Ch-ch-ch-changes - the expat experience

OK, so everyone who is anyone is writing about what marks you out as an expat.

See here (Moscow)

and here (Chicago)

and here. (York)

I thought I'd better join in.

What do I do now, that I would never have done before my stint abroad?

• I don't mind if food isn't piping hot, and I don't expect plates to be warmed (though I do warm plates myself, if it's just me and Husband eating, without the children, which I guess is a dangerous indication of double standards, but I'm just being honest here).
• I used the adjective "excited" to describe adult emotions or behaviour. That always used to be a word just for children.
• I expect attentive customer service. This is a long, weary road to disappointment. I look back on myself in my pre-US days, and think "Why did I think that being ignored was comfortable and non-intrusive? What was wrong with me? What is wrong with Britain?" The one that really gets me is when someone says "I'll be with you in a minute" and continues writing on a piece of paper behind the till. I feel like saying "That piece of paper isn't going to make a purchase. I might. It is in your interests to serve me first, and attend to the piece of paper's needs later."
• I might mention that I used to see a counsellor. I might even go so far as to use the word therapist. I know. I'm never going to fit back in.
• I can't stop going on about how wonderful the NHS is. My GP politely listens. I haven't yet made an appointment with her just to tell her how wonderful the NHS is, but I can feel it coming. There was a notice up on the waiting room door saying "We arranged an extra clinic to meet demand, and ONE THIRD of patients didn't show up for their appointment. Please let us know if you are unable to attend an appointment." I wanted to go out and buy my GP flowers to make up for it. 
• I would quite like magazines in the waiting room that are dated later than 2011, though. 
• I say "uh-huh" instead of "yes". Which actually is quite Scottish, so that's ok. No-one notices. I sometimes say "absolutely" instead of "yes". I sometimes say "totally" instead of "yes". 
• I use the word "totally" way too much. I say "way too much" way too much.
• I find John Humphrys way too rude, irritating and aggressive. In fact, I don't listen to The Today Programme at all any more, which was one of the things I was looking forward to getting back to. There are only so many times you can shout "let them finish their answer" at the radio before you give up. 
• I would like parking spaces (which I call "parking spots") to reflect more accurately the width of the average 21st century car.

There are a million other things, but the list is long enough.

.

A nation of contrasts

I'm writing this post for the new Where I Live Linky that the lovely Michelle Garrett has started, over at The American Resident. Every week there's a different topic to write about, and post pictures about if that's your thing. This week's topic is Contrasts. Oh, and there are prizes!

The Where I Live Linky has one condition - you have to say something positive about where you live. Now, Michelle. That's a sure-fire sign that you are truly assimilated from the culture of your birthplace (America), to the culture of your adopted country (England). Your upper lip is truly stiff, and you are probably humming "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" to yourself, even as I type.

We Brits are known for Stoicism, being positive in dismal circumstances, relying on our innate Dunkirk spirit. When our backs are against the wall, we look for the silver lining in the clouds above. I have, in my time, sat on a beach in the cold wind and rain, eating sandwiches made of white bread, margarine and spam, and been persuaded that I was having a lovely time. Here's an odd thing, though. We do also like a good moan. We love to complain. We particularly enjoy it when there's no possibility of changing the situation we are miserable about. To be honest, if there is such a possibility, part of the skill of the moan is to refuse to see it. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose so, but..." is a useful way of swerving round any glimmer of a solution to the problem.

The weather is a perfect example. Nice and sunny where you are today? It is here. But... oh, it's clouding over a bit already, and the forecast for tomorrow isn't good. Still, (very useful word which, roughly translated into moan speak, means "I'm getting quickly back to moaning now") mustn't grumble (which means "I am grumbling").

Yes, you see there's quite a vocabulary for the moan. If you ask someone how they are, they might reply "Can't complain" which means "I want to complain and will do so, if you will just give me a tiny conversational opening which will let me get my foot in the door". Or "Not so bad", which frankly is ridiculous. Not so bad as what?  Then there's "I've been worse", or - duh - "I've been better".

We love our glass to be half empty, and we can't be doing with that can-do attitude that made America what it is today.

So, Michelle, that's what it's like Where I Live. I'm among a people of contrasts. Stoic, but complaining. Jolly, but miserable. Optimistic in spirit, but pessimistic in outlook. And as for that positive spin you insist on... Well, I just love us. Who could fail to love a nation as crazy, mixed-up, and quirky as us?

If you want to join in the Where I Live Linky, then head over to The American Resident and jump on board. While you're there, you can read about a disco-dancing plant, and a man with a brick hiding in the bushes.

.

Ramblings about teens

Everyone warns you about having teenagers, but I have to say, so far, I'm enjoying it.

Good. Got that out of the way. A disclaimer, in case you're reading this at some point in the future, 15-yo. Hello to you, now you've got children of your own and you're thinking it might be fun to see what your old mum whittered on about when she was writing that blog. *waves*

Seriously. The teenage years bring a new dimension to family life, for sure. There is loss (you hardly see them, and this loss is felt by younger siblings as well as parents), but there is gain. You can watch unsuitable comedy together, and discover a shared love of naughty humour. You can expect more help about the house. You see a person emerging in his own right. There are some rather nice hoodies to borrow if you get bored of your own clothes. You have a live-at-home babysitter for a Saturday night. They self-function, so you no longer have to remind them where to be at what time, what equipment to take, what to wear. There's no more chivvying in the morning, have they remembered this? have they remembered that? have they finished their homework? So if you hate that morning chivvying, take heart; it won't go on forever. They even tell you in advance if they need a particular piece of kit to be washed and ready by a particular date.

