Well folks, let’s see. Andy is working from Amsterdam for two weeks, which means that I miss him and wish he were here with me, but I like to look on the bright side, and it also means the following:

1. I can catch up on all of the things I have been neglecting like buying birthday cards, getting down toward the medium priorities on my list at work, going to the gym, perhaps even playing a little ditty on the piano, taking bubble baths, and I’m planning to get a massage.

2. I can watch all the lifestyle programmes I want - tonight’s episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is on commercial break at the moment. Oh it’s back - they’re 4 hours behind schedule.

3. I can sneakily go Christmas shopping for him while he’s away.

4. When he gets back, it will be time to go to America for Christmas!!, and. . .

4. I can go visit him in AMSTERDAM!!

I have never been to Amsterdam. All I know is that they wear wooden shoes in Holland, and maybe they yodel? I’m not sure, but wooden shoes are very good things. Probably not very comfortable, but excellent for clogging and pretending to be Dutch, and they score major points in the novelty-value category. Maybe they yodel in Switzerland? I had this clear when I went to Switzerland, but now I forget.

I know they do soft drugs in the cafes in Amsterdam and that there are naked ladies everywhere you turn, but that’s not really my thing, and I have to say, if you are one of those people who tries to say funny things about how those Amsterdamian brownies are supposed to be good and whatnot, you’re just not very funny. Well, ok - you’re funny if you’re the first person to say it and also coincidentally my brother. You’re not funny if you’re the 20th person to say it and also some random person from work.

I want to go to the Anne Frank house if we get a chance, but that’s the only thing I know about culture-wise. Andy emailed me to say he bought a guidebook, so hopefully he’ll have some more ideas. Anyway, that’s where I’ll be this weekend, peeps. Yodelayee yodelayee yodelay hee hoo!

OK, so there’s this show here called “Office Monkey.” The basic format of the show is that two people in the same office compete to be the office monkey by undertaking various absurd tasks (i.e. changing trousers with a colleague, getting a colleague to treat you like a horse. . . ) to the best of their humiliating ability, and whomever is deemed the most ridiculous wins a trip. Nobody in the office knows that the two folks are participating in the show, so they tend to get in big trouble and so forth - it is HIGHLY entertaining. The point? I just don’t think it would work in my office, but if it did, I might win just by being me.

In explanation of why it wouldn’t work and of why I would be the office monkey even if it did, I offer two examples from the recent past - well within the past few days, to be more precise.

Last week, a man with a camera came up to the woman who sits next to me and said, “This is for the Christmas Party,” and then whispered to her for a few minutes, to which she said something like, “No, absolutely not, you picked the wrong girl. No way. Don’t even think about it.” Then he looked at me and said, “I’m wondering if you can help me.” I said, “Sure, I’ll be your monkey - what do you need?” He explained the concept of “Stealth Disco,” the purpose of which is to conduct a personal disco behind some busily working colleagues without them noticing, and then carry on as if nothing happened. SO FUN, and SOOOO Right up my alley.

So I walked up behind one of my most serious colleagues and started seriously freaking out. I waved my arms around and probably made some horrendous faces while miscellaneously stomping my feet, and then I walked ho-hummingly back to my desk. It didn’t work, though - he didn’t really see me, but he saw the camera and perhaps noticed the hubbub. Then he said, “I feel really self-conscious.”

Later, the camera man tried to convince another lady in my department to participate and received an even more vehement answer of “No way - don’t even tell me about it, because I won’t do it.” So he looked at me again and said, “Want to do it again?” “YEAH!” Well I had to get it right, didn’t I?! So this time I went behind the sports guy and the PA to the chief executive, did a few step snaps and a turn or two, and then casually turned my way out of there to walk la-dee-dah-ingly back to my desk. TOTALLY pulled it off. They had no idea. I can’t WAIT to see the video. I’m sure I look, as they say here, “like a right moron,” but whatever - somebody has to be the monkey.

Then today, our department was summoned up to one of the floors in the building that is being renovated at the moment, and when we arrived, we were given various accessories, wigs, etc., and told that the “brief” (marketing speak for ‘description of what you’re supposed to do now’) is “motherf*er.” Wow, I completely don’t even know what that means. Anyway, everyone looked really embarrassed as the marketing lady held out an outrageous wig, and so I said, “Oh, go on - hand it over” took the wig, and looked completely ridiculous as we were told to rap, break dance, and generally look really tough. Again, right moron. The thing is, though, why act embarrassed when I’m clearly not, and I somehow think it makes everyone else feel better if you just go for it. If all of us stood there meekly, it would make for a less than entertaining Christmas video. I took one for the team.

