Tomorrow we are going on vacation. We will load up our minivan (that’s a people carrier to you, but a lot bigger), and drive to Pagosa Springs in Colorado, via Dodge City. This is the equivalent of driving from Calais to Toulouse, but it’s only the next door state. You have to think big when travelling in America. There will be almost nothing on the way except a big amount of very flat farmland. Until we get to the mountains of Colorado, which are also big. Bigger than the mountains in Britain. Everything in America is bigger than in Britain. In fact, it is very hard to think of anything that isn’t. I’ve been trying. I’ve been getting rather irritated. There must be SOMETHING that is bigger back home. It’s remarkably difficult to think of anything at all. Houses, kitchen appliances, cars, portions in restaurants, supermarkets, supermarket trolleys, people, their teeth, medical bills, summer temperatures, everything is bigger over here.
I have finally come up with a list of three things. This was after much thought, so please don’t knock it.
1) The cost of living. Britain has a higher cost of living than America.
2) The royal family. We have a bigger royal family.
3) Holidays. In Britain, the legal minimum is 4 weeks a year, and in 2009 this is increasing to 28 days. In America, I think the standard is about 2 weeks.
So, given that I didn’t think you would raise a cheer for the cost of living, let’s say hurrah for the royal family and hurrah for holidays!
I digress. All this talk of big things started because I was telling you about me and my family, loading up our huge great minivan and driving off on vacation. I think they call it a road trip. If you want to know what I'll be feeling like at the wheel, click here (you know I’m not techie enough to upload it here). So bye for now, off I go, and no more blogging for a week or two.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tenses - Past, Present and Future Perfect
I’m a great believer in living in the present, but in this chapter of my life, I find it hard not to live in the future. Not surprising, I hear you say, and no, it isn’t. And in my defence, I think it’s better than living in the past.
I like to invent future conversations that the children will have. I imagine 10-yo as a teenager telling a friend “I lived in America when I was 10” and hearing the reply “oh, cool” (except of course it won’t be cool by then; magic or wicked might have come round again, or a new word will have made it big). I can see 6-yo filling in his university application form, and pausing to say to me "you know Mum, I sometimes still write math instead of maths by mistake". I imagine 3-yo telling me she has to think carefully which version of a nursery rhyme to sing to her baby. She knows it’s “Ring-a-ring o’ Roses” here in England, but she can’t help starting off “Ring around the Rosey”, the one we used to sing together in America, and which is lodged most firmly at that deep level of memory where nursery rhymes are stored.
I’m sure this is why I bought an American version of Monopoly as a Christmas present to ourselves. I didn’t really want to play Monopoly. It was so that in future years, I’ll get the game out and say “I remember buying this in America. I got it in SuperTarget.” It was so that the children will tell their friends “it’s funny playing your English Monopoly, because we have American Monopoly at home”. It was so that we could celebrate this American episode of our lives, once safely back in England.
Life has sneaked up and overtaken me, however. That Monopoly game has become a hit. 3-yo loves playing with the houses and hotels, lining them up, and visiting them with the car or the ship, the dog or the hat. 6-yo loves the money and the property cards, and happily makes up his own games. He is getting to grips with Community Chest and Chance: “What does “you inherit” mean? Do you get the money or do you have to pay it?” He knows how many good and how many bad cards there are in each pack. Best of all, we can play the game as a foursome, when 3-yo is in bed, and it’s fun to grow into the next stage of family life. I didn’t know the boys would be able to play Monopoly and enjoy it. I can't keep up with them.
So there I was, living in the future, and the present caught up with me. The past is hovering around too, since I find it jars to play Monopoly with $500 notes that are orange. At my own deep nursery rhyme level, the 500, whether dollars or pounds, is, and will always be, bright pink.
I like to invent future conversations that the children will have. I imagine 10-yo as a teenager telling a friend “I lived in America when I was 10” and hearing the reply “oh, cool” (except of course it won’t be cool by then; magic or wicked might have come round again, or a new word will have made it big). I can see 6-yo filling in his university application form, and pausing to say to me "you know Mum, I sometimes still write math instead of maths by mistake". I imagine 3-yo telling me she has to think carefully which version of a nursery rhyme to sing to her baby. She knows it’s “Ring-a-ring o’ Roses” here in England, but she can’t help starting off “Ring around the Rosey”, the one we used to sing together in America, and which is lodged most firmly at that deep level of memory where nursery rhymes are stored.
I’m sure this is why I bought an American version of Monopoly as a Christmas present to ourselves. I didn’t really want to play Monopoly. It was so that in future years, I’ll get the game out and say “I remember buying this in America. I got it in SuperTarget.” It was so that the children will tell their friends “it’s funny playing your English Monopoly, because we have American Monopoly at home”. It was so that we could celebrate this American episode of our lives, once safely back in England.
Life has sneaked up and overtaken me, however. That Monopoly game has become a hit. 3-yo loves playing with the houses and hotels, lining them up, and visiting them with the car or the ship, the dog or the hat. 6-yo loves the money and the property cards, and happily makes up his own games. He is getting to grips with Community Chest and Chance: “What does “you inherit” mean? Do you get the money or do you have to pay it?” He knows how many good and how many bad cards there are in each pack. Best of all, we can play the game as a foursome, when 3-yo is in bed, and it’s fun to grow into the next stage of family life. I didn’t know the boys would be able to play Monopoly and enjoy it. I can't keep up with them.
So there I was, living in the future, and the present caught up with me. The past is hovering around too, since I find it jars to play Monopoly with $500 notes that are orange. At my own deep nursery rhyme level, the 500, whether dollars or pounds, is, and will always be, bright pink.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Potential friendship
Bloggy Friends, you disappoint me. Not one of you has come up with Victoria Beckham’s phone number for me. I watched a tv show last night about her move to LA, and I really think she could do with hearing from me. She might even describe it as “may-ja”, which seems to be her word of the moment (as my bloggy friend in Florida Annie has already remarked).
