Sitting in the vulnerable position- under the hairdresser's color brush and foils - I told her how I was looking forward to the faculty Christmas party.
"Did you buy a dress?" Pantine asked as she worked her magic.
"I plan to go shopping this afternoon," I replied, "but I'm not exactly sure how to dress for this event. The theme for the evening is 'New York'."
"Oh right," she said. "That is a difficult one. Gosh. I mean what do they expect you to do after all? Go as the Eiffel Tower?"
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Here comes Santa Claus(es)
As I plodded into the town center, I saw in the distance a gang of Santas all clad in their red and white jingle suits who, from that distance, looked like they were going to audition for a role in a small town production of Miracle on 34th Street. “Festive,” I thought and grinned alongside all of the other passersby. When I got closer I realized they were a bunch of jolly, middle aged British ladies who quite literally stopped traffic (intentionally) as they paraded into the heart of Weybridge. Their hats rested at precarious angles on their heads, their coats open, revealing an array of colored stripes, bulges, and belly. Paper number signs were ironically pinned on their backs as if they were about to run a marathon. One brandished a small paper towel roll – It’s a scepter. No! a wand. Now it’s a traffic baton!! – in the middle of Church Street on a Sunday, stopping traffic.
I crossed the street with them as they continued their merriment in whichever direction they were headed. For a brief, fleeting second I found courage to ask them what they were doing, and I even toyed with the idea of joining them or following them to their festival to take a journalistic peek at the very least. But then imagination is so much juicier than reality, innit. Plus, I am much less bold than they, and so into the coffee house I ducked to write about it.
I crossed the street with them as they continued their merriment in whichever direction they were headed. For a brief, fleeting second I found courage to ask them what they were doing, and I even toyed with the idea of joining them or following them to their festival to take a journalistic peek at the very least. But then imagination is so much juicier than reality, innit. Plus, I am much less bold than they, and so into the coffee house I ducked to write about it.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
So cozy here
So, it gets dark at 4:00pm here. That means the sun starts to set at 2:00, or so it seems. The sun is brighter right before it sets and emits a dream-like brightness, a quality amplified by the umber shadows. Because of this my internal clock goes all cozy at around 3:00.
To complicate things, I usually leave work by 4:00 - after dark - and instead of rebounding (a small rest followed by either excercise or wine, depending on the day) like I did in Texas, I immediately get in my pajamas and lay on the cozy, beckoning couch. I may or may not make dinner opting for Chinese food instead and find myself too tired to play with Jack which means enduring hours of Scooby Doo with the occasional storm trooper battle until I drag myself to bed around 8:30.
This is unhealthy. I understand this, and yet..
I imagine that if I went outside for a walk (in the dark, cold outside), I might enjoy the Christmas lights. I might see other moms pushing prams, and I might, dear Lord, make a friend here. All of that sounds ludicrous, especially the dark, cold outside part.
SO I make this vow: In April, a new rowing class starts.. as in I will row a boat on the River Thames. The class will kick my ass and my abs and my legs. The arm work out is a given.
I welcome the ass kicking.
Until then, it's Shaggy and Scooby accidentally solving mysteries with all the other meddling kids while I, in my winter hybernating state, store food in my belly (and in my thighs) , and justify my laziness by doing endless amounts of homework.
To complicate things, I usually leave work by 4:00 - after dark - and instead of rebounding (a small rest followed by either excercise or wine, depending on the day) like I did in Texas, I immediately get in my pajamas and lay on the cozy, beckoning couch. I may or may not make dinner opting for Chinese food instead and find myself too tired to play with Jack which means enduring hours of Scooby Doo with the occasional storm trooper battle until I drag myself to bed around 8:30.
This is unhealthy. I understand this, and yet..
I imagine that if I went outside for a walk (in the dark, cold outside), I might enjoy the Christmas lights. I might see other moms pushing prams, and I might, dear Lord, make a friend here. All of that sounds ludicrous, especially the dark, cold outside part.
SO I make this vow: In April, a new rowing class starts.. as in I will row a boat on the River Thames. The class will kick my ass and my abs and my legs. The arm work out is a given.
I welcome the ass kicking.
Until then, it's Shaggy and Scooby accidentally solving mysteries with all the other meddling kids while I, in my winter hybernating state, store food in my belly (and in my thighs) , and justify my laziness by doing endless amounts of homework.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
New Holiday Songs
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Saturday, November 05, 2011
We went to the Anne of Cleves (as in named after Henry VIII's wife) for our first Guy Fawkes celebration. Technically there should've been a bonfire, but we opted for family carnival, bouncy houses, and fireworks instead. What a fun night in Weybridge!!!
Friday, November 04, 2011
What are you doing this week end?
It still sounds so bizarre to say, "Yeah, we're going into London tonight to meet friends. What are you doing this week end?" like it's no big deal.
Technically for the folks who live here it would sound like Arlington folks saying, "Yeah, I'm going into Dallas for the evening". Going into the city for a night out is kind of cool because somehow hanging out with other urban-ites sounds sophisticated and cool. But it's a whole 'nother layer of cool for the urban atmosphere to be London.
Because it's freakin' LONDON, people. And I live here now.
Truth.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
simple things
We found a place where we can enjoy burgers with American cheese, edimame, AND beer. Cheers to Giraffe, the kid friendly restaurant in Walton on Thames!!! And Thanks for being totally cool when my son announced to you that he had a poopy diaper..
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Leave it be, lady.
"I'm just going to say it. Parents these days! Lettin' their kids play video games at the dinner table. It stunts their growth, you know.."
Husband nods, all shifty eyed.
"They won't be able to have conversations," the wife said a little too loud to be private.
