On the Midnight Train to Georgia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Believe in Miracles (You Sexy Thing!)

Hoofing it on the Golden Gate

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

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

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

Just over the finish line

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

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

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

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

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

My final stats: Tag Time 2:47:46

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

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

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

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

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

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

Les Findingmoxies

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

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

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

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

Dex, taking some down time from the festivities

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

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

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

There Are No Ordinary Cats Anywhere

My Buddy, My Body Pillow

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

You are interrupting

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

Fiyero's Tiny Little Face

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

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

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

Try to nap without Dex and Fiyero. Dare you.

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

Kitty chaise lounges

Paws clasped at sunset

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

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

In which Dexter wears Fiyero like a scarf

Then, we started to see this:             

And it was good. 

Fiyero, for want of modesty

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

Dexter adopting Persian New Year

Dexter, the Faithful Hound

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:00-13:00 Lunch and telly

13:00-14:00 Write stories/blog

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

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

16:00-17:00 Shower

17:00 Ukulele practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

There, you’ve been schooled.

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

Where The Women Are Strong and The Men Are Pretty

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Our yellow apartment building....

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

Kicking Seaweed and Burning Shoe Leather, The LA Story

Looking down on El Matador

So, it's been a while since our last post where we left you with the promise of golden sands and bikini bodies. Be assured that I am here to deliver. The temperature did spike again and with the San Fernando Valley nearing 40C/100F, I knew the coast would be just about perfect. Driving through the canyon to the coast, we could feel the exact moment the temperature went from roasting Valley heat to balmy coastal glory. My favourite Californian beach is the El Matador, a beautiful state beach closer to Ventura county than Los Angeles. It's a photographer's delight and it's a fairly regular occurrence to see swimsuit models draped over the rocks on a shoot or this time, engagement photos and family portraits.

The tiny gravel pit off the coastal highway that serves as a parking lot and the steep climb down to the sand means that to roll around in the sun on El Matador you have to really, really want it. No dilettantes and posers here, which, in LA is saying something. Unlike European beaches, however, there isn't a cafe or bar down on the sand. There isn't even a restroom, only a hideous porta-potty on top of the cliff. It's basically a few hours of lounging and then high-tailing it back to proper plumbing and frappucinos.

Say what? Public transportation in LA?

Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon, spent reading and watching the sun slant across the waves. The sea was, as usual, sharply cold and I have to admit, I moped for those gentle, warm seas in  southern Europe while I was tossed about by the Pacific Ocean and mauled by seaweed beds. But there is nothing like the sea to ease whatever ails you. The roar and whisper of the waves pouring onto the shore and sweeping back, the sun warming the skin and the ridiculous romance novel I was reading went a long way to lessening the pangs of homesickness.

Knowing that Mr Findingmoxie and I are relative babes in La La land, our friend Mozu offered to take us on a tour of downtown Los Angeles. As a true child of the suburbs, I had never ventured into the heart of LA, which is funny considering that I usually enjoy tramping through cities. Putting together his research, Mozu whipped together an itinerary that showcased the grand old architecture of the downtown and the tucked away food markets.

Gleaming Union Station

First stop, pun intended, was the iconic Union Station. Built on a far more glamorous scale than any train station has any right to be, Union Station looks more like some distinguished university library. Vaulted ceilings laid with warm wooden beams overhang the waiting area. The individually divided armchairs are surprisingly posh and plush--all in the retro-fabulous shade of mustard. And paradoxically, given this is a train station, servicing both Amtrak overground and underground metro and all the people in between, there is a tranquility to the station. Much like the hush of a lovely old library really. Like El Matador, Union Station is also a standard for professionally posed photos, so we got into the spirit and mugged around. On either side of the main hall, glass doors open onto a lush garden, lined with one of my favourite flowers of all time: the awesomely huge Birds of Paradise. Now, little known fact, but findingmoxie wanted to have Birds of Paradise in her wedding, notably in Mr Findingmoxie's boutonniere. I mean, how HILARIOUS would it have been to have a ginormous Bird of Paradise on his lapel? Sadly, my florist/bridesmaid refused, pointblank. But on our LA tour, I got as close to that dream as I probably ever will.

Behold. 

Waiting for take off. 

Ambling along, our next stop was Olvera Street, a row of Mexican stalls and delicious looking eateries. We tacoed for lunch and despite promising ourselves that we wouldn't overeat beans and rice, we did. And how. Never had a walking tour been so welcome.


