Circus Trend Update

The circus trend continues!

Since I last updated you on the most recently rebirth of circus trends I spotted a few more examples.

Up first, Fashion.  Or majorly discounted fashion warehouses.

I took this photo in TK Maxx on one of our weekend visits.  I think we were looking for socks.  I left with two pairs of socks, a metal spoon, a linen top, a tablecloth, and probably a pair of shoes.  It’s a sickness, I know.  I blame the advertising.

These pamphlets were collected at the local library on my monthly rummage.  Sometimes I can’t wait to have kids so that I have an excuse to attend events like this.  Breathe, Mum, I said, sometimes.  I would go on my own if I knew how to juggle or make balloon animals.  I could pass myself off as the 'special guest.'

This is a shot from my scrapbook, but it is the logo of the Greenwich Comedy Festival.  They set up a Big (and small) Top every year down at the Royal Naval College.  Last Friday we were enjoying a drink at the neighbouring Old Brewery and thought we might be in for a treat.  The tent was partially erected and we thought we might be witness to one of the best shows of the circus, the tent raising.  Three hours later and the tent was still on the ground.  Shameful.  Any self-respecting tent crew would have had it up two and a half hours earlier and be sitting down for a drink after a well deserved shower and meal.  Shameful. 

Just goes to show, you can’t fake the circus.  Some things cannot be replicated.

Speaking of tents.  This next one came through our mail slot last week.  IKEA Kids is venturing into the circus, again.  They flirted with the circus a few years ago (and I may or may not have squirreled away a few items) but nothing on this scale.  You can see that I have already earmarked this item for Christmas.  I will have my own circus tent whether I fit in it or not!!!

In other tent news, Kelly Miller Circus has a new one.   You can head over to Mudshow Diaries to get a few sneak peeks at the new digs.  It’s very shiny and new.  They desperately needed a new tent.  I remember looking up every evening, considering the holes above and deciding whether a hood would be needed for the evening performance.  However, as one that no longer has to work under the dripping vinyl, I miss the red and blue stripes of the old one and the field of stars inside.  When I gazed at those holes and sunlight streamed through them into the dark interior, I always had the fleeting thought that these pin pricks looked like the real thing next to the faded painted stars.   

One of the old tents, circa 2008, in Southwood, NY.  This was one of those perfect circus days.  Not too hot, clear skies, light breeze and good pizza place in walking distance.

Another old tent, circa 2009, Kelleys Island, OH.  This was the season immediately following my brief tour. This tent wasn't nearly as pin pricked as the one I worked under, but just as pretty. 


Good-bye, old friends. 



*by the way, all photos taken by yours truly.  I'm not a photographer. 

Assignment: Laundry

It’s Friday!  Welcome to ‘The Chronicles of a Reluctant Housewife’ documenting my learning curve as a new, and unexpected, full-time homemaker.

I know I speak a lot about laundry when describing my housewife status*.  I also know that laundry is not a housewife-exclusive task.  It is an inevitable chore for everyone that doesn’t wish to be the subject of the question, ‘What is that smell?’

However, I find that it is a task that is overwhelmingly present on my daily to-do lists.  Maybe it is because washing machines in Britain are so much smaller than the beasts I first learned to use in America.  Maybe it is because we have fewer clothes (due to a chronic lack of wardrobe space in London flats) that we wear repeatedly.  Maybe it is because we do not have a clothes drier and everything takes at least a day, or two, or three, to dry in the damp (which let's face it, is at least 9 months out of the year).  Or, maybe it is because I am pretty crap at actually getting clothes clean. 

I have an irrational fear of using really hot water when doing laundry.  I know it’s ridiculous, but it is because the majority of our loads are mixed colours.  I don’t have the square footage to air-dry numerous colour-coded loads.  Our flat already looks like a functioning laundry most of the time.  The shower curtain rail is occupied with drying shirt and trousers six days out of seven, the radiators are permanently draped in clothing regardless of the presence of heat, the drying rack is in a kind of perpetual motion between bathroom, kitchen and outside depending on weather conditions and my activities and there is forever a pile of clothes at the foot of the machine waiting its turn. (this becomes a tripping hazard as the machine is under the kitchen counter directly below the dish rack and adjacent to the sink.  it's like a chore obstacle course down there.) 

I was making lovely and efficient use of the clothes line, but the seasons have turned and the tree is producing berries.  Last weekend I went out to discover our fitted sheet covered in berry and bird-shit splatters.  So ends the season of a laundry-free(ish) flat. 

