One of the things that was annoying about living abroad, was that so few online retailers are geared up for you as a customer. I can't tell you the number of times I tried to order a present for a friend or family member in the UK, only to find out that I couldn't pay because my credit card had a US address. Why didn't you keep a UK credit card?, I hear you ask. I did. But even my UK credit card has a US billing address. Because the billing address is where you live. Not all of us have two houses.
Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.
Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?
The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.
So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).
Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.
.
Showing posts with label competition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label competition. Show all posts
Monday, July 2, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Just sayin'
I think this is bad. Al Fresco holidays ran a competition where they asked you to write a blog post about your best holiday ever. Forty-nine bloggers did. Al Fresco picked a winner. I thought the winning post was good. I didn't think any more about it, until I scrolled down and read a comment that said:
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
Friday, February 3, 2012
On holiday with Socrates
This post is an entry to the Tots100/Al Fresco Holidays competition. Thomson Al Fresco offer holidays in "luxury mobile homes in Europe's best parcs", and you can visit their website by clicking here.
Why do we go on holiday anyway? It’s a big part of life for us Brits, but it’s not the same in all cultures. After our first summer living in the US, I was surprised to discover that most families hadn’t been on holiday. Going away in the summer just isn’t an expectation, a normal thing to do, as it is for us. I don’t want to be critical of Americans, but I do think they’re missing out.
It’s not just the chance to experience a new place, a different culture, unfamiliar foods. It’s not just the opportunity to spend more time with family or friends, or pursuing a favourite activity. No. It’s the time in the year when we rest, relax and reflect. Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living”. In my book, holidays are those times when our lives are examined.
I deliberately put that sentence in the passive, because I don’t mean that we need to sit around in some philosophical fug, reading weighty tomes and pondering deep cogitations. Sometimes our lives can be ‘examined’ by little nudges here and there which tell us important things, if only we will listen. It might be that you remember how much you really, really love running around outside with your kids, and that thought will motivate you to make time to go to the park on a Saturday morning when you get home. Or perhaps you’ll dare admit to yourself a sense of restlessless, a needing to move on, which will prompt you to look for a new challenge. Or maybe you’ll just realize that your life is full of good things, and the break will deliver you back to ‘normal life’ less anxious and more grateful.
I remember our first holiday with a baby, in 1997. He was three months old. My husband and I were living in London, and house-sat for a week in Brighton. I took my usual holiday fare – a stack of paperbacks. I returned home having finished not even one of them. That was a Socrates moment. Life was different with a baby (duuuuh…) We went on the Bluebell steam railway – because obviously a three month old baby can fully appreciate steam railways. That was the other side of the coin of lost paperback time. It was a taste of the years ahead of family-orientated outings, of being one of those lucky people who I’d so often seen, pottering along a railway platform at a snail’s pace, a small hand in their own, their enjoyment of the day wrapped up in the excitement of the diminutive railway enthusiast attached to that small hand.
Here is my favourite photo from that holiday. I do have pictures of the steam train, and the beach, and the South Downs, but I like this one, staged with our poor innocent unsuspecting firstborn. It speaks of the process of adjusting to parenthood.
Take Socrates on holiday with you. He would have approved of holidays, I think.
.
Why do we go on holiday anyway? It’s a big part of life for us Brits, but it’s not the same in all cultures. After our first summer living in the US, I was surprised to discover that most families hadn’t been on holiday. Going away in the summer just isn’t an expectation, a normal thing to do, as it is for us. I don’t want to be critical of Americans, but I do think they’re missing out.
It’s not just the chance to experience a new place, a different culture, unfamiliar foods. It’s not just the opportunity to spend more time with family or friends, or pursuing a favourite activity. No. It’s the time in the year when we rest, relax and reflect. Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living”. In my book, holidays are those times when our lives are examined.
I deliberately put that sentence in the passive, because I don’t mean that we need to sit around in some philosophical fug, reading weighty tomes and pondering deep cogitations. Sometimes our lives can be ‘examined’ by little nudges here and there which tell us important things, if only we will listen. It might be that you remember how much you really, really love running around outside with your kids, and that thought will motivate you to make time to go to the park on a Saturday morning when you get home. Or perhaps you’ll dare admit to yourself a sense of restlessless, a needing to move on, which will prompt you to look for a new challenge. Or maybe you’ll just realize that your life is full of good things, and the break will deliver you back to ‘normal life’ less anxious and more grateful.
I remember our first holiday with a baby, in 1997. He was three months old. My husband and I were living in London, and house-sat for a week in Brighton. I took my usual holiday fare – a stack of paperbacks. I returned home having finished not even one of them. That was a Socrates moment. Life was different with a baby (duuuuh…) We went on the Bluebell steam railway – because obviously a three month old baby can fully appreciate steam railways. That was the other side of the coin of lost paperback time. It was a taste of the years ahead of family-orientated outings, of being one of those lucky people who I’d so often seen, pottering along a railway platform at a snail’s pace, a small hand in their own, their enjoyment of the day wrapped up in the excitement of the diminutive railway enthusiast attached to that small hand.
Here is my favourite photo from that holiday. I do have pictures of the steam train, and the beach, and the South Downs, but I like this one, staged with our poor innocent unsuspecting firstborn. It speaks of the process of adjusting to parenthood.
Take Socrates on holiday with you. He would have approved of holidays, I think.
.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
In the Powder Room
I am writing this post as an entry into the competition hosted by In the Powder Room. The prize is a couple of nights in London’s Hoxton Hotel, and a ticket to CyberMummy 2011. The challenge is to write a post about who you would like to meet in the powder room of the Hoxton Hotel. This is my entry. (If you want to have a go yourself, the details are here, but you're probably out of time. The deadline is at 8.00pm on 31st May.)
I have an idea. It’s just a tiny little germ of an idea. I believe it’s quite a good idea, but it’s one I know I’ll never pursue under my own steam. I would like to see it become reality, but I know that if it ever does, it will be by serendipity. Perhaps the powder room at the Hoxton Hotel could help. Perhaps it could be the setting for a chance meeting. I don’t know exactly who the other person in that unplanned encounter would be. We’ll come back to her later. But I see us getting chatting in front of the mirrors, the conversation starting with the trivial, but moving to deeper waters. I’d share my idea, and it would catch her imagination, and she’d say “What a fabulous thought, and funnily enough, it just ties in exactly with a project I’m involved in. Can you give me your name and number? Would you mind if I contacted you? I’m so glad we started talking. I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now.”
My idea is this: I would like to have a go at being a model. Not a full-time job, not a long-term commitment. Just one short contract to prove I can do it. You see, two years ago this Saturday, I had a double mastectomy. When that happens, you have all kinds of choices to make, about whether to have reconstruction or not, and if so, how to go about it. All of a sudden, just as you’re dealing with words like 'cancer' and 'prognosis' and 'percentage chance of survival beyond five years', you also have to think about whether you want to have squishy boob-like objects implanted underneath your skin, or whether you’re happy to wear them in a bra over the top. For all kinds of reasons which I don’t have space for here, I opted for the latter.
So far I’m happy with that decision, though of course I have times when I think “Should I? Shall I? It’s covered by insurance…” Of course I do. But mostly, I have come to the conclusion, intellectually and emotionally, that I’m happy in my own body as it is. It’s terribly ironic. The years my body was at its best, when I was young, hadn’t been pregnant, had nice boobs, were the times I was most critical of it and unhappy with it. Now, wrinkly saggy tummy and flat scarred chest, I really quite like it.
