Here are some random things.
A Christmas thing I really don't like: That carol about the drummer boy parum-papum-pum. It's really dumb-darum-dum. Drumming for a baby is stupid. Mary would have got really cross. It would have woken the baby up.
British English words that I miss: Stupid instead of dumb. Cross instead of mad/angry.
Fruit I miss: Bramley apples!
Christmas food: mince pies.
Fact about living in Scotland: they call mince pies, mincemeat tarts (which could be great inspiration for a fancy dress costume).
Christmas food that I miss, though I don't like the taste: Christmas pudding and Christmas cake.
Christmas food that is marvellous beyond words: cold turkey and cold stuffing.
A phrase in American English that I really like and use a lot: "Good luck with that". It means "that sounds truly dreadful, I don't envy you".
Something that made me laugh yesterday: my boss called me Eunice Fairbanks all day. It was an in-joke. It was funny at the time, though I can see it loses something in the telling.
Something I am grateful for: oh lots. I'm in that kind of a mood.
Something I bought half price, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a mix for making sticky toffee pudding. It says that they researched the recipe in the Lake District, from where the pudding hails. I didn't even know puddings could hail. I don't want to make the pudding. I just want to read the side of the tin over and over, and luxuriate in the fact that I've bought a mix from Williams Sonoma, which is what I do in my dreams sometimes.
Something I saved $100 on, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a Le Creuset oval pot, cast iron, enamelled. Only a couple of days ago, I said to Husband "the trouble with my two Le Creuset pots is that one is too big, and the other is too small; I really need the one in between." It would have been criminal not to have saved $100 buying the very perfect one. It's like the baby bear's Le Creuset in Goldilocks. It's orange. Hot orange. I know I'm a better cook already.
Something that happened while I was writing this post that was very nice: my brother phoned from Paris to say Happy New Year. It is, of course, already 2011 in Paris. I'm just so darn international.
Something nice I'm doing tonight: going out. We have been invited out as a family. And - get this - this is the second year running that we have had a New Year's Eve invitation. This could almost be a reason to stay in America. We never used to get invited out on New Year's Eve.
A true fact: I will be late if I don't go and get ready right now.
Greeting: Happy New Year, Bloggy Peeps!
.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A favourite Christmas moment
We have been watching a lot of The Waltons recently. It’s hard to find a movie or tv programme that keeps everyone happy, given the age range of our children, from 6 to 13. The Waltons seems to fit nicely. And it’s so darn wholesome too. Husband and I can sit back and feel smug about the lessons that our children are learning of the values of family life, the common sense morality, the homespun wisdom… Many of the episodes are familiar, so they must have had a big effect on me when I watched them over 30 years ago. I loved The Waltons, as a child. Now I see my own children equally caught up, with 6-yo deciding she wants to be called Elizabeth, and the boys arguing over whether Ben should or shouldn’t have told the family that he had failed to shoot a turkey for Thanksgiving, and had ended up buying it instead.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Crismis
So this is Crismis. Or that’s what it says on the calendar on my kitchen wall. Written by 6-yo way back last January, when she was a mere Kindergartener, and she went through the calendar painstakingly writing in birthdays and holidays in letters larger than the space allowed. Of course now she is a First Grader, she would know how to write Crismis properly. That’s what a year does for you. And when we went swimming yesterday, she insisted that I use the Winnie the Pooh towel, which is too babyish for her now, though it was a favourite in the summer. Time passes and things change.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Learn to Dress Kitty
This is it. This is my least favourite toy in the shop.
It's the Learn to Dress Kitty. The idea behind it is that you use this friendly fun cat to teach your child all about clothes fastenings. See, there's a zip (zipper), a button, and shoes with laces on the front, and various hooks and eyes and other things on the back. It retails at $34.99. We also sell a wooden shoe with laces, for $14.99. Same idea, but just a large wooden shoe. No cute cat. It's my second least favourite toy in the shop.
The reason I hate these items so much is this. You just don't need them. Trust me. I've had three children. You truly don't. Here's why (and it's not rocket science). You can use your child's own clothes to teach them how to do fastenings!
"Wait a minute!" I hear you interject. "It's easier for the child to learn on an object in front of them, than on clothes on their own body." I've thought of that, and I have a selection of answers.
First, it actually probably isn't.
Second, what is the point of teaching your child a skill that's easier than the one they need in daily life? What good is it if your child can operate that taut, easy-to-pull 2-inch zip, if at preschool they need to be able to do up their own wrinkly, tricky-to-pull 10-inch zip? Eh? Tell me that. How impressed will the beleaguered preschool teacher be if they say "I can do the Kitty one at home"? Not very.
Third, even if it were helpful to have a teaching aid that the child isn't wearing, even if it were helpful to have easier fastenings to start learning on, even then, this is still a total waste of $34.99, because guess what? You can use an ordinary shoe to practise laces. You can use your handbag or a pair of jeans to practise zips. You can use a cardigan to practise buttons.
There are so very many things that are worth spending $34.99 on. Plus tax. If you still aren't persuaded, if you're still tempted to purchase this toy, or teaching aid, or whatever it is, then STOP right now. Buy a puzzle, or a doll, or a teddy, or Monopoly, or write a cheque to Oxfam. You're still liking the kitty? I hate this toy so much that I am almost at the point of offering to pay my own travel expenses to your house, where I will take you by the hand, and lead you to your own wardrobe, and help you find items which you have right there which will do the same job. It could be a life-changing releasing moment for you.
Quite apart from not buying into the whole idea behind this toy (had you noticed?), I have some issues with the details of the design. The staring eyes... The fact that the zip is so short (what's the point of a 2-inch zip?)... But most of all (and this REALLY annoys me), that orange button under the cute cat chin? See it? It's not even a real functioning button. It's a decorative button. What IS the point of having a button on a learn-to-dress toy, that doesn't have a button hole to go through? Aaaargh...
Before I self-combust in the heat generated by my own ire, I just have to show you this.
Yes, it's the equivalent toy for boys. The Learn to Dress Monkey. I hate it with the same passion, though at least the two buttons on the front are functioning (one with a button hole, the other with an odd loop arrangement that you never ever see on clothes). And there are poppers (snaps, in the US) too. But I have to tell you this about the monkey. In this picture, he's holding the banana in one hand, and his tail in the other. But in the toy shop, he hangs on a rack with both hands fully extended down in front holding the banana - they both attach to it, and (visualise it, go on) it just looks very rude.
Here's my final thought. (If you're not persuaded by now, I'm thinking you're probably beyond my reach on this item.) If your child struggles to do up laces, don't buy the kitty, the monkey or the wooden shoe. Join the rest of Planet Motherhood, and buy shoes with velcro! That $34.99 could buy a very nice pair.
It's the Learn to Dress Kitty. The idea behind it is that you use this friendly fun cat to teach your child all about clothes fastenings. See, there's a zip (zipper), a button, and shoes with laces on the front, and various hooks and eyes and other things on the back. It retails at $34.99. We also sell a wooden shoe with laces, for $14.99. Same idea, but just a large wooden shoe. No cute cat. It's my second least favourite toy in the shop.
The reason I hate these items so much is this. You just don't need them. Trust me. I've had three children. You truly don't. Here's why (and it's not rocket science). You can use your child's own clothes to teach them how to do fastenings!
"Wait a minute!" I hear you interject. "It's easier for the child to learn on an object in front of them, than on clothes on their own body." I've thought of that, and I have a selection of answers.
First, it actually probably isn't.
Second, what is the point of teaching your child a skill that's easier than the one they need in daily life? What good is it if your child can operate that taut, easy-to-pull 2-inch zip, if at preschool they need to be able to do up their own wrinkly, tricky-to-pull 10-inch zip? Eh? Tell me that. How impressed will the beleaguered preschool teacher be if they say "I can do the Kitty one at home"? Not very.
Third, even if it were helpful to have a teaching aid that the child isn't wearing, even if it were helpful to have easier fastenings to start learning on, even then, this is still a total waste of $34.99, because guess what? You can use an ordinary shoe to practise laces. You can use your handbag or a pair of jeans to practise zips. You can use a cardigan to practise buttons.
There are so very many things that are worth spending $34.99 on. Plus tax. If you still aren't persuaded, if you're still tempted to purchase this toy, or teaching aid, or whatever it is, then STOP right now. Buy a puzzle, or a doll, or a teddy, or Monopoly, or write a cheque to Oxfam. You're still liking the kitty? I hate this toy so much that I am almost at the point of offering to pay my own travel expenses to your house, where I will take you by the hand, and lead you to your own wardrobe, and help you find items which you have right there which will do the same job. It could be a life-changing releasing moment for you.
Quite apart from not buying into the whole idea behind this toy (had you noticed?), I have some issues with the details of the design. The staring eyes... The fact that the zip is so short (what's the point of a 2-inch zip?)... But most of all (and this REALLY annoys me), that orange button under the cute cat chin? See it? It's not even a real functioning button. It's a decorative button. What IS the point of having a button on a learn-to-dress toy, that doesn't have a button hole to go through? Aaaargh...
Before I self-combust in the heat generated by my own ire, I just have to show you this.
Yes, it's the equivalent toy for boys. The Learn to Dress Monkey. I hate it with the same passion, though at least the two buttons on the front are functioning (one with a button hole, the other with an odd loop arrangement that you never ever see on clothes). And there are poppers (snaps, in the US) too. But I have to tell you this about the monkey. In this picture, he's holding the banana in one hand, and his tail in the other. But in the toy shop, he hangs on a rack with both hands fully extended down in front holding the banana - they both attach to it, and (visualise it, go on) it just looks very rude.
Here's my final thought. (If you're not persuaded by now, I'm thinking you're probably beyond my reach on this item.) If your child struggles to do up laces, don't buy the kitty, the monkey or the wooden shoe. Join the rest of Planet Motherhood, and buy shoes with velcro! That $34.99 could buy a very nice pair.
Nomination
Well, this is embarrassing. I've been nominated for an award. It's for being "Inspirational". That's very lovely, and it means a lot to me. A... Lot... The embarrassing thing is that I'm just about to post a very ranty post about the trivial subject of my least favourite toy in the world. So if you've clicked over here thinking "Ooooh, I need a bit of "inspirational", I'll see what this Iota Quota blog is all about", then you'll be somewhat disappointed (as they say in America).
But thank you, whosoever of you nominated me. You all are fab. If you want to vote for me, you can click here.
But thank you, whosoever of you nominated me. You all are fab. If you want to vote for me, you can click here.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Christmas picks
This is the time of year when many mummy bloggers do reviews of toys, and give their hot picks for Christmas presents. Well, I’m going to do the opposite. I’m going to give you my cold picks.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Christmas story
Christmas is coming, in case you hadn’t noticed, and here at The Iota Quota I’ve been thinking about Herod. Just to get into a festive mood.