I turned their table next to ours and said, "Excuse me? Seriously? First of all, welcome to the modern world. Secondly, it's been a while since we've been to a restaurant. A long while. And do you know what happens at restaurants? Conversations, that's what. Adult ones that don't involve topics like "going tee tee in the potty", counting to ten in the correct numerical order, or reading Tinker Bell. Don't I deserve one night a month? One? Where I am not singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider? One where I'm not begging my three year old to take a bath, eat his supper, or go to bed? Seriously. ONE FREAKING VIDEO GAME while we wait for the waiter to come with food that isn't mac-n-cheese, chicken nuggets, or pancakes? One game that is actually educational - choose the color, the shape or the number? SCREW YOU LADY and your uninforned, hoity-toity rambling!"
What I really said was... nothing. I said nothing. I felt the weight of her comments on my back as my son, for 10 minutes, colored on his DS (using words like "stylus" correctly) while Rich and I sipped wine, ordered dishes that included incredients like aubergine, and talked about how ridiculously hard our day had been.
Husband nods, all shifty eyed.
"They won't be able to have conversations," the wife said a little too loud to be private.
I turned their table next to ours and said, "Excuse me? Seriously? First of all, welcome to the modern world. Secondly, it's been a while since we've been to a restaurant. A long while. And do you know what happens at restaurants? Conversations, that's what. Adult ones that don't involve topics like "going tee tee in the potty", counting to ten in the correct numerical order, or reading Tinker Bell. Don't I deserve one night a month? One? Where I am not singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider? One where I'm not begging my three year old to take a bath, eat his supper, or go to bed? Seriously. ONE FREAKING VIDEO GAME while we wait for the waiter to come with food that isn't mac-n-cheese, chicken nuggets, or pancakes? One game that is actually educational - choose the color, the shape or the number? SCREW YOU LADY and your uninforned, hoity-toity rambling!"
What I really said was... nothing. I said nothing. I felt the weight of her comments on my back as my son, for 10 minutes, colored on his DS (using words like "stylus" correctly) while Rich and I sipped wine, ordered dishes that included incredients like aubergine, and talked about how ridiculously hard our day had been.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
He said, she thought - and that rarely turns out well..
He was kissing me good night - in a very platonic British way which still sometimes feels a little awkward (especially when he does it to my husband) - when it hit me. Well actually, he thought it hit him first, hitting me in a more informed way, but then it was supposed to shoot back to him, wrapped in a glossy package of understanding.. by osmosis. Instead, the point I was trying to make rebounded itself over his right shoulder, flew into the chilly Surrey air, finding its tarmac a street gutter.
I must have flinched.
Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."
I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"
Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"
Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.
"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.
I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.
For the record, I am. Completely blessed.
If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.
Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.
And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.
In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.
For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..
After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them? What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?
All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.
I must have flinched.
Sensing my stress, he said, "You know, you are so blessed! Just be happy! All you need to do is meditate."
I said, "Fuck off!! Seriously. You think I haven't tried that?"
Actually, I didn't say that. My mumbled reply was something like, "Really? You know.. Um.. Really? You think that's the issue?"
Or maybe I didn't say anything out loud, but I must have at least looked uncertain.
"You are so blessed," he reiterated as he pointed up at my new place.
I didn't have to look at the soft glow emanating from the little apartment above the shoe shop here on Queens Street to know that he was right about the blessed part.
For the record, I am. Completely blessed.
If blessed means being brave enough to completely decimate my old life - leaving my job, my dear family and friends, my roomy suburban house, a good job, financial stability.. my comfort zone - to come to an entirely new country and move into a tiny apartment above a shoe shop where I can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, to try my hand at international teaching - privileged kids, no less- to sell two cars (my husband's and mine) to afford one and then drive it white knuckled on the "wrong" side of the road, to have to make a mathematical conversion every time I want to know the weather or cook a meal, to not know cultural nuances or if/ when to tip, to have to scrutinize the size and value of every coin in my purse to pay, holding up the line at the grocery store.. then yes. I am. I even made the transition with a 3 year old boy who happens to be blossoming here.
Yes. Yes. I am BLESSED.
And I mean that with sincerity because only a blessed life gets an option.
In that moment, however, I didn't feel blessed. I felt sad. I felt like life is hard.. because it is.
For a while I wouldn't allow myself the negative emotion because here I am in England - an English speaking country that I LOVE, a place where I have a really good friend who picked me up at the airport, whose family helped me beyond measure when I first arrived and had no bed to sleep in; the very one that suggested I meditate. This is a place that was and remains my number one on the list of "Where I Would Consider Moving My Family, For Reals Y'all", surpassing places like Morocco and Libya, but placed after Norway and Switzerland. I spent years applying - hoping - afraid - bold - begging - waiting - praying..
After confirming my job position, I spent the summer begging banks for money transfers, arranging for the new apartment, praying someone would rent my house "in this horrendous market", wondering if I made the right decision to uproot my son from a place and person he adored to go somewhere so far away. And what about my family? What was I doing to them? What about my new position? Would it pan out? What, exactly, was I running away from? Or was it as I said - that I wanted a new start - an international experience for my son, for me, for my husband?
All of this - the epiphany that jolted through my body at a seemingly simple solution - to meditate or not to meditate..
I squared my friends shoulders and pointed to my temple. "I know that," I said. "I know that I am blessed, that I am living this dream of mine, but the problem is my brain doesn't get it. Neither does my heart. That's the problem. I have anxiety! It's not something that just goes away because I will it to."
What I meant was, please allow me a transition, friend. What has happened to (for) me - what I've made happen to me - is HUGE. And yes, I may need to meditate more - to, as my native Texans might say, "Hold onto my butt" a little longer, but as my epiphany that night suggested, I need to also allow myself to de-stress, to allow myself some transition time in this foreign place, to mourn the fact that I'm not around the majority of those who love me and no longer accessible to those who seriously, with heavy hearts NEED me, to allow for the understanding that meditation will come.. but not now. And not for a while.. At least not until I learn how to sleep through the night here in my very blessed apartment, on my glowingly safe street, in this new place, England.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Cornwall Holiday 2011
Cornwall Holiday 2011, a set on Flickr.