I tend to wash with luke warm or cold water.  To be fair, this isn’t usually too much of an issue, as we aren’t particularly messy people.  However, we are both sweat-ers and getting that activated-deodorant smell out of shirts requires hot water and strong biological powder.  This means carefully planning of loads and outfits.  The amount of brain power used up coordinating washing and drying is exhausting, I tell you.  Of course, this is then doubled when I have failed to get out a stain, which to be honest is about every three loads. 

It goes one of two ways with me and stains.  Either the stain fades but is still very present (usually in the chest area, so very noticeable), or the stain goes but the clothing is left with a faded spot where there is no longer a stain (again, in the chest area).  Then there is a third, less frequent, but common enough, scenario in which I get the double whamming of a noticeably faded fabric with a faded, yet still prominent stain. 

The horror.  I know.  It keeps me up nights.

But I plug on, experimenting with dial combinations, water temps and detergents.  I am determined to master this laundry thing. 

I have a handle on the cooking and generally keep a clean house.  I make a mean after-work cocktail.  I am shying away from minor repairs after rendering our sink drain completely blocked instead of just slow by not diluting the caustic soda enough.  This resulted in a complete dismantling of the sink plumbing and some minor chemical burns on Monday night.  Not so good there.

I will master my fear of hot water and laundry.  It is all that standing in the way of me becoming a competent housewife.  I will prevail.

*cue rousing, inspiring music as I gather another load in my arms and head toward the machine, a glint in my eye and determination in my heart*

*For those of you that might be new to the blog and this series in particular.  Please note that most of what is written here is done so with my tongue firmly in cheek.  I do not wish to offend or belittle the role of housewife/homemaker.  It is a role I am enjoying and one that I am very aware extends far beyond laundry, cleaning, cooking.  Activities which I am sure will become so very unimportant and uninteresting when our family expands beyond us two (or if I begin work outside the home) but which are of quite a bit of interest to me (and I think a lot of other 'overly-educated, un-employed' women) at the moment.  Hang in there. 

Conversation Space

How do you visualize a conversation? 

A swirl of colours or words.  A geometric pattern of lines and shapes.  A space to be occupied.

I never really thought about this before, but something a friend said a few months ago got me thinking about the space we take up in a conversation and what that might look like.  How does a conversation develop and thrive if viewed this way?  Do you occupy or observe a conversation.

Confession: I am a conversation occupier.  Like a benevolent dictator occupier.  I direct and redirect to my interests and purposes but everyone is still relatively happy despite a slight bitter tasting cocktail.  Or at least I was. 

It took me a while to see this in myself.  I only started really noticing it in my 30s.  There’s something about being in that third decade where everything about yourself and life starts to make sense.  You suddenly begin to ‘get it.’  All that advice handed out and ignored in your 20s is suddenly priceless and totally appropriate.  What is that saying? “Enjoy yourself, that’s what your 20s are for.  Your 30s are to learn the lessons; your 40s are to pay for the drinks.” 

I am enjoying my 30s.  I didn’t really have a breakdown when I turned 30.  I had a stomach parasite on my actual birthday, so I was exploding at both ends, but that wasn’t really a breakdown.  I had numerous thesis breakdowns during my 30^th year, but I don’t know how many of them were connected to turning 30.  32 has not been great.  I think it is my 30 breakdown delayed.  In their wedding toast my parents said something about me being a slow-starter.  I guess that applies here as well, it took a few years to have the 30 breakdown; questioning what I have done with my life so far, am I behind in life, what does the future look like, am I too old to play and wear stripey socks just for kicks? 

In order to try and get a hold of myself and make some sense of it all.  I created a Life List.  At first it was filled with things that I wanted to achieve in this life.  Literally, things.  Not experiences.  It didn’t have much joy.  It was about having a great wardrobe and a relaxing bathroom.  Not really ambitions or dreams.  It is still posted here, despite its joylessness.  Then I thought about what my life list would have looked like when I was a younger Ariel.  Before I became a ‘grown-up’ Sadie.   

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an explorer and writer, I wanted to be a showgirl on an elephant in the circus, I wanted to be a dancer.  As an older kid in high school, I wanted to work for National Geographic, I wanted to travel, I wanted to live in another country, I wanted to fall in love and have an impossibly romantic story. 

I have done every single one of these things.  What an eye-opener.  Without thinking too much about it, they are crossed off the list. With the exception of one: explorer and writer. 

