29: Almost Scary, But Not Quite.

Thanks for all the birthday wishes last week.  I'm 29.  I'm getting to that age.  I'm not 30 yet, but I've nestled up as close as one can get without actually *touching* it.  So I'm young, technically, but it feels like I've been condemned to Auntie status for a long time.  

Whether she intends it or not, every phone conversation with my mother, who I love with all my heart, is starting to sound the same to me: "I saw in the paper that so-and-so from your high school who you weren't really friends with and never spoke to again is getting married."  "My friend's daughter just bought a house."  "My other friend's daughter just had her third baby."  There's never an explicit reproach, but the undertone is there:  what have you done for me lately?  

So here's what I've done lately:  I've gotten a degree in English that, while fun, wasn't worth the paper it was printed on.  I've halfheartedly been to law school because I didn't know what else to do.  I've jetted abroad to do a Master's degree, then jetted home to be called even more halfheartedly to the Bar.  I've risen through the ranks of junior lawyers, been head hunted, and jetted off again to Europe to work in the Big City as a corporate drone.  I've seen the world, several times, and had my share of boys and men.  And yet, my dear friends (the ones who are married and are maybe onto their second house and their third baby) still say things like, "Just come home so you can start your life!"

Huh?

Because here's what I haven't done lately:  bought a house, found the One, married the One, and had babies with the One.  Even my younger brother has managed to mollify the Momma by living in sin with his partner of seven years, a convenient 10 minute drive from the Parents' house.

Do I want these things? 

Next question.

Do I have the foggiest idea how to get there? 

Nope.

Do I even know if I'd be happy if, by some strange Freaky Friday occurrence, I found myself tomorrow in my friends' shoes, in yoga pants, my hair thrown back in a ponytail, pushing my kids down a suburban street in a Quinny stroller? 

Nope.

Do I feel like time is running out and I'd better make up my mind, fast?

You betcha.

I love kids.  I love being an Auntie.  But, I also love giving them back.  And, I also heave a sigh of relief whenever I drive out of suburbia and back into the city after a long day of Auntie-ing. However, I do still have the same white picket fence, white wedding dress (okay, off-white wedding dress), pink-and-blue bootie fantasies (not necessarily in that order) that I think most girls still have, but feel ashamed to admit...thanks, feminism!  So yes, I guess I want it all.  I want the Dream, but I want to still be Me so the Dream doesn't become the Nightmare.  

What I don't want is to always feel like an also-ran at family gatherings when I don't have a ring or a kid to show off or a mortgage rate to brag about.  What I don't want is to feel that unless these things happen for me, I'm not a whole person. There's got to be a way to find love and fabulousness without compromising, isn't there?  I can feel good about who I am even if I don't tick all these boxes, can't I?

My head says yes, but my heart doesn't always agree.  When we go on family holidays and I'm relegated to the pull-out sofa, the spinster sister, I can't help but feel like less of a person.  And I don't want to feel that way anymore. 

So.  I'm off in search of fabulousness, the Black Sheep of the family.  The one who tore herself away from a very close family unit to forge her own path in the world, and found she quite liked it out there.  And the one who currently feels the most pressure to Settle Down.   And, sadly, the one that, despite living a rich and probably interesting life, feels a little bit discounted and discarded by the world because I'm not living that life as Mrs. or Mommy.

And so, hopefully 29 will be a fantastic year, my year to hopefully show someone that it's okay, maybe even fun, maybe even a little exciting, to be the Spinster Sister, the Auntie.  Even if that someone is just myself.

Thank you for the music...

It's one of those moments, those moments where you think about where you are, and how you will remember where you are always, because it's where (and when) you heard the news.

Michael Jackson dead?

Yes, of course, he'd become a caricature of himself in the past 15 years, he may or may not have molested children, he may or may not have been bankrupt.   What he definitely was?  A troubled, lonely soul whose every move was media fodder, for better or worse.  

But here is what I will remember of MJ:

-  Dancing in the family room on Winchester Road with my dad to the Thriller album every night after dinner when I was a pre-schooler.

-  Watching the Thriller and Beat It videos with my 'big' cousins Robbie and Shelby in the basement on Wiltshire Boulevard.

-  Playing "Bad" on repeat in my bedroom, singing into a microphone made out of a hairbrush, until I knew every word by heart.

-  Learning to sing AND sign "Heal the World" as one of the show-kids for the 1994 Commonwealth Games.

So, thank you for the music Mr. Jackson.  

Randoms.

