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Monday, June 21, 2004 ( 5:43 PM ) Girl Detective Annoying stick figures Are they annoying because they're stick figures, or is their annoying-ness coincident with their skinniness? Two of my most hated TV characters are Marissa from the O.C. played by Mischa Barton, and Fred from Angel, played by Amy Acker. Will someone please buy these actresses some sandwiches? Barton seems to ascribe to the Neve Campbell school of acting--draw out your lines, widen your eyes, pout, then widen your eyes again. Argh. Watching it is torture. I wonder if there's any way to watch the O.C. and skip over the parts with Marissa and Ryan and just watch for Summer and Seth? I was excited when the character of Fred was killed on Angel, though they did a stupid plot twist that kept the actress on the show. The show was cancelled, though, so she was put out of my misery in one way at least. | ( 5:32 PM ) Girl Detective Self tanners, yet again In a moment of weakness, I had another go with self-tanners. I tried Clarins Soin Teinte Auto-Bronzant Tre Haute Protection Special Visage (i.e. Tinted Self Tanning Face Cream Very High Protection). The woman at the counter said it didn't smell and it wasn't orange. Wrong, and wrong. It does smell and it is a little orange. It does a reasonable job of not looking too fake, but I will remain content having tried a sample and will not purchase the big tube. According to a recent article in some magazine (I think the In Style with Jennifer Garner on the cover), all self tanners smell because of the chemical that interacts with the top layer of skin. Some just hide it better than others, but all of them have it. Just for clarification, though, products like Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs are not self tanners. They are spray paint for legs. Airbrush Legs doesn't smell, but it is slightly orange, and after a second use, I don't think I'll try again. I simply don't have the energy it takes to scrub the tub of that orange coating. It's not an easy clean up. And I feel very, very sorry for people who don't use it in the tub. | Sunday, June 13, 2004 ( 9:50 PM ) Girl Detective Our condo is a Glamour don't My husband and I are getting ready to sell our condo. It's a one bedroom, and we probably outgrew it even before the baby arrived, but we've toughed it out till now. Our agent came to look at the place, and she wasn't thrilled. She was polite and diplomatic enough to say so, but what she didn't say spoke volumes. She recommended that we call a woman who helps stage properties for sale. The stager came on Friday. Some of what she said I already knew--we had too much stuff, especially in the closets, and needed help weeding it out, and with organization. The tougher message, though, was that we'd need to rent furniture and store our own. I felt like I was on What Not To Wear, with the fashion consultants saying that our stuff just didn't cut it. This evaluation shouldn't have been a surprise. Our love seat and sofa are 10+ years old. The dining room table was a cheapie from Best and we got rid of the rickety matching chairs years ago. Nonetheless, it was tough news to hear. I don't like to think that we've got shabby stuff, but the upshot is that our place is nicer than the stuff we've got in it. In order to show it to best advantage, we've got to make it look not only cleaner and less cluttered, but like we're people with more money and better taste. The hope is that by spending money on staging, we'll be able to sell our place for a good price, and also sell it quickly. I'm relieved that we're going to have help with the organizing, but chagrined that we need nicer stuff, and worried that it might not pay off in the end. | Wednesday, June 09, 2004 ( 9:34 PM ) Girl Detective The wedding, already I've been writing here and at Mama Duck about my trip to England for a wedding, but haven't yet written up to the wedding itself. So here it is. The day of the wedding was bright and warm with a breeze. England was showing off--it was something like the sixth beautiful day in a row, and no one could believe the weather had held. The setting was a country castle with stunning grounds and gardens in the full bloom of spring. As we drove up to the castle, my American friend and I exclaimed over the sheep, the blue sky, the rolling green hills. Our English friend laughed at us, and stopped the car so we could get out, take pictures and exclaim some more. "They're actually saying 'Baaaa!'" I noted excitedly. We jumped back in the car and distracted English friend, who nearly bumped another car as he pulled back onto the drive. That driver, understandably annoyed, did not beep, or curse, or give us the finger. No, he raised an eyebrow at us sardonically. English friend laughed at this. "Oh, that's so....ENGLISH!" The bride wore ivory silk satin, with diagonal ruching its only detail. The groom wore a smart grey lounge suit--that's a gray suit to us Americans. The colors were pink and celadon. The ceremony began with a civil service, at which I read an excerpt from a letter by Abigail Adams to John Adams. Another guest read from the poem "The Irrational Season". Children from the audience called out to the bride, who laughed and smiled. Two of the young bridesmaids played with the train of her dress, petting the heavy silk. After the civil ceremony there was a Jewish blessing ceremony. The rabbi/cantor sang in a clear, tuneful tenor, the parents offered the kiddush cup and all signed the ketubah. The groom needed a mulligan for the breaking of the glass, but crushed it soundly on his second try, to joyful cries of "Mazel tov!" Cocktails followed on the lovely grounds of the castle. A woman in a pink hat told me I had a lovely accent. Not sure how to take that, I simply responded, "Thank you." For the meal, I was seated between the gay rabbi and the bride's