The Pea Green Boat

A Crossroads

2009-03-02T09:56:00.007-08:00

Well, no I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, but I have been spending some time in contemplation. I have increasingly felt that my blogging life has reached a kind of crossroads and it's time for decisions to be made.

When I started The Pea Green Boat back in January 2008, my purpose was to learn about the art of blogging. I wanted to explore my writing, commit to regular creativity and learn about building an online presence. What I got in return though was far more than I bargained for.

Through my written journal, I've made connections with people all over the world and in some cases built friendships. I've learned a lot about myself too which has given me a confidence that has reached into other areas of my life. This renewed self esteem and love for the written word, prompted me to begin another blog last June, which focuses on only one aspect of my life - knitting. Could I continue to write animatedly about a seemingly narrower subject?

The answer has been a resounding 'yes.' I've discovered that I love writing about knitting (who'd have thought it?) and somehow I'm never at a loss for something to say on the matter. In turn this has led to almost total immersion in my subject (yes, the house is full of needles, yarn and knitting publications) and even public recognition (at The Little Guy's end-of-season basketball party yesterday, my constant knitting at practices was applauded in the coaches speech!)

It seems natural now then, to have reached a crossroads (induced by time restraints). I have to decide which blog to pursue as life is just too hectic for me to balance both for much longer. On reflection, I feel that The Pea Green Boat (in it's present form at least) has served its original purpose. I won't be abandoning ship (I'll still be checking up on you all), but I have decided that the time has come to make for land and, perhaps dry dock for a while.

In the meantime, I intend to go out on a high note. Last week Rudee at A Knitting Nurse sent me this award which I would like to pass on. Rudee has been a wonderful cyber friend; a true supporter, so if I could I'd award the award back to her! But in the tradition of 'sharing the love' I'm going to pass it on to 8 others whose friendship I have been lucky enough to enjoy.

According to the authors of this award, this blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships! These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award."

So, my friends, here's to you Anvilcloud, Expatmum, Ali, Donna, Almost American, Ped Crossing, Bella and Sarah. Thanks for all your support, your friendship and your great blogs!

Feeling.....Completely Worn Out!

2009-02-17T09:35:00.004-08:00

I'm knackered. There's no way around it, I'm completely and utterly cream crackered. My body aches in places I didn't know I had and I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. What incredibly contorting sport have I been involved in now, you ask? Well, I've been........

PAINTING!

We had a 4 day weekend here in the US and I just couldn't let that large block of time go by without attempting to show my house a little TLC. I was determined to set to and paint DD1's bedroom before she moves out. We haven't managed to put a lick of paint on the inside of this house in the four years since we've been here (and I don't think it's seen any since it was built 18yrs ago), so it's long overdue. We've been rather preoccupied with adapting to American life, organizing 3 kids lives and, oh yes, staying employed.

I knew that eventually it would fall to me to grapple the DIY reins out of ExpatOwl's hands and begin the task of painting this house. The fact that he's only had one day off work in the past 6 weeks made that job a lot easier than I originally anticipated and the fact that he was away this weekend too has meant that there's been one less person to try to fit into the house amongst the removed furniture and general clutter that spewed out of DD1's bedroom. To reinforce the shift of power, I donned his work overalls, rolled up at the bottoms and sexily tied with a piece of string at the middle to give me a waist. With an old shower cap on my head, I looked.............determined!

I was on a tight schedule. I knew that I would have to fill all the holes in the walls on Thursday night if I was going to be able to sand and prime the next day, so as soon as basketball practice was over, I set to with my spatula. Friday I was back to work by 9am and spent the whole day sanding, masking off and priming the entire room (including the ceiling). As it started to go dark, I got the arc lights out. The windows were open, but even although it was freezing outside, we worked up quite a bit of heat rollering everything in sight. Even The Little Guy donned an oversize T-shirt and shower cap from the dollar store and splattered paint all over himself and the closet walls!

I finished at midnight. The rest of the family had drifted off to bed long beforehand, so I was left to wash the rollers while I contemplated the bomb site that was now my kitchen, the scene of hot and cold running snacks all day long.

I was back on the job after Saturdays basketball defeat, this time armed with the most fantastic ceiling paint I've ever seen advertised. It goes on pink and then dries white, which turned out to be marvellous as I was trying to paint on top of the white undercoat. DD1 looked a little apprehensive as I turned her ceiling a bright fushia pink with my roller expertly duct taped to an old broom handle (frugal's in remember.) Two hours later though, it had dried to a lushious white.

Sunday saw the two of us painting down to the wire. I was masking and unmasking walls (ofcourse she wanted them two different colours!) but the end result has been worth the work. It looks GREAT!! Now I just have to do the rest of the house (groan.)

Just as I finished scraping the last of the paint off my dry, worn hands, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to reveal a tall, dark-haired young man sporting two earrings and a clipboard.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am, and how are you?"
"Fine," I replied cautiously, closing the front door behind me.
"I was just calling to see whether you would like a free estimate on how much it would cost to paint the inside of your house," he said, brightly.

What are the odds, I thought. What are the friggin' odds that some dude would come knocking on my door at this very second asking me that!

Through gritted teeth I joyfully announced that I was just in the process of doing it myself, then I came back in, closed the door and fell into a heap of uncontollable laughter.

"Ok, God. Very funny!!"

Earthquake

2009-01-30T08:14:00.003-08:00

I'm a bit tired this morning. I was rudely awakened at 5.25 am by the small matter of a 4.5 magnitude earthquake. To be honest, it isn't the earthquake that's caused my tiredness, it's rather the fact that I'm sleeping with a man who is working 14hrs a day, 7 days a week right now. To say that he's exhausted is an understatement. I see him briefly in the morning and then not again until he wakes me up in the night snoring like a warthog!

So it was this morning. The sleeping mask and earplugs must have been defective, because I woke up at 4.30 to the deep rumblings of a worn out man sleeping. I sighed, rolled over and tried to drift back off. The next thing I knew there was an almighty bang and the bed shook. I sat bolt upright in bed fully expecting to see The Little Guy standing in the doorway shaking with fear having had a nightmare. There was no one. I looked at the clock - 5.25am. Maybe the window had cracked?.......... Perhaps there was a burglar outside, I thought?......... Unlikely, I countered. They'd already been round at 3am earlier in the week! (Nextdoor, I hasten to add.)

Slowly reality dawned. Could it have been an earthquake? Hmmm, what do I do?

I lay there for another ten minutes and then tiptoed downstairs to make a cup of tea. (British to the core!) The girls were awake too and instantly confirmed my suspicions. "Yes, Mum, it felt like an earthquake."

Switching on the TV, we watched the first reports coming in on the local news. At this point I realised that the most worrying aspect of the whole incident was not that ExpatOwl slept through the whole thing (he's slept through a Cat 2 hurricane before!) but that I have no instinctive reaction when the earthquake hits. I've never done an earthquake drill, so it takes me forever to work out what is actually going on!

Two months after we arrived in the Northwest we experienced our first quake. It happened at night. We were sleeping on airbeds as our shipment had not arrived from Europe yet. In fact we'd just bought a bed (destined for DD1 eventually), so ExpatOwl was in that, but I'd given up trying to squeeze into a full-sized (double) bed with a man who's 6 foot 3" and had gone back to the airbed. When the floor started to roll beneath me, I was about to yell at him to stop thrashing about, when I remembered where I was. As I really came to, I realised that it wasn't just the bed that was moving, it was the whole room! The quake was small, 3.6, and the epicenter was about 6 miles away. For a girl from East Anglia though, it was a wierd experience!

This morning's experience was different - less shaking, more loud noise. (I never knew earthquakes could sound like a sonic boom.) Thankfully everyone and everything is ok. Brings the old First Aid kit and emergency supplies back to the top of the list though. Think I'll go and check things are up-to-date..........just in case!

Catching Up

2009-01-27T09:02:00.004-08:00

Well, the past two weeks have been rather hectic. The kids have all been off school sick one after the other, so I've barely had a moment without someone yelling "Muuuuummm!" Thankfully no one has required a doctor, which is just as well because DD2 still hasn't received her insurance card.

The medical insurance saga continued for several days before I finally got somewhere with it. ExpatOwl was quaking in his boots, fearing that he had left his youngest daughter off the original application form and wouldn't live to see his next birthday if he was guilty. He begged the lady at the insurance company to put him out of his misery. He got to live. The mistake, she said, was theirs. Someone in data entry had simply missed DD2 out when they'd entered our information. She is now number 5 on our family I.D. but still awaiting the paperwork to prove that they have actually rectified the situation.

After several phone calls (in which I managed to get myself a case number), I was able to ascertain that we get to keep our lovely pediatrician! The relief was immense. DD1 will be able to continue with the expert care she has received to date which makes the increased costs almost worth it.

As to the Human Resources dept at my husband's company, well, we did as Expatmum suggested and contacted them, but they seem to have a small problem with time management. Either that or they don't know how to use a telephone? Living in a completely different time zone to us seems to be causing some problems because they have yet to return our calls. Mind you, we're learning that being based in a state on the other side of the country from your head office, doesn't come without its problems. I'm quite shocked to discover that the cultural differences can be so great between one state and another that communication can be misinterpreted. When I come off the phone fuming because someone at the insurance company has talked down to me in a patronizing tone, ExpatOwl quickly assures me that that is not the intention, but just the way it is there.

This makes what happened last week seem all the more remarkable to me. The fact that America swore in a new president who won election by a monstrous landslide in a country of such huge diversity, is truely miraculous. It's like trying to get the whole of Europe, Scandinavia and the Balkans to agree on one representative! They may speak the same language (or languages as Spanish is very widespread), but culturally, this country is incredibly diverse. Obviously not everyone agrees with the results of the election, but the fact that so many people in this vast nation did vote for a change, is a testament to the power of democracy. It is amazing to see people coming together, despite their differences, to make things better.

But that's what is so unique about America. It embraces the elements that make someone different. From a young age kids are taught to be proud of who they are. Even at school, they start getting up there in front of their peers to do "Show and Tell" when they're in Kindergarten. This is in stark contrast to our more reserved British upbringing. I love this part of America. It's great to watch my naturally shy kids begin to blossom as they're forced to overcome their fears.

To be frank, they're not the only ones. Last week I taught my second art class. I wasn't as nervous this time. I was more frustrated by the fact that TLG fell ill on the one day in 6 weeks that I'd committed myself to doing something for an hour! I'd cancelled December's lesson because he was sick, so I just couldn't do it again. I had a sleepless night trying to work out what I was going to do. Thankfully DD2 came down with the same thing and so she stayed home to look after him. I've never been so glad to have her off sick!
But I digress. The class went well and I actually found myself enjoying it. The teacher and I got into a routine. I spoke to the class and she moved the slides at my request. Even the Norwegian Rosemaling exercise went well. I led the kids through the process step by step and even managed not to be freaked out when the Principal wandered into the classroom, just as I was waving my brush around like a conductor's baton demonstrating the stroke.

Hopefully, with practice, I can follow in my kids footsteps and allow America to help me blossom into my true self, free of some of the inhibitions that make me oh, so.........well.....errr.....British?

