I came home from a very good day at work today to find a Christmas card from my dad and step mom. I’ve always loved Christmas cards–they are a nice little thing to get when you lived apart from family and friends–but I found this one especially touching.

As usual, the card featured a photo of my dad and step mom’s favorite dog, a barking boxer named Major, now dead. (I don’t think they realize that this pooch used to scare the living hell out of me.) The note inside was the longest correspondence I’ve ever received from my dad and step mom.

Apparently, my step mom is quilting with the mother of one of my high school friends. This is interesting because I went through the entirety of high school without contact with my dad and step mom. (Long, boring story. I’ll skip to the moral: disowning family might seem logical and just, but in my experience it’s more energy than its worth and leaves you feeling emptier than if you would have just dealt with whatever made you want to disown them in the first place.) In a way, my step mom hanging with my friend’s mom is like my step mom going back in time and getting to know me; getting to hear about what I was like as a teenager. It made me smile.

It also made me smile to think about my old high school friend. He was hilarious and a complete brain, a sharp writer. More importantly, he did the best imitation of Zorak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast I’ve ever seen. Once, I dressed like an old lady with a huge, saggy chest and did a swing dance with him for a play. Another time, he played my dad (or uncle was it?) in You Can’t Take it With You. I googled him for the hell of it, to see if he was floating about cyberspace: he’s not. So Kevin, should you ever stumble across this, consider this your message in a bottle from Mrs. Harcourt. You don’t have to find me and “catch up.” Just know that I’m thinking of you and that you are perfect and cool always and forever.
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Have you gotten any surprising hoiday mail?

::Random Tangent::

I’m feeling better today! My nose is still chapped and I’ve coughed a few times today, but I sound and feel much better. I’m still playing it cool tonight (no meeting Shaun and friends at the pub to celebrate his last day of the winter term), but I see a healthy weekend in the forecast.

In other news, there is a sandwich shop here (a chain) called Prêt A Manger. It is delicious. I’ve never seen a Prêt in the Midwest, but perhaps they are elsewhere in the States. If so, go to one: they are DELICIOUS! I usually always brown bag my lunches, but the past two mornings we’ve been grocery-less and I’ve been in no health to walk to the grocery store in the bitter, ever present rain and carry home loads of bags. So I went out to Prêt for lunch today and yesterday. And let me tell you: I want to eat Crawfish Salad everyday for the rest of my life. Imagine a plate piled high with little pink, peppered sea lovies (no yucky mayo!), salad greens, whole basil leaves (that’s pronounced “baZil” not “bay-Sill”), avocado slices, and sheer joy. I love eating the sea.

Tomorrow I am going to Stirling for a meeting. Even though it’s a work thing, I’m excited because I’ve not yet been to Stirling. After the meeting, my colleagues and I will enjoy a late lunch in lieu of a holiday party. After that, people are going for drinks, but I think I’m going to skip out and wonder the town, see the sights, pay a visit to the castle if there is time. Not to be anti-social or anything (I truly like all who I work with), but I’m not a fan of drinking with any co-workers (aside from a scant few true friends who I happen to meet at work). Bitching and gossip is inevitable when drinking with work buddies and when I drink, I prefer to get silly, play word games, make plans, and try to solve the world’s problems. I like happy hour to be happy. And Stirling Castle is sure to make me happier than a wee drink with my fellow 9-5ers.

What’s your policy on eating out at lunch and happy hour with co-workers?

Riddle me this: who schedules an important “brainstorming” session for an integral event from 4.30-5.30 in the afternoon? (Which will undoubtably run over to at least half six.) Why, when I’m already exhausted from the day, when my energy is at its lowest, when all I want in the world is a mouthful of extra chunky peanut butter on a spoon washed down by some cold milk, do I have to pull a winning idea out of my ass? What kills me the most is that my ass has plenty of winning ideas in it. But not at 4.30 in the afternoon. I’m done. I’m wrapping up. I’m thinking about home, where I get to fling off my bra and have a beer.
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When is your mind off duty, whether you want it to be or not?

::Random Tangent::
I’m still sick with the Hong Kong Flu-ey. (Good bloody greif.) Achoo.

