Friday 23 March 2012

FREE ANTHEA

There is a moment in every insomniac’s life where one realizes that his or her handle on things has flown at the window (not like I ever had a handle on things). The last few months in terms of sleep have been utterly dire. I’ve become typically obsessed about sleep or shallI say, not sleeping, how to get more sleep, who sleeps when I’m not sleeping, the word sleep, sleeping remedies…etc. If you’ve ever been in my shoes you know exactly what I’m talking about.

And like any good obsessive creature, I’ve started exploring every path possible to a better night’s sleep. [I also must confess that I’ve never understood Michael Jackson’s dependancy on heavy sedatives more than I do now. The man just wanted to get some damn sleep!] Currently, I’m undergoing acupuncture, herbal remedies, yoga, have tried sleeping tablets (I hate them), cough syrup, counting sheep, reading the phone book, and am about to venture down the melatonin and homeopathic path. You see, I don’t take this sh*t lightly. I can honestly say being where I am now, I wouldn’t wish insomnia upon my worst enemy…well maybe just for a night or two.

Anyway, today I accidentally shoplifted. No, I’m not a closet kleptomaniac crying out for help; I legitimately had one of those moments where I was so tired (and hopped up on cold medicine) that I was walking around the streets of London like a zombie with brain damage (I’m thinking if I was a zombie, I wouldn’t really have a brain, but let’s not nitpick shall we). I shall explain, as I’m sure many of you are questioning my sanity and thinking of calling the authorities.

So, I was in H&M looking for some clothes for the King (cheap kids clothes, I highly recommend). Upon my path upstairs, of course a cute cotton skirt caught my eye – you know how this happens. By the time I got upstairs, I was swallowed whole by the boy’s department and was up to my neck in sizing confusion, color conflict, and bad decision-making power (insomnia, cold medicine). Whilst I was working out what to buy the King without melting my brain, I must have thrown the skirt over my shoulder and as the material was quite thin and there wasn’t much to the skirt, it just kind of stuck to my coat. Of course, minutes later I had forgotten I had done this and realized I couldn’t find the skirt – um, DUH, brain damage – so I spent five minutes in a hazy stupor walking around the store trying to figure out where I put it. Finally giving up and telling myself I didn’t need the damn thing anyway, I went and paid for the King’s outfit.

Unaware of anything amiss, I walked out of the store (apparently the alarm was blaring but insomniacs don’t hear alarms) and sauntered down the block thinking how good a cup of coffee would taste. I’m not sure what made me look, but I finally noticed the blue skirt stuck to my shoulder (thankfully without a hanger, as that would've been far too embarrassing) – and stopped in my tracks, bursting out laughing (it was either that or start crying and check myself in to the nearest sleep clinic). I of course turned around, walked back into the store – setting off the alarm again (this time I heard it), put the skirt down and walked out.

NOTE to H&M, you may want to beef up your security. Note to self: for the love of God, SLEEP!

Thursday 22 March 2012

THE KING AND WRETCHED SLIDE

(for you curious sorts, no, that is not the King)

There is a time in every mother’s life when their child experiences that first accident or trauma (the scale ranges from minute to major, but of course for first time mothers a trauma can be a hangnail; yeah, I can admit my neuroses) where one can feel actual years being shaved off one’s life. It is sobering at best, and reminds you that mothering is a job where at any moment the universe will slap you upside the head and exclaim that you are in deep and way above your pay scale. Ah, motherhood isn’t it adorable.

So, the King and I – I can’t help singing every time I write that – were at the playground the other day - as you do. And before I launch into what has made me feel 95 years old over night I must preface by saying that the King is 20 months. He’s certainly taken his fair share of falls, spills, and tumbles off chairs, small ledges, the sofa, the top of the Empire State Building [Just kidding. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention]. In short, I’m used to a bit of rough and tumble behavior; he’s a boy for godsakes.

Anyway, there was a very tall slide and the King decided that he was man enough to climb up the stairs and conquer it. Also competing for this slide were four very eager – and pushy, I have to be honest – little girls who were in no mood to wait for some toddler to work out how to climb up each rung. So after waiting our turn, with my aid, the King managed to get up to the top of the slide and get into sliding position. Meanwhile, I had these same four little girls practically up my backside, blocking my retreat down the ladder. So as I was trying to politely tell them it was either move or be stepped on, so I could move back down the ladder, the King launched forward down the slide.