Medical Minefield

2009-01-14T08:45:00.006-08:00

The ferocious US medical system makes the old NHS look like your cuddly Great Aunt Betty. You know, she of the big comforting bosom and voluminous apron. Right now I just want to run right back into her arms, even if I die in the queue waiting for my protective hug.

You see, I'm still struggling to deal with the intricacies of a system which contains so many paper pushers that it makes government look lightweight. The words "Red Tape" seem insufficient to describe what goes on in the medical arena here, unless ofcourse you're talking red duct tape! (a la "Red Green!" for all my Canadian friends.)

In the 4yrs we've been here, we've had 3 different insurance contracts. Each one has resulted in increasingly higher bills and a change of doctors. You see, if your doctor isn't contracted with your insurance company, you have to find another or otherwise pay higher costs. As a family of five, three of whom require specialist care, this is naturally out of the question.

Insurance contracts often change with the waning year, so January is quite a 'hot' time in the medical insurance business. I soon discovered that the beginning of the year would become synonimous with looking for new care providers (so much for continuity of care.) Yet it was only in my second year here that I discovered that it works both ways. Imagine my horror when the family doctor, who I had come to respect and rely on, told me that he was no longer contracted with our insurance company and therefore could no longer treat my family! I spent several months looking for a new one, got accused of 'starving' my skinny (but healthy) teen when I did and finally ended up in the lap of a saintly pediatrician, which was the one good thing to come out of the whole experience.

Well, it's January again and I'm an anxious wreck. I fought through snow and ice at the end of December to get two of the kids to their allergy specialist before our insurance changed. We said goodbye. You see, I had to make medical decisions based on money, which, when you hail from a land with socialised medicine, is an extremely difficult thing to do. We have had to discontinue treatment for one child after three years. I'm hoping it will have been enough to build her immunity. Fingers crossed.

I'm also crossing my fingers that we can keep our wonderful pediatrician. I don't fancy being accused of not feeding my kids again. I also don't fancy trying to find someone who won't fiddle around with her medication just as she's approaching the SAT's and AP tests. Without her medication, she'd be bouncing off the walls and her whole future would be at stake.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Due to an admin error we only just got our new insurance cards. Due to another admin error, there are only four of them! At last count, we were five. The Little Guy's feeling good. For the first time in his life, his rank got bumped up and he came in as number 4 on the family medical listing. DD2 wasn't so lucky. It would appear that she's ceased to exist.

What does this mean?

Goodness only knows. Do I stop her going to her first dance competition this weekend, because she's got no coverage? Do I keep her confined to her room, so that she doesn't trip down the stairs, eat something bad or get knocked over by a maniac on a motorcycle? As she joins the ranks of the approximately 46 million uninsured Americans, do I pull nationality and stoically declare, "She's British !" forcing her to stick out that stiff upper lip, or do I cave to the inevitable and give Verizon (phone company) an extremely good business day.

I guess it'll be the latter. I'll have to get on that telephone again and find out who made the error this time, wish that I hadn't taken for granted the stress-free days of NHS England, and dream of running back to Great Auntie Betty's ample bosom.

It's Wild In The West

2009-01-12T11:02:00.005-08:00

Well, I'm still here, but boy they don't call it "The Wild West" for nothing! There's never a dull moment here. You certainly learn to respect the power of nature when it seems to be battering you continuously. At least, you should. How anyone who just lived through all our snow and now all the floods can dispute global warming is beyond me. When we moved here, we were told that the valley flooded roughly once every ten years. Ummm, well we've been here for 4 and it's flooded about 3 times already.

Our two rivers crested at historic levels last Friday turning our valley into a giant lake and stranding people on either side of it. Getting in and out of the town has been difficult as this limits everyone to two routes, which then become clogged with traffic.

Thursday night ExpatOwl and I took a trip downtown to view the swollen river from the safety of a local alehouse (old habits die hard). Half the town was out doing the same thing, but the pub was surprisingly quiet. Small town America still hasn't quite got the hang of captive audiences and marketing opportunities, but I digress.

Well, our pretty little summer attraction had turned into an angry, brown surging mass of water and debris and was moving at a dangerous pace through the town centre to the sea. The tv crews were out in force, kindly leaving their arc lights on between reports so that all the spectators could still see. In fact, it turned into quite a social event, us having an impromtu date night and then bumping into a friend at 11pm on the river bank.

The other consequence ofcourse though was that the children ended up with a no school day on Friday. Can you believe it? We started the week with a 2hr late start because of snow and ended it with a no-school day because of flooding. If the weather doesn't settle down soon, I'll be homeschooling!

True Happiness

2009-01-05T10:57:00.004-08:00

A new year. The time when everyone reassesses their lives, makes resolutions and sets goals. Not a bad idea, I suppose, but not something I'm really inclined to do on a large scale any more. Perhaps I've learned from experience that most New Year's resolutions are broken by the second week in February, or maybe it's just that I prefer to set goals at other times of the year? Who knows. I will however point you in the direction of the best blog piece that I've read so far on this subject.

Over at Zen Habits Leo Babauta encourages us to find the pleasure in 'now'. He really made me stop and think. Like most people, I'm always thinking that if I reach x,y or z circumstance, I'll be truely happy, but happiness is really far more than that. It is only when we find happiness in the moment, that we become truely happy.

2008 was a 'no go' year for us in many ways. We just didn't seem to progress at all, in fact, like many people we took several steps backwards. We spent 6 mths wondering whether ExpatOwl would still have a job by Christmas, continued to pay through the nose for everything because our credit history (as immigrants) is still too short and finished the year having all our benefits changed. We are paying a lot more and getting much less, so yet again we have to rebudget.

ExpatOwl worked so hard in the final 4mths of 2008 that we hardly saw him. When he eventually got home for Christmas, we got snowed in for 2 weeks, the Christmas tree was frozen and the presents didn't arrive until January 3rd (thanks to a very disorganised UPS who couldn't clear snow from their own yard and who then delivered our presents to the wrong address).

Looking back on it all, I just have to laugh though, because even when the world is kicking you in the butt, there are beautiful moments. The pumpkin patch in the autumn sunshine; the team spirit at the soccer tournament; sneaking into the High School Spirit Assembly; eating my home grown and canned dilled pickles; seeing my kids finally wear the woolly socks I've knitted them. Even the snow has been spectacular and turned our neighbourhood into a winter wonderland. I cross country skied from my own front door to a house two blocks away! Imagine that.

These are the moments that I choose to savour from 2008 and look forward to adding to in 2009. Thanks for the reminder, Leo. True happiness really is in the small things.

Deep Freeze

2008-12-20T16:12:00.002-08:00

This morning the thermometer said -14.7C (6 point something Fahrenheit!) It wasn't lying. Outside everywhere looks like a picture postcard. The kids have been home since DD2's band concert on Tuesday night. So has ExpatOwl, working away from the bedroom rather than braving the highways to get to the office.

The house is looking a little more Christmasy now as we've had plenty of time to clear out the mess and generally clean up a bit. The abrupt end to the 2008 school year has left us with a bit more family time to savour.

Cabin fever is setting in a little though.

In a desperate effort to alleviate any sibling tensions, we decided to venture out this morning. We dressed for the arctic and piled into the little red truck just to get over to our local Fred Meyer store, which is normally a ten minute drive away. With another storm pending this evening, we needed to do some last minute Christmas shopping and stock up with milk, eggs etc.

We weren't alone.

The place was heaving with people who, like us, had all been trapped inside for the past 3 days. It was my idea of hell! I hate shopping at the best of times and do all I can to avoid going to the store, but under the present conditions, it was a necessity. Thankfully, I didn't need much as I keep a large chest freezer in my garage that houses enough rations to last us several weeks. I've never been so glad of it.

The Christmas tree situation has been another matter though. We had planned to get one when ExpatOwl got back from his last trip. We like to take an annual outing to the tree farm, select our tree, saw it down and finish off with a nice mug of hot apple cider. Our plan was to go last Sunday. Unfortunately, it started to snow and has hardly stopped since.

Plan B was to go after work on Friday. The kids had a half day, we could knock off early and head out to the farm, joyously singing Christmas carols as we returned with our prize.

Err, no such luck.

With all the streets like skating rinks and the hill at the end of the street closed to traffic, we weren't going anywhere.

Plan C was to get a cut tree in the garden center at Fred Meyer. Desperate times mean desperate measures. As I perused the aisles searching for food items, ExpatOwl sidled up to me and whispered the immortal words, "Houston, we have a problem."

"What?" I replied.

"We may have a small problem in the Christmas tree department."

The image of our bare front room loomed before me as the full shock and horror hit. OMG, we might not be able to get a tree.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"They don't have any left."

Plan D, can you believe it, we're on plan D in the Christmas tree department! My Walton-style family outing to choose our Christmas tree was receding into the depths of my memory as fast as Santa's sleigh.

"Artificial?" I queried, gulping at the inevitable expense this plan would incur.

ExpatOwl disappeared.

Half an hour later, as if by magic, he appeared by my side again.

"I've got a tree," he whispered conspiratorially. OMG, what had he done. Had he stolen one out of someone else's truck, or worse still, grabbed a chain saw and attacked one of the many fir trees that dot our local landscape?

"I got it nextdoor at Home Depot," he added, "It was the last one."

The relief was palpable. Phew, we wouldn't have to disappoint the kids after all. We got the tree home in the back of the truck and manhandled it into the house. It's sitting in the corner of the front room right by the window thawing out. You see, it's a frozen tree. The branches are so stiff that it looks as if it's still tied up. It's the funniest looking tree we've ever seen. We have been assured that as it thaws and the sap starts flowing again, the dear tree will lower it's branches and look quite stunning. I do hope so, although after what we've been through to get it, I'm just happy to have any kind of yuletide decoration!

Brrrr! Who Turned The Thermostat Down?

2008-12-16T12:25:00.004-08:00

For a moment when I woke up this morning, I thought I was back in Norway. Then as I came to, I realised that the weight of the thick duvet, flannel duvet cover, quilt and three woollen blankets could only mean that I was in America. The fact that I went to bed with 3 pairs of socks on too will tell you just what the weather has thrown at us this time.

A voice from the other side of the mountain of bedclothes offered to warm me up, but I declined, prefering instead to tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen in search of that essential British emergency item, a cup of tea.

The thermometer on the windowsill blinked at me. The outside temperature read -11C!! ( 11.5F) I shook it. It must be wrong? But no, on further inspection, it was bone-chillingly accurate. Good grief, it's cold!

It started on Saturday night. The snow came thick and fast much to everyone's excitement. By Sunday morning, we woke to a crisp clear day and 4" of snow on the ground. Bang went our trip to the tree farm to cut down our Christmas tree. Our front room is still devoid of festive cheer today, as it doesn't look as if it'll be safe for us to venture out into the depths of the countryside in the Little Red Truck until Friday at the earliest. Oh well, we'll put it down to experience.

