renee in the uk...and now the usa

It's a mad, mad world

2009-10-25T19:19:00.010Z

I've started a handful of posts with the words, "If you ever want to get a really good look at yourself..." Some of the posts I've published. Others are dangling in my 'draft' file, waiting for wit and substance to arrive. A few examples of endings to this sentence include: "pack up your entire life and move out of the country," "set-up residence in a foreign country," or "live with another family in their home." Well, I'd like to add another predicate to that subject. Add, "take a 36-hour road trip with your family across five states while hauling all of your worldly possessions in a trailer behind you."

Last week we drove from Portland, Oregon, to Austin, Texas. The good news is, it's over. We are here. We have new jobs, new home, a new start. The bad news is, last week we drove from Portland, Oregon, to Austin, Texas.

Remember when I mentioned two paragraphs ago that there are posts in my 'draft' folder just waiting for wit and substance to arrive? Well, I'm putting this post out there sans wit and substance. To be honest, it's probably missing a whole lot more than just those two elements, but I'm doing it anyway. Why? It's all still fresh in my mind. And before I try to lock it away in that closet in my mind where I keep WAY too much baggage, I'm setting it free for the world to see. (Okay, not the world. Just the 14 people who have signed on to be Followers of my blog.)

I kept a notebook next to me in the front seat so I could jot down bits of fascinating insight as they occurred. I never quite accomplished fascinating insight...the closest that I came to that was when I realized that all public radio stations have their fundraising drive at the same time - which really, really bummed me out as I scoured the dial for some sort of information source. But I digress. What ended up first in my notes was the situation with the Mad Libs.

Our wonderful friends, Tom and Casey, prepared a treasure trove of activities for the boys to do on the road. Let me tell you, that bag of goodies was my god for four days. One of the items inside was Mad Libs...remember those fill-in-the-blank stories? You have a story written with key words missing, and you have to fill-in key words without knowing the context in which they will be used. You only know the part of speech that belongs there...verb, noun, adjective...or it says you need to fill it in with a girl's name, or body part, for example. Yep. Tell a seven year old boy to name a body part. Better yet, tell him to name a PLURAL body part. You're seeing where this is going, aren't ya?

But wait - there's more. Like the offer on TV where they'll double the fun for the same low, low price, I also have additional fodder within one story. It's not all about bodily functions and inappropriate body parts that come in pairs. No, it's also about the tunnel-vision of a seven year old boy who cannot seem to get a concept out of his mind. Kids do it all the time...they get obsessed with something and talk about it non-stop. They pretend around it, they draw pictures of it, they ask about it. See if you can guess what Ian was fixated on in this sampling of our conversation. We were about three libs in at this point.

Me: Okay, I need a noun.
Him: Godzilla.
Me: How about something that Godzilla is? Like "lizard" or "creature."
Him: Godzilla wasn't just a lizard.
Me: Yes, but using his name isn't going to work in the story. His name is a proper noun, remember? We need just a noun.
Him: F i i i i i i i i n n n ne. Morphed crocodile-lizard.
Me: (writing down 'lizard' and hoping he won't remember.)
Me: Now a plural noun.
Him: Plural means more than one, right?
Me: Yep.
Him: Two-headed Godzilla.
Me: Well, that's not quite what it means by plural.
Him: Four-headed Godzilla.
Me: What I mean is, the creature needs to be plural...like dogS, catS.
Him: Four headed tyrannosaurus.
Me: (sigh)
Him: You can just write "four-headed T-Rex" if you can't spell it.
Me: I can spell it...I don't think you are listening...you know, like I said about dogSSS or catSSS. (emphasis on the 's')
Him: Dogs and cats are lame, though. How about just a four-headed Godzilla with a buncha two-headed baby Godzillas?
Me: No multiple heads. Just multiple CREATURES. No more heads, just one head per creature, okay?
Him: (sighs) Jeez.

Are you feeling it?

Just to make it clear that not all Mad Libs ended in a communication breakdown, I'll tell you about one that was particularly funny. Now it's my chance to be inappropriate and juvenile, because the boys didn't even "get" it when John and I were cracking up over the way this one turned out. I'll transcribe the end of it here, verbatim. The words in italics are Ian's words. Note the coordination of the part of speech, despite the complete absurdity of the sentence. That is, until the last sentence. The last sentence is could stand on its own. And remember, this is ME reading the whole thing aloud after it was complete.

"The other day I had to ask my two giant gnomes, Sleeping Tootie and Bella for help. They're both on the varsity cyclops team. It was a grueling thousand million months before my smelly sisters deemed me ready for the poopy moment. I had to do deep toe bends and skyscrapers to improve my truck capacity. As for me, I didn't have the slightest crab with three eyeballs what to do about sports. It's embarrassing that in a family of supersonic athletes, I'm the only one without any hand-groin coordination."

Perhaps it was funnier when we were slap-happy in the middle of New Mexico. Needless to say, John and I have made a couple of hand-groin coordination jokes since. Go ahead...try it at home. Funny, no?

Here's a picture of one of the worksheets in a second grade Brain Quest book. It was another one of the gems in the Tom and Casey Bag-o-Tricks. Ian was doing some worksheets, Jack was reading a book, John was driving, and I was acting like I didn't want to take a nap and wake up in Austin. It didn't take long for something to end the silence. The boys caught this little mishap in editing at Brain Quest, Inc. and were giggling and laughing about it from the backseat. I had to ask what was so funny. Look closely and tell me which one of these pictures doesn't quite belong:
I've probably given you the impression that our road trip was nothing but bad words, potty talk and multi-headed creatures. Au contraire, mon frere. There's much more to come!

It's like riding a bike...you never forget how to do it

2009-10-22T04:22:00.007+01:00

Hey! Do ya remember me??

I remember you. It's been a while, I know. Wanna know what' s happened? Where I've been? Well, the long and the short of it goes like this: I've been to England. I've been back.

I enjoyed a WONDERFUL summer in Portland, Oregon, and I got out within moments of the winter settling in. Hmmmm...what's that like? Winter in the Pacific Northwest? I'll tell you: Wet newspaper. Yep.... that's how I'd describe it. Look up to the sky and see a giant, wet newspaper hanging over you. A giant wet newspaper that's not to be removed for the following nine months. That's the Pacific Northwest. Summer ROCKS. Winter...not so much.

Have I made any major semantic faux pas in Texas? Not yet. Will I? Damn straight. Stay tuned.....

What I miss about the UK.....(seriously!)

2009-08-24T18:36:00.005+01:00

When I look back on my previous posts, I often wonder if I gave the impression that I didn't like living in England. I don't think it looks that way...but I'm the one who can't ever tell if what I'm writing is even interesting to the reader, so what do I know? Apparently it isn't interesting to agents or publishing houses, for instance. (Yes, that was bitter. I'll own it.)

Anyway, I've been back in the States for 15 weeks now. I've eaten my way across the city of Portland. I've used every convenience item available to me. I've made pancakes weekly. I've used inches, feet, and every other non-metric measure. I've pushed a grocery cart with one hand while drinking coffee. I've driven with reckless abandon. (Okay, that's an exaggeration. I've driven without sweating and stressing while I fight off carsickness and the impulse to put a big sign on the top of my car that reads, "Forgive my motoring transgressions. I'm a yankee!")

Now that my American mojo is intact, I'm noticing that I am missing things about the UK. (Will I ever be satisfied???) Of course what I miss most aren't things, but rather people. I miss Simon, Claire and Liv. I miss all the fun we had together, and the great times we shared with their other friends.... who soon became our friends as well.

As for the things I miss, I'll begin with the food. It's always about the food with me, isn't it? I miss the endless supply of Cadbury chocolate, the delightful "crisps" in their teeeny little bags, the pizza at The Faulkner, and the pasties at the The Pasty Place on Bridge Street. I miss daytrips to castles, afternoons in the park in Shrewsbury, and strolls around the city walls of Chester. The greetings from all the shopkeepers on Hoole Street as I made my daily visits for fresh bread, meat, produce and other necessities...the way they all called me "luv" is something I'd love to hear again. I miss the TV shows we grew to love, and the ones we loved already and got to see more of once we were in country. I really miss the boys' school uniforms...it made that part of our day so much easier! I miss being able to walk to just about anywhere. I miss that feeling I had (which was happening more and more often) that I had "mastered" the new life...and by that I mean that I FINALLY knew where I was, what to do, what was going on, and that I had figured it out on my own. I miss being special because I was from "somewhere else" and all the nice conversations that ensued from that fact.

Where did this come from? I don't know, exactly. I was re-reading my past posts, trying to assemble them in some order to submit them as part of a manuscript. (A publisher I contacted told me what she'd like to see and I'm trying to format it for her. No big book deal or anything....this publisher is part of a self-publishing company, so we'll see where it goes.) But it made me miss the UK. Who knows - maybe I'll get published and then I'll get to go back to England as part of a book signing tour. Like I said in my first post: A girl can dream, right?

Home eat home

2009-08-02T18:17:00.009+01:00

If you've ever gone out to eat with me, you know that asking me what I want to eat will get you a response similar to Spaulding: "I want a hamburger. No, cheeseburger. I want a hot dog. I want a milkshake. I want potato chips." Then I'll tell you to order first, so I can decide.

I love my food. I think it's been the main subject of my blog...complaining about the lack of it, the quantity of it, the mourning of the loss of it. So imagine my joy when I arrived back in the United States, fresh off a barf-a-thon and starving.

I have always considered myself an open-minded person, but try as I did, I could never wrap my mind around eating while in England. Yes, I enjoyed many meals. Yes, I loved the snacks. Yes, I learned a LOT. But when it comes right down to it, I missed my quadrillions of choices here.

It's embarrassing to admit, but when Jack, Ian and I got back to the US about 12 weeks ago, we spent a lot of time eating. We drove through Taco Bell, and it was everything in my power to not just order the whole left side of the menu. We went to Jack in the Box and I was tempted to jump over the counter and hug the saints making my food back there. We went to Krispy Kreme and ate enough to make up for not having any for seven months and to never have it again. And of course we went to McDonalds and nearly cried with joy....the McDonalds in the UK are SO not like the ones here. In fact, if you suffer from a McDonalds addiction, I would strongly advise you to go eat at the ones in the UK. You will quickly get over it.

We ate and ate and ate some more. Eventually the novelty of it wore off and we self-regulated. We are all back to eating in a non-gluttonous fashion and our waistlines and cholesterol levels are within normal limits.

On to the not-so-normal part of our life.

So yes, we are back in the United States, and we are in Portland, but as far as what is next, I cannot say. We are in a holding pattern of sorts as John and his partner (who is European and still there) are working toward an arrangement with a club back In England. This particular club owns a soccer team/club here in the United States, and they are interested in John and his partner doing a sort of 'franchise' of their club here in the US, and potentially being based out of their club here. I know it is all cryptic and vague, and I apologize, but the details will follow as things continue to move forward and become less ambiguous.

I am fortunate enough to have work here in Portland. I am back in my former director's position at the private school where I worked for a couple of years before we moved away. I am grateful to have work, as I have seen SO many others in not as fortunate situations. I count it as one of our blessings. We are staying with friends who have been such wonderful hosts to us, not knowing exactly when we were leaving. Another blessing. At the end of the month we'll be giving them their house back, so to speak. We will move out so they can start the school year without us taking up rooms. Where are we going? We aren't exactly sure. We might go back to St. Louis...for how long, though, isn't clear. The best hope is that the details will be finalized and we'll be on our way to that other club I mentioned...it is across the country, though, so we really have to have the plan laid out. The good news is that it could also end up being based out of St. Louis, for that matter. (See what I mean about ambiguous?)

Is it too ambiguous and undecided for my comfort level? You bet. Can I help the situation by worrying about it? I think we all know the answer to that one. So instead, I remain grateful for the health and well-being of my children. I embrace all the little things that make this transition time a positive thing. I envision what I want to happen, and know that by "putting it out there" it will happen.

So when you ask me, "What's going on?" and I sigh and say, "So much," please just let me leave it at that. I'm saving my energy for the BIG news that is certain to come.

Chill Out

2009-07-29T20:23:00.004+01:00

Just recently I wrote on my friend's Facebook page, "You can take the girl out of the hood, but you can't take the hood out of the girl." I've often said something similar about myself, except saying that you can take me out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of me. I'd like to amend that and add, "...except in matters related to weather and temperature tolerance." The Midwest has left me, no doubt about it.

Again you find yourself asking, "Renee, what the hell are you talking about?" Let me tell you. It has been over 100 degrees here for almost a week and I have been DYING whenever I have to leave to comfort of air conditioning. Yes, me. The girl who used to spend June, July and August's hot and steamy days outside, laying in the sun, wearing oil all over my body, getting up only to hose off, dip in the pool, and get more lemonade. (Or California Cooler, depending on what year it was.) The girl who went to high school wearing no coat, a short uniform skirt, and slip-on shoes in six inches of snow and single-digit temperatures. Yes, that hardy girl who is now, apparently, a climatic weenie.

For my dear readers in St. Louis who only leave the AC to go to and from their cars and who may be wondering why I'd even be exposed to such heat while indoors, here's a teensy bit of insight about the Pacific Northwest. Until recent years, most homes were not built with air conditioning. It wasn't necessary because this kind of heat was extremely rare. However, things have changed, as we all know...call it climate change, call it global warming...whatever you choose to call it, all it really means is that I am sweating my you-know-what off and it makes me cranky.

Yes, there are window units. Yes, there are fans. But the problem with those is that they effect only the immediate area around them. For example, the window units in the upstairs bedrooms crank out cold air all night long, but the fact of the matter is that the house - the structure itself, its contents - are already hot and cannot be cooled down with zonal cooling. So the floor is still warm, as the heat from the levels below rises. The levels below are warm and won't cool off until there are several days of cool temperatures. And right now, things have "cooled down" to the 90's. Yes, that is what they say on the weather reports, "Expect a gradual cooling to the mid-90's by Sunday." Since when is that cool?

For almost a year now I've observed a lot of disparity between the areas of my life that are best served by cold temperatures and those that are not. The airport in Manchester? (http://reneespassport.blogspot.com/2009/03/hindsight-is-2020if-you-open-your-eyes.html) WAY too cold. Beverages in England? Not cold enough. July in Portland, Oregon? WAY too hot. It seems that I'm like Goldilocks, searching for the place that is not too hot, not too cold, but just right for me. And that's rather telling, considering the up-in-the-air nature of our life right now.

T-minus 12 hours and....blaaaaaaaachhhhh!

2009-06-22T19:03:00.000+01:00

"Attention, Delta passengers on flight number 65...we will now begin the pre-boarding process. For our passengers requiring special assistance, those traveling with infants, small children, or with swine flu, please proceed to the gate with your boarding passes at this time."

How many times were we sick while we lived in the UK? Once, maybe twice? Seriously. We aren't a sick kind-of family, fortunately, but I would much rather be sick in, say, mid-March, as opposed to the last 12 hours before we are taking an international flight. But that's exactly what happened.

Let me set the scene. I'll backtrack a bit and explain the environment in which we were traveling. It was before swine flu was named a pandemic, which made it more relevant and widely-known to the US. However, prior to the declaration of it being a pandemic, the swine flu was definitely on the minds of most folks in the UK. In fact, the day before we were leaving, the first case of human-to-human transmission was confirmed. (How were people getting it prior to that? From all those daily encounters we humans have with swine?? I don't know.) What I do know was that every single channel on TV had coverage of the situation. The airport officials were using heat-sensitive body scanners to screen individuals at the airport...presumably to detain and quarantine you if you had a fever (the first symptom). You've heard of those scanners that are designed notice the sweaty palms of nervous potential terrorists? They were being used to detect fever in of unsuspecting travelers.

The weekend before we were traveling, there was a sign on the door of the neighborhood pharmacy that read, "Attention Patrons: If you are experiencing flu-like symptoms, or you are caring for someone with flu-like symptoms, please DO NOT ENTER. Return home and contact the NHS on instructions for treatment." I swear to you that's seriously what it said. I only wish I had my camera with me, but I had already packed it. (The NHS is the National Health Service...they have nationalized healthcare.)

Back to the scene. The boys and I were leaving first; John was remaining to finish the season and would be back about a month later. We were invited to dinner with some friends on that Monday evening, and were leaving early on Tuesday morning.

Early Saturday morning, Ian woke up sick. He was throwing up every 45 minutes or so, but recovered within about four hours. I have to say that my children are the BEST little barfers because they always make it to the toilet or in the garbage can or whatever else I throw their way to catch it. Not that any of that is relevant to the story, but I'm just saying. After all, in what other forum can I give my kids props for puking? Anyway, he was all good and I chalked it up to his less-than-stellar handwashing practice.

Then, on Monday afternoon, Jack started complaining that he didn't feel well. I didn't even link it to Ian's bout of illness until Jack began with the vomiting. Remember those dinner plans we had? Count Jack and I out of the picture. John and Ian went, I stayed home and did some last minute packing in-between Jack's fits of dry heaving. The boys and I were leaving in 14 hours.

It keeps getting worse from this point on. John and Ian get back home from dinner at about 8:00 pm and John went straight up the stairs to the bathroom. Jack had his last round of the heinous puke-poop cycle about an hour before that. He was sleeping, pale as a ghost, completely drained and weak, grateful that nothing was being emitted from his body outside of his control. Now John had the next four hours to suffer, and suffer he did. In the meantime, I scurried about, doing the last of the last of the last packing. We were leaving in less than 12 hours.

