It turns out that I will always have to live in a place that has a fireplace or at least a hearth. The reason isn't one you might expect. Yes, I do love a warm, crackling fire on a crisp autumn day, but for me a fireplace means a little bit more than that.
When I was a kid, the fireplace served four major functions:
1. It was a place for actual fire- an effort to create warmth and/or ambiance
2. It was a table for those lucky few occasions when a special seasonal show like "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" or when a Miss America Pageant was on television and Dutch and I got to eat dinner in the living room and watch. We still call the hearth "the fireplace table".
3. It was staging for dramatic performance: poetry recitation, play acting, and, I'm embarrassed to say, for serious concert reenactment, specifically attempts at singing stylized versions of songs originally sung by the likes of Amy Grant, Debbie Gibson or Tiffany while perhaps miming parts of the chorus to add further emotional implication that may have been missed by simply sharing the lyrics.
(I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize for that, family. I'm so, so SO sorry!)
4. It was, most importantly, a focal point venue for hosting every celebration known to man; a.k.a. a party on the hearth. My mother must have spent tireless hours hanging bunting, balloons, signs (birthday, graduation, congratulations, Valentines Day, Fourth of July, Flag Day, Easter, Welcome Tooth Fairy!, etc.), crepe paper streamers and bows on the surround of our old brick fireplace. She would place whatever gift or basket or reward on the hearth so that on a noteworthy day, we would stumble into the living room, eyes still bleary from sleep, and find - "What!? Surprise! The whole room is celebrating this most special occasion! I feel so incredibly valued and/or important!" or "Look! the Easter bunny/Tooth Fairy/ Santa Claus came! I can't believe my good fortune!" Or something similar.
A decorated fireplace really was a special treat every time, even though we knew it was coming and, as snarky teenagers, felt an expectation about it. It was a thoughtful, concrete reminder of how loved we were. That's what we loved about it.
Because of this, I don't understand how families who don't have a fireplace cope. I mean, where do they leave gifts? How do they acknowledge their loved ones on days like today - Father's Day?
I suppose this post should be about Rich - and what an amazing Dad he is to Jack. There is no one in the world better at being Jack's Dad or my partner. No one! And because I want to fully acknowledge how important and valuable Rich is to our family, I'm in the process of hanging streamers on the fireplace surround and making a paper banner with poorly crafted bubble letters that read, "Happy Father's Day!"
Showing posts with label flibertijibbit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flibertijibbit. Show all posts
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Disclaimer
Sleeping in your own bed is the major allure of being back home after having spent some time away. That's exactly what we got to do last night after a whirlwind vacation. Rich and I struggled with what to do on vacation. We needed something inexpensive and easy, something that would allow Jack to be entertained and contained but that also allowed for Rich and I to relax some, too. So we took a little cruise - a discounted one - that had a kids club for Jack to play in - and meals that I didn't have to cook or plan for - that took us to places we wanted to see (though kitch, I'll admit) - and that allowed for sunbathing and being still. Nice.
But we're home now. And safe. Tired. And happy.
More to follow..
But we're home now. And safe. Tired. And happy.
More to follow..
Monday, February 13, 2012
It's All Rubbish
I told Rich he would eventually be one of those crotchety old men who wander the streets mumbling some nonsense that others won't understand, his fist shaking in the air, and me (his loving wife) would walk ten steps ahead and occasionally turn around to yell, "No one cares, you old codger! Shut up and move on!"
This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.
It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.
One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right, he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.
And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.
Still, it disappears.
If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.
Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.
And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."
This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.
It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.
One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right, he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.
And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.
Still, it disappears.
If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.
Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.
And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Bits and Bobs
It's been a while since I've been here. That's ok. Life has a way of interrupting all good intentions. Potty training, for example, requires one to drop what she's doing immediately and run to the toilet (as they call it here), throw a Lightin' McQueen potty seat on the porcelain, yank down the trousers (also what they call them here) of the pre-schooler, plop him on the seat, and hold her breath until the pre-schooler has either done the deed or cries because he didn't. On a good day its the former, rewarded with a sticker. If the latter(or an accident on the way because Momma was too slow with her potty-seat throwing), then it's about consolation and warm hugs so as not to "demonize" the toilet experience.
Ahem.