Hang on a minute, though. When I say I want to be a model, don’t race ahead with the scheme. I’m not thinking Vogue or the catwalk at London Fashion Week. No. I have in mind the Land’s End catalogue, or some other publication for the mature woman. You know the kind of thing. Smiley women of a certain age in tasteful pastels. I’m tall, and maybe slim enough (maybe...). I scrub up ok from time to time, and I can look wistfully out at sea vistas with the best of them. My hair is, unfortunately, a rather over-bright red hue at the moment, (it said “root beer” on the packet – since when has root beer been red?) but it’ll wash out over time, and I’m sure they can shade that down before sending to print. In any case, don’t they have armies of attendants with make-up and hairstyling skills to make you look presentable before you go in front of the camera? And can’t they do clever things with airbrushing? I mean, if the worst came to the worst, couldn’t they photoshop Angelina Jolie’s head onto Pippa Middleton’s body and call it me?
Now you’ve got your heads round my idea (your own heads, not Angelina Jolie’s), I’ll tell you why I want it to happen. When I had my mastectomy and was trying to make sense of it, and what it was going to mean for the future, imagine what it could have done for me if a friend had sent me a Land’s End catalogue with a post-it sticker on the front saying “look at the inside back page”. There, alongside a headshot of a woman with hair a rather startling shade of red, could have been an article which read:
Iota, who appears on page 32 in the unadventurous knitwear and sensible trousers section, is a breast cancer survivor. She opted to have a double mastectomy, and has chosen not to undergo reconstructive surgery. But doesn’t she look great?! She had no previous modelling experience, and says that before she had cancer, she hated being in front of a camera. We asked her how it felt in our photographer’s studio, and she told us “I loved it. At first I was nervous, but everyone was great and put me at my ease. By the end, I was feeling so attractive and feminine, and that’s a great feeling when you’ve been through breast cancer surgery.”
Wouldn’t that have been a hope-giving, comforting, encouraging story to have read? Do you see how I could now BE that story for other women?
Who, then, do I need to meet in the Hoxton Hotel powder room to make this idea happen? Is it the marketing manager of Land’s End? Is it an advertising or PR exec? Is it someone from a breast cancer charity? Is it a journalist, or a photographer? It’s someone who has come into contact with breast cancer in their own life, I’m sure, either facing it themselves, or standing alongside a friend or relation who has done so. Who is this person? I don’t know, but if it’s you, please come and bump into me. Come along and tell me “I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now”.
.
I have an idea. It’s just a tiny little germ of an idea. I believe it’s quite a good idea, but it’s one I know I’ll never pursue under my own steam. I would like to see it become reality, but I know that if it ever does, it will be by serendipity. Perhaps the powder room at the Hoxton Hotel could help. Perhaps it could be the setting for a chance meeting. I don’t know exactly who the other person in that unplanned encounter would be. We’ll come back to her later. But I see us getting chatting in front of the mirrors, the conversation starting with the trivial, but moving to deeper waters. I’d share my idea, and it would catch her imagination, and she’d say “What a fabulous thought, and funnily enough, it just ties in exactly with a project I’m involved in. Can you give me your name and number? Would you mind if I contacted you? I’m so glad we started talking. I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now.”
My idea is this: I would like to have a go at being a model. Not a full-time job, not a long-term commitment. Just one short contract to prove I can do it. You see, two years ago this Saturday, I had a double mastectomy. When that happens, you have all kinds of choices to make, about whether to have reconstruction or not, and if so, how to go about it. All of a sudden, just as you’re dealing with words like 'cancer' and 'prognosis' and 'percentage chance of survival beyond five years', you also have to think about whether you want to have squishy boob-like objects implanted underneath your skin, or whether you’re happy to wear them in a bra over the top. For all kinds of reasons which I don’t have space for here, I opted for the latter.
So far I’m happy with that decision, though of course I have times when I think “Should I? Shall I? It’s covered by insurance…” Of course I do. But mostly, I have come to the conclusion, intellectually and emotionally, that I’m happy in my own body as it is. It’s terribly ironic. The years my body was at its best, when I was young, hadn’t been pregnant, had nice boobs, were the times I was most critical of it and unhappy with it. Now, wrinkly saggy tummy and flat scarred chest, I really quite like it.
Hang on a minute, though. When I say I want to be a model, don’t race ahead with the scheme. I’m not thinking Vogue or the catwalk at London Fashion Week. No. I have in mind the Land’s End catalogue, or some other publication for the mature woman. You know the kind of thing. Smiley women of a certain age in tasteful pastels. I’m tall, and maybe slim enough (maybe...). I scrub up ok from time to time, and I can look wistfully out at sea vistas with the best of them. My hair is, unfortunately, a rather over-bright red hue at the moment, (it said “root beer” on the packet – since when has root beer been red?) but it’ll wash out over time, and I’m sure they can shade that down before sending to print. In any case, don’t they have armies of attendants with make-up and hairstyling skills to make you look presentable before you go in front of the camera? And can’t they do clever things with airbrushing? I mean, if the worst came to the worst, couldn’t they photoshop Angelina Jolie’s head onto Pippa Middleton’s body and call it me?
Now you’ve got your heads round my idea (your own heads, not Angelina Jolie’s), I’ll tell you why I want it to happen. When I had my mastectomy and was trying to make sense of it, and what it was going to mean for the future, imagine what it could have done for me if a friend had sent me a Land’s End catalogue with a post-it sticker on the front saying “look at the inside back page”. There, alongside a headshot of a woman with hair a rather startling shade of red, could have been an article which read:
Iota, who appears on page 32 in the unadventurous knitwear and sensible trousers section, is a breast cancer survivor. She opted to have a double mastectomy, and has chosen not to undergo reconstructive surgery. But doesn’t she look great?! She had no previous modelling experience, and says that before she had cancer, she hated being in front of a camera. We asked her how it felt in our photographer’s studio, and she told us “I loved it. At first I was nervous, but everyone was great and put me at my ease. By the end, I was feeling so attractive and feminine, and that’s a great feeling when you’ve been through breast cancer surgery.”
Wouldn’t that have been a hope-giving, comforting, encouraging story to have read? Do you see how I could now BE that story for other women?
Who, then, do I need to meet in the Hoxton Hotel powder room to make this idea happen? Is it the marketing manager of Land’s End? Is it an advertising or PR exec? Is it someone from a breast cancer charity? Is it a journalist, or a photographer? It’s someone who has come into contact with breast cancer in their own life, I’m sure, either facing it themselves, or standing alongside a friend or relation who has done so. Who is this person? I don’t know, but if it’s you, please come and bump into me. Come along and tell me “I’m so glad I happened to come into the powder room just now”.
.
Monday, January 10, 2011
2010 in pictures
So there's a free ticket being given away for Cybermummy 2011. I don't know which side of the Atlantic I'll be this summer, but against the possibility that I might be in England, I'm going to enter. The competition is 'Your 2010 in Pictures'. You can post either a single picture, or a montage. You can see all the entries here.
OK... So... My 2010 in pictures. I've been browsing back through my photos of the year, and the trouble is, I don't post pictures of my kids or myself, and it would be too boring to sum up the year in nature shots, so I was a bit stuck. But then I found a few that 6-yo took. She is very interested in photography, and is saving up her pocket money and Christmas money for a camera of her own. We occasionally let her use ours, as a special treat, and back in January 2010, she took these. I'm calling them "Barbie meets Postman Pat".
Here's the first in the series. It's Alexa from Barbie in The Diamond Castle. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, it's a heart-warming tale of how two sisters, who live together in a cottage in the countryside growing flowers to sell in the market, come across a magic mirror, in which a Muse called Melody is trapped. Melody entreats them to help, and they set out on a quest which is... you know what? If you are not familiar with the film, relax and count yourself lucky.
The second in the series features Barbie in an evening gown which 6-yo designed herself. Do you like the tasteful single green flower on the front? She looks a little disheveled, in an after-the-party kind of a way.
Photo number three shows Barbie in more casual attire.
I'm titling the next one "Barbie prepares to bite off Pat's nose".