It should be clear now that if someone were to, for example, paint a watercolour rendering of the office at work, or make a clay pot or something, I just don’t think anyone would care. They certainly wouldn’t get in trouble. AND, I would totally win anyway, because everyone else is a big wimp.

Yesterday was the big Thanksgiving party. We brought mashed potatoes - 53 of them, to be exact - baked corn, and two pumpkin pies. All of the above were quite popular, especially the baked corn, which is a very good thing, because carrying those 8 cans of fancy evaporated corn over the ocean made for some heavy luggage, and it’s nice to know that it was worth the sore shoulders. Well not my sore shoulders, exactly, but somebody in this family may or may not have been conned into carrying all of the above cans, two big cans of pumpkin, two massive jars of peanut butter and an enormous bottle of Listerine. Maybe.

The party was a huge success. We were among about 7 or 8 Americans, there was one token Brit, and the rest of the party came from other parts of the world. Some German, some French, a Spaniard, a Japanese family, . . . and very few of them had ever experienced Thanksgiving dinner. I have to say, for all of the slack the British give the Americans, they never look down on Thanksgiving. They know that Thanksgiving is something the Americans do right - very very right. Goodness me that food was delicious, and I think a few people went home with some serious Turkey Day envy.

Tonight, we went back to St. Paul’s, because we wanted to attend the advent carol service. The choir was fabulous - all male, with boys singing the high parts. I love that. The service? Well, a bit fearmongery, a bit long, kinda slow, filled with carols I’ve never heard before, and REALLY pretentious. It was definitely worth it for the music, but it’s not something I would want to do again tomorrow.

That’s about it for this weekend. Back to work tomorrow, and also back on the gym kick. Expect complaints about sore legs again by Tuesday.

OK so today I had my solitary wisdom tooth yanked out of my mouth. It was absolute torture. First of all, I got to the dentist - already nervous - and there was this crazy man in the lobby. At first it was funny. He was talking to another lady in the waiting room, and after she made a phone call, he said, “You have a mobile phone? You have a bloody mobile phone?” She said, “Yes.” He said, “Aren’t mobile phones f*n amazing? Aren’t they amazing?” She said, “Yes, they certainly are.” He said, “You can talk so much bulls*t on a mobile phone, it’s amazing. You can talk to yourself on a mobile phone.” “Well, I suppose you could.” “You CAN! I do it all the time!” He picked up his mobile phone and said, “Hello? Yeah, I’m at the dentist. I don’t like the sound of them drills, though. What’s a hummingbird? What do hummingbirds do? I know you don’t like me. It doesn’t make any difference whether you like me. I’m here for a filling. What the f* are the Polish doing over here anyway? Why don’t they piss off back to Poland?” Then he talked to the receptionist for a while, and then he got back on his phone and said, “Oh sorry mate, yeah. I’ll talk to you later.” Then he hung up and said “See?”

I was frantically taking notes on this conversation, because I thought that looking busy was the surest way to avoid conversation with crazy man. Then he started to get a little nasty with the receptionist and the practice manager, and I was already nervous, so this contributed to my angst. Then, in I go, and the dentist says, “How are you?” “Nervous.”

Well, SIX shots of Novocain later, I survived. That’s right, six. So it’s good when your solitary wisdom tooth is descended like a normal tooth, because then you don’t need surgery, but also you have to lay there GRIPPING the handles of the dentist chair while they shoot your mouth up with Novocain and then tug a bit and then say, “Now does it hurt?” Oh goodness I’m SO glad it’s over.

When the dentist finished, I asked her if it was normal that my eyelid was numb. She lost it. She laughed and laughed. Then she said, “Can you close it?” Yes, I could close it. “Well then you’re fine.” Then I asked her if it was normal that my cheek was eNORMous. She said it’s fine. Then I asked her if it was OK if I went to the grocery store and then made pies, because she had told me earlier to take it easy tonight. She said, “Yes, you’re not ILL.” Oh. OK. She gave me preventative anti-biotics, because “I can tell you get nervous,” and sent me on my way.

