May 6, 2008
Tuesday 200 — #80
My new manny gig is great. The boys were a handful at first, but boundary testing’s to be expected. Especially with 8-year-olds whose penchant for storytelling has caused parental distrust.
The after-school crew were on great form last Thursday, tossing frisbee and playing tag. I reckoned the boys’ popularity came from a combination of their Texas accents and the novelty of being identical twins.
I was chatting with the Connaught Square pram squad — the usual mixture of moms, nannies, and multi-cultural munchkins. The VIPs had moved in several months ago, so nobody gave a second thought to heightened security. Then Travis (or maybe Tyler … that mole on Ty’s neck is the only way to distinguish them) offended one of the Muslim girls. Shouting, shoving, and tears ensued.
Not being able to get a straight answer during their time-out, I pointed to Chez Blair’s machine gun toters.
“Know what they do?”
They looked at each other then shook their heads.
“They shoot mean boys. That horrible looking one on the left? His son’s in Iraq. He blames your President.” A salute to my Met buddies was dutifully returned. “You want to make them mad?”
Fear works.
:: :: ::
What's a Tuesday 200?
Last week's Tuesday 200.
Tuesday 200, fiction
May 5, 2008
Balancing the Junk
Larry wanted to go for a run today, so I decided to join him. We're a good balance on the running thing, especially on longer runs. I usually push him a little further than he'd normally go and he usually slows me down just enough so I don't over-do and enjoy the workout. And, since he's gonna be away on business all week, so it's good to catch some together time when you can.
However, today wasn't about the long run, just a get-out-and-exercise day. No particular goals in mind, neither distance nor time.
I guess that's what those who live in runner world call junk miles. So I set the iPod Nike+ gadget to basic (because the Virgo in me needs to record the junk as well as the goal-oriented workouts — miles are miles are miles) and off we ran.
I did not realize our new place was within such easy access of the canal (and you can just stop with the "he said easy-access-canal" sniggering). It's literally less than a ten-minute walk north. Nor did I realize that today was the canal cavalcade, which was in fact a charming festival, but not very conducive to running.
But we weren't in it for speed, so there's nothing wrong with a little walking, right?
After the crowds thinned out, we made it up to Ladbrook Grove and then jogged around till we hit Portobello Road, where we ended up having a lovely stroll. We turned onto Westbourne Grove, where we found three new restaurants (Taqueria, Bloody French, and Harlem) we want to try. And bonus — we didn't realize there was a branch of Bodean's (it's London, everything's a chain) in that neighborhood as well.
So yeah, we went slowly. Just under five miles in about an hour and a quarter.
And despite it being a quote-unquote junk run, we had a perfectly delightful afternoon.
So what's your point, Bob?
My point is simple — on the one hand, little goals are good. But, once again, having no expectations led to a surprisingly enjoyable time. And now that we're running again, we can afford to eat all that non-healthy food we found.
It's all about the balance.
May 3, 2008
Ah, Comedy Leadership
People seems to be all upset we have a new cartoon mayor named Boris. I can't wait for Natasha to show up. And just think ... I might be able to marry a dog soon.
Argh.
Yeah yeah yeah, change is good. But this is kind of a joke, right?
All will be fine, I reckon. After all, I come from a country where a buffoon has been president for the past eight years and, if the Democrats don't consolidate their feces, will be led by an animatronic passed-his-sell-date chipmunk.
And then there's my hometown, a city where Jerry Springer was mayor. But that was before he was Jerry Springer — just some bloke who got busted for using prostitutes because he paid them with personal checks. 'Cause you know, if you're going to do something illegal, you might as well leave a paper trail.
Oh, wait. He did that before he was mayor and Cincinnatians elected him anyway.
Voters are smart.
Now then, where did I put those dog biscuits.
April 30, 2008
Wednesday Whatevers
The
bookshelvesnew kitty condo finally arrived today.