Here is Hallowe'en Barbie. That fire is perilously close to her dress. No wonder her hair is standing on end.
And as a finale, here is the complete Barbie line-up. Postman Pat, it's your lucky day. What would Mrs Goggins make of it all? Reverend Timms, control yourself.
So why do these pictures sum up my 2010? Well, I can think of so many reasons. First, there's my growing girl. She was 5-yo and a Kindergartener when she took these pictures, and now she's 6-yo and a big First Grader. She knows her months of the year, and has no need for this jigsaw puzzle any more. I have no idea why she used the puzzle as a backdrop for her Barbie parade, and I marvel at the ingenuity and creativity that is a child. I love the mystery of their small minds.
Then there's the intelligent juxtaposition of our Englishness and Americanness. "Barbie meets Postman Pat" sums it up so perfectly. Look at her, all glamorous and movie star. And look at him, all homeliness and cups of tea in the post office. This is brilliantly chosen symbolism of a childhood split emotionally between Britain and America. The composition is significant too. 6-yo hardly knows who Postman Pat is. He's the man in this jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn't see him on television or lunchboxes, in magazines and colouring books. He's there in the background, but he's not part of the activity of her life, as Barbie is. The composition of the photos perfectly reflects the reality.
The photos speak to me of our fourth year in the US completed, and the continuing erosion of our familiarity with British life. There's Barbie in her Hallowe'en dress. We hardly knew what Hallowe'en was, four years ago, and now we are past masters at choosing costumes and knowing which streets in our neighborhood are good for trick or treating. Meanwhile, the puzzle shows Reverend Timms carefully putting together his harvest festival display, Bonfire Night in November, children dancing round a Maypole. These are celebrations of which 6-yo knows nothing (though the Maypole? Really? Does anyone still do that?) Does that make me sad? Yes, of course it still does. But I have also found out that it's ok to let those things go. And as time goes by, I know that my children will make sense in the future of this strange split identity that they are acquiring, because I see them doing it in the present. We spent the summer in the UK, and they loved every minute of it. They are proud of their nationality, but they love life here in America too. Their maturity and their confidence in this astonishes me.
Yes. I think this is a good way to sum up 2010.
By the way, I haven't fixed, cropped or edited any of the photos in any way. They are exactly as 6-yo took them.
.
OK... So... My 2010 in pictures. I've been browsing back through my photos of the year, and the trouble is, I don't post pictures of my kids or myself, and it would be too boring to sum up the year in nature shots, so I was a bit stuck. But then I found a few that 6-yo took. She is very interested in photography, and is saving up her pocket money and Christmas money for a camera of her own. We occasionally let her use ours, as a special treat, and back in January 2010, she took these. I'm calling them "Barbie meets Postman Pat".
Here's the first in the series. It's Alexa from Barbie in The Diamond Castle. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, it's a heart-warming tale of how two sisters, who live together in a cottage in the countryside growing flowers to sell in the market, come across a magic mirror, in which a Muse called Melody is trapped. Melody entreats them to help, and they set out on a quest which is... you know what? If you are not familiar with the film, relax and count yourself lucky.
The second in the series features Barbie in an evening gown which 6-yo designed herself. Do you like the tasteful single green flower on the front? She looks a little disheveled, in an after-the-party kind of a way.
Photo number three shows Barbie in more casual attire.
I'm titling the next one "Barbie prepares to bite off Pat's nose".
Here is Hallowe'en Barbie. That fire is perilously close to her dress. No wonder her hair is standing on end.
And as a finale, here is the complete Barbie line-up. Postman Pat, it's your lucky day. What would Mrs Goggins make of it all? Reverend Timms, control yourself.
So why do these pictures sum up my 2010? Well, I can think of so many reasons. First, there's my growing girl. She was 5-yo and a Kindergartener when she took these pictures, and now she's 6-yo and a big First Grader. She knows her months of the year, and has no need for this jigsaw puzzle any more. I have no idea why she used the puzzle as a backdrop for her Barbie parade, and I marvel at the ingenuity and creativity that is a child. I love the mystery of their small minds.
Then there's the intelligent juxtaposition of our Englishness and Americanness. "Barbie meets Postman Pat" sums it up so perfectly. Look at her, all glamorous and movie star. And look at him, all homeliness and cups of tea in the post office. This is brilliantly chosen symbolism of a childhood split emotionally between Britain and America. The composition is significant too. 6-yo hardly knows who Postman Pat is. He's the man in this jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn't see him on television or lunchboxes, in magazines and colouring books. He's there in the background, but he's not part of the activity of her life, as Barbie is. The composition of the photos perfectly reflects the reality.
The photos speak to me of our fourth year in the US completed, and the continuing erosion of our familiarity with British life. There's Barbie in her Hallowe'en dress. We hardly knew what Hallowe'en was, four years ago, and now we are past masters at choosing costumes and knowing which streets in our neighborhood are good for trick or treating. Meanwhile, the puzzle shows Reverend Timms carefully putting together his harvest festival display, Bonfire Night in November, children dancing round a Maypole. These are celebrations of which 6-yo knows nothing (though the Maypole? Really? Does anyone still do that?) Does that make me sad? Yes, of course it still does. But I have also found out that it's ok to let those things go. And as time goes by, I know that my children will make sense in the future of this strange split identity that they are acquiring, because I see them doing it in the present. We spent the summer in the UK, and they loved every minute of it. They are proud of their nationality, but they love life here in America too. Their maturity and their confidence in this astonishes me.
Yes. I think this is a good way to sum up 2010.
By the way, I haven't fixed, cropped or edited any of the photos in any way. They are exactly as 6-yo took them.
.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The blog that will never be
Well, the book News to me is going to Shirley, who was number 1 in the comments. Congratulations (if you can be congratulated on an achievement based entirely on random computer selection). I have emailed you, Shirley, to ask for your address, but if it doesn't reach you, then please email me.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Competition
I don't think any of you thought the two blog idea was a good one. That gave me pause for thought (is that the right expression? should it be "cause for thought"?). And I've decided I agree. So what I'm going to do is this. I'm going to stick with one blog, but hide the more personal posts, by an intricate technological procedure which I'll happily tell you more about if you're interested.
I'm definitely going to revamp this blog, and I might - gasp - change the title. One of the reasons this blog is losing its way a little is because now I've lived in the US for 3.5 years, it's hard to maintain the "not wrong, just different" schtick. If it's a schtick. I'm not really ever sure what a schtick is, and I certainly don't know if that's how you spell it. Where was I? Yes... the "not wrong, just different" thing depends on a certain wide-eyed "gosh, look, isn't my fridge BIG?" approach to living in America, and now I just don't have that any more. In fact, during my visit to Britain, I have to confess to crossing a few lines. More about those in another blog post, but suffice to say, you'll be hearing the Americans-in-Britain bloggers cheering "I told you so" in the background. I am guilty of the occasional trespass over to the other side. It's what they call, in diplomatic circles, "going native". So, for example, when I now look at my fridge, I don't think "oh it's huge", I think "how do those British people manage with their tiny fridges? what a pain to have to unpack and pack the whole thing every time you want half a carrot". Going native with a fridge, see?
More than that, though. Thing is, I don't actually think that at all about my fridge. I just open the door and get out the carrot while listening to Diane Rehm on NPR, batting away a troublesome child with my left hand, my right shoulder glued to my right ear with the phone in between, fobbing off a telesales person, wondering what to have for dinner and whether I like Endellion as a middle name. So perhaps "not wrong, just different" should become "just normal life now". Good stuff, but kind of a bit sad too. I liked my "not wrong, just different" cutting edge take on cultural divergence. I don't want to have to admit it's a bit blunted now. I don't think I do like Endellion, by the way. Sounds like Dandelion.