gay vicar cousin. I have an M.A. in religion and nearly converted to Judaism ten years ago, so she thought, correctly, that we would have an interesting table. The vicar started by asking me, "What about Iraq?" I sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't vote for him. And I didn't vote for a third party person either. Did you know that the Republicans have been donating money to third party candidates in order to try to replicate the division?" And we were off. The table discussed global politics, local AIDS activism, Jewish education and popular television. The vicar professed that he loved American sit-coms, especially Will and Grace and Frasier. I said that I didn't care for those, that I thought their best seasons were behind them, but I did take the opportunity to recommend Scrubs and Arrested Development. The rabbi complimented Americans, saying that we were one of the few countries that actually liked England; most of the rest of Europe didn't. Then he complimented American television also, singling out Six Feet Under, which I reminded him was conceived and written by Alan Ball, who is English. Dinner began with risotto of asparagus with parmesan crisps, followed by grilled halibut with haricot verts and finished with a pudding of warm tarte tatin, spun sugar and vanilla ice cream. Afterwards, the bride and groom executed a skillful foxtrot to Sinatra. Later in the evening there were further puddings: a several-tiered "cake" that was actually a series of miniature cakes of vanilla, chocolate and berry mousse topped with glazed fruit, nuts or chocolate. Alongside coffee and tea were petit-four plates, dark chocolate espresso beans, milk chocolate almonds, and dark chocolate truffles from my favorite non-local chocolatier, with silver gift bags for take away. At 22:00, guests were directed back out to the castle grounds, where we were entertained by an array of fireworks with musical accompaniment. At the end of the evening the bride and groom made their way to an antique Rolls Royce, which drove down a path lined with further fireworks. "It's a good thing the rockets are pointed away from the car," a friend noted, "burning the wedding couple as finale would be very sad." | Monday, June 07, 2004 ( 10:03 PM ) Girl Detective Lost, again We're back in England, two weeks ago, where I was for my friend's wedding. After a restoring cup of tea, I watched the mother of the bride try to control the six children who were in the wedding. When she achieved a level of failure slight enough to be deemed success, the children went to dinner and the father of the bride got me a ride toward town with the parents of the groom. As sometimes happens with weddings, I found myself kindly looked after. I told them I'd get a taxi from their hotel to mine, but the groom's father insisted that they'd see me there personally. After my long journey out to the country earlier in the day, I was glad to accept. At the hotel, I met with two friends from the states, the only other wedding guests I knew. I had just time to shave my legs and change before we set off back to the manor for dinner. And then we got horribly lost. In spite of two maps, and even though we stopped for directions not once but twice, we remained lost and went far south of our mark on the A4. We were trying to find the 343, which was clearly marked on the map, but not on any of the signs. We found out later that this was deliberate, so that the road wouldn't be overrun by tourists. Their attempts succeeded. We couldn't find the 343 to save our lives. The bride called when we were thirty minutes late, and again at an hour. Someone from the manor told us to follow signs to something that sounded like "Wash Common" over the crackly mobile. After a few more roundabouts--we literally almost went back to our hotel to turn 'round and begin again--we saw a sign, let out a great cheer and were on the correct road. Dark had fallen, so we found ourselves driving through shadowed canopies of trees, but eventually we arrived to a lovely dinner, at which more acquaintances were made. I went once, then again to the cheese plate, which had a particularly lovely white cheese called Covdale, made from semi-pasteurized whole milk. I chose to have two desserts as well. Thus fortified, I felt ready to brave the drive back. | Friday, June 04, 2004 ( 8:51 PM ) Girl Detective Go team! Where was I for my husband's team's triumphant pub-quiz victory? Home, putting the baby to bed, listening to him cry for a half hour, changing a poopy diaper and listening to him cry some more. You can read more exciting details at Mama Duck. Or you could read about the pub quiz victory at Velcrometer and Frolic and Detour. Hmm. I'm trying to make this sound funny, yet it keeps sounding bitter. I need to get out more. | Thursday, June 03, 2004 ( 8:37 PM ) Girl Detective Getting to know the father of the bride In my role of helper for my friend's wedding in England, I was to accompany my friend's father to the wedding dress shop, pick up the dress and ride with Dad and the dress to the country, where the wedding would take place the next day. My friend's father was out of sorts when I arrived, anxious about having to drive through busy London to the inconveniently located shop. His anxiety was not misplaced--it took some time to get there, then there was no place to park within a kilometer. He asked hopefully if I might walk to the shop and carry the dress back to the car. I said the dress would not only be bulky, but also heavy, so we'd have to get closer to the shop. He drove 'round while I fetched the gown, then we loaded it into the car, and our troubles began. We were to head back across London to the M4. Yet we were immediately in a traffic jam and fast running out of gas (petrol). After some time we got out of the jam and into a gas station, but continued to experience delays. when we