New Beginnings

My baby is now a toddler and I'm starting to scope out the scene for getting my fingers back into the mud of teaching. I resigned my old position at my previous college as we were/are/maybe/who knows moving to 'the country' in Hampshire and it wasn't commutable. But we are now living is a 2-bed flat in central Reading in house-limbo. But nevermind that. What is exciting is that I've decided to try my hand at 'Educational Consultancy'. I have found staying at home with Ellie an incredibly attractive option as she becomes increasingly 'cooler' as she grows. My definition of cool may be different from others but I think playing chase, catch and repeatedly going down slides while learning new words is 'cool'. So, I have put off returning to the classroom for a few years as I want to be able to give it the attention it deserves. But I love teaching too much, and I do love a bit of adult interaction, so I have started working with Microsoft to deliver CPD sessions.

2 Years Later

There must be something about August 27th as my last blog was exactly 2 years ago to the day. And what a couple of years its been! I got married.... in the snow, on skis, with sleigh rides, log cabins and a cake of cheese. Went to Moscow, representing the UK at the Microsoft Partners in Learning European Forum- and won the award for most "Cutting Edge Use of Technology in the Classroom"- and a trip to the Worldwide PIL Forum in Washington DC Celebrated the Royal Wedding with a street party and too much champagne. Two little lines appeared on a little white stick... and I spent 3 months with something akin to the flu, 3 months glowing and gorgeous and 3 months of gaining 40lbs, developing hobbit feet and losing every ounce of fitness I ever had. Experienced a miracle in endurance, human strength and love when my baby girl was born after 52 hours of labour- and completely confirmed that I had married the best man for the job. And now... I'm a mother. It was funny to read my last entry about going for run and how I needed to lose 10lbs for the wedding. I did lose those 10lbs. In fact, I probably lost a lot more than that. Which only makes my current size that much more depressing. My 3rd trimester was not kind to me. Neither were the 2 months following Elle's birth. No one told me about all the cake. Perhaps, in the future, when talking with other mums to be- I'll just let them know to take it easy on the cake afterwards. Sleep deprivation fueled by cake = complete disaster. I am now going to go on and on about my weight. I am currently obsessed by it. Just like any other woman, I've had my body issues but I haven't been 'fat' since 2003. In fact, in a complete twist of irony, it wasn't until I lost my pre-baby body that I realized I had been a sex-pot super model. What had I been complaining about before?! However, I did have a brief 'very fat' period from 2000-2003 when I gave up swimming and took up champagne. But then I got my tonsils out (best diet ever!) and started training for a marathon and that was the end of that. Then things moved up and down periodically by 10lbs until I got that ring on my finger and the threat of the 'photos for a lifetime' haunted my every thought. I ran like my life depended on it, did sit-ups, push-ups, dredged up exercises from my swimming days and lived off of vegetables. There is no motivator like walking down the aisle. When I got pregnant, I was focused on not gaining too much weight. I was terrified of becoming a lard-o. At the end of my first trimester I was sitting pretty as I had actually lost even more weight! During my second trimester- I was feeling and looking great. I ran, I swam, I did yoga- but I also ate for England. No big deal, right? I was still ok on the scales and what the baby wanted, the baby got. Even if it was a Snickers or two. Then the third trimester hit me. I couldn't very well run with my huge bump. So I waddled and did gentle yoga and took full advantage of people telling me to take it easy and have another cookie... hot chocolate... mince pie... and, well you get the point. Yikes. I probably should have seen the light when I stopped weighing myself. But I was happily floating along in my mum-to-be bliss under the impression that it was mostly water weight and I'd be back into my old clothes by 6 weeks post-partum tops. Well, here I am, 7 months later and I have only just started to be able to zip up my 'fat' jeans and fit into my once loose tops. I have no idea how much I actually gained by the end of my pregnancy. But I was 40lbs over my 'pre-baby' weight at 6 weeks PP. NOT my wedding weight, let me add. But my pre-baby & pre-wedding weight- circa 2010. I'm not sure my wedding weight will ever be achieved again! That might take a miracle of God. But I can tell you that since week 6- I have been nothing short of a woman possessed to lose the weight. "9 months on, 9 months off" I hear. Others have said a year. Ha- I'll do it in three months, I thought. I am hardly one to sit idle and just wait for the pounds to 'melt off'. Which, at 6 weeks, I was still convinced would happen to me. Besides, I was breastfeeding! The miracle post baby diet! Bullshit. So, I joined the gym. I went out running everyday. I walked everywhere. The pounds stayed where they were. I started a food diary, read the book "The Blood Sugar Solution", joined 'Fitness Pal' and began to, for the first time in my life, actually diet. Then I lost my first 5lbs. Then I lost 10! Then the real problems began....

