I am writing this post as an entry into the competition hosted by In the Powder Room. The prize is a couple of nights in London’s Hoxton Hotel, and a ticket to CyberMummy 2011. The challenge is to write a post about who you would like to meet in the powder room of the Hoxton Hotel. This is my entry. (If you want to have a go yourself, the details are here, but you're probably out of time. The deadline is at 8.00pm on 31st May.)
I have an idea. It’s just a tiny little germ of an idea. I believe it’s quite a good idea, but it’s one I know I’ll never pursue under my own steam. I would like to see it become reality, but I know that if it ever does, it will be by serendipity. Perhaps the powder room at the Hoxton Hotel could help. Perhaps it could be the setting for a chance meeting. I don’t know exactly who the other person in that unplanned encounter would be. We’ll come back to her later. But I see us getting chatting in front of the mirrors, the conversation starting with the trivial, but moving to deeper waters. I’d share my idea, and it would catch her imagination, and she’d say “What a fabulous thought, and funnily enough, it just ties in exactly with a project I’m involved in. Can you give me your name and number? Would you mind if I contacted you? I’m so glad we started talking. I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now.”
My idea is this: I would like to have a go at being a model. Not a full-time job, not a long-term commitment. Just one short contract to prove I can do it. You see, two years ago this Saturday, I had a double mastectomy. When that happens, you have all kinds of choices to make, about whether to have reconstruction or not, and if so, how to go about it. All of a sudden, just as you’re dealing with words like 'cancer' and 'prognosis' and 'percentage chance of survival beyond five years', you also have to think about whether you want to have squishy boob-like objects implanted underneath your skin, or whether you’re happy to wear them in a bra over the top. For all kinds of reasons which I don’t have space for here, I opted for the latter.
So far I’m happy with that decision, though of course I have times when I think “Should I? Shall I? It’s covered by insurance…” Of course I do. But mostly, I have come to the conclusion, intellectually and emotionally, that I’m happy in my own body as it is. It’s terribly ironic. The years my body was at its best, when I was young, hadn’t been pregnant, had nice boobs, were the times I was most critical of it and unhappy with it. Now, wrinkly saggy tummy and flat scarred chest, I really quite like it.
Hang on a minute, though. When I say I want to be a model, don’t race ahead with the scheme. I’m not thinking Vogue or the catwalk at London Fashion Week. No. I have in mind the Land’s End catalogue, or some other publication for the mature woman. You know the kind of thing. Smiley women of a certain age in tasteful pastels. I’m tall, and maybe slim enough (maybe...). I scrub up ok from time to time, and I can look wistfully out at sea vistas with the best of them. My hair is, unfortunately, a rather over-bright red hue at the moment, (it said “root beer” on the packet – since when has root beer been red?) but it’ll wash out over time, and I’m sure they can shade that down before sending to print. In any case, don’t they have armies of attendants with make-up and hairstyling skills to make you look presentable before you go in front of the camera? And can’t they do clever things with airbrushing? I mean, if the worst came to the worst, couldn’t they photoshop Angelina Jolie’s head onto Pippa Middleton’s body and call it me?
Now you’ve got your heads round my idea (your own heads, not Angelina Jolie’s), I’ll tell you why I want it to happen. When I had my mastectomy and was trying to make sense of it, and what it was going to mean for the future, imagine what it could have done for me if a friend had sent me a Land’s End catalogue with a post-it sticker on the front saying “look at the inside back page”. There, alongside a headshot of a woman with hair a rather startling shade of red, could have been an article which read:
Iota, who appears on page 32 in the unadventurous knitwear and sensible trousers section, is a breast cancer survivor. She opted to have a double mastectomy, and has chosen not to undergo reconstructive surgery. But doesn’t she look great?! She had no previous modelling experience, and says that before she had cancer, she hated being in front of a camera. We asked her how it felt in our photographer’s studio, and she told us “I loved it. At first I was nervous, but everyone was great and put me at my ease. By the end, I was feeling so attractive and feminine, and that’s a great feeling when you’ve been through breast cancer surgery.”
Wouldn’t that have been a hope-giving, comforting, encouraging story to have read? Do you see how I could now BE that story for other women?