At around 11:00 pm, I got a rumble in my stomach...could it be? No, I told myself. I will NOT be sick. Mind over matter. Just keep doing the final packing. Zip those bags shut. Charge those Gameboys. Pack those snacks. Check the empty drawers one more time.....okay, maybe if I go to sleep I will feel better. Probably just nerves. We were leaving in about eight hours.

I had completely and totally misdiagnosed my case of "nerves" and quickly changed my diagnosis to whatever it is that can make you involuntarily heave and expel matter from various orifices with complete loss of control. When I say orifices I'm including my eyes...are they an orifice? I was also crying while I was being "sick" and it was not pretty. Here's what you would have heard had you been inside my head at the time (and managed to not get expelled from an orifice, that is):

Good God in heaven, we've got the flippin swine flu. Damn all the f-ing bacon around here, I know that's how we got it. If I can get better in the next 10 minutes, I swear to all that's holy that I will never eat pork again. OHMYGOD, in 10 minutes it will be 1:00 am and I have to board a plane at 8:00 am. A plane. Wasn't there a movie about snakes on a plane with Samuel L. Jackson? And he was also Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction and said, "I don't dig on swine," and that pigs are filthy animals. I think there's a message in that somehow. F-ing bacon. I'm hot. I am SO glad I printed my boarding passes already. Where did I pack the gum? Ugh. I might have a chance at being okay by the time we have to leave because everyone else has only been sick for four hours. I could be finished with this nightmare by 5:00 am and still sleep an hour and then get up and get the last minute stuff packed and be ready to go. I'm cold. Might have to break the rule about fast food for breakfast if the boys are hungry...OHMYGOD, why'd you have to think about food?????? I wonder if barfing is good for my abs, because they sure feel like they're getting a workout. Do I still have those pills for nausea and would they work for puking if I took double? Can I even swallow a pill right now? I'm hot. Why won't this toilet paper roll stay on the holder? Who breaks shit around here and leaves it for me to find? I think I can get away with this straightened hair for one more day. I don't even want to try and wash and dry and straighten my hair again before I go. How can I pack a hot flat iron? That's just gross to even THINK that post-hurling hair is okay, Renee. Idiot. I'm cold. I hope I'm not waking anyone up with all this flushing and coughing and sniffing and nose blowing. I wonder if this is helping me lose weight. I am SO leaving our toothbrushes here and buying new ones in the States. I hope the alarm goes off and we don't lose power like the McAllisters did in Home Alone. If we miss our flight, do we have to pay for a new one? Do they let you do that on international flights? I'm hot. Maybe we can upgraded to First Class and have lots of room. If I concentrate really hard, maybe I can communicate with John's mind and wake him up and tell him to bring me something to sip on. I want some Sprite. I need my pillow.

So, yeah. That was my next four hours. And true its history with the rest of my family, the bug ran its course and left me weak and shaky, but able to be upright and more importantly, to get to the airport. That was our next hurdle.

'Country' as a noun; 'Country' as an adjective

2009-06-17T15:52:00.008+01:00

I just realized something that I didn't miss while living in the UK. Yes, I am Stateside again, albeit in a holding pattern of temporariness as we await the news from the new club - but more on that later. In the meantime, I promise to keep working my way through the endless notes I scribbled down in an attempt to capture the essence of living abroad. To whom am I making this promise? I'm not quite sure...but in case anyone is still reading, I'm still writing.

Considering the fact that I still have my faithful 13 followers and not a single new one for like four months, I'm guessing I might be writing for posterity sake at this point. So be it. Some gals have a therapist, others keep a journal - I have my currently mis-named blog. But Renee in the US doesn't rhyme like Renee in the UK, so I can't change it.

I digressed again. Sorry. Back to what I didn't miss when I was gone.

Just to explain how much I didn't miss this thing, I should first say that I didn't even KNOW I had been blissfully free of it for six months until this past Monday, when I was at the gym (which is a whole other story for a whole other time...let me just preface it by saying that locker rooms should be segregated by age so that I don't have to be all nakey next to the hot 20 year old with no tan lines.)

ANYWAY....so I am at the gym, working out with John, who graciously trains with me despite the fact that he has to adjust the seat and the weights between each set we do because I am on weenie weights and he is on grown up weights - not in a Hans and Franz-ish way, though...he's patient and supportive and rarely laughs at me. Back to the gym...so, the gym has music going all the time and has done an impressive job of not making it all "Eye of the Tiger" or "Gangster's Paradise" while I'm in there...it's always appropriate. However, on Monday, I just about broke my foot as I nearly dropped a barbell (okay, it was 7.5 pounds...I woulda cracked a toenail at best) as I struggled to cover my ears to prevent my eardrums from rupturing in response to the heinous noise coming from the speakers. Yes, it really happened like that.

What was the noise? What could make me want to run from the building, or perhaps fall down on the ground in a seizure like the lady who couldn't watch Entertainment Tonight because of Mary Hart's voice? (True story...check it out: http://www.nytimes.com/1991/07/14/weekinreview/headliners-all-in-the-voice.html )

I'll tell you. It was COUNTRY MUSIC.

I should first mention that my experience with country music is limited to The Donny and Marie Show http://www.tv.com/donny-and-marie/show/868/summary.html where Marie claimed to be "a little bit country" and Donnie was "a little bit rock & roll." Aside from just loving him in ways inappropriate for my age of seven years, I chose Donny's rock & roll. There was also a show called Hee Haw http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063908/ that my parents must have watched...I know I wouldn't have turned it on myself. But it was ALL country...bales of hay, overalls, missing teeth, and a weekly special musical guest like Tammy Wynette and Roy Clark. So those are my country music "roots" so to speak. I went once to a country bar in St. Louis...a friend of mine was into it for a while so my girlfriends and I would go...I was more into the $1.00 long necks, though. But one should not draw conclusions about life based on what one sees in 70's sitcoms...after all, was Hogan's Heroes was an accurate depiction of life as a WWII prisoner of war? Still, I have never been a country music fan.

So back to England, where the locals are unaware of this stuff called country music. How? Well, I can't speak for the entire kingdom, but in the north west region, there were no country music stations on the radio. There was not a country music tv station wedged in between my MTV and VH1. And there certainly weren't any pick-up trucks, cowboy hats, fringe of any sort, line dancing, or cut-off jean shorts. Am I stereotyping here? You betcha. But what I mean to say is that country music is uniquely American, and for something that is just ours, we sure have a LOT of it. Its abundance in our culture demonstrates how much we, as Americans, like to have everything in big, major ways. In the span of six months I went from living where there was not even a notion of country music, to a place where at least three of the 20 or so radio stations are country music...whether that's classic or contemporary or "all country, all the time" format. And this is Portland...there are places in the rest of the United States where it is even more prevalent. But that's the American Way...if eight ounces is good, then 32 ounces is best. Or, if you really mean business, get the 64 ounces.

When British people found out I was an American, they would often ask, "Why did you come here?" which implied that I left paradise or something similar. I told them it was because I had just HAD it with country music. No, I'm kidding...but the point in mentioning their "why?" questioning is to show that to those on the outside of America, we've got it pretty good. Even with Toby Keith.

Things are tough all over

2009-06-15T05:59:00.005+01:00

We went on a hike today, and here's what greeted us when we went to use the bathroom at the parking lot:
We decided the the trails near that spot probably weren't the best ones after all. What's that saying about what a bear does in the woods? I'm thinking it applies to people as well.

Turnabout is fair play

2009-05-07T05:54:00.000+01:00

Okay, for all the jokes I have made about some of the sights in England, I post this one specifically FOR my friends in England. This is an actual place about five minutes from my house in Oregon. Seriously.

Enjoy.

Say what?

2009-05-01T22:40:00.002+01:00

There's this popular show on BBC3 Called Gavin and Stacey (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b007nf70) that I loved to watch...and if you have access to any BBC shows, you should check it out as well. (I'm always bossing you around about what to watch, aren't I?)

I was watching one episode where the entire extended family was sleeping over at a family member's house, so there were odd pairings of the characters in strange places...and admittedly, I was not familiar with the entire cast and storylines quite yet. In fact, this was at Christmastime, so I was pretty much unfamiliar with everything about England at that point. (As opposed to my keen insight and understanding of the country now. Yeah, right.)

The scene went like this: It was the middle of the night and a sleepy looking guy stumbles into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of milk. Another similar-looking guy comes into the kitchen and startles the first guy, and then apologizes. Then the first guys says that he was laying there in the dark, trying to get off, but just couldn't seem to do it. The second guy says something like, "Yeah, I couldn't get off either. I thought a glass of milk might help."

Here's an approximation of how I looked at that moment:

Was I watching a porn with an actual plot? Is masturbation during primetime an okay thing to have on TV in England? If this is what's on during the supposed "family" hours, then what will I see after 10:00? Well, let me answer those questions for you: 'no,' 'no,' and 'depends on the channel.'

As it turns out, 'get off' means go to sleep, not the thing you might do before you go to sleep. I've never quite been able to incorporate that into my vocabulary, though.

My days are frequently peppered with these sorts of vernacular stumbling blocks. Here's another example. Ian's teacher was telling me how well Ian was doing during his first week of school. He told me about Ian's great sense of humor, his off-the-charts scores in reading and math, and his ability to really get on with the girls....that he sure has his way with the girls.

I was stunned. Shocked. Embarrassed, and not sure what to say. Ian is six....where did he learn inappropriate stuff like this? By no means do I pretend that my kids are angels, but John and I are good about monitoring their TV watching, there's no unsupervised internet, and we don't have a secret stash of nasty books or movies. Then it occurs to me that all the other parents (or at least the ones with girls) will totally know who I am - the new Mom on campus, and I still have to exit the building, going through the playground where all the other parents are. They are going to stare at me even more than normal now, the mom of the kid who 'gets on' with girls. Oy.

I took a deep breath and pushed aside the image in my mind of Ian in his classroom, wearing his bathrobe, leaning against a desk in Hefner-esque style, chatting it up with a group of little girls. In a quivering voice, I manage to say to his teacher (who is male,) "Um, well, please make sure you remind him to be appropriate, and John and I will talk to him tonight...I'm sorry, and I don't know what to say."

The teacher stares at me, obviously replaying the conversation in his mind, scared that I'm going to cry, and not sure how things went so wrong in the past 20 seconds. And, just like on TV when the light goes on above the character's head, the teacher has a "ah ha!" moment. He leans forward, smiling, patting my hand to reassure me, and says, "Mrs. Nelms, Ian is being completely appropriate. What I meant to say is that he is a good friend to the girls, unlike some boys his age who are mean to the girls. What I meant was that the girls like him, and he likes the girls. Respectfully."

Can you hear my enormous sigh? Can you see the glow from my bright-red face? Add 'the boys' primary school' to the list called Places Renee Makes an Ass of Herself.

Here's another example of one of my stumbling blocks...or shall I say stumbling hump? I was attempting to get directions to the main library from a woman at the barber shop. Mistake number one...she had an accent thicker than pudding (real pudding, that is) and spoke incredibly fast. As she went on about the way I had to go, it became obvious that she was going to describe the route, as opposed to giving me the names of the roads. Among her descriptions of so-and-so's house with the wayward daughter and some yahoo with a blue garage who kept too many cats, was her warning that I'd also "see a lot of humps"....that, in her words, I should, "Mind the humps on those back streets."

The only thing I'd like to see less than two locals humping is backstreet locals humping. Or locals humping me, I suppose, although that would be difficult to see...my I digress. Needless to say, I skipped the walk to the main library that day. It wasn't until later in the week as we drove to the library that I realized what she meant about the humps.

So, yeah, humps in the road are speed bumps. Don't get the giggles or anything when you see a sign like this. And don't be such as ass and think it means anything inappropriate.

The Rules for Scooters & Motorcycles

2009-04-24T12:10:00.017+01:00

Since I have already dished about driving in the United Kingdom (http://reneespassport.blogspot.com/2009/02/to-drive-or-not-to-drive.html) so I won't repeat myself...okay, I will try not to repeat myself. But now that I am a real driver (yes, I am. True story.) I have a few more observations to make about the whole scene.

Did you know that in the UK it is perfectly acceptable to pass on the right? It sounds harmless when I say it, but imagine sitting on the right side of the car, driving on the left side of the road. In your mirror you see a car coming up alongside you, usually much faster, and it kind of throws you for a second. It was a bit scary the first time it happened. That isn't the thing about motorcycles, though. The thing about scooters and motorcycles is that they can pass in between lanes of traffic that are otherwise stopped in traffic. So imagine sitting in a traffic jam and suddenly a motorcycle comes along, weaving its way alongside the stopped cars, carefully avoiding everyone's mirrors and (for all intents and purposes) cutting in line - because that is essentially what they are doing. Like the person who drives up the shoulder in a traffic jam, the motorcycles and scooters are getting out of having to wait like the rest of us.

The first time I saw this happen, I said to John in my high-pitched, 'no way' voice, "Did they just - did I just see that motorcycle do that??" He answered, without even looking at me, "Yep. It is legal here. They don't need to be in a lane. I asked someone about it myself." To which I replied, "That is SO not fair."

It then occurred to me that I would never see that happen in America...the "cutting" being allowed for some people and not others. The first reason is because things, whether good or bad, are generally kept pretty fair in the US. I mean this in a very broad and general way. Second, I imagine that anyone ballsy enough to try to cut in line could be subject to someone's door "accidentally" opening as they approached with little or no time to stop, colliding with the open door and therefore possibly resulting in an injury to the motorcyclist, and certain damage to the car door...which would then be a lawsuit for one or both parties. The United States is pretty adept at averting situations that could result in a lawsuit of some sort. I never realized how true that is until we moved to the UK...but that's another post for another time.

By the way, while I have your attention, I would like to say that I really, really, really HATE HATE HATE scooters. They are HORRIBLY whiny and loud. Yes, they are better for the environment than a car...but what about my ears??? We live near a university campus, so I think I hear a disproportionate number of them on a daily basis. And since it is probably mostly university students, I hear these buzzing monstrosities at all hours of the day - and night.

At first I was able to laugh it off, thinking about Eddie Izzard doing his imitation of the Italians on scooters, saying "ciao!" But now the weather is wonderful for having the windows open and so I REALLY hear them. (I've said it before and I'll say it again...if you haven't seen Eddie Izzard: Dress to Kill, you are REALLY missing out. So go rent it. Buy it. Just make sure you see it. Or try try this link...the stand-up part of it begins about four minutes in. It will be the best hour and fifty minutes you have spent in a long time. I promise. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2628774106022441566 ) If you insist on only watching the scooter part (which would be a shame) it is at about the 26 minute mark. But you'll be missing some seriously SMART and funny stuff by only watching that part.

Okay, I KNOW I am being a crazy old lady in getting all agitated and annoyed by something as minor as scooters whizzing by my house every day at all hours. I accept that about myself and love it anyway. So there.

Now go watch Eddie Izzard. It gets funnier and funnier as it goes along. You'll thank me. And, if you go to the UK and you are stuck in a traffic jam, do not open your car door. You can't say you weren't warned.

Bank on it

2009-04-19T15:41:00.001+01:00

If you plan on doing any sort of commerce while in the UK, you better bring your card and leave your checkbook at home. I'm not talking about shopping with an American credit card...to be honest, I never really used my American account here. We set up our accounts here right away and for anything in between, I had cash. What I'm talking about here is the system for shopping here versus shopping in the States.

In the States you can usually pay one of four ways. Cash, credit, debit, or check. Obviously not all places accept checks, but until I arrived in the UK, I never realized how antiquated the check really is. Don't get me wrong...if I don't have cash with me, I will choose writing a check over giving Visa another opportunity to charge a merchant another fee. (Yes, I am one of those anti-'big bank' people.) But after I asked a few merchants here, "Do you accept checks?" and they looked at me as if I had a bleeding third eye growing out of my forehead, I realized they don't use checks like that.

What they DO use, however, is a fraud-proof card system that really seems to be a great way to cut-down on card theft. It is called a PIN and CHIP card. The card has a teeny little chip on it that only works when inserted into card reading machines - not swiped, but inserted - and the card reading machine requires you to enter your PIN...that part is like using a debit card in the US, except that here, the PIN is required for your credit card as well. And, unlike a debit card, there's no option for the customer to process the card as a credit card with no PIN required. Only the merchant can choose that option, and that rarely happens. If you forget your PIN, you are pretty much stuck.

So when you use your card at the register at any store, you enter your PIN. If you use it at a restaurant, they bring to your table a handheld unit where you have to enter your PIN. The guy at the table next to you can be using one, too....they are on a wireless system of some sort, and so more than one transaction can be processed at once. There's no waiting, which is good. (It occurs to me right now that I should have invented the handheld unit. Damn.)

So one more thing about the cards. I'm going to save you a moment of panic when you go to the ATM, pop in your card, plug in your PIN, and read the "One moment while we deal with your request" message. (They need to "deal with" my request? Sounds like I'm annoying them.) Anyway, your card will be spit back out at you with a series of loud beeps. It is NOT because you don't have any funds in your account. A few uncomfortably long seconds later, your cash comes out. Then there is a message that says, "Thank you for your custom" and you don't have to remember to take your card, nor do you have to dispose of a receipt. So once again, it's pretty efficient.

While we are discussing banks, let me add that if you are a bank robber, don't come to England. It appears to be nearly impossible to rob a bank here, and I say that not as a person who sized up a bank to rob. Rather, it was interesting to notice how different banks are constructed here. There are small branches with little or no lobby, open from 10:00 am until 3:00 pm, with two to four windows with tellers behind security glass and with slide out drawers on the counter to exchange stuff with you. (Like in a drive-through in the US.) That's not so unusual...I'd say it is comparable to a bank in the US that's in a really bad neighborhood or something, with all the security measures protecting the teller.