Although come to think of it, laundry... ah, laundry... that's actually my big sticking point. I know you people with babies and toddlers think you do a lot of laundry, and I don't want to do that irritating "oh, just you wait till they're teenagers" thing that used to annoy me so much when I had wee ones, but... at least the items are small and cute. A whole drumful of sleepsuits, vests with poppers, tiny socks... Now, it's a pair of jeans, a hoodie, a couple of t-shirts, some track suit bottoms, and the drum is already overloaded. (I miss that American way of putting "already" at the end of the sentence. The drum is overloaded already. There that's better.)

Then there's the other issue, which is the placing of the laundry. Dirty socks, pants and other smaller items, are strewn around the bedroom floor - well it's my bedroom so what does it matter? Large clean items, worn once, are put in the laundry basket - no it's not because I was being lazy and didn't want to put them away, it's because I thought they were dirty, see there's a mark there, um, there, um, somewhere, um, I'm sure I saw one.

But I wouldn't be the Iota you know and love if there weren't some laundry woes involved.

Brag alert: I came across this email the other day, when I was looking for something unrelated, and I forwarded it to 15-yo. It was written soon after he'd started High School, and joined the soccer team. His coach said "I want to let you know that 14-yo has been one of the best young men I have ever had the privilege to coach.  He is very polite and has quite a sense of humor.  He has also been a great impact on the team. With his quiet sneaky style of play he surprises people including us coaches on a ever more frequent basis.  I dare say he is probably my favorite all around player/student/personality on our team." Boy, I miss America. Not only that "already" at the end of a sentence thing, but also, people say gushingly nice things about your children on a regular basis. I add that in to tone down the bragginess of quoting this to you. You have to remember that in Scotland, the equivalent sentiment would be expressed to me with a sniff, and a "yeah, he's doing ok". I also have to add that I had been reluctant to let 14-yo (as he was) join the soccer team, for various reasons which were almost entirely those of cultural misunderstanding and disconnect (*waves and says sorry about that, Son, but it worked out ok in the end, didn't it?*), so I'm thinking that maybe the coach was trying to butter me up a little.

Anyway, I feel I've now prepared the ground well enough, in case he's reading, to be able to share one of those "hopeless teens" stories about my son.

The other evening, I was in the study on the computer. The kids were finishing dinner on their own. 15-yo came in and asked if they could have custard for dessert. Ambrosia custard is one of his favourite things in the whole world. (He has a point.) I said yes. A couple of minutes later, he came back and asked where the tin-opener was. I replied that I didn't know, probably dirty in the dishwasher. He responded, "How do I open the tin, then?" It was a moment for a personal problem-solving challenge, I felt, so I replied "I am confident that if you really want custard, and if the other two also want custard and start nagging you, then you will work out a way." And then I very deliberately didn't go and check up on the situation.

And the end of the story, dear Bloggy Readers, is that later on, I found the tin of custard unopened... and in the fridge.
.

Talking at cross purposes

I was listening to an interesting feature on the radio yesterday (link to Radio 4 iPlayer). It was talking about whether we see the world and put labels to what we see, or whether we see the world in a particular way because of the labels that we are given. You know the kind of thing (heck, I did a General Linguistics option as part of my degree in the mid-80s, and they were talking about this - it's hardly a new thought). The example people like to give is about Eskimos having over 50 words for snow, the various kinds thereof. Most of us can't distinguish between 50 different kinds of snow, but the Eskimo need to, so they have the words to do it.

The other example is colours. Do we see the colour spectrum in different ways, because our language chops it up in different ways? Those of you who speak Russian (you know who you are), will confirm that in Russian, there is an extra word for blue, compared to English. This made the presenter wonder if Russian is "a more richer language for describing the world" (sic - Come on Radio 4, "more richer"? Seriously?) But being pernickety aside, it is a rather fascinating question. They think that Homer didn't even have a word for blue at all, which is why he famously describes the Mediterranean sea as "wine-dark". Which makes you wonder how the Ancient Greeks would have started a conversation about the sky on a fine summer's day - but maybe that's just a British thing.

Bear with me. This question of whether language simply describes human experience, or whether it somehow forms it, by giving us categories to think within, has long fascinated me. I've posted about it before, talking about how "mummy guilt" is such a misnomer, because we don't really feel guilty per se. More sort of inadequate, or a little bit sub-standard on this occasion. But the English language doesn't have enough words on the spectrum from generally-a-bit-inadequate-but-let's-face-it-we're-all-human to I've-just-committed-a-murder-in-cold-blood. So we can't differentiate properly, and end up with the phrase "mummy guilt", which makes it sound like a bigger deal than it might otherwise have been (and then we feel even guiltier).