finally made it to the manor where the wedding party was staying, we'd been travelling over three and a half hours. It was a journey that would normally have taken less than one and a half hours. Over the course of our long drive, the conversation ranged widely, and I enjoyed getting to know my travelling companion. He could not understand why the wedding gown could not have been delivered--"absolutely crackers." I found he'd been listening most recently to Beethoven and doing a guided study of Elizabethan drama. We both agreed that the wedding ceremony was an oft-overlooked part of the modern ritual, with too many people placing too much attention on the party aspect. When I said I'd just resigned, he noted that there was a lot to be said for stay-at-home mums. (This was in interesting contrast to his ex-wife, an erudite woman with an enviable career history, who seemed baffled that we were not just getting a nanny, and looked shocked when I said the baby had been in daycare.) He recommended a book I mentioned in yesterday's entry, called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. I countered with Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem. We both waxed ecstatic at the blue sky fluffed with white clouds, the green of the countryside, and the blooms of lilac, chestnut and wisteria. And upon finally arriving, we both fervently answered yes when asked if we'd like some tea. | Wednesday, June 02, 2004 ( 10:15 AM ) Girl Detective The circle of hell called Selfridge's As I mentioned in my earlier post on shopping styles, I like to shop department stores. So when I was in London last week, I very much looked forward to visiting Selfridges. After plunking down luggage, I called my friend and said I'd meet her there. I walked in the door, looked around and thought happily, "I love department stores". And that's where my happiness ended. I tried to call my friend on her mobile. Two problems. One, I hadn't yet used the phone to call internationally, and it didn't seem to be working, and even though I'd prepared-ly brought the instructions, they didn't help. Two, I couldn't be sure because it was so fucking loud in the store that I couldn't have heard the phone ring if it were working. I tromped up and down stairs, up and down escalators, trying to find a quiet place. I failed. Finally, I located a bank of pay phones and scraped up enough change to call my friend. I got cut off when the 30p ran out and only had 17p left so I couldn't call back. She found me, though, and fixed the number list on my phone(adding a +) so I could call both her and home. We completed a few more errands and were finally able to leave the store. The whole experience left me rather shell-shocked. I just finished a wonderful book called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon, the main character of which is a boy with Asperger's Syndrome. When he entered stores that were too crowded or noisy, he fell to the floor, covered his eyes and ears, and started yelling. Shopping at Selfridge's made me long to do the same. I do not exaggerate. I thought longingly of creating a counter-irritant to the store by poking myself with a sharp stick. Selfridge's did a redesign recently,. Instead of things being grouped by category, e.g., men's, juniors, china, they are grouped mostly by designer, e.g., Pucci, Nicole Farhi, Thomas Pink. Marshall Fields, in fact, based some of their State Street store's redesign on Selfridge's example. I can't say, after having experienced the original, that I think it was a good model. The store was loud and hard to navigate. There were some fairly simple items that were probably in the store somewhere, but that we could not locate. Over the next two days I had to visit Selfridge's twice again. Once to buy a white shirt for my friend's brother for the wedding (he'd got himself locked out of his house somehow), and again to buy an emergency suitcase since I didn't think I'd have enough room in the one I'd brought to go back since I'd bought a few things: plain chocolate HobNobs, five Persephone books, and stuff from Jo Malone. On both my subsequent trips, I found the correct strategy. Walk purposefully into the store, quickly locate the correct area by asking, then approach a salesperson and state what I needed: first, "a white shirt, size 16, slim fit, nice but not crazy expensive"; second, "a small suitcase or duffle, not a rollaway, inexpensive, so less than 25 pounds". In both cases, the salesperson was able to locate something suitable in mere moments and I was out the door in about ten minutes, with no longing thoughts of sharp sticks. | Tuesday, June 01, 2004 ( 8:03 AM ) Girl Detective New career I think I would be remiss in not mentioning here that which I have been writing at length about on my other weblog Mama Duck. Two weeks ago I resigned my job, and today is my first official day as a stay-at-home mom. I have opted out for a number of reasons. The baby has been constantly sick since starting daycare in December and there was a lot of turnover there. My husband and I decided that we would like him to have one caregiver and that we would like it to be one of us. Since I'm still nursing the baby, and since my company is up for sale, I'm the one who resigned. In the interest of full disclosure, I am going to be scrupulous about chronicling my new life on Mama Duck. I have no interest in pretending to be Super Mom. When I announced my decision at work, many women offered congratulations, said I was lucky to be able to make this decision, and that they were envious. While I'm happy with the decision, I know that it will be a challenge. I've put a serious handicap on getting future jobs, we've taken a serious pay cut, and being with the baby all day with encompass both good and bad, though in different ways than did being at work all day. | |
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