Who, then, do I need to meet in the Hoxton Hotel powder room to make this idea happen? Is it the marketing manager of Land’s End? Is it an advertising or PR exec? Is it someone from a breast cancer charity? Is it a journalist, or a photographer? It’s someone who has come into contact with breast cancer in their own life, I’m sure, either facing it themselves, or standing alongside a friend or relation who has done so. Who is this person? I don’t know, but if it’s you, please come and bump into me. Come along and tell me “I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now”.
.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Getting better
Well, ten out of ten to those of you who said "it's jetlag, give it a few days". It was jetlag, I gave it a few days.
I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
.
I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Iota's got it bad
I am in England and I am weary.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Chicken soup
Chicken soup is a big thing in America. I’ve finally got to grips with the whole “chicken soup” deal. It took me a while, but - unless I’m much mistaken – this is the gist of it. When you say “chicken soup” to an American, it’s short-hand for a whole idea of comfort, solace, tenderness, warmth, care, love. All that good stuff that your mother made you feel when you were ill as a child. I suppose chicken soup must be what American mothers give to their convalescent children. I’m trying to think what the equivalent would be for the British. (There was a post on Pond Parleys about this recently.) In Jane Austen’s day, I believe it was calves’ foot jelly. Thank goodness times have changed. My mum used to give us Marmite on toast, and either hot Ribena, or Lucozade, so for me, those conjure up the chicken soup feelings. And come to think of it, that’s almost never these days. I do have a jar of Marmite at the back of the cupboard somewhere, but we don’t buy Ribena, and I’ve gone off Lucozade.
Back to chicken soup. The idea is all good, but chicken soup has got rather out of control, like the story of the girl with the magic porridge pot. Chicken soup has taken over much of the bookselling business. If you type ‘chicken soup book’ into Amazon, it will offer you 2,624 choices. Chicken soup for the soul, seems to be the thing. (Can a soul eat soup, I wonder? That’s a whole theological digression waiting to happen.) Little hardbacks to fit in your pocket, with pithy messages of wisdom and encouragement. Glossy paperbacks, with heart-warming tales of people triumphing over adversity. Gift packages of almost any combination of items, with inspiration and comfort oozing out.
Chicken soup is very specialised these days. There’s chicken soup for every situation, and every person. Let me list you a few, to give you an idea:
Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul
Chicken Soup for the College Soul
Chicken Soup for the Empty Nester’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover’s Soul (covering all bases, that one)
Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Entrepreneur’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Golfer’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the NASCAR Soul
Chicken Soup for the Shopper’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul (would make a nice pair with the Ocean Lover’s Soul)
Chicken Soup from the Soul of Hawai’i.
See what I mean? It’s out of control. Do you think there might be a title for fans of a particular music genre, titled Chicken Soup for the Soul Lover’s Soul? I expect there is, somewhere.
I came across a title recently that really threatened to tip me over the edge. As I said, I had just about fathomed what the whole chicken soup deal was, when I walked past a book stand on which this book was displayed.
Aaaargh. I had to re-read the title a few times. I did several double-takes. I just didn’t get it. This was a crossing-over of moral universes that had my head in a spin and my internal compass in a whirl.
It begs the following question: if your friend is a tea-lover, why the dickens would you give them chicken soup? Why wouldn’t you give them a nice cup of tea?
“Oh, hello, Iota. I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, and are in need of inspiration and encouragement. I know what you really need is a good cup of tea, so here’s some chicken soup.”
Aaaargh. I can’t get my brain round this at all. There are also chicken soup books for coffee-lovers, for wine-lovers, and for chocolate-lovers, incidentally. Chocolate lovers? How much are those die-hards going to appreciate chicken soup, for heaven’s sake?
Retaliation is the only appropriate response. I’m going to publish a book called A Nice Cup of Tea for the Chicken Soup Lover’s Soul.
.
Back to chicken soup. The idea is all good, but chicken soup has got rather out of control, like the story of the girl with the magic porridge pot. Chicken soup has taken over much of the bookselling business. If you type ‘chicken soup book’ into Amazon, it will offer you 2,624 choices. Chicken soup for the soul, seems to be the thing. (Can a soul eat soup, I wonder? That’s a whole theological digression waiting to happen.) Little hardbacks to fit in your pocket, with pithy messages of wisdom and encouragement. Glossy paperbacks, with heart-warming tales of people triumphing over adversity. Gift packages of almost any combination of items, with inspiration and comfort oozing out.