Our first official family vacation in Cornwall, England. We rented a cottage in a tiny town near Sennan. The cottage is called Kitticarn and was an excellent hub from which we visited Tintagel, The Eden Project, St. Ives, Lands End, Padstow, Penzance, St. Michaels Mount and Marizan. As a bonus we stopped at Stonehenge (pictures forthcoming) where I ran into a student (as it always happens). We also stopped in Exeter to buy a coat..
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Boho Rebound
I bit the bullet, my back against the wall; my cupboard was bereft of coffee, my body begging for it. I went downstairs to Boho , the little tea and coffee shop two doors down from my above-the- shoe-shop flat. I hadn’t been there since the owner summarily chided Jack (and me by proxy) about being too enthusiastic on the premises.
The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.
By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.
I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.
The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.
The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.
Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.
And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.
But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.
We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.
The story goes that Jack came bounding into the coffee shop – genuinely happy for the first time living in England, having had a nice day at his brand new (at the time) “school” – and bounced into a chair to see over the counter and order “Milk and cookies, please!” He decided in his own three-year-old way that he was a regular, and anyway, we are also neighbors. The owner, all blond and gorgeous in her throaty Eastern European accent, snarled “We do not allow shoes on the chairs here.” She then grimaced and turned her back on us.
By the time milk and cookies arrived, my feelings were deeply hurt. Probably it wasn’t a big deal, and probably I shouldn’t have dwelled on it too much. More than likely, she forgot that she said it in the first place and didn’t mean anything personal by it. Could it be a language barrier married to a harsh sounding dialect? Was I especially sensitive that day? Then again, any civilized person knows that it is rude to put your feet on someone’s living room chair. I knew this at the time, but bit my bottom lip, trying to feel anger instead of embarrassment.
I felt stung and had ill feelings every time I walked by afterward. I wanted so much to build community, especially with those on my street – my literal neighbors who not only own the shop but who live above it as well. It felt ruined somehow.
The fact is it might be the coolest place on my street. Its tiny windows face the big church on Queens Street and advertise, in twirly letters, latte and cream tea. Tiered dishes of cupcakes and pastry beckon passersby into the shop. Little wooden bistro sets stand out front and beside the shop is a covered patio that houses several more colorful seating areas with polka-dot cushions.
The tea is served in individual tea pots, all of them different from the others. It’s like the owner collected them on her travels and now we get to share her experiences via Earl grey and steamed milk. The inside is a happy space – small counter, wooden furniture, great view. Boho is always packed in the morning with people reading daily newspapers and sipping on espresso, people who, mid dog-walk , popped in for a coffee, people who make it part of their daily routines to stop and chat with other towns folk next to a warm and cozy pot of English Breakfast tea.
Boho opens and closes on a whim. I’m not sure what the hours are, nor does it make any difference. Small town law dictates that if one needs to close shop to catch a football match, or visit a neighbor, or take a nap - it’s fine. Probably most other folks are doing the same.
And that’s why I was sad that I felt icky about going back.
But as I’ve already stated, there was a dire need last week end. Jack and I stumbled out of our door onto the sidewalk and took our time walking to Boho. The tinkling bell announced our arrival and we ordered one white coffee (that’s coffee with milk), one breakfast pastry (cinnamon apple), one glass of cold milk (because sometimes they steam it), and a chocolate cookie.
We sat on the covered patio and enjoyed our treat, the hurt feelings comforted a little with every tasty sip.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Launderette
I remember the day Rich and I bought our washer and dryer. We had just moved out of our apartment and were spending loads of time overcharging our credit cards with things that we “needed” for our new, seemingly huge house in suburbia, Metroplex. The washer and dryer were of particular importance because we had this conversation:
“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”
“Yep.”
“That probably makes us grown-ups.”
“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool!”
Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.
The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.
At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.
I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.
On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.
I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!
Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.
Today is laundry day!
“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”
“Yep.”
“That probably makes us grown-ups.”
“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool!”
Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.
The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.
At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.
I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.
On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.
I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!
Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.
Today is laundry day!
Actually LIVING here
Then other day I received an email from a dear friend who wanted to know all about where I live and what it is like for me here. She, more than most, understands how amazing it is that I’ve made this particular move to London, as she’s been here with me a couple of times and has seen the way I light up the second my shoes hit England’s glorious spongy grass. Also, she was among those poor souls who survived my first, most vulnerable year teaching when she was twelve. Now she’s twenty five.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Considering September 12th
(Hi Mom, don’t read this..)
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Out and About
Visit pics on the Flickr of last week ends whirlwind road trip to Bristol for the International Kite Festival, Glastonbury Abbey, and a ride on a refurbished steam engine! :)
Monday, August 29, 2011
On Buying Bread and Other Existential Crises
I panicked buying bread the other day.
It’s not really worth mentioning except that it kind of illustrates the whole of my existential being lately. It was one of those things: Me standing in a supermarket aisle full of bread – sliced, whole wheat, iron fortified, and baguette – when I heard myself sputter and crack a little.
Anywhere we’ve ever travelled Rich’s philosophy when eating was to order bravely. “Yes, I’ll take the duck spam special!” or “One curry-wurst please”. And of course, who could forget the time when “I’ll take the sprout and tarter sandwich on a penis loaf,” came fumbling out of his mouth? The point is Rich knows to order bravely when on vacation because, as he puts it, “There’s always bread in case I don’t like what I ordered.”
I’m the say way.
