Happy S'mores

Two weekends ago I had a hankering for s’mores.  No real reason.  I just decided I had to have some melted marshmallow.  Actually, I think it started when we popped into an Antipodean food shop a few weekends ago and in the Canadian section they had bags of proper marshmallows.  I bought two. 

I was hard pressed to find the other ingredients.  Maybe if I had planned ahead they wouldn’t have been, but I decided Saturday morning I wanted s’mores Saturday night, so I was limited to the local shops.  Instead of Graham Crackers I got Digestives, and instead of Hershey’s I went for a bunch of small Lindt Dark Chocolate bars, and instead of sticks from the woods for roasting I dug out some bamboo skewers. 

We fired up the chiminea (which makes it sound like a faster process than it is in actuality) and got to roasting. 



I won’t lie, it was a tad dangerous.  The skewers were short and we had to basically stick our hands in the flames to get the right roasting angle.  I was going for the nice uniform camel brown that my mom was always so good at obtaining. 

Well that didn’t happen.  After waiting like an impatient child, skewered marshmallow in hand, for the chiminea to be ready, I was waiting no longer.  Into the flame it went.  There is nothing like a flaming marshmallow to bring back memories of childhood camping mishaps.  How many burnt fingers and tongues?  How many lost mallows in the fire? How many flying flaming mallows?

Ah memories. 

Then, yesterday I heard it was National S’mores Day.   See?  I am psychic!  So we just had to have s’mores again.  However, this time I wasn’t willing to wait for the chiminea. 

This time the chocolate had bits of orange.  (I had eaten all the bars I bought for last time.)

YUM!!! 

Again, we went for the flaming option.  What is s’mores without a bit of charring?

New Job: Fortune Teller

Did I call it? Or did I call it. 

In the last two weeks, the circus has popped up in random places.  It is now trendy.  What did I say?

The top left is from Sainsbury's Magazine.  This is the magazine from my grocery store.  The movie Water for Elephants, is listed as style inspiration for champagne saucers. 

The top right is a TV listing.  Last night, BBC4 ran two circus documentaries.  They were focused on British circus history and surprisingly actually interviewed retired circus performers, owners, etc., despite the write-up describing it as 'wistful academics wax lyrical on the thrills, spills and enduring allure of the big top.'  I have to admit, I was a little annoyed.  I am a wistful circus academic!!!  Oh well.  I missed that boat. 

And finally, we have Marie Clare with thier trend report.  Circus, circus everywhere.  Apparently the makers of the Twilight movie series have bought the movie rights to a new circus themed debut-novel that hasn't yet hit the shelves.  Great! 


As I write this, Kelly Miller Circus is beginning to stir and preparing to move on to another town.  Trendy or not, they have a show to put on and a life to lead.  In fact, they are the opposite of trendy.  They are timeless classics, enduring economic downturns and rising interest rates and whatever else the world can throw at them.  They are Chanel. 

There I said it, Circus Chanel.  You heard it here first.


*Editor's note: this afternoon I was flipping through VOGUE and there was the circus, and then, 10-ish pages later, there was Chanel.  So, there you go.

Running in the Rain

What I did this weekend…

Thursday I went to a clothes swap for charity.  This is the second one in three weeks.  I find these a great way to get rid of stuff that I normally don’t want to drop off at the charity shop.  I have been hauling big blue IKEA bags full of clothes and stuff to charity shops every six months for years.  This is a problem.  Not the donation part, the replacing part.  Why do I constantly have enough stuff to carry to the charity shop every six months.  Somebody stop me!!!!

There was a time when I could fit my material life into a small car.  Those were the days.  Granted, those days I was living with my parents and so didn’t actually own a lot of things on my own, but still, it’s something to shoot for, especially when there is a very good likelihood of some international housemoves in your future. 

However, what I want to talk about here, is what I have been taking to the swaps.  A lot of these items travelled across the pond with me five years ago.  I haven’t worn them for probably about three years.  So why have they been in my possession for so long?  They have memories.  You know that shirt you bought when you were first on your own? It doesn’t fit anymore, it is faded, it probably isn’t your style anymore, but you hold on to it.  You can’t bear to put it in the donation bag that sits in your hall/bedroom/laundry room.  Or more likely, you have put it in that bag numerous times but taken it out at the last minute.  What is it about these items?  Why is it so hard to let go of these items?  Why is it so hard to accept that you have grown?  Why not celebrate the fact that you have grown?

