Public Transport. Warning... Rant Ahead!

Did you guys know that I talk to you?  I do, all the time.  Mostly in my head, but even sometimes out loud.  Whenever something is really good or even really bad, I automatically start writing you a blog post.  I’m usually pretty good about picking and choosing which ones I actually share with you.  (I don’t want you to know just how deep the crazy goes.)

But this is one rant that will no longer be denied.  I’ve got an amazing new blog design in the works (ohemgee wait until you see it!!)  and I don’t want to muck it up with the ugliness that I’m about to throw down.  (I can't believe I just said throw down.)  I think we should just get this one out of the way.  So, if you are easily offended or if you actually know me in real life, you might want to look away.  There will be adult language and gestures. 

Can we please just talk about the bullsh*t that is public transport?

Disclaimer:  I mostly love the public transport system in the UK.  It is extensive and the fact that it moves millions of people from point A to points XY and Z is amazing.  I couldn’t do without it.  It really is remarkable.    

BUT.

Here are some of the things that really suck about public transport. 

First off, it is such a frickin’ effort! 

It takes forever to get anywhere. You have to make sure you have proper access.  Then you have to take a look at the bowl of spaghetti that is the London tube or bus map and figure out where the hell you’re going.  It takes a degree to get that far.  Any route you pick still includes at least a mile of walking in the rain.  (Which is why I’ve stopped styling my hair.  Why bother?)   And there are all of these crazy secrets, like which stations are the best and require the least walking or have the least stairs or which carriage is the best to use to avoid a long walk at the other end.  (Yes, for me it is all about reducing my steps.  Don’t judge.)

 

Second, there is no trunk or glove box to put your sh*t in! 

I traveled two n’ a half hours today back from a business trip lugging 47 pounds of luggage.  (Yes, I weighed it.)  And now I can’t lift my arms high enough to get the wine glass to my mouth.  I’m using a crazy straw, People.  And that’s not just getting on and off the bus or train.  NooOooOo.  That’s getting on and off four frickin’ times, up and down stairs and escalators, along never endless corridors and trying to mind the damn gap.   Not to mention swiping my travel card (after digging it out of my purse with my teeth) to get through the gates holding that 47 pounds of sh*t and not getting injured.  

 Third, it’s just not comfortable!

Okay, I admit I can be a bit of a Princess from time to time.  (I’m practising for 50 when I get to be a full-on Diva all the time.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.)  But, it’s just not comfy and even at times… icky.  Usually you are standing up and, I swear, the drivers are trying to see how many people they can throw from the vehicle.  I’ve strained muscles trying to just stay upright.  And then there are all the cooties.  You have to hold on for dear life to these metal poles or sit on these cloth seats.  And you can just imagine if they brought in one of those CSI lamps like they use on those hotel exposes.  It just gives me the heebie jeebies thinking about it, so I’ll move on quickly.  

 

Finally, there are… OTHER PEOPLE EVERYWHERE!!!!

I have a confession.  Sometimes, people just annoy the sh*t out of me.  I’ve seen people adults pick their nose, suck their thumbs, pick their teeth and then eat it, pick a scab and then smell their finger, clip their nails, get to second base… all sorts of crazy stuff.  It’s like they think they are invisible.  It’s all I can do not to curl up in the fetal position and suck MY thumb.  They are always in a much bigger hurry and you are really just in the way.  And oh my gawd, don’t even get me started on the frickin’ headphones with music so loud you can hear it over the train.  And it’s never Michael Buble?  WTH?  And then there are the people yelling never ending, unbelievable conversations into their cell phones.   They say the most stupid sh*t!  It’s usually in a language I don’t understand, but when it is in English every other word seems to be “f*ckin’” or “innit.”   And can I just put this out there?  If you are having a fag outside with your mate, don’t stand on either side of the frickin’ door!  I have actually had to duck under a cloud of smoke to get into a train station. 

::deep cleansing breath::

::deep cleansing gulp of wine from crazy straw::

Right.  So, I actually feel much better. (Don't mind the eyelid twitching.)

If you’ve read this far then you are a brave soul or possibly a psychology major.  I appreciate you allowing me this crazy tirade.  It really all had to be said.  

I promise that tomorrow we will return to our regularly scheduled programming.  I’m working on the Switzerland/Austria recaps and I promise to bring you raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens.  (But, let’s face it.  Roses have thorns and kittens have hairballs… and litter boxes.)