On lunch today I found a shop called Long Tall Sally. Like me, Sally is an Amazon with 36 inches of leg; a body type that 99% of clothing retailers are able to justly accommodate. (Although I’ve heard that most stores do not accommodate most women. That’s what society gets for ditching seamstresses and going store-bought.) Sally’s clothes are fine enough and I bought two pairs of pants that fit like a dream. A dream about pants. I guess that would be a really boring dream. But not as boring as going from store to store trying to find pants that fit and finding nothing so making due with floods. But I think they need to rename that store. Long Tall Sally sounds like some plain, potato-faced wallflower. What about “Long, Leggy Sally” or “Tall Glass of Water” or “Luscious Leggy Sally”?

Leave your suggestions for Long Tall Sally’s new name in the comment box, will ya? That girl needs some help.

Some readings make you want to pee your pants, just so something interesting can happen.

Now I’m not talking about Readings: events where people like David Sedaris rant hilariously at great length about butt boils before reading a selection from Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim; or where Margaret Atwood, before reading a painfully honest section from Cats Eye, explains that when she told people she wanted to be a writer, their eyes glazed over and she could see them mentally retrieving a pre-formed image of her as a housewife from the back of their mind and injecting a dusty type writer into the scene, as if writing were something to keep her occupied while the children napped, a hobby, like knitting.

Nay. I’m talking about readings. Lower case. Not so hot. In fact, there is nothing worse than hearing 20 minutes worth of some shitty story about a warrior described with repressed homoerotic savor (“the leather straps of his battle gear chaffed his sweaty, ham-like pectorals vigorously”) saving maiden princesses from robots from the future. (If you are wondering, this actually happened at my first and last visit to the Twilight Tales reading series at the Red Lion pub in Chicago.)

Even though I use Sedaris, Atwood, and Robot Warrior Boy as examples, the difference between a reading and a Reading has little to do with how big of a name the author is. In Chicago, I loved going to Bookslut readings at Hopleaf, and the writers who read there were a range of first-timers and established authors.

What really makes the difference between a reading and a Reading is how well organized they are. Is seating well provided for? Are there sufficient breaks to socialize? Does the pub serve food? How is the atmosphere? How is the sound? Do you really need that mic? Has the work been pre-screened to ensure quality? And most importantly: do the authors reading respect the time limit?

The reading organized by fellow students of Shaun’s graduate program at The Liquid Ship last night was a Reading. Capital R. The private room was intimate enough while providing seating for all. The room was light almost entirely by candles, creating a warm, happy glow. Food was avalible to order and was great. The company was lovely. And best of all, the work was amazing. Two women read brilliant poems (I rolled with laughter at one bittersweet poem called Love & Drudgery which contains this delicious line: “beat the rugs, beat the child, boil the kettle, boil the baby”), one man read a fabulously funny vingette from a series he’s doing about psychics, and at the end of the evening, two women even sang songs (one being a really funny Christmas song about giving the gift of lice). It was a great event.

While he reads aloud in school all the time (the program he’s in is workshop-based), before last night I’d never heard Shaun read his work before. He read a piece that he wrote during our first few [tearful, difficult] months of marriage. It’s about Adam and Eve being cast from the Garden of Eden. The story is beautiful, touching, and is one of my favorite stories of all time.

Alone with Adam and Eve in the void of the desert, the reader is thrown into the complex logic of their coupledom; the ways that they blame and scowl and surprise each other with tenderness, with bad timing, with good timing. By moonrise, they fall into forgiveness, accepting that what makes them sin and what tempts them is intrinsically tied to what makes them love and be loved. Darkness co-exists with light, inseparable and unmistakably human. The writing is intimate and honest and really, really good.

When Shaun first told me he wanted to be a writer, we were teenagers sharing a banana split in a brown vinyl booth at a cafe called The Village Place in our hometown. Shaun was 18, weeks away from graduating high school at the top of his class, and needing ice cream to recover from the embarrassment of having articles about him in local newspapers for having never missed a day of school (since kindergarten!). While Shaun was just as good at Physics and Calculus as he was English and Theater, he loved the creative stuff more. But he’d told his arts-weary parents that he was going to study business at college.