I find it is easier to give these items away at swaps.  There is something about telling the story of this item to ladies that understand and have similar stories.  You know it is going to a good home.  You know that these ladies understand the history of the garment.  And what they do after that doesn’t matter so much.  They have their own items with their own stories.  In telling the story, you tell your own story and you own up to, and own, your growing process.  I mean, who wants to be the same person they were 7-10 years ago?  We keep growing and that’s usually a good thing, but it can be hard to admit as well.  Good Luck and godspeed.

Friday I got into a huff about academia and finally owned my decision to get out and tell my geography stories the way I want to tell them.  Now I just need to power through the last three projects in the next few weeks so that I can leave it behind.  I long for the day I can read a book and not feel guilty that it isn’t a journal article.  I’m not saying I won’t keep reading articles, but I don’t want to feel obligated to read them anymore.  So now I just have to power through.  Easier said than done.  One day at a time. One reference at a time.  

Then I went for a run.  It has been a long time.  It was painful.  But the body was craving the activity.  It is a strange thing when you realize that exercise is actually good for you and not just a way to fit into your jeans again.  It seems like that should be obvious, but it wasn’t to me for awhile.  I admit I was running to get into my jeans.  Now I am running because it actually makes me feel better. 

I know.  Who am I? Believe me, I ask myself this every time I go for a run.  But it goes along with the clothes swap.  We grow.  Embrace the growth, yes?

Saturday we went for a wander.  We tend to take the city we live in for granted.  We live in London.  London.  How awesome is that?!  So we have decided to go for a wander one day on the weekend.  This also makes us feel like we have a proper weekend instead of lounging around and watching David Attenborough documentaries (Pete) or reruns or noses in the iPhones.  This weekend we walked the South Bank. 

This is not necessarily new territory for us, but we wanted to take our time with it today and enjoy the rare sunlight.  Except when we actually made it out of the house the incessant light rain that is the hallmark of the Great British Summer started and didn’t let up for the next five hours.  We would not be deterred.  You really can’t be, or you would never leave the house.  It was well worth it.  We discovered some great shops and a great pie shop and saw some great sand art.  That evening we had dinner and good conversation with some new friends.  A good day to be sure.

Sunday didn’t go as well.  We enjoyed our morning coffee and had breakfast on our deck in the sun.  Lovely.  We made a trip to TK Maxx for a pair of running shorts and came out with a new suit, shirt, cookbook, tablecloth, computer bag and running pants.  Oops!  We may have found the culprit (see above).  We were feeling good, despite the excess baggage.  The sun was shining.  It was going to be a beautiful day.  We decided to go for a run and then take some books, bread and cheese to the park and enjoy the day. 

A minute into our run it started to sprinkle.  No biggie, although I did have a mini panic attack about the laundry hanging out.  We pressed on.  It was just a little drizzle. 

By the time I got to the end of the block it was that big ‘ole fat rain, falling at a diagonal.  Great.  However, as my grandfather always said.  The bigger the drops the shorter the shower.  Another half K and that seemed to be the case.  The showers had stopped and the sun was out.  A little humid, but doable.  1.5 K later and the rain started again.  Annoying, but so it goes.  At this point I was concentrating on running and had forgot about the laundry.  One song later and I was running in a full on hail storm.  Big slushy rain coming down in diagonal sheets.  Pete had just passed me going the other way and when I turned to see if he had taken cover all I could see was a white sheet of moisture.  S***! 

I kept running. 

I kept running?  I can’t believe it myself.  I kept going.  I guess I figured I was already soaked, why not finish the run?  Or maybe it was something else.  I don’t know, but I kept going.  The rain let up fairly quickly and I was still going.  Incidentally, it probably wasn’t the best day to wear the white tank to run.  The last block and the sky was pure blue and the sun streaming down.  Of course.

And now it’s Monday.  It’s time to power through.  If I can run through a hailstorm I can finish these projects.  I never thought it possible, that I, Ariel-passed-gym-purely-by-attendance, would be a runner.  But there I was-here I am-pushing myself to run.  When I run, I am fully in the moment.  I am aware of every step and it can, and does, suck.  Like really suck.  Like I can’t breathe and I might die, suck.  But then it’s over and I feel better.  There is something better waiting for me on the other side of these projects.  I can feel the clear skies and sunlight coming.  I just have to run through the hail for awhile.  One day, one reference, one interview, one summary, one chapter, at a time.

Look at me.  I’m growing. 

