Well, 2009 is over. Something of a turbulent year in my life. Though I have sniffed out gains, it has largely been a year of losses. I have found strengths, but I have also met some of my limitations (I hate that). I have done things, and had things done to me, that I would never have chosen. But that is how life is. It’s not a Woolworth’s pick ‘n’ mix, where you can opt out of the liquorice allsorts. It’s not a modern day Christmas present, with the gift receipt in the envelope so that you can exchange it for something else more to your taste. You take the rough with the smooth, and somehow try and find your way through.
(I think I might have used these analogies already on the blog. Anyone know how you can do a keyword search through previous blog posts, without going through them one by one? Should I be keeping them all in a large Word document? Ed.)
This year, I’ve faced things I didn’t plan to face just yet. I’ve looked into the jaws of my own mortality, and squared up with two things: how insignificant my life is, and how significant my life is. Both are burdensome truths. I’ve found that the best strategy to deal with them is to look them straight in the eyes, but not for long, and then turn away to get on with the fabulous reality of daily life. It’s like wearing sunglasses on a very bright day. If you don’t have them, you squint all the time, and your eyes hurt, and it’s a continual distraction. So you wear them, but every now and again, you feel the need to take them off and screw up your eyes against the light, just to see how intense the colour of the sky really is. The brightness is there all the time, but you don’t want to look at it too much. It’s a relief to put those sunglasses back on and get on with the day, and then you forget about the brightness.
This year, I realized more than ever how important writing is to me. This blog, and the excuse it provides for my incessant drivel, has seen me through. I would write it if nobody at all read it. But you do, and that makes it a thousand times better.
I want to thank you all so much. This isn’t a glib “Thank you, I love you all, Happy New Year”. This is a heartfelt thank you. I know that reading about someone with cancer is not a very joyful thing to do. I know that it is more fun to read about the sweet things people’s children have said or done, or tales of expat life abroad. So thank you for not clicking away. Thank you to those of you who knew me before this year. Thank you to the new people who’ve taken the trouble to get to know me. Thank you to those of you who’ve commented. Thank you to those of you who’ve emailed me. Thank you to those of you who've read and lurked. Lurkers are nice people too. In the words of Hank Williams, “Hey, good lurkin’, what ya got curkin’?”
Most of all, thank you for writing your own blogs. Reading them is like keeping busy on a sunny day, with sunglasses on. When I started this blog in the summer of 2007, I was horribly homesick, and I used to read lots of blogs about England. At that time, a large number of people had recently started blogs about country life, in response to a competition run by the magazine of that name to find a blogger for the publication. There was a real excitement around as people shared stories and pictures of their lush flower beds, their burgeoning vegetable patches, the domestic projects in their homes. It was a rather unBritish blowing of own trumpets – in a very British understated way, of course. You might have thought it would have made me more homesick – all those colourful pictures of roses in full bloom, beautiful shots of the English countryside, accounts of trips to National Trust properties, complaints about the rain (it was a record-breakingly rainy summer, 2007). But it didn’t. Somehow it helped, just knowing that it was all going on, even if an ocean away, and without me.
In the same way, this summer, your blogs kept a window open for me on normal life. I was ill, and sad, and fearful. I saw too much of my own four walls. Reading your blogs, reading about your joys, your woes, your excitements, your disappointments, the magnificent trivia of your daily lives, all of it helped me keep a hold on the fact that normality was still happening, even if it felt at times a long way away, and without me.
So thank you, for being part of my blog, and for letting me be part of yours. Happy New Year to you all.
.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Christmas tips
To tip or not to tip? Who do you tip at Christmas?
This year, we tipped the mailman. He made it kind of obvious, by leaving us a card explaining that routes were being rearranged, so that he would no longer be our mailman in 2010, and saying how much he’d enjoyed working our patch over the past however many years. I felt a bit obliged, but I didn’t mind, as he’s always been a fantastic mailman. He’s gone out of his way to make life easy – arranging to stop mail if we’re away (you usually have to go to the post office and fill in a form), and doing his best to deliver parcels that need signatures at convenient times.
I remember when I was a child, our paper boy adopted a similar strategy. He left a Christmas card wishing his customers a merry Christmas, and detailing the number of hours he spent on the round, the amount he was paid, and the amount he estimated it cost him to do the job (mostly wear and tear on his bike). The newsagent made the poor lad go round to each house and apologise in person. I suppose England in the 1970’s had less stomach for blatant tip solicitation than America in the 2000’s.
My worst Christmas tipping moment happened in Scotland a few years ago. The window cleaners had come round, and I was doing that thing of lurking around the house trying to avoid the rooms they were working on, but also trying to make it look as if I was totally relaxed and not doing that at all, just getting on with my normal business, which - as usual - was taking me from room to room every few minutes. On this occasion, not only was I lurking and roaming, but I was also cogitating the appropriateness of a tip.
I decided I would give them a Christmas extra. I imagined that being a window cleaner in Scotland in December didn’t have much warmth and cosiness about it, and that a Christmas tip might just provide a rare warm and cosy moment. So I went out the back door in search of the head window man. As I rounded the corner of the house, there he was, with his back to me, standing close to the house, doing up his flies.
Now, if this scenario took place today, a bit of American assertiveness having rubbed off on me in the 3 years we’ve been here, I think I’d say,
“Excuse me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t urinate against the wall of my house. You are very welcome to come inside at any time and use the bathroom. If you don’t want to do that, I’d appreciate it if you urinated at the far end of the garden, and not right next to the window of our guest bedroom, spotless though that window is – on the outside at any rate.”
But this was a few years ago, and I was far too British for that kind of approach. What I did was to fix my eyes on a spot somewhere to the north west of his face, and certainly far north of his fingers fumbling with the zip, and say,
“Um... er... um... this is for you” (thrusting the wad of notes towards him, the usual amount and the tip),
“and... um... er... um... Happy Christmas. Yes, um... Happy Christmas!”
He in turn looked at a point significantly to one side of me, and replied,
“Oh... er... um... thank you very much.”
It’s great being British, isn’t it?
.
This year, we tipped the mailman. He made it kind of obvious, by leaving us a card explaining that routes were being rearranged, so that he would no longer be our mailman in 2010, and saying how much he’d enjoyed working our patch over the past however many years. I felt a bit obliged, but I didn’t mind, as he’s always been a fantastic mailman. He’s gone out of his way to make life easy – arranging to stop mail if we’re away (you usually have to go to the post office and fill in a form), and doing his best to deliver parcels that need signatures at convenient times.
I remember when I was a child, our paper boy adopted a similar strategy. He left a Christmas card wishing his customers a merry Christmas, and detailing the number of hours he spent on the round, the amount he was paid, and the amount he estimated it cost him to do the job (mostly wear and tear on his bike). The newsagent made the poor lad go round to each house and apologise in person. I suppose England in the 1970’s had less stomach for blatant tip solicitation than America in the 2000’s.
My worst Christmas tipping moment happened in Scotland a few years ago. The window cleaners had come round, and I was doing that thing of lurking around the house trying to avoid the rooms they were working on, but also trying to make it look as if I was totally relaxed and not doing that at all, just getting on with my normal business, which - as usual - was taking me from room to room every few minutes. On this occasion, not only was I lurking and roaming, but I was also cogitating the appropriateness of a tip.
I decided I would give them a Christmas extra. I imagined that being a window cleaner in Scotland in December didn’t have much warmth and cosiness about it, and that a Christmas tip might just provide a rare warm and cosy moment. So I went out the back door in search of the head window man. As I rounded the corner of the house, there he was, with his back to me, standing close to the house, doing up his flies.
Now, if this scenario took place today, a bit of American assertiveness having rubbed off on me in the 3 years we’ve been here, I think I’d say,
“Excuse me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t urinate against the wall of my house. You are very welcome to come inside at any time and use the bathroom. If you don’t want to do that, I’d appreciate it if you urinated at the far end of the garden, and not right next to the window of our guest bedroom, spotless though that window is – on the outside at any rate.”
But this was a few years ago, and I was far too British for that kind of approach. What I did was to fix my eyes on a spot somewhere to the north west of his face, and certainly far north of his fingers fumbling with the zip, and say,
“Um... er... um... this is for you” (thrusting the wad of notes towards him, the usual amount and the tip),
“and... um... er... um... Happy Christmas. Yes, um... Happy Christmas!”
He in turn looked at a point significantly to one side of me, and replied,
“Oh... er... um... thank you very much.”
It’s great being British, isn’t it?
.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Then one bloggy Christmas eve(ning)
I wondered if there was something a bit sad about posting on Christmas Day. But I decided that there isn't (although Blogger is down, so I've had a frustrating time trying to read posts and leave comments, and who knows if this will make it onto my blog). The children are asleep upstairs, my parents-in-law and sister-in-law are retiring to bed downstairs in the basement, and it's as if I have the house to myself. There's a quietness and a stillness that I'm enjoying in contrast to the noise and excitement of the past 16 hours.
Husband has just wandered down in a t-shirt that is as old as our relationship (15 years), which has a picture of me on the front of it. It was made by some friends for him when we got engaged. In those days, printing a photo onto a garment was a real novelty. It wasn't like today, when you can't move for smiling children on mouse mats and household pets on key fobs. The t-shirt is Husband's garment of choice for nightwear. I rather like the picture of me on it, actually. Young, carefree, smiling, looking over one shoulder at the camera and pretending I didn't know I was about to be photographed. Having been through the wash regularly over 15 years hasn't done much for me, it must be said, and I'm very faded, but still smiling.
"Are you coming to bed?" Husband asked.
"Soon", I replied. "I'm just needing some me time."
I'm probably less tired than him, as this afternoon I slept through the entire length of Mr Bean's Christmas Special - the movie that was drawn out of the hat, winning over Snow Buddies and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I imagine I would have slept through either of those too.
Today I have:
Woken up at 4.45am and remembered that I hadn't put the dishwasher on, crept downstairs, decided that putting it on might wake sleeping visitors (it's a very noisy dishwasher), and crept upstairs again,
Read aloud a note by the fireplace which said "Yum yum, thank you very much. Love, Santa Claus", while knowing that the cookies (which 5-yo iced at her Kindergarten party, and which have been in a ziploc bag in her backpack for a week) were in the kitchen bin,
Laundered a bath mat (don't ask, it was a puzzle to me too),
Cooked salmon for eight,
Finished a 1,000 piece jigsaw with no picture to copy from (group effort, that one, not me personally),
Wondered how to get a big, bright pink stain out of woodwork, left by 5-yo's Glitter Lava Ice craft kit,
Cut a chunk of hair out of 5-yo's head, right above her forehead, as the only way of removing a large glob of Glitter Lava Ice,
Wondered who on earth thought up the name Glitter Lava Ice, surely a contradiction in terms,
Skyped and phoned family in Britain, and heard all about the snow there,
Boasted back about our Midwestern snow: "Oh, it'll be here for ages - the forecast says it won't get above freezing for several days",
Unwrapped some lovely presents, including ones bought proudly by my two sons with their own money,
Created merriment by saying that the little Santas we have as a table centre, gathered round a battery-powered nightlight, looked as if they were huddling together and warming themselves round a brassiere.