Chicken soup is very specialised these days. There’s chicken soup for every situation, and every person. Let me list you a few, to give you an idea:
Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul
Chicken Soup for the College Soul
Chicken Soup for the Empty Nester’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover’s Soul (covering all bases, that one)
Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Entrepreneur’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Golfer’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the NASCAR Soul
Chicken Soup for the Shopper’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul (would make a nice pair with the Ocean Lover’s Soul)
Chicken Soup from the Soul of Hawai’i.
See what I mean? It’s out of control. Do you think there might be a title for fans of a particular music genre, titled Chicken Soup for the Soul Lover’s Soul? I expect there is, somewhere.
I came across a title recently that really threatened to tip me over the edge. As I said, I had just about fathomed what the whole chicken soup deal was, when I walked past a book stand on which this book was displayed.
Aaaargh. I had to re-read the title a few times. I did several double-takes. I just didn’t get it. This was a crossing-over of moral universes that had my head in a spin and my internal compass in a whirl.
It begs the following question: if your friend is a tea-lover, why the dickens would you give them chicken soup? Why wouldn’t you give them a nice cup of tea?
“Oh, hello, Iota. I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, and are in need of inspiration and encouragement. I know what you really need is a good cup of tea, so here’s some chicken soup.”
Aaaargh. I can’t get my brain round this at all. There are also chicken soup books for coffee-lovers, for wine-lovers, and for chocolate-lovers, incidentally. Chocolate lovers? How much are those die-hards going to appreciate chicken soup, for heaven’s sake?
Retaliation is the only appropriate response. I’m going to publish a book called A Nice Cup of Tea for the Chicken Soup Lover’s Soul.
.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A mystery revealed
All is revealed. Well, not all. But "one thing is revealed" doesn't sound so good, does it?
I am the mystery blogger. Ooh, get me, as they say. Actually, I'm not sure anyone except me does say that, but "Ooh, get me, as I say" doesn't sound so good, does it?
Yes, it was me. I met up with Michelloui, writer of the blog The American Resident, in a Braum's, in a small town, in the middle of America. And it was fabulous.
The opening moments weren't so fabulous. I arrived at Braum's, and over the other side of the restaurant, by the serving area, there was Michelloui, smiling and waving at me. Except I didn't recognise her at all. Sure, she was medium height, long brown hair, friendly face. But it wasn't the same person who I'd met and sat next to at CyberMummy 2010. It's always amazing, in retrospect, how fast the human brain can work at moments like this. I smiled back and waved, and started walking towards her, while my mind processed the following questions: aaaagh, what am I going to do? how am I going to open the conversation with this woman I don't recognise at all? how has she changed her appearance so much? aaaagh, why does she look like that? what's wrong with the memory I have of her? why is my memory so bad these days? it didn't used to be, and aaaagh, who then was that person at CyberMummy I thought was Michelloui? I'm sure it was her... but it obviously wasn't... so who was it? aaaagh...
All that was whirring through the impressive organ that is my brain, while I was smiling and walking towards this woman, who was smiling and waving... and looking right past me... at the person who'd followed me in through the door.
Phew.
So then Michelloui and her husband arrived, and she did look remarkably like the woman who I thought was her at CyberMummy 2010 after all.
As Michelloui talks about here, there is something very lovely about meeting up with a blogger whose blog you've followed. It's like meeting an old friend and a new, all wrapped up in the same person. She brought her husband along with her, and within a minute, the three of us were yabbering away as if we'd known each other for years.
The best bit, if there was a best bit, was talking about the richness that you bring to your life, and to your children's lives, with getting to know another culture from the inside. I have this slightly guilty voice inside me, which says things like "you've ruined your children's education, they don't know their cousins very well, they aren't learning to love the English countryside, they can't spell 'favourite'", and though I try not to listen to that voice, it is there. So it was wonderful to have the affirmation of people who understand my situation from the inside, and could say "but look at all the experience is giving them", and not just the obvious things, but some of the intangibles that are really hard to identify and describe.
So thank you, Michelloui, for fitting me into your American trip. Thank you for finding somewhere easy for us to meet, and arranging it all. Thank you for bringing your husband along - it was fun to meet him. Thanks for the hobnobs. Thanks for a really fun lunchtime.
I am the mystery blogger. Ooh, get me, as they say. Actually, I'm not sure anyone except me does say that, but "Ooh, get me, as I say" doesn't sound so good, does it?
