• 30Jul
    Categories: Books Comments: 0

    They’ve all been well-plotted, but the final Harry Potter is most fast-paced of the seven books. I finished Six on Saturday, and started Seven that night. I hadn’t inhabited Harry Potter’s world for about three years, and I think my hiatus really enhanced the pleasure of returning there. Once I got over all the “cold smiles,” “knowing smirks,” other juvenile writing techniques, I was utterly absorbed in finding out what happened next. I also confess that I wanted to participate in all the hype of reading this last installment with the rest of the world.

    Sunday was busy, but I started reading again yesterday evening, sitting next to the bathtub with my book and then letting Rod do story time. The chickens passed out around nine, he kissed me goodnight around midnight, and a while later–I thought it must be around two–I got up off the couch to turn in. I checked my watch and saw it was one-thirty. Since I had thought it was two already, I reasoned that I might as well read for another half hour. When I came up for air, my head was aching, my eyes felt red and itchy, but the seven-year saga of Harry Potter was over. I checked my watch again and nearly fell off the couch this time: 4am.

    Thanks, J.K., it’s been a good ride.

  • 27Jul

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    Yield, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    Fries = Chips, and
    Chips = Crisps, but
    Crisps ≠ Fries, even if they’re overdone.

    Other Food:
    Fiona offered my chickens some fromage frais that  first day we met and I, feeling worldly and European, said sure, they could try fromage frais. Um, okay, it’s only flavored yogurt—like the kind I buy for my kids all the time. The only difference I can see is that fromage frais sounds French, which makes it fancier, and it comes in a tiny container, like a serving of baby food.

    Rocket. I have no idea what this is, but I’ve seen it on several menus. Any help, here? Buffy?

    Things To Know:
    A rack to dry your clothes on is not a drying rack, or even a clothes rack, but an “airer;” and,  according to the label on the package for the one I bought, a spatula is—I love this—a “slotted turner.”

    Movies = Cinema
    Change = Sterling
    Cents = Pence or simply, “P”.

    It’s About Communication:
    Your diary is not the written repository of your innermost thoughts and feelings, but rather, the daily schedule you check before you plan something; and if you need to use the bathroom, better ask for “the loo,” no matter how silly you might feel saying it. If you ask for the bathroom, the restroom or the ladies’ room, people will usually point you in the right direction, but there will be a pause—a hiccup in the communication as they take a moment to work out what you mean:

    Does this woman need to wash her hands, or take a bath? Surely she doesn’t intend to bathe, here, in the restaurant? She looks relatively clean, I suppose, and there is that rather hyperactive child clinging to her hand, jumping up and down and whatnot—oh! She’s looking for the loo!

    Half-Nine = 9:30. I like this one; it saves a syllable.

    Bin, both verb and noun, is used to refer to trash cans and the act of throwing something out. Rubbish, not trash, goes in the bin. Rubbish can also be used to refer to something you don’t like, are disdainful of, or find to be in poor taste or of poor quality.

    Sort, or sorted. Used as a verb or an adjective to mean worked-out, work it out, figured out, figure-it-out, or resolved. Overused, even.

    Mail is “post,” both noun and verb, as in “Here is your first bit of post,” and “Do you need to post a letter?” Post boxes, incidentally, are shaped like cylinders, and the Royal Mail’s signature color is red.

    Hoover is huge over here. Did you know they make refrigerators? And clothes dryers? (Our refrigerator is a Hoover, but I can only assume the bit about the dryer is true based on rumors and reports. I haven’t actually seen a dryer here, yet. More on that later. I have issues.) The British have adopted “hoover” to mean both the act of vacuuming and the vacuum cleaner itself. Fiona told me, “I’m so sorry, I forgot to hoover the cupboards before I left.”

    Cupboard: generally what I would refer to as a cabinet, but may also refer to any sort of small closet. This is a word I very much enjoy using, as I find it rather quaint, and it puts me in touch with my inner Victorian.

    I had originally thought I might feel pretentious using these “Britishisms,” and therefore had every intention of shunning them in favor of the good ol’ American words I already know. I realize though, that now I’m here that won’t be possible. Living in another culture is, at its most basic level, about speaking the language. How arrogant of me, I realize now, to think that I spoke English already.

  • 25Jul
    Categories: Books, Weblogs Comments: 0

    Taking a cue from my dear friend NatDawg, and listing 10 Things That Make Me Happy (Right Now). If nothing else, it seems like a good exercise. I could much more easily list 20 Things That Bug the Shit Out of Me, but I am resolved to be more sunny and optimistic and I WON’T.