In any case, my point is that life is full of interruptions.So here's what life's like at the mo for us:
1. School is fine. When I say fine, I mean insanely busy. That's all I will say about it.. Except that report card writing is coming which means mental hibernation is imminent, followed by a nervous week of duck and cover. It's not that bad, but my anxiety creeps up my back and shoulders at the thought of the frenzied, last minute marking, bartering, and reporting that's coming.
2. I wrote my first official journalism article with my friend Mark. When I say I wrote it, I mean to say that he had an idea, and I helped guide his thoughts into something a bit more structured. It was published in a little indy-magazine and has since been linked to other interviews and shared with other sites in other parts of the world, including Detroit where there is a concerted effort to talk about the church's role in the Occupy Movement. I just learned you can also see it here on IndyMedia UK and Democratic Underground. Um. Weird.
3. I'm going into London tonight to the TS Elliot Award poetry reading. Here are the featured poets, if you're interested. Carol Ann Duffy, a British version of Canadian Margaret Atwood will be there, and I will be stalking her.. Believe it. Fortunately for me, I will be with my new colleagues who will surely hold me back if necessary, or (more likely) give me a leg up boost over the waiting crowd to get to the front of the line for an autograph in my copy of The Bees. :) Also, I'm pretty sure I'll fall in love with Daljit Nagra.
4. We taught Jack how to ride his scooter. This was supposed to help with the walking/whining pattern that occurs anytime we walk anywhere. The Brits walk A LOT. A mile wouldn't be considered a long walk to the train station, for example, much less walking around the block to get to daycare, which is what Rich does with Jack every morning. So far, Jack rides for a few seconds, whines about it being too hard, and one of ends up carrying the scooter and the other Jack.. WHO IS GETTING TOO BIG TO CARRY. It hasn't stopped us from going anywhere, though, and Jack is getting better at riding. Or maybe Rich is building a lot of muscle mass..
So that's a little bit about now. I am off to catch a train.. I'll leave the story about how we booked a Mediterranian cruise for our Easter break on the very eve before the great cruise capsize story hit the news for another post... (sigh).
Ahem.
In any case, my point is that life is full of interruptions.So here's what life's like at the mo for us:
1. School is fine. When I say fine, I mean insanely busy. That's all I will say about it.. Except that report card writing is coming which means mental hibernation is imminent, followed by a nervous week of duck and cover. It's not that bad, but my anxiety creeps up my back and shoulders at the thought of the frenzied, last minute marking, bartering, and reporting that's coming.
2. I wrote my first official journalism article with my friend Mark. When I say I wrote it, I mean to say that he had an idea, and I helped guide his thoughts into something a bit more structured. It was published in a little indy-magazine and has since been linked to other interviews and shared with other sites in other parts of the world, including Detroit where there is a concerted effort to talk about the church's role in the Occupy Movement. I just learned you can also see it here on IndyMedia UK and Democratic Underground. Um. Weird.
3. I'm going into London tonight to the TS Elliot Award poetry reading. Here are the featured poets, if you're interested. Carol Ann Duffy, a British version of Canadian Margaret Atwood will be there, and I will be stalking her.. Believe it. Fortunately for me, I will be with my new colleagues who will surely hold me back if necessary, or (more likely) give me a leg up boost over the waiting crowd to get to the front of the line for an autograph in my copy of The Bees. :) Also, I'm pretty sure I'll fall in love with Daljit Nagra.
4. We taught Jack how to ride his scooter. This was supposed to help with the walking/whining pattern that occurs anytime we walk anywhere. The Brits walk A LOT. A mile wouldn't be considered a long walk to the train station, for example, much less walking around the block to get to daycare, which is what Rich does with Jack every morning. So far, Jack rides for a few seconds, whines about it being too hard, and one of ends up carrying the scooter and the other Jack.. WHO IS GETTING TOO BIG TO CARRY. It hasn't stopped us from going anywhere, though, and Jack is getting better at riding. Or maybe Rich is building a lot of muscle mass..
So that's a little bit about now. I am off to catch a train.. I'll leave the story about how we booked a Mediterranian cruise for our Easter break on the very eve before the great cruise capsize story hit the news for another post... (sigh).
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monumental
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?"
"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?"
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.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
New Holiday Songs
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.
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