Writing a play is hard, apparently.

Trust me, I checked.

To make my Modern Musicals 315 class count as a graduate level 515 class, I told Dr. Nelson that I would write a musical.

I'm not sure exactly why I thought that was an appropriate thing to say. I must have still been jet lagged.

"write a musical"!?!?!?

Andrew Lloyd Webber writes musicals (and purchases all of my favorite paintings so I can't see them, I've recently learned). I... I wake up late and and whine to Jacob and pop my zits and eat too many digestives and get love handles and get hangry and fall asleep all over the place. I am lamentably ordinary and am sick of all my clothes and rarely shave my legs and procrastinate everything and don't know how to manage money. I am one big human flaw. I don't write musicals.
But, for what it's worth, I'm trying.

In other news on the theater front, we're having a marvelous time. Jacob has seen more musicals since we've been here than in his entire 32 years combined (I think he saw...two before this. The two he came to see me in).

So, here's the run down on just a sampling of the plays I've seen in Jolly Old London:

There's nothing like seeing the Phantom of the Opera to make you want to lose weight and take voice lessons.

(No pictures, whoops)

There's nothing like seeing Carmen to make you glad you're not a terrible hussy with a death wish.

 It was Jacob's first Opera, and he hated it (we're working on this). But sitting in the Royal Albert Hall alone is a sublime experience (Side note: the Royal Albert Hall is just a quick skip through Kensington Gardens from our flat. !?!?).

This place is BIG.

There's nothing like seeing The Lion King to make you feel not only inflexible, but entirely incapable physically.

 

There's nothing like seeing Wicked to assure you that something, at least, is better in America.

Though Americans, perhaps, go a little insane waiting at the stage door in the freezing rain to meet West End stars .

There's nothing like seeing War Horse to bring back all of your girlhood equine obsessions (including, but not limited to: horseback riding lessons, a Breyer Horse collection, notebooks filled with Learn to Draw Horses attempts, multiple homemade stop animation videos starring Playmobil horses, etc.) and make you practice, incessantly, moving and sounding like a horse. 

Sue me.

And there's absolutely nothing like seeing Les Miserables  to convince you that you should NEVER attempt to write a musical.

 (I joined in their crusade...)

But guess what?

I'm still going to do it. And as terrifying as it is, I actually really like doing it. Every time I run breathlessly to my computer because some dialogue magically worked itself out in my mind or a character's back story writes itself because the character knows more about their life than I do... wow. Those moments are delicious. And a little addicting. And even though I'm beyond self-conscious to let anyone read my soul-baring, nonsensical crap script, I am more fulfilled by actually finally attempting to do this than by most other things.

So I let Jacob read some scenes. I work at the piano where I know everyone can hear, but I just do it anyway. I'm trying to write music. I'm trying to write stories. And even if they turn out as bad as I fear they will and they never speak to a single soul... at least I did what I've always felt, at my deepest depths, that I was meant to do. 

Love, drafts, and more drafts,

Banana

Teacher Lady

Oops. I think I'm going to teach College.

Take a look at this electronic mail of destiny:

Does this mean the "G U" word (Grown Up)? I've been making a concentrated effort to "only buy grown up clothes" for the last few months, reigning in every impulse to purchase a galaxy cat dress or plush full-body onesie with ears, in the event of something like this coming up. I really have been trying.

 

But London is just so much FUN!

What do I do now?

Do you think my students will respect me?
 

I think I will require them to bow to me every time they enter and exit the classroom and to address me as "Professor the Dowager Countess Anna Teacher Lady".

Yes, I think that's it.

 

And I shall be feared.

Getting my hair caught in my purse outside the Houses of Parliament; falling asleep within (and everywhere else)

Everyone knows that before actually taking a tour of Westminster Palace, it is proper protocol to take a picture in front of Westminster Palace, which is far more important and productive than not being allowed to sit on any benches in the House of Lords because they're reserved for "only very important bottoms," and so instead you stand there, in the gorgeously gilded, dripping with history chamber, nodding off while standing and coming dangerously close to careening right into Jo, the friendly and highly-informed tour guide, and taking her down right onto the very important carpet. Whether or not I actually did this, I will refrain from admitting here.

Thus ensues probably my favorite (or favourite, if you prefer) series of photgraphs I own. You may need to zoom in on Jacob's face to appreciate just how inexplicably strange it looks.

Thank you, Emma, for capturing this moment. Emma is my dear new friend with whom I can take perfectly successful posed photographs on the first try.

Proof:

Emma and me in front of Elizabeth Tower

 Emma and me at Wicked

Emma and  me at Hampton Court Palace

Emma and me at Canterbury Cathedral

 
Emma and me reading about the cats of Canterbury Cathedral

Maybe not such good proof:

Emma and me attempting to take a jumping picture because the statue from the Parthenon was also taking a jumping picture

In case you're wondering, the tour was wonderful. But we weren't allowed to take pictures (most likely, once more, because of the important bottoms). Probably the most important thing we learned from Jo is that the Thames is pronounced Tems  and not Thames because no one wanted to make King George I feel bad about how very bad his English pronunciation was. When in doubt, change the way you've been pronouncing something for centuries.