The programme showed her house-hunting. I’ve done quite a bit of that. We could have a nice bonding chat. I would say “Vicks, I just don’t understand. You threw your hands up in horror (as any sensible mum would) at one house which had a patio with a sheer drop at the end of it, and no railings. You said you had to have a child-friendly house. Then you ended up with a house with a series of ornamental pools in the garden (they call it the back yard here, don’t forget). What were you thinking? Don’t you find you have to watch the little one all the time? Or have you got David to fit some good child locks around the place? Is he as handy with his hands as he is with his feet?” I would be tactful, and not mention how much more she could have got for her money in the Midwest. I would ask her what she uses on that hardwood flooring. I’ve got hardwood floors, and frankly, they’re a bit of a mixed blessing. They look nice, but they show every speck of dust. She probably finds the same. She seemed rather impressed when the realtor told her that Lionel Ritchie, a previous inhabitant of the house, had had the hardwood floors put down. I was a bit worried for her. Just because he’s a famous singer, I wanted to warn her, doesn’t mean he’s got a good eye for quality flooring. You’ll want to have a good look at it, make sure it’s wearing well. I hope she’s not regretting it.
Victoria is anxious to get to know people with kids, so that her own will have friends. You see, that’s another thing I understand. I think "predatory" is how I would describe my search for friends for my children. She’s had to learn what to do if an earthquake strikes; I’ve had to learn about tornadoes. Those of you who have read earlier posts on my blog will know that I have a pair of rather odd sunglasses. Victoria has several pairs herself. We really do have a lot in common.
Present buying - that’s another. It’s Husband’s birthday this week, so I’ve had to be sneaking off in the evenings, on secret shopping trips. She has the same problem. She had to go to a sex shop to buy a blow-up doll, which she then made to look like her (with help from her hairdresser and entourage), put in the back of a car, and used as a decoy for the paparazzi, while she went off to buy David a welcome-to-America watch. (I don’t understand how she got to the sex shop – with accompanying film crew - without the paparazzi noticing, and if she managed to do that, why she couldn’t get to the watch shop using the same trick. I must be missing something obvious.) But actually, you know, the easiest thing is to allow the man to buy his own present on Ebay or Amazon, because then not only does he get exactly what he wants, but it’s delivered to your door so you don’t have all those shopping trip hassles. I could slip that into our conversation. Save her a lot of trouble next time round. I think she likes shopping though. We saw quite a lot of that in the programme.
I enjoyed watching Victoria being taught how to pitch a baseball (is that the right term?) by a bunch of kids. I did feel a tiny bit smug though. One of the kids commented on her accent, and she told them she spoke differently because she was from England. The last time a bunch of kids wanted to know about my accent, I passed myself off as a celebrity. Maybe I could teach her a thing or two. She’s still very new here after all.
Husband, bless him, pointed out another advantage I have. Victoria is always wearing high heels. Even when she was pitching the baseball, she had 4” wedge trainers. Husband reckons she must be very petite, and rather insecure about her height. Let’s face it, that is one aspect of your body that surgery can’t help you with. Not even in LA. I have to say, when it comes to height, at my natural 5’9”, you might call me ma-jah.
I know we’re not exactly next door, but you have to think bigger in America when it comes to travel. We’d be happy to pop over for a week-end. 10-yo is soccer-mad, and would happily kick a ball around with the Beckham boys (I assume there’s a nice big lawn as well as those ornamental pools). 6-yo would be thrilled to visit, once I’d told him the Beckhams live on the same street as Spiderman and Superman. (Victoria seemed pretty impressed by that too.) She could take 3-yo and me shopping for clothes. I’m not very good at shopping for clothes, and 3-yo loves it, so that would be fun for her, and I’m sure Victoria would enjoy taking her along, what with not having a daughter herself to buy pink things for.
So you see, dear Bloggy Friends, I really do need that phone number. Victoria would thank you too.
The programme showed her house-hunting. I’ve done quite a bit of that. We could have a nice bonding chat. I would say “Vicks, I just don’t understand. You threw your hands up in horror (as any sensible mum would) at one house which had a patio with a sheer drop at the end of it, and no railings. You said you had to have a child-friendly house. Then you ended up with a house with a series of ornamental pools in the garden (they call it the back yard here, don’t forget). What were you thinking? Don’t you find you have to watch the little one all the time? Or have you got David to fit some good child locks around the place? Is he as handy with his hands as he is with his feet?” I would be tactful, and not mention how much more she could have got for her money in the Midwest. I would ask her what she uses on that hardwood flooring. I’ve got hardwood floors, and frankly, they’re a bit of a mixed blessing. They look nice, but they show every speck of dust. She probably finds the same. She seemed rather impressed when the realtor told her that Lionel Ritchie, a previous inhabitant of the house, had had the hardwood floors put down. I was a bit worried for her. Just because he’s a famous singer, I wanted to warn her, doesn’t mean he’s got a good eye for quality flooring. You’ll want to have a good look at it, make sure it’s wearing well. I hope she’s not regretting it.
Victoria is anxious to get to know people with kids, so that her own will have friends. You see, that’s another thing I understand. I think "predatory" is how I would describe my search for friends for my children. She’s had to learn what to do if an earthquake strikes; I’ve had to learn about tornadoes. Those of you who have read earlier posts on my blog will know that I have a pair of rather odd sunglasses. Victoria has several pairs herself. We really do have a lot in common.
Present buying - that’s another. It’s Husband’s birthday this week, so I’ve had to be sneaking off in the evenings, on secret shopping trips. She has the same problem. She had to go to a sex shop to buy a blow-up doll, which she then made to look like her (with help from her hairdresser and entourage), put in the back of a car, and used as a decoy for the paparazzi, while she went off to buy David a welcome-to-America watch. (I don’t understand how she got to the sex shop – with accompanying film crew - without the paparazzi noticing, and if she managed to do that, why she couldn’t get to the watch shop using the same trick. I must be missing something obvious.) But actually, you know, the easiest thing is to allow the man to buy his own present on Ebay or Amazon, because then not only does he get exactly what he wants, but it’s delivered to your door so you don’t have all those shopping trip hassles. I could slip that into our conversation. Save her a lot of trouble next time round. I think she likes shopping though. We saw quite a lot of that in the programme.
I enjoyed watching Victoria being taught how to pitch a baseball (is that the right term?) by a bunch of kids. I did feel a tiny bit smug though. One of the kids commented on her accent, and she told them she spoke differently because she was from England. The last time a bunch of kids wanted to know about my accent, I passed myself off as a celebrity. Maybe I could teach her a thing or two. She’s still very new here after all.