(Minus the penis loaf.)
What I mean is change the food metaphor into experiencing anything while travelling and I can honestly say that I’m the same kind of brave.
This morning, I took a leisurely tour around my blogging community, not having been around for a while since I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with turning my world up-side-down. One of my favorite bloggers, K A B L O O E Y, a hilariously dead-pan writer who enjoys the irony in life as much as any realistic mother living in a surrealistic world can, wrote about vacationing this week. She talked about the fact that when, for example, on a cruise, she finds herself conversing with people and sharing experiences with them more than she does in her day-to-day life. She said she would normally rather “juggle flaming batons” than “work a room” in her community and attributes her bravery to the fact that she isn’t held accountable for who she is among folks who don’t send their kids to the same school or other folks she sees on a daily basis.
The second I read that, it occurred to me what happened in the bread aisle. Like K A B L O O E Y, I lose my inhibitions when I travel. The hard truth is I like who I am better when out of town because there is no baggage tied to me. I become more friendly and convivial, and it’s evident. My body feels less deflated, my shoulders straighten for once, and there is color- actual rose colored life- in my cheeks. I love travelling!
Herein lies the conflict: I have never been to England other than in that capacity. My expectations about this place are skewed.
When I dreamed of living here, I thought I might skip down to my little Boho coffee and tea shop every morning under a gray sky, brolly at the ready. I would order a cuppa and peruse the morning paper a little, rolling my eyes at the headlines and willing myself to remember an important and upcoming town event. I would be Rory and Lorelai in one – waving at other locals, witticisms and pop culture references dripping off my tongue. People would say hello to me by name and we would have running jokes about the town eccentric. Then I would need to “dash” to catch a train on which I could sit and meditate through what my day would be like at work before I had to actually immerse myself in it.
Instead here’s the reality: Every morning I have to hurry like a mad woman to get the family out the door and Jack to his nursery. Rich practically runs Jack around the block while I stumble to the car in heels not meant for cross-country, cobble stone marathons. I don’t mind the drizzle, except that holding a brolly and coffee and my school bag while tripping down a street isn’t ideal. I get into the car, parked blocks away, and white knuckle my way down a very tiny lane to pick up Rich who tries desperately every morning to swiftly drop off Jack despite the lovely child-minder’s efforts to engage him in conversations about the best way to trim the hedges and a very kind man named Mr. Innocent.
I don’t go in because I’m much more whimpy than Rich and will stay and listen politely instead of interrupting to say that we’re late and I’m sorry but we can’t talk right now. Rich can do that. And when he does, he leaps into the car and we hurry up and wait in traffic for twenty minutes (if we’re lucky) on the way to work, dodging cyclists and buses anytime the rpm goes above 0.0. Forget a leisurely morning. Forget speaking to anyone. Forget “dashing” and/ or meditating, and insert soul crushing anxiety about being on time to work.
(Oops, here's an aside:
After one particularly difficult day at work, we picked up Jack and promised him milk and cookies at the Boho tea shop downstairs from our flat. He bounded in like a playful puppy and into a chair by the counter. Before I could get there, he stood up so that he could see over the counter-top and enthusiastically said, “Milk and cookies, please!” to the attendant. The second I thought, “Look how comfortable he is here,” and “this is a lovely hang out for us after school!” the lady at the counter turned to me and snarled,
“We do not allow shoes on the furniture here.”
End aside)
The reality of all of this manifested itself in the bread aisle at Tescos. I’m not on vacation. I live here. No one, including me, is obligated to be anything other than routinely deflated – by our jobs, by our frantic schedules, by our rent payments.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Most days I'll stand on anyone's chair and freely wave my Union Jack. I’m glad to be buying bread, and possbibly this is the most brave thing I've ever done, other than raising a child. It's worth it to be here.
I am living my dream in England, but it turns out, that like any place that isn't vacation, there happens to be an inhibitive reality here. I've only just realized it.
It’s not really worth mentioning except that it kind of illustrates the whole of my existential being lately. It was one of those things: Me standing in a supermarket aisle full of bread – sliced, whole wheat, iron fortified, and baguette – when I heard myself sputter and crack a little.
Anywhere we’ve ever travelled Rich’s philosophy when eating was to order bravely. “Yes, I’ll take the duck spam special!” or “One curry-wurst please”. And of course, who could forget the time when “I’ll take the sprout and tarter sandwich on a penis loaf,” came fumbling out of his mouth? The point is Rich knows to order bravely when on vacation because, as he puts it, “There’s always bread in case I don’t like what I ordered.”
I’m the say way.
(Minus the penis loaf.)
What I mean is change the food metaphor into experiencing anything while travelling and I can honestly say that I’m the same kind of brave.
This morning, I took a leisurely tour around my blogging community, not having been around for a while since I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with turning my world up-side-down. One of my favorite bloggers, K A B L O O E Y, a hilariously dead-pan writer who enjoys the irony in life as much as any realistic mother living in a surrealistic world can, wrote about vacationing this week. She talked about the fact that when, for example, on a cruise, she finds herself conversing with people and sharing experiences with them more than she does in her day-to-day life. She said she would normally rather “juggle flaming batons” than “work a room” in her community and attributes her bravery to the fact that she isn’t held accountable for who she is among folks who don’t send their kids to the same school or other folks she sees on a daily basis.
The second I read that, it occurred to me what happened in the bread aisle. Like K A B L O O E Y, I lose my inhibitions when I travel. The hard truth is I like who I am better when out of town because there is no baggage tied to me. I become more friendly and convivial, and it’s evident. My body feels less deflated, my shoulders straighten for once, and there is color- actual rose colored life- in my cheeks. I love travelling!
Herein lies the conflict: I have never been to England other than in that capacity. My expectations about this place are skewed.