What an experience it's turning into though. The kids have been on a 2hr late start for the past two days, which, frankly, we've needed. Navigating thick patches of ice in the car in the dark is no fun, particularly when no one around you has a clue how to drive in ice and snow! ExpatOwl put studded tires on my car at the weekend, so I am at least equipped to go out in the present conditions, but the problem is not me, it's everyone else. Good grief, you'd think it was the middle of summer the way some people drive. The speeds are unbelievable. It's safer to stay at home, not because of the weather, but because of the other drivers!

Mind you, I'm not sure The Little Guy would agree with that last fact. Yesterday I got back from a long slow haul out to the Allergists clinic with DD2, only to find the little dude sporting a rapidly swelling right eye. He'd only slipped over on the ice and hit his face on the side of the sledge, hadn't he. In the absense of half a filet steak, we put a pack of frozen peas on it and today he's gone to school with quite a shiner developing. I wonder if he could claim that some journalist threw a pair of shoes at him?

The Darling Daughters have also finally decided that subzero temperatures mean that one is obliged to wear a coat, however 'uncool' it looks. DD2 has also claimed back the knitted stripey socks that she returned to me a few months ago claiming that she'd never wear them. Huh! Desperate times, and all that. Even ExpatOwl has been digging around in his sweater drawer looking for something warm and woolly. If I'm not careful he'll start nagging me to finish knitting the Norwegian sweater I started making for him about four years ago.

It's not over yet though. The forecast is for more snow tonight and cold temperatures for the next two weeks. At this rate we could well be skiing in our own front garden just like we used to in Norway. Indeed, when I emerge from beneath the bedclothes tomorrow, it looks like I could be forgiven for thinking that I'm having a Scandinavian experience.

It Takes A Village

2008-12-05T08:20:00.004-08:00

I had to be in four different locations at the same time last night. Now I'm not superwoman (although I do my best) so a plan of action had to be concocted. I had known for about two weeks that this night was going to come, so I had been mulling strategies over at the back of my mind ever since, but why, oh why do strangers somehow manage to choose that night to make things even more complicated? I guess it's the law of s*d in full flow again.

This week didn't start too well really. I already had appointments on the calendar that would test any scheduling expert, so I knew I was in for a busy one. Then Monday morning I woke up to find The Little Guy with a complexion that only Big Bird can carry off well! The bags under his eyes were so big too that any airline would have charged him for excess baggage!

Great. One kid home and I had to go to my annual physical; an appointment I'd had for 3 months.

I called my neighbour, who also had a sick child at home. We pooled resources. She took the sick kids, I went to the doctor's office and ran errands. Thank goodness for good friends!

By the end of the day, the boy had bounced back. "YES," I thought, "I'll be able to make my dental check-up tomorrow." I was desperate not to have to pay a cancellation fee and the neighbours had encouraged me to keep the appointment, assuring me that we'd work something out if he was still ill.

Tuesday morning DD2 woke up with a fever of 102F! Bugger! I'd have to leave her home alone when she was sick. "Go to your appointment," said my friends. "We'll check on her."...........And they did. When I called to see how she was doing, she'd been offered chicken noodle soup and TLC in my absense. The value of friendship is truly priceless.

By Wednesday I'd cancelled my art class and the cat's appointment for a nail trim though. It was time to take care of the piles of bedding that need laundering when a kid has such a high fever that they perspire enough to water the garden. By this point it was also obvious that my Thurday night plans were going to be complicated further.

I addressed the problem by cancelling The Little Guy's basketball practice. There was just no way I could take him there for 6pm, then over to his end-of-season soccer party at 6.30 at the same time as attending DD1's induction ceremony into the National Honor Society (also at 6.30) and take care of a now fever free DD2. One woman is just not enough! Even when every event was within a five minute radius of the house, I just couldn't do it all.

My plan was:
1) Leave at 6.10
2) Take TLG directly to soccer party (at teammate's house)
3) Take DD1 to Honor Society event
4) Leave DD2 home with a movie

The evening actually went like this:
1) DD1 had a panic over dress code
2) Nextdoor neighbour called to say two strange men were knocking on doors asking for donations to some medical fund
3)I closed all the blinds and turned off the lights on the front of house
4) DD1 was still having a clothing crisis
5) 6.15 I drove TLG to his party
6) 6.30 I picked up DD1, checked on DD2 and left for the High School event
7)8pm. I called to check on DD2. The doorbell had rung and she was so scared that she'd called the nextdoor neighbours, who'd come over to be with her. As I spoke to her, I drove past 2 strange men with clipboards wandering up the next street in the dark.
8) DD1 and I went to the soccer party. We caught up with our friends before they all left.
9) I collected TLG and headed home
10) Inside the hallway was a huge package (about 4 feet tall). The ring on the doorbell earlier had been the UPS man! DD2 was feeling stupid for troubling the neighbours. I assured her she'd done the right thing.
11) We all fell into bed exhausted.
12) I forgot to get the bread for breakfast out of the freezer.

This morning we woke up to the headline news that a woman in our town had been robbed and beaten by two men last night. Coincidence? I don't think so. Scary? You betya!!

The Importance Of Being Proactive Not Reactive.

2008-12-04T08:30:00.008-08:00

I've just read a great article over at Get Rich Slowly about how to prepare yourself for a potential lay-off. As the unemployment statistics here in the US are now at a 26yr high, I thought I'd share the link. It's a guest post by Kevin Merritt, founder and CEO of Blist, a web-based list-sharing and database application.

What Kevin says about updating your skills, reducing your household budget to prepare for a drop in salary and networking are fundamental to redundancy insurance, but are these tactics only necessary during a recession? Frankly, from our own personal experience, protecting yourself from a potential lay-off should be an ongoing habit. Gone are the days of the 'job for life' which ends with a a firm handshake, pat on the back and a gold watch. Today's global marketplace, is tough, competitive and shrinking. It's a case of survival of the fittest and the fittest today is the person who can adapt to continuous change.

We have learned all of this the hard way. Back in 1994 we were a young, naive couple living in the UK. DD1 was 2 and DD2 was just 3mths old. ExpatOwl had a 'steady' job as a middle manager with an electronics firm. When I was pregnant with DD1 we had moved to the south coast of England because his company relocated there and we were just beginning to feel at home in our new location. I'd left my job to follow his and our imminent new addition precluded me from employment in our new town. Recently his company had been sold to another higher up the corporate tree, but we had no reason to fear any changes. The products he oversaw were selling well and the market was buoyant.

Then one ordinary day, ExpatOwl came home from work as usual and told me in a hushed voice that he'd been laid off. The shock was immense. Neither of us could believe what was happening. We had a 2yr old and a new baby, our mortgage was constantly climbing and we were already living on tuna pasta bake. I'd become an expert on "100 different meals to cook with ground beef!"

To top it all, after 10yrs with the firm, they'd given him half an hour to clear out his desk.

The shame and humiliation brought ExpatOwl to his knees. Why had this happened? What had he done wrong? He'd always worked hard, to the point of putting his family second at times. He'd been headhunted during the previous summer by other people who obviously valued his skills. Raised to believe in the 'Last in, first out,' theory, he'd seen no reason for concern and had therefore missed all the signs of potential doom. He'd also always believed that redundancy was a reflection on a person's quality of work, but was to learn that in the corporate world the company budget is the controlling factor, not its human capital.

I had never seen my husband cry until that day. Nor have I since.

In the end, he was lucky. Unemployment lasted a mere 3 days. Sweeping cuts by senior executives who did not understand the value of their middle managers, led to an offer from the competitor, who coundn't believe his luck at getting such a skilled worker. It wasn't easy though. The new job necessitated a 2hr commute each way and world travel. Our little girls grew up without Daddy.

This experience became the cornerstone of our lives. From that day on, we resolved that the only company we were committed to was "Oue Family Inc!" The lessons we learned over that week have stood us in good stead since. We became more proactive, learned to read the writing on the wall when the corporate world started shifting and have made decisions accordingly. It's hard to know when to jump or when to wait to be pushed. Each situation is different, but if you have your financial house in order, living with the consequences is much easier. I took over our finances, resolved to run our household like a business and have budgeted my way through three different currencies in 14yrs.

You see, we have been prepared to go anywhere and do anything to stay employed. This has meant adapting to new cultures and new experiences, skills that are a necessity in today's world. Financially it would have been great to stay in one place, build equity in our home and prepare for retirement, but that has not been possible for us. We've had some priceless experiences along the way though and have taught our children firsthand about the world of work that they will soon enter. They are prepared to have several jobs (even careers) in their lifetime and to take control of their futures.

To them, it's normal.

As you know, we're at that juncture again. The morning after his recent international flight home, ExpatOwl could be found in the city networking at a trade show. The 'Powers-That-Be' would be well adviced to do all they can to keep him if they want to maintain their market share. But no matter what they decide, you can be sure that we'll be playing the game on our terms, even if the axe does eventually fall!

Giving Thanks

2008-12-01T15:51:00.007-08:00

Thanksgiving is rapidly turning into my favourite holiday. We get an entire four days in a row off for a start, which is pretty amazing for America. Add to that the traditional turkey dinner and you have a winner. It is also devoid of all the hassle and consumerism of Christmas, which I find very appealing.

Making the turkey dinner is the greatest challenge, coming as it does on a Thursday and requiring several different accompanying dishes. In large families this is normally achieved by each person bringing a dish to the Thanksgiving table. When there's only five of you though and you all live in the same house, it's still down to me. This year I didn't get any time to plan ahead. Having attended "Grandparent's Day" at The Little Guy's school the day before and been encouraged by his teacher to share with the class how "I like to spend time with my grandchildren" (I'm a gifted actress), I had little time to grapple with green beans beforehand.

Thursday seemed to arrive at lightening speed.

I did make a few inroads this year though. The benefit of not having to keep extended family satisfied by your presence, is that you get to be totally casual about the turkey dinner. This year I introduced DD1 to the ease of homemade cranberry sauce and DD2 to the joys of stuffing. My plan? To ensure that these two dishes will make it to my Thanksgiving table in the years ahead without me having to make them! Smart, huh?!

While they were suitably occupied, I read the recipe for my piece de resistance; an acorn squash. It looked simple enough. Cooking this would ensure that Thanksgiving dinner was not just the same meal that we eat at Christmas. After all, a British Christmas dinner is based on turkey too and there is a chance you can have too much of a good thing.

ExpatOwl didn't think there was much chance of that in this instance. He'd already remarked on the small size of the turkey when it was defrosting. I confess it had seemed to wither away to the size of a large British chicken and was hardly looking like Bernard Matthews best. What on earth would he think when it came out of the oven? Perhaps I could pass it off as grouse or a French hen?

Meanwhile, the acorn squash was an adventure in itself. Halfway through the afternoon my husband found me staggering around the kitchen with the darned thing stuck on the end of my best carving knife. He wrestled the implement from me, fearful that I might cut myself, and proceeded to lever the blade out of the squash splitting the latter in two as he did so. My relief was palpable. I'm still having nightmares now, although baked with a little butter and brown sugar, that squash was divine and really made our Thanksgiving dinner.