Husband, bless him, pointed out another advantage I have. Victoria is always wearing high heels. Even when she was pitching the baseball, she had 4” wedge trainers. Husband reckons she must be very petite, and rather insecure about her height. Let’s face it, that is one aspect of your body that surgery can’t help you with. Not even in LA. I have to say, when it comes to height, at my natural 5’9”, you might call me ma-jah.
I know we’re not exactly next door, but you have to think bigger in America when it comes to travel. We’d be happy to pop over for a week-end. 10-yo is soccer-mad, and would happily kick a ball around with the Beckham boys (I assume there’s a nice big lawn as well as those ornamental pools). 6-yo would be thrilled to visit, once I’d told him the Beckhams live on the same street as Spiderman and Superman. (Victoria seemed pretty impressed by that too.) She could take 3-yo and me shopping for clothes. I’m not very good at shopping for clothes, and 3-yo loves it, so that would be fun for her, and I’m sure Victoria would enjoy taking her along, what with not having a daughter herself to buy pink things for.
So you see, dear Bloggy Friends, I really do need that phone number. Victoria would thank you too.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
In search of justice
I was summoned to the scene of the crime by the cries of 6-yo. Husband had got there first. “3-yo threw the doofer at him” he informed me, waving the offending remote control.
“Did you, 3-yo? Is that what happened?” I asked, my voice appropriately full of maternal gravitas, and my eyebrows raised to indicate disbelief and shock (although I was, actually, neither disbelieving nor shocked). It’s my policy to hear both sides of the story, but this was looking rather clear-cut.
“No”, she said, adamantly. Phew, I thought, I’m glad I've given her a chance to tell her version. “It was the zapper”, she said.
Sorry, 3-yo, but I don’t think that would stand up in a court of law. “M’Lud, with your permission, I will now present the case for the defense. The prosecution has shown members of the jury a proven motive, and watertight evidence. I will explain to them, however, that my client is Not Guilty of the crime of murder. He is accused of shooting his wife with a gun (exhibit A), but I am sure members of the jury will agree it was, in fact, a firearm.” No. I don’t think so.
Guilty as charged, 3-yo.
“Did you, 3-yo? Is that what happened?” I asked, my voice appropriately full of maternal gravitas, and my eyebrows raised to indicate disbelief and shock (although I was, actually, neither disbelieving nor shocked). It’s my policy to hear both sides of the story, but this was looking rather clear-cut.
“No”, she said, adamantly. Phew, I thought, I’m glad I've given her a chance to tell her version. “It was the zapper”, she said.
Sorry, 3-yo, but I don’t think that would stand up in a court of law. “M’Lud, with your permission, I will now present the case for the defense. The prosecution has shown members of the jury a proven motive, and watertight evidence. I will explain to them, however, that my client is Not Guilty of the crime of murder. He is accused of shooting his wife with a gun (exhibit A), but I am sure members of the jury will agree it was, in fact, a firearm.” No. I don’t think so.
Guilty as charged, 3-yo.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Embarrassment of Riches
Oh my wordy. I don’t know what is going on in this corner of the blogosphere, but it seems I have won two more awards. So a big THANK YOU to the Rotten Correspondent. They are the Schmooze Award, for "the ability to converse casually with others and make social connections", and the Creative Blogger Award. Here they are (oh no, that techie bit again...)
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vAl473slkq8/Rp0kOUAHhFI/AAAAAAAAAL4/P4F4KrRAPnA/s1600-h/schmooze_award737768%5B1%5D.gif
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vAl473slkq8/Rp0kOUAHhFI/AAAAAAAAAL4/P4F4KrRAPnA/s1600-h/schmooze_award737768%5B1%5D.gif
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aDG-ocSGTug/RpwVrRxOXxI/AAAAAAAAAM4/7gKUKdbLvFY/s320/schmooze_award737768.gif
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aDG-ocSGTug/RpwS9RxOXuI/AAAAAAAAAMg/L7ef4UI16iE/s320/Creative%2BBlogger%2BAward%2BWhite_215x38.jpg
Oh bother. Look, I'll sort this out later. Meanwhile, I'll get on with the next bit, which is to pass the awards on. There are so many darn fine blogs out there, that I could scatter these awards around like Shake‘n’Vac (actually I’ve never used that product – can’t see the point of putting more stuff down to hoover up, when there is obviously enough down there already, otherwise I wouldn’t be hoovering in the first place). But I’m just going to pass them on to one person each, because I feel all this awarding is getting a bit out of hand.
The Schmooze Award goes to Katie, Long-ayelander in Glasgow, because of all the people-living-abroad blogs I read, she is the one who I think has thrown herself most heartily and gustily, gutsily even, into local life. That’s a bit of a judgement, because we’re all trying our best, but she spends a rainy Saturday watching local people dress up in armour and re-enact battles. That's trying your very best. In one blog post she tells us of a restaurant in China where they serve the penises of various animals … oh, click here and go and read it yourself if you’re interested. I am confident that if she found herself in that corner of China, she would go and sample the fare. I don’t think I would. See what I mean? So this Schmooze Award is for you, Katie.
The Creative Blogger Award goes to Reluctant Memsahib, because she’s just moved to a place called Outpost, and I think is in need of jollying along. And is a very creative blogger, obviously.
One final award, if I may. This is a one-off, not passable-onable, award to Charlesinparis, for his superb rendering of a Jackson 5 song into text. See the comments under my previous post. I think I’ll call it the Diddley Diddley Dee Award. Charlesinparis, there must be a commercial use for a skill like that.
