New Do

Last week I was treated to a cut and color at HOB salon for a feature in my company's magazine, Pulse. Here is my hairdo transformation:

Consumer Stress

No. 30: Have a shopping spree at Harrods

The going rate for ostrich eggs seems inexplicably high, especially considering I can’t recall ever having heard of someone actually buying one of the things. But I’m standing in Harrods and unless my eyes are deceiving me, for just £20 one of these babies could be mine.

I’m pretty sure this would be a waste of my precious money, I can’t imagine ever needing an omelette that big, so I pass through the tempting food stalls filled with truffle oils and vintage brandies to find safer ground.

Walking into this beautiful and luxurious mother of all department stores usually gives me consumer stress. Purse-happy buyers could get lost in the mega-store, where everything from leather passport holders to snail fossils can be found on four-and-a-half acres of fluorescent lighting. The place has been handing out their iconic green and gold shopping bags since 1834, and while that may be good and well for the likes of the purchasing elite, I’m afraid the whole thing just makes me want to take a big ole nap.

I explained my Harrods struggle to our features editor Lauren Krotsoky at the office one day. Lauren is very much a girl’s girl, the type of 25-year-old woman who carries a comb and a mirror in her purse, and she found my comparison of the luxury retailer to budget grocer Asda (a place that is trying to beat Japanese subways systems for the record of most people slammed shoulder to shoulder) a bit off.

I have a suspicion my aversion may be due to the untouchable quality of the items on display. A pair of £1 million Stuart Weitzman heels are certainly pretty, but don’t usually fit into my budget. The knowledge that I probably can’t afford most of the wares on offer has most likely contributed to keeping me away from the posh digs, but I’m determined to get my head around this beloved British treasure.

Breezing through the specialty foods section and into a makeup heaven that looks like a Mac pro shop exploded, Lauren and I are met with white marbled floors, cashmere covered shoppers and a scent that’s a mix between Dior’s Cherie parfum and £100 notes. I’m not sure where to head first when Lauren pulls me to a Benefit counter with stacks of eye shadows and lipstick in little cardboard boxes with pictures of artfully drawn pinup girls. Lauren is a sucker for both 50’s nostalgia and clever marketing, and we begin playing with the provided cotton swabs and samples.

“Can I help you pick a color?” asks a burly and tanned man from beside me. He’s wearing a nametag which suggests he works here, though he looks like he would be more comfortable at a Gold’s Gym helping overweight men feel the burn.

“Um, sure,” I say as I sit in a tall stool the Hulk pulls over. He’s rubbing goop into my face and removing the dark eyeliner I applied this morning.

“What colors do you usually like?” he asks me in a thick Bulgarian accent. I point to some browns and he starts pulling products off the shelf, holding out a pink bottle that looks like nail polish.
“We call this Supermodel in a Bottle. It will brighten you up and make your face look fantastic,” he tells me very seriously. Never one to turn down an opportunity to look like Gisele Bundchen, I allow Stanislav to plaster me with the stuff. I have one eye closed as something wet is put on my lid, and with the other I spy Lauren also being taken in by the makeover routine. By the time we’re finished Lauren and I find ourselves standing at the checkout line each holding a respectable pile of eyeliners, mascara and blush.

“Your face does look really pretty Erica,” Lauren tells me as we pay for our items. Perhaps it’s the chemical buzz from all the collagen in the room, but I quickly jot down my contact information on the counter’s sign-up list for future events.

Queen Bee

No. 28: Learn to curtsy
No. 29: Have tea with nobility

...“It’s not required that you curtsy, but it’s certainly an option,” says Naomi, a very nice young woman in a purple suit, who’s been facilitating the opening of a care home in Berkshire for individuals with learning disabilities. She's in charge of myself and a handful of journalists, as we stand around waiting for the arrival of the day's official ribbon-cutter, Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom.

