Oh alright then. I'll tell you.
I've just booked my ticket for BritMums Live! Even though I don't like that exclamation mark. Couldn't it just be BritMums Live please? I had to put that "please" in, because otherwise it looked like I'd replaced the exclamation mark with a question mark, though come to think of it BritMums Live? has a certain pleasing ironic tone to it. Anyway... whatever... I've booked. (And I have to add that I prefer the title to CyberMummy.)
Do you know who is responsible? My big brother. Yes. Charlesinparis. When we were in Chicago a few weeks ago, and he was generally looking after me and being fabulous, we got talking about blogging. And he said
"What on earth was all that about?"
And I said
"What?"
And he said
"All that [putting on a little girlie voice at this point and waggling head] Oh, I don't know if I'm going to go to the conference or not. We all KNEW you were going to go. Of course you were going to go."
I started protesting, because honestly, last time round, (and the time before, come to think of it), I really didn't know whether I wanted to go, but the more I used the word "honestly", or the word "really", the more he waggled his head and shrugged his shoulders and went all older brother-ish on me.
Maybe he had a point. Anyway, the net result is that this time, I've signed up super-early. So early that it's frankly a bit silly. I mean, I don't even know if we'll be in England next June. And there's no returning the ticket back to BritMums Live! if I turn out not to be (in England, I mean, not Live!... I certainly hope to be Live!) However, I can sell it on to someone else, and I'm hoping there's enough Goodwill Live! in the blogosphere that I'll be helped out and I won't be saddled with a ticket to an event I can't get to. I'm hoping.
It was the yoga session, and the promise of cake and wine, that finally tipped the balance for me. Oooh. I've just thought of a much better name for the event. CakeMums WineLive! Doesn't that sound more appealing? Really. Have the organisers got no marketing expertise at all?
.
Showing posts with label Charlesinparis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Charlesinparis. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Hobbling, but happy
Hobbling, but happy. That’s me.
I’ve been in Chicago. My big brother (the legendary Charlesinparis) had a conference there, and said to me ‘If I come over a couple of days early, will you come up and hang out with me?” We stayed with Expat Mum, she who showed a group of English bloggers round so ably this time last year. She plied us with tea, wine, nuggets of information about living in Chicago. I met the Ball and Chain (I didn’t call him that). Thank you Expat Mum. You really looked after us well. Ah, Bloggy Friends, it was fabulous.
We went on a boat trip, we went to the Chicago History Museum, we shopped, we saw the Bean (I love the Bean), we ate, we drank, we talked, we went to the top of the John Hancock tower (second highest building in the US) and felt a bit wobbly looking at the view. Here's a picture of the Bean.
We walked miles. Miles and miles. Mies and mies (van der Rohe) - little Chicago joke there. I don’t walk all that much in my daily life (one of my beefs about living in my car-orientated city), and after the first day I was feeling the muscles in my feet and lower legs. I was wearing natty city shoes, not my usual flip flops (it’s still summer weather here), with a little more of a heel than I’m used to. But I wasn’t going to let aching limbs and extremities curtail my city experience. By the end of the second day, I had a blister on each foot. The one on my left foot was on the sole, right in the middle of the fleshy pad, and BIG. Don’t you love blogging? Where else could I share details of my pedicular woes and be sure of a sympathetic ear? I must have looked a sorry sight hobbling through airport security at O'Hare. I’ve spent the week-end walking on the sides of my feet, and wincing, but it was worth every single painful, incapacitating step.
There is a big city person inside of me. It’s quite a small corner of me these days, but it needs a fix every now and again. My big brother is a big city person. But even if he’d invited me to spend a couple of days in a cave in the middle of nowhere, I’d have gone (and I wouldn’t have got blisters). We couldn’t remember the last time we’d spent two days in each other’s company, one on one. If ever. It’s very different to spending time in a big family conglomeration, which is how it usually is. It was wonderful. Thank you, Charlesinparis.
