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.
.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Medical words
Day 14 of 'The Daily Post'.
Somewhere along the line, it was suggested that I might have my ovaries removed. The memory of why this was ever even floated anywhere near the cards is hazy, but I think it had to do with being part of a study. It isn't going to happen, but I rather warmed to the idea at the time. I, quite literally, liked the sound of it. Having your ovaries out is called an oopherectomy. I mean, who wouldn’t want one of those? Can’t you just hear yourself saying to all your friends and colleagues "I’m going to have an oopherectomy”. It’s up there with some new glasses, or a puppy for Christmas. And if they were anything like my friends, I’d expect them to say "ooooh, an oooopherectomy”, which I guess would be funny (at least the first time).
If you don’t fancy surgery, they can stop your ovaries working with a monthly injection. That’s called ovarian ablation. Another fine medical term. It sounds vaguely Roman Catholic to me. “Have you said your ovarian ablation yet?” “Oh yes, I did it on my way to confession – wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Though I have to say, it doesn’t do it for me quite like ‘oopherectomy’.
I liked the idea of an oopherectomy because I really didn’t like the word mastectomy. It sounds vaguely rude somehow. I never worked out whether to pronounce it m’stectomy, or mass-tectomy. The latter sounds a bit like mass exodus, which I suppose it is, on the breast tissue front. Anyway, I didn’t like the word.
Sadly, you don’t get to pick your medical procedures on the basis of their names. In any case, I always think the medics are having a bit of a laugh, actually, when it comes to naming surgical procedures. They like long medical-sounding words, to impress lay people, but really, they just take the name of the body part and add ‘-oscopy’ if they’re just looking at it, and add ‘-ectomy’ if they’re removing it. Easy peasy. For example, removing a lymph node is called a lymphedectomy. It’s true. Removing tonsils is called a tonsillectomy. Looking up a patient’s rear end is called an endoscopy. If a doctor looked at your finger and then amputated it, I expect he’d say you’d had a fingeroscopy and a fingerectomy.
This is a practice we housewives should adopt. It would make our jobs sound more impressive to lay people.
“Must hurry,” we could say to each other. “Got to do a dustectomy on the sitting room before the kids come home from school.”
“Yes, I should go too. My bathroom is in urgent need of a grimectomy, and I strongly suspect that after I’ve done a showeroscopy, I’ll be doing a mouldectomy too. But then I’m going to treat myself. I’m going to the salon for a splitendsectomy.”
“Good for you. No such luck for me. I had a note home from school, and I’m going to be doing nitectomies on all my kids, if the scalposcopy results come back positive.”
See. It’s very easy when you get the hang of it.
Somewhere along the line, it was suggested that I might have my ovaries removed. The memory of why this was ever even floated anywhere near the cards is hazy, but I think it had to do with being part of a study. It isn't going to happen, but I rather warmed to the idea at the time. I, quite literally, liked the sound of it. Having your ovaries out is called an oopherectomy. I mean, who wouldn’t want one of those? Can’t you just hear yourself saying to all your friends and colleagues "I’m going to have an oopherectomy”. It’s up there with some new glasses, or a puppy for Christmas. And if they were anything like my friends, I’d expect them to say "ooooh, an oooopherectomy”, which I guess would be funny (at least the first time).
If you don’t fancy surgery, they can stop your ovaries working with a monthly injection. That’s called ovarian ablation. Another fine medical term. It sounds vaguely Roman Catholic to me. “Have you said your ovarian ablation yet?” “Oh yes, I did it on my way to confession – wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Though I have to say, it doesn’t do it for me quite like ‘oopherectomy’.
I liked the idea of an oopherectomy because I really didn’t like the word mastectomy. It sounds vaguely rude somehow. I never worked out whether to pronounce it m’stectomy, or mass-tectomy. The latter sounds a bit like mass exodus, which I suppose it is, on the breast tissue front. Anyway, I didn’t like the word.