We were lucky. We had a feast on Thanksgiving which we all took part in creating. Even The Little Guy chopped carrots and peeled potatoes. We were grateful to have ExpatOwl home for a few days too. Those four days were an oasis of calm in the storm that is our daily lives.

As I stood outside in the dark last night and waved him off on his travels again, I was truly thankful for them!

An Expat Christmas Adventure

2008-11-25T11:12:00.005-08:00

As an Expat, Christmas can be an interesting time of the year. Not only do you get to view the strange juletide traditions of new lands, but you get to develop your own little festive routines. One of these is the Christmas shopping ritual. For Expats, this invariably starts in October. As most of our gift recipients live half a world away, our purchases have to be made in good time in order to enter the various global postal systems.

I was doing ok. I say 'was' because I've just come a cropper. My parcels to Europe were purchased, wrapped and packaged and have been waiting on the hall table for me to find time in my diary to make it to the Post Office. Today was the day. I had already spent an hour and a half discovering that Amazon UK is still not a financially viable option for me. With the recent currency changes, I had hoped that the exchange rate would now make it a possibility when it comes to gifts. As I can pay in pounds from my British account, I was considering this method of gift buying for my final two UK presents. Then I reached the online checkout and discovered that the gift wrapping charges made the whole process ridiculously expensive, so I'm back to square one.

But I digress. Having discovered that it's still cheaper to buy here and mail presents myself, I drove round to the PO and staggered out of the car with four boxes piled up on each other. I could barely see over the top of them and was totally dependent on other kind customers to open the doors for me. Once inside I picked up the required green customs forms and spent another ten minutes laboriously filling out all the details of my 'surprise' gifts!

As usual, the queue was growing rapidly. I joined it, carrying my stack of parcels and hoping my arms would hold out. Then as I peeped around the side of them, I saw it. The sign!

"It is a federal offense to pack anything potentially hazardous to Postal workers. We will always ask you whether you have packed anything:

LIQUID
Perishable
etc
etc

"Crap!" I thought, suddenly remembering the small bottle of aftershave that I'd bought for my father-in-law, which was nestled neatly in one of my boxes. "Bloody H***! It's liquid!" Images of the immigration authorities turning up at my door and dragging me away in handcuffs, flooded my mind.

With that I stalked out of the PO, knowing that I was now going to have to head home again with the parcels (and their redundant green slips), try to remember which box the aftershave was in and then start all over again.

Guess what ExpatOwl's getting for his birthday?!

Normal? What's that?

2008-11-24T08:49:00.005-08:00

I'm sleeping on the sofa. No, ExpatOwl and I haven't had a major falling out, despite the fact that his reappearance always takes me some time to adjust to. No, it's far more basic than that.

He's got jet-lag!

The problem with having a a spouse who treats an aeroplane like a bus service, is that his body is always in another time zone to your own. Not only do we all have to manage without him for weeks on end, but when he returns he's still not totally back in the land of the living. It's bad enough when he's spent two weeks on the East coast and ends up being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 3 am every day and snoring on the sofa by 8 every night, but after a trip to Europe, it's a whole different ball game. He sleeps at the wrong time and eats at the wrong time. He wants toast and cereal when we fancy a steak dinner and vice versa. Disruptive is an understatement.

Having stayed awake for 24hrs, poor ExpatOwl arrived home on Friday night and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. The good 'ol sofa is used to it and welcomed him with its well worn leather and long corner sweep that easily accommodates a man who's over 6 feet tall. The rest of us greeted him enthusiastically and then got on with our lives. At least we tried to, but the decibel level of "The Man From Europe's" snoring was hardly conducive to successful viewing of "Survivor Man". By 10pm, in order to keep from forcing ExpatOwl to try out basic survival techniques in the biting cold of the back garden, I woke him up. He staggered up to bed, fell into it and instantly returned to his previous comatose state.

I grabbed my duvet and headed back to the still warm sofa.

Now, I'm not a thrasher, you know, one of those people who toss and turn all night flailing around in their sleep as if their lives depended on it. In fact, I sleep so gently that I look like rigamortis has set in! (DD1 has testified to this.) Consequently, I'm perfectly able to sleep on our narrow European-sized sofa without falling off in the night. In fact, when ExpatOwl's jet-lagged, it's the one place that I'm guaranteed at least 7hrs of sleep.

So, that's why I'm on the sofa and have been for the past three nights. Judging by the reduced level of aeroplane air induced snoring and Expat's joyous declaration that he'd woken at 5am this morning, I should be back in the marital bed by Thanksgiving!

Nothing's Ever Simple

2008-11-18T12:45:00.004-08:00

I seem to be having a run of...how can I describe them...awkward moments. You know, the sort that cause you to think "Oh, no, not again." They're normally accompanied by a resigned sigh and some hairbrained attempt at a solution. In fact a better term would probably be, "problem situations."

Take this weekend for instance. ExpatOwl flew off to Europe on Friday morning, so it was back to the one-woman-show again. The Little Guy had a soccer tournament all weekend (his first). To add to the fun, the Water Board was working on the water treatment works from 9pm Friday until 9 am Saturday morning. We had to leave at 8.

We all showered the night before, but come Saturday my hair was just not going to play ball. I thrust it into a pony tail and stuffed a baseball hat on top of the shaggy mess (my camping look.)

No one recognised me all day, which was just as well because having spent most of Friday loading up the car with supplies for the day and then driving out to the substitute fields (ours are underwater!), I was knackered.

As soon as we arrived, I turned to TLG, who was hastily putting on his cleats, and asked,
"Do you want to take your asthma inhaler now, or just before the first game?"
I rummaged in his soccer bag waiting for his reply. There was an ominous silence.
"Er, I used it yesterday when I was playing outside with my friends and I think I might have forgotten to put it back in my bag, Mum. It's in the garage."

I tried to swallow the rising tide of anger I felt as I emerged empty handed from the inside of the soccer bag and tried to accept the inevitable. I was doomed. There was just no way this event was going to be problem free, was there! With a day ahead of us filled with a minimum of three games, there was no way TLG could play without his inhaler. I'd have to drive all the way home and back again.

I did.

It was nice weather for a country drive.

I missed the first game, but managed to watch my mini Beckham and his team make their way to the semi-finals by winning the next two. This would mean we'd have to come back on Sunday.

Sunday dawned fresh and foggy, but by lunchtime the worst of the weather was over. The coach called to remind me to bring a white T-shirt as the opposing team normally wore red like us. TLG put one on immediately so that we wouldn't forget.

We made our way out to the much emptier fields (only 4 teams playing) only to discover, to my absolute horror, that the opposing team had decided to wear white. Our boys were wearing their regular red shirts............. and where was TLG's? At home on top of the laundry pile!

We borrowed one from the opposing side. Number 15 had now become the second number 10 on our team. The boys fought bravely, but lost 2-0. We were hugely proud of them though as the team that beat them was a select team and went on to win the final. (Select is a higher level team of kids who get year long soccer tuition.)

My third situation then arose today. I needed to wrap some Christmas presents for family back in the UK. I have a large Christmas wrapping bag that gets stuffed with paper, ribbons etc every January during the sales and then gets put away until now. Searching for it in the garage, I discovered that ExpatOwl had stored it out of reach. Not just slightly out of reach, like on the top of the shelves that line the side of the garage. Nooooo, right up in the top of the eaves!!

Spitting bricks and swearing to myself like a mad woman, I attempted to climb a ladder holding a very long extendable pole with my feather duster on the end of it. I figured that if I could push the bottom of the bag until I wiggled it free, I might be able to snag one of the handles with the end of the pole and bring it down.

Dangling precariously from the top of the A-frame ladder and waving my pole like a conductor's baton, I swung at the corner of the swollen bag that was hanging over the edge of the garage beam. It moved slightly. I tried again, then again and again, swearing blue murder at the lengths I had to go to just to wrap a few Christmas gifts!

Suddenly the bag's handle was visible. As I hooked my delightful lime green, plastic duster through both bright red handles, the entire bag slid down the pole and there was the deep ripping sound of fabric tearing. The whole thing was so heavy that the bag slid back off the end of the pole and fell to the ground, the dark green material gaping where the handles had been half-ripped away from the bag's body. Shiny gold packing ribbon twinkled at me from inside.

I stared at my bag, the supposedly neat and useful answer to everyone's wrapping needs, from the top of the ladder.

"Why is nothing ever simple?" I thought as I grabbed a roll of black duct tape and a Stanley knife on the way back down.

{Sigh}

The Morning After........

2008-11-01T12:38:00.006-07:00

I'm knackered! It's the post-Halloween hangover and I just can't move.

The uncarved pumpkins are still sitting there in the garage glaring at me accusingly, but I'm just wiped. The past 48hrs have been a total whirlwind, including parent conferences, trick or treating, a football game, a party, a soccer game and a desperate need to open a bottle of Expatmum's favourite tipple, Pinot Grigio! Naturally, I succumbed so I'm now also suffering from a mild hangover.

It started on Thursday. The Darling Daughter's had a half day, which is a total joke as it actually means that they start school at 7.30 AM and are finished at 10.30 AM. After getting them and then The Little Guy off to school, I hardly had time to do anything before I was on driving duty again. After lunch DD1 had a date with a miniature pumpkin and an 88yr old gentleman at the Senior Centre. They were going to paint together, so Mum's taxi service was needed. After dropping her off, I then had to head to the High School for parent conferences.

It was the first year that I've had two High Schoolers to contend with. I'd planned a strategy. I printed off their timetables from the computer and headed for the core subject teachers first - Maths and English. I'd learned from previous experience, that the more teachers I can fit in during the first 20 minutes after the doors open the better. I moved like a woman possessed, darting from one place to the next. Then as the queues began to lengthen, my pace slowed. I ticked off the teachers on my pieces of paper and slowly got through them all. Two and a half hours later, I left the building and just made it to the Elementary school to collect TLG.

I opened the Pinot Grigio that night (with food ofcourse.) It had been a crazy day and I still had Halloween things to do.

*********

I hit the ground running on Friday, trying to ignore the headache that was starting to brew. It was D-Day. Halloween had arrived and I wasn't ready.This dressing up lark really is a mother's nightmare. You have to start thinking about it weeks beforehand and despite everything else that's going on in your life, it sits there nagging at you. Then the days start to morph together and before you know it, there's hardly any time left.

This does not account for the 'hitches' that crop up along the way either, the major one being that one or other child changes their mind at the last minute and decides x,y or z is wrong with their costume!

Don't forget too, that dressing up for school that day is a must, but nothing scary ofcourse. The Little Guy's school planned for the students to dress as book characters. Great idea, but some of us just can't manage to plan one costume to fit both needs. TLG decided to be Calvin and take his stuffed Hobbs along with him. "Great," I thought, picking up a red and white striped shirt from JCPenny's for $3.00 last week. "We'll just slick up his hair with some gel and we're away."

No such luck. In the end it was me who was stuffed. He changed his mind.

Panic set in and he decided not to dress up at all. He didn't want to spend the last session of his extra Maths class dressed as a comic book character. Instead, he longed to get home and put on the Seahawks Football strip complete with helmet, that he'd got for Christmas last year and go trick or treating.

