Hurrah for sun on the most important day of the year, my birthday! And it was bookended by sunny days, as Friday was and today is bright and clear if not frigidly cold. It's my last year before the big 3-0, and I celebrated it in a very lovely London way. It started on Friday with some flowers and cakes at the office, leading to some truly frightening karaoke singing (complete with hiccups) on Friday night with some lovely work ladies. I paid for it yesterday AM with a pretty terrible headache, but was restored by the Irishman's full English fry-up and my favorite tv show, Saturday Morning Kitchen.

I got some fantastic presents from the Irishman, who braved the intimidating French shop girls at my favorite store, Comptoirs des Cotonniers and picked out an awesome t-shirt with French bulldogs on it for me. It was accompanied by a book I'd mentioned I was interested in called Inside of a Dog. I was blown away by the thoughtfulness of his gifts – especially how much he remembered about my favorites (stores, books, interest, even WHAT SIZE I AM) which made it all even more special. He even made me fudgy chocolate cupcakes which made me swoon a little.

Part of my gift was the proclamation that as it was my birthday, I could choose whatever I wanted to do all weekend long. So I actually suggested that instead of a fancy meal somewhere, I'd prefer to go to the movies because I never really have a chance to get out and see stuff in the theater before it hits DVD. I mentioned that I'd like to see MicMacs, the new film by the director of Amelie, and the Irishman didn't complain at all. He then went on to book us into the Everyman theater in Hampstead, a boutique cinema that has club chairs, sofas, and waiters who bring you drinks and nibbles.

I've never been to Hampstead, a posh neighborhood bordering Hampstead Heath, so we decided to go up there early, before the 6pm showing, and have a wander. I highly recommend it, because the little village is adorable. It's windy and cute and there are all kinds of little shops and eateries like Louis Hungarian Bakery which had a window full of deliciousness, Mr Simm's Olde Sweet Shoppe, and Jin Kichi, one of the best rated Japanese restaurants in London. We tried to get a table reservation at Jin Kichi for dinner after the film, but they were already booked up by 5pm. Since it was my choice and I wanted Japanese, we ended up at Hi Sushi which hit the spot and wasn't bad but I bet Jin Kichi is better.

The movie was amazing - if you love Amelie, definitely see it - and having a glass of champagne on a sofa in a movie theater was pretty much the best ever. I was a bit sad that I didn't get to spend my day with all of my nearest and dearests, a symptom of expat life, but it was a glorious day and I wouldn't have changed anything about it. It was the sort of day that made me fall in love with London, and everything and everyone I have here, again and that little bit more.

On my trip to Dublin this past weekend, I took the risk of flying notoriously cheap Ryanair. I wrote about how annoying they were when I bought the ticket (I had to pay £7 more than the Irishman) and this unfairness continued as I boarded at Gatwick on Thursday.

Ryanair makes a big deal about charging you for everything, and it's totally true. You have to print out your own boarding pass (and pay £5 for the pleasure) or face a £40 fee to check in at the airport. So I printed my boarding passes at work, made sure to pack only the essentials into my regulation size carry-on (for a wedding, impossible - I had to bring 2 pairs of shoes), and headed to the airport to see what they had in store for me. We sailed through security and got a drink before boarding so that standing in line and fighting for a seat would be a bit more tolerable.

Little did I know that I already had made a huge faux pas. Only as we neared the gate desk to have our boarding passes checked did I notice that the Irishman's had a big EU/EEA stamp on it (for EU/European Economic Area citizens) and mine had a paragraph of small print under the heading "Passport Check". Since I'm American, I was supposed to have read that paragraph and gone to a check-in desk landside to have them verify my passport. Oops. The Irishman turned a horribly dangerous shade of red and we shuffled forward to face the music. Luckily the lady who took my documents worked for BAA, not Ryanair, and she took pity on me. She explained that they stamp the boarding pass and if I went back to do it they would charge me £100!!!! So she did something tricksy with the Irishman's boarding pass and waved me through with a stern warning.

The Irishman's face didn't return to a more natural shade of pink until we were safely in the air, and he lectured me even more. And yes, I was wrong - I should have read the stupid piece of paper. But! I think it's horribly unfair of Ryanair. I'd guess that non-EU/EEA travellers make up approximately 15-20% of all their passengers, and this hidden charge takes advantage of them. I've flown hundreds of times and never had to had my passport checked (and boarding pass stamped) by an airline prior to boarding. The Irishman wouldn't have known; he rarely flies Ryanair and his passport is EU. So all you Yanks - if you plan on taking advantage of flying Ryanair around Europe - be warned! Only take one carry-on, READ EVERYTHING, and don't take anything for granted!!!!

Howdy all. Apologies for not reporting in for a while; February has been a whirlwind of activity, from work, friends, visitors, and travelling. As it is, i'm blogging from Dublin. One of the Irishman's mates from uni is getting married tomorrow so we took a day off from work to sit back and relax Irish-style. I'm currently sitting in his parents' kitchen painting my toenails (peeptoed heels for tomorrow).