Hobbling, but happy… that’s rather how I am in my life at the moment. Quick update. I did enroll to do an MA in Christian Ministry. I’ve rather taken myself by surprise. I love it. I really do. Every minute. And therein lies the rub (speaking of blisters). There aren’t enough minutes in the days any more. I’ve also upped my hours at the toy shop for reasons that have their own internal Iota-style logic, though an outsider might look at my life and think “Hm, interesting timing”. I do love being busy. I’ve had too many years waiting for green cards, recuperating from chemo, being the at home mum who I love being but who has ceased being as busy as she used to be now her children are getting bigger and going to school. So now I’m busy, but aaaargh, there aren’t enough minutes. Is this what they call juggling? Struggling and juggling, hobbling and bobbling, I call it. Hobbling, bobbling, jobbling and wobbling. I have so much in my mind that my brain has run out of compartments. The chicken casserole we’re having for dinner is all mixed up with Church History, 14-yo’s need for new soccer boots, Neil Armstrong (school project), and Savlon. All to the soundtrack of 10-yo's clarinet practice and the Disney Buddy Songs CD that 7-yo bought at a yard sale at the week-end chim chimma-nee chim chimma-nee chim chim cher-eeeee. It’s not pretty in there, I tell you.
Hobbling, but happy.
Photo credit: www.explorechicago.org
I’ve been in Chicago. My big brother (the legendary Charlesinparis) had a conference there, and said to me ‘If I come over a couple of days early, will you come up and hang out with me?” We stayed with Expat Mum, she who showed a group of English bloggers round so ably this time last year. She plied us with tea, wine, nuggets of information about living in Chicago. I met the Ball and Chain (I didn’t call him that). Thank you Expat Mum. You really looked after us well. Ah, Bloggy Friends, it was fabulous.
We went on a boat trip, we went to the Chicago History Museum, we shopped, we saw the Bean (I love the Bean), we ate, we drank, we talked, we went to the top of the John Hancock tower (second highest building in the US) and felt a bit wobbly looking at the view. Here's a picture of the Bean.
We walked miles. Miles and miles. Mies and mies (van der Rohe) - little Chicago joke there. I don’t walk all that much in my daily life (one of my beefs about living in my car-orientated city), and after the first day I was feeling the muscles in my feet and lower legs. I was wearing natty city shoes, not my usual flip flops (it’s still summer weather here), with a little more of a heel than I’m used to. But I wasn’t going to let aching limbs and extremities curtail my city experience. By the end of the second day, I had a blister on each foot. The one on my left foot was on the sole, right in the middle of the fleshy pad, and BIG. Don’t you love blogging? Where else could I share details of my pedicular woes and be sure of a sympathetic ear? I must have looked a sorry sight hobbling through airport security at O'Hare. I’ve spent the week-end walking on the sides of my feet, and wincing, but it was worth every single painful, incapacitating step.
There is a big city person inside of me. It’s quite a small corner of me these days, but it needs a fix every now and again. My big brother is a big city person. But even if he’d invited me to spend a couple of days in a cave in the middle of nowhere, I’d have gone (and I wouldn’t have got blisters). We couldn’t remember the last time we’d spent two days in each other’s company, one on one. If ever. It’s very different to spending time in a big family conglomeration, which is how it usually is. It was wonderful. Thank you, Charlesinparis.
Hobbling, but happy… that’s rather how I am in my life at the moment. Quick update. I did enroll to do an MA in Christian Ministry. I’ve rather taken myself by surprise. I love it. I really do. Every minute. And therein lies the rub (speaking of blisters). There aren’t enough minutes in the days any more. I’ve also upped my hours at the toy shop for reasons that have their own internal Iota-style logic, though an outsider might look at my life and think “Hm, interesting timing”. I do love being busy. I’ve had too many years waiting for green cards, recuperating from chemo, being the at home mum who I love being but who has ceased being as busy as she used to be now her children are getting bigger and going to school. So now I’m busy, but aaaargh, there aren’t enough minutes. Is this what they call juggling? Struggling and juggling, hobbling and bobbling, I call it. Hobbling, bobbling, jobbling and wobbling. I have so much in my mind that my brain has run out of compartments. The chicken casserole we’re having for dinner is all mixed up with Church History, 14-yo’s need for new soccer boots, Neil Armstrong (school project), and Savlon. All to the soundtrack of 10-yo's clarinet practice and the Disney Buddy Songs CD that 7-yo bought at a yard sale at the week-end chim chimma-nee chim chimma-nee chim chim cher-eeeee. It’s not pretty in there, I tell you.
Hobbling, but happy.