We couldn't find the trousers!

With five minutes to go before we should have been downtown cruising through the shops trick or treating with friends, we were running around the house searching through laundry baskets looking for the white football leggings that he'd recently covered with green grass stains.

It was my fault. I knew I'd washed them, but I wasn't quite sure what had happened after that? I'd also been somewhat sidetracked by a knitted panther hat that DD2 had started making the previous weekend to wear as her costume. She'd realised mid-week that time was running out and had persuaded me to finish it off for her. I'd made two earflaps, ties and one ear and had been planning to complete the final ear and sewing on Friday morning.

Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men!!

Naturally my telephone rang continuously on Friday. People whom I hadn't heard from for weeks chose Friday to catch up (including ExpatOwl, who called for the first time in a week.). It was great to chat with them all, but when my Mum started a deep discussion on how to adapt the traditional Yorkshire Parkin recipe that I'd sent her during the week, I began to panic. I tucked the phone under my chin, tried to keep sewing and stifled the desire to snap, "Can't you just do it the way it says?!"

When DD2 got home ( at 10.30AM!) She looked at her unfinished hat, then at me and was wise enough not to make a comment. She went to complete the rest of her costume. We'd already had the conversation about dress code (i.e. What message do you think those fishnet tights and hotpants are conveying?) I'd managed to talk her into thick, matron-style tights, but the hotpants made it out the door (the black high-top Converse helped control the effect though.)

We took The Little Guy trick or treating for an hour, meeting up with friends and neighbours along the way. I wore a large orange hat with a small pumpkin dangling from the end of it. He could see me in the crowds every time he came out of a store. So far so good.

We resorted to McDonalds (again!) for dinner. Time was of the essence. DD2 had to be at the local Football game to play in the band by 6pm. It was 5.30.

An hour later TLG and I were sitting in the stands under a blanket watching the game. We'd changed hats and were now dressed in warm coats, gloves and hats displaying team colours. I was glad it was an exciting game or I'd have been asleep. We jumped and cheered until the last second as our team scored a 49 to 48 point win and made it to the play-offs.

It was 10PM by the time we got home. DD1 took over and put her little brother to bed. I was needed at a neighbourhood party that had started at 6PM. It was two doors away, which by this point was about as far as I could manage. I had a couple of beers, relayed the story of the game and then headed back to my bed by midnight.

*********

The alarm went off this morning at 7. I hit it.

By 7.45 I admited defeat and went to get TLG up. He pulled on his soccer kit in a sugar induced daze. I pulled on my clothes........with a hangover. We went to meet his team down on a damp, soggy soccer field.

It's the day after Halloween (and those bl***y pumpkins are still staring at me!)

It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

2008-10-29T08:52:00.011-07:00

We went to the pumpkin patch on Saturday.

Having got up at the crack of dawn to drive to a football (soccer) pitch in a place I didn't even know (without the aid of Dashboard Doris), so that The Little Guy could get a serious bruising from the opposing team ( and their goalpost), I did the dutiful parent thing and took him to get a pumpkin.

To be honest, it was a case of "when can we fit it in?" It's nearly Halloween, he's only nine, he hasn't grown out of the whole adventure yet (do they ever?). In the absense (yet again) of ExpatOwl, someone had to do the honours. Naturally it was me.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Having had the forethought to take an ice pack to the morning soccer game, I had already treated his wounds on the sidelines and we'd discovered that he would live. His ego had taken a bashing though and without 'dad' to remark on the spectacular goal he'd scored before he was launched headfirst at the goalpost by a sliding tackle from the opposing team, pumpkin purchasing therapy was in order.

We drove to the farm accompanied by The Darling Daughters. They were ofcourse just joining their little brother to ensure that he had the full pumpkin patch experience. Funny how we came away with three pumpkins though!

The Little Guy wandered excitedly into the patch followed closely by his mother pushing a large, red wheelbarrow. I was dressed for the occasion, looking for all intents and purposes like a lost hiker. The sun beat down on us as we gazed at what was left of the great orange orbs and I wished I'd managed to get there sooner. The place was heaving with people and crushed pumpkins.

Thankfully he soon found the perfect specimen. "This is it, Mum," he shouted, gazing excitedly at the biggest pumpkin I've ever had the pleasure of trying to carry. All that weight training at Pilates was about to pay off! I hauled his prize into the wheelbarrow and set off back towards the farm shop, hoping I wasn't going to put my back out.

"I've found one too," cried DD1, cradling a medium-sized pumpkin in her arms as she caught up with me.

"Me too!" came a cry from my left. Soon the wheelbarrow was full and I began the slow, staggering walk back to the farm shop. My back was running with sweat, my face was flushed and my hands were sore.........but I'd promised my son a pumpkin and this pumpkin was what he was getting. At the back of my mind I hoped I'd be able to get it into the back of the car. I'd look pretty stupid otherwise, having bought a huge pumpkin and then not be able to get it home. This giant vegetable was turning into a matter of pride, I could tell.

Then there was the guilt. The prospect of TLG's disappointed face if we had to leave the giant pumpkin behind after all his (my) efforts was just too much. My 'mummy-guilt'ometer' was obviously working well. Let's face it, dad was away, he'd got injured at soccer, life was a bummer in TLG's eyes. The only way to rectify the situation was to get him a BIG pumpkin.....................................so we did.

Now all we have to do is find the time to scoop it out and carve it! I'm not holding out much hope that this'll happen before Halloween, but you never know. He wants me to lift it in from the garage so that he can carve it on the kitchen table as usual. (Get real, dude. My bionic arm seized up in the '80's! I really am not superwoman.) I've tried to explain that it was hard enough getting the big beast out of the boot of the car. There's no way that I can get it up a flight of stairs, through the hallway and into the kitchen. Sorry - not going to happen.

So he (and his sisters) will be doing their scooping in the cold, damp garage. Once it's hollowed out, then we'll move the great pumpkin inside.

"Don't forget to bake the seeds Mum, so that I can snack on them," TLG reminded me when I suggested this compromise.

Ah! The light dawned.

"Is that why you wanted such a big pumpkin?" I asked, innocently.

"Ofcourse," he replied, with a nonchalant air. "I love eating those pumpkin seeds!"

US Election: The British Solution

2008-10-24T07:34:00.003-07:00

I found this in my inbox this morning and couldn't resist sharing it. Bear in mind though, that it is a bit of lighthearted humour!!

Message from the Queen

To the citizens of the United States of America from Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II .
In light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas , which she does not fancy).

Your new Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a Governor for America without the need for further elections.
Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.

A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:
(You should look up 'revocation' in the Oxford English Dictionary.)

1. Then look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

2. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'colour', 'favour', 'labour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix '-ize' will be replaced by the suffix '-ise'. Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up 'vocabulary').

3. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as 'like' and 'you know' is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as US English. We will let M*crosoft know on your behalf. The M*crosoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take into account the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of -ize.

4. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

5. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not quite ready to be independent. Guns should only be used for shooting grouse. If you can't sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not ready to shoot grouse.

6. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. Although a permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

7. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

8. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10/US gallon. Get used to it.

9. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

10. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of British Commonwealth - see what it did for them. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

11. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters. Watching Andie MacDowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

12. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).

13. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America . Since only 2.1% of you are aware there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

14. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

15. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

16. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 pm with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.

God Save the Queen!

Fast Talking Fast Food

2008-10-22T09:53:00.005-07:00

Last Friday I finally succumbed to the pressures of trying to be all things to all people and did the unthinkable. I took the kids to get McDonalds for dinner!

Now, I never, repeat NEVER do that. I am such a fresh food freak, that I even bake my own bread because I hate all the sugar and preservatives that are hidden in the floppy stuff they call bread here. (Incidently, I've lost 6lbs in the 6 weeks that I haven't eaten store bought bread...and I eat a lot of bread!)

Well, we went and ordered our Mighty Kids Meals and Double Quarterpounder With Everything Meals before the Homecoming game last Friday. DD2 asked if she could get two things. "Sure," I said, thinking that as we don't eat take out very often, it wouldn't hurt.

"Great," she said, smiling, "Then I'll have a Chicken Snack Crap too."
"A what?" I asked.
"A Chicken Snack Crap. Oh, Mum you have to try it," she declared excitedly. "It's made with the 'not-so-good' bits of the chicken, so it's on the dollar menu, but it tastes reeaally good!"

I was not exactly excited by the prospect of my beautiful, healthy child eating something so substandard, but I was rather more intrigued by the audacity of the McDonalds marketing department. Had they really become so self-confident that they believed that they could now actually market something on the dollar menu with the title "Crap?" Did they think that their consumers were really so stupid? Honestly, these giant corporations are really getting too big for their boots now! Fancy being so 'cock sure' of making money that you'd actually dare to name a product "Crap!"

I was off on one of my 'the nerve of corporate marketing' tirades. Those golden arches must really be pretty darned golden if they didn't even need to pretend to sell good stuff anymore!

When the food arrived, I dutifully tasted the offending item and was surprised to find that it did indeed taste pretty good. DD2 tucked in eagerly, pieces of shredded lettuce and chicken disappearing into her mouth like a rabbit chewing on grass.

"What did you say it's called?" I asked as a piece of flour tortilla dropped into DD2's lap.
"A Chicken Snack Wrap," she replied, between mouthfuls.
"Chicken Snack WRAP?" I queried.
"Yes, Mum."
"Oh thank goodness for that," I said. "For a moment there, I thought you said Crap!!"

Who ya gonna call?

2008-10-10T20:14:00.004-07:00

I've been thinking about emergencies recently. Over at Get Rich Slowly today, they were talking about cash and a lot of readers have it stashed ready for emergencies. I have to confess that I also have some funds ready for use should the need arise. It's part of the realisation that slowly dawns on a foreigner when they find themselves living in an earthquake zone. You need to be prepared.

I've learned not to let my gas (petrol) tank fall below the half full marker and I stock pile non-perishable foods too. The Red Cross supply wonderful emergency packs in their online store, so I have one in the car and the house, ready for action. In fact, I've already tested the battery radio as we often get power cuts (outages) at this time of year, and I've also brewed up at 6am using our camping kettle on the outside BBQ. Yes, this is America, the land that still hangs its cables above ground, open to everything the elements have to throw at them.

I think my preparedness all started when my sister got caught in the London bombings a few years back. She just happened to be there that day for a business meeting and ended up having to stay overnight. Thankfully, she emerged from the experience unscathed, but realised how little prepared for an emergency she really was.

She told me this over the phone as I looked out of my window in the Pacific Northwest at Mt. Rainier, one of the largest mountains in the Cascade range, which has not errupted for 100yrs. It could do so at any time. I had already experienced two earthquake tremors within the first two months of being in the US, so I resolved to get more organised.

One of the main things I did was to program ICE numbers into my cell phone. To my surprise my friends did not know what this was. I'd first come across "In Case of Emergency" numbers in England and had them in my mobile device there. They are the numbers of your nearest and dearest, your emergency contacts. ExpatOwl is ICE1 in my cell phone.