As for me, I was a pixie-haired, combat boot clad 16-year old theater fanatic with a sketch book bursting with drawings, sheet music, half finished scripts, stories and poems; I was unabashedly convinced that fame was probably just around the corner.

Anyway, so we’re two oddball teenagers at The Village Place. Shaun leans across our ice cream with such an odd, serious look on his face that I thought he was going to break up with me.

“I need to tell you something,” he began. He paused. He held his breath. He winced. “I don’t want to study business.”
“You’d be a horrible business man,” I said.
“I know. And I don’t want to be a teacher.”
“You hate talking. That’s what they do. All day long.”
“I know. I want to be a writer.”
“Good. Then you’ll be a famous one.”
He smiled. “Do you think I can?”
“Why not? Just think of all that you read in a day–someone’s go to write all of it. And you’re good at it. And you like it. Why be bored your whole life? Do it. And do it big.”
He laughed. But then his face grew quiet again, “but don’t tell anyone, okay? Don’t tell my mom.”

The journey from then to now has been both slow and fast. I am a daydreamer of the future, gatherer of our histories, and happy in this minute all at once.
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What have you seen the beginning of?

::Random Tangent::
I wouldn’t have missed yesterday for the world. And I mean that because I went even though I spent all day Sunday in bed, with a million pound head full of snot and a body racked with chills, fever, and a painful, chest-seizing cough. But I nothing could keep me from seeing the Reading. It was too important. I peeled myself out of bed at 6 pm, put on some makeup and a cute outfit, threw a box of Kleenex in my purse, and braved the dark rain. And once at the Reading, I tried to sit as far away from others as possible, keeping my coughing as quiet as I could manage.

I’ve been sick all week, but Saturday, just as I was starting to feel much better, we went to Edinburgh where I stupidly over did it and paid dearly on Sunday. Today I called off work (apparently most of my department did the same; we’re all suffering from the hellish cold/flu that my boss brought back from the design expo in Hong Kong) and am spending another day in bed, haphazardly blogging, surrounded by tissues and medicine, and half-sleeping through rented movies. I haven’t been this knockdown sick in years.

I’m feeling a bit better, but I really need to baby myself today, as I have two out-of-town all day meetings later this week. And those who I’m meeting certainly don’t deserve to get sick. (If only those who were in Hong Kong and came into the office and coughed all over everything cared shared my concern!)

I hope you, dear reader, are feeling fit and healthy this December.

We spent today in Edinburgh, and although its only an hours train ride away, it felt like a little mini vacation.

Our purpose was productive enough. We went to the National Galleries of Scotland to pick out pieces to base a short story off of for a writing competition sponsored by The National Galleries and The English Speaking Union. I’m torn between a few, namely a Frans Snyder paining called Mischievous Monkeys, a Sir Frances Grant portrait of his daughter Daisy, and a hilariously provocative styling of Venus and Cupid by Lucas Cranach. I also like another Lucas Cranach called An Allegory of Melancholy. Apparently, in the late 1400′s, early 1500′s, when Cranach was alive, it was thought that four basic humours were thought to make up the human temperament: blood, choler, melancholy, and phlegm. This is the sort of thing that truly captivates me. I’m itching to write about it, but unlike the other paintings, I don’t know where Melancholy will take me. I find the most joy in writing when it’s like driving in the dark without headlights (which is a quote from some author whose name I’ve forgotten that my Story Studio writing teacher always used to say).

After soaking up the art, we walked up the mammoth hill to the castle and watched the sun set on the city (at 4 pm. Oh winter). Then we browsed the shops. We stumbled into a few mod, cute boutiques and Shaun was patient with me as I bought a cool new dress (purple dots with a olive green sash) and a fun puffy-sleeved teal t-shirt with a black cat silhouette on the side.

After our spot of shopping (which is a completely random and weird thing for me to be in the mood for–it seriously never happens, but it was fun today so I went with it), we came across a Scottish Arts Council sponsored gallery called Stills. There, three independent documentaries from the Middle East were on view. It was a really beautiful thing to see, especially for free, when you are least expecting it.