Now Herod was not a nice man. Oooh no, not a nice man at all. If you’d been around at the time of the Nativity (and please, Americans, do we have to pronounce it Nay-tivity? Can’t we just stick to N’tivity? Please?)… If you’d been around at that time, you’d have heard very little about the shepherds and the angels, I’m guessing, because life would have been completely dominated by the horrific events instigated by Herod. Do you remember? He didn’t like the idea of anyone challenging his rule, so when the Magi pitched up, with their stories of the special star and the special baby, he came up with a plan, and ordered all the infants under the age of 2 to be slaughtered, in front of their parents. I’m told that fourteen thousand babies died. Fourteen thousand. Herod was not a nice man.
Mary and Joseph slipped away to Egypt, and somehow, down the ages, those other babies and their weeping, scared, scarred parents have been relegated to second place in the story. Well, I’m remembering them here.
Thinking about this story, I’ve noticed something this time round that I’ve never noticed before. The Magi. They’re meant to be the good guys. Wise, rich, exotic, generous, journeying patiently, seeking diligently, wearing fancy crowns. But they did a bad thing. They went to see Herod on their way to Jerusalem. They were warned in a dream not to go and see him on their way home, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done. Why did they do that? Why did they go to Jerusalem? Couldn’t they just have steered their camels to Bethlehem? They must have known that Herod was bad news.
I think they went to see Herod, because that’s what powerful people do. They like to hang out with other powerful people. No doubt they were well-received, and treated royally, and who doesn’t like to be treated royally? And listen to what they said: “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.” Yes. Because we all like people to know when we’re about our religious business. If you’ve made a big effort to go on a spiritual journey, it’s a shame if other people don’t know about it. Especially if it has involved a bit of hardship and a few trials. But Magi, my friends, your desire to be kingly and to have your mission weightily appreciated may well have cost the lives of fourteen thousand babies.
I’m disappointed in the Magi, frankly. It’s disconcerting when you see the flaws in the good guys. I’ve always preferred them to the shepherds, actually. I mean, they had to trek across nations following a mysterious moving target, while the shepherds were conveniently right there just by Bethlehem, and had the benefit of a skyful of angels telling them what was what. All they had to do was straighten up the tea towels on their heads, and walk down the hillside. They're always depicted with a lamb or two, but let's think about that for a minute. They would either have taken the whole flock with them (bit cosy in the stable), or they'd have left someone in charge on the hillside, in which case they wouldn't have needed to take any with them at all. Maybe one of the heavenly host tipped them the wink. "Psst. Take a lamb with you. You know... A lamb...? For the symbolism...?"
My favourite character in the story, though, is Mary. And I’ve seen something new about her this time round too. When she and Joseph escaped to Egypt, how horrible that must have been for them. They must have felt such awful, dreadful relief at having protected their precious baby, their firstborn, from Herod’s henchmen with their instruments of death. But I’m sure they felt horrible guilt too. Can you imagine? Escaping when fourteen thousand didn’t? The news of the slaughter must have reached them, and they must have been sick at heart. How did they cope with it? When they returned from Egypt and went to Nazareth, did they avoid Bethlehem? I bet they did. To have a living child among such bereavement would have been a most terrible burden. The lesser burden, but a terrible burden nonetheless. Terrible, and so lonely.
We’re not told very much about Mary at this point, but we are told that she “kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”. I love that. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt from all the mummy blogs I read, it’s that there is quiet pondering a-plenty that goes on in a mother’s heart. I suppose Mary had more to ponder than most of us, what with the visitation from the Angel Gabriel, and the donkey ride, and the shepherds, and the Magi. And just think of the pressure you’d be under to look your best after the birth, if you knew that your picture was going to be on Christmas cards for several millennia?
Yes, I think Mary must have had very many lonely and difficult days. I'm glad she had Joseph. Obviously a great bloke, choosing to stick with her and look after her, though she was carrying a child who wasn't his own. We're thinking the Dad from Little House on the Prairie meets Atticus from To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Whatever you think of the historical reality of the Nay-tivity, you’ve got to admit, it’s a great story. Tell me, who’s your favourite character?
Now Herod was not a nice man. Oooh no, not a nice man at all. If you’d been around at the time of the Nativity (and please, Americans, do we have to pronounce it Nay-tivity? Can’t we just stick to N’tivity? Please?)… If you’d been around at that time, you’d have heard very little about the shepherds and the angels, I’m guessing, because life would have been completely dominated by the horrific events instigated by Herod. Do you remember? He didn’t like the idea of anyone challenging his rule, so when the Magi pitched up, with their stories of the special star and the special baby, he came up with a plan, and ordered all the infants under the age of 2 to be slaughtered, in front of their parents. I’m told that fourteen thousand babies died. Fourteen thousand. Herod was not a nice man.
Mary and Joseph slipped away to Egypt, and somehow, down the ages, those other babies and their weeping, scared, scarred parents have been relegated to second place in the story. Well, I’m remembering them here.
Thinking about this story, I’ve noticed something this time round that I’ve never noticed before. The Magi. They’re meant to be the good guys. Wise, rich, exotic, generous, journeying patiently, seeking diligently, wearing fancy crowns. But they did a bad thing. They went to see Herod on their way to Jerusalem. They were warned in a dream not to go and see him on their way home, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done. Why did they do that? Why did they go to Jerusalem? Couldn’t they just have steered their camels to Bethlehem? They must have known that Herod was bad news.
I think they went to see Herod, because that’s what powerful people do. They like to hang out with other powerful people. No doubt they were well-received, and treated royally, and who doesn’t like to be treated royally? And listen to what they said: “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.” Yes. Because we all like people to know when we’re about our religious business. If you’ve made a big effort to go on a spiritual journey, it’s a shame if other people don’t know about it. Especially if it has involved a bit of hardship and a few trials. But Magi, my friends, your desire to be kingly and to have your mission weightily appreciated may well have cost the lives of fourteen thousand babies.
I’m disappointed in the Magi, frankly. It’s disconcerting when you see the flaws in the good guys. I’ve always preferred them to the shepherds, actually. I mean, they had to trek across nations following a mysterious moving target, while the shepherds were conveniently right there just by Bethlehem, and had the benefit of a skyful of angels telling them what was what. All they had to do was straighten up the tea towels on their heads, and walk down the hillside. They're always depicted with a lamb or two, but let's think about that for a minute. They would either have taken the whole flock with them (bit cosy in the stable), or they'd have left someone in charge on the hillside, in which case they wouldn't have needed to take any with them at all. Maybe one of the heavenly host tipped them the wink. "Psst. Take a lamb with you. You know... A lamb...? For the symbolism...?"
My favourite character in the story, though, is Mary. And I’ve seen something new about her this time round too. When she and Joseph escaped to Egypt, how horrible that must have been for them. They must have felt such awful, dreadful relief at having protected their precious baby, their firstborn, from Herod’s henchmen with their instruments of death. But I’m sure they felt horrible guilt too. Can you imagine? Escaping when fourteen thousand didn’t? The news of the slaughter must have reached them, and they must have been sick at heart. How did they cope with it? When they returned from Egypt and went to Nazareth, did they avoid Bethlehem? I bet they did. To have a living child among such bereavement would have been a most terrible burden. The lesser burden, but a terrible burden nonetheless. Terrible, and so lonely.
We’re not told very much about Mary at this point, but we are told that she “kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”. I love that. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt from all the mummy blogs I read, it’s that there is quiet pondering a-plenty that goes on in a mother’s heart. I suppose Mary had more to ponder than most of us, what with the visitation from the Angel Gabriel, and the donkey ride, and the shepherds, and the Magi. And just think of the pressure you’d be under to look your best after the birth, if you knew that your picture was going to be on Christmas cards for several millennia?
Yes, I think Mary must have had very many lonely and difficult days. I'm glad she had Joseph. Obviously a great bloke, choosing to stick with her and look after her, though she was carrying a child who wasn't his own. We're thinking the Dad from Little House on the Prairie meets Atticus from To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Whatever you think of the historical reality of the Nay-tivity, you’ve got to admit, it’s a great story. Tell me, who’s your favourite character?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Running deep
Bloggy Peeps, I wish you'd been here this evening. You would have enjoyed the moment.
I was at my book club, and the member hosting the evening was offering us all drinks. She offered water, and said
"I have water or sparkling water. In fact, let me offer it to you as they do in England. Would you like stale or sparkling? I tell you, that was quite a shock, the first time I heard that. We were in London at a theatre, and in the intermission we went to the bar, and the bar tender asked us if we'd like stale or sparkling water. Didn't sound very nice: stale water! We ordered sparkling."
We were all chuckling merrily about the eccentricities of the English, which I don't mind at all, because it's a hundred per cent kindly meant, and actually, I quite like being called upon to represent an eccentric nation. "Ha ha ha, no, doesn't sound very nice at all, does it? Stale water, ha ha ha". But then gradually I became aware of a sensation in my head that felt like a memory knocking at the door, asking to be let out, and the cogs of my brain started turning slowly... slowly... until... Ping! I had it.
"STILL!" I declared. "Still water. Not stale water. Still water!"
I am a little worried that it took me a minute to access this information, and that it wasn't automatic. I am crossing rather too many lines. But the delay allowed for some nice comic timing, and there was much ensuing hilarity.
Just wish you'd all been there, Bloggy Friends.
I was at my book club, and the member hosting the evening was offering us all drinks. She offered water, and said
"I have water or sparkling water. In fact, let me offer it to you as they do in England. Would you like stale or sparkling? I tell you, that was quite a shock, the first time I heard that. We were in London at a theatre, and in the intermission we went to the bar, and the bar tender asked us if we'd like stale or sparkling water. Didn't sound very nice: stale water! We ordered sparkling."
We were all chuckling merrily about the eccentricities of the English, which I don't mind at all, because it's a hundred per cent kindly meant, and actually, I quite like being called upon to represent an eccentric nation. "Ha ha ha, no, doesn't sound very nice at all, does it? Stale water, ha ha ha". But then gradually I became aware of a sensation in my head that felt like a memory knocking at the door, asking to be let out, and the cogs of my brain started turning slowly... slowly... until... Ping! I had it.
"STILL!" I declared. "Still water. Not stale water. Still water!"
I am a little worried that it took me a minute to access this information, and that it wasn't automatic. I am crossing rather too many lines. But the delay allowed for some nice comic timing, and there was much ensuing hilarity.
Just wish you'd all been there, Bloggy Friends.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Farewell, red mullet
I have a little curly red mullet on the back of my neck. I do. Thing is, I got really very used to having thick curly hair, and I loved it. It’s now reverted to straight and thin, and almost all the waves have gone. There are just a few tight curls left at the bottom, at the back, and I haven't been able to bring myself to have them trimmed off. I also Clairoled my hair red, and hit lucky on a colour that is very nice (though I say it myself). I even remembered to keep the top of the box, so that I can buy the same one next time.