But the big branches of the banks here ARE unusual to me, as an American. At the entrance you will find a handful of uniformed staff with clipboards, ready to greet you and point you toward one of the dozen ATMs built in a semi-circle-shaped wall behind them. There is not a counter nor tellers anywhere within view. The ATMs have signs above them for deposits or withdraw (but called something else that I can't think of right now...like 'taking out' or 'putting in', seriously.) If you need to talk to a person, you have to tell the clipboard people, who take down your information on their clipboard, walk over to a little kiosk with a computer, type in your details, and ask you to take a seat and someone will be with you shortly. Then, depending on what you need, another uniformed staff person shows up and takes you to the next section back (still no where near the actual tellers at counters, which may or may not exist at these branches) or up one level to another floor. Both of these locations look like an office with a bunch of cubicles. Still no counter or tellers to be found. And definitely no safe with a giant door leading to the safe deposit boxes like you see in the States. If you have cash to deposit as part of whatever you are talking to the bank employee about, they will take it and come back with a receipt. Where it goes is anybody's guess. Or I suppose any non-bank employee's guess. There must be a teller somewhere, as there must be a safe. But it's in a difficult place to get to, and probably an even more difficult place to get out of. I'd bet that any bank robbery here would have to be the result of an inside job. Of course that is just speculation on my part...I hope to never hear about it or see it happen.

So what I am saying about banking in the UK is this: PIN and CHIP cards are a great idea. If you are a bad guy, you'll find yourself particularly challenged in the UK. There's no easy way to use stolen credit cards, you can't forge checks because no one takes checks, and you can't go barging into a bank and rob it.
And again, I say this as an OBSERVER, not as a potential perpetrator.

Driving, Part Deux

2009-04-18T17:32:00.007+01:00

I'm a driver. I drive. I'm an INTERNATIONAL driver, in fact. So there. Add it to my resume. (Remember that movie with Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfus called What about Bob?? When Bob gets up the guts to sail, and he is strapped to the sailboat shouting, "I'm sailing! I sail!" Another movie that I HIGHLY recommend...the dialogue is hilarious. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103241/ oops...another digression) Anyway, I'm a driver. I drive.

You may be asking, "How did that come to be, Renee?" Well, let me tell you. It came down to whether I wanted to spend a rainy afternoon at home...at home with John, Jack and Ian, (all of whom were watching some soccer match on tv) or an afternoon of freedom, essentially. Freedom from the responsibilities of the house stuff. From the guilt that accompanies an afternoon of doing nothing. (I know, I know, I put that evil on myself. You don't have to tell me that.) Freedom to just stroll around the store (rabid cart wheels aside) and, if I so choose, compare every single per-unit cost of every single item I buy...or to read every single label of every single item, or to double back a few aisles because I forgot an item. HOWEVER, getting there to be the lame, strolling-about, label-reading, aisle-repeating weird lady was up to me and my ability to drive.

I wasn't great at it...you know, taking up both lanes a few times as I tried to orient myself to just exactly where I needed to be on the road. And it was tricky in the parking lot, for sure. Turning into a parking space from the opposite side of the car AND road is challenging. Going the wrong way in the parking lot really threw me because it is such a small space with no room to "get over" if I found myself going the opposite way of everyone else. But I did pretty well. Okay, actually, I forgot A LOT while trying to park, and I got honked at. If I could hear them cursing me, I bet they would have said "stupid yank" or something along those lines. But I am exactly that...a Yankee in their country, doing stupid things as I try to get by.

You know what? In general, it was EASY. The driving was easier than the parking. Granted, I was out on a Sunday afternoon, but still...it was much easier than I imagined it to be. Am I ready to drive in London? Hell-to-the-no. But around my neck of the woods? Yep.

No talking grocery bags here

2009-04-17T20:40:00.000+01:00

Going grocery shopping in England? Let me prepare you for the experience, because it's not like shopping in the States. Like much of what I have described for you, it isn't bad...it's just different.

I'll begin with the cart situation. There are four things about the carts - which are called 'trolleys,' by the way - that make are different than what we have in the States. First of all, let me tell you right now that the cart you get is not broken. No matter what store you find yourself shopping, you will no doubt be thinking that you have the bad cart with the bum wheel. But all the carts are the same...and the way the wheels turn every which way is not an indication that something is wrong. The wheels are just like that...trust me on this one. You can stand there at the entrance of the store all day long and try different carts. It will be the same. (Not that I did that or anything...I mean, how foolish would that have looked???)

Before you can get your cart, though, you might have to put a coin in the handle to get it released from being locked. Don't worry...you'll get it back. Similar to the luggage carts at the airport, many of the grocery stores here require a coin to release it, and you get it back when you return it. They even sell key chains with a 'fake' coin on it that you can use to get your cart, and the stores themselves sell the key chains, so it isn't fraud or anything. I have speculated on the reasons why they require the coins at all, and the only one that makes any sense to me is so that the carts get returned. However, it doesn't seem likely that there is a missing cart problem, or at least not in any of the stores where I have encountered this, so it's just my speculation. I don't see a homeless population, nor do I see anyone using carts outside of the parking lots for other reasons. So really, I don't get it. But if you are trying to get a cart from the stall at the entrance and the cart seems stuck to the other one in front of it, don't bother going over to the next row and trying that one. Or the row after that one, either...they aren't stuck together, they are locked. Yanking on them won't help. You'll just look stupid. (Not that I did that, either...again, how foolish would that have looked, yanking on rows of carts, when all that needed to be done was depositing a coin in the handle?)

If you are looking for a cup holder, you aren't going to find that on your cart. That's a good thing, really, because once you see how willy-nilly these carts go, you'll realize that your drink would just be spilled all over the place. Seriously, the base of the wheels rotate a full 360 degrees, independent of each other, and they are NOT in need of oil...they not squeaky and they spin and rotate without ANY drag. Your cart goes sideways at the same time it is moving forward and at the same speed. There's no one-handed pushing, and I can safely say that they are actually difficult to control in comparison to an American cart. In fact, there are different handles on the carts at my favorite store, Sainsbury's. The handles raise up above the straight bar across the front. I've attached a picture to show you...the blue part is what I'm talking about. These handles help you control the cart much more than just the plain straight bar for sure.

The last thing you'll notice is a separate compartment in your cart for your bread and for flowers. True. There is a section at the front of the cart, opposite of the kiddie seat that will hold your baguettes and your flower bunches and keep them from getting squashed. Pretty clever.

Aside from the carts - I mean, trolleys - being different, there aren't many other visible differences that would make you think you aren't in your hometown grocery store in the US. There are only two other things I notice as different when I am there - I mean, as far as what I see when I look around.

The first thing is when I go to buy fruits and veggies. The produce department in every store here is the same in that the produce is in large green bins with flip-open lids that obviously come from the producer. The bin is similar in size and shape to a recycle bin in the US and I assume they use these bins instead of tons of cardboard boxes. Great idea, isn't it? I'm not saying it is straight from the ground, or sloppily thrown in the bin - it is bunched or bagged or packaged just like it is in the States - but it is contained within the bin. The produce department people just roll out a pallet with the green bins stacked, and they set the bins on a slanted display surface, flip open the attached flap lids, and the contents are displayed, ready for the shopper to just take the product out of the bin and place it in the cart. Just like a Dierberg's or an Albertson's or any other store in the US, there are sprinklers above some of the displays, and of course there are bags and ties and scales as well, but there is not a fancy display of each piece, or bunches arranged in rows. It is practical and it works.

The second thing I noticed was the absence of baggers at the checkout. I should first mention that the English are GREAT at not handing out plastic bags for every purchase. They will ask you if need a bag, there are signs reminding you to bring a bag, there are canvas bags for purchase (cheaply) everywhere, and there are no paper bags available. Along this same line of thinking, they have customers bag their own stuff while they check you out. And since this is NOT America, you are probably not buying dozens of items at one time, and if you are, they are not huge and over-sized. I think the absence of baggers can be attributed to two things (and this is just my opinion) that seem to be consistent here. The first is the thing about bags...they don't want to encourage you to use theirs. They want you to bring your own and bag your own stuff. The second is the customer service aspect that is prevalent in the United States and distinctly absent here. That customer service thing is not just my opinion, either. Several of my British friends have commented on the outstanding service they always get in the States as opposed to here. But that's another post for another time.

Stay tuned for the next installment of Grocery Shopping in the UK where I tell you the names of all the food that isn't what you think it is. Or something like that.

So here's the scoop....

2009-04-13T20:44:00.003+01:00

I should have posted this sooner, but I'm lame.

Okay, it's not really because I'm lame, but it is partly due to my forgetfulness...and my desire to rant about Charles Darwin. Of course it doesn't help that I don't get my hands on the computer whenever I want to...I'm not so good with sharing and John and I are still sharing this computer. For some reason unknown to me, John's work gets priority over my blogging and Facebook. Go figure.

But none of that is news...especially if you know me. This, however, is news. I shouldn't say it in such an anticipatory tone...like trumpets should sound before I speak, because it's really kind of anti-climactic now. It's just that the boys and I will be returning to Portland on May 5th. John is going to stay here until the end of the month. We don't know anything more, or anything new, than we did last month. So this time I'll spare you all the cryptic and vague explanations, and I'll sum it up by sharing the words of a good friend who is 'in' on all the assorted details. He put it this way: John has several "trains in the station" right now...so we will wait to see which ones are departing, at what times, and to where.

I know, I said I wouldn't be cryptic. (Technically speaking, I'm being figurative.)

Back to the plan...an incredibly open-ended plan, to say the least. I'm currently searching for a job back in Portland...I have a few possibilities lined up, including an interview (via a conference call) on April 20th. Since I can't work here (in England) I'll work in Portland. Some incredibly wonderful friends have opened their home to us - and they've been on vacation with us, no less, and yet still they are willing to have us around like that! But they understand the ambiguity of the situation...how we don't know if we'll be there a month or two...or where we'll be next, or anything like that.

I don't mean to be so brief, but it is after 10:30pm and I'm coming off an incredibly wonderful four day weekend (hooray for Easter in the UK!) spent in the countryside...the weather was in the 60's and sunny, the food was to die for, and the company was incredible. We couldn't have asked for a better weekend. I'll share more about it in my next post, in another day or so. I hope to get a number of them posted at that time. I've been trying to do some writing outside of the blog, with the intention of putting it in the blog, or better yet, to share with a publisher....I MIGHT have found one who will at least look at my writing. So keep your fingers crossed!

93,000 square miles to protect

2009-04-11T11:20:00.000+01:00

Sometimes in the midst of my day-to-day existence here, I am briefly stunned by the realization that this entire country is about the size of Oregon. Not that the size of the place is really relevant, but it occurs to me that the problems I have had in trying to live here seem SO much larger than the physical space it occupies. But at the same time, it also makes the need for such stringent immigration rules more apparent. What they've got going here is a pretty good thing...especially for such a compact space. They can't mess around and risk ruining it.

Then....I see something like the article I have linked to below. The reaction of the British to the US State Department brief, in my opinion, was a bit over the top. And it shines a less-than-flattering light on what the reasoning behind the rules might actually be. To me, it now feels anti-American, and thus personal, as opposed to what I formerly respected as their need for self-preservation by exclusion.

I KNOW, I KNOW...it isn't about me. I really do know that...but what I'm talking about here is how I feel. Some of the comments from the British just look stingy and boastful and belligerent. And that's not how I want to see them...that's not how I want to remember my time here.

Of course I speak in generalities. When I look at it specifically, I couldn't ask for a warmer welcome or better friends here than Simon and Claire, Anna and Tim, or Tara, or Fiona...to name a few. Again, it's more just me pouting and feeling bitter about how it all panned out with the work permit process.

Take a look at this article. It is from my hometown paper, The Oregonian. (I also found it interesting and coincidental that it involves the two places I have lived over the last 12 months.)

http://www.oregonlive.com/news/oregonian/index.ssf?/base/news/123864451516750.xml&coll=7

Maybe I can get a job at the State Department, compiling briefs that actually contain relevant information for the President. Think about it...my love of politics combined with my love of research and writing? Aside from it making me a rip-roarin' fun gal at parties, it could actually be the perfect job for me. hmmmmmmmmmmm............

In holidays we trust

2009-04-10T20:34:00.006+01:00

This Easter is the second major holiday I have spent in the UK.

Yes, I am calling Easter a 'major holiday' and I'll explain why. Unlike the US, there is no intentional line drawn between religion - Christianity, specifically - and the government. And no, the place is not overrun with zealots, either. Quite the contrary, in fact, as there are FAR fewer Christian extremists here than in the States and MUCH less of the division between the "types" of Christians. That fact alone says a lot to me about the nature of the religious culture in the United States...but that's not what this post is about. Or at least, not exactly. Allow me to explain.

Talking about religion isn't taboo here. Schools are required to have, among their core subjects, 'religious education' as a subject for at least the first six years of school. (http://curriculum.qca.org.uk/key-stages-1-and-2/subjects/religious-education/index.aspx ) When I say 'schools' I mean public schools. It is part of the National Curriculum. There isn't a big deal made about it...like no one sues the school district or anything.

Religious holidays are acknowledged for what they are as well. As I mentioned before, we are in the middle of a big one right now...Easter. Easter is celebrated with a four day weekend here. Good Friday and Easter Monday are Bank Holidays. People wish one another "Happy Easter" without reserve. Right now Jack and Ian are in the middle of Easter Break...not spring break, but Easter Break. The entire country's school children are on Easter Break. Early this afternoon, when I went to the shops, the produce store was closing at 1:00. The bakery was closing at 2:00. The butcher shop wasn't even open. And it was all in honor of Good Friday.

I can't remember if I posted about Christmas here or not, so I'll give you a brief synopsis of what I observed. The collective holiday season here is called Christmas...not "the holidays." Unlike the US, people in public places wish each other a "happy Christmas," without reserve - and when I say public, I mean in the stores, or even on the news, and on the phone. I spoke to dozens of customer service reps during December as I set up our phone and satellite and such, and they all wished me "happy Christmas" and "merry Christmas" as we were hanging up. I can honestly say that NO ONE here wished me the innocuous "happy holidays," and the few times that I said it, I was looked at strangely. I think it would be safe to say that there isn't a need for those "Jesus is the reason for the season" bumper stickers. Jesus and His holidays are alive and well in England, and no one is offended by it, either.

Since I mentioned bumper stickers, I'll share with you something that impresses me about the way religion is handled here. (There is a segue in this...bear with me.) Now keep in mind that this is a very BROAD and sweeping generalization...nothing scientific or measurable, okay?

We have all seen the those metal outlines of a fish that people in the US mount on the rear of their car, to signify their Christianity. We've also seen the ones that are fish with legs, with "Darwin" inside of the fish body, to signify their belief in evolution. I would say that those two symbols are good examples of two opposing points of view among Christian Americans, wouldn't you?

In America, there are places where people still debate over the opposing views of Creationism (or the theory of Intelligent Design http://www.intelligentdesign.org/) and Evolution (http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/darwin_charles.shtml). Those who believe in Creationism think that Evolution is in direct opposition of what God has told us to be true, through the Bible. Those who believe in Evolution think that Creationism is a way to impose a religious view onto a scientific situation.

Again, this is a BROAD generalization here, okay?

In either case, they have chosen a "side," and for whatever reason, in the US, people are forced to take sides. Yes, I know, that is part of America, to have choices and options, to be able to take whatever side you want AND not have to fear persecution. I understand all of that and I am not being critical of it whatsoever. You won't find anyone who loves America more than me these days, trust me.

What I am saying, though, is that maybe we Americans can learn something from the British in this situation. There's no fighting about it. There are no divisions. No one has to take a side, no one sues the City Hall for nativity scenes...they don't let that kind of nonsense happen. Not Christian? Okay, no worries. Enjoy the time off of work. They just live and let live.

Remember, this is the country that gave us Charles Darwin. He could be perceived as the lightening rod for one of the major dividing points in America, couldn't he? Yet in this country of "Happy Easter" and "Merry Christmas" and religion taught in schools, there is also a tremendous reverence for Darwin. They celebrates him in a huge way. There's Darwin Day (http://darwinday.org/about/) and the national celebration of his 200th birthday this year. Most notably, Charles Darwin is buried at Westminster Abbey. Why is this most notable? Only the best of the best in Britain are buried there... including royalty such as Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Edwards I, III and VI, Henrys III, V and VII, and people such as Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens, and Geoffrey Chaucer. No small feat to be buried there. AND, it is considered the 'holiest' of churches here, like the mother of all cathedrals.

What is my point, you ask? (I get that a lot.) My point is that if a country as discerning as England can wish each other "merry Christmas" and close banks for Good Friday, yet still exalt Darwin, then maybe we, as Americans, should lighten up and try to do the same. There are so many more important things to debate these days...much bigger fish to fry, so to speak.

Time and Weather

2009-03-30T09:26:00.002+01:00

Here's what my weather will be today. This is exactly what was written...I cut & pasted it straight from the website. I swear. Does anyone else think it's funny?

45 °F
Sunny. Nippy.

What else is interesting about the weather forecasts here is the inconsistency between the temperature reported as Celsius and Fahrenheit. Now this isn't necessarily true for all of the UK, but I have observed that in my little part of the world over here that when it is really cold, the temperature is reported in Celsius. Like instead of it being 32 degrees Fahrenheit, it will be reported as zero degrees Celsius....but when it is warmer, like in the mid-to-upper 40's, it becomes Fahrenheit again. At first I thought it was just me, that it wasn't really happening like that. Then one day as I was discussing the weather in general with my friend Fiona, she asked me if I ever noticed how the measure of the weather flip-flops, and then proceeded to tell me about the switch back and forth. I was relieved to hear that I wasn't imagining it, but curious as to why.

