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Redemption Looks Like Tom Cruise

Posted on September 24, 2008

Last weekend the pheasants appeared en masse in the Cotswolds, the humble brown hens and their queenie male companions tarted up like Louis XIV out for a country stroll. They have invaded the sheep fields, pecking and skittering about the flocks. The first time I saw a pheasant last year I was enamoured. The delight faded after the third or fourth time husband was forced to slam on the brakes to avert a panic-stricken pair who decided to run out in front of the car. They are stupid birds, and I pity the sheep.

The pheasants were the most idyllic thing about last weekend. It was tits up* from the start, which was marked by an aborted attempt to get out of town on Thursday night that ended with an argument at a West London gas station. We made it out on Friday in time to attend a long planned dinner party where I drank too much. Attempts to exorcise the hangover on Saturday with painkillers and fresh air failed where dinner at a Mexican chain restaurant in Cheltenham succeeded. The pleasure of the latter was promptly undone by going to see Mama Mia!.

Oh, Meryl.

The film produced an allergic reaction in me, triggered I suspect by Pierce Brosnan singing. The upside was that my sneezing drowned out the sound of husband’s blame for the film selection all the way home.

Sunday started full of promise with a trip to a charitable country house car boot sale (aka a flea market). It was planned for the grounds of Lord Vestey’s estate, Stowell Park, but was moved to a disused airfield in the next village over due to flooding. It’s been dry for a good week so I am cynical about the motives. I think Lord Vestey thought better of having the masses invade his estate, who were indeed a different crowd than the plant loving elderly crew from the previous open gardens day at Stowell Park.

Lord Vestey had hinted at royalty in attendance in the promotional interview I had read in this month’s Cotswold Life magazine. Instead we got Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen (think cable show interior designer if you’re American) and donations to a silent auction from HRH Princess Michael of Kent. She proffered a purple velvet bag of potpourri and a set of miniature wooden Christmas figurines, both of which looked just about worthy of a shelf in Oxfam. Honestly, she’s letting the royals down. Charlie is going to have to open another organic food porn store in the area (have I mentioned the newish Highgrove shop in Tetbury?) to make up for it. I had to go sit down in the shade with a half pint of 7.7% Old Rosie cider just to get over the disappointment.

Sunday descended into nothingness with husband bitter, complaining, and getting on my nerves—a pheasant to my sheep. On cue, the alarm failed to go off Monday morning and when we did get back to London there was no hot water thanks to some fault with the boiler.

Things only got better last night when we went to see Ben Stiller’s flick, Tropic Thunder. Tom Cruise as Les Grossman showing off his best dance moves since Risky Business was alone worth the price of admission.

*Speaking of “tits up,” I recommend Annie Proulx’s new book. One of the stories, “Tits Up in a Ditch” was published in the New Yorker earlier this year and, like Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder, the book is worth the purchase price for it alone.

Cotswolds Random

Protestant Guilt

Posted on September 11, 2008

Since I mentioned Protestant guilt in a recent post, I thought I’d expand on the theme. Both husband and I have it, a legacy from mothers who regularly dragged us to Sunday school. It generally takes the form of “we don’t deserve this,” and the intensity varies depending on the volume of wine consumed and number of telephone customer service reps I’ve lost my temper with that particular week. It’s a more vanilla type of guilt than the sex/mother anxiety and acting out I’ve observed in my lapsed Catholic friends (and Fellini). How typically Protestant.

I try to tell myself mitigating things like our cottage is the size of a shed on the estate of a truly rich Cotswoldian. It doesn’t really work. Nor is there any solace in the £50 contribution to charity that’s automatically deducted from each of my paychecks. In fact, I’m embarrassed to write down the number because it’s so low. There’s just no getting away from the fact that we own three properties (the third is our LA rental), are middle class and overfed.

I can’t justify why a second home or any number of the other excessive things I do—£16 hair conditioner and eating out five times a week to name a few—are ok in a world as fucked as ours, but then again two Zen masters could never really satisfactorily explain to me why “everything is exactly as it should be.” In the past year I’ve just accepted that I like the sound of church bells and birds, witnessing the seasons, and that being in the country seems to have some chemical effect for the better on husband’s depression. On a good day, I even try to be grateful.