I’ve been loathe to cut off my curls. I didn’t like them at first, but as time passed, I got very fond of them. Having cancer seems to involve endless rearrangement of your mental furniture. I’d rearranged it to embrace the idea of curly hair, and then I had to go about re-rearranging it to re-embrace the idea of getting my straight hair back. I knew it would revert over time. I just didn’t know “over time” meant a few weeks. I thought it would be months or even years. By the time I’d got to like having curly hair, it was time to U-turn back again.
Losing your hair is a big deal. In a way, though, it’s no bad thing. It's easier to focus on losing your hair, than on having cancer. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not really an inevitable side-effect of the drugs, but a result of some product that the medics deliberately add. Maybe they know that thinking about losing your hair is the easier option, and consider it an act of kindness to make that happen.
So yes, I enjoyed my curls, but I’ve held onto them for reasons beyond the curliness itself. There’s a feeling that they’re a part of me now. Somehow cutting them off feels like the end of an era. It’s not an era I liked, but it was an era. I didn’t have any photos taken of me when I was bald – I didn’t want to preserve the look for posterity. But I wish I had. That was me, whether I liked it or not, and I wish I had a picture to look back on and say “yes, that was me”. But I have got photos of the curlicued Iota. I’ll be able to look back and say “ooh, get me with my curly 2010 hair!”
But even I can see that an aging diminutive curly-at-the-bottom red mullet is not the most attractive of looks, and so the little hoops must go. It’s one thing to enjoy a season of ringlets; it’s quite another to go around in polite society with straggles dripping down your neck. In the past year, I have gone through so many looks: Gandhi, Sinead O’Connor, Obama, Showaddywaddy. Time to take control, and get me to a salon.
Here’s a photo of them, though, for you to enjoy before they go.
Farewell, little curly red mullet.
Top photo credit: Philippe Guillaume, Flickr
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
You know you've been in America too long, when...
... one of your commenters points out that you've said "a whole heap of things", and you don't see what's odd about that.
... you no longer recognise one slice of ham between two slices of buttered bread as a sandwich. It's simply not worthy of bearing the name.
... your 6 year old daughter tells you she thinks you should get braces on your lower teeth. In her life, 99% of teenagers, and quite a few adults of varying ages, have braces, and crooked teeth are a crime against humanity (and, for the record, mine are only very slightly crooked).
... you find yourself telling someone about Guy Fawkes' night, and explaining that it's a "celebration of democracy" (yes, I used those very words), because that suddenly seems like a positive way of describing the rather sinister practice of burning effigies.
... you still hold onto practice/practise easily enough, and humour will always need its u, but centre begins to look wrong.
... you've written 325 blog posts.
... you no longer recognise one slice of ham between two slices of buttered bread as a sandwich. It's simply not worthy of bearing the name.
... your 6 year old daughter tells you she thinks you should get braces on your lower teeth. In her life, 99% of teenagers, and quite a few adults of varying ages, have braces, and crooked teeth are a crime against humanity (and, for the record, mine are only very slightly crooked).
... you find yourself telling someone about Guy Fawkes' night, and explaining that it's a "celebration of democracy" (yes, I used those very words), because that suddenly seems like a positive way of describing the rather sinister practice of burning effigies.
... you still hold onto practice/practise easily enough, and humour will always need its u, but centre begins to look wrong.
... you've written 325 blog posts.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thanksgiving
This has been our fourth Thanksgiving in America. We’ve joined in a little more each year, and I’ve come to like the holiday. But it’s not my own, nor will it ever be. It’s a good example of how knowledge, and the way it intertwines with experience, is so much more complicated than we give it credit for.
My children know the history that the Thanksgiving tradition stems from, because our first Thanksgiving here, I bought them each a book, and read to them about it. But there it is, right there. It’s so different for them. Their American friends won’t have the stories read to them out of books. They’ll be told them by their American moms, digging around in the memories of their own American childhoods, and wrapping the tales with the warmth and significance that comes from the feeling of passing something on to the next generation. "This is our narrative. This is who we are." That’s what the stories say.
My family can enjoy a turkey dinner, but we don’t have the traditions. We don’t have decorations and special dishes, brought out and dusted off year after year. We don’t serve up unpalatable green bean casserole which nobody likes, but which has to be eaten because it is made from the recipe written in the book in Great-Grandma’s spidery hand-writing. We can’t reminisce about the time our parents made us dress up as pilgrims, or reflect on how the holiday has become so much more commercial than it used to be.
We can understand Thanksgiving from the books, and from watching how others go about the celebration. But that understanding is head knowledge, not knowledge in the marrow of our bones. It’s the wrong kind of knowledge for a holiday celebration.
At first I resented Thanksgiving. My birthday is 24th November, and 9-yo’s is the 28th. The last thing I needed was a whopping great public holiday plonked on top of the last week of November. I’ve always tried to be protective of 9-yo’s birthday, because as a child, I hated having a birthday close to Christmas (though come on, people, it’s a full month before... The logic must be that 1 in 12 of the population is in a similar or worse predicament, not to mention the January birthday folk.) So I saw Thanksgiving as an unwelcome interloper. Not only Christmas to contend with in birthday rivalry, but now Thanksgiving too.
With the passage of time, though, I have come to enjoy Thanksgiving. I can’t embrace it in all its glory, with pilgrims and natives helping each other through the year by planting corn, shooting turkeys and waving two fingers at England, but I do like the whole thankfulness theme. I’ve learned about one or two family traditions which I’m going to adopt, to encourage the children to reflect on what they have in their lives to be thankful for. I think that’s a good thing to add to our yearly calendar. I suppose it’s the role that Harvest Festival plays in Britain.
As for me, well, I’m jolly thankful for the opportunity to be spending this Thanksgiving in the mountains of Colorado, for the second year running. You can’t beat mountains. I could list a whole heap of things I'm thankful for, but that would be bordering on the cheesy, and I'm feeling the need for a restoration of ironic equilibrium after my last post. So I won't do that. Instead I'll focus on what I’m not thankful for, and what I'm not thankful for is that the laptop crashed as I was writing this post first time round, and the whole thing disappeared. It hasn’t come out nearly as well second time round. Wah.
My children know the history that the Thanksgiving tradition stems from, because our first Thanksgiving here, I bought them each a book, and read to them about it. But there it is, right there. It’s so different for them. Their American friends won’t have the stories read to them out of books. They’ll be told them by their American moms, digging around in the memories of their own American childhoods, and wrapping the tales with the warmth and significance that comes from the feeling of passing something on to the next generation. "This is our narrative. This is who we are." That’s what the stories say.
My family can enjoy a turkey dinner, but we don’t have the traditions. We don’t have decorations and special dishes, brought out and dusted off year after year. We don’t serve up unpalatable green bean casserole which nobody likes, but which has to be eaten because it is made from the recipe written in the book in Great-Grandma’s spidery hand-writing. We can’t reminisce about the time our parents made us dress up as pilgrims, or reflect on how the holiday has become so much more commercial than it used to be.
We can understand Thanksgiving from the books, and from watching how others go about the celebration. But that understanding is head knowledge, not knowledge in the marrow of our bones. It’s the wrong kind of knowledge for a holiday celebration.
At first I resented Thanksgiving. My birthday is 24th November, and 9-yo’s is the 28th. The last thing I needed was a whopping great public holiday plonked on top of the last week of November. I’ve always tried to be protective of 9-yo’s birthday, because as a child, I hated having a birthday close to Christmas (though come on, people, it’s a full month before... The logic must be that 1 in 12 of the population is in a similar or worse predicament, not to mention the January birthday folk.) So I saw Thanksgiving as an unwelcome interloper. Not only Christmas to contend with in birthday rivalry, but now Thanksgiving too.
With the passage of time, though, I have come to enjoy Thanksgiving. I can’t embrace it in all its glory, with pilgrims and natives helping each other through the year by planting corn, shooting turkeys and waving two fingers at England, but I do like the whole thankfulness theme. I’ve learned about one or two family traditions which I’m going to adopt, to encourage the children to reflect on what they have in their lives to be thankful for. I think that’s a good thing to add to our yearly calendar. I suppose it’s the role that Harvest Festival plays in Britain.
As for me, well, I’m jolly thankful for the opportunity to be spending this Thanksgiving in the mountains of Colorado, for the second year running. You can’t beat mountains. I could list a whole heap of things I'm thankful for, but that would be bordering on the cheesy, and I'm feeling the need for a restoration of ironic equilibrium after my last post. So I won't do that. Instead I'll focus on what I’m not thankful for, and what I'm not thankful for is that the laptop crashed as I was writing this post first time round, and the whole thing disappeared. It hasn’t come out nearly as well second time round. Wah.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Religion
I thought it was time I wrote about my experience of religion in the Midwest. This has long been tucked away in my ‘not sure I want to go there on my blog’ folder, along with guns and obesity. Now there’s an attractive pair of bedfellows.
The first thing to say is that it’s very British, this reticence to talk about religion. How did that happen in Britain? Is it too personal? Is it too sensitive in these multi-cultural times? I have to say, I have found it refreshing here, to have it off the taboo list. When we arrived, people asked “will you be looking for a church?” much as they might have asked “which sports are you interested in?” And whether we’d said yes or no, either would have been fine. It’s something that people are much more relaxed about. I know the Bible Belt has a bad reputation, and perhaps we’ve just been lucky, but I can’t think of any occasion on which I’ve felt pressured or offended by any church or individual. I suppose it would be fair to say that as we did the rounds, looking for a church we might call home, we didn’t exactly head to the ones that advertised themselves as unpleasantly fundamentalist and Bible-bashing. But you know, even as I type that, I’m trying to think if I’ve come across some that would fit that description, and I honestly can’t think of any. I conclude that a very little of that kind of stuff has gone a long way in fostering an unfair reputation. I guess they must be around. Perhaps they just don't have a sign outside saying 'Unpleasantly Fundamentalist and Bible-Bashing'.
I find myself stuck at this point. Many many times in my head - most Sundays in my early blogging days - I have written amusing blog posts about an English woman’s perception of church life here. And I could reproduce one of those here, and make you laugh. I could. I mean, we all know that God, underneath His impressive ability to stand up for all nations, is really English. We have the best hymns, we have the best buildings – cold and draughty, with hard bottom-aching pews, just like they should be. We understand that when you leave church, you exchange two sentences about the weather, shuffle your feet a bit, and then head home for a decent Sunday roast. That’s how God planned it. I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere. They don’t really appreciate that here. They worship in modern buildings, which are warm and comfortable. They have guitars and keyboards instead of organs. They make way too much eye contact as you walk through the door. They even have people specially to do that, who wear badges saying “Greeter”. And there’s hugging too. I know, I know. It’s just not right. Not right at all.
