When one of your teachers looks at you and says “I would not want to be doing this course at our age,” you do wonder about yourself. 

The course was brutal for someone who hadn’t been in college since before most of my classmates were born. But I made it. I was dissuaded from tackling the project that actually interested me and, after a facetious brainstorming session with a few of my classmates, I proposed the subject matter for my Major Project.

I did my project on Facebook. My existing Facebook addiction was fed as I first tried “making Facebook into a real book.” I did projects that included a visual comparison of photos of my Facebook friends and then a completely visual layering of the photos. I completed a volume of research on social networking including marketing and communications. My Major Project eventually became a visual mapping of my Facebook social network, produced in Flash. (Even though we were warned not to tackle any new software, I felt the need to try it—plus not one of the tutors knows Flash and almost all are younger than me.

Since completing the course, I have felt that I survived an ordeal, rather than achieved an advanced degree. 

On our short celebratory trip to Paris the day after our marks were posted, I was stretched out in a hotel room with 2 classmates, and said “Now that I know what I want to do for my project, I’m ready to start over.” 

Now I sit in my tiny cottage applying for jobs, doing a bit of freelance work, and pondering what I want to do next. 

What does a woman who has been a graphic designer for eons; who has read continuously; understands marketing, PR, advertising and how it all works together; has read and kept up with news in a wide range of fields; yet, is “overqualified” for jobs in her field do? Even with a Masters in Facebook?

Not only is Sparkie a world traveller now, she navigates the London Underground and National Rail like any other jaded Londoner.

Walking onto the train, it is obvious which people like dogs and which do not—an instant divide.

I grew up in a small town in Alabama in big house with white columns with three sisters. It had the usual, spacious, formal rooms, and a big den with a wall of books, the best TV available with all the cable channels available then, and a big fireplace that added to the warmth of the central heat in the winter.

The arguments were straight out of a sit-com. Nattering over the laundry baskets not being moved upstairs to the bedrooms in a timely manner; griping that daughter #3 ate a whole box of Thin Mints because everyone knew that the little neighbor urchin only ate 4 cookies; and constant admonitions to teenage girls to “slow down” when they drove.

Anyone who knows me, knows that this was not my real family. They were the Neighbors. And the gracefully tolerated my intrusion from the time I was about 10 years old. Their youngest daughter, “Joycie”, was two grades ahead of me and she was who I wanted to be when I grew up. She was an athlete, a musician and someone that everyone liked. It turns out, she never knew the realities of my real homelife.

Charlie, her dad, did. He was also our pharmacist. He knew how bad things were at my house—the medications that my mom took and on occasion abused. He, more than anyone else in Podunk, Alabama, knew my mom was crazy.

I remember sitting on the floor next to the sofa, crying, and him patting my head. He was the dad that my own father could not be. He was gregarious, funny, brilliant and caring and kept everyone’s secrets.

He joked with me when I “married out of my faith,” (I graduated from Auburn and PMS went to Alabama—hey, in Alabama that is more serious than a Catholic marrying a Jew) and was understanding when the union did not work out. For far more serious reasons. When I said that I would never get married again he said “Well, I guess you’ll be like Joyce.” 

Sorry, Joycie, but I snorted “No, not hardly.” Forgetting that we were forbidden from talking about THAT. He went right along…

This past Thanksgiving I was instant messaging Joycie, a reconnection after 20 years thanks to Facebook, while she was visiting him at the nursing home. Charlie wanted to know when I was coming over to watch “the game.” He thought it was still the ’70s. 

Charlie and Mary Frank were the parents I didn’t have in my own house. They showed me what parents should and could be. He didn’t talk when I needed that. And I could go in the kitchen and chatter to Mary Frank while she was baking. A never ending supply of pecan sandies.

Here in London, my Atlanta phone died last week. So I didn’t get the message from Joycie that he had died. She was as prepared as one can be because she had watched his decline. 

For some reason, I was not. I have lost my father in a car wreck, very young; then my sweet stepfather—suddenly from a heart attack and comparatively young; and now Charlie. I wasn’t ready.

But I am so glad that I got to be his youngest girl every now and again. 

Yes Joycie, thinking of your parents, I do have hope that I will someday find someone to share my life. Because I got to play in a house with parents who loved each other and all of their children, including the sad little neighbor child whose real parents forgot where she was.

