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.

The British Are Going!

You see, I've been here long enough to know that that's quite a funny title for a party invitation. (No? The British are coming? Paul Revere? Where's your American history, people?) It wasn't really meant to be a farewell party, though of course everyone knew it was that. Husband's division at work is quite a social group, and I have often felt that we haven't taken our turn at hosting a party, so I thought we'd better get on and do it, otherwise I would leave with that feeling, and live forevermore with that feeling. So we had a tea party (of course), and I think some Jubilee fever must have rubbed off on me, because I put on the invitation that people should wear "red, white, blue, or a combination thereof, in recognition of the shared interests of our two nations". 

We had a lovely time. I'd gone to World Market in honour of the party, to buy Golden Syrup, with which to make flapjack, and had loaded up with some fun British biscuits for people to try. This is what the table looked like.

Let me just talk you through the picture. We're talking red, white and blue icing on the mini buns. Behind those, we have flapjack. Behind those are strawberries - how very accommodating of them to be red! No bananas or green apples on MY festive patriotic table! Continuing round the edge in an anti-clockwise direction, we have a plate of Jammie Dodgers and Hobnobs pretending to be Oreos (ie two mini Hobnobs stuck together with some kind of filling, abhorrent to the Hobnob purist, but I thought more interesting for the American palate), then a little heap of Penguins, a plate of Toffeepops and Viscount biscuits (oh dear, green foil wrappers out of place there, but I'd tolerate almost anything in a Viscount biscuit - my childhood favourites), a pile of cucumber sandwiches, and Chocolate Fingers.

I mean, could it get any more British than that? Oh yes it could. In the kitchen it did.

I was very impressed that many of the guests did drink tea, and didn't just opt for the cold drinks that we'd also provided. Most of them even tried it with milk. Most of them added sugar too. One or two made themselves sweetened iced tea (yuk).

It was very mellow. A couple of families who we've got to know well stayed on after everyone else left (I'd sent them sneaky texts beforehand saying "you will stay on when everyone else has gone, won't you?"). Then we had a power outtage, which was symbolic, somehow. Perhaps I'd just overloaded the local bit of the national grid with my intense use of the kettle. So as it got darker and hotter in the house, we moved a table and chairs outside, where it was a little bit lighter and cooler. Husband was despatched to get Chinese take-away, and we sat in the dusk, making that beautiful transition from tea to wine, and sharing the evening with the fireflies. I love fireflies. 

It's an odd time at the moment. Not much daily routine. All the time there is an overwhelming amount of things to do, but we're also having parties and meals with friends, and fitting in family special times. Everything feels more mellow, more vivid, more fun, more its essential nature, in these days. There is an intensity in finality. We haven't quite got down to last goodbyes yet. No. Let's be honest. We have. We just haven't admitted it. "I'm sure I'll see you again before we go" is my staple way of avoiding a farewell. Only just over two weeks to go now, though, so who am I kidding?

Best Buy, or not so Best Buy...

We have not sold our house. We have reduced the price, which has generated precisely zero extra interest. We will therefore have to discuss Plan B with our realtor, which involves leaving the house empty behind us, for her to sell, and for a management company to look after, all the while paying the mortgage and utilities. That feels like the biggest waste of money since (oops, was about to make bad taste joke about the Titanic, just stopped myself). We haven't worked out Plan B yet. That's this week's job. Not the most appealing prospect, I have to say.

There is one person who I really, really want to buy the house. That would be the person who says "From the picture, I anticipated that the kitchen might be out-dated, but when I saw that fabulous brand-new Samsung range, I was won over. That was the clincher for me."

You want to know why? Well, it's because that would make worthwhile the $500, and the hassle, and the waiting in for delivery, and the 45 minutes on the phone to the Best Buy Geek Squad, which led to the conclusion that we bought a new range, which we didn't need. What we needed to do was remember that our fuse box is geriatric and moody, and that if you don't carefully love and fondle each switch before clicking it back into place, and then carefully love and fondle it again after doing so, then it won't stay, but will click out again, quietly and secretly when your back is turned.

Looking on the bright side... I now know how a range behaves when it's pulling 110 volts instead of 220, because I've seen two of them - one old, one brand spanking new - perform the trick. (I thought electricity was either on or off; I didn't know it could be on-ish.) Who knows when that could come in useful? I also know that when a Best Buy delivery man turns on four hobs, waits 5 seconds, waves his hand over the top of them and declares "yup, working fine", what he really means is "it'll probably work fine, and I'm off now". Another piece of knowledge that I've acquired in the process is that if you use the word 'cooker', Americans don't immediately know what you're referring to, and may even think you have domestic staff.

