Lady of Leisure Log, Day 2 of Kitty Krusade.

I've been a kitten foster-mom for 2 nights now and already, I'm experiencing parent anxiety. Last night, one of the kittens scaled his prison and got his tiny head stuck in a gap of his folding pen. BECAUSE I DIDN'T TIE DOWN ALL SIDES OF THE PEN. Which, by the way, did not take away from my stress levels while watching Walking Dead--I mean, I would love for one single episode where no one dies, but not holding my breath. I digress.

Sure, the little guy was none the worse and in fact, showed no indication of learning his lesson as he immediately scaled the other side, looking for another chink in his pen, once I released his tiny head. But the guilt, oh the guilt stays with you. I got into bed last night and lay there for what seemed like hours (and was probably a single hour), wondering if the kittens were okay and if I should sleep in the lounge in case something else went awry. It was only imagining Mr Findingmoxie's ridicule that kept me from launching myself  into the other room, pillow in hand. It's a terrible and a beautiful thing when you're responsible for tiny lives. That much is clear to me.

However, this morning began quietly. I started the day with a much anticipated feeding, both for myself and the little darlings. Seeing the kitties settled into a post-brekkie snooze, I risked a peaceful hour of yoga. I'd been looking forward to this, not just because of the much needed zen, but because I was desperately curious to see how the Wild Bunch would enjoy my yoga accompaniment. That's right, I wondered how their tiny ears would react to some serious opera, Maria Callas to be exact. Opera helps me dis-spell the white noise and if I'm doing it right, I feel like I'm soaring with the high notes. Turns out, the kittens were more interested in my contortions than in the tunes. Don't know if I did myself any favors--they already think I'm not entirely to be trusted.

Despite that, afternoon cuddles went really well and I even got two kittens purring! Definite result. And besides that, I came up with the exact literary source for their names. The same kitten that caught his head in the pen is my little rascal, an explorer, the first to venture forward either in eating or in play. While watching him try to single-pawedly annihilate the three pronged feather and ball toy while all his kitten sibs gave up to nap-time, I knew. He was Scout. And so a theme was born. I have myself a Scout, a Jem,  a Dill, an Atticus, a Calpurnia and a Boo Radley. Just call me Harper Lee, kids, because I've got me To Kill a Mockingbird.

Let me introduce to you:

Atticus, sitting court. [Bah-da-dum.] Look at his majestic chops and wise eyes. 

Jem and Scout scrabbling away. Scout, biggest tomboy, picking fights with all and sundry. Jem not too far behind.

White-chested Boo Radley, easily spooked and keeping to the shadows. Calpurnia, sleeping soundly--unless that is, you stick your hand in the pen too quickly, and then it's a HISS, because she protects her home. 

And finally, sweet, adorable Dill, who seems to cry uncle more than any of the others. 

We're so on our way, dear readers.

I Do a Far Far Better Thing...

Yes, I am being absolutely selfless by fostering an orphaned litter of six tiny kittens for Celia Hammond Animal Trust. I mean, it gives me no pleasure to dangle a feathery toy and watch 6 adorable kittens gambol around me. Nor does watching that one kitten, who prefers live prey over the feathers, attack his brothers' tails instead make me feel soft and gushy on the inside. No sir, not me. I do this for charity.

And here's what charity does for me: gives me a sense of purpose to my days and yes, gives me so much cuteness that I think the universe might explode with it. Of course, these are not just cute kittens. They are, in fact, new to this cuddling humans thing and frankly, they are not sure if it's worth all the fuss. But that's where I'm meant to come in. I have been given these kittens to socialize them and train them to love me, I mean, us--the human race. Starting with me, naturally. Anyway, I was instructed to play the radio, sing along to music and keep the television on as much as possible. I know, right? This assignment was MADE for me. Except for using the hoover and laundry machine, those are all my favorite things! If only having ice cream would make the kittens grow to respond to cuddles, then this would be the summer that I was given a little slice of heaven.