Today I hopped over to my friend Gill's site and she had an excellent description of the whole system there. She reminds us that paramedics never know which are the most important numbers on our list, so using ICE1, ICE2, ICE3 etc is invaluable to them. Check it out.

This is possibly the best thing you can do to prepare for an emergency. Let's spread the word. It may not help me dig out from under the ash of Rainier, but at least the medics will know who to call when they find me!!

Attacked on all sides.

2008-10-03T09:31:00.003-07:00

I can feel it coming on. I'm sinking fast. The dreaded lergy is about to get me.

It started yesterday afternoon with a scratchy throat and an insatiable thirst. I've been fighting a fever for over a week, you know, one of those ones that hit 99F and just don't seem to do anything. I've plodded on though and had just about decided that I'd conquered the germs when my nose began to give that Samantha ("Bewitched") twitch. Today, twitch has turned to drip.

I did manage to get the girls off to a Careers Fair last night though. The Freshman needed mum to guide her around, but the junior, after 2 years of experience, was quite confident talking to college admissions personel. Mind you, she came home having fallen in love with a private, out-of-state college that we haven't got a hope in hell of paying for!

DD2 has also developed a passion for fashion that could see me with a glittering future as a bag lady (and I'm not talking Dolce and Gabbana here!) Design school doesn't look cheap. Now is the time as a parent that you wish 'Santa' hadn't bought all those Bratz dolls for her for Christmas!

The Little Guy came away longing to hose down burning buildings having had the exciting experience of wearing a real firefighter's helmet. He got a bookmark too. The prospect of death and destruction is still too unreal to penetrate him, despite the fact that a local fire this week claimed 4 lives. He's still young enough to see all of the glamour (especially the giant hoses) and none of the heartache.

I was relieved when we got home. I'd missed the Palin/Biden debate, my nose was dripping and I just wanted a hot toddy and my knitting to comfort me.

Then the phone rang.

It was almost 8.45PM and some guy was calling about SAT/ACT prep materials. DD1 had ticked a box somewhere, sometime, and they were calling in response to this. "We like to go through it all with the parents," he said. My brain felt like a sponge, the effects of the hot toddy were beginning to take hold, I was being blinded by facts as I listened to the blurb. I felt confused. When had she filled in a form? What was this guy going on about? The fog closed in around me.

"Hold on a minute," I said, suddenly coming to. "Where did my daughter tick this box?"
"It could have been at a careers fair (no it couldn't!) or online. It can take us 6 months to get round to replying."
"And when do I have to pay for these prep materials?"
"Well, you have to secure them with a credit/debit card up front." (MAJOR RED WARNING LIGHTS FLASHING!)
"ABSOLUTELY NO WAY!" I exploded.
"Well, that's a normal reaction, Ma'am."
"Yes," I replied, wide awake now and shaking with anxiety. "I am certainly not doing this over the phone or before I've checked you out thoroughly."
"Well, if you'd like to get a pen I'll give you our website address and my name."
I took down his details and then asked, "Do you have a telephone number that I can contact you directly on?"
"All our details are on the site, Ma'am."

What a surprise (not!)

I put down the phone, my hand shaking. I was tired, my nose was running and suddenly I felt violated. They'd entered my home again when I was at my most vulnerable. The children had heard every word and were looking at me like I'd just had a one-on-one conversation with the devil. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd come really close to letting my natural desire to prepare my daughter for SAT's and my ignorance as an immigrant, lead me into a mistake of gargantuan proportions.

Suddenly, I really missed ExpatOwl.

Fishy Business

2008-09-29T09:22:00.004-07:00

My chance to volunteer in my neighbourhood and community arrived sooner than expected. I've been doing quite a bit in the past few days. The thing about volunteering is that you never really know what you'll get out of the experience. You go into it expecting nothing but to give to others, but it's quite amazing what you end up getting out of these opportunities yourself.

Last week I took delivery of three young girls at 6.30 in the morning, so that their mum could accept an offer to take a child-free trip for a week with an old friend. Wednesday, Thurday and Friday the three bleary-eyed youngsters appeared on my doorstep and then said goodbye to their grateful father as he whizzed off to work. Today it's Monday and we began the process again after a weekend break.

It's been amazing how easily we've slipped into a routine. The Little Guy thinks it's fun having so many people over for breakfast and has suddenly developed the habit of laying out his clothes the night before! I've been trying to get him to do this for several years. Suddenly, the prospect of literally getting caught with his trousers down by three girls has spurred him on to plan ahead. It's a wonderful moment.

The Darling Daughters are another matter entirely though. After three days of pretending that they actually get along in the mornings, (for fear of frightening the younger girls) they resorted to type today. The shouting rang out as normal. I suspect it did have something to do with the fact that they both got a little overexcited at youth club on Sunday night.

They weren't the only ones.

My second volunteer opportunity was last night. I was rostered on to assist at the church High School youth group. I was a little apprehensive, but as soon as I walked into the youth room, the years rolled back. No, I didn't embarrass the Darling Daughters by rolling too far back, I was just reminded of the time I spent in my early '20's assisting at a youth program in England. The cosy chairs, the game tables and the young people all brought it flooding back.

To break the ice, we played games. Suddenly I found myself swept up into a hilarious game of Sardines. Thirteen teenagers and three 'adults' were running round the church in the dark hunting for the person who was hiding. The secret place turned out to be a closet full of chairs. It had two folding doors. I opened the first which revealed a stack of tables, turned to tell the girl next to me that there was no one there, but she'd disappeared. I found her and about four others behind the second door. I squeezed in.

We all tried not to laugh.

Shortly afterwards two others found us. We huddled up further. Then my girls appeared, slid nimbly through the door and hastily folded it behind them. We all tried to stiffle giggles as we heard others running around frantically looking for us.

"Would this be a bad time to tell you that I get claustraphobic?" said DD2

The kids spluttered with laughter and one more person squeezed her way through the folding door.

"It's getting hot in here," said a voice from the back of the cupboard, "I hope they find us soon."

Then someone burped.

We all laughed, clamping our hands over our mouths to try to smother the sound.

From the far left corner of the closet, the Youth Director's voice whispered, "Is there anyone still looking?"

"I think Mum's still out there," replied DD1 in hushed tones.

"No, I'm not," I said, "I've been in here longer than you have!"

With that, the entire closet errupted into fits of stomach-crunching laughter. The lights went on in the main room and the doors to the closet were wrenched open. We'd been found. We fell out of the chair cupboard, beaming our heads off and laughing fit to burst. Gulping in fresh air, the kids all looked at each other and laughed again. I locked eyes with my girls. There was a joyous light shining in their eyes and I knew that through this volunteer opportunity, we'd just made a memory that we'd never forget.

A Scot, A Spider and Me.

2008-09-25T09:16:00.006-07:00

This week my blogging friend Ali over at Ali Blah Blah made a very important observation about the current mortgage crisis. She very deftly pointed out that not all of us who find ourselves at the mercy of the current financial meltdown are spendthrifts or financial dunderheads.

Sometimes the tide turns and you just get unlucky.

Yes, some people have taken huge risks, forgetting that high tides always become low tides at some point, but others, like us, have just got caught in the headlights. We did everything right. We've just been screwed by the system. This system, that works on credit history, makes it impossible for a middle-aged foreigner to be anything other than an 18yr old in its financial eyes. As first time buyers in the 21st century, the system dictates that you can't have a fixed-rate mortgage even if you're debt free and putting 20% down. That lack of credit history is just too risky.

We had proof of 25yrs of regular mortgage payments in Europe, including a letter from our previous lender, but it made no difference. They were only selling ARM's to first-timers and that was that.

Well, who's looking risky now?!!

The decisions at the top have proved less than intelligent and many are now victims of the aggressive sale of risky loans, not always because they were greedy, but because the people selling them were. My fear though is that it won't stop there. Defaulting on one type of payment affects your credit scores which, in turn increases your rates on other loans. Choosing between putting food on the table or paying that credit card bill could see your car insurance increase because you choose to eat rather than pay off consumer debt. As your other bills increase, you enter the pick'n'mix cycle, paying one off one month and another the next. As your credit score drops, your bills increase. It's a vicious circle, which could see everyone spiralling into poverty.

That's why I can identify with the Scot, Robert The Bruce (mentioned in Ali's post.) Holed up in his cave somewhere in the Borders of Scotland, he was debating whether to cut his losses and flee the country or stay to claim his rights to the crown. Sitting there, he watched a spider trying to build a successful web. It took eight attempts - "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again!"

Sometimes I wonder what on earth I'm doing in America? In December it will be a mere four years since our arrival and suddenly we find ourselves in the midst of the biggest financial crisis this country has seen since The Great Depression. I feel vulnerable. I needed more time to stabalize our financial life after the move. Instead I'm faced with an adjustable rate mortgage, no life insurance, no college savings and a breadwinner whose job is in jeopardy. I'm not even American, so why on earth should I stay?

But then I look at the faces of the little girls who I'm taking care of so that their mum can take a trip (I'm getting 6 kids to school every day for the next week!) I see the smile of thanks from a mother at the school bus, as I surrepticiously slip her a bag of The Little Guy's cast off clothes and I feel the love as my friend offers me peaches from her overburdened tree. I think of that spider hanging on in there, believing that 'the only way is up;' that things will get better. I forgive Robert The Bruce for slaughtering my ancester, John Comyn, on the steps of Greyfriars Church, and decide that blue blood is still blue blood. I dust myself down and stride back out there to help my friends, neighbours and community defeat the Corporate enemy and lay claim to their country's crown once more.

Democracy - Government "of the people, by the people, for the people." Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address.

So, I've had to resort to stripping!

2008-09-23T10:12:00.006-07:00

I ache all over. No, I haven't gone down with the lergy (yet) my muscles are simply aching from having to clean my kitchen and breakfast room floors yesterday. I know, I know, it's a good work out, but my body would tend to disagree this morning. All it can say is:

WHO THE HELL INVENTED LINOLEUM?

I hate the stuff! It's been a longstanding aversion, although I can't for the life of me remember how it started. I think I just hated the look of it. We had some in our first apartment, white with black diamonds. It was a bugger to clean even then, but as the kitchen was galley style and I could reach the sink, counter and cooker all from the middle of the room, it took all of five minutes to scrub.

When we moved into our first proper house it had the same kind of floor, this time with a breakfast area attached which made it about ten times the size of our galley. I think it was vinyl though. A quick wash over with some Mr Muscle and you couldn't tell the kids had even been there. It was the perfect floor for small children. Spills were easily wiped away and even the Darling Daughters early artistic endeavours were effortlessly removed from the floor.

Our Norwegian house was a different prospect. We went upmarket and opted for tiles. They were beautiful terracota ones kept warm by an underfloor heating system. Again, cleaning was a synch. A quick once over with a mop and bucket on a regular basis kept them looking beautiful and again when it came to The Little Guy's first finger foods all over the floor or the cats dicky tummy resulting in a coagulated mess, the tiles were king. (The only reason I'll never have tiles in the kitchen again is because when you drop something, it breaks instantly. No double bounce with terracota tiles.........and I drop things......a lot!!)

Then I moved to America.