I also know that the Best Buy customer service phone line plays the most noisy, irritating and aggressive music possible. Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they have chosen something soothing and calming? Greensleeves perhaps, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Or something appropriately themed, selected according to the appliance that is causing the trouble? For me it could have been Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake Baker's Man, or Sing a Song of Sixpence (four and twenty blackbirds - remember?), or Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?, or You'll always find me in the Kitchen at Parties, or Hey Good Lookin', What ya got Cookin'? Blimey, SO many possibilities.

Anyway, back to the bright side, and  (and this really has been a bit of a bright side), I haven't had to cook for a week, which maybe, on mature reflection, was actually in itself worth $500 (not counting the cost of the Chinese bistro buffet at Dillons and the pizzas). I would break that down into $250 for the joy of not having to face the "What shall I do for dinner?" question every day, and $250 for the expression on two of my children's faces when I told them "Look on it as your golden opportunity to learn to love salad".

Come on, Universe.  I bought a new oven which I didn't need, which means that some Oven-Reconditioner somewhere at the very end of the Best Buy  chain of sub-contractors is happy, because he's got a perfectly-functioning oven when he expected an old wreck. The least you can do is send me a buyer for my house.

Holding it all together

Life can embrace extremes, and sometimes it's hard to hold those extremes together. If you put one in each hand, your left hand would drag your shoulder down towards the floor, and your right would shoot up above your head. 


I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?


I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.


Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.


The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation. 


"Can I go on the computer?" 
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can." 
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."


But today she cut to the chase.


"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."


So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.


That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:


Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).


And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted)  'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment.  I just can't.

Life at the extremes. Sometimes all you can do is hold out your hands.

Housework crisis: female vs male approach

It's a pain in the butt, keeping your house tidy and then whizzing round cleaning manically whenever a potential buyer wants to look round (can't they just browse and buy online like we do for everything else these days?) At least since Husband's term has ended, he's around and helps out. Women and men have a different approach to housework, don't they? Though there are some underlying similarities.

My stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. Never mind, there'll be quite a few others around the house in various cupboards. Husband always stocks up when he goes shopping… On the other hand, this could be a reason to go to Dillon’s and finish the cleaning later. There might be something on special offer and I could save some money. So it totally makes sense. Hm…Yes... That’s a good idea. I need a break anyway. I wonder if Anne-Marie would be free for a coffee in the Starbuck’s inside Dillon’s. That’s sensible - killing two birds with one stone. In fact, it would be silly to go to Dillon’s without seeing if she’s free. I’ll just call her… Dang it, she's not there. Left a message on her voice mail, so now I really have to go, because she might turn up and if I'm not there, that would be bad.

That’ll be one of the fun things about moving to Scotland. There’ll be some great coffee shops to discover in Edinburgh. I bet they’re really nice. There’s that one where J K Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Ooh, fun… All I need is a friend, or a book. Bookshops! Bet there are some nice bookshops in Edinburgh too. I wonder what people are reading these days in Scotland. Maggie O'Farrell - I love her. Has she written anything new recently I wonder? Or Alexander McCall Smith. Yes! Fabulous! What I really need is a bookshop with a coffee place inside it. Or just next door. Mmm… lots to explore.

Twenty minutes… I suppose I could just whip round with the vacuum, or do the kitchen. Not really worth it though. Can’t do much in twenty minutes. I know… I’ll just check my emails. That’s a really efficient use of time. Yay, me, for being so efficient. And I could just have a quick look at Amazon to see if there's a new Maggie O'Farrell. Or read one quick blog post. Wonder who's posted today.

Husband’s stream of consciousness

Oh bother, this bottle of bathroom cleaner has run out. I don’t think we have any more in the house anywhere. Funny that, because I always stock up on stuff like that when I go shopping. I suppose I could look, but actually, I think I’d better go to Home Depot instead. Yes. In fact, there are a few things I need from Home Depot, and I didn’t get them when I was there yesterday. Right. Home Depot it is. They have the best selection of cleaning fluids anyway. Much better than boring old Dillon’s.