I’ve always assumed I would eventually need to perfect my curtsy, as I’ve known since childhood I would one day become close confidant to the royal family. But the task has been thrust upon me with little notice, and I’m feeling under prepared. It was just two weeks ago when Justin asked me if I would like to meet the Queen. I told him I would have to think about it.

Naomi’s demonstrating a small dip of the knees and bowing of the head that looks like a ladylike version of davening, as I stand with three other gentlemen reporters who look about as interested in our tutorial as a group of Cistercian monks might be in a subscription to J Date.

“So we’ll have you in the main room for when the Queen takes her tour of the centre, and then you’ll move behind her as she goes to the different rooms.” I nod my agreement, trying to nonchalantly bend my knees and practice the move, worried that the action will come off looking less regal and more like I’m a demented flamingo...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12253/jewish-news-jn-598-130809/?no_login=1

What's Up, Holmes?

No. 27: Help Scotland Yard solve a crime

The Metropolitan Police are in our office and I’m feeling two things:

1. Fear that I’ll be deported
2. Elation that I can use this on my list

When I put Scotland Yard down as a task, I had to Google the term to find out exactly what it was. My only previous knowledge of the place is the time I was in a high school production of Jekyll & Hyde and Scotland Yard was a lyric in the show’s big ensemble number. I assume the agency doesn’t have much to do with a scientific genius who is a polite doctor by day and a murderous schizophrenic by night, and my research tells me I’m correct.

First of all, Scotland Yard has nothing to do with Scotland. I know, I was surprised as well.

Scotland Yard is the name of the street where the Metropolitan Police headquarters was originally built in the 1800’s, earning it a very confusing nickname.

Secondly, Sherlock Holmes never actually worked for the unit. He was more like the annoying tramp outside who wouldn't go away. This discourages me, as I was looking forward to donning a pipe and deerstalker cap for the mission. A bit of reading, however, uncovers a fun piece of detective trivia. Apparently, the Met’s national IT system for crime inquiries is known as the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Also, Scotland Yard has a training program called Elementary. This tells me the Met boys are a group with a sense of humor, and I figure I can still use my props.

A handful of colleagues and I are walking into the conference room we use for editorial meetings, and I’m puffing imaginary smoke rings from a plastic pipe care of Cory. He sent it to me as a joke before I left Florida, and I’m impressed at his foresight.

“Why do you have a pipe?” Justin asks me as we sit at a long table.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. Ask a stupid question.”

A detective enters carrying a bulky black case and begins unloading complicated tools like he’s a British MacGyver. We’re being fingerprinted today in connection with a murder conspiracy. Seriously. An anonymous reader sent our paper a death threat against one of the community’s Jewish leaders, and anyone who touched the thing has to be dusted. This of course includes me, as I immediately snatched up the note as soon as I heard there was something sensational about it.

We’re now faced with proving to this bloke that we aren’t all part of some assassin club, and I’m feeling very much like the Dean Keaton of these unusual suspects, as I seem to be the only one concerned that we haven’t actually contacted the individual in question to warn him to look out for any falling pianos.

The officer is showing us how to make our markings on the forms he’s passing out, and I’m rolling my palms in the ink and pressing them onto the sheet as firmly as I can. When I’m done, there’s a big, black Erica hand on the paper. It looks like I’ve created some morbid first-grade turkey art.

“We’re doing a minstrel show!" Zeddy says from beside me, waving his blackened jazz hands. I think he’s crying out for attention, he’s very jealous of my pipe.

As we hand in our completed papers, wiping the ink off our fingers with paper towels, a niggling thought refuses to go away. As much fun as the messy experience was, I’m a tad disconcerted at my debut into the world of international intrigue. I’m a single woman who has recently traveled to the Middle East and has Arabic stamps in her passport. I have a profile with the Venetian police and I’ve just been fingerprinted by the British authorities. I give it three days before someone catches on and I’m thrown in the clink.

I convey my worries to Zeddy, who comforts me by stealing my pipe and calling me Dear Watson for the rest of the afternoon.