Where I'm going with this, is to ponder whether we feel different emotions, because we have different words for them, and therefore whether emotions are culturally conditioned, because they are linguistically conditioned. For example (and I truly am getting to my point here), I really missed the word "cross" when I was in America. It just isn't used at all. You have to be "mad", or "angry". Those seem rather higher octane than "cross". Do Americans not experience that low level slight aggravation (usually caused by children or pets, here's looking at you Hector, the cocker spaniel puppy who at 6 months old should know better than to pee on the floor)? Do they jump off the deep end, from being emotionally at rest, to being full blown angry? Are we Brits more phlegmatic by nature, simmering away quietly, and needed the word "cross" to describe that? Or - and here's the thing I started with - are we fashioned to feel that way from childhood because of the existence and usage of the word? Does it provide somewhere for us to be emotionally, that Americans simply don't have? That sounds superior and a little offensive, and I really don't mean to be so. I'm just pondering. I mean, trust the Brits to be refined and specific even in their anger! Or perhaps we are angry, and just don't want to admit it.

I did discuss the word "cross" with a friend in America, and she said she would use "frustrated", or possibly "annoyed", if she was looking for a less intense version of "mad". But I think I feel differently if I am cross, or frustrated, or annoyed. Cross, to me, is a definite space that I don't think another word exactly defines. Kind of interesting, don't you think?

Peoples, I am so wasted. There's definitely a PhD in here somewhere, isn't there? (And I meant "wasted", not "wasted" there. Blimey, isn't language complicated?)

A very narrow escape

I've just been writing a round robin letter for the friends we've left behind in the States. (Real life friends, not virtual ones. You know...) I gave them news of the family, and how we're settling in to our new home, with a little reflection on the adjustment process. There's a paragraph that reads:

"Life in Scotland is both familiar and new. Small things take us by surprise. We both still go to the wrong side of the car, occasionally, and our kids really have no chance at all of producing work with correct spelling. Hurrah for spellcheckers. We have had to teach them to ask “Please may I have…?” instead of “Could I get…?” and wellies have become a part of life again. (You don’t know what wellies are? Google them.)"

But as it turned out, not so much of the Hurrah for spellcheckers. Because the spellchecker changed wellies to willies. 

Hurrah for me noticing before I sent the letter. What would the recipients have made of the statement that "willies have become a part of life again"? Followed by "You don't know what willies are? Google them."

It was a very narrow escape. I suppose you're all wishing that I'd sent the letter before I noticed. Shame on you. 

I couldn't make this cross-cultural stuff up if I tried. 

.

What we do best

Since we no longer have the Sunday posts of Pond Parleys to ponder (sorry) the differences between life in the US and the UK (I miss that blog...), I thought I'd share this post with you. It made me laugh, but there are many nuggets of truth and insight in there too.

For example

what the US does best                    what the UK does best

chocolate chip coookies                        Scottish shortbread

highways                                                byways

"Just do it!"                                           "It's just not 'done'."

That's just to whet your appetite. There's a whole long list waiting for you.

.

Further woes of a returning Brit

Laundry. It's a common cause for angst amongst Americans living in Britain. As I said in my last post, I find I've crossed the line. I'm in the Big American Washing Machines and Dryers sisterhood now.

There's another divide I've traversed. It also reduces me to a quivering heap of rage from time to time. I'm sure you can guess what it is. Yup. Customer service. Tell me...

• Why do I need a pound for a supermarket trolley? Does the supermarket not want my business? Do they not want to make it easy for me to shop with them? Don't try that prevention-of-vandalism argument with me. If I was a vandal intent on a late night jaunt involving some drunken friends, a shopping trolley, a hill, and a disused quarry or murky canal (sounds quite fun, actually), I don't think the need for a pound coin would put me off. 
• Why do shop assistants expect me to stand and wait while they finish their personal conversations?
• Why do they think it makes it better to say "I'll be with you in a minute"? I am the customer. Be with me NOW.
• Why do shop assistants say "It's over there" and wave vaguely in the direction from which I've come? I wouldn't be asking them where it was, if I'd found it "over there".
• When they say "It's over there", why do they add "or it should be"? I'm not interested in where it should be. I'm interested in where it IS. 
• When I say "I couldn't find it over there", why do they ask "Do you want me to show you?" OF COURSE I want you to show me. If I didn't want you to show me, I wouldn't have asked. 
• Why do shop assistants content themselves (but not me) with saying "I don't know"? It is your job to know, or to find out.
• Why is the British public so happy to be told "It's up to you, really"? Yes, it's up to me - I'm the customer after all (perhaps I should just remind you of that) - but I am asking for your advice. That's why you are in this job.
• Why do waiters ignore me studiously when I want the bill? Do they not WANT my money?
• How on earth do the public loos in cafes and shops pass health and safety standards?

Oh dear, I can feel my blood pressure rising as I write this. Too many UPPER CASE WORDS are creeping in. I'll have to go to Belgium for a day. That'll make me feel better about British customer service.

.

Washing woes

If you read expat blogs, there is one subject that comes up again and again. A subject that evokes the deepest, darkest, most shameful emotions, that stirs home-loving, patriotic passion, that will reduce the most rational, accepting, broad-horizoned traveler to a ranting, bigoted ball of nationalistic hatred. Yes... it's the laundry.

I could write a blog post about my puppy. But as I sit at the computer, I am possessed with a fury that I have seldom known in my life, and I need to run into the therapeutic arms of the blogosphere, to release my pent-up loathing. Loathing, hatred, intense dislike. The thesaurus has left me high and dry. I am lost for words to describe my murderous, raging, venomous, aaaargh...... towards my washer-drier. I don't even know how to spell it. Washer-drier? Washer-dryer? What kind of a thing doesn't even know how to spell itself?

