London Southern Belle

It suits me

This September will mark my fourth year living in charming England. My experiences have been beyond any expectation I have ever had. When I first met handsome man ‘o mine in 1996, I was completely taken by his demeanour. He was chivelress and any friend that has met him will confirm he continues to live up to that description – without fail. That meeting changed me. It is the reasons why I lead the life I currently lead. My braveness, I owe partly to the man I fell in love with over ten years ago – through letters written by hand and then that special meeting in person.

As a teenager, I would dream how my life might be if I could ever muster the courage and take the plunge. A plunge into the unknown world of living amongst British life of red letter boxes, dainty tea cups and weekend trips to villages so very quaint and picturesque. Dreaming about such excited me yet I often had questions of, ‘Why on earth would a girl uproot herself from America’s southland of cotton fields and stately homes when she did not even have the slightest clue as to what a creamed tea consisted of?”

I had a family tree rooted in the southern states of America and my childhood family vacations were planned around whether or not we could drive there by car. I had not stepped foot onto an airplane, fingered foreign money or even own a passport. Yet, long before I met handsome man ‘o mine, I knew my life would consist of more than what Mississippi had to offer. I fell in love with the idea of immersing myself in a culture that was not my own. Perhaps this dream was a wanted escape.

I remember family trips in my parent’s Jeep Cherokee tearing along the highways, my legs wedged behind my father’s seat, feeling the very bounds of my belly hurling forward amongst the bends in the roads, images playing vividly on the back of my eyelids. I imagined running, leaping over the cracks in the highway, feeling the burning sensation of the hot pavement through my glittery jelly shoes. I scampered through corn fields, darting through back yards of green bladed turf. It was as if I longed to go somewhere but at the time I wasn’t sure where or even when.

It was four years later, that I met Russell. A friend from my church youth group so fascinated with the Beatles, he insisted I love them equally. Listening to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ amongst stacks of CD and magazine articles, I found an instant infatuation with the accents of the British. This obsession eventually cultivated to that of an anglophile.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1998 that I boarded a plane to London. One year after my first embrace with handsome man ‘o mine. That single trip planted a seed - a seed that later after years of nurturing grew uncontrollably like ivy to a stone wall. Tears flowed, curving my face and plummeting to my lap as I waved goodbye to the city and travelled back to Mississippi. I felt that leaving London was like leaving home. I had found a new place to hang my hat. Eventually, not even the fear of the unknown could stop me from beginning a new life in a new and different country five years later after marrying my first love.

I am still amazed I am here and each day is faced with a brave heart and a new outlook on life. I no longer fear life. I simply live it well and am happy that my life now suits me just fine. I owe it all to a few love letters - that handsome man 'o mine keeps safely in a decoupage box - and two hearts with one hope.

Paris in my heart

Handsome man 'o mine and I met in 1996. I was only a teenager and completely in love with him despite the seven year gap between us in age. I grew up in Mississippi, USA where I spent most days perched on a wooden church bench minding my P's and Q's, responding with politness of, 'Yes Ma'am' and 'No thank you Ma'am'.  It was small town living for me and so much of the world, I wanted to see for myself.

Handsome man 'o mine was amazing and even though we lived in seperate countries he continued to make me feel special and deeply loved. I had never travelled abroad and had dreams of seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The closest I ever came to that dream at the time were old photos my grandmother had taken on her journey there years before hand. I would gaze at her photos of delightful french-ness, my eyes glazing over in a dreamy coma. Handsome man 'o mine once made the promise,

'Someday, I will give you Paris.'

I found that sentence spoken so very romantic and for years would cling on to the hope and promise he made. Years passed and handsome man 'o mine and I eventually took a break after trying a distant relationship for three years. I never forgot about yearning to see Paris. Nor, did he.

In 2003, we found each other again. Missing our relationship and more determined to make it work, I packed everything I owned into two suitcases and made the plunge to live in England with him. In 2003, we married and all was perfection. Our first wedding anniversary, I was presented with a shimmering envelope, with an uncertain thickness about it. Opening it with great anticipation, I wondered what he would surprise me with. Falling to my lap, were two flights to Paris. I could feel the tears building in my eyes.