Do you want to hear something funny?  The other day when I was having a little princess moment, TE turned to me straight faced and with is dry, British humor said the following….  

Ah.  I see you’ve deployed the Princess Bubble.

Isn’t that hysterical?  And so true!  I can be such a nightmare sometimes.   

Have you deployed your Princess Bubble lately?

Xoxo

Selena

p.s.  You can't be offended by the pictures in this post.  It's art.  From a museum garden in Zurich.   And wasn't it less offensive that I used asterisks rather than vowels in all the curse words?  No? 

And so it's come to this.

I'd like to think of myself as a reasonably intelligent woman (typos notwithstanding). 

I did good in high school.  I could remember anything long enough to pass a test.

I managed to graduate college (university) with honors while working full-time.  

But, I have been done in by British appliances.  

Seriously.  How hard can it be?  It's just a few buttons and dials, right?

Some simple words.  On.  Off.  Hi.  Low.  

Well, apparently I now need to take an on-line course to figure out how to use anything in my kitchen.

This is in my freezer.

Lambs, chickens, cows and reindeer.  Cupcakes, a puppy and some fruit.  Huh?

And not only do I have this one lovely dial.   But, I have four of them.  One on each drawer.  

What I need to know is how to defrost the damn thing. 

It's built into the cabinets so never really seals when closed so always needs a defrost.

At least it's a pretty good size.  

And then there's the "microwelle" which is apparently a microwave and an oven.

Inside is a metal tray and two metal racks.  Metal.  In a microwave. 

My first attempt to use it resulted in sparks and pops.

Since then I've been brave enough to try popcorn three time.  

Results?  1.  Burnt.  2.  Ten kernels popped.  

3.  Success.  Most kernels popped and only slightly burnt.  

There is also a regular oven. 

Obviously, it's in Celsius rather than Fahrenheit.  Nothin' a little Google action can't solve. 

But, what the hell does this mean?

Lines, squiggles and a plane propeller.  Not a single short, basic word in sight.  

And check out the buttons for the dishwasher...

Can someone please tell me what this means?

(Before you suggest it, yes, we do have the manuals for all of these appliances.

However, I'd much rather bitch blog about it then actually educate myself.)

And lastly,

(cue the ominous music)

my arch nemesis,

(Dum! Dum! Duuum!)

the Washer/Dryer Combo!

(screams and wails from the chorus)

Or as I like to call it...

The Shake and Bake.  

So, what you do is you put 5 articles of clothing into the little pot.

Because that is all it will hold which means you do laundry a lot.

It then shakes those clothes around for about an hour and a half.

Then the Nuclear Cycle kicks in.

For the next two hours, all of your dainties, jeans and jumpers

are exposed to temperatures so high that it actually

changes the molecular structure of the fiber content. 

And more of the hieroglyphics.

I've managed to go 46 years avoiding an iron.

I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've actually done it.

There is even a special section at the back of my closet

for clothes I wore one time and will never wear again

because they weren't permanent press.

And yet, I now find myself a woman with an... 

(deep breath)

I can't even bring myself to type it...

(sob)

a woman with an...

an...

IRONING DAY!!!

That's right.  Monday is Ironing Day.

Talk amongst yourselves.  I need a moment.  

 No fluff and tumble here, my dear friends.

Clothes are wadded up, wrinkles are baked in.

Even the most wrinkle resistant fiber in the world comes out

looking like the skin on my neck a Shar Pei.

I am now a woman who irons sheets and dishtowels.

What the hell?

Let's just hope we figure out how to use this thing before the temperature drops any further. 

xoxo

Selena

P.S. Sorry for the rant.  I promise to post a Favo(u)rite Post soon!  But, I do feel better.  I'd also like to apologize to my mom for using a few bad words (like "iron").  It really couldn't be avoided.  

Size Does Matter, People!

Good, now that I have your attention.

I’m afraid that I must interrupt this cruise review for a very important post.  Ya’ll know that every once in a while I’ll post an observational rant on various topics.  I find it very cathartic.  And my therapist agrees.

The Tube

Pubs

Toilets

Well, I have another one rattling around in the brain and I can’t relax until this is written.  Today’s topic is shoes.  (You thought it was something else didn’t you?  You’ve been reading mediocre, mainstream erotica again, haven’t you? )

If you know me well, you know that I have a deep and abiding relationship with shoes.  I love shoes.  Love, as in love.  Really.  Love.  Shoes.

