Life has a lot of life in it.

Okay, I need to try and post regularly, I can't believe it's been nearly a week since I have, time has spun my head around a bit.

This past week has been one giant learning experience, for many reasons. Though, being a nouveau-Brit, realizing that there are crisps here that are Chicken or Prawn flavoured is a learning experience in itself. So you can imagine the warp speed at which my brain is processing useless and useful information.

My patience has been tested in a lot of ways, and my stubbornness is probably the cause of it. I'm always open to new experiences, new cultures, and, having lived in Italy and Oxford when I was younger, I thought pompously "okay, London. I'll figure you out in a day and a half.". And so far, London has pretty much laughed its arse off, and has challenged me every step of the way. And I respect that it's an aloof country to get to know, and makes me want to step up to the challenge. here's some of what I've observed so far:

Food: Typical ingredients listed on the side of a box of cereal in America: Sugar, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Salt, Maltodextrose, Tiny bit of wheat, Sugar, Ultra Industrial Strength Government Engineered Corn Syrup, Sugar, Some random vitamins in smaller doses than you would give a hamster, Sugar, Yellow 5, Orange 52, Red 7, Riboflavin, Niacin (we have no idea what those are, but we'll throw them in to make us look good), Flavouring (why not), Calcium (not really, but if you add milk, then technically there'll be calcium in there). Okay, I exaggerate a bit. But I never checked ingredients, as I was brought up in a very "just eat what you like in moderation" home, and I'm lucky to be very slim and athletic, so I don't watch calories and fat really. When the mister and I got married and then set up home in New York a couple of years ago, he and I went grocery shopping one day and in the bread aisle I heard him gasp very loudly. "What?!" I yelled and ran over. "Look at this," he said, "there's corn syrup or sugar in all of these loaves of bread. What the hell is sugar doing in bread for that matter, let alone something called corn syrup?" I scanned the shelves to prove him wrong, but he was right. It was everywhere. Sugar and corn syrup was even present in things like plain Cheerios, bacon, "healthy" yogurt, ice cream, peanut butter, jams. It became a perverse game for us, living there, to find things without sugar or corn syrup in them. Eventually, we just had to break down and buy expensive groceries at the local open market, or the Whole Foods. Here, the food is blissfully free of anything like syrups or dyes, and TV advertising is not allowed to air kids' snack/sweets commercials. I am so happy to be living in a country that doesn't brainwash its people into thinking Yellow 2 is good for them. It's like the government is telling them "come on- you'll like it, and you'll want more of it, because it's cheap and has pretty colors and it tastes sooo niiiicceee." The mister and I are resolved that when we have the little ones, they will not grow up in a house that's filled to the brim with lollies and cakes to keep them on a sugar low and get them to be quiet. My mum gave me carrots to chew on when I was teething, and so help me, I am obsessed with them and any vegetable that tastes like that, like ochra or sugar snap peas or radishes. There's something to be said for shoving a carrot in your child's face to get them to be quiet, instead of the thing that will rot their teeth. Maybe someday there'll be corn syrup popsicles! Mmmmm!

Pubs: You don't tip the barman. Ever. That was my very first mistake. I ordered a pint, And he gave me change, but I told him to keep a quid. He looked at me like I had just asked him to jump on top of the bar and bark like a dog. I felt my face flush immediately afterwards, and I asked someone "I wasn't supposed to do that, was I." And they looked at me in sympathy (and I detected a hint of glee), and whispered "no. and next time, when all else fails, reach for the pint in the middle. You near had a fight on your hands when you took that guy's pint by mistake." Great. The last thing I want is to come home and explain to the mister that I lovingly befriended some East End cabbie's fist.

Pubs are also the common places to enhance your social or work-related relationships. Buying someone a pint is the equivalent of a handshake, a smile, a "good to know you". People meet here, spend time, talk about life and work, and then bugger off home. It's a bookend to a day. In New York, it's a different kettle of fish. Or, I should use the term "barrell of monkeys", because that's what everyone ends up acting like after they start compulsively hitting the bottle of Absinthe at 5:05pm, as soon as they bolt from the office. New York is a strange one- people go to bars mostly to try on a character, escape from themselves, and pick up men/women (though I'm sure London has its fair share of that as well). Doesn't matter who you are, how old you are, whether you're married or single, everyone wanders down to the bar (the best ones for these events have neon signs. Real classy joints.) and tries to let go, get drunk, and end up doing something stupid. I have to say that I'm very impressed how people handle the social/networking/having fun issue over here. Very rarely have I seen people totally lose it (well, not yet anyway). I witness very lucid conversations and behaviour even after 10 pints of beer (I say other people, because I would probably have a lucid and thought-provoking conversation with just myself after 10 pints of beer). People have a certain level of respect for eachother, whether it be friends or colleagues, to not be disrespectful and inappropriate, and if they want to get totally pissed, someone usually manages to pour them into a cab and make sure that they're still breathing. Though I am annoyed by how often it happens (and how often girls spill out into the sreet and fall off chairs in their state), I am fascinated by that psychology- the New Yorkers keep to their own games and expect someone to buy them a sparkly pink drink because they want to hook up, and the British manage to welcome you in and buy you a frothy pint. In New York, it was too much to ask to take a girlfriend down to the local bar for a pint without having to put on 4-inch stilletos, a 3-inch layer of makeup and a shirt that should be called a napkin. Sorry, that's not my scene. I want conversations, not pickup lines.