Today was Day 1 of the foster experiment. I woke early and suddenly, having had my first anxiety dream about the kittens. Mr Findingmoxie and I were back in Thailand and having Thai massages and I was relishing being back in my swimsuit, when BAM, I remembered the kittens. I had not arranged for anyone to come look after them. And I didn't have a spare key with anyone. How could I not have forgotten to look after the kittens?! Cue freakout and new for me, bursting into dream sobs. Enough to bring me awake, dry-eyed, thank god, but blessedly awake in a world where I haven't just sentenced six kittens to die of starvation in my own flat. Even though it's barely light, I have to nip out into the lounge and make sure they all survived the night. Plus, Mr Findingmoxie is new to this cats thing and I wanted to tidy things a bit before he had his breakfast right next to Kitty HQ. Good thing too, as they'd been busy kitties.

Getting them used to human noise, I set up a playlist--a veritable variety of genres, from Evita to Daft Punk. Interestingly, they handled everything calmly--including Biggie Smalls--but for the Daft Punk. 'One More Time' sent their tiny ears skittering and made one of the black kitties pace a bit. I like to think it's his jam.

Mid-morning playtime came round and it was a big hit.  The first step to trust and sweet, sweet cuddles is playtime. It's obvious that there are more confident and frisky kitties among the litter. Those same kittens are the first ones who come forward to eat once I place their food bowls into their pen. I will have to work harder to get the shyer ones to play. Challenge accepted.




Music, check. On to the TV training for my new cadets. I opted for some Glee (as I'm a bit behind on the season and I thought music and TV, two birds, eh?!), which to be honest, acted as a lullaby for the kittens. They dropped off immediately, only occasionally squinting up at me; I like to think they were making sure I was still there. Yes, they're already that attached to my awesomeness. What they did not enjoy was Maria Sharapova's match today--and I'm pretty sure, given the outcome, neither did Ms Sharapova. The emphatic shrieks of the tennis star did not endear Ms Sharapova to my napping brood, sadly.

Having noticed that they scurry back whenever I approach the pen, I wanted to get them acclimatized to me and so, after lunch, I arranged my yoga mat alongside their pen. I stretched out with my current reading (Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. I know, not kitten friendly. If I dropped the tome, a kitten could be squashed. But, I always have read dangerously.) and we spent a lovely hour napping and reading.

Tomorrow, I will focus on stroking each kitten, hoping that once I scratch beneath their ears they'll see less of a purely functional use for humans--a.k.a food dispenser.

Demurely Saucy--Oh Yes, It's A Thing--Courtesy of Zara.

Well, to be perfectly clear (oh yes, I am that girl), today's hardest look for me to pull off comfortably is the sheer look. Besides jumpsuits, that is, which will always be beyond me given my tiny height and bodaciously curvaceous factor. I digress.

Yes, you can see London and France.

But seriously, skirts without lining and made deliberately sheer take me out of my comfort zone. Luckily, I need nudging out of my comfort zone from time to time. And it is fun to be demurely saucy. Every now and then, mind you.

-- I sent this from my 3 mobile --

In A Cat's Cradle

I've said it before and I'll say it again, the Victorians did it best. When Rochester turns to little plain Jane Eyre and says,

'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now; it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.' 

 it's one of the truest things I have ever read about love and attachment. It was when I first read it over 12 years ago and it still holds today. When I met Mr Findingmoxie, this passage flared up in my consciousness, lighting up the dark like a match and I knew that bizarrely, for their isolation, the Bronte sisters knew what it was to love deeply. Through the years of long distance and even longer distance, I held this image of a string anchoring from mine to Mr Findingmoxie's heart. It would thin with each mile it was stretched and it would quiver with the motion and roar of that sea that separated us. And oh, how it would ache. But, it never snapped or grew too weak to hold. And one day, at last, I followed it across the sea. 

We have lived happily in London for the last 5 years and we have forged for ourselves a warm and lovely hidey-hole in this ever-changing city. But, as all things change, we decided to move to back to the States and give the other side of our lives a chance at growth. And in this long summer of goodbyes, I have realized that there is not just one string from my heart to his, but rather, many strings branching from my heart to the supports of our life. Strings for my in-laws, my former CATS, my Lit friends, Mr Findingmoxie's school friends, our road, our flat, my favorite London bridge and the long white nights of an English summer. And so I am held in a cat's cradle of deep connection, bound tightly to these supports. Bound and raised loft--rather like the carved figure on the prow of a great masted ship. And soon I will catch the wind and with the strength and grace of these strings, move further into 'light and life,' like Jane Eyre with her Rochester. You know, only more crowded with much loved people and places.

