So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
Showing posts with label obama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label obama. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Friday, February 18, 2011
The age of democracies
Well, we've had quite an airing of the practice of telling off, haven't we? I've been reminded of - amongst others - being given what for, being for it, being chewed out, and getting a talking to, a roasting, and a dressing down. I think the most usual American equivalent to telling off is scolding, a word which sounds very Victorian to British ears, (and which I've always found uncomfortably close to scalding).
Now, here's someone to whom I'd like to give a telling off. President Obama's speech writer. The one who put in the line in Obama's China speech that referred to America as "the oldest democracy in the world". Oldest democracy in the world? Excuse me?
Last time I talked about history, I displayed my woefully inadequate knowledge by asserting that Britain doesn't have a written constitution, and apparently we do. It's the Magna Carta. So I don't want to embarrass myself by quoting from my stock of limited historical facts, but surely America isn't the oldest democracy? Come on guys! First up, there's Britain. How can you not count Britain? I suspect it's because you think we're a monarchy and therefore not a proper democracy. And yes, the Queen does sign every Act of Parliament, so I suppose technically she could veto any she didn't like. But it's still a democracy. Trust me. I've lived there. I've voted there.
Even if you don't count Britain (and I can feel a certain rising of the blood pressure as I write that), I think you'll find there have been other democracies, in other times, in other places, which pre-date America's. I'm thinking Ancient Rome. I'm thinking Ancient Greece. I'm thinking I should shut up at this point because I really don't know much about how those societies organised themselves, but I'm pretty sure they elected their leaders.
What about France, for heaven's sake? They had a revolution way back when. They even used three consecutive numbers to make the date easy to remember: 1789. Well done them. Didn't that give them the vote? "Aux armes, Citoyens", and all that. No... no... not Citroens... Citoyens! We're talking democratic rights, not the auto industry.
Perhaps Mr Obama was including Native American democratic practices in his reckoning. If so, I think he overlooked a few teensy weensy facts, because the transition from existing Native American democracies to modern day America's political system wasn't exactly seamless, was it?
So, Mr Obama Speech Writer in the White House in Washington - yes, you standing in the corner with the dunce cap on your head - consider yourself on the receiving end of a right royal chew-ass tongue-lashing roasting what for.
.
Now, here's someone to whom I'd like to give a telling off. President Obama's speech writer. The one who put in the line in Obama's China speech that referred to America as "the oldest democracy in the world". Oldest democracy in the world? Excuse me?
Last time I talked about history, I displayed my woefully inadequate knowledge by asserting that Britain doesn't have a written constitution, and apparently we do. It's the Magna Carta. So I don't want to embarrass myself by quoting from my stock of limited historical facts, but surely America isn't the oldest democracy? Come on guys! First up, there's Britain. How can you not count Britain? I suspect it's because you think we're a monarchy and therefore not a proper democracy. And yes, the Queen does sign every Act of Parliament, so I suppose technically she could veto any she didn't like. But it's still a democracy. Trust me. I've lived there. I've voted there.
Even if you don't count Britain (and I can feel a certain rising of the blood pressure as I write that), I think you'll find there have been other democracies, in other times, in other places, which pre-date America's. I'm thinking Ancient Rome. I'm thinking Ancient Greece. I'm thinking I should shut up at this point because I really don't know much about how those societies organised themselves, but I'm pretty sure they elected their leaders.
What about France, for heaven's sake? They had a revolution way back when. They even used three consecutive numbers to make the date easy to remember: 1789. Well done them. Didn't that give them the vote? "Aux armes, Citoyens", and all that. No... no... not Citroens... Citoyens! We're talking democratic rights, not the auto industry.
Perhaps Mr Obama was including Native American democratic practices in his reckoning. If so, I think he overlooked a few teensy weensy facts, because the transition from existing Native American democracies to modern day America's political system wasn't exactly seamless, was it?
So, Mr Obama Speech Writer in the White House in Washington - yes, you standing in the corner with the dunce cap on your head - consider yourself on the receiving end of a right royal chew-ass tongue-lashing roasting what for.
