Home for the Holidays

I made it home safe, sound and in time for some much needed sleep on Sunday. Since then, I've been watching the "Law and Order" Marathon on television which makes so much more sense now that I've taken the Federal Rules of Evidence and understand the Attorney-Client Privilege, the standard for expert testimony, and hearsay.

We've got family stuff going on for the next few days -- and this will be the first year in 18 or so that we celebrate Christmas day at somewhere other than the Ranch. Last year, I used the good will and pity I amassed by breaking my femur in half to coax my sister, second sister, and cousin onto the quad and race them at full break neck speed up and down the quarter mile driveway. If there's one thing that I learned from being sick, it's the best time to get people to do things they don't want to.


That's Cas on the front of the quad, cushioned by an old mattress. That's me, driving and Ash and Jenny are holding on for dear life off the back.

Fly Away

I've been interrupted three times recently.

The first was on Monday. I was leaving from my house after three days of furious studying for Federal Tax to actually attend the exam. I opened the outer door of my flat and found myself in the busy, smoky scene of a fire four doors down, but all up in my space. Three fire trucks, ambulances, people scurrying. It felt strange, like I had stepped into another world. I couldn't imagine how I missed it all happening. I mean, I can usually hear a flea fart through the single paned windows in my room. How did I miss it? I wasn't sure, but I was a bit annoyed at the commotion.

The second time was yesterday afternoon. Taking a break from my furious study habits, I was just out of the bath. The doorbell rang and it was a fireman offering free home inspections because a man had died in that fire, and they wanted to check my smoke alarms.

The third was that same night -- last night. This time, it was drum beats. Loud and more furious than my studying. Long, wailing singing. A crowd of people on the street, making one noise:

"Fly away. Fly away, home."

This time, I could hear it through my windows. I wanted to run down and make sure it was what I thought, but I thought better of interrupting such a procession.

So, I just listened. And, thought.

"Fly away. Fly away, home."

Somehow, the furious studying didn't seem so important.

The View from My Computer

Me (looking forlorn), lots of big books (feeling quite foreboding), some very British window tapestries (required in libraries.)


It's Finals time. One down, four to go, finished on Friday next. And 4/5 of the way through with law school.

Hopefully my personality remembers how to work when I get the chance to use it again cause my jokes seem to be lost on these books.

Margaret Thatcher wears Ferrgamos

I mean, I guess if you are a former British Prime Minister, the first women to lead a Western Country, and BFF with Ronald Reagan during the Cold War years, you deserve some expensive Italian navy blue flats.

She stopped by the Pepperdine house tonight, on her way back from Parliament's opening ceremony where she still sits on the House of Lords, and spent an hour greeting students and letting us take photos.

She asked questions, and listened intently. When asked if we were studying British law, Ben replied that we weren't and stuttered a bit. He stuttered because his European Union Law teacher had only just warned him NOT to mention that he was taking EU Law because Margaret Thatcher hates the EU and would freak out that people were not only using, but also teaching EU law.

She was gracious, and funny. Old, but still beautiful and impeccably dressed. One student remarked that she is "still rocking a wicked perm." About half way through, Professor Popovich had to run up to his flat to grab her a glass of scotch and water so apparently she is still rocking in general.

She Shall Remain Nameless

The stage: Dinner at the National Portrait Gallery, overlooking the well-lit London cityscape. A lovely prefix dinner, accompanied by four well-educated friends, chattering away about life, love and other mysteries. The conversation is animated and punctuated by the surrounding crowd of twenty-somethings with after work drinks, and fifty-somethings with after museum meals.

Friend One: "I would really love to get back to the Tate Modern to see their new exhibits. The Dali exhibit last year was fantastic. Expensive, but fantastic."

Friend Two: "The Tate had a Dolly Parton Exhibit?! .... Oh wait, you must mean Salvador Dali. .... Please don't tell anyone I just said that."

Friends One through Four laugh hysterically because Salvador Dali and Dolly Parton exist in such different worlds that it's hard to imagine that they have ever, in the history of the world, been confused before. (However, someone might want to call Trebek and tell him it would make for a good Jeopardy answer where they combine two phrases, like Salvador Dali Parton.)

