling yourself over the drop; and when you're ready, the superbly reckless and ecstatic dive into the unknown. It is the enormous boulder in a Canadian lake that you climb on a summer holiday only to realise you now have to jump into the lake and it's a long way down and the water will probably be cold, but that you will do it ANYWAY. It is making it to the top tier of the jungle gym that you could never bring yourself to climb onto as a child. And the rewards have always outweighed the gamble.

Like every other Faulks novel I have read, I came by it second-hand and through necessity. I needed a book and the universe provided one. I should have felt a tickle of premonition. I did not. I began reading it on and off, mostly interrupted by the end of the Harry Potter franchise (which required me to jump into the Deathly Hallows again for full on HP immersion before the big show), but also occasionally through anxiety. Reading OGDS on the train home or at lunch, I would come to and realise that my shoulders were hunched and tight, my breath held and my knuckles white from clutching the pages. The backdrop of the story, set in a time of quickly waning innocence and trust in American history, could account for some of my anxiety. We all know that Kennedy doesn't last his first term and that Nixon will bring home that presidents and governments do lie. Through the lens of history and hindsight, it is a time that always seems like a coil tightening and tightening until it simply snaps. All that glamour and glory reaching a pinnacle and then just falling to ruin: the end of Camelot, Icarus flying too close to the sun. So yes, I was grimacing for these people, unaware that their world would shortly change. Add to that, the emotional baggage from the second World War, the Civil Rights struggle and McCarthyism weighing the characters down. It's no wonder I was a bag of nerves.

Let me stress that that was just the backdrop. The main show was a tightrope of human relationships. Yes, into this already brittle and burgeoning world, Faulks threw in the spectre of human frailty, made all the more poignant because most characters were unaware of their awful frailty. At first glance, it was that old chestnut, wife has affair and ultimately has to choose between love and husband and kids. But somewhere along the way, ( I scarcely know how it happened, credit must go to Faulks' skill as an author), it transcended that cliche. The three central characters became people. Not just husbands, wives and lovers. They were suddenly individuals who needed more from life than life had given them. Which made it all the more devastating when the constraints of morality trapped them in the end. Like Frank, I couldn't believe that bog standard morality would get them in the end and much like Mary, I began to feel as if they had created a time out of this world and their reckoning would never come. But when it did, oh boy.

The whole of the novel was so restrained, so still waters run deep, that the last few pages broke like a dam and demolished all my defences. I felt raw, unadulterated grief. I could have howled with it. I still cannot believe how shaken I was. Silly lady that I am, I thought I could finish it in company--you know, like in a living room with others. Mistake.

The slow burn and the detached depiction of the characters made me believe I could walk away unscathed. Far from it. I set the book down, excused myself and had to stand in a room on my own, clawing my way back from the dark. Maybe the inclusion of airports and goodbyes resonated too deeply with my life. Maybe the conclusion wasn't as powerful and visceral as a fist to the stomach to anyone else (given some of the reviews on Amazon). But it knocked me down. And it's been a while since a book truly leapt out of the dark and knocked me down. I suppose it's because I forgot the power of books and let my guard down.

On Green Dolphin Street dragged out into the light my worst despair, my monster under the bed: saying good-bye to the man you love more than you love friends, life and country and not knowing if you'll ever see him again. It shocked me that even though it's been years and that man and I are happily married, the despair is still there and it will always be there, glinting darkly under the surface. For that reason, the denouement of OGDS will stay with me a long long time.

I begin to think that the human condition is haunted and that Emily Dickinson was right all along:

'One need not be a chamber to be haunted,

One need not be a house;

The brain has corridors surpassing

Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting

External ghost,

Than an interior confronting

That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop

The stones achase,

Than, moonless, one's own self encounter

In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,

Should startle most;

Assassin, hid in our apartment,

Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver,

He bolts the door,

O'erlooking a superior spectre

More near.'

Still, I should gamble more often. Reading dangerously keeps you on your toes.

Shades of Gray--no Jasper Fforde, this isn't about you.

All’s fair in love and war.

When I was younger, that never sat well with me. It was too glib, too neat. It seemed to give people license to wrong one another and left those of us who couldn’t wheel and deal at a distinct disadvantage. I could not imagine a scenario where throwing someone over for someone with more appeal could ever be rationalised as the sort of decision made by good people. I was of the mind that you could not be good people if you just took what you wanted without thought for the consequences of your actions on all the other poor saps involved. It was a black and white world. You know the type, a nice and comfortable world where right is right and wrong is wrong. The sort of world we teach our children about and fully encourage to value over all else.

And now, nearly ten years on, I find it’s all going gray. And I’m not just referring to the odd strand here or there, but to the so many shades of gray in all things important. Friends fall in love, fall out of love, parents love and lose just as easily and while no one has actually said, ‘all’s fair in love and war,’ it’s what I keep coming back to. The phrase I once rejected has come back with a sort of languid vengeance, spreading through our ranks.

And it’s not pretty. But, what is most disturbing is not that it’s back and it’s very real, but that I can’t even seem to work up a sense of outrage about it and neither can anyone else. Does this mean I believe that all’s fair in love and war? Did this happen without me even making a conscious decision to run with it? Maybe all my appalled outrage when I was younger was a symptom of denial—a denial of something that I subconsciously knew deep down was true.