Stick to one thing. Wash if you wash. Dry if you dry. Don't try and multi-task. That's for women. Human beings with a brain, intelligence, and years of experience with laundry. You smug little square white pile of... metal. You think you're so wonderfully clever, with your wheel of different programme numbers, and your buttons of special options.You have that irritating know-all expression on your glass-fronted face, and you rumble away in the corner as if you are the King of Clean Dry Clothing Land. But you know NOTHING! You have the laundry sensitivity of a rampaging bull ox. In season. DON'T try to interrupt. What do you know of animal biology?

I poo-poo your eco-wash option. I hate your small white dials. I spit on your spin speed selector. I refuse to  look at your detergent drawer. I walk by on the other side of the utility room, with my face turned away. I despise your attempts to win me back, with your luring offer of three different levels of dryness. Hanging dry, ironing dry, wardrobe dry. It all sounds so good, but then you go and spoil it all. How can I trust you again? No. Nothing you can do can make me change my mind. I will not relent. You have ruined our relationship. I started out suspicious of your dual nature, your washer-dryer combination, but willing to put my prejudices to one side, to make an effort with you. You have ignored my needs, trampled over my desires. My dreams lie in shrunken, creased heaps. You have put me through the wringer, and hung me out to... never mind. There are no more second chances. I am dumping you.

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my great big American washing machine. OK, so it didn't get the clothes very clean, but at least it tried. It didn't knot them, shrink them, crumple them, and spew them out at my feet, jeering at my woe and sorrow. It wasn't high-tech or environmentally friendly, but sometimes, I have come to realise, size DOES matter. You and your namby-pamby 5 kilogram weight limit. I don't need your clever clogs technology. I need a machine that will love and accept my huge loads of dirty washing, and then another one that will dry them, gently and carefully, with me at the controls. Machines that will discuss with me what outcomes I want, rather than arrogantly assume they know best. Do you care about 11-yo's Manchester United fleece? You say you do. Your instruction book makes all kinds of extravagant claims. But your behaviour is contrary to those empty promises. You've ruined that fleece. That precious fleece. That fleece, several pairs of school trousers, socks, t-shirts, a dressing gown, and my new M&S panties, with no regard to the cost. Hotpoint, it's over between us.

American expats, I feel your pain. I've crossed over. I'm on your side now. I'm missing my Maytags.

OMT!!

Here is a random list of things that have changed in Britain in the five and a half years since we moved away.

It was 12-06 when we left. It was 06-12 when we returned. That makes it easy to remember for filling in forms. And it's tidy. I like life to be tidy. It so often isn't, that when there are little tidy things like this, it makes me happy.

Pharmacists can now dispense a decent level of medication. Yay. This makes total sense. It was being talked about when we left, I seem to remember, but now it's really happened. So I went and got some antibiotic eye drops for conjunctivitis, without having to prostrate myself in front of a doctor's receptionist, begging abjectly for an appointment. I just needed a few prompts from the pharmacist, who was helpful enough to give them to me. "Not sticky? Just red and itchy? Are you sure not sticky? How about first thing in the morning, when you wake up? A bit sticky then, perhaps? Yes..? Ah, it's sticky. It's just that that's one of the symptoms I have to hear." I love it when people beat the system.

A first class postage stamp is now 60p. What? Don't be expecting any birthday cards from me any more. If Amazon can deliver large, heavy packages for free, why does the Royal Mail need 60p to deliver a small, light card? They ought to be paying us, actually, for feeding those red boxes and keeping them in business. Just before we left, the Royal Mail changed the way they charge for packages. Instead of the simple weighing of a parcel, they'd introduced a system which required the counter staff to weigh it, measure it, see if it would fit through a slot, balance it on their head, do a cartwheel with it between their knees, and spin in on a 50p piece. It seemed a little over-burdensome to me. I hate to say "see, I told you so", but here we are, with a first class stamp at 60p. I only remains for me to make a joke about the Royal Mail and the front page of the Sun. Consider it made.

There are an awful lot of tv channels - more than you can shake a tv remote at. Perhaps there were in 12-06 and we just didn't subscribe to them. We weren't missing much. There are the five old favourites, and then several hundred others, which repeat what was on the five old faves, either a few hours later, or a few years later. I shouldn't complain really. It's quite useful for us. If we want to watch today's tv, we can. If we want to pretend we're in a time warp and have never been away at all, we can do that too.

Smartphones. They're rather good, aren't they? Husband and I have each got one. We didn't plan to, and the very thought of us owning one each had our children smirking and giggling. They felt rather protective of us, and wanted to come shopping with us, to help us sort out our phone needs. I think they worried that we'd be sold a tv remote at smartphone price, and come home proudly brandishing it, not realising we'd been ripped off. Oh they of little faith! In fact, we went to Tesco, got a fabulous deal, and came home rejoicing that there is at least one thing that is seriously cheaper in Britain than it is in America. Come to think of it, why isn't there an app that allows you to change channels on the tv with your smartphone? That would save you the enormous effort of having to put it down on the coffee table, and pick up the remote, and then do the same manoeuvre in reverse. You could save seconds. Valuable seconds. This is the 21st century. It does rather worry me, though, that the country is being run by Tesco, not the government. Which one, honestly, has more influence over our daily lives?

My waist. I used to have one. I definitely did. I remember it well. I don't now. It must be to do with climate change and air pressure, or something like that. Very odd.