What do you think of "Midwest Midlife" as a new title? I kind of like it. Catchy, easy to remember, easy to abbreviate (MM). Might be confused as an aged fan club for Westlife though. Or possibly some kind of midwife service. And I'm not sure I really want to be known for being mid-life. It's not my USP.
How about "From Gruffalo to Buffalo"? They don't know the Gruffalo over here, so he's a singularly British icon, and the buffalo (or bison, as we're meant to call him these days) is a symbol of the Great Plains where I am. I could do a great header, with the Gruffalo holding the Union Jack on one side and a buffalo holding the Stars and Stripes on the other. Bit obscure, perhaps. Ooh, how about some title that encompasses my location (Plains) with my role (housewife) by cleverly rhyming Bison with Dyson? "Among the Bison with my Dyson". Something like that.
Anyway, you can see that my mind is working overtime on the subject. I will ponder further. "Further Ponderings Over the Pond", perhaps.
You thought I was going to run a competition to choose a new blog name, didn't you? Ha. Wrong! I'm running a competition to see if you can guess my new job! Yes. Job. Very exciting. Never let it be said I let the grass grow under my feet. Not even prairie tallgrass. Green card arrives one week; I get job the next week. Details are yet to be finalised, so I hope my next post isn't full of "it didn't work out". Meanwhile, here's a clue. If you ask your children what would be the coolest, coolest job in the world for a mom to have, that is my job. (Unless your child is a 3 year old boy, because I'm telling you now, it's not tractor-driver, train-driver, fat controller, or fire-fighter.)
Go on. Guess. (And let me know about the "cause for thought" thing too, please. I often trip up on that one.)
.
I'm definitely going to revamp this blog, and I might - gasp - change the title. One of the reasons this blog is losing its way a little is because now I've lived in the US for 3.5 years, it's hard to maintain the "not wrong, just different" schtick. If it's a schtick. I'm not really ever sure what a schtick is, and I certainly don't know if that's how you spell it. Where was I? Yes... the "not wrong, just different" thing depends on a certain wide-eyed "gosh, look, isn't my fridge BIG?" approach to living in America, and now I just don't have that any more. In fact, during my visit to Britain, I have to confess to crossing a few lines. More about those in another blog post, but suffice to say, you'll be hearing the Americans-in-Britain bloggers cheering "I told you so" in the background. I am guilty of the occasional trespass over to the other side. It's what they call, in diplomatic circles, "going native". So, for example, when I now look at my fridge, I don't think "oh it's huge", I think "how do those British people manage with their tiny fridges? what a pain to have to unpack and pack the whole thing every time you want half a carrot". Going native with a fridge, see?
More than that, though. Thing is, I don't actually think that at all about my fridge. I just open the door and get out the carrot while listening to Diane Rehm on NPR, batting away a troublesome child with my left hand, my right shoulder glued to my right ear with the phone in between, fobbing off a telesales person, wondering what to have for dinner and whether I like Endellion as a middle name. So perhaps "not wrong, just different" should become "just normal life now". Good stuff, but kind of a bit sad too. I liked my "not wrong, just different" cutting edge take on cultural divergence. I don't want to have to admit it's a bit blunted now. I don't think I do like Endellion, by the way. Sounds like Dandelion.
What do you think of "Midwest Midlife" as a new title? I kind of like it. Catchy, easy to remember, easy to abbreviate (MM). Might be confused as an aged fan club for Westlife though. Or possibly some kind of midwife service. And I'm not sure I really want to be known for being mid-life. It's not my USP.
How about "From Gruffalo to Buffalo"? They don't know the Gruffalo over here, so he's a singularly British icon, and the buffalo (or bison, as we're meant to call him these days) is a symbol of the Great Plains where I am. I could do a great header, with the Gruffalo holding the Union Jack on one side and a buffalo holding the Stars and Stripes on the other. Bit obscure, perhaps. Ooh, how about some title that encompasses my location (Plains) with my role (housewife) by cleverly rhyming Bison with Dyson? "Among the Bison with my Dyson". Something like that.
Anyway, you can see that my mind is working overtime on the subject. I will ponder further. "Further Ponderings Over the Pond", perhaps.
You thought I was going to run a competition to choose a new blog name, didn't you? Ha. Wrong! I'm running a competition to see if you can guess my new job! Yes. Job. Very exciting. Never let it be said I let the grass grow under my feet. Not even prairie tallgrass. Green card arrives one week; I get job the next week. Details are yet to be finalised, so I hope my next post isn't full of "it didn't work out". Meanwhile, here's a clue. If you ask your children what would be the coolest, coolest job in the world for a mom to have, that is my job. (Unless your child is a 3 year old boy, because I'm telling you now, it's not tractor-driver, train-driver, fat controller, or fire-fighter.)
Go on. Guess. (And let me know about the "cause for thought" thing too, please. I often trip up on that one.)
.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Life isn't fair: the result
OK, so the winner of the "Not Fair" competition is...
Tattie Weasle.
I empathised with all the ones about children getting out of bed at inappropriate times, and their lack of domestic abilities, and anything to do with the weather, or time off work, but ultimately, Tattie won the day, because hers involved the separation of a woman from her chocolate, and we all know that Hell hath no fury like a woman dealing with chocolate separation. I also particularly liked the fact that the secret chocolate stash shouldn't have been there in the first place, as Tattie had given it up for Lent. But what's the point of moral indignation, if you have to be logical at the same time? No point at all, is the answer to that one.
So Tattie, you can choose what I write about next: Guns, Religion, The Garage Sale, or how I teach my kids that life isn't fair (yes, I have chocolate bars locked in perspex boxes all round the house, and I keep the keys hanging round my neck, even when I sleep). Or any other burning topic, really. If you've always wondered something about life in America, life as an expat, or life as me in any of my other guises, then here's your chance to ask. I would send you a bar of chocolate as a prize, but I fear that (a) you fall on the Cadbury's side of the Hershey's vs Cadbury's debate, I just sense that about you, so I would only disappoint, and (b) it wouldn't be very nice after it had been mailed all the way from here.
And while we wait for Tattie to make her choice, tum-ti-tum, I'll just burble on about things that have happened in 5-yo's life here recently.
First, 5-yo asked me out of the blue yesterday "Are all burglars boys, or can you be a burglar if you're a girl?" They're only in Kindergarten for five minutes, and already they're worrying about career choice. It's tough growing up these days.
Then, we were at a friend's house, and the mom was explaining that she'd shut the dog outside, as he's a herding dog by breed, and likes to try and herd children, and that can be a little alarming for children who aren't used to it. I saw 5-yo's eyes getting wider and wider. She's already nervous of dogs, and I could see she was struggling with the idea of a dog who sets out to hurt children, and the existence of breeds of hurting dogs. That's what comes of learning your English from parents with a strange accent. Luckily I read her mind, and was able to explain.
But then there was the time I over-explained. We were headed for the doctor's office, to have what I was saying would be her last immunisation until she was at least 12 or 13. We had the usual routine in place: breathe out, breathe out (ah, the usefulness of NCT classes), and then when it's over here's a lolly for being brave. I was reassuring her that it wouldn't hurt very much at all, just a little prick as the needle went in. She did that eyes-getting-wider thing that she does, and her voice wavered "There's a needle?" Drat...
Onto happier things, and 5-yo is deep in the midst of planning her birthday party. She is so excited that it is March - finally. My mother has recently got connected with email (yay, Mum), and 5-yo was dictating a message to her. As she dictated, I typed the following:
"Remember it is the month of my birthday. It really is, isn't it? I am going to have an Arts and Crafts party at home. I'm inviting 7 people. 12-yo and 9-yo are going to be helpers. Daddy is going to take the photos. Mummy is going to watch. The boys are helpers again."
Yup, too right. Because I'm the slacker who'll do nothing at all in advance, and then just sit around watching as the party runs itself...