Back to what I've been up to: nothing good, to be honest. And by good, I mean healthy. Despite a major budgetary review for the month's finances, I spent a lot of February eating and drinking everything. Remember that running resolution? Heh. It was replaced by runny stinky cheeses in Paris and lots of deliciousness in London. My friend Matt was here early in the month as I told you, and we ate all of Borough Market. Then my bestie Kat and her boyfriend visited for a week and the floodgates opened. We ate curries, Thai, Lebanese, and Chinese buns in London, and more foie gras and cheese and wine in Paris than should be legal. When they left, I was sad to see them go but my stomach contracted slightly with a sigh of relief.

But the best part of Kat and DK's visit was the big reveal of a secret I've been keeping since September - DK proposed!!!! I helped him with some ring details long distance via gchat and keeping that secret has been killing me. It was horrible to dance around he topic while we were shopping and chatting during their visit, so when he finally popped the question I was probably more excited than she was initially. But by the time she left, her smile was brighter than the sparkler on her finger.

So with all the love and kisses in the air, my Pisces nature is reveling in the good vibes. I'm looking forward to March as my birthday is next week with some dancing in the plans, and then some serious getting down to business on the running plan. Though I am loving all the eating and drinking and celebrating, my stomach is reflecting it accordingly. Yikes.

I try to keep the public/private divide intact on BloodyBrill, despite what you think after having read my previous post about poop, which is why you don't know much about my work or where I work or what I do. I allude to my job and my career, but I don't believe in sticking my foot in my mouth virtually. Plus, come one - everyone can find everyone these days on the ol' interweb.

But I will share my frustrations in this forum more often than not, and I think that's acceptable. My latest is that I just had my performance review (or appraisal, or whatever). I haven't had one since this time last year, and so much has changed at work and in the economy and my life in general that frankly I sort of didn't want to know. It didn't turn out too bad - definitely could have been worse - but the number one piece of feedback I received was about crying. I am considered, across my office, to be overly emotional and prone to crying way too often.

Now. I'm not saying I haven't had to duck into the loo every so often, or gone behind closed doors to let out my frustration, both here and in New York. I know it's considered a sign of weakness for women to cry in the workplace and that generally it's bad for one's career if they're seen to constantly break down at the drop of a hat (which apparently is the general consensus about me), and yes, I get it. But dammit I am so angry about the really ridiculous double standard that exists in British culture. Women shouldn't cry, shouldn't have any emotional response at all to anything in the workplace, but also are treated like second-class citizens even when they do show a characteristic stiff upper lip. I've never seen a culture so crude, with all female PAs and EAs, where the all-male old-boys club is still going strong, and where women more often than not carry the bag in the colleague relationship - and not the handbag. It's absolutely disgusting and one of the biggest disappointments I've had since moving to the UK.

In New York, if you're a confident, strong, articulate, smart woman, you can go anywhere, do anything (with ok maybe a bit of luck). But here, no way. Even in a creative industry women are still weak and still volatile, so men have to run the show. The head of my company is a woman, and I'll bet she still encounters the same crap I do. I feel for her, and for every other woman in business in this country. I know that my sometimes frequent work breakdowns (becoming less frequent, but still) don't help crush the stereotype. It's probably been the hardest thing for me to overcome since moving here, because it's a vicious circle: treat a confident girl like crap, even she will cry - and then you'll treat her more like crap, because she's acting like a girl. It's not fair, but I suppose life isn't fair.

I had an interesting conversation last week with an old New York colleague, and relayed this Catch-22 to him; he sympathized, but reminded me that I did want international experience and this was the dirty underbelly of it. I didn't like hearing it, but I know he's right. I guess it's up to me to prove to the world that us Jersey girls can take their poop and throw it right back. With an English accent.

Last week I had to make a pretty humiliating phone call to the Irishman. It went something like this:

me: "Hi, it's me"
him: "Hi" (when he's at work he is very serious on the phone)
me: "I have a confession to make"
him: "Ok"
me: "You know how I felt a bit sick after the curry we had last night"
him: "Yeah"
me: "Well, before I left for work I went to the bathroom" (he leaves for work earlier than me)
him: "Ok..."
me: "And now I feel better, but..."
him: "Uh, okay..."
me: "Well, uh, I mean, what I'm trying to say"
him: "YES?"
me: "I'mreallysorrybutwhenIflusheditalldidn'tgoawayandItriedtousetheplungerbutitdidn'tworksoI'msorrythereisapresentforyouwhenyougethome."
him: "Oh right (chuckle). That's okay. Gotta go bye."