This is Bonesy. He's something of a celebrity around the Jewish News offices. Frequent readers will remember his first appearance as a supporting actor to my performance at the Globe. Click here.

The Prince and the Pauper

No. 26: Receive a royal invitation

“I’m here to meet the prince.”

The unimpressed guard doesn’t hide a snicker as he takes in my diamond-patterned tights and buckled combat boots, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have worn something else.

“My name is Erica Morris,” I offer, using my best I-belong-to-be-here-voice. The lift of his eyebrow tells me my American accent has done little to convince.

“I’m going to need to see some identification.”

The plastic square is already in my palm and outstretched for him to look at. As he glances at the license I see him squint at the part that says Florida, USA. The gesture causes his bulky bell-shaped hat to ride down low on his forehead, weakening his intimidating glare.

He motions to a man holding a clipboard and the pair flips skeptically through a sheaf of papers.

“Here you are,” bell-hat concedes. “With the London Jewish News?”

I nod, tucking a piece of brown hair behind my ear, and head left as his fingers point me in the right direction.

I knock on a thick black door with a sign that reads ‘Office of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall.’

The door opens slowly and a stocky man jerks his head to the right. I walk to a room that looks like it’s attempting to put the occupier at ease but fails at the task. Tiny silver soldiers adorn a wooden bookcase filled with heavy tomes and a set of flowery china sits atop a fireplace. I lean in closer to the bookcase and spy a framed photo of Prince Charles in a meadow, a royal stamp above his head.

Looking around I feel outnumbered. Four middle-aged men are standing in the home of the heir to the throne and they’re staring at me like I’m the strangest part of this scenario. I shift my weight and give them a thin smile before sinking into an armchair. I pick up a newspaper and try to melt into the wallpaper.

“You been with him all week?” a mustachioed man carrying an imposing camera asks a fellow next to him. His heavy accent tells me he’s with the Israeli convoy and I grimace thinking about the flimsy Nokia 200 stowed in my bag.

“Just got in,” answers a wiry man with a television camera on his back. The two men are holding their bulky equipment like golf bags and I realize I’m in the middle of a boys’ club that no one is going to ask me to join.

As the gentlemen begin complaining about the trials of international journalism, I pull out my notepad and earnestly start taking notes.

I am in over my head.
I look like an idiot.
Prince Charles has flowered china over his mantle.

“You must be Erica, Zeddy’s girl.”

I look up to see a friendly looking blond woman. About the same age as me, she’s in her mid-twenties, clean and smiling, wearing a smart gray suit. We look like a before and after picture of what not to wear when meeting royalty.

“I knew the Jewish News got someone new in. Are you covering the Kindertransport event next week?”

I manage a nod as she briskly shakes my hand and passes me a sky blue press badge that I hang from a button on my pea coat.

Sarah leads us out of the holding room, chatting animatedly about the prince’s scheduling conflicts, and the team of professionals trails us as we pass corridors and rooms that beg exploration. There are ornate golden tapestries and floor to ceiling portraits of 16th century figures who I can only guess are cousins of the home’s owner.

“Clarence House is impressive,” Sarah states in a conspiring voice.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I didn’t even know Prince Charles had a house. I mean, obviously he has a house, he’s not homeless. But I thought they all lived in Buckingham Palace.”

“It’s a common mistake,” she tells me with a warm grin that gives me the feeling it is not, in fact, a common mistake.

We’ve stopped walking and are standing in a little arboretum with a teeming outdoor garden behind us, surrounded by pinks and greens that are otherwise extinct in the British autumn weather.

“Right, so the prince will walk out here and the president will come in from there. They’ll shake hands, smile for the cameras and then move inside. No one may address the prince or ask any questions. Understood?”

My colleagues begin testing the light against the flash of their bulbs and I scrounge around in my purse for my Nokia. The bag is a mess of maps, beauty products and one old sock, and I pull the camera out and start playing with the buttons. I rotate through flash, no flash, automatic, and back to flash, giving a self-satisfied nod of mission accomplished.