I am having difficulty keeping colour where I want it.  This may seem very insignificant.  But in the aggregate, it's a problem.  Observe:

1.  After 9 days, Rock Star Red hair has become, um...kind of red.  Which, you know, it's pretty.  But all I can see are dollar signs (sorry, pound signs) as I stare at the pink water running down the drain when I wash my hair.  I finally decided to do something about it and had words with my colour technician yesterday.  She'll be re-doing Rock Star Red, at no extra charge, later this week.

2. Why can't nail polish ever stay on your nails?  I mean, seriously now.  If someone invented real, honest-to-god, not-just-saying-it-on-the-bottle chip-proof nail polish, I would be a happy girl.

3.  I also have colour where I don't want it.  I accidentally threw my bright pink stockings in the wash with my other ladythings.  I no longer own any white anything.  Every bra, every pair of knickers... all pink.  Every. Single. One.  And, since I'm now Rock Star Red, the pink?  Not so complimentary (or complementary, for that matter).  Sigh.  

Canadian Summer Splendour


My dad retired last September, and hasn't done a really good job of taking things easy.  Instead he's been hard at work in the new garden at Lifton, shovelling river rock, building water features, cultivating new flowerbeds, unearthing long-forgotten ponds, and fending off the onslaught of voracious deer who have taken a liking to snacking on his plants.  He's even had the Momma out there as well, who has been "decorating her outdoor spaces" a la HGTV, weeding, and taking part in Operation Bambi Hunt.  The results are amazing and it makes me very homesick to think I won't spend at least one summer night sitting out on the patio eating my Dad's espresso spareribs with Alex and Laura, or wandering around barefoot in the grass with the cat (of course) on a hot afternoon.


The veggie garden.  One day Dad called and said, "The bad news: the deer ate all my sweet peas, raspberries and tomato plants.  The good news?  They don't like green beans! They left the green beans alone!"  The next day, a little defeated: "They ate the green beans."

The previous owners at Lifton had originally been avid gardeners as well, but let things go as they got too advanced in years to take care of it all.  Dad's been hard at work bringing the beds back to life.

How very Martha, Dad.

Look, a pond!  I suggested some koi so Fordie Cat could go fishing, but that was vetoed. 

My mother has commented that the new yard is "just the place for a summer garden wedding," so if anyone is interested in getting hitched, let my mother know, wilya? It'll take some of the pressure off Alex, Laura and I...

Tube Strike!

A 48 hour Tube strike commenced this evening at, oh, just about the hour when everyone in Central London leaves to go home.   We had all been warned, with every news outlet reporting the event days in advance, but there were still hordes of people milling about Liverpool Street Station tonight wringing their hands, shaking their heads and generally muttering at the inconvenience.  It also meant buses were crowded, as was my beloved Thames Clipper.

Since I moved to Greenland Pier, I take the Thames Clipper catamaran down river to either Tower Hill or, if I'm feeling like I need a Monmouth Coffee from Borough Market before work, London Bridge.  Then I walk (or, if it's raining and I'm lazy, a bus) to my office on Bishopsgate, about a mile and a half stroll.  I love the Thames Clipper; the pier is under 2 minutes' walk from my front door, it runs every 15 minutes or so from early in the morning until midnight, there's an espresso bar on board in case of emergency, and I always have a seat.  I can even choose to sit outside and enjoy the sun if I so choose.   The disadvantage? It's cost prohibitive - at 5 quid a ride or 99 for a monthly pass, it's not something your average Londoner can afford.

And you know what?

That's why I like it.

I'll admit it, I've become a transit snob.  Being without my own vehicle since 2004, I've developed bus fatigue.  I get car sick standing in the aisles, holding onto a pole (because I can't reach the overhead handrails) as the bus lurches from side to side.  I hate perching nervously on a seat looking around to make sure there's not someone I should be offering it to.  I hate, even more, standing in my high heels burdened with laptop and purse and umbrella and gymbag, while some 21 year old guy sits smugly reading the Metro with his headphones on, not a care in the world. I hate being forced to overhear my fellow passengers' mobile phone conversations, in approximately 90 languages.  I hate having to move so some woman can wheel her kid in a stroller down the aisle.  Read the sign lady! It says strollers must be folded down during peak hours!  And why is the upper deck of the bus reserved for teenagers with ASBOs (that's an Anti-Social Behaviour Order, to those not conversant in UK slang)?  Transport For London should hand out body armour with every Oyster Card.