I mean, what do we know about love? We know that love conquers all, that love will lead us, that love is worth dying for, that love is all we need. The world, ultimately, being Darwin’s world, would have us believe that love is survival of the fittest. And so it is. It’s not a death match, but it is an arena that doesn’t allow for spectators. You cannot sit this one out and let someone else have the glory because there is only one game. You have to push through your conscience and do what brings you peace and happiness. And I suppose, you just hope that when the smoke clears, people still love you.

Why on earth do we teach our kids this anyway? It took this kid 31 years to figure out that it’s not at all black and white, and that good people need to live their lives too. But I guess, there’s another shade of gray for you. You simply cannot tell a child it’s complicated. I know. I would have scoffed at that!

Pulchritude Finally Has Its Name Cleared

It always starts out small. One little fact, a slight reference that intrigues and suddenly, I'm off. I'm reading from page to page, following wherever the links lead. I'm talking about my addiction to the Information Super Highway. Yes, the internet. One day, I read about modern day spies and next thing I know, I'm on wikipedia learning about every spy known to the CIA. And each lovely little link was a name I haven't heard before and that I MUST know. It was about 2 hours later when I looked up. This is how I lose time on the internet. It's bloody brilliant.

Yesterday, when I was at the gym, I watched Emmerdale, an English evening soap. It featured a stunning woman more in my hue. Yes, that's right, another 'Leyla', but this time, swanning about this tiny village Oop North, startling the local townspeople with her exoticness. A nice flash of colour, I thought. Anyway, the subtitles weren't on (thanks a lot, David Lloyd) and I couldn't figure out if she was meant to be Iranian or Mediterranean.

Naturally, this morning I turn to the internet. Sadly, I am only able to find out that the actress, Rokshaneh Ghawam-Shahidi, is of Persian ancestry. Apparently, not one viewer who watches Emmerdale gives a hoot from which ancestry the actual soap family hails. Not one of my more fruitful searches.

Until I scroll down and read the two comments below the actress' picture on The Holy Soap (Yes, that's what the site is called! What? It's not mine. Never been there before, I swear.) The first comment is fairly standard 'most stunning woman on TV', but the second is a beauty of alliteration and just plain punchy. Possibly my two favourite things when it comes to words.

It's just two words: Persian Pulchritude.

Hmmm. Is this code? Is it rude? I confess I've never bothered to look up 'pulchritude' and always assumed since it looks dry and nasty, it must mean something unpleasant and not particularly interesting. Nothing for it but to put it through Merriam-Webster. And I'm surprised. Genuinely and happily surprised. It's not often that I completely misjudge a word.

pul·chri·tude : physical comeliness

Pulchritude, my sincere apologies. You are a gem in the rough.

Okay, meaning understood. Still, the whole phrase just doesn't sit right with me. Why would someone put the two together, even for the glory of true alliteration? Most people who comment on the internet (especially The Holy Soap, I imagine. No offense, HS) don't really bother to go to those lengths.

Not satisfied, I put the whole phrase through Google. Next thing I know, I'm onto this Nicolas Poussin painting. See? Isn't it gorgeous, velvety dark and vibrantly bright all at once? I would never have come across this if I'd just minded my own business.

So there I am, reading this article (Poussin's "Esther before Ahasuerus": Beauty, Majesty, Bondage by one Jonathan Unglaub) on Poussin's painting of the same name. Scanning, really, for Persian Pulchritude, which Google insists will appear somewhere in this 22 page art history thesis.

Okay. At this point, I do realise that I should walk away. That this is why P calls me crazy in my research mode. [I think he really means tenacious, but I let it slide. It's one of his favourite peeves.] But I'm so close. How can I walk away?

So, I read on about Esther, the beautiful Queen who is secretly a Jew and swoons before her angry King's countenance (you may have guessed he's the guy in the bright red robe). I'm rewarded for my determination on the 6th page. Turns out, the King chooses Esther from a collection of virginal beauties brought together for this purpose and some art historian is geekily overwhelmed by this idea of 'Persian Pulchritude' arrayed before the King. Esther, of course, is the most beautiful, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But, I do love cracking a mystery. I now want to run up to people and inexplicably shout 'Persian Pulchritude, ' while punching my fist in the air.

Oh dear, I wonder if you're regretting the peep into my mind-workings now.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention. Word.

I found myself surprisingly hungry this afternoon. Surprisingly—because it was unscheduled, unplanned, and, for which I was unprepared. My late afternoon lovechild. Metaphorically speaking. Those of you who work in an office or live and die by a routine will totally get this.

Standing in front of our kitchen cupboard, all I see is my Oat-ee-bix cereal (rolled oats for my now wheat-free diet), a nearly empty jar of reduced fat peanut butter and some runny honey. A fantastic idea begins to weave together in the back of my mind and as I haven’t got much to lose—it is after all 4pm on a workday—and much to gain.