I hope you have had as happy a day as I have. Perhaps you've even managed to sneak some me time in there too, even if at 11.30 at night. But now I'm tired, and I will wend my way upstairs (after putting on the dishwasher this time), and join the faded, crumpled, eternally youthful version of myself already in bed with Shadowy Santa.
To all, a good night.
.
Husband has just wandered down in a t-shirt that is as old as our relationship (15 years), which has a picture of me on the front of it. It was made by some friends for him when we got engaged. In those days, printing a photo onto a garment was a real novelty. It wasn't like today, when you can't move for smiling children on mouse mats and household pets on key fobs. The t-shirt is Husband's garment of choice for nightwear. I rather like the picture of me on it, actually. Young, carefree, smiling, looking over one shoulder at the camera and pretending I didn't know I was about to be photographed. Having been through the wash regularly over 15 years hasn't done much for me, it must be said, and I'm very faded, but still smiling.
"Are you coming to bed?" Husband asked.
"Soon", I replied. "I'm just needing some me time."
I'm probably less tired than him, as this afternoon I slept through the entire length of Mr Bean's Christmas Special - the movie that was drawn out of the hat, winning over Snow Buddies and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I imagine I would have slept through either of those too.
Today I have:
Woken up at 4.45am and remembered that I hadn't put the dishwasher on, crept downstairs, decided that putting it on might wake sleeping visitors (it's a very noisy dishwasher), and crept upstairs again,
Read aloud a note by the fireplace which said "Yum yum, thank you very much. Love, Santa Claus", while knowing that the cookies (which 5-yo iced at her Kindergarten party, and which have been in a ziploc bag in her backpack for a week) were in the kitchen bin,
Laundered a bath mat (don't ask, it was a puzzle to me too),
Cooked salmon for eight,
Finished a 1,000 piece jigsaw with no picture to copy from (group effort, that one, not me personally),
Wondered how to get a big, bright pink stain out of woodwork, left by 5-yo's Glitter Lava Ice craft kit,
Cut a chunk of hair out of 5-yo's head, right above her forehead, as the only way of removing a large glob of Glitter Lava Ice,
Wondered who on earth thought up the name Glitter Lava Ice, surely a contradiction in terms,
Skyped and phoned family in Britain, and heard all about the snow there,
Boasted back about our Midwestern snow: "Oh, it'll be here for ages - the forecast says it won't get above freezing for several days",
Unwrapped some lovely presents, including ones bought proudly by my two sons with their own money,
Created merriment by saying that the little Santas we have as a table centre, gathered round a battery-powered nightlight, looked as if they were huddling together and warming themselves round a brassiere.
I hope you have had as happy a day as I have. Perhaps you've even managed to sneak some me time in there too, even if at 11.30 at night. But now I'm tired, and I will wend my way upstairs (after putting on the dishwasher this time), and join the faded, crumpled, eternally youthful version of myself already in bed with Shadowy Santa.
To all, a good night.
.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day
Monday morning last week was a low spot. At breakfast, I was reading 9-yo’s weekly Friday newsletter. I learned that he was to take to school a cardboard box covered in brown paper, with doors cut in the front to make it into a wardrobe, for a fun class activity about the book they’ve just finished (guess which book). I decided I had just enough time to cover the Cheerios box with a piece of brown paper, and set to. I had realized that the decision meant that 12-yo would be the teensiest weensiest bit late (middle school starts 15 minutes earlier than the lower school), but I thought punctuality should be sacrificed to wardrobe creation. 12-yo was getting more and more agitated, and finally revealed that he’d been given a nickname on the basis of his repeated late morning arrivals. If you get three tardies, you get detention. I pointed out that he can’t have had three, as he’d never had a detention, and I said I didn’t feel two tardies in a term was all that bad.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Hair
Well, the good news after my previous post is that apparently chemobrain isn’t always permanent. It might only be with me for a year or so. Personally, my guess is that people just get very good at dealing with it, so that when a year has gone by, and a research scientist asks them if it has got better, they say “yes” and don’t mention that their house is littered with post-it notes of things to remember, and that they have stopped using sentences containing those long words that are liable to fall into that tricky gap between brain and lips. And the ones who don’t say “yes” say “chemobrain? What’s chemobrain? No, we definitely didn’t discuss it at my last appointment.“ Which could lead me into a whole reflection about the validity of empirical scientific research, but stay with me, because I’m not going down that path. No, today I’m talking HAIR.
The good news about hair is that it DOES grow back. Boobs - no, brain cells – maybe, hair – definitely yes. Hurrah for hair. And mine has started. But oooow, it is soooo sloooow. Think how patient you have to be to grow out a fringe or layers. Then imagine that your fringe is starting from zero, and that actually, your whole mop is starting from zero. We’re talking a loooong tiiiime.
They do warn you that it might grow back different to how it has been, but that over time, it will revert. Over time? How much time? What if the forces of reversion encounter the forces of aging moving in the opposite direction? Which is what might well happen in my case. For my hair (and this was a dark fear of mine) is growing in grey. It started off when I was a child as white blond, and has just got darker gradually throughout my life. From blond in my childhood, through fair in my 20s, through mid brown in my 30s, it had got as far as dark brown with a little grey in it. The half inch or so that I now have is black and grey together, but probably more grey than black. Like the brain cells, it’s as if chemo just skipped my body along a couple of decades. I hate that. By the time my hair has decided to revert to brown, it will be time for it to be grey anyway. I used to dye my hair to cover up the grey in a rather lackadaisical fashion, every now and again picking up a colour from Boots and seeing what it came out as. I foresee a future where I will have to be much more organized, pick a colour, stick with it, and get it done professionally every few weeks. Bother.
And here’s a cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for. I’ve always had very fine hair (we thin-haired people use that word ‘fine’). I’ve always hated that, so I hoped that it might grow back a bit thicker, and I’d noticed that the grey hairs I did have were a bit thicker than their brown friends, so I thought it was a possibility. Well, it is growing back thicker, and guess what. I don't like it. It’s like having a doormat on my head. What happened to my lovely flyaway wispy fine stuff? I want to be ME again. ME, with the hair I complain about.
Last night, we were watching the last few minutes of Oprah at the White House, and I said to Husband “I look like Obama”. He is a patient man, and with a slightly puzzled expression, he replied “Erm, I don’t think you do look very like him”. “His hair! His hair!” I explained, “I have Obama’s hair!” Husband, who is as honest as he is patient, had to confess that yes, I do have Obama’s hair.
What’s a girl to do? Well, apart from sticking with the hats for a while, which I’ve become rather fond of actually, I’ve decided that I’m going to hope that an Obama cut becomes 2010’s top look for women. I mean, he’s got himself elected to the most powerful job in the world, he’s won the Nobel peace prize – surely it can only be a matter of time before his hairstyle catches on? Galloping quickly through the decades, we’ve had the Purdey cut (remember that one?), the Diana cut, the Rachel cut. Surely the time is ripe for the Obama cut?
Meanwhile, looking for a voice of sanity in a mad world, I was talking to 5-yo on the subject. “I’m a bit sad about my hair”, I said. “It’s not growing back the same as it used to be.” She thought about it for a few seconds, and replied “It’s ok”. Then thought a bit longer and repeated “It’s ok”.
I didn’t know whether she meant the hair was ok, or whether it was ok to be sad, but I found it comforting anyway. They know a thing or two about life, do 5 year olds.
“And,” she added, “now you match Daddy!”
.
The good news about hair is that it DOES grow back. Boobs - no, brain cells – maybe, hair – definitely yes. Hurrah for hair. And mine has started. But oooow, it is soooo sloooow. Think how patient you have to be to grow out a fringe or layers. Then imagine that your fringe is starting from zero, and that actually, your whole mop is starting from zero. We’re talking a loooong tiiiime.
They do warn you that it might grow back different to how it has been, but that over time, it will revert. Over time? How much time? What if the forces of reversion encounter the forces of aging moving in the opposite direction? Which is what might well happen in my case. For my hair (and this was a dark fear of mine) is growing in grey. It started off when I was a child as white blond, and has just got darker gradually throughout my life. From blond in my childhood, through fair in my 20s, through mid brown in my 30s, it had got as far as dark brown with a little grey in it. The half inch or so that I now have is black and grey together, but probably more grey than black. Like the brain cells, it’s as if chemo just skipped my body along a couple of decades. I hate that. By the time my hair has decided to revert to brown, it will be time for it to be grey anyway. I used to dye my hair to cover up the grey in a rather lackadaisical fashion, every now and again picking up a colour from Boots and seeing what it came out as. I foresee a future where I will have to be much more organized, pick a colour, stick with it, and get it done professionally every few weeks. Bother.
And here’s a cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for. I’ve always had very fine hair (we thin-haired people use that word ‘fine’). I’ve always hated that, so I hoped that it might grow back a bit thicker, and I’d noticed that the grey hairs I did have were a bit thicker than their brown friends, so I thought it was a possibility. Well, it is growing back thicker, and guess what. I don't like it. It’s like having a doormat on my head. What happened to my lovely flyaway wispy fine stuff? I want to be ME again. ME, with the hair I complain about.
Last night, we were watching the last few minutes of Oprah at the White House, and I said to Husband “I look like Obama”. He is a patient man, and with a slightly puzzled expression, he replied “Erm, I don’t think you do look very like him”. “His hair! His hair!” I explained, “I have Obama’s hair!” Husband, who is as honest as he is patient, had to confess that yes, I do have Obama’s hair.
What’s a girl to do? Well, apart from sticking with the hats for a while, which I’ve become rather fond of actually, I’ve decided that I’m going to hope that an Obama cut becomes 2010’s top look for women. I mean, he’s got himself elected to the most powerful job in the world, he’s won the Nobel peace prize – surely it can only be a matter of time before his hairstyle catches on? Galloping quickly through the decades, we’ve had the Purdey cut (remember that one?), the Diana cut, the Rachel cut. Surely the time is ripe for the Obama cut?
Meanwhile, looking for a voice of sanity in a mad world, I was talking to 5-yo on the subject. “I’m a bit sad about my hair”, I said. “It’s not growing back the same as it used to be.” She thought about it for a few seconds, and replied “It’s ok”. Then thought a bit longer and repeated “It’s ok”.
I didn’t know whether she meant the hair was ok, or whether it was ok to be sad, but I found it comforting anyway. They know a thing or two about life, do 5 year olds.
“And,” she added, “now you match Daddy!”