After the films, we went for a dinner at an Italian place and drank wine, which mixed pleasantly with my cough medicine, making me laugh extra loud. At the restaurant, we were given Christmas crackers, which are like little surprise packages that make a “pop” noise when you pull them apart. They have a crown, a toy, and a joke usually. I got a fake moustache. Shaun got a heart clip.

Tomorrow Shaun has his first public reading party and I am super excited to see it. Maybe Ill even wear my new wee dress!

Pictures from today:

The Winter Carnival is on now. These are the swings by the Sir Walter Scot monument.

The National Galleries of Scotland.

Cracker Prizes!

Look at the weird wallpaper: hams! Stylish.
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What’s your Saturday like?

Sometimes plans are just pointelss, aren’t they? My last blog entry had me enjoying an art opening Thrsday night, going to yoga tonight, and planning a trip to Lapland for the holidays.

But life had other ideas in mind for me.

Late Wednesday night, I woke with a horrible, terrible, very bad sore throat, cough, headache, and chills. Thursday at work was excruciating. I tried to go to the art opening, but I was so exhausted from hacking my lungs out all day, that at 5.30 pm I threw the towel in and went home. I was fast asleep by 7.30. Today I’m feeling a bit better. I’ve been drinking water, ginger ale mixed with OJ, and tea all day long. Soup and jello for dinner. Cough syrup every four hours with cough drops, immune system boosters, and tangerines as snacks. Needless to say, it was not a day for yoga.

However, it was a day for trip planning. After scouring the world for a Lapland holiday trip in our price range, I’ve come to the conclusion that comfortable visits to the Arctic Circle are only for millionaires. One day, when I’m rich, I’ll frolic with the reindeer and mush huskies on a dog sled. In the meantime, I’m more than happy (thrilled!!!) to roam European cities like a proper tourist. Shaun and I booked a three night stay in Brussels from Tuesday, December 26 until Friday December 29. So after a cuddly X-mas in Glasgow, we’re off to eat Belgium chocolates, drink Belgium beer, and hopefully (fingers crossed) see La Traviata at the famous La Monnaie de Munt opera house. I can’t wait!!! Our hotel is cute and cuddly and right in city centre.  And flights from Glasgow to Brussels are so cheap! And our hotel had a special “book two nights, get the third free” offer. Very nice. I can’t wait to wonder around and take pictures, see opera, and eat bon bons with my true love.

In other news, Shaun posted pictures and tales from our Isle of Sky trip on The Loch Ness Blog.
So go check that out and read my husband’s telling of the myths behind the places we visited. They are lovely.
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What do you think of making plans? Are you fine when they end up changing?

I could be completely wrong about this, but I’ve been told that in the Bible, heaven is described as a place where angels sing hosanna all day long for all of eternity. Now, forgive me if you hold that image precious, but it sounds like a very boring version of hell to me. For the longest time, when December rolled around and muzak versions of “Holly Jolly Christmas” wafted through every public space, I would think of those bored angels singing praise for the millionth time through painted-on smiles, worried that if they looked the slightest bit unhappy, God would get all wrathful. He’s an angry and jealous God, after all. Or something like that, I think.

Like the angels, I’ve spent most Decembers of my life faking enthusiasm for the sake of some mythical holiday family bonding. But to be honest, ever since I was a kid, I’ve been shuffled to dad’s house, then mom’s house, then grandma’s house; there was no time for family holiday bonding in that hit and run schedule. Not to mention the hurt feelings of whatever parent/family did not get me on that holiday. And now, with another divorce in my family and in-laws (also divorced), the holidays have been almost completely void of bonding; in fact, there has been a punctuated disconnect in recent years.

But this year is different. I am excited for the holidays.

For one thing, my family is happy. I don’t think they have been in a long time. My mom has a new housemate/boyfriend and they seem to love each other dearly. Last time I talked to them, I heard a story about the three of them (mom, new boyfriend, and my 14 year-old brother who lives with them) reading aloud to each other, putting on voices and laughing together. I almost cried when I heard that; as I said, it’s been a long time.

The man who raised me (my ex-step dad, technically–I just call him Tony) has a new girlfriend who he seems thrilled with. There is a light in his voice when I talk to him. My other 17-year old brother who lives with him (Tony is father to both of my brothers–they are half-brothers technically, but I seriously hate that word and never, ever use it) has a very glamorous girlfriend who he adores.

