Fat Girl From the Suburbs

Spike, you will be missed.

2008-10-21T15:17:00.001+01:00

Last night I got the call I’d been dreading.

You go through life, waking up, getting dressed, taking the kids to school going to work and you think of all the predictable rhythms that make up your life. You never expect when you wake up Monday morning that you will spend that evening on the floor of a small room in a vet’s clinic in South London counting the minutes before you have to sign execution papers on the small, bundle of black fur purring in your lap.

Spike, our cat, started looking a bit poorly about a week ago. Then two days ago he stopped eating and sat by his bowl staring at the uneaten food and mewing.

My husband took him to the Vet yesterday afternoon and they called me at work to say he had advanced kidney failure and was in quite a bit of discomfort and there was really no other option. The vet said, really, it was just his time. Even thought he was only eight that is considered geriatric for cats.

I went straight to the vet. They gave us a room together. So I got to say goodbye. When all the other patients had gone, I brought him into the vet’s room and held him when they gave him the injection. It only took a few seconds and he was gone. They asked if I wanted the body, or if I wanted an individual cremation. But I said no. I'd rather remember him alive. He was such a good cat, with a special personality.

I will miss him. The house seems a tiny bit emptier now. When you work, have a husband and a child, a woman tends not to have many things that are soley hers. Spike was my cat, and now he is gone.

Drunkin Blog

2008-08-30T16:39:00.002+01:00

Yes, I know it is a bit American to do the ...'in' ending. But I am from from New England, where Dunkin' Donuts is king, so 'give me a break'.

I try and paraphrase Douglas Coupland who wrote: "Pretty people get handing anything they want on a plate." While that is true, I do take in Couplands initial meaning--deal with with.

I once had a friend, who made a living from being a model--not a super model you understand--but she made a good amount of money out off being pretty and looking good in clothes. She often had stories about being offered free Hamptons rentals from 'some guy' she met on a plane and what not. And I don't begrudge her for that. She is a good package. A nice person. Smart (but not too smart) pretty and friendly--it is idiotic to not think that she would be attractive.

Much like the 1960s feminist who realises she is gaining nothing by being humourless and bitter--there is no use being jealous of a person who is three inches taller and two stone lighter than you.

But where does the regular woman belong? I hate those Dawn Porter/Trinny & Susannia/Gok/ programmes about 'Fat girls getting their kit off' that passes for social programming but is really about the egos of their presenters.
tMy neighbor speaks Greek and Latin. ( do you think she is going to marry the president of France?) My best friend from high school can calculate Pi to it an insane consclusion--is she going get any free rentals in the Hamptons?

The ridiculous papers are full of idiot men complaining about their relationships with women (and women complaining about men...) But men and women like me live their lives NOT having dramas, living lives, raising children and NOT getting free rentals in the Hamptons--it takes the paitence of the saints (which of course we have) not to be bitter.

Beware Donuts are suspicious…

2008-08-11T13:49:00.000+01:00

For the past few years I have rested with a comforting thought, justifying my lack of interest in the corporate ladder and my near perfect ability to languish with a Primark rather than Prada salary. I am just a small company person.

When I have an idea I want to act on it, not schedule a meeting. I revel in flat hierarchies where the CEO sits two feet away not two countries away. I get annoyed at having to fill out forms in triplicate whenever I need a fresh supply of paper clips or Post-Its. However, how naive I was to disregard the micro-politics of a 14 person company. How those relationships put the peccadilloes of a 14,000 person company in the shade.

Last week I brought in donuts for my colleagues. By the afternoon, those donuts had set off a chain of events that ended with me sobbing at my desk after having called the top sales person in our company a “nasty little bitch.” Oh my, how did we get here…

The previous day two low performing sales people were let go. I knew this was going to happen before the event. The how and why I will not divulge. But as I arrived in the office with my half dozen box of Krispy Kreme, the dismissals was the only topic of discussion.

Meanwhile, unrelated to the firings, but related to the donuts, most of the office was out for a day at the Oval, watching the England v. South Africa cricket test. Leaving just the three, still employed, sales people and me in the office—hence the gift of donuts.

