Girls don't cry

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.

Everybody poops

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?

It's that time of year again...

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.

Manchestah

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!

Friends & family

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.

Spotted: Tower Bridge from the Tower of London

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

Oh hai blog: where I been.

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.

Snow update from London

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!

Eggnog + Lattes

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).

Damn you, Ryanair!

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!