It’s been a hard couple of years. But I can feel their newfound happiness from across the ocean, bounding on waves, dancing in the wind, scooped up in the beak of a fluffy old gull. It makes me feel festive again. And although I’m far away, I feel that I’m more connected with them than ever. Everyone has licked their wounds from my mom and Tony’s divorce and is ready to hold each other close again.

Paradoxically, another reason why I am excited for the holidays is that I won’t be visiting my family. We are not going back to the states this Christmas, but we are planning a mini-trip, probably to Lapland, the true home of Father Christmas, where we’ll stay in a hotel made of ice (fingers crossed–plans are still in he works!), toboggan, ride on reindeer drawn sleighs, and mush dog sleds. I can’t wait!

Also, in early January, my homeslice Squee is coming to visit. We walked together at high school graduation. We lived in Chicago at the same time. She is looking over our kitty this year. Squee is one of my best friends in the world. And together, this January, we will find the Loch Ness Monster.

Anyhow, with all my presents wrapped and ready to mail tomorrow, I thought that I’d let my holiday spirit flourish by filling out this little holiday questionnaire that is going around the blogsphere. It was very cute and fun to do–you might also like to give it a whirl!

Holidaze
1. Egg Nog or hot chocolate?
Yes, please! Spiked!

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa is a lobster. The gifts that look like they were wrapped with claws; Santa did those. Mrs. Claws did the rest. She is human.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
Racist!

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
Only around attractive men named Shaun.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
When it’s party time. Shaun’s mom puts her stuff out for the Thanksgiving party she does. I like that idea and adopted it.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish [excluding dessert]?
My stuffing! Pears, Procsutto, Hazelnuts: oh my! Also, my grandma on my dad’s side makes this weird, semi-gross X-mass punch with sherbet that makes me smile. And Shaun’s aunt makes this weird, sort of wet blueberry bread thing that everyone hates but me. And my mom makes a breakfast on Christmas morning that makes me feel warm forever: scrambled eggs, OJ, coffee, and pipin’ hot cinnamon rolls.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?
I was an elementary aged girl, sitting next to my dad in his overheated truck, passing a dairy farm on the way to grandma Render’s house one Christmas Eve. It’s dark out and big, fat flakes of snow are whirling and twirling in the headlights. The radio is off. Dad and I are quiet. We look at the snowflakes together. The fragility and beauty and innocence of the flakes represent everything that he might break in me. And even though I am too young to form this feeling into words, and even though my dad is too inarticulate to say them, we feel them. I knew in that silence that he loved me. And was sorry.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I was 4 or 5. My cousin, two years older, wanted to show me a weird vibrating pink thing she found in her mom’s closet. Reaching up on the high shelf to retrieve it, my eye caught sight of presents stashed up there. “Why are those up there?” I asked. My cousin sighed and told me that our parents were Santa and they hid gifts from us and put them under the tree and pretended they were Santa but who cares, just look at this long, weird jiggly pink thing. I shrugged and looked at the vibrator. Then my aunt came by and snatched it away and shut the closet and that was that.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
At my dads, Santa came to his house after we got done at grandma’s house on Christmas eve. He did not come to my mom’s house until the following morning. Sometimes, depending on family schedule, Shaun and I open gifts on X-mas eve with his mom, stepdad, and stepsisters. We open gifts whenever, since we’ve got to visit so many people over those two days.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
As a grown up, I’ve never had one. We used to put a paper star on our cactus, but then it died.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?
Yay for it. I am a polar bear. Rar.

12. Can you ice skate?
Fo Shizzle. Although I always remember myself being a better skater than I actually am.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
My youngest brother was born on Christmas morning, so I’m gonna have to say: Julian. I also dig the food processor that Shaun’s parents gave us last year.

14. What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?
Sanity. Pretty lights. Carols. New pajamas. Oh yeah: days off work!!!!