I went to the grocery store, half convinced that my shoulder was getting numb, and bought my antibiotics, paracetemol (which is like Tylenol - for the pain), yogurt (because the dentist said to eat one a day to help with the nausea from the antibiotics - no joke - they really DO think that yogurt fixes everything), and two cans of evaporated milk (for the pies - I’ll get to it later). Then I went to Caton’s to borrow her pie pans, and then I came home to start baking pumpkin pies!! Andy and I are bringing pumpkin pies into work tomorrow, because - well mostly because you’re supposed to have pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving, goshdarnit - but also because my coworkers showed LOTS of curiosity, and I needed practice before Saturday. No one at my office has ever tried it before, and I think they’re interested but a wee bit wary. I’m so curious to see if they like it!

By the way, while I was baking the pies, my vision went a little blurry. I think my sense of sight got numb. It’s better now, though. It’s a good thing that pies conform to the shape of pie pans, because otherwise, I probably would have made wonky-shaped pies.

The dentist said it would take about two hours for the Novocain to wear off. It is now 10:41 PM, my appointment was at 4:00, and I still can’t feel my cheek. Maybe it takes two hours per shot?! Hmm. . . Anyway, have a very happy Thanksgiving, and I’ll let you know how the pies turned out.

Last week, Andy and I went to Starbucks for breakfast. We don’t usually do that, because Starbucks is decidedly lacking in ambience, but Starbucks is NOT lacking in the yummy Christmassy drinks department, so we went anyway. When we got there, the man behind the counter - the barista - was American. He was a fine ambassador, because he was exorbitantly cheerful for 8am. “Hi Guys! Venti Eggnog Latte coming right up!” Then, “Would you like whipped cream on that Gingerbread Latte ma’am?” “Sure.” “GREAT choice!” Then, “OK here you go - one Gingerbread Latte - you have a GREAT day now!”

I thought, “I Miss America.”

Then I told my co-worker about the bizarrely cheerful Yank in the Starbucks, and she sort of rolled her eyes and looked annoyed, as if to say, “How could you POSSIBLY find that anything other than annoying?”. Hmmm. . . Apparently not everyone appreciates a little morning cheer.

That’s all for today, except I’ll quickly mention that this lady at work just got back from a trip to America and was recounting a story about it. I didn’t really listen to the story, but the woman she was telling it to suddenly said, without any sense of sarcasm or irony, “And besides, Americans have NO sense of humour.” I thought, “What is WITH you people and your generalisations?!” Then I realised that I was both generalising AND demonstrating my lacking sense of humour. Crap.

For those of you loyal readers who complained about my blog-related laziness, I apologize. Excuses? We got a new wardrobe! I know that perhaps this isn’t the most exciting news in the world to anyone other than Andy and me, but there you are. One day, we went to Ikea and measured the wardrobe. Another day, we went to Ikea and bought the wardrobe. Then we put it together. Then we emptied the old wardrobe and put all of our things in the new wardrobe, and since then - well, we really only finished that last night, so since then I have been at work.

Between the wardrobe and the dresser I acquired about a month ago, we almost have a real apartment now. Things have places, and places have things in them. PHEW!!

Incidentally, in order to purchase the wardrobe, we borrowed a station wagon and drove to Ikea. That’s right - we DROVE (well, Andy drove) - on the WRONG side of the ROAD! It was quite scary, but I only had to remind him to drive on the left once. I actually reminded him about 13 times, but I only HAD to remind him once, and there weren’t even any other cars on that road. London is very hard to navigate, by the way. I landed us on the wrong road about three times in a row. We got here eventually, though, and we have the wardrobe to prove it.

In other news, Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and we have big plans to attend (and make mashed potatoes for) Caton & Mark’s party next Saturday. I have gradually been stocking up on pumpkin pie filling (which is hard to come by here), and now I probably have more pumpkin pie filling than I have in any other year. Oops. Don’t worry - I’m sure I’ll find something to do with all of it!! Goodness - I do love this time of year.