Today was the day I was supposed to spend all day on the couch

But I didn't. I once again, for the fifth day in a row of my vacation, spent it sitting in front of my computer doing work... which is great because next week... I go back to work. I wish I was one of those people who could write in their blog that they wished they could get off their lazy asses and do something- but unfortunately, I always seem to be doing something. The problem is- I'm always doing it ON my ass.

I must run. I repeat this everyday to myself. It rarely happens these days. It makes me sad. If I get out three times a week it is a good week. I used to consider myself a runner. I have downgraded myself to a jogger. A casual exerciser.

Then I went for my dress fitting. I was told that the only way I'd look any better in the dress was if I, myself, looked better in the dress. The seamstress looked me in the eye and said, "You just need to loose 10lbs." I felt like I was in Zoolander and Mugatu was yelling at me, "Oh, I'm sorry, did my pin get in the way of your ass? Do me a favor and lose five pounds immediately or get out of my building like now!"

So, I am now leaving my computer- I completely blame it on my new MacBook Pro that is so beautiful that typing on it is like stroking God- and going for a run.

In the rain. It just started raining. What?!

Ok. I have a theory. Running in the rain doubles your miles. Yep. When you're out running in the rain and people see you they think, "Man, that person is really dedicated." and therefore the extra karma points you get on that doubles the miles...

And with that thought- here I go.

Nuptual Culture-Clash Part Deux

Continuing on...

And both the stag do and the Best Man's speech are all things done to the groom- not done by the groom. Except for the 'Groom's speech'.

Oh! hold back, ladies! He has to say something! This part of the wedding celebration does not fall into the category "secretly-loved-by-the-groom". Unlike the previously mentioned events, this one is dreaded by all British grooms from John O'Groats to Land's End. The reason for this is, paradoxically, the all-consuming wish to not be the center of attention.

I think this dread is shared by Best Men and their speech duty as well but the dread is trumped by the man-love code which I guess is stronger than love-for-your-future -wife code. I have been told that the groom's speech will be as short as politely possible. Maybe I'll get a fist-bump at the end?

The dread of being the center of attention is strangely at odds with the stag do (an entire weekend planned in the groom's honour) and the fact the best man's speech is entirely focused on him, but in the end, the groom accepts no responsibility for either act and therefore secretly loves them.

Where as, it seems, the bride must accept full responsibility for everything else. And therefore I secretly hate my wedding.

In another life, if I'm good enough, I'll come back as a British Groom.

Nuptual Culture-Clash

We both speak the same language (arguable, I know and a whole topic unto itself). We are both middle-class with relatively small extended families. We share a religion, political leanings and comedic tastes (minus his funny bone for all things dealing with flatulence) So, what went wrong shortly thereafter "Yes"?

He is British and I am American. That is what went wrong.

We are neither like the couples in the film "Confetti" nor any of those embarrasing couples glorified on youtube with choreographed bridal party dances. But I have been raised looking at pictures of overly-tanned, under-fed and draped in meringue brides who are flanked by eight bridesmaids on each side all wearing some jeweled-coloured dress with shoes dyed to match.

He, on the other hand, has grow up watching Four Weddings and Funeral and simultaneously revering and fearing the 'Stag Do' and 'Best Man's Speech'. Those two events effectively sum up an Englishman's wedding. Everything else is just done with a stiff upper-lip and all that. pip. pip.