Illegal photo taken by Emma during the tour

Indeed, the tour was wonderful, but my "Annalepsy," as Jacob fondly refers to it, is not. Following is a list of  some other places I have recently almost died in because of falling asleep while standing and, a result, have nearly smashed into something sharp, marble, or archeologically significant (some of these I haven't even told Jacob [or Emma] about because I was ashamed):

1. Canterbury Cathedral

 Okay, so I fell asleep on the heater. Sue me.

2. The Roman Museum in Canterbury

 Particularly humiliating.

3. Waiting for the tube (A particularly dangerous place)

On the Tube  (of course)

4. Boat to Greenwich

I was trying SO hard to read Judith Butler...

 Us straddling the Prime Meridian Line like a Mormon Engagement photo on train tracks

This is the boat ride back from Greenwich, the entire length of which I was... asleep.
 
5. All over the National Maritime Museum

Me falling asleep at the wheel (unfortunately, this is the only staged one)

...I'm embarrassed to keep adding locations.

But the point is, we're happy and we're lucky and we're learning a lot. Especially when we're awake. And I've been having the most outrageous dreams... so maybe even when we're not?

Love, fatigue, and The East India Company,
Banana

Just some reasons I love the Temple

Jacob and I finally got out to the London temple on Saturday. I knew it was important for me to be there as soon as I got changed and was bumbling around the restroom, anxiously trying to cover up my black bra straps that were blatantly making themselves known through my white dress, and generally being confused and anxious. A lady in street clothes hurried up to me and said, "I thought you should know..." and I, of course, panicked. Not only were my bra straps black, but the bra itself was zebra print.  And as a very new temple attender I already felt pretty infantile in my understanding of proceedings. Must I go bra-less and have no idea what I was doing and sound so stupidly American?

I felt really dumb.

But what she continued to say was, "...you are an inspiration to me. You young people come here with such busy and hard lives and you're worthy to be here. It is so beautiful to me and gives me hope!" Her sincerity leveled me and my zebra bra right into the depths of humility. I wanted to say, "Oh lady, if you only knew me!" But she hugged me long and tight and said, "God bless you, my love. God bless you!"

But that wasn't the end of it. 
All through the day I was hugged, kissed, doted on, and winked at. Honestly, I have never felt less alone in my entire life, and I was thousands of miles away from home and usually out of the reassuring reach of my dear Jacob. I felt so surrounded by friends that day, and not only because of the sweet, mostly elderly people present. 
After receiving the name I would be acting in proxy for (Christina Ohlsen, born in Liverpool around 1890), the officiator-- a darling matron with a sturdy brogue-- gently took my arm, looked deep into my eyes, and said, "you and Christina have a lovely time together." 

And we did.
 
I talked to Christina (in my mind, of course) throughout the session and had a deeply meaningful experience. I can't explain how beautiful it was, partly because the goings-on of the temple are sacred enough to be kept, by necessity, within its walls. But partly, too, because I can't really explain it.

But I did see, and will never forget, a sweet Indian family of five all in white (complete with  a white teddy bear) who were joined together for forever. I saw and spoke with so many people, all with long stories of hard lives, bearing the marks of them all over their bodies. But in the temple, whatever the state of their wasted, tattooed skin, thin hair,  and bent frames, they were radiant with peace, joy, and love. Everyone spoke gently and hushed, sparkling in their clean white clothes. They called me "sister," "love," or "dear."  None of them knew me, but they knew my heart, I think. And I feel like I knew theirs.

When I was getting ready to leave, I went to shake the hands of the adorably giggly group of matrons who were doing their sacred duties with their particularly adorable old British lady flair, and the last one refused to shake my hand,  instead pulling me violently in to plant a hearty, wet kiss square on my lips and cheek. She asked me to come back. This sweet, toothless stranger with outrageously yellow-orange hair was my sister. And I have rarely felt so loved.

Here is my point: I love my church. I love the temple. I love the way it inspires people to treat each other. I love that it functions purely on service, devotion, and a love of God and of his children. I want everyone I love to be able to experience the precious, precious communion we can all feel when we align our lives in order to facilitate a visit to the temple. The awesome part is that we're all invited, and the invitation is always open.

Something silly is that, by the time we got back home, I was already immersed in the quagmire of "I have so much to do"-- the beginning of the path that always leads me to inconsolable world-weariness. By late evening I was feeling inexplicably down and couldn't seem to shake it. And even though I only made some vague, off-handed comment to Jacob, and he to only one other person, it appears that the other students were much better at remembering the Temple's lessons than I was. Throughout the evening, we  kept receiving knocks on our door. Almost constantly! Visitors, doorbell-ditched notes and treats, even a much-appreciated (though much more unexpected) carton of soy milk! These darling girls showered me with completely unsolicited love. 

Simply for being depressed and admittedly very unappreciative,  I was bombarded with charity, thoughtfulness, and many morsels of chocolate, appreciation, support, and so much love.