I scramble for a bowl. A few minutes later, I’m stood looking at a bowl of cereal drizzled with honey and peanut butter. I was actually feeling that tingly nauseated feeling that comes from a combination of excitement and anxiety. It was just like waiting for your ride on a rollercoaster, hearing the monster roar and tear through the air above you, wondering if you’ve just made a terrible mistake and if these people wouldn’t mind you shoving past them for the exit.

I rushed back to my desk to tuck into my new culinary invention. Sure, it doesn’t look right. I mean, peanut butter isn’t exactly the consistency that ‘drizzles’ well. It’s more the consistency of ‘clumped.’ One bite and I know that looks aren’t everything. The crisp oat chunks provide the perfect texture, the peanut butter on oat reminds me of peanut butter cookies and the honey adds a refreshing zing to the milk. The oats even seem to delay their soggy process in the milk—as if the physical properties of peanut butter, milk and honey combined slow down the inevitable breakdown into oat slush. Tasty and practical?!

Verdict: WEIRD LOOKING BUT AWESOME. Will revisit.

Too bad the office is looking at me askance now. Guess I got the rumour mill going last week when I had tuna fish with pilaf rice for lunch (What? It wasn't too bad. Just a bit salty). Clearly, I’m playing fast and loose with the rumour mill now. My cereal and its accoutrements need a name. Perhaps ‘Relax, Definitely Not Preggo’?

How to wear Literature

Those of you who know me well know that for nearly the last 10 years I have been talking about the same idea. For those of you who don't know me well, please know that I am not a one-note wonder. I have talked about other things the last 10 years as well!

I suppose the idea has been steadily growing ever since my first reading of Wuthering Heights. I remember where Cathy tries to explain her dreams to a skeptical Nellie:

"I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind."

Such a stunning image--that our minds are a canvas and our dreams and experiences transform the canvas with all the colours of living. As always, hats off to Emily Bronte. But to go all English major on you, presenting the mind as a canvas sets the mind (soul, heart, character, the It of a person) as something tangible. I suppose I should say 'as opposed to nebulous' and 'necessarily indefinable'. This something tangible can be known and understood and maybe even shared. Where someone close to you can look to the canvas and have an ah-ha moment: 'That--there you are! I see it now' And cue instant harmony of souls. Or so the young romantic in me imagines it'll go. It's pretty to think so, isn't it? Maybe it's just me, but there is something divine in being truly seen in one glance. Others may like to pick through the clues and put together an understanding of One. Not me. One soul-searing glance is the ideal. That or handing a new acquaintance findingmoxie's very own cultural lexicon made up of all the bits that are integral to findingmoxie. A real 'Here's What I Love: Go home and come back, knowing it all, ready to commune with this Awesomeness.'

Ahem.

Well, you know the why. Let's go on with the what.

Years later, it took Michael Ondaatje to take this seed of an idea and run with it. The English Patient has weaving through the centre of its story Almasy's desire for a world with no maps. And for a time, living and working in the desert, Almasy can perceive an existence with no borders, no nationalities while the rest of the world around them explodes into opposing countries and armies. I confess that as a twice displaced individual, I found very seductive this dream of saying NO to maps and all their accompanying divisions. Beyond the political and geographical indicators, we're still who we are and always will be. Maps just break up happy homes, peoples!

Although rejecting maps and borders, Almasy does believe in the body:

"We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.

I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience."

Yes. That's it exactly. I want to be marked. Marked by all that I have loved, sweated, survived and been moved by. I think it's a hauntingly beautiful idea to essentially honour all the people and things who have passed through your life. Lord knows, I haven't stayed in once place and in the course of my wanderings, I've encountered so many amazing people and though some of these relationships have been transitory in nature, their effect on me has been no less obvious and no less visceral than my staples in family and friends. It's nothing new really that each person carries these experiences with us; but rather than just memories rattling around in your mind, unseen and intangible, Ondaatje gets physical. These markings don't have the softness of memories, these are freaking MARKINGS, carved into your body. You've been lived in, friend. And housekeeping hasn't been in to refresh.

It took the supremely talented Anthony Minghella to give this idea of mine a stunning visual. He had me in the opening credits, for goodness' sake:

(Apologies for the handheld action--you now know where my strengths don't lie.)

In this Ondaatjeverse, others plunge into and swim up our bodies as they mark us, remaining part of us. The film opens with a hand gracefully painting these stick figure swimmers onto rock, while Hungarian folk singer Márta Sebestyén mesmerises you, and suddenly it's shadows on sand dunes, that last ever flight through the desert.

BAM--it hit me like a freight train.

That's how I'm going to be marked by everyone and everything I've known. Little stick figures will be painted unto my foot and will swim up my body. So, when you see the little dudes on my foot, forever embarking on their journey, you'll understand what it means to me.

And that's how to wear literature, folks.

the ONLY way to get me to Baltimore

There is something about this photo (posted by one of my former RAs, Alex P., an actual denizen of Maryland) that both repels and tempts. It's definitely the sort of photo that vegans wouldn't like and trust me, when you know a vegan, suddenly, a lot of photos seem in ridiculously poor taste. Especially anything involving a mallet and pliers.

In any case, this is what you get when you take yourself to Obrycki's Crab joint in Baltimore.

Not sure if crabs are just spilled onto your table haphazard, but it seems in keeping with the cartoonish brutality of filching all the flesh from crab shells.