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Thursday, December 10, 2009
Obama and Santa
Did you all catch President Obama's speech on accepting the Nobel Peace Prize? I like the man. I'd love to invite him round for dinner, him and his good lady wife. They could bring the kids too. I expect he's too busy though.
One of the exciting things in his speech was a very fine example of what I was talking about here. Don't bother to click. I'll remind you. I was talking about how in England we say
"the baby wants to be fed",
but in both Scotland and America, that would be
"the baby wants fed".
In his Nobel speech, Obama was talking about the US being a moral standard bearer in the conduct of war, and he said:
"That is why I prohibited torture. That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay closed."
See? If he'd been brought up in leafy Buckinghamshire, England, he'd have said
"That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay to be closed".
I was listening to NPR, and they gave a pretty good broad-brush examination of the ideas in the speech, but honestly, for in-depth word by word analysis like this, you have to turn to 'Not wrong, just different'. Oh you must be so glad you read my blog.
Incidentally, since I know that you are on the edge of your seats with this post, I'm going to tell you about another of those items where Americans have followed the Scots rather than the English. Santa. Yes, jolly old Santa Claus. In England, he is quite definitely Father Christmas. When I lived in England I knew that the Americans called him Santa Claus, but I had no idea that the Scots did too.
And if you have any other questions on England, Scotland, America, Obama or world peace, then just drop me a line. I'll help if I can.
.
One of the exciting things in his speech was a very fine example of what I was talking about here. Don't bother to click. I'll remind you. I was talking about how in England we say
"the baby wants to be fed",
but in both Scotland and America, that would be
"the baby wants fed".
In his Nobel speech, Obama was talking about the US being a moral standard bearer in the conduct of war, and he said:
"That is why I prohibited torture. That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay closed."
See? If he'd been brought up in leafy Buckinghamshire, England, he'd have said
"That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay to be closed".
I was listening to NPR, and they gave a pretty good broad-brush examination of the ideas in the speech, but honestly, for in-depth word by word analysis like this, you have to turn to 'Not wrong, just different'. Oh you must be so glad you read my blog.
Incidentally, since I know that you are on the edge of your seats with this post, I'm going to tell you about another of those items where Americans have followed the Scots rather than the English. Santa. Yes, jolly old Santa Claus. In England, he is quite definitely Father Christmas. When I lived in England I knew that the Americans called him Santa Claus, but I had no idea that the Scots did too.
And if you have any other questions on England, Scotland, America, Obama or world peace, then just drop me a line. I'll help if I can.
.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Cell buy date
I went shopping last night with 12-yo and bought him a cell phone (mobile phone) for Christmas. It’s been one of those issues over which I’ve felt such a parent. You know the kind of thing. He just wants one, wants one, wants one, and Husband and I are thinking “he only wants one because his friends all have one, he’ll probably lose it at school, what is he going to DO with it for heaven’s sake? why will he need to text his friends when he’s going to see them the next morning and what can they possibly have to say to each other anyway? and they’re so expensive, is he really going to want to spend ALL his pocket money on phone calls? Is he going to have enough money, or are WE going to pay for them?” I tried fishing back into my childhood, to find something equivalent, to try and remember what it felt like to be 12 years old and wanting something so badly, but I drew a blank. Maybe it was a different era.
Getting your first cell phone is something of a rite of passage. These days, young men can't really head out with their spears to kill their first animal, and I suppose it is fitting that in a society dominated by consumerism and technology, the purchase of a cell phone has come to represent a significant moment on the journey to adulthood. 12-yo had done his research: Verizon, T-mobile, AT&T. He’d collected leaflets, printed out pages from websites, compared tariffs. He persuaded me that AT&T was the best, because the two friends who he’ll be calling most have AT&T, and so he would get free calls to them. Conclusive argument, I had to agree.
It’s a bit like buying what 13 years ago was called a 'pram' or a 'pushchair', in the days when a 'travel system' was the Chicago El or the London Underground. The shop assistant said to you “what you need depends on your lifestyle”, and you were thinking “I don’t KNOW what my lifestyle is going to be like when I have a baby”. In the same way, the very helpful AT&T man was describing the 8,000 different plans to choose between, and was saying “what you need depends on how you’re going to use the phone”, and I was thinking “he doesn’t KNOW how he’s going to use the phone”.
We ended up with a compromise. I didn’t buy him the $300 (on special offer at $200) touch screen latest model, which is flying off the shelves so fast that I was going to have to leave my name and number and he was going to contact me the moment the next consignment came in. But I also didn’t buy him the $30 clunky model that makes even my aged phone look impressive. There was a fortunate half-way house that just happened to be on special offer (was it really, or do the sales assistants have the flexibility to invent a story at the last minute when the sniff of a sale is getting stronger?) It was a phone with a keyboard – which 12-yo assured me was vital, though I couldn’t really see how anyone except an elf would have small enough fingers to use it. The usual price was $100, but I paid $80, and $50 of that was given as credit to 12-yo for calls, bringing the ‘real’ price down to the same as the clunky $30. So everyone was happy. The sales assistant made a sale, 12-yo got a phone and $50 to spend on calls and texts, and I came away feeling I'd managed to avoid paying a complete fortune whilst also avoiding being as hopelessly luddite as I'm sure my son feared I would be.
In the middle of the purchase, 12-yo was looking at the phone and asked “how do you get to use the camera?” and I cringed inside and steeled myself, for I knew that the phone didn’t have a camera, and that being told so would be both a disappointment and a humiliation. I wanted to whisk him out of the store in the blink of an eye, explain the no-camera situation, and then run back in, and say to the assistant “let’s just rewind 45 seconds and pretend he didn’t ask that question, shall we?” But as I was cringing and steeling, a most strange thing happened. The assistant was taking the phone in his own hand and saying “you go down to Tools on this menu, and press OK, and then see, it says Camera, so you press OK, and there you are… Good to go”. Sometimes not being omniscient has its upside.
As we left, 12-you said to me “you were looking a bit sad in there. Were you ok? Or were you just thinking how I’m growing up?” I’m glad he displays such pinpoint precision in locating maternal feelings, because pinpoint precision is what he's going to need when it comes to the elf keyboard. I assured him that yes, I was thinking about how he’s growing up, but that no, I wasn’t sad. And I really wasn’t. It’s just the next thing.
So far, he has two contacts in his phone. Mum (“Shall I call you Mum or Iota?” “Call me Mum, I think”) and Tiny, the AT&T sales assistant (“if you’re having any problems, you can just text me and I’ll try and help”). And here’s the difference. I am Mum. It’s my name for 3 people in this world, and it’s also what I am. Whereas Tiny…
Yesterday was a big day for 12-yo. He also had an eye test that revealed what he suspected, ie that he needs glasses (it’s in the genes, poor kid had no chance). So tonight we’re going to go and choose frames. Phones and frames. It’s all happening at once. I can’t keep up.
And here’s one more little Mum moment. What 12-yo doesn’t remember, or maybe never knew, is that before the other two came along, I used to sign off missives to family “A,T&T”, because at that time, that’s who we were (Iota’s not my real name, you know). So secretly, I’m quite pleased he’s with them, though come to think of it, T-mobile would be very appropriate too.
.
Getting your first cell phone is something of a rite of passage. These days, young men can't really head out with their spears to kill their first animal, and I suppose it is fitting that in a society dominated by consumerism and technology, the purchase of a cell phone has come to represent a significant moment on the journey to adulthood. 12-yo had done his research: Verizon, T-mobile, AT&T. He’d collected leaflets, printed out pages from websites, compared tariffs. He persuaded me that AT&T was the best, because the two friends who he’ll be calling most have AT&T, and so he would get free calls to them. Conclusive argument, I had to agree.
It’s a bit like buying what 13 years ago was called a 'pram' or a 'pushchair', in the days when a 'travel system' was the Chicago El or the London Underground. The shop assistant said to you “what you need depends on your lifestyle”, and you were thinking “I don’t KNOW what my lifestyle is going to be like when I have a baby”. In the same way, the very helpful AT&T man was describing the 8,000 different plans to choose between, and was saying “what you need depends on how you’re going to use the phone”, and I was thinking “he doesn’t KNOW how he’s going to use the phone”.
We ended up with a compromise. I didn’t buy him the $300 (on special offer at $200) touch screen latest model, which is flying off the shelves so fast that I was going to have to leave my name and number and he was going to contact me the moment the next consignment came in. But I also didn’t buy him the $30 clunky model that makes even my aged phone look impressive. There was a fortunate half-way house that just happened to be on special offer (was it really, or do the sales assistants have the flexibility to invent a story at the last minute when the sniff of a sale is getting stronger?) It was a phone with a keyboard – which 12-yo assured me was vital, though I couldn’t really see how anyone except an elf would have small enough fingers to use it. The usual price was $100, but I paid $80, and $50 of that was given as credit to 12-yo for calls, bringing the ‘real’ price down to the same as the clunky $30. So everyone was happy. The sales assistant made a sale, 12-yo got a phone and $50 to spend on calls and texts, and I came away feeling I'd managed to avoid paying a complete fortune whilst also avoiding being as hopelessly luddite as I'm sure my son feared I would be.
In the middle of the purchase, 12-yo was looking at the phone and asked “how do you get to use the camera?” and I cringed inside and steeled myself, for I knew that the phone didn’t have a camera, and that being told so would be both a disappointment and a humiliation. I wanted to whisk him out of the store in the blink of an eye, explain the no-camera situation, and then run back in, and say to the assistant “let’s just rewind 45 seconds and pretend he didn’t ask that question, shall we?” But as I was cringing and steeling, a most strange thing happened. The assistant was taking the phone in his own hand and saying “you go down to Tools on this menu, and press OK, and then see, it says Camera, so you press OK, and there you are… Good to go”. Sometimes not being omniscient has its upside.
As we left, 12-you said to me “you were looking a bit sad in there. Were you ok? Or were you just thinking how I’m growing up?” I’m glad he displays such pinpoint precision in locating maternal feelings, because pinpoint precision is what he's going to need when it comes to the elf keyboard. I assured him that yes, I was thinking about how he’s growing up, but that no, I wasn’t sad. And I really wasn’t. It’s just the next thing.
So far, he has two contacts in his phone. Mum (“Shall I call you Mum or Iota?” “Call me Mum, I think”) and Tiny, the AT&T sales assistant (“if you’re having any problems, you can just text me and I’ll try and help”). And here’s the difference. I am Mum. It’s my name for 3 people in this world, and it’s also what I am. Whereas Tiny…
Yesterday was a big day for 12-yo. He also had an eye test that revealed what he suspected, ie that he needs glasses (it’s in the genes, poor kid had no chance). So tonight we’re going to go and choose frames. Phones and frames. It’s all happening at once. I can’t keep up.
And here’s one more little Mum moment. What 12-yo doesn’t remember, or maybe never knew, is that before the other two came along, I used to sign off missives to family “A,T&T”, because at that time, that’s who we were (Iota’s not my real name, you know). So secretly, I’m quite pleased he’s with them, though come to think of it, T-mobile would be very appropriate too.
