Sunday, September 22, 2013
Just another Sunday at Starbucks
After a rainy Saturday, which was spent cleaning out the furnace room and which ended perfectly with homemade chicken soup and apple crisp at a friend's house, I woke up to another grey and blustery day. Bill and Penelope had their usual snuggle on the couch, while Zander and I snuggled in the recliner and I tried, with little success, to read the Styles section of my beloved Sunday New York Times.
Soon it was time to do what had to be done. Groceries. Cleaning. Planning for the week. I don't know why I thought 11am on a Sunday wouldn't be busy at the supermarket, but it was. To cope with the chaos of the busy store and the many frantic and harried shoppers, I hummed Aviici's Wake Me Up repeatedly until I reached the check out. Then I followed my bliss to Starbuck's and Chapters for some reading material and a coffee. Unlike most of the patrons, I actually paid for the magazines before taking them to the attached Starbucks to flip through them. This Starbucks is quite possibly the world's slowest Starbucks. While waiting, I amused myself by feeling superior when the barista mispronounced doppio. Dopey-oh. I secretly loathed the stout and thin-haired woman ahead of me who prissily announced that she had a "special request". Four double espressos in venti plastic cups with huge amounts of ice. Who were they for? And why did she need six lids? What seemed like two days later, my latte appeared. By this time, I had adopted a crossed arms, annoyed stance. Maybe I didn't pronounce the double "t "adequately and they thought I asked for a "late". I bitchily corrected the barista when he called out "Tall latte for Shauna". Here's what my cup looked like. Shano? Really?
Though I, like my brother Todd, am a devoted Starbucks customer, I do have my little pet peeves. It irks me that "latte" has come to mean "caffelatte". In italian, latte means milk. So, by saying "tall latte", you are actually ordering a large milk. Italian is used kind of haphazardly in the Starbucks lexicon. English for tall; Italian for grande and venti (which means twenty, as in twenty ounces). Anyway, even if it annoys me that latte was misused, I started doing it too. Then a couple of years ago at a Starbucks in Hong Kong, a wonderful thing happened; my world was set right again. I ordered a tall latte and guess what I got? A tall glass of hot milk. I felt like doing the slow clapping thing and murmuring in admiration, "Well played, Hong Kong, well played".
Anyway back to this morning's Starbucks. I lucked out and got a little table to myself. I read my mag, enjoyed my coffee and looked around. There was an elderly man flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine in one of the easy chairs, there was a pair of women next to me discussing some dude and his lies, there was a little girl in her Sunday dress (sequins!) kneeling on the chair and deconstructing a muffin while her parents chatted, and there were so many people working on their computers at the long wooden table that it looked like a computer class. Just another day at Starbucks.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
My love affair with all things British
Much as I am embarrassed to admit it, I read one of the British tabloids on occasion. Okay, every day. Online. Some of the stories are appalling. Disgusting, disheartening or just plain sensationalistic. And sometimes badly edited. For the most part, though, it's just funny and harmless. Unless you're one of the celebs being skewered or embarrassed. There are unflattering stories about "unrecognizable" celebrities, photographed after a bad night or without makeup. It begs the question, though: If they're really "unrecognizable", how did the photographers know to snap the shot? Still, it's my guilty pleasure, this rag. And it's not a complete waste of time; the knowledge I've gleaned from my daily glance actually came in handy at a recent trivia night; I was one of the only non-Brits to recognize Lord Sugar and Peaches Geldof in the food-related name photo round.
This indulgence keeps me up to date with my British celebrities, too. I've become quite a fan of British TV. It started with our trip to the UK in 2005. We went in December and as the days were short and we packed a lot of sightseeing and activity into the 7 hours of daylight, we spent many of evenings curled up on the bed watching TV. Space Cadets. The show, not us. Christmas specials. BBC shows. When we got back to Canada, the CBC started broadcasting the new Doctor Who series and we were hooked. Then it was Little Britain, Catherine Tate, Torchwood, The Thick of It, The Hour, QI, and Jonathan Creek. We went into the back catalogues for Red Dwarf, The League of Gentlemen, Blackadder, Jeeves and Wooster, and French and Saunders. Then there was Miranda and Mistresses (Bill wasn't on board for those last two at all). Hamlet with David Tennant. And, last but not least, Downton Abbey.