.
Tattie Weasle.
I empathised with all the ones about children getting out of bed at inappropriate times, and their lack of domestic abilities, and anything to do with the weather, or time off work, but ultimately, Tattie won the day, because hers involved the separation of a woman from her chocolate, and we all know that Hell hath no fury like a woman dealing with chocolate separation. I also particularly liked the fact that the secret chocolate stash shouldn't have been there in the first place, as Tattie had given it up for Lent. But what's the point of moral indignation, if you have to be logical at the same time? No point at all, is the answer to that one.
So Tattie, you can choose what I write about next: Guns, Religion, The Garage Sale, or how I teach my kids that life isn't fair (yes, I have chocolate bars locked in perspex boxes all round the house, and I keep the keys hanging round my neck, even when I sleep). Or any other burning topic, really. If you've always wondered something about life in America, life as an expat, or life as me in any of my other guises, then here's your chance to ask. I would send you a bar of chocolate as a prize, but I fear that (a) you fall on the Cadbury's side of the Hershey's vs Cadbury's debate, I just sense that about you, so I would only disappoint, and (b) it wouldn't be very nice after it had been mailed all the way from here.
And while we wait for Tattie to make her choice, tum-ti-tum, I'll just burble on about things that have happened in 5-yo's life here recently.
First, 5-yo asked me out of the blue yesterday "Are all burglars boys, or can you be a burglar if you're a girl?" They're only in Kindergarten for five minutes, and already they're worrying about career choice. It's tough growing up these days.
Then, we were at a friend's house, and the mom was explaining that she'd shut the dog outside, as he's a herding dog by breed, and likes to try and herd children, and that can be a little alarming for children who aren't used to it. I saw 5-yo's eyes getting wider and wider. She's already nervous of dogs, and I could see she was struggling with the idea of a dog who sets out to hurt children, and the existence of breeds of hurting dogs. That's what comes of learning your English from parents with a strange accent. Luckily I read her mind, and was able to explain.
But then there was the time I over-explained. We were headed for the doctor's office, to have what I was saying would be her last immunisation until she was at least 12 or 13. We had the usual routine in place: breathe out, breathe out (ah, the usefulness of NCT classes), and then when it's over here's a lolly for being brave. I was reassuring her that it wouldn't hurt very much at all, just a little prick as the needle went in. She did that eyes-getting-wider thing that she does, and her voice wavered "There's a needle?" Drat...
Onto happier things, and 5-yo is deep in the midst of planning her birthday party. She is so excited that it is March - finally. My mother has recently got connected with email (yay, Mum), and 5-yo was dictating a message to her. As she dictated, I typed the following:
"Remember it is the month of my birthday. It really is, isn't it? I am going to have an Arts and Crafts party at home. I'm inviting 7 people. 12-yo and 9-yo are going to be helpers. Daddy is going to take the photos. Mummy is going to watch. The boys are helpers again."
Yup, too right. Because I'm the slacker who'll do nothing at all in advance, and then just sit around watching as the party runs itself...
.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Commercial and competitive?
There’s been a bit of a discussion going on in the blogging world about whether mummy blogging is getting commercial and competitive. I thought I’d throw in my pennyworth.
I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
.
I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tales from Kindergarten
The universe took pity on me. The computer wasn't damaged, the hives are going, the allergies are abating, the swine flu hasn't hit yet, and... and... drum roll... and... yesterday 5-yo got to put a drop in the Principal's bucket. It was her proudest moment, the fulfillment of her loftiest ambitions. The Principal wasn't there, but "there were some kind ladies who told me I'd done a good job".
There are three Kindergarten teachers at 5-yo's school. They are called Mr Davis, Mrs Davis, and Mrs Smith. 5-yo discovered that two of them are a married couple.
"Do you know, Mamma, two of our Kindergarten teachers are married to each other? I think it must be Mr Davis and Mrs Davis. What do you think?"
I've been warned that the playground is a more complicated place for girls than boys. We're only in week two, and already there is evidence. 5-yo was sad the other day that she didn't get much recess time. When I asked why not, she told me that she'd had to spend most of it carrying another girl's sweater, while that girl played. I asked her why she'd had to hold this girl's sweater, and she replied "she told me I had to". To add insult to injury, the girl was playing the while with Lily, who as we all know, is 5-yo's new friend.
Apart from this dip in her happiness, all seems to be going well. A highlight of her week has been Show and Share. She had to take in something her favourite colour, and have three clues to give the other children. They then had to guess what the object was. Her favourite colour for the past 5 years has been pink. Unwaveringly so. But it changed this week to yellow. The clues for her Show and Share were:
* it's stretchy
* it has things like petals on it
* it is used mostly by girls.
Having written these clues down, I realised they sounded a bit rude somehow, so I was rather glad to be in the realms of yellow, not pink.
Because I love a good blog competition, I'm going to get you all to guess what the answer is. Apart from those three clues and the colour, the only other Kindergarten requirement is that the item fits inside a backpack (so it's not an elephant, for example). No prizes, except the glow of satisfaction that you have out-performed 23 Midwestern Kindergarteners.
I was going to ask you all to become drops in my own bucket, by subscribing to my blog. So I went and activated the 'Followers' gadget, which I've recently discovered is really simple to do, and doesn't require any serious techno-wizard skills. And guess what? 35 of you are followers already. Look at you lovely people, over there on the right. Who'd have thought it? My bucket already has 35 drops. Any more out there? Go on, make me even happier.
There are three Kindergarten teachers at 5-yo's school. They are called Mr Davis, Mrs Davis, and Mrs Smith. 5-yo discovered that two of them are a married couple.
"Do you know, Mamma, two of our Kindergarten teachers are married to each other? I think it must be Mr Davis and Mrs Davis. What do you think?"
I've been warned that the playground is a more complicated place for girls than boys. We're only in week two, and already there is evidence. 5-yo was sad the other day that she didn't get much recess time. When I asked why not, she told me that she'd had to spend most of it carrying another girl's sweater, while that girl played. I asked her why she'd had to hold this girl's sweater, and she replied "she told me I had to". To add insult to injury, the girl was playing the while with Lily, who as we all know, is 5-yo's new friend.
Apart from this dip in her happiness, all seems to be going well. A highlight of her week has been Show and Share. She had to take in something her favourite colour, and have three clues to give the other children. They then had to guess what the object was. Her favourite colour for the past 5 years has been pink. Unwaveringly so. But it changed this week to yellow. The clues for her Show and Share were:
* it's stretchy
* it has things like petals on it
* it is used mostly by girls.
Having written these clues down, I realised they sounded a bit rude somehow, so I was rather glad to be in the realms of yellow, not pink.
Because I love a good blog competition, I'm going to get you all to guess what the answer is. Apart from those three clues and the colour, the only other Kindergarten requirement is that the item fits inside a backpack (so it's not an elephant, for example). No prizes, except the glow of satisfaction that you have out-performed 23 Midwestern Kindergarteners.
I was going to ask you all to become drops in my own bucket, by subscribing to my blog. So I went and activated the 'Followers' gadget, which I've recently discovered is really simple to do, and doesn't require any serious techno-wizard skills. And guess what? 35 of you are followers already. Look at you lovely people, over there on the right. Who'd have thought it? My bucket already has 35 drops. Any more out there? Go on, make me even happier.
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, November 14, 2007
Taking a break
I’m going to be taking a break from blogging. It goes something like this.
The usual complaint: life getting in the way. This is a good sign, though. It means that my life is busy, and that I don’t have so much time to sit and write about it. I no longer have to go to Wal-Mart to make sure that I have had at least one face-to-face adult conversation with someone who isn’t my husband in the course of the day. The week. You think I’m joking. I tell you, it was bad when I first arrived here. So the fact that I have things to do, people to talk to, balls to juggle, visitors for Christmas, is good news. Yay! (as I've learnt to say...)