Fiona said - and mind you, these are her words, and she is British - that the English just really love the opportunity to complain. She gave me an example...according to Fiona, if you want to complain about the cold weather, it is going to sound a lot colder when you say it is two below, instead of 28 degrees. If you want to complain about it being too warm, it sounds much more oppressive to say it is 86 degrees instead of 30.

And while I'm talking about numbers, I should also mention that Daylight Savings Time began on Saturday night. I never knew that Europe's schedule for springing forward and falling back is different than the time we use in North America. Did you? So I guess that now I am nine hours ahead of the west coast. Oy.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

2009-03-29T22:04:00.002+01:00

Today we went to a friend's house for Sunday Lunch. Sunday lunch is a big deal here. I'd compare it to the way there are brunches on holidays (such as Mother's Day and Easter) in the States, except that here it isn't just for holidays. It is every Sunday.

I had noticed signs for "Sunday Lunch" and "Sunday Roast" and "Sunday Carvery" at all the pubs, hotels and the bed & breakfasts. (Yes, there are B&B's all over the place...now there is something that actually is like the England in the movies and TV.) We have never gone to one, whether at a restaurant or someone's home. Today was our first time, and I have to say that it was spectacular.

Our friends, Simon and Claire, live in the country, and so they have a huge yard, a trampoline and tennis courts, and their neighbors have horses that come right up to the fence in their yard. The boys fed the horses and played soccer - I mean, football - and jumped on the trampoline, and ran around with the dogs, and had an all-around great time. The weather was BEAUTIFUL- sunny and warm (for here, that is) with a clear blue sky all day long. We went at 12:30 and spent all afternoon enjoying a beautiful day, and lunch was served mid-way through the day. It was phenomenal...they served roasted chickens, with potatoes, carrots, onions...there was salad and bread, sausages, quiche and pate'. Now I see what all the fuss is about.

But even better than the meal was the company. Simon and Claire are great hosts and they made us feel right at home. It occurred to me that the tradition of Sunday Lunch is the British equivalent of our Sunday BBQ tradition. I realized that weekends are the same on any continent: a time to be with people you enjoy...friends, family, or both. And today was the first time we had experienced a tradition shared among friends...after so many months of being so far away from the friends we love. I had no idea how very much I missed such things, and was thrilled to have enjoyed myself again so thoroughly.

Here's a link to that great site I refer to so often. It explains meals and such, because in case I haven't mentioned it, that is totally different here as well. Not just pudding, either. The boys' school lunch is called their dinner. And what I think of as dinner is called tea...but then tea is also the drink and snack at around 3:00. Confused? Me too. But I'll get to that in a different post. Here's the link: http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/questions/food/meals.htm

If you consider Sunday the first day of the week, then my week just began on a really good note.

It's not just the language difference....

2009-03-27T12:58:00.000Z

...nor the time change, nor royalty, nor the geography that makes the UK so different than the United States - or the US so different from the UK, if you will. Rather, it is a combination of hundreds of little things. When I say little, I mean 'minor' and not necessarily 'small'...although that is probably a good place to start.

As Americans we are well aware of our obsession with all things bigger and larger. It's no secret that we like it that way. What was a secret, I think, (and at least to me) was exactly to what degree we have everything on such a larger scale. What I have discovered since living here is that the rest of the world doesn't live smaller, but the United States just lives larger.

I've already addressed the snack-size bags of chips in a prior post. In addition to chips, things like ice cubes are smaller and are in much less quantity. I've included a picture of the ice cube tray that came with our new refrigerator. It is seriously the only one that came with it...teeny trays with tiny cute-shaped ice cubes. It makes me wonder what a Brit would think of those huge freezer cases full of giant bags of ice cubes that sit in every store and 7-11. I should include a picture of our refrigerator as well, but I'm going to let you do the math on that one by providing you the measurements of ours so you can compare it to yours. Keep in mind that the refrigerator we have is considered full-size. It measures 22 inches wide by 66 inches tall. The freezer compartment is on the bottom and consists of three drawers...oh, and an ice tray. Don't forget the ice tray.

Speaking of 7-11...well, I can't really speak of 7-11 because there aren't any here (at least not where I live or have been) and the concept of a convenience mart like that is entirely different here. There are things called 'One Stop' and some other quick-mart like shops attached to gas stations, but they aren't the same as the ones in the US because they aren't based on saving you time, or being convenient. In fact, the notion of convenience is pretty much nonexistent here. That leads me to my next observation.

When we moved into our house it took about three days for us to notice that we didn't have a microwave. It then occurred to me that maybe we didn't actually need a microwave, so we decided to give it a try: living a microwave-less life. Surprisingly, it has worked for us. I won't lie...there are times that it would be easier to have one, and every time we are at a store John suggests that we get one I get tempted, but I've rather enjoyed the challenge of making do without one. Weird, I know.

Our house came with a washer, but not a dryer. When we looked into getting a dryer, we discovered that although dryers are available here, most houses don't have them because of the extremely high cost of gas and electricity. Indeed, as I looked around, I noticed that just about everyone has a laundry line hanging in their yard, and at every store I've noticed there are multiple choices for clothes drying racks. During this investigation I also discovered that the radiators are the best way for drying clothes, at least during the winter. The stores sell these wire rack things that hang off the radiator and increase the surface area for drying clothes. And because it is a radiator, there's no risk of fire. It's just hot water going through the pipes, and while it keeps the house remarkably warm, it isn't hot enough to burn anything. Believe me when I say that I checked out that possibility in every possible way.

While I'm talking about water, I'll describe the faucet situation. This puzzles me SO much. Apparently the concept of one tap for the water just hasn't caught on here, and it isn't just in our house. I've noticed it everywhere else I go...there is a knob and tap for the hot and the same for the cold. So washing your hands with warm water isn't possible...it is either hot or cold. Running a bath requires a lot of stirring, as the water from the two faucets needs to be mixed.

Did I mention that my washer is in my kitchen? I thought that was strange at first, but as I watch local commercials and tv shows, I see that it is the norm. Unfortunately it also means that I don't have a dishwasher...in some brilliant design effort, the person who remodeled the kitchen placed the washing machine (a front loader) in the space where a dishwasher might go. However, if the number of commercials for dish washing detergent are any indication of how many people are hand-washing their dishes, I am certainly not the minority.

If I can be completely honest right now, I would have to say that the dishwasher is by far the thing I miss most. I really hate doing dishes. But you know what it has made me realize? All the complaining about unloading the dishwasher I used to do was absurd.

In fact, many of the realizations I have come to since moving here come at the expense of my ingratitude for what I had back in the United States. That is not to say that I do without here, but rather, I do DIFFERENT. And as I've said so many times before, this country is NOT what you see in the movies, it isn't what you read in the books. What it IS, however, is incredibly complex and admirably self-realized. It's mind-boggling when considered in the context of its size, which is roughly the same square mileage as my state of Oregon.

I'll leave it at that...right now I need to get back to creating posts that are in the true spirit of the beginnings of this blog. I think I'll tackle soap and deodorant in my next post...and NO, it is NOT about the American misconception that Europeans don't shower as often as we do or use deodorant. Besides, the British don't consider themselves as Europeans. Again, another topic for another post.

Rockin' the bicentennial year at St. Thomas the Apostle

2009-03-25T00:06:00.006Z

I am just loving Facebook. An old, old, old friend found me today. Among other great things, she shared this picture with me. It's us from first grade! Once I get a bit more Facebook savvy - okay, a LOT more Facebook savvy, I will have everyone's name linked to their picture. And yes, I truly DO remember everyone's name in this picture. I can't remember grocery lists or to get gasoline, but I am a flippin' Einstein with names. I should add that to my resume. What I won't add to my resume is any mention of fashion sense...what is the deal with my collar? And does anyone else think I look like Jack in a bad dress?

Strap on those steel-toed Stride Rites, kiddies. We're going to Renee's

2009-03-25T00:04:00.002Z

I just realized why women are meant to be young when they are having babies. It occurred to me today that I'm in no condition to care for a baby. A baby of mine would choke to death, or in some other neglect-related incident while in my care, and here's why I'm afraid of that happening.

Yesterday I was cleaning up around the coffee table and I picked up a tack...you know, those colorful plastic ones, shaped kind of like a top hat? The ones that are so much easier to pull out of the cork board than the flat ones....perhaps another sign of my age. Anyway, I accidentally dropped it and it bounced on the ground and disappeared, either blending in with the crazy colored oriental rug, or on the floor somewhere else, like under the edge of the couch or something.

I hesitated for a few seconds, running through my head the scenarios of what would happen if I left it. A possibility was that I'd step on it. Ouch. Or, John would step on it...ouch with a few bad words. Or, one of the boys would step on it, and yes, it would hurt, but more importantly it might happen right before school, and the stepper would try to use it as an excuse to stay home. NOT HAVING IT. So, I made my way down to the floor, intent on finding the tack and picking it up, preserving everyone's feet and my quiet during the day.

As I laid flat on my stomach, looking across the carpet for any sort of projectile object (aside from tortilla chip pieces and popcorn kernels) I realized that not only had I lowered myself down in phases (down on my right knee, then my left, then my right hand, then my left, then walked my hands out until I was on my elbows, then kind of wiggled my torso down to the floor, then lowered my right arm flat and then my left arm flat...and yes, it took as long to do it as it took to write it,) but also that once I was down, it was almost comfortable and I didn't want to get back up right away. Once I was down, I realized it was going to be an effort to get up, and that I might even use the coffee table to help me up. (An image of my Nana doing the exact same thing popped into my head, except my face was on her body.) How did I do this 'up and down' thing dozens of times each day, just a mere five or six years ago? I know I made a LOT less noise when I did it, too. And when I say "I" made noise, it doesn't just mean the sighing, but my knees and elbows as well.

But it isn't just my physical state...after all, women of all ages have babies and take care of them perfectly well. Rather, it was my attitude about finding the tack. Since I didn't see the tack anywhere, and looking for it involved more effort, I did a quick assessment in my head and decided to leave it. I was measurably relieved that no one here would put it in their mouth if they found it, and slightly concerned that I had considered leaving it even if they would.

I have a feeling that this post is one of those things that will come back to haunt me, like if we ever decided we wanted to try and adopt a baby, ("Leaving the tack on the floor? Oh, that was just a joke,(nervous laugh) really, a total joke. I don't let babies play with anything pokey or dangerous. The pencil lead that's embedded Ian's eyebrow was just a freak incident a long time ago and if he weren't blond, wouldn't even be that obvious. Really.", or if I ever apply for a job at a children's advocacy group or something. Or, if one of my kids steps on a tack and ends up in the ER.

Pudding is as pudding does

2009-03-24T22:00:00.005Z

I'm thinking that I'm not original in the observations I've made about all the differences between American English and English here in the UK. If I were unique in this, I'd have a book deal or a column in a newspaper or something. But nevertheless, I keep writing and someone keeps reading, so I'll carry on. (And thanks for reading.)

Someone suggested that I find a way to protect my "intellectual property" here. Hopefully no one is stealing my stuff and passing it off as their own...although I'd think the risk of that is minor, considering what as ass I can look like in my day to day functioning around here. Who would steal someone's indignity?

As you have read, these humbling moments range from minor ("Just spell it, please!") to major ("She's just full of spunk!") and happen more than I document. This one that I am about to share is especially embarrassing because my misunderstanding has been going on for two months.

The best way to share the anecdote is to recapture the dialogue. I'll give you the setting.

Like other moms, every day when my kids come home from school I ask them how their day was, if anything exciting happened at school, and other various methods to get them to talk to me. Like other moms, I know in my head that they will be more forthcoming with information as the evening goes on, and that bombarding them with questions when they walk in is moot. Like other moms, I know that they need to just zone out with a snack and the TV or video games, taking time to re-group before they go out to play or do homework or talk to me. But unlike other moms, I get impatient and want to engage them right away. Common sense flies out the window...I'm so glad to see them and I want to scoop them up like when they were babies and have them face me, looking at me and listening to every word I speak. Considering the fact that Jack is 90 pounds and five feet tall, and that Ian is not far behind, getting them back into baby mode is just not possible. Which probably explains why I want it so badly. But I digress. (No, really.)

Back to the setting. Picture this: Weekday afternoon, boys come in from school, rainy day so no outside playing with their friends (or mates, as they say here.) Jack and Ian are both slouched on the couch, Jack playing Xbox and Ian watching, waiting for his turn. Mom stands above them, lobbing questions their way.

They don't break their glazed stare at the TV to look up at me, so using that Bachelor's degree to the fullest, I employ the method of getting down to their level...physically, that is. I sit down in between them on the couch, ready to interact. Remember, I've temporarily lost all common sense and won't wait the 45 minutes to really engage them.

Me: So guys...how was your day?
Them: Fine. (staring at tv)
Ian: (to Jack) Jack, did you see the new hoop ball thing outside? (not looking away from the tv)
Jack: Yeah, they were putting it up on my recess. (still playing Xbox)
Ian: I saw it after I got my pudding so I ate pudding really fast so I could play with it.
Me: (Sensing my 'in') You had pudding today, Ian?
Ian: Uh huh. I have it every day. (still watching Jack play)
Me: You have it every day?
Ian: Yes...oh Jack, look out for that sniper dude!
Jack: Got it.
Me: Don't you get sick of it? The pudding?
Ian: Nope. It's good.
Me: Do you have chocolate every day? (See, as a good mother I know that my son's favorite pudding flavor is chocolate.)
Ian: Not every day.
Me: What other flavors do they have? (Cha-ching! A question that can't be answered with 'yes' or 'no')
Ian: I dunno...lots. (still looking at tv)
Me: (Lapsing into some Seinfeld-esque questioning) I mean, how many kinds of pudding can there be? There's vanilla, banana, butterscotch, pistachio - you aren't eating pistachio, are you? You are allergic to pistachio!
Ian: No pistachios. (to Jack) Is it my turn yet?
Jack: Almost.
Me: But eating it every day? Don't you get sick of it?
Ian: I don't eat it if it has fruity stuff that ruins it. Like cherry junk on chocolate. Or pie that isn't apple pie flavor.
Me: Ewww! Chocolate cherry pudding? I've never heard of fruit pie pudding. (Making note to self to look up pudding recipes to try to make for him. Surely MINE will be tasty and worth eating every day...as long as the recipe isn't in metric. Damn the metric!)
Jack: Here, Ian.
Ian takes the Xbox controller.
Me: So is it served in a bowl, or are they individual cups like the Jello ones from back home?
Ian: It can be in a bowl or on a plate.(Now he's playing Xbox, still focused on the television.)
Me: Pudding on a plate? Do you eat it with a fork or spoon? How does that work? (I'm asking this one because I really want to know.)
Ian: Depends on what it is, Mom. (Clearly getting annoyed with me at this point.)
Me: I just don't get it. How can you have pudding on a plate? Like, really?
Ian: (sighing) If it is on a plate, you use a fork.

Then finally, Jack, who has been forced to listen to this exchange, speaks up. It has apparently occurred to him exactly what I am misunderstanding. He takes mercy on me, finally, but not yet looking away from the tv and Ian's game, says this to me: "Uh, Mom...'pudding' is dessert here. It's not really pudding like you're talking about. It's all desserts."

Me: (Insert sound effect from the end of every Sesame Street sketch where the human looks at the camera, puzzled, after being duped by the puppet...you know, that trombone-like sound of two tones, "wah-wuhhhhhh") Oh...okay..uh...really?
Ian: (Slightly chuckles) Yeah, mom.
Me: EXCUSE ME?
Ian: (recovering) Nothing, sorry.
Me: So when were you going to tell me? Like how long were you planning on letting me go on, thinking you ate pudding every day?
Ian: I don't know...I mean, I wasn't really paying attention to what you said.

That marked the end of my after school question and answer sessions.

And now you can add to your English to English Dictionary that
pudding = dessert.

Hindsight is 20/20....if you open your eyes, that is

2009-03-01T18:10:00.003Z

Remember playing “Truth or Dare”? (I’m not talking about Madonna, by the way.) The real game, where you had to choose whether to tell the God-honest truth about something, or take whatever dare given to you? You know that feeling of apprehension that you’d have before choosing? You’d be doing a risk analysis in your mind, running through the entire list of everything you might have to answer, the secrets you had stashed away, versus having to do something that might prove to be humiliating, or just impossible to do? You knew that either way, you were running the risk of being totally and completely vulnerable to the judgment of others, and what’s worse, you might have to explore some truths about yourself and your limits.

That’s the feeling I had every time I ventured into writing about our departure from the US. That’s the feeling I still have when I write about it. But I’ve alluded to it so much in other posts that I have to get on with it. I suppose it will also provide perspective for you as you read my posts that are so mopey and/or critical of how I managed our move.

If I made a list of mistakes (if????) I’d start the list with this:
talking about all the potentially good stuff at your destination does not constitute adequate preparation emotionally. You HAVE TO include some element of closure. Walking away from an empty house, seeing all your possessions neatly and safely stored away. Having an idea when you might return. Leaving as little as possible to ambiguity.

How do I know this? I’ve recently realized that the component missing from our move was the closure of the old life. When I speculate what the kids felt, I am knocked over with complete and utter sickness as I consider that they may have felt even the teensiest bit like me…even just a micro-millimeter of what I felt…and that was nothing they deserved to feel. I was a complete and utter failure at giving them the opportunity to walk away from their old life and look with excitement at their new life.

