Hair Stories

I just got back from my hair cut and color in the Dearham salon.

Overall it looks fine, but I do have a few slight concerns.

First, my stylist was nice but virtually mute. She wasn’t mean by any stretch of the imagination, but didn’t seem at all interested in making small talk with me. Normally, that would be fine with me, but with Matt working so much and Frankie being… well four…. I’m a little starved for conversation. I was kind of looking forward to talking to someone about the move over, what to do for fun in the area, and so forth. My stylist didn’t even get around to telling me her name. I was there for two and a half hours, and we probably said five sentences to each other. Maybe she didn’t like me, or maybe she couldn’t understand my accent? Hard to say. I did have the thought, though, that Matt would have loved this girl. Matt hates making chit chat with hair stylists so much that he’s decided to just forgo the entire painful experience and cut his hair himself. (Seriously.)

Also, the cut and color looked ok, but it wasn’t quite the fun summery change I was going for. Matt didn’t even notice a difference in the color. It pretty much looks the same as always.

When I got home I had to wet and re-style my hair. That’s actually fine, because I usually have to do that anyway. For some reason, 97% of stylists that I’ve gone to have no idea how to dry and finish a curly haircut. I always leave with a big, weird frizzball on my head. The problem is that when I went to re-style my hair, I ran my fingers through it and big clumps of hair came out in my hands. It was sort of like the stylist had “thinned” my hair, but then left all of the cut pieces in place to fall out later. Seriously, it was strange. I took out three small handfuls of hair before it stopped shedding. I fear what my shower drain will look like tomorrow.

All Matt said about the haircut was “It’s ok… Pretty curly, though. And is it supposed to be that tall on the top?” Not exactly a rave review.

Plus, is it just me, or is the hair longer on one side than the other?

I have a really vivid memory from childhood of my mother coming home from a hair salon, so angry about the haircut they had given her that she said she wished she could sue the woman for infliction of emotional distress. I’ve felt that way about haircuts in the past. I guess women are just hard to please when it comes to their hair. Still, I wish I could walk into a hair salon and walk out feeling like I look significantly better than when I came in.

Dare to dream…

Fun Fact

There is a stoplight in town, and it turns red, then yellow, then green.

At first, I thought it was weird. Now, I kind of love it. It's like a gentle little reminder to get ready to start driving again. We should totally do that in the states. It would seriously decrease the amount of times I have to beep my horn at someone in front of me at a stoplight who is oblivious to the fact that the light has turned green.

In other road-related news, I have my first driving lesson booked for Tuesday. It's just in time, too, because the moment I started getting a little more comfortable driving around town, the entire village suddenly exploded with construction projects. The road to Frankie's school is all torn up, as are several of the streets downtown. This makes some already tricky roads even harder to negotiate.

Once I can master driving, I can start feeling a little more independent. I’d really love to have some solo adventures. The thrill of hanging out around the house all day is starting to wear off.

Proud Mama

After lunch at Frankie's school yesterday, the principal held a little award ceremony. Once a week, a student from each grade is chosen to win the "head teacher's award." The award is for good behavior or achievement, and comes with a spiffy little certificate.

When it was time for the award-winner from Reception class to be announced, Frankie was shocked to hear her name called! She got to come to the stage and collect her award, while all of the other kids gave her a round of applause.

Way to go, Frankie!

The art of compromise

On Sunday, we were having a hard time figuring out what to do. Matt wanted to go for a long hike. Frankie wanted to have a relaxing play day and not be bossed around by boring adults. I wanted to go shopping. There we were: three strong-minded individuals with conflicting ideas of what makes a rockin' Sunday.

In the end, I came up with a pretty good compromise. We drove about 30 minutes away to a tiny little zoo called "Trotters World of Animals." Frankie and I goofed around at the zoo for a few hours, while Matt hiked on a nearby trail. When he was finished with the hike, we drove down the street to Keswick where Matt watched Frankie while I walked around the town square, window shopping for a hour.

As it turned out, everyone got to do a little of what they wanted. Frankie was hilarious at the zoo, by the way. As we walked in, there was a pen with two enormous tapirs in it.

I pointed to the animals and said excitedly, "Frankie, look at that!!"

She briefly looked over, shrugged, and said "Oh. Tapirs." She showed the same amount of enthusiasm that a person might demonstrate in saying, "Oh. Lightbulbs." She then proceeded to run over to a nearby playground where she played for an hour without so much as a second thought to the exotic animals around her. I think we've taken her to so many museums and zoos that she thinks that a tapir is just about as common a sight as a squirrel.

