Ooh, get me. Two posts in 24 hours.
I just wanted to let you know that the BritMums Live ticket has been sold, to avoid any disappointment. Sorry, if you've come to my blog because you want to buy it.
Here is a little clip of Garrison Keillor, speaking in 2008 (for those of you who don't know him, or indeed, for those of you who do). He's talking about writing, and oh my, if this isn't a gold nugget of advice for bloggers! It'll be a good use of a minute and a half of your time.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
BritMums Live ticket for sale at early bird price, and Garrison Keillor
I'm not going to make it to BritMums Live (sniff) in June, as we will still be here in the US, tidying up loose ends, saying our goodbyes, and packing. So, the ticket is up for sale. I've checked, and it's fully transferable at this point. And a TOTAL BARGAIN, because it's 49.99 GBPounds, instead of 69.99 GBPounds. I bought it at early bird price, and I will sell it at early bird price.
And speaking of bargains, we're all now totally confused over here at The Iota Quota. I thought TJMaxx was what it's called in England, and TKMaxx was what it's called in America - simple as that. But now your comments have really flumoxxed me.
And speaking of being flumoxxed, why does Blogger change its interface so often? I would like a bit more stability and familiarity from my blogging platform. So if you've read this far, you can:
(a) buy a BritMums Live BARGAIN ticket
(b) tell me what T?Maxx is called where you live
(c) share my pain about Blogger changing itself all the time, or
(d) leave a random piece of wisdom about life.
Oh... I forgot to tell you that I went to see Garrison Keillor at the theatre the other night. You thought I lived in a cultural desert, didn't you? Huh! Well, Garrison Keillor came - AND I heard Bruce Hornsby in concert three weeks ago. I've impressed you now, haven't I? Garrison Keillor was fabulous. He spoke for two hours, almost without pausing, and was very very funny. He is indisputably one of American's National Treasures, except they don't have them, but I could start a movement and nominate him to be among the first USANTs.
.
And speaking of bargains, we're all now totally confused over here at The Iota Quota. I thought TJMaxx was what it's called in England, and TKMaxx was what it's called in America - simple as that. But now your comments have really flumoxxed me.
And speaking of being flumoxxed, why does Blogger change its interface so often? I would like a bit more stability and familiarity from my blogging platform. So if you've read this far, you can:
(a) buy a BritMums Live BARGAIN ticket
(b) tell me what T?Maxx is called where you live
(c) share my pain about Blogger changing itself all the time, or
(d) leave a random piece of wisdom about life.
Oh... I forgot to tell you that I went to see Garrison Keillor at the theatre the other night. You thought I lived in a cultural desert, didn't you? Huh! Well, Garrison Keillor came - AND I heard Bruce Hornsby in concert three weeks ago. I've impressed you now, haven't I? Garrison Keillor was fabulous. He spoke for two hours, almost without pausing, and was very very funny. He is indisputably one of American's National Treasures, except they don't have them, but I could start a movement and nominate him to be among the first USANTs.
.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Losing the plot
I thought I ought to post something so that you know I'm ok after the trauma of the tornado. I don't want you to think I've lost the plot.
Speaking of which, I have read on more than one American-in-Britain expat blog how much they enjoy that phrase. 'Lost the plot'. I agree. It's a splendid phrase, and one I've stopped using since being here. I've lost the 'lost the plot'.
Of course I'm also in the business of selling the plot at the moment. Except here, your house in on a lot, not a plot. So the details describe the house as 'lot 25, block 2' of our subdivision. The word is bandied around, as in 'beautiful shady lot', instead of 'beautiful shady plot' (though I realise that in England, it would be described as 'beautiful sunny plot', selling points differing, as they do). Or perhaps even in the UK we don't talk about 'plots' in that way any more. It sounds a bit dated.
A lot, though, is just a parcel of land. As in 'parking lot', for 'car park'. I suppose in the UK, we have to say 'car park', though it's obviously a car park - what else are you going to park there? Your mother-in-law? If we didn't say 'car park', and just said 'park', then that would mean a completely different thing. Which conjures up an interesting mental image. Next time you go to a car park, you can picture your car joining her friends for a go on the swings and the climbing frame. Isn't that what a 'car park' might be?