Friend One: "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about it, but I do have to put it on my blog."

And, scene.

I Guess It's Cool in France

Friends, your eyes do not deceive you: This is, indeed, a Durex Premium Condom Dispenser in the middle of the main drag in Bordeaux.



Or, more accurately, Blaye, the little town outside Bordeaux where we stayed. A town where you struggle to find more than 6 people under 50 in a restaurant on a Friday night. I can't imagine that this little gem gets much good use, but apparently someone thought this was a good enough idea to spend the money implementing it.

I can imagine very few situations in life that would make this transaction worthwhile, but cie la vie. French is the language of love, so who I am to argue with their birth control choices?

The Other Brother is Pretty Dope

Cas' Jeff quit his ill-fitting job earlier this year to start his own label/website/art/eventualworlddominationstation.

You should check out his site for two reasons:

One, it's cool, has an insightful blog, new music, and fun clothes that will make great Christmas gifts.

Two, the more money he makes off of my friends, the closer I am to securing the title of Best Sister-in-Law EVER.

So, go check out Solid Gold Hubcaps Clothing, listen to Jeff's song (complete with a retelling of the Disney classic, Robin Hood) and buy some crap cause you know you'll like it and you care about my future.

Bordeaux Si Beau

You know you are getting older when weekend trips start looking less and less like collegiate Spring Break Celebrations and more and more like fake Honeymoons.

Catie somehow found this amazing little villa online. Beyond the beautifully redone rooms, oozing with character, was a small kitchen stocked to the gills with artisan salts, local peppers, and all kinds of interesting spices. We canvased the local market and made our purposely French-styled dinners of sauted shrimp, cheese, bread, veggies and some of the best wine you can find in the world for ten euro.








We rented a car, and I got to be the driver again. Look friends! You should be proud that I have finally learned to keep my eyes on the road. I have many fond (?) memories of Cristie and Heather in the back of my CRV telling me that I didn't need to make eye contact with them when I was driving.



Apparently, a villa is a house, and a chateau is a house where they have vineyards. We visited this one, got a tour from Maryse, the owner, and got lots of terra (French speak for mud) on my boots.




The people were so gracious and let us stop at their homes, taste their wine, pet their dogs, and ask silly questions. Pretty perfect.

Rembering Warmer Times

It snowed last night. It's not even November. I was asleep when it all happened, and all that was left of it this morning on the walk to school was ice bunched up on the windshield wipers or parked cars, and a chill in the air.

Last night on the way home it was dark and dreary, but not snowy yet. It's that time of year, I guess. I stopped by for the necessities: eggs, yogurt, bread and toilet paper. My bag was full of the days accessories, so the toilet paper had to be carried out in the open. I stuck it under my arm, like a important package -- which, I guess, it was. I don't think I will ever get old enough not to be embarrassed by carrying toilet paper in public. I actually kept cracking a smile in a private joke with myself about it which must have looked even more strange. A bundled up lady, carrying a bag and a bunch of toilet paper, laughing to herself.

The last warm day here looked like this. At least from Primrose Park, overlooking the city.


Ali, Frederik the Swede, and I bought lunches and picniced.

I couldn't get enough of his socks...


In fact, I followed him undercover for a couple minutes trying to get a walking shot with the right amount of peeping sock.



There wasn't much wind, but this little one tried anyway.

I guess I'll have to wait until December in California to get some summertime skin again.

London brings on Bouts of Rockstardom

Or, just crazy, asymetrical haircuts. I can even do a fauxhawk. Let the hair experimentation begin!

Buda Buda Buda Buda Rockin' all the Way

It's not so much that smiling isn't allowed in Hungary, it's just that it isn't really encouraged either. So, Ali and I had a rule during our 4 days in Budapest ... No smiling in photos. No smiling in windswept, bedraggled, end of the day desperate attempts to save some warmth by using your scarf as a babushka moments.


No smiling while posing, America's Next Top Model style, in the falling Fall leaves and sleeping branches.

No smiling on a bus tour. Especially not when the earphones they provided you look like they were recycled from the free ones they used to give you on flights in the 90's.