I haven’t yet empirically tested the theory that my house would be tidier and cleaner if I didn’t blog, but I don’t need to. I know it is not true. However, there is a parallel theory that I think is worth testing. It says that if I didn’t blog, I might go to the gym or the pool or even just walk around the neighborhood (having changed into my sports gear and put my walkman on, to blend in a little) and be a bit fitter. It’s a theory worth testing. There’s that blog post I haven’t quite dared write yet about the American way of life and the big O. When you’re not walking briskly about in the course of your day, it does take its toll, and that gym really needs to see more of me. Obesity, by the way, if you were wondering. I’m not there yet, but something called middle age spread is doing a 360 degree job where my waist used to be, and I’m not ready to admit defeat yet. ('Middle age spread' sounds like something you buy in a jar and put on your toast, doesn’t it? If only…)
So there’s life, and then there’s children. 6-yo has said, on more than one occasion, “you tell us not to get addicted to video games, but you’re addicted to the computer”. He has a point. I mumble stuff about “important jobs”, but then there’s 10-yo who says “what, your blog you mean?” Now, before you leap to my defence and tell me not to be bullied by my children, let me thank you for your support, and tell you that I’m not, but of course they are a large part of this thing called “real life” which intrudes upon blog-writing and blog-reading time. I imagined fondly that when 3-yo started preschool, I would have 3 mornings a week to myself. What I couldn’t have foreseen (it’s really not fair being a parent, is it?) is that going out to preschool would make her more needy of proper time with me when at home. She used to potter independently and happily, but now she seems to need much more in the way of entertainment, and insists on my company, even for watching television. I don’t really mind, as being needed, though demanding, keeps your maternal mind away from such horrors as no longer being needed. The whole process of gaining time for yourself has a bittersweetness to it, I’ve always found (it's really, really not fair being a parent). For months, nay years, you have a small person attached to your breast, hip or lower leg, and dream of the day when you might nip out somewhere spontaneously without finding shoes, thinking up creative ways of making the car seat an attractive prospect, and fast forwarding through endless nursery rhymes in order to find the favourite of the day, which you do just as you arrive at your destination. Then those times come, and you’re not quite sure what to do with them. It probably takes a bit of practice. Sorry, I digress. What I was trying to tell you was that, yes, I do have three 2-hour blocks of time to myself that I didn’t used to have, but for the rest of the week, I have a small person who is deeply jealous of the computer. She worked out a long time ago that she could interrupt a blogging session by putting her shoulder against the side of our wheelie office chair, and pushing me sideways away from the desk. She has now perfected the manoeuvre, and rotates the chair through 180 degrees, so I end up a few feet to the side and facing the room with my back to the desk.
So there’s life, there’s children, and on a happy note, there’s this. I love cruising round the blogosphere, and catching up on what everyone is doing in Scotland, France, London, deepest Africa, Northumberland, other bits of the States, and everywhere else where people who know how to write darn good blogs live. I realize, however, that as the weeks have rolled by, I no longer feel quite the same urgency to do so. I’m not falling out of love with you all, honest, it’s just a sign that I like my own four walls rather more, and am not so desperate to escape them any little spare moment of the day. This is all positive stuff. Do I sniff the words “feeling more settled” in the autumn breeze? (sorry, I love that word too much to exchange it for the prosaic “fall” which to me has a glum feel to it, even if you open up that vowel to make it “fahl”). We arrived in the Midwest on December 4th last year (Iota Day, put it in your diary, send me a cheery email), and I feel that perhaps now is a good time to start looking at my life here through a different lens. It’s time, I think, for it to become not wrong, not different, just ordinary life.
Life, children, happier at home (though still reserving the right for the occasional vent), and – bear with me - one more thing. I’m just wondering, just just wondering, if perhaps, instead of regaling you with blog-sized chunks of my life, I might just keep them all together, and just see if I can write a book. Perhaps just maybe. Just. Dorothy Jones’ Diary (ooh, now there’s a big clue as to my location). I wasn’t going to confess that, but I feel I’m among friends…
I need to write one more blog post. This is partly because I must set up some clever RSS feed or something, so that you can sign up, and then when I run screaming back to the computer in few weeks’ time, unable to face a life without blogging, and begging forgiveness humbly on my knees, you will be notified and can come by to leave a comment saying “what? you think you can just walk away and then expect us to take you back?” (Actually, I'm probably going to carry on reading and commenting, and just give up the writing; I can't see the full cold turkey approach lasting.)
The other reason is that I ploughed my way through Reasons to be cheerful: Parts I and II, in order that I could get to Reasons to be cheerful: Part III, so it would be a darn shame to miss the opportunity. You remember that mad but marvelous song, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads? I’ve always found the reasons to be cheerful/count your blessings approach to life rather a good one, and I’ve relied on it much over the past year. In fact, our decision to come to the Midwest was nudged along in its early days by a 'reasons to be cheerful' moment that saw me sitting on a grass verge, holding 2-yo tighter to my chest than any 2 year old has ever been held before, looking at the wreck that was the car we’d been in, watching the trees swaying in the wind, and thinking “there are worse things than moving to the Midwest”.
But back to Ian Dury. I thought I’d run another wee competitionette while I’m incommunicado on vacation in San Diego (mmm, lovely). I was going to ask you to guess my forthcoming reasons to be cheerful, but it’s very obscure and you’d have no chance unless you lived in the Midwest, and life has enough disappointments for us all without me deliberately setting you up to endure another one, good losers though you are. So instead I’ll ask you all to think up your own reasons to be cheerful, two of them, which rhyme and scan, and if you were Ian Dury, would have made it into the song. You’ll find it easily enough on Youtube and Lyricsmania.com if you need to be reminded of lines such as my favourite which goes:
Hammersmith Palee, the Bolshoi Ballee...
You get the idea. So tell me your reasons to be cheerful. Indulge me for one more post.
The usual complaint: life getting in the way. This is a good sign, though. It means that my life is busy, and that I don’t have so much time to sit and write about it. I no longer have to go to Wal-Mart to make sure that I have had at least one face-to-face adult conversation with someone who isn’t my husband in the course of the day. The week. You think I’m joking. I tell you, it was bad when I first arrived here. So the fact that I have things to do, people to talk to, balls to juggle, visitors for Christmas, is good news. Yay! (as I've learnt to say...)
I haven’t yet empirically tested the theory that my house would be tidier and cleaner if I didn’t blog, but I don’t need to. I know it is not true. However, there is a parallel theory that I think is worth testing. It says that if I didn’t blog, I might go to the gym or the pool or even just walk around the neighborhood (having changed into my sports gear and put my walkman on, to blend in a little) and be a bit fitter. It’s a theory worth testing. There’s that blog post I haven’t quite dared write yet about the American way of life and the big O. When you’re not walking briskly about in the course of your day, it does take its toll, and that gym really needs to see more of me. Obesity, by the way, if you were wondering. I’m not there yet, but something called middle age spread is doing a 360 degree job where my waist used to be, and I’m not ready to admit defeat yet. ('Middle age spread' sounds like something you buy in a jar and put on your toast, doesn’t it? If only…)
So there’s life, and then there’s children. 6-yo has said, on more than one occasion, “you tell us not to get addicted to video games, but you’re addicted to the computer”. He has a point. I mumble stuff about “important jobs”, but then there’s 10-yo who says “what, your blog you mean?” Now, before you leap to my defence and tell me not to be bullied by my children, let me thank you for your support, and tell you that I’m not, but of course they are a large part of this thing called “real life” which intrudes upon blog-writing and blog-reading time. I imagined fondly that when 3-yo started preschool, I would have 3 mornings a week to myself. What I couldn’t have foreseen (it’s really not fair being a parent, is it?) is that going out to preschool would make her more needy of proper time with me when at home. She used to potter independently and happily, but now she seems to need much more in the way of entertainment, and insists on my company, even for watching television. I don’t really mind, as being needed, though demanding, keeps your maternal mind away from such horrors as no longer being needed. The whole process of gaining time for yourself has a bittersweetness to it, I’ve always found (it's really, really not fair being a parent). For months, nay years, you have a small person attached to your breast, hip or lower leg, and dream of the day when you might nip out somewhere spontaneously without finding shoes, thinking up creative ways of making the car seat an attractive prospect, and fast forwarding through endless nursery rhymes in order to find the favourite of the day, which you do just as you arrive at your destination. Then those times come, and you’re not quite sure what to do with them. It probably takes a bit of practice. Sorry, I digress. What I was trying to tell you was that, yes, I do have three 2-hour blocks of time to myself that I didn’t used to have, but for the rest of the week, I have a small person who is deeply jealous of the computer. She worked out a long time ago that she could interrupt a blogging session by putting her shoulder against the side of our wheelie office chair, and pushing me sideways away from the desk. She has now perfected the manoeuvre, and rotates the chair through 180 degrees, so I end up a few feet to the side and facing the room with my back to the desk.