Oh, my God, the floor. Not only is it huge, but it's WHITE linoleum. Honestly, you can't get much more impractical than that. To top it all it has a wax finish, that when fresh and new gives it a glorious shine. Over time however, it actually attracts the dirt resulting in a black residue. Once that happens, no matter how hard you wash and scrub, it never looks truely clean.

With all the kids running in and out of the house this summer, my kitchen/breakfast room floor has disintegrated into a a surface that wouldn't look out of place on the back of a zebra! I've been embarrassed to have anyone round. I've also become increasingly disheartened over my weekly floor wash. Basically, it hardly looked as if I'd done anything.

So yesterday I broke out the chemicals. Yes, to get this floor clean I have to use an ammonia and water solution and then get down on my hands and knees to strip back every inch of wax from the floor. I have to open all the windows so that I don't inhale too much of the toxic fumes, and when I've done it all, I have to rinse it all off with fresh, clean water.

It took two hours!

Just as I finished, my sister Skyped me from the UK. I was listening to some obnoxiously light-hearted summer music whilst I scrubbed, trying to ignore my aching knees. As I ran to click the mouse on the green 'answer' button, I was breathing so heavily that she thought I'd been doing Pilates. The combination of music blaring out as my microphone went into action and my heavy breathing could only mean exercise. When I showed her my nice floor she kindly told me that they have machines at her place of work that strip the wax off the floor and then reseal them.

Lucky old them!

At least I've had a good work out I guess (and it didn't cost me a penny.) I swear I woke up today 3 pounds lighter. Mind you, I don't think lino stripping as a form of exercise will catch on. There's really no glamour in it and the ammonia fumes have probably defeated any health gains I might have acquired. In fact, I think my best bet is probably to make friends with the school janitor. Then maybe next time he'll let me borrow the school stripping machine instead.

The Lergey Has Entered The Building!

2008-09-20T06:17:00.004-07:00

It would appear that the lergey has entered the building. It kind of snuck in the backdoor, catching us totally unawares. I mean, you know it's not all going to be plain sailing on the health front as soon as the kids go back to school, but how on earth do those germs travel about so quickly?

Last week The Little Guy's soccer buddy had a fever of 103F, so I knew it was out there. He'd got it from another boy who he carpools with. Thank goodness soccer is played outside at this time of year. At least then the germs can run around as freely as the kids. This time though, it's the oldest child who's brought the lergey into our house.

DD1 has suffered from hayfever this summer for the first time. She's been sniveling and sniffing on and off for weeks, so none of us really batted an eyelid when she came downstairs yesterday morning sneezing her head off. 'Not unusual,' we thought, lulled into a false sense of security by the high pollen counts broadcast across our location. "It'll get better when the winter comes," I said attempting to console her as she ate a daily spoonful of local honey (natural allergy remedy) and packed her school bag.

When I picked her up in the afternoon though, she was still sniffing. Her nose had begun to take on a Rudolph-like hue and, looking at me with sad eyes, she said those immortal words; "Mum, I think it's a cold."

I resisted the urge to pick up a family pack of garlic tablets on the way home and instead promised lashings of hot honey and lemon and a peppermint steam bath to unblock her sinuses. Mentally I was trying to locate my vitamins, hoping that it wasn't too late to revive my neglected immune system.

Time will tell if my preventative care will save the rest of us, or whether I'm in for my first dose of school absenses and re-runs of "Top Gear." I hope we've got some new episodes. I'm already way too familiar with Jeremy Clarkson after last season and it's not actually a relationship I want to pursue. At least not as intimately as I did last winter. You can have too much of a good thing. In fact, come to think of it, it is only September. I could have an entire six months or more ahead of me with 'Hamster' and the gang invading my family room!

When do they start selling flu shots around here?

Your Best Investment

2008-09-16T08:58:00.010-07:00

Well, ExpatOwl made it home safely on Friday, somewhat earlier than expected in fact. I counted my blessings when he told me that his airline had initially offered him a layover in Houston (due to hurricane Ike)............ UNTIL TUESDAY . I think "On your bike!" was the phrase he used as he demanded a refund and booked in with another company flying through Denver. He wanted to get home, not add to the pressure on resources in the danger zone.

Saturday was soccer day. The fog lay thickly on the field for the entire game. Just as we were finishing up though the sun broke through and the tight denim jeans I'd struggled into semi-comotose earlier that morning, were suddenly just too much. I staggered back to the car pouring with sweat and with a thirst that could drain a lake. The Little Guy was feeling glum. It had been his first time in goal and he'd been scored on three times. I'd prepped him long and hard for the psychological effects inherent to the goalie's job, but to no avail. By the third goal his body language said it all. He was hanging up his cleats.

By Monday though all was thankfully forgotten and normal practice was resumed. He met with his friends walking out to the pitch and happily told me I could wait in the car. There's nothing like a touch of nine year old independence, is there. I was happy to oblige, despite the sun pouring in through the windscreen. This time I was dressed appropriately.

I settled down to read "The Millionaire Mind" by Thomas J. Stanley, a book about the psychology of wealth and sequel to the highly acclaimed "The Millionaire Next Door." This, you see has been one of my hobbies for the past 18 months. I have read an absolute glut of books on Personal Finance and financial psychology. It's all part of my need to understand both the US financial system and the psychology behind it. This desire has led on to interesting discoveries about the history of the US, its demographic make-up and the rise and fall of major corporations that have shaped this country.

My passion for learning more about the financial premises that this country is built upon has, in turn, helped me to understand the way it thinks. Americas culture is derived from its society's response to the financial framework that it exists in. For example, when I first arrived here, I was hugely impressed by the love and care of the community in which I live. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. Neighbours ready to help you out at a moments notice; strangers ready to pull together in a crisis. Where had this kind of wartime resolve gone in Europe? Why has grassroots America still got an "all for one" mentality, when my European experiences were increasingly subject to "Me, me, me" thinking?

My neighbours have often chastized me for not asking them for help. I find it very hard. For years I've been conditioned to expect 'nothing from nobody' and have got used to solving problems without family (or my absent spouse's) assistance. My necessary independence is viewed, I think, as a weakness, where once it was considered a strength. This is the essence of cultural change though, for what my friends deem a strength, I have been conditioned to see as a weakness! (Is it any wonder that there are wars in this world when something this small can create such a different way of thinking!)

I am changing though. Last week I had a scheduling clash and was unable to collect DD2 on time. I called a neighbour who happily fitted the ten minute trip into her plans. No one has ever offered me that kind of impromptu help before and, until now, I've never felt able to ask for it.

This kind of support seems uniquely American. Yes, we all have friends and yes, they all say they'll help out, but how many times do we actually feel that we can ask them, without creating resentment because it's not really convenient? The US is the only place I've lived where I truely feel that I can ask for help and, in fact, it's expected that I do.

The reason for this lies, I believe, in the way this society is structured. The lack of government financial support for families here, creates an environment where each community has to rely on each other to survive. With no government subsidized childcare, no federally funded healthcare and no unemployment protection, people are left to fall back on each other for their very survival. While creating great hardship for many people, what rises out of the ashes is a spirit of compassion which is quite incomprehensible to a newcomer.

New Orleans is a testimony to this fact. Three years on and there's still not been a Federally led plan to rebuild the city. Government does not want to be seen to be joining the housing business (they'll just bail out the two largest mortgage corporations instead!) The city has been left to the people to reconstruct. It's the aid agencies, charities and churches who have, not only rescued the inhabitants initially, but stuck around to support them as they start again.

As the CFO of our family, the US financial system freaks me out (and, with penalties for having a short credit history, it makes me angry.) But as time moves on and I learn more about my host country, I find myself increasingly interested in human capital. I'm starting to understand why schools need people to give to their fundraisers, why volunteering is a necessary part of US society and why regular charitable giving (of both time and funds) is so vital to the function of this country. I'm learning that investing in my community is probably one of the best investments I could make for myself and my family.

Propaganda? What Propaganda?

2008-09-11T08:42:00.001-07:00

I sauntered over to the Huffington Post yesterday and came across some interesting posts on the present US election campaign. Now, I always promised myself that I wouldn't get political on The Pea Green Boat, but it's hard not to when all around you people are discussing the merits of each candidate.

Boy, has that conversation changed in recent weeks though. The advent of Sarah Palin to the mainline political arena has caused quite a stir (as only a woman could!) Yet this is not just any old woman. This is a 'hockey mom' - one of those hallowed breed of American women, known for their tough, fighting spirit and their lioness nature.

Well 'Hockey Mom', meet 'Soccer Mum', an equally deadly breed, imported from Europe, whose lipshine is far more natural and longer-lasting than your highly coloured, overpriced stick! Indeed Soccer Mum has the benefit of a worldwide education and consequently is intelligent enough to recognise propaganda when she sees it.

And propaganda it is. When I moved to the US, I could not believe the stuff that was coming out of the TV here. What happened to the impartiality of the press? I was taught that good reporting should never take sides. It is a presentation of the facts and to cast even a hint of preference is unprofessional to say the least. However, I come from the land of BBC broadcasting where even the lilt of your voice is conditioned to remain impartial.

On closer inspection, I have discovered that the government and Corporate America have a stranglehold on the mainline TV companies over here, which certainly explains the amount of unbalanced reporting that I've witness in the past few years. The sad thing is that the majority of the American public has no idea that this is what's happening.

Thankfully I have discovered PBS and have access to wonderful broadcasts such as "Moyers On America." Advertisements designed to keep this Soccer Mum cleaning her home and playing tennis are refreshingly absent and Matt Frei's BBC broadcasts keep her grounded in European thinking.

Four years ago I was living in Scandinavia and could not understand how the American people could vote for another Republican term. It seemed inconceivable to me that they were unable to see what was so obvious to the rest of the world. This time I'm living within the communities that get to cast their vote and now I understand how that happened. The simple explanation is, they do not see what the rest of the world sees. They're not allowed to. A large proportion of the electorate is easily manipulated by the press, believing everything that it tells them. Consequently, whoever controls the media, controls The White House.

So don't be surprised if this country makes the same mistake a third time. I sincerely hope it doesn't, but all the time it's preoccupied with pitbulls and pigs in lipstick, the real issues like Katrina, Iraq, education and the economy are forgotten. Wake up America and smell the roses! You love freedom. You're prepared to send your sons to die on foreign soil all in the name of freedom, but you allow your own thoughts to be controlled by denying true freedom of the press in your great nation.

The Huffington Post article just confirmed to me what I had already witnessed. It was good to know that I hadn't been imagining it. This Soccer Mum has been able to see through the propaganda simply because she's an immigrant and that overseas upbringing is proving an assest. I hope the rest of the soccer mums/moms out there will begin to realise though that this is a dirty fight. There will be a lot mudslinging in the next couple of months plus a lot of smart suits, businesslike hairdos and trendsetting glasses, but 'mutton dressed as lamb is still mutton!'

Don't forget Katrina, Iraq, education and the economy when you make your choice, because if you do, it won't be the politicians who will truely suffer, it will be you. And all because of a lipstick.