Anyway, back to 'a lot'. Americans don't use the phrase 'a lot of', as in "I read a lot of blogs". They would say "I read a bunch of blogs". I believe I've posted about this before. But that is one phrase I haven't lost. I use 'a lot' quite a lot. I expect that as I do so, the person I'm talking to has a little inward invisible smile, and thinks "how quaint". So in my everyday speech, when it comes to Englishisms, I have lost a lot, but I haven't lost 'a lot'.
Are you keeping up with me here? Because I want to talk about Big Lots. That's the name of a store, which I haven't ever been to. The idea of Big Lots is just that. They buy big lots of items from other shops or suppliers, and then sell them at discount prices. You can get a tidy bargain at Big Lots, so I'm told, but you never know what's there. It just depends. If you like the random factor in shopping, if you're a T K Maxx fan - and yes, it's T K Maxx not T J Maxx over here, that's not a typo - you'd like Big Lots. You'd also like Tuesday Morning, which is kind of similar, and there's a story behind why it's called Tuesday Morning which I can't remember, though I have to tell you that the one time I went to Tuesday Morning - which was actually on an afternoon and probably not Tuesday - I found it very expensive for a discount store.
My point about Big Lots, though, is that the name makes me laugh. In England, "Big Lots" sounds like the answer a 3 year old gives when you ask them how much ice cream they want.
I remember when I was at school, learning that 'a lot' was two words. For years, I'd written it as one: alot. I wonder if I associated it with 'allotted'. If you have a lot of things, maybe they are allotted to you. That kind of idea. I still like the way it looks, written as one word, actually.
I had better go now, and mow my beautiful shady lot. Such is my lot.
.
Speaking of which, I have read on more than one American-in-Britain expat blog how much they enjoy that phrase. 'Lost the plot'. I agree. It's a splendid phrase, and one I've stopped using since being here. I've lost the 'lost the plot'.
Of course I'm also in the business of selling the plot at the moment. Except here, your house in on a lot, not a plot. So the details describe the house as 'lot 25, block 2' of our subdivision. The word is bandied around, as in 'beautiful shady lot', instead of 'beautiful shady plot' (though I realise that in England, it would be described as 'beautiful sunny plot', selling points differing, as they do). Or perhaps even in the UK we don't talk about 'plots' in that way any more. It sounds a bit dated.
A lot, though, is just a parcel of land. As in 'parking lot', for 'car park'. I suppose in the UK, we have to say 'car park', though it's obviously a car park - what else are you going to park there? Your mother-in-law? If we didn't say 'car park', and just said 'park', then that would mean a completely different thing. Which conjures up an interesting mental image. Next time you go to a car park, you can picture your car joining her friends for a go on the swings and the climbing frame. Isn't that what a 'car park' might be?
Anyway, back to 'a lot'. Americans don't use the phrase 'a lot of', as in "I read a lot of blogs". They would say "I read a bunch of blogs". I believe I've posted about this before. But that is one phrase I haven't lost. I use 'a lot' quite a lot. I expect that as I do so, the person I'm talking to has a little inward invisible smile, and thinks "how quaint". So in my everyday speech, when it comes to Englishisms, I have lost a lot, but I haven't lost 'a lot'.
Are you keeping up with me here? Because I want to talk about Big Lots. That's the name of a store, which I haven't ever been to. The idea of Big Lots is just that. They buy big lots of items from other shops or suppliers, and then sell them at discount prices. You can get a tidy bargain at Big Lots, so I'm told, but you never know what's there. It just depends. If you like the random factor in shopping, if you're a T K Maxx fan - and yes, it's T K Maxx not T J Maxx over here, that's not a typo - you'd like Big Lots. You'd also like Tuesday Morning, which is kind of similar, and there's a story behind why it's called Tuesday Morning which I can't remember, though I have to tell you that the one time I went to Tuesday Morning - which was actually on an afternoon and probably not Tuesday - I found it very expensive for a discount store.
My point about Big Lots, though, is that the name makes me laugh. In England, "Big Lots" sounds like the answer a 3 year old gives when you ask them how much ice cream they want.
I remember when I was at school, learning that 'a lot' was two words. For years, I'd written it as one: alot. I wonder if I associated it with 'allotted'. If you have a lot of things, maybe they are allotted to you. That kind of idea. I still like the way it looks, written as one word, actually.
I had better go now, and mow my beautiful shady lot. Such is my lot.