    1.    My camera. I love it in a way that I have never loved any other inanimate object since Cuddles, a teddy bear with a rattle in his tail that I slept with until he pretty much fell apart. If I get into bed at night, and I can’t see in my mind’s eye exactly where I put my my camera, I have to get up and find it before I can go back to sleep.

    2.    The internets. It’s sad, but at the moment my entire social life outside my immediate family is online. I have flickr-friends, blogging friends (and new ones here, and here), and twitter friends, some of whom are also my friends in real actual animated life. You know who you are.

    3.    My chickens. They are loud and high-maintenance; they make me crazy, but they are also my greatest and most reliable source of joy.

    4.    My man. He’s hot. He’s the rock that I grab onto when the current threatens to sweep me away and pull me under. We have been married 9 years today.

    5.    My laptop. Oh Mac, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: so silvery, so quiet, so useful. The instrument that manifests my creative endeavors; where I write, play artist, and communicate.

    6.    Harry Potter. I’m enjoying the mania. I left HP world after Book V, but have been happily dragged back in with this latest and final release. No spoilers, please, our Bloomsbury copy of Deathly Hallows is calling me from the back of the couch where it has lain, forlorn, since we brought it home from the release party. Just as soon as I finish The Half-Blood Prince.

    7.    My new green amber ring that Rod bought me in New Orleans.

    8.    Our new house. It’s spacious, bright, and comfortable, and the garden is beautiful. The view from our kitchen window is nothing but green treetops. In London. I can’t wait for our things to arrive so that I can make a home here.

    9.    British Accents. They are infinitely varied, and oh-so-pleasant to my ears. They have given me a whole new appreciation for the English language, which I was pretty taken with even before I moved here. There’s something about hearing all different kinds of people talk the same, but not the way I’m used to hearing it, that reinforces the fact that we share this human experience.

    10.    Change. I’m really enjoying the fact that everything around me is suddenly different than it used to be. It’s exciting, invigorating, energizing. I’m looking forward to gaining a more intimate understanding of the world by living in a different place, to eating different food, seeing castles and meeting new people. It’s like starting over, but starting over knowing all I’ve learned so far. It feels, in my best moments, like I might be making the most of my life.

  • 24Jul
    Categories: London, Me, Moving Comments: 0

    Winged Sunset, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    I had big plans to do a sweet self-portrait of me and my chickens tonight, reading a story by lamplight in their sparsely-furnished bedroom—maybe in black and white—and write about how I am trying to help them regain some normalcy after all our travels. I wanted to say that I am trying to feed them earlier, and put them to bed on time, and settle into something of a routine again, because I love them and take good care of them and I am such a fantastic mother.

    You know how this story ends, right?

    So, since we landed in our new digs, Boyish has determined to discover what exactly will happen if he seriously injures his baby sister. He has pushed, kicked, and pulled her over onto the floor, the bedframe, the wooden train tracks strewn about the living room. The way I figure it, it’s only a matter of time until he discovers the stairs.

    So while I’m setting up our portrait, he saw that Babe-ish had his toothbrush (which he never uses) in her fat little fist. So he snatched it away, making her cry. I snatched it back, explaining how snatching is wrong, and gave it back to the her. He then grabbed some dental flossing thing that Girlish had gotten out and left on the floor (we’re really into dental hygiene around here) and began poking the baby on top of her sweet little head.

    She is only 9 months old—she still has a soft spot there, and what I do not need right now is a freak accident and a brain-damaged baby. Or my son psychologically scarred for life because of said freak accident and potential brain damage. So, since I am gunning for Meanest Mother of the Year, I grabbed his arm and yelled at him. He cried. She cried. I sat on the floor and tried not to cry. While they both climbed all over me, wailing. It was a Kodak moment.

    I read earlier, here, that jet-lag makes a person irritable. Who knew? I thought it was just the personal upheaval and transatlantic move. Honestly, I mean, it makes perfect sense—I can’t sleep; I’m utterly exhausted for a thousand reasons—the person I should be putting to bed early, apparently, is me.

  • 23Jul
    Categories: Books Comments: 0

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    The Book, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    We arrived in London on Wednesday (? I think, it’s a bit of a blur), and stayed two nights in a Travelodge before moving over to our new apartment on Friday. The hotel was clean and serviceable, but no luxuries whatsoever. As in, no phone in the room, and we had to ask for more than one towel. And sit around in the lobby for um,  three hours because we had eight bags and they had no storage room to stash them for us until check in. But it was clean, so I will not complain. Any more.

