So there is a loophole to Clause #789. Again, this was an e-mail that's going up - sorry!!

So I've found a minor loophole to the tights/stockings/panty hose issue here in London.

Hold ups!! Also known as thigh-highs in America, these delightful bits of actual elasticised nylon don't suffer the untold cruelties of sizing and seem to come in a more human array of colors (although darned if there aren't TONS of 'super-shiny' shades of 'American Tan'). The elastic/rubber strips at the top seem to work, if you run one leg (as I did this morning reaching for something) no worries! They come 2 to a pack so you have a better chance of getting through at LEAST two days for £5.50.

There is, however, a downside. Actually 3. The first is that rather than transforming into Giselle Bunchen when I slide these puppies on (ok yank and tug as I'm running late) one must be wary, ladies, that those of a slightly more 'athletic' bent of thigh might come out look like you've wrestled two Christmas hams into netting and sadly those blessed with more than 5% body fat might have the 'bulge factor' around the top. Just avoid looking in a mirror if this is the case. It's better to be a creature of mystery (to yourself at the least!) then see that you are not, in fact, ready to prance down the catwalk.

So that's number 1 and 1.5. Number 2 is that I now must live in mortal fear of risking some busted elastic or a drooping bit of rubber gripping (the poor dears are stretched to their limit) and be hustling down the street only to note that I now have a leg warmer of stocking. And because I stretched out the tops everyone on the street will know that my upper thigh is larger than Posh Spice's head. Twice over. Which brings me to number three. Rather than the naked chicken hopping dance (see previous post) one must now adopt the 'I'm trying to get down the street whilst pretending to hold a dime between my legs' stride. Think of a time when you had lots of shoppings bags and DESPERATELY needed a restroom. That thighs-pressed-together with a hint of sidle and swish. It's not so much a slinky stride of confidence as, well, you've busted the elastics in your pants.

So there it is. A loophole with which to hang yourself. I'll let yall know (or check Youtube) if disaster strikes whilst walking across the stage today at LSE!!!!

Cheerio from the Office Drone,

AoY

On a side note I have found that Yes, they stay up. However you might get some Indian rugburn style friction working between your skin and the elasticised tops. Using suspenders? The hooks bite into your bum/thigh if you sit for any amount of time in a chair. Do we honestly need further proof that no sane woman EVER invented these damn things!!!

This got quite the reaction and many of my brilliant friends had their thoughts to add on the topic:

From DM:
OK...I HAD to comment! There are actually several sidebars here
1. they are called 'tights' in this country because stockings are what you wear with a garter belt...side, side bar...notice I said garter belt not...suspenders which is what the brits call them; so never never NEVER go into the mens department and ask for suspenders for your husband....they are still laughing.
2. If they sold DKNY or Haynes they would be £18 a pair...no I am NOT kidding... fine 'tights' are anywhere from £18 - £25! AoY is clearly being a good girl on her budget...I, however, am not!
3. When they have runs in them several of my British friends have pointed out the "cut the one leg off each pair with the run" back to AoY's note...they are so fricking tight...can you imagine wearing 2 pair simultaneously...no #@!*#@*ing way!

From REP:
Ha...... Oh my god! Right now I'm just really glad that I will never, EVER have a job which requires me to wear panty hose, tights, stockings, suspenders, or any other crazy name they can come up with for them! I hate the American version -- can't imagine they could guess much worse, but based on your experiences, I guess they do.....

From HRK:
Hye AoY-- just do what I do, get a little crazy and go without...stockings that is... or if you get really wild (mom, shut ur eyes) go commando! its what all the smu girls are doing-- you'll save a bundle! Hah! I'm totally joking-- why not make fun of us while I still can?!

From MEC:
Wait a minute, our crotches are not supposed to be down by our knees yet?Just kidding! My main concern from this whole story is the fact thatyou have a job that requires panty hose every single day!

From HJR:
And I want to know why your e-mail is numbered #789 and why I have not received the other 788! Had I received those, I am convinced I would not require massive doses of medication to get through law school.

I think we should collaborate on a book entitled "Why You Need a Sense of Humor to Be Female". I KNOW it would be a bestseller. Lets create a bestseller, get rich, and then sit around never having to wear pantyhose again or anything item that remotely constrains one's bodily parts ... wait! I am doing that already!

To those who received this e-mail, sorry for the repeat but figured it desereved a place.