.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Tornado
If ever there was a bloggable moment, this is it. It's amazing that we have power. A tornado has just come through the city, and power lines must be down all over. I'm glad we do, though. I like to connect with you all, in the stillness that has become my night.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Life carries on
One of the hugely under-rated skills that you develop as a mother, is the multi-tasking of the mind. You have to shift gear the whole time. It's 0 to 60 in a few seconds as you grab a toddler's hand away from the fire and explain that fire burns, and then you're digging deep to answer an imponderable question like 'why is the sky so high?' a moment later. There must be some kind of mental clutch in a mother's brain, that makes it possible.
I've found this to be the case today. Mostly, my mind has been full of big questions relating to the sale of the house. How much should we ask for it? Should we get the storm door repaired, or could we just hope that no-one notices it doesn't fit any more? Why, oh why, have the Dyson, the garage door, and the mower all picked this week to go on the blink (when I'm still just recovering from losing my mobile phone for 4 days)? Those kinds of questions. But in amidst all that, this afternoon I have had the following three conversations (no exaggeration).
11-yo: What would you wish for if you could wish for anything?
Me (stalling): Um... I'm not sure...
11-yo: Do you think it would be better to wish for world peace, or for no-one ever to have to be hungry again?
Me: Either of those would be very excellent things to wish for.
11-yo: I think probably world peace, because if there was no war, then people could get on with organising things better so everyone had enough food, so then you'd maybe get both wishes.
8-yo: What's that thing for?
Me: It's a bus shelter. It's for people to go in while they're waiting for a bus, so that if it's raining, they keep dry.
8-yo: What happens if it's not raining.
Me: Well, they wouldn't need to be in the shelter then.
8-yo: Yes, but could they go in the shelter even if it wasn't raining?
Me: Yes.
Me: I'm really proud of you, 14-yo.
14-yo: Why?
Me: [mentions in affirming manner a few good qualities]
14-yo: Do I get money for that?
Me: No.
See what I mean? My brain clutch is wearing out. Ker-clunk. I need an automatic.
Right. Just off to write an assignment for my MA, comparing and contrasting two different theological approaches to worship. (OK, so now I'm just showing off.)
.
I've found this to be the case today. Mostly, my mind has been full of big questions relating to the sale of the house. How much should we ask for it? Should we get the storm door repaired, or could we just hope that no-one notices it doesn't fit any more? Why, oh why, have the Dyson, the garage door, and the mower all picked this week to go on the blink (when I'm still just recovering from losing my mobile phone for 4 days)? Those kinds of questions. But in amidst all that, this afternoon I have had the following three conversations (no exaggeration).
11-yo: What would you wish for if you could wish for anything?
Me (stalling): Um... I'm not sure...
11-yo: Do you think it would be better to wish for world peace, or for no-one ever to have to be hungry again?
Me: Either of those would be very excellent things to wish for.
11-yo: I think probably world peace, because if there was no war, then people could get on with organising things better so everyone had enough food, so then you'd maybe get both wishes.
8-yo: What's that thing for?
Me: It's a bus shelter. It's for people to go in while they're waiting for a bus, so that if it's raining, they keep dry.
8-yo: What happens if it's not raining.
Me: Well, they wouldn't need to be in the shelter then.
8-yo: Yes, but could they go in the shelter even if it wasn't raining?
Me: Yes.
Me: I'm really proud of you, 14-yo.
14-yo: Why?
Me: [mentions in affirming manner a few good qualities]
14-yo: Do I get money for that?
Me: No.
See what I mean? My brain clutch is wearing out. Ker-clunk. I need an automatic.
Right. Just off to write an assignment for my MA, comparing and contrasting two different theological approaches to worship. (OK, so now I'm just showing off.)
.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Moving involves leaving. Who knew?
OK, so it's got to me.
Easter Sunday in church, the service ending with the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus, and me thinking that next Easter, I will be in a church which probably won't have that tradition.
Realising that I do like my house - now it's all tidy and clean!
Watching Michael Scott leave 'The Office'. Ah. That was the thing that got to me. Right under my skin. 'The Office' - the American version - has been a sort of backdrop to our time here. First, there was the transition from the English version to the American version, and finding that we preferred the American version (Husband can't bear Ricky Gervais). When we had cable, we often watched 'The Office' because we were bewildered by the obscenely huge choice of channels and didn't know what else to watch. Then when we gave up cable, we watched old episodes of 'The Office' because they're on all the time on the very limited number of channels we still get. And now we've worked out how to watch Netflix 'instant' instead of getting DVDs in the mail, we've gone back and filled in the gaps. It's the evening staple for me and Husband, when we're tired, and just want a glass of wine and 40 minutes of undemanding tv, to unwind before bed. And now, with tidy timing, we're finishing up the final season.