.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Rats!
I would not make a very good laboratory rat. I wouldn't. I'm not very good at learning basic repetitive tasks on the basis of their consequences. And even when I have learned them, I'm not very good at remembering them.
I forget to stand back when I open the oven door, so that I'm met by a rush of hot air in my face, and my glasses steam up. I then can't see whether the food is cooked or not. Every time I do it, I think "oh bother, I ALWAYS do that"
In the summer, I think to myself "oh, I'm sure I can just nip outside and hang the washing out without getting bitten by mosquitoes, if I'm quick". I always return back inside with 2 or 3 mosquito bites, and I think "oh bother, that ALWAYS happens".
I have finally cracked the car keys one. I have learned that if I don't put the car keys in the same place, every time, as soon as I walk into the house, then I will have a stressful few minutes looking for them when I am wanting to leave the house again. That's quite a complicated one, because it involves delayed negative consequences. Rather more advanced than avoiding the hot air rush and the mosquito bites. But it did take me a long time to exhibit consistent behaviour. I think the scientists would have given up on me long before I'd achieved it, and moved on to the next batch of rats. I'd have been patted on my ratty back, and let loose in a remote and beautiful woodland location where there were plentiful supplies for all my ratty needs, and other ex-working rats to make friends with. That's what they do when they retire laboratory rats, you know.
So come on people. Let's give the laboratory rats a little more credit for their achievements. It's not as easy as it looks.
.
I forget to stand back when I open the oven door, so that I'm met by a rush of hot air in my face, and my glasses steam up. I then can't see whether the food is cooked or not. Every time I do it, I think "oh bother, I ALWAYS do that"
In the summer, I think to myself "oh, I'm sure I can just nip outside and hang the washing out without getting bitten by mosquitoes, if I'm quick". I always return back inside with 2 or 3 mosquito bites, and I think "oh bother, that ALWAYS happens".
I have finally cracked the car keys one. I have learned that if I don't put the car keys in the same place, every time, as soon as I walk into the house, then I will have a stressful few minutes looking for them when I am wanting to leave the house again. That's quite a complicated one, because it involves delayed negative consequences. Rather more advanced than avoiding the hot air rush and the mosquito bites. But it did take me a long time to exhibit consistent behaviour. I think the scientists would have given up on me long before I'd achieved it, and moved on to the next batch of rats. I'd have been patted on my ratty back, and let loose in a remote and beautiful woodland location where there were plentiful supplies for all my ratty needs, and other ex-working rats to make friends with. That's what they do when they retire laboratory rats, you know.
So come on people. Let's give the laboratory rats a little more credit for their achievements. It's not as easy as it looks.
.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thanksgiving: yes, I'm still on about it
OK. Time to reveal what is behind all this ‘shadow cast over the sunshine that was Thanksgiving’ blurb.
We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.
What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.
I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?
And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.
Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.
* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.
We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.
What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.
I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?
And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.
Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.
* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thanksgiving: the shadow side
Okay, okay, so that Thanksgiving post was a bit Pollyanna. I admit it. Truth is, I chopped the last bit off the first draft. That was partly in line with my policy of trying to write shorter posts these days, partly because I thought it spoiled the Thanksgiving jollity, and partly because I thought it was an idea that merited a post of its own. Here is that last thought…
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanksgiving
We've been to Colorado again, for a week. So there's lots of stuff I could be sorting out, and there's a mountain of laundry, but... I'm going to write a blog post instead.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
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Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Eye wonder
The differences in medical terminology between the US and the UK provide a rich seam for expat bloggers to mine. Have you ever thought, oh UK readers, how confusing it must be for Americans to hear they need to register at the doctor's surgery? What? There are plenty more, which I think I've blogged about before, but I'm not going to look for the link because (a) I'm not sure it's terribly interesting, and (b) I'm in the Honda customer lounge waiting while my vehicle to be serviced (I said "vehicle" not "car" - see how naturally I speak the lingo these days), and I'm determined to finish the post in the time it takes to do an oil change and a few other bits and bobs, with my new-found speed-writing skills. That's what blogging every day for a month does for you.
One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).
On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said
"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",
she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.
She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"
Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.
.
One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).
On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said
"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",
she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.
She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"
Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.
.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Alexander McCall Smith
I'm following the novel Corduroy Mansions, by Alexander McCall Smith, which is serialised daily in The Telegraph. I love Alexander McCall Smith as a writer, so it is a daily treat. He has an eye for human nature which is both incisive and kind. I imagine he is a terribly nice man, who makes brilliantly witty conversation. If you ever have him round to dinner, please invite me too, and sit me next to him.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Pea coat, the song on everyone's lips
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, the King and Queen of Coats decided to have a party.
A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.
So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:
"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".
I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.
.
A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.
So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:
"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".
I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.
.
Pea coat, the question on everyone's lips
Why is a pea coat called a pea coat?
Several Google results say this:
The name 'pea coat' comes from the heavy twill material that the coat is made of. It was called pilot cloth, which became known as P cloth. The P coat became the pea coat.
I like my blog to contain educational content. Now you can all impress your friends next time pea coats come up in conversation.
.
Several Google results say this:
The name 'pea coat' comes from the heavy twill material that the coat is made of. It was called pilot cloth, which became known as P cloth. The P coat became the pea coat.
I like my blog to contain educational content. Now you can all impress your friends next time pea coats come up in conversation.
.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Pea coat
I bought a pea coat this morning. I'm very thrilled with it and with myself. Here is a picture of it.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Mulkar
It's a rum deal when you can't even understand your own children's accents.
8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.
Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.
So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.
I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)
In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:
8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?
Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)
8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?
Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?
8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.
Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?
8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...
12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...
Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?
12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?
Click here to find out.
I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.
.
8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.
Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.
So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.
I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)
In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:
8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?
Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)
8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?
Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?
8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.
Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?
8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...
12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...
Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?
12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?
Click here to find out.
I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.
.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Commercial and competitive?
There’s been a bit of a discussion going on in the blogging world about whether mummy blogging is getting commercial and competitive. I thought I’d throw in my pennyworth.
I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
.
I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The last daily post
Day 31 of ‘The Daily Post’.
I’ve done it. I have published a post a day (and two yesterday) for a month.
It worked out rather differently to how I’d imagined. I love blogging and writing, so I thought I was just giving myself licence to spend a chunk of every day doing what I might otherwise have felt a bit guilty for. And that did happen, at the beginning, but as time wore on, I found (and I never thought I’d hear myself say this) that I was getting a bit fed up with it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it became a chore, but there were certainly days when I did a quick couple of hundred words, and was glad to see the back of them. I’d put that down as a positive result. I have sometimes worried how addicted I am to blogging, and it is nice to see that I can, after all, be sated by it. Sated and ready to take a step back of my own free will.
Another positive outcome, which I had hoped for, is that I am better at writing short posts. Hurrah. I can still burble on at great length, but I have become practised at getting my thoughts organized into a smaller space. I have also become more disciplined with time – another outcome I’d hoped for. I used to spend hours writing even a short post. I’d write and rewrite, cogitate and regurgitate. Over the past month, I’ve made myself sit down, write the post straight, read it through once and make corrections, and then publish it without endless tinkering. So on the plus side, I have had the practice I wanted in writing posts that are short and to the point, and in doing them quickly (or more quickly than my previous snail-like self - it's all relative).
On the negative side, I really missed allowing decent time for comments. You’ve all been very loyal, but of course a post doesn’t get so many comments if it’s only at the top of the blog for a single day. And it’s not just the number of comments that adds to the richness of the blog. It’s the way the conversation develops, with people picking up on each other’s comments. A blog post is like a cheese or a fine wine. It needs time to mature.
Another negative is that I haven’t had the opportunity to write down some of the meatier stuff that is in my head. I have so much I still want to say about life in the US through British eyes. Guns, religion, education, friendships, buying and selling a house, some of my early impressions… The kind of things that I might string together into the book that is always lingering at the back of my mind. This month didn’t bring it any further forward. Drat. But the pressure of a daily post militates against that kind of writing. I had anticipated that with all three children at school full-time and my health returning to normal, I’d have enough hours in a day to tackle some of those subjects in longer, more thoughtful, pieces. I had reckoned without the invasion of daily life. One thing about feeling better healthwise is that you inevitably do more around the house, and outside the home. I’m happy about that, of course, but I had forgotten to factor it into the equation. I’d also reckoned without 6 days of sick children off school, and 7 days of school out for teacher training, state assessments or parent conferences (having children at two different schools means that there is twice as much of this). That’s 13 school days out of 20 or so. Hm, now I count them up, I realise it’s no wonder it’s felt like I haven’t much time to myself.
So in sum, I’m glad I did ‘The Daily Post’, and I think it was an achievement to complete it without missing a day. I don’t think I’ll do it again, and certainly not for a while. I’m all blogged out! It did make me realize what a huge undertaking it was to cook over 500 recipes and blog about them in a year, as Julie did in the movie Julie and Julia, which is where this idea all started. I've just re-read that post, and the reasons I gave for setting myself this challenge. I'd rather forgotten what I was feeling at that time. I've certainly got more sense of purpose than I had back then, more zest for life. I guess at least part of that must be due to 'The Daily Post'. It's been one part of the jigsaw falling into place.
I didn’t get much tapestry done, since one of you is bound to ask.
.
I’ve done it. I have published a post a day (and two yesterday) for a month.
It worked out rather differently to how I’d imagined. I love blogging and writing, so I thought I was just giving myself licence to spend a chunk of every day doing what I might otherwise have felt a bit guilty for. And that did happen, at the beginning, but as time wore on, I found (and I never thought I’d hear myself say this) that I was getting a bit fed up with it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it became a chore, but there were certainly days when I did a quick couple of hundred words, and was glad to see the back of them. I’d put that down as a positive result. I have sometimes worried how addicted I am to blogging, and it is nice to see that I can, after all, be sated by it. Sated and ready to take a step back of my own free will.
Another positive outcome, which I had hoped for, is that I am better at writing short posts. Hurrah. I can still burble on at great length, but I have become practised at getting my thoughts organized into a smaller space. I have also become more disciplined with time – another outcome I’d hoped for. I used to spend hours writing even a short post. I’d write and rewrite, cogitate and regurgitate. Over the past month, I’ve made myself sit down, write the post straight, read it through once and make corrections, and then publish it without endless tinkering. So on the plus side, I have had the practice I wanted in writing posts that are short and to the point, and in doing them quickly (or more quickly than my previous snail-like self - it's all relative).
On the negative side, I really missed allowing decent time for comments. You’ve all been very loyal, but of course a post doesn’t get so many comments if it’s only at the top of the blog for a single day. And it’s not just the number of comments that adds to the richness of the blog. It’s the way the conversation develops, with people picking up on each other’s comments. A blog post is like a cheese or a fine wine. It needs time to mature.