When I dreamed of living here, I thought I might skip down to my little Boho coffee and tea shop every morning under a gray sky, brolly at the ready. I would order a cuppa and peruse the morning paper a little, rolling my eyes at the headlines and willing myself to remember an important and upcoming town event. I would be Rory and Lorelai in one – waving at other locals, witticisms and pop culture references dripping off my tongue. People would say hello to me by name and we would have running jokes about the town eccentric. Then I would need to “dash” to catch a train on which I could sit and meditate through what my day would be like at work before I had to actually immerse myself in it.
Instead here’s the reality: Every morning I have to hurry like a mad woman to get the family out the door and Jack to his nursery. Rich practically runs Jack around the block while I stumble to the car in heels not meant for cross-country, cobble stone marathons. I don’t mind the drizzle, except that holding a brolly and coffee and my school bag while tripping down a street isn’t ideal. I get into the car, parked blocks away, and white knuckle my way down a very tiny lane to pick up Rich who tries desperately every morning to swiftly drop off Jack despite the lovely child-minder’s efforts to engage him in conversations about the best way to trim the hedges and a very kind man named Mr. Innocent.
I don’t go in because I’m much more whimpy than Rich and will stay and listen politely instead of interrupting to say that we’re late and I’m sorry but we can’t talk right now. Rich can do that. And when he does, he leaps into the car and we hurry up and wait in traffic for twenty minutes (if we’re lucky) on the way to work, dodging cyclists and buses anytime the rpm goes above 0.0. Forget a leisurely morning. Forget speaking to anyone. Forget “dashing” and/ or meditating, and insert soul crushing anxiety about being on time to work.
(Oops, here's an aside:
After one particularly difficult day at work, we picked up Jack and promised him milk and cookies at the Boho tea shop downstairs from our flat. He bounded in like a playful puppy and into a chair by the counter. Before I could get there, he stood up so that he could see over the counter-top and enthusiastically said, “Milk and cookies, please!” to the attendant. The second I thought, “Look how comfortable he is here,” and “this is a lovely hang out for us after school!” the lady at the counter turned to me and snarled,
“We do not allow shoes on the furniture here.”
End aside)
The reality of all of this manifested itself in the bread aisle at Tescos. I’m not on vacation. I live here. No one, including me, is obligated to be anything other than routinely deflated – by our jobs, by our frantic schedules, by our rent payments.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Most days I'll stand on anyone's chair and freely wave my Union Jack. I’m glad to be buying bread, and possbibly this is the most brave thing I've ever done, other than raising a child. It's worth it to be here.
I am living my dream in England, but it turns out, that like any place that isn't vacation, there happens to be an inhibitive reality here. I've only just realized it.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Condition of my Back
Probably I shouldn’t write about my school in any form that can later be downloaded and printed off for lawyers to peruse for my trial – the one that happens after I’ve completely cracked and phoned every student or parent who was ever mean and told them what they could go and do with themselves. And you know I would never actually mention names in my writing.. mostly because I can’t remember them. HOWEVER, I do need to mention the fact that tomorrow I step into an entirely new academic dimension – one where there is no mask about privilege ruling supreme, where kids are treated as royalty, probably because they actually are royals.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Toilets Don’t Flush the Same and Things More or Less Awkward
So first of all, I’ve learned a new way to greet people.
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”
It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”
And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**
So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.
Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.
And they don’t have them here in England.
In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)
Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***
Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.
“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.
*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.
** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.
***Probably this is a paraphrase
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”
It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”
And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**
So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.
Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.
And they don’t have them here in England.
In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)
Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***
Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.
“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.
*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.
** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.
***Probably this is a paraphrase
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Shoe Shocked
Muslim culture’s tradition of taking off one’s shoes at the door before entering someone’s home leaves this Western girl feeling insecure and uncertain about how best to move forward. In my culture shoes are essential. I’ve been taught that feet are dirty, that you can’t walk into a restaurant, convenience store, or any kind of market without them or if you do, you take a serious risk of either being kicked out or at the very least reprimanded by clerks and/or forthright patrons. It is an unwavering rule – No shirt, No shoes, No service. I’ve even found myself having acrimonious thoughts towards little children who sashay barefoot into places with their thoughtless mothers. How could any responsible mother allow her child to be subject to the many hazards and germs that foot to floor contact elicits? Worse, how could any responsible adult let another person leave germs and other hazards behind for unsuspecting, shoe clad people to muck through? If it weren’t a big deal, then why do shoe stores offer hosiery for trying on shoes? “Forget your socks? No problem. Have a footie,” reads a sign at DSW. It comforts me. At least I know that if someone tried on a pair of shoes I might buy, I can rest assured that probably no one’s stinky feet have actually touched my inner soles. Even in my childhood household, shoes were required in the kitchen, just as hairbrushes had to stay out.
It is these thoughts that hung over me as I stood on my sweet Muslim friends’ doorstep yesterday. Without more than a couple of natural movements, four people breezed through the front door, leaving their shoes in a nonchalant, cluttered pile. I, on the other hand, hesitated.
At least three years have passed since I remember walking into their home, not noticing that everyone had removed their shoes but me. Several hours into the visit I realized my error. Of course, the family was too nice to mention it, but I felt incredibly rude for being insensitive to that particular cultural norm. I remember trying to tuck my clunky shoed feet underneath furniture so as to hide my faux pas, and yet all I could stare at was everyone else’s toes.