I shall never forget seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time. This small southern belle from Mississippi was on top of the world. He gave me Paris.

Never will I forget. It isn't just a memory in my mind. The moment still belongs in my heart.

Embracing my inner Martha

Eventful weekend. I am learning to sew. No, even better - I am teaching myself to sew. As I am swiftly approaching my 29th birthday and realizing I have yet to even warm up the sewing machine I bought with last year's birthday vouchers from John Lewis, I had an epiphany - Being able to sew on a button is just not that impressive. So, I embraced a trip to a local craft shop full of fabrics and eager crafters and took the plunge. I bought fabric. It was exhilarating.

Thanks to the [ever so talented so much better than Martha softie doll creator extraordinaire] Hillary Lang of Wee Wonderfuls, I was able to create my first softie - a bunny. The pattern booklet arrived in the mail last week and the glossy pages of creations-to-be excited me to no end. The clincher? I had no idea where to even begin.

Firstly, hats off to handsome man 'o mine. He taught me to use my new sewing machine. Did I mention the man cooks, cleans, makes my lunch daily and irons my work clothes? Yes, every single day. And, no you may not rent him and no he is definitely not gay. He is something closely resembling perfection and I am completely smitten as a kitten. I can say that he grew up with a grandmother that  knitted his action men sweaters and she definitely had sewing machines in use throughout his childhood. It was his mum that taught me last Christmas to knit. I reminded him how fortunate he is to have had this teaching despite being more interested in football and making hot air balloons out of trash bags and small explosives. My own mother was more interested in bowling and playing bunko. I cannot say I blame her and my father for leaving us with babysitters - we were an unruly pair growing up. Starving for attention more than anything.

Mechanics aside, I managed to trace over my newly expiring bunny pattern and cut out the patterns. By this time, pink softness and tiny fleece shoes were taking shape and I could barely contain myself.
My project ended with many hiccups but I consider it a trial run. And for a first creation ever, even as a profectionist, I am pleased. By easter, I hope to have perfected a little bunny that my niece may call her own - it will fit perfectly with a set of my favorite series of children's books called Lettuce the Rabbit by Mandy Stanley.

I may just have embraced my inner Martha Stewart. 

because actions speak louder than words

[to think what he would be like with a baby]

Starlight, star bright!

Our weekend was fun. Handsome man o' mine celebrated his 36th (shhh) birthday with a chocolate cake, sparkling candles, presents galore and a midnight picnic. That's right, a picnic at midnight. Pictured above is a few of us gazing to the dark heavens [freezing]. This photo was taken right when I realized J had stepped in doggy poo and trampled it onto my blanket. Hence me covering my face with my cashmere pashmina to mask the stench.

Sunday evening, we [along with a few friends] packed our posh picnic basket with wine, mini cucumber sandwiches, strawberries and more wine and copped a squat near a tiny local river [I use the term 'river' loosely here. It is more of a stream] and despite the light pollution of London, we spotted breathtaking shooting stars. A great end to a birthday bash.

Our second Adoption Course has been postponed [due to lack of couples to take the course. grrr] to November which means two more months of waiting time before our baby to be joins our lives. I'm totally ignoring all of this 'patience is a vitue' palava.

Quackity Quack! Don't talk back!

Last night handsome man o' mine and I went for a leisurely walk into the town high street. Our high street is lined with quaint shops. Quaintness that can never go unrecognized. Exposed beams, wayward and leaning foundations, sturdy wooden doors with iron door knockers tempting enough to lift and find out who is resting in their own quaintness. The pubs and coffee shops are spilling with those enjoying the freshness of the air in between neighboring smokes.

"Let's go and have a drink," my husband states as we gaze at the newborn ducks.  There was one baby who could not seem to get up the stream with his mother and the other ducklings. It chirped loudly, listening for his mother's reassurance that she and the others had not left it behind. Darren knew we were not leaving this tiny pond until I knew for sure this frantic duckling made it safely to its family.