Cabs: Cabbies here are amazing. They know London as if a map was burned into their brain. Plus, they're really nice people (usually) and manage to make you feel safe. The cabs are clean and roomy. New York cabs seem to smell like old plastic, sweat, and curry. And the cab drivers want to fight you for a 25% tip if you only give them 20%. I can't tell you how many times I've given the guy $20 and he pretends that I only gave him $10. Here, the polite thing to do before you get into a cab is to tell the cabbie directions, then get in. And you can actually get out and then pay him. if I had done that in New York, the cabbie would've started swearing at me in some language with too many Qs and Zs, and threaten to have me killed, because he thought that I was ditching the fare.

Real Estate Agents: We started looking for a flat to either buy or rent, and before we started, I said to the mister "What percentage is their fee? How much will we have to pay them for finding a place for us?" He looked at me like I had 3 heads. "Sorry? What do you mean?" I explained to him that anytime I've found an apartment in New York, I had to pay the agent one and a half month's rent as a fee for him taking the time out to show me his "magic book" of listings. The mister laughed and said "oh, honey. it's ok, they find our place for free- it's the landlord that pays them to find good tenants." WOW!!! Why has this idea never caught on in New York?!? Now I look back and think it's a total scam for them to do that!! Well, as soon as I heard that, I was out the door on rollerskates trying to find a place. Luckily, after looking for 2 weeks, we finally found one today. It's amazing and I totally love it and we can move out of the in-laws place soon (not that I don't love living there, because I adore my in-laws, no joke- but we need our own space, really.), and we only had to pay deposit and security. First bread with no sugar in it and now this?!? Genius.

Words to use or not use: I was recently told by my mum-in-law that I shouldn't use the word "cute", as it makes me stand out as an American. And she's right. Here, people are very frugal and very precise with their language. In America, everyone is "awesome", "cute" and "cool", and the word "like" is used every 1.4 seconds. It's a very general language. Here, the word "cute" is reserved for tiny children and puppies, and no one really says "Ohh myyy gawwwd" (I've never used that either, but so help me, when I've heard it, I've felt like slapping people). "Lovely" is common, "nice", "brilliant" is a popular term, and most commonly used terms are "please", "sorry" and "cheers", or "thank you". Unbelievable how unconsciously people do it over here, and I've had to remind myself to do it so I don't look like a moron (read: stupid American). And I'll be honest and say that i adore the slang used sometimes: "div", "donkey", "boss", "minger", "lost the plot" (you can fgure out what they mean). I don't know why, but they just have a certain panache. It does help having the accent, though.

I don't want people to think I am totally anti-American (though, don't get me started on the politics or healthcare system of that country because I'll start ranting), but I have to say, I'm proud to be a Ukrainian. I'm born American, but a European in spirit, manner and attitude. My family is both Ukrainian and British, and I am fiercely aware of anyone who labels me anything other than that. It's a pride that, in my humble opinion, people should carry with them, wherever they come from. Pride in your country, your family. Pride has been misconstrued a bit over the years, sort of like "feminism" or "diet" or "religion". I am a feminist in that I am proud to be a girl, a woman, a wife, and if I'm lucky, a mum someday. I'm not a man-hater, bra-burner, nor do I believe that just because a man in the army can do 937 pushups a woman should be able to do the same. Pride is having a strength of conviction in who you are and where you come from. It may make me seem aloof or intimidating to people, but that's who I am. Get to know me first, then hate me if you like. I can't tell you how many women have refused to get to know me because the way I carry myself is threatening to them. I could go on and on. Anyway, the idea of this post was to say that I'm living a life in a country that I am happy with, that I love, that I am proud of so far. All of this may change, and I'm going to realise it's disadvantages in the future, but I have to freedom to say how I feel and for a long time, America's been letting me down very passively, and finally I feel like I found a home.

Well, at least until the next country we discover.

Tough. Like chewing on an old boot.

I have no idea why I title these blogs the way I do, but I'm not explaining them. That's what my little creative world is like.

Sunny day number 2 today, which is lovely. Amazing how much I rely on the sun, coming from America. There, we can have bright and sunny days in the middle of dead winter. Here, it's more like gray cloud cover every day, and then once the sun comes out, the British try and tan (read: turn a curious shade of pink). I now understand what a treat it is to see sun and feel it on my freckly face- it helps me pour myself out of bed and put my clothes on (pants first, then shoes) to go outside and explore.

I've been feeling less adventurous lately, which isn't like me. I alternate between wanting to ride on each bus route to the end to see where it'll take me, to feeling a bit overwhelmed and frustrated witn my new environment. I feel like the skin that I'm in right now takes a bit of getting used to. It's the "new" Myshka that has been waiting to come out for a long time, which is a powerful feeling, but she's not fully realised yet. I never thought I'd say this, but I love having a job. And part of me is a little nervous and lost without one. I know, I know, people who might read this (there are probably all of 3 of you) would think "what?! don't complain! I hate my job! I wish I wasn't at work today!". So, this is not to make anyone envious, angry or dismissive- this is exactly how I feel and I can't apologize for it.