I'm recounting this ridiculous episode for you because it's actually something that's been on my mind for nearly a year now - the way British people deal with, well, poop. The topic came to my attention when I realized soon after moving here that every bathroom (or "loo") features a toilet brush. Not just residential bathrooms, mind you; every loo in my office has a toilet brush, every pub and bar toilet stall has one, even public restrooms like in train stations have them. Obviously I've scrubbed a toilet in my time, but I didn't quite grasp that if you use a toilet and leave a little behind it is common courtesy to scrub it away. I grew up in a house with four bathrooms - my father is quite proud that there is one for each of us - and it is a testament to my mother's housekeeping that the bathrooms were always spotless. But the toilet brush remained far out of sight, in the cupboard with the cleaning supplies. In college and my subsequent apartments, I only had one shared commode and then I think our toilet brushes lived next to the toilet just for convenience's sake, but I don't think anyone used it unless it was with the toilet bowl cleaning solution. I asked the Irishman once about this topic, and he was incredulous that it wasn't part of my psyche to understand that brush + bowl = scrub more often than not. I didn't want to attribute this behavior, or lack thereof, to Americans overall; maybe it's just me and I didn't want to flush my entire nation down with me. But I am curious about this cultural difference, so American readers - what's your loo etiquette?

when I lose the Irishman every weekend for two months to international rugby. Last year Ireland won the 6 Nations tournament with a Grand Slam, beating all each of the other 5 countries (England, Scotland, Wales, France, and Italy), and are gunning to defend their title. The Irishman is pumped for this year's competition, so much so that when I was courted with a romantical suggestion of going to Paris for Valentine's Day for the second year in row I knew there was an ulterior motive: of course Ireland is playing France in Paris on 13 February. The Irishman thought it would be wonderful to spend the weekend in the City of Lights/Love, with an entire day devoted to watching gigantic men in tight shorts jump on top of one another. Actually, as long as #15 Rob Kearney is playing for Ireland, I'm FINE with watching a rugby game, but I had to reject his sentimental offer. He got his wish in the end, though, as friends from the US Kat and DK are going to be here next week, and we're all going to head across the channel for the weekend so the boys can go to the rugby and the girls can go to Chanel. Sounds fair, no?

To be completely honest, I do enjoy watching a rugby game in the pub with the Irishman and his mates, but I get really really nervous. I've come to adopt the Irish team as my own, and I get really upset if they fall behind or miss big plays. Now that they are defending their title, I couldn't actually watch their first game yesterday vs Italy. Even though it was an easy game, and the won handily, the thought of sitting through a heartwrenching loss is too much for me. So I watched the pregame show with the Irishman, and then went shopping. It looks like that's going to be the status quo for my weekends for the foreseeable future.

I spent the day yesterday up north in Manchester. The third largest city in England, it's a little bit over two hours northwest of London in Lancashire. It is the home of Manchester United, and Manchester City, (football teams) and I was sent on what I am calling a "strategic tourism" mission; I am working on a new project at work that requires developing an intimate knowledge of the heart and soul of the city. Given that my dream job is being a professional tourist, I gladly jumped at the chance to get on an early Virgin train and spent the day traversing the town.

Manchester, or Manchestah as it's said with a Manc accent, is an underdog city. It reminded me a lot of Philadelphia in that it has a strong civic pride in its industrial past, and is searching for a new identity in a digital age. Manchester's history is rooted in the industrial revolution and scientific advancement; it was the home of the textile industry and at one point actually produced 70% of the country's fabric (I went to a museum, obviously). The automated looms that allowed the textile industry to flourish were invented in and around Manchester, first atom was split in Manchester, and the periodic table of elements was developed there. But it is also famous for recent cultural events - its downtown was bombed by IRA bombers in 1996, and "Cool Britannia" poster boys Oasis epitomize the city's gritty swagger.

I went up to Manchester with the design director on my project who went to uni there - the University of Manchester is a top-rated school and the city has several other colleges and universities in and around it, also like Philadelphia - which was brilliant as he took the lead and followed his nose around his old stomping grounds and I got to just follow along. The city is so small, like Philly, that you can traverse it easily and we got to see pretty much every neighborhood. There are amazing little pockets of youth and hipster culture in areas like the Northern Quarter, as well as some truly hideous tourist traps like the Printworks. Manchester has its own version of the London Eye; the man in the tourism office told us that on a clear day you could see all the way to Wales from the top (my companion asked me rhetorically why anyone would want to see Wales, but that's another blog entry).

One of the stereotypes of Manchester, and the north in general, is their friendliness compared to "Southerners" and their strength. Walking around the city, residents were kind, willing to chat and answer questions, and much more open and effacing when compared with the cynical wariness of Londoners. But they also all looked old before their time, weathered by the cold and the history of hard labor. Even though many of industrial factory jobs have gone, the economy in Manchester hasn't replaced them with white-collar positions. The people in Manchester have an air of resignation to them, like they've seen it all before, and nothing is going to change, so they're just going to go down the pub. Which they do a lot. But Manchester is also one of those places where people walk down the street and know all the people they pass, and stop to have a chat. It's a big small town.