Another negative is that I haven’t had the opportunity to write down some of the meatier stuff that is in my head. I have so much I still want to say about life in the US through British eyes. Guns, religion, education, friendships, buying and selling a house, some of my early impressions… The kind of things that I might string together into the book that is always lingering at the back of my mind. This month didn’t bring it any further forward. Drat. But the pressure of a daily post militates against that kind of writing. I had anticipated that with all three children at school full-time and my health returning to normal, I’d have enough hours in a day to tackle some of those subjects in longer, more thoughtful, pieces. I had reckoned without the invasion of daily life. One thing about feeling better healthwise is that you inevitably do more around the house, and outside the home. I’m happy about that, of course, but I had forgotten to factor it into the equation. I’d also reckoned without 6 days of sick children off school, and 7 days of school out for teacher training, state assessments or parent conferences (having children at two different schools means that there is twice as much of this). That’s 13 school days out of 20 or so. Hm, now I count them up, I realise it’s no wonder it’s felt like I haven’t much time to myself.
So in sum, I’m glad I did ‘The Daily Post’, and I think it was an achievement to complete it without missing a day. I don’t think I’ll do it again, and certainly not for a while. I’m all blogged out! It did make me realize what a huge undertaking it was to cook over 500 recipes and blog about them in a year, as Julie did in the movie Julie and Julia, which is where this idea all started. I've just re-read that post, and the reasons I gave for setting myself this challenge. I'd rather forgotten what I was feeling at that time. I've certainly got more sense of purpose than I had back then, more zest for life. I guess at least part of that must be due to 'The Daily Post'. It's been one part of the jigsaw falling into place.
I didn’t get much tapestry done, since one of you is bound to ask.
.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Stop press
I know I've already done my daily post, but I have to share this nugget with you, oh fellow expat bloggers.
I was speaking on the phone to a fellow Brit in America, and he ended the conversation with "Good Day". I don't know this man personally: I was speaking to him in his official capacity. Do they train people to sign off "Good Day" do you think? Just to remind us expats of BBC period dramas, and make us feel nostalgic? I know you're going to ask whether I'm sure he wasn't Australian, but it was definitely "Good Day", not "G'day". And I'm not sure I didn't hear a gentle thud as he tipped his bowler hat to me.
Made my day, even if he can't help me speed up the green card application process. It was top hole talking to him.
I was speaking on the phone to a fellow Brit in America, and he ended the conversation with "Good Day". I don't know this man personally: I was speaking to him in his official capacity. Do they train people to sign off "Good Day" do you think? Just to remind us expats of BBC period dramas, and make us feel nostalgic? I know you're going to ask whether I'm sure he wasn't Australian, but it was definitely "Good Day", not "G'day". And I'm not sure I didn't hear a gentle thud as he tipped his bowler hat to me.
Made my day, even if he can't help me speed up the green card application process. It was top hole talking to him.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Festivals
One of the things that is very noticeable about living in America is how much more effort they put into celebrating festivals. Houses are decorated, schools have parties, the ‘seasonal’ aisles in stores are filled with appropriate merchandise (although that happens well in advance of the festival itself, as if those aisles are in their own private time zone).
My personal theory is that we don’t need the excitement of festivals so much in Britain, as our school year is organized differently. We are never more than a few weeks away from a holiday (Christmas, Easter, summer) or half-term. If you need something to look forward to – and don’t we all? – then you have lots of scope to arrange a day out, a trip, a visit to or from relations, a holiday, something to break up the routine. Over here, there’s a 2-week Christmas holiday, a week’s Spring break, and otherwise, all the school holiday is in a great long 12-week stretch over the summer. (I know I've talked about this before so I'm sorry to be repetitive, but it really does make such a big difference to life.) There are occasional days off, but it’s just not the same as having a long week-end, or a half-term week. I mean to say, if your children returned to school on August 17th, and their only break before Christmas was 3 days holiday in late November, wouldn’t you need a few events to get excited about?
Each festival has a colour associated with it. At the time of the relevant festival, the stores have a rash of that colour dotted through them. Cupcakes have the theme colour icing, there are a couple of racks of children's clothing in it, there'll be a sprinkling of it in the adult clothing section too, homewares will sport the colour in paper plates, tableclothes, napkins, and candles, and there'll be plenty of novelty goods spattered around in that same colour too. I was thinking about this, and I reckon every feasible colour is accounted for. Here’s the list:
Valentine’s Day: red and pink
St Patrick’s Day: green
Easter: yellow (and pastel shades generally)
Memorial Day and Fourth of July: red, white and blue
Hallowe’en: orange, black and purple
Christmas: green and red.
It really only leaves brown and grey unused. They’re not very festive colours, so it’s not surprising. I suppose Labor Day could adopt them, to represent the drudgery of work. But I have a better plan for them. I’m working on a ‘British Day’ celebration when we could put them to use. It would have to be 4th January, ie the opposite to 4th July. The grey would symbolize the British weather, and the brown the British countryside, (ideally we’d want to use green for that, but that’s already taken by St Patrick and the Irish and in January, the British countryside is more brown than green anyway).
I think I’m going to have an uphill battle getting this one universally adopted, especially so soon after the Christmas season. On the other hand, those seasonal aisles are pretty purposeless in January. It’s a good six weeks till Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the major retailers would welcome a January festival. No-one will have grey and brown paraphernalia stored away in their closets, so this would present an opportunity for significant new purchasing. Perhaps I should write to Target and Wal-mart and see if I can get something started (and yes, I know I’d have to spell it ‘gray’ for their benefit).
.
My personal theory is that we don’t need the excitement of festivals so much in Britain, as our school year is organized differently. We are never more than a few weeks away from a holiday (Christmas, Easter, summer) or half-term. If you need something to look forward to – and don’t we all? – then you have lots of scope to arrange a day out, a trip, a visit to or from relations, a holiday, something to break up the routine. Over here, there’s a 2-week Christmas holiday, a week’s Spring break, and otherwise, all the school holiday is in a great long 12-week stretch over the summer. (I know I've talked about this before so I'm sorry to be repetitive, but it really does make such a big difference to life.) There are occasional days off, but it’s just not the same as having a long week-end, or a half-term week. I mean to say, if your children returned to school on August 17th, and their only break before Christmas was 3 days holiday in late November, wouldn’t you need a few events to get excited about?
Each festival has a colour associated with it. At the time of the relevant festival, the stores have a rash of that colour dotted through them. Cupcakes have the theme colour icing, there are a couple of racks of children's clothing in it, there'll be a sprinkling of it in the adult clothing section too, homewares will sport the colour in paper plates, tableclothes, napkins, and candles, and there'll be plenty of novelty goods spattered around in that same colour too. I was thinking about this, and I reckon every feasible colour is accounted for. Here’s the list:
Valentine’s Day: red and pink
St Patrick’s Day: green
Easter: yellow (and pastel shades generally)
Memorial Day and Fourth of July: red, white and blue
Hallowe’en: orange, black and purple
Christmas: green and red.
It really only leaves brown and grey unused. They’re not very festive colours, so it’s not surprising. I suppose Labor Day could adopt them, to represent the drudgery of work. But I have a better plan for them. I’m working on a ‘British Day’ celebration when we could put them to use. It would have to be 4th January, ie the opposite to 4th July. The grey would symbolize the British weather, and the brown the British countryside, (ideally we’d want to use green for that, but that’s already taken by St Patrick and the Irish and in January, the British countryside is more brown than green anyway).
I think I’m going to have an uphill battle getting this one universally adopted, especially so soon after the Christmas season. On the other hand, those seasonal aisles are pretty purposeless in January. It’s a good six weeks till Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the major retailers would welcome a January festival. No-one will have grey and brown paraphernalia stored away in their closets, so this would present an opportunity for significant new purchasing. Perhaps I should write to Target and Wal-mart and see if I can get something started (and yes, I know I’d have to spell it ‘gray’ for their benefit).
.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The ripple effect
Day 28 of 'The Daily Post'.
Do you remember about this time last year, the senior executives of General Motors went to ask Obama for a bail-out from public money, and they travelled to the meeting in private jets? Obama pointed out that this was something of a gaff, and the executives were publicly humiliated. I thought Obama did well to point it out. But what about this?
The main industry of the city I live in is aircraft manufacture. It is home to three big producers of private planes. Between them, Learjet, Cessna and Hawker make 45% of the world’s business jets. After Obama’s criticism of the GM executives, large numbers of orders were cancelled or postponed, and new orders dried up. Business travel by private jet was no longer as desirable as it had been. Last year, these three companies produced 11,500 private jets. This year, they expect to produce 7500, and next year, 6,500. Their market research suggests that they won’t be back up to 2008 demand until 2017. In the past year, 13,000 people have been laid off. Others are working reduced hours, or being given periods of compulsory furlough.
I don’t really know how to feel about this. I don’t think the world needs to add to its global warming problems by having senior business people flying around in their own, or leased, jets. Should I be pleased that orders are so severely reduced? On one level, yes, but that’s not the reason these people were made redundant. You have to feel sorry for those 13,000 people. I would feel sorry for workers made redundant from the tobacco industry, in spite of what I hoped for the future of that industry.
I feel a particular sympathy for those 13,000, though. It happened so suddenly. One news item, and their fates were sealed. It was unforeseen. Yes, you’d expect a recession to bring a reduction in orders of business planes, but this was a drop of a 35% in a single year. It must be galling that it wasn’t even a matter of government policy. The incident was symbolic not substantive, the result of an unscripted reaction from the President. Most of all, I’m sure those workers don’t appreciate the irony that GM jobs were saved by a bail-out, but there’s no public subsidy for the aircraft manufacturers.
I’m sure we all, if we’re honest, enjoyed the embarrassment we imagine those GM executives experienced. It was a time when we felt the mighty deserved to fall. It wasn’t happening, and the GM executives took on the role of scapegoat. Since they weren’t actually going to lose their jobs, then being taken down a public peg or two by the President was the next best thing. The corporate bottom was smacked. But spare a thought for those 13,000 whose lives have been turned upside down by that one incident, an incident which, because it came from the White House, caught the public imagination and gained publicity, took on a significance beyond its worth.
Do you remember about this time last year, the senior executives of General Motors went to ask Obama for a bail-out from public money, and they travelled to the meeting in private jets? Obama pointed out that this was something of a gaff, and the executives were publicly humiliated. I thought Obama did well to point it out. But what about this?
The main industry of the city I live in is aircraft manufacture. It is home to three big producers of private planes. Between them, Learjet, Cessna and Hawker make 45% of the world’s business jets. After Obama’s criticism of the GM executives, large numbers of orders were cancelled or postponed, and new orders dried up. Business travel by private jet was no longer as desirable as it had been. Last year, these three companies produced 11,500 private jets. This year, they expect to produce 7500, and next year, 6,500. Their market research suggests that they won’t be back up to 2008 demand until 2017. In the past year, 13,000 people have been laid off. Others are working reduced hours, or being given periods of compulsory furlough.