I like challenging myself. I like working under stress and deadlines. I like when my brain is fried at the end of a work day and the only think that can help is a glass of wine and bad TV. I like to feel like I gave it my all and tomorrow is another day to start fresh and see where the adventure goes. The mister and I are the same, in that respect. And I'm lucky to have a husband who understands what I'm going through and is patient for me to come back to my old self.

See, the "usual" Myshka is: a klutz, laughs at her own jokes, likes to dance to disco, loves to dress in strange outfits where the colors tend to clash, and is pretty much all tomboyish angles and elbows (could be a reason for the klutziness). The Myshka now is a bit subdued. Sort of like an emotional flu, and I need a good shot.

Am I whining? No. Actually, to vent a bit to a strange and anonymous audience is quite theraputic. And I'm not exactly saying anything new here. People go through this all the time in different countries, cultures and languages. It's nice to know that deep down we all feel a version of the same thing.

Now, to be superficial for a brief moment: what I CAN'T get over? I am increasingly shocked about the prices of beauty services here. No, seriously. I know America is all about convenience, so I'm sorry I'm comparing, but I never thought that in order to get a manicure I'll have to potentially sell a small body part. Here's what I mean:

regular manicure: US: $10 UK: £15 (the equivalent of $30 now)
brazilian (strip-you-bare) waxing: US: $75 UK: £50 and up ($100)
haircut: US: $100 UK: £80 ($160)

Now granted, all of these things help women look and feel good, but pssst, all of you who are charging these insane prices for things, I have a secret to tell you:

--a manicure is when a woman sits across from you and spends a minute slapping the equivalent of house paint onto your nails and then tells you to dry them under a lamp. It's not brain surgery, and it's not like the woman is grinding the paint in her own workshop the night before.

--a brazilian waxer is someone who puts hot wax onto areas that only your spouse sees, and rips out the hair by the root. The price would be worth it if she put you under hyponsis first so you could erase the white-lighted pain of the procedure.

--and yes, there are people making a fortune at being a celebrity hairstylist, but I have to say, once you get the hang of it, and you've graduated from using the rounded-end arts and crafts scissors, it's not that hard. So many friends of mine have been in bands over the years, and I managed to get quite a following with the cuts that I did. I should've started asking for cash payments instead of beer and snacks.

Yes, I understand it's all in the art of the procedure, and you do want someone that excels at their craft, and not some woman in a back alley who learned how to wax from practising on her pets. This is just my point of view as a new Brit, and honestly, if I had the money, I would immediately set up a nail salon that gave out £5 manicures. Screw it, actually, it can be all under one roof- you can get your nails done while you get waxed and get a haircut. It's like being in a Formula One race and pulling over for a pit stop. Except you happen to be naked from the waist down.

Until then, I'll be practising on the mister (no, not the waxing bit). He actually doesn't mind, as long as I don't use pink nail varnish.

Packing, leaving, landing, settling. Rinse and repeat.

Funny. I'm writing this in a place that i had no idea we'd be, six months ago. Let me explain.

Me and the mister have a bit of a history of adventure travel. Fate kind of plopped us down at a work dinner one night two years ago, and that was it. The next 10 months involved lots of transatlantic travel to see each other (New York for him as he's British, London for me), planning a house sale and job move for him, and in the middle of all of it, planning a wedding in Iceland (which bless him, he did most of the planning. I have no idea how). Then after Iceland it was Italy for our honeymoon, back to London to do a second wedding, and then moving to New York to live and work. And that's all with only 3 suitcases. I have no idea how we did it.

Back in New York, it was fun for a while, in a very transparent sort of way, but then the mister and I decided we were moving to London. For a lot of reasons, all personal. All related to family. It just made sense, and I felt very grown up all of a sudden. You know how when you're young and single, all you think about is the next day, when your next hot date is, and whether you can pay the credit card bill this month? And you make fun of people who seem to have that grand plan, that exciting love life, because you much prefer not answering to anyone, blah blah? Yeah, funny how things changed when I met the mister- everything became very clear (but still with plenty of hot dates together).

So, that's how we decided. A few months ago, we both looked at each other and said "let's go for it." We're always on the same page with our gut instinct.

I feel lucky that we got here without anything except a few suitcases and our senses of humour. We're in the process of looking for jobs, and we're picking where we want to live while staying with family. My brain is a bit overloaded because I've never really lived and worked somewhere long term except New York. My whole life was in New York, pretty much. I've travelled, I've gone to school in foreign countries, but this is different. This is us. Our adventure. Our story.

Well, it's mid afternoon now, and I have another interview to go to. I swear, I feel like I should have a trenchcoat and a suitcase full of carpet samples and go door to door. I might as well, I feel like I've met every single company in the city by now.

So here we are. London. And this is where the adventure begins. Two kids and their cameras. Me and my juice box.