Tuesday Morning Tube Rant: People Who Search For Their Oyster Cards In Inconvenient Places

Alright, I admit it - I'm not a very patient person (John snorts at this as it's a mild way of describing my temperament in general).  But what is it with people who stop right in front of the barriers at tube stations to search for their Oyster cards?  Have it ready, people!  In Lauren Conrad's under-enunciated words, srsly!

This morning, I made my usual way down the stairs into Maida Vale tube station, by-passed the copies of the Metro on offer underneath the service update bulletin and turned a sharp right to make my way through the barriers.  It just so happened that there was only one barrier available this morning (aside from the big, slow, handicapped one) and a man was standing in front of it.  Not in front of it, like, as in, leaving a space for other people to get past, but in front of it as in, his body was touching the barrier itself.  In other words, A Barrier Hog.  He patted his left chest pocket for his Oyster card.  Nope, not there.  Right chest pocket.  Nope, not there either.  By this time, I was hemming and hawwing, pssshing and puffing behind him (this is the point where John laughs uncontrollably at my distress if he were present).  So I took a step forward in effort to rudely shove my way past.  Oh no, he stepped forward too.  Checked his back pocket.  Nope.  So I stepped back.  He stepped back.  It was like we were doing some kind of two-step dance.  Front pocket.  Ah, bingo.  FUH-FREAKING FINALLY!  Four pockets later, he found his travel treasure. 

It's not a first - people do this all the time - especially during the most convenient times, like, rush hour at Oxford Circus, or in my case, Embankment.  Look, if you can't find your Oyster, kindly step aside and search your four, five, six, seven pockets.  Don't hold up the rest of the people who are, you know, like, on their way to someplace?

My Cup of Tea

I'm such a sad person:  I'll basically enter any giveaway or contest that I think I have a remote chance of winning (and sometimes do - see today's post on partying with Perez Hilton and my £1 Jonathan Saunders purchase which friends and family are sick of hearing about by now) and take advantage of any and all freebie offers.  Gross, huh? 

A little while ago, Twinings had an offer on their website (which they're still doing, if you're interested) for you to sample two teas of your choice, on them.  So naturally, I filled in the appropriate fields and had two samples sent to me, one of their white tea and the other of Rose Garden, which is essentially Lady Grey with a hint of rose.  So lovely.  I usually dislike Earl Grey because of bad memories associated with that tea (not going to go into detail), but the rose twist was wonderfully aromatic and sent all the bad feelings away.  Shame I can't find it in any supermarkets.  If you stumble upon it, do try it - it's literally like drinking a rose, in tea form.

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I Partied With Perez

I'm a pretty big fan of Perez Hilton's celeb gossip blog (although I once gave myself a self-imposed ban on his website, due to his relentless negativity and hatred towards oh, everyone and anyone he doesn't endorse).  It's mostly offensive and controversial, so I read it all with a grain of salt, tongue-in-cheek, all that stuff.  I'm not going to explain who he is or what he does here, so if you really must know (if you already don't), Wiki him on your own time.  

Anyways, scrolling through for my daily fix of celebrity abuse, I came across an ad on his website for his One Night In London party at the IndigO2 (a smaller venue within the O2).  "CLICK HERE TO WIN FREE PASSES," it said.  So I did.  I forgot all about it until later that week when I received an email saying, "Congratulations!  You've won a pass to Perez's One Night In London party for you and a guest!"  I was pretty excited, to say the least, and emailed John right away to see if he'd be up for it (the predicted answer was 'no', but he surprised me by saying 'yes').  

I had no idea what to expect and thought we'd stay for about an hour or so and leave if it was really awful.  We got to the venue around 10 and about half an hour later, Perez himself took the stage.  Wow.  He is a celebrity in his own right and I see him all the time on other websites, magazines, newspapers, etc., so it was totally surreal seeing him there on stage.  And, it must be said, he has lost a LOT of weight.  His face was like, chiseled.  