I don’t really know how to feel about this. I don’t think the world needs to add to its global warming problems by having senior business people flying around in their own, or leased, jets. Should I be pleased that orders are so severely reduced? On one level, yes, but that’s not the reason these people were made redundant. You have to feel sorry for those 13,000 people. I would feel sorry for workers made redundant from the tobacco industry, in spite of what I hoped for the future of that industry.
I feel a particular sympathy for those 13,000, though. It happened so suddenly. One news item, and their fates were sealed. It was unforeseen. Yes, you’d expect a recession to bring a reduction in orders of business planes, but this was a drop of a 35% in a single year. It must be galling that it wasn’t even a matter of government policy. The incident was symbolic not substantive, the result of an unscripted reaction from the President. Most of all, I’m sure those workers don’t appreciate the irony that GM jobs were saved by a bail-out, but there’s no public subsidy for the aircraft manufacturers.
I’m sure we all, if we’re honest, enjoyed the embarrassment we imagine those GM executives experienced. It was a time when we felt the mighty deserved to fall. It wasn’t happening, and the GM executives took on the role of scapegoat. Since they weren’t actually going to lose their jobs, then being taken down a public peg or two by the President was the next best thing. The corporate bottom was smacked. But spare a thought for those 13,000 whose lives have been turned upside down by that one incident, an incident which, because it came from the White House, caught the public imagination and gained publicity, took on a significance beyond its worth.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Siblings
Day 27 of ‘The Daily Post’ (sorry, I’ve been forgetting to count).
Talking of Charlesinparis made me reflect on siblings. I am jolly glad I had siblings, because watching my own children would be rather shocking otherwise. I would probably take seriously statements like “You’re the worst brother in the world and I’m never going to let you use any of my things ever again”. I would psycho-analyse the reasons behind the name-calling, and the choice of names. I would agonise over setting appropriate boundaries to the physical violence. As it is, having grown up as one of four, I recognize much of what I see and hear from my own childhood. In the same way that I hear myself saying things that my mother said, I hear my children saying things that I and my siblings said.
I assume that most of this stuff is nature’s way of training children in conflict resolution, weathering knocks to self-esteem, and other useful life skills, much as puppies play at fighting and racing. And please don’t think that I assume children who are brought up as only children lack these skills. I imagine they learn them in more sophisticated environments involving fewer broken toys and broken deals.
Are you an only child with multiple children of your own? Has it been a big adjustment? I’d like to know.
Anyway, I thought I’d tell you about my siblings, and in particular what this summer has brought out.
My sister has sent me books. She has always chosen just right. She thinks I am more cultured and intellectual than I am, and gives me links to highbrow literary sites or tells me about operas she has been to. It's nice she has such unwaveringly high expectations of me, in defiance of the current evidence. It's also impressive that she chooses good books for me, in spite of her aspirations for my tastes. She emails me snippets from her London office life. She faithfully prints the blog out for my mum to read.
My big brother, Charlesinparis, has phoned a lot. When he phones, the conversation runs at 100mph, and is full of puns which are either very bad, or very obscure, or both. Who else out there would tie up the name of the anti-histamine medication Benadryl with the 70’s comedian Benny Hill? I have had over 40 years' practice at getting his puns, so I can keep up, and sometimes even pre-empt. It’s very gratifying. His conversational style is like the activity of a hummingbird. He dives in to a subject at breakneck speed, sucks the sweet nectar out of it while his wings work unbelievably fast to hold him steady, then departs to the next one in a dart that you could miss if you blinked. It's one of nature's greatest wonders.
Then there’s my younger bro, in Brighton. I used to make him get into my bed so that I could warm my cold feet up on his legs, when we were little and shared a bedroom. Now he is over six foot and beanpole thin, so I expect he has cold feet himself much of the time. He has a very laid back attitude to life, which is a great antidote to the manic majority. He has often provided for me some kind of still centre where I can go to catch breath when the storm is raging. In a recent email chat with him, I asked
“How can I tell whether I am suffering from chemo-induced fatigue, or whether I am just lazy and enjoy lounging round the house surfing the internet and not doing very much?”
To which he replied
“Why do you need to tell?”
I know I said to them "you're the worst siblings in the world and I'll never let you use any of my things". I was always the snark when we played ‘hunting of the snark’ (ok, ok, they knew I secretly enjoyed it). I was humiliated in arm wrestling contests. I used to hide in the garage when I wanted to be away from them. But it all came out in the wash, as you can see.
Talking of Charlesinparis made me reflect on siblings. I am jolly glad I had siblings, because watching my own children would be rather shocking otherwise. I would probably take seriously statements like “You’re the worst brother in the world and I’m never going to let you use any of my things ever again”. I would psycho-analyse the reasons behind the name-calling, and the choice of names. I would agonise over setting appropriate boundaries to the physical violence. As it is, having grown up as one of four, I recognize much of what I see and hear from my own childhood. In the same way that I hear myself saying things that my mother said, I hear my children saying things that I and my siblings said.
I assume that most of this stuff is nature’s way of training children in conflict resolution, weathering knocks to self-esteem, and other useful life skills, much as puppies play at fighting and racing. And please don’t think that I assume children who are brought up as only children lack these skills. I imagine they learn them in more sophisticated environments involving fewer broken toys and broken deals.
Are you an only child with multiple children of your own? Has it been a big adjustment? I’d like to know.
Anyway, I thought I’d tell you about my siblings, and in particular what this summer has brought out.
My sister has sent me books. She has always chosen just right. She thinks I am more cultured and intellectual than I am, and gives me links to highbrow literary sites or tells me about operas she has been to. It's nice she has such unwaveringly high expectations of me, in defiance of the current evidence. It's also impressive that she chooses good books for me, in spite of her aspirations for my tastes. She emails me snippets from her London office life. She faithfully prints the blog out for my mum to read.
My big brother, Charlesinparis, has phoned a lot. When he phones, the conversation runs at 100mph, and is full of puns which are either very bad, or very obscure, or both. Who else out there would tie up the name of the anti-histamine medication Benadryl with the 70’s comedian Benny Hill? I have had over 40 years' practice at getting his puns, so I can keep up, and sometimes even pre-empt. It’s very gratifying. His conversational style is like the activity of a hummingbird. He dives in to a subject at breakneck speed, sucks the sweet nectar out of it while his wings work unbelievably fast to hold him steady, then departs to the next one in a dart that you could miss if you blinked. It's one of nature's greatest wonders.
Then there’s my younger bro, in Brighton. I used to make him get into my bed so that I could warm my cold feet up on his legs, when we were little and shared a bedroom. Now he is over six foot and beanpole thin, so I expect he has cold feet himself much of the time. He has a very laid back attitude to life, which is a great antidote to the manic majority. He has often provided for me some kind of still centre where I can go to catch breath when the storm is raging. In a recent email chat with him, I asked
“How can I tell whether I am suffering from chemo-induced fatigue, or whether I am just lazy and enjoy lounging round the house surfing the internet and not doing very much?”
To which he replied
“Why do you need to tell?”
I know I said to them "you're the worst siblings in the world and I'll never let you use any of my things". I was always the snark when we played ‘hunting of the snark’ (ok, ok, they knew I secretly enjoyed it). I was humiliated in arm wrestling contests. I used to hide in the garage when I wanted to be away from them. But it all came out in the wash, as you can see.
Monday, October 19, 2009
U2. Me too.
Yesterday morning, when we woke up, Husband and I rolled over to face each other. We bared our teeth, shrugged our shoulders up to our ears, and performed a joint version of “hee-hee, hee-hee, hee-hee” in true Mutley style. Yesterday was the day we were parking our kids with friends, and heading off to a U2 concert. They were performing in Norman, Oklahoma, which (in case you’re as ignorant as I was) is the home of the University of Oklahoma, and – importantly for U2 - has a big stadium.
We booked the tickets a few weeks ago, to give us something to look forward to, in the depths of chemotherapy. Yesterday it felt weird to be going, rather than looking forward to going. The mirage in the distance had become the reality of the present moment. We had had an anxious spell earlier in the week when 12-yo, who has the constitution of an ox (an unwritten one, as all the best ones are) and is almost never ill, got ill. For 24 hours, I thought “ah, this is just one of those 24 hour things”. For the next 24 hours, I thought “this child is never ill, how can he be ill with 2 days to go before the U2 concert?” For the third 24 hours, I stood him upright, and slapped him regularly to bring the colour back to his cheeks, and that seemed to do the trick.
My relationship with U2 got off to a bad start. The guy who had the room next to mine in my second year at university was a big fan, and played their music too loud and too often. And when I say ‘their music’, I mean ‘the one track he played of their music’. So I was subjected to In the Name of Love several times a day, and as the weeks wore on, my enthusiasm for U2 waned. Over a decade later, I was reintroduced to their music, when I married Husband who had been a faithful U2 fan.
I’ve never been a rock concert kind of a gal. I did go and hear B A Robertson perform in Borehamwood (oh yes) when I was about 17, but I don’t feel that qualifies me to critique U2’s show. If you want a description and reviews, I’m sure Google can supply them. And of the Black Eyed Peas, who were supporting. I’ll just give you my perspective.
It was fabulous. What more can I say? I loved the show: the drama, the excitement, the atmosphere of the big crowd, the enthusiasm of the college town audience. I loved the music: the familiarity of the old songs, the energy of the new. And Bono. What a hero. There’s a bit of a bloggers’ debate going on about his shades, but I have to say I like those shades.
The show was designed to be accessible 360 degrees. A rock concert in the round. (Novel idea, but hang on, didn’t Shakespeare come up with something similar all those centuries ago?). The band performed in the middle of the stadium, under a huge spaceship-like structure with a wrap-around video screen. Bono described it as enabling them to be more intimate with the audience. “Intimacy on a grand scale”, he said. With 50,000 people there, I didn’t think that ‘intimacy’ was quite the right word, but then our seats were right at the top of the stands. Certainly I did feel drawn in, connected, part of the show.
I saw Bono and The Edge interviewed by Jonathan Ross a few weeks ago, promoting the tour, and one thing stuck powerfully in my mind. Bono said that much of U2’s music was about joy, and he thought people didn’t know how to respond to that, because there isn’t generally a lot of joy in rock music. So last night, I listened for the joy in the music. And I heard it. There’s anger, aggression, edginess, sadness too. But I’m glad Bono had pointed out the joy, because for me, this was an evening of celebration.
Bono said that U2 last performed in Norman, Oklahoma, 26 years ago. That would have been one year before my repetitive exposure to In the Name of Love. During that time, I have graduated, had several different jobs, married, had three children, lived in ten different homes in six different towns, started a blog… And all they’ve been doing is singing, recording and touring. Poor old U2. What a very samey time they’ve had of it.