There's one thing that hasn't changed. For this, I join the many-voiced chorus of Americans who have lived in, or even just visited, Britain. Oh, Mixer Taps!! Why don't we have them over here? How hard could that be? I can't tell you how backward it feels to have temperature discrimination in our taps, when you have been used to the unsegregated flow of a simple mixer tap.  O... M... T...!!

.

Betwixt and between

I am writing this blog post while on the phone to AT&T to see if I can cancel my cancellation of their services (stay with me), so that our house-sitters can continue to have internet access with them, rather than having to open a new account. This takes multi-tasking to a whole new level, but don't you just hate wasting all that time on hold to big corporations? I just put them on speakerphone, and have that irritating music playing on the desk while I type. And 11-yo has just shown me how you can reduce the volume on our phone, so I can hardly hear it. Who knew you could do that on our phone? Mind you, I guess most phones these days have that facility. I doubt we're at the forefront of domestic phone technology. You might find that hard to believe.

We all hate those phone calls where you go round and round, choosing options from a menu, conversing in monosyllables with an electronic voice. I've worked out that if you just pretend you're incompetent, and press digits that aren't in the menu presented to you, you get through to a real person more quickly. The other day I tried to do that verbally. When the cheery electronic voice asked me to say in a few words what I wanted help with, I just burbled down the phone at it. "Blurblurblur". It didn't work. The electronic voice said "I think you said you needed help with service availability. Is that correct?"

We had the packers in yesterday. If I have one tip for moving, it is this. Be ready for the packers. We had been told they would start the job on Friday and finish on Monday. But it was a crew of five people, motivated to finish as quickly as possible, and finish they did. Even though I've lived in America for five years, I think somewhere deep down I kind of expected them to find me at five o'clock on the dot, sniff, hand me an empty tea mug, and say "that's us done for the day... see you on Monday morning...". In fact, they stayed till 7.30pm, tidied up everything behind them, put their QuikTrip 32oz plastic cups in the trash, and left us in a house full of boxes.

So although I had kind of hoped that I might be doing bits of sorting and organising here and there while they were packing, it was just as well that Husband and I had got up at 4.30am to finish up as much as we could before the locusts descended. It's rather rude of me to call them locusts, because after all, they are providing a service for us, and they were polite and friendly. But it does feel a bit like that, when people are making all your possessions disappear into boxes, the treasured things and the daily items, undifferentiated. So it was good to get up early and be just a little ahead of the game. The bad thing about getting up at 4.30am, though, is that it catches up with you 24 hours later, and you are totally knackered. I am trying hard to look after myself during this whole stressful time, but I tell ya, it's not easy. I had arranged to have a massage yesterday evening, which was very nice. Actually, it was particularly nice because it meant I had to leave the locust house. I'd arranged it for 6.00pm (I really did think they were going to sniff and leave at 5.00pm on the dot, didn't I? I probably thought they'd be wearing brown work coats, have mustaches, whistle while they work, and be called Bill and Ted.)

Husband and I then dozed through a movie, in which Justin Timberlake lives in an imaginary world where no-one is older than 25 (a world, therefore, in which no-one falls asleep while watching movies).

Well, I am rambling, because I haven't had enough sleep, and because rambling is my default state. You know how if  you have a power cut, all the electrical items in your house flash "12.00" at you when the power comes back on. That's their default option. Well, mine is rambling. Writing this blog post is the equivalent of me flashing noon at you. Or midnight.

Oh, I do have one more tip about moving. Before the packers come, decide whether you are going to tip. (See what I did there?) Otherwise, you will find yourself on the front porch, texting a couple of friends: "Do u tip moving ppl? Wot is etiquette here? There r 5 of them. There will be 5 diffrnt ppl on Tues. Getting expnsv! They r professnl cmpny, not just 2 guys & a truck. Dsn't feel right to tip, but dsn't feel right not to." You will then find yourself trying to discuss the issue secretly with your spouse - not easy with 5 extra people in your house - on the basis of your friends' advice. One friend told me "Oh gosh, am hopeless on this knd v thing." The other said "Hsbnd says no, but I'm not so sure. Cld u giv them cupcakes?" I replied "No baking eqpmt left in kitchen". See what I mean? Who needs that kind of additional stress on packing day? Work out your tipping policy in advance, Peoples.

Posts

I'm sitting blogging because I'm in denial about how much needs to be done in the house to get it ready for putting it on the market. There's a blog post in that.

It was lovely getting together with our realtor, reminiscing about when she helped us buy a house five years ago. There's a blog post in that.

The system of buying and selling houses is so much better organised here than in either England or Scotland. Our realtor (and I) can hardly believe how such a major life decision and financial investment can be so poorly taken care of in comparison (though perhaps we are out of date - perhaps new legislation has tightened everything up). There's a blog post in that.

I'm looking out of the window at lightning and heavy rain. I will really miss thunderstorms. I love the drama of them. There's a blog post in that.

A couple of friends who I've just been drinking wine and eating chocolate with, are coming round on Monday morning to take me and my house in hand, and help me dress it for selling. I can't even begin to explain what that would mean without writing a whole blog post.

What's that movie called? The one with Renee Zellwegger as a chic business woman from Miami, who goes to Minnesota to an ailing factory with a mandate to close it down, and eventually suspends her corporate superciliousness, to fall in love with the warmth of the community (as well as a good-looking - supposedly, though he didn't do it for me - widower). That would give you an insight into what kind of decor will help sell our house. I understand American films so much better, now I've lived here. Another blog post there.