So there’s life, there’s children, and on a happy note, there’s this. I love cruising round the blogosphere, and catching up on what everyone is doing in Scotland, France, London, deepest Africa, Northumberland, other bits of the States, and everywhere else where people who know how to write darn good blogs live. I realize, however, that as the weeks have rolled by, I no longer feel quite the same urgency to do so. I’m not falling out of love with you all, honest, it’s just a sign that I like my own four walls rather more, and am not so desperate to escape them any little spare moment of the day. This is all positive stuff. Do I sniff the words “feeling more settled” in the autumn breeze? (sorry, I love that word too much to exchange it for the prosaic “fall” which to me has a glum feel to it, even if you open up that vowel to make it “fahl”). We arrived in the Midwest on December 4th last year (Iota Day, put it in your diary, send me a cheery email), and I feel that perhaps now is a good time to start looking at my life here through a different lens. It’s time, I think, for it to become not wrong, not different, just ordinary life.
Life, children, happier at home (though still reserving the right for the occasional vent), and – bear with me - one more thing. I’m just wondering, just just wondering, if perhaps, instead of regaling you with blog-sized chunks of my life, I might just keep them all together, and just see if I can write a book. Perhaps just maybe. Just. Dorothy Jones’ Diary (ooh, now there’s a big clue as to my location). I wasn’t going to confess that, but I feel I’m among friends…
I need to write one more blog post. This is partly because I must set up some clever RSS feed or something, so that you can sign up, and then when I run screaming back to the computer in few weeks’ time, unable to face a life without blogging, and begging forgiveness humbly on my knees, you will be notified and can come by to leave a comment saying “what? you think you can just walk away and then expect us to take you back?” (Actually, I'm probably going to carry on reading and commenting, and just give up the writing; I can't see the full cold turkey approach lasting.)
The other reason is that I ploughed my way through Reasons to be cheerful: Parts I and II, in order that I could get to Reasons to be cheerful: Part III, so it would be a darn shame to miss the opportunity. You remember that mad but marvelous song, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads? I’ve always found the reasons to be cheerful/count your blessings approach to life rather a good one, and I’ve relied on it much over the past year. In fact, our decision to come to the Midwest was nudged along in its early days by a 'reasons to be cheerful' moment that saw me sitting on a grass verge, holding 2-yo tighter to my chest than any 2 year old has ever been held before, looking at the wreck that was the car we’d been in, watching the trees swaying in the wind, and thinking “there are worse things than moving to the Midwest”.
But back to Ian Dury. I thought I’d run another wee competitionette while I’m incommunicado on vacation in San Diego (mmm, lovely). I was going to ask you to guess my forthcoming reasons to be cheerful, but it’s very obscure and you’d have no chance unless you lived in the Midwest, and life has enough disappointments for us all without me deliberately setting you up to endure another one, good losers though you are. So instead I’ll ask you all to think up your own reasons to be cheerful, two of them, which rhyme and scan, and if you were Ian Dury, would have made it into the song. You’ll find it easily enough on Youtube and Lyricsmania.com if you need to be reminded of lines such as my favourite which goes:
Hammersmith Palee, the Bolshoi Ballee...
You get the idea. So tell me your reasons to be cheerful. Indulge me for one more post.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Answers
Well, you got them both. Well done to Dan who was first with Olbas Oil, and Someonesmrs who was first with Savlon. Intriguingly, these are both people who know me from my pre-Iota UK life. I wonder if that gave them a head start. I didn’t have either of them down as the kind of people who would snoop in other people’s bathroom cabinets, so maybe it’s coincidence, although it does also cause me to reflect on the way we come to know people. Am I more obviously an Olbas-Savlon type if you meet me in person? Or is it just easier to guess these kind of details from the picture of someone built up and fleshed out over years rather than weeks?
So glory and smug feelings to you, Dan and Someonesmrs, but I loved some of the other answers. Oatcakes, oint ment, oxo cubes and ooo marmite – very creative. Lucozade (welcome, Strickley, and I’ve enjoyed your pictures of Cumbria this morning) does indeed always make me feel better – it’s another of those childhood comfort memories. We only drank it as a very special treat when ill and in need of building up our energy (although I later discovered that my mother used to keep a bottle of it hidden away for herself for secret swigs, which was definitely not fair play). Slimfast is a good guess, Beta Mum, and boy, could they use some of it here, but that’s another story. But cod liver oil with added malt? No. I can live without that. (Do you really like the taste? Have you seen anyone about that?) As for Sudocrem, another good guess, although sadly, I am pretty much through the Sudocrem stage. I am always tempted to spell it Pseudocrem anyway, so that would have been a P.
I did promise to tell you about the Savlon alternatives here. The leading brand is called Neosporin, but, along with the others on the shelves, it isn’t an antiseptic cream, it’s an antibiotic. Call me lax, but I really don’t think my children need antibiotic treatment every time they graze, bump, cut or otherwise mutilate themselves (by scrubbing a tattoo off their cheek with a facecloth so vigorously that they remove a patch of skin an inch and a half square which takes 3 weeks to heal, for example). I don’t want to contribute to the emergence of superbugs resistant to antibiotics, and my children’s immune systems seem to do the job perfectly well without. The real issue here, though, is the Neosporin commercial. You know I hate commercials, and this one really is one of the worst. It is almost impossible to avoid (or do they just have it programmed into my personal Cox Communications box?) and irritating to the point of… doh, I can’t think. Irritating to the point of self-mutilation with a facecloth.
The commercial shows a mother telling the story of how her precious daughter once had a clean cut on her finger, a good, oo, 3 or 4mm long. She washed the cut. She didn’t do anything else. It went a tiny bit red round the edge. She went to the doctor. He suggested she try Neosporin. The cut healed up. She will always use Neosporin. She hates to see her child suffer. She thinks all parents feel this way. She is sure we will all want to use Neosporin.
Where do I start? I can’t even begin to unpeel the layers of why this annoys me – it would make for very dull reading. It’s to do with manipulation of parents by playing on their worst feelings of inadequacy; it’s to do with commercialization of health issues; it’s to do with the way some mothers tell you how hopeless they are as a mother when what they really want you to draw from the story is how good they are as mother; it’s to do with the American obsession with medicine and drugs; it’s to do with having to get to grips with yet another brand name I don’t know.