This is not doing the evening justice, but I am tired after the long journeys and the late night (still not quite back to my full energy levels), and Husband has plied me with a glass of red wine which he misguidedly thought would help the writing flow. I’m trying to think of a clever quote from U2 lyrics to finish the post off with, but I can’t. Oh, I know. You’ll enjoy this. When I got back, I looked at the U2 website, and noticed that Paris was on the list of venues. Full of excitement, I emailed my brother who lives in Paris (long-time readers of my blog will remember he used to comment as Charlesinparis).
“You have to go to U2” I gushed. “They’re going to be at the Stade de France on September 18th. You absolutely have to get tickets. Now.”
Don’t laugh at me too hard. An evening of intimacy with Bono - it can be a disorientating experience.
.
We booked the tickets a few weeks ago, to give us something to look forward to, in the depths of chemotherapy. Yesterday it felt weird to be going, rather than looking forward to going. The mirage in the distance had become the reality of the present moment. We had had an anxious spell earlier in the week when 12-yo, who has the constitution of an ox (an unwritten one, as all the best ones are) and is almost never ill, got ill. For 24 hours, I thought “ah, this is just one of those 24 hour things”. For the next 24 hours, I thought “this child is never ill, how can he be ill with 2 days to go before the U2 concert?” For the third 24 hours, I stood him upright, and slapped him regularly to bring the colour back to his cheeks, and that seemed to do the trick.
My relationship with U2 got off to a bad start. The guy who had the room next to mine in my second year at university was a big fan, and played their music too loud and too often. And when I say ‘their music’, I mean ‘the one track he played of their music’. So I was subjected to In the Name of Love several times a day, and as the weeks wore on, my enthusiasm for U2 waned. Over a decade later, I was reintroduced to their music, when I married Husband who had been a faithful U2 fan.
I’ve never been a rock concert kind of a gal. I did go and hear B A Robertson perform in Borehamwood (oh yes) when I was about 17, but I don’t feel that qualifies me to critique U2’s show. If you want a description and reviews, I’m sure Google can supply them. And of the Black Eyed Peas, who were supporting. I’ll just give you my perspective.
It was fabulous. What more can I say? I loved the show: the drama, the excitement, the atmosphere of the big crowd, the enthusiasm of the college town audience. I loved the music: the familiarity of the old songs, the energy of the new. And Bono. What a hero. There’s a bit of a bloggers’ debate going on about his shades, but I have to say I like those shades.
The show was designed to be accessible 360 degrees. A rock concert in the round. (Novel idea, but hang on, didn’t Shakespeare come up with something similar all those centuries ago?). The band performed in the middle of the stadium, under a huge spaceship-like structure with a wrap-around video screen. Bono described it as enabling them to be more intimate with the audience. “Intimacy on a grand scale”, he said. With 50,000 people there, I didn’t think that ‘intimacy’ was quite the right word, but then our seats were right at the top of the stands. Certainly I did feel drawn in, connected, part of the show.
I saw Bono and The Edge interviewed by Jonathan Ross a few weeks ago, promoting the tour, and one thing stuck powerfully in my mind. Bono said that much of U2’s music was about joy, and he thought people didn’t know how to respond to that, because there isn’t generally a lot of joy in rock music. So last night, I listened for the joy in the music. And I heard it. There’s anger, aggression, edginess, sadness too. But I’m glad Bono had pointed out the joy, because for me, this was an evening of celebration.
Bono said that U2 last performed in Norman, Oklahoma, 26 years ago. That would have been one year before my repetitive exposure to In the Name of Love. During that time, I have graduated, had several different jobs, married, had three children, lived in ten different homes in six different towns, started a blog… And all they’ve been doing is singing, recording and touring. Poor old U2. What a very samey time they’ve had of it.
This is not doing the evening justice, but I am tired after the long journeys and the late night (still not quite back to my full energy levels), and Husband has plied me with a glass of red wine which he misguidedly thought would help the writing flow. I’m trying to think of a clever quote from U2 lyrics to finish the post off with, but I can’t. Oh, I know. You’ll enjoy this. When I got back, I looked at the U2 website, and noticed that Paris was on the list of venues. Full of excitement, I emailed my brother who lives in Paris (long-time readers of my blog will remember he used to comment as Charlesinparis).
“You have to go to U2” I gushed. “They’re going to be at the Stade de France on September 18th. You absolutely have to get tickets. Now.”
Don’t laugh at me too hard. An evening of intimacy with Bono - it can be a disorientating experience.
.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Conversation
I love conversations with five year olds. This one was prompted by me emerging from the shower.
5-yo: Mama, ladies who have had babies don’t look so good in bikinis as ladies who haven’t had babies, do they?
Me: That's true, they don't.
5-yo: Why don't they?
Me: Well, their tummies get stretched by the baby growing inside. [Pause, but 5-yo seemed to expect more] I suppose different things seem important at different stages of your life. And I suppose you have to make decisions about what you want to do. For me, having children was much more fun than looking good in a bikini [which I don't think I ever did anyway. Ed.] What do you think?
5-yo: [confidently] I’m going to do both.
Me: Well, perhaps you'll be one of the lucky ones. There are some...
But I said that to her departing back, as she was already skipping away to whatever had next caught her five year old interest.
5-yo: Mama, ladies who have had babies don’t look so good in bikinis as ladies who haven’t had babies, do they?
Me: That's true, they don't.
5-yo: Why don't they?
Me: Well, their tummies get stretched by the baby growing inside. [Pause, but 5-yo seemed to expect more] I suppose different things seem important at different stages of your life. And I suppose you have to make decisions about what you want to do. For me, having children was much more fun than looking good in a bikini [which I don't think I ever did anyway. Ed.] What do you think?
5-yo: [confidently] I’m going to do both.
Me: Well, perhaps you'll be one of the lucky ones. There are some...
But I said that to her departing back, as she was already skipping away to whatever had next caught her five year old interest.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Significant others
A friend of mine who had a boy, then a girl, was once discussing with me how lovely it was to have a daughter. She had been thrilled to have a son, of course, but what a relief to have a girl. “Boys are so… other”, she said. I hadn’t really felt that myself, and became increasingly annoyed throughout my third pregnancy, when people told me (often in front of my sons) “a girl would be nice”. Part of it was to do with the assumption that it is fun to have a mix, but I think some women do feel that a daughter is easier to relate to, and that sons are… other.
I was the other way round. I’d never been a girly girl. I had one dolly, given to me by a godmother, and I hated it. I never played with it, and I remember feeling a certain scorn for girls who did like playing with dollies. The same went for Barbie; I never owned even one. I had an older sister obsessed with pink and, fed up with pink hand-me-downs, I staked out blue as my favourite colour.
When I had sons, I found it easy to get into playing trains. I confess to relishing the challenge of creating a wooden track using all the different junctions and bridges we have accumulated over the years. I have become strangely fascinated by JCBs, I enjoy building Bionicles, and I’m quite partial to a light sabre fight.
When I had a daughter, I felt a little daunted by the whole idea of girly play, never really having practised it very much in my own childhood. I’ve tried my best. I have learnt to enjoy lining up small plastic things with over-sized heads that look like aliens but are marketed as Littlest Pet Shop animals. I’ve spent hours fiddling around with pieces of velcro the size of a lentil, in order to dress Barbie in microscopic fabric shapes that she thinks are clothes (doesn’t she have anything between her moulded plastic ears, for heaven’s sake?). I’ve had more pink in my laundry than I would agree to under torture. I have my hair done regularly by a small-fingered hairdresser standing on the chair behind me, as the only way to get a fair run at writing a blog post.
It’s a good thing we are designed to be flexible. It’s amazing how “other” you can become, when needs be.
I was the other way round. I’d never been a girly girl. I had one dolly, given to me by a godmother, and I hated it. I never played with it, and I remember feeling a certain scorn for girls who did like playing with dollies. The same went for Barbie; I never owned even one. I had an older sister obsessed with pink and, fed up with pink hand-me-downs, I staked out blue as my favourite colour.
When I had sons, I found it easy to get into playing trains. I confess to relishing the challenge of creating a wooden track using all the different junctions and bridges we have accumulated over the years. I have become strangely fascinated by JCBs, I enjoy building Bionicles, and I’m quite partial to a light sabre fight.
When I had a daughter, I felt a little daunted by the whole idea of girly play, never really having practised it very much in my own childhood. I’ve tried my best. I have learnt to enjoy lining up small plastic things with over-sized heads that look like aliens but are marketed as Littlest Pet Shop animals. I’ve spent hours fiddling around with pieces of velcro the size of a lentil, in order to dress Barbie in microscopic fabric shapes that she thinks are clothes (doesn’t she have anything between her moulded plastic ears, for heaven’s sake?). I’ve had more pink in my laundry than I would agree to under torture. I have my hair done regularly by a small-fingered hairdresser standing on the chair behind me, as the only way to get a fair run at writing a blog post.
It’s a good thing we are designed to be flexible. It’s amazing how “other” you can become, when needs be.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thoughts of labour
Day 22 of 'The Daily Post'.
When you’re in labour, your mind does odd things.
With my first, I remember thinking, with surprise, “Mrs McConnell is right. It IS just like doing a great big poo.” So much for all that talk of ‘bearing down’, and visualizing the petals of a flower gently opening.
I should explain. I had a friend and colleague called Holly McConnell. She hadn’t been through labour herself, but had quoted her mother’s pennyworth on the subject. I didn’t have the mental capacity to think this bit through when I was giving birth, but it later dawned on me that the woman in question wasn’t Mrs McConnell at all. That’s Holly’s married name. I had no idea what her maiden name was. But Mrs McConnell was good enough for me at the time, and if that bit of wisdom ever gets passed into formal theory for antenatal instruction, it should be called ‘the Mrs McConnell approach’ now for all time.
With my second and third labours, I followed the advice of a friend, and just kept my mind focused on the tea and toast that you are served once it’s all over. It tastes like no tea and toast has ever tasted before or since. It is the tea and toast to end all tea and toast. The anticipation of that tea and toast didn’t leave any mental space for odd stray thoughts, and of course by that time, I already knew that Mrs McConnell was right.
Did you have any random thoughts in labour? What’s your Mrs McConnell moment? Did the promise of tea and toast keep you going, or was it something else for you?
.
When you’re in labour, your mind does odd things.
With my first, I remember thinking, with surprise, “Mrs McConnell is right. It IS just like doing a great big poo.” So much for all that talk of ‘bearing down’, and visualizing the petals of a flower gently opening.