Over time, though, I have gingerly crossed some lines. I find I can’t write that post any more. Where I used to see a room full of people who didn't seem to understand how to do church properly, though they were having a good stab at it, I now see a community of people living health-filled, grace-filled lives, gathering for worship, and I know I am privileged to be of their number. These are the people who stood with me and my family in the dark days of last summer. These are the people who brought us dinner evening after evening, who took the children off for whole days, whose phone numbers I could have called at any time, day or night, sure of receiving help. These are the people who stood with me in the anxious times when waiting for test results, who shared my relief when these were good (mercifully often), and who fell to their knees in prayer on my behalf when they were bad. These are the people who rejoiced with me when my hair grew, who allowed me space to be sad, be angry, be happy, be weird. These are the people who have puzzled over my odd European perspectives in discussion, and who have embraced my English eccentricities. These are the people in whose company I have wrestled with things, questioned things, faced things, and laid things down. These are the people who I know will carry me in their thoughts and prayers after we’ve (eventually!) left the Midwest, as I will carry them.
I have learned more and received more than I bargained for, here in the Bible Belt. I could tell you a whole lot more about that, but I’m going to sit back now, and watch the comments box go strangely silent. I suspect we’re all British here, when it comes to religion.
There is one thing I miss, though. Because religion is so much more acceptable here, there was an edginess about being a Christian in the UK that I don't experience now. There used to be moments, moments which I loved, when I'd be talking to a mum from school who I'd known for a while, and I'd drop into the conversation that I went to church. The conversation would hesitate, just briefly, before she would express polite interest, or not, while her face would have written all over it the suppressed exclamation "but Iota, I thought you were NORMAL!". I'm a bit of a rebel at heart and I do miss those moments, so if some of you could oblige in the comments, that would be nice.
The first thing to say is that it’s very British, this reticence to talk about religion. How did that happen in Britain? Is it too personal? Is it too sensitive in these multi-cultural times? I have to say, I have found it refreshing here, to have it off the taboo list. When we arrived, people asked “will you be looking for a church?” much as they might have asked “which sports are you interested in?” And whether we’d said yes or no, either would have been fine. It’s something that people are much more relaxed about. I know the Bible Belt has a bad reputation, and perhaps we’ve just been lucky, but I can’t think of any occasion on which I’ve felt pressured or offended by any church or individual. I suppose it would be fair to say that as we did the rounds, looking for a church we might call home, we didn’t exactly head to the ones that advertised themselves as unpleasantly fundamentalist and Bible-bashing. But you know, even as I type that, I’m trying to think if I’ve come across some that would fit that description, and I honestly can’t think of any. I conclude that a very little of that kind of stuff has gone a long way in fostering an unfair reputation. I guess they must be around. Perhaps they just don't have a sign outside saying 'Unpleasantly Fundamentalist and Bible-Bashing'.
I find myself stuck at this point. Many many times in my head - most Sundays in my early blogging days - I have written amusing blog posts about an English woman’s perception of church life here. And I could reproduce one of those here, and make you laugh. I could. I mean, we all know that God, underneath His impressive ability to stand up for all nations, is really English. We have the best hymns, we have the best buildings – cold and draughty, with hard bottom-aching pews, just like they should be. We understand that when you leave church, you exchange two sentences about the weather, shuffle your feet a bit, and then head home for a decent Sunday roast. That’s how God planned it. I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere. They don’t really appreciate that here. They worship in modern buildings, which are warm and comfortable. They have guitars and keyboards instead of organs. They make way too much eye contact as you walk through the door. They even have people specially to do that, who wear badges saying “Greeter”. And there’s hugging too. I know, I know. It’s just not right. Not right at all.
Over time, though, I have gingerly crossed some lines. I find I can’t write that post any more. Where I used to see a room full of people who didn't seem to understand how to do church properly, though they were having a good stab at it, I now see a community of people living health-filled, grace-filled lives, gathering for worship, and I know I am privileged to be of their number. These are the people who stood with me and my family in the dark days of last summer. These are the people who brought us dinner evening after evening, who took the children off for whole days, whose phone numbers I could have called at any time, day or night, sure of receiving help. These are the people who stood with me in the anxious times when waiting for test results, who shared my relief when these were good (mercifully often), and who fell to their knees in prayer on my behalf when they were bad. These are the people who rejoiced with me when my hair grew, who allowed me space to be sad, be angry, be happy, be weird. These are the people who have puzzled over my odd European perspectives in discussion, and who have embraced my English eccentricities. These are the people in whose company I have wrestled with things, questioned things, faced things, and laid things down. These are the people who I know will carry me in their thoughts and prayers after we’ve (eventually!) left the Midwest, as I will carry them.
I have learned more and received more than I bargained for, here in the Bible Belt. I could tell you a whole lot more about that, but I’m going to sit back now, and watch the comments box go strangely silent. I suspect we’re all British here, when it comes to religion.
There is one thing I miss, though. Because religion is so much more acceptable here, there was an edginess about being a Christian in the UK that I don't experience now. There used to be moments, moments which I loved, when I'd be talking to a mum from school who I'd known for a while, and I'd drop into the conversation that I went to church. The conversation would hesitate, just briefly, before she would express polite interest, or not, while her face would have written all over it the suppressed exclamation "but Iota, I thought you were NORMAL!". I'm a bit of a rebel at heart and I do miss those moments, so if some of you could oblige in the comments, that would be nice.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Chicago Six
So there I am, sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Chicago, listening to another English woman tell a story which begins “so there I am…”, and I’m thinking “I love that – the way English people tell stories in the present tense. I miss that here.”.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Dee and Des
Those of you who have kicked around for a while in my corner of the blogging world might remember Dee Parrot (pronounced like the French par-oh). If you want to know what Dee was all about, try saying her name out loud several times in a row. Dee Parrot. Not just Dee. Otherwise you'll just be sitting there going "dee dee dee dee dee dee" and feeling a little foolish.
Dee was my creation, along with her husband Des, but I have passed ownership of them over to Heather who blogs at Note from Lapland. Dee had been languishing silent and unloved in the blogosphere for over a year, and when Heather showed an interest, I unhesitatingly packed Dee off to her, complete with password, and said "Here is Dee. Do with her what you will." Heartless, I know. Dee deserved better, and I am pleased she is getting the kind of makeover she needed at Heather's hand. I couldn't resist writing for her, though.
So do head on over, and have a look.
Dee was my creation, along with her husband Des, but I have passed ownership of them over to Heather who blogs at Note from Lapland. Dee had been languishing silent and unloved in the blogosphere for over a year, and when Heather showed an interest, I unhesitatingly packed Dee off to her, complete with password, and said "Here is Dee. Do with her what you will." Heartless, I know. Dee deserved better, and I am pleased she is getting the kind of makeover she needed at Heather's hand. I couldn't resist writing for her, though.
So do head on over, and have a look.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Hallowe'en
Well, one culinary triumph follows another. The Bavarian chocolate cream used 6 egg yolks, and what's a girl to do with 6 leftover egg whites?
Make meringue ghosts for Hallowe'en. That's what. And here they are.
It felt all wrong, really, because in my childhood, meringues were Christmas fare. But I thoroughly enjoyed making them, accompanied by all the memories of helping my mother make trayfuls of the things, and then sandwiching them together in pairs, flat bottom to flat bottom, with whipped cream. My mother had meringue-making down to a fine art. I loved feeling the friendly ghosts of meringues past hovering around me, as I tried my own (and no, I've never done them before, since I hear you all asking, in surprised voices - listen, I'm only 45, when would I have had time to try making meringues before now?).
If I'd been writing the recipe for meringues, instead of St Delia, I'd have said something like this: "Heat the oven to 300 degrees, but the minute you put the meringues in, turn it down straightaway, immediately, right then and there, don't forget to do that, don't get on with clearing up, and have a good looky round your kitchen cupboards for black food gel icing for the eyes, because if you leave the oven at 300 for 15 minutes before you check back to the recipe and remember that it told you to lower the temperature, the meringues will still taste fine, but they will be slightly brown, instead of ghoulishly white". Which is why I don't write cookery books, because they would probably turn out rather long. On the other hand, slightly brown ghosts are good, in these politically correct days.
Here's one who didn't make it to school for 9-yo's party, because 9-yo was fond of it, and wanted to keep it at home, all for himself.
Here are some other treats I made for the party.
The website called them forked eyeballs. Forked eyeballs, peoples, forked eyeballs. I made some with red gel icing, and some with ordinary red icing.
Husband said that the ones with gel icing were more realistic, which really begs the question: how does he know what an eyeball on a fork looks like? He also said they looked more realistic than the picture on the website, which is why I married him. Well, it's not exactly why I married him. I don't remember eyeballs on forks feeding into that decision, 16 years ago. But Husband, if you're reading this, you'll be pleased to know that forked eyeballs or no forked eyeballs, I'm glad I did. Decide to marry you. Actually, I don't think websites were even invented then.
Where was I? The eyeballs weren't all as perfectly round as these ones. Dillons (who never replied to me about my query on aseptic drinks, by the way - bad customer service Dillons!) had run out of their own fresh baked doughnut holes, so I had to use the kind that have been sitting in a packet on a shelf since May, and they were so dry that when I forked them, they tended to split in half. Some I managed to catch before they were completely split, and glue together the crack with the melted white chocolate. But I ended up using some halves, to produce oddly shaped eyeballs with one flat side. But this is Hallowe'en, and oddly shaped is good too. Might even be politically correct. I mean, why should we discriminate against people with oddly shaped eyeballs?
Dillons also didn't have any black plastic forks, which would have looked much better than clear. I am falling out of love with Dillons.
Meanwhile, on the costume front, we have been decidedly lack-lustre in our efforts. 13-yo declares himself too old for dressing up. 9-yo is sporting the same alien commander costume I purchased last year from Target. It's a long black robe, with a scary mask which won't stay on very well, so in 9-yo's case, it's a long black robe. 6-yo is a fairy, in a fairy dress that is a little small for her, but looks fine over a long-sleeved stripey top and stripey tights. Originally she was going to be the tooth fairy, as she was last year, but then she thought perhaps she'd be the candy fairy. I suggested the stripey fairy, but that was met with a certain scorn - "the stripey fairy?" - and she concluded that she'd just be a plain fairy. Which suits me just fine, because I'm all out of creative juice after my exertions in the kitchen, and a plain fairy needs no accessories.
Make meringue ghosts for Hallowe'en. That's what. And here they are.