To be continued...

A Year and a Half Later in The Domestic

As I am encouraging my students to have their own 'learning blogs' I feel that I should set a good example and get back into writing my own blog. It's been quite a ride since my last post. I've been out of Africa for two years and I haven't looked back.

One three-year highly-skilled migrant visa stamped into my passport
Two teaching certifications in the US and the UK
One M.Ed in Secondary Education
One new curriculum (A Levels)
Two new subjects (Film and Media)
and
One new job as Head of Department of previously mentioned curriculum and subject.

And I got engaged.

While the former list consumed most of my hours. It's the last item that has consumed my head and heart. Another human being has chosen me- from all the other humans on the earth- to be the love of his life! Mr. Paul Anthony King has chosen me! I am such a lucky girl. And of course... I have chosen him back... but he asked first. :)

Ah, a wedding to plan. (or rather a wedding that is being planned) My friend, Jo, told me shortly after he popped the question, "You were born to plan a wedding" and at the time I completely agreed with her- until I realized that, yes, I was born to plan weddings- just not my own.

Here is a bit of advice for the high maintenance bride who does not think she is a high maintenance bride. You are this person if, in the event of a fire, you would grab your planner, your mac, and your sketchbooks before anything else in the house.

Get married no more than 6 months after you get that ring!

You will drive yourself crazy otherwise. The bliss of the glossy magazines wears off after two months, the fun of finding 'The Dress' lasts only a few trips. You'll discover your fiance will only help make decisions if they are imminent and we all know you can make a Chinese dragon costume out of some tin foil and pipe cleaners so save yourself the annoyance of calligraphers, stationers or florists and get thee to Hobby Lobby! You'll do it better yourself anyways.

My Year in Africa

Written on my last flight back from Zambia to the UK

My year in Africa is over. I am 2 hrs away from Heathrow- Zambia is 8 hours behind me. I’m not sure I will ever return to Zambia- but there is more of Africa to see… I’m just not sure if I want to see it.

Africa hurt. The moments of joy were few and far between- its hard for someone who treasures joy to live in a place where there is so little of it. Yvonne cried this morning, begged me to stay, and cried for the loss of her salary and the school fees- her eyes begging me to give her more money. It was awful. There was no joy in that.

It’s over now- all of it- the ex-pat life, the poverty, the constant demands, the racial tensions, the exploitation, the coldness, and the lack of substance. Its over for me at least but it continues on there. How can such a place be so superficial? How can such a place harbor nothing but drinking, promiscuity, gossip and material wealth? Not even NYC came close to that. It probably all boils down to the type of people who go to Africa and why they are there. I am so happy to have left- that country held nothing for me. It was empty.

My year in Africa. It sounds so momentous, so life changing, so adventurous- but it was actually pretty boring. Maybe I am tired of my life changing. Besides, the adventures in to be had in Lusaka were hard to come by. I wish it had been different but it was the best I could make it. I just seemed to be warring against everything and everyone. No contentment was to be found. But to be content and happy in Zambia seems a ridiculous concept when you are surrounded by poverty and sickness- to be happy is to be guilty.There was nothing more I could do. And even when I had done so much for Yvonne and Kay- they still asked for more.

I am happy to not call Zambia my home any longer. It never was, though. It never felt like home even when I surrounded myself with my things and decorated- it never felt like home. London has always felt like home. The UK has always been comfortable to me. And now I am returning there- returning home- and returning to Paul.

Ah! 20 minutes to landing. Almost home. Almost in Paul’s arms. Almost complete. Almost at the beginning- it’s all so very exciting. Just all the minutes between now and then. 20 minutes to landing, more time to taxi and disembark. Add on minutes for customs, queues and waiting for the baggage- then those last minutes of loading it onto the trolley and walking through customs out into the arrivals lounge. Then the seconds before we see each other and the last final seconds until we are touching. Those are the sweetest and hardest moments to endure.