Ooh, cleaning fluids! I wonder if any will be on special offer. I could really stock up. Oh, except we’re moving in 5 weeks’ time… But I’m sure we’ll use lots before then. Yes, I’ll stock up. Cleaning fluids… I wonder if they’re anywhere near the wood varnishes… or perhaps the high-powered solvents… paint-strippers… ant-killers… lawn fertilizers… mmm… so much to look at…

Home Depot… I’d better check out the tools while I’m there… Makes sense. Tools! Gadgets! Aisles full of them… Aaaah…

Home Depot… I wonder if HomeBase still exists in Britain. I can’t really imagine life in Britain without it. And B&Q! Oh yes! B&Q! Ooh, fun… Those super-size trolleys… I think I might still have my reward card in an old wallet somewhere. I wonder if my points are still valid. There are probably some really essential new pieces of DIY equipment in B&Q these days. I could have a look online. See what’s there. And if I see anything that would be really useful, I could check out if Home Depot has the equivalent. Cheaper to buy it here. Like that axe I got recently. Don’t know why Iota found that funny. Really useful thing to have. Our house has an open fire, and is right next to some woods. I’ll be using an axe. Definitely made sense. Wonder what else we need. Yes… Before I go, I’ll just have a look at the B&Q website and get an idea of prices.

.

"You saved my life"

Today I went to say goodbye to my doctor. I think technically it was an annual well woman appointment, but that was just the cover story. I like my doctor so much, and find him so easy to talk to, that after I'd been through breast cancer, I got him to remove three moles from my back. That was a good 20-30 minutes chat time, lying on my front on a table. If I had grown up with a health service which allows more than 10 minutes for a visit to the GP, I could probably have just made an appointment and said "I want to ask lots of things about cancer that I wasn't able to focus on at the time", but I still have a residual vaguely guilty feeling about wasting a GP's time if you're not actually dying, and so I pleaded suspicious moles instead. Two of them were normal, but one of them was pre-cancerous, which just shows that the lab technician who analysed them didn't know his or her Latin, because actually it was post-cancerous.

Anyway, I got quite mushy in the Doctor's Office. I walked in at 9.00am, and there was one person sitting in the waiting room. What's up, I wonder? Isn't anyone ill any more these days? What are they all doing with themselves? Being healthy? So I thought to myself "Oh good, he'll have time to chat", and indeed he did. I told him all about moving to Scotland, and asked about what records would be useful to copy and take. Apparently all of them (or it's easier for the medical records people to copy the lot, rather than riffle through and pick out the juicy bits). So no doubt I'll have a few box loads of paper to replace the stuff I'm daily throwing out as we sort our house contents in preparation for the move. In these electronic days, it is unbelievable the amount of paperwork that the medical world generates. I sign a form every time I go to that office to say that none of my details have changed: address, telephone number, insurer, date of birth, etc... Hang on a minute. Why is my date of birth on there? How could that possibly change?

Of course one of the tricky things about saying goodbye to a GP, is that you don't know for sure you're not going to see him again - unless you arrange to have the annual well woman appointment on the way to the airport. I feel I've rather tempted fate, by having a closure-y type conversation with him. One of the kids is absolutely bound to get an unusual virus now, aren't they? But I didn't want to just let him do the usual prodding and poking and extracting and be on my way. I wanted to say some things to him, one of which was "You saved my life". I believe that to be true - or at least I believe it to be a real possibility. Of course I won't ever know what would have happened if he'd taken the word of the mammogram radiographer on two separate occasions, and said "you got the all-clear" to me, instead of "I'd really like you to have a second opinion". And you might say he was just doing his job. But there's vigilance and there's vigilance, and I think... well, I said it anyway, and his eyes looked a bit moist at that point.

It's been an education

I’m glad you enjoyed my great-great-aunt Bessie’s diary. In answer to those of you who wondered if she kept diaries beyond this one, I don’t know of any, but I will have to ask around in the family.

Now back to 2012, and with the school year drawing to a close, I have been in reflective mood. For us, it’s not just the end of the academic year, but the end of my kids’ school careers in America. Here is a letter to each of them (though only for blog readers’ eyes, not theirs).

Dear 11-yo,

Your time at school here has neatly fitted into and filled the elementary years. You started in Kindergarten and you have just graduated from Fifth Grade. You began and ended our time in America at the same school. I have loved going through the last couple of weeks of Fifth Grade with you, “crazy busy weeks” as all we moms remark to each other. Every event has felt like the scribing of a closing parenthesis, an opportunity to think back to the drawing of the opening parenthesis. How different the one is from the other!