It felt all wrong, really, because in my childhood, meringues were Christmas fare. But I thoroughly enjoyed making them, accompanied by all the memories of helping my mother make trayfuls of the things, and then sandwiching them together in pairs, flat bottom to flat bottom, with whipped cream. My mother had meringue-making down to a fine art. I loved feeling the friendly ghosts of meringues past hovering around me, as I tried my own (and no, I've never done them before, since I hear you all asking, in surprised voices - listen, I'm only 45, when would I have had time to try making meringues before now?).
If I'd been writing the recipe for meringues, instead of St Delia, I'd have said something like this: "Heat the oven to 300 degrees, but the minute you put the meringues in, turn it down straightaway, immediately, right then and there, don't forget to do that, don't get on with clearing up, and have a good looky round your kitchen cupboards for black food gel icing for the eyes, because if you leave the oven at 300 for 15 minutes before you check back to the recipe and remember that it told you to lower the temperature, the meringues will still taste fine, but they will be slightly brown, instead of ghoulishly white". Which is why I don't write cookery books, because they would probably turn out rather long. On the other hand, slightly brown ghosts are good, in these politically correct days.
Here's one who didn't make it to school for 9-yo's party, because 9-yo was fond of it, and wanted to keep it at home, all for himself.
Here are some other treats I made for the party.
The website called them forked eyeballs. Forked eyeballs, peoples, forked eyeballs. I made some with red gel icing, and some with ordinary red icing.
Husband said that the ones with gel icing were more realistic, which really begs the question: how does he know what an eyeball on a fork looks like? He also said they looked more realistic than the picture on the website, which is why I married him. Well, it's not exactly why I married him. I don't remember eyeballs on forks feeding into that decision, 16 years ago. But Husband, if you're reading this, you'll be pleased to know that forked eyeballs or no forked eyeballs, I'm glad I did. Decide to marry you. Actually, I don't think websites were even invented then.
Where was I? The eyeballs weren't all as perfectly round as these ones. Dillons (who never replied to me about my query on aseptic drinks, by the way - bad customer service Dillons!) had run out of their own fresh baked doughnut holes, so I had to use the kind that have been sitting in a packet on a shelf since May, and they were so dry that when I forked them, they tended to split in half. Some I managed to catch before they were completely split, and glue together the crack with the melted white chocolate. But I ended up using some halves, to produce oddly shaped eyeballs with one flat side. But this is Hallowe'en, and oddly shaped is good too. Might even be politically correct. I mean, why should we discriminate against people with oddly shaped eyeballs?
Dillons also didn't have any black plastic forks, which would have looked much better than clear. I am falling out of love with Dillons.
Meanwhile, on the costume front, we have been decidedly lack-lustre in our efforts. 13-yo declares himself too old for dressing up. 9-yo is sporting the same alien commander costume I purchased last year from Target. It's a long black robe, with a scary mask which won't stay on very well, so in 9-yo's case, it's a long black robe. 6-yo is a fairy, in a fairy dress that is a little small for her, but looks fine over a long-sleeved stripey top and stripey tights. Originally she was going to be the tooth fairy, as she was last year, but then she thought perhaps she'd be the candy fairy. I suggested the stripey fairy, but that was met with a certain scorn - "the stripey fairy?" - and she concluded that she'd just be a plain fairy. Which suits me just fine, because I'm all out of creative juice after my exertions in the kitchen, and a plain fairy needs no accessories.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Oktoberfest
One of the things I love about blogging is that it gives you a community of people from whom to seek advice on almost any question or problem you may have. It's like having your own personal Wikipedia.
Which I totally would have done, except I didn't want to overwhelm them with my multifarious talents, what with the Bavarian Chocolate Cream being such an unmatchable demonstration of my creative prowess.
One thing leads to another, and this whole venture made me realise that taking photographs of culinary delights is really tricky. It's a whole art. I mean, you can probably tell that my pictures just don't do justice to the triumph that was the Bavarian Chocolate Cream. Luckily, should I ever want to improve in that area (can't quite see a future in which I'll be photographing a lot of my cooking, but you never know), I can think of the ideal go-to blogging friend on that too. The blogging community isn't just a personal Wikipedia, come to think of it. It's an opportunity for a masterclass on pretty much any subject you like.
(And by the way, Met Mum, I don't speak German, so I hope that song isn't full of rudeness and obscenities. This is a family-friendly blog.)
Thus it was that when I was invited to an Oktoberfest, and asked to bring along a German dessert, I knew exactly what to do. My go-to person on German affairs (though I've never actually had any call to consult her before) is Metropolitan Mum, who writes a blog in impeccable English. I didn't know she was German for ages. Anyway, I emailed Met Mum and asked her for an idea for a very simple German dessert (Husband away this last week, and I knew I'd have no time or energy for trying out some fancy concoction). She emailed back, and suggested I give Bayerische Creme a go (that's Bavarian Cream to you and me), and sent me a link to a recipe on a website. This one, if you're interested. It didn't look too hard, and Met Mum had also sent me a link to a recipe for raspberry sauce which looked achievable, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.
The recipe involves making a creamy, eggy, sugary, milky mixture, adding gelatin to it, and then leaving it to cool. Before it sets, you fold in a comfortingly large amount of whipped cream (anything with whipped cream is going to be a success, right?) The recipe says something like "remove the milk/egg mixture from the heat and allow to cool until it begins to thicken". It doesn't say (and it surely should) "don't go off at this point and do something else like checking your emails, or putting away the laundry, or reading the newspaper, because you will probably forget the mixture for too long, and when you open the fridge, you will find it completely set and it will be TOO LATE to do anything about it". What kind of recipe leaves out a detail like that? I tried combining the stuff with the whipped cream (I use the word 'combining' because we were way past the possibility of 'folding in gently' as the recipe wanted), but the result was a clumpy lumpy mound of something that looked really very horrid (though still tasted quite nice - if you ignored the texture, and maybe there are people out there who like small gelatinous lumps in their smooth food).
So, Met Mum, Vorsprung Durch Technik and all that, I thought I'd better improvise. I spooned the lumpy mound into my blender, added a good amount of chocolate milk, and whisked the living daylights out of the stuff. It became light, fluffy, delicate, fragrant... so I quickly poured it into some white ramekins, because we all know that anything in a white ramekin looks good (I sometimes sit in one myself, just to feel better about life), and popped the re-christened Bavarian Chocolate Cream back into the fridge. Even having been whisked beyond death with the chocolate milk, it set nicely.
I'd rather lost heart by this stage, so I didn't try the raspberry sauce, but you can see that I kept the berry theme by decorating each one with a delicate slice of strawberry. You have to realise that these were going to be transported to the other side of town on the laps of assorted children, and I didn't think a flourish of whipped cream, or a dusting of cocoa powder, or a curl of dark chocolate tucked inside a sprig of fresh mint would make it.
When I ran out of ramekins, I used sherry glasses. Sophisticated is my middle name.
So thanks for your help on this one, Met Mum. Not only for the recipe, but also for your suggestion that I should wear a dirndl skirt (sadly, I didn't have one) and impress my friends by learning and performing this song.
The recipe involves making a creamy, eggy, sugary, milky mixture, adding gelatin to it, and then leaving it to cool. Before it sets, you fold in a comfortingly large amount of whipped cream (anything with whipped cream is going to be a success, right?) The recipe says something like "remove the milk/egg mixture from the heat and allow to cool until it begins to thicken". It doesn't say (and it surely should) "don't go off at this point and do something else like checking your emails, or putting away the laundry, or reading the newspaper, because you will probably forget the mixture for too long, and when you open the fridge, you will find it completely set and it will be TOO LATE to do anything about it". What kind of recipe leaves out a detail like that? I tried combining the stuff with the whipped cream (I use the word 'combining' because we were way past the possibility of 'folding in gently' as the recipe wanted), but the result was a clumpy lumpy mound of something that looked really very horrid (though still tasted quite nice - if you ignored the texture, and maybe there are people out there who like small gelatinous lumps in their smooth food).
So, Met Mum, Vorsprung Durch Technik and all that, I thought I'd better improvise. I spooned the lumpy mound into my blender, added a good amount of chocolate milk, and whisked the living daylights out of the stuff. It became light, fluffy, delicate, fragrant... so I quickly poured it into some white ramekins, because we all know that anything in a white ramekin looks good (I sometimes sit in one myself, just to feel better about life), and popped the re-christened Bavarian Chocolate Cream back into the fridge. Even having been whisked beyond death with the chocolate milk, it set nicely.
I'd rather lost heart by this stage, so I didn't try the raspberry sauce, but you can see that I kept the berry theme by decorating each one with a delicate slice of strawberry. You have to realise that these were going to be transported to the other side of town on the laps of assorted children, and I didn't think a flourish of whipped cream, or a dusting of cocoa powder, or a curl of dark chocolate tucked inside a sprig of fresh mint would make it.
When I ran out of ramekins, I used sherry glasses. Sophisticated is my middle name.
So thanks for your help on this one, Met Mum. Not only for the recipe, but also for your suggestion that I should wear a dirndl skirt (sadly, I didn't have one) and impress my friends by learning and performing this song.
Which I totally would have done, except I didn't want to overwhelm them with my multifarious talents, what with the Bavarian Chocolate Cream being such an unmatchable demonstration of my creative prowess.
One thing leads to another, and this whole venture made me realise that taking photographs of culinary delights is really tricky. It's a whole art. I mean, you can probably tell that my pictures just don't do justice to the triumph that was the Bavarian Chocolate Cream. Luckily, should I ever want to improve in that area (can't quite see a future in which I'll be photographing a lot of my cooking, but you never know), I can think of the ideal go-to blogging friend on that too. The blogging community isn't just a personal Wikipedia, come to think of it. It's an opportunity for a masterclass on pretty much any subject you like.
(And by the way, Met Mum, I don't speak German, so I hope that song isn't full of rudeness and obscenities. This is a family-friendly blog.)
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Does parental experience count for anything?
You'd think that 13 years of being a parent would count for something. It appears not. That is why, with Husband away this week, the following things happened.
But there's one thing I HAVE learnt as a parent, and it is this. There is NO SHAME in putting the tv on when you have a poorly child, in order to buy you time to write a blog post. So I guess 13 years do count for something.
- I was pondering to myself how some things do get easier, and reminiscing silently how one of the children always used to be ill whenever Husband went away, and how once I even booked a doctor's appointment in advance - which I did then need (or perhaps I was just proving my point), but how they seemed to have grown out of being ill so much. This is known as TEMPTING FATE, and as a parent, you don't do it. We all know that. It's in Chapter 1 of all the baby books.
