Now here's something that is odd, and I don't even know if it's odd because I'm English in America, or because I'm old and times have moved on without me noticing.
When 6-yo went to school the other day, she took a hanky in her pocket. An old-fashioned hanky - you know, a square piece of white cotton fabric for blowing your nose on. I say "you know", but do you? Not one of the other children in the class knew what it was for. When she got it out of her pocket, someone said "what's that?", and nobody could identify the mystery object. Except the teacher (and even she wouldn't guess that the hanky is dried by being hung on a line in the back yard!)
Would your child know what a handkerchief was? Would they keep one in their pocket, or would they always prefer to use a tissue? Just how odd is my family? (Don't answer that last question.)
Post-script: I should add that we do actually know what tissues are, and have boxes of them around, in the Manhattan household. I prefer them, myself. It was 6-yo who, on that morning, wanted to take a hanky to school, and asked for one (which had a butterfly in the corner - always nice to wipe your nose on a butterfly).
Monday, October 4, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
More book recommendations
What a fabulous idea for a sequel to Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette from Not waving but ironing (whose blog title reminds me of my own former moniker). Mrs Ruffins and her Wholemeal Muffins. I love it. I can picture her now, a cheerful, homely, English lady, who has as many imaginative uses for her muffins as Monsieur Saguette does for his baguette. She will go on holiday to France, where she will meet and fall in love with the man and his impressive French stick, and marry him. They will live happily ever after, or whatever the French equivalent is. They’ll have children: Mademoiselle Ciabatta, and her brother, le petit Roland, known as Cinnamon Rol. They’ll have two dogs called Crumpet and Scone, and a cat called Sourdough Puss.
I didn’t warn you, by the way, when I was recommending Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette, not to get the book if you are the kind of parent who balks at explaining to their child what an armed robber is, or how it can be ok, in a work of fiction, to eat bread that has been utilised to effect an escape from the city sewers, via a manhole.
But while we’re on the subject of books, people often ask me “Iota, do you know of any books for small children which have positive role models for girls?” Actually, they don’t… but they should, because it just so happens I do. Such books are few and far between, when you think about the volume of printed media about princesses who waft around waiting for their prince to come, managing only to kiss a few frogs or kow-tow to a few evil relations in the meanwhile. Here are two, which I recommend heartily, if you’re the kind of mother who likes to swim against the pink and sparkly tide every now and again.
The book Princess Grace, by Mary Hoffman is great. It's a very thoughtful treatment of the whole issue. Grace is excited when she learns her class are to be in a parade, and she can dress up as a princess. With the teacher's help, the class starts researching princesses, and what it is that a princess actually does. There's a great line where Grace decides that sitting around in a pink floaty dress sounds very boring, and that she’d rather be the kind of princess who leads a bold and adventurous life. I always want to cheer at that point. I would recommend the book for age 4 and up.
The other book on this subject that I like is Princess Pigtoria and the Pea, by Pamela Duncan Edwards. The story starts in the traditional way, but [spoiler alert] in the morning, Pigtoria is so cross with the pig prince for putting a pea under her mattress, that she goes off with the pizza delivery pig instead. It’s funny, and the text is wittily full of words beginning with the letter ‘P’. “Panting, Pigtoria plunked onto her pillows”, for example. This is a book that a 2 year old could enjoy, but 6-yo still reads and likes it.
And if you want a film with a positive female lead, there’s always Shrek. Three cheers for Fiona, I say.
I didn’t warn you, by the way, when I was recommending Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette, not to get the book if you are the kind of parent who balks at explaining to their child what an armed robber is, or how it can be ok, in a work of fiction, to eat bread that has been utilised to effect an escape from the city sewers, via a manhole.
But while we’re on the subject of books, people often ask me “Iota, do you know of any books for small children which have positive role models for girls?” Actually, they don’t… but they should, because it just so happens I do. Such books are few and far between, when you think about the volume of printed media about princesses who waft around waiting for their prince to come, managing only to kiss a few frogs or kow-tow to a few evil relations in the meanwhile. Here are two, which I recommend heartily, if you’re the kind of mother who likes to swim against the pink and sparkly tide every now and again.
The book Princess Grace, by Mary Hoffman is great. It's a very thoughtful treatment of the whole issue. Grace is excited when she learns her class are to be in a parade, and she can dress up as a princess. With the teacher's help, the class starts researching princesses, and what it is that a princess actually does. There's a great line where Grace decides that sitting around in a pink floaty dress sounds very boring, and that she’d rather be the kind of princess who leads a bold and adventurous life. I always want to cheer at that point. I would recommend the book for age 4 and up.