 One time I even had a little wine party for a bunch of my girlfriends.  Did we play fun drinking games or watch male dancers?   Nope.  We actually got out all of my shoes, piled them into the middle of the floor and played with them.  Best party ever!

You can imagine how hard it was for me to leave behind several pairs when we moved.  I’m slowly increasing that number again.

However, the replacements are very different.  In Texas, sandals, flip, flops, heels, and wedges were the usual.  In London, it’s all about the boots and flats.  And if you value your feet, you will cover them up on public transport.  So, I haven’t been wearing fun shoes since we moved here.  I even visited a sporting goods store the other day and purchased shoes especially made for walking.   (As if this was ever a consideration before.) 

"Most women prefer a trip to hell in high heels than to walk flat-heeled to heaven."

 - William A. Rossi

On the cruise I tried to wear heels for the first time in 6 months.  I looked like a one year old learning to walk.  Can’t you picture me wobbling from table to couch to ottoman?   After a gin & tonic, people were stopping to see if they could assist.  I leaned heavily on TE everywhere we went and even made him take me as far as the Ladies Room door.  It was so sad.  I used to do just about anything in pumps.  But that time is no more.  Please join me for a moment of silence.

 

But, that wasn’t the most embarrassing shoe moment of the cruise.  I had purchased the cutest pair of nude pumps.  I call them my Kate Middleton’s.  I was so excited to wear them on formal night.  I put them on and toddled through the cruise ship.  We went to dinner, had some photographs taken.  I was rockin’ the nude pumps.  Well, not exactly rockin’ them.  It was more of an ankle-quaking shuffle, but still. 

So, I’m standing against the counter at customer service while TE is taking care of something.  And this man comes up to me.  He’s attractive and he leans his head in close.  I think he even rested his hand on the small of my back.  And in some sexy, European accent he said to me.  “Your shoes are beautiful.”  I glanced at TE and smiled at the mysterious man.  I didn’t say it but I was thinking, “I know!  I’m so rockin’ these Kate’s!”   

So he then raised his eyebrow and in that low, heavily accented voice, “I congratulate you on your wonderful purchase.”  I thought maybe he was a man who either wears heels or just appreciates a nice pair when he sees ‘em.  I’m standing a little bit taller.  It’s like riding a bike, you never really forget how to walk in heels.  Pfft.  See, I so got this!  He then adds “But, (dramatic pause) you left the price tags on the bottom of them.”

You know when the sounds all around you come to a screeching halt and you’re left with that awkward silence?  And you feel like a spotlight is shining on your face?  And you wish the floor would swallow you up?    That. 

I thanked him for this information and he walked off to whisper to his wife about the crazy lady with the price tags on her shoes.  Luckily, I couldn’t understand what they were saying.  I waited until they were out of sight and nonchalantly looked down at the bottom of my shoes.  In my imagination, I was hoping to see a red swath of color indicating my true station in life.  But, alas… instead, on the bottom of each shoe was a big, honkin’,  black and white sticker. 

M&S

£20.00

Are you feeling my pain, ladies?  It was so embarrassing. (For my US friends, M&S is a UK department store... imagine Sears.)

However, there is one minor consolation to this moment.  Under the price of my shoes was this. 

Size 5.5

Ha!  When I moved to the UK, I dropped two shoe sizes!  How cool is that?  A US 7.5 is a UK 5.5.  (I won’t mention to you that when it comes to clothing, I gained two sizes.  That would just be too much to bear.)

And answer me this.   Why are men so touchy when it comes to shoes?   Here are my standard shoe related responses for TE.  I just keep them in constant rotation. 

“As a matter of fact, I do need 12 pairs of black pumps and flip flops in every color.”

“A new outfit always, always includes new shoes.  It’s the rule.”

“I know it’s only 7 days.  But, I’m not even sure that 16 pairs will be enough.”

“So what if you only have 4 pairs.  That’s your problem.  Go buy some more.”

“Don’t talk to me about suitcase weight limits.  Your one shoe weighs as much at two pairs of mine.”

“No, I will not give you 5 quid for every pair that I take and don’t wear.  It’s none of your business.”

“Yes, they do hurt my feet and force us to stop every 45 minutes.  But, they are way cute so get over it.”

And lastly, I must share with you something that I’m very concerned about.  Now, remember, I’ve been in London so I haven’t seen a lot of feet lately.  But, on the cruise, in the ports and in the Rome airport I was extremely alarmed by some of the things that I saw.  Namely, the number of women that are wearing shoes that are way too small for them.  Here are some of the basic signs. 