All this talk of awards turns my thoughts to Hollywood, and the Beckhams’ move to LA – you might have heard about it. Does anyone have their new phone number? I thought I might give Victoria a call. When I moved here, I had been put in touch with a local English woman, and it was very useful to be able to email her with little requests for information, about choosing a school, house-hunting, or whether English bed linen fits American mattresses. I’ve missed the boat on that with Victoria - she's already here so will have made those what to bring decisions some while ago, but I think it would be friendly to call her up. Make her feel at home. “Hello Vicks”, I could say, “don’t worry, you’re going to love it here. Honest. Everything’s so cheap. Get yourself down to Wal-Mart, where children’s t-shirts are 2 for $7. And it’s all very convenient: you’ll have a walk-in fridge in your kitchen, the washing machines and tumble dryers are huge, and your garage door will open automatically. Don’t worry about tea bags - you can get them easily enough.” Just little things to make her feel she’s not alone in this. We have a certain amount in common. Moving to America for a husband’s job. Stay at home mum with 3 kids. I think she’d like it if I gave her a call.
Actually, I’ll let you into a secret. It may well not just be coincidence that the Beckhams have moved here so soon after we did. It may well be because of us. We’re like that. Trend-setting types. If you need convincing, let me tell you this. We moved to St Andrews in 2000, and in 2001, Prince William came to study there. Don’t tell me that these events aren’t linked in some way. If I were you, I’d keep reading this blog, because when we next move, you’ll be able to be ahead of the game, and spot the next hot location. Don't say I didn't tell you.
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vAl473slkq8/Rp0kOUAHhFI/AAAAAAAAAL4/P4F4KrRAPnA/s1600-h/schmooze_award737768%5B1%5D.gif
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vAl473slkq8/Rp0kOUAHhFI/AAAAAAAAAL4/P4F4KrRAPnA/s1600-h/schmooze_award737768%5B1%5D.gif
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aDG-ocSGTug/RpwVrRxOXxI/AAAAAAAAAM4/7gKUKdbLvFY/s320/schmooze_award737768.gif
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aDG-ocSGTug/RpwS9RxOXuI/AAAAAAAAAMg/L7ef4UI16iE/s320/Creative%2BBlogger%2BAward%2BWhite_215x38.jpg
Oh bother. Look, I'll sort this out later. Meanwhile, I'll get on with the next bit, which is to pass the awards on. There are so many darn fine blogs out there, that I could scatter these awards around like Shake‘n’Vac (actually I’ve never used that product – can’t see the point of putting more stuff down to hoover up, when there is obviously enough down there already, otherwise I wouldn’t be hoovering in the first place). But I’m just going to pass them on to one person each, because I feel all this awarding is getting a bit out of hand.
The Schmooze Award goes to Katie, Long-ayelander in Glasgow, because of all the people-living-abroad blogs I read, she is the one who I think has thrown herself most heartily and gustily, gutsily even, into local life. That’s a bit of a judgement, because we’re all trying our best, but she spends a rainy Saturday watching local people dress up in armour and re-enact battles. That's trying your very best. In one blog post she tells us of a restaurant in China where they serve the penises of various animals … oh, click here and go and read it yourself if you’re interested. I am confident that if she found herself in that corner of China, she would go and sample the fare. I don’t think I would. See what I mean? So this Schmooze Award is for you, Katie.
The Creative Blogger Award goes to Reluctant Memsahib, because she’s just moved to a place called Outpost, and I think is in need of jollying along. And is a very creative blogger, obviously.
One final award, if I may. This is a one-off, not passable-onable, award to Charlesinparis, for his superb rendering of a Jackson 5 song into text. See the comments under my previous post. I think I’ll call it the Diddley Diddley Dee Award. Charlesinparis, there must be a commercial use for a skill like that.
All this talk of awards turns my thoughts to Hollywood, and the Beckhams’ move to LA – you might have heard about it. Does anyone have their new phone number? I thought I might give Victoria a call. When I moved here, I had been put in touch with a local English woman, and it was very useful to be able to email her with little requests for information, about choosing a school, house-hunting, or whether English bed linen fits American mattresses. I’ve missed the boat on that with Victoria - she's already here so will have made those what to bring decisions some while ago, but I think it would be friendly to call her up. Make her feel at home. “Hello Vicks”, I could say, “don’t worry, you’re going to love it here. Honest. Everything’s so cheap. Get yourself down to Wal-Mart, where children’s t-shirts are 2 for $7. And it’s all very convenient: you’ll have a walk-in fridge in your kitchen, the washing machines and tumble dryers are huge, and your garage door will open automatically. Don’t worry about tea bags - you can get them easily enough.” Just little things to make her feel she’s not alone in this. We have a certain amount in common. Moving to America for a husband’s job. Stay at home mum with 3 kids. I think she’d like it if I gave her a call.
Actually, I’ll let you into a secret. It may well not just be coincidence that the Beckhams have moved here so soon after we did. It may well be because of us. We’re like that. Trend-setting types. If you need convincing, let me tell you this. We moved to St Andrews in 2000, and in 2001, Prince William came to study there. Don’t tell me that these events aren’t linked in some way. If I were you, I’d keep reading this blog, because when we next move, you’ll be able to be ahead of the game, and spot the next hot location. Don't say I didn't tell you.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Moody Friday... Rockin' Saturday!
Beta Mum, at Keir Royale, has given me an award. It is the Rockin' Blogger Award. Not only is it very nice to have an award (and I am wearing some shocking pink capris to match the logo), but it is also very nice to receive it from someone whose writing I enjoy and really respect. Thanks, Beta Mum. I was having a bad Friday, and it cheered me up no end.
I now have the challenge of uploading the image. You will notice, the observant among you, that my blog is still stuck in the dark ages of text, with not a glimmer of a picture to enliven it. This I am planning to remedy - but not until after the school holidays. I cannot resist the little pink award logo, however, so I have had to get to grips with the necessary for uploading that (and hope it won't disappear against my rather pink background).
Ah, there we are! I'm tempted to say "that wasn't too bad", but I'm a truthful sort of person. Anyway, the award brings with it the pleasure of passing it onto two other blogs. I nominate Rebecca, at Somewhere Over the Pond, who writes amusingly and thoughtfully about life as an American mom in London. You need some kind of an award for even attempting to make sense of a nation as eccentric as the Brits. She is, in some sense, a mirror to me, a British mum in America. So for her, I would like to make the award the Nikcor Reggolb Drawa, but that might be confusing, and I couldn't possibly design a backwards logo. So Rebecca, you're stuck with Rockin' Blogger.