“Here they come.”

I look up as a limo pulls into the garden and Israeli President Shimon Peres steps out. I’m blinded by the white lights of the flashes, but dutifully hold my lens up as Peres walks to stand in front of the French doors in front of us. The 85-year-old president looks preoccupied but patient as he stands still, before the doors open and Charles, Prince of Wales, appears in a blue suit with an apology for his tardiness.

The men shake hands and exchange polite greetings, turning to allow the journalists to take their picture. I’m spending more time staring at Charles than looking through my lens, fascinated that a face I know so well from a lifetime of Access Hollywood is five feet away from me.

As quickly as it starts it’s over and the doors close shut with finality, the two leaders off to discuss climate change, hunger and world peace. I look down at a set of gardening trowels and wonder vaguely if they belong to Camilla.

“Did you get what you needed?” Sarah asks as she escorts me down a hidden foot path away from Clarence House. I nod as I scroll through the three pictures I was able to snap, each one blurrier than the next.

“It was perfect.”

Smoke Alarm

No. 25: Learn to roll cigarettes

I’m absolutely certain that British men roll cigarettes, though several people have tried to tell me I’m wrong. Zeddy wonders where I got this generalization from, but I know the ratio of Americans to Brits who tuck their tobacco leaves into little paper squares must be sliding heavily in the English favor. I’ve seen enough Jason Statham movies, I know stuff.

I’m with the girls at a blues bar Becky likes which has live music every Monday night, specializing in a grungy, smoky, I’ve-had-too-many-pints-and-that-guy-with-the-neck-piercing-looks-kind-of-cute atmosphere, when I find my proof.

A guy with a neck piercing who looks kind of cute is rolling a cigarette, and I ask him for a tutorial.

Seth (a way too normal sounding name for this guy) carefully folds the paper into a V, lines the tobacco into the crease, presses a health-conscious filter into one end, and rolls the contraption up. He’s tapping the cig on the table to make sure all the tobacco is compressed, and asks me if I need a light.

Oh. He thinks I’m actually interested in smoking a cigarette.

I’m smoking my cigarette, listening to a guy in a purple blazer we’ve dubbed the Set Nazi do a rendition of “Wang Dang Doodle” on his harmoni-guitar, and I’m feeling pretty satisfied with my slowly-developing cancer self.

And in the next few days I start noticing that London is lousy with cigarette rollers. The marketing guy at work, irreverent young women in cafes, teenagers breaking the law and lighting up on the Tube, all upholding my stereotype of the burly Brit rolling their nicotine. Jason would be pleased.

Sprechen ze English?

No. 23: Become a citizen of Europe
No. 24: Have a pub sing-a-long
...Hunkered down on either side of our sofa, Becky and I agree to attack the Internet and purchase the cheapest airline ticket we spy, wherever it may be to.

We’re furiously typing in links to Ryan Air, STA Travel, and Easyjet, shouting city names back and forth at each other. Aberdeen, Figari, Katowice, Lamezia, Zadar. We’re calling out foreign sounds in a sort of travel Mad Libs, when I hit upon a £20 flight.

“It’s to Düsseldorf,” I tell Becky.

“Where the hell is Düsseldorf?”

“I have no idea,” I say, pulling up Wikipedia, and immediately wishing I hadn't.

I have no desire to go to Germany. When I picture myself as a jet setting world traveller I’m usually on my way to somewhere that will require costume jewellery, large sunglasses and a fake name. Something like Isadora. It does not require sausage, lederhosen or wooden shoes.

Becky’s looking as unsure as I am. I mourn the loss of Italian frescos, Greek columns and Spanish men named Carlos; I miss Zadar. But a challenge is a challenge. Heaving a great breath, we glance at each other, set our resolve, and press purchase...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12224/jewish-news-jn-597-060809/?no_login=1

Giving Thanks

The story of mine and Lauren's British Thanksgiving. Though probably not something you'll find in a Charlie Brown special, it was lovely nonetheless.