This is a work in progress.  I think I have always been an explorer and writer.  When I was a kid I visualized myself dressed in khaki and discovering new places and people and telling the world.  Now when I look back, I think my decade long postgraduate career has been about training to be an explorer.  Learning the craft of ‘modern exploration’ if you will.  I’m not discovering new places and people, but I am definitely exploring and learning about life and the creation of places (my particular interest as a geographer) and writing about it along the way.  I have always been a writer.  I have always expressed myself on paper.  It may not be pretty or elegant, but I think through writing.  I don’t always know where my writing is going, but it always seems to come full circle and make some connection for me.  I seek out stories and love telling stories.  Of course, I tend to embellish a bit, but you would be surprised how little I actually have to improve the truth when it comes to my own antics.  I am a magnet for the ridiculous. Or at least I have an uncanny ability to recognize the ridiculous being the daughter of circus clowns. 

I think this explains my previous benevolent dictatorship approach to conversation.  I wanted to tell my stories.  I wanted to entertain.  Of course, as a postgraduate for a decade, I was living a very solitary life and part of my occupation was due to desperation for human contact and connection.  “You did that? I did that, too!! Here’s my version. I’m too excited to wait until you’re done. We’re the same, isn’t that awesome?!” 

In the last year, I have started to observe the conversation more.  The experience of being a researcher has taught me the art of observation.  And it is an art or at least a skill.  The space of a conversation is an art and I find the observation of it to be a fascinating experience.  I now see the colours and lines, the give and take of the space.  The observation of a conversation can be as telling as the words spoken. 

I will still participate in the swapping of stories.  Any good explorer worth their khaki participates in the place and events they observe, to some degree. 

 “Knowledge of such memories comes more readily to the observer-participant, who has danced the dance or joined the procession, than it does to the reader.”  -Joseph Roach

Is ‘explorer’ a viable career path?  Do people have business cards that say ‘Explorer?’ 

I read today that NASA is looking for astronauts.  If kids can still aspire to be an astronaut then I guess I can still aspire to be an explorer. 

My current subject:  the places and ways of the new breed of young, educated housewives. 

Taking a compliment

It’s Tuesday Fit-Day.  An occasional  meditation on physical and mental fitness goals, successes and failures. 

A few weeks ago a friend and I were chatting about stretch marks.  I don’t know how we got onto the subject.  We were in a ‘lotion & potion’ shop so maybe we say something that claimed to minimise or maybe we were discussing our personal moisturizing regiments.  It doesn’t really matter how we got there.

ME: I don’t think my mum has stretch marks.

FRIEND: That’s good genes. Lucky you.

ME: Actually, I think it has more to do with a hippy potion of vitamin E, patchouli and sandalwood  (Actually, it is probably just the vitamin E, but I always assume that every hippy remedy has a base of patchouli and sandalwood) because my thighs are pockmarked with stretch marks. 

FRIEND: What!!?? I’ve seen your thighs! I don’t remember stretch marks.

ME: That’s because you have only seen them from a distance and in flattering low light.  You would change your tune if you were up close in scary florescent lights. 

FRIEND: Whatever. You’re ridiculous. Ooohhh, this smells nice.

I’m not writing this to complain and/or celebrate my thighs or my questionable stretch mark genes. (Although, I have noticed that while they are jiggling more than usual on my runs, they seem to be slightly smaller. SCORE!) I’m sharing this brief conversation because I have trouble taking a compliment.   I don’t think I am alone here.

Why do we throw compliments back in our friends’ faces?  I know we have all been on the receiving end of a ‘Jellyfish’ compliment;  one that stings.  One that you would rather pee on yourself than accept.  But we usually see these coming.  We know which ‘friends’ hand these out on a regular basis.  Laughing these compliments off is part of a defence mechanism.

But this compliment came from a friend I trust and I still threw it back.

This is something I do too often.  I deflect compliments on clothing/outfits by quoting prices and sources.  I deflect compliments on cooking by relating the hidden mistakes.  I deflect compliments on academic writing by saying it’s too different, too creative to be successful.  A compliment on my hair, deflected with ‘its too straight/greasy/scraggly.’

I always find the flaw in the success.  My parents’ call it the  “Yeah, but….” 

Look at the exchange above.  When will anyone see my thighs up close in florescent light?  Where would all those conditions collide anywhere other than your yearly Gyno appointment?  And at that point I would relish a close-up examination of my….thighs, I think you’ll agree.   I don’t even think my husband has seen my thighs close up in florescent light.  Not because he hasn’t been around, but because I think he is probably distracted by my other bare bits.  So why present an impossible scenario instead of accepting the compliment and reaping the rewards of months of healthy eating and exercise?