#789

In the past five days I've run £20 worth (That's 40 US dollars or 5 pairs) of panty hose and stockings. It's like they RUN (no pun intended) towards the nearest sharp object, including my finger nails. I've actually been reduced to wearing torn hose to the office. I've bought the drug store hose, the department store hose, and the £1.90 special support hose (I was running late and desperate) from the geriatric pharmacy up the road. And, as Dede and I have pointed out, the Brits seems to get their fun in devising panty hose that fit no normal woman. They either proffer a Size Small (thanks for playing that game kids) pointing that while you're far out of the weight range you are in fact quite short (thanks so much for that, again) so that when your doing the naked chicken hop around your flat at 6.45AM you realize that there is only enough cheap material to have the crotch hit your knees (maybe when I'm 90 this will be the case but I have a few more feet yet to go!) or that the waistband is now an ovary belt as it cannot contain that Christmas pudding you ate last week.

Then there is the kindly lady who steers you into the Large section, pointing out that whilst you might not fit perfectly in the weight category, you might (just might) have longer legs than your mere height suggests...Suddenly you have Jumpsuit Stockings. At least if I'm in a plane crash situation I could devise a parachute out of the extra fabric. Suddenly your crotch MUST be bagging to your knees as the double bow you've made in the waistband won't stay put. But is just as likely that, depending on the evil genius at the factory, a Large just might in fact fit like a small (see: naked chicken hop above)

I must further point out here that often there is no elastic in the actual tights and you just sort of roll them on and wiggle until your legs, now seven shades of mud or shiny plastic flesh (the Brits love them some shiny stockings) are somewhat covered. It is highly likely that your crotch is actually located on the back of your right thigh (maybe the Brits missed anatomy courses). And while the naked chicken hop entertains the neighbors you may also eventually expire from dehydration as you live in dread of needing a toilet and thus the prospect of hopping about the water closet and prompting security to assume someone MUST be up to hanky panky in the ladies room because of the banging and cursing and random flushing (that would be the automatic sensor or your head as you attempt to coax an extra inch from the ankle area). And men bitch about dress shoes?!?!

On the positive side I must point out that British stockings have the amazing fortitude to not develop gaping holes (unlike our American friends). Whether due to a lack of elastic, the sheer lack of any real structure resembling a leg, or their alternate purpose to net a fleeing wild animal, I can make it through the day with about three holes and no one really notices. I also LOVE the color descriptions. DKNY and Hanes (unavailable in most of the UK) have Tan, Beige Natural, Black, Taupe, Nude and Putty. In the UK you have the option of American Tan, Meditteranean Glow, Shiny Natural, Shiny American, Natural Tan, Ebony and Mahogany. Basically not skin tones seen in nature.

However, did I mention that the Mediums, which logically fall between the Small and Large size, can be one or the other, both or none? You might have the legs of a Small with the girdle of a XXL, or Rosanne Barr legs with a childlike bum (I almost said fanny but while this might be the one time both uses of the word could apply, I'd be censored in the newspapers). I have finally discovered why Boots (the pharmacy) sells stockings in a 2-For-1 package. One is the pair with with you attempt to survive the work day. The second is to string yourself up with or provide the looney bin with an extra set of restraints.

(On a side bar - it's a bit depressing that I've reached a place in my life where stockings are required every day...)
So that's the latest dispatch from Fulham...men clearly made stockings so that the glass ceiling would be all slippery as we break it :) Hope everyone is well and it made you smile!

Home Sweet Home…
Dorm Sweet Dorm…
Hovel Shitty Shovel…

What is an abode for the urban professional? Is it a place to store our things now that the parents have moved beyond their empty-nest feelings and suddenly reclaim their lives (and attics/garages/basements) and return to the days of leisure time before they decided to bring new lives into the world? Or is it our first real stab at independence. Look Mom and Dad, I’ve MADE it! I’m an ADULT! (Until we need help or money that is).

But regardless of financial situation, first job status or a looming quarterlife crisis those first few shoeboxes represent our initial attempt to strike out into the new world.

My first apartment in Washington, DC came with my roommate from college, my mother’s guest bed, my grandmother’s furniture and my childhood stuffed animal. V and I painted walls, got lost on the Metro and slowly explored the urban jungle. That first ‘adult’ sleepover had resonance when it was no longer class that came with the morning light but work. I received Home Depot gift certificates, pots and pans from William-Sonoma, linens and wine from my parents in a bid to domesticate (and perhaps lure) my future unwitting spouse into a comfortable nest. Our cozy little home remained untouched for two years even when V moved to California and I stayed behind with Dave, an *ahem* Tarheel graduate who moved in and brought the better TV, finally setting up a working wireless signal, barstools and beer mugs. But the walls stayed blue and ‘home’ remained in Arlington.