And, no smiling when you realize that you spent 40 bucks to go to a classical concert because that's the kind of thing "adults do" to experience the culture of another country, and realize that no matter how many times you try to be an adult, you just spent 40 bucks to be bored and uncomfortable.



Oh, oh! Except for the part of the concert where one woman right in front of Ali and I fainted and slid out of her chair. Those around her reacted silently and immediately, disturbing almost noone. Ali and I just watched. To our amazement, one woman in front of the Fainter had ACTUAL smelling salts in her purse. After a few moments of laying down (you can see her laying down in the video, right before Ali and I, and on the other side of the woman in the purple shirt) she was back to normal which led Ali and I to determine that the reason for the whole thing was the careless wearing of too-tight pants. Said pants cut off her circulation while sitting, and thus the faint. Let that be a lesson to all of us... It's not just the muffin-top you risk by squeezing into pants that don't fit.

We did have a couple of lucky, beautiful nights. We stumbled into this panoramic view of Parliment, the Danube River and a full moon through the precipice of Buda Castle on the other side of the river. We were the only people there, enjoying the violin and base guitar music of a couple gypsies posted up near by.

The view from the bridge at our hotel, across the river to Gellert Hill in Buda. We also went to a bathhouse close to here for some truly classic naked, rear-slapping, Eastern Euro massages.


From Buda Castle, over Buda. 80 percent of the city was actually destroyed in WWII, so most of the construction is relatively new, but made to look like it was old.


And, finally, condiments. Daddy, the Majonez is for you.

Self-Indulgence

I've started taking photos of things I like, simply because I like them. It's a nice sort of freedom really. Instead of buying something in order to enjoy it, I simply snap a copyright-infringing photo and post it on my blog and I've satiated my need for new. Uh, kind of.

These houses on my street are painted in Easter eggshell colors. In the morning, when it's still clear and cold, they look especially pretty.

Big bowls at a little cafe in Chelsea hold large peeled grapefruits and oranges, celery, carrots and many other juice-able items ready for the juicing.

Alice and Astrid is about 150 yards from my house. Astrud was there last time I was perusing and upsold me on this charming pink number below, and the little lavender filled bird on the hanger. Astrud designs her own fabrics and aspires to three core elements: cosy, glamorous and beach. She was calling my name.


I haven't worn this little silk thing yet cause it's 50 fricken degrees outside, so I've just left it out and hanging in hopes of a warming future, or at least one where I don't have to wear wool or feathers to keep warm.

And finally, this chair made of a tree truck. It looks cosy, like a bean bag. In my mind I see myself curled up in it, looking fabulous and drinking tea. Then, I remember it's wood, and is closer kin to an aggressive church pew than a bean bag. Whatever. A girl's gotta have a dream.

The Queens Face is on the Money (literally, and in this picture)

I generally think internet forwards are not worth the time or energy, but given my current study of all things British, I thought that this showed a distinctly "real" side of the Royal Family. And, it's actually funny even though it does reference bathroom humor.

The heading of this particular email was, "Did Phillip Fart?"




This progression kills me.

Harry reminds me of Brother Bear here. However, if this was actually BB, he would undoubtedly be the culprit and would simply be blaming it on someone else.

The Owl at High Street Kensington

I'm sorry. I know there's been a lot of storytelling lately, but I can't let the best night on the Underground, ever, go without being told.

On my way home tonight, between Earls Court and High Street Kensington, the overhead crackled and the fumbling voice of the driver started . This is not unusual. Drivers get on the mike every now and again to tell you about a line closure, a delay, or any number of other things.

It usually starts and stops quickly, and gets straight to the point. Well, not tonight.

The driver started his 5 minute monotone presentation by telling us that there was an owl on duty at the High Street Kensington station. This owl, said he, was under contract for 5 mice a night. Tonight, he was 3 mice short, so would be looking for bags, trash and such to meet his quota. The Driver finished by reminding us that if anyone was an animal lover, they shouldn't leave their bags or umbrellas on the train or the owl might get to them.

