Except it's not a cat. It's a dog.
Yes, Bloggy Friends, we have succumbed. And now we have to explain to our children why it is, that having argued very vociferously and effectively against having a dog for the past, ooh, ten years or so, we now think it's a good idea. The parental u-turn (great post on that subject here, by the way). We do, however, have very good grounds for a change of mind. Or is it a change of heart? Perhaps both. For starters, we didn't want to obtain a dog which, one day, we'd have to ship from one continent to another. We didn't want a dog when we were in the habit of spending over two months away from home in the summer. We didn't want a dog in a climate in which for several weeks of the year it's either too cold or too hot to exercise it. We didn't live near an open space. But now we're moving, the children are getting older and therefore able to take more responsibility, and financially we're in a better position too. So we do have reliable reasons. Wow. Writing that list, I've even persuaded myself. I also think it will help us all settle in a new place, if help is needed.
I had been looking forward to telling the children. They've wanted a dog for so long, and have raised the topic of conversation so many times. A couple of years ago, they even did a PowerPoint presentation to us on the subject. When Husband and I had finally decided in favour of a canine addition to the family, we wondered if it would be fun simply to wait until the next time one of the children tried the opening gambit of "can we get a dog?", and casually reply "yes, okay then". We knew we probably wouldn't have to wait long. But in the end, we decided to tell them straight out (I was getting a bit bored of having to delete all my browsing history on the computer). I was anticipating the moment with relish. I imagined them jumping up and down with excitement, eyes wide, faces bright. What actually happened was a rather puzzled and subdued response. "Really? For real? Really?" They didn't believe us. I think they knew that we wouldn't be mean enough to tease them, pretending we'd decided to get a dog but not following through. But somehow they couldn't fully embrace the alternative, that we really had decided to get one.
Well, the initial response might have been subdued, but since we told them, the excitement has been mounting. Breed choice, gender choice, name choice, and general dog talk, have dominated the conversation. Much browsing on the internet has been done, usually involving terribly cute pictures of puppies. We've got a couple of doggie magazines (also with cute pictures). I originally wanted a dachshund named Jasper, but neither breed nor name has met with enthusiasm from the rest of the family. Ultimately the decision will be mine and Husband's - predominantly mine, since it will be me who will take most of the responsibility for the dog. But I don't want to make an unpopular choice, so the field is open. More about that in the next post.
Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts
Friday, July 6, 2012
Saturday, February 5, 2011
“You must come round for coffee”: Part ll
I’ve just watched the film Made in Dagenham, and – perhaps I’ve been away from England too long – I was struck by just how often the people offer each other a cup of tea (except the Secretary of State for Employment, who offers sherry – I expect the film-makers were trying to make a point, though I can’t think what it is). Great film, by the way. Well worth going to see.
Here is Part ll of my attempt to make sense of this phenomenon for Americans.
When we Brits make conversation, there are some subtle differences to the way you Americans do it. You pick these up as signs of us being reserved, or unfriendly, but I don’t believe they are. Not usually, and almost certainly not, if someone has invited you into their home. You make so much more eye contact than we do when you talk. In my early days in the US, I felt mildly uncomfortable all the time in conversation, because people were holding my eyes far too much. I probably came across to them as very shifty – always moving my eyes to left or right, or dropping them. Often I still find conversation with a new person a bit intense. It feels to me not so much like a chat, as an interrogation. We British women need to let our eyes wander, and you see, if we have a cup of tea in our hands, it makes it easier. We can lose eye contact regularly, when we take a sip. Even if we’re not sipping, the cup we’re holding provides us with an easy place to divert our gaze. It just makes it more comfortable for us. Saves us having to wander our eyes round the room.
What about those embarrassing silences? We need a distraction for those. When there’s a silence, we take a sip, or we give the drink a stir, or we warm our hands round the mug, maybe clinking our wedding ring against it. It turns the awkwardness of the silence into a companionable moment.
Another reason we need a prop is this. It’s because we don’t know what to do with our hands, if they’re not holding a cup (and thank you to Michelloui for pointing this one out to me). Knowing what to do with idle hands is something you do well. We don’t. If I’m sitting talking without something to hold, I invariably fidget with my hair, or my clothes, or the chair. In a formal situation like an interview, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my hands still in my lap. You don’t seem to have this problem. I’ve observed this in your children. They are comfortable standing with their hands by their sides when they’re on stage singing, reciting, or just watching and listening. That was always something that felt so awkward to me as a child. I always wanted to clasp my hands in front of me, or behind, or put them in pockets. I’ve observed it in your teenagers too. They don’t fold their arms in that classic defensive posture that ours adopt. How do you manage to feel so at ease with your manual appendages? Have mercy on us, when we need a simple mug to occupy our awkward hands.