(And Duke’s Mayo, Maker’s Mark and Smucker’s Organic Peanut Butter)

As someone involved in visual communications who has done her fair share of corporate identity projects, the word “branding” most often makes me cringe. People misuse it and most often you hear it from clients who have no idea what they are talking about. I have actually asked if they want me to mark their cattle. 

Then I came to another country. The day I stood before a wall of soap powders, looking for clues as to what these products actually do, I definitely appreciated the branding and advertising of products. 

The first time I looked for laundry detergent, I went home without any. The same with a few other items. I finally recognized one brand name, though not the package, and purchased it. (Next time I will get the liquid.) The Fairy dishwashing liquid, well, just isn’t Dawn. (GEEZ, I have learned the definition of limescale! Have you ever had spots on handwashed dishes before?)

Luckily, I finally found a bottle of Tobasco, though, oddly enough, it was at the Turkish Market. And one of the groovy, organic 50% fiber breakfast cereal brands that I eat was at the local Sainsbury’s. They have Hellman’s Mayo, but, well, it ain’t Duke’s.

There is an abundant selection of good, inexpensive wines, but, my taste in beer runs way past my budget, not to mention the amount of weight I am willing to lug home. I also have learned to shop only with a basket, because if it doesn’t fit in that basket, I will not be able to tote it home. (Have not yet replaced my cart, or trolley as it is here.)

Sparkie is enjoying the random selection of dog foods. She has eaten ONE since she was a puppy, but has yet to turn down whatever is poured into the bowl. The best food is in Lolly or Larken’s bowls anyway. And if she eats theirs, they scratch on my door, walk in, and eat Sparkie’s.

The speciality shops are the best place to buy specific things. There is a patisserie, farmers markets and I really must find the cheese shop where Simon finds the most luscious cheeses.

But, there are no grits. I felt really guilty for not packing a few boxes, because Nicholas, Sophie and Simon’s son, born in Atlanta, expresses his American Southernness by having grits at every opportunity. The only ones available are in a shop specializing in American goods. But they only carry INSTANT grits. And to any real Southerner, that is an insult. They also carry Jiff peanut butter, but I do not eat partially hydrogenated stuff or high-fructose corn syrup, so Jiff is out of the question. 

So here are a few lists.

Thinks that are fantastic:
• chocolate
• school
• classmates & tutors
• train and Tube (except late at night)

Things I did not bring (though they are most likely in one of the couple of boxes I did not ship):
• a few housewares (measuring cups and spoons, a few of my favorite mugs)
• certain art supplies 
• instruction books for my cameras
• certain connectors for my electronics
• the mini speakers for my computer and i-Pod
• Duke’s Mayo
• Dawn dishwashing liquid
• Books, books, and other books
• anything to wear to paint 

Things that I got here with, that I do not need:
• too many heavy winter clothes—it is colder than Atlanta, but not that much
• my big Starbucks Atlanta mug instead of my big Auburn one
• my wireless keyboard (so far I am working on the computer in my lap since shipping the big screen was too expensive) 

OK, I will put to use darn near everything I brought.

I did find a source for Maker’s Mark (for medicinal purposes only—“cough, cough”) but the Ketel One and Chambourd are just more than my little student budget wants to handle. So if you want to have a French Martini (Roger) you’ll have to pick them up in the Duty Free.

Random things that I am thrilled I managed to get here with:
• my hot-pink martini shaker and two matching martini glasses from “Sex and the City” with Simone
• my purple paring knife, the good can opener and a small grater
• Mucinex
• Motrin (though I may need some soon)
• thin socks that I can wear with my clogs
• clogs
• cameras
• Sparkie, of course

Things I have had to buy, and cost less than to ship my others:
• an easel (yes I’m painting for my design class and it was only £30)
• paint (great sale at one of the art supply stores!)
• papers
• a printer/scanner

This afternoon I am off to get my check-in/check-up at the GP so that I will have a Doctor. There was one practice that was a smidge closer, but I chose the one that had women in it. 

My Brit friends want a report on my impressions of the British National Health Care System.

We remain, very happy to be here. Even without the grits and peanut butter. The coco-hazelnut creme is divine.

When I first began my quest for grad school, a friend told me “Going back to school as an adult is like being rich.”