Now to keep things in perspective, it’s a slide; he’s been down a multitude of slides, a multitude of times. But this one was steep and he was wearing shoes with thick rubber soles (I’m penning a letter to the shoe company as we speak) and he clearly did not realize the full scope of slide riding protocol. Before I could race around to the other side the King’s shoe had caught on the slide, projecting him violently forward, to where his head had now landed in front of his feet. Meanwhile, I could see his little limbs flailing about as I was racing to the front of the slide, and his body looked like it was going to topple off the side onto the cement (can you say heart failure). As I reached the front, the next thing I saw, was the King flying off the end like a cannonball, which had a very steep drop into the sandpit, and landing head first into the sand. When I picked him up in a puddle of absolute horror and tears (MINE not his), his face and mouth were covered in sand and he looked utterly shocked that I would let him end up in such a state.

It was then I realized that motherhood is not only NOT for the weak, but also despite your best efforts (of control and micro-management), you are bound to screw up badly. Of course, just as I was about to wrap the King in cotton, put him inside a bubble and never let him out of my sight again, the King looked at me, got up and went right back to the slide and started climbing the stairs. Those girls were impressed I can tell you that much. I of course have posttraumatic stress and spent the entire last night tossing and turning and having hallucinogenic nightmares about slides, sand, and the King hurtling through the air like some (adorable) muffin shaped cirque du soleil acrobat.

Something tells me I’m going to have develop a lot thicker skin that this if I'm going to make it to his teenage years.

Tuesday 20 March 2012

FISH BALLS ANYONE?

Do you ever wonder how some cultures came up with certain foods – or the preparation thereof - that are highly questionable (to other cultures of course). And no culture is immune. Each one has a few dishes that make the stomachs of other cultures turn over.

Take the English for instance (insert joke here about the culinary history of the English. There are many), when I first moved here and had my first glance of mushy peas, I seriously thought about returning to America. No disrespect, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around a dish that resembled, well…Kermit the Frog’s vomit. Making matters worse was that usually mushy peas were usually served alongside fish and chips and back then the chips were wrapped in newspaper. To my OCD brain, I may as well have eaten the fish off the bottom of my shoe (I've been told newspaper is incredibly sanitary, but I'm not buying it). But I digress of course. When it comes to the common garden pea, it has been eaten for over 8000 years. The Romans apparently ate loads of them, but rarely ate them fresh. I’m not sure how the English decided that mashing them to a pulpy soupy mush was a good idea, but alas, there you have it.

Now, of course, so I don’t receive piles of responses telling me how vulgar food is in my country, I shall of course balance the scales. To most the world, when it comes to America the thing people always comment on is the portions size. That’s far too easy. But to the English, and many other cultures, the American version of the biscuit (not to be confused with the English version which is a cookie) completely baffles the mind. They simply can’t understand why some Americans (I’m thinking this is more popular in the deep South, as it never came across my Californian table) take this doughy scone like object, smother it with gravy or god knows what else people put on it, and eat it with their dinner. To the English this is just wrong. I’m sure the Italians and Spanish also find this hideously offensive. But, when it comes to comfort food, there are scores of Americans that think the biscuit is tantamount to gourmet heaven (I’m not one of them, but I hold no judgment).

Then there are the cultures that simply jump out of the box and make the rest of us look like amateurs. Russians often partake in boiled beef tongue; The Chinese delight in their shark fin soup not to mention grasshoppers, assortment of bugs, and cow testicles; in the Filipino culture fertilized duck eggs are commonplace. And apparently in Peru, it is not rare for people to eat Guinea pigs (dear god, make it stop).

The Japanese go one better and have a dish called Shirako. It is the male genitalia of fish – wait it gets worse. And essentially it is a sack that contains seminal fluid that is served at most sushi bars. I love sushi and am pretty daring when it comes to Japanese food, but even that pushes the boundary of where I’m willing to go.

And yet, food is a lot like entertainment – there is something for everyone. One man’s ‘forget about it,’ is another man’s culinary delight. The irony of course, is the longer you spend in a culture, the sooner you find yourself imbibing that very thing that used to turn your hair white (um, not me; I'm pretty stubborn when it comes to these things. There is not a chance a tongue, bug, or animal ball is going into my mouth). So next time you’re balking at what another country is eating, take a look at your own (Twinkie, I’m talking to you!), the foods your own culture ingests upon closer inspection could make your own stomach turn.

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