When asked if I knew, about the lost colleagues I nodded, yes, I knew. We had a brief chat. I did some work, then I headed out to lunch with a friend. My phone then started buzzing with messages from my boss, drinking away at the Oval, asking why the head of sales was “out for my blood” because he had apparently told his department about the dual dismissals before the deed was done.

My head settled on one thought—the Greek had squealed. She was so offended, so I thought, that I had known about the firings of two sales people a mere few hours before her than she had gone and complained to her boss.

Filled with righteous indignation, I raced back to the office, to confront the Greek. Armed with rage and (right on my side) I confronted her. And she dared to deny everything. That just blew wind into the red midst that was already enveloping my every being.

Little did I know that just as I was uttering the words “…because you are a bitch!” the wonderfully, dim-witted head of sales was heading into the cricket grounds armed with his knowledge that I, and therefore all of my team, was informed of the sackings. “Donuts, he said, donuts. Liz brought in donuts for the girls, she obviously knows…”

Now the fact that I did know, is neither here now there. I mere technicality. But egos, assumptions, cricket, alcohol and donuts all rolled themselves into a nasty, vicious little ball. And maybe it is precisely because I am a “small company person” that I fully engaged in the school yard ethos of secrets, bullies and agendas. Oh dear.

Mummy, where are you?

2008-08-06T14:36:00.002+01:00

This is an interesting article from a recent issue of the Sunday Times (the London Times to you State-siders). http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/article4397238.ece

I, like the writer of the piece, have literally thousands of pictures of my son. Group photos, tons with his daddy, actions shots in the park, holiday snaps by the beach, and baby pics caught sleeping the cradle. But where an I?

As I said before in this blog, I do not hate myself. But I do suffer from a sort of reverse body image psychosis. When I see pictures of my self I think "Who is that fat girl, with the frizzy hair?" And pictures from a few years ago, where I thought "Oh dear, I've put in a few pounds" now I think "Hey, I looked pretty good in 2002, 2003..."

Well who knows. I should just bite the bullet, and get myself in some pictures with my family. Wouldn't want the son to think he was raised by the cat.

Am I just lazy or just under ambitious?

2008-07-21T12:35:00.000+01:00

This is an interesting blog from the VERY addictive Tech Republic Daily Digest. http://blogs.techrepublic.com.com/career/?p=357&tag=nl.e101

(Keep in mind I am also trying to figure out this blogger app. Given that I have been a tech journo for 15 years, very embarrasing, oh well)

I have often been asked "why don't you just go out and do your own thing?" Given my many career failures that seem to overshadow my career successes (to be documented here in future). I guess I am more scared than lazy or under amibitious.

One of my favourite scenes from one of my favourite films of all time Broadcast News. The main character is asked, in a sarcastic-way "It must be nice being the smartest person in the room, to always feel that you know better." To which she answers "No, it's awfull."

Afraidf of being promoted to my level of incompetance? More on that later, I guess.

The Email Signature

2008-07-16T20:52:00.004+01:00

This may be a bit prosaic to mention, but my office is a bit Dunder Milflin. For the Brits, this is the US equivalent of Wernem-Hogg.

Today at the office half of the day was taken up by deciding on a new standard for our email signatures. At the end of it a weak-willed senior manager was writing emails callings the rest of the staff 'unprofessional', another senior manager was ordering his staff to 'ignore the whole nonsense' and of course 'the Greek' was in tears in the ladies loo.

Dear God, we are a badly written sitcom.

It is too ridiculous to even write about. Needless to say, the idiots won.

It's a man's world...?

2008-06-25T13:39:00.000+01:00

This is a funny story about about how women with long nails can't use an iPhone. Which is a bit strange, as an owner of an iPod Touch, I think they are a rather female friendly.
But it got me thinking about other tiny annoyances for women in the City. To name a few:
1. Shiny marble floors at investment banks when your wearing high heels.
2. Name tags at conferences that are made to clip on to lapels, but on you rest every so fetchingly pinned on the edge of your chest.
3. The whole 'tights or no tights' debate recently written about in the WSJ.