It didn’t occur to me that there was more to it than just talking about the new house, new town, new this and that. There was a lot of this stuff being said before we went: “In England, you’ll get to blah blah blah. In England we will blah blah blah. When we are in England there’s gonna be blah blah blah.” It was like, “Life will be so perfect when we are in England!” I avoided talking about leaving and focused too much on arriving. So no wonder nothing seemed good when we actually got here…we all had a vision of gold-covered streets and money growing on trees and buildings made of candy and non-stop sunshine.

I should have recognized the signs that something wasn’t right with the situation.(The situation of packing and preparing, not the situation of moving.) I recall doing a lot of chanting to myself “Keep it together. Just keep going.” You know that part in Finding Nemo where Dory and Marlin are going along and Dory is singing to herself, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming”? I had that tune in my head, except I was saying, “Just keep going, just keep going” so I’d keep moving forward in getting done what needed to be done. Every time the emotion would swell up inside my upper torso, pressing hard on that space where your neck joins to your chest, I’d gulp it back and think about something else… ANYTHING else. As I’d be packing, I’d come across something that, if memories were liquid, would be heavy laden, dripping with tons of meaningful recollections. If I permitted myself to allow that feeling to come to fruition, I’d be a sobbing mess in the middle of the hallway floor. Or, even worse, the boys would see me like that.

I’ve been told that I’m being too hard on myself, that there’s no ‘how-to’ manual for this sort of thing. That may be true, but that doesn’t change the affect it had on the boys. Ten years from now you won’t hear them say “I was traumatized by my move, but my poor Mom didn’t know how to go about it, so it’s okay that it happened to me. She did the best she could with what she had.” Nope. They may not ever say, but they will just know, just feel that they were traumatized by their move.

In various posts I’ve touched on the days leading up to the move, and although it is chronologically out of order, I’m first going talk about the trip getting here. I am still wrapping my head around the days and weeks that preceded the actual move, so that post (or posts) will come later. If you cannot wait to hear about it, and you happen to know Geoff and Katrina, just ask them how pathetic the last 24 hours were.

We flew out early on a Wednesday morning. That Monday night we slept over at the Seydel’s house, (well I never made it over there to sleep...more on that another time) and then all day Tuesday, Jack and Ian were at the Seydel’s as we frantically packed. John and Katrina took trip after trip to the storage unit while I sorted and packed...and thanked Katrina every chance I got for being such a saint…a true lifesaver. But there will never be enough thanks for that. The boys would call me every couple of hours and ask me when I was coming back to the Seydel’s house. I kept telling them I was still packing and going as fast as I could go, and that they wouldn’t want to be at our house right now, with all the commotion. That I'd be done really soon. I recall thinking that I was almost done. I really and truly did think I’d get it all done.

That Tuesday evening we had been at the Seydel’s house, eating dinner, picking up the boys and saying goodbye. It took WAY longer than I expected, as it was WAY more difficult than I imagined. None of us wanted to leave.

Logic says that you’d be completely packed and ready to go before you did anything else, but I kept thinking there was this excess of time somewhere. Wrong. Any and all of my so-called “logic” at that time was completely flawed.

The drive home from the Seydels was difficult…and I don’t just mean driving while crying. There was a sense of finality I wasn’t ready for, the boys were very upset, and I was feeling a sense of panic that I was in over my head. Could the boys sense that? I don’t know. But once back at the house, they didn’t get to sleep until long after midnight, and then we were waking them up at 4:00am to get in Geoff’s car and go to the airport. We had lines to deal with at the airport, even at 4:30 in the morning. We had giant bags to check, giant bags to carry. We had an hour to kill at the gate, in that strange time of day that isn’t nighttime anymore but isn’t morning either. Where you hear a buzzing in your ears and see everything in a strange yellow tint. Your senses are heightened, but not in a way you appreciate. Things smell way more than normal….great for a cinnamon roll, bad for jet fuel or an airport restroom. You can’t get warm, or you can’t cool off. Your food tastes and feels extreme as you chew it. The chair you are sitting on is too hard, too squishy, too wide or too narrow.

As we boarded the plane, I know I avoided making eye contact with John. I was afraid I’d lose it if I did, because John can read me at a glance. If I revealed how I felt, he’d naturally try to relieve me of it. That’s what he does. But there was too much to relieve, there was too much I hadn’t acknowledged myself yet. No thinking, no feeling…I just had to focus on appearing to be excited and upbeat to the boys.

I think I said something like, “Here we go!” in some cheery-like way, as if to remind everyone that we were starting a great adventure. I looked to see if the boys were as excited as I was coaching them to be. They looked apprehensive, and as I type this, I feel the same huge, burning cut right through my chest that I felt then. I distinctly recall feeling that it was not really happening. I remember thinking to NOT think too much about it, because I didn’t want to feel too much about it. We had a long flight ahead of us, and then another one after that. Keep it together. Just keep going, just keep going.

We flew to New York, and the boys snoozed enough that they had some energy to burn once we landed there. We had a five-hour layover, and aside from having to eat crappy airport food, the layover wasn’t too bad. Our tired bodies were confused….it was dinnertime for us as we boarded the plane, but it was 11:00pm in New York. Shortly after we took off we were given a snack and then it was lights off. The boys were absolute angels, but clearly were not ready to fall asleep for the night. The flight was jam-packed, too, so it was not conducive to comfort. The movies weren’t kid-friendly. It was a long, long, long flight. I sang a lot of my Dory tune to myself.

We landed in Manchester early in the morning on December 5th. The region was experiencing an unprecedented cold spell, so it was numbingly cold. It was raining/sleeting, windy, and miserable. We had to go to the car rental building which meant that we had to walk across the top level of a parking garage, totally exposed to the arctic rain, dragging bags on wheels through giant puddles, no coats, wind whipping our faces. This airport is the most POORLY planned and managed place on the planet. In addition to the walk, the entrance had about six steps going up to a door that opened outward, so you had to step backwards down the top two steps to open the door, then somehow manage to get your bags in behind you.

But that’s not the worst part of it. No, the worst part of it is that there was a puddle that was wider than anyone could hope to jump over, and went the entire length of the staircase. I am not exaggerating in the slightest bit. You truly could not enter the rental car building without stepping IN it. NO way over it, no way around it. And this puddle, by my best estimate, was at LEAST three inches deep. Seriously, at its shallowest, it was three inches. Go get a ruler, right now, and put one end of it on the floor next to your foot. Count up three inches and see where that comes to on your foot. It’s OVER your foot, isn’t it?

So imagine this moat-like puddle with ice along the edges, pelting rain, whipping wind, eight giant bags strapped to two cart things with four carry-ons dangling from the cart. The building you need to get into is not accessible. The building you came from is not accessible. There is no awning, no cover, NOTHING.

John and I assessed the situation, and decided that the kids shouldn’t get their feet soaked by going through the puddle, and that we’d stand a better chance of getting out of there relatively dry if we just got the car as quickly as possible, even if it meant a few minutes outside in the rain. So John, always the trooper and without hesitation, went through the mini lake and into the building, confident that, like dozens of times before, he’d get the rental car and we’d be on our way in just a few minutes. We could handle the heinous cold and wet in exchange for a warm and dry car. Besides, what choice did we have?

Things went from shitty to shittier FAST. The rental place had messed up our reservation, there were no cars available, and to prove our reservation, John had to come out to get his briefcase with his laptop, take it inside, power it up, and open the file with the reservation info in it. He had a printed one, but apparently, they needed something else that wasn’t on the thing he printed. I sent the boys in with him so they could get cover. By this point, their feet had become wet and there was no reason for them to stay outside and get hypothermia. But there was no possible way to get all the stuff through the puddle, up the steps, and into the building, so I had to stay outside with it. I told myself it was just for a few more minutes.

Now, my original intention was to put down more detail about this situation. I’m going to have to stop now, though, because it is just too much negative energy, and I don’t want to draw more of it in. And really, it’s just too difficult to re-live. If I sound pathetic or fragile saying that, then so be it.

I’ll just summarize the rest of the rental car acquisition: the wait was about 40 minutes. I was truly concerned that I had frostbite on my hands and toes, but I was glad the boys were indoors and warm. I was so cold and miserable that I cried…just stood there crying. John was finally able to get the yahoos in the rental agency to find a vehicle for us, and true to the hero he usually is, he sprinted out to me, found us the car, started it to get us warm and dry, loaded everything in quickly, and got us on our way. But it was NOT a good way to start the day – much less a new chapter of our lives.

It was the antithesis to the picture I painted for Jack and Ian, nothing like what I’d promised would be worth all the sadness of leaving home. I was failing them at every turn at this point, and we hadn’t even left the airport.

Speaking the international language of contempt...with an accent

2009-02-28T22:29:00.006Z

For as many differences I’ve pointed out, there are twice as many similarities between the United States and the United Kingdom. It just so happens occasionally I get on a path that has a few more of the differences than similarities, and often times that path turns into a full-on highway without exits for like 147 miles. You might have noticed that already. But really, the two countries are comparable in a lot of ways.

One of those ways would be the dumping of unfriendly technology upon a helpless public. We call it an automated phone system. You know what I'm talking about...those despicable recordings that tell you to press one for this, two for that, three if you don’t know something, or four for anything else. It used to be that you could press the ‘0’ and get a person, but they’ve discovered that loophole and patched it up with the stress-relieving, “I’m sorry. That is an invalid entry. Please try your selection again.”

I just have to say that hearing all the menu options with a British accent is not any less stressful than hearing them in an American one.

Anyway…our new house required new utilities: phone, cable, internet, water, gas, electricity, garbage pick-up, etc. I was the lucky girl to make those calls, and anyone from the States who tried to make contact with me during the first month and a half I was here will tell you that I was beyond unlucky with one provider in particular.

British Telecom, or BT, is the single most heinous company (next to US Bank) on the planet, and they hold the power over whether you (as a person in the UK) can have a telephone or internet. It’s as simple as that. They own the line that goes into your house and therefore have control over it, meaning that if you don’t choose them to be your telephone, cable TV and broadband company, then they rent that line to any other telephone, cable or broadband company you choose. Simple, right?
Wrong, wrong, wrongity wrong.

It’s not simple if BT decides that you don’t have their line in your house and to get one installed you must pay them one hundred and twenty-two pounds AND wait almost a month for a technician to show up to do it. Even if you are actually CALLING THEM FROM THE BT LINE. (True story…plus I actually have a giant box in the front yard with the letters BT all over it.)

I all began in December 10th, when after securing a cell phone, I called BT. I spoke to a lovely chap named Andrew, who gave me all the information I needed about the packages and prices and such. I told him I wanted to run it by John, to check and see how many international minutes we should get, and to ask whether we needed two, four or eight mb speed on our broadband. (And although I wasn’t going to tell Andrew and look like a total tool, I was also going to ask John what the hell an mb is.) We were on the line for almost a half-hour….and apparently that is the amount of minutes $30.00 buys on a pre-paid phone. (It wasn’t 30 dollars, but actually pounds, but since I don’t have the pound symbol on my keyboard I will just describe it: it looks kinda like a wavy capitol L with a squiggly thing in the middle of it. Look it up. Here is that website I keep sending you to…but really, it’s so helpful, no?
http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/questions/money.html )
ANYWAY….I digressed again. Sorry. At the 30 minute mark, there was a beep noise, and then 30 seconds later the call was ended. As a newbie to the world of prepaid cell phones, it took me a few minutes to realize what happened. And then I said a few words that would appear like this if I were a cartoon: &+*^#!

Fortunately, I had already given Andrew our cell phone number…or, as they say, our “mo-by-ul” number, so he could call me back in 20 minutes, after I talked to John. (Incoming calls don’t use up the minutes, so I although I couldn’t dial out, I could still receive calls.) Andrew wanted to make the sale and I wanted to get the whole thing squared away. It was a Wednesday, and I figured (in all my American-ness) that we’d have a phone and internet by Friday. I figured wrong.

I couldn’t call Andrew back without going to the T Mobile store to re-load the phone. The whole reason we had a stupid pre-paid phone was absurd, in my opinion, and made me feel like a drug dealer or terrorist….or at least speculate on how it might feel to be a drug dealer or terrorist. John wasn’t keen on letting me near the T Mobile store, either…he didn’t think they wanted to hear my opinion about their ridiculous policy again. (Another story for another time) But even if I wanted to go to the store and re-load, I couldn’t do it because, like everything else around Chester, the store CLOSED AT 5:00. Good for the folks working at the store, bad for Renee.

So I waited for Andrew to call me back…he eventually did, about three days later. However, by that time I was told that there was no BT line in the house, that I had to get a BT line installed in the house, it was going to cost $122, and it couldn’t be scheduled until the end of December. I was determined to NOT pay for anything being installed in this house…there was most certainly a line and it was most certainly a BT one.

The subsequent phone calls to other providers unearthed the monopoly BT has on the whole home communication biz. Absolutely NO ONE can start service of any kind without a BT line installed. Everything coming into your home has to be on a BT line…the provider (in my case, Sky) has to rent the line from British Telecom. So not only was my phone and internet being held hostage by BT, everyone else’s was, too, and all the other service providers are at BT’s mercy as well. It’s like BT has the entire country by the short and curlies.

So after that realization, I bit the bullet and got the installation date set. I was actually looking forward to my big fat “I TOLD YOU SO” moment when the technician was here and had to call in to his lovely colleagues at BT and say, “Uh, yeah, Nigel? Simon here. I’m at job number 3422 and I’m not sure why you sent me here, as there’s already a bloody line in the house.”

The day before the installation, I get a text message from BT telling me that their technicians have determined that a line exists on the premises and to please call customer service for further instructions on how to begin enjoying my BT service. Oh, but I am already enjoying it so.

Every time I called BT I would take notes. I wrote down the date and time, as well as the person’s name with whom I spoke. I’ll spare you the details and give you a synopsis. Here are all my new friends’ names and the date we met.
12/11/2008 – Stacy
12/16/2008 – Helen
12/19/2008 – Annette
12/24/2008 – Raj
12/24/2008 – Emily
12/24/2008 – Sareesh
12/29/2008 – Ruth
1/2/2009 – Chloe (but she’s not really my friend…she hung up on me because she couldn’t understand me. Rag.)
1/2/2009 – Jamie
1/2/2009 – Faye
1/2/2009 – Christine

In addition to the lovely conversations with the lovely customer service representatives at BT, I was also fortunate enough to reach their automated voice recognition system, which is inappropriately named, in my opinion. Rather, it should be called the automated accent recognition system, because the day I tried to use it, my voice was working just fine and yet I got NO WHERE with it.

Here’s where it gets sketchy, because trying to spell how an English accent sounds might not come across correctly. If you want to venture a guess on how an American “faking” an accent sounds, try to sound like the Queen, but throw in a bit of Steve Irwin. (He’s Australian, I know, but to the average American, there’s no difference. Most of you reading this are average Americans.)

So I call BT, and I’m asked to speak an account number. No option to press the keys…gotta speak.

Me: “Three four two, two nine three four.”
BT: “I’m sorry, I did not recognize that account number. Please try again.”
Me: “Three four two, two nine three four.”
BT: “I’m sorry, I did not recognize that account number. Please try again.”
Me: “Three. Four. Two. Two. Nine. Three. Four.”
BT: “I’m sorry, I did not recognize that account number. Please try again.”

I realized then that my accent was what was messing it up. The account number was correct…hell, it had worked when I talked to Stacy, Helen, Annette, Raj, Emily, Sareesh, Ruth, Jamie, Faye and Christine. (Maybe that witch Chloe was behind this!) I decided I’d have to try to “sound” English.

So I did my best to channel Hermione and go for it. I looked around to make sure no one was listening to me…John and the boys were downstairs. I walked to the corner farthest from the staircase, turned my back toward the door, hunched over the phone, and spoke softly but clearly. I was confident that I was going to get it to work now.

Me: “Thray, fo-wr, tew, tew, nyyyyn-uh, thray, fo-wr.
BT: “Please hold while your call is connected to the Disabled Services Department.”

Seriously. I got transferred to the department that assists people with disabilities. My attempt at an English accent made me sound…special.

Needless to say, the person who answered my call in that department wasn’t exactly pleased to get me on the line. Apparently he didn’t get the same warm fuzzies from helping an American as he did when he helped a person with a disability.

If only he knew.

Nine things you don't want to hear your sons say

2009-02-28T22:10:00.005Z

I know, there are way more than nine, but this idea came to me last week while the boys were home for term break. All week. That's nine days in a row, in case you were wondering. And they are in no particular order.

"Ummm, Mom, I know you told me not to (verb), but....."

"Smell this."

"Remember when you said that if I told you the truth and didn't lie that I wouldn't be in trouble?"
"I said that you'd be in less trouble."
"Oh. Okay. Nevermind."

"Is it normal for my (body part) to (verb)?"

"It tastes like that one thing we found that one time."

"You were serious about that?"

"But they're still clean. My pants have been on over them all week."

"I think it's dead."

"Don't tell her."

Is this some sort of cruel joke????

2009-02-19T18:38:00.008Z

Call me paranoid, but I'm really feeling like the country of England has read my blog and decided to mess with my head. Look at what I found:

Celebrate Pancake Day 2009!
On 24 February from 11am-2pm, National Trust property Clumber Park in Nottinghamshire will hold a Pancake Fun Day. Enjoy a Pancake Recipe Trail, obstacle course, pancake tossing competition and the obligatory pancake race. The restaurant will turn out lots of lovely pancakes, too ... so make sure you have at least a taste!