So Andy and I are on a bit of a fitness kick. We finally got around to joining a gym this week (running in the morning was proving more of a challenge as it got darker and colder and rainier), and so far I have been three times. My legs are KILLING me. I walked around the office like a cowboy all day, and people kept saying I looked drunk. It’s ok - it’s not too terribly out of the ordinary to be drunk at work here. Lunches get out of control - things happen. (bunch of lushes, these brits)

Annnyway, when I went to the gym the first day, I went on the treadmill. I’m not a huge treadmill fan, but it’s a good, sweaty, feel like I did something type workout, so I went for it. Quick start, and up up up the speed. 6. Still walking. 9’s ok but feels a bit slow. . . what the. . . ? OHHHHHH kilometers. So then I increased it some more until it felt right and spent the rest of my workout thinking through the math in my head. I happen to know that a 5K is about 3.1 miles. I know that because I ran one once and someone told me that. So if I’m doing 10K per hour . . . I think I’m a bit dumb when I’m running, because it took a few tries.

Anyway, then I was excited to do some bicep curls and such, because my arms are so weak from being lazy for six months. So I go to the free weights (in the boy part of the gym, which is already uncomfortable), and they’re labeled from 1 to 10. Not the 2, 5, 8, 10, 12, 15, 20 that I’m used to. Hmmm, I think. . . OK, how about 7? 7 looks about the right size. No way, jose - 7 is too heavy. 6? 6 was a bit much, but I managed, because I didn’t want to downgrade TWICE - then I would have looked like a real wimp. I decided while fighting with the 6-ers that perhaps this was 6 kilos. Hmmm. . . 2.2 pounds. . . yeah I actually never finished that math problem - I’m even dumber when lifting weights, apparently.

THEN, I got on the scale in the bathroom. My options are stone and kilos. Oh geeze here we go again. I go with stone, because I know that one stone is 14 pounds. Then I do the math, and let’s just say that if the scale’s right, I’m skinnier than I have been since about 10th grade, and those who knew me in 10th grade will know that I was a scrawny little thing, and now I’m a grownup. I got back on the scale to make sure I didn’t see the wrong number, and then I did the math again. Still completely out of the realm of possibility. So apparently being really lazy and eating pub food is a really good way to lose weight? FAT chance. Who does this gym think they’re fooling?! All these ladies probably think they weigh about 10 pounds (sorry - 5/7ths of a stone) less than they do. I guess there’s no harm in it, until they get on a correct scale and get really depressed when they find out the truth.

Anyway, let this be a warning to you. Going to the gym in another country is a wee bit tricky. What with their wacky metric system and what-not.

Coffee has been coming up a lot lately. Perhaps it’s due to the colder weather? Anyway, to start, we recently acquired a coffee maker (thank you very much again), and it has made a GREAT addition to our lives. I don’t really ever have time to drink a cup in the morning, but Andy does (somehow he manages to finish getting ready before me even though he showers after me), and the point is it smells HEAVEnly. This past weekend, Andy and I sat around lazily and sipped on our yummy-smelling coffee, and it was just lovely. Sometimes I just fancy a change from tea - that’s all.

So with coffee on the brain, on Sunday evening, we went to St. Paul’s to watch the free organ concert - you know that already - but THEN we went to Starbucks, because the Christmas drinks have ARRIVED. One mug of chocolate mint bliss for me, and one mug of gingerbread latte for Andy. We sat in the window (by the way, they serve it in REAL MUGS here) and watched the people walk by in the rain. It was just wonderful. Then, the next day at work, some lovely ladies were talking about their Sunday nights, which involved playing pool at the pub with mates, so I told them about my Sunday night, and at first they looked at me with that trying-to-be-nice-but-what-kinda-weirdo-does-that expression, and then one of them asked me if Starbucks reminded me of home. I said yes*, and when I’m really homesick I go sit in McDonald’s with the fat people and smell that vat of oil, and ahhh. . . . the memories. . . mom used to slave all day over that . . uh. . . cash register. . .

I guess I can understand in a way - there really isn’t an English equivalent to the mega-corporations of American origin that everyone loves to hate, so if tea and biscuits or a pub lunch would remind and English person of home, why wouldn’t McD’s be a beacon of warm, fuzzy nostalgia for the Yanks? Then again, come ONNNnnnnnnn. . . . .

OK so then, this morning we went to breakfast, as we do regularly, and in Mr. Cappuccino, a teeny cafe with excellent croissants (and cappuccinos, as one would hope) that happens to be our most frequent breakfast spot, there were three guys filming a movie. We were there first, and then a guy came in with two other guys behind them. Then they broke out these big professional cameras and started filming the first guy as he drank his coffee and read the Guardian. Ok, WHAT?! There are 6, maybe 7 teany tables in this place, and two of them are now in a movie. A movie is happening in my left ear and Andy is talking into my right ear, and can you DO that?!