The Overhang

This was the most common offense.  Women with sandals so small that the toes actually hang off the front of the shoe.  When buying shoes, you should stand up in those shoes and look down.  If you can’t see at least a millimeter of that shoe in front of your longest toe, then they are too small.  If I were to take a blade and cut off the top quarter inch of your shoe and at least an inch of toe would come off with it, then your shoe is too small.  Imagine the sole of your shoe as a lovely frame for your foot. 

The Claw

This is a more extreme version of the Overhang.  If your shoe strap breaks but you don’t miss a beat, because your toes are actually gripping the front of that shoe to hold it on, then your shoe is way too small.  If you can wiggle your toes and feel the tile floor beneath your feet, it’s too small. 

The Loose Piggy

If the top of your foot is covered with a strap and all of your toes are snuggled in nicely under said strap with the exception of your little piggy toe which is wiggling off in the other direction all by itself, then this shoe is not for you.  This one is not only offensive but dangerous for the poor little lone piggy. 

The Stuffed Wedge

I love wedges. They are so cute and comfy. But, they also tend to tilt you forward so that all of your weight is pushing into the tip of that wedge.  If this pressure starts squirting your toes out of the front of your shoes like a tube of toothpaste, don’t wear them.

The Creepy Long-necked Turtle

Peep toe shoes are supposed to be sexy, right?  A little 40’s Hollywood glamour.  A sassy peek of some candy apple red nail polish.  The keyword here is Peep.  If your entire big toe sticks out of that sweet, little bow-clad opening at the front of your shoe, then you shouldn’t be wearing that shoe.  I was reluctant to even mention this one, because it’s so extreme.  If I hadn’t have seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.  If you can’t picture it, then google “creepy long-necked turtle.” 

And this is just a few of the offenses that I saw.  I became so alarmed at the Rome airport that I actually did a scientific count while waiting in line.  I looked at the feet of the 10 women standing nearest me and 6 of the 10 were wearing shoes that were obviously too small for them. 

Now, Oprah has raised awareness about the alarming number of women who are wearing too small bras.  And now I feel we must also address the number of women wearing too small shoes.

It’s tragic really and, I’m afraid, even epidemic.   So, please help me spread the word. 

We should all embrace my favorite line from Steel Magnolias, delivered perfectly by my idol, the incomparable Dolly Parton. When asked what size shoe she wore, she purred...

“I wear a 6, but a 7 feels so good that I buy an 8.”

So yes, in fact, size does matter.  Let's all work together to end this senseless abuse of our precious feet.


Seo Min Hyun once said “For women, shoes are the most important. Good shoes take you good places.”   Wear good shoes, ladies. 

xoxo

Selena

American Woman

So, after dinner tonight, we head over to a local Folkestone pub.  Yay!

There is a couple getting ready to perform with a guitar and a fiddle.  I'm psyched.  I love me some fiddle. 

We wait around for a bit until they start.  I'm excited and expecting some great foot tapping pub music. 

They start up, we listen attentively and applaud appropriately.  

About song #4 they make a comment... "blah, blah, blah, I'm sure there isn't anyone in the crowd from the States, blah, blah, blah". 

Proud to be the American that I am, I holler "Whoop!!  Texas!!!"  They look at me awkwardly and break out into the following song.  

Oh GI Joe put your gun away
The sun is setting on another day
Why don't you leave us alone?
Yankee go home!

They're burning effigies out in the street
Man the life boats, sound the retreat
Pentagon's on the 'phone
Yankee go home!

You can't just kiss and run away
There ain't enough money on a sergeant's pay
When the dancehall girl you banged's in the family way

Oh you turned my sister into a whore
With a pair of silk stockings from the PX store
Why don't you leave us alone?
Yankee go home! Yankee go home! Just go home!

My girlfriend still won't talk to me
Since she met with a sailor from the land of the free
I'm tired of being alone
Yankee go home!

I lost count of the chewing gum that I've had
And coca-cola make my teeth go bad
We'll handle this on our own
Yankee go home!

Dow Jones going into a stall
Spray paint saying it on every wall
The climb was fine, now it's time to decline and fall

Over-paid, over-sexed and over here
Get smart, gringo, disappear
The Hun's at the gates of Rome
Yankee go home! Yankee go home! Go home!
Go home! Go home!

Seriously?  