First in the line-up were The Hoosiers of "Goodbye Mr. A" fame - they played a song from their new album which will be released in August and were actually amazing live.  Unfortunately, the insufferable Diana Vickers followed, which promptly put me in a bad mood.  

She annoyed me on The X Factor and apparently, still rubs me the wrong way.  But she did do a cover of one of my favorite Snow Patrol songs ("Say Yes") and didn't entirely butcher it ... one thing I will say though, is that the girl has a lot of energy (and for the record, she was barefoot) as she was persistently jumping up and down (her one dance move) and pulling up her dress (which she's doing in this photo, I think - apologies for the poor quality, I took them all on my phone).

The biggest surprise (for me, at least) of the night was the appearance by one of my favorite singers/musicians/artists/crazy-freaks, Peaches (NOT Geldof).

John was thoroughly scandalized but I told him to stop being prudish.  Since my mom and John's mum read this blog, I won't go into who Peaches is or what she's about, but all I can say is that I think she is absolutely the bee's knees for being as inflammatory and obscene as she is - and unapologetically so (the fact that she also underwent at least five different costume stages while on stage also earned my respect.  And because the club was only to about half capacity, she interacted with the audience a lot ("Jesus walked on water, Peaches walks on YOU.") and at the end of her set, jumped off the stage on my side and trotted past us - in the bad-ass way only Peaches could.

The act John and I were both there to see, however, was Kelis (though John's more of a fan than I am - he drunkenly shouted into my ear before the show started, "Kelis has TALENT.  She is TALENTED.  Not like the other people we've seen so far.  (pause)  SHE'S GOT TALENT!!!"  Okay, okay, I get it.  You love Kelis.  Sheesh.). 

When she came on at half past midnight, the crowd went a bit crazy ... she is, after all, Kelis.  And my God - that woman has the most amazing body (especially after having a child!  And yes, she's wearing a beaded wig - only Kelis could get away with that).  She did a very short (about 20 minutes) set that was mixed by 2 DJs on stage, which included "Millionaire" (which none of the snotty teen girls in matching tights and skirts in front of us knew, to my satisfaction) and a mash-up of Madonna's "Holiday" and Kelis's own famous "Milkshake". 

The only crappy part of the night was getting home, as the Jubilee line was down and we bus hopped for two hours (yes, two hours) around East, South and finally Central London before being dropped off at Warwick Avenue.  I don't mind getting home at 3 a.m., but I wish 2 hours of that wasn't due to poor transportation options.  Sort it out, TFL. 

All in all, an absolutely amazing night - thanks, Perez, for letting us in for free!

It's Cake Time!: Happy Fourth of July!

Two years ago, I was invited to a 4th of July party held by John's American then-boss, at his sprawling (by English standards) home in Gerrards Cross.  "I'll make some cupcakes!" I said enthusiastically to John, when he said I could come along.  "Err ... great!" he said, trying to sound positive.  But he and I both knew the truth - the closest I'd come to an oven was watching him lift a roast dinner out from my position on the couch.

Who was I kidding?  I didn't know how to bake.  I bought a cake mix from Tesco and some icing sugar, plus some cute marzipan toppings.  Then I went back to my flat and "baked" the mixture.  It turned out like cornbread.  Undeterred, I added the icing sugar on top (which resembled a glaze as it melted) and pushed a tiny marzipan froggy's face into the top.  Satisfied with my creations, I put them in a tupperware container and brought them to the party.  My confidence was knocked when I saw the counter lined with Krispy Kreme donuts and homemade pies - and to add insult to injury, my cupcakes never even made it to the dessert table outside.  At the end of the night, I collected them before leaving, still intact in their tupperware containers - the little marzipan faces staring up at me.  I waited until East London to burst into tears as John tried to comfort me and I ended up throwing them in the trash, even though he insisted on stuffing 2 or 3 in his mouth and saying, "Mmm ... these are so good!" in a way only the kind and generous John could - anyone else would have ... well, subtly but purposefully omitted them from their dessert table.

NOT THIS TIME AROUND.

