Crunchy ‘Nanas

We’ve been driving south quit a bit lately. Sometimes not due south, but southerly. So, this weekend, in a break from habit, we drove north. Really north. Not as north as you can go. I haven’t yet done that. But, pretty north for a weekend excursion. We packed up the car with a fully charged ipod, some ‘nanas, lots of chocolate and hit the road to visit friends in Yorkshire.

The weekend started just east of York. We stayed with some friends Friday night, and then went out to the Black Sheep Brewery in Masham on Saturday on the way to West Yorkshire. Masham is a nice place. I’d go there again. We had an hour before our tour at the brewery and free beer so we ventured out to get some grub. The Suncatcher Cafe in the village square caught my eye. Inside, it was a bit of a mash up between Berkeley, Pacific Northwest and Polynesian decor. I liked it. Very colorful. And they served Chai lattes. Now, it’s not as if I am a huge chai latte fan. I could take one or leave one. But the very fact that they were offering them was a surprise. I am not sure they do chai lattes in England. So, I had to get one. Simply because I could. (It was good!) The cafe also served Wensleydale cheese and hot apple chutney paninis. So, there wasn’t much deciding to be done there either!

Cheese, Grommit?

On Sunday, we took a drive down memory lane. We drove past the house where Crunchy husband and I lived together for the first time. It’s for sale. All I can wonder is if they’ve redone the bathrooms. I spent six months (okay, maybe not that long, there was a long period where I was waiting in California for my visa) running up and down the basement stairs to take my showers. There is something just more than a little bit creepy about taking a shower in a dark basement. One has to hope they put a shower into the my little pony disco party bathroom. And maybe redecorated that bathroom a bit more tastefully. At an asking price of 184,500 GBP, one can only hope!

It was interesting to note that neither of us felt much nostalgia at not living there (neither the house, nor the area) anymore. I wasn’t there long enough to get attached, and Crunchy husband doesn’t really feel like he ever settled in his four years in Saltaire. I think we’d both feel differently if the architecture wasn’t so dreary, and it was closer to the ocean, as we both love the hills. But, the architecture is and it’s nowhere near the sea. So I am happy where we are.

PS- I forgot about the jelly bellies and Arizona iced tea. “New from America.” That cracked me up! New to you, maybe…

Hi!

On Saturday morning, in an unprecedented act of personal restraint, I journeyed from the Hummingbird Bakery in South Kensington to Pinner without cracking the seal on the box of cupcakes I had purchased. What makes this situation even more unreal is that not only did I refrain from sneaking treats meant to be enjoyed with others to celebrate my friend’s birthday, but I did not buy an extra cupcake (or two) at the bakery to eat on the trip back to Pinner.

But, it’s true. Sometimes I even amaze myself.

And the cupcake? Yeah it was pretty darn good.

I am honored to announce a special guest appearance over at the highly amusing and always entertaining Cranky Fitness site. Now if only I could be lounging peacefully in the image that Crabby McSlacker has put up into the post rather than fighting a battle of wills with the rains in England…

Yes, you can still get sunburned if it’s cloudy! Wear your sunscreen, everyday!

And no, I probably won’t take up writing in the third person at Crunchy ‘Nanas. I have to admit, it was outside my comfort zone. I’ll leave that to the experts!

“Did you know that crabs have two willies?”

Why yes, yes I did. But thank you for sharing your knowledge with us you adorable, tow-headed little boy. Gold star for you!

It’s been a busy, fun few weeks. I’ve spent some time volunteering at “Seashore Safaris” with the Thanet Coast Project and Kent Wildlife Trust. They were an absolute blast. It’s amazing what you find out there when you’re looking. Shore crabs, edible crabs, velvet swimming crabs, broad-clawed porcelain crabs, which are not crabs at all but relatives of squat lobsters. Molting crabs, baby crabs and crabs making babies. Compass jellyfish, starfish, anemones, prawns, barnacles, limpets, mussels and winkles. It was great, except for the moment when the kid who was way old enough to know better grabbed my booty and stood there grinning mischievously when I looked around at him. And his mom just laughed. Way to to teach your son to respect women, lady.

And can I say, whoever says the Channel is unattractive, needs to come out here now and take another look. The Channel and North Sea waters have shown the most extraordinary colors lately. Depending on the tide and cloud cover, I’ve seen bands ranging from deep blue to green to light, tropical blue. Sometimes all at once, like a sea-striped rainbow bending along the golden shore. It’s been amazing.

On Friday, we jumped on a ferry and crossed these enchanting waters to France. We had a relaxing weekend lounging by the pool, listening over breakfast to the neighbor slaughtering one of their cocks and the subsequent panic in the coop, taking in the market and having our feet attacked and our faces bitten in the night by two little sweeties called Freddy and Chester. Man, I miss having a cat.

We also caught ‘La cathedrale de Monet aux pixels‘, a light show projected onto the cathedral in Rouen. And ate way too rare meat. And survived. So far. We didn’t, however, buy any pizza from this machine. First wine in boxes, then cuisine out of a hole in the wall on the street. Are the French changing their ways?

I brought home some cheese and the pool boy. Except, he shaved his beard off. His face is bald now. Boo!

I’m sorry blog. I know you’ve been lonely. But, it’s been a pretty crazy week. And now we’re off to France. And we’ll even see some friends if I can find the long and detailed directions to their house. (I don’t know what’s happened. I am usually so organized.) Or, maybe we’ll just wing it. That’s always fun. There was something about a sign for an airport. If only I could remember whether we were supposed to follow that way, or not.

Yes, we will work in some running around cheese, wine, and lounging by the pool.

I promise.