The Mummy Code

2008-06-25T13:35:00.000+01:00

I live in a not overly posh, but not dive part of South London. Today, my husband and I took the morning off work to attend our son’s pre-school orientation. (He starts in September sniff, sniff).

Our son was as animated as ever, excited about ‘going to school’ and ‘meeting all my new friends’. He came armed with a Lightning’ McQueen backpack and a ‘Hi, my name is Bernie’ opening line.

He made for the sand pit, where he met two older girls who remarked “Hey, I’ve seen you in the shops.” (very community feel, our South London enclave).

Then he hung out in the ‘chill out zone’ surrounding by little girls all handing him jewellery. Like a little man, he took the beads and bobbles off the girls and then headed off to paint.

While our little one bounced around the class room. His parents filled out forms (in triplicate) and chatted with the other parents. Then I started to notice something.

I was heading out to work after the orientation was over. It was a warm early summer day. I put on a knee length skirt, black t-shirt, sandals and short denim jacket (it gets cold walking over the Southwick Bridge.)

As I surveyed the other children and the (mostly) mothers, I saw that apart from the colours, ALL of the mothers were dressed the same way. Knee length shirt, t-shirt, and sandals. There were a couple of jeans (with t-shirt, and sandals) and one Capri-pant, but the rest were all dressed similarly to me.

Is there some collective South London mummy mind-set, where we all decided to dress the same—today. I admit, skirt and t-shirt is not a huge and unusual fashion statement. It is not like all the mothers came dressed in purple over-alls and Doc Martens (maybe in Camden).

Or, have I found a place where I ‘look the part’. South London Mummy of toddler. Oh dear.

They were all wearing wedding rings! Oh My!

2008-06-20T15:46:00.001+01:00

Ok, a few days after this explosive article appeared in the WSJ, the Greek commented on my lack of 'hose' before a meeting at a European investment bank.

I guess the whole 'hose or no hose' debate can be rather dicey. It was a hot day, and I was wearing a below the knee dress and kitten heels. But, as with the sisterhood, my lack of hose was noted.

So for a meeting yesterday at another European investment bank, out came the black tights. Honestly, I can't stand 'natural' panty hose. I think they make most legs look weird, even if you have a perfect pair of pins.

So off we went, and just to make matters more wonderful, the Amazonian, blonde, Polish sales girl tagged along. At least in my heels I was almost eye level with her.

After I did my hour long presentation to a room full of men on Infrastructure practices I was feeling rather proud of myself. All questions had been answered swiftly and comprehensively (I do love to blow my own trumpet).

As we snaked our way back on the Docklands Light Railway I asked the Amazon what she thought of the presentation. "Oh it was good! But did you notice that they were all wearing wedding rings!? [the Greek] has noticed this as well. Why are all the men married?"

Now, I won't begrudge any woman on the lookout for a husband in possession of a fat investment banker’s salary--but is that the main goal of our career!

Was feminism just something that happened to 'other' people?

My Help Letter to the WSJ...

2008-06-05T15:29:00.001+01:00

Here is the story.

My husband and I own a modest-sized, terraced house in South London. We bought it for £175k in 2002, we took out a £25k home equity loan to make repairs. Those repairs included:

New Kitchen
New Bathroom
New Windows—the entire house
Damp Proofing
New Carpets
General painting and decorating (it was a wreak)

We recently had it valued by three estate agents at £350k.

We also have a £15k loan left over from our days when we were both freelance journalists and weren’t making much money. (Stupid idea, we know, but we have already paid off all our credit cards—the mortgage and these debts are our only debts.)

Now we are planning on moving to the US. (I am American, and my husband is British). The reasons are:

Take advantage of the strong pound to make the profits from the sale of the house go further
Be closer to my family
Live a cheaper lifestyle—Americans never believe how expensive it is to live in London, and we don’t even own a car.
Our jobs are portable—so our current modest salaries in London will be very comfortable in suburban Boston.

OK, so here is my dilemma.

London has experienced a tremendous housing boom over the past 10 years. However, it is not immune to the current mortgage/credit crisis. Although, we are moving to the US, we are not quite sure exactly when. I am anticipating by next summer. My husband wants to sell the house now to lock in the estimated £350k price tag. Pay off our remaining debts and rent a house or a flat until we decide to move to the US.