Michael Scott leaves. No. How can that be? How can he leave? How can we leave? I love the way 'The Office' shows how a random group of weird, annoying, flawed, yet wonderful, individuals, can become a community. If the story of our time here in the Midwest has been anything, it has been a story of finding community. And don't be insulted by the idea of being "weird, annoying, flawed", because we all are, you know. And I did say "yet wonderful", in case you hadn't spotted it.
So when I watched the bit where his colleagues sing Michael Scott the ballad, summing up the 9 million minutes he'd worked in the office, it got right under my skin and into my left ventricle and even my tear ducts. I confess I got a paper and pencil and worked out how many minutes we've lived here (over 2.5 million - if you don't count the summers away). It wasn't just me. 14-yo (who is wired emotionally so like me) was moved too. "I don't think Michael should have left. Why did they write that into the series?" he's asked me more than once.
And now I just can't get that tune out of my head. It's melancholy, but kind of inspiring and fulfilling too. I love how music can do that - be a mix of emotions all at once.
So Michael Scott, you moved to Colorado and a new life with Holly. We're moving to Britain. You will be an indelible part of my memories of my time here.
Here is that song. I defy you to watch the video and not be moved. Moved and moving. How apt. And the word 'emotion' comes from the same root. Yes, very apt.
Easter Sunday in church, the service ending with the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus, and me thinking that next Easter, I will be in a church which probably won't have that tradition.
Realising that I do like my house - now it's all tidy and clean!
Watching Michael Scott leave 'The Office'. Ah. That was the thing that got to me. Right under my skin. 'The Office' - the American version - has been a sort of backdrop to our time here. First, there was the transition from the English version to the American version, and finding that we preferred the American version (Husband can't bear Ricky Gervais). When we had cable, we often watched 'The Office' because we were bewildered by the obscenely huge choice of channels and didn't know what else to watch. Then when we gave up cable, we watched old episodes of 'The Office' because they're on all the time on the very limited number of channels we still get. And now we've worked out how to watch Netflix 'instant' instead of getting DVDs in the mail, we've gone back and filled in the gaps. It's the evening staple for me and Husband, when we're tired, and just want a glass of wine and 40 minutes of undemanding tv, to unwind before bed. And now, with tidy timing, we're finishing up the final season.
Michael Scott leaves. No. How can that be? How can he leave? How can we leave? I love the way 'The Office' shows how a random group of weird, annoying, flawed, yet wonderful, individuals, can become a community. If the story of our time here in the Midwest has been anything, it has been a story of finding community. And don't be insulted by the idea of being "weird, annoying, flawed", because we all are, you know. And I did say "yet wonderful", in case you hadn't spotted it.
So when I watched the bit where his colleagues sing Michael Scott the ballad, summing up the 9 million minutes he'd worked in the office, it got right under my skin and into my left ventricle and even my tear ducts. I confess I got a paper and pencil and worked out how many minutes we've lived here (over 2.5 million - if you don't count the summers away). It wasn't just me. 14-yo (who is wired emotionally so like me) was moved too. "I don't think Michael should have left. Why did they write that into the series?" he's asked me more than once.
And now I just can't get that tune out of my head. It's melancholy, but kind of inspiring and fulfilling too. I love how music can do that - be a mix of emotions all at once.
So Michael Scott, you moved to Colorado and a new life with Holly. We're moving to Britain. You will be an indelible part of my memories of my time here.
Here is that song. I defy you to watch the video and not be moved. Moved and moving. How apt. And the word 'emotion' comes from the same root. Yes, very apt.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
So this is how I know I'm a writer and not an artist
Task: get big room in basement repainted, so that very dated (60s?) turquoise and sea green stripes on white with deep red trim (yes, honestly) can be hidden, and walls can become bland but fashionable beige.
Task: get front door painted, so that it doesn't look all bashed and (again) dated, but 'pops' (I have to put that in inverted commas - I can't take it seriously as a word. Not quite yet, anyway.)
Method: get friend round, to help me choose paint colours from huge colour chart left by painter (whom, when he told me how long the job would take, and with the knowledge of how long it was going to take the other painter who quoted for me, I described as 'speedy', then looked at his business card in my hand, and saw that his name was Gonzales. You're looking at me blankly. Speedy Gonzales? No? Never mind.)