I did persuade her to go to an exotic pet show in one of the zoo's classrooms. She had a blast, but it was pretty much a living nightmare for me. The zoo had trained parrots, parakeets, rats, and ferrets to run and fly all around the audience-- They zoomed over head, perched on shoulders, and darted in and out between our seats. It was impressive that the animals were so well trained, but I'm not really a big fan of birds or rats. (The word phobia has even been tossed around in some circles.) It was all I could do to keep from screaming as all of those creepy creatures brushed past me. I didn't let on to Frankie that I was scared, but on the inside I was majorly freaked out.

It’s in the eyes. Birds and rats have beady, dead eyes. Can’t be trusted.

Tent City

The last few nights, Frankie's been having a "camp in." We pitched a tiny tent in her room, and she's made a little nest for herself in there. She's taken in a ton of comfy pillows, her wooby (wooby = favorite blanket), and baby Alice. She also insists on sleeping with one of my shirts because she says she misses me too much when she's sleeping. (Awwwww.)

She's in there right now, putting herself to sleep by singing "Goodnight Irene."

This is her third night in the tent. It's funny, isn't it, that even though she has two beds and a couch in her room, she'd rather sleep on the floor.

Maybe tomorrow night we should make s'mores?

Maryport has a beach?

I’m not sure exactly why this is news to me. I mean, we do live on the coast on England. Of that much I’m aware. For some reason, though, I thought that there would be rocks or cliffs or some other impassable geographic obstacle between us and the water.

In reality, there’s actually a pretty nice little beach. It’s a bit rocky, but definitely a nice place for a walk on a lazy Saturday. Staggeringly, the beach isn’t covered with trash either. It’s really pleasant.

Matt, Frankie, and I packed up a picnic lunch and went for a walk down by the shore. I had a great time exploring the area by the water’s edge. I’m a water gal. Always have been. There’s nothing I love more than a large body of water, be it lake, pond, or ocean. So, I love the fact that there’s a beach in Maryport. I could lay a blanket out at stare out at the waves for hours.

Matt’s not really a hang-out-on-the-beach kind of guy, though, so we also planned to investigate some hiking trails near the water. Frankie had other ideas. Her plans basically involved attempting to thwart every single attempt we made to go for a hike.

We had only walked a few hundred yards down the trail when she started complaining about how her feet hurt. Fifty more yards, and her neck hurt. Fifty more, and this is what happened:

What did they call this protest technique in the sixties? Passive resistance?

Anyhow, it worked. Rather than cajole her any farther, we gave up and went back home. Maybe we’ll try it another day? It’s possible that we might be working poor Frankie a bit too hard.

A taste of home

We just got back from the grocery store where we came across this little culinary delight:

American-style hot dogs in brine. In a can.

Ew.

Trash Talk

This is the first weekend since we arrived that we don't have some sort of trip, errand, or activity planned. The only thing on the agenda is a trip to the recycling center because, amazingly, Maryport doesn't have a curbside recycling program.

What's the deal with these guys and trash? Coming from a very environmentally-conscious city like Fort Collins, it’s a little shocking to see the way that people casually throw their trash on the ground in public areas. I saw an episode of Mad Men once where the Draper family goes for a picnic in a really beautiful spot. When they’re finished they take a moment to admire the scenery. Then, they shake the blanket out onto the ground, leaving behind all of the paper plates, cups, napkins, and trash. I remember being totally shocked by that. The show is set in the sixties, and I couldn’t imagine that we ever lived in a time where it was considered ok to do something like that.

Apparently, Maryport is stuck in the sixties.

But I shouldn’t get down on Maryport. The way trash is handled out here seems across the board very different from what we’re used to in the US. In the Carslile train station, for example, there were no garbage cans anywhere. They just don’t exist. Instead, the preferred way of dealing with trash seems to be to hire someone to come around every few hours and pick the trash up off of the ground. It’s so weird!

We're also having a hard time with the trash bins at our house. Ever since we moved in, we've been trying to get the landlord to set us up with our own outside trash bin. He hasn't made any progress, which is frustrating. As is, we have to share a small trash bin (you know, the tall plastic kind that you drag to the curb for the garbage man) with all of the other tenants in the building. That means that we have to share a trash bin with three other apartments.