We saw City Hall, wandered into the beautiful Los Angeles Public Library and even found ourselves outside the Biltmore Hotel, where I had had my high school prom many moons ago and in the lobby of which Mr Findingmoxie and Mozu forced me to acknowledge that more years had gone by than I had accounted for in my mental math. I won't lie; that was a blow. But I firmly believe that you're as young as you act and so, I promptly played in a public fountain. And blessedly, just like that, the balance in my world was restored.

Peek-a-boo 

Cooling our tired feet in our personal fountain of youth

Our tour concluded with the Last Bookstore of Los Angeles, a virtual playground of books and more books, where the very medium of books acted as an art installation.  The entire upper level housed used books that were priced at a dollar each. One dollar! Hardcovers, too! I may have geeked out. Needless to say, I walked out with an armful or two.

Tired, slightly pink and excited by the hidden promise of LA, we made our way back to the San Fernando Valley to sit around a backyard fire pit with my family. All in all, have to admit, Los Angeles surprised me.

Next up: Flat hunting in San Francisco, because this town is not big enough for the findingmoxie and parents.

There's Bourbon in My Beer and Possibly Scorpions in the Grass

Not quite big sky country, but close. 

Given that we're now Californians, we decided to live the lifestyle. Mr Findingmoxie has found himself a recreation center with an outdoor pool and is seriously smitten with swimming outdoors in mid-October. In fact, he emphasized this just before blog went to press. That's how much he delights over all of you. But don't fret, dear friends, where delight ends, farmer's tan begins. Sure, you might wonder that he's swimming in the sun, but conscientious as he is with sunblock, that's one farmer's tan that's not going anywhere. That's one of the many reasons, I'm grateful to be a lady: strappy tank tops and boob tubes keep the dreaded farmer's tan away. 

California's got a lot to offer, but frankly that's proven a bit hard to believe living in the suburbs (and subtext: living with my parents makes me feel like a stroppy, bored teenager all over again). It comes as no surprise that life in Los Angeles is worlds away from our life in London, sprawling sun-land versus city-scape, but the devil is in the details. While my parents don't live in the wilds of LA county, there is still a good 5 minute drive to anything resembling coffee or life as we know it. Gone are the days of nipping out on foot to Gail's Bakery on the corner for a flat white and a scone. That small detail (besides the weather, the people, the food) is a sucker punch that gets us every time. I'll be honest, that's been a struggle and cabin fever is very much an issue. The moxies miss being able to get around on our own steam, the old get-out and get.  Granted, the upside is that my shoes will have a longer lifespan and I can take 4-inch wedges on a day out without a single qualm. Give and take, I guess.

Mr Findingmoxie working on his farmer's tan.

So, we're working on it. Working on enjoying the simpler pleasures. Like hikes. Yes, hikes. Or, as much a hike as my limited shoe collection will allow me. Mint green fitflops aren't exactly all terrain friendly. We're lucky enough to have a nature reserve just minutes away from my parents home with easy trails: El Escorpion Park. Yes, I try not to think too closely about it. For the record, I haven't seen a single scorpion in the park and I hope NEVER to. Actually, we didn't see a single critter, so maybe the park was taking it easy on us. It's coyote country and I'm not really sure I can handle that sort of outdoorsy at this point in my life. Walking a trail surrounded by canyons, the sun high and the sky wide, and the wind whispering through the long grass, is probably as peaceful as you'll ever be in the San Fernando Valley.

Forget the hiking though. What we're most excited about is the beer. Oh, the beer. Sure, England has those cask ales and stouts that I love, but here in the US, we're rocking all kinds of darling little microbreweries. So, what better way to get involved than go to beer-tastings. That is correct, beer-tastings. With pretzels to cleanse your palate and a few fingers of beer to sip, this is probably the most fun we've had with booze without the hangover. The beer-lier is nearly completely dead-pan, so you're never sure if he thinks you're funny or you're a drag. Two tastings in, I think we're winning him over; Mr Findingmoxie doesn't wish to speculate. The other patrons are just as interesting and obsessed with breweries. Brewery-lust is the new classic-car-lust. We've tasted IPAs and sampled Rich Fall Brews, and made an AMAZING discovery. A black IPA. Seriously. It's a marriage between stout and IPA--mine and Mr Findingmoxe's opposite tastes in one snazzy looking bottle with some righteously good flavour. It's Speakeasy's Butchertown and it has shifty spy EYES. I think I've also found my sipping spirit--in a beer. Turns out beer aged in bourbon barrels tastes just enough of bourbon with just enough of a burn that I can pour it into a snifter, swirl it around and drink it on moody winter nights like it is bourbon.             