The landing gear just went down. How exciting. I am so close to home, now. But I wonder if home will bring me that peace or if home can still over me the adventure and excitement I crave. I can only hope that my desire for the subversive and risky stays alive. That I will continue to love people who are weird and non-conformist and those who embrace themselves for who they are- those people who fulfill their needs and aren’t afraid to do so. I love skinny-dipping and feeling the wind against my body. I love to feel free and boundless- full of joy. Emotions- I love those too- and drama and romance and a good story with a happy ending. I don’t want these things to disappear from my life as I find peace and contentment. How does it all fit together?

Touch down. Here we go! The next chapter of my life is about to begin. Wish me luck!

Botulism and Me

Before I begin the blog, I want to start by saying that, indeed, the little mother fers in my intestines (who graciously did not show their little single-cell organism-selves in my test but the Dr. was pretty sure they were just hiding) are dying due to the miracle drug cipro (which i'm starting to think i need to carry around with me)

And so we begin...

Yesterday, while out on my run, I came upon a little girl who was about 6 years old. She was dressed in a little red t-shirt and little blue shorts and had a brightly coloured chitenge cloth wrapped around her torso which contained her small 2 year old brother. She was purposefully bouncing along the side of the road, with half of her height hidden by the toddler slug on her back, holding the hand of her other younger sister who was probably around the age of 4. The 4 year old was carrying a very large container upon her head full of sloshing water. I was the only adult around. I greeted them, wondering if I could chat with them, but they didn't have much interest beyond saying hello to me- they clearly had a more imporant task to complete. I was saddened by their shortened childhood, by the burden of responsibility, but also so amazed at the abilites of humans when circumstance requires so much more from us.... or is it that so much less is expected of western children? Then I remembered this article I had come across a few weeks earlier in "She", a British women's magazine...

The article was called, "How to be a Great Parent" and it was structured around a series of questions. One of the questions read:
I have three children- a boy of 13 and girls aged 8 and 10. My son says he no longer needs a babysitter when we go out and is happy to look after his sisters. What do you advise?"

The answer:
I used to be a police officer and there was an unwritten law that if a child was left alone under the age of 14, or if a child wasn't yet 16 and was looking after someone younger, we were concerned. Therefore, I would not recommend leaving a 13-year old to look after his sisters, even if he's sensible and has never stepped out of line in his life. He really can't assume that kind of responsibility. Having someone else's life in your hands is a tremendous burden-no matter how old you are. Many parents find looking after two children under 10 stressful-how much more challenging would that be for a 13year old? Bear in mind that the reason you're leaving someone in charge is in case things go wrong- whether its an accident in the home, one of the children suddenly falls ill or a stranger at the door. Are you sure that you would be fully confident in a 13 year old's ability to cope? Think about it.

Well, I did. I thought about it for all of two seconds, then without a shadow of a doubt screamed- YES, I AM CONFIDENT A 13 YEAR OLD WOULD BE ABLE TO COPE!

Have these people ever met a 13 year old? They might be a bit moody and spend alot of time in their rooms but they are able to complete tasks most adults find daunting. I know. I teach them everyday. And every day they amaze me with their problem solving skills and new ways of looking at a situation.

Not to mention that I just saw a 6 year old walking down the street with total confidence in herself that she could run whatever errand she had been assigned and come back with both siblings in tow.

PS. Just on a side note- I am entering a chili cookoff tomorrow among my fellow teachers and I have to say, that just now, after tasting my Carnal Chocolate Chili, that it is one deeelicous chili!

PSS. Which brings me to another side note- one day, when i was little, my mom called my brother and me down from our rooms to show us something while she was making dinner. In her hands was a tin of tomatoes. It was bulging from the top and bottom. She said- "Do you see this can? What is wrong with it?" We described it and she then proceded to scare the living Sh1t out of us as she told us that inside this buldging can of tomatoes lived a terrible, terrible bacteria called Botulism. And that this would kill you within 24 hours- and then she carried on described all the awful things the bacteria does to you before you die. Tim and I stood there stunned for awhile before my mom happily said, "That's all" and turned back to her spaghetti sauce.