- I have not had my antennae tuned recently. We all know that parents need fully-functioning antenna, which can pick up any hint of a "wouldn't you just know it" story before it becomes reality. For the week Husband is away, I am working on Monday and Tuesday, and the boys are off school on Thursday and Friday. This leaves Wednesday as the one day for me, me, me. So when 6-yo creeps into my bed at 5.00am on Wednesday morning, complaining of a tummy ache, why do I not see where this is going? Why do I operate my mind-over-matter strategy on her, saying "I'll get the bucket and we'll put it by the bed, but YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE SICK"? And then in the morning, when she hasn't been sick and says she's feeling a bit better, but has a temperature of a little over 99, why do I optimistically say "oh, we'll take it again in an hour... it'll probably go down... people often have a slightly raised temperature first thing in the morning" and not remember that that's just when you're ovulating, which, at 6 years old, she probably isn't?
- When we are driving home from taking the boys to school, and 6-yo announces "I'm going to be sick", I reply "but we're nearly home, very very nearly home, I can see the house, just hold on ONE minute". Yup. That's what I said. Even the most inept parent knows that when a child says "I'm going to be sick", the correct answer isn't any sentence including the words "just hold on". We all know that stopping the car is the only workable strategy at this point, and who cares about the neighbour's lawn?
- I didn't have a receptacle of any description to hand in the car. Any decent parent has a plastic bag or two in the car, don't they? In the few seconds available to me, I looked at the box of tissues, and wondered if she could be sick tidily into the little window at the top of it. I even looked at her adored dry erase board, and wondered if she could hold it horizontal and keep it level, as a sort of vomit-receiving tray (though I knew this would be cruel beyond measure - she loves that dry erase board so much). So as I sped up the road, the best I could do was to say "open the window - if you're being sick, do it out of the window", forgetting that those stupid electric windows in the back of the car don't open all the way down.
But there's one thing I HAVE learnt as a parent, and it is this. There is NO SHAME in putting the tv on when you have a poorly child, in order to buy you time to write a blog post. So I guess 13 years do count for something.
[Stephen Hawking, by the way. The bad taste joke in the last post...]
Monday, October 18, 2010
Tales from the...
... shh, you know I'm not writing this blog. But if I was, I'd tell you about...
... the person I met today whose little boy is called Soya.
... how I posted a transaction for over $22 million by mistake. Something for my boss to sort out when she balances the books.
... the woman who bought a toy for a child whose name she couldn't remember (not her own child - at least, that's what she said).
... how at home I feel with a boss and coworkers who get my English sense of humour. They are truly like an oasis in a desert. It's such a relief to be able to make jokes in horribly bad taste, and know that people will laugh uproariously rather than be offended. Jokes, like saying that the electronic talking-singing toys might have been inspired by... by... no, too much bad taste for a blog, sorry.
... how I wish Playmobil and Lego used different coloured boxes. They are both an identical blue, and it makes life very complicated. Is it a stand-off between the Germans and Danes?
"Ve choze ze blue first. Ve vill not change to anuzzer colour."
"We may be a smaller country than you, but we have a statue of a mermaid in the harbour of our capital city, and we, too, will not change to another colour." (Sorry, can't attempt a rendition of English spoken in a Danish accent.)
... how you should never ever assume that you are alone in the shop, because otherwise, you might be boogie-ing along to a kid's song, snapping your fingers and wiggling your bottom, and find out that, oops, a customer is watching you.
PS It was actually Sawyer (as in Tom Sawyer). I had to ask, because I just couldn't get my mind round Soya, and I didn't want to refer to the child as 'your son' in every future conversation.
... the person I met today whose little boy is called Soya.
... how I posted a transaction for over $22 million by mistake. Something for my boss to sort out when she balances the books.
... the woman who bought a toy for a child whose name she couldn't remember (not her own child - at least, that's what she said).
... how at home I feel with a boss and coworkers who get my English sense of humour. They are truly like an oasis in a desert. It's such a relief to be able to make jokes in horribly bad taste, and know that people will laugh uproariously rather than be offended. Jokes, like saying that the electronic talking-singing toys might have been inspired by... by... no, too much bad taste for a blog, sorry.
... how I wish Playmobil and Lego used different coloured boxes. They are both an identical blue, and it makes life very complicated. Is it a stand-off between the Germans and Danes?
"Ve choze ze blue first. Ve vill not change to anuzzer colour."
"We may be a smaller country than you, but we have a statue of a mermaid in the harbour of our capital city, and we, too, will not change to another colour." (Sorry, can't attempt a rendition of English spoken in a Danish accent.)
... how you should never ever assume that you are alone in the shop, because otherwise, you might be boogie-ing along to a kid's song, snapping your fingers and wiggling your bottom, and find out that, oops, a customer is watching you.
PS It was actually Sawyer (as in Tom Sawyer). I had to ask, because I just couldn't get my mind round Soya, and I didn't want to refer to the child as 'your son' in every future conversation.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
I am sad
I am sad. I am sad and weary. I am sad and weary and I have a question.
Those of you who have followed this blog for a while will know that Husband and I have been trying to return to the UK for, oh, two years or so, this move being dependent on Husband finding employment. One of the bad things about being a stay at home mum is that you find yourself in a position to contribute little to the mix, and entirely dependent on the whims and vagaries of the field of work of your spouse (in Husband's case, a very narrow field). The job search coincided with the credit crunch and its aftermath, and though Husband's area of employment isn't exactly at the sharp end of the business world, and perhaps a little cushioned from other people's harsher realities, no doubt the timing hasn't exactly helped.
I am sad, because we have just had disappointing news of the latest application, and weary, because this feels like boringly familiar territory. Husband has been doing all the right things. His cv ticks all the boxes. He knows how to present it. He has spent time networking with people in the field. He keeps in touch. We do not wallow in what Americans call 'a pity party' each time he is unsuccessful, but get right back up, and look for the next opportunity. He is not picky.
Here is my question, though. Is recruitment in other people's fields quite as bruising an experience as it has been for us - or have we been particularly unlucky? I can't help thinking that in most businesses, the process goes something like this: the job is advertised, a shortlist is drawn up, candidates are interviewed, one is appointed, and the others told they've been unsuccessful. In Husband's two areas of potential employment (universities, and the church - or church-related organisations), the process seems more like entering a maze. It is very common for no candidate to be appointed, and the post re-advertised in a slightly different format a few weeks or months later. It is very common for the process to take months. It is very common for the process to take months, and then to be abandoned. It is very common for them not to bother to tell candidates what has happened. It is very common for the whole thing to be a cover for the appointment of an internal candidate. With crashing irony, the time when Husband was in that situation, and all his department had to do was appoint him to carry on with his research, for which they had received money from the government ear-marked for that purpose and for him specifically by name, they managed to appoint someone else instead, who had no relevant experience at all. The words 'piss-up' and 'brewery' come to mind. It's how we ended up in America.
Is the business world more efficient? I suppose committees of philosophy and/or theology academics were never going to be the speediest and most efficient of decision-making bodies, were they? I picture them all in a room, trying to discuss the relative merits of the candidates, stuck in the mire of theoretical considerations, and going off on tangents from which they have no hope of ever returning.
As for the church, well, I can only despair. Husband has been on the receiving end of the kind of behaviour from senior church men and women, on both sides of the Atlantic, that would make the Pharisees blush. If there isn't a Parable of the Blushing Pharisee, there jolly well ought to be. The inefficiency, the waste of money and time, the in-fighting, the empty promises... Most of all, the sheer lack of consideration. Do these people not realise what kind of effort goes into a job application? And the time it takes? Blimey, if Husband was paid by the hour for job applications and their accompanying preparation, he wouldn't even be looking for a new position, we'd be so wealthy. Do they not realise the emotional energy that is expended? Over literally months? Do they not think what it is like to consider moving a family? Because with every clergy job (not just in our case), it's not only the job that's involved. It's the location, the house, the schools, the whole life? Don't they think about that at all?
It is with this in mind that I am SO tempted to drop in the name of the latest Bishop who has just changed his mind on a job. This job was advertised in April, and then again in September, after a failed first round. Flight tickets had been purchased for Husband's interview. He wasn't guaranteed the job - I get that. So I know that it was a risky business getting excited about the place, and researching what it might be like to live there. No, he hadn't been promised the job, but he HAD been promised an interview. At a week's notice of the flight, he received an email saying the Bishop had decided nor to go ahead with the post at the present time. At least they are refunding the flight ticket (they'd asked us to pay half). And now Husband has to go away and hide somewhere for a week, because of course he'd told people he was going away, and has arranged for classes to be taken in his absence. It wouldn't do for him to bump into students in Dillons.
I realise that this all sounds horribly petty, and of course I don't know the inside story. I don't know what pressures other people are operating under, and I don't know what frustrations and problems they face. But for heaven's sake, STOP promising more than you can deliver. Stop it. Just STOP IT.
Oh, and the reason I'm so very tempted to name that Bishop is this. I know he, or one of his communications staff, will have his name on google alert. I just know it. And I want him to realise that this is a big deal. That for him, what is just a little twist in some Diocesan politics, or an unfortunate mistake, or an embarrassing glitch, for us, is life-changing. I want him to know, because once people get to a certain level in an organisation, they forget what it's like to be nearer the bottom of the pile, and they have people around them who shield them from the memory. They don't even have the decency to write emails themselves (too busy, too important). But of course I won't name and shame, because we can't afford to be alienating people in such a small world. A small sucky world.
Back to my question. Is our experience typical? Is recruitment in every sector such a painful process? Or is Husband just in the wrong business?
I should really retitle this post. I am sad. I am sad and weary. Most of all, I am sad and weary and ANGRY.
Those of you who have followed this blog for a while will know that Husband and I have been trying to return to the UK for, oh, two years or so, this move being dependent on Husband finding employment. One of the bad things about being a stay at home mum is that you find yourself in a position to contribute little to the mix, and entirely dependent on the whims and vagaries of the field of work of your spouse (in Husband's case, a very narrow field). The job search coincided with the credit crunch and its aftermath, and though Husband's area of employment isn't exactly at the sharp end of the business world, and perhaps a little cushioned from other people's harsher realities, no doubt the timing hasn't exactly helped.
I am sad, because we have just had disappointing news of the latest application, and weary, because this feels like boringly familiar territory. Husband has been doing all the right things. His cv ticks all the boxes. He knows how to present it. He has spent time networking with people in the field. He keeps in touch. We do not wallow in what Americans call 'a pity party' each time he is unsuccessful, but get right back up, and look for the next opportunity. He is not picky.