Apparently, my search for pancakes could have been satisfied on one day this year. The day before Ash Wednesday is Pancake Day. Everyone gorges themselves pancakes...granted, the pancakes they prepare are not the ones we are accustomed to...here is a link to the recipe for their kind: http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/pancakeday/recipe.html
But still, it is apparent that they appreciate the delight of a pancake nonetheless.

This discovery raises a few questions and observations in my mind. (As things usually do.) In the interest of time and attention spans, I will only pose two of them here. First, when I stumbled around town in December and January, begging for pancakes (and that's clearly exaggerated for effect), why didn't anyone mention this to me? Even if it was something as simple as, "No, me luv. You'll just need to wait until 24 February."

Here is a link to an explanation of this holiday here in the UK:
http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/pancakeday/index.htm
(Let it not be said that I don't share the knowledge. Okay, it's more like I share the links to the knowledge, so point and click.)

My second observation is not so much about pancakes as much as it is about the culture here. Pancake Day is also known as Shrove Tuesday. Even on my most PMS-ish days I never considered that carbs could be a splurge of choice. (Unless you are on Atkins, of course.) It is contemporary tradition in Catholic-dominated cultures to binge on alcohol (and food in general) prior to Ash Wednesday. That's just Mardi Gras...and we all know about that. The genesis of both traditions is that historically, people give up alcohol and other enjoyable things for Lent.

But the thing that confuses me is this: it's not like pancakes are so readily available and massively consumed here...like sacrificing your daily pancake during Lent is a real sign of living your faith. As far as I can tell, the last time most of the folks here had a pancake was last year's Pancake Day.

I'm thinking that they don't celebrate Mardi Gras here the way the US or Brazil celebrates it is not because they dislike a day of drunken debauchery. Who doesn't like a day like that every once in a while? Rather, they are willing to forgo that one day so that they are not bound to the rest of the tradition....the following 40 days of sacrifice. My theory is that Pancake Day is just a red herring. There. I said it.

Here in the UK they don't mess around with the binge before the dry spell because they have no intention of having a dry spell. They drink, they drink often, and they can drink a lot. They are good at it...and trust me, I know. I grew up in a town boasting the world's largest brewery, and in a family where beer was considered one of the major food groups.

There are actually television commercials here, sponsored by the government, regarding how many units (10ml.) of alcohol per week is considered safe to consume, and it lists the dangers of exceeding that amount. Women can get by safely with 14 units. For men it is 21 units. (If you have read Bridget Jones's Diary, you'll recall that she kept totals on her units.) No one should exceed three or four units in a day. Here is a link to an explanation if you are curious: http://www.patient.co.uk/showdoc/23069189/ (Again with the links!)

So, like the observation I made with their driving on the wrong side of the road, here is another example of the 'my island, my rules'-attitude. And you know what? I just LOVE that about them. Seriously.

You may be wondering if I'm going to celebrate Pancake Day...and to be honest, I'm not sure. Despite all my pissing and moaning about things, I really do like it here. I am enjoying all of the new experiences - even the humiliating ones. I love watching the boys enjoy their new surroundings, broadening their horizons, learning in a way not possible through a book. The history is is everywhere - not just museums - and it is flippin' PHENOMENAL. I am fascinated with the culture, the sub-cultures, and how little of it I know. Pancake Day would be a great way to experience more of that culture. However, there's this tiny part of me that says there is NO WAY any British pancake could be as good as ones from The Original Hotcake House (Portland) or Uncle Bill's Pancakes (St. Louis). So, if I decide to go to one of the kajillion celebrations, I will go with an open mind and hope for the best. It's not about the pancakes.

Then again, if nothing absurd happens, what will I write about?????

Size matters

2009-02-18T13:40:00.007Z

Remember when I said that it seems like everything in England is made smaller than things in the United States?

Well, here is an exception. A very welcomed exception at my house, considering our penchant for pb&j's. The bread slice on the left is the usual size of our bread nowadays. The one on the right comes from a loaf that is intentionally smaller in every way, catering to the folks who don't need a lot of bread at once. It is the size of bread in the States. It is the size of bread we were used to. They are both Warburtons, they are both tasty, but the one on the left has come to the game, ready to play. It means business.

We'll never go back to the old size.

And just to give you some perspective on exactly how big the bread really is, here is a shot of the loaf. I've placed it next to a banana and a jar of some spice. The jar is the usual size, just like one from America. See how tall the bread is? It doesn't fit well in the toaster, even if I place the slice in the slot sideways.

Don't get me wrong...I am SO not complaining. No one in my family is...they love it. The only complaining that goes on about the bread is when I run out of it. It's just random, though, that a loaf of bread is so incredibly large while everything else is so much smaller than I'm used to...and I think that's the key:
It's a matter of getting used to it all.

A sign of the times

2009-02-18T13:37:00.002Z

This was among the candies I received for Valentines Day last week.

The times they are a-changin'

2009-02-18T09:48:00.011Z

Trying to control when a person sleeps is an exercise in futility. Anyone with children knows that. How many of us tried to get our baby to 'sleep in' by keeping him or her up late the night before? What you end up with is a cranky baby who still wakes up at 5:30am and whose naps are all messed up for the day, as is your sleep.

Additionally, messing with sleep schedules leads to a Pandora's Box of issues one may not have considered before opening the box. It is easy to see how sleep deprivation was used as a torture method...I'll say anything if you'll just let me go to sleep.

My friend Claire once said, "You can mess with my meals, you can mess with my husband, you can mess with my kids, but don't EVER mess with my sleep." Claire is the best mother I have ever known. I consulted her endlessly when Jack was a baby. She has raised four phenomenal sons and has a wonderful marriage. Her advice is priceless, and so when I heard her warning about messing with her sleep, I knew I had to take heed. She was only half-kidding. Sleep is critical for everything else falling into place.

I'm a big fan of sleep. Back in Portland it was a standing joke among our friends that I would be the first to call it a night. Our good friends, Geoff and Katrina, were the complete opposite of that. After years and years of working in the restaurant biz, they were accustomed to keeping a bedtime well past midnight. For them, it was nothing to stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 am. Fortunately John is able to stay awake and be a fun person, so Geoff and Katrina remained our friends despite my midnight-onset of narcolepsy.

That being said, I was also an early riser every weekday. I would wake up at 4:00 or so and enjoy the hours of solitude before I had to wake the rest of the family. My routine was to get up, go to the kitchen and turn on the radio, which was always on NPR. The BBC World Service was on until about 5:00am, so I'd get the world news first. I'd start my coffee and then I'd listen to Morning Edition as I unloaded the dishwasher, folded laundry, packed lunches, and sometimes prepared stuff for dinner (like browning ground beef, or starting something in the Crock pot.) I need to get into a productive routine like that here.

The last week of October was when we set the date to move. We had about five weeks. There is an eight-hour time difference between Portland and England, and it occurred to me that I could really get a leg up on the time change by moving my wake-up time a bit earlier each day.

One morning when I was up at 3:30, John opened his eyes and asked me what the hell I was doing up. I shared my plan with him. His reply: "That's just nuts. Don't do that to yourself." What did he know? I'd show him. By the time we moved, I'd be on the new schedule, and I'd be the one who was able to get the family accustomed to our new time zone. I'd be the pleasant, smiling mommy with a plate of pancakes and sausage, waking the family with the wonderful aroma and gently nudging them into their new schedules. Waking up at 8:00am in England wouldn't feel like waking at midnight if your mom was up and going, showing you how great it was to be awake. Or so I thought.

What I didn't take into account was the fact that I had only five weeks to pack, ten days of which John was going to be in England. So I began staying up later, purely out of necessity, to do all the things I had to do before we moved. Suddenly I was getting three hours of sleep a night. The last three nights we were in the US, I slept a total of six hours. I was the kind of tired you don't know exists. Worst of all, my plan to hit the ground running on UK time was down the toilet. Or the loo, if you please.

So after our journey, we arrived in the UK at the beginning of the next day, meaning we left early in the morning on a Wednesday and arrived early in the morning on a Thursday. Our bodies were saying WHAT THE HELL??? We were eating at bizarre times, sleeping (or not) at bizarre times.

We had to live in a hotel for the first week, as our house wasn't ready for us yet. We couldn't check into the hotel until after lunchtime, so we had a few hours to kill. Most importantly, according to John, we HAD to stay awake. I knew that he was right. Sleeping now would only perpetuate the misery of jet lag. Muddle through the first day and go to bed at the local time. Easier said than done.

It wasn't the first time I had dealt with the eight-hour time change. In 2004, John and I came to the UK for two weeks on vacation. We landed, I hung in there and stayed awake. I adjusted in a day or two. However, the insanity that preceded this arrival was unprecedented. This time we had the children with us, too. As resilient as they are, they can't be yanked about like that without consequences. My biggest concern was that they'd be run down and catch a bug, so I was even more militant about handwashing. Let me just say that is not exactly what an exhausted child longs to hear.

After the horrid, heinous, hideous, hellish experience at the car rental place (described in a post to follow this one) we were all in the car and on our way out of the airport. We had to find something to do that would keep us awake and could cast a positive light on the day. We ended up in town, walking around, having a meal and finding places at which we wanted to get a closer look at a later time The boys were hanging in there, staying awake with the promise of going swimming as soon as we checked into the hotel.

By the time we checked in, things had taken a turn for the worse. We were all SO tired. The boys didn't even want to swim. They actually pleaded for a nap. I was so tired I was twitching. Seriously. I was seeing mini-fireworks in my peripheral vision. It was going to have to be John's call, because I was circling the drain and needed to sleep as well.

I'll spare you the subsequent conversation, which started on a contentious note and ended with surrender. In my head, I knew that we were advised to stay awake, but the rest of me was not ready to comply. I'm ashamed to say that I was ready to take the easy road, not necessarily the correct road. Fortunately I didn't have to make the choice. Mother nature worked in our favor and we were able to take a short nap, because once John sat down on our comfy hotel bed and turned on the TV, he was a slave to his own instinct to sleep. I was more than willing to go along with that plan, as were the boys.

The hotel staff (Holiday Inn Chester South) were superb. They were aware of our situation and had set-up the room with the boys' beds already arranged and made. So we all had a power nap. It was difficult to wake up from the nap, but the nap certainly made it easier for me to embrace the idea of staying awake for eight more hours and to help the kids do the same.

If I ever get the opportunity to write a book, I'll have a lot more to say about the sleep adjustment. If nothing else, it was a tremendous learning experience. I'll just sum it up by saying that getting adjusted to the new time zone will take a lot longer than you expect. It's apparent to me now why people are so zapped when they return from a trip. It takes that much time, if not more, to adjust.

Taken

2009-02-18T09:26:00.009Z

Tell me whether you’ve heard one of these phrases:

“She’s taken with him” – meaning the “she” being described has fallen for somebody.

“He is just completely taken with being a father” - meaning the man, having recently become a dad, just loves fatherhood.

And we've all heard in movies that cheesy saying about some so-and-so who “took a lover” which means that a couple has decided to hook up on a regular basis. (I don’t like the word lover, by the way.) I really like the way Liz Gilbert mentions and sort of mocks that saying in her book “Eat Pray Love” (http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/eatpraylove.htm).

But I digress. Where I’m going with this is the contemporary use of the word “taken” coupled with the word “drink.”

”I’ve taken to drinking…” followed by words like regularly, often, daily, frequently, etc. Maybe you’ve seen it in a more foreboding way, like, “Things were going well until he took to the drink.”
In any context, the phrase pretty much means the same thing: events lead a person to start having a drink – or two or three- and having them at times that were previously unlikely, or even inappropriate.

If we were face-to-face right now, you would ask me, “What in the HELL are you getting at, Renee?” I will tell you, I promise. I had to get that stuff out on the table first, though, because when I was ‘writing’ this entry in my head, it was titled “I Have Taken to Drink” and I thought that I was the most clever and brilliant title ever. After further consideration, I decided against using that title for two reasons. Firstly, my whole experiment in drinking lasted all of five days, at best. Not a significant amount of time at all. Secondly, it was incredibly uneventful. I couldn’t come up with more than a blanket statement about the drinking…there were no interesting specifics to substantiate the clever title. It pretty much went like this: By the time evening rolled around, there were so many tiny defeats weighing me down that I felt like I just couldn’t deal. And really, I couldn’t. Coping skills are not my strength…in fact, I can’t claim them as my weakness, either, because that would imply that I actually have coping skills. I don’t.

It began and subsequently ended in the kitchen. Predictably. One night as I was doing my thing in the kitchen, I opened a beer and drank it. It made things a bit more bearable…so if I had two, would things be a lot more bearable? It stung a bit less when I caught myself looking for things I didn’t have anymore. “Where’s that cheese grater…ooops… that’s back in Portland, somewhere… not sure where, though, because I f-ed up the packing of my kitchen.” It was easier to shrug off that atrocious feeling of not having a single second of closure before leaving my friends, my things, my home, my country…. and that it was all MY fault.

I’ve always been a big daydreamer. (No, really.) As an adult the daydreaming has mostly manifested itself as dialogue in my head…you know, like when you make this scenario of how a conversation or an event will play out. Or how you wished it had played out. The one I was having then was a phone conversation, envisioning myself chatting with someone back home about how things were going, and I’d gloss it all over with, “Yes, well, I’ve taken to drink” and then I'd appear to be sophisticated and insightful in my recognition of the presence of drinking in my day. It was going to be effective in painting the picture of how sucky the evenings had become and how clever I had been in remedying said suckiness with a drink or two. After all, I’m in England. Pubs monopolize the street corners here the way Starbucks do in the States. What’s that saying about when in Rome and the Romans?

Maybe you know this already, but adding alcohol to a situation already riddled with ineptitude does not a solution make. It also isn’t good for someone with heinous jetlag. In fact, I think there were only two positives that came from the situation.

First: to John, I appeared to be a fun girl once again. (Woo hoo! Renee’s got a buzz!) And second: I think the beers gave ME beer goggles, providing a short respite from my constant cringing over my appearance – namely, the haircut.

Why does it always go back to the hair?

Anyway, if I had to walk away with a lesson learned from the whole thing, I’d say there are two points. First, do not try to drink your problems away. (Yeah, that’s news.) Second, when writing, remember that the story makes the title, not the other way around. Now that I think about it, it’s just like the first day of college and the counsel you probably received from your advisor and from your Comp 101 instructor. In case you forgot.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it: locate comfort food

2009-02-13T15:20:00.001Z

You may recall a certain post of mine regarding pancakes. I was on a mission to get pancakes - whether I made them or had them in a restaurant. Like so many other things here, the word breakfast has a specific meaning that is not as inclusive as the American definition of breakfast.

Breakfast in the states can be many things...cereal, toast, fruit, waffles, pancakes, French toast, eggs, bacon, sausage....just to name the few that immediately come to mind. Well, there are no Denny's here, so I had to go look at other places that served breakfast, and I discovered that there is a specific set of items that defines breakfast in the UK. Here is what wikipedia says about it:
The full breakfast traditionally comprises several fried foods, usually including bacon and eggs, (vegetarian alternatives exist) and is popular throughout the British Isles and other parts of the English-speaking world. Depending on where it is served, it is called bacon and eggs,[2] a fry, a fry up,[3] The Great British breakfast,[4][5] a full English breakfast, a full Irish breakfast, a full Scottish breakfast, a full Welsh breakfast[6] or an Ulster fry.[7] The complement of the breakfast varies depending on the location and which of these descriptions is used. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Full_breakfast

So looking among breakfast places was not going to be the answer. The more illusive the pancakes became, the more I wanted them. I started to feel like the boys' happiness hinged on whether they or not they got to have pancakes in this new home of ours. Like everything would be okay if we just had a pancake. As you can see, I was being very rational.

I discovered that pancakes are not easy to come by. I went to at least five places. One particular cafe had their menu posted outside, and on it I saw 'flapjacks.' The light bulb above my head went on. "Of course!" I thought to myself. "They aren't called pancakes here! That's the problem...I've been looking for the wrong thing!" It was like one of those bop-yourself-in-the-head-coulda-had-a-V8-moments. Maybe hitting myself about the head and neck region as I entered the cafe would have provided an excuse for my stupidity when speaking to the girl who worked there.

So I go bopping in the cafe, thrilled to have solved the pancake puzzle. NOW we would be able to live contently in England! I went up to the counter and started with the questions....how the flapjacks are served? Do you have maple syrup? Are there kid-size orders? Double orders? Are they available to-go? The girl behind the counter stared at me for just the slightest bit longer than is comfortable. She turned her head to her left, raised her hand and pointed to a glass cake plate with a cover...you know, the kind that has the cake up on a platform, under glass.

Instead of seeing a pile of pancakes, however, I was facing something that resembled a darker, healthier and not so tasty-looking rice crispy treat. You know, the kind of fiber-prune-carob-grainy thing your kids see at Whole Foods and then beg you to get it for them and then they take one bite and you've wasted $1.25 because they HATE it. The kind of thing that makes them feel tricked into eating healthy snacks. But I digress.

Apparently flapjacks are rectangular-shaped bars made of oats and other stuff like bran or raisins and honey. They are SO not pancakes. And they TOTALLY are not "served" in any particular way, and they especially do not have syrup or kid sizes. Take a look for yourself. And here's a link to a recipe if you are so inclined.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/database/honeyflapjacks_73203.shtml

I felt like crying. I wish I could say that I rallied and continued on my way to the next place, confident that I'd be successful in finding pancakes. I made it such a big deal in my head...it was like I was going from shop to shop, seeking the antidote my children needed to survive. I wanted to clutch the sides of my head and scream, "I am living in a country devoid of pancakes!" (I should add a disclaimer here that I use the term "country" in the loosest sense, as I have searched for said pancakes inside about a 50 mile radius, at best. But saying "I am living in a country devoid of pancakes" sounds SO much more interesting than "I am living in a 50-mile-wide pancake-less area.")