Another perk of California is being back in the thick of my family and let me say that while we've been angsting about our move for the last few months, these guys have done nothing but get excited. Just the Saturday after we landed, Mr Findingmoxie got his first taste of what my extended family looks like in one room. It's fairly similar to a Liverpool party, only with louder adults and less children. Slightly uncomfortable with our newfound celebrity status, I spent most of the evening being expertly interrogated on my career prospects, relocation plans, and our philosophy on child-rearing all the while being plied with delicious Persian food. Mr Findingmoxie fared slightly better. Most people just wanted to hear his English accent. Our popularity earned us another family night, with my uncle declaring he'd come over to make his famous pizzas for us. That was the promise, but in the end, we got wrangled into doing most of the dirty work ourselves. There is a certain joy in arranging your own pizza toppings though, but I suspect that speaks more about my control issues than anything else! I will say that my cousin's advice on cutting pizza slices has changed my life. In the kitchen, anyway!

My pride and joy

Next up: we haven't been out to the beach yet, which is shocking considering that's a huge selling point for Los Angeles. Plans are for heading out on Sunday as the temperature is set to spike again. Although, have to admit that my soul feels a bit bruised by going bikini body in October, after having automatically given up on summer. Oh well, bikini is a state of mind and I hope to be there by Sunday!

The Girl is Back in the Valley

I'd venture a guess that most of you picked up on the fact that I was rearing kittens this summer. Your first clue might have been the month's worth of blog entries, detailing our progress. What was probably less apparent was that the Findingmoxies were also on the move. For the last year, we'd been jumping through government hoops and getting prodded by government doctors (Mr Findingmoxie, mostly), all to secure Mr Findingmoxie his American visa so that he could try life as an ex-pat this time. 

After 5 years, I was going 'home' in the autumn. Like all things, it sounded more exciting when we first began to plot it out. By the end of the summer, I wanted to keep two kittens and board up the door to our lovely, lovely London flat and NEVER LEAVE. Extreme? Yes, probably. 

American on the inside, British on the outside

But here's what you should know about transatlantic romance. First, the black eyes. There are more goodbyes and temporal displacement than I would wish on anyone. There is the very real risk that one of you will come out with a hybrid accent that baffles you and makes everyone else uncomfortable. There is also the certainty that you'll be deeply out of the loop on one side--culturally and logistically. Try setting up a cellular phone 5 years after you last had one. Things have changed, my friends, things have changed. You may end up having to explain your life history to the man in the shop because you know he's thinking that there is no way you could be so clueless about How Things Are--unless you just crawled out from underneath a rock. And you have no concept of what's 'normal' after 5 years. More importantly, the cultural lexicon has carried on without you. All the inside jokes, the bulk of American TV, the lame teen movies and the ever-changing radio stations have passed you by. It literally feels like you're from outer space at this point. So, while Mr Findingmoxie wants to embrace an athletic outdoorsy life in California, with less television, I want to hole up and catch up on all the television I've missed. But, I digress. 

Your In-Laws Will Indulge Any Whim On The Last Night

 Your Friends Will Respect The Leaving Party Theme

On to the feathers in the cap of transatlantic romance. You have friends everywhere. You even have a couple family homes in different time zones, all without being a trust fund baby. You have multiple stamps in your passport and have lived in exotic places like London, Chesterfield, San Francisco and the San Fernando Valley. You throw huge parties every couple of years when you relocate and all your friends and family shower you with gifts and proclamations of how fond they are of you. When you are in town, all your friends and family have to drop everything to spend time with you. You'll never need to pay for a hotel in either locale. Your friends are thrilled by the idea of holidaying in your spare bedroom and your parents have to spoil you in the hopes that you'll come home soon.  To everyone you meet, your life sounds pretty amazing--the ultimate cocktail story. Best of all, you're on an adventure with the one you love. It's Mr Findingmoxie and I against the world. 