In Which Sarah Waters Teaches Me That There Doesn't Need To Be a Beginning or an End.

I have this fascination with wartime London. Sure there was the blitz and sugar rations, but there was also red lipstick, seamed stockings, touring American soldiers, desperate love affairs, women re-building Waterloo Bridge and all Londoners getting through their days with style and careless bravado--all to stick it to the forces of darkness, that horrid old Jerry.

I think it's hard to imagine a society where we would all pull together like that and just get on with it as so many did. That's partly why we're inundated with post-apocalyptic films and programs. Us lot are trying to wrap our minds around a time where hope and happiness were in short supply and yet, people made the best of it as they could. Hard to comprehend in our modern age of instant gratification and creature comforts. Can you imagine sleeping overnight in an underground station with hundreds of your neighbours? Without losing your cool or demanding to speak to someone in charge?

In reading Sarah Waters' The Night Watch, London in the '40s has never been made more vivid and richly arrayed before my mind. The devil is in the details they say, but it's the details in this novel that really sink into you and grab hold. Like the unsung details of the men and women who joined the ambulance service of London, working nights and careening through bombed out streets at the call of sirens and direct hits, bringing in the wounded and dead. Suddenly, the Blitz is more than an thing, more than buildings collapsing and London being blacked out. But it was something that happened to people and homes, not just the city and bricks and mortar. Real living people stuck in the middle of a lousy war, never sure that it will ever end.

Besides the usual sense of this wartime generation seemingly unflinchingly taking on hardship and harrowing circumstances, what surfaces is the corresponding effect on the characters that had never crossed my mind before. Namely, that this generation had nothing to lose really and knew it. Accepting that you could die overnight in a direct hit or via fire, flooding, etc, gave you a cold comfort: the psychological license to living as you wanted and to make decisions that might normally have given you pause. In Sarah Waters' hands, this slice of time is not simply the stuff of history books, but a life that belonged to many. And for that fleshing out, I doff my cap to you, Ms. Waters.

However, The Night Watch reminded me of what I needed and always need reminding of. Beginnings and endings, exposition and linear narrative--these are not the only way to tell a story. These are aspects that can shape a story, but sometimes a story shapes itself. Honestly, I feel more unsettled upon finishing a novel like The Night Watch, than I would over a standard story-line where we begin with so-and-so and follow more or less along to the tidy little end. From the first page, you are already at the end and as the chapters go along, you are taken layer under layer through the characters' intertwining past, first 1947, then 1944, and finally 1941. And while you finish at 'the beginning,' you are really no closer to knowing it all. And if anything, that is the hardest for me to accept. I NEED to know. To the point that I will obsess over it for a few weeks, trying to sift through what was written, hoping to find clues to what wasn't. But that's good literature, isn't it? Provocative and compelling. Haunting and niggling. And frankly, that's also life. There aren't always clear answers.

So, on a personal level, whenever I think of writing, I should not turn away from an idea because I cannot see a beginning or an end. Or even a linear narrative. Because nothing is ever that tidy.

People politely waiting (in complete silence and serenity) for parking lot space. This would NEVER happen in LA. It's almost post-apocalyptic-eerie without honking horns. I imagine myself shouting, Is there anyone out there???? And hearing it echo loudly in the cold air.

-- I sent this from my 3 mobile --

Mrs Dalloway on the London Overground

Yesterday, I lived a novel in a day.

At least it felt like a novel. It was a novel worthy of Virginia Woolf, with shades of Mrs Dalloway all over it. Instead of a stream of consciousness and a series of rambling thoughts dotted with occasional insight, you could say my day was a rich range of Experience. Yes, reader, that was a capital E.

Yesterday, I saw a little girl drop her coat on a London Overground train. A tiny butterfly effect really. It was unseasonably warm and this little girl had had her autumn coat neatly folded over the strap of her school bag. As she followed her mother off the train, the coat inched lower and lower to the ground, finally landing in a heap at my feet. What did I do?