No 36: Host a Sunday roast
I am a child of divorce, and as such, have despised Thanksgiving for the past decade. It’s the only day of the year for which I can’t come up with a King Solomon way of splitting my time. My mother converted to Judaism when she married my father, and has a Southern Baptist upbringing. Christian holidays are easily delegated to her side of the family, with the Jewish days of worship like Passover, Rosh Hashanah and the annual clearance day at Macy’s going to my Dad.

Thanksgiving, however, usually turns into some very un-pilgrim like behavior.

Planning to forgo the day of football and yams, I thought I’d have no problem skipping Thanksgiving, but a chance package from my dear Aunt Amy changed my story. Aunt Amy is my Grammy’s sister and specializes in the kind of flower arranging and sweet tea making that Southern women excel at. She owns a charming decorating store in Crystal River that looks like the inside of a Better Homes and Gardens feature, and sent her far-away-from-home niece an item from her holiday stock. Holding the stack of carefully packaged paper napkins with a print of feathered turkeys, I decided maybe a bit of stuffing’s not such a bad idea.

Zeddy volunteered his flat for me to host a British Thanksgiving, and I’ve been at the business of recipe scouring for four days now. I’ve been able to organize most of the traditional dishes (thrilled I was to find a jar of marshmallow fluff in my supermarket’s foreign foods section), but met a dead end when it came to pumpkin pie. And I hate pumpkin pie. Vegetables do not belong in dessert, but like the can-shaped blob of cranberry sauce that no one will touch, it’s a necessary evil on the Thanksgiving table.

Having walked into every Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose north of the Thames, I asked dozens of confused clerks if they had any canned pumpkin for sale. They looked at me like I was asking for canned pig’s intestines. Discouraged but not swayed, I watched a Martha Stewart tutorial online about how to make the stuff from scratch, a misadventure that saw me carving up a giant orange squash and baking it like a science fair project gone wrong. I was worried it would turn out a bigger disaster than the time I threw Lauren a Harry Potter birthday party and decided to boil my own pumpkin juice.

“Good Lord!” I yelp, as Zeddy slams three over-stuffed bags of breadcrumbs on the kitchen counter. I asked him to run out to the shop and pick up some supplies I’d forgotten, and he’s brought me enough breading to bake the world’s largest fish stick.

“Well I didn’t know how much you’d need,” he replies defensively before dashing to the dining room to put the finishing flourishes on his decorations. Zeddy’s been mysteriously darting in and out of there all day, and he finally calls me in to inspect his work.


Before me is a cornucopia of a table that would have certainly confused my nation’s forefathers. At each place setting a turkey napkin has been dutifully placed, but from there any logic tied to decorative pieces is lost. The place is a festive mess of happy birthday banners, leftover Halloween pumpkins and shiny red Christmas crackers. At each seat lies a box of firework sparklers. We look like we visited a going out of business sale for Parties R Us.


“Zeddy, I don’t think you quite understood the theme.”

The doorbell rings and I head to the entrance as Zeddy begins warming up some ingredients to make mulled wine. The smells of cinnamon and bourbon begin to fill the place, and I open the door to find Russell Bentley in a pale pink shirt. Russell is one of the first people I met in London, when he modeled some men’s clothes at a Stamford Hill boutique for a fashion feature I was writing in our paper’s magazine. An actor/model who used to be in EastEnders, he has brown curly hair and talks to you in such a way that you can’t tell if he wants to date you or give you a makeover.


Zeddy starts handing out mugs of his special drink as guests begin to arrive, and I’m sipping the hot red wine when Richard Ferrer pats me heartily on the back. I quickly put my cup on the counter as it threatens to spill, saying hello to Richard who immediately offers his help in the kitchen. An old friend of Zeddy’s, the pair are ex-colleagues whose greatest business pursuit was the day they decided to spend a full day working in their underwear and broadcast it on the Internet to raise money for charity. Richard is very funny, and currently searching the cupboards for something to pour my homemade gravy in.