And here, again, came the moment; it was time to behave as everyone else did and take off my shoes at the door. I felt like the others were watching me in anticipation. I was sure they were thinking, “Will she do it right this time?” or “Remember last time when she left her shoes on? They were sliders. She easily could’ve removed them!” or “Westerners. How arrogant!” Of course they weren’t thinking those thoughts. They’re much too kind to expel that kind of venom. Plus, rationally I am aware that not everyone has such specific memory about my flaws as I do. It probably wasn’t important to them in the first place. Still, as if I were stepping over a gated fence, I put one foot through the door and then the other. I slid into the nearest chair close by, and leaned down to take off my shoes. I kicked them to the side into the pile at the door and quickly curled my toes under my feet, afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed my angst.
Just then, a neighbor apparently walked by, as all of a sudden one of the little girls popped up and said, “Look! It’s so and so and her son!” She was pointing out the window behind me and hopping up and down excitedly. Everyone else perked up, too, looking around my form out the window. “Invite them in,” my friend said. “Yes do! Hurry!” another echoed. The little girl ran out of the front door, skipping over the pile of shoes, and insisted that her neighbors come in for a moment. Of course they did, as the hospitality of Islam encourages, and they also took off their shoes, adding them to the pile.
The woman stayed for a cup of tea and immediately drummed up a conversation about the circumcision of her 9 year old son which would be happening next week. She asked questions about what circumcision entailed, specifically, how to keep the “affected area” treated and dressed immediately after the procedure, and what the benefits of having it done were. They talked about the Islamic philosophy of circumcision, of characters in the Bible who had it done (one very specifically with an axe while he was in his nineties), the fact that someone’s grandfather did the procedure so rapidly, that he engaged in a competition with a local medical doctor to see who could circumcise the most boys in the fastest time. It was a circum-size-off! Boys lined up in two rows – one for the doctor, one for the grandfather, and someone ran a timer. Apparently, and according to the reenactment gesticulations of “snip and throw,” everyone in the living room smiled and nodded, one person even applauded, at the news that the grandfather won by a landslide.
During this entire conversation – which happened to be as bizarre and non sequitur as it is to you, the reader, as it was to me, the listener - all I could think about was finding a pair of socks.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tid Bits
#1 – So it turns out that early morning in England gives one license to try their hand at driving like Mario Andretti, a reckless one. Take my nervousness about looking in the correct direction – which in my estimation, is the incorrect direction, as cars drive on the other side of the road. A lifetime of looking left and right for safety becomes null and void in a land of roundabouts and zippy drivers. The product of my insecurity is me on a curb doing something akin to the pee pee dance: Go now. No wait. Go now. No wait. Now! … Wait! (and so on).
I’m a curb dancing Saturday Night Live sketch - funny at first, but then it drags on far too long, until it’s just sadly annoying. You wonder why you’re wasting your time watching, yet you hope the next one will be better so you leave it there.
Please give my regards to Tina Fey. And please, in my obituary do not include either of the phrases “Girl who couldn’t cross,” and/or “but then she did.”
#2 – Military time, which is how everything here is timed, is confusing for a non-math type. That is all.
#3 – “Half of five” v. “half past five” v. “half five” = what the hell time am I supposed to show up at the train platform?
#4 – Yesterday I went to visit my dear friends Mark and Ilham and their two gorgeous, hilarious daughters. In this endeavor I:
A. Found on a map and then walked to the train station in Weybridge.
B. Bought the right type of ticket to London (a single to Waterloo and then a travel card (for the tube) to Southgate).
C. Enjoyed a very pleasant evening with a family I adore and who treat me so kindly, like one of their own. I spent the night there and traveled back today. (Throw your hands up at me.)
D. Felt like a true English girl because I used an Oyster card (that Mark lent me for the tube).
#5 – I went to the Tesco (corner grocery store) and bought tortillas, taco shells, jalapenos, and a celebratory bottle of wine for being able to buy tortillas, taco shells, and jalapenos in my town.
#6 - I'm seriously having trouble with internet access and email - Please bear with me.
#7 – Overall, I really do love being here, but can’t wait until Rich and Jack join me!!! And you, too! Come visit!!
I’m a curb dancing Saturday Night Live sketch - funny at first, but then it drags on far too long, until it’s just sadly annoying. You wonder why you’re wasting your time watching, yet you hope the next one will be better so you leave it there.
Please give my regards to Tina Fey. And please, in my obituary do not include either of the phrases “Girl who couldn’t cross,” and/or “but then she did.”
#2 – Military time, which is how everything here is timed, is confusing for a non-math type. That is all.
#3 – “Half of five” v. “half past five” v. “half five” = what the hell time am I supposed to show up at the train platform?
#4 – Yesterday I went to visit my dear friends Mark and Ilham and their two gorgeous, hilarious daughters. In this endeavor I:
A. Found on a map and then walked to the train station in Weybridge.
B. Bought the right type of ticket to London (a single to Waterloo and then a travel card (for the tube) to Southgate).
C. Enjoyed a very pleasant evening with a family I adore and who treat me so kindly, like one of their own. I spent the night there and traveled back today. (Throw your hands up at me.)
D. Felt like a true English girl because I used an Oyster card (that Mark lent me for the tube).
#5 – I went to the Tesco (corner grocery store) and bought tortillas, taco shells, jalapenos, and a celebratory bottle of wine for being able to buy tortillas, taco shells, and jalapenos in my town.
#6 - I'm seriously having trouble with internet access and email - Please bear with me.
#7 – Overall, I really do love being here, but can’t wait until Rich and Jack join me!!! And you, too! Come visit!!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Boots Down
So, here’s what I know so far. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been to the UK on vacation, nor does it matter how much I LOVE London and quaint, small villages around the city; I am a foreigner in a foreign place and I have to learn how to do everything all over again, including learning the language which is far different from the Texican I’m accustomed to.
For example, I am not supposed to say the word “knob” when I close my front door and yell out in frustration, “Where is my knob? Surely British people use them here!” Apparently, the word “knob” means “penis” in England. In one innocent moment of angst, I’ve insulted an entire nation’s sexuality and inspired doubt about my own. All I wanted to do was close my front door without smashing my fingers in the mail slot.