American ladies, I hope I’ve helped you understand the whole complicated deal behind the hot drink compulsion. It’s our equivalent of the toddler’s comfort blanket. We just feel lost without it. No doubt you could wean us off it, with a sticker chart on the fridge door, or by telling our friends and neighbours in front of us what big girls we are now. But it would be kinder just to let us continue. There are worse habits. Think of it this way: at least if a hot drink is on offer, there’ll usually be a biscuit for you too.
For more on this subject, please go to Michelloui's blog, The American Resident, where she has posted an answer to my reflections. And then for a pithy one-liner which will make you laugh, try this link here.
.
Here is Part ll of my attempt to make sense of this phenomenon for Americans.
When we Brits make conversation, there are some subtle differences to the way you Americans do it. You pick these up as signs of us being reserved, or unfriendly, but I don’t believe they are. Not usually, and almost certainly not, if someone has invited you into their home. You make so much more eye contact than we do when you talk. In my early days in the US, I felt mildly uncomfortable all the time in conversation, because people were holding my eyes far too much. I probably came across to them as very shifty – always moving my eyes to left or right, or dropping them. Often I still find conversation with a new person a bit intense. It feels to me not so much like a chat, as an interrogation. We British women need to let our eyes wander, and you see, if we have a cup of tea in our hands, it makes it easier. We can lose eye contact regularly, when we take a sip. Even if we’re not sipping, the cup we’re holding provides us with an easy place to divert our gaze. It just makes it more comfortable for us. Saves us having to wander our eyes round the room.
What about those embarrassing silences? We need a distraction for those. When there’s a silence, we take a sip, or we give the drink a stir, or we warm our hands round the mug, maybe clinking our wedding ring against it. It turns the awkwardness of the silence into a companionable moment.
Another reason we need a prop is this. It’s because we don’t know what to do with our hands, if they’re not holding a cup (and thank you to Michelloui for pointing this one out to me). Knowing what to do with idle hands is something you do well. We don’t. If I’m sitting talking without something to hold, I invariably fidget with my hair, or my clothes, or the chair. In a formal situation like an interview, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my hands still in my lap. You don’t seem to have this problem. I’ve observed this in your children. They are comfortable standing with their hands by their sides when they’re on stage singing, reciting, or just watching and listening. That was always something that felt so awkward to me as a child. I always wanted to clasp my hands in front of me, or behind, or put them in pockets. I’ve observed it in your teenagers too. They don’t fold their arms in that classic defensive posture that ours adopt. How do you manage to feel so at ease with your manual appendages? Have mercy on us, when we need a simple mug to occupy our awkward hands.
American ladies, I hope I’ve helped you understand the whole complicated deal behind the hot drink compulsion. It’s our equivalent of the toddler’s comfort blanket. We just feel lost without it. No doubt you could wean us off it, with a sticker chart on the fridge door, or by telling our friends and neighbours in front of us what big girls we are now. But it would be kinder just to let us continue. There are worse habits. Think of it this way: at least if a hot drink is on offer, there’ll usually be a biscuit for you too.
For more on this subject, please go to Michelloui's blog, The American Resident, where she has posted an answer to my reflections. And then for a pithy one-liner which will make you laugh, try this link here.
.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Chicago Six
So there I am, sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Chicago, listening to another English woman tell a story which begins “so there I am…”, and I’m thinking “I love that – the way English people tell stories in the present tense. I miss that here.”.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Conversation
Day 18 of 'The Daily Post'.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
We had a rather surreal conversation last night over dinner. The initial topic of conversation had been cricket.
8-yo: What's a bavilion?
Me: A pavilion. With a 'P'. It's the building by a cricket pitch where the changing rooms are, where the players wait, where they have tea and snacks...
8-yo: No, not a pavilion. I know what a pavilion is. A bavilion.
[Pause]
Husband: It's probably what a top banker earns.
[Long pause]
8-yo: Is it really?
Me: No, that's just Daddy being funny.
12-yo: It's probably someone who comes from Bolivia.
Me: I think that would be a Bolivian. Not a Bovilian. Hm. 8-yo, can you tell me where you heard the word? What was the context?
8-yo: I don't think it can have meant someone from Bolivia. That doesn't make sense. It was on a video game, when Shadow said to the guy he was fighting "I'm going to beat you into a bavilion".
So actually, a Bolivian was closer to what 8-yo originally heard, than a pavilion. It was just the talk of cricket that side-tracked him.
Now I must write that post that I've been meaning to do for ages, on video games, violence and children.
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