The other book on this subject that I like is Princess Pigtoria and the Pea, by Pamela Duncan Edwards. The story starts in the traditional way, but [spoiler alert] in the morning, Pigtoria is so cross with the pig prince for putting a pea under her mattress, that she goes off with the pizza delivery pig instead. It’s funny, and the text is wittily full of words beginning with the letter ‘P’. “Panting, Pigtoria plunked onto her pillows”, for example. This is a book that a 2 year old could enjoy, but 6-yo still reads and likes it.
And if you want a film with a positive female lead, there’s always Shrek. Three cheers for Fiona, I say.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Carrying... and a book recommendation
Well, you were right. It was guns, not babies.
You see this sign everywhere, round here. On the front door of schools, preschools, health centres, shops, restaurants, offices, libraries. Everywhere. An American friend of mine once pointed to it and said to me "I bet you don't miss that when you're back in Britain", and she's right. I don't. I hate seeing it. Perhaps this is one thing I will never get used to here.
I don't really get this sign, though. I think it must be some kind of legal disclaimer, because surely it has no practical value. Think about it. If I was in the queue at the library, and the guy in front of me pulled a gun out and aimed it at the librarian, I wouldn't tap him on the shoulder, and as he turned round, point to the sign, and say,
"Excuse me, but guns aren't allowed in this library".
I really wouldn't. I'd be far more likely to say,
"I know just how you feel. Those fines are ridiculous. A dollar a day on a dvd? Puh-lease. It's cheaper at Blockbuster."
Or I might whizz to the children's section, and get one of my all-time favourite children's books. This one:
Inspired by Monsieur Saguette's brave example, I might poke my baguette into the man's back, making him think I also have a gun, and saving the day till the police arrive. Of course this would only work if I happened to be carrying a baguette, which is unlikely, but nonetheless, I highly recommend this book. It's full of all kinds of nifty ideas as to what a monsieur can do with his baguette, and you won't be able to avoid putting on a fake French accent as you read it aloud to your children, which is olwez vairy vairy gud fuuhn.
You see this sign everywhere, round here. On the front door of schools, preschools, health centres, shops, restaurants, offices, libraries. Everywhere. An American friend of mine once pointed to it and said to me "I bet you don't miss that when you're back in Britain", and she's right. I don't. I hate seeing it. Perhaps this is one thing I will never get used to here.
I don't really get this sign, though. I think it must be some kind of legal disclaimer, because surely it has no practical value. Think about it. If I was in the queue at the library, and the guy in front of me pulled a gun out and aimed it at the librarian, I wouldn't tap him on the shoulder, and as he turned round, point to the sign, and say,
"Excuse me, but guns aren't allowed in this library".
I really wouldn't. I'd be far more likely to say,
"I know just how you feel. Those fines are ridiculous. A dollar a day on a dvd? Puh-lease. It's cheaper at Blockbuster."
Or I might whizz to the children's section, and get one of my all-time favourite children's books. This one:
Inspired by Monsieur Saguette's brave example, I might poke my baguette into the man's back, making him think I also have a gun, and saving the day till the police arrive. Of course this would only work if I happened to be carrying a baguette, which is unlikely, but nonetheless, I highly recommend this book. It's full of all kinds of nifty ideas as to what a monsieur can do with his baguette, and you won't be able to avoid putting on a fake French accent as you read it aloud to your children, which is olwez vairy vairy gud fuuhn.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Another shorthand phrase
Here's another of those shorthand phrases I was talking about in a recent post.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
A bunch or a lot?
I know you're all sitting there with bated breath on the whole aseptic drinks issue, but Dillons hasn't replied to my enquiry, so I'm moving on. This is the 21st century, Dillons, and things move quickly. The blogosphere waits for no man. Nor for aseptic drinks.
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sleuth in action
Bloggy Friends, never let it be said that I slack in the quest to bring you knowledge, wisdom, and intellectual satisfaction. Since none of you, no, no, not one, could enlighten us all on the aseptic drinks issue, this morning when I went to Dillons, I decided to take my enquiries to the very site of the aseptic drinks mystery itself.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Words, words, words. There are so many of them that just don't translate quite exactly from British English to American English. Here are four that have troubled me this week.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
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