Ever since then, I've been petrified of tinned tomatoes. I study all of them very carefully before choosing one just in case one might kill me in 24 hours by paralysis and loss of control of all bodily functions. However, today, I was confronted with 100 tins of tomatoes that all looked slightly dodgy but I really needed to make this chili and I don't think God has chosen botulism as the way for me to go...

So, This might be the last thing I ever write.
Damn- I wish it had been better.
Peace.

In South Luangwa...

In South Luangwa...

The people are terrified of elephants and hippos but could really care less about lions.

There is a guide named Richard who told us a story- about how his commrade got eaten by a crocodile and his superior officer, who was not a good man, made him go into the water to look for him but then heard people shouting 'a croc got him' and thought it was he who the croc had gotten so he ran like a drunk, mad-man out of the water with his heart in his throat before finally realizing that it was not he who had been caught but rather his superior officer and he didn't feel bad about it at all when they caught the man-eating croc and slit open his belly to find two human arms inside- all without using one coherent sentence before he stumbled into the bush to go take a piss.

There are bushcamps were you wake up with the sunrise at your feet and the warm light filtering throught the soft mesh of the mosquito net.

There are also bushcamps that let you get to know whom ever you are staying with very well since all that seperates the toilet from the rest of the room is a thin sheet of fabric.

There is a place where you can dance naked in the african rain in a treehouse.

The zebra are shy and there are way too many impala.

You come to hate the impala

You meet those that are so rich they have no concept that someone would not have been to england.

You spend alot of time discussing grand ol' england and birds.

And you also meet those that ask, after a short discussion of the various ethinicities found in various areas in london, "Where has the real england gone? Are there any real englishmen left?"

You also have to suffer through many, "well spotted, good man" and I wish i was kidding.

You realize that the insect repellent you've been slathering on your skin actually takes off the nail polish on your toes and rubs the ink right off its own packaging.

You also realize that without that repellent you would be eaten alive by the tstse flies.

You think its silly that you have to be escorted to and from your room every evening... until you realize that a leopard had been prowling through camp during dinner.

You've never heard the word "thermals" used by people so regularly other than your aeronautical engineer boyfriend

Hot can't even come close to describing 2pm

Feces has never been so interesting.

When I think about my parasite...

Here I am in my office at 5pm on a tuesday thinking about the little ameobas that are living in my gut. They certainly do have a sense of humour. We've gotten to know each other over the last three weeks. They had a party in my intestines on sunday night, keeping me awake for hours. Then when I finally relented and when to the Doctor, they decided that they would not, under any circumstances be giving me any test samples. But 24 hrs later, in the middle of a class they kicked up again- however I am smuggly satisfied that now I can prove their existence and will get the medicine to kill them all.

Did you know that reoccupation with one's health and or bowel movements is an official sign of culture shock? Well, its not too hard to believe since over that last 5 years or so I have become increasingly more in-tune with my lovely intestines. However, is it just ironic that you are most likely to experience culture shock in places where your gut does become a main feature in your life?

I would also say that the amazing level of anger felt toward the quiet zambia girl in the Zamtel office as she told me for the third time that they would not be giving me dial-up in my house for the zillionth stupid reason, would come under the term culture shock.

And perhaps my obession with my "orangerie". Which, i have to say, if any of you do come and visit you will agree it is the most awesome room in the world. (oh shoot, exaggeration is also a habit of culture shock!)

So, here I am in my office at 5:15 on a tuesday thinking about how I will probably have to stay here for two more years. Not the two i signed up for but for an addtional one on top of that. Why? Out of love for zambia? I wish this was the case and it may be in a year or two but right now, its because of those meddling kids! That's the worse and best thing about being a teacher- you come to love your kids and I would never want to leave this 10th grade class until I've seen them through the IB.

Right, its 5:20 and I should have told you something interesting by now. Its much like MC Frontalot's song- I hate your blog. Sorry, I'll try harder...