"To Trust Or Not To Trust?" That Is The Question

2008-09-09T09:56:00.003-07:00

I'm an Expat widow again.

I know that the summer is truely over when I stand at the end of the drive late at night watching The Little Red Truck drive off into the sunset. Not only have the children gone back to school, but ExpatOwl has also shipped out for the week. We're back to normal. I am left to keep things ticking over on the homefront and try to plug the gap that his absenses always leave in our little ship's crew.

When we're one man down, you can guarantee that 's**t will happen!' Over the years, this has constituted everything from the traditional washing machine malfunction to the complete breakdown of the house's heating and water supply in the middle of February (yes, there was snow at the time!) When the gas man charges a fortune before he's stepped over your threshold and can't make it for three days anyway, having a good supply of wool sweaters and a large family becomes a big plus.

Issues like these I've learned to deal with. The threats to my family finances in the US though, seem to be of an altogether more underhand nature. "To trust or not to trust?", that is the question.

No sooner had ExpatOwl gone on his merry way this week, than the postman delivered a missive addressed to 'The Parents of DD1.' It was a letter from an organisation called "People To People" which stated that my daughter had been selected to represent her High School and become a student ambassador. She was offered the opportunity to go on a tour of Australia, New Zealand and Fiji next summer and to reserve a spot at our nearest upcoming information meeting.

DD1 was amazed. I could see the excitement rising within her. She loves to travel, hates the fact that we haven't been outside Washington State in nearly four years and could already see this as a potential end to her cultural starvation. She was also impressed by the fact that she'd been asked to represent her school and adopted country. She turned to me with a light in her eyes.........that was immediately extinguished when she saw my face.

Now, being a Brit, I am naturally cautious, in fact I'm downright cynical. (Once bitten by The Kirby Man, twice shy, I can tell you!) I was raised in a culture that teaches you to test and distrust everyone and everything until it proves otherwise. "Never judge a book by its cover" they say and that holds true for most things in my experience.

I went online to do a little research. It was obvious that DD1 had not been chosen to represent her school, as there was no notification by the High school itself of her successful rise to potential ambassador status. I also suspected that they would not be quite so keen to have her represent America is they knew that she's actually a British citizen. My conclusion?

There must be money involved!

Well, the website looks promising enough. Take a look. But further investigation revealed a worrying trend - lack of organisation. It would appear that the informational meeting is a "ra,ra" event designed (as they always are) to get you pumped up enough to part with your hard earned cash. Many people have complained that the cost of the tours are extortionate even if the kids have a successful trip. Others have found that safety has been an issue for their youngsters.

I'm sorry. I know that I live in the land of summer camps, but WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND SENDS THEIR KID OVERSEAS WITH STRANGERS?!! The rest of the world is not an extension of camp. It's a hardnosed place full of people who think and behave very differently to the average American teenager. What kind of ongoing cultural education do US teens receive that could possibly equip them to face the challenges of overseas travel at such a young age?
If you think a travel organisation whose motive is purely money, is going to protect your child, then you're sadly deluded.

A quick look at this Consumer Reports item was enough for me. DD1 is also smart enough to know that the moment you step outside your door in America, someone is trying to part you from your money. She'd already resigned herself to the fact that if loads of other people were receiving these letters too, then she hadn't done anything to get herself nominated except appear on a list of students with parents wealthy enough to fund the trip. What made me really angry though, was that this time the means of parting me from my bucks had come into my house and that they had used the hopes and dreams of my child to get to me.

Thankfully I'm not only a cynical Brit, but I'm married to a marketing professional. We know all about branding, loss leaders and the psychology of shopping. A lot of it has rubbed off over the years and that knowledge has given me the armour plating I need to deal with the crooks and scams that come my way when ExpatOwl is absent. I've implimented boundaries (e.g. I never make donations on the doorstep) to prevent myself from being emotionally draw in to things) and I'm on the 'Do Not Call' list. If I do get caught by a telemarketer, I tell them that 'it's a numbers game' so they'd better move on!

This one really sucked though. It was sly and underhand. I don't care how good an opportunity you're offering, you don't lie to my kids to get to me! There used to be such a thing in society as morality. Well, if this is Capitalism, you can keep it.

(We've also had a letter from The National Youth Forum On National Security. After all we've been through at the hands of the immigration authorities, I tried not to laugh. I don't think they'd like a Brit at that either, although she'd at least be able to educate them on the psychological effects of undergoing an HIV test at the tender age of 13!!)

Making A Statement

2008-09-07T19:02:00.005-07:00

It would appear that I'm fashionable! Yes, I know it's hard to believe, but at my age and with three kids, you take what you can get.

Yes, according to this evenings news, I am sporting the latest, 'must have' in the fashion industry. No, it's not pin-striped yoga pants (although I do have a pair) or a handbag made out of recycled seatbelts. It's something far more every day..................in fact I've been sporting this particular fashion item daily for the past 4yrs.

Yes, like Sarah Palin, I wear rimless glasses!

I have to confess that mine are more of an oval shape than the squarer look she goes for, but I liked them because they were less obvious than the oversized frames I had sported previously. It would now appear that rimless is the only way to go in the spectacle department though. Ever since last week, glasses manufacturers have been running out of Sarah Palin style specs, as the world seeks to emulate the look of the vice presidential hopeful. Suddenly, my look is in!

My first pair of glasses were a cute John Lennon style which made me look like an intellectual hippie. I was about 16. They were actually the cheapest frames I could get that had any sense of style about them. I was mortified at the prospect of becoming a 'specky four-eyes' and was desperate not to draw attention to myself. I felt hugely self conscious and didn't recognise myself when I looked in the mirror. By the time I was 18, I'd gone for contacts.

That attitude changed in the '80s though when I went to college. I still wore my contacts a lot, but big glasses were in, especially big coloured frames. I bought an enormous pair of blue-rimmed specs that covered about three quarters of my entire face! I was an English and Film student and all the 'it' people of the time were wearing mega frames. The glasses were so heavy though that I developed a permanent red mark across the bridge of my nose.

I went back to contacts.

Then I met ExpatOwl. He was also sporting jumbo specs. It was hardly love at first sight, but he was very persistant. Kissing would have been like "Clash of the Titanium," so I resolved not to get involved. Instead I decided to use my specs to put him off. I set aside my sophisticated contact lens style in favour of the female Mark Curry look.

It didn't work. We've been married nearly twenty years!!

After great difficulties trying to get compatible contact lenses here in the US (they make them out of different materials here and you can't import them), I have started to wear my rimless glasses every day. I still don't recognise myself when I look in the mirror, (Who is that specky four-eyes?!!) but it's nice to know that, as of last week, I am totally with the latest fashion scene.

At long last, it's hip to be square!

Back To School.

2008-09-04T09:37:00.003-07:00

It's quiet. After 11 weeks of constant noise, I have the house to myself again. I can write uninterrupted (a constant challenge over the summer) and just wallow in the tranquillity of the silence (at least for an hour or so.)

Sigh.

Not that the rest of my time isn't manic ofcourse. The evenings are crammed full as usual with all the events the kids are involved in. I am ofcourse, the driver. Our calendar resembles military manouvres. Last minute school necessities required a trip to the store as soon as they all got home yesterday. Last night we were 15 minutes late for The Little Guys soccer practice because we were stuck in a shoe shop trying to get DD2 equipped with trainers plus black marching shoes, both sets required today! (Ouch.)

Making dinner was beginning to seem like a distant dream. I'd planned to throw some diced chicken into a pot with beansprouts, bamboo shoots, a can of pineapple chunks, apple juice, soy sauce and tomato paste (a lovely combo) and then slam some rice into the microwave when I got home. The shopping trip had seriously hampered that idea though. As I walked across the soccer field with my cell phone ringing for the 4th time in 5 minutes (I must get one of those hands-free units), my elegant telephone voice was also a distant memory:

"Yes?" I snapped to an unsuspecting ExpatOwl.
"Hello!" he said cheerily.
"No time for chitchat. Tell me where you are."
"Why?"
"Because I need to make a new plan or it'll be 9pm before we eat tonight and I want to know if you're near enough to be of any use to me!"
He was wise enough not to pick up on the notion of 'being used' and give it some kind of sexual inuendo. I was in business mode and needed things done. Naturally he was about 45 minutes drive away and would be no use at all. We'd be eating dinner in our PJ's.

At 6.30pm I poured myself a large drink, donned my "Hot Stuff" apron (featuring Snoopy barbecuing) and settled down to cook. I know it's crazy, but if I have a clear run (no parents meetings or driving at 7 or 8) then I find cooking very relaxing. A little libation alongside ( a la Keith Floyd) and I am at peace.

The noise was deafening as they all tried to talk about their day at the same time, but the Sweet'n'Sour chicken with jasmine rice was great. Bags were repacked, clothes laid out, checks written, forms signed, all ready to do it all again. I fell into bed exhausted.

We're back to school.

Brain Freeze!

2008-08-28T07:11:00.006-07:00

It all started as I approached the main traffic lights on 2nd street in our town. The green arrow permitting a left turn changed in favour of the regular green light requiring me to give way to oncoming traffic before making that manouvre. I was indicating 'left' and pulled up to let the truck opposite me move on it's way before I made my turn.

The truck just sat there. The Sandman had taken control of the driver and Mr Sleepy was in Lalaland!

I waited anxiously for him to move, glancing hurriedly up at my green light hoping it wouldn't change. I had an appointment to make. No luck. With other vehicles building up behind me, I moved forward to make my left turn, just as Dozy Donald woke up and started to creep forward. Too late, I was through the junction. "Sorry Buddy. You snooze, you lose!" I thought as I drove down the street in my large, white minivan.

I headed out of town swearing like a trooper about the stupidity of people on the road. DD1 sat in silence in the passenger seat. She knows from experience, that its not wise to interrupt me when I'm going off on one of my rants. Slowly my mood calmed and we returned to amusing mother-daughter conversation. At 16 and with two siblings, it's not often that DD1 and I get moments alone like this, so we made the most of our time.

About 20 minutes into the journey, I was approaching another set of traffic lights when I experienced a complete brain freeze. I turned to my eldest child with panic etched all over my face and declared, "Where am I going? I don't know where I'm going?" As I looked at her again I realized that I was taking the wrong daughter to the wrong doctors office on the wrong day!

Every month I drive DD2 to get her allergy shots. We're due to do this again on Friday. Here I was on Tuesday supposedly taking DD1 to see her pediatrician and we were now in completely the wrong place. How on earth was I going to get from the allergists to the pediatricians office when I still don't know the area very well? For the first time ever, I wished I had Dashboard Doris (our GPS) in my car.

DD1 started scrabbling around under her seat for the map. I continued heading towards the allergists clinic, powerless to change my course for fear that I'd get even more lost than I already was. "For God's sake find the map," I yelled, panic rising at the prospect that we could actually be late for an appointment that we've had on the calendar for three months.

By this point my brain was on supercharge as I desperately tried to think of alternative routes to get to my real destination. I thought I could get to where some friends live from the allergists. They are in the same town as the pediatricians clinic, so if I could get that far then perhaps I'd miraculously come upon the office if