Photo credit: www.explorechicago.org
Monday, August 8, 2011
Iota's mother's loft: final instalment
I couldn't call this post Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part IV for reasons which will become apparent.
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Birthday party
Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of my older brother. Big family party. Thirty-five people: mostly first cousins, their spouses and children, and a few family friends. Sunny day. Outside on the lawn, chairs or rugs, depending on age and agility. Food and drink.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Random things to end to the year with
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!
.
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!
.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Ladies in Lavender
I make a point of not having any commercial affiliations on my blog. It's a policy. A policy is a useful thing (I should know, I used to be in the Civil Service). It's useful, because when I get an email from someone asking if I'd like to promote their organisation or their product, I say "I have a policy not to". I think that sounds polite, and it means I don't feel obliged to explain any further.
I am making an exception. I am mentioning a product. That's because I'm entering a competition. I don't need to win. I just need to be one of the first 20 to enter. If I do so, those lovely people at MamaBabyBliss will send me a bottle of Oooh... lavender bath soak. Except they won't send it to me, because I'll give them my mother's address. Lavender is not only terribly difficult to spell, but also her favourite. She deserves it. Imagine living over 3,000 miles away from your youngest three grandchildren.
To enter the competition, I have to write a blog post about "me time". I'm going to enter the post I wrote a year ago, almost to the day. As "me time" goes, I dare anyone to better a week-end in New York without the children, and with some of the best company western civilisation can offer (my brother, his wife and family).
Here is that post.
New York, New York
Do you want to know how much can be fitted into the hours between 12.30pm on Friday and 9.30pm on Monday? Let me tell you:
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
I am making an exception. I am mentioning a product. That's because I'm entering a competition. I don't need to win. I just need to be one of the first 20 to enter. If I do so, those lovely people at MamaBabyBliss will send me a bottle of Oooh... lavender bath soak. Except they won't send it to me, because I'll give them my mother's address. Lavender is not only terribly difficult to spell, but also her favourite. She deserves it. Imagine living over 3,000 miles away from your youngest three grandchildren.
To enter the competition, I have to write a blog post about "me time". I'm going to enter the post I wrote a year ago, almost to the day. As "me time" goes, I dare anyone to better a week-end in New York without the children, and with some of the best company western civilisation can offer (my brother, his wife and family).
Here is that post.
New York, New York
Do you want to know how much can be fitted into the hours between 12.30pm on Friday and 9.30pm on Monday? Let me tell you:
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
New York, New York: Part II
One of my problems in life is that I find it difficult to write short blog posts. I used to be able to, but now I can’t. It’s not so much that the Muse has left me, as that the Muse sits around for too long each time she visits. Anyway, a sneaky little trick that I’ve used before to cover up my embarrassing problem is this: I write one blog post, and then I chop it in half and call it Part I and Part II. So without further ado about nothing, here is New York, New York Part II, also known as
The Harley Davidson story
It was a surprise birthday present for my sister-in-law, organized by Charlesinparis. She’s always wanted to go on a Harley (you don’t say the Davidson bit, apparently). She had the chance to do so on holiday in Australia a few years ago, turned it down, and has regretted it ever since. All she knew was that we had to be somewhere at 2.30pm. Throughout the morning, the odd hint was dropped about helicopter trips. Sneaky, huh?
At 2.30 we were waiting to cross a street, and she nudged my arm. “Look at that gorgeous Harley”. This was something of a conversational gift for me. “Have you ever been on one?” I asked innocently. “No” she said, and told me about Australia. “Would you still like a ride on one?”, which I realized as soon as I’d asked it was something of a dangerous question, since it would have been a disaster if she had replied “Oh no, it was just a passing fancy, and frankly what a waste of time and money that would have been”. Luckily she didn’t - phew - and with perfect timing worthy of the most predictable movie script, as we crossed the road towards the gleaming burgundy Harley, she said “I’d absolutely LOVE a ride on a Harley.” (Burgundy... One might even think plum-coloured, if one had read this…)
By this point I really did feel as if we were acting out a movie script. Perhaps there’s a ham actor in us all. Charlie kept it going admirably. He simply went up to the Harley rider, said “Hi Neil”, and shook hands. “Hi Charles” said Neil. “Nice bike” said Charlie, “Mind if I take a picture of it?” "Be my guest" said Neil.