Random

The Unicorn Wars

Posted on August 26, 2008

Husband made me edit my Saturday blog, “A Pub with a View,” today. He said my attempt to conjure up a unicorn with the phrase “grew a horn” sounded like a horse getting an erection and suggested “sprouted an ivory spiral.” At which point I foolishly pondered aloud whether unicorns have a spiral or just a plain old horn. Mistake.

Thus began a self-righteous speech from husband in which he declared himself a unicorn expert on the basis that Legend, “the movie that broke Tom Cruise,” I quote, is one of his favorite films and how dare I question his authority on the subject. I then told him he sounded like a 13-year old girl. He agreed and went on to explain he would of course never profess expertise on such subjects if he was, for example, conversing with manly men at a Star Trek convention.

England Random

All My Friends Are Over Fifty

Posted on August 22, 2008

It’s the eve of our trip to Boylestone for the annual show where we will stay with two of our dearest friends, B. and R., who happen to be of a mature age. For the past few years I’ve been giving myself a hard time for enjoying hanging out with older folks. I’m not talking geriatrics here, but I am talking retirement age people with grown up kids. The trend has continued in the Cotswolds where all my favourite people are over fifty.

Husband came up with a theory today that is more flattering than my previous conclusion of I must be old before my time. The theory is rather that we’re more discerning, and is based on the observation of a certain joie de vivre in the retired set. Our mature friends have a palpable sense of “you’ve only got one life,” a.k.a. mortality, that manifests in travel and tireless charity work and one more glass of wine (why not?). In no particular order they’ve made and lost fortunes, married and divorced and married again, raised kids, survived cancer, fought wars, seen the world, cavorted with criminals and royalty, are too old to care about being political correct, and know you don’t want to see any pictures of their grandkids. All of which makes for much more interesting conversation than, say, the exorbitant cost of traveling during the school holidays or little Timmy’s acting out in the classroom.

Which brings me to another major factor in our socializing preferences, the fact that we don’t have kids and most people our age do. This means both that we have fewer opportunities—no school runs or parks or parent nights—to meet people our own age, and that the social opportunities we do have can be taxing. We try with our friends with kids, especially the old friends with whom we faithfully do the obligatory semi-annual meal together. But the truth is that no, I don’t really want to dismantle my couch again to play fort with your son while everyone else stands around and watches because, well, there’s no place to sit. I don’t think it’s cute when he upends his plate at the table, nor do I enjoy pushing my now cold food around the plate while you go upstairs to punish him once “cute” turns into a full-fledged tantrum.

I realize I am at risk of sounding unsympathetic towards parents or, worse, anti-kid. The truth is I like kids. I just like them better with seventy or so years of living behind them.

Cotswolds Random

As If to Make a Point

Posted on August 22, 2008

I think the universe is trying to make a point with me. It started with the cleavage wrinkles as detailed in yesterday’s post. Then I had this email exchange today with a London colleague:

From: X To: American in the Cotswolds Sent: Fri Aug 22 10:05
were you on a bus to Harrow Road last night?! or have I gone mad….

From: American in the Cotswolds Sent: 22 August 10:20 To: X
Yes, would have been – I live up by the canal!

From: X To: American in the Cotswolds Sent: Fri Aug 22 10:35
I recognised your watch (!) and then followed you off to see if it was you but you had disappeared (hahahaha not stalking! I live on Fernhead)See you again soon

From: American in the Cotswolds Sent: 22 August 10:39 To: X
Too funny – yes, I live on Hormead or Hellmead as my husband likes to call it.

From: X To: American in the Cotswolds Sent: Fri Aug 22 10:40
Blimey, can’t be as bad as Fernhead [the road parallel], which I call Crackhead Road

I stopped short of replying to him that I am fairly certain the Fernhead Road crack dealer lives in the flat upstairs.

And then, as if to provide a carrot after the stick, the universe produced the following interaction for me to observe as I sat tapping away in the Internet cafe/coffee shop I frequent when I work from “home” in the Cotswolds:

An elderly gentleman on a motorized scooter came into the cafe to use the cash machine. As his motorized scooter got in the way of his ability to actually use the case machine, the woman behind the counter came over and offered to assist him. There was some discussion and confusion over PIN numbers, which he shared openly with the woman. She patiently worked through the various issues including whether or not the card had expired before concluding the gentleman should make a telephone call to his bank. He thanked her and went on his way. The whole thing took about ten minutes of her time, which she gave as freely and naturally as she would to her own grandfather.