This was the third time the unit was delivered, but due to a series of mispacking errors, not to be confused with Miss Pacman errors, the boxes had to be returned and delivery rescheduled. Twice. Grrrr.
Anyway, bygones. I'm glad there here and I just need to get the books of the floor and onto the shelves. Of course, now I'm wondering if I should organize them (alphabetically? by genre? hardcover vs. paper? fiction vs. non?) or just put them on the damn shelves.
I got my first professional rejection today (writing-wise, that is — I got plenty of them when I used to audition), but it came with a semi-personalized note and, due to some statistics on Duotrope, I'm pretty sure it made it through at least the first round of the selection process. I've already resubmitted the piece to a different publication and my new goal is to acquire one hundred rejections over the next several months. And the only way to do that is to write more and submit more.
I wonder if wishing for rejections doesn't just piss right in the face of The Secret?. Oh well, you have to submit to get published, and odds are they'll be more rejections than acceptances, so there you have it. Write. Submit. Write.
Still haven't heard from the MA program, but I'm convincing myself that's good news (there must be a pony around here somewhere). They told me I'd know one way or t'other this week (and I know, the week's not over). The acceptance list was scheduled to go to the department secretary last Thursday night/Friday morning. I figure if I'm dinged it's a short "thank you for playing" letter and that would have already gone out. Mail usually gets here in a day and I've got bupkis. My rationale is the acceptance letters might need some packaging/processing/administration and could take longer to put together. That's my theory and I'm sticking with it, at least till Saturday morning.
Went for a run tonight after yet another torrential downpour. I'm thinking maybe we should've rented a houseboat rather than a new flat. Hyde Park is dead quiet at 8pm after a storm. Or maybe it's because the Chelsea/Liverpool game is on.
One shouldn't be able to see one's breath like it's the middle of winter during a run on April 30th. I know it's no use complaining about the weather, but I could really do with some sunshine and warmth.
I'm completely enjoying both of my students this week. One's an elementary-level mid-40s abrogado from Madrid who's helping my Spanish almost as much as I'm helping his English. The other is a 20-something beauty from Istanbul who is advanced and absolutely lovely. She came here for five days a few months ago and has stayed to become more fluent and hang out with her boyfriend who's at Cass. I thought she seemed a little bored with the lessons but booked another week because she "likes studying with me." Awwww.
April 29, 2008
Tuesday 200 — #79
Once in a while my twins will sing something unfamiliar. I'm never sure if they've made it up, heard it at school, or downloaded it. We try to monitor their Internet, but when it comes to gadgets, I’ll freely admit they outsmart us.
This morning they were be-bopping an unnervingly catchy refrain about a "monkey in my back.”
What was more bothersome? Nine-year-olds singing about addiction or misusing a preposition?
“I believe the phrase is monkey on my back.” I topped up their organic freshly-squeezed OJ. “Jeremy, are you wearing your sister's eyeliner?”
“It’s okay Daddy,” Jessie said, “he asked to borrow it.”
Before I could say that wasn’t my particular concern, Jessie informed me the lyric was about evolution, clearly stating the monkey was *in*, not *on*, Polly’s back.
“Who’s Polly?”
“Du-uh. Polly Sectual.” Jessie looked at me like I’d grown a gorilla head. “The singer for Fierce Chimera? The tranny metal band? They’re totally owning Bangkok Idol. I sent you their Facebook last week?”
“Polly Sectual?”
“It’s a stage name,” Jeremy confided. “Chick-dick rock RAWKS!”
This prompted a high five from his sister.
“Honey!” I called upstairs. “Can you come to breakfast?”
:: :: ::
What's a Tuesday 200?
Last week's Tuesday 200.
Tuesday 200, fiction
April 28, 2008
A Mews-ing Myself with Questions
One of the things I'm finding charming about the new place is that, from the living room (or lounge as we like to call it over here) and the kitchen, we overlook a mews. Especially at night, it reminds me of the back lot of a film set, sorta like Rear Window. I used to say that about our place in New York also, but we were on the ninth floor and the townhouses behind us were only five stories high, so it was more Mary Poppins meets Rear Window.