At this point, I was watching my sister-in-law’s face, and I can tell you that the penny hadn’t dropped. She was puzzled but not suspicious. “This is my wife”, continued Charlie, and she shook Neil’s hand, her face fixed in a warm smile that did her great credit. Outwardly all warmth and smiles, inwardly desperately thinking “I haven’t a clue who this man is or how my husband knows him or what is going on here - keep smiling, girl, just keep smiling”. Really, she should be in the diplomatic service.
“Would you like to take her for a ride on your bike?” asked Charlie, and at that moment, I saw that penny drop. The smile unfixed itself, and became a grin of delight. Delight, realization, amusement, anticipation, a hint of embarrassment perhaps, sheer enjoyment of the moment – it was all in there.
Charlie had made sure she was dressed warmly, since we’d got the first ferry to the Statue of Liberty (and boy, was it cold queueing for tickets at 8.00 in the morning in Battery Park). So with the addition of sunglasses and a helmet (which I had to help her do up, as her hands were a bit shaky with all the excitement), she was all ready to go. And off they went.
Oh, I’ve missed one of my favourite moments. It was when they were both installed on the bike, just getting comfy. My sister-in-law couldn’t quite see where to put her hands (not obvious), so asked Neil “Is it ok if I put my hands on your waist?” He must have been in on the movie script thing, because he replied in a bit of a drawl “You can put your hands just wherever you like”.
Apparently you can have a good chat on a Harley. I’d assumed that the noise of the engine would drown out all conversation, but my sister-in-law and Neil had quite a natter, both on the bike and when they stopped for coffee to warm up (it was pretty cold on the bike, even with warm clothes). They started off through Central Park (“always a nice ride” said Neil), headed up into Harlem (“the bits you might not go to on your own”), and then sped around and cruised around for two and a half hours, with that one stop for coffee. My sister-in-law, the Biker.
All I can say is, Charlesinparis, if this is a precedent for birthday presents to your wife, that’s some challenge you’ve set yourself for the years ahead.
The Harley Davidson story
It was a surprise birthday present for my sister-in-law, organized by Charlesinparis. She’s always wanted to go on a Harley (you don’t say the Davidson bit, apparently). She had the chance to do so on holiday in Australia a few years ago, turned it down, and has regretted it ever since. All she knew was that we had to be somewhere at 2.30pm. Throughout the morning, the odd hint was dropped about helicopter trips. Sneaky, huh?
At 2.30 we were waiting to cross a street, and she nudged my arm. “Look at that gorgeous Harley”. This was something of a conversational gift for me. “Have you ever been on one?” I asked innocently. “No” she said, and told me about Australia. “Would you still like a ride on one?”, which I realized as soon as I’d asked it was something of a dangerous question, since it would have been a disaster if she had replied “Oh no, it was just a passing fancy, and frankly what a waste of time and money that would have been”. Luckily she didn’t - phew - and with perfect timing worthy of the most predictable movie script, as we crossed the road towards the gleaming burgundy Harley, she said “I’d absolutely LOVE a ride on a Harley.” (Burgundy... One might even think plum-coloured, if one had read this…)
By this point I really did feel as if we were acting out a movie script. Perhaps there’s a ham actor in us all. Charlie kept it going admirably. He simply went up to the Harley rider, said “Hi Neil”, and shook hands. “Hi Charles” said Neil. “Nice bike” said Charlie, “Mind if I take a picture of it?” "Be my guest" said Neil.
At this point, I was watching my sister-in-law’s face, and I can tell you that the penny hadn’t dropped. She was puzzled but not suspicious. “This is my wife”, continued Charlie, and she shook Neil’s hand, her face fixed in a warm smile that did her great credit. Outwardly all warmth and smiles, inwardly desperately thinking “I haven’t a clue who this man is or how my husband knows him or what is going on here - keep smiling, girl, just keep smiling”. Really, she should be in the diplomatic service.
“Would you like to take her for a ride on your bike?” asked Charlie, and at that moment, I saw that penny drop. The smile unfixed itself, and became a grin of delight. Delight, realization, amusement, anticipation, a hint of embarrassment perhaps, sheer enjoyment of the moment – it was all in there.