Apartment Numero Due saw a momentous move 4.3 miles over to Courthouse and into my first living situation. I had only realized a few days prior that my new building also housed my first DC crush-an English captain who worked at the British Embassy. What can I say? It’s all about the accent (as I recently attempted at a drinks party to convince my guy friends in London that moving ANYWHERE in the States would be tantamount to importing catnip for the female, and perhaps male, masses). 1320 N. Veitch had the post-1995 sterility of fancy looking floors and doors but cheap walls covered in white paint with that pale muddied-cream floor-to-floor carpet. Benefits included a balcony, proximity to work and friends, my own stuff, gas stove and oven, tile floors instead of linoleum and my first walk-in closet in over a decade. The downside included the cheap walls, a gas log fireplace that would also set off the fire alarm, a fire alarm so sensitive that baking a potato meant that clearly the apartment was about to go up in flames, expensive garage parking, and a crowded pool area populated by the cast of Laguna Beach on the weekends. Far from being lonely I rarely spent a full week in residence (thanks law firm) and sadly waved goodbye to the copious storage and wall space. I also had managed to steal free Internet and cable channels thus lowering the burden of living alone.

Moving across an ocean to a foreign country means adjusting perspectives, attitudes and comfort zones. Living in Italy I adjusted to insufficient heat, little hot water, soaring ceilings and terra cotta, bougainvillea and Nino’s home cooking. Life in a German hotel meant smoking rooms, polyester sheets, questionable showers that contained a soap/shampoo/cleanser (and probably disinfectant), a skyline of more snow or surgically implanted buildings of glass and chrome with sharp edges and flat planes. Every now and again those crafty Germans would place colour laminated plastic or paint-coated metal at random intervals (correction-the Germans are never random. It was carefully planned and designed to appear whimsical whilst always fitting into the proper working hierarchy). Move beyond the city and you find the gingerbread cottages of the Brothers Grimm in the Black Forest and the surprisingly ornate (if dark) fairy-tale castle spearing up into the clouds.

But my point is this – don’t move to Europe expecting everything to be as it was in America. My old flatmate (yes one does refer to London apartments as flats) struggled over finding decent drip coffee. Londoners prefer to make an espresso and add water (many call it an Americano; I call it shitty British espresso with tap water). I fruitlessly searched for Pam cooking spray. We both struggled at times with the 3 storey walk-up and 1970s furniture that looks suspiciously like Laura Ashley briefly went into the home furnishings sector before rightfully returning her chintz to pinafores. Another note: London does not use central heating or air conditioning. Yes, it exists. Yes, some buildings MAY tell you something is air-conditioned. It is not, however, the same as good old GE (or Scana) powered hot and cold. Our water heater ran out after 5 minutes. I literally had an instruction for visitors on how to operate our shower to maximise the hot water. The windows didn’t have screens but needed to stay open to combat mustiness (consequently we sometimes received unwanted visitors) Our little space heaters ran up our electric bill and threatened to melt the curtains. The washing machine took 2 hours to wash and 1.5 hours to steam (ahemm, dry) a load of laundry. We hung everything on chairs and hooks and in general lived in relative comfort. From my window a private garden replete with lawn tennis and benches could be seen and the happy screams of children echoed in my ear every Saturday at 9AM. It was a good year and you just…adapt. But we also had a lovely private street out of a Hollywood-movie idea of gentrified London living, a private park to shelter us from traffic sounds and less than an hour’s walk to downtown, Hyde Park, Harrod’s and the river. It’s a reward/sacrifice system that applies to most of our lives.

I’m still 10 minutes late everywhere in London because I never quite see the bird that jumps on the tracks that then fouls of the District Line for 6 hours coming. After taking on a job at a London consulting firm it was time to strike out once again for that Carrie Bradshaw charming one bedroom for little money in a great location flat.

I will spare everyone the details of flat hunting as it is a global blight. There should be a website somewhere, somehow, that allows you to type in EXACTLY what you want, how much you want to pay, when you want to move and they handle the rest from the leasing agreements to the packing to the schlepping. Oh the schlepping involved in moving without a car. I nearly rented one for the week until Dede pointed out the insanity (stupidity? mindlessness?) of driving and parking in London.

For those looking in London, there is a phenomenon called The Bedsit. A bedsit is just that. It may be a Murphy bed, or a pull-out couch (see Match Point) or a real bed and it might even have a kitchenette but there is always a trade-off. Kitchen but no bathroom. Shower but no toilet. Washing machine but no window. Bathroom but no kitchen. I think of bedsits as the depressing pinnacle of those who live in an expensive city, work long hours for decent pay and still can’t afford a pot to pee in. Imagine my (well, imagined) good fortune at finding a relatively cheap space with all necessary items and furnishings in a great neighbourhood that I love!