Here is my question, though. Is recruitment in other people's fields quite as bruising an experience as it has been for us - or have we been particularly unlucky? I can't help thinking that in most businesses, the process goes something like this: the job is advertised, a shortlist is drawn up, candidates are interviewed, one is appointed, and the others told they've been unsuccessful. In Husband's two areas of potential employment (universities, and the church - or church-related organisations), the process seems more like entering a maze. It is very common for no candidate to be appointed, and the post re-advertised in a slightly different format a few weeks or months later. It is very common for the process to take months. It is very common for the process to take months, and then to be abandoned. It is very common for them not to bother to tell candidates what has happened. It is very common for the whole thing to be a cover for the appointment of an internal candidate. With crashing irony, the time when Husband was in that situation, and all his department had to do was appoint him to carry on with his research, for which they had received money from the government ear-marked for that purpose and for him specifically by name, they managed to appoint someone else instead, who had no relevant experience at all. The words 'piss-up' and 'brewery' come to mind. It's how we ended up in America.
Is the business world more efficient? I suppose committees of philosophy and/or theology academics were never going to be the speediest and most efficient of decision-making bodies, were they? I picture them all in a room, trying to discuss the relative merits of the candidates, stuck in the mire of theoretical considerations, and going off on tangents from which they have no hope of ever returning.
As for the church, well, I can only despair. Husband has been on the receiving end of the kind of behaviour from senior church men and women, on both sides of the Atlantic, that would make the Pharisees blush. If there isn't a Parable of the Blushing Pharisee, there jolly well ought to be. The inefficiency, the waste of money and time, the in-fighting, the empty promises... Most of all, the sheer lack of consideration. Do these people not realise what kind of effort goes into a job application? And the time it takes? Blimey, if Husband was paid by the hour for job applications and their accompanying preparation, he wouldn't even be looking for a new position, we'd be so wealthy. Do they not realise the emotional energy that is expended? Over literally months? Do they not think what it is like to consider moving a family? Because with every clergy job (not just in our case), it's not only the job that's involved. It's the location, the house, the schools, the whole life? Don't they think about that at all?
It is with this in mind that I am SO tempted to drop in the name of the latest Bishop who has just changed his mind on a job. This job was advertised in April, and then again in September, after a failed first round. Flight tickets had been purchased for Husband's interview. He wasn't guaranteed the job - I get that. So I know that it was a risky business getting excited about the place, and researching what it might be like to live there. No, he hadn't been promised the job, but he HAD been promised an interview. At a week's notice of the flight, he received an email saying the Bishop had decided nor to go ahead with the post at the present time. At least they are refunding the flight ticket (they'd asked us to pay half). And now Husband has to go away and hide somewhere for a week, because of course he'd told people he was going away, and has arranged for classes to be taken in his absence. It wouldn't do for him to bump into students in Dillons.
I realise that this all sounds horribly petty, and of course I don't know the inside story. I don't know what pressures other people are operating under, and I don't know what frustrations and problems they face. But for heaven's sake, STOP promising more than you can deliver. Stop it. Just STOP IT.
Oh, and the reason I'm so very tempted to name that Bishop is this. I know he, or one of his communications staff, will have his name on google alert. I just know it. And I want him to realise that this is a big deal. That for him, what is just a little twist in some Diocesan politics, or an unfortunate mistake, or an embarrassing glitch, for us, is life-changing. I want him to know, because once people get to a certain level in an organisation, they forget what it's like to be nearer the bottom of the pile, and they have people around them who shield them from the memory. They don't even have the decency to write emails themselves (too busy, too important). But of course I won't name and shame, because we can't afford to be alienating people in such a small world. A small sucky world.
Back to my question. Is our experience typical? Is recruitment in every sector such a painful process? Or is Husband just in the wrong business?
I should really retitle this post. I am sad. I am sad and weary. Most of all, I am sad and weary and ANGRY.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Double trouble
We've just been to a music program (concert) in which 13-yo was performing. One of the songs that the eighth grade choir sang was from the witches in Macbeth.
"Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
When we got home, 6-yo was asking me about it, wanting to know what the words were.
"Why were the witches singing about toilet trouble?" she wondered.
Talking of phrases which get you wondering, she and 9-yo often say "on accident" instead of "by accident". Husband and I have started correcting them. Up till now, it's been one of those family phrases that we fondly think is rather sweet, but the time comes when the need for correct parlance trumps parental doting. It's been a very hard habit to break. Husband and I assumed that they were saying "on accident" because of the parallel with "on purpose", or possibly because "it was an accident" could be construed as "it was on accident". Either way, it sounds odd to us, and we just thought it was wrong usage.
But... in the past couple of weeks, I've heard "on accident" three times - on one occasion it was a child, but on the next two, it was adults (albeit young things).
Is this becoming current usage? Is it an Americanism, or have you heard it over the other side of the Pond?
"Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
When we got home, 6-yo was asking me about it, wanting to know what the words were.
"Why were the witches singing about toilet trouble?" she wondered.
Talking of phrases which get you wondering, she and 9-yo often say "on accident" instead of "by accident". Husband and I have started correcting them. Up till now, it's been one of those family phrases that we fondly think is rather sweet, but the time comes when the need for correct parlance trumps parental doting. It's been a very hard habit to break. Husband and I assumed that they were saying "on accident" because of the parallel with "on purpose", or possibly because "it was an accident" could be construed as "it was on accident". Either way, it sounds odd to us, and we just thought it was wrong usage.
But... in the past couple of weeks, I've heard "on accident" three times - on one occasion it was a child, but on the next two, it was adults (albeit young things).
Is this becoming current usage? Is it an Americanism, or have you heard it over the other side of the Pond?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Indian Autumn
It's autumn. I love autumn, and I always feel more content in myself and with the world somehow. Perhaps it's become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Oh gosh, it's autumn, let me see... do I feel more content in myself and with the world somehow?... do I?... yes... yes... I believe I do!
I've blogged about autumn here before, and posted lots of photographs of lovely trees (you can click on the label at the bottom if you're interested). It's just such a beautiful season, and here, the weather is still warm enough to enjoy being out and about. It's mostly in the 70s, but still a day here and there in the 80s. Perfect. Sorry for those of you in any part of the world (mentioning no names) where it's grey and cold and drizzly.
I don't know much about how Indians chose their names, beyond watching Dances with Wolves, but if I had to choose myself a name inspired by my character or by the natural world, it would be something to do with autumn. Either that or Heap Big Laundry Heap, which would also be fitting.
What would your Indian name be?
And on the subject of Indians, I really haven't fathomed what to call them yet. I know that there will be people wincing as they read this post, because it's just not pc to use the word 'Indian' in many circles. In my early blogging days, I caused hilarity on the East Coast, by describing my 'pool cover-up' as a 'squaw dress'. (Funny to think there was a time when I didn't know what a 'pool cover-up' was...) But anyway, back to Indians. People DO talk about Indians round here, and we have an Indian Center in town, which is unashamedly called The Indian Center. When we went to Colorado last year, we watched a display of traditional Indian dancing at an Indian museum, and the word 'Indian' was used throughout.
So two questions, then. What would your personal Indian name be? And what should I call Indians?
I've blogged about autumn here before, and posted lots of photographs of lovely trees (you can click on the label at the bottom if you're interested). It's just such a beautiful season, and here, the weather is still warm enough to enjoy being out and about. It's mostly in the 70s, but still a day here and there in the 80s. Perfect. Sorry for those of you in any part of the world (mentioning no names) where it's grey and cold and drizzly.
I don't know much about how Indians chose their names, beyond watching Dances with Wolves, but if I had to choose myself a name inspired by my character or by the natural world, it would be something to do with autumn. Either that or Heap Big Laundry Heap, which would also be fitting.
What would your Indian name be?
And on the subject of Indians, I really haven't fathomed what to call them yet. I know that there will be people wincing as they read this post, because it's just not pc to use the word 'Indian' in many circles. In my early blogging days, I caused hilarity on the East Coast, by describing my 'pool cover-up' as a 'squaw dress'. (Funny to think there was a time when I didn't know what a 'pool cover-up' was...) But anyway, back to Indians. People DO talk about Indians round here, and we have an Indian Center in town, which is unashamedly called The Indian Center. When we went to Colorado last year, we watched a display of traditional Indian dancing at an Indian museum, and the word 'Indian' was used throughout.
So two questions, then. What would your personal Indian name be? And what should I call Indians?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Bless you
Now here's something that is odd, and I don't even know if it's odd because I'm English in America, or because I'm old and times have moved on without me noticing.
When 6-yo went to school the other day, she took a hanky in her pocket. An old-fashioned hanky - you know, a square piece of white cotton fabric for blowing your nose on. I say "you know", but do you? Not one of the other children in the class knew what it was for. When she got it out of her pocket, someone said "what's that?", and nobody could identify the mystery object. Except the teacher (and even she wouldn't guess that the hanky is dried by being hung on a line in the back yard!)
Would your child know what a handkerchief was? Would they keep one in their pocket, or would they always prefer to use a tissue? Just how odd is my family? (Don't answer that last question.)
Post-script: I should add that we do actually know what tissues are, and have boxes of them around, in the Manhattan household. I prefer them, myself. It was 6-yo who, on that morning, wanted to take a hanky to school, and asked for one (which had a butterfly in the corner - always nice to wipe your nose on a butterfly).
When 6-yo went to school the other day, she took a hanky in her pocket. An old-fashioned hanky - you know, a square piece of white cotton fabric for blowing your nose on. I say "you know", but do you? Not one of the other children in the class knew what it was for. When she got it out of her pocket, someone said "what's that?", and nobody could identify the mystery object. Except the teacher (and even she wouldn't guess that the hanky is dried by being hung on a line in the back yard!)
Would your child know what a handkerchief was? Would they keep one in their pocket, or would they always prefer to use a tissue? Just how odd is my family? (Don't answer that last question.)
Post-script: I should add that we do actually know what tissues are, and have boxes of them around, in the Manhattan household. I prefer them, myself. It was 6-yo who, on that morning, wanted to take a hanky to school, and asked for one (which had a butterfly in the corner - always nice to wipe your nose on a butterfly).
Friday, October 1, 2010
More book recommendations
What a fabulous idea for a sequel to Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette from Not waving but ironing (whose blog title reminds me of my own former moniker). Mrs Ruffins and her Wholemeal Muffins. I love it. I can picture her now, a cheerful, homely, English lady, who has as many imaginative uses for her muffins as Monsieur Saguette does for his baguette. She will go on holiday to France, where she will meet and fall in love with the man and his impressive French stick, and marry him. They will live happily ever after, or whatever the French equivalent is. They’ll have children: Mademoiselle Ciabatta, and her brother, le petit Roland, known as Cinnamon Rol. They’ll have two dogs called Crumpet and Scone, and a cat called Sourdough Puss.
I didn’t warn you, by the way, when I was recommending Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette, not to get the book if you are the kind of parent who balks at explaining to their child what an armed robber is, or how it can be ok, in a work of fiction, to eat bread that has been utilised to effect an escape from the city sewers, via a manhole.