The pancake mission wasn't without its rewards. I learned a few things about other foods as well. For example, I discovered the British version of 'pigs in a blanket.' It should be called 'Brits under a blanket' ...referring to the blanket that is pulled over your head when you die. Eating their version of pigs in a blanket has to be the fast track to heart failure. A more accurate description is 'pigs in more pig'. When you order 'pigs in a blanket' in the UK you will get a sausage wrapped in bacon. Seriously. So you can imagine look I got from the waiter when I saw 'pigs in a blanket' on a menu and I asked if I could just get the blanket, hold the pig, and the syrup on the side.

I can only imagine what the people who wait on me have to say about the dumb yankee that came into their shop today. I should google that phrase and take a look at THEIR blogs.

I'd like to buy a vowel, please

2009-02-09T22:25:00.003Z

After school the other day Ian was telling me something about something....and I don't say "something about something" like that because I wasn't being an attentive parent. I really was. At least, I was trying as hard as I possibly could, to not only listen to him but to understand him...and therein lies the problem.

You see, just like an episode of 'My Name is Earl', I've got karma tryin' to tell me something:

Move to another country and expect it to be like Portland , just east? Fool.
Assume it's just a matter of new food and fast drivers? Notta.
Think it won't make its way into your home beyond the teeny-size packages of food? WRONG.

It made its way in via my son's accent. My six year old who spends 6 1/2 hours a day immersed in the language...why was it a surprise? He was trying to tell me something about cards, apparently, but I swear to you that he was saying bibble blobble beee-op kah.

Him: Bibble blobble bee-op kah.
Me: What?
Him: Bibble blobble bee-op kah.
Me: Huh?
Him: (sighing) Bibble blobble bee-op kah.
Me: Uh...
Him: (louder) BEEE OPP KAH!
Me: Oh for Godsake...spell it for me!
Him: KAH. C-A-R-D. KAH. Jeez, mum.
Me: Your card? Well then, why didn't you just say
so?

He rolled his eyes. I get a lot of that lately.

To drive or not to drive

2009-02-07T21:07:00.006Z

Did I mention that I am not driving here? Well, I’m not. Or at least not yet. John has has the dubious honor of doing ALL the driving. I tried last month, when we were in Scotland, and it was not as successful as I had hoped it would be. A number of factors conspire against me, however, and I feel they must be mentioned, in my defense. The first two reasons are obvious. The driver’s side of the car is on the passenger side, which only compounds the confusion of having to drive on the WRONG side of the road.

I’ve been cautious in my choice of words when describing things here, careful to describe anything that is different as just that…different. Never as “wrong.” However, I’m confident in calling the side of the road on which they drive as wrong. In fact, many of them call it the same thing, which I find interesting. I’m told that the genesis of that particular side of the road comes from when they rode in carriages drawn by horses and needed to have their gun ready to shoot at all times. Or something like that…I can’t remember exactly what it was, but I do recall that it sounded more like something out of Texas than England. Anyway, I have to wonder whether they’d still be driving on that side if they weren’t on an island…like if they were actually connected to the rest of Europe with a highway and you had to pull over to the side of the road and do some kind of switch where you’d re-enter the highway (and whatever new country) on the correct side. As it is, to get to Europe with your car you have to go via the Eurotunnel (http://www.eurotunnel.com/ukcP3Main/ukcPassengers/) a.k.a. the “chunnel” (tunnel under the English Channel.) The Eurotunnel has an underground train that is more like a ferry in that you drive your car onto it and when you emerge on the other side (in France) you drive off the train. True story. Look it up.

AS I WAS SAYING….I haven’t been driving, for a number of reasons, one of which is the speed at which they drive. I’ve observed that there are four speeds driven here…there’s the speed they drive when they have like two or three flat tires, which is 'sub-light speed', then there’s the speed at which they go in reverse, also known as 'light speed'. Then there’s the speed they drive through a school zone: ridiculous speed. Lastly there’s the speed they drive the other 95% of the time, through neighborhoods, in cities, on back roads, on the highway (or as they say, ‘motorway’) which is 'ludicrous speed'. (Yes, I used all the speeds featured in Spaceballs…seemed appropriate. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaceballs) In any case, the locals drive WAY too fast for me to be out there trying to figure it all out.

For as insanely fast as they drive, you’d expect to see a bunch of accidents every mile or so. I’m impressed by the lack of fender benders and crashes. They call it a “smash” and apparently they are pretty good at avoiding it.

To further compound the difficulty of not knowing where you are, not being on the correct side of the road, and sitting on the opposite side of the car is the fact that the majority of the information is written not on signs, but on the surface of the road itself. There aren’t many signs. Also, there aren’t many opportunities for stopping, or pulling over, to get your bearings. It is rare to see stoplights, as the intersections are mostly roundabouts, so the respite of a stoplight is hard to come by. Same holds true for pulling over…the roads are narrow and have no real shoulders.

I’m not saying that I won’t drive again, ever. I’m going to do it, I really am. It’s just that I’m still feeling a bit unsure about myself, especially after the debacle I made of moving. (I know, I know…I keep throwing that “moving” thing out there without much explanation. I’m almost finished with a post on that. It was difficult to put into words. It really was one of those “you had to be there” times, although I PROMISE you that you did NOT to be there. Just ask Katrina and Geoff.)

I have this fear that my inability to drive well will lead to indignation and suddenly I’m The Rude American. I have this image of myself driving like Otto in the movie ‘A Fish Called Wanda’ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0095159/ where he drives all over London on the right side of the road, making all the British people swerve out of HIS way to avoid a head-on collision. After he passes the swerving, honking British driver, Otto leans out the driver’s side window and yells, ‘Asshoooooooolllllllllle!” and continues to drive on. He appears to be self-righteous, but really, he’s just incredibly stupid. The message, however, is still the same: what the hell are you doing driving that direction on this side of the road?????

Here is a clip from You Tube that is called ‘The Best of Otto’. Anyone who has seen the movie knows that there are some hilarious parts that have some serious cursing in them, so I’m putting a disclaimer on the entire clip…it should NOT be viewed within earshot of children. The reason I’m posting the link is to show you the driving scene I’m talking about, which is during the first ten seconds, (and another one occurs during the last minute) so if you are one of my friends that is easily offended by gratuitous cursing, you won’t enjoy the remainder of the clip. If such language doesn’t offend you, then not only should you enjoy the clip, but watch the movie sometime.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mvP5GtIRVA

That being said, I admit that I find it admirable that the men and women of the United Kingdom do not care whether outsiders find their driving to be strange. You have to love that. It’s like, “my island, my rules.”

It's Fancy Talk

2009-02-07T17:01:00.018Z

Shortly after I posted my cursing faux pas, I was watching tv with the boys, and one of my favorite SpongeBob episodes was on. It is the one called “Sailor Mouth” and it features SpongeBob and Patrick using a word that, unbeknownst to them, is actually a VERY bad curse word. Sound familiar?

Unlike MY fancy talking at the cocktail party (http://reneespassport.blogspot.com/2009/02/somebody-call-folks-at-merriam-webster.html ) THIS whole thing is hilarious. SpongeBob comes across a word written on a dumpster...graffiti. Because he’s so good and wholesome and naïve, he doesn’t recognize it as anything but a funny sounding word. So he starts saying it. Instead of the viewer hearing any bad words, though, each time the word is spoken, there’s this sound effect like a dolphin squeaking, or a ship’s horn, or a seagull squawking, or something nautical-like. So as you read the following, imagine the dolphin noise each time you see the symbols for the bad word.

The episode begins with Mr. Krabs telling SpongeBob to take out the trash. Once SpongBob gets outside, he starts reading the graffiti on the dumpster. He starts reading it all out loud. Here's kind of how it goes as Patrick walks up.

SpongeBob: Hmm.. someone didn't finish this one.
Patrick: That word?
SpongeBob: No, that one!
Patrick: Hmm... #$%%#! Uh, hey! I think I know what that word means. That's one of those sentence enhancers.
SpongeBob: Sentence enhancers?
Patrick: You use them when you want to talk fancy. You just sprinkle it on anything you say, and.. wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich!
SpongeBob: Oh, I get it! Here, let me try. Umm.. hello Patrick, what #$%#%$^ weather we're having, isn't it?
Patrick: Why, yes it is, SpongeBob. This $%#$^%& day is $%#%^&% lovely!
SpongeBob: How $%#%#%^ right you are, Patrick. Patrick: %$#^$%#.
SpongeBob: %$%#%#%.
Patrick: %#$%^#$.
SpongeBob: You're right, Patrick, my lips are tingling from the spiciness of this conversation!
Patrick: Oh, mine too.

SpongeBob is walking into the Krusty Krab the next day.
SpongeBob: Hello customers, what a #$%#$#$ day we're having!
Fish dining there: Oh, did he just say..
2nd fish dining there: Aye, he did.
SpongeBob: Hi, Patrick, how the $%#% are you?
Patrick: Pretty $%#%#%% good, SpongeBob.
Old man fish: I thought this was a restaurant, not a gutter mouth convention.
SpongeBob taps on the restaurant microphone.
SpongeBob: Attention, customers, today's special is a $%#% Krabby Patty served with in a greasy $%#%$#$ sauce and grilled to %#$@$#% perfection. And don't forget to ask us to $#%# the $#$# fries. It'll be our %#%#%^^ pleasure. Hi Squidward, how the $#$% are ya?
Patrick: Nice $#%%^#% day we're having, isn't it Squidward?
Fish: Let's go somewhere more family-oriented.
Everyone leaves the Krusty Krab.
Sirens wail.
Mr. Krabs: Ah!! The Krusty Krab! She's empty! All hands on deck! Batten the front doors! Brace the cash register! Break out the happy snacks! Squidward, where have all me money paying customers gone?
Squidward: Apparently the two barnacle-mouth brothers just learned a new word, and SpongeBob said it over the intercom.
Mr. K: Well, what was it? What'd he say?
Squidward: Well.. uh.. (whispers to Mr. K the bad word)
Mr. K: AHHHHH!!!! SpongeBob and Friend! Front and center! I think I should make you paint the Krusty Krab for using such language!
SpongeBob: But Mr. Krabs, we were just using our sentence enhancers!
Patrick: Yeah, it's fancy talk.
Mr. K: Fancy? There's nothing fancy about that word!
SpongeBob : You mean #$%#?
Mr. K: Yes, that one! Now quit saying that. It's a bad word.
Both: Bad word?
Mr. K: Yes, that word was number 11. In fact, there are 13 words you shouldn't say.
Squidward: I thought there were 7.
Mr. K: Not when you're a sailor! Ar ar ar!
SpongeBob: Wow, thirteen....
Pat: That's a lot of $%#%#%^ bad words.

So, I think it's fair to say that what I made at the cocktail party wasn't an ass of myself, but rather, I made a spicy sentence sandwich. As my dad always said after I fed him some sort of excuse coupled with a lie: "Uh huh. Yeah. Well, it's your story. Tell it the way you want."

Found: Bisquick's Little Sister

2009-02-04T20:09:00.008Z

As you may recall from my previous posts, I was coming up empty when searching for pancake mix here in the UK. (I should be more specific...I haven't gone searching all over the island, per se, but rather around the north west region.)

Anyone who has ever tried to find a good spot in their cabinet for the big-ass box of Bisquick knows that the box borders on treasure-chest size...in fact, a true pancake loving family like mine actually considers a box of Bisquick to be nothing less than a treasure chest.

In my new neck of the woods, I've finally found the Bisquick treasure chest. But, as the picture shows, it's less of a real treasure chest and more like that little plastic treasure chest you get when you lose a tooth...you know, the one you can wear around your neck.

So, I'm estimating that I'll need at least two of these boxes to cover us for Sunday breakfast. (If we were back home and the Seydel boys were sleeping over I'd need like four boxes.....they are the best pancake eaters ever, you know.)

The Coke can is to give you perspective. (I'm thinking that my perspective might improve if I added some spiced rum to that can.)

Somebody call the folks at Merriam Webster

2009-02-04T19:56:00.003Z

I have learned a few new words, although it was completely accidental and totally humiliating and not the way I would have planned it. If you’ve seen my list of things I like about the UK, you’ll notice that “cursing” is at the top of the list. These people are truly cursing geniuses. I just LOVE hearing them rattle off a list of insults…words like “bugguh” and “wankuh” sound so harmless, you never can tell whether the speaker is pissed or just enthusiastic. In fact, they use curse words in pleasant conversation with one another…for instance, the way we might say, “Get out!” to someone who just told us something unbelievable, they will say something involving a cleverly pronounced word beginning with ‘f’ and it ISN’T considered rude.

There are bad words, though, that are REALLY bad, and no one from the United States is even aware of it until it’s too late, and you are left standing there like a cartoon, with a thought bubble above your head full of symbols like this: *#@!!!!!!!

Apparently, calling your butt a fanny isn't okay...a fanny is actually a bad word for a girl's private parts. So while at the grocery store, when I called out to the boys to "get your fannies over here right now before I come over there and whack them," I wasn't being stared at because I joked about spanking, as I had previously thought. But at least I was anonymous when I said that one. No one at Tesco knew me. The second one was among people I knew – ones I had just met, in fact. It was humiliating because it is SO bad…and when I say bad, I mean that this word was definitely the mother of all vulgarities. It was by far the worst thing I have ever said – and those of you who know me know that I am particularly proud of my command of profanity and my ability to throw it out there. But this…well, this was just plain and simple WRONG.

The second word was “spunk” and what it actually means here - and this is so embarrassing to even type – well, it means, in proper terms, ejaculate. And because of identical spellings, I need to clarify that I mean “ejaculate” as a noun, not in the verb form. Stress the second syllable, not the last. Like say the last syllable with a short ‘a’, not a long one. Are you getting it?

Yeah, and so I was at this lovely cocktail party, enjoying an evening in the beautiful home of a new friend who was generous enough to invite us over for an evening to meet other some families. All of the children were upstairs doing the kid scene with the exception of one little girl who was more interested in the grown-up conversation. She was such a kick…she was like a little adult in a child’s body, wearing these sparkly dress-up high heels, a red and black velvet dress, and carrying a pink and purple plastic handbag with matching bangle bracelets and headband. Even her name was beyond her age…it was Betty. Betty and I were chatting it up for about 20 minutes before her mother said it was time for Betty to go upstairs with the other children.

After Betty left, I told her parents how much I loved talking with Betty, and that I’d love to just put her in my pocket and take her home with me. I complimented them on their cute, spirited little girl who was so much fun, so full of spirit and spunk…that I just loved spunky little girls like Betty.

The room went from cozy and full of conversation to that empty silence where you vaguely hear a cricket chirping in the background. Everyone sort of froze in their places, looking at Betty’s parents and me. I glanced around, wondering what the hell just happened, when my eyes met John’s, which were as big as basketballs as he gestured the universal sign for SHUT UP NOW. He was doing the pointer-finger-as-a-knife-across-the-throat gesture. I said, “What? What’d I say?” and he smiled sweetly and replied, “I’ll tell you later.” Like a scene from a sitcom, the party instantly kicked back into motion and moved along. Conversations, sipping wine…I even think the music came back on, all as if nothing happened. You gotta hand it to the British…they are experts at keeping things on an even keel (except at a soccer game, that is, but I digress.)

My question is this: If words considered harmless in the States are profane and insulting in the UK, what else is out there, waiting to ambush me with embarrassment? How many more times will I make an ass (or an arse, as they say here) of myself? (And that’s a rhetorical question…do NOT answer it.)

Fortunately, Betty’s parents were cool, understanding, and well-traveled so they totally "got it" that the whole thing was a language snafu and I really hadn’t intentionally called their six year old daughter a bodily secretion. But oy. Really.

If you have a reliable security program on your computer, go ahead and google (use this one, the UK version: http://www.google.co.uk/ ) the words "spunk magazine."
Yeah, I know, right????

I'm SO behind the modern world....

2009-02-03T08:51:00.003Z

Like, really, I admit that. For example, I am the last person on the planet to join Facebook. They told me so when I joined last night. And judging by the amount of messages in my inbox, they were right.

So now I'm off to see what this Facebook is all about, because I only signed up last night, and apparently it can do so much more for me if I just take the time to fill in all the blanks.

I think this is a link to it...but don't hold me to that.
Facebook me!

Portion control is not in your control

2009-01-17T15:26:00.003Z

Chips ( or 'crisps' as they are called here) come in multi-packs in the UK, not in one big bag. I suppose the thought behind that is for people to choose just one little bag to eat at one sitting, as opposed to devouring the entire sack. My initial thought was that maybe the powers-that-be here in the UK don't trust the citizens to choose a reasonable portion for themselves...maybe they've seen too many fat Americans and blame the obesity on our unlimited access to Costco-sized bags of potato chips and 500 channels on the tv. Then I tried a few of these UK crisps, and the reason behind multi-packs and single-serving bags quickly became apparent to me: the crisps are f-ing AWESOME. No one should be trusted to not eat their weight in these things...I mean, seriously.

The UK's version of Cheetos (puffs) is Wotsits...and OHMYGOD they are better than the best Cheeto you have ever tasted. There are also these little potato rings called Hula Hoops...they are so tasty, plus they come with suggestions for games to play with them. The last kind I love are called Quavers...they are puffs, too, but different than the Cheetos-esque Wotsits.

And the individual packs? Well, I'm still looking for a way to hide the evidence.