"I have on sneakers." I gasped. "And, jeans."

He gave me the glance. The same one I get when he has arrived home from work early and I am on my hands and knees obsessive compulsively scrubbing the toilet in the bathroom. Perspiration soaking my clothing, hair tied back with vintage material and thoughts of, "darn it,  he can't know I sweat....  fart.... or snot..." And, soon to follow I get the glance from him that reminds me he loves me exactly the way I come - not always polished.

"Perfect. I'll order you a glass of champagne," he says with a smile as he grabs my hand.

And so, there we sit outside a french inspired cafe sipping champagne in my old running shoes.... It was the perfect unpolished hour.

Have a Heart

…a little girl around the age of eight with a bright smile and silky locks politely offers me a tiny packet of sweets with an accent sweeter than molasses. In one of  England’s largest roaring cities, Londontown has time for children giving away free heart shaped conversation sweets i.e. candy. It’s endearing and I would think even for the scroogy-est of people on this day of hearts would find it hard to smile after such a delightful gesture.

I happen to love all things Valentine. In fact, we adore it enough to name a child after this sugary day – our little Valentina. It’s on the list. Like it or not, we love it. I have spent the afternoon listening to jazz from the lips of women so romantic I dare to think what this day means(t) to them. Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Diana Krall – their music is tiptoeing through my flat. The scent of boxed chocolates lingers, red cashmere on my skin. It’s enough to make my heart skip beats. How could one not love this day?

An early work email from sweet man o’ man reveals evening plans. “Get your skates on,” he says. That always means we are going somewhere special. It makes me smile in knowing he is the perfect soul for me; so many wrongs in order to finally get one that does everything o’ so right. My favourite conversation heart says, “Him”

Love, do not make a sound, melt into me now.

Baby Goodness

My husband's best friend and wife just had their first child. A baby boy. He is the utter most perfect little life I have laid eyes on. Because they are incredibly special and have always done so much for us, we wanted to give them a thoughtful gift. As they have chosen to live an "organic lifestyle" and are leery of additives in foods, I felt a "baby food making" basket (a la Martha Stewart) would be the perfect gift! It is useful plus thoughtful.

The verdict: She likes loves it.

Create your own "Baby Food Making" Basket:
Lined Basket. I found this sweet basket lined in tan linen with the word "BABY" embroidered on the side. Tres sweet!
"Feeding Your Baby & Toddler" by Annabell Karmel. This book is fantastic and is full of dietary information for children as well as yummy baby food recipes including homemade purees.
Mini blender.  Compact and easy to clean.
Spatula. I searched high and low for a slotted spatula. I never did find one.
Baby spoons & bowls
Baby bibs
Muslin cloths
Food containers
Labels
Strainer
Hand soap
Tea Towels

Handsome man of mine was very hesitant to hold Joe however, after reassuring him, "I will teach you how to old him properly," he gave in. It was endearing to see him holding a tiny life with such care. I would say that it was written in the stars for him to be a father. It suits him to perfection. If only.

A very rich life

This past weekend, handsome man of mine and I helped my mother in-law clear out her mother's three bedroom home. Several months ago, Nan had several strokes and was placed into care and has not been able to return to her home since. We all knew this huge task would need to be done sooner or later and eventually a date to hand over the keys to Nan's home was set. For tomorrow. Naturally, procrastination got the better of us all and we did not tackle the task until the weekend before. Probably not the best of ideas, if I do say so myself.

I am a "get in there and get it done" type of person. I pack, move and set up a home as if I have lived there for several years and it only takes me a day to accomplish this. No tea breaks, no chat, no excuses. Such a task is over-organised and finished with time to spare. It's how I work. It drives most insane, but it is what I do. It must be done this way, or I would be a mess otherwise. To me organisation and time management means less stress and a smooth transition. Unfortunately for me, not all see it this way.