Sadly, you don’t get to pick your medical procedures on the basis of their names. In any case, I always think the medics are having a bit of a laugh, actually, when it comes to naming surgical procedures. They like long medical-sounding words, to impress lay people, but really, they just take the name of the body part and add ‘-oscopy’ if they’re just looking at it, and add ‘-ectomy’ if they’re removing it. Easy peasy. For example, removing a lymph node is called a lymphedectomy. It’s true. Removing tonsils is called a tonsillectomy. Looking up a patient’s rear end is called an endoscopy. If a doctor looked at your finger and then amputated it, I expect he’d say you’d had a fingeroscopy and a fingerectomy.
This is a practice we housewives should adopt. It would make our jobs sound more impressive to lay people.
“Must hurry,” we could say to each other. “Got to do a dustectomy on the sitting room before the kids come home from school.”
“Yes, I should go too. My bathroom is in urgent need of a grimectomy, and I strongly suspect that after I’ve done a showeroscopy, I’ll be doing a mouldectomy too. But then I’m going to treat myself. I’m going to the salon for a splitendsectomy.”
“Good for you. No such luck for me. I had a note home from school, and I’m going to be doing nitectomies on all my kids, if the scalposcopy results come back positive.”
See. It’s very easy when you get the hang of it.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
An American in England: the Director's cut
Day 13 of 'The Daily Post'.
I thoroughly enjoyed Calif Lorna's short movie. She's an English woman living in California, and the movie shows her asking for a glass of water, and getting lots of cliches along the way.
At the end of the clip, it says "If you can type, you can make movies". I can indeed type, thought I, so off I went to the movie-making website, and had a jolly time.
I thought I'd try a little empathising, so my movie is about what I imagine it's like to be an American in England. The English woman comes across as rather aggressive - I intended her to be conversational. I'll have to scrap her and get a more empathetic actress next time.
US expats, have you had conversations like this?
I thoroughly enjoyed Calif Lorna's short movie. She's an English woman living in California, and the movie shows her asking for a glass of water, and getting lots of cliches along the way.
At the end of the clip, it says "If you can type, you can make movies". I can indeed type, thought I, so off I went to the movie-making website, and had a jolly time.
I thought I'd try a little empathising, so my movie is about what I imagine it's like to be an American in England. The English woman comes across as rather aggressive - I intended her to be conversational. I'll have to scrap her and get a more empathetic actress next time.
US expats, have you had conversations like this?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Paul's house
Day Eleven of 'The Daily Post' (and if it's not about laundry, it's about poo).
One of the anxieties of an expat is this: when I go home, will I find everything so changed that it won't feel like home any more? This is a valid concern. Things like this aggravate it.
I hate American tv commercials, and have always considered British ones very superior. But this is making me challenge my assumptions.
What worries me about this advert is why the mother seems quite happy to let her son go out of the house on his own. Are we to assume that Paul lives next door? And if so, why does he need a backpack?
I am also worried by Paul and his family. Do they open the door to this boy and say "Hi there, John, come for a poo again? Nice to see you."?
But most worrying of all is this. It must have been made by people who know nothing of small boys, otherwise they would be aware that most of them positively enjoy pooey smells. It would be more convincing if Paul was coming round to the stinky house to have a poo (though not so good for Glade's sales figures).
My only comfort is that there are some great remakes on Youtube.
One of the anxieties of an expat is this: when I go home, will I find everything so changed that it won't feel like home any more? This is a valid concern. Things like this aggravate it.
I hate American tv commercials, and have always considered British ones very superior. But this is making me challenge my assumptions.
What worries me about this advert is why the mother seems quite happy to let her son go out of the house on his own. Are we to assume that Paul lives next door? And if so, why does he need a backpack?
I am also worried by Paul and his family. Do they open the door to this boy and say "Hi there, John, come for a poo again? Nice to see you."?
But most worrying of all is this. It must have been made by people who know nothing of small boys, otherwise they would be aware that most of them positively enjoy pooey smells. It would be more convincing if Paul was coming round to the stinky house to have a poo (though not so good for Glade's sales figures).
My only comfort is that there are some great remakes on Youtube.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Words
Day Ten of 'The Daily Post' (and it's not about laundry).
The difference between British English and American English is not just a question of accent. It's not just that we have different words for the same item: torch for flashlight, rubbish bin for trash can. It's the phraseology, the emphases, the tone, the whole way of speaking.