I told you I shouldn’t start. How I would like to finish, though, is by refashioning the commercial for a UK audience. It would go like this: the mother is telling the story of her daughter’s cut finger. She phones up her GP. The receptionist says “is it an emergency? otherwise the next available appointment is a week on Thursday.” She blags her way through that one (although I’d like to see her do it), and when she sees the GP, he says to her “I can tell you’re a first time mother” (this is a direct quote from a real life GP - perhaps he’d like to appear in the commercial.) She hates to see her child suffer. She thinks all parents feel this way. She goes to her local friendly pharmacist who says “och Hen, the bairn’ll come to nae harm frae tha’ wee bitty scratch” but since she is set on purchasing a product of some description, she leaves the chemist’s with a little sky-blue tube with a white lid and white writing – that marvelous stuff Savlon (and a small bottle of Olbas Oil which was by the till and on special offer).
So glory and smug feelings to you, Dan and Someonesmrs, but I loved some of the other answers. Oatcakes, oint ment, oxo cubes and ooo marmite – very creative. Lucozade (welcome, Strickley, and I’ve enjoyed your pictures of Cumbria this morning) does indeed always make me feel better – it’s another of those childhood comfort memories. We only drank it as a very special treat when ill and in need of building up our energy (although I later discovered that my mother used to keep a bottle of it hidden away for herself for secret swigs, which was definitely not fair play). Slimfast is a good guess, Beta Mum, and boy, could they use some of it here, but that’s another story. But cod liver oil with added malt? No. I can live without that. (Do you really like the taste? Have you seen anyone about that?) As for Sudocrem, another good guess, although sadly, I am pretty much through the Sudocrem stage. I am always tempted to spell it Pseudocrem anyway, so that would have been a P.
I did promise to tell you about the Savlon alternatives here. The leading brand is called Neosporin, but, along with the others on the shelves, it isn’t an antiseptic cream, it’s an antibiotic. Call me lax, but I really don’t think my children need antibiotic treatment every time they graze, bump, cut or otherwise mutilate themselves (by scrubbing a tattoo off their cheek with a facecloth so vigorously that they remove a patch of skin an inch and a half square which takes 3 weeks to heal, for example). I don’t want to contribute to the emergence of superbugs resistant to antibiotics, and my children’s immune systems seem to do the job perfectly well without. The real issue here, though, is the Neosporin commercial. You know I hate commercials, and this one really is one of the worst. It is almost impossible to avoid (or do they just have it programmed into my personal Cox Communications box?) and irritating to the point of… doh, I can’t think. Irritating to the point of self-mutilation with a facecloth.
The commercial shows a mother telling the story of how her precious daughter once had a clean cut on her finger, a good, oo, 3 or 4mm long. She washed the cut. She didn’t do anything else. It went a tiny bit red round the edge. She went to the doctor. He suggested she try Neosporin. The cut healed up. She will always use Neosporin. She hates to see her child suffer. She thinks all parents feel this way. She is sure we will all want to use Neosporin.
Where do I start? I can’t even begin to unpeel the layers of why this annoys me – it would make for very dull reading. It’s to do with manipulation of parents by playing on their worst feelings of inadequacy; it’s to do with commercialization of health issues; it’s to do with the way some mothers tell you how hopeless they are as a mother when what they really want you to draw from the story is how good they are as mother; it’s to do with the American obsession with medicine and drugs; it’s to do with having to get to grips with yet another brand name I don’t know.
I told you I shouldn’t start. How I would like to finish, though, is by refashioning the commercial for a UK audience. It would go like this: the mother is telling the story of her daughter’s cut finger. She phones up her GP. The receptionist says “is it an emergency? otherwise the next available appointment is a week on Thursday.” She blags her way through that one (although I’d like to see her do it), and when she sees the GP, he says to her “I can tell you’re a first time mother” (this is a direct quote from a real life GP - perhaps he’d like to appear in the commercial.) She hates to see her child suffer. She thinks all parents feel this way. She goes to her local friendly pharmacist who says “och Hen, the bairn’ll come to nae harm frae tha’ wee bitty scratch” but since she is set on purchasing a product of some description, she leaves the chemist’s with a little sky-blue tube with a white lid and white writing – that marvelous stuff Savlon (and a small bottle of Olbas Oil which was by the till and on special offer).
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Competition II
I'm going to run another competition. Why not?
Husband's sister is coming to stay next week. She asked me if there was anything I'd like her to bring. There is, and you've got to guess what it is. Usual easily-transportable restrictions apply. I haven't seen it here, so US readers may struggle, but go on, have a guess anyway.
This is something that, if my experience is anything to go by, you use in childhood and then never think of again until you have your own children. Then the brand name comes winging its way into the forefront of your mind, and when you buy it in Boots, you are heart-warmed to find that the packaging has changed hardly at all. The very colour of the receptacle makes you feel better about life. Perhaps the product doesn't actually do any good at all, but just makes mothers feel better, and if mothers feel better, children seem to feel better too. Of course if your mother happened to use one of the competitor brands, and therefore you do too, this one might not spring so easily to mind, but I'm sure you'll know it. According to my sister-in-law, it's not actually available at the moment - something to do with a scare caused by animal rights activists. She asked if the Boots own brand will do, and I've said yes, although somehow it won't have quite the comforting familiarity. It begins with S.
I'll tell you the answer on Friday, but I think you'll get it before then. I'll also tell you why the US equivalent (which isn't really an equivalent, otherwise why would I be burdening my sister-in-law with this?) is a source of particular annoyance to me.
This competition is not open to members of my husband's family...
Husband's sister is coming to stay next week. She asked me if there was anything I'd like her to bring. There is, and you've got to guess what it is. Usual easily-transportable restrictions apply. I haven't seen it here, so US readers may struggle, but go on, have a guess anyway.
This is something that, if my experience is anything to go by, you use in childhood and then never think of again until you have your own children. Then the brand name comes winging its way into the forefront of your mind, and when you buy it in Boots, you are heart-warmed to find that the packaging has changed hardly at all. The very colour of the receptacle makes you feel better about life. Perhaps the product doesn't actually do any good at all, but just makes mothers feel better, and if mothers feel better, children seem to feel better too. Of course if your mother happened to use one of the competitor brands, and therefore you do too, this one might not spring so easily to mind, but I'm sure you'll know it. According to my sister-in-law, it's not actually available at the moment - something to do with a scare caused by animal rights activists. She asked if the Boots own brand will do, and I've said yes, although somehow it won't have quite the comforting familiarity. It begins with S.
I'll tell you the answer on Friday, but I think you'll get it before then. I'll also tell you why the US equivalent (which isn't really an equivalent, otherwise why would I be burdening my sister-in-law with this?) is a source of particular annoyance to me.
This competition is not open to members of my husband's family...
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Competition
I'm going to run a competition. Why not?
I have one English friend here. When she went back to England for the summer, she asked me if there was anything I wanted her to buy me. It would have to be small, not fragile, not too heavy - easily transportable, in short. When I made my request, she said "oh yes, I was going to get some of that myself". Last week, a couple of days before I met up with her again, I saw the item in a health food shop, so I guess it's known over here, though not widely (and actually, it's not a food). I wonder if I've given you enough clues. Hm. I think I'd better tell you as well that it's two words, and begins with O (though you were expecting T, weren't you?). Too easy now...
No prizes, I'm afraid, except glory and smug feelings. I'll tell you the answer on Friday.
I have one English friend here. When she went back to England for the summer, she asked me if there was anything I wanted her to buy me. It would have to be small, not fragile, not too heavy - easily transportable, in short. When I made my request, she said "oh yes, I was going to get some of that myself". Last week, a couple of days before I met up with her again, I saw the item in a health food shop, so I guess it's known over here, though not widely (and actually, it's not a food). I wonder if I've given you enough clues. Hm. I think I'd better tell you as well that it's two words, and begins with O (though you were expecting T, weren't you?). Too easy now...
No prizes, I'm afraid, except glory and smug feelings. I'll tell you the answer on Friday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)