This mid-twenties something, ipod-encrusted, boat-shoe-wearing Posh next to me kept making exasperated faces as the Driver explained his plea, and saying things like "F*@# me" and "this guy is extraordinary" (which, when said properly, kind of rhymes with Strawberry.)

I watched in amazement, and slight fear. If this guy was bored, it was hilarious. If he was drunk, it was quite frightening.

I got off at the next stop, Notting Hill Gate, and decided I had to see this Driver for myself. As quickly as I could, I made my way to the front of the train to see if I could get a glimpse of him through the window. I reached the edge of the platform, leaned a bit over the fence, and sure enough, there he was.

Grey headed, and a bit snaggle toothed, but not definitively drunk. Whew.

He caught me looking and I gave him a thumbs up. He opened the door, and slightly stuck for words I said, "I just wanted to thank you for your entertaining narrative."

He chuckled, closed the door, and took the train away and I walked home chuckling, too.

Happy Clappys

Last night I met my great friends Dan and Alisha Sanvicens at St. Mary's church in London for a smashing non-churchy church dinner of red curry salmon and spicy conversation.

I took the 27 bus towards Edgeware Road, got off at the appropriate place and then, as should be expected, walked around in circles trying to look nonchalant and not lost. Where, oh where, was York Road!?

So, I stopped an early sixty-something grey-hair and asked if he knew where St. Mary's was.

He replied in a rolling of the "R," high brow type of English, " Oh! The Happy Clappys!? That used to be my parish church until some other people took it over and made it all just a bunch of noise!" Directions followed and I made it there in good time.

Unfortunately, there was no clapping that night. I suspect I'll get my fill in the near future, at least if we want to live up to our neighborhood reputation.

MINI Mania

I think I have turned into a Roadway Adventurer like the Papa Joe of my youth.

Vacations as a kid took two forms:

1. Trips to the beach in the motorhome with Nana.

2. Driving around in the Volkswagon Bus with the rainbow on the sides, trying to get Cas to leave me alone, and stopping at random plaques on the side of the road so my Daddy could read about Historic Route 66, Lewis and Clarke's groudbreaking trek across the new world, or Juniperro Serra and the California Missions.

Oh, the California Missions. One such trip ended when Daddy asked me if I wanted to stop by a mission we were going to pass, and I replied with, "I don't want to see any more old, dead Indians." I was six. My, how I have changed.

This weekend, my friend Devra flew in from CA and we rented a MINI and ran for the hills with nothing planned but driving around, stopping at the pubs and churches and little towns that dot the English countryside above Oxford.


The only thing they had left was a stick. The last time I really drove a stick I was with Eric Blackshear in his topless jeep wrangler in 1997. He taught me the basics in the Vons parking lot, and practiced on the way to Ojai to get icecream. But, Devra prodded me through the nervousness with, "You can do anything. You beat cancer." You can't really say no to that. So, within 20 minutes of picking up the car, I was bumper to bumper in Notting Hill, and on my way to the M4.



We stopped for tea and sweets.


And, to check out the Nerd-a-licious site at this church in Stow-on-the-Wold (the actual city name, next to Bourne-on-the-Water, and Chipping Camden) where Tolkien hiked around and spent lots of time writing and sketching. The back door is storied as the inspiration for the Gates of Moria -- with it's two ancient Yews.

And, at at Englands Oldest Inn (947 ad) and Eighth Best ( read the small print.)

I stuttered and stalled our way home to London. We are, thankfully, still alive.

I think I might just have to get a MINI of my own when money allows.

Double Oh Dublin?

I have mixed feelings about Ryanair, the low cost European flight provider. For one, it's cheap. I mean dirt cheap. 50 bucks, including taxes, for a trip from London to Dublin kind of cheap. But, you get what you pay for. It's the only airline I've ever been on where you can actually pay 4 euro to board BEFORE woman, children, and the elderly. If there is a balance between the inconvenience and personal values you will deny in order to get a good fare and cost, Ryanair has just about perfected it. For 100 bucks, I would have said, "Up yours." But for 50? Give me my ticket, Bloke and move over, Granny.