I'm English, but lived in Scotland for 6 years immediately before coming to the US. I have been intrigued to hear some of the colloquialisms from Scottish English in people's conversation here. Of course it isn't intriguing at all, really, but quite obvious. When Scots emigrated to America they brought their way of speaking with them, just as much as English people. Here are a few examples.
If you are English, you say "the cat needs feeding", or "the cat needs to be fed". In Scotland or over here, this would be "the cat needs fed". It sounds odd to English ears.
In England, you say "I would have gone". In Scotland, I often heard "I would have went", and I've heard that here too. Again, it sounds very odd to English ears.
But my favourite is a word that has no real English equivalent. Your bottom/bum/backside/butt/seat (that last one courtesy of my grandmother) in England, is in Scotland, your bahouki. I'm sure that must be where the American patouti originated from. I'm so glad the Scots brought their bahoukis with them when they crossed the Atlantic. It's a word that deserves to be passed on and preserved in another culture.
.
The difference between British English and American English is not just a question of accent. It's not just that we have different words for the same item: torch for flashlight, rubbish bin for trash can. It's the phraseology, the emphases, the tone, the whole way of speaking.
I'm English, but lived in Scotland for 6 years immediately before coming to the US. I have been intrigued to hear some of the colloquialisms from Scottish English in people's conversation here. Of course it isn't intriguing at all, really, but quite obvious. When Scots emigrated to America they brought their way of speaking with them, just as much as English people. Here are a few examples.
If you are English, you say "the cat needs feeding", or "the cat needs to be fed". In Scotland or over here, this would be "the cat needs fed". It sounds odd to English ears.
In England, you say "I would have gone". In Scotland, I often heard "I would have went", and I've heard that here too. Again, it sounds very odd to English ears.
But my favourite is a word that has no real English equivalent. Your bottom/bum/backside/butt/seat (that last one courtesy of my grandmother) in England, is in Scotland, your bahouki. I'm sure that must be where the American patouti originated from. I'm so glad the Scots brought their bahoukis with them when they crossed the Atlantic. It's a word that deserves to be passed on and preserved in another culture.
.
Friday, October 2, 2009
The laundry challenge
Day Nine of 'The Daily Post'.
“I love you English and Scottish women! I must admit I'm an American who has been spoiled my entire life by a tumble dryer. I'm reconciling to the idea of line-drying when I move to England in a couple of months. I have one very important question for you, though -- and please don't laugh. What do you do when it is winter and raining or snowing? The "drying cabinent" at my boyfriend's house is small and there are only two radiators that I can put socks on to warm-dry them. Do you have secret clothing lines that come out from trap doors in the halls and extend into the kitchen? I'm not being funny here -- I truly would like to whole-heartedly embrace something that is so good for the environment. I could easily dry my clothing if I had a yard in California as the weather is so nice, but what do you do in stretches of rain?”
This was a comment on my post about washing lines. It got me thinking about one aspect of expat life which is a real pain in the ass. It is this. People are used to their own way of life, and find it very hard to explain to a newbie why or how they do things. I found myself wanting to reply to Rachel, the commenter, “It’s hard to explain, but it’s just a question of muddling through. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.” And then I thought how really frustrating that would be for her.
It took me right back to my early days here, when things that seemed just a part of life to everyone, were compete mysteries to me. Mysteries that they didn’t seem able to explain. Of course part of the frustration is that you can see their point. There are so many things in life that can’t be explained very easily. Or explaining them is just the beginning. What really needs to happen, is for you to jump in, try a few things a few different ways, and then after finding one that works and repeating it for a while, you are just as much an expert as all the rest of them. A little help to get you started is, actually, a big help, but there are no short cuts to experience.
Incidentally, my husband wrote a whole PhD thesis on this very subject. What a waste of those years, when all along he had a wife who could sum it up in a paragraph! I should just have discovered blogging a few years earlier, and we’d have saved ourselves a lot of time and money - though the university might not have awarded him a doctorate and the right to wear a fancy hat on the basis of one paragraph in a blog post. Universities are picky like that.