Yes, it was me. I met up with Michelloui, writer of the blog The American Resident, in a Braum's, in a small town, in the middle of America. And it was fabulous.
The opening moments weren't so fabulous. I arrived at Braum's, and over the other side of the restaurant, by the serving area, there was Michelloui, smiling and waving at me. Except I didn't recognise her at all. Sure, she was medium height, long brown hair, friendly face. But it wasn't the same person who I'd met and sat next to at CyberMummy 2010. It's always amazing, in retrospect, how fast the human brain can work at moments like this. I smiled back and waved, and started walking towards her, while my mind processed the following questions: aaaagh, what am I going to do? how am I going to open the conversation with this woman I don't recognise at all? how has she changed her appearance so much? aaaagh, why does she look like that? what's wrong with the memory I have of her? why is my memory so bad these days? it didn't used to be, and aaaagh, who then was that person at CyberMummy I thought was Michelloui? I'm sure it was her... but it obviously wasn't... so who was it? aaaagh...
All that was whirring through the impressive organ that is my brain, while I was smiling and walking towards this woman, who was smiling and waving... and looking right past me... at the person who'd followed me in through the door.
Phew.
So then Michelloui and her husband arrived, and she did look remarkably like the woman who I thought was her at CyberMummy 2010 after all.
As Michelloui talks about here, there is something very lovely about meeting up with a blogger whose blog you've followed. It's like meeting an old friend and a new, all wrapped up in the same person. She brought her husband along with her, and within a minute, the three of us were yabbering away as if we'd known each other for years.
The best bit, if there was a best bit, was talking about the richness that you bring to your life, and to your children's lives, with getting to know another culture from the inside. I have this slightly guilty voice inside me, which says things like "you've ruined your children's education, they don't know their cousins very well, they aren't learning to love the English countryside, they can't spell 'favourite'", and though I try not to listen to that voice, it is there. So it was wonderful to have the affirmation of people who understand my situation from the inside, and could say "but look at all the experience is giving them", and not just the obvious things, but some of the intangibles that are really hard to identify and describe.
So thank you, Michelloui, for fitting me into your American trip. Thank you for finding somewhere easy for us to meet, and arranging it all. Thank you for bringing your husband along - it was fun to meet him. Thanks for the hobnobs. Thanks for a really fun lunchtime.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Raise your glasses
Talking of the Royal Wedding and non sequiturs, I just have to mention at this point that it seems I have been nominated for the MADs awards in THREE categories. Not only Best Writer, and Most Inspiring, as I've already said, but also "Best Blog for Family Fun". I do believe in fun, so thank you to whoever nominated me in that category.
We've all established that England is the place to be if you want a darn good royal event. But I have a question for you. Is it the place to be if you have a 13 year old in need of glasses?
We are coming to England in 3 weeks time. 13-yo needs new glasses, and they're a bit overdue, honestly. It's been more than a year since his last eye test, and he says he's sure his prescription has changed. So now I have a choice. We could try and get an appointment, and choose some new glasses, and hope they arrive in time. But I know what getting an appointment with an opthalmologist can be like. Or we could leave it till we get to England, and get him fixed up over there.
What I need to know is this? Is there going to be a significant saving either way? Has anyone any knowledge of this? Glasses: cheaper in the US or the UK? I'm also wanting to ask if he can get an eye test and/or glasses on the NHS - but I don't want to expose myself to sniggering and chortling. Am I hopelessly out of date even to ask?
Advice please.
.
We've all established that England is the place to be if you want a darn good royal event. But I have a question for you. Is it the place to be if you have a 13 year old in need of glasses?
We are coming to England in 3 weeks time. 13-yo needs new glasses, and they're a bit overdue, honestly. It's been more than a year since his last eye test, and he says he's sure his prescription has changed. So now I have a choice. We could try and get an appointment, and choose some new glasses, and hope they arrive in time. But I know what getting an appointment with an opthalmologist can be like. Or we could leave it till we get to England, and get him fixed up over there.
What I need to know is this? Is there going to be a significant saving either way? Has anyone any knowledge of this? Glasses: cheaper in the US or the UK? I'm also wanting to ask if he can get an eye test and/or glasses on the NHS - but I don't want to expose myself to sniggering and chortling. Am I hopelessly out of date even to ask?
Advice please.
.
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