Behold my creation above.  It wasn't for a 4th of July party - a friend of John's, actually, was hosting a cake and tea party for her belated birthday celebrations.  When I saw the words, "make", "bring", and "cake", I knew this was my chance (though only personal to me ... no one else at that party could have possibly known the emotional element my red, white and blue masterpiece held) to restore my baking self-confidence (yes, you read that correctly - I used, no, hijacked, someone else's party for my own selfish motives).

Again, I went to Tesco, but this time for raw ingredients, rather than a cake mix.  Blueberries and strawberries were expensive, for some reason, so I opted for the cheaper raspberries instead (they ended up working better on my small round cake anyways).  And for once, my icing was stiff and spread well, unlike the other times I've made it.  All was well in the land of cake preparation.  Now all it had to do was pass the taste test. 

I'm always nervous when making cakes for people I don't know, because I can't cut myself a slice and make sure it doesn't taste awful.  So I was really pleased to receive compliments about the cake at the party, with one guest asking me for the recipe before I left. 

I'll never make those picture-perfect, gorgeous cakes you see in books and they'll never taste gourmet - but at least they (hopefully) won't go unnoticed or ignored on someone's kitchen counter again.

Happy Fourth, everybody.

Toasties

So while we're on the subject of (unhealthy) food, I gained a lot of weight when I met John.  That's because, as an American newly introduced to the wonders of English tea (with milk), chocolate covered digestive biscuits (I went through approximately 1 1/2 tubes per week ... normal people go through about 1/3 of a pack in one week, if that) and British puddings from the St. Catherine's College dining hall (formally referred to as simply "hall"), I was a little ... enthusiastic with my food.

Anyways, when I met John (fittingly, stuffing my face across a dining table in hall), I was in the middle of quite the overeating breakfast routine.  Every morning, I'd saunter into the Catz JCR and proceed to order the following:  one banana and toffee muffin (muffin as in, like, the big calorific kind you get from Starbucks - not to be confused by the savory "English muffin"), one cup of milky English tea and one cheese toastie.

Yup, the American spellcheck on Blogger just flagged up the word "toastie".  'That's just a grilled cheese sandwich,' you say (or rather, sniff, haughtily).   Oh no.  It's not "just" a grilled cheese sandwich.  It's so much more.  There's the ceremonious sprinkling and stuffing of grated - yes, grated, not sliced - cheese between two slices of Warburtons (or Kingsmill, depending on your allegiance), plus the addition of ham or tomato, if you so wish.  But for breakfast, I had cheese.  Can we say artery-clogging disaster?  Then there's the wonderful toastie makers that keep all the loose pieces of cheese in so any danger of fire or burnt pieces of cheese is made improbable.  Then there's the wondrous way it's served - sliced diagonally (never horizontally) and placed squarely in the middle of a plate, with absolutely no garnish at all, with most of the cheese melted but some pieces flaking onto the plate as you lift it to your mouth (clearly, I overanalyze my moments of food consumption).

Like grilled cheese sandwiches, toasties are a great comfort food.  And last weekend, when we stopped off in Leicester for a break before heading on to London, I peered into Alison's fridge for some lunch (I'm polite like that - making myself too at home).  "Jaime, would you like to make a cheese toastie?" she asked.  She handed me a vegetable peeler and a hunk of mature cheddar.  "I just bought these toastie bags from Aldi, so just pop it into a bag when you're finished and put it in the toaster."  I was suitably amazed.  Reusable toastie bags?  Yes, please.  And they worked.  Really well.  So I asked her to please purchase a pack of toastie bags for me the next time she was in Aldi and I would repay her when we next met.

But that's not Alison's style.  No, instead, she purchased two sets of bags and sent them to me via Royal Mail, in a neat envelope addressed to me in her signature cursive writing, along with a lovely handwritten card of a pen and ink study by George Ernest Airey of Ripon - which all arrived in today's post.  What a way to make my Friday.

I just might re-live my Oxford mornings this weekend.  Thank you, Alison.