Casa di Wandsworth is actually in Fulham, close to the dodgy end but also close to the celebs. It is on the ground floor and may have some security issues (such as a broken front door to the building, locks a five year could undo, a walkway straight into my living room via the trash area and a general lack of bars or fences to ward off burglars. But it is painted-again blue, and it has a washer and its own bathroom.

But like any old and shoddily-maintained room, it has its quirks. One could start with the smell. The previous tenant was a smoker and the whole has an eau-de-decaying rot that makes the place seem a bit odorous. Buyers’ remorse definitely set in as I stood by the world’s smallest loveseat that reeked of wet dog and inhaled lingering tar and carbon dioxide and had the thought that I might have come to reside in the Bates motel. But Southern women are made of sterner stuff. I simply tore up my petticoat for rags and…wait, I mean I went on the Web and researched the best methods to remove cigarette smoke and stains, and then went to five different stores to gather the right collection of candles, Febreeze, Oust, bleach, ammonia, mops, buckets, sponges, essential oils and wine. For those interested you remove cigarette smoke in the following manner.
1. Don’t Move In
2. Repaint the Walls if possible and re-seal the floors. Use Kilz to counteract the base coat and keep the stains from showing thorugh the new paint. Repaint the ceiling as well. Re-wallpaper but strip off old stuff first.
3. Replace subflooring and carpeting
4. Get a HEPA filter but remember that you are putting a deep dent in the ozone layer (these things emit ozone apparently)
5. Scrub every single surface available with ammonia and water; eco-friendlies swear by lemon juice alone.
6. Burn candles
7. Burn incense
8. Get a shaman in to say a few words and burn sage
9. Take away curtains and soft fabrics and replace
10. Drink heavily and leave windows open as much as possible.

I clearly only performed seven hours of Steps 5-7, 9 and 10. So MOST of the smell isn’t noticeable and Mr. Smoker has been forever banished. I sneak into the hall every few days with a bag of baking soda and a can of Oust and go to town. The other tenants either don’t notice or soon expect an anthrax announcement.

Smell defeated and I’m learning all sorts of gymnastic movements to accommodate the reduced size. Here’s where I should probably mention that I pay my electricity directly into a meter. Like a parking meter. Like something out of the Victorian era meter with a turn handle. Upside: It means no monthly bills and the Halil meat vendor down the road knows me by name and starts unwrapping rolls of pound coins on my approach. Downside: Did I mention that the meter is in the world’s most inconvenient spot? Above the kitchenette and it is quite the process.
Ensure that the stove eyes are off.
Swing myself onto the counter but remain crouched as to avoid the long storage shelf above.
Manoeuvre into position with coin in left hand and right hand grasping the edge of the counter (I used to hang onto a coat hook but that broke)
Stick left hand through specially cut-out hole to reach up and manually turn meter into coin-receiving position, feed meter blindly, turn handle and hope it’s enough for the week.
Dismount and convince the neighbours below that I’ve fallen out of bed (oh wait for it).

There are some advantages, however, to living in a small space. The first is that I can dry my hair, reach over into the bathroom and sang a toothbrush or some product, then reach up to my bed to grab my cell phone or book from last night, then into my closet to get my coat, into the kitchen to make and grab my coffee, to the vanity to put on my earrings, the drying line to get my shirt and back into the bathroom to return products and in general tidy up. Now can you do all of that in a normal house?! I should point out here that the shower is quite nice. It’s heated at the site by one of those boxes so no fussing with hot water heaters. On the downside the landlord does like to shut off the rest of the hot water in the flat once a week for 36 hours but so goes – can’t have everything. Plus I tried my hand at DIY and installed roller blinds. Only one tilts a bit and I failed to get the ones that filter out light but they’re up and by God they’re staying up!

And yes, I said UP to the bed. It’s lofted. A bit lower than those lofts of university days (I stil have a few vague memories and scars of just not quite making it there a few times). It is a double bed, not that uncomfortable as I hear firm mattresses are good for the back, and within easy reach of my storage area where I keep extra books and beauty supplies. The downside is that I am, again, living in a loft which I haven’t done in the past 7 years, there is a distinct lack of a bedside table and changing the linens is, in short, a bitch. And do mind the step. I miscounted one morning and reached for the floor on the 2nd step instead of the 3rd. Instant split at 6.30AM. Ouch.