I watched 14-yo play tennis yesterday. Ah, I remember those hours of hitting a ball to and fro with a preschooler in the back garden. Now my role is more relaxing. I sit and watch, and chat to friends sideways. Several blog posts in that.

7-yo turned eight, and we hosted a birthday sleepover. Lots of blog posts there.

7-yo asked "Will we sell the house for A THOUSAND dollars?" Certainly another blog post.

11-yo is going on a field trip to a Health Museum tomorrow. I have no idea what the place is all about, but it sounds good. I should probably google it. Then I could write a blog post about it.

We're leaving here. I can hardly believe it. I hardly want to believe it. I am me here. I don't know how to be me anywhere else. I will learn, I will discover. I'm both excited for the future, and sad for the loss of the present. It makes me pensive. Blog posts there, thick and fast.

So many blog posts, so little time.

.

Alcohol

I am not going to win that competition, because

(a) no holiday company in their right mind would put a photo of a baby with alcohol on their website
(b) the terms and conditions state that you have to be resident in the UK
(c) I didn't write the post I wanted to write because I left it too late and was hurrying to meet the deadline (I am the 49th entry out of 49), and
(d) because this fabulous post should win. In my opinion. And I didn't read all 48, so don't get cross with me if you're one of the others. Perhaps I just skipped yours.

Even if not a competition winner, the post does give me a perfect segue into a subject that I've been meaning to write about for ages. Alcohol. And this is where I go all prudish on you. Sorry. Please love me anyway.

I had to give the school a baby photo of 14-yo recently. They put together a montage with a baby photo and a current photo of each child. There were oohs and aahs as the slideshow played. I'm imagining that if I'd submitted the photo from my last post, it would have elicited a giggle, or a full-blown laugh, from the audience in a British school. Here, there would have been a silence. An awkward silence. I guess the equivalent would be if you sent in a photo of your smiling baby, sitting on a sofa, with a used syringe by his side. Not quite so funny, eh?

Quite honestly, I am shocked by the UK's acceptance that you can't really go to a city centre on a Saturday night, unless you want to tiptoe your way through the drunken brawls while sidestepping the vomit. Are you really happy, you British taxpayers, that a big chunk of the money you give to that wondrous phenomenon "socialised medicine" is used up in A&E departments, scraping people off the floor and propping them up against a wall until they sober up? Is it reasonable to expect our lovely British Bobbies and A&E medics to spend their Saturday nights doing this?

When I was in England last summer, I was shopping in Curry's, and got chatting to the sales assistant, as he was filling in details about some warranty or other. (Yes, I bought some kind of a warranty on a Curry's product... don't judge me... love me anyway...) He started joking about the week-end, and saying he wouldn't be up to much on Sunday, because he was going out on Saturday night, and we all know what that means. It went over my kids' heads, but it did give me pause for thought. Was it really OK to joke with a customer about getting drunk? It has become commonplace humour that we drink too much (just look at the 'About Me' sections of mummy blogs). Is that really very funny? I'd like to go all smug here, and say that living away from your own culture does give you the opportunity to see some aspects of it in a new way.

After living here for 5 years, I have come to a changed perspective on alcohol. I don't think they get it totally right here - there is a prudishness verging on anxiety. The university where Husband teaches is obsessive about allowing no alcohol on campus, including the student dorms. (Yes, you read that correctly.) So I'm not saying 'come, be like us', and the circles we hang out in do definitely crack open a bottle of wine on social occasions. Either that, or they say to each other beforehand "oh no, it's those English people, help, we'll have to have wine on offer otherwise they're so uptight they can't relax and it's so awkward, but we'll have to pretend that we usually have wine with a meal..." There's also a very odd combination of Christianity and low alcohol tolerance. If you go to a church event, it's almost unheard of to find a glass of wine there. It's odd, because of the little we know about Jesus, we know that he drank wine. And if I had to lay money on whether a glass of red wine does you more damage than a can of Coke, I know which one I'd pick. Oh, except that would be gambling. Alcohol and now gambling. See how quickly one can descend the slippery slope.

Where was I? Oh yes. I don't think they get it completely right here, but I do think they do a better job than in contemporary Britain. There is more protection of young people, and there is less reliance on alcohol to oil the social wheels. The topic is getting more acute for me, what with a 14.5 year old in the house. Here, you can't drink until you're 21. We all know that people do, of course of course, but it does make for a difference to the teenage years. Alcohol really isn't on 14-yo's horizon yet. Social events are either hanging out with the boys at someone's house, or school dances and formal birthday dances, touchingly old-fashioned in feel, and certainly alcohol-free. I am reliably informed that if we were in England, alcohol already would be very much on his horizon. Chalk that up as another reason to love being in America (though I can't lay that one at David Cameron's door).

I would love to know what the right approach is with teenagers. Husband and I always thought we'd go with the idea that by modelling moderation, and by introducing them to alcohol gradually over the years, you teach them to drink responsibly. But I do wonder if in fact what you are doing is teaching them to drink, full stop. The latest research backs this up (but I can't find it now. Bother.) On the other hand, if you don't teach them how to drink, the rest of society sure will once they move beyond home.

I am going to become Amish and move into their lovely horse-drawn-buggy-filled world. My children can leave when they are 25, but not a day before. That is totally the answer.

The 'J' in PBJ

When I was a girl, I knew two truths about Americans. They called jelly ‘jello’, and they called jam ‘jelly’. I thought they were a crazy mixed-up nation, based largely on those two facts. I mean, how could anyone live somewhere where it was all so confusing?