Oh Domino

My diet has been pretty disgusting lately.  I had about two weeks of eating healthily - i.e. stocking the fridge with fresh fruit, snacking on carrots (yes, carrots - if you know me, you'll know that this is a huge step), nuts, etc.  Then it all spiralled out of control.  My memory's a bit hazy, but I think my descent into the fifth circle of junk food hell (where I presently reside) started when we went over to visit John's bro, Tom, who had just had his appendix out.  Upon arriving at his and Cristy's awesome new flat in Finsbury Park, they suggested we order Domino's pizza.  Now, I don't think I've ever had Domino's in the UK, but I've had my fair share of pizzas (Pizza Express, anyone?) and they've all been very tasty ... just not ... very ... American. 

I love American pizzas.  Don't get me wrong, I really like the more authentic ones that are served here (with a sprinkling of cheese, a sprinkling of parma ham ... and a sprinkling of not much else) too, but it's like someone saying they enjoy Tex-Mex more than authentic Mexican food.  Is that bad?  Probably.  Do I care?  Not really.  I love a thick, deep dish pizza with a loaded crust, lots of toppings and lashings of cheese.  I love toppings and cheese that melt into each other and that amazing sight of black olives, green peppers and pepperoni toppling over as I attempt to pull a slice from the box.  That's the best pizza moment.  So when our Domino's pizza arrived at the door (we did half and half - The Extravaganzza for me and The Sizzler for him), I was expecting a watered down version of our greedily-loaded pies, but nearly wept with joy when being greeted with the same, piping hot, deep dish, topping-filled pizzas of the USA.

As I was a guest in Tom and Cristy's new home, I behaved myself and didn't act too excited, but inside, I was jumping for joy.  After that, not even a week had passed before John asked, "Should we order Domino's tonight?" and I couldn't pass it up.  It's not even like we eat pizza a lot at home in Washington - maybe once in a while, but for some reason, I've been missing it almost as much as I miss the Costco hot dogs. 

And you know, it's Friday ... I've been running ... working hard ... where's that delivery number?

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Hemidemisemiquaver

Last Sunday, I played in my second concert with the Royal Orchestral Society (that's me with the stand obscuring my face), which was fun and exciting because we played Sibelius's Finlandia, Dvorak's 8th Symphony and a Dvorak Slavonic Dance (#2) as an encore (yes, I purposely failed to mention the Scriabin Piano Concerto in that line-up because I was not a fan) but even more fun and exciting because I had friends in the audience (this is a big deal because 3 years ago, I had zero friends in London ... and even even more fun and exciting was a special surprise appearance by Alison at the very end, though she appeared and disappeared as quickly as a fairy godmother).  It was a sweaty (literally - especially as the stage lights were atrociously bright) performance, as the concert fell on one of the hottest days of the week (30 degrees Celsius, or 86 degrees Fahrenheit), but nevertheless enjoyable - and I only had to fake my way through 25% of it (the key is to just make sure your bow is going the same direction as your stand partner's - especially if your stand partner happens to be the principal second violinist - even if your fingers can't move as fast).

Dress rehearsal was a different story, however.  I was pretty annoyed to miss the England World Cup game (where I wanted to see England pummelled by the Germans - revenge for all the anti-American/patronizing comments the commentators and the British peanut gallery made during every game the USA played in) and even more annoyed at being simply unable to decipher what the hell the conductor was saying (you'd think I'd learn my lesson from last time).  "Cellos, you're coming off too early on that dotted minon." Minon.  Minon.  WHAT THE £$%& IS A MINON?  Next time, I'm bringing a cheat-sheet to rehearsal and placing it at my feet.  Honestly. 

I'm looking forward to the next rehearsal in September already ... even though I'm not a fan of the Verdi Requiem.  It was a year ago that I saw that girl on the tube with a violin case - an observation that caused me to pluck up my courage and join this orchestra.  I wistfully imagined the day I'd walk around with random fragments of pieces drifting through my head, leftover from a previous rehearsal - and now I do.  I've made some great friends through the experience as well and am just thankful for it all.