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?
My apple oatmeal pie is da bomb, topped only by my step mom’s pecan pumpkin pie.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?
On the Christmas tree at my mom’s house, there is an ornament that my brother Anthony made in pre-school. It is a cutout picture of his face with a paper angel body. Every year, I arrange the glittery Nutcracker ballerina ornaments so that the dancers are swooning over my brother on the tree. It still makes me laugh. And it still makes him blush. Anthony turns 18 this month. I can’t believe it.

17. What tops your tree?
My mom’s tree has a cloth angel that she sewed. It’s cute.

18. Which do you prefer giving or receiving?
Yes to both!

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?
Little Drummer Boy. I like to think about the wise men; they’ve always fascinated me.

20. Candy canes?
Who ate all the chocolate?

21. Favorite Christmas movie:
A Christmas Story and A Nightmare Before Christmas. I have a Jack Skellington dressed as Santa wall hang that I like a lot.

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What is your mood this holiday season?

::Random Tangent::
It looks like this is going to be another fun weekend. Thursday night is the Winter Spotlight party at my museum; free cocktails, nibblies, and fresh exhibition openings.I’ve invited friends and am excited for my new co-workers to meet my husband. Fun times. Friday night I have an evening yoga class. Saturday Shaun and I are going to Edinburgh to soak up the National Gallery; there is a writing compitition where you have to write a short story based on a work in the National Gallery collection that we both want to enter. Sunday, if the weather is cute, I want to do a hike from my new book, 50 Walks In and Around Glasgow.
What are you looking forward to this weekend?

Last week, Timshead posted a photo-blog challenge: take pictures of things you see every morning. Now, this is a cooler challenge than it seems and here’s why. You know how sometimes, when you get into the groove of things, you start to wonder if you are the only one for whom day-to-day is so…predictable? Even I feel this way and I’m living for the first time in another country, across an ocean from my home. My newness to Scotland is still alive in me and everyday is still refreshing to behold, but there are also those elements of sameness, of being “settled in.”

Looking at everyone’s photo-blog challenge, at the quiet parts of their life–their teapots, their slushy commutes, their fart-ridden sleeping dogs–I was comforted to see that I was not the only one who wakes to sameness everyday. Morning routines are universal, I think. Or the want for them is, anyhow. Because us humans need to ease into things, don’t we? We create patterns for the morning that ensure we live to see afternoon. Pictures of my patterns are below.

six o’Clock in the mornin’/you’re the last to hear the warnin’/you been tryin’ to throw your arms around the world…
My day starts with me waking 5-10 minutes before my radio alarm, set to BBC, is set to go off. I feel around for my glasses on the bedside table, turn the alarm off before it wakes Shaun unnecessarily, and hit the shower before the upstairs neighbor runs her faucet, causing my water to go cold.

After I’m showered and dressed, I start to brew the coffee. While it’s steeping, I carry forth the biggest, most annoying chore of my day: blow-drying my hair. While I like my shiny, thick locks, they are a bitch to tame. Left to its own devices, my hair is wavy, frizzy, and insane looking. With a little patience and a round brush, most days it is voluptuous and a pleasure to wear on my head. I do hate blow-drying, though. I can’t believe I do it for 10 vapid minutes each day.

Next it’s makeup time. It’s as vapid as the blow dry time, but it only takes two or three minutes tops. Cover up my purple Romanian eye circles with a makeup wand, add some power, a wee touch of blush, chap stick, and I’m good to go.

Now it’s time for coffee and breakfast. I like granola with yogurt and fruit or oatmeal with chunky peanut butter stirred in. Yummy.

Grab my lunch, find my keys, kiss Shaun’s sleeping cheek goodbye, and off to the subway. The subway here in Glasgow is nicknamed the Clockwork Orange because it goes in a circle and is orange. And because Glasgow is hip like that.

I get off in city centre and am faced almost immediately with my favorite piece of graffiti in the city. In case you can’t tell, it’s a silhouette of a police officer with a white, weird baby blob monster hugging his legs.

Next, I head to the itty-bitty lane that my workplace, The Lighthouse, is located on.

And in the doors I go at 9 am on the dot. It’s so dark becuase of the before mentioned itty-bitty lane; we are cast in dark shadow most of the day.