So after walking around for eight hours, photographing every inch of the place and taking occasional pint breaks (well you know, it is the best way to get to the heart and soul of a British city), I got back on the train to return to London. I shared the carriage with a Mancunian hen party. In some ways, that group of ladies cackling typified Manchester – tough, dressed a bit, well, over the top, they were on their way down to London for the weekend to have a good time. But their home was Manchester and they were proud to be from there, and I suppose that's the point.

Pictures are coming... I just haven't taken them off my camera!

I was pleased to leave work last night at quarter to 7, rather than 11, and even more pleased that I was rushing out to meet the Irishman and my friend Matt for an Indian curry. Matt has been here since Friday; he is employed by the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City, and is here until Wednesday installing several pieces of art at the Tate Modern. While the Irishman headed north to Edinburgh for a stag weekend, on Saturday Matt and I headed down to Borough Market and stuffed our faces. We had both the raclette and the chorizo sandwich from Brindisa, which kept us happy as we then went over to Notting Hill. We finished up the day at my new local pub, The Drapers Arms, staying there until last call. I had such a relaxing day, and it was really refreshing to go back and revisit the touristy "must-sees" of Borough and Portobello Road. When you live someplace exciting like New York or London, you actually relish visits from out-of-towners so that you can go see things that the longer you live there the more you take for granted.

Two weekends ago my parents and grandmother were here; Mom-Mom is going to 82 next week and this was her first international trip! She was quite a trooper, keeping up with my parents who are professional tourists and take their touring very seriously. This visit the highlight was a trip to the Tower of London. I've always gone past the queues and crowds and scoffed at all of the Americans with their cameras waiting to go inside to see the Crown Jewels, but it is actually really cool and if any of you (Brit, Londoner, or otherwise) have never been I highly recommend it. Did you know that the Yeoman Warders (the Beefeaters) actually LIVE INSIDE? And the ravens are HUGE. And the Crown Jewels... holy crap, BLING. Worth it for £15 or however much each ticket cost.

I think the nicest part of my family's visit, though, was when the Irishman cooked Sunday roast for all of us. He takes a roast very seriously, and planned the menu for days and days in advance. The outcome was amazing, of course, and my parents added a bottle of organic red wine that they discovered when they were in Napa last fall. It was such a nice family gathering - too bad my brother couldn't been there - and the Irishman was extremely pleased with his efforts. The parents really loved his food, and I'm starting to suspect that they like him a lot more than me.

View of Tower Bridge from inside the Tower of London
January 15, 2010

Hi there. Long time, no write. I've just come up for air after one of the longest weeks ever. I wrote a bit last year about how I was really flailing about professionally and that I wasn't sure what was in store for me. It was definitely true, and in some ways I still feel that way. It is hard sometimes to wake up every day and face an office when all you want to do is knit and blog and ride your bike around a fabulous city. But lately things have been better, despite the long hours I've been putting in recently. I have a new boss, who can never replace my fab old boss, but who is pushing me harder than I've ever been pushed professionally. I've always known that while a self-starter, I always work best when somebody is continually raising a bar for me. I am in some ways very lazy unless someone is constantly pushing me to be on my toes. New boss definitely does that, and when I stopped resisting it I found myself more and more engaged with my work on a daily basis. That's something I haven't felt in a while.

I've also been attacking some workplace demons that were born, in my mind, out of the innate differences between American and British business culture. I've had to learn a lot about humility, graciousness, hard work, compromise, and status - things that don't really seem to matter in the American workplace. Obviously you have to be a team player and treat people with respect in the US, but otherwise shameless self-promotion is the only way to the top. Here in the UK, at least at my company, there seems to be an intricate web of reputation, hierarchy, and playing to ones strengths in a humble nearly invisible way that drives promotion and seniority. A young brash American can't simply say, "I brought you £X worth of business, promote me" because it's all about how you did it, who saw it, and the impression you made on them while doing it. It's been a really bitter pill for me to swallow, but I'm starting, slowly, to get it. I'm hoping my dawning realization is in time for me to prove to the senior staff that I am committed to doing a good job in London and I'm not heading back to the new world any time soon.

Until then, though, it's looking like more early mornings and late nights... hopefully I can fit in the time to update BloodyBrill despite my epic workdays.

No doubt you've seen this NASA photo of a completely snow-covered UK. Well let me point out the swirling cloud in the lower righthand corner - that would be the gigantic cloud that has been sitting over central London for the last week and NOT DELIVERING ANY SNOW. While there are feet of snow all over the outlying counties and London suburbs, Old Smoke hasn't got an inch on the ground. We've mostly had dustings that iced over on the sidewalks, but the roads are clear and there isn't much loveliness. Earlier in the week, it snowed all day but didn't stick until 3pm and then it stopped at 4pm. Hmph. I've been really wanting to be snowed in, "working from home" with a pot of coffee and my duvet, but since I walk to work there really is no excuse for me not to make it into the office. Lots of colleagues who live in the country have suffered being power outages, train lines disruptions, road salt shortages, and other winter worries; my biggest issue has been that it's been so bloody cold I haven't been able to start my half marathon training. Beyond the icy sidewalks, temperatures plunged below freezing right after New Years and haven't budged. I've been sporting a hat and fox-fur earmuffs simultaneously, much to the Irishman's embarrassed despair, and I've been wearing snowboots everywhere for at least a week. It's all getting a bit tired. I mean, why bother with all this if I'm not going to at least see a lovely blanket of white out my window when I wake up; I want to crunch through some snow while I lose sensation in my extremities!