I’m not sure I totally understood what she meant. But last week I got a taste. The State-owned museums here in London have no admissions fees. So I could wander through one gallery, study one piece, have tea and even linger over the newspaper in the café. There was no rush to see every little thing in one visit. I can go back. I can take time to savor the great works with out jogging through with a check list.

What an incredible luxury.

Larken herds Sparkie as she explores the garden path, sniffing for foxes.

Written on New Year’s Day

Sparkie and I have arrived in London. Our last few days in Atlanta were a rush of activity. When I found it was going to be cost prohibitive to ship many of my things, I scrambled to re-pack.

Kristin Ruby threw a fantastic going away party for me. I have not yet looked at the photos, but did read my guest book. (Philip, thanks for the documentation of my conversation.)

I know, I know, I probably promised to call you from the airport, thinking that I would be sitting there for a few hours. But Sparkie’s check-in took an inordinate amount of time and it turns out that the flight was a little earlier than I had remembered.

Richard, my brother, delivered us to our respective drop-off points, and commented at Sparkie’s drop-off, he had never seen so many people working in one place to do so little.

I was very impressed with British Air. Even in steerage, you got a little kit with a toothbrush, a tiny tube-ette of toothpaste, an eye mask, and something else I’ve forgotten and a seat large enough to contain my generous backside.

A very small boy was having a difficult night on the flight and shared that with us all. It didn’t occur to me that I could ask for ear plugs. I managed to get a little sleep, but not much.

Oh, the re-packing resulted in me checking 7 bags. Plus I had my laptop in a backpack and a carry-on bag with an assortment of irrational choices of weird stuff crammed inside.

At Gatwick, it took two trolleys that I attached to each other with a bungee cord to carry my luggage. Sophie was waiting with this giant van, although at that point, it had taken so long that she was about to give up on me.

Then we went to pick up Sparkie. The surroundings there were a little more pleasant than the office that shipped Sparkie out, though the staff had forgotten to turn on the heat. We huddled under the heater once it was turned on with a girl from Greenville, SC, who was waiting for her Daschund.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Sparkie’s paper work had been flawlessly prepared (thank you Buckhead Animal Clinic) but BA had to send paperwork to DEFRA who had to send it by computer to Manchester where it had to be sent back to London.

On the way to Palmers Green, I fell asleep sitting straight up in the van. (Now why couldn’t I have slept on the plane?) After lunch and a short nap at Sophie and Simon’s, we managed to connect with my new landlord, and deposited Sparkie, an embarrassing amount of stuff and me to my new home.

My little home is another garden shed. A studio cottage is the more appropriate term.

But this time it is attractive, bright, modernized, and comes with Victoria, my landlord who has been more of a really great hostess. (What a difference from my last experience.) When I got here there were new wardrobes for my clothes—the exact same ones that I thought I would be running out to IKEA to buy. Victoria had coffee, tea, a few other groceries and, get this, the same brand of dog food that Sparkie has always eaten.

Speaking of great hostess (and host), Sophie and Simon invited me to their New Year’s Eve celebration dinner. They had a few of their close friends, Simon’s mom and me.

It was wonderful. As always, the food was spectacular, the company entertaining (I remember crying with laughter), and the wine and champagne flowed freely.

At some point, I was asked how long I had been awake. I had no idea. The night before my departure I had given my nephew a note requesting that he wake me up at 6:30am. He offered to do it earlier…but I had a clue that I might have a petite hangover.

The one glitch here has been with wi-fi connection. I have not had phone service or internet. My family had wondered if I was completely gone incommunicado. 

And I celebrated the New Year by sleeping, recovering from both jetlag and the parties that sandwiched my trip, and unpacking (I had no idea that I still owned this much stuff) and watching TV. Wondering why I brought certain things and why I left others at home that right now I believe I really need.

I know that I am where I am supposed to be. I am happy.

No matter what you bet, I won’t sound like Madonna next month. Well not exactly.

But Sparkie’s accent seems to match that of the border collies exactly. You would never know that she isn’t British.

Last night, the winter solstice, I found out just how long one night could be.

I’m behind on my packing and couldn’t sleep. Just before 2am my phone rang, I saw who was calling and thought that my friend was just calling because she had a few drinks and wanted to chat.

Instead, the she was hysterical and I could barely hear what she was whispering through her sobs.

“I think I’ve been raped.”

I got a cab to her house in the neighborhood that was my home for over 10 years.