.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day
Monday morning last week was a low spot. At breakfast, I was reading 9-yo’s weekly Friday newsletter. I learned that he was to take to school a cardboard box covered in brown paper, with doors cut in the front to make it into a wardrobe, for a fun class activity about the book they’ve just finished (guess which book). I decided I had just enough time to cover the Cheerios box with a piece of brown paper, and set to. I had realized that the decision meant that 12-yo would be the teensiest weensiest bit late (middle school starts 15 minutes earlier than the lower school), but I thought punctuality should be sacrificed to wardrobe creation. 12-yo was getting more and more agitated, and finally revealed that he’d been given a nickname on the basis of his repeated late morning arrivals. If you get three tardies, you get detention. I pointed out that he can’t have had three, as he’d never had a detention, and I said I didn’t feel two tardies in a term was all that bad.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Obama and Santa
Did you all catch President Obama's speech on accepting the Nobel Peace Prize? I like the man. I'd love to invite him round for dinner, him and his good lady wife. They could bring the kids too. I expect he's too busy though.
One of the exciting things in his speech was a very fine example of what I was talking about here. Don't bother to click. I'll remind you. I was talking about how in England we say
"the baby wants to be fed",
but in both Scotland and America, that would be
"the baby wants fed".
In his Nobel speech, Obama was talking about the US being a moral standard bearer in the conduct of war, and he said:
"That is why I prohibited torture. That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay closed."
See? If he'd been brought up in leafy Buckinghamshire, England, he'd have said
"That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay to be closed".
I was listening to NPR, and they gave a pretty good broad-brush examination of the ideas in the speech, but honestly, for in-depth word by word analysis like this, you have to turn to 'Not wrong, just different'. Oh you must be so glad you read my blog.
Incidentally, since I know that you are on the edge of your seats with this post, I'm going to tell you about another of those items where Americans have followed the Scots rather than the English. Santa. Yes, jolly old Santa Claus. In England, he is quite definitely Father Christmas. When I lived in England I knew that the Americans called him Santa Claus, but I had no idea that the Scots did too.
And if you have any other questions on England, Scotland, America, Obama or world peace, then just drop me a line. I'll help if I can.
.
One of the exciting things in his speech was a very fine example of what I was talking about here. Don't bother to click. I'll remind you. I was talking about how in England we say
"the baby wants to be fed",
but in both Scotland and America, that would be
"the baby wants fed".
In his Nobel speech, Obama was talking about the US being a moral standard bearer in the conduct of war, and he said:
"That is why I prohibited torture. That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay closed."
See? If he'd been brought up in leafy Buckinghamshire, England, he'd have said
"That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay to be closed".
I was listening to NPR, and they gave a pretty good broad-brush examination of the ideas in the speech, but honestly, for in-depth word by word analysis like this, you have to turn to 'Not wrong, just different'. Oh you must be so glad you read my blog.
Incidentally, since I know that you are on the edge of your seats with this post, I'm going to tell you about another of those items where Americans have followed the Scots rather than the English. Santa. Yes, jolly old Santa Claus. In England, he is quite definitely Father Christmas. When I lived in England I knew that the Americans called him Santa Claus, but I had no idea that the Scots did too.
And if you have any other questions on England, Scotland, America, Obama or world peace, then just drop me a line. I'll help if I can.
.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The ripple effect
Day 28 of 'The Daily Post'.
Do you remember about this time last year, the senior executives of General Motors went to ask Obama for a bail-out from public money, and they travelled to the meeting in private jets? Obama pointed out that this was something of a gaff, and the executives were publicly humiliated. I thought Obama did well to point it out. But what about this?