I wanted to share a learning with all of you, and that is about eggnog. Basically, they don't make it in England. Or Ireland. Or pretty much anywhere in the UK. I can't vouch for the rest of Western Europe, but it's a safe guess that they probably don't make it there either. Not only do they not make it, they don't know what it is and you certainly cannot get it in the store.

But! Starbucks is ubiquitous, and they pride themselves in the overall excellence and sameness of their coffee-based beverages, and therefore the company has innocently become the first importers to introduce eggnog to the UK via their Eggnog Lattes. My Irishman was hooked on the sweet sweet beverage this holiday season, and while we were in Dublin we had a severe hankering for them. Unfortunately Dublin is a tiny town and surprisingly non-commercial in the suburbs, and there were no Starbucks outlets to be found within driving distance of the Irishman's home save driving into the city center - odd, compared to London where you can't go five minutes anywhere in the city without tripping over three Starbucks shops.

So what does one do without Starbucks? Well, if one's family received a Nespresso machine for Christmas, one decides to make the eggnog, and the lattes, one's self! First we found a recipe - Alton Brown of the Food Network had a decently easy-looking recipe - and then off we went to the shop for whiskey and cream. Now. Here is the second learning: eggnog is American - not Irish, or British - and therefore an American should make it. The Irishman has a tendency to sometimes take over in the kitchen, due to his excitement and love of cooking, but I ask you - WHAT DOES HE KNOW ABOUT EGGNOG? He's never had it straight, only in coffee, and doesn't know what to expect from texture, taste, or flavor.

Needless to say, our first batch was a horrible disaster - mostly due to the fact that we did the heated version and ended up with more egg than nog. But the second round we did cold, and the key is to let it set in the fridge so that it all congeals the right way. Learning number 3 - you don't really need the extra egg whites. Ours were corrupted and didn't peak when we whipped them; I guess they would add a bit more thickness to the consistency, but not having them made it more drinkable and I think more authentic.

In the end, our eggnog lattes were a success; I made sure to google a recipe for the eggnog lattes just to be sure of what I was doing, and in doing so found a great new food blog to follow: Savory Sweet Life. Check it out! My new blogmate Alice gave me learning number 4, that eggnog lattes aren't made with straight eggnog. Starbucks waters it down with milk and if you're like me you can use skim or 2% to make yourself feel better about all of the eggs and cream you're about to ingest. I used 1 shot of espresso since I didn't want to use up the Irishman's father's new Nespresso pods, and just didn't fill the mugs. Everyone thought they were delicious, and even more sweet was my kitchen victory when the Irishman admitted they were just like Starbucks (and maybe even better).

So we've all heard about the devious, diabolical way that Ryanair treats customers like cattle, refusing refunds for anything and considering charging passengers to use the toilets on-board. But you can't deny that sometimes they are the cheapest way from point A to point B, and that their "FLY FOR £1" ads are pretty damn enticing. I've never flown Europe's love-to-hate budget airline, but yesterday I bought my first ticket with them and I can honestly say they are RIGHT BASTARDS.

The Irishman are headed back to Dublin at the end of February for a wedding (what, back so soon?) and hoped to find some dirt cheap flights due to the fact that the Irish rugby team and all of their fans would be in England for the Six Nations rugby match. But the major airlines never got that memo and all of the flights were upwards of £70 roundtrip. On a whim, I checked Ryanair and low and behold, flights on the dates we were looking to travel were all of £35 roundtrip including all of the ridiculous fees they tack on at checkout. So we decided to lower our standards just this once, and went ahead to book.

Well! The Irishman's payment was accepted just fine but when I pressed "Purchase" it took me to a screen saying my payment couldn't be processed and that I had entered my credit card information incorrectly. I freaked out, naturally, as Ryanair won't do anything nice for anyone and I didn't want to get charged twice; there would be no hope of a refund! So I pressed back to reenter my credit card info and correct the mistake, but the boxes for payment entry were greyed out. I checked my email, no confirmation email, and proceeded to start the whole process over. THAT was when I found out that the whole reason it didn't work the first time is because there were no seats left for that price! When I went to select my return flight the second time, the original price of £14.99 was no where to be seen and it was replaced with seats for £21.99! RUBBISH! This time of course my payment (which was 100% correct the first time) was processed just fine and my flight cost, roundtrip, £42 total.

Okay, I know it isn't exactly a big increase - a whopping £7 - but it's the principle of the thing. Not only was the price of my flight selection more money, but so were all of the other flights that day priced higher as well. Ryanair doesn't have to be so sneaky; I mean, luring people in and then switching the cost of a flight leg during the checkout process is wrong. I always knew they were ruthless, but frankly, Ryanair is just mean. Hmph. I'll remember this, O'Leary. Your Irish eyes are NOT smiling!