After sitting through two seasons of The Wire, I vowed that NOTHING would induce me to pass through Baltimore. But, I have to say that that gluttonous glory of Obrycki's might make me reconsider. Besides, how bad can Baltimore be? I'll just stay away from the waterside and the East side or the West side. Hmmmm.

Luckily, the crabs shown here live smack dab in the center of Baltimore. Could be neutral ground.

This Can Only Embarrass Me

Sometime between the release of the first two Underworld movies (I told you this wouldn't make me any cooler), I read an interview with Kate Beckinsale. What's more, something she said stayed with me. Naturally, I hate to set one of the tent poles of my life to a Kate Beckinsale-ism, but hey, it's a sight better than Carson Daly, is it not? At least, Kate Beckinsale was never dumped by Tara Reid: where rock bottom gives way and you fall another 30 feet through sludge and more sludge.

In the usual manner of interviews in fashion magazines, it was supposed that we care less about Ms. Becksinsale's accomplishments (I know, but stay with me) than her beauty regime and musings on what make women truly beautiful. What she had to say was so honest and so true (for me anyway) that it floored me. When asked if she felt beautiful and confident, she answered that she believed that whatever or wherever you were as a 12 year old never left you. That you could be glamorous, successful, the most stunning woman in the world and you would still feel like that gawky 12 year old--if indeed you were a gawky 12 year old. She admitted that she was chubby and awkward as a 12 year old and that that was her default, where she stuck sometimes.

Cut to me gobsmacked. Holy crap, yes! Rationally, I know I'm not that little girl anymore, strange and awkward, not really understood by my peers. But it makes sense that some strong vestige of that key developmental part of your life has stayed up way past her bedtime.

And it also makes sense that some people just don't have that lingering breath of gauche. Some people are so amazingly confident and unconcerned that it takes your breath away. These are the people who had an easier transition at 12. You know them, the sort of 12 year olds you imagine had a bright pink bike with a white wicker basket, parents who didn't argue and grandparents that didn't worry about their weight in front of them. And in my case, the kind of 12 year old who was every bit an American from birth (maybe blond, blue-eyed and named Laura). So yeah, I guess I personally had a long way to go to find serenidence. Much like Faulkner, this one is on me. Self-coined: where confidence isn't brash or arrogant. But instead shows itself as a serenity and a certain quietness of mind.

To tell you the truth, I haven't actually thought of Kate Beckinsale's theory of 12 in years. It actually crept into my mind as easy as pie this evening. It takes one awkward and stilted social encounter and suddenly, I'm 12 years old and Kate Beckinsale is right. Dammit.

The Wheat from the Chaff

To take a metaphor and make it literal, it turns out it's got to be less wheat and more chaff for me. Maybe.

I've been mulling it over for sometime, that perhaps my buddha belly and random malaise might be the result of some undiagnosed food intolerance. And as I love diagnosing myself, I settled upon a mild wheat intolerance and decided to test run it for a few weeks to see if it didn't sort me out.

Couple of things you should know:

When in doubt, I turn to cookies.

Given to nibbling every two hours, snack bars have wormed their way deep into my life.

Being Iranian raised on Salad Olivier and koresht, sandwiches are intoxicatingly exotic.

Not ideal and we knew we were going to be in for a rough few weeks.

Oddly enough, dinner was not a problem. Protein, greens, side of wine and I'm set. Breakfast and lunch, however, were a kick in the pants. Without wheat, my options dwindled to cornflakes to start my day. Unless I was willing to have a fry-up every morning before work (let's be honest, we all know my sleep pattern couldn't take that and not too sure my heart could either), I was down to measly cornflakes. Could there be a more BORING breakfast cereal? No texture, no surprises, just bland little flakes. Blergh.

And lunch! Lunch, with my beloved sandwiches, was not going to be the same. I tried a solid week of salads, with inventive ingredients like German salami, avocado, cooked beetroots, asparagus and artichoke hearts. Mind you, I really enjoy salads, but this felt like I was slowly starving to death and still my health hadn't noticeably perked up. I felt the same, only more obsessed with bread. And nobody wants to be THAT girl.

More alarmingly, when I couldn't hack it any more (picture me leaping off the wagon with defiance and abandon, two fingers up) and indulged in a panini or a cookie or three, my stomach shot me a memo of two words: Not Cool. I was losing what little tolerance I had to wheat. Gulp, what would this mean for the rest of my life?

Still though, knowing that this could potentially change my health (i.e., get rid of those last 5 belly pounds and maybe do away with headaches, constant colds and hives), I pushed through. We looked into wheat free toast (feels like lead when it hits your stomach) and jacket potatoes for lunch(not as boring as cornflakes but can I face a routine with potatoes for every lunch? How many permutations of baked potato filling could I come up with?).

A bigger issue was rising on the horizon. It's my birthday month and what the hell were we going to do about birthday cake? Well, in that respect, may the sun always shine on London's Borough Market and the Cinnamon Tree Bakery, who have convinced P and I that brownies don't need wheat. Only more chocolatey gooeyness. That's right. Suck it, wheat, brownies don't need you!