The main industry of the city I live in is aircraft manufacture. It is home to three big producers of private planes. Between them, Learjet, Cessna and Hawker make 45% of the world’s business jets. After Obama’s criticism of the GM executives, large numbers of orders were cancelled or postponed, and new orders dried up. Business travel by private jet was no longer as desirable as it had been. Last year, these three companies produced 11,500 private jets. This year, they expect to produce 7500, and next year, 6,500. Their market research suggests that they won’t be back up to 2008 demand until 2017. In the past year, 13,000 people have been laid off. Others are working reduced hours, or being given periods of compulsory furlough.
I don’t really know how to feel about this. I don’t think the world needs to add to its global warming problems by having senior business people flying around in their own, or leased, jets. Should I be pleased that orders are so severely reduced? On one level, yes, but that’s not the reason these people were made redundant. You have to feel sorry for those 13,000 people. I would feel sorry for workers made redundant from the tobacco industry, in spite of what I hoped for the future of that industry.
I feel a particular sympathy for those 13,000, though. It happened so suddenly. One news item, and their fates were sealed. It was unforeseen. Yes, you’d expect a recession to bring a reduction in orders of business planes, but this was a drop of a 35% in a single year. It must be galling that it wasn’t even a matter of government policy. The incident was symbolic not substantive, the result of an unscripted reaction from the President. Most of all, I’m sure those workers don’t appreciate the irony that GM jobs were saved by a bail-out, but there’s no public subsidy for the aircraft manufacturers.
I’m sure we all, if we’re honest, enjoyed the embarrassment we imagine those GM executives experienced. It was a time when we felt the mighty deserved to fall. It wasn’t happening, and the GM executives took on the role of scapegoat. Since they weren’t actually going to lose their jobs, then being taken down a public peg or two by the President was the next best thing. The corporate bottom was smacked. But spare a thought for those 13,000 whose lives have been turned upside down by that one incident, an incident which, because it came from the White House, caught the public imagination and gained publicity, took on a significance beyond its worth.
Do you remember about this time last year, the senior executives of General Motors went to ask Obama for a bail-out from public money, and they travelled to the meeting in private jets? Obama pointed out that this was something of a gaff, and the executives were publicly humiliated. I thought Obama did well to point it out. But what about this?
The main industry of the city I live in is aircraft manufacture. It is home to three big producers of private planes. Between them, Learjet, Cessna and Hawker make 45% of the world’s business jets. After Obama’s criticism of the GM executives, large numbers of orders were cancelled or postponed, and new orders dried up. Business travel by private jet was no longer as desirable as it had been. Last year, these three companies produced 11,500 private jets. This year, they expect to produce 7500, and next year, 6,500. Their market research suggests that they won’t be back up to 2008 demand until 2017. In the past year, 13,000 people have been laid off. Others are working reduced hours, or being given periods of compulsory furlough.
I don’t really know how to feel about this. I don’t think the world needs to add to its global warming problems by having senior business people flying around in their own, or leased, jets. Should I be pleased that orders are so severely reduced? On one level, yes, but that’s not the reason these people were made redundant. You have to feel sorry for those 13,000 people. I would feel sorry for workers made redundant from the tobacco industry, in spite of what I hoped for the future of that industry.
I feel a particular sympathy for those 13,000, though. It happened so suddenly. One news item, and their fates were sealed. It was unforeseen. Yes, you’d expect a recession to bring a reduction in orders of business planes, but this was a drop of a 35% in a single year. It must be galling that it wasn’t even a matter of government policy. The incident was symbolic not substantive, the result of an unscripted reaction from the President. Most of all, I’m sure those workers don’t appreciate the irony that GM jobs were saved by a bail-out, but there’s no public subsidy for the aircraft manufacturers.
I’m sure we all, if we’re honest, enjoyed the embarrassment we imagine those GM executives experienced. It was a time when we felt the mighty deserved to fall. It wasn’t happening, and the GM executives took on the role of scapegoat. Since they weren’t actually going to lose their jobs, then being taken down a public peg or two by the President was the next best thing. The corporate bottom was smacked. But spare a thought for those 13,000 whose lives have been turned upside down by that one incident, an incident which, because it came from the White House, caught the public imagination and gained publicity, took on a significance beyond its worth.
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