Chapel Market, Islington
January 4, 2010

I'm sitting here with the last of my chocolate coins after finishing off last night's penne a la vodka (my own special recipe full of single cream and butter), before which I downed a large quantity of cheese with the Irishman to rid our larders of everything indulgent we allowed ourselves to purchase over the last six weeks. It is three days into 2010 and it's nearly time to start on those resolutions. So what will I resolve to do this year? Well, the wish I wrote on the lantern we sent flying at midnight on New Year's Eve was to find greater fulfillment in my life overall. I think that will be my overall goal, and I have little things in mind to help me get there.

Firstly, running. I'm getting back together with my old fling Hal Higdon to train for a half marathon. If any of you readers are aspiring runners like me, Hal is the man for a thorough, complete, and not-too-scary running training program. I've been with him before and left him for the comfort of my sofa, but this time I'm determined to really commit to him. The race I've got in mind to complete takes place the first May Bank Holiday weekend, which gives me four months to train. Easy peasy. The race sounds rad - it's called the Neolithic Marathon, and route takes you from an ancient stone circle called Avebury and ends at Stonehenge. I'll only do half, starting in the middle and ending at Stonehenge, but if I'm going to run 13 miles it might as well be with the goal of ending at something as awe-inspiring as Druid ruins.

Obviously one of the benefits of running is to look better in all of the clothes I bought when I went to the US, but a large part of running for me is to take control of my life. For a lot of 2009 I felt like other people were controlling me, who I was, what I was doing, and where I was going in my life, my career, and my overall being. I realized not too long ago that when I run, even if it is only 2 miles, I feel like I am more in charge, more balanced, and calmer than if I don't. So yes, I definitely want to shed the festive fat, but I also want to direct myself and my existence in a more positive manner.

In addition to running, I am making writing one of my goals as well. That includes this here blog, which I know I'm not 100% amazing at updating, and so I'm rededicating myself to it with a few links to other blogs I enjoy and with the goal of expanding readership. The Irishman and I let our food blog Eggplant & Aubergine die a slow and painful death, and I don't want that to happen here. Plus I have a few ideas up my sleeve for making writing more of a permanent fixture in my life fullstop, and writing here helps me focus my thoughts and provides me with a good exercise for improving skills. Kind of like my running. Ugh.

Finally, in a zen and feng shui kind of way, I'm really going to try in 2010 to stop comparing myself to everyone else. I'm at that point in my life where a lot of my friends are getting big promotions, buying houses, settling down - I've never knit so many baby gifts before in my entire life - and it is so easy for me to sit on the couch and whinge about why I'm not where they are (as I sit and type this at the shared computer in my shared house, owned by roommates younger than myself, gaaaaah). But I've also done a fair bit of awesomeness in my own time and I know that it's only up to me to achieve my goals. Sometimes the hardest bit is figuring out what those goals are; simply saying "I want to make more money" isn't exactly focussed or actionable. So I'm going to spend the majority of this year figuring out exactly what it is I want in this crazy world, and then set myself up for getting it. I have a feeling that it's probably completely different from what I thought I wanted when I first moved to England, but isn't that sort of the point? I certainly hope so, or else I'm in for a really big shock.

Good luck with all of your resolutions, friends, as I'm sure you all have them. Don't forget - the only person that matters in this whole silly ritual is you.

Happy 2010 everyone! I hope you all had exactly the kind of New Years you wished for; New Years isn't exactly my favorite holiday on earth, and most years I want to crawl under an afghan, exhausted, from weeks of eating and drinking to nurse my hangover and say good riddance to the year that was. After my horrid 2009 it was no different - I would have happily spent the holiday with Casablanca and a bottle of wine - but the Irishman and I had agreed to spend New Years Even in a cottage with five other couples in Exmoor National Park. So less than 24 hours after we returned to London from Dublin, we were in a hire car on our way to Lyncombe Farm in Somerset.

After a detour through Bristol, we drove through tiny adorable towns like the medieval village of Dunster Keep and headed farther into the depths of Exmoor. We were nearly at the house when a thick fog descended on us and what should have been a lovely drive into a valley became a crazy and confusing trek down dirt roads and country lanes. We finally arrived at our destination, a 500 year old farmhouse (give or take) with no central heating, only 1 bathroom (without a shower), and electricity powered by a generator in the barn. In short, it was lovely.

We spent New Years Eve on another "walk" - this time a hike across sheep meadows and up hills that seemed to be too perfect to be natural. It took us to a little town called Withypool where we had a table reserved for a hearty pub lunch, and sampled the fine local brew of Exmoor Gold. On the way back, we took a different route home and I'm here to tell you that walking straight up a hill for about 200m after drinking a pint and eating deep-fried brie is NOT a good idea. Ugh. But after the terrain levelled off, the rest of the return journey was amazing.