That's some seriously pasteurized stuff

2009-01-15T16:00:00.003Z

Just so you know...

In the United Kingdom, the date is written day/month/year. Not month/day/year. Good to know when reading expiration dates on volatile products such as milk, which apparently won't still be fresh come December 1st.

I know, it throws me, too. Just add it to the list of things that confuse me here. Not that I'm keeping such a list, but for those of you playing at home, a list might come in handy.

Bad Form

2009-01-12T19:26:00.001Z

It would be considered bad form to keep a list of things I dislike about living in the UK...after all, the country, in general, has been pretty good to me so far. However, if I were to make such a list, it would have to include BT - British Telecom.

But I'm not making such a list.

The freaks come out at night (apparently so do the boobs, cursing and nudity)

2009-01-09T11:40:00.002Z

British TV is similar to the TV in the states with one big exception. In the US, one either has to pay for a channel like Cinemax (aka: Skinamax) to see gratuitous nudity at 7:00 pm, or have a satellite dish able to view the east coast's HBO (assuming you live on the west coast.) In England, boobs and bad words don't wait for the kiddies to go to bed. Yes, the really bad stuff does wait until later, but "really bad" is just a relative term. Really bad is just another way to say, "local girl with cordless phone and internet wants you to call her and watch live on TV...live until five a.m." When I say local, I mean that not only have I seen the gals from north west England, but while in Edinburgh I was also fortunate to catch a few Scottish gals writhing on their beds with a phone. I was tempted to call them and tell them how ridiculous they looked but realized it wasn't my place to do so. Rather, it is my place to mock them on my blog.

My expectations were pretty much met, though. My frame of reference for television shows in England consists of Prisoner Cell Block H (http://www.prisoner-cellblockh.co.uk/oti.html)
and The Benny Hill Show (http://www.museum.tv/archives/etv/B/htmlB/bennyhillsh/bennyhillsh.htm) so what did I expect? My views of the world at large are made of such childhood shows combined with spending the past 15 years listening to NPR.

Keen and insightful, I am.

Where in the world am I?

2009-01-06T22:25:00.001Z

How many times have you said, “Welcome to my world” or “I’ve been there” with the intention of sharing some empathy? When you say it, it’s usually to someone who has experienced something similar, if not the same, as you. That experience can be an interaction with another person, a situation in public or private – you name it. The essence is still the same: I know how you feel.

Well I'm in someone else's world right now and I don't know whose it is. But I'm pretty sure no one knows how I feel.

A good sign of things to come....

2009-01-05T17:14:00.001Z

The boys LOVE school! Hooray!

It is with great regret that I must inform you: Dinner, as you know it, has been rendered extinct

2009-01-03T21:33:00.001Z

After living in a hotel for a week and having to eat most meals out, then moving and getting settled and grabbing food on the go or getting carry-out (or 'take away', as they say here,) I thought that a great way to make our new house feel like a home was to have a home-cooked, easily recognized entrée that wasn’t the British interpretation of our American fare. I strongly felt the need to create a family meal around which we could all recapture that secure, familiar feeling…you know, the one that has you thinking, “God, I am so fortunate! So blessed! Look at how wonderful my life is!” (And how tasty my food is.)

I was having a difficult time getting the seemingly simple meal put together, though. Here’s a sampling of how it went:

Want some pancakes? Okay, but I have to make the batter from scratch…I can’t find any pancake mix. And the recipe is in metric, and I don’t have a scale. The pan will only cook the middle of the pancake when I do it on this burner. Try a different burner? That one will only cook the outside of the pancake. No matter what, the pancake is gonna stick to the pan, too. It is apparently fake Teflon. The nasty scrapings that might pass as a pancake aren’t going to taste the same in the absence of maple syrup…ANOTHER product I cannot find. (Sigh.) I’ll just make you a PBJ.

Let’s try some grilled cheese sandwiches, or turkey and cheese panini! Oh, yeah…well, we can’t exactly do that easily, either. We first need to melt the butter to spread it on the bread, and we don’t have a microwave, so let’s melt it on the stove in another pan. We also need to warm the turkey and the cheese in yet another pan before we put it on the sandwich. Why? Because it will otherwise be cold in the middle of the sandwich since even the lowest setting is still too high to keep the bread from burning if it is on there for more than seconds at a time. Therefore, our family meal of sandwiches will be served one at a time, over the course of 45 minutes.

How about stir-fry? We have that cool new wok from Ikea. Uh, yes, but we need to buy oil as well as some sort of stir-fry sauce for the veggies and meat. Those kind of things we always had on hand at home, and I took them for granted.

I know…we can have spaghetti! Brown the ground beef, boil the noodles…. ummmm…. wait a minute. Where is the colander?

Bacon…yes, bacon. We are in the LAND of bacon, after all. We’ll have some bacon!

So, with great optimism for the family meal, I went to the butcher shop to get bacon, of which there are like a dozen kinds. There’s the kind that is really just ham (as we Yankees know it.) Then there’s the strip of it that has the oval shaped piece ham still attached. There’s the kind that has about a quarter of the bacon strip alongside the oval shaped piece of ham. It’s not easy to find the kind that’s just the strip. In addition to the multitude of shapes and kinds, they also come smoked, unsmoked, with or without the rind. Yes, the rind – the SKIN. The PIG’S SKIN. Now there’s a lesson learned that won’t soon be forgotten.

Here’s how the whole thing went:

Me: Look, babe! I got the kind of bacon you like, the kind the kids like, and it’s all in ONE PIECE! How cool is that? I gotta tell you, it was kind of stressful standing there in line at the butcher shop. As soon as I start speaking, everyone stares at me. Then, I can hardly understand what the butcher is saying to me as I ask a few questions. Plus there’s this line behind me and I’m feeling like they are all sighing and rolling their eyes because I’m taking too long. But the butcher shows me this stuff and I was all like, “Bonus!” because it has the two kinds of bacon and it costs the same as the other kind! (I proudly place the wrapped package down on the counter and John starts to open it, wondering where things went so horribly wrong that his once cool wife was now capable of bubbling with joy over a few slices bacon.)

John: Sweet....we're all starving. I’ll start cooking it.

I walk away to start setting the table. A meal at last!

John: Ummmm, hon…can you come over here, please?”

I bounce back into the kitchen, anticipating something great…like I’ve purchased the Cadillac of bacon and John’s going to show me how perfectly it cooks up. Or not.

John: The skin is still on the bacon.

Me: Whaddyu mean? Bacon doesn't have skin, John. (I look at the bacon, searching for something brown, hairy, and gross. He’s out of his mind, I’m thinking. How DARE he stomp on my great bacon buzz?) Where? I don’t see any skin. That’s just fat…trim it off.

John: No, that's skin. Feel it…it’s all rough.

Me: Hell no, I’m not feeling it!

John: (He points all along the perimeter of my previously perfect purchase) See? It’s the skin. It’s the stuff they use to make pork rinds….you know, like if you trim this off, drop it in a deep fryer, it’ll go like this (he makes a frying-like noise) and then puff up like a Cheeto.

Me: I’ve never eaten a pork rind in my entire life. (As if this princess-like statement was furthering the conversation or solving the problem.)

John: (Rolls his eys) Glad to hear it. (He turns back to the counter, grabbing a knife.) I’ll just trim it off. Next time, ask for rindless bacon. (He starts to cut it.) Man, this shit’s NASTY.

Me: (Agitated) Who the hell wants bacon WITH rinds, anyway? What the f*#* do these people eat around here? (I walk to the family room, where the boys are hungrily and patiently watching TV.) Boys, it’s gonna be about 20 minutes til dinner is ready.

Ian: But I’m STAAAAAARRRRRRVING!

Jack: Didja burn something again?

Me: No, I did NOT burn anything. It’s just that – (I pause. If I say there’s pigskin in there, they are going to run in and want to see. If they touch it, I’m going to have to make them wash their hands for like 20 minutes.) - it’s just going to take some time to fry up all the delicious bacon, that’s all. (I return to the kitchen to gather the bleach spray and rubber gloves…I don’t know if the trichinosis bacteria survive through the smoking process, but I’m not taking any chances. This place is getting a sanitizing.

(Insert sound effect for moaning and whining here)

2009-01-01T14:39:00.004Z

You'll need to read the prior entry to "get" this one.
So here is the sample of one of my journal entries, written verbatim from the notepad I scratched it on as I was laying on my side on my bed, having cast myself there in as dramatic of a fashion as possible. (Remember the disclaimer that I was overly-tired, overly-hormonal, and just overwhelmed in general.)

So I am giving up at this moment. You could play Abba's Greatest Hits right now and I would just lay here and sigh. You could have Dr. Zhivegas ( http://drzhivegas.com/ ) show up to play a concert just for me and Kristin and I'd still lay here and sigh. I think I'm willing myself to bleed to death via heavy period. Or maybe I just need to change my pad...or my 'towel' as they so yuckily call it here. Anyway. Here's the deal.

I couldn't get the shower to start and Ian was standing there, ready to get in. Then, I couldn't get it to drain very well and Ian was standing in his dirty shower water and I hoped he didn't have any open wounds on his feet to get infected because we don't have insurance yet. Then the shower head would not stay mounted and I got all wet trying to make it stay up there. Then I couldn't find one of Ian's slippers but I want him to wear the slippers because I feel like the carpet here isn't clean enough. Then I tried to re-bake the cookies I just baked because they weren't actually done in the middle and instead I just burnt them and all I have to show for the trouble is a mess to clean up from making them. And no dishwasher. Then my feet got cold but I can't wear my slippers because they are too big and I SO want to wear them because they are new and fuzzy and red, but a UK size 8 is NOT the same as a US size 8, but how was John supposed to know that. Then I went downstairs but came right back up because the kitchen is mess AGAIN and I can't deal with it. Then I came into my room to be sad and to pout and my room is dusty and has clothes on the floor to be washed on crap that has no place to go since we unpacked and so much stuff (like my pajamas) that is missing because so much of our stuff is STILL in the US and can't be shipped because there is no way to pay for it because our bank account in the states is upside down because someone stole John's debit card number and charged so much on it that it overdrew our account but we didn't know for over a week because we aren't there in the US. Plus our stuff is imposing on Geoff and Katrina who have already been imposed on enough by my stupidity. Then I saw my reflection in the mirror and it is so f-ing ugly with the bad hair and lack of regular beauty products. Then I think I have to go find Ian's other slipper so I get up and can't help but notice the dust as I walk down the steps, but to vacuum is such a huge ordeal because the filters and stuff have to be washed afterward because the house is so f-ing old and has so much dust. Then I see my computer and I really want to get online but then i realize I can't because of BT and the overall lack of customer service in this Godforsaken place I am living right now. My poor children, stuck with a mom like this. Ugh.

See...I told you it was dark.

Here's what you can expect.....

2008-12-29T13:58:00.002Z

There were about a dozen (if not more) entries similar to the one that follows this that I logged during the months of December and January. Once our internet was up and running, I thought, these entries will be effective in painting the picture of just how sucky things can be. I hoped that by the time they were posted, things would be past suckiness and we could all look back on it and be glad it was in the past.
Then it occurred to me: why do I want to document all the shitty stuff? I mean, what benefit would that have? All it is going to do is perpetuate the negativity, draw more of it in, and create further drama. No thanks.

So, I have decided to NOT post the pissing and moaning, no matter how funny some of it is (in hindsight,) no matter how well-written the account is (if I do say so myself) and no matter how patient and tolerant it may have made me appear to be (and I've been an f-ing saint, seriously.)

I am, however, going to give a few summaries of the major occurrences... namely:
the drama with not being adequately prepared to move (sorry and thanks, though, to Geoff and Katrina,)
the drama with trying and trying and trying and trying and trying to get our phone and internet (British Telecom, also known at BT, is the anti-Christ, in case you wondered),
the drama with getting a mobile (say "mo-by-ul") phone,
the drama with trying to get a work permit,
the drama with learning how to understand British (because it IS a different language...don't let the Hugh Grant movies fool you into thinking otherwise,)
the drama of learning how to cook all over again,
the drama of getting our bank account,
the drama of being with the same three people for 24-hours a day, seven days a week, for 34 days in a row (and I speak for each of us separately on that one,)
and the drama of being terribly, heinously, horribly homesick while trying to comfort two wonderful children experiencing the same homesickness, coupled with their apprehension over starting a new school and new life.

See how it can get really ugly really fast?

Stay tuned for the summaries...it's the only glimpse you'll get into the bad stuff. The rest is just me and my babbling...and anyone who reads this can probably say that you had enough of that before I moved. (Except for Sue or Julie...you both can say that I was the crappiest at sharing my babble with you guys. For that, I am sorry.)

Stupid Criminals

2008-12-19T15:10:00.001Z

So someone has stolen John's debit card number and charged TONS of stuff on it. The American account, that is. Well THIS should be easy to fix, from 7,000 miles away with an eight hour time difference. Bastards.

Take a Hike

2008-12-14T12:06:00.005Z

Since we are so fond of hikes back in Oregon, John was clever enough to find us a place to hike here AND get to see some castle ruins. For anyone who knows us, our family is totally into castles and knights and history like that. So John did some research and found Beeston Castle
http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/server.php?show=nav.13495
which was a short drive from our house and proved to be a fun afternoon. Take a look for yourself.

I'm not an experienced mover, I just play one on TV.

2008-12-13T10:39:00.002Z

In hindsight, it was denial. Complete and total denial.

At first glance, it seemed that I was so calm, so together, so well-paced. People would say, "Oh my gosh...are you all packed? Are you ready to go?" I would nod, confidently, and say that I was JUST ABOUT THERE. I truly believed myself when I said, “It’ll all come together in the last day or so. It always does."

Wrong, wrong, wrongity wrong!

It WOULD have come together in the last days IF I were moving to another house in Portland.

Hell, it would have come together if I were moving across the country again, back to St. Louis, or even further east. It did NOT come together, though, because this was the first time I was moving to THE OTHER SIDE OF THE F-ING WORLD. Okay, maybe not entirely the OTHER side, but nearly 7,000 miles, I think.

I relied on the "last time" I moved...that was my frame of reference. Truth be told, there wasn't a "last time" to rely on. It was a whole new ballgame and I arrived during the last inning. Seriously, I didn't realize that I was in over my head until it was too late.

My body, my choice. I'm not against it, but I wouldn't get one, either. (A short haircut, that is.)

2008-12-08T08:54:00.006Z

I'm going to attempt to NOT begin every post with "so" and then begin my babble; however, for the sake of authenticity, most posts will probably start with that word, as do most of my sentences. Like my spoken word, my writing just erupts mid-thought. I've found that the word "so" acts as a buffer, making the listener or reader think that they have been listening to something relevant to what I am saying or writing next. Really, though, none of it is connected. Just ask John.

So the hair. The short hair. The hair I piss and moan about EVERY day. As part of the temporary insanity that gripped me the last month I lived in the States, I decided that my long hair was too long, too damaged, and needed to be cut in a smart and sassy style. In my defense, I have to add that I haven't been in complete control of my brain and body in recent months...I've got some rather crazed hormones. I should also point a finger at Katie Holmes and Victoria Beckham. They should have never got their hair cut short (or at least not allowed their photo to be taken and published) because that's what REALLY pushed me over the haircut edge.

I took it in phases, small steps. A cute semi-longish bob. A week later, a shorter bob. A week after that a borderline pixie cut...you can see where this is going. A gal with a head as big as mine should NOT have short hair unless it is super-super-super short. Like having to get it clipped every two weeks to keep it so short-kind-of-short. And having a face like Jamie Lee Curtis, Sinead O'Connor or Demi Moore helps, too. A long face like mine is not optimal, nor is really thick and apparently REALLY curly hair. Lesson learned.

With my self esteem issue rearing its ugly head (literally and figuratively) I got my hair cut really short. I imagined myself in England as the cute American with the confident, stylish, sassy short hair. Like Victoria was the cute Brit with the confident, stylish, sassy short hair back in the States. (Okay, now Spain.) Instead I end up looking about 10 years older, somehow fatter (not sure how, but it's true) and about eight shades paler.

I won't put up any of the pictures of the 'do. If I did, though, the caption would read: "Renee's Victoria Beckham Haircut - Delusion or Mutilation? You Decide."

What happened to December 3rd?

2008-12-07T10:02:00.002Z

We left the States at 6:32am on Wednesday, December 3rd.

We left our house at about 4:00am on Wednesday, December 3rd.

We would have NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER made it to the airport were it not for Geoff and Katrina.

Let's just say that Goff and Katrina are living proof that God places people in your life with a purpose. His purpose in giving us the Helzers was two-fold. One, He was rewarding us for something, apparently, (thanks, God!) because they are just the very best people in every way, and we loved every single minute we spent with them. Two, He knew that there weren't two other people capable of dealing with the implosion of my life (and subsequent mess) that resulted from The Move. More on that later.

So December 3rd. That day, for all intents and purposes, didn't really happen. I lost a chunk of it somewhere over the US, then a bit in New York, and the rest over the Atlantic. I emerged in Manchester, England, at about 8:00am on December 4th.

And so it begins.

A Girl Can Hope, Right?

2008-12-04T20:07:00.005Z

Just arrived in England, and I'm on the lookout for the Osbournes. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm f-ing serious. I so LOVED that show.

It doesn't help that I'm hours away from London...we landed in Manchester and we are living in Chester. But I'm still holding out hope. Maybe they come shop here in Chester...I hear that's what the town is known for. That and an ancient Roman wall that's older than America by like ten times. Nothing like a trip abroad to put my tiny little world into perspective.

Over and out.