You have to remember that I really don't care about the colour. I'm not going to be living with it. It just has to sell the house. My friend was a fine art major, and uses words like tone and shade, knowing what they actually mean. She can spend hours choosing between two identical shades of grey, talking of their relative coolness, whereas I mean something entirely different by 'relatively cool'. Nonetheless, she was just the right person for the job, though I feel I unkindly put her through several degrees of agony, by telling her that we had to decide within half an hour (we're being squeezed in between other jobs, so every minute counts). She picked me out a beige for the basement that won't make the grey speckly carpet look dirty (who knew?), and a deep dark purpley colour for the front door, which picks up the brickwork of the house as the realtor had suggested. It was either that, or the terracotta orange that I'd first thought of - terracotta, bricks, whatever - because I'm still so enchanted with my own Italian theme in the dining nook, and terracotta is a word that just springs to my lips before I can say Dulux. Actually, I never like using Dulux, because it sounds too like Durex and I'm afraid I might be in Homebase and say Durex instead of Dulux, and really embarrass myself. In any case, over here it's a question of Behr or Glisson, so the Dulux problem doesn't arise. Though Behr sounds like 'bare' and could therefore be embarrassing too. "Do you recommend painting Behr?" you might ask a Home Depot sales assistant.
Anyhoo... as we had reached our triumphant conclusion, I confessed to my arty friend that I find it hard to pick paint colours because I get distracted by the names. I'd much prefer it if they just gave those little squares numbers, and numbers only. For example, the original brick terracotta that I'd wondered about for the front door was called determined orange. I mean, how can you resist painting a front door determined orange? It has such command, such purpose. To me, it boiled down to a choice between that, and its neighbour robust orange. Would I rather have determined or robust as my message to potential buyers about the house? Meanwhile, the purpley jewel tone that my friend liked (jewel tone, get that?) was called burgundy, which just says dining room to me, and definitely not front door, so I took against that one from the outset.
It's not that I sit pondering these words. It's just that they're so full of instant connotations, all of them, that I have to make a mental effort to screen that out. I confessed to my friend that our downstairs bathroom is painted such a bright yellow because I loved the name bicycle yellow. We didn't delve into why the beige I'd first picked out for the basement (not dark enough, as she pointed out) was breathless.
Conclusion: Sand dollar for the basement, winning after a close battle with lightweight beige, which frankly was never going to come out well in a contest. Cordovan for the front door, after a tussle with river rouge. I don't know what cordovan means, but the moment my friend said she thought it was the name of a Spanish explorer, I fell for it. Exploration... front doors opening onto the world... new beginnings... It's totally perfect. And will make the front door 'pop' from the road, which is what my realtor said.
Meanwhile, we're touching up the stairwell with antique white, which grieves my sensibilities horribly, because dammit, we're trying to give the house an updated feel.
.
Task: get front door painted, so that it doesn't look all bashed and (again) dated, but 'pops' (I have to put that in inverted commas - I can't take it seriously as a word. Not quite yet, anyway.)
Method: get friend round, to help me choose paint colours from huge colour chart left by painter (whom, when he told me how long the job would take, and with the knowledge of how long it was going to take the other painter who quoted for me, I described as 'speedy', then looked at his business card in my hand, and saw that his name was Gonzales. You're looking at me blankly. Speedy Gonzales? No? Never mind.)
You have to remember that I really don't care about the colour. I'm not going to be living with it. It just has to sell the house. My friend was a fine art major, and uses words like tone and shade, knowing what they actually mean. She can spend hours choosing between two identical shades of grey, talking of their relative coolness, whereas I mean something entirely different by 'relatively cool'. Nonetheless, she was just the right person for the job, though I feel I unkindly put her through several degrees of agony, by telling her that we had to decide within half an hour (we're being squeezed in between other jobs, so every minute counts). She picked me out a beige for the basement that won't make the grey speckly carpet look dirty (who knew?), and a deep dark purpley colour for the front door, which picks up the brickwork of the house as the realtor had suggested. It was either that, or the terracotta orange that I'd first thought of - terracotta, bricks, whatever - because I'm still so enchanted with my own Italian theme in the dining nook, and terracotta is a word that just springs to my lips before I can say Dulux. Actually, I never like using Dulux, because it sounds too like Durex and I'm afraid I might be in Homebase and say Durex instead of Dulux, and really embarrass myself. In any case, over here it's a question of Behr or Glisson, so the Dulux problem doesn't arise. Though Behr sounds like 'bare' and could therefore be embarrassing too. "Do you recommend painting Behr?" you might ask a Home Depot sales assistant.