I should explain. I had a friend and colleague called Holly McConnell. She hadn’t been through labour herself, but had quoted her mother’s pennyworth on the subject. I didn’t have the mental capacity to think this bit through when I was giving birth, but it later dawned on me that the woman in question wasn’t Mrs McConnell at all. That’s Holly’s married name. I had no idea what her maiden name was. But Mrs McConnell was good enough for me at the time, and if that bit of wisdom ever gets passed into formal theory for antenatal instruction, it should be called ‘the Mrs McConnell approach’ now for all time.
With my second and third labours, I followed the advice of a friend, and just kept my mind focused on the tea and toast that you are served once it’s all over. It tastes like no tea and toast has ever tasted before or since. It is the tea and toast to end all tea and toast. The anticipation of that tea and toast didn’t leave any mental space for odd stray thoughts, and of course by that time, I already knew that Mrs McConnell was right.
Did you have any random thoughts in labour? What’s your Mrs McConnell moment? Did the promise of tea and toast keep you going, or was it something else for you?
.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Hardwood floors
Day 21 of 'The Daily Post'.
I am unique in the world. I don't see the attraction of hardwood floors.
Carpets are cosy and warm, and soft and quiet. Hardwood floors are clean and hygienic, I grant you that much, but they are noisy and have an unwelcoming look about them. Hardwood floors are unforgiving. Every speck of dust, every hair, every drop, every footprint shows. They are a pain to live with, unless you want to vacuum every day. I don't. Either want to vacuum every day, or vacuum every day.
Hardwood floors are for catalogue people. You know, the ones whose beds are made perfectly every morning, and whose sofas have scatter cushions beautifully placed on them. Whose bathrooms have bottles in neat rows, and no toothpaste smears round the basins. Whose hand towels hang square in the ring, and whose kitchens have clutter-free counters. Hardwood floors are for these people.
Kitchen counters. That's another one. I don't like granite kitchen counter tops. I just don't. I find them dark and oppressive, and they reflect the lights too much. I go to my kitchen for comfort and homeliness, not for a space age experience.
And yes, I know hardwood floors do not make much of a blog post, but this is day 21 of my month of daily posts, I've had 3 out of 3 children off sick in the past week, and you have to hand it to me, I did throw in granite counter tops at the last.
This is not a sponsored post, by the way.
.
I am unique in the world. I don't see the attraction of hardwood floors.
Carpets are cosy and warm, and soft and quiet. Hardwood floors are clean and hygienic, I grant you that much, but they are noisy and have an unwelcoming look about them. Hardwood floors are unforgiving. Every speck of dust, every hair, every drop, every footprint shows. They are a pain to live with, unless you want to vacuum every day. I don't. Either want to vacuum every day, or vacuum every day.
Hardwood floors are for catalogue people. You know, the ones whose beds are made perfectly every morning, and whose sofas have scatter cushions beautifully placed on them. Whose bathrooms have bottles in neat rows, and no toothpaste smears round the basins. Whose hand towels hang square in the ring, and whose kitchens have clutter-free counters. Hardwood floors are for these people.
Kitchen counters. That's another one. I don't like granite kitchen counter tops. I just don't. I find them dark and oppressive, and they reflect the lights too much. I go to my kitchen for comfort and homeliness, not for a space age experience.
And yes, I know hardwood floors do not make much of a blog post, but this is day 21 of my month of daily posts, I've had 3 out of 3 children off sick in the past week, and you have to hand it to me, I did throw in granite counter tops at the last.
This is not a sponsored post, by the way.
.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A real gentleman
Day 20 of 'The Daily Post'.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Monday, October 12, 2009
More words
Day 19 of 'The Daily Post'.
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Conversation
Day 18 of 'The Daily Post'.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Paul's house: take two
Day 17 of 'The Daily Post'.
Since I discovered the 'if you can type, you can make movies' website, we've been entertaining ourselves with it. It's quite fun when your kids get to the age when they are able to do this kind of thing with you, rather than building train tracks (though I do miss the train tracks). It's a little humiliating, because they are so much more adept at the technical stuff, but once you've got over that, you can have some laughs. And there's less to tidy up at the end of the afternoon.
The boys also enjoyed browsing Youtube with me (it's out of bounds for them on their own) for remixes of the 'Poo at Paul's' Glade advertisement.
12-yo has masterfully combined the two, and made his own movie version of Poo at Paul's. Here it is (and it's only 27 seconds).
Since I discovered the 'if you can type, you can make movies' website, we've been entertaining ourselves with it. It's quite fun when your kids get to the age when they are able to do this kind of thing with you, rather than building train tracks (though I do miss the train tracks). It's a little humiliating, because they are so much more adept at the technical stuff, but once you've got over that, you can have some laughs. And there's less to tidy up at the end of the afternoon.
The boys also enjoyed browsing Youtube with me (it's out of bounds for them on their own) for remixes of the 'Poo at Paul's' Glade advertisement.
12-yo has masterfully combined the two, and made his own movie version of Poo at Paul's. Here it is (and it's only 27 seconds).
Friday, October 9, 2009
In retrospect
Day 16 of 'The Daily Post'.
The Daily Post nearly ground to a halt today. With two ill children at home, I didn't think I'd get much blogging time. Two ill children with different complaints. One with headache and sore throat, and one with vomiting. You'd think they would have had the decency to co-ordinate illnesses.
Then I remembered a post I'd written when I was deep in the middle of chemotherapy. It was the school holidays, and I had such amazing, supportive friends, who helped me out at every turn. Husband was around and ran the show, but friends stood alongside him in an incredible way. For the children, they turned what could have been long, boring days into fun, exciting play dates.
But there was a darker side for me. I wrote about it at the time, but it seemed too sad to post. It feels ok to post it in retrospect, though, and it makes me glad for days like this, when my life is full of vomit in a bucket, fractious children, smelly laundry, washing-up to be done, relentless Spongebob Squarepants, and other such joy-giving things. Joy-giving, literally.
This is what I wrote a few weeks ago:
Kind people bring me books on CD, and dinner for tonight, and take my children away to play. They load my excited children into their cars, and wave and smile as they drive away. On the porch, I lift a hand and furrow my cheeks with my lips in reply.
Please bring back the children and take away the CDs.
I don’t want your lasagna. I want my life.
.
The Daily Post nearly ground to a halt today. With two ill children at home, I didn't think I'd get much blogging time. Two ill children with different complaints. One with headache and sore throat, and one with vomiting. You'd think they would have had the decency to co-ordinate illnesses.
Then I remembered a post I'd written when I was deep in the middle of chemotherapy. It was the school holidays, and I had such amazing, supportive friends, who helped me out at every turn. Husband was around and ran the show, but friends stood alongside him in an incredible way. For the children, they turned what could have been long, boring days into fun, exciting play dates.
But there was a darker side for me. I wrote about it at the time, but it seemed too sad to post. It feels ok to post it in retrospect, though, and it makes me glad for days like this, when my life is full of vomit in a bucket, fractious children, smelly laundry, washing-up to be done, relentless Spongebob Squarepants, and other such joy-giving things. Joy-giving, literally.
This is what I wrote a few weeks ago:
Kind people bring me books on CD, and dinner for tonight, and take my children away to play. They load my excited children into their cars, and wave and smile as they drive away. On the porch, I lift a hand and furrow my cheeks with my lips in reply.
Please bring back the children and take away the CDs.
I don’t want your lasagna. I want my life.
.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Body parts: missing in action
Day 15 of 'The Daily Post' - and my 200th blog post.
It’s amazing, when you come to think of it, how many body parts you can do without. Your appendix, tonsils, adenoids, gall bladder…
I made an inventory of the bits and pieces that I’ve lost. I'll start with my wisdom teeth, which I had out in my early 20s. Haven’t missed them at all. I had all four out at the same time under local anaesthetic. This didn't strike me as particularly unusual or brave at the time, but since then, I've only met one other person who hasn't had a general anaesthetic for four simultaneous wisdom extractions. I did ask the dental surgeon why he did all four at once, and he replied "It's not a very pleasant procedure, and I usually find that if I do two, then the patient doesn't want to come back and have the other two done." Actually it wasn't too bad.
Back to the inventory:
The boobs, of course.
A lymph node.
My hair.
Three moles – one which I didn’t like the look of a few years ago, and then a couple more in the armpit/chest area, that the breast surgeon removed as a bit of a freebie (“Have a mastectomy, and I’ll throw in a couple of molectomies for you.”) They were going to analyse those, but the lab lost them, which I have to say, didn’t inspire my confidence. The breast surgeon reassured me: “it’s not as if they lost them, really. It’s just that they’ll be in a huge bank of thousands and thousands of samples, and we could ask for the lab to go through all those samples and find them, but I really honestly think that would be wasting someone’s time, because I had a good look at them and they weren’t at all suspicious.” Which might have been medical speak for “my resident fouled up and forgot to send them to the lab”. I decided not to pursue the matter, since I had had all my moles checked at my annual well woman appointment, and those ones had indeed been deemed to be not worrying.
Looking at this list, it reminds me of a song. When the season is right, I can sing:
On the fifth day of Christmas, I had removed from me:
Five hundred thousand hairs (rough estimate)
Four wisdom teeth
Three brown moles
Two lovely boobs
And a lymph node.
Poor impaired me!
.
It’s amazing, when you come to think of it, how many body parts you can do without. Your appendix, tonsils, adenoids, gall bladder…
I made an inventory of the bits and pieces that I’ve lost. I'll start with my wisdom teeth, which I had out in my early 20s. Haven’t missed them at all. I had all four out at the same time under local anaesthetic. This didn't strike me as particularly unusual or brave at the time, but since then, I've only met one other person who hasn't had a general anaesthetic for four simultaneous wisdom extractions. I did ask the dental surgeon why he did all four at once, and he replied "It's not a very pleasant procedure, and I usually find that if I do two, then the patient doesn't want to come back and have the other two done." Actually it wasn't too bad.
Back to the inventory:
The boobs, of course.
A lymph node.
My hair.
Three moles – one which I didn’t like the look of a few years ago, and then a couple more in the armpit/chest area, that the breast surgeon removed as a bit of a freebie (“Have a mastectomy, and I’ll throw in a couple of molectomies for you.”) They were going to analyse those, but the lab lost them, which I have to say, didn’t inspire my confidence. The breast surgeon reassured me: “it’s not as if they lost them, really. It’s just that they’ll be in a huge bank of thousands and thousands of samples, and we could ask for the lab to go through all those samples and find them, but I really honestly think that would be wasting someone’s time, because I had a good look at them and they weren’t at all suspicious.” Which might have been medical speak for “my resident fouled up and forgot to send them to the lab”. I decided not to pursue the matter, since I had had all my moles checked at my annual well woman appointment, and those ones had indeed been deemed to be not worrying.
Looking at this list, it reminds me of a song. When the season is right, I can sing:
On the fifth day of Christmas, I had removed from me:
Five hundred thousand hairs (rough estimate)
Four wisdom teeth
Three brown moles
Two lovely boobs
And a lymph node.
Poor impaired me!
.
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