My other nomination is the author of Confessions of a Rotten Correspondent. She is an ER nurse, has 3 kids, 3 dogs and yet finds time to do road trips with girlfriends, try out new recipes, read Harry Potter, and write amusing, brash and very frequent blog entries. I'm not sure anyone could really do so much and write so much, so I am tempted to create a Fibbin' Blogger Award, but let's give her the benefit of the doubt, and stick to Rockin' Blogger. Her blog is easy on the eyes, with pictures of gooey cakes, pretty fireworks, and semi-naked male film stars. Best of all, she's somewhere in the Midwest.
On with Rockin' Saturday!
I now have the challenge of uploading the image. You will notice, the observant among you, that my blog is still stuck in the dark ages of text, with not a glimmer of a picture to enliven it. This I am planning to remedy - but not until after the school holidays. I cannot resist the little pink award logo, however, so I have had to get to grips with the necessary for uploading that (and hope it won't disappear against my rather pink background).
Ah, there we are! I'm tempted to say "that wasn't too bad", but I'm a truthful sort of person. Anyway, the award brings with it the pleasure of passing it onto two other blogs. I nominate Rebecca, at Somewhere Over the Pond, who writes amusingly and thoughtfully about life as an American mom in London. You need some kind of an award for even attempting to make sense of a nation as eccentric as the Brits. She is, in some sense, a mirror to me, a British mum in America. So for her, I would like to make the award the Nikcor Reggolb Drawa, but that might be confusing, and I couldn't possibly design a backwards logo. So Rebecca, you're stuck with Rockin' Blogger.My other nomination is the author of Confessions of a Rotten Correspondent. She is an ER nurse, has 3 kids, 3 dogs and yet finds time to do road trips with girlfriends, try out new recipes, read Harry Potter, and write amusing, brash and very frequent blog entries. I'm not sure anyone could really do so much and write so much, so I am tempted to create a Fibbin' Blogger Award, but let's give her the benefit of the doubt, and stick to Rockin' Blogger. Her blog is easy on the eyes, with pictures of gooey cakes, pretty fireworks, and semi-naked male film stars. Best of all, she's somewhere in the Midwest.
On with Rockin' Saturday!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Questions, questions
Hey, I’ve thought of a clever way of avoiding asking those questions that I want to know the answer to, but which mark me out as an ignorant foreigner. I can ask my bloggy friends! They’re a nice bunch, pretty easy-going, and won’t see me looking all embarrassed if the answer is really obvious. So, hello Bloggers. These ones are for you.
1) What is the rice and pasta and bread here “enriched” with? It’s all enriched, every last packet of it. What with?
2) Why are my finger nails so much tougher here than in Britain? Is it something they put in the water, or is it whatever they enrich the rice and pasta and bread with?
3) I know that British teeth are something of a national joke. That’s ok. I can take it. I am intrigued about American teeth, though. I can see why they’re all so straight. That’s to do with orthodontics. But how come they’re all so big? In comparison, British teeth are not only crooked, but small. Is that to do with the stuff they put in the rice and pasta and bread?
4) Should I go and get my supplies from a health food shop instead? What else is this enriching agent doing to our bodies?
5) Can you think of any better place to take Husband for his birthday than Dodge City, Kansas?
Answers on a post-card please, or just in the comments box. Question 5 is a trick question. Please don't come up with any better suggestions, since it's already booked. It'll be fun. We really couldn't live in the Midwest without a visit to Dodge City, could we?
1) What is the rice and pasta and bread here “enriched” with? It’s all enriched, every last packet of it. What with?
2) Why are my finger nails so much tougher here than in Britain? Is it something they put in the water, or is it whatever they enrich the rice and pasta and bread with?
3) I know that British teeth are something of a national joke. That’s ok. I can take it. I am intrigued about American teeth, though. I can see why they’re all so straight. That’s to do with orthodontics. But how come they’re all so big? In comparison, British teeth are not only crooked, but small. Is that to do with the stuff they put in the rice and pasta and bread?
4) Should I go and get my supplies from a health food shop instead? What else is this enriching agent doing to our bodies?
5) Can you think of any better place to take Husband for his birthday than Dodge City, Kansas?
Answers on a post-card please, or just in the comments box. Question 5 is a trick question. Please don't come up with any better suggestions, since it's already booked. It'll be fun. We really couldn't live in the Midwest without a visit to Dodge City, could we?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
A Woman Ahead of her Time
My mother is a woman ahead of her time.
When we were children, she had strong views on smacking. We were never smacked, and she hated the thought of any child being smacked. She used to say “I think it should be made illegal”. I don’t imagine many people in the 1960s would have imagined that to be a serious possibility.
I have a very clear memory of a conversation which I can’t place exactly in time, but I know it must have been before 1979. She said “I’m sure that in the future you’ll be able to do your shopping on the television.” We all laughed uproariously, but she stuck to her guns. “No, I’m serious. You’ll see. You’ll be able to point to things on the screen, and push a button, and they’ll be delivered to your house. I don’t know how it’ll work, but somehow everyone’s screens will be connected up to the shops.” I remember she also thought it would be a bad thing, isolating people in their homes, denying them the opportunity for daily local chats.
They should get her onto global warming.
When we were children, she had strong views on smacking. We were never smacked, and she hated the thought of any child being smacked. She used to say “I think it should be made illegal”. I don’t imagine many people in the 1960s would have imagined that to be a serious possibility.
I have a very clear memory of a conversation which I can’t place exactly in time, but I know it must have been before 1979. She said “I’m sure that in the future you’ll be able to do your shopping on the television.” We all laughed uproariously, but she stuck to her guns. “No, I’m serious. You’ll see. You’ll be able to point to things on the screen, and push a button, and they’ll be delivered to your house. I don’t know how it’ll work, but somehow everyone’s screens will be connected up to the shops.” I remember she also thought it would be a bad thing, isolating people in their homes, denying them the opportunity for daily local chats.
They should get her onto global warming.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Fourth of July
Our first “Fourth of July” in America. You won’t be surprised when I tell you that we spent it at the Neighborhood Pool. I’ve never seen it so crowded. If you wanted to move from one spot in the pool to another, it was more a question of swimming through people than water, and jumping in was a highly dangerous activity.