But back to Rachel. In my early days, I often did pose questions such as hers to the blogging community, because (a) it was a lot quicker and easier than asking 10 local people, and I didn’t even know 10 local people at that point, but it meant I got 10 answers, (b) I got fed up with asking basic questions to people face to face - it didn’t make for great conversation, and (c) I quickly came to realize what a fabulous bunch is out there in the blogosphere, and what top quality answers they gave.
So, on Rachel’s behalf, tell me. How on earth DO we manage to get washing dry, in the British climate, with no tumble dryer? I mean, talk about setting a difficult challenge. Rachel’s boyfriend is already a huge step ahead of me (and I thought I was a pretty impressive laundry operator), because I don’t even know what a ‘drying cabinet’ is. Unless it’s what a Prime Minister appoints if he/she wants to counteract the effects of a government of Tory wets.
Let me start us all off. Rachel, I did have a tumble dryer in Scotland, for emergencies, but I hardly ever used it because there’s this marvellous thing called a drying rack. It’s worth taking time and choosing a good one. By good one, I mean one that will make the maximum use of the space you have available. A lot of people have the rack in the kitchen, where it is a permanent annoyance and gets in the way of whatever you are doing. Other people put it in the bath, where it stands for days on end with semi-dry clothes, because bathrooms are cold and draughty in the UK, and it’s only eternal optimism (see ‘Dunkirk spirit’ in my previous laundry post) that keeps us in the belief that the clothes will actually dry in there. Radiators are a good bet, even if your boyfriend only has two small ones in his small house. As he has perhaps already told you, size isn’t everything.
We Brits are prepared to spend more time and effort on laundry than our US counterparts, so that we are quite happy to get up from the sofa at intervals throughout the evening, even though this means interrupting our viewing of splendid BBC programmes since there are no commercial breaks (which, come to think of it, would actually be useful for laundry purposes), and remove a few dry socks to make space for the next lot of them. We are a bit laundry obsessed, truth be told, so that first thing in the morning, when we get out of bed, our topmost priority isn’t to get the coffee maker on, but to remove the dry socks from the radiators and put out the next batch of damp ones.
As for those secret lines coming out from trap doors, no, we don’t have those but it’s a magnificent idea, which you should develop, take to the Dragons’ Den (UK equivalent of the Sharks’ Tank), and use to make a fortune. Then you and your boyfriend will be able to buy a big house and install a huge tumble dryer in it.
Come on, fabulous British laundry experts. What other tips and advice do you have for Rachel?
“I love you English and Scottish women! I must admit I'm an American who has been spoiled my entire life by a tumble dryer. I'm reconciling to the idea of line-drying when I move to England in a couple of months. I have one very important question for you, though -- and please don't laugh. What do you do when it is winter and raining or snowing? The "drying cabinent" at my boyfriend's house is small and there are only two radiators that I can put socks on to warm-dry them. Do you have secret clothing lines that come out from trap doors in the halls and extend into the kitchen? I'm not being funny here -- I truly would like to whole-heartedly embrace something that is so good for the environment. I could easily dry my clothing if I had a yard in California as the weather is so nice, but what do you do in stretches of rain?”
This was a comment on my post about washing lines. It got me thinking about one aspect of expat life which is a real pain in the ass. It is this. People are used to their own way of life, and find it very hard to explain to a newbie why or how they do things. I found myself wanting to reply to Rachel, the commenter, “It’s hard to explain, but it’s just a question of muddling through. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.” And then I thought how really frustrating that would be for her.
It took me right back to my early days here, when things that seemed just a part of life to everyone, were compete mysteries to me. Mysteries that they didn’t seem able to explain. Of course part of the frustration is that you can see their point. There are so many things in life that can’t be explained very easily. Or explaining them is just the beginning. What really needs to happen, is for you to jump in, try a few things a few different ways, and then after finding one that works and repeating it for a while, you are just as much an expert as all the rest of them. A little help to get you started is, actually, a big help, but there are no short cuts to experience.