This morning there's a bit of a hullabaloo outside, so I popped open the window to see what's going on.
One of the mews houses is undergoing a major refurb. Or something ...
*cue mysterious music*
There's usually a van parked outside of it during the day, and a couple of what appear to be worker-type men lolling about. Today there are three of them. There is a big container of dirt in the back of the van, and one of them is shoveling the dirt into plastic bags. The other two men are carrying the bags of dirt into the house. The three of them are each wearing hi-viz day-glo green safety vests with silvery reflective stripes. I don't understand why they need this visual precaution. It's not like there's tons of traffic whizzing down the bricked road.
What on earth could they be doing with the earth? Laying a new foundation perhaps? Or maybe encasing someone in a modern day Cask of Amontillado?
But if that's the case, then again I must wonder about the high-vis vests. Surely they wouldn't want to be seen. Aha, but that could be their alibi, couldn't it?
"If we were doing dodgy deeds, clearly we wouldn't call attention to ourselves?"
Surely Mr F in Austria didn't call so much attention to himself when he outfitted his cellar to keep his daughter and children/grandchildren stashed away. Secret panels that could only by opened with electronic keypads. My, that's very Bond James Bond for a "rural village," innit? Was Mr F an electrician? Did he hire an out-of-town electrician/plumber/carpenter to fix the place up while he sent his wife on a cruisee? He'd had to have, because a local tradesman couldn't be trusted to keep such a secret. We all know the truth about small towns -- everybody knows everybody's business. How did nobody in this town notice? How did he feed them? What did the local grocer think, that his family were a bunch of bulimic overeaters who bought twice as much as necessary but never gained weight?
There are more holes in this story than a gopher-infested golf course.
And, really, how could his wife not have known there were four people living below her? How could she believe that their "missing" daughter would just drop off her kids (three of whom she adopted)?
It reminds me of one of the first stories in Panos Karnezis' Little Infamies, where a man keeps his twin daughters locked in his cellar, raising them like animals as punishment for killing their mother during childbirth.
You read these fictions and think, that's surreal, it could never happen. And then the news story breaks.
All right then, that's enough speculating. I need to feed the old woman in the attic before I go teach.
April 26, 2008
April 24, 2008
And We're Waiting Again ...
I had my interview for one of the MA programs today. I think it went well. But you never know, do you?
On the plus side, the head of the program said she really liked the story I used for my writing sample. It's one that's not made the e-rounds as it's being shopping it out. She told me it was "eminently publishable" and reckons that will happen soon. Sweet.
On the negative side, ...
But wait, there's more ... keep reading "And We're Waiting Again ..."
April 23, 2008
The People One Sees
I walked to the grocery store about an hour and a half ago: partly because it was really nice out and it's only about seven minutes away, partly because I needed soda water for a vodka/soda, and partly because I didn't feel like eating left-over chicken and rice from last night's post-run feast.
I've been home for more than an hour, have enjoyed an unexpected Diet Coke (buy one 6-pack, get one free) and can't be arsed to cook up the delicious cous cous fixin's* I bought (cous cous, three colors of bell peppers, spring onions, etc). And I'm really not keen on the vodka/soda anymore.
So what was the point of this post ... oh, yes, right. The people on the check-out lines. One guy had a trolley full of toilet paper. Five 20-packs stacked on top of each other. Either he's planning on some really nasty curry, has a wicked case of amoebas (Flagyl is the worst, trust me), or he works for one of the hotels on Sussex Gardens and their paper goods shipment didn't come in.
The guy ahead of me had very simple dietary needs. One litre of cheap vodka, a 1.75-litre bottle of Dr Pepper, and two Mars bars. I was nearly tempted to offer him one of my peppers (the red one would have complemented his blotchy complexion quite nicely), because one needs a veggie every now and again, eh? Memo to self -- Dr Pepper is clearly not a dermatologist.