The bin itself is about 2/3 the size of the bin that we had all to ourselves in Colorado. Needless to say, the trash container fills up very quickly.The garbage man won't take away any bags that aren't in the bin, so we always end up stuck with a bunch of extra garbage at the end of the week that didn't make it into the trash pickup. This was especially problematic when we first moved in and had to do a massive cleanout of the cabinets and drawers. (Remember the terrible hoarding prolem?) For the first few weeks, we had bags and bags of garbage spread out across the kitchen with no place to put them.

On the up side, we finally discovered that there's a local dump that will take all of our extra trash, and has a good recycling program. All of that is free of charge, as long as you’re willing to load your car up with garbage. Of course, that’s what we do every weekend. Matt and I are physically incapable of throwing an aluminum can in the garbage. It’s painful to even try.

The Dove is on his way!

My brother is coming for a visit! I'm so excited!!!!!

He's coming at the end of June, the 17th through the 27th. He'll be flying in to London, and then will take a connecting flight to Manchester where we'll pick him up. It's going to be so great to see him. I just hope he won't find small town life out here in Maryport too boring. Maybe we'll take him somewhere exciting, like Scotland for a few days?

I'm having such a great time planning all of these excursions and day trips. I think I missed my calling as a travel planner.

More British Milestones

I called a local salon and booked my first British haircut today. It's at a little place within walking distance of Frankie's school called "Divas." I asked around, and it seems like the place where all of the local moms get their hair cut. I don't know if the stylist is going to do a good job, butI can say that I love the price. A cut, color, and blowdry service (what the lady on the phone called "the works") only costs 40 pounds. That translates to about 60 dollars, American.

The men out there reading this probably won't understand the awesomeness of that price point, but ladies? Are you with me on this one? That's cheeeeeeap. Like, super cheap. Like, about half of what I'd pay back home for the exact same service. So, I'm pretty psyched.

I also called a driving school today about private lessons. I think I'm about ready to take my driving skills to the next level. I knew I was ready when I was driving down The Went today and noticed that I was traveling 30 miles an hour. What once seemed like complete insanity now seems kind of doable. It''s possible that I'm more adapable than I originally thought.

I'm feeling rather British today.

Matt and I went to the local doctor today to fill out some forms and get our national health insurance numbers.

We are official temporary Brits.

I’m not quite sure how the system works yet, but from what we’ve seen so far it seems pretty simple. Basically, Matt, Frankie, and I had to fill out a few short forms at the doctor’s office. The forms were really basic—Just a two-page document that asked general questions about our medical histories. Once they type the information into their computer, the clinic assigns us our individal NHS (National Health Service) numbers. We would then use the NHS numbers when booking appointments.

Since the Maryport clinic is contracted to provide NHS services (as pretty much all doctors out here are), we won't have to pay for any of our consultations, treatments, or medicines. We’re registered with the main clinic in Maryport, but if we wanted to go to another NHS doctor in this town or any other, that would be fine too. Basically, if you have the NHS number, you’ll get treatment almost anywhere.

Honestly, it was really surprising how laid-back the clinic was about our registration paperwork. They didn’t ask for any proof of residency, or even any ID. We just walked in, told them we needed a NHS number, and walked away in fifteen minutes with everything finished. The receptionist at the front desk also made it clear that even though we won’t have our NHS numbers until next week, that we could still receive treatment if something serious came up. The NHS number seems to not be a requirement for emergency treatment.

It'll be interesting to see how public heath care works out here. It’s very different from what we’re used to in the US. It's so weird not having to deal with insurance companies and the endless paperwork that goes along with them.

London Trip: One more thing...

I forgot to mention one of my favorite Frankie quotes of the trip. In one of the galleries at the V&A museum, they had a full-size replica of the statue of David. Frankie ran right up to the base of the statue, gave it a good long look and said in an awe-struck voice, "Wow... He looks really healthy."

Cracked me up.

London Trip: The End

So, that pretty much sums up our London adventure. We sure know how to keep ourselves busy!

London Trip Part 8: Kensington Gardens

It’s possible we might have overloaded Frankie on museums. On her last day, she said “Museums are boring, boring, boring! All you do is walk around and look at things.”

The poor girl needed a little fresh air and a some running around time. So, we decided to spend our last afternoon in London at Kensington Gardens.

Kensington Gardens is an absolutely huge park. Other than Central Park in New York, I really can’t think of anything quite like it. It’s 275 acres of green grass, lakes, royal monuments, kiddie rides, and trees. In the center of the park is Kensington Palace, where Princess Diana spent her last years.