As a result of this Brit binge, my speech has become embarrassingly, and quite accidentally, dotted with British-isms like: "If I'm honest" and "at the weekend" and "in hospital" and "as such". Instead of: "To be honest/to tell the truth" and "on the weekend" and "in the hospital" and....well, I don't know what the equivalent of that last one would be.
My friend Karen and I even went on a spur of the moment "mini-break" to London in November 2011. It was one of those perfect, magical moments in time. We met up with my friend from Hastings and shopped in Bloomsbury and visited Persephone, the wonderful bookstore on Lamb's Conduit. We went to Fortnum and Mason for tea and then tested hand lotions at Molton Brown on Regent Street. We visited Liberty, where Karen bought a gorgeous print. We walked and talked and laughed in the chilly autumn air and truly enjoyed every minute.
But it was actually over thirty years ago that I first visited the UK. 1978, with my parents and brother. We stayed at the Royal Lancaster hotel at Lancaster Gate, where, by coincidence, the Faberge World Trade Show was being held. It was the era of Farrah Fawcett and Farrah Fawcett shampoo. And Cary Grant was the honorary chairman of Faberge International. Being a chatty, friendly little girl, I made friends with the head of Faberge UK somehow and subsequently was introduced to Cary Grant. And got his autograph. Didn't really know who he was at the time, just that he was famous, but my mom was understandably thrilled. Cary Grant was white-haired and wearing black-framed glasses at that time. When told that we were from Victoria, he joked "That's not their fault, Gerry". Oh, stop it, Cary; you are outrageous! Later on, when my parents were out on the town and my brother and I were heading back up to the room after eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, Cary Grant got on the elevator with us. He remarked to us, "I've really got to take a leak". Or something very similar to that. Now that I'm writing this, I realize how odd that was. I kind of wish he'd said something dashing and clever, not something so "human".
I got two autographs from Farrah. Well, actually, Gerry, the Faberge executive got one for me and I got one myself, intercepting Farrah as she breezed out of the tradeshow and into the hotel lobby. Notice how she incorporated the year into the end of her name. When I got home, I gave one to my classmate and friend, Chuck Bell. He loved Farrah. Not unusual for a 13-year old boy in 1978.
Farrah and Gerry and Cary were not my only brushes with Faberge-related celebrities, but more on that later. Hint: theres a Hemingway involved. Seriously, my six degrees of separation pedigree is pretty damn solid.
I dream about moving to England and drinking tea and being completely surrounded by the loveliness of all things British. All the good stuff, I mean, like the museums and the castles, the gorgeous store windows, the history, the stripy scarves, the ubiquitous curry shops, and the British wit. And the chocolate and the biscuits. And the pudding hotel in the Cotswolds Not the class system or the social problems, though. Or the asbos and the high cost of living.
I suppose I'm lucky. I grew up in Canada's "most English city": Victoria. Lots of Brits and British-ness there. Many of the older generation settled in Victoria from Scotland and England, including my Granny Vickers. Victoria had double-decker buses, the Tudor Sweet Shop, Craigdarroch Castle (where I took piano lessons in the basement), the cricket pitch at Beacon Hill Park and many, many tea rooms. My grade 12 graduation dress was inspired by Princess Diana: royal blue, taffeta, ruffled and accessorized with replicas of her engagement ring and matching earrings. My "rebellious" teen years saw me hanging out at the Blethering Place tea room, drinking tea and eating scones after school with my friends. Really. It didn't even seem weird at the time. So, I come by my anglophile nature honestly, I suppose.
I'd better stop writing now.
I'm off to bedfordshire.
Okay, I'm going to bed.