Surprises and Party Advice

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

It has been an interesting few weeks.  I apologize for my absence.  I haven’t been much of a housewife lately.  These 20 days of employment have turned into the most annoying research project that won’t end. 

The paid research has been illuminating, but perhaps not in the way the organizers had hoped.  By running all over the City and East End chasing down interviewees, I managed to chase down myself as well. 

That’s heavy, I know.  But what I mean is this: While I was running around being a professional, I really wanted to be home taking care of laundry and prepping dinner.  OK, maybe not totally.  I did really like getting dressed and navigating the city and hearing people’s stories.  I really liked that.  What I didn’t like is the guilt I felt that I didn’t have the energy to keep the house clean, organize dinner (we have been eating take-out like crazy) or go for a run (fit fail), and I haven’t baked anything in weeks!!!  This is self-inflicted guilt, but it is also a bit of sadness.  I really enjoyed those things.  (I also don’t like the slap-dash organization of the project, but that is another issue and this is not the place for it).

I know, I sound like every working woman in the world (it's a stretch, go with it).  It’s a perpetual problem, yes?

So while the work has made me a less reluctant housewife, it has also made me decide, without a doubt, that I will not be happy as an Academic.  This does not mean that I don’t want to teach and/or tell geography stories.  It means I think there is a better forum out there than the hallowed, sometimes, out-of-touch, halls of the ivory-tower Academy. 

But here’s the thing….

There’s always a thing.

I have three rather major academic projects to finish before I can move on and wave good-bye to Academia for the time being.  These projects are drawing out and the energy it takes to complete them is massive.  (I still harbour a strong desire to teach undergrad Geography on a part-time basis, or at a community college.  But that’s not going to happen right now, so I am putting it aside for awhile.  When I return to the Academy, I would like it to be as a well-worn, full-lifed, slightly eccentric, ‘older’ woman.  You know, one of those spunky ladies with a fab back story and a way of rolling with life.)  I’m attempting to power through!!

We are hoping to go on a fairly major holiday in September (when the Border Agency finally returns the passports they are holding for ransom).  I am trying to view it like I did the wedding/thesis deadline.  This holiday will be a clean break, hopefully.  If I can finish all this stuff before we head off, when we come back I can focus on my own stuff and leave the academic guilt behind.  I think the fact that I haven’t embraced the ‘Dr.’ title, even though I am now employed, albeit temporarily, as a ‘Doctor,’ may have been the first clue to my discomfort.  My newly minted colleagues have no qualms throwing the title around.  I just feel a fraud.  I feel more comfortable using the Mrs, than the Dr.  And that’s saying something!

Here’s an interesting tid-bit.  Remember when I was having fits trying to decide what to tell people I ‘do’ upon introduction?  I now thrown out ‘housewife’ without thinking.  However, after yesterday, I may have to rethink this action.  After my introduction, I was presented with the question, “Oh! How old are your children?”

Did you catch that?

Somehow, housewife immediately translated to Mom.  WHAT!!!  This followed a separate conversation about how it is not acceptable to just be a housewife.  Kids must be involved for it to be acceptable.  WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!  Let us enjoy each other for a bit! (Not that I am saying kids will keep us from enjoying each other.)

I countered with, “No kids.  Just Wife.”  Which was met with, “Oh………”

This obsession with titles is exhausting, yes?  I mean, how often does one’s job title reflect them?  I think I have said this before, but when meeting someone for the first time, or when thrown together at a dinner/cocktail/birthday/holiday/clothes swapping party, find other questions to ask than, “So? What do you do?”  And if you insist on continuing to ask this question, don’t be surprised when someone eventually answers, “I sacrifice my soul for 10-12 hours a day at a job I can barely tolerate or understand to fund my average, yet enjoyable lifestyle.” 

Because that really is the most honest, and possibly common, answer and a real conversation ender and party killer.  Find another question.

So, to more important things….

Where to go on holiday?  Where we will enjoy each other’s company as a young married couple.  No kid guilt required. Thankyouverymuch.

We are thinking two weeks.  We have floated the following ideas:

Mini-expedition to Morocco, Med cruise, mini-expedition to Columbia, resort in Mauritius, train through Italy, road trip through Britain.

Thoughts, suggestions, advice?  I think we are leaning toward the mini-expedition in Morocco and taking on a few days in a nice hotel at the end for a little extra relaxation.

Borders and Baths

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

Housewife is dealing with UK Border Authority this morning and was relaxing in Bath's Thermal Spa for two days.  She will be back next week.