I honestly can't say that I'll be living wheat free forever, but here are some of the things I'm deeply grateful for: rice, rice noodles, Haribo gummies, winter for all its lush soups, chocolate and rice puddings.

Oh and silver lining: the occasional savoury pastry doesn't make my tummy hurt. And believe it or not, I'm looking forward to the winter. I know, right?! But winter eating will be a breeze: oatmeal for breakfast, chunky soups for lunch, and slab of protein for dinner. Can just about taste it!

Like in everything else, it's one day at a time and never an absolute. Life always veers off the edge of map, son.

Well. Here it is. Shahar Shambeh Suri--where Iranians the world over jump over fire to symbolize the end of the year and ring in the new in a Zoroastian ritual. Couple of things you should know. I've never done this before in memory, even though I was born in Teheran. My husband is English. We don't have a garden, a fire pit or a barbecue. This is very, very homemade. In any case, we rocked it. This one's for you, mom and dad.

Snow Day!

Most Californians can't say that they have woken up to many snow days in their lives. Sure, we went to bed with snow covering the ground and a healthy spatter of it falling from the sky. I mentally picked out my Monday morning ensemble, starting with a layer of black thermals and boots with the most traction. I assumed I've have a wintry whale of a commute getting in to work and opted to get an early start--if I could peel myself out of my warm duvet-coon. I never suspected I'd wake up to this:




Do you know what's most unusual about this photo? Besides the gorgeous indigo morning sky enveloping the cool white of the snow? There are no buses. No cars. No commuters hustling on their own two feet to get to work. A quick confirmation with the Transport for London website and yes, it's what we suspected. All bus services have been suspended and our tube line out for the count. I was told this is what we call a snow day. A snow day! No, Monday; hello, Snowday!
This is nearly worth the whole winter!




















For the first time ever, I was dressed and out of the house by 8am without having to go to work, take an exam, catch a flight or a train. Naturally, hubbs was surprised and amazed.


Wandering around, looking for an open Starbucks, London was transformed. The smallest details were suddenly aglow with magic. The trees, fences, churches, cars--all made beautiful.

Still, admiring the scenery is not quite an invitation for a snowball fight. Or so I would have assumed. I should have remembered what they say about assuming and you and me.

I really must learn the native customs of this country.

Peace Out, 2008!

What follows below is an account of 2008. But first, we must get there. Bear with me.

I don't know what it is exactly about trains, but there is nothing like a train journey to send me into thought. Maybe it's the ability to sit facing backwards on trains, allowing you the most literal experience of looking back at the paths you've taken. It's almost as if you are caught in time and space, held in stasis while speeding towards and away from past and future. Perhaps that's why most travellers feel sick at the thought of travelling backwards--the metaphorical aspect dizzies and overwhelms. Not me. I prefer to see from whence I've come and this is probably pretty telling about my character, but I think it's easier to take in the landscape when looking back. Looking forward the landscape comes upon you too fast and does not allow for any kind of cognition, re- or otherwise. Or maybe it's growing up with my sister, who has always referred to travel time as 'quiet reflective time'. Such an effective kibosh on chit-chat put me in the habit of carrying a notebook and something to read, in addition to developing my ability to kip off almost anywhere.

In any case, I was on a train. It was early evening New Year's Eve and hubbs and I were travelling back from a dark and icy Paris. Dark and icy Paris, I've come to realise, is a stunning postcard. The third dimension loses something of its charm. It's hard to appreciate the fantastic time you may be having if every other thought is: COLD.

But, home. We were on our way home. On this train journey, we had the very best of Paris accompanying us: Camembert, jambon, a baguette and Bordeaux. And central heating. Heaven. This, with the train and the date, led to a retrospective look back on the year that was 2008.

I present you with what we will carry on from 2008:

• Woke sick and battered on New Year's Day, watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks and vowed not again.
• Like Samson and Austin Powers, I realised exactly where my mojo resides and realised too late.
• The Clouse House welcomed the first, little T the Tall.
• Frank the Goldfish came to us and left us mourning.
• Circumstances conclusively proved that yes, all's fair in love and war. Realised that disillusionment can be the coming of all ages.
• Were mistaken for Greeks, independently of each other: taciturn and scruffy for hubbs and brown, brown, brown for me.
• Founded the year of Hot and Sour Soup and Thai Salad.
• Turned 29. No comment.
• Finally became a cabin boy.
• The Academy's Sweetheart got married and reunited, it was very good.
• Mingled among the Welsh and the Walshes. Got lost on the Welsh coastline. Discovered a level of hell: the family-themed holiday resort.
• Camped in a tent, on an air mattress in late September, in Southeast England. Translation: burr. And we're not talking Aaron Burr.
• Both became Seniors at what we do, proving that we do it best (apparently).
• Hubbs drove Ford Mustang. Will never be the same.
• Had first dinner party--for 11 guests. Eschewed baby steps.
• The Bridges go legal. California meets Kansas.
• Travelled to Greece, US (twice for wifey), Tenby and Paris.

Retrospection complete, I turned to my third favourite thing to do on trains. A fuzzy wine-fueled nap--the best kind, I tell you.

Here comes 2009. Let's look sharp, shall we?

For Findingmoxie, the Bell Tolls.