There were games organized in the afternoon, and a chicken dinner in the evening. The whole thing kicked off with a short speech, reflecting on how fortunate we were to have the kind of freedoms and privileges that so many people in the world don’t enjoy. Then everyone was invited to turn towards the flag, and the national anthem was played over the loudspeaker. For me, there was, inevitably, the slightly awkward feeling of the outsider: “what do I do here?” I was very near the flagpole, right in everyone else’s line of sight, and there weren’t many people in mine from whom I could take the lead. Luckily, no-one was singing, just letting the singer on the loudspeaker do her bit. This was a “phew” moment as, to my shame, I must admit I don’t know the words. Mental note to self: must learn words of American national anthem or face embarrassment on public occasion in the future. I was also flummoxed for a brief moment (momentarily, I would say, if I was American) on the position of the hand over the chest. This is tricky for a member of the female sex, unused to making the gesture, and wearing a swimsuit. I know the hand is meant to be over the heart, but not to put too fine a point on it, I didn’t want to clap my hand over my boob. With a bit of surreptitious glancing around, I reckoned the preferred position was over the top heading towards the collar bone, not underneath and at the bottom of the ribcage. And you have to do it quite loosely, otherwise you squish the other boob in the crook of your elbow…. Oh, for heaven’s sake, enough of this. Suffice to say, the gesture was clearly invented by a man.
We don’t do that kind of thing in Britain any more, or say those kind of things, do we? I can’t remember the last time I sang the national anthem, but when I was a child, public events did often start with it. We don’t really do patriotism nowadays. It wouldn’t be … um … well, I suppose it just wouldn’t be British. So there was much food for thought. I was looking up at the Stars and Stripes and cogitating quietly (as well as doing a bit of surreptitious elbow-rearranging), when the anthem finished and 3-yo said in a loud voice “that was a bit scary, wasn’t it?” I thought it was probably the strangeness of seeing a crowd of adults standing still and quiet and intent that prompted the remark, but who knows? Maybe she was making some profound political point. I have learned not to under-estimate my children’s insights.
On with the games. There were relay races in inner tubes, diving for money, a plastic duck grab, and the Big Splash competition. I had entered Husband for the Big Splash competition, urged by the pool manager who seemed a bit worried that there weren’t enough entrants. I knew he wouldn’t mind. I also told him that there was a prize: the winner would get a percentage of their mortgage paid for a year out of Neighborhood Association funds. For the glorious 20 or 30 seconds when I managed to keep a straight face, he believed me. Entering him in the Big Splash competition was worth it for that. He didn’t win the competition, or, to his relief, get through the first round. There may not have been enough entrants at the beginning of the afternoon, but by the time the competition took place, there were plenty. Most of them were very tall, very well built, and veteran Big Splashers. My guess is that several have private tuition after dark. Husband’s cannonball jump off the diving board produced a gratifying plop and a bit of a spray. The Big Splashers who followed him created tidal waves, and the one wearing the Stars and Stripes shorts half-emptied the pool. As I say, he wasn’t at all disappointed not to make it through to the second round. For 10-yo, however, it was all a bit anxious. “Do you think Daddy will drown in the deep end without his glasses on?” he asked nervously before the big jump. “Do you think Daddy minded not being very good? I still feel sorry for him.” he said, a good 24 hours after the event. And this was my answer: Do you remember when you didn’t do very well in the sack race at school, Daddy said to you “Don’t worry. If you could choose what to be good at in life, would jumping around in an old sack be it? Some people are good at that; you’re good at plenty of other things.” Well, it’s the same for him. If he could choose what to be good at, it wouldn’t be making a big splash in a swimming pool, would it? I don’t think you need mind for him any more. Life is so complicated isn’t it? You enter your husband for the Big Splash competition one minute, and the next you’re deep in the realm of the male ego. And that's deeper than the deep end, believe me.
We had our moment of glory, as a family, in the diving for money competition, in which 3-yo quietly excelled. She usually keeps her light hidden under a bushel, or at least a wild mop of blond hair, but no-one was going to match her on this. Her gentle but determined enthusiasm was spurred on by her crowd, her two big brothers: “it’s MONEY, 3-yo, and you get to KEEP IT!”. The other little ones had adoring parents who affirmed and loved them: “good jaaahb, Sweetie, you picked up that coin all by yourself!”, but it didn’t give them quite the competitive edge that 3-yo enjoyed. She also did have the advantage of age, being in the 0-3 category. You can see how a 3 year old in the shallow water of the baby pool does have a huge physical advantage over a just-staggering 1 year old. The advantage played out in her cunning strategy of scooting around on her bottom. Next year, they might introduce a “fair play” rule to disallow this, and she would have to join the ranks of the staggerers, for whom picking up a coin involves having to put your face under the water, and a fair bit of groveling and spluttering. Of course by then she will be out of the 0-3 category anyway, and have to compete in the big pool, where bottom-shuffling is not a possibility. But she had her triumph, and made a tidy $2.85, which she spent the next day on a pink phone with the Ode to Joy as its ring tone, and which comes in its own fluffy and bejeweled carry case. Can’t be bad. Husband and I worked out that she was earning at the rate of about $60 an hour (a dollar a minute). It is something of a pity that her new-found skill and natural ability can’t be put to lucrative use. If only we could think of a job that involved picking up coins from the bottom of shallow pools, and if only it were legal to send a 3 year old to work, we could do quite well out of her.
Most people drifted away from the pool after the games, so it was pleasantly quieter for the chicken dinner, which was billed as a “Popeye’s Chicken Dinner”. This had me rather confused, as I misread it as “Popeseye” and would have asked someone some idiot question about “I thought Pope’s eye was a cut of steak, not chicken”, but I have got very practiced at not asking idiot questions, and by the end of the evening, I’d worked it out for myself. The idiot questions thing is one of the less attractive aspects of expat life. You inevitably ask idiot questions. You can’t help it. Of course they’re not idiot questions, they’re simply questions asked from a position of blameless ignorance, and people are very patient and nice. However, you do get a bit fed up asking them after a while, so I try and figure out what I can for myself now.