Once we recovered and defrosted, our hosts held a sound clash - a music competition where couples queued up three songs to be voted by the group - which the Irishman and I won with our combination of Beastie Boys "Sabotage," Sir Mix-a-lot "I Like Big Butts", and Aha "Take on Me". I suspect our interpretive dance routine for Sabotage might have been a big factor in our win; the Irishman entered the room by rolling on the ground. Too bad it was freezing stone! Then we moved on to a murder mystery game complete with fancy dress and some seriously good acting.

We were so busy with all of our fun and games that we nearly forgot to countdown to 2010. When it got close we found a radio and tried to tune into a countdown, but it didn't really work and we went by an amalgamation of watches to ring in midnight properly. After our toasts and cheers, we all wrote our hopes, dreams, and wishes on a paper lantern that we sent flying into the night. It was powered by a candle, and supposed to burn out in the atmosphere; I sincerely hope it did and that some thatched roof cottage in the park didn't have an unwelcome New Year surprise!

New Years Day was bright and cold, and it took us a few attempts and some pushing to get our hire car back up the lane and to get on our way back to civilization. I must admit, I had the blues a bit thinking about returning to the big city and the impending end of the holiday season. Being out in the country, walking with sheep and relaxing in the woods made me really think about why I'm trying to scrabble out my little existence in the big, fast, expensive city; seeing the English countryside in all of its glory, spending time with good people, makes a London lifestyle seem a bit overrated. So after we returned to Blighty, unpacked the car, and SHOWERED, I made a pact with myself that part of my New Years resolutions would be to really think about what makes me happy in life and to do more of those things. I'll be sharing my New Years plans with you all shortly, so until then... I hope your hangovers are mending nicely.

As this was my first holiday away from my own family and home, it was an opportunity for me to realize that though Christmas traditions don't vary too much across the globe, there were definitely some major differences - some cultural, some family - that make my American Christmas traditions actually quite special. And they primarily revolve around food.

First off - no cookies. I am sure that some British and Irish families make Christmas cookies, but the Irishman's family doesn't. Traditional Christmas desserts here are Christmas puddings, Christmas cakes, and mince pies - all boozy, fruity cakes without an inch of chocolate in them. Cheese is also big here (see my previous post), so it's not as if there is nothing to end a meal with. But there aren't the hundreds of cookie varieties I'm used to, or the sweets, or any of the delicious, pop-in-your-mouth seasonal delights.

Foodwise, the other really weird food was an addition to the festive meal - celery. Apparently, it is a traditional Irish side dish to serve boiled celery in cream alongside the Christmas turkey. No way. I tried it - I'll always try everything once - and it was a no-go. But the Irishman's family loves it and to not have it would have been a serious omission. Speaking of the festive meal, in Ireland just like in the UK, turkey is the main course. In my family, turkey is reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas might be roast beef, fish, or ham. The Irishman's mother served both turkey and ham, with stuffing, some amazing roast potatoes and brussel sprouts. It was like having a second Thanksgiving for me!

The other interesting addition for me was smoked salmon. The Irishman's mom loves smoked salmon, and his cousin prepared it three ways for our starter. Smoked salmon is a really traditionally British and Irish holiday dish, and it is really lovely and light for a seasonal meal.

Overall, Christmas in the British and Irish islands isn't too radically different from the holiday in the US. It is a bit more overtly Christmas (no Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings here!), and religious carols are played all over the town, but at the end of the day the holiday is really all about having family and friends gather for a special and delicious meal and to celebrate together.

I'm briefly back in London after spending Christmas with the Irishman and his family in Dun Laoghire, Dublin. When I was greeted at Dublin Airport last Wednesday night by carolers in the arrivals hall, I knew it would be special... even though the Irishman himself didn't actually make it! We flew on separate flights because I decided later on that I would go home with him for the holidays, and I found a better deal on bmi out of Heathrow to his Air France flight out of London City. The snow, ice, and freezing fog of the last few weeks resulted in my flight being delayed by 20 minutes - and his being delayed for hours and finally cancelled at midnight! So I hung out with the Irishman's family and the remnants of my illness while he bellied up to the hotel bar at the ExCel Novotel, courtesy of Air France, with his fellow travelers. It's lucky I met them in Cork earlier this year or else it could have been a disaster. But it ended well as Air France put a whole new flight together for the stranded passengers early the next morning, and the Irishman arrived home with only a hangover.

Christmas Eve his family traditionally goes into town for a meal and drinks at a few choice old Dublin pubs with friends and family. It was bitterly cold Christmas eve, and as the sun went down the Irishman and I decided to head back out to the burbs to the village of Dalkey where he and his sailing mates congregate. The Irishman was a champ sailor in his time, and most of his friends harken back to his days on the Irish Sea. Unfortunately they are all also his age (a few years older than my spring chicken self) and they are all having babies. So not many people were there at Finnegans, his local, and that, coupled with the fact that the Irishman was close to sleeping in his pint, meant we were home by 9pm.