I’d like to thank the Academy for this prestigious Rockin’ Girl Blogger award. I’d also like to thank my family and friends who have been with me through the thick and thin of blogging these last 6 months, the ups and the downs, the highs and the lows. Special props to Crunchy husband for allowing me to show off his backside to the world. Thanks to Amanda, a determined runner blogger who has recently taken the bull by the horns and is fervently trying to make friends with her her bicycle, for the compliment and the nomination tag. And thanks to the creators of the Banana Guard for making the world a smaller place.

I’d like to send a special shout out to the talented soul who designed the button not featured here, enforcing the tired stereotype that girls are well-represented by the color pink. (I’d like to now pass the ill-designed baton to Moose, who I expect will have an update filled with poolside mojitos and more inch-worm antics from BlogHer 2007 shortly and will have many better things to do than accept this tag. Mwah ha ha ha ha!) Thank you to Kermit the Frog, Get Fuzzy, and Ben and Jerry’s for inspiring me, making me laugh and for keeping me sugared up, not necessarily in that order. [Begin awards show, get off the bleedin' stage orchestration.] And a final thanks to the farmer with the dog. What would I do without Bingo? [Music gets louder, cameras pull back to wide shot of stage.]

[Shouting.] No, wait wait! What I meant to say was “I’m just here for Bowie!” [I loved that!]

When I picked up the mail today, I was a little dismayed to see the special report cover story in this week’s New Scientist, since right there on the front cover is the statement “what gives elite athletes the edge”. My mind has been inundated with doping news. I was relieved to find this cover story is not about scandal and banned performance enhancement techniques. Instead, it presents genetic and physiological factors that give athletes such as top cyclists, ultramarathoners and freedivers advantages to accomplish great feats.

In light of all the disappointing developments this week in the Tour de France, it is nice to read something that shows that it doesn’t have to be all about the drugs. That we can still believe that many of these guys are fit and amazing by virtue of honest endeavors, hard training and a bit of genetic luck. Let’s go team Discovery Channel! Don’t let me down.

Last night we sought out the new Barbara Kingsolver narrative, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle which, I have to admit (in hushed, embarrassed tones) I didn’t realize was out until yesterday afternoon. Not that I get too wrapped up in the wizard world or anything crazy like that. We made it to the shopping center too late for Waterstone’s, but just in the knick of time to duck into W.H. Smith. Once we got past the stacks of Deathly Hallows, two things made me cock my dainty little ears and take notice.

First, no book. What?! I strode up to the woman at the register. Barbara Kingsolver, yeah? Awesome writer, yeah. Animal Dreams, Poisonwood Bible, you know, great books. You know? Blank stare. She, apparently, didn’t know. “Well if we had it and it’s new, it would be out here. Or, along that wall if, as you say, it’s non-fiction.”

The second thing that caught my attention was that “that wall” contained two labels: “Biography” and “Tragic Life Stories”. I stood there ear to shoulder, lips pursed, brows furrowed, trying to figure out how I felt about it. I recognize the value in reading stories of human strife and sacrifice. Often there is much inspiration to be found in tales of struggle, great hope to be found wound tightly around the understanding that amongst torture, oppression, rape and troubled childhoods there is a better world for us to strive for. But, is it necessary to cull these stories from the overarching “Biography” category and so obtrusively call them out? Or, why not at least label the countering “Uplifting Life Stories”? Perhaps there are less of those. I don’t know. I hope not. And yet, I fear this emphasis on tragedy is marketing and demand. Does the general public thrive off toil and torture, pain and doom? Is Crunchy husband right to theorize that EastEnders is so popular because engaging in the on-screen misery makes people feel better about their own lives? Do we feed off of others’ misfortune in some sort of twisted way to comfort ourselves?

I stood there for a moment, and then felt a book thrust into my hand, yet too small and too paperback to be the copy we came for. I looked down. It was a silent but encouraging nudge from Crunchy husband that he thinks it might be time to talk business, to get moving on making certain aspirations more than simply small talk and wishful thinking. I’m usually a little bit hesitant about books like this, The Writer’s Handbook: Guide to Writing for Children, but it looks more like a reference index than a “how-to” book for creativity. The first page of the first chapter (it’s been a busy day), though written in choppy, interview transcript format, contains a nugget from Philip Pullman: “you have to realise that a lot of the time, you are going to be writing without inspiration. The trick is to write just as well without it as with.”

Am I to take this to mean that all those moments when my mind feels an empty pit of dull nothingness, or is spitting out garbled, nonsensical phrases that would make me look like, well like my parents’ hard earned money was wasted on college and my own hard earned money was wasted on grad school, are moments I’m supposed to be harnessing and turning into powerful, tantalizing prose that will entertain and enrapture, dazzle and inspire five year-olds everywhere?

I think I am in trouble.

Incidentally, I checked in at Waterstone’s today, and they didn’t have Animal, Vegetable, Miracle either, with no plans of getting it in. WHAT? Words fail me.

I got a new toy.

Frustrated to finally confirm, after searching the depths of my control panel and trying to convince myself otherwise, that my new laptop is indeed without an internal microphone, I bought a cheap one so I can voice chat with folks in the old ‘hood. Since the price for a microphone headset was nearly the same as a cheap internet phone kit with web cam, I decided to go for it. So now I have a web cam. Don’t all jump out of your seats excited, thinking I’m going to start videocasting. I’m not. Trust me, it’s better this way.

Actually, it’s kind of weird. It feels a bit, I don’t know, invasive. A bit porn or something. Except for this 1-800-DENTIST, how may I direct your call? headset. It’s not very sexy. But, I shouldn’t knock the headset actually, the sound is pretty good. I can picture it now, rockin’ out on a run with these headphones. Hot!

I’m such a geek.