All I could think the whole time was what on earth would this man do if he lived in London? Surely his bank account would be cleared in minutes if he shared his PIN with a stranger on the street. Nevermind his scooter, which probably would have been stolen out from under him. Two more points for growing old in the Cotswolds.

Random

A Wrinke and Time

Posted on August 21, 2008

I am getting old. I saw it today reflected back at me in the plexiglass divider on a London bus: fine lines (ok, wrinkles) in the area right above my cleavage, a warning bell that scoop necks and I are not long for this world.This reminded me of a conversation I had with my husband last night about the perpetual dilemma of life in London: it’s generally unpleasant to live here unless you have the resources of a Russian oligarch, but it’s where all the well-paid jobs are. And unless we cut the golden (silver in our case) handcuffs at some point and up sticks for the Cotswolds permanently we’ll be old and stuck here in London. Old people in London are a tragic sight, shuffling along filthy streets and being tossed around like brittle twigs on the shock absorber-free buses. Nothing makes me more depressed. Not even the sight of my own cleavage wrinkles.

Random

Code Name “Cringe”

Posted on August 16, 2008

While life in the country is going swimmingly, I am starting to lose all self-respect for my city persona. The influx of former Google-ites at work is creating a strange, desperate reaction in me, and I find emails like this flying off my fingertips:

On 8/15/08 12:46 PM: Since every project needs a cheesy name, I propose project Ripple for “repertoire promotion and leverage” or project Apple for “asset promotion and leverage” (but obviously this has associations other than Gwyneth and Chris’ daughter).

It doesn’t make much sense out of context, but suffice it to say I work in the music industry and that is no excuse for celebrity references in IT-related email.

Feeling ashamed, I read this aloud to husband last night in a wine bar confessional. Luckily we had just opened a second bottle, which cushioned the blow of his scorn.

But had he seen the reply? This might be the worse part. One of the former Google-ites actually replied to my piffle with a fully formed philosophy on project code names.

On 8/15/08 19:50 PM, a colleague who shall remain unamed wrote: +1 for arbitrary code names. I like cute vs. functional. Meaning, pick your favorite animal, character, band, etc vs acronyms or functions.

I remember a story from my first job about a project team that spent their whole first week in existence arguing over what project name to choose. I can’t believe I get paid to even write emails about it, although that’s probably unintentional on the part of my employers.

Random

A Correction

Posted on August 16, 2008

Just back from a three-day meeting in NYC where I caught up with an old friend, MF (of racing night fame), for dinner. He’s had a glance through this blog and informed me that I’ve incorrectly stated in an earlier post that Madonna is only known as Madge in the UK. My many hours of covert reading of The National Enquirer and People Magazine in Los Angeles nail salons has somehow let me down when it comes to American celebrity nicknames. MF also informed me that the gay community has now taken this a step further and refers to Madge as Vadge, a line of thought I’ll pursue no further.

England Random

To Madge or Not To Madge

Posted on July 29, 2008

The title of this posting says it all. Madonna is not even called Madge in the states. That’s a nickname the tabloids of her adopted country have given her. It’s inevitable that after three years in the UK that British-isms now pepper my speech, but surely that doesn’t mean I sound like phony-Brit Madge?

Reading back through these blogs, there is rich evidence of my linguistic confusion. My mother in law is “in the hospital” (American) not “in hospital” (Madge). Yet a neighborhood is “posh”, not “ritzy.” But I left a message on the “answering machine” not the “answer phone.” Still, I managed to “let the side down.” I can hardly wait to work in “jolly hockey sticks” and “nip to the loo.”

Recently I sought the advice of M., local barman, former Fleet Street journalist, sometime butler and my favourite (favorite?) Cotswold Renaissance man on whether I was in danger of becoming a Madge.

“Rubbish,” he said and proceeded to assure me I was far from pulling a Ms. Ritchie.

His counsel was that reverting back to deliberate American speak would be ill-advised in the country. Walk into a rural pub demanding a beer and the wall goes up even further between local and outsider. Being a weekender is enough of a label without the Yank-thing to contend with.

So goodnight for now. I’m absolutely shattered and need a holiday.