So that’s my mornings, folks. While I’m at it, here are some pictures of our Thanksgiving party last weekend. I wish I had more pictures, but it was a little tight space-wise and it’s hard to play photographer and hostess. My friend Mara took a lot of photos–one cute one of all of us girlfriends–that I’m hoping she’ll send my way.

Everyone had a great time–conversation was flowing and the mood was top notch. And you know what? I’m not a bad cook, man! This is probably the most surprising thing I’ve learned about myself in my short time as an adult so far. I also got to tell everyone the story of Thanksgiving, which was fun because I gave them both the Howard Zinn version (aka The Truth) and the gussied up propaganda version that Americans learned in school. (And for the record, I think students would LOVE learning about the colonists if they knew that they resorted to cannibalism and eating dead bodies and shit before the Native Americans taught them how to grown corn. The kids at the party certainly seemed to like it.) Everyone seemed to get a kick out of it.

Fika and Mahmoona

Shaun, Osvaldo, Nadia, Mara, and Danyaal

Lubnia and kiddies (the older one is hers and the younger one is Mahmoona’s)

Food!

It felt good to throw a Thanksgiving party for these people. Because my gratitude to them–the wives especially–is endless. We all helped each other settle in, we formed a community, we learned about each other’s cultures, we vented, we rejoiced, and we understood one another. Moving away from your country is exciting and fabulous and I recommend it to absolutely everyone. But it can be tiring to do the smallest things. For me it was understanding a foreign washing machine. For them it was understanding a foreign language. But the bond is there, nonetheless. And I am so, so thankful for it.
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As dorky as it sounds, the photo blog challenge motivated me to take an active interest in my groggy Monday morning (that’s when I took the pictures). What got you out of bed on Monday?

It’s Party Day! In an hour friends will start arriving for our fake Thanksgiving/hoiliday party. Yesterday I spent a blissful day doing one of my favorite activities: cooking and listening to This American Life. With all of the party food prep for today, I got through all the 2005 reruns in the NPR archive! Love it. Here’s what I made:

Party Menu
Pear, Prosciutto, and hazelnut Whole Grain Stuffing
Mashed Potatoes with Buttermilk, Cheddar, and Chives
Ham and Apricot Mustard Finger Sandwiches
Turkey and Gingered Cranberry Relish Finger Sandwiches
Oatmeal Apple Pie
Apricot, Almond Jewel Cookies
Pomegranate Holiday Cocktail
Beer & Wine
Plus, whatever friends bring over.

I thought about cooking a bird, but when I read the recipie and found out it entailed cramming my fist up a dead bird’s ass and ripping out it’s internal organs (and saving those nasty bits for the gravey), I decided I am never going to cook a bird in my life. Because that is barbaric and nauseating. And I don’t give two shites about meat, anyhow. So if anyone wants it, they can root around in a carcasses ass and make it themselves. I’ll stick to the delicious side dishes and sandwiches, thank you. So, this is how traditions are born. When my future child one day asks why we don’t have turkey for holidays, I will relate the story of the gore involved and encourage them to make it their own damn selves if they have the craving.

Today, Shaun and I stashed our bed in the apartment storage room, got creative with the furnature, and made our bedroom into soiree central. Check it out!

Now I’m chilling with a pre-party drinkey and danicng around like a freak while Shaun finalizes the playlist.

I’m sure I’ll get around to posting pictures of the actual party someday. And our pictures from the magnificent Isle of Skye last weekend. But in the meantime, I leave you with this question:

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What are your thoughts on fisting dead birds?

11 pm EDIT: The party was GREAT! A full post is coming shortly. One thing that I’m going to mention, in case it is helpful to anyone who has just made friends with Muslims who are very strict about their religion: they don’t eat pork. So don’t put prosciutto in the stuffing. Also, they probably don’t drink alchohol (and some don’t drink caffine) so make sure you have plenty of fruit juice on hand, which luckily we did (for cocktails). But not all Muslims are like this, of course. My best pal here is Muslim and has a tatoo (which she laughingly says is enough to get her into hell so why not eat the ham in the stuffing and have a wee drink or two), so its best just to keep in mind and ask. I should have. I always will now! But even with a few people straying away from the stuffing, it was all gobbled up by the end of the night by everyone else. So our first ever diner party was a sucess. Hurrah!