Now I am a mature lady, and I’ve lived in America for more than five years, and I know many many truths about Americans. I still think they are a crazy mixed-up nation, but that’s because I think every nation is a crazy mixed-up nation. I still find life here somewhat confusing, but that’s because life is inherently confusing. I have at least managed to sort out the whole jelly/jam conundrum.

Jelly is indeed called ‘jello’ in America. It’s a brand name, so I should probably afford it the dignity of an initial capital: ‘Jello’. It has happier rhyming scope than jelly. Jelly rhymes with smelly and telly and welly and belly (which used to be a deliciously not-quite-rude-but-still-a-bit-naughty word when I was little, but is probably more mundane now). None of those are very inspiring. Not on your Nellie. Jello rhymes with hello and ‘cello (gotta love that initial apostrophe – how many words have an initial apostrophe?) and bellow and fellow and mellow. All rather pleasing, friendly words. “Hello, my good fellow” I bellowed, “How mellow is the music from your ‘cello!” Jello wins hands down in the rhyming stakes.

So far so easy. Any old Brit could manage the jelly/Jello linguistic transition (and see how generously I continue to award the American word a capital, whilst sticking with the lowly lower case for the British word). Now on to the complexities of jam. Incidentally, can you believe they don’t have jammie dodgers in America, they don’t call a police car a jam sandwich, and I don’t think they use the word ‘jammy ‘ to mean uncommonly lucky or flukey (though I could be wrong about that last one).

Living amongst Americans has shown me that my previous understanding (ie that they call jam ‘jelly’) is wrong. There are two different substances to which they give two different names. Jelly is clear, and doesn’t have bits in it. Jam is not clear, and does have bits in it. And guess what? It’s actually exactly the same in British English. Think of the redcurrant jelly you have with your roast chicken. You’d never call that ‘jam’, would you? And what you do call jam, Americans also call jam.

The difference emerges from the usage of the substance. You wouldn’t spread redcurrant jelly on your children’s toast, or make their sandwiches with it. Over here they do. They have grape jelly, apple jelly, strawberry jelly, for that very purpose. None of it tastes very nice, but it’s almost impossible to resist buying it, because the leading brand is called Smuckers. Doesn’t that beat Robinson’s or Bonne Maman into a cocked hat? I always want to call it Smuckers Schmuckers. In fact, I often do – just not out loud.

I like to think that living on a different continent to the one I was brought up in broadens my horizons and gives me greater understanding of my fellow people, and I bring you the jelly/jam issue as evidence of that. See how prejudiced I used to be. “Americans call jam, ‘jelly’.” How simplistic, narrow-minded and critical I was in my youth! My five years here have taught me that I was wrong. What I used to see as an insurmountable difference between the two nations, I now realize was my own error of comprehension. In fact, we are marked out by our similarity. We are two peoples at one in our use of the words ‘jam’ and ‘jelly’. We co-incide. There is unity between us. Our linguistic commonality is seamless. I would quite possibly never have discovered that, had I not moved across the Atlantic. Thus another link is forged in the chain of international understanding. See how I am contributing to world peace, simply by blogging about jelly and jam.

PBJ

"I'll have a PBJ."

That's something of a litmus test. If you know what it means, I expect you've been to America with a child. If you don't know what it means, you're probably guessing, and if you come up with something really creative and witty, you should leave it in a comment and make me laugh. The best I can think of is that it would be what you might write on the bottom of an invitation to a sleepover: Please Bring Jamas.

A PBJ is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's a BLT, without the bacon, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise, with added peanut butter and jelly. It's a standard offer on a children's menu. If your child doesn't want mac and cheese, a hot dog, a burger, a corn dog (corn dog? that's a post for another time), pizza or grilled cheese, then chances are, there'll be a PBJ on there too. Even if there isn't, you could probably ask for one and most eating establishments could rustle one up for your kid. That's because - unlike my house - they will probably have a jar of peanut butter in a cupboard.

My children don't like peanut butter. They didn't test them for that during the immigration medicals which is just as well. I'm pretty sure they don't give green cards to people who don't like peanut butter. They would probably have injected them with the stuff, along with all the hepatitis and chicken pox inoculations they needed. Intravenous peanut butter. I'm sure that would be in the paediatrician's arsenal.

Michelle sums it up well in her post at The American Resident. To most American families, peanut butter is as staple as ordinary butter. Ooh, I've just worked something out. This must be why Americans pronounce Rs in words more than we do (think "burrrgerrr" or "Central Parrrk" or indeed any parrrk, doesn't have to be Central, that was just the one that came to mind). It's because their tongues are permanently stuck to the roofs of their mouths by all the peanut butter they ate as children (they also say "ruf", as in "woof", not "rooooof" as in "Rufus", but that probably isn't to do with the peanut butter). The word "cloying" was invented for the sensation of eating peanut butter.

I can't quite decide if I like peanut butter or not. I like the crunchy kind, on toast, but not too often. I don't like the smooth kind. I don't like the flavour of peanut butter combined with sweet things, so I don't like peanut butter cookies (did you just hear 350 million people gasp?) and I really, really don't like it combined with chocolate (possibly a federal offence to say that in print). Reese's peanut butter cups are horrible. They are a dreadful waste of perfectly good chocolate. Well, not perfectly good as in Cadbury's, but perfectly adequate. Or adequate. I would pay not to eat a Reese's peanut butter cup. I reckon I'm not the only one, because come Hallowe'en, you'll find your trick or treat bag full of them. I suppose it might be because they're in orange packaging, which makes them readily Hallowe'enable (and no, I can't bring myself to drop the apostrophe in Hallowe'en, I'm sorry), but I strongly suspect that many people look on Hallowe'en as a good opportunity to get rid of the packets of Reese's peanut butter cups that have somehow infiltrated their kitchen cupboards.