    Exhausted

    We ferried a few things over to our new house (like a town house) over the next couple days, and met our landlords, who were just unbelievably lovely people. They are a family of four, and they are moving to the States for at least a couple of years, so it was interesting to compare notes. Fiona was the one we dealt with mostly, and she gave the me the skinny on where to buy children’s shoes and shop online for groceries, and introduced us to several neighbors and parents at her son’s school. While I sat in her living room picking her brain about all sorts of miscellania, Babe-ish did something clever (I forget what it was), and Fiona said, "My, you are a just bright button, aren’t you?" She was terribly terribly charming.

    We had a school interview for Girlish on Thursday at the local non-sectarian primary school, which has achieved an "outstanding" rating this past year. That is, apparently, a very rare occurrence, and so we were concerned that we might not be able to get her placed there. As it turns out, though, they have a place for her in Year 3, which was really exciting and a big relief for me (us). The only hitch is that the school where Fiona’s son attends, a Church of England school, has all of Fiona’s friends and neighbors and they all seem to really want us to come there. It’s not as highly-rated a school, but obviously the parental involvement and community there is very good. A sidenote: many public schools in London are religiously affiliated. The CoE school was rated as an "outstanding" school about 10 years ago, but hasn’t been so again since. And there’s the religious issue, which concerns me since I don’t go in for religion much, but the parents I met there assured me that it was very low-key.

    Oh, and our checked bags—the other 8 of them—were delayed in Cincinnati on the way over, so Rod had to taxi to the airport to pick them up Friday morning. It rained an absolute gully-washer that morning, and his taxi got stuck in a flood and we almost didn’t make our hotel checkout. A bit of drama. Finally, we got everything over to the new place, where Fiona was frantic with last-minute packing and errands, and then we cleared out until 7:30p.m., when she was planning to leave. When we returned we got to meet our new neighbors, who have 3 children: two boys, 9 & 7, and a girl, 5. All six kids hit it off famously, and after forcing Fiona to stop her frantic packing and have a cuppa tea, we hung out with Karen while she finished up. Karen’s going to be a great neighbor, I can tell. She has a northern England accent, which sounds almost Irish to me, and she’s as sweet as the ginger cake she served with our tea. Around 8:00 we moved back over to "our" house, and it was bliss, bliss, to just be in a place that was a space all our own. We put a few things away, made the beds, and popped some champagne.

    Last Ever

    Fiona had also given us, because she is so terribly unbelievably lovely, her ticket to claim the newly-released and final edition of Harry Potter, which became available at midnight Friday in the local bookstore. So Girlish and I headed out to the High Street (the main street in town with all the shops) around 11:30, and queued up with all the neighbors to claim the book. It was no problem staying up for it, as we are still jet-lagged in the late-night direction from our travels. People were in costume, and the bookstore owners walked up and down the queue, handing out cookies and punch, and wine for the grown-ups. Some of the parents I’d met earlier in the afternoon happened to line up right behind us, and so we chatted as we waited, and the whole the thing was an absolute blast.

    Yesterday we went to the store and bought groceries, which was also a bit of an adventure, the whole family hiking down the High Street with the stroller, bags and backpack for the groceries, with Babe-ish on my back. We stopped in a fruit & veg store, and also a butcher shop, and then on to a big grocery store for staples. I roasted a fresh chicken and some potatoes and red peppers for dinner, and I used some rosemary, sage, and oregano from Fiona’s (our!) garden.  The butcher-shop chicken was fresh—as in, I opened the plastic and gasped out loud because the drumsticks had feathers clinging to their heels. I took a deep breath and plucked them out. If I’m gonna eat chicken I might as well remember that it used to have feathers, I guess. It was worth getting over my squeamishness, though. I cooked it at 500 degrees for 50 minutes, rubbing its skin with salt and olive oil and stuffing its little body cavity with lemon, garlic, onion and Fiona’s fresh garden herbs. Little chicken, you did not give your life in vain; we thoroughly enjoyed you.

    So, we are well and happy, feeling so grateful to be just the slightest bit settled, and as soon as we get the phone up and running we will start calling all you friends and family that are waiting to hear from us.

    P.S. Girlish is already trying on her British accent. "Mommy, can I have some wat-ah?" and, "Ouch! That huhts!" She kills me.

  • 14Jul

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    Beignets at Cafe DuMonde, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    Psst. Perhaps you didn’t notice, because of the green awnings and all, but this is not Starbucks. This is Café Du Monde. You don’t get it how you want it here, you get it how they bring it.

    They’re known for two things: beignets and café au lait. So just get that, okay? Because that’s basically all they have. There might be some water in bottles, and I think they have some juice or something, but you can buy juice at the gas station, right? Order your café au lait iced if you’re feeling fancy, but don’t get the juice or the bottled water, because the café au lait is their specialty. It goes perfectly with the beignets, and it’s what you want, whether you know it or not.