Incidentally, my husband wrote a whole PhD thesis on this very subject. What a waste of those years, when all along he had a wife who could sum it up in a paragraph! I should just have discovered blogging a few years earlier, and we’d have saved ourselves a lot of time and money - though the university might not have awarded him a doctorate and the right to wear a fancy hat on the basis of one paragraph in a blog post. Universities are picky like that.
But back to Rachel. In my early days, I often did pose questions such as hers to the blogging community, because (a) it was a lot quicker and easier than asking 10 local people, and I didn’t even know 10 local people at that point, but it meant I got 10 answers, (b) I got fed up with asking basic questions to people face to face - it didn’t make for great conversation, and (c) I quickly came to realize what a fabulous bunch is out there in the blogosphere, and what top quality answers they gave.
So, on Rachel’s behalf, tell me. How on earth DO we manage to get washing dry, in the British climate, with no tumble dryer? I mean, talk about setting a difficult challenge. Rachel’s boyfriend is already a huge step ahead of me (and I thought I was a pretty impressive laundry operator), because I don’t even know what a ‘drying cabinet’ is. Unless it’s what a Prime Minister appoints if he/she wants to counteract the effects of a government of Tory wets.
Let me start us all off. Rachel, I did have a tumble dryer in Scotland, for emergencies, but I hardly ever used it because there’s this marvellous thing called a drying rack. It’s worth taking time and choosing a good one. By good one, I mean one that will make the maximum use of the space you have available. A lot of people have the rack in the kitchen, where it is a permanent annoyance and gets in the way of whatever you are doing. Other people put it in the bath, where it stands for days on end with semi-dry clothes, because bathrooms are cold and draughty in the UK, and it’s only eternal optimism (see ‘Dunkirk spirit’ in my previous laundry post) that keeps us in the belief that the clothes will actually dry in there. Radiators are a good bet, even if your boyfriend only has two small ones in his small house. As he has perhaps already told you, size isn’t everything.
We Brits are prepared to spend more time and effort on laundry than our US counterparts, so that we are quite happy to get up from the sofa at intervals throughout the evening, even though this means interrupting our viewing of splendid BBC programmes since there are no commercial breaks (which, come to think of it, would actually be useful for laundry purposes), and remove a few dry socks to make space for the next lot of them. We are a bit laundry obsessed, truth be told, so that first thing in the morning, when we get out of bed, our topmost priority isn’t to get the coffee maker on, but to remove the dry socks from the radiators and put out the next batch of damp ones.
As for those secret lines coming out from trap doors, no, we don’t have those but it’s a magnificent idea, which you should develop, take to the Dragons’ Den (UK equivalent of the Sharks’ Tank), and use to make a fortune. Then you and your boyfriend will be able to buy a big house and install a huge tumble dryer in it.
Come on, fabulous British laundry experts. What other tips and advice do you have for Rachel?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Math(s) can be fun too
Day Eight of 'The Daily Post'.
Here's a little light relief for those of you struggling with your children's maths homework (you know who you are).
1) First find a calculator
2) Key in the first 3 digits of your phone number (forget the area code)
Ah, it's based on a US phone number, so for those of you reading this in the UK, or - who knows? - some far-flung exotic location, find a seven digit number, and for convenience, separate it into a group of 3 and 4 digits (if your birthday was May 13th 1965, you could use 135 1965 for example).
3) Multipy by 80
4) Add 1
5) Multiply by 250
6) Add the last 4 digits of your phone number
7) Add the last 4 digits of your phone number again
8) Subtract 250
9) Divide by 2.
Ta daa!
.
Here's a little light relief for those of you struggling with your children's maths homework (you know who you are).
1) First find a calculator
2) Key in the first 3 digits of your phone number (forget the area code)
Ah, it's based on a US phone number, so for those of you reading this in the UK, or - who knows? - some far-flung exotic location, find a seven digit number, and for convenience, separate it into a group of 3 and 4 digits (if your birthday was May 13th 1965, you could use 135 1965 for example).
3) Multipy by 80
4) Add 1
5) Multiply by 250
6) Add the last 4 digits of your phone number
7) Add the last 4 digits of your phone number again
8) Subtract 250
9) Divide by 2.
Ta daa!
.
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