But so were the Irishman's family, and they had news for us. Right after we left, they went from one pub to another and found Bono, Glen Hansard, Damien Rice, and some musician named Mumfy busking out on the main pedestrian/shopping street, Grafton Street. I was so annoyed when I found out I missed them! Nothing typifies Dublin and my preconceptions of it as a tiny place where everyone knows everyone else like famous people singing on the street with the hoi polloi. The Irishman felt so bad that we missed it that he took me to see Bono's house a few days later. It sort of helped, but not really.

Christmas Day we drove down to the water (10 minutes away) to the 40 foot where crazy lads and ladies jump into the freezing sea. Itwas absolutely mental and I really wanted to do it, but I was forbidden due to my illness. Next time for sure. Then we popped into Mass, and I was really impressed with the homily; nothing too preachy or guiltridden like in the American Catholic churches, but just nice sentiment for the holiday. Then it was home to help prepare for the 16 person meal that evening (more on that later).

The day after Christmas Day is not Boxing Day in Ireland - it is St Stephen's Day and it is traditional for the Irish to go on a walk. Now. When Americans say "walk" they mean a stroll around the block. In the UK and Ireland, a walk means a hike, usually up a mountain, and in this case it was an icy arctic Everast training walk. We ended up at the top of a mountain overlooking Dublin, the sea, and the countryside, and it was glorious... Until we had to get back down. There were quite a lot of sore bums afterwards, which wasn't helped by the fact that we spent the evening in hard stadium seats watching rugby. I was escorted to my first rugby match, Leinster v Ulster, and also my first Guinness. Both were exciting and actually quite enjoyable!

We spent the rest of the visit with the Irishman's friends and family, seeing the local villages and Dublin proper, and just generally relaxing. I quite enjoy Ireland and my first visit to Dublin just reinforced my high opinion of the country. I realized halfway through my visit that nobody had, up to that point, asked me what I did for a living or anything remotely related to career or status - and no one did for the rest of the trip. No one expected anything from me besides wit and cheeky banter, and it was very refreshing and welcome. What a very merry way to spend Christmas, indeed.

I'm back in London after spending Christmas with the Irishman and his family in Dun Laoghire, Dublin. I was greeted at Dublin Airport by carolers in the arrivals hall, and I knew it would be special. It was my first holiday away from my own family and home, and while there I realized that though Christmas traditions don't vary too much across the globe, there were definitely some major differences - some cultural, some family - that make my American Christmas traditions actually quite special.

First off - no cookies. I am sure that some British and Irish families make Christmas cookies, but the Irishman's family doesn't. Traditional Christmas desserts here are Christmas puddings, Christmas cakes, and mince pies - all boozy, fruity cakes without an inch of chocolate in them. Cheese is also big here (see my previous post), so it's not as if there is nothing to end a meal with. But there aren't the hundreds of cookie varieties I'm used to, or the sweets, or any of the delicious, pop-in-your-mouth seasonal delights.

Foodwise, the other really weird food was an addition to the festive meal - celery. Apparently, it is a traditional Irish side dish to serve boiled celery in cream alongside the Christmas turkey. No way. I tried it - I'll always try everything once - and it was a no-go. But the Irishman's family loves it and to not have it would have been a serious omission. Speaking of the festive meal, in Ireland just like in the UK, turkey is the main course. In my family, turkey is reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas might be roast beef, fish, or ham. The Irishman's mother served both turkey and ham, with stuffing, some amazing roast potatoes and brussel sprouts. It was like having a second Thanksgiving for me!

The other interesting addition for me was smoked salmon. The Irishman's mom loves smoked salmon, and his cousin prepared it three ways for our starter. Smoked salmon is a really traditionally British and Irish holiday dish, and it is really lovely and light for a seasonal meal.

Overall, Christmas in the British and Irish islands isn't too radically different from the holiday in the US. It is a bit more overtly Christmas (no Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings here!), and religious carols are played all over the town, but at the end of the day the holiday is really all about having family and friends gather for a special and delicious meal and to celebrate together.

Image courtesy of Long Clawson Cheesemakers

I was home sick today, fighting a bronchitis-like cough and generally shuffling around in a feverish mess, hoping that I will feel better by the time I board a flight to Dublin tomorrow night. The Irishman (whose family I will spend Christmas with this year, in the aforementioned city) stopped by this evening with a bit of Christmas cheer to pick up my spirits: Wensleydale cheese with cranberries. It is creamy, mild, delightfully wonderful cow's milk cheese from the north of England that they produce with cranberries for the festive season. MMMmmm delicious! I don't really CARE that one says dairy isn't good for you when you're sick; for about 10 minutes, it was bliss. I highly recommend that wherever you are in the world, you march down to your local cheesemonger and ask for this wonderfulness - your Christmas will be better with it! Now that I've shared this with you, it's back to the couch with me so I can regain enough strength pack my suitcase. Sneeze cough cough blech.