(Side bar:
In my defense about British sexuality, all I have to go on is my friend Peter’s comment about his parents - how they slept in single beds across the room from each other and how possibly he and his brother, Bugsy, were only conceived because his father had, “precise aim.. twice”. Maybe I'm not far off the insult.. Still, this is a proud and reproductive nation. I didn’t mean any offense. Plus, contrary to popular understanding, I’m only curious about my own missing knob when it comes to questions about the Western patriarchy and how shitty it is. If only women had knobs! Maybe then we would be taken seriously.
End side bar)
Other new words include these found in the following sentences:
You can definitely top up your mobile broadband if you pop into the Waitros, bang in the center of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 pound voucher.
Translation:
You can add minutes to your internet device if you stop by the Waitros grocery store which is located in the center of the town of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 dollar voucher.
This is probably an obvious translation to a lot of folks, but try understanding it in a thick British accent when you have jet lag, haven’t slept in.. - how long has it been since you slept?-, and can’t determine why your hands are shaking so badly – is it tiredness or too much caffeine? Is it too little caffeine or a lack of food?
Is it fear because you are a lonely foreigner in a foreign place where even shutting your front door is hard?
Each day gets easier, though. I now am a regular customer at the Café Nero – bang in the center of Weybridge – having been here two days in a row. I have learned how to wash my clothes and get to the bus station. Riding on public transport is still sort of a mystery to me, though. Maybe tomorrow. I've made a little perch of my huge livingroom windows that open to a bustling avenue and I drink wine there while I people watch.
This morning I ate an omelet made by my own two hands and have found that just being in the kitchen with an actual coffee maker, some bananas, and some dish soap is a comfort. It’s my kitchen; those are my bananas next to my coffee pot. That dish soap? I can use it whenever I want because I found the Tesco, bought it using the British pounds that came from my local ATM, and I’ll “do the washing up” with it when I feel good and ready because this is my place, my home.
I suppose I’m getting more comfortable here, and of course I’ve had massive help from my friends, Mark, Gemma, and Olly (saints, all of them!) who have been very tender and supportive through some of my more obvious meltdowns. Even the Vodafone store clerk said, “Hey I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You look different.”
“Yep,” I think, “I do look different. I stopped shaking, I got some sleep, and I’m headed to my local coffee spot.”
It’s boots down, folks.
For example, I am not supposed to say the word “knob” when I close my front door and yell out in frustration, “Where is my knob? Surely British people use them here!” Apparently, the word “knob” means “penis” in England. In one innocent moment of angst, I’ve insulted an entire nation’s sexuality and inspired doubt about my own. All I wanted to do was close my front door without smashing my fingers in the mail slot.
(Side bar:
In my defense about British sexuality, all I have to go on is my friend Peter’s comment about his parents - how they slept in single beds across the room from each other and how possibly he and his brother, Bugsy, were only conceived because his father had, “precise aim.. twice”. Maybe I'm not far off the insult.. Still, this is a proud and reproductive nation. I didn’t mean any offense. Plus, contrary to popular understanding, I’m only curious about my own missing knob when it comes to questions about the Western patriarchy and how shitty it is. If only women had knobs! Maybe then we would be taken seriously.
End side bar)
Other new words include these found in the following sentences:
You can definitely top up your mobile broadband if you pop into the Waitros, bang in the center of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 pound voucher.
Translation:
You can add minutes to your internet device if you stop by the Waitros grocery store which is located in the center of the town of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 dollar voucher.
This is probably an obvious translation to a lot of folks, but try understanding it in a thick British accent when you have jet lag, haven’t slept in.. - how long has it been since you slept?-, and can’t determine why your hands are shaking so badly – is it tiredness or too much caffeine? Is it too little caffeine or a lack of food?
Is it fear because you are a lonely foreigner in a foreign place where even shutting your front door is hard?
Each day gets easier, though. I now am a regular customer at the Café Nero – bang in the center of Weybridge – having been here two days in a row. I have learned how to wash my clothes and get to the bus station. Riding on public transport is still sort of a mystery to me, though. Maybe tomorrow. I've made a little perch of my huge livingroom windows that open to a bustling avenue and I drink wine there while I people watch.
This morning I ate an omelet made by my own two hands and have found that just being in the kitchen with an actual coffee maker, some bananas, and some dish soap is a comfort. It’s my kitchen; those are my bananas next to my coffee pot. That dish soap? I can use it whenever I want because I found the Tesco, bought it using the British pounds that came from my local ATM, and I’ll “do the washing up” with it when I feel good and ready because this is my place, my home.
I suppose I’m getting more comfortable here, and of course I’ve had massive help from my friends, Mark, Gemma, and Olly (saints, all of them!) who have been very tender and supportive through some of my more obvious meltdowns. Even the Vodafone store clerk said, “Hey I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You look different.”
“Yep,” I think, “I do look different. I stopped shaking, I got some sleep, and I’m headed to my local coffee spot.”
It’s boots down, folks.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
A letter about good intentions
Hola Marcos!
So, it turns out I'll be wheels down in London in ten very short days. !! Currently I'm camping out in my casita here in Grand Prairie, having stream of consious conversations with myself such as this: You didn't pack the coffee pot which wouldn't work in the UK anyway, nor did you pack the filters or coffee measuring spoon which means you can have coffee in your pj's EVERYDAY before you leave. What luxury! So you made coffee, you clever girl... ... but then realized you packed all of your mugs which are currently sealed inside of a crate en route to the nearest body of water (Gulf of Mexico?) to be loaded onto a barge. WHY? How did you not remember the most essential coffee accessory? Really? A measuring spoon but no mug?? Ok. Regroup. What will it be for a mug then? Current options: A. a medium sized sauce pan B. a skillet C. a measuring cup? So close.. (sigh)
ANYWAY.