This indulgence keeps me up to date with my British celebrities, too. I've become quite a fan of British TV. It started with our trip to the UK in 2005. We went in December and as the days were short and we packed a lot of sightseeing and activity into the 7 hours of daylight, we spent many of evenings curled up on the bed watching TV. Space Cadets. The show, not us. Christmas specials. BBC shows. When we got back to Canada, the CBC started broadcasting the new Doctor Who series and we were hooked. Then it was Little Britain, Catherine Tate, Torchwood, The Thick of It, The Hour, QI, and Jonathan Creek. We went into the back catalogues for Red Dwarf, The League of Gentlemen, Blackadder, Jeeves and Wooster, and French and Saunders. Then there was Miranda and Mistresses (Bill wasn't on board for those last two at all). Hamlet with David Tennant. And, last but not least, Downton Abbey.
As a result of this Brit binge, my speech has become embarrassingly, and quite accidentally, dotted with British-isms like: "If I'm honest" and "at the weekend" and "in hospital" and "as such". Instead of: "To be honest/to tell the truth" and "on the weekend" and "in the hospital" and....well, I don't know what the equivalent of that last one would be.
My friend Karen and I even went on a spur of the moment "mini-break" to London in November 2011. It was one of those perfect, magical moments in time. We met up with my friend from Hastings and shopped in Bloomsbury and visited Persephone, the wonderful bookstore on Lamb's Conduit. We went to Fortnum and Mason for tea and then tested hand lotions at Molton Brown on Regent Street. We visited Liberty, where Karen bought a gorgeous print. We walked and talked and laughed in the chilly autumn air and truly enjoyed every minute.
But it was actually over thirty years ago that I first visited the UK. 1978, with my parents and brother. We stayed at the Royal Lancaster hotel at Lancaster Gate, where, by coincidence, the Faberge World Trade Show was being held. It was the era of Farrah Fawcett and Farrah Fawcett shampoo. And Cary Grant was the honorary chairman of Faberge International. Being a chatty, friendly little girl, I made friends with the head of Faberge UK somehow and subsequently was introduced to Cary Grant. And got his autograph. Didn't really know who he was at the time, just that he was famous, but my mom was understandably thrilled. Cary Grant was white-haired and wearing black-framed glasses at that time. When told that we were from Victoria, he joked "That's not their fault, Gerry". Oh, stop it, Cary; you are outrageous! Later on, when my parents were out on the town and my brother and I were heading back up to the room after eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, Cary Grant got on the elevator with us. He remarked to us, "I've really got to take a leak". Or something very similar to that. Now that I'm writing this, I realize how odd that was. I kind of wish he'd said something dashing and clever, not something so "human".
I got two autographs from Farrah. Well, actually, Gerry, the Faberge executive got one for me and I got one myself, intercepting Farrah as she breezed out of the tradeshow and into the hotel lobby. Notice how she incorporated the year into the end of her name. When I got home, I gave one to my classmate and friend, Chuck Bell. He loved Farrah. Not unusual for a 13-year old boy in 1978.
Farrah and Gerry and Cary were not my only brushes with Faberge-related celebrities, but more on that later. Hint: theres a Hemingway involved. Seriously, my six degrees of separation pedigree is pretty damn solid.
I dream about moving to England and drinking tea and being completely surrounded by the loveliness of all things British. All the good stuff, I mean, like the museums and the castles, the gorgeous store windows, the history, the stripy scarves, the ubiquitous curry shops, and the British wit. And the chocolate and the biscuits. And the pudding hotel in the Cotswolds Not the class system or the social problems, though. Or the asbos and the high cost of living.
I suppose I'm lucky. I grew up in Canada's "most English city": Victoria. Lots of Brits and British-ness there. Many of the older generation settled in Victoria from Scotland and England, including my Granny Vickers. Victoria had double-decker buses, the Tudor Sweet Shop, Craigdarroch Castle (where I took piano lessons in the basement), the cricket pitch at Beacon Hill Park and many, many tea rooms. My grade 12 graduation dress was inspired by Princess Diana: royal blue, taffeta, ruffled and accessorized with replicas of her engagement ring and matching earrings. My "rebellious" teen years saw me hanging out at the Blethering Place tea room, drinking tea and eating scones after school with my friends. Really. It didn't even seem weird at the time. So, I come by my anglophile nature honestly, I suppose.
I'd better stop writing now.
I'm off to bedfordshire.
Okay, I'm going to bed.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Gentlemen, you have just been schooled....
in how to blend colours, patterns and textures with style, by my most fashionable friend, Iwan.
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