It's a horrid, little anti-American ditty.  And not just anti-American, but anti-American military.  I must say, I'm just a little shocked.  My daddy was in the US Air Force for thirty years.  

I grew up on U.S. military bases.  And I can't hear the National Anthem without my eyes welling up with tears.   I could not be more proud to be an American. 

That has nothing to do with any other nationality.  I don't think I'm better than anyone else.  I am simply and desperately proud to be from America.  Always.  

And I don't  think you would ever go to a bar in the US and hear "Cute English guys with your adorable accents, go back to where you came from. "

I realize, it's a war song and in reaction to something that happened years ago.  But, I must say, I'm a little perplexed tonight.  How do I respond to this?

I thought the US and the UK were buddies?  Call me naive.  

 

Am I being sensitive?  If the song was anti-anybody else, would I feel the same?  Or if it was anti-anybody else, would it be acceptable to play on a Thursday night in a pub?  

I'm sure I'm learning a big lesson here, I'm  just not sure what it is.  

But... God bless America.

xoxo

Selena

Do you know what I hate even MORE?

This post will be completely off topic, nothing to do with moving.  But, remember the "nosy neighbor" from my last post... well...

The movers came on Friday and we moved into the hotel.  We've been visiting the house each day and finishing up last minute tasks.  We were in the backyard today and noticed that a little plastic chest holding pool toys was missing.  Upon further investigation, we noticed that my lovely porch swing was  also missing from the storage shed.  Mystery! 

I quickly went over to "nosy neighbor's" home and knocked. She was in her pj's of course. (I swear this woman does not own a bra or jeans.)  

Me:  "Some stuff is missing from our house.  Did you see or hear anything?"

Her (looking shocked):  "No.  Not at all.  Nothing.  I'm so sorry."

Me:  "Hm.  Okay...  well thanks anyway."

Door closed.  Each of us then marched through our homes and out the back doors.  Me, to step on to the deck to peer over the fence into her backyard.  Her,  to run to her backyard and try to hide MY lovely porch swing behind her kid's picnic table.

I looked at Matt...  "There's my porch swing."  At about the same time, her sweet little six year old daughter saw me watching and announced with a huge grin... "We have a new swing!"

Matt stuck his head over the fence and politely asked for the swing back.

Luckily, this jogged her memory and she began spilling the "real" story... "the lady said that I could have it."

Nosy Neighbor's husband encouraged her to give us back the pilfered swing as she elaborated on her newly-remembered story... brown van, two ladies with mops, probably the maids, were dragging stuff to the street and told her to take what she wanted.

Matt mentioned the toy chest... "Oh, yea.  It's right here.  They said we could have that, too."  She then went on to describe in detail about the ladies in the van.  OMG... how could they do that? How awful?  The ladies in the brown van took our stuff and gave it to the neighbors!  

Matt and I went inside... me to fume and Matt to come up with a plan.  He decided it was time for a chat  mano a mano with Nosy Neighbor's hubby... divide and conquer.  He invited the gentleman into our home.  (I hid in the potty and eavesdropped like any good wife.)  I was so proud of Matt...

"I know you're a military man and I appeal to your honor."

"Before I call our maid company and raise hell, I want to make sure I have the whole story."

"I will need your wife to describe to the police exactly what she saw."

"I would never accuse anyone, but your wife did deny to my wife that she saw anything at all and now the story has changed."

"Could you please clarify exactly what happened to help us get to the bottom of this?"

Nosy Neighbor's husband was quite nice.  He vowed to get some answers and retreated. 

Matt and I checked to see what else was missing and a few minutes later the doorbell rang.

There was the red faced hubby, holding his cherubic toddler in his arms as his Wingman.  He was there to confess his wife's transgression.  She had, in fact, made a late night shopping trip to our backyard and he would like to beg our forgiveness. 

We asked about some of the other items and he vowed to search his home for any other "new" acquisitions.  Over the next half hour, random items began reappearing... a hammock swing, a patio umbrella and base.  (We told them they could keep the toy chest, which they did.)

After returning our property, he visited one more time to again apologize and to wish us well on our journey.

My wonderful Englishman handled it completely differently than I would have, but it was masterful and perfect.  With his trademark sarcasm, Matt's parting words to the poor schmuck next door...

"Next time, she raids someone's backyard, she might want to make sure the occupants have actually vacated."

So, not only is my neighbor nosy, but apparently she is a thief and a liar and not very good at either.

xoxo
Selena