For all of this splendour I pay a nominal sum of £155 a week which includes council tax (see prior postings) and bills except electric. Work that out in UK housing to £750 a month, which puts me in the lower bracket of renters in London and average in NYC. Bet of all, the river is 5 minutes away, it’s a fast jaunt to airports, okay not FAST but faster, and multiple parks and a shopping centre with a Borders! Life is pretty good and I even have a roommate. But that’s for later.

Welcome to the Real World! May you find growth, prosperity and happiness in your new home :)

-AoY

Ahem.

I shall creep into this post slowly after a long long loooong hiatus from blogging, partly due to fear of having personal things leak out onto the web, partly due to nothing super-exciting happening that's postable where I won't A) Offend something B) Call someone out C) Not potentially get in trouble at work and partly because, well, what if it's terrible.

But new year, new (sort of) blog and new determination. This, along with healthy living, not getting fired and having a successful first date are my New Year's Resolution. What're Ya'lls? Oh, and I'm going to attempt to only shop at charity shops, sidewalk markets and discounts - this may result in my not shopping for the next year.

Rather than go through the long and laborious list of 'Things That Have Happened' I'm honoring the tradition of the list (have ya'll noticed a fondness for lists in previous posts?). I also apologise not the next several posts potentially being out of date order. Either something is interesting or not and it might not necessarily have occurred yesterday. So, to channel some late night host that is currently on strike along with every other overpaid writer who whines but is in truth not a lifeblood of our economy (well, they are but might this be a question of society's values rather than a need to have good TV over say, good health care?-I refuse to answer this).
10. Graduated from LSE with Merit (sounds fancy eh) with a MSc in Criminology
9. Took a job at D*~*#** Consulting in London as a UK employee, so it's the ex-pat life for me for a bit
8. Had a few disastrous first dates and encounters that went nowhere
7. Discovered that I in fact have a larger volume of books than clothes
6. Refused to pay my TV license and as such, have no TV (or Internet but that's a monetary issue)
5. Moved to Fulham, near Chelsea, down by the river, in a studio
4. Discovered that my studio is quite small and comes with previous tenants
3. Gained 5 weeks of vacation, free health care (plus dental) and a new laptop for work
2. Have barely traveled (again ££££ issue but this changes) but did have a hair-raising ride through the Highlands with Mama, almost considered buying a bicycle and plan to rent a manual car (which I can't drive) very soon
1. Discovered that as A) an American B) Not enough of a Southerner C) A bit too pudgy for the hot clubs and D) one who took a job from some Brit am not so liked in the UK and beyond. Way to go USA - we're now pariahs/lepers/lichen/fungi/laughingstocks of much of the world. But am determined to change such opinions, but might avoid Pakistan on this year's travel list.

To avoid clutter in the inboxes, inevitable disappointment, and perhaps to remain below the radar, I promise to only send out a link every few months. As much as I'd love to post all day and spend hours combing the Internet for pictures and clips and witty banterings, I sadly still much work and this site is restricted from 8.15-18.30 (so just went there with the 24 hour time).

I further apologise to any men who read this. I'm trying to shoot for an impartial eye of the city but let's be honest, I'm not indulging in group steams or showers at the cricket club and ya'll aren't wearing panty hose to work (ahh, at least I hope not because you're screwed in Britain). Thus take heart that some posts might delight you and merely skip the ones with a booster shot of estrogen.

To add to the list of addendum, apologies and disclaimers, I hereby apologise for a distinct lack of salacious gossip mongering, explicit language (where avoidable) and situations (please don't make me spell this out). My parents and their friends likely read this and while yes, I know, you've seen and done it all (definitely learned that over Xmas break) if you want the full story, give me a shout. Let's let them preserve SOME illusions about kids these days :)

And lastly, spelling/grammatical errors. Look, I went to university. I majored in English. I am a Word Nazi (ask my former flatmate). I also speak British English now. I speak another language. I also work 10 hours a day plus 2 hours of commute in total, gym it up another 2 hours, sleep for 7, thus leaving 3 hours left out of 24. I tried to make every post pristine and lovely and look how many I posted in the past 1.5 years! Henceforth, shout at me when you spot then but other than that, just let it go already! When nominated for a Pulitzer I promise to do more than Spellcheck! Oh, and if you hate (parenthetical inserts), -dashes, (!), (...), (etc.) etc. bite me. Jane Austen has not called for her manuscript back :)

Have I now appropriately made this as un-fun and boring and anti-blog as possible? Good. Let's begin.

Happy 2008 Ya'll from London and beyond!!