Anyhoo... as we had reached our triumphant conclusion, I confessed to my arty friend that I find it hard to pick paint colours because I get distracted by the names. I'd much prefer it if they just gave those little squares numbers, and numbers only. For example, the original brick terracotta that I'd wondered about for the front door was called determined orange. I mean, how can you resist painting a front door determined orange? It has such command, such purpose. To me, it boiled down to a choice between that, and its neighbour robust orange. Would I rather have determined or robust as my message to potential buyers about the house? Meanwhile, the purpley jewel tone that my friend liked (jewel tone, get that?) was called burgundy, which just says dining room to me, and definitely not front door, so I took against that one from the outset.
It's not that I sit pondering these words. It's just that they're so full of instant connotations, all of them, that I have to make a mental effort to screen that out. I confessed to my friend that our downstairs bathroom is painted such a bright yellow because I loved the name bicycle yellow. We didn't delve into why the beige I'd first picked out for the basement (not dark enough, as she pointed out) was breathless.
Conclusion: Sand dollar for the basement, winning after a close battle with lightweight beige, which frankly was never going to come out well in a contest. Cordovan for the front door, after a tussle with river rouge. I don't know what cordovan means, but the moment my friend said she thought it was the name of a Spanish explorer, I fell for it. Exploration... front doors opening onto the world... new beginnings... It's totally perfect. And will make the front door 'pop' from the road, which is what my realtor said.
Meanwhile, we're touching up the stairwell with antique white, which grieves my sensibilities horribly, because dammit, we're trying to give the house an updated feel.
.
Monday, April 2, 2012
A staging post
Staging my house. Not dressing it. 'Staging' is the term I should have used, and staging is what I've been doing for the past couple of hours.
Our realtor came round last week, and pointed out where things could be improved. Some we knew about already, some she tactfully suggested. This morning, a couple of friends helped me out. They brought boxes of china and other display items, and they brought fun and a caring desire to help. The china is useful. We put it out on the silly built-in shelving in the sitting room that I've never liked. The fun and the caring desire to help was more than useful.
That's the essence of selling a house, isn't it? It's your home. But that's not what a buyer wants, and therefore that's not what you want to show them. If you came and looked round my house now, in the nicely-themed nook off the kitchen, you'd see a dining table, with a brown table cloth and a fruit bowl on top of it, a scene of a Tuscan landscape on the wall, all muted yellows and oranges, and a corner unit with plants and trailing ivy. I hope you'd think "mmm, what a lovely, welcoming, warm, mellow dining space".
But if you'd come and looked round my home last week, you'd have seen a not-at-all-themed space that I don't think you'd ever have described as a 'nook'. The wall was covered with pictures painted or drawn by my children over the past five years, stuck up with blu-tack. We called it 'the art wall'. Whenever a picture came home from school, if we decided we liked it more than any of the existing ones, an old one was taken down and the new one went up in its space. Some old favourites had been up for years, dusty but undeposed. You'd have seen a bare table, all scraggy with paint, glitter and nail polish - the table that we decided we'd let the kids use for whatever they wanted when they were little, and then we'd sand down and revarnish at some unspecified future time. When do you decide that your children are no longer little? We haven't quite got there yet. 8-yo still paints and glues and snips and jabs at that table, and I still prefer not to have to choose between the table's appearance and the child's creative largesse.
Where the classy corner unit now stands (well, not all that classy actually), you'd have seen a couple of cardboard boxes, labelled '8-yo's second grade work', and '11-yo's fifth grade work'. What else is a mum to do with the generous contents of the Friday folders, week by week?
You'd have seen a big pile of stuff. Stuff? Yes, stuff. I can't find a better word. Next to the stuff, you'd have seen 'the craft chest of drawers' - a truly horrible plastic item, bought from Walmart when we first arrived in the US, desperate for a place to keep under control all the paperwork that was coming at us thick and fast, and now the repository of crayons, pencils, paintbrushes, paints, stamps, inkpads, rubber bands, blu-tack, scotch tape, bows cut off gift bags that might come in useful, scraps of fabric that also might come in useful... you know the kind of thing. I'm missing that horrible, grubby, shabby plastic chest of drawers already.
This is where having friends is so good.