I am not so sure about this move. For the following reasons:

I do not feel our house is in danger of coming down in price, because:
We did not pay that much for it in the first place—by London standards
Our area of London was undervalued when we bought the house, but it is now becoming more fashionable (as people are priced out of other areas)
We are getting a new tube line in 2010 to connect to the central London tube line
A recent report in the Times said that three-bedroom terraced houses in South London were in such short supply and in such high demand that some are going to silent auction
The estate agents that we saw have yet to stop calling, asking when we are putting our house on the market.
I do not want to be faced with taking our son out of school and his childminder routine if we are not able to find a rental house in our neighbourhood—especially if we are going to upset his routine anyway by moving to the US soon after
I do not want the stress of moving twice—once down the block and the second time across the Pond.

Now, my husband does not totally disagree with me, however:

He argues that fewer people are being offered mortgages now, which will affect our ability to find a buyer.
If we sell up now, and move into a rental house, we will shed a great number of our belongings, making it easier for us to pack up for the trip to the US.
We can use the profits now to pay off our outstanding debts, lowering our monthly expenditure immediately, and put the rest in a high interest savings account.
He thinks that although we may not be in danger of negative equity, we might lose £30/40k on the price of our house if we wait six months (basically we should have sold six months ago).

My problem is I do not want to make an emotional decision, I want to make the best possible financial decision. We have already agreed to move to the US. However, are my husband’s motives being driven by fear and anxiety over the credit crunch, or is he being practical? Am I too optimistic about the price of our house? Or have I avoided acting on fear and anxiety? Am I being too emotionally attached to the house? I could handle selling the house and moving far away, but the thought of selling and moving a street away is too depressing. After 11 years in London, where I met my husband and had my son, I already know I am going to cry all the way to the plane.

You can see where the stress lies. But is there a right answer?

The toddler, Majestic, the Investment Bank and the sweet Chinese girl from my office...

2008-05-31T15:43:00.000+01:00

I guess you are supposed to blog daily. But I am still finding my feet. So this is really a blog of this week (hey I'm a working Mum/Mom, what am I going to do ignore my son to 'do computer' as he calls it)

My ego got a bit of a boost this week. A project I had been working on for a large European investment bank has finally finished, to positive reviews. (My halo is coming soonish). All this in front of the Greek, who looks way too good in jeans, despite wearing glittery, green eye shadow.

And, I found out that I am the the top search when you type my name into Google. All thanks to my Finextra blogging. I shall introduce this blog to the joys of grid computing and reference data in due time. (I wonder when typing your name into Google will every seem dated and quaint.

I watched the BBC movie about Mary Whitehouse on TV last week. For those of you who don't know, Mary Whitehouse was a 60s/70s/80s etc... campaigner to clean British TV from sex and violence. I was struck by how important the characters in the show felt TV was. It did seem a bit dated. Strange given the fact that I love TV.

The end of the working week, I decided to hold court in the office kitchen. We are allowed food and wine and beer in the afternoon on Friday. I didn't mean for it to turn into a girly fest (several of the 'boys' tried to come in for a beer, but left soonish) but many of the girls wanted to hear about the Boy, and being pregnant and giving birth.

(quick note: as I am the third oldest person in my small company behind the CEO and the head of sales, and every one else hovers around the mid-20 mark, I do tend to call them all girls and boys)

But one of the girls in sales, a Chinese girl who had married a french guy, started to express some fears about giving birth--probably helped by the large glass of Jacob's Creek Riesling (bought at Tescos for £5.20).

However, her fears were not about the pain or trying to breast feed or anything like that. She said, I don't want anyone else taking care of my baby, I want to be a stay at home Mum. Fair enough, (trust me, SAHM's are working Mums as well). But that is not what struck me--she went on to say, 'I am afraid that I will have this new baby and no job and I won't be able to clean the house or make dinner and my husband will yell at me saying I don't make any money and I can't even keep house."