Stepping in her home is like stepping back in time. Nothing has changed since she moved in over fifty years ago. The wallpaper, retro and peeling. No shiny counter-tops and stainless steel appliances. Yet, it was full of character, full of life, despite the stillness. And while I was anxious to get  the "job" done, I realised something.

This was not my grandmother's home.

I would not be able to bring myself to throw out my family's belongings. I would not be able to do it. I know this truth. I had to sympathise with what handsome man of mine was going through. I sat back while he and his mother read through old letters written to his grandmother by his grandfather while he was away at war. I listened while they laughed at family photos, tried to figure out why there were so many keys lying around the house, read diary entries of how my husband's grandfather went shooting with Princess Anne and reminisced about presents given long ago that still exist on untouched bookshelves. It was a grieving process for them. The memory of a home that my mother in-law grew up in, my husband lived in the first year of his life, and a home they continued to build memories in for years to come. I had to respect that and therefore set my lack of control and organsation tactics aside and never once thought about how long it may take to finish this task.

Throwing out someone else's belongings is a difficult task. Rummaging through bird watching books, 1935 Singer Sewing Machines, bundles of yarn and knitting needles, bulky mixing bowls, dusty boxes of puzzles and war paraphernalia. I moved them carefully, asking family members, "keep or throw?" and sadly most things were thrown away. The thought of my belongings, everything that represented me, being tossed into a rain filled skip pulled on my heart strings. Halfway through the process my mother in-law and I stood in the front porch staring at the large skip filled to the brim with Nan's "things." Our eyes glazed over, rain pouring, my mother in-law says, "Over 50 years of life in this home and absolutely nothing to show for it....."  It was such a sad statement to hear, but was it accurate?

I couldn't help but reflect on how material items do not represent people. Or at least they shouldn't. Handsome man of mine's grandmother is a kind woman. She has a sense of humor. Judging by the amount of trophies we threw out, she was a fantastic dancer. She knitted; not scarves with missed stitches, but beautiful jumpers (Brit speak for sweaters) and dresses with tiny patterns. She made clothes for handsome man of mine's action men figures. Half finished ones were found and they reeked with love, effort and time. She loved her family and while she did not own nice things, she was content with her life and what she had. I adore that quality. And with those little discoveries, richness was revealed in big ways. She did in fact live a very rich life.

A day in the life

It is difficult to adjust to the after-christmas calmness. The calm after the storm, if you like. Yet, I cannot help but hope that our first day of the year set the tone for the twelve months to come. A day of relaxation & enjoyment. No worry, no waste, no post-it-note dangling from the bathroom mirror reminding me to pick up the dry cleaning. We were simply breathing today and it was perfect.

We slept off the midnight festivities, champagne fizzy & late night dinner (and what a dinner it was! If it is possible to overdose on ranch dressing, I did it. Only because it is nearly impossible to find!). I awoke to lightly tapping rain on the window panes. I instantly thought about a song my husband sings whenever I respond to one of his statements with the question "where?" Without fail, handsome man of mine responds with a line "right there on the stairs...a little mouse with clogs on...clogs on..." It is apparently from a children's song in which I didn't believe him. You see, my husband has a million and one different sayings that he randomly makes up. I assumed this was something off the cuff and completely (for lack of better words) bonkers. I was quickly proved wrong.  Yes, my life is very much like panto.  It's a no wonder I think of mice with clogs on when I hear rain.

On an even more exciting note, the Queen was spotted outside our flat this morning walking her pooch. I do not know what was more strange:  A) me crouched down on the window ledge with a wide angle lensed camera taking photos of an elderly woman and her dog (She says British-ly) outside my home posing to be paparazzi or b) the fact that I really thought the queen would be walking her dog outside my flat on New Years without anyone accompanying her whatsoever. As if the queen walks her own dogs. pppffft!

So far this evening, we have overdosed on telly (TV), baked chocolate chip cookies and made tiny chairs out of wine & champagne bottle tops. Now, that is living life in the new year!