"Oh!" they said. "Your art wall!" they said. "I loved that wall... but yes, I guess you did have to take it down. Wow. I love your Italian theme. That picture is gorgeous. Where did you get that border from? Really? You've always had that border up in your kitchen? How did I never notice the border? It was up when you moved in? And that matching curtain over the top of the window? Really? I guess I was always so busy admiring the art wall that I never noticed. It's great, though... the Italian look... picking up that border. You've done wonders."
House to home was a slow process, and lonely in the early days. Home to house is a quick transformation. It feels almost surgical, removing the bits that don't fit, that aren't needed, that will get in the way, and stitching up with borrowed china and silk flower arrangements. But of course you fool yourself if you think it really is surgical. A home can't be dissected like that. That's why you need surgeons who are friends. They operate with efficiency (they know you're busy) but also with laughter. They choose their words carefully ("A potential buyer might prefer to see an open space here - though I absolutely love the way you have it..."). And most important of all, they know about the art wall.
Our realtor came round last week, and pointed out where things could be improved. Some we knew about already, some she tactfully suggested. This morning, a couple of friends helped me out. They brought boxes of china and other display items, and they brought fun and a caring desire to help. The china is useful. We put it out on the silly built-in shelving in the sitting room that I've never liked. The fun and the caring desire to help was more than useful.
That's the essence of selling a house, isn't it? It's your home. But that's not what a buyer wants, and therefore that's not what you want to show them. If you came and looked round my house now, in the nicely-themed nook off the kitchen, you'd see a dining table, with a brown table cloth and a fruit bowl on top of it, a scene of a Tuscan landscape on the wall, all muted yellows and oranges, and a corner unit with plants and trailing ivy. I hope you'd think "mmm, what a lovely, welcoming, warm, mellow dining space".
But if you'd come and looked round my home last week, you'd have seen a not-at-all-themed space that I don't think you'd ever have described as a 'nook'. The wall was covered with pictures painted or drawn by my children over the past five years, stuck up with blu-tack. We called it 'the art wall'. Whenever a picture came home from school, if we decided we liked it more than any of the existing ones, an old one was taken down and the new one went up in its space. Some old favourites had been up for years, dusty but undeposed. You'd have seen a bare table, all scraggy with paint, glitter and nail polish - the table that we decided we'd let the kids use for whatever they wanted when they were little, and then we'd sand down and revarnish at some unspecified future time. When do you decide that your children are no longer little? We haven't quite got there yet. 8-yo still paints and glues and snips and jabs at that table, and I still prefer not to have to choose between the table's appearance and the child's creative largesse.
Where the classy corner unit now stands (well, not all that classy actually), you'd have seen a couple of cardboard boxes, labelled '8-yo's second grade work', and '11-yo's fifth grade work'. What else is a mum to do with the generous contents of the Friday folders, week by week?
You'd have seen a big pile of stuff. Stuff? Yes, stuff. I can't find a better word. Next to the stuff, you'd have seen 'the craft chest of drawers' - a truly horrible plastic item, bought from Walmart when we first arrived in the US, desperate for a place to keep under control all the paperwork that was coming at us thick and fast, and now the repository of crayons, pencils, paintbrushes, paints, stamps, inkpads, rubber bands, blu-tack, scotch tape, bows cut off gift bags that might come in useful, scraps of fabric that also might come in useful... you know the kind of thing. I'm missing that horrible, grubby, shabby plastic chest of drawers already.
This is where having friends is so good.
"Oh!" they said. "Your art wall!" they said. "I loved that wall... but yes, I guess you did have to take it down. Wow. I love your Italian theme. That picture is gorgeous. Where did you get that border from? Really? You've always had that border up in your kitchen? How did I never notice the border? It was up when you moved in? And that matching curtain over the top of the window? Really? I guess I was always so busy admiring the art wall that I never noticed. It's great, though... the Italian look... picking up that border. You've done wonders."
House to home was a slow process, and lonely in the early days. Home to house is a quick transformation. It feels almost surgical, removing the bits that don't fit, that aren't needed, that will get in the way, and stitching up with borrowed china and silk flower arrangements. But of course you fool yourself if you think it really is surgical. A home can't be dissected like that. That's why you need surgeons who are friends. They operate with efficiency (they know you're busy) but also with laughter. They choose their words carefully ("A potential buyer might prefer to see an open space here - though I absolutely love the way you have it..."). And most important of all, they know about the art wall.
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