At any rate, they got me to Dublin safe and soundly in time to meet Steve, for a bit of crack (uh, good conversation, for those not familiar with Irish colloquialisms...) in a pub in Temple Bar.
Steve and I have a bit of a funny history. He tells me we were introduced 4 times, over a ten year period, before I remembered who he was. Maybe that's because we were young, and I had no time for boys my own age in high school. Or, because he was always changing his hair.

Nevertheless, he didn't hold it against me and we had a lovely time hanging out at the Dublin Fringe Fest, the aformentioned erotic circus and with his many and varied friends in pubs across town where I made my signature face, featured below.


Dublin is a cool little town. Walkable, take-in-able, and beautiful, if somewhat rainy. I haven't perfected my Irish accent yet, but maybe that means I'll have to go back. Even if, at least according to Steve, all the time in England has only gotten me a bad stage version of an English accent.

"Get me one of them green jobbers, and baptize it."

If you know me very well, you have probably heard me tell Papa stories. If you've never met the man himself, most people think I exaggerate the slight southern drawl and hitched cadence I take on when I relay his stories. But, if you have, you know it's actually pretty accurate. Now, Brother Bear and Nick Blake are really the one's who know every minute Papa quirk, but I get a few good laughs on my own, too.

I took these photos at the Rancho before I left for London when I went out to feed the horses with Papa. I hadn't seen this concoction yet, but apparently he welded this beach umbrella to his Holland tractor to stay out of the sun whilst working.


The man himself with Midnight, and a Healthy Choice Chocolate Icecream Bar, a Nana and Papa favorite.

The "golf cart on steroids" and one of the shops littered with scrap metal, metal working machines, jigsaws, alfalfa hay and old washing machine parts. That "little" pup is Daisy, a Bull Mastiff puppy Nana and Papa picked up at the pound a couple of weeks ago only to find out, when googled, that Bull Mastiffs get HUGE. I mean, St. Bernard huge.

(** WARNING!! Potentially offensive political opinion shortly ensuing!!**)

Recently, at a dinner party, Nana was explaining that, through Google, they learned that Daisy would always be sort of lethargic and good natured due to her impending size.

To this, Papa added, "I knew that dawg was a Democrat the moment I laid eyes on her, cause she's lazy, and all she wants to do is eat my food."

A friend at the table retorted, "That's funny, Buddy. I didn't know dogs picked political parties."

To which Papa replied, "Well, then look at Hilary."

... Don't kill the messenger, just laugh at her jokes.

Mi Casa Bonita in Londontown

I've finally settled in London, after a few days on the couch at Dan and Alisha's and ten thousand frantic phone calls to anyone seemingly normal with a flat for rent in the London area. Finding housing always SEEMS like it's going to be a snap, but turns out to be more of a one-handed clap (read: next to impossible, unless you are double jointed like the guy at the erotic circus I went to this weekend... But, that's another story.)


This is my house, that window in the first floor on the right is my room. From it, I can see a little park and swing set across the road by day, and hear the sloppy voices of British gents returning from the pubs by night. It would be perfect, if only I could get enough water pressure to actually wash the shampoo from my hair.


This is my room. It's big and bright which makes me happy, but it also includes sleeping on a futon which stretches my sleeping character and makes me uncommonly cranky in the mornings. Well, uncommon might not be the exact right term, but cranky all the same.

I'm about two blocks from Portobello Road and a ten minute walk from the Notting Hill Gate tube station so I can be well dressed, and well traveled within walking distance.

Good Old Golda Meir

Almost forgot my favorite one...

New School Taggers sited in Tel Aviv

The last night in Tel Aviv, I took my camera, walked through the streets and took photos of the urban art. I must confess, I enjoyed this different style of viewing the city, but I still couldn't stop thinking of my middle school boyfriend who used to tag on the weekends. Somehow, I don't think he tagged smiley faces like this.




It took me a while to get the right light and angle to make this one visible... It' s high on a wall, between two buildings and I've only had a camera for about two months (with a ten year hiatus in betwixt my last camera.) Anyway, I like that there was "Know Hope" underlined by "broken hears recollect themselves while distracted."



This guy was hidden behind a big pile of trash.


I didn't "mean" to get the reflection, but it looks pretty good to me.


That monkey is listening to an ipod!