And don't even get me started on the Tube.  Why do people run through stations like if they miss this train, it's the end of the world?  There's another one coming in 2 minutes!  And escalators are made to move you, you don't have to run down them/walk up them!  That's what they are there for!  And no, it doesn't make having to transfer at Kings' Cross any more pleasant by having some weird busker play electric violin accompanied by canned music.   And no, I already said to the last 6 people waving them in my face that I didn't want my complimentary copy of the Metro, the Londonpaper, the Evening Standard, or City AM.  Now go away.

But I digress.  My boat, the Monsoon Clipper, was almost to capacity when I boarded this evening, homeward bound.  I didn't like it.  Too many newcomers drinking beer from the ship bar and taking photos as we sped past Tower Bridge.  Too many people asking which pier they should get off at and confusing Greenland and Greenwich.  I'm concerned that this is shades of what is to come when Thames Clipper enters into a joint venture with Transport for London next year and the boat service becomes integrated with Oyster.  Sigh.  The plebs will overrun my happy little cruise.

Even more unfortunate is that I quite proudly extol the virtues of my civilised commute to whoever will listen.  Even yesterday, on my way to a client meeting with one of my partners, I turned up my nose as we boarded a National Rail train and commented once again how nice it is to float down the river rather than be packed like sardines in a train carriage.  Which meant that when that partner sent round an email today asking people to let him know if they were going to be able to make it into work tomorrow or whether they'd be working from home, I had to tell the truth and say there was nothing preventing me from coming in, while around me my colleagues succumbed to grossly exaggerated obstacles:  "It'll take me 4 buses to get in tomorrow...it'll probably take three hours."  "I guess I'll walk...from Covent Garden."  "The only possible way that I can travel anywhere from my home is by Tube, there's not even BUS service within walking distaince, so I won't be in."  EVEN: "I walk to work, but the pavements will be crowded."

You'll be able to shoot a cannon off in the office tomorrow, but I'll be there, thanks to the bloody boat.  

Okay, Last Pie-Blog


Except I'm totally lying! I'm totally in love with pie making.    And look!  It stayed together when cut!  Beautiful!  My father has just pronounced my pie "fine" and determined that, with more practice, I will be an OK pie maker.  Well, that's it then.  I'm going to make more pies and blog about them.  The Blue Mondays Baking Company now does pie.   I'm a 28 year old girl who lives alone with her cat and likes making pie.  Wait, I'm like the sexy version of Susan Boyle!  

And for Darragh, because he asked so nicely, an interior pie shot.  Okay, that just sounded dirty.  

Wherein I Make a Pie and Become a Rock Star.

In an interview recently, Lady Gaga was asked how she was adjusting to her new-found fame.  Lady Gaga, pursing her lips, looked bemused, and after a pause, said "But I've always been famous...people just didn't know before."  Well, the Lady and I must have been born under the same star sign because it has always been one of the great tragedies of my life that I am not a super-mega star (yet).  Or, um, have any talent that could GET me to super-mega star status (yet).  I have decided to take her words to heart and start acting famous.  Thus, after an afternoon spent at Toni & Guy and Benefit, I emerged, Ginger Spice.  Err, I mean.  Rockstar Me.  I don't think Currie wants to be famous, look how she's dodging the paparazzi in the shot above.

Before I was famous, I really enjoyed baking.  You know, cookies, cakes, cupcakes.  The odd madeleine and charlotte.  But one thing I never attempted was the pie.  This was because the making of pie crust has a certain legendary status in our family; it has always been presented, by my grandmother as Chief Family Pie Maker, and her lieutenant, my father, as a culinary Mount Everest that the unprepared must not attempt.  However, being new ultra-confident Famous Dani, and also, sufficiently far away from my father to avoid his scorn and I-told-you-so face when my pie didn't turn out, I thought, hey.  Let's give this pie thing a go.  The results were magnificent.  Below, my first ever Strawberry Rhubarb Sour Cream Pie.  Please, hold your applause.

Dani Gobi: For Susen

LEON, a London resto, was the first place I saw aloo gobi made with sweet potato and I like it! Here is my version, with some Danilemon modifications. I also call it "Rainbow Curry."

You need:

1 purple onion, thickly sliced
1 carrot, thickly sliced
2 tbsp. peanut oil
1 red chili (I put in lots of chili because I like spicy, but add to taste)
2 good sized pieces of ginger (unpeeled)
5 cloves of garlic (peeled)
1 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. turmeric
1 tsp. Konji (black onion seed)
1 sweet potato, diced (you could use regular but I like sweet potato better and it's colorful)
4 tbsp. ground almonds (I use this as a thickener but you could use cornstarch)
a handful of craisins (you could use regular raisins but I like the craisins because they are more tart)
1/2 a cauliflower, broken into florets
1 can of coconut milk (I use reduced fat and it works fine)
about half a bag of frozen peas
1 lemon
cilantro,
chopped salt and pepper to taste
shredded coconut

1. Cook the onion and the carrot in a big saucepan in the oil, over medium heat, for 15-20 minutes, with the lid on. Stir occasionally, and throw in some salt.