Perhaps I’ve watched too many episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, because I ran around looking for her clothes (couldn’t find them), got her to put on socks (I had pulled heavy winter clothes out of my one packed suitcase because I knew the ER would be cold), and drove her to the hospital, arriving only a smidge over a half hour from when she called me.

We were ushered in immediately. A police officer arrived shortly and quietly questioned her. His supervisor questioned her briefly as well and then the Sex Crimes detective was called.

My friend, like so many victims of rape, cried and blamed herself. It was clear in her body language what had happened. She was afraid of the man. She thought she had been drugged. He had bragged that he was so “in” with the ATL-PD that he could never get a DUI.

He had been her attorney for her divorce three years ago, and his service to her was ended only a few weeks ago. At that time he began flirting with her, but she thought it was harmless. He had also been a psychologist before he went into law and he knew all of her secrets and her vulnerabilities. 

The Sex Crimes Detective could not have been better. He was calm and compassionate and finally persuaded her to submit to the exam and rape kit by signing a paper that was a “Waiver of Prosecution.” This document allows the police to gather evidence, know who the perpetrator was and compare that evidence to others. It allows the victim, who is often petrified at the time of the assault to prosecute at a later date within the statute of limitations.

We drove from Piedmont Hospital to the CVS just as the pink of sunrise was peeking out. I shrieked curses when the pharmacist told me that her “day after” prescription was not covered by her insurance. He was so sympathetic. Fortunately it is not expensive, but the idea that after one is raped, the insurance company adds insult to injury. At least we were not in Wasilla, Alaska during Mayor Palin’s reign.

“Will I ever be OK again?” she asked me. 

“Yes, but not today or tomorrow.” As if I am the expert. I just watch too much TV.

Well, I’m finally packing. I have a student visa, paperwork is in order, and I can’t believe that I am walking off the face of the earth as I know it.

My friend Liz made me this beautiful wreath. But since I am not decorating or taking anything that fragile on the plane with me, she is sending it to her friend Joy in Chicago. (Now she could have made me a necklace with all those beads she’s been stringing, but instead, she made me a wreath?)

I took the photo with a new toy camera. I have decided that I like the pictures that I take with my big honking Canon much better. (Quelle surprise!) But I thought it would be handy to have a little one I could tote in my purse without fear that I would drop it or have it stolen.

So far I have packed 3 boxes. But considering that I will only ship about 6—I’m halfway done. Summer clothes are in a suitcase and the bulk of heavy winter ones are still packed. 

I can’t wait to move out of this garden shed. Although, I will be living in another one in Palmers Green, London. It just is nicer. With a much nicer landlord. I’ll be living in the same place that I had reserved last year. It is only about 7 blocks from my friends Sophie, Simon and Nicolas, and is the only neighborhood in London that I know my way around.

In the interim, I am working on a book or two for my friend Jane Carroll and finishing a few projects for Smith Communication Partners and trying to stay calm. 

A few friends have asked if I am going to have a going away party this year. Last year’s party was so successful, but the actual “going away” did not happen. So, I’m waiting till the last minute to decide. If anyone is available for an early evening on the 29th, let me know. 

On the 30th of December, Sparkie and I are leaving on a jet plane. 

Last year, for the first time, I showed my fine artwork publicly. Because my design career requires that so much of my work is about others, I have guarded my fine art as private. 

At parties, my painting studio has been a popular place for people who are interested in art. 

There came a point in my life that I realized that I needed to combine my personalities. I have practiced graphic design as a strict adherent of Bauhaus methodology. As a painter, I’ve never been able to pigeonhole myself. It has been pure self expression. My most successful works came straight from my gut, not my head. 

Since I can’t take the pile of paintings, I decided to sell what I could at a big party at my house.

The night before my big sale, I took the extreme step of posting a piece in the Museum of Contemporary Art, Georgia (MOCAga). Even then, I used a piece that I had used for my grad school application.

This year I decided to do something fun. During one of the seemingly incessant depressing days this past summer, I began what I have called my “First Church of Oprah Poster.” It included my hopes and dreams and affirmations of the good things I should remember each day. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me and I am not so optimistic. 

Since my artwork tends to be large, I had to do a new piece within the parameters of the Member’s “Off-the-Wall Pin up show and sale.”

So I went with the Affirmation piece for some fun.

Sadly, the piece did not survive the after party, but it was fun and those few people who “got it” got a smile. And I had some fun.