But while we’re on the subject of books, people often ask me “Iota, do you know of any books for small children which have positive role models for girls?” Actually, they don’t… but they should, because it just so happens I do. Such books are few and far between, when you think about the volume of printed media about princesses who waft around waiting for their prince to come, managing only to kiss a few frogs or kow-tow to a few evil relations in the meanwhile. Here are two, which I recommend heartily, if you’re the kind of mother who likes to swim against the pink and sparkly tide every now and again.
The book Princess Grace, by Mary Hoffman is great. It's a very thoughtful treatment of the whole issue. Grace is excited when she learns her class are to be in a parade, and she can dress up as a princess. With the teacher's help, the class starts researching princesses, and what it is that a princess actually does. There's a great line where Grace decides that sitting around in a pink floaty dress sounds very boring, and that she’d rather be the kind of princess who leads a bold and adventurous life. I always want to cheer at that point. I would recommend the book for age 4 and up.
The other book on this subject that I like is Princess Pigtoria and the Pea, by Pamela Duncan Edwards. The story starts in the traditional way, but [spoiler alert] in the morning, Pigtoria is so cross with the pig prince for putting a pea under her mattress, that she goes off with the pizza delivery pig instead. It’s funny, and the text is wittily full of words beginning with the letter ‘P’. “Panting, Pigtoria plunked onto her pillows”, for example. This is a book that a 2 year old could enjoy, but 6-yo still reads and likes it.
And if you want a film with a positive female lead, there’s always Shrek. Three cheers for Fiona, I say.
I didn’t warn you, by the way, when I was recommending Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette, not to get the book if you are the kind of parent who balks at explaining to their child what an armed robber is, or how it can be ok, in a work of fiction, to eat bread that has been utilised to effect an escape from the city sewers, via a manhole.
But while we’re on the subject of books, people often ask me “Iota, do you know of any books for small children which have positive role models for girls?” Actually, they don’t… but they should, because it just so happens I do. Such books are few and far between, when you think about the volume of printed media about princesses who waft around waiting for their prince to come, managing only to kiss a few frogs or kow-tow to a few evil relations in the meanwhile. Here are two, which I recommend heartily, if you’re the kind of mother who likes to swim against the pink and sparkly tide every now and again.
The book Princess Grace, by Mary Hoffman is great. It's a very thoughtful treatment of the whole issue. Grace is excited when she learns her class are to be in a parade, and she can dress up as a princess. With the teacher's help, the class starts researching princesses, and what it is that a princess actually does. There's a great line where Grace decides that sitting around in a pink floaty dress sounds very boring, and that she’d rather be the kind of princess who leads a bold and adventurous life. I always want to cheer at that point. I would recommend the book for age 4 and up.
The other book on this subject that I like is Princess Pigtoria and the Pea, by Pamela Duncan Edwards. The story starts in the traditional way, but [spoiler alert] in the morning, Pigtoria is so cross with the pig prince for putting a pea under her mattress, that she goes off with the pizza delivery pig instead. It’s funny, and the text is wittily full of words beginning with the letter ‘P’. “Panting, Pigtoria plunked onto her pillows”, for example. This is a book that a 2 year old could enjoy, but 6-yo still reads and likes it.
And if you want a film with a positive female lead, there’s always Shrek. Three cheers for Fiona, I say.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Carrying... and a book recommendation
Well, you were right. It was guns, not babies.
You see this sign everywhere, round here. On the front door of schools, preschools, health centres, shops, restaurants, offices, libraries. Everywhere. An American friend of mine once pointed to it and said to me "I bet you don't miss that when you're back in Britain", and she's right. I don't. I hate seeing it. Perhaps this is one thing I will never get used to here.
I don't really get this sign, though. I think it must be some kind of legal disclaimer, because surely it has no practical value. Think about it. If I was in the queue at the library, and the guy in front of me pulled a gun out and aimed it at the librarian, I wouldn't tap him on the shoulder, and as he turned round, point to the sign, and say,
"Excuse me, but guns aren't allowed in this library".
I really wouldn't. I'd be far more likely to say,
"I know just how you feel. Those fines are ridiculous. A dollar a day on a dvd? Puh-lease. It's cheaper at Blockbuster."
Or I might whizz to the children's section, and get one of my all-time favourite children's books. This one:
Inspired by Monsieur Saguette's brave example, I might poke my baguette into the man's back, making him think I also have a gun, and saving the day till the police arrive. Of course this would only work if I happened to be carrying a baguette, which is unlikely, but nonetheless, I highly recommend this book. It's full of all kinds of nifty ideas as to what a monsieur can do with his baguette, and you won't be able to avoid putting on a fake French accent as you read it aloud to your children, which is olwez vairy vairy gud fuuhn.
You see this sign everywhere, round here. On the front door of schools, preschools, health centres, shops, restaurants, offices, libraries. Everywhere. An American friend of mine once pointed to it and said to me "I bet you don't miss that when you're back in Britain", and she's right. I don't. I hate seeing it. Perhaps this is one thing I will never get used to here.
I don't really get this sign, though. I think it must be some kind of legal disclaimer, because surely it has no practical value. Think about it. If I was in the queue at the library, and the guy in front of me pulled a gun out and aimed it at the librarian, I wouldn't tap him on the shoulder, and as he turned round, point to the sign, and say,
"Excuse me, but guns aren't allowed in this library".
I really wouldn't. I'd be far more likely to say,
"I know just how you feel. Those fines are ridiculous. A dollar a day on a dvd? Puh-lease. It's cheaper at Blockbuster."
Or I might whizz to the children's section, and get one of my all-time favourite children's books. This one:
Inspired by Monsieur Saguette's brave example, I might poke my baguette into the man's back, making him think I also have a gun, and saving the day till the police arrive. Of course this would only work if I happened to be carrying a baguette, which is unlikely, but nonetheless, I highly recommend this book. It's full of all kinds of nifty ideas as to what a monsieur can do with his baguette, and you won't be able to avoid putting on a fake French accent as you read it aloud to your children, which is olwez vairy vairy gud fuuhn.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Another shorthand phrase
Here's another of those shorthand phrases I was talking about in a recent post.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
A bunch or a lot?
I know you're all sitting there with bated breath on the whole aseptic drinks issue, but Dillons hasn't replied to my enquiry, so I'm moving on. This is the 21st century, Dillons, and things move quickly. The blogosphere waits for no man. Nor for aseptic drinks.
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sleuth in action
Bloggy Friends, never let it be said that I slack in the quest to bring you knowledge, wisdom, and intellectual satisfaction. Since none of you, no, no, not one, could enlighten us all on the aseptic drinks issue, this morning when I went to Dillons, I decided to take my enquiries to the very site of the aseptic drinks mystery itself.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Words, words, words. There are so many of them that just don't translate quite exactly from British English to American English. Here are four that have troubled me this week.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Shorthand phrases
There are a few shorthand phrases that people round here use. I don't know if they're universal in the US, or local usages. I'd be interested to find out - if anyone wants to enlighten me. When you're new and haven't learnt the local lingo, they sound very bizarre.
1) You hear about people 'holding' children. This is short-hand for 'holding back from starting school in the academic year in which they would be entitled to do so'. If you feel your summer-birthday child isn't ready for Kindergarten, you can start them a year later. How many British parents would love that flexibility! Until you understand the short-hand, and unless the context helps you, this does make for some puzzling conversations. You might hear a mother say "We decided to hold Esmerelda because that seemed right for her. We didn't hold Grizelda though. She was a different case. No way would we have held her." It sounds very cruel and cold-blooded doesn't it? Those poor children, denied their parents' physical affection...
2) People talk about 'walking'. This took me a while to figure out. A friend was talking about a teacher at school, and said "she must be about the same age as my sister, because I remember they walked together". I assumed this was an exercise regime. But then I had a conversation a few weeks' later with a student who was telling me "I'm hoping to walk in the summer, but if I can't fit it all in, then I'll have to walk at Christmas". To walk means to graduate - from the graduation ceremony, I assume.
3) The YMCA here is almost always referred to as 'the Y'. You're probably wondering why on earth it comes up in my conversations at all. Well, the Y operates for most people very much as a council leisure or sports centre does in the UK. Everyone uses it for swimming, gym facilities, exercise classes, sports, and children's activities (gymnastics, dance, swimming, team sports). So it is very much a part of daily life, and it's always called 'the Y'. I heard on the radio this summer that the national organisation has decided to change its name officially from the YMCA to The Y. They can't do that! What about the song?
In return, here's an English usage which must sound very odd to American ears, until they get used to it. I've had to stop myself, whenever I've been going to say it. How bizarre it would sound to local people here if I asked them "what date does school break up?" It would be even more bizarre if I asked (as would be perfectly normal in the UK) "when are your kids breaking up?" It conjures a disturbing visual image. Perhaps it's the children who weren't held who break up.
1) You hear about people 'holding' children. This is short-hand for 'holding back from starting school in the academic year in which they would be entitled to do so'. If you feel your summer-birthday child isn't ready for Kindergarten, you can start them a year later. How many British parents would love that flexibility! Until you understand the short-hand, and unless the context helps you, this does make for some puzzling conversations. You might hear a mother say "We decided to hold Esmerelda because that seemed right for her. We didn't hold Grizelda though. She was a different case. No way would we have held her." It sounds very cruel and cold-blooded doesn't it? Those poor children, denied their parents' physical affection...
2) People talk about 'walking'. This took me a while to figure out. A friend was talking about a teacher at school, and said "she must be about the same age as my sister, because I remember they walked together". I assumed this was an exercise regime. But then I had a conversation a few weeks' later with a student who was telling me "I'm hoping to walk in the summer, but if I can't fit it all in, then I'll have to walk at Christmas". To walk means to graduate - from the graduation ceremony, I assume.
3) The YMCA here is almost always referred to as 'the Y'. You're probably wondering why on earth it comes up in my conversations at all. Well, the Y operates for most people very much as a council leisure or sports centre does in the UK. Everyone uses it for swimming, gym facilities, exercise classes, sports, and children's activities (gymnastics, dance, swimming, team sports). So it is very much a part of daily life, and it's always called 'the Y'. I heard on the radio this summer that the national organisation has decided to change its name officially from the YMCA to The Y. They can't do that! What about the song?
In return, here's an English usage which must sound very odd to American ears, until they get used to it. I've had to stop myself, whenever I've been going to say it. How bizarre it would sound to local people here if I asked them "what date does school break up?" It would be even more bizarre if I asked (as would be perfectly normal in the UK) "when are your kids breaking up?" It conjures a disturbing visual image. Perhaps it's the children who weren't held who break up.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The blog that will never be
Well, the book News to me is going to Shirley, who was number 1 in the comments. Congratulations (if you can be congratulated on an achievement based entirely on random computer selection). I have emailed you, Shirley, to ask for your address, but if it doesn't reach you, then please email me.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
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