This is the part where I feel stunned by what living in London for 5 years can do to you. I hesitated. I debated. Do I get involved? Will anyone else notice and take care of it so I don't have to? Will it be strange for me to pick up this coat and chase a little girl?

Seriously, findingmoxie?!

It's a little girl's coat. Just deal with it. It was my stop and in my hemming and hawing, I nearly didn't make it off the train in time. I snatched her coat off the ground (in testament to the cloud most of us wrap up in, no other person on that train noticed the coat or the lady dashing forward to grab it) and leaped down from the train just as the doors began beeping. I chased after the little girl and tapped her on her shoulder.

findingmoxie: Excuse me, you left your coat on the train.
little girl: [eyes me. eyes the coat. says nothing]
her mother: [to the little girl] Is that your coat?
little girl: [nods, looking down]
her mother: [to me] Thank you. [to the little girl] Say thank you.
little girl: [mumbles] Thank you.
findingmoxie: Not a problem. Happy to hel--
her mother: [to the little girl] WHAT did I tell you about holding onto your coat?! Do you know how much a coat costs? You need to be more responsible!
findingmoxie: Um. [gulps, walks quickly away] [under breath] Sorry, kid.

Okay, so it wasn't a happy ending. And it did cross my mind if I dropped the little girl into it more than if I'd just let her forget her coat on the train. But at least I can say that I saw and did, rather than stared into nothingness, turned off from the city around me. That small act changed my day though.

It became a day where London, itself, seemed richer to my eyes. The colours saturated and alive, and the people, oh the people were suddenly wandering around the city fleshed out and multi-dimensional. You could go a hundred days where everything around you is simply white noise and at best, an irritation. You take no notice of anything around you besides the trains—are they on time or not, which platform will I hurl myself towards, is there a findingmoxie shaped space in that full car—and on these days, you could live in any big city anywhere. Big City, Earth.  But not today. Today, I saw and was seen.  My life crossed strangers’ lives in the smallest of ways and I was left jarred from the contact, as if I'd been woken from a deep but short sleep. Not quite rested, but fuzzily alert, as if I had just come off a transatlantic flight, fallen asleep on the train from the airport and woke up to the sudden sound of air and velocity crashing into one another as a train on the next track rattled heavily past mine. It was a reminder of my own humanity and it felt simultaneously strange and beautiful. 

It made me wonder if that is how people in Small Town, Earth always feel. So part of everything and engaged. As Mrs Dalloway finds herself thinking, I can only wonder if 'this gaiety would have been mine all day' if I were a small town findingmoxie. 

Thank goodness it was my stop. Don't think I would have been able to justify jumping off before my stop to return a little girl's coat (Sorry, Small Town, Earth, but them's the breaks).

In Which Kristen Stewart STILL Looks, Shall We Say, Backed Up

Seriously, I cannot commit on her acting skills--given that I can still boast at being the only person under 33 who hasn't seen any of her films (fist pump of triumph)--but in all her publicity, it's the same uncomfortable look of someone suffering from gummed up internal works.

Observe:

Just saying. 

 In any case, if the public love you for this, run with it, sister. Just please, I beg of you, never claim method acting in an interview. findingmoxie will not be responsible for the uncontrollable mirth that will follow.

Jet-lag May Interfere With Your Castle Love

As it’s practically 100 degrees in London (comparatively, you know with LA and hot places) this weekend, we’re all dreaming of ice cream and castles. Castles, because my sister is visiting and we’re driving out to Leeds Castle to see a CASTLE.

Here’s how the dialogue went last night when we broke the exciting news to my sister, bearing in mind that she may have been jetlagged:

Me: So, do you have any plans?

Shari: Well, it depends. I mean, did you guys want to hang out with me?

P: Of course.

Shari: That’s great! What did you have in mind?

Farnaz: We hired a car and are going to see a CASTLE.

Shari: A CASTLE?

Farnaz: A CASTLE.

Shari: Um, as in a castle?

Farnaz: Yes, a CASTLE.

Shari: What castle?

Farnaz: Leeds Castle.

Shari:  Is it in Leeds?

P: No.

Farnaz: It’s in Kent.

Shari: I mean, it’s just a castle?

Farnaz: It’s a CASTLE. Not just a castle. P, I think she doesn’t get castles.

P: Well, we’ll have to show her. 

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.