2. Throw the ginger, chili and garlic in a food processor and mush into a paste. Throw the paste in with the onions and carrots once they have begun to soften, along with the spices and Konji. Cook for another 5 minutes.

3. Put in the sweet potato chunks, some more salt, and the almonds, and mix all together. Turn the heat up, stir in 2 cups of water, and the craisins.

4. Bring the mixture to a simmer, and leave it to simmer for another 15-20 minutes. Stir occasionally.

5. Add the cauliflower and coconut milk, put the lid on, and let it simmer for another 15 minutes or so, until the cauliflower and the sweet potato are both cooked.

6. Take it off the heat, stir in the peas, squeeze the lemon over the whole thing, and spoon onto plates.

7. Sprinkle some cilantro on top with some salt and pepper. Add a little shredded coconut to make it pretty. Serve with brown basmati rice. It services 6...honestly. It won't look like it does, but it's very filling.

Do not spill a) onion seeds or b) shredded coconut all over your kitchen. I have done both, on separate occasions.

Nom nom! I always have homemade chai for dessert after I make this...I need to get on with learning how to make a good mango laasi and some Indian sweets...

The Mirrorball Boat

Yes, that's right, I said Mirrorball Boat. I was greeted by the marvellous maritime monstrosity when I walked out of my flat this morning:






I like how the Mirrorball Boat reflected me back into the top photo all Picasso-like...sorry, that wasn't elegant, or eloquent, but I am momentarily stunned by the tacky gorgessity of the Mirrorball Boat.
I am picturing the skipper in a John Travolta/Saturday Night Fever suit (except with white captain's hat perched on top of bouffant).
Other Mirrorball Boat quandaries:
How much Windex do you think they need to keep it clean?
Do budgies ram into it, mesmerized by their own reflection?
Does it get quite warm on the Mirrorball Boat on a sunny day?
Are symptoms of seasickness aggravated by the 1,000,000 reflections of bobbing horizon reflected in the Mirrorball Boat?

Lainey Picks Up on my Scoop!

Alright, I'll admit it, I am addicted to celebrity gossip. And one of my favorite sites is Lainey Gossip, run by a Vancouver journalist. One of her favorite targets is Miley Cyrus, who is too ridiculous for words.

Anyway, Miley was on Jonathan Ross on Friday night and it was horrific. So I sent the following email to Lainey:

Ugh. Please oh please, for the love of all that is cringe-worthy, you must find and watch this. Here are my personal highlights of Miley Cyrus on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross (UK late-night talk show) tonight. Note: Other guests are Helen Mirren (!!!) and Simon Pegg (!!!)

1. Talking in a British accent to the British host. In front of a British audience. AND HELEN MIRREN. Her accent is worse than Britney's fake British accent in the Adnan Era. I had to change the channel, I was so embarassed.

2. Miley: What I want to do is film. I don't want to do this forever. My next role will be a bit more dramatic. It's written by Nicholas Sparks and...
Jonathan: Are you playing a ninja?
Miley: Ooooh...I'd like to play a ninja. Or the Queen. SHE (referring to Helen Mirren) would give (the role) to me, she likes me.
Jonathan: You can say her name, she's right there (gesturing to Helen Mirren) Miley: No. I don't want to. This is all about ME. This is MY press time.

3. Jonathan: Do you want to know what my favorite part of the movie is?
Miley: Me?

4. Miley (as Jonathan is wrapping up): Say hello to Helen for me. Give her a hug. Say hi from
me. I really like Helen, actually (said with wonder, like this is a big surprise, like HELEN MIRREN is an acquired taste).

Oooooooooooh my god. It is possibly the most obnoxious I have ever seen Ms. Miley. I loved it but also wanted to throw knives at my TV.

Anyway, Lainey picked up on it!

http://www.laineygossip.com/Miley_Cyrus_disrespects_Helen_Mirren_on_Jonathan_Ross.aspx?CatID=0&CelID=0

Am sad she didn't give me a shout-out, as she usually does. I will live in quiet satisfaction that I was able to scoop Lainey.

Love the gossip.