And then there was the lady who got off the bus as I was walking home. She had on a mini-skirt-length slicker (black with huge white polka dots), a matching it-girl (slick-girl?) hat from the 60s, stockings that looked like multi-colored tattoos and calf-high go-go boots (in some kind of strange brown pattern) that I think came from the Neptune branch of Primark.
I almost invited her over for some vodka, because she was fantabulous ... in a semi-scary intergallactic supermodel sort of way.
In fact, now that I think of it, it just might be time for this flat's/season's first vodka (never the cheap stuff) and soda (bargain brand, 3 for £1 -- it's all about the balance). And then maybe some left-over chicken and rice.
Spring has sprung and I'm living on the edge.
:: :: ::
Addendum ... ten minutes later
How can this be? There is no vodka in the house?!?!? The horror. This is unheard of. Bottles of nearly every spirit known to mankind (for the guests, of course) and yet nary of drop of potato-elixir for me. I know, I know, it was just a quarter-ago that I was typing I didn't really want a glass of what used to be my life's blood. But now that there's none to be had, I'm really hankering for a cocktail.
Hmmm, which block in the new hood harbors a liquor store? Shouldn't take long to find out, and the weather is still pleasant, if not a little darker.
:: :: ::
Addendum the second, fifteen minutes later ...
Thresher's is only a five-minute stroll away, and they're open till 10 pm on weeknights. They have no Ketel One or Grey Goose, but there is Absolut, in adorably wee 700ml bottles. I refrained from buying two. My world is at stasis again.
Carry on with your evening.
Cheers.
April 22, 2008
Tuesday 200 — #78
Every so often, an old tryst would wander the hallways of Nathan’s memory.
Macon was his favorite. A tough-as-nails biker from New Orleans — terrifying tattoos hiding a heart of gold. Protective of his friends, perhaps to a fault.
Viktor … the Russian boxer. Charming when he wasn’t snorting vodka. No telling what would happen if Viktor was around. Waking up in central lockup should’ve been a clue to cut that cord. Where was Macon when you needed him?
Laurie, the teen-aged wiccan. Scared to death of Viktor, she fucked him anyway. When the boys discovered her poems, it started again. Scarlet sets of parallel lines across her inner thighs. If only AJ hadn’t found out.
Ah, AJ … the compassion of Atticus Finch, the cruelty of Addison DeWitt. He told them Laurie was cutting. “For her own good,” AJ promised when they took her away.
Near the precipice of sleep, Nathan glimpsed the bit players from a nearly-forgotten movie: Violet and her opera; valium-addled Donald; transgendered Alison, who channeled Mata Hari.
Codependent no more, Nathan simply acknowledged their presence and waved them on.
Whatever he did, he didn’t tell Dr. Jenkins.
Four hundred volts hurt like hell.
:: :: ::
What's a Tuesday 200?
Last time's Tuesday 200.
Tuesday 200, fiction
April 20, 2008
Running from the Boxes
Life is not all about organizing closets, unpacking boxes, building flat-pack storage cabinets (the proofreader for Heal's DIY could stand a couple days in a quality control workshop), and waiting on a bookshelf delivery so one can get rid of the rest of the cardboard.
Oh no. Avenue Q speaks sings the truth: "There is life outside your apartment."
Today I ventured out for a long overdue run. Now that we're official "westies", we jogged out towards Holland Park, Kensington and into Shepherd's Bush ... and back. A lovely 6-mile tour.
I think I've figured out the post code system ... the bigger the number after the W, the more white the neighborhood is.
So now that I've burned up all those calories and got my endolphins swimming around, I think it's time to find a good Sunday roast and watch the parade on Old Compton Street. It's very nearly Spring outside!
We don't want to let go of too much tradition even though we're now on the other side of Edgeware Road.