Charlie had made sure she was dressed warmly, since we’d got the first ferry to the Statue of Liberty (and boy, was it cold queueing for tickets at 8.00 in the morning in Battery Park). So with the addition of sunglasses and a helmet (which I had to help her do up, as her hands were a bit shaky with all the excitement), she was all ready to go. And off they went.
Oh, I’ve missed one of my favourite moments. It was when they were both installed on the bike, just getting comfy. My sister-in-law couldn’t quite see where to put her hands (not obvious), so asked Neil “Is it ok if I put my hands on your waist?” He must have been in on the movie script thing, because he replied in a bit of a drawl “You can put your hands just wherever you like”.
Apparently you can have a good chat on a Harley. I’d assumed that the noise of the engine would drown out all conversation, but my sister-in-law and Neil had quite a natter, both on the bike and when they stopped for coffee to warm up (it was pretty cold on the bike, even with warm clothes). They started off through Central Park (“always a nice ride” said Neil), headed up into Harlem (“the bits you might not go to on your own”), and then sped around and cruised around for two and a half hours, with that one stop for coffee. My sister-in-law, the Biker.
All I can say is, Charlesinparis, if this is a precedent for birthday presents to your wife, that’s some challenge you’ve set yourself for the years ahead.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Trips
I’m off on a trip. A trip? Yes, a trip. A trip to New York, no less. On my own. No husband, no kids. Ah ha ha.
What takes me to New York? Let me tell you. Charlesinparis. For it is he. You can’t have missed his enigmatic comments on my blog. You must have wondered about my mystery man in that most glamorous of locations. Here is the moment of revelation. Charlesinparis is … (drum roll) … my big brother. He and Wifeinparis, along with Twokidsinparis, are spending a week in New York, and I am joining them for the week-end. I am also seeing Friendinsuburbs, who I met in 1987 and see on average about once every 5 years, and meeting her husband and twin 2 year old boys. Now if that isn’t a fabulous week-end for Wifeandmotherinthemidwest, I don’t know what is.
Charlesinparis – I have to tell you about him. In my teens and twenties, when any of my girlfriends came to visit, they would always ask oh so casually "is Charlesinparis around?". Think tall, dark, handsome. Think beanpole. Think daddy-long-legs. Think chiseled features and heavy eyebrows. Think very blue eyes. Think Anthony in The Wiggles in his younger days (he’s the one in blue), but better looking. Think snappy dresser and urban sophistication. Think lightning-speed conversation and rapier wit (in three languages). Think horrendous cheesy puns that you have to laugh at anyway. Think plum-coloured MG. Sadly it is no longer a part of his life (and it was an MGB GT, no less, with spokey wheels), having been replaced by a sensible Renault people carrier. In its day, the MG was lent to him on a long-term basis by a friend. I never understood why anyone who owned an MG would lend it to someone else, let alone someone whose driving position in it would involve their knees being somewhere in the vicinity of their ears. I’m grateful that she did though (yes, it was a woman…), as it provided me with one of my favourite Charlesinparis memories.
It was a hot day in August 1989, my younger brother’s wedding day. Charlesinparis had been best man, made a spectacularly funny speech, and then when it was time to go, he said “hey Sis, come in the MG”. So we set off, open-topped on the open road, him in his smart suit, me in a peacock blue bridesmaid dress, in one of those dreamy perfect balmy summer evenings that we do so well (if a little infrequently) in England, with the setting sun behind us. I know it was behind us, because Charlesinparis said “I haven’t got a road atlas. Where are we, anyway? Sort of north of Bristol somewhere? Hm. Well, we’ll just head east, that’s easy enough, and we’re bound to pick up signs to Oxford or London. The MG doesn’t like motorways, but the Cotswolds are around here somewhere, between here and home at any rate, so it’ll be a pretty drive.” And it was. A pretty drive. A pretty long drive. Difficult to navigate by the sun after dark. It rained towards the end and got cold (it always does in an MG), but Charlesinparis put up the top, we were young and it was fun.