(Field Day), for example. I loved my final Field Day. I felt mellow, relaxed, happy. I know so many of the moms, the teachers, the kids. I know what snow cones are. I know what to expect. I know what to volunteer for, and – crucially – what to avoid. I know how to be me in that situation. Five years ago was my first Field Day (I wrote a blog post about it), and it was all so new. New and fun, new and exciting, but new and unsettling too. I knew hardly anyone. I wondered what a snow cone was. I was trying to be someone, but without knowing who.

(Talk about Scotland), for another example. I came into your class to talk about Scotland and your new school. You and I did a PowerPoint presentation together. That’s what Fifth Graders do. You’d helped me put it together, looking for pictures of Edinburgh Castle and Loch Ness on Google Images. I remember coming into Kindergarten to talk about Scotland and your old school.  I’d asked you beforehand what differences you’d noticed between school in Scotland and school in America. You said “When we line up in America to go to a different classroom or out into the playground, we just line up in a line. In Scotland, when we lined up, we had a partner and we had to hold hands.” “Anything else?” “Those hanging-down things in the dining room. We didn’t have those in Scotland.” America. Land of the free, home of the brave, nation of moveable track-mounted partitions in school dining rooms.

Dear 8-yo,

You were a tot when we came to America. You started at a “Mom’s Day Out” one morning a week. You were in a little class of five girls. You loved it. Next was pre-school, a year of Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, and then a year of five mornings a week. You were so ready for school when the time came. I’d lost my hair to chemotherapy when you started Kindergarten. I hoped I didn’t embarrass you, coming into the classroom to help with “reading centers” in my cap.

Now you’re finishing Second Grade. There was one day last week when all the other grades were out on field trips, and the teachers let you run through the hallways shouting “Second Grade Rules!” I agree. You do!

You’re still not quite big enough and brave enough to stand outside the school door next to that gaggle of fourth and fifth graders, but you hate to be late, so we have to time our morning arrival to the minute. You’re half way through elementary school – “grade school” as they call it – and your tot days seem very distant indeed.

Dear 14-yo,

You’ve experienced all three stages of American schooling. A year and a half in elementary school, three in middle school, and one in high school. Middle School in the parentheses of Elementary School and High School. More parentheses! The three schools are all part of one school, on one campus, and I’ve been glad for that. The transitions have been easy.

Your round, full fourth-grade face is now shaped and chiseled, with cheek bones and a chin. You regularly check to see if you’re taller than me, and last time we compared, we decided that yes, that day had come. Your legs and arms are those of a sportsman. Your backpack is sometimes so heavy, I hesitate to lift it, but you swing it over a shoulder multiple times a day. You’ve seen all three stages, but I’m sure it’s the High School year that will remain with you most. You’ve loved the freedom, the fun, the adult-ness of it.

You’ve borne the brunt of our parental ignorance. You’ve had to teach us as you’ve learnt. “Getting to Regionals is a big deal, Mom.” “Everyone calls Coach ‘Coach’.” “If the flag touches the ground when you take it down, they have to throw it away (but I don’t think they always do).”

You came as a child, and you leave with the man in you emerging, almost here. You walk tall. The school has served you well.

Everyone clucked their teeth as we left Scotland. I know they did, even if they didn’t do it to my face. Schools… education… what would it be like? How would they compare? How would our children ever fit back into the British system? And I’d be lying if I denied that their unspoken thoughts tapped into my own deep anxieties. Let’s face it, education is something of a British obsession. I just held on to the thought that whatever they lost in flip-flopping between education systems, they would gain in life experience.

You know what? The education has been one of the greatest benefits of our time here. At their schools, our children have been motivated, stretched, enthusiastic, (well, at times enthusiastic-ish), and – most important by a long chalk – happy.  I’ve probably got rose-tinted specs on, feeling a little sentimental as we leave, and we haven't done the "fitting back in" yet, but the specs are only slightly tinted and I'm feeling confident about the "fitting back in".  I’ve had my reservations off and on about some of the academics (weekly newsletters from teachers with grammar and spelling mistakes), and there was a year when one of them wasn’t happy, but wasn’t exactly unhappy either. Otherwise, they’ve been happy - truly happy. Three children, for a combined total of 14 school years, happy. That’s an A+ for the schools here, in my book.