Is it false modesty? Do I really believe I play no part in these ‘successes?’ Do I believe that I don’t deserve these compliments? 

I don’t know.  What I do know, is that it is time to stop.  Accepting the compliment with grace will not make me look conceited.  Accepting a compliment with grace and accepting that it is given truly, is not selfish.  I think.

Maybe it’s about being mindful.  Being mindful not only of how I feel, but how my insecurity makes my friends’ feel as well.  It can’t be nice to have compliments thrown back in your face.  It’s almost like an insult to the friend that took the time to notice and comment.  Like telling them they are foolish to admire or compliment something about you.  Like they are foolish to be your friend.  Because isn’t that why we cherish our friends?  They support us, they tell it like it is, they celebrate our successes and hold our hands when we fall.

Maybe it’s about selling yourself, but not in an annoying job-interview-way, but in the I-believe-in-the-best-of-me way.  In the I-accept-I-am-not-perfect-but-I-rocked-this-way. 

What do you think?  Do you gracefully accept compliments or brush them aside?  Do you find it a hard balance? 

An Experiment

I would like to begin by asking for a moment of silence. 

For the last five years, every night at 8pm, we were treated to yet another rerun of Friends.  For the last five years, we could always count on a little ridiculous comedy over dinner.  For the last five years, we have watched the gags coming and laughed every. Single. Time.  For the last five years, Friends has been our comfort food and blanket.  But no longer.  It’s a sad day.  Join me in silence.

And now, onto even more superficial discussions. 

Last week, I was engaged in a very important experiment.  In preparation for our mini-expedition to Morocco I didn’t blow-dry my hair all week.  I know.  Earth-shattering.  Let me try and explain. 

I have stick-straight, fine, thick, frizzy, limp hair.  I know it seems like that combination is a bit contradictory, but it is the truth, and every hairdresser I have ever had has marvelled at the contradiction that is my hair.  It has taken me the better part of my lifetime, and more mind-power than I would like to admit, to figure out the whole situation.  I have finally come to the combination of short cut, Aveda ‘mousse,’ good round brush, decent blow-dryer, let air-dry for a few minutes before beginning ‘styling,’ maybe a spray of dry shampoo.  This routine has served me well for the last few months and has relieved a lot of undue stress. 

We travel fairly regularly and I refuse to pack a hair-dyer (the centrepiece of my styling routine).  Usually, this isn’t an issue as every half-decent hotel has a hair-dryer-like contraption and most friends/families houses also have one in a cupboard as well.  However, on our upcoming mini-expedition, I am not expecting to find such a contraption in any of the accommodation set up for those two+ weeks.  Thus begins the dilemma. 

I know.  It’s completely superficial.  When travelling, hair condition should not be one’s main concern, and to be fair, it usually isn’t one of mine.  However, after looking back on our photos from Africa and those infamous wedding photos, I am distracted from all the lovely memories by the scraggly, oily mess that is my hair/fringe situation.  It's completely self-indulgent and ridiculous.  I know.  I will not have this anymore. 

Hence, the experiment.  In truth, it began as an accident.  Last Saturday morning, I got distracted after my shower and by the time I became un-distracted, I realized that my hair, sans blow-dry, was not too shabby (or scraggly or oily).  Yes, it wasn’t sleek, shiny and nicely shaped, but it was very passable for errand-running and, I figure, that works for expedition-ing as well. 

At this point, I would like to thank my hair-dresser for her amazing skill.  I have to believe that the pass-ability of my non-blown-dried hair to her skill with the scissors and her determination to get every Single. Hair. In. Line. With. Every. Other. Single. Hair.  She’s a magician. 

So, for the last week I abstained from blow-drying (being sick really helped that situation actually) and overall, it was a success. 

Amazing!!!! 

Now I can really get excited about Morocco and move on to worrying about how to deal with the inevitable car-sickness from travelling in a van over less-than smooth roads, trails, tracks, etc. 

Stuff and Stuff

It’s Friday!  Welcome to ‘The Chronicles of a Reluctant Housewife’ where I document my love/hate relationship with my current occupation.

I’m all over the place this week.  I pretty much wrote my Reluctant Housewife post at the beginning of the week.  My descent into sickness this week has totally thrown me.  But I think I have come to embrace the housewife thing a bit too much because for the two evenings I was laid up and Pete was cooking dinner and doing dishes and doing the grocery shopping alone, I was feeling crazy guilty for not helping. 

I mean really. 