Here's where I'm going with this correspondence:
I will arrive on the 26th at 10:45 as you know. Of course customs will be a booger to get through, so we better add an hour (at least) to that time. I should roll out of the terminal around 11:45 with two (at least) very large, overfilled suitcases that will carry such things as a medium sized sauce pan, a skillet, a measuring cup, and other miscellaneous household items, including my professional wardrobe which is shamefully large.
Options:
A. You pick me up and I'm at your mercy, two (or more) big suitcases in tow
B. You pick me up and drop me at my new place (after picking up keys at the leasing agency) and I drop off some of my luggage and then we make a plan for hanging out or not hanging out. (I vote for hanging out)
C. I take a cab to my new place via the leasing agency and we connect at a later time
D. I call HR at Cobham and they pick me up and take care of carrying me all over hell and creation.
What are your thoughts about any of these options??? Please feel free to say "none of the above" or "really, Ginge, all you need is 3 chords and the truth - what up with all that luggage?" I know! I know..
Ok. 10 days!
g
So, it turns out I'll be wheels down in London in ten very short days. !! Currently I'm camping out in my casita here in Grand Prairie, having stream of consious conversations with myself such as this: You didn't pack the coffee pot which wouldn't work in the UK anyway, nor did you pack the filters or coffee measuring spoon which means you can have coffee in your pj's EVERYDAY before you leave. What luxury! So you made coffee, you clever girl... ... but then realized you packed all of your mugs which are currently sealed inside of a crate en route to the nearest body of water (Gulf of Mexico?) to be loaded onto a barge. WHY? How did you not remember the most essential coffee accessory? Really? A measuring spoon but no mug?? Ok. Regroup. What will it be for a mug then? Current options: A. a medium sized sauce pan B. a skillet C. a measuring cup? So close.. (sigh)
ANYWAY.
Here's where I'm going with this correspondence:
I will arrive on the 26th at 10:45 as you know. Of course customs will be a booger to get through, so we better add an hour (at least) to that time. I should roll out of the terminal around 11:45 with two (at least) very large, overfilled suitcases that will carry such things as a medium sized sauce pan, a skillet, a measuring cup, and other miscellaneous household items, including my professional wardrobe which is shamefully large.
Options:
A. You pick me up and I'm at your mercy, two (or more) big suitcases in tow
B. You pick me up and drop me at my new place (after picking up keys at the leasing agency) and I drop off some of my luggage and then we make a plan for hanging out or not hanging out. (I vote for hanging out)
C. I take a cab to my new place via the leasing agency and we connect at a later time
D. I call HR at Cobham and they pick me up and take care of carrying me all over hell and creation.
What are your thoughts about any of these options??? Please feel free to say "none of the above" or "really, Ginge, all you need is 3 chords and the truth - what up with all that luggage?" I know! I know..
Ok. 10 days!
g
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Dream
I dreamed that I was tired, walking down the street in the kind of light that is just yellow enough for the mind to recognize that everything is dreamy - a little too white, the edges blurred - but not enough for conscious wakefulness. The world is a bit too surreal if this is real, and a little too real for the surreal, I think as I walk. I wonder where I am.
Actually, I know. I recognize my street. I am two doors away from my house. but my house isn't where it should be.. unless it is and I don't exactly recognize it. I mean that one there - the white one with the bushes out front. That's mine. Isn't it? Sure it is. I go in.
All of the walls are bare. Wow, I think, Rich has been busy packing our stuff - the mementos on the walls, the pictures of Paris and London, the crosses at the door that I didn't know exactly what to do with. All gone. All white. A canvas, but not so hopefuly as I know I will not recognize the new paint that will be there when I'm not.
But this is moving on, isn't it? This is part of the adventure - the falling away of the old and the introduction to the new that I distinctly remember signing up for when I started this part of my life. I should love it, right? So why is Jack crying? Why is he crying? Because I'm moving him away from all that he recognizes as his? From his neighborhood, his room, his Ms. Laura? But he's crying. Loudly.
And then I awake. Jack is crying; the explanation is that he's fallen down. He's ok. It was just a stumble. But I'm awake now. The surreal is vanished into a more concrete reality - the one where I've avoided packing the personal. The one where sometime soon I'll have to buck up and marry the comfortable past to the unknown future, one day at a time, one box packed and then another.
Actually, I know. I recognize my street. I am two doors away from my house. but my house isn't where it should be.. unless it is and I don't exactly recognize it. I mean that one there - the white one with the bushes out front. That's mine. Isn't it? Sure it is. I go in.
All of the walls are bare. Wow, I think, Rich has been busy packing our stuff - the mementos on the walls, the pictures of Paris and London, the crosses at the door that I didn't know exactly what to do with. All gone. All white. A canvas, but not so hopefuly as I know I will not recognize the new paint that will be there when I'm not.
But this is moving on, isn't it? This is part of the adventure - the falling away of the old and the introduction to the new that I distinctly remember signing up for when I started this part of my life. I should love it, right? So why is Jack crying? Why is he crying? Because I'm moving him away from all that he recognizes as his? From his neighborhood, his room, his Ms. Laura? But he's crying. Loudly.
And then I awake. Jack is crying; the explanation is that he's fallen down. He's ok. It was just a stumble. But I'm awake now. The surreal is vanished into a more concrete reality - the one where I've avoided packing the personal. The one where sometime soon I'll have to buck up and marry the comfortable past to the unknown future, one day at a time, one box packed and then another.
Cheers
And finally, here's to all of the exhausted parents who have to make a choice during their exhausting toddler's naptime: sleep or sex. May they all choose wisely. Cheers!
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)