Guess so.

So look for my left elbow in some random movie in another language. I’m wearing a pink sweater and my elbow is VERY pointy. You won’t miss it.

*”Said” in this sentence refers to the blog definition of “said,” which means that my wittier, post-conversation, post-steal jokes from Andy self had thoughts of this general nature and then the real version of me claimed that I actually said it when in real life what I may have actually said may or may not have actually been lame.

Last night turned out to be absolutely beautiful, weather-wise. It was so nice to see Johanna, the food was wonderful, and after dinner we went up to Primrose Hill to watch fireworks for a few minutes. NOW I see what’s so nice about Guy Fawkes day. The celebration in my imagination was like the 4th of July but colder. While not entirely incorrect, I completely misunderstood the British definition of fireworks. Contrary to the orchestrated fireworks program (perhaps with accompanying music, even) that I envisioned, on Primrose Hill, there were masses of people standing around, and some of them happened to be lighting fireworks. They lit the typical bottle rockets and cherry bomb-type fireworks one might find on 4th of July weekend in back yards across Pennsylvania, but most of the fireworks were big, noisy, impressive ones just like those you might see in your local 4th of July celebration - except closer, and noisier.

It was a bit scary at first, but once I got used to it, I realised its charm. See, when you watch an orchestrated fireworks display, you might clap at the end, but you have no idea who you’re clapping for. Here, when someone does something impressive with the fireworks they paid for with their own money and set up with their own ingenuity and creativity, you cheer for your neighbor - the little guy - the person who did this to help make Guy Fawkes day a little more fun for all of us. That sentiment, combined with the occasional “HIT THE DECK,” made Guy Fawkes day MUCH more exciting than I anticipated. Also, from where we were standing, we could see fireworks all over the city - it was quite impressive.

There was a distinct lack of bonfire on Primrose Hill, by the way, but I don’t think it’s one of the official bonfire night celebration spots. Maybe next year.

By the way, today we went to St. Paul’s cathedral for a free organ concert. What a huge perk of living in a big city! Free recital by someone who must be one of the worlds greatest organists, and in one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen - and I’ve seen a lot of churches (see the Paris posts).

The 5th of November. That’s what they’ll say today in merry old England, because it’s Guy Fawkes Day, and apparently that’s what you’re supposed to say. There’s more. . .

Remember Remember, the 5th of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Aside from reciting poorly constructed sentences, tonight the good citizens of Her Majesty’s dominion will trek out to their neighborhood park/hill/green space and stand around a huge bonfire in the cold, cold rain. WHOOPEE!!! The holiday is named after a fella (Guy Fawkes) who intended to assassinate King James I by blowing up the House of Lords during the opening of the 1605 session of parliament. This was called the Gunpowder Plot, and - poor Guy - it was FOILED! Then they captured him, tortured him into revealing all of his co-conspirators, and then had him hung, drawn and quartered in the Old Palace Yard in central London.

The holiday marks these events with bonfires and fireworks all over the country. I have done some research (with my poor coworkers, as usual), and I really don’t think there’s anything else to it. No food, no family gathering - just the bonfires and fireworks, but everybody LOVES this holiday. They’re so excited. I say, “What are you going to do?” thinking there will be parties or big meals or forced grimacey smiles as Dad wins Monopoly - AGAIN - but no. Just bonfires and fireworks.

The weird bit is that atop these bonfires around the country are effigies of Guy Fawkes. They make little Guy Fawkes dolls and burn them. It’s like the 4th of July, only cold, wet, lacking in the hot dog department, and really quite morbid.

Interesting Guy Fawkes-related factoid: the word “guy” in English - particularly in American English - comes from this fella here. Read more on Wikipedia.

Tonight, in effort to be well-behaved, culturally participatory immigrants, we’re meeting Caton, Mark, and Johanna for dinner, and then we’re planning to catch some fireworks, and as this is the 400th anniversary of the whole debacle, it may be a particularly spectacular display. Then again, with nothing to compare it to, I suppose we’ll never know.

PS. We changed the banner, but you might have to empty your cache to see the new pic.