The last time I saw Charlesinparis was the week-end before we left Scotland for the USA. He phoned one day and said “your birthday’s the 23rd of November, right?” (Wrong – it’s the 24th, but he’s not a details man on this kind of thing.) “That’s a week before you leave for the States, right?” (Right – see, he gets the details which matter.) “Well, I’ve arranged for me, big sister and little brother to come and see you. Book us into a B&B. We’ll take you out for dinner on your birthday, but other than that, you can see as much or as little of us as you like. We’re there for you. We can help out with whatever you want, or we can entertain ourselves and get out of your hair.” So for three days, there they were. They took car loads of stuff to the tip. They played with the kids. They washed bedding (2-yo caught a vomiting bug). They gave me the ideal excuse to go to all my favourite places instead of doing all the sensible house-tidying sort of things I would otherwise have done. They walked with me on the beach. They didn’t mind that I was distracted and odd. They said all the right things about our move (“the Midwest sounds great”).
Every girl should have a Charlesinparis. And from time to time, a Charlesinnewyork.
What takes me to New York? Let me tell you. Charlesinparis. For it is he. You can’t have missed his enigmatic comments on my blog. You must have wondered about my mystery man in that most glamorous of locations. Here is the moment of revelation. Charlesinparis is … (drum roll) … my big brother. He and Wifeinparis, along with Twokidsinparis, are spending a week in New York, and I am joining them for the week-end. I am also seeing Friendinsuburbs, who I met in 1987 and see on average about once every 5 years, and meeting her husband and twin 2 year old boys. Now if that isn’t a fabulous week-end for Wifeandmotherinthemidwest, I don’t know what is.
Charlesinparis – I have to tell you about him. In my teens and twenties, when any of my girlfriends came to visit, they would always ask oh so casually "is Charlesinparis around?". Think tall, dark, handsome. Think beanpole. Think daddy-long-legs. Think chiseled features and heavy eyebrows. Think very blue eyes. Think Anthony in The Wiggles in his younger days (he’s the one in blue), but better looking. Think snappy dresser and urban sophistication. Think lightning-speed conversation and rapier wit (in three languages). Think horrendous cheesy puns that you have to laugh at anyway. Think plum-coloured MG. Sadly it is no longer a part of his life (and it was an MGB GT, no less, with spokey wheels), having been replaced by a sensible Renault people carrier. In its day, the MG was lent to him on a long-term basis by a friend. I never understood why anyone who owned an MG would lend it to someone else, let alone someone whose driving position in it would involve their knees being somewhere in the vicinity of their ears. I’m grateful that she did though (yes, it was a woman…), as it provided me with one of my favourite Charlesinparis memories.
It was a hot day in August 1989, my younger brother’s wedding day. Charlesinparis had been best man, made a spectacularly funny speech, and then when it was time to go, he said “hey Sis, come in the MG”. So we set off, open-topped on the open road, him in his smart suit, me in a peacock blue bridesmaid dress, in one of those dreamy perfect balmy summer evenings that we do so well (if a little infrequently) in England, with the setting sun behind us. I know it was behind us, because Charlesinparis said “I haven’t got a road atlas. Where are we, anyway? Sort of north of Bristol somewhere? Hm. Well, we’ll just head east, that’s easy enough, and we’re bound to pick up signs to Oxford or London. The MG doesn’t like motorways, but the Cotswolds are around here somewhere, between here and home at any rate, so it’ll be a pretty drive.” And it was. A pretty drive. A pretty long drive. Difficult to navigate by the sun after dark. It rained towards the end and got cold (it always does in an MG), but Charlesinparis put up the top, we were young and it was fun.
The last time I saw Charlesinparis was the week-end before we left Scotland for the USA. He phoned one day and said “your birthday’s the 23rd of November, right?” (Wrong – it’s the 24th, but he’s not a details man on this kind of thing.) “That’s a week before you leave for the States, right?” (Right – see, he gets the details which matter.) “Well, I’ve arranged for me, big sister and little brother to come and see you. Book us into a B&B. We’ll take you out for dinner on your birthday, but other than that, you can see as much or as little of us as you like. We’re there for you. We can help out with whatever you want, or we can entertain ourselves and get out of your hair.” So for three days, there they were. They took car loads of stuff to the tip. They played with the kids. They washed bedding (2-yo caught a vomiting bug). They gave me the ideal excuse to go to all my favourite places instead of doing all the sensible house-tidying sort of things I would otherwise have done. They walked with me on the beach. They didn’t mind that I was distracted and odd. They said all the right things about our move (“the Midwest sounds great”).
Every girl should have a Charlesinparis. And from time to time, a Charlesinnewyork.
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