    So, your coffee–iced or hot–will be perfect, and it will arrive with three golden pillowy beignets, adrift in powdered sugar. And since powdered sugar is thirsty work, your courteous server will bring you a short glass of water. You don’t have to order the water; it just comes with the beignets. Every time.

    Finally, there are three beignets to an order. Not two. Not one. But three. Stop making an ass of yourself asking if they can bring you some other number, because they can’t, and they won’t. Believe it or not, once you start eating you will want  all three, and you won’t want to share. Or–nevermind. Go ahead and get a single order, and when you finish that, order another. Think of me when you do it.

    Cafe Du Monde
    So, remember, when they say, “What can I get for you?” your line is, “Two beignets and two café au laits.”

    Good luck.

  • 14Jul


    Jackson Square at Night, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    New Orleans, where the wind blows warm and the air is so thick it has texture. The heat clings to you like something alive, coating your skin with a filmy sweat and settling, heavy and damp, in the fabric of your clothes. Where building interiors are so cold your glasses fog up when you step into the street, savoring that warmth–delicious only in those first moments after the doors close behind you, and where you consider carrying a sweater to wear inside.

    Where cold water down your back sends not the slightest tingle down your spine, and where each day you understand a bit more why the city is known for drunken revelry, crimes of passion, and steamy sex.

    The heat intensifies your emotions and blunts your rationality—you are pissed off, put out, horny as hell—you are acutely aware of every sensation in your body. Every little thing takes on a bloated significance, until you feel you might do anything, anything, to take your mind off this fucking heat.
    Ghost Girl

  • 14Jul

    Things are a bit different in New Orleans, and I was reminded of that immediately upon arriving in town.

    We had driven until 3am the night before, then crashed at a Comfort Inn outside Lafayette before continuing on the next morning. Ollie woke up at 7:30; so we all woke up at 7:30. I was working on less than 5 hours of sleep; the continental breakfast at the Chez’ Comfort had been absolutely inedible, and by the time we hit New Orleans it was almost noon and I hadn’t had even a drop of caffeine in any form.

    I wanted to hold out for PJ’s, New Orleans signature local coffee shop, but I spotted a Starbucks just in time for us to cross three lanes of traffic and pull into the parking lot next door. I jogged in and at the counter, I ordered my standard:

    “Grande percent one-pump vanilla latte, please.”

    A blank stare. “Grande what?”

    “Percent. Latte. With one pump of vanilla.”

    She squinted at me, and pronounced the syllables as if she were trying out a word in Farsi, “Per-cent?”

    I took a deep breath, and tried again. “Um, lowfat?”

    “You meant TWO percent?”

    “Right.”

    Please note that even though I had spent at least 10 of the last 15 hours in a car with three children and a cat, with no caffeine and with very little sleep, I did not say to her, “Please just give me my fucking coffee, you Moronic Bitch, before I rip your head off and eat it.” I tried to smile because, see, this is how it goes here.

    I am back in New Orleans.

  • 11Jul
    Categories: Moving, Texas Comments: 0

    On The Porch At Grannie’s, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    And just like that it’s over. We are driving away from my sister’s house, she is standing in the yard, crying, and I am confined to our rental car, already out of reach.

    “I’m not that far away,” I said in her ear as we hugged goodbye, and she sobbed, then laughed as if I’d said the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. And up until that moment, it didn’t seem that far–it’s a smaller world than ever, now, and I imagined that we could call and email and chat online just like we did when I was only a thousand miles away in California. But in reality, she is right. It is more difficult to call, more difficult to send things to each other, and it is hours and flights and an ocean away.

    She has understood this from the moment I told her we were moving overseas, but I swear it didn’t hit me until this moment: I have said many times that I want to be closer to my sister, and here I am, moving further away again. It has warmed me, these last few weeks here, to watch my baby light up and reach for her from my arms, to see my daughter grow closer to her cousins, and to hear my son say, “Can I spend the night at Auntie Sara’s?”

    Oh, god, I feel like we wasted so much time. Why wasn’t I with her every minute? Why do we fight when all we really want is love? These last few days she has held herself apart from me; she has kept her distance and guarded her heart. Perhaps rightfully so. But what I keep thinking is that every time we visit, we end up laughing about something until we cry.

    But not this time.

  • 10Jul


    Respects, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

    The morning that we left Rocksprings I took my children by the cemetery to visit the graves of my Mimi and Papa. It was drizzling and cool and there is something so quiet and affecting about standing near the ones that meant so much to you, knowing that although they are lost to you, some part of them remains there.