That was our Fourth of July. The evening ended early, as the clouds drew over and it looked like a thunderstorm was coming, and there’s something about lightning and pools which isn’t a good combination. But we were ready for home. It had been a long afternoon. All credit to me and Husband though. We had initiated a private joke, so that whenever anyone greeted us “Happy Fourth!”, we were beset by a juvenile desire to say “Firth of Forth!” in jolly response, and we had managed to resist all day.
There were games organized in the afternoon, and a chicken dinner in the evening. The whole thing kicked off with a short speech, reflecting on how fortunate we were to have the kind of freedoms and privileges that so many people in the world don’t enjoy. Then everyone was invited to turn towards the flag, and the national anthem was played over the loudspeaker. For me, there was, inevitably, the slightly awkward feeling of the outsider: “what do I do here?” I was very near the flagpole, right in everyone else’s line of sight, and there weren’t many people in mine from whom I could take the lead. Luckily, no-one was singing, just letting the singer on the loudspeaker do her bit. This was a “phew” moment as, to my shame, I must admit I don’t know the words. Mental note to self: must learn words of American national anthem or face embarrassment on public occasion in the future. I was also flummoxed for a brief moment (momentarily, I would say, if I was American) on the position of the hand over the chest. This is tricky for a member of the female sex, unused to making the gesture, and wearing a swimsuit. I know the hand is meant to be over the heart, but not to put too fine a point on it, I didn’t want to clap my hand over my boob. With a bit of surreptitious glancing around, I reckoned the preferred position was over the top heading towards the collar bone, not underneath and at the bottom of the ribcage. And you have to do it quite loosely, otherwise you squish the other boob in the crook of your elbow…. Oh, for heaven’s sake, enough of this. Suffice to say, the gesture was clearly invented by a man.
We don’t do that kind of thing in Britain any more, or say those kind of things, do we? I can’t remember the last time I sang the national anthem, but when I was a child, public events did often start with it. We don’t really do patriotism nowadays. It wouldn’t be … um … well, I suppose it just wouldn’t be British. So there was much food for thought. I was looking up at the Stars and Stripes and cogitating quietly (as well as doing a bit of surreptitious elbow-rearranging), when the anthem finished and 3-yo said in a loud voice “that was a bit scary, wasn’t it?” I thought it was probably the strangeness of seeing a crowd of adults standing still and quiet and intent that prompted the remark, but who knows? Maybe she was making some profound political point. I have learned not to under-estimate my children’s insights.
On with the games. There were relay races in inner tubes, diving for money, a plastic duck grab, and the Big Splash competition. I had entered Husband for the Big Splash competition, urged by the pool manager who seemed a bit worried that there weren’t enough entrants. I knew he wouldn’t mind. I also told him that there was a prize: the winner would get a percentage of their mortgage paid for a year out of Neighborhood Association funds. For the glorious 20 or 30 seconds when I managed to keep a straight face, he believed me. Entering him in the Big Splash competition was worth it for that. He didn’t win the competition, or, to his relief, get through the first round. There may not have been enough entrants at the beginning of the afternoon, but by the time the competition took place, there were plenty. Most of them were very tall, very well built, and veteran Big Splashers. My guess is that several have private tuition after dark. Husband’s cannonball jump off the diving board produced a gratifying plop and a bit of a spray. The Big Splashers who followed him created tidal waves, and the one wearing the Stars and Stripes shorts half-emptied the pool. As I say, he wasn’t at all disappointed not to make it through to the second round. For 10-yo, however, it was all a bit anxious. “Do you think Daddy will drown in the deep end without his glasses on?” he asked nervously before the big jump. “Do you think Daddy minded not being very good? I still feel sorry for him.” he said, a good 24 hours after the event. And this was my answer: Do you remember when you didn’t do very well in the sack race at school, Daddy said to you “Don’t worry. If you could choose what to be good at in life, would jumping around in an old sack be it? Some people are good at that; you’re good at plenty of other things.” Well, it’s the same for him. If he could choose what to be good at, it wouldn’t be making a big splash in a swimming pool, would it? I don’t think you need mind for him any more. Life is so complicated isn’t it? You enter your husband for the Big Splash competition one minute, and the next you’re deep in the realm of the male ego. And that's deeper than the deep end, believe me.
We had our moment of glory, as a family, in the diving for money competition, in which 3-yo quietly excelled. She usually keeps her light hidden under a bushel, or at least a wild mop of blond hair, but no-one was going to match her on this. Her gentle but determined enthusiasm was spurred on by her crowd, her two big brothers: “it’s MONEY, 3-yo, and you get to KEEP IT!”. The other little ones had adoring parents who affirmed and loved them: “good jaaahb, Sweetie, you picked up that coin all by yourself!”, but it didn’t give them quite the competitive edge that 3-yo enjoyed. She also did have the advantage of age, being in the 0-3 category. You can see how a 3 year old in the shallow water of the baby pool does have a huge physical advantage over a just-staggering 1 year old. The advantage played out in her cunning strategy of scooting around on her bottom. Next year, they might introduce a “fair play” rule to disallow this, and she would have to join the ranks of the staggerers, for whom picking up a coin involves having to put your face under the water, and a fair bit of groveling and spluttering. Of course by then she will be out of the 0-3 category anyway, and have to compete in the big pool, where bottom-shuffling is not a possibility. But she had her triumph, and made a tidy $2.85, which she spent the next day on a pink phone with the Ode to Joy as its ring tone, and which comes in its own fluffy and bejeweled carry case. Can’t be bad. Husband and I worked out that she was earning at the rate of about $60 an hour (a dollar a minute). It is something of a pity that her new-found skill and natural ability can’t be put to lucrative use. If only we could think of a job that involved picking up coins from the bottom of shallow pools, and if only it were legal to send a 3 year old to work, we could do quite well out of her.
Most people drifted away from the pool after the games, so it was pleasantly quieter for the chicken dinner, which was billed as a “Popeye’s Chicken Dinner”. This had me rather confused, as I misread it as “Popeseye” and would have asked someone some idiot question about “I thought Pope’s eye was a cut of steak, not chicken”, but I have got very practiced at not asking idiot questions, and by the end of the evening, I’d worked it out for myself. The idiot questions thing is one of the less attractive aspects of expat life. You inevitably ask idiot questions. You can’t help it. Of course they’re not idiot questions, they’re simply questions asked from a position of blameless ignorance, and people are very patient and nice. However, you do get a bit fed up asking them after a while, so I try and figure out what I can for myself now.