After my discussion on Tuesday in which I likened a sink of dirty dishes to the ‘one’ ring I was, again, getting titchy about Pete treading on my territory. 

RIDICULOUS!!!

I have a beautiful husband that supports me in all my endeavours and also makes dinner, does dishes and will willingly dance with me when I ask, and I was titchy. 

It is official.  I am a crazy obsessed housewife and my identity is tied a bit too tightly to my relatively new- found ability to cook and keep house. 

I am drawing a line under it all.  When Pete offers to wash dishes, I will accept the offer without question.  This may throw him a bit as the request is often rejected.  It’s going to be awesome!

Times, they are a-changing.  I have always thought Autumn was the best time for new beginnings.

That’s it.  That’s all I have today.  The research project that has been the bane of my life these last two months, is done on Monday.  PRAISE ALL THAT IS HOLY!!!  However, I have a lot to get done before I am free of this weight so I must press on and make it all shiny and pretty.

Also, we have a plumber coming at some point today (you know, between 9 and 5) to check our boiler and it would probably be better for me to not be in the shower when he arrives.  You know, because it is soooo likely that he will arrive before 4:30.  Just tell me you will be here at 4:30 so I can get on with my day!  You don’t know that I am a housebound housewife.  I could be a very in-demand important person that must be out of the house running around.  Or, you know, just a normal person that has to go to work.  Whatever. 

Have a wonderful weekend.

Travel Sickness

Oh lovelies.

That great ‘back to the routine’ post?  Didn’t happen.  The post did, the routine did not.  As I was writing it, I was slowly descending into a sickness that knocked me flat for two days.  I am only now able to sit up and do something without having a tissue jammed up my nostrils. 

Here is what I discovered while ill.  Being sick and unable to sleep is exactly like the hell that is a long-haul flight.  For those of you lucky enough to have never experienced the hell that is the long-haul flight.  I envy you.  I want to be you.  I want the knowledge that being sick and flying to beautiful locations are similar experiences, erased from my brain. 

Not everyone may agree with this comparison.  Maybe you are a great flier.  I am not.  I dread flying, but I do it all the time.  Let me be clear.  I don’t fear flying.  I dread it.  The whole process.  Getting up before the crack of dawn, sitting on public transport for an hour, hanging around in the airport for three hours, five security check points require various levels of undress, recycled air (which means recycled farts, let’s be honest), bad food, limited personal space, aching back, constant roaring in the ears, headphones that continually fall off my head or chafe my ears, swollen feet (despite the sexy flight socks and stockings), pasty and oily complexion, bad TV/movies, alternating hot and cold flashes, surly customs officers, lost baggage. 

And that is just for short two-four hour flights.  Multiply that by six and you have my version of hell.  Have I said it enough?  Hell, to me, is flying.  But I love travelling.  It’s a dilemma.  In order to ‘travel’ you have to go through hell.  This is one time when the ‘journey’ is not nearly as important or enjoyable as the destination.  I long for the days when all ‘travel’ was done by rail or boat.  When travelling was classy.  When you weren’t squeezed into a tube with hundreds of people wearing tracksuits and flip flops.  When the journey was as enjoyable as the destination.  When the holiday could start when you left your home, not 10-24 hours later when you finally collapse in your hotel room, take a shower and order some room service, by which time everything is closed and all that is left to you is to roam the streets (which we do enjoy) or watch bad US TV with subtitles or BBC World Service.  This is not the way to start a holiday.   

Whenever we are planning a trip, a huge portion of my energy goes into planning how I will survive the flight.  I no longer carry magazines or books.  Reading on planes makes me nauseous.  I also have given up on music and neck pillows.  I now carry a plethora of moisturizers and dry shampoo and flight socks and Advil PM.  The latter of which only manages to take the edge off my gruelling situation so that I won’t have to scream into a pillow.  Although, I have done that on a few occasions.  I have yet to figure out how to get a footstool in my carryon.  I am convinced that if I could get my feet a few inches off the ground I would be immeasurably more comfortable.  I did have a blow-up pillow that sort-of worked, but I left it on a place somewhere.  Probably tangled in the three blankets and four pillows that I systematically requisition throughout the flight. 

So while I sat up in bed the other night, aching back and body, with tissues shoved up my nose, listening to the maddening buzz of the refrigerator and my sleeping husband and suffering through alternating hot and cold flashes and feeling trapped in our tiny bedroom and wanting to scream into my pillow, but unable to change the situation, I realized I could be on the way to NZ. 

If only the view out the bedroom window waiting for me in the morning was as beautiful.