 Anyway, we made it work. We spent two weeks travelling through Europe after I returned the kittens (another blog entry to come) and then another two weeks last-hurrahing through England and packing our stuff together for The Immigration. Pickfords International Removal sent two lively gents (who ate all our biscuits and cheerfully heckled me on how many clothes and shoes I had) to chuck all our precious things  into boxes wily nily. The Pickford's representative, our old chum Rory, sold it to us as a premiere service where we would relax with a glass of wine while experienced professionals gently and efficiently packed our life--yes, he actually said, you'll be sat there with a glass of wine, relaxing while it's all sorted for you. At which point, Mr Findingmoxie dryly reminded him that our removal was scheduled for 8:30 in the morning and not so much a wine time. Sadly. Rory had to conclude that that was a shame. Well, we didn't get wine and we certainly didn't get liveried butlers wrapping my gowns in tissue paper and dust-bagging my shoes. Given how they 'packed' Mr Findingmoxie's shoes, I'm somewhat relieved I didn't get to see them pack mine. My head might have exploded. Oh, my beautiful shoes. All tossed together with no order and mashed out of shape! I'll angst over that for another 9-12 weeks.

In the end, what we didn't ship, we gave away or ruthlessly chucked out. We ditched some in front of the charity shop late on our last eve, surreptitious-style. We bartered 2 bottles of fine single malt Scotch for two croissant sandwiches the morning of our departure. Still think we got the better part of that deal. We finally found ourselves in Heathrow with 5 suitcases, a painting and a top hat. And so very sad to leave it all behind. Thanks, London for the love, the laughs, the hustle, the sights, the late nights, the trains, the house parties and mixing drinks in the office, the camping, the kittens, the Scotch eggs and Sunday roasts, the winters, 2 months of Christmas, the Guinness, the fashion, and the privilege of saying we were Londoners. As we will always be. 

findingmoxie In A Nutshell: Whimsical, Brightly Coloured&Never Packing Light

Next up: the moxies in the Valley and findingmoxie, at 30 something, living with her parents again. Spoiler: there will be angst and hijinks. 

Mr Findingmoxie, Outdoorsy At Last 

The Rule of Six

Play is not cute, it's dead serious, lady.

I promised you nicknames, so I'll lead with that. Dill, I have taken to calling Dumbo occasionally as she is always playing with something dangerous or inappropriate. What's that? Someone chewing on wires? It's Dill. Trying to pull the iron down by the cord? It's Dill. Tearing off and moving to eat packing tape? It's Dill, our little Dumbo. Scout, for his courageous and fearless exploring, is known as Scoutus Maximus. Jem is known as Fatty Arbuckle for his relentless appetite and attempts to snake any food I try to leave out for the others. Calpurnia is Cray, because of the wild way she gets involved in a game. As in, that kitten is cray....Boo Radley is Boo. Obviously. It works especially well given how scaredy-cat he is. Geddit? Geddit? Atticus is the only one who doesn't need a nickname, I think. The gravitas of Atticus prohibits it, really. 

Dill, measuring the sofa

Anyway, besides nicknames, I've learned a lot this past week. I've learned that sick kittens are no fun. In fact, they're pretty distressing. You don't know whether to cuddle them or cry with them. I've learned that London is a VERY LOUD place. I've learned that everyone wants to know what you've got inside your pet carrier, from the smallest child to the man who stands at the barrier checking train tickets (the very man who has no interest in any aspect of the train station or life in general). And I've learned that cats get sweaty palms when nervous or scared. They also tremble and shed tears.

We're finally coming out on the other side, I think, but believe me when I say, BLERGH and SOB. Needless to say it's been an emotional roller-coaster at Casa Findingmoxie. There's been nausea, loss of appetite and disturbed sleep--and that's just been me! 

First, it was Atticus. Atticus didn't have her breakfast one morning. Breakfast is usually the one meal where they turn on me if I take too long walking their bowls to their pen. Sure, it's just one meal, but when  you're the smallest and lightest, a meal can seriously set you back. Oh, and yes, I've begun weighing them on the kitchen scale. Don't tell Mr Findingmoxie. I wipe it down to make it nice and safe before and afterwards, but he's particular that way. Anyway, besides skipping a meal, Atticus listlessly lay on her bed all morning--not playing or even watching the others play. And the others avoided her. No one slept next to her or gave her a second glance. They seemed to be studiously avoiding her, which freaked me out. I used to share cats in university with my roommates and when Oregon got fatally ill, his brother Dakota just walked away from him as if he could smell it. 