Peanut butter cups are beginning to remind me of the Two Ronnies. They did a brilliant spoof (rhymes with "roof" so don't go reading it to yourself as "spuf" will you?) on Gilbert and Sullivan. The song "Dear Little Buttercup" contained the lines "Dear Little Buttercup, Please lift your buttock up, For you are sitting on my top hat". Sorry to those of you who are fans of Reese's peanut buttock ups. I've probably ruined them for you forever now.

You may think I've whittered my fill on the subject of PBJ but you'd be wrong. There's going to be a second instalment. Oh yes. So if you're poised to comment about the J bit of PBJ and reflect on the jelly/jam differential, please don't, because that's my jumping off point. Instead, try and come up with a clever idea of what alternative PBJ could stand for.

Thoughts on our return to the US

Just to clear up a bit of confusion...



Yes, 14-yo's video does make it look as if we live somewhere beautiful. No, actually, we don't. Some of the pictures he used were taken on our holidays in Colorado and Arkansas. Just felt I had to put the record straight, as I have in the past whinged on about how there's no beautiful scenery near us. Thank you for all your comments, by the way. He loved them.



Anyway, here we are, back again, new school year beginning. Here are three lists. I used to be a civil servant, and I still find lists a good way of organising thoughts. Or of writing a blog post when you can't quite string it together in any other way.



1 Nice things about returning to America



a) People. Friends. A group of three families who organised a 'welcome back' barbecue for us, hiring the party room at the local pool, and whenever I said "what can I bring?" insisted "we've got it covered". Americans do hospitality and welcome in a fabulous way.



b) Each time we come back, it feels very different. Like a child starting a new school year isn't actually any taller than on the first day of term than they were on the last day of the holidays, but somehow they seem it. A step away and a step back brings a new perspective.



c) The weather seems sensitive to our arrival. For the second year running, a hot and humid spell has broken the day after we get back. It's very nice of the weather to be so accommodating. It must know I don't cope very well with the heat. This year, I am especially grateful, as it's been record-breakingly hot. It was over 100 degrees (38 celcius) for over 40 consecutive days, and one day it reached 113 (45). I have a little shared laugh with people here about how in England we all pluck our t-shirts away from our bodies and woggle them about, trying to create a tiny breeze, saying "wow it's hot today" when it gets to 80 degrees. Sorry, British people. I have a joke at your expense. (When I was an au pair in France, the little boy I looked after thought a t-shirt was called a p'tit shirt - isn't that sweet?)



2 Things that have changed in Britain



a) Oreos. I spotted some in a supermarket. That's a shame. They're not a patch on hobnobs, digestives, kitkats, or a million other nice British biscuits. And they leave a horrible black ring round your child's mouth. Don't buy oreos.



b) Jaffa cakes. Don't like them. Never have. Never will. (They haven't changed, so I don't know why they're on this list. Wrong list, Jaffa Cakes.)



c) Moving on to non-biscuit-related topics. Sharpies. Yay, wa-hoo wa-hey. Sharpies have arrived in Britain. I cannot imagine how we have lived without them in a satisfactory manner till now. Go out this minute and buy yourself a Sharpie. (Except you, Josephine, you've already got one.)



d) Speed cameras. They are everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Have they been breeding?



e) Top Gear presenters. They are everywhere. Not only is Top Gear on television whenever you turn it on, but they are presenting pretty much every other television programme there is as well. Including that rather addictive one that's made in Argentina because Health and Safety in Britain wouldn't allow it. What's it called...?



f) More Americanisms in British everyday speech. I don't feel very strongly about this. I think language evolves and grows, and you shouldn't try and put it in a cage and keep it. It needs to rove free, like the buffalo over the plains (though it didn't end terribly well for them in recent history). Rove... or should that be roam...? See, a case in point. We should all be free to grab whatever word we want, to suit the mood and the moment, and if that means that some become more popular and some die out (like the buffalo nearly have done), then so be it (though I do feel sad for the buffalo, so this is an imperfect simile). But I have noticed that there is an increasing number of words that have crossed the Atlantic. 'Mad' meaning 'angry'. 'Smart' meaning 'clever' (I blame smart phones, smart technology, etc for this one). 'Call' instead of 'ring' when talking about phoning someone.



3 Things that are still just too counter-cultural for me to love



a) Over-competitive sports for children. I've said it before, and I'll say it again (in fact I have a ranty blog post just waiting to spout out and rove all over my blog any day now on this very subject).



b) A phone message from a very chirpy student on our answerphone:



"Hi, Dr Husband, this is Francine from X University. I'm just calling on behalf of the university as the new academic year begins, to say how much we appreciate the faculty members. We just want you to know that the university values you so much, and we're so glad you're part of it."



Does this really work for most Professors? Really? Or do they, like Husband, stand glowering at the answerphone, making retorts about how a pay rise would do more to make him feel valued than employing a student on the minimum wage to go down the faculty phone list making vacuous calls.