  

I am a lucky creature, and I am inspired. 

My recent worries of the dismal fate of an apathetic world is completely unfounded. 

People are good. People care. And God is love.

The Rennakers: Kissing in Cool Places since 2013

In honor of my lord's two month wedding anniversary with his lady (me), I thought I'd post a series of romantic pictures in front of scenic places around the Queendom. For fear of kindling my lord's wrath, I ask you to please not tell him.

This is the list of things he hates the most:

1. Kissing in public.

2. Having pictures taken of him while kissing in public.

3. Me posting those pictures on the internet.

I Love you, Jacob! Happy two months!

 

Jacob thinking about how much he doesn't want to kiss me on the Kings George's stairs in the Kingly, Georgian section of Kensington Palace.

 

 Me loving Jacob at the Bodlean library in Oxford.

 Me trying to get Jacob to love me in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

 Me making out with a medieval archer wax figure because I couldn't get any from my husband at Warwick Castle.

 Jacob too cold to kiss me at Castlerigg Stone Circle (sans the stone circle)

 

Me bullying Jacob into taking a kissing selfie in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

 

 

 Anna triumphant as Jacob kisses her back at Hampton Court Palace (shortly after Anne Boleyn bluntly propositioned him). This is PROGRESS, people. It's time to re-take our wedding photos!

* A word on my coat: Yes, I wear it every day. Yes, I am sick of it. Yes, it looks like I never change my clothes because I look the same in every picture. Yes, my identity is morphing into an amorphous army green blob. Yes, all the other girls have about five coats to avoid this lamentable situation. I'm not presenting a solution, but I am admitting that I understand the gravity of it.

Cheers!
Banana 

fancy

I've rather taken a fancy to (AKA I am obsessed with):

 

 English school children,

 

astronauts at St. Paul's,

 

 statues! 

(this one was sculpted by Victoria's daughter!)

Honestly, they're incredibly endearing!!

Along with...

Visiting my art idols (like Millais and Turner) W H E N E V E R I W A N TTTTTTTTTT.

And this new husband phenomenon. 

Really, it's remarkable. When I'm in class he makes me lunch. When my feet are frozen he sacrifices his crevasses to be a human feet warmers. When I vow to never eat another carbohydrate he takes away the rolls at dinner and only gives in after my third or fourth cry of outrage.

And he's really very cute.

Sometimes we feel like we never get out and about around the city, especially compared to all of our busy bee little students. How they manage to make so many shopping trips and frozen yogurt stops and attend class and finish their assignments I'll never understand. But the heavy weight of our respective dissertation/ thesis ever confines us to our computers, and the bitter, bone-biting cold outside makes our darling little hearth into a sleepyannamagnet. WHAT DO WE DO? It's London outside and our fiscal futures/ corporeal warmness inside. And it's London outside. Like, THE London. Like, the one in England.

Ah, well. Any wisdom?

Stay warm if you can. 

(And pray for my toes-- deplorable circulation, you know).

Banana

The Royal We

One of the best parts of living in London

 is that we live in London.

Oh, and in case you mistook us for Victoria and Albert, it is, in fact, us.

(I'm just sitting in Victoria's chair)

You see? I'm the one in front. Victoria is right behind me, and right behind her is her house.

I can see how you got confused, because we actually live right next to her house.

This is me inside of her house, but it's on the Georges' side where Jacob and I worked our way up to be very prominent courtiers. Indeed, I was in charge of testing King George I's eggs for runniness, and of wiping his Royal *ahem*.

Jacob was His Royal Highness's personal physician, but let's not compare. 

...At least I make 30 pounds a year.

These are the signs for the royal toilets in which I complete my courtly duties.

This is my courtly husband. THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS: H U S B A N D.

We like visiting Kensington Palace.
We like that we have to walk through Hyde Park to get to church.
We like meeting people from all over the world every day and getting to know our wonderful students here and we like being married and we like living together [finally].
We like it when Kate (mostly Hoffmire, sometimes Middleton) visits us from Oxford/ Utah.
We [mostly I] like running through the mist in the dark, early morning.
We like living in London.
We like learning.
We like each other.

All settled in, gov'nuh!

And as regal as ever.

We are as happy as clam chowder in our new little London flat, all married and ready for adventure-- maybe once I can get out of bed, that is.

We have eaten the best food since we got here two days ago. I guess I forgot there would be an abundance of french influence... I thought I was safe from french pastries this time. NEVER. Oh well, I'm married, right?

Oh. Maybe I'll get around to saying a little something about the wedding too. I guess that's important.

Until then,

Cheerio (or something)!
England is a place to be happy, as I learned a year and a half ago: here.
Happy husband. Happy wife. Happy fish and chips. Happy West End. Happy Sound of Music cape coat. Happy students everywhere. Happy little teeny kitchen that is smaller than the closet. Happy spider that crawled out of my blow dryer and bit me. Happy teeny leaky shower. Happy jet lag. Happy Greek grocer. Happy synagogue. Happy tourists. Not happy locals. Happy happy happy. Happy biscuits.

Oh yay, this is very exciting.