In Kensington Gardens, we saw people jogging, bicycling, having a picnic lunch, and just generally lounging about in the sunshine. After a long stroll, Frankie spent most of her time at the Princess Diana Memorial Park.

It was a really lovely playground with a Peter Pan theme. There was a treehouse, a pirate ship, teepees, a giant sandbox, and lots of other fun nooks and crannies to explore. The playground, although large, was filled to capacity on the day we were there. No surprise, since it was an abolutely beautiful day. The playground staff only allow a certain number of guests in the playground at a time, so we had to wait in line almost an hour before we were able to go inside. That might sound nuts, but actually I thought it was totally worth the wait. The maximum number of people allowed in the playground was relatively small. That meant that once we got inside, it was really pleasant. It wasn't jam packed, an Frankie didn't have to wait for any of the playground equipment. There was plenty of room to play comfortably. I was even able to find  bench in the shade in a back garden where there was absolutey no one else around. It was very peaceful and quiet.

Frankie, though, had a wild and crazy time. Matt pushed Frankie and a gaggle of girls on this big swing for what must have been an hour. All of the girls were laughing their heads off, likely dizzy from all the back-and-forth.

When we told Frankie we had to go, she got to choose one last thing to do at the playground. She made a beeline for this giant pirate ship and just about scared me to death by climbing all the way up to the top of the crow's nest. There were a ton of kids in the little tube, and once she got to the top she had a little moment of panic when she realized she didn't know how to get down. I thought I was going to have to send in a rescue squad, but Frankie summoned up all her courage and figured out a way to shimmy down the tube past all of the other kids. I was proud of her, but mostly just glad to have her back on land.

London Trip Part 7: The Science Museum

Frankie had a great time at the science museum. It was very kid-oriented, and had lots of hands-on exhibits to play with.

Matt really seemed to like the museum too. They had exhibits on the history of mathematics, a hall of motors, and all kinds of machines and inventions on display. My favorite part of the museum was the gallery that showed the evolution of all different kinds of household items: the vacuum, the washing machine, the toilet. The exhibit pictured below shows how a toilet works, and even has a little fake poop that you can follow through the different tanks and pipes.

One of the other exhibits was on the evolution of the stereo, and separate gallery traced the history of computers. It made me think of my brother, who would have really liked both displays.

After the mind-boggling crowds at the Natural History museum, we were a little wary of visiting the science museum. We made sure we got there as soon as it opened, though, and the crowds at that time of the day weren’t bad at all. In fact, it sometimes seemed that we practically had entire galleries all to ourselves. It was a really pleasant day.

London Trip Part 6: The Natural History Museum

If we get a chance to visit London again, I imagine that this will be one of the fist places we go back to. The Natural History Museum is an amazing place. It's huge, fascinating, and gorgeous to look at. I mean, check out the architecture alone...

The closest thing I can compare it to is the Field Museum in Chicago, which is a museum very near and dear to my heart.

Unfortunately, we didn't get a chance to see very much of the Natural History museum because the place was absolutely mobbed with people. Museums are free of charge in the UK, so everyone that was stranded by the Iceland volcano seemed to be killing time at the museum. Also, unbeknownst to us, we happened to be in the city at the same time the London schools were on Easter holiday. All of the kids on holiday were also at the museum, making it impossible to comfortably move around and see anything.

It was so crowded that there were actually lines to get into the galleries. The line to see the dinosaur exhibit at one point in the day was 2 and a half hours long. Craziness!!

We caught a break in the action, and only had to wait in line fifteen minutes to get into the dinosaur gallery. It was a big mistake, though. The exhibit was set up so that an enormous suspended catwalk ran the length of the exhibit, and you had to walk down the length of it to get onto the main floor. The catwalk was PACKED with people, andit moved at a claustrophobic crawl. So, even though it only took fifteen minutes to reach the catwalk, we were stuck on that darn thing for probably an hour. And the manners of the people in line around us were horrific. People were pushing, shoving, cutting in line, screaming... It was very un-British, and very impolite. I was just right about on the cusp of punching someone out.

Here's a glimpse at what Matt appropriately dubbed "The Walkway of Bad Manners."

Gives me the wilies just looking at the picture. Frankie didn't seem to mind, but I was pretty much at my  wits end. Matt too. After the dino gallery, I was ready to put on pajamas and not be around crowds for a long, long time.

I'm not soured on the whole museum, mind you. I'd totally go back again. Just when it was a little less insanely crowded.