Leaping

Yesterday was a momentous day.  Although you wouldn’t know it to see my to-do list:

Laundry (darks, sheets, delicates, hand washing)

Meal list/shopping list/grocery trip

Change sheets

Put away clothes from swap

Mend bathing suit/tunic

Make biometric appointment

Clean sink

General tidy

That’s just the Housewife side of the list.  I crashed at about 3pm.  I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but I tend to get distracted and extra chores got done as I was passing from one item to another. 

But back to the momentous day.  Yesterday marked the anniversary of my move to London.  Five years ago I boarded a plane high on love and convinced that everything was going to work out.  It did, of course.  However, looking back on it now I completely understand my parents distress.  A few weeks before I flew the coop my Dad issued Pete with an order.  The details are between the two of them, but the gist was this…when this goes sour, just put Ariel on a plane home.

At the time, I was incredibly offended.  Now, I realize they were completely justified.  Despite my 27 years of age, I was not quite a functioning adult.  Yes, I had lived on my own, held down four jobs at a time, travelled to Africa, finally finished that Master’s degree but I was still leaning fairly heavily on my parents for support.  I was at the end of a string of semi-screwups that always ended with me running back to my parents.  I can’t imagine their fear when I told them I was moving to another country to be with a guy I had only actually seen for about eight weeks.  Pete and I had been ‘together’ for a year, but we had only been in physical reach of each other for about two months after Africa. 

I didn’t understand the gravity of my decision at the time.  Five years later, I can’t believe I made such a leap with no safety net.  I had no job, no school placement, no place to live.  I was betting on getting into one of the best Geography programs in the world.  It would be an understatement to say that it was a leap of faith.  It was CRAZY!!!!

But I knew something my parents didn’t, yet.  Pete and I loved each other and we made each other the best versions of ourselves.  We blossom in each other’s presence and influence.  This leap never would have worked without our partnership. 

I look back on that girl from five years ago and I wonder at her.   Where did she get that confidence?  After a string of screw-ups, how could she still be so confident?  I am not that girl anymore, I don’t really want to be that girl anymore, but there is something about that foolish confidence that I would like a bit of again. 

That girl would have balked at the Housewife of today, but she didn’t understand herself yet.  I get huge satisfaction from keeping a (relatively) nice house and yummy dinner list.  You live, you learn.

That to-do list?  Sort of a celebration after all. 

Jazz Hands!!!

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

I have noticed a trend lately of wives offering advice about being a good wife.  This makes me uncomfortable.  Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing wifey/marriage stories.  I don’t always relate to them, but I do love reading them.  Where I get uncomfortable is when a story is prefaced (or concluded) with statements like, “…this/that is what makes me the best wife.”

I’m not denying that the writer probably is the best wife to her husband, but this kind of writing lends itself to a ‘I’m doing right, you’re doing it wrong’ type reading.  Maybe that’s just me.  It doesn’t help that many of these stories come from women married for less than five years.  I don’t know, I think you are still a bit of a newlywed at that point.  Maybe you have been together for the better part of a decade before you got married, but still. 

That being said, let me relate a story about what makes our marriage work.  This is in no way a prescription as I truly believe that no one knows what makes a marriage tick except the people in it.  Case in point, my parents.  I have a feeling that their marriage is very different from mine.  It kind of has to be as they have 29 years on us.  Regardless, I have no idea what goes on there but it seems to work.  However, that doesn’t mean I am taking notes.

Moving on.

A key characteristic in our marriage is silliness.  This may be because I have a very stubborn silliness streak, but nonetheless.  This is not scheduled silliness.  It just kind of happens.  As the best silliness does.  Again, case in point, our impromptu silent dance-off on public transportation last night.  I’m not sure how it all started, but the highlights were some serious strutting on an Underground platform.  I won’t lie, there was definitely some ‘step-ball-changes’ and maybe even a few ‘jazz hands’ and not a little hip shaking.  It continued onto the bus and the walk home from the bus stop. 

It abruptly stopped when I was almost run down by a scooter without its lights on.  ‘Run down’ might be a little dramatic.  It was a scooter after all. 

All this silliness can come at a cost.  It took extra long to get home with all the dance ‘break outs’ and not to mention the earlier after-work drinks.  The dinner I planned was not going to happen, but I magically procured some delicious Chinese from the take-away on the corner. 

…and that’s what makes me a great wife!!!