“This’ll do,” he shouts, pulling out a cow-shaped creamer pourer.

Sitting at the table I’m pleased with the gathering we’ve drawn. Andrew is across from me and a welcome sight as he’s not asking me to read any sports pages. Jonny has come with his incredibly pregnant wife and they’re discussing why Americans put so much sugar in their foods with Russell, who’s helping himself to seconds of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes.

Lauren’s wedged between Richard and Zeddy’s friend Lucy, a trendy-looking woman who works for the BBC.

“Erica, what’s this called?” Lucy asks between forkfuls.

“It’s green bean casserole,” I tell her.

“How unusual.”

Between the mulled wine and the company, I’m feeling warmly content. People are eating the food and no one’s fallen over from salmonella poisoning. Richard’s cutting into a turkey leg with the blue plastic freshness tag still stuck on, but he doesn’t seem bothered, and I’m thinking Thanksgiving’s not so bad after all. Though an unusual approach to remembering that first giving of praise, I believe a few new traditions have been forged this evening, especially now that I’ve seen how attractive a pumpkin pie looks with a lit sparkler sticking out of the top.

Guinness Guide

No. 22: Learn to appreciate Guinness

When I was in Florida over the holidays, my Uncle Barry gave me a lecture during our Hanukkah dinner on The Importance of Drinking Guinness. I think it was one of Oscar Wilde’s lesser known plays.

Barry is a man who knows his drinking, working in the liquor distributing industry and making several trips each year to cities in Ireland and Germany to sample the local brews. While I trust his judgment, I was nevertheless skeptical about my ability to enjoy the thick, black drink, but told him I would do my best.

“I cannot believe you’re drinking that,” Becky shouts over the calamity of noise, as we stand in the middle of a St. Patrick’s Day celebration in one of London’s Irish pubs. I’ve ordered the drink a few times before in my quest to find something redeemable about it, but as I’ve yet to find the draught tasty, I’ve decided to use the holiday as an excuse to make a concerted effort, which I predict to mean lots and lots of falling down.

Beside me, Rebecca tells the barman that she’ll take a Guinness as well.

“I cannot believe you’re drinking that!” Becky now shouts at Rebecca.

The mood in the pub is festive as we begin sipping our sludge, Irish music playing overhead but drowned out by the chanting of the overly imbibed crowd. People are dressed for the occasion, with green top hats, faux red beards and strings of beads adorning our fellow drinkers. I’ve taken to picking up deserted costume pieces that I’ve found around the pub, and am currently wearing a glow in the dark headband and four leaf clover banner around my neck.

We walk past a lively group of lads dressed in Irish football jerseys, and a little guy with a scruffy beard grabs Rebecca’s hand and twirls her around.

“Do you know how to jig?” he yells at us, before going into a fast dance step that looks less like a jig and more like an epileptic fit. We’re trying to follow his moves and the rest of the football crew joins us, as we form a circle of Michael Flatley wannabes, sloshing our Guinness on the floor.

Rebecca goes to buy another round, and comes back excited to show me the four leaf clover the bartender has drawn into the top of her foam.

“No! Rebecca, they draw the clover when they know you’re an amateur Guinness drinker. That guy thinks he has you pegged.”

“How rude!” she exclaims, and continues to drink her pint in the way we practiced, taking care to finish the drink in ten perfect gulps, as WikiHow has instructed.

By the end of our second rounds, we’re both realizing Guinness makes one very, very happy. Becky shakes her head at us, happily sticking to her cider. We jig over to the bar and Rebecca puts in a third order while I watch Becky arguing with a guy over why she would not, in fact, like to give him her drink.

“Erica!” Rebecca squeals from beside me.”I didn’t get a clover!”

I look at the tops of our glasses and notice they are indeed without clover. Success. I look behind me to see that Becky’s argumentative gentleman has gotten the best of her and is now chugging her cider, and I dutifully put in another order.