Atticus settling down for cuddles

Nap Corner--well worth giving up a library shelf

So, away we went to the vet. I packed Atticus in the carrier, which dwarfed him as it's meant to carry six and which weighed a serious ton after half a mile's walk. I got to the train station--oh yes, no car for me, so I had to haul a sick kitten onto a train and a bus to get to the vet--and Atticus was shaking with absolute terror. I opened the cage and just stroked her until gradually she stopped visibly trembling. I was surprised at how shaken I felt! From that moment, I looked at London through tiny eyes. Everything was so big, trains were roaring past, people rolling suitcases by that sounded like thunder, the loudspeakers were crackling and blaring with announcements and the door between train coaches slammed like an explosion every time someone walked through cars. I was jumping at every little sound and I could only imagine what Atticus thought. At the vet, I was suddenly the lesser evil and she kept trying to crawl into my arms and just hide. Luckily, she was just dehydrated and got two shots from a very large needle. Time to haul her home. By the time we got home, my arms were like noodles and I felt dehydrated. It was all worth it, though, to see her cavort with her buddies just a few hours later. Crisis averted. 

Jem, lapping it up, GEDDIT?

Until the next crisis, that is. Boo Radley decided to try his hand at sick. He's the shyest cat still and as he has always been a bit of a loner, it took me some time to notice his symptoms. While the other cats curl up to me or nosily check in with what I'm doing, Boo keeps to himself and usually sleeps in our files drawer. He loves to play though and I noticed that he carried on sleeping while I dangled his favorite toy with the other kittens. After the next meal, when Jem was curled up in my lap purring away, Boo Radley looked at us and lo and behold, crept closer. And closer. And then stepped onto my lap and slept on Jem. My first reaction was triumph--I did it! Boo Radley loves me!! HUZZAH. 

But as much as I wanted to believe that, the less sentimentally motivated part of my brain zinged and alarms starting going off. You don't go from still shying away from stroking to lap time. You just don't. This was a seriously sick kitty who obviously felt so rundown that any comfort would be welcome, even my body heat. I began to panic, but imagine if I called the vet to say that I knew the kitten was ill because he came to sit on my lap. I'm fairly certain that there'd soon be a note next to my name (like there is on my NHS file) that findingmoxie is a bit of a hypochondriac and jumps at shadows. What sealed the deal was Boo Radley's urge to use the litter tray with no result. I was told to rush him down to the vet. Because he was the most nervous, I decided to endure the weight and take another kitty along as moral support. Scout, being the most well adjusted, was the kitten for the job. Talk about short sticks. 

Boo Radley, Sun Worshipper and Big Reader

Leaving sweaty paw prints on the vet's table, Boo Radley struggled to disappear into my arms. I joked with the vet that I should have brought all the kittens in before--we could have gotten them to trust me sooner. I would have been the lesser evil. She laughed and agreed. Poor Boo was so tense, his whole body felt like a stretched rubber band. He would dash away from the vet and I'd pick him up and he'd just curl into me, no claws and no fleeing. It would have been lovely if I hadn't been so upset on his behalf. 

At this stage, Scout was just trying to act invisible in the carrier. He had buried his face in his paws, hoping we'd forget about him. We got Boo's temperature taken--although, according to the vet, this was easier said than done as he was clenching so. Oh, my poor Boo Radley. Turns out, Boo had a very high fever and antibiotics were in order. 

Hilarity ensued as the vet tried to give Boo a tablet. She had assumed he was an average kitty, but she didn't realise who she was dealing with. This is the kitten, who, no matter how I stuffed books and boxes under the sofa, would still outsmart me and dig a path to the back of the sofa--making my efforts to keep him out from underneath the sofa a critical loss since I'd only created an impregnable fortress for him to hide behind. Boo spat that pink tablet out 4 times and by the time she got it down him, it was white and his white chest had gone pink--a badge of honour, I'm sure Boo would consider. 

Scout is cuckoo for polka dots.

In the end, both Boo and Scout were no worse for their trip. On the train home, Scout pressed his face against the door of the carrier and touched my leg with his paw. I looked up from my book and saw that he had enormous tears in his eyes. No joke, I almost cried myself. I reached in and stroked him and soon enough he fell asleep, somewhat comforted. Once home, he was his usual unflappable self, thank goodness. Boo was jumpy, but still takes food from my hand. But lap time is over. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

Sun-kissed Dill

Anyway, because the rule of six ensures that not all six kittens will be healthy, happy and wise at the same time, nor will they be sick and poorly at the same time, I will probably have more trips to the vet. Especially as Boo will need a check up after his course of antibiotics (yes, Mr Findingmoxie and I are swaddling him nightly and forcing a tablet down. Only 3 more nights. God help us.) and I have to take poo samples in for testing. Yes, it's come to that. I would, however, like to stress that they're even more adorable and fun to make up for these issues. See photos for evidentiary support. Also, silver lining: how absolutely cut my arms are from all this hauling. I'm sure I'll be giving tickets away to the gun show soon. Watch this space.