The room went silent. I tried to defuse the atmosphere and save her from expressing deep-concerns-and-fears-in-the-workplace by laughing and joking, 'Oh shit, that would mean divorce! or at least a few nights in the spare room!" HAHAHA. It got a few laughs from the room.

But the sales girl said quietly into her glass of chilled white, 'that's what might happen in your house..."

I felt sad and concerned--for both of us. Who was the more typical? Should she be more assertive with her husband, or should I be....well that is just bollocks. I wouldn't divorce my husband for yelling at me. But I wouldn't take unfair shit either. Oh well, I hope the little sales girl starts expressing her fears to her husband and not to an office kitchen full of slightly drunk work colleagues.

Now we get to the weekend. Potty training is slow, but steady. There is still a lot of poo on the floor. But much funnier is my husband. (who I admit, is doing more of the training that I am--well, Boy is a boy)

It is not a big secret that we are big wine drinkers (probably too much, recycle-day is a bit embarrassing) But we have discovered the 29 wine available from Majestic. at £3.99 it is by far one of the best wines we have ever drunk. We order it, I guess, a bit too much. About an hour ago my husband picked up the phone to the Dulwich Majestic and said, "Yes, the usual, and maybe a few bottle of white....thanks" hung up the phone and said, "our wine is coming this evening (well done for a Saturday).

Saying that the husband has called up his mother( also a bit of a win...no....an oenophile) to tell her about the '29'. She emailed back to say, they have ordered a case. A good weekend, I guess, will be had by all.

The who, what, why and how...

2008-05-26T10:22:00.000+01:00

It might seem from the title of this blog that I have low self esteem. It is not unforgivable to think, from the phrase Fat Girl from the Suburbs, that I am some 15 year old girl living a comfortable life in my parents' house wallowing in my teenage misery. 20 years ago that may have been the case. But now, paradoxically, as your life becomes more complicated, adults just don't have the same time for angst or dark, supposedly intense, inward introspection.

However, as someone who frequently talks to herself, when cooking dinner, walking to the train for work etc... (now seen as not-so crazy--which I will hyperlink here eventually) I thought a blog might be a good outlet for me to speak to the nameless cyberspace, instead of accidentally, to the old lady with the shopping trolley on the 356 bus.

I am fascinated by image. Not in a , I-must-be-groomed-at-all-times Posh Spice kind of way, but the prejudges we make about each other.

I have always been the Fat Girl from the Suburbs. Even when I was a size 8 and lived in New York and worked out two hours a day. There is always someone who looks and dresses cooler, smarter, more sophisticated then you. You might say that all women feel that way. But I don't speak for all women, I only speak for me.

I am a women, who works in a very intense, male dominated industry but I have never been or looked like the power-suited, career woman of the type you only see in movies, wearing heels you only see on Sex and the City.

In a way this blog is influence by my mother. A few years ago my parents took a trip to
Paris--the first time for both of them. They jumped on the Eurostar after visiting me in London and headed east to Gard du Nord. As they stepped off the train in France, my mother stopped short--standing on the platform with her rolly-luggage and handbag bought from Sears. "We're fat American tourists," she said. My father looked at her. She said it again, "We're hicks, we unsophisticated, fat American tourists."

Now I have been feeling like a fat, unsophisticated provincial American ever since I moved to New York in 1994. I have been acting in reaction to that feeling all my life--poo-pooing anything I felt was uncool, or not worldly enough, thinking it could override my sense of unworthiness. I can see now that was a mistake. The girls (and boys) who look the part, sometimes aren't really that smart or even that sophisticated (you find that as you get older).

But on that platform in Paris ten years ago, my father said something to my mother, that I will always admire him for. He looked at his wife of (then) 27 years and said "who cares." Really who cares? "You've wanted to see Paris your whole life, here's Paris." Basically, don't let what someone who doesn't know you, or who may think something of you, stop you from experiencing and living your life they way you want.

On the outside, my parents were fat American tourists, just like I am a Fat Girl from the Suburbs. The type of people that may elicit scorn and ridicule from those who consider themselves just a little bit more intelligent, a little bit more fashionable than two middle-aged, middle class Yankees in Europe.

Who is more narrow-minded?

(My parents loved Paris BTW)