I felt like a snowflake last night. Suspended but in motion. Alone but a part of something bigger. Pretty. Happy. Still. Contentment is not an emotion I know intimately. But I think its a snowflake feeling.

Thanksgiving passed without a sound. We almost forgot, what with living in a place that the day is just like anyother, starting a new job, and going to the isle of skye this weekend. But it was a fun night. We went out with some friends who’ve just moved here from England. We saw the new Bond movie and had a pint. We ate marvelous sushi. I love living on an island; the fish is divine.

Sunday, December 3 we are having the International crew over for a rescheduled Thanksgiving diner. Friends from Afganastan, Iran, Indonesia, Iraq, Chile, and England will be joining us for some good old American gluttony. I’ll be trying to cook our meal via the Thanksgiving recipe from Eating Well. Aside from Thanksgiving last year when my mom came to Chicago to run the Turkey Trot 7 K race with me and Shaun and I made us turkey sandwiches and lots of side dishes, this will be my first attempt at organizing and cooking a holiday meal. Wish me luck!

Also, can I say: I love BUST magazine. New issue came yesterday. It makes me so happy every time. Girls rock. BUST knows it.

That is all.

Wednesday is day three of the new jobby job.

Although the title is the same as my last position in Chicago (save for the British spelling of “Marketing Coordinator,” which is “Marketing Co-ordinator.”), my new job in Glasgow is much different. Instead of party planning, copy writing, and routing drafts, I am archiving, organizing mailings, and managing online forums. I’ll be doing web copy writing in the future, which will be cool. I’m digging the slower pace of this position, I have time to give proper attention to each task. My last Chicago position had me managing a million projects simultaneously; this time around I get to focus on a few set tasks for one project, a design festival in May.

My new work place is structured very nicely; no one seems overly stressed or like they are living at work. No one has rings around their eyes. No one skips lunch to eat at his or her desk. No one forgoes their generous amount of vacation time (so far my favorite part of working in the UK) to “get things done in the office.” People are friendly to each other. Cubicles don’t exist–people just share rooms. Everyone knows your name and is eager to chat. It’s really nice.

Another excellent thing about my new workplace is the dress code. Its artsy/casual, meaning: don’t look too grubby, but don’t wear a suit to work either. Yesterday I wore my black pencil skirt/boots combo; today my “good jeans” and a black blouse. Pretty much anything besides sweats, spandex, and ripped pants goes. Tomorrow I have a hair appointment after work to get my locks in shape again. What good is getting to dress cute every day without pretty hair to accompany the ensemble? Plus, my hair is getting grubby. It’s hard to look like you mean business with bangs in your eyes.

Also tomorrow, I have an all-staff lunch to attend. These shindigs happen monthly. Everyone who works at the museum brings a dish and has a fun little potluck, no shoptalk allowed. I made oatmeal raisin cookies tonight and I’m looking forward to getting to know people (and hopefully make a lunch buddy) tomorrow. Although no one can replace my true lunch buddy in Chicago. (Hiya, Caitlin!)

What else? Fiona! It wasn’t until working in Scotland that I realized how many people have the name Fiona here. Two alone are in my department and the visitor services staff have at least 3, as far as I can tell. Doing data entry today, I think at least a quarter of the women I entered were named Fiona. I like that fun, quirky differences can make even data entry intersting to me here.

Overall (please forgive that wretched transitional phrase. I’m tired tonight, gentle readers.), I feel lucky to be working at all, let alone in a workplace that treats me like a human and pays me to advocate for something I beleive in. I can’t help but think how grateful I am to everyone who helped me to get to where I’m at. I nearly didn’t apply for this job because I figured it was such a shot in the dark. Warm encouragement from Shaun and my mom’s “what’s the worst that can happen?” philosophy is what got me to apply. I’m so thankful to have parents who taught me to be brave and a husband who values that bravery. I’m too young yet to be an expert or an authority. Most of what I do relies on moxie alone, and without it, I’d be stuck. And I’d probably not experience the world enough to learn what I need to know to ever be an authority or expert on anything when I’m older. So a big, blanket of thanks to everyone. I love you.
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What is your favorite part of your job? How did you get there?