That was our Fourth of July. The evening ended early, as the clouds drew over and it looked like a thunderstorm was coming, and there’s something about lightning and pools which isn’t a good combination. But we were ready for home. It had been a long afternoon. All credit to me and Husband though. We had initiated a private joke, so that whenever anyone greeted us “Happy Fourth!”, we were beset by a juvenile desire to say “Firth of Forth!” in jolly response, and we had managed to resist all day.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Manager's Pick
I like Wal-Mart. I know this is swimming against the tide somewhat. I know I’m not meant to like Wal-Mart, but I do. There are things I don’t like about Wal-Mart, but by and large, shopping there is a pleasant experience. You have to remember not to wander round with a vacant expression on your face, because the staff are so helpful that one of them is bound to stop you and ask “Can I help you find something?”, and then you find yourself saying “Um, no thanks. I’m just wandering around with a vacant expression on my face”. This aspect of shopping used to be much easier in Britain, when you could wander round aimlessly for ages without anyone interrupting you.
One of the things I like about Wal-Mart is that, as it is so big and sells so very many things, you always see something to catch your interest. The other day, for example, I saw a book entitled Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day. This got me thinking. Clearly it should have been in the Fiction section of the book aisle, but it wasn’t. It was right by the till. And it wasn’t just one book; it was a whole stack. They must have been selling like hot cakes. Wal-Mart Manager’s top pick.
Now if I wrote a book about potty training, it would be titled Potty Training: Steel Yourself with a very visible sub-title, your life will be dominated by your child’s bodily functions for weeks if not months, you will be very aggravated, and it will involve a lot of cleaning up. I doubt that would make it into a stack by the till though. It would be an honest approach, but not a very marketable one. In fact I could write a whole honest approach series of child-care books:
Getting Your Baby to Sleep Through The Night: a hundred things to try, but no guarantees
Toddlers and Vegetables: you will never win
Immunizations: you’ll never know if you made the right decision
Making Homework Fun: resorting to creative bribery.
I’m not going to find a publisher, am I? No. The canny publisher has worked out that you only need to persuade someone to buy a copy of the book to make your money. Honesty and integrity aren’t up for discussion here. The very depressing thing is that if you look up “potty training one day” on Amazon.com, you find that there are in fact four books with titles almost identical to the one I saw. There is also one called Potty Train in Three Days, but that is a little way down the list. I mean, who would buy that one? Best of all is Toilet Training in Less Than A Day – wow, that’s a tempting one. Not just the potty, but the toilet, and in less than a day – you might even complete the process without actually needing to use the toilet at all. No wonder that’s at the top of the list.
I am beginning to realize, though, that I could be ideally placed to write some books about relocating. We did have a couple before we came, and although I found them useful as reference books for particular topics, I couldn’t read them cover to cover, as Husband did. I found it too daunting. Having read a few paragraphs on “driving in the US”, I was so nervous of having to remember which rules applied in which state, which speed limits applied on which roads, and making sure I locked my doors at night, that I wondered if I would ever be able to drive at all. I decided I would read no more and just cope when I arrived. It was a case of better the devil you don’t know... These were serious books, written after extensive research, packed full of useful facts, thoughtful opinions, and tried and tested ideas.
That’s not the book I’m going to write. I’m going for the book with the snappy title that will stack by the till. Mine is going to be titled something like Relax while you Relocate: Get to Grips with a New Culture in Five Days. I’d better just check on Amazon, though. Someone may already have done a Get to Grips with a New Culture in Half an Afternoon. That would scupper me. I think five days would be my lowest offer.
One of the things I like about Wal-Mart is that, as it is so big and sells so very many things, you always see something to catch your interest. The other day, for example, I saw a book entitled Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day. This got me thinking. Clearly it should have been in the Fiction section of the book aisle, but it wasn’t. It was right by the till. And it wasn’t just one book; it was a whole stack. They must have been selling like hot cakes. Wal-Mart Manager’s top pick.
Now if I wrote a book about potty training, it would be titled Potty Training: Steel Yourself with a very visible sub-title, your life will be dominated by your child’s bodily functions for weeks if not months, you will be very aggravated, and it will involve a lot of cleaning up. I doubt that would make it into a stack by the till though. It would be an honest approach, but not a very marketable one. In fact I could write a whole honest approach series of child-care books:
Getting Your Baby to Sleep Through The Night: a hundred things to try, but no guarantees
Toddlers and Vegetables: you will never win
Immunizations: you’ll never know if you made the right decision
Making Homework Fun: resorting to creative bribery.
I’m not going to find a publisher, am I? No. The canny publisher has worked out that you only need to persuade someone to buy a copy of the book to make your money. Honesty and integrity aren’t up for discussion here. The very depressing thing is that if you look up “potty training one day” on Amazon.com, you find that there are in fact four books with titles almost identical to the one I saw. There is also one called Potty Train in Three Days, but that is a little way down the list. I mean, who would buy that one? Best of all is Toilet Training in Less Than A Day – wow, that’s a tempting one. Not just the potty, but the toilet, and in less than a day – you might even complete the process without actually needing to use the toilet at all. No wonder that’s at the top of the list.
I am beginning to realize, though, that I could be ideally placed to write some books about relocating. We did have a couple before we came, and although I found them useful as reference books for particular topics, I couldn’t read them cover to cover, as Husband did. I found it too daunting. Having read a few paragraphs on “driving in the US”, I was so nervous of having to remember which rules applied in which state, which speed limits applied on which roads, and making sure I locked my doors at night, that I wondered if I would ever be able to drive at all. I decided I would read no more and just cope when I arrived. It was a case of better the devil you don’t know... These were serious books, written after extensive research, packed full of useful facts, thoughtful opinions, and tried and tested ideas.
That’s not the book I’m going to write. I’m going for the book with the snappy title that will stack by the till. Mine is going to be titled something like Relax while you Relocate: Get to Grips with a New Culture in Five Days. I’d better just check on Amazon, though. Someone may already have done a Get to Grips with a New Culture in Half an Afternoon. That would scupper me. I think five days would be my lowest offer.
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