I went out after work with some colleagues--actually, my bosses and yes, that's how far I've come. I no longer mentally play the Imperial Death March when my boss approaches. Don't get me wrong, I still hear her approach and get that reflexive twinge of 'Look Busy!'. Anyway, going out for two drinks soon leads to communal bottles and someone topping up your glass without your knowing and leads to this:

Drunken ramblings on the bus home. I do remember the moment. The clock was lit with the aged yellow of history, the bus windows were open and it was 8pm. I remember hearing the bells for the first time and suddenly wondering how it was possible that I ride past Parliament and Big Ben ('Look kids, it's Parliment and Big Ben!!') twice a day, five days a week, for 14 months and have never heard the bell toll the hour.

Certainly begs the question, for whom the bell tolls? Clearly, it hasn't been for me. Although maybe that's the point. You never know when it tolls for you. Maybe it's been tolling this whole time and I couldn't hear it. Speaking of which, I really need to finish that book.

In that moment, living in London became slightly more concrete. I mean, it's hard to ignore the range of British accents, lilting up and down and dodging consonants, and the absence of my nearest and dearest (except for hubbs). Nothing emphasizes disassociation from everything you used to know more than an 8 hour time difference. I no longer react to my life with my community of peers, but detachedly relate it at a time more suited to their sleep cycle and my own. Removed from my time and until I heard Big Ben tolling the hour, without any time. It was almost like Big Ben restored my gravity and ground me in London--19 months after I arrived.

It also brings to light (pun intended) another issue. Why does having a tipple or two too much stimulate my writing life? Why does the urge to put my thoughts down to paper always froth up when I won't be able to legibly record a damn thing? I speak of the many journal entries from my year in Leeds where journaling usually meant more spilled ink than anything else. I began to wonder if my preoccupations with daily life were stifling my froth? Perhaps the time I spend strategizing the next day's outfit, mentally prioritizing paperwork for tomorrow's to-do list, or dreaming of our next holiday isn't settling my chi. It's coating my chi, the white noise of living. Apparently, hooch sets my chi free, de-clutters my mind and releases the writing life.

Just have to figure out how to have both without becoming a lush and the sort of illegible genius no one can ever understand--including myself.

Complicated in Farsi

I remember first seeing Funny in Farsi at Cody's on Telegraph Street in Berkeley several years ago. I was just coming to realise that this whole ethnic thing didn't have to be such a bad thing. In fact, suddenly, it made me a richer, more interesting person. Non-ethnics and Other-ethnics wanted to know what I ate at home, what it sounded like when I talked to my parents and even how to pronounce my name correctly.

This was a drastic about-face from my early days in the American public school system where anything exotic was shunned, especially if it was green and didn't smell like peanut butter and jelly. Needless to say, I learned that lesson well. I assimilated and so did my parents. We took up Christmas, bought a Ford and spoke English to each other, even when no one else was around. It was only then, 20 years later, that I felt like I had lost something--a part of myself, of my parents, of my past that I would never really have again.

When I saw Funny in Farsi, prominently placed on the front table at Cody's, I felt an overwhelming mixture of kinship and sadness. This was my story and it had been told by someone else. I was both afraid and eager to read it. What would this book reveal to me about my own life? But, as a not so financially solvent student, the hardback seriously exceeded my modest means. (You should know that 5 years later, I'll buy another handbag before I shell out nearly thirty bucks for a hardback...patience is a virtue, kids. Wait for the paperback.)

Five years later, on my 29th birthday, I open a delicious looking Seychelles shoebox in breathless anticipation. Inside, I find an unbearably cute pair of sky high wedges with black canvas straps, accented with a little red bow at the toes and adorable polka dot lining. I squeal. Urged to look under the wedges, I found my own paperback copy of Funny in Farsi. A little less excited (I mean, come on, it's polka dot lined WEDGES!), I thanked my best friends, the Millers.

So I read it. I even saved it for a month--as you do with books you're sure you'll love and want to savour it, or is that just me? Anyway, on to the book. I really wanted to have an emotional resonance with this book, the way I had and still do with Lipstick Jihad. But, I just didn't fall into it and maybe that's because it's laid out as quick little vignettes that are more amusing than poignant. It's not that my experience growing up Iranian in America wasn't funny and endearing and precious for having laughed through it with my family. But much of it--the public part anyway--was tinged with awkwardness and loneliness.

And maybe that's how I feel about belonging to a people who are exiled from a country that no longer or maybe never really existed. You can make it humorous, tell your friends how your dad goes by Fred "like Fred Flinstone" and loves shopping at Ralphs everday, having made friends with the butchers and bakers. Or how about the time my best friend in elementary school wanted to know how to get rid of leg hair without shaving and I told her that I had seen my mother use honey to do it? (This is before leg waxing became mainstream and when it was only done by stocky little Persian women in back storage rooms of Persian-run beauty salons). I am happy to report that honey apparently works as well as proper Persian wax. But, my relationship with my lost heritage and growing up in a country that I've come to love very much is much more complex than that and it goes too deep in my self to only laugh at it.

I guess I'll have to keep looking for the answers. Maybe it's unfair to expect a memoir to give that to me. Maybe I need to go to the mountain. That's right, Mohammed's mountain. The homeland itself. Now, how to convince the hubby that we will make it back with all our civil liberties intact?

Finally Off My Nightstand!

A long English Easter weekend, a ferocious cold snap and a last minute head cold meant I could uninterruptedly (as uninterrupted as one can be when living with a man) plow through the Karleen Koen novel Through a Glass Darkly, which has been lounging fatly on my nightstand for the better part of two months. To be fair to Ms. Koen, her novel was preempted by a reading list that harkened from before Christmas (my weakness being 3 for 2 offers at bookstores and P's weakness being trolling all bookstores within a ten mile radius on weekends). I have to be honest though. Eyeing that book on my nightstand every morning as I got ready for work, I realised it requires some chutzpah to take on a book that weighs more than a yorkie terrier and is infinitely more difficult to drag around. That's right. It's a wrist sprainer. The kind of novel you cannot casually carry in your handbag, cannot read lying down for the strain, and cannot drop into for a minute or two between tasks. And I didn't have that kind of chutzpah to face my morning commute with 700 pages of angst and half of London (you better believe it).

Circumstances, being what they were, did eventually conspire to bring the novel and the reader together. And this reader found herself trapped somewhere in the 400th of angsty pages wondering how she got there and where would it all end? Relatively well-written (though a bit stilted and a firm believer of symbolic repetition in the school of the dead horse), rich with historic detail, engrossingly fleshed out characters and a narrative that nimbly leapt from one character to another without jarring. But something happens to all that poise and promise and suddenly, the last half is like a modern day tale of Job. Yeah. Super fun. Though, I guess in keeping with Easter weekend--the origins, not the chocolate.

Everytime P came in from the gym or working late or from another room, I had another death to report. It was as if Karleen Koen wanted to single-handedly reinforce belief in the high mortality rate of the early 18th century with smallpox, consumption, suicide, heart attacks, duels. And while it initially did feed into the development of the characters, it quickly became this hysterical sob-fest--much like morbidly reading the papers for other people's tragedies and natural disasters. Weeping, wailing, tearing hair (theirs) and after a few sniffles (mine), I heard myself muttering, 'Oh, come in! Another burial?!' Plot device number 23: DEATH and Plot device number 24: HOW CHARACTERS DEAL WITH SAID DEATH.

Karleen--can I call you Karleen?--what's going on? Why?! Are we meant to have everything that we love taken away from us, just to know that we can be strong and that we'll always have Grandmama and faith? Cause, um, I got that when Angel asked an unarmed and defeated Buffy what she had left as he stood over her with a sword and she answered: me. Before puting the whale on him, girrl power style! [*By the way, she clearly didn't need Xander telling her about Willow's attempt to lift the curse--buying time for the spell would have been diasastrous! Yeah, I went on the record.]

Naturally, the ending left me bemused. I wasn't sure if I was coming or going, what I should be feeling and if I really should have sneakily had that second KitKat while P was at the gym--and whether I would confess when he got home? I gave it some thought and besides the old chestnut that 'life is short', I choose to take away one of its central repetitions:

'Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.'

Proverbs 4:23.

It's good advice from Grandmama Tamworth back in 1715 and it still holds resonance today. Actually, I do wish Grandmama Tamworth was my grandmother. The old girl knew how to keep it real and didn't suffer fools gladly--which is exactly how I want to be when I grow up! P also didn't seem to judge me for the second KitKat, which I guess is what Easter is all about--chocolate and that whole Jesus vibe of loving compassionately!

It was Saturday night. Somewhere, young people were combing their hair and putting on their best shoes, heading out to the bright lights of anywhere.

Here's what we did instead.

Curry: £10

Gin: £12

Tonic: £2

Giving drunken tours of our flat: priceless!

The Lounge and Curry

La Cocina Vida

If you take one thing away from this post, it's that digital cams are fun. As is gin. Not so much Sunday morning though. Obviously.

Goodbye 27....ye shall be missed.

27 years and 362 days. I think.

Freakishly corresponding with my first day of employment is my birthday and the last hurrah of my 27th year. I know many of you had to hear about the angst of turning 27. That fabled year of adulthood. As this new adult, I was going to drink wine out of wine glasses with no exceptions, have cocktail parties, matching undergarments, splurge on lovely sheets, always carry my handbag with me to the ladies room, and live less like a student generally. Well, I'm proud to say that most of that came to pass. I have a gorgeous gold duvet that I absolutely heart. Just last week, when we were down to our last unbroken wine glass, I refused point-blank to drink red wine out of lowball glass (for all your 12 year olds out there, yes, that's what it's called, I looked it up!). I even stood firm when someone resorted to calling me 'boughie'--which if you know me, you know that I aspire to the boho life. But still, I would not drink from his cup. I had one cocktail party (loose term) which ended in the RA showing up (geez, what other 27 year old could say that!?)...not my finest hour, but I was a charming hostess re-filling chip bowls and grinding frozen strawberries for delicious daiquiris. I now have a dishwasher and a fancy set of cutting knives (what's his is mine, right?) and find that my life is pretty far from my student qualms. So, all in all, 27 was a lovely year with amazing peeps and hijinks and one of those numbers that just feels so cool to say. Turns out I don't care for even numbers very much. HELLO 28!

P.S. I may spend the weekend coming up with the meaning of 28 for my life. I am sure many of you wait with bated breath.

My Last Day of Unemployment

So, today is my last day of freedom before I start my new job at Kings College London as an Event Coordinator in their Conference and Vacation Bureau. And last night I was getting giddy thinking of all the things I could do to encapsulate freedom, laziness and summer into one delightful day of no responsibility. About 4 am, I am woken up to the sound of steady rain. Curses! This morning, Paul eats his cereal and watches the news and comes upstairs to tell me that we're expecting rainfall all day. Double curses! Looks like I get 1 out of 3 of my delightful day. Laziness. And while I'm enjoying this, having a late cup of tea, reading up on the Harry Potter parties (trying to make an informed decision on which to attend), and painting my eyes as black as they will go (an homage to my wizarded friend and his world), I notice a leak in the hall. A long strip of leak. Thrice with the curses! After speaking to the rental agency man who incidentally referred to Iranians, Iraqis and the Portugese as Mesopotamia peoples, being advised to use 'primitive' methods (i.e., lay down pots) and learning that in England, roof shingles are piles, I finally have a chance to finish my cup of tea. And it's cold. Not enough curses! Accio a new day! Or magic me some chocolate and beloved friends...

P.S. If you were queasy at the Blair Witch Project, maybe you should skip my hand-held camera technique!

I am a nerd, ask me how:

The Book of Lost Things-John Connolly
Just finished this book! It was fascinating, although sometimes the 'morals' became a bit too anvil-shaped. But a wonderfully imaginative book that reminds you how much you have always loved stories...although, be forewarned, the book is not as thick as you think! The last 100 pages are 'Notes'--which sounds like a good thing, but actually made me miss out on the impact of the book's climactic scene, thinking there was WAY more story to go! If you're a nerd like me, you'll know what I'm talking about!
Passion-Jude Morgan
Have only read the first couple pages and I'm already excited. It's a book written by a man about strong, passionate women that seems really empathetic and real--rather than clueless and condescending! Already a treat. Anyway, sounds like a romance novel, but follows the lives of the women that inspired some of the most well-known Romantic poets, Shelley, Byron, etc. Can't wait til it gets juicy.
French Lieutenant's Woman-John Fowles
Yes, I've never gotten around to reading this classic. But here I am, my 27th year sighing its last and reading this pseudo-Victorian book. Anyway, it's hinted at a lot of heated tragic business, but not just there yet. Again, enjoying the way women are fleshed out.
My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time-Liz Jensen
Okay. By far the most entertaining book I have read in a while. And by entertaining, I mean lively, conversational and clever! The heroine is just too much and you love her to bits. Might be too much for those of us who like our books to be mildly stimulating. (p.s. Aimos, you need to read it!)
The God of Small Things-Arundhati Roy
Just read the first paragraph. Syntactically, a thing of beauty all throughout. Warning though, this will haunt you. Gorgeous but haunting.

London in July

So we've all heard of monsoon season and even the valley has had the occasional summer thunderstorm. However. Pause. [Setting the scene] This last Tuesday, July 3rd, I am on the phone with a bakery in Los Angeles discussing square tiered versus round tiered. It's about 5pm London time and while on the phone, I'm standing by the window just watching that giant black cloud on the horizon. Anyway, just as I'm about to tell the woman on the phone my unique position of ordering wedding cake from 5000 miles away, the sky lets loose this fat burst of thunder, like a cosmic whoopee cushion. There's a moment of embarassed silence on the line. I finally say, sorry about that, we're having a thunderstorm. Obviously, she blurts out, 'Where are you?!' Where am I, indeed. The wilds of Fulham where this mad maelstorm explodes over our heads and besides flashes of lighting that are soooo clear you can count the zigs before they zag, nickel-sized clumps of hail start pelting the windows. I'm running around closing windows and marvelling at the fury of it all. Marvel turns into awestruck as it continues for longer than a few minutes (we're used to short bursts of weather this pond-side) which in turn, becomes fear. I am dialing my old man's office line and for effect, I open the window and have to shout over the storm, leaving an atmospheric (bah dah bum) message on his voicemail. Me, hysteria, and the elements! He calls back and totally doesn't belive me. Thinks it's the Californian in me that's nervous of a widdle wheather. And so, like any self-respecting independent woman, I bust out the webcam and run from window to window, documenting the demented whims of the Fulham sky. Anyway, so here we go. Remember, this is July 3.

That's taken from our 'lounge' window and is Ryecroft Street. Look at the twee little cars! And the sheets of hail.

The garden behind our building (belongs to the ground floor flat..we're the attic flat)...even the resident pigeon had to flee.

From the hallway window, the Wandsworth Bridge Road....

My favorite, as two firetrucks go screaming and splashing by, as if at this damp point, anything could even spark to flame!

By the way, this is only after a 20 minute storm...look at the pretty mailbox and the

girl taking photos on the corner, in shorts!

And just to give you a thrill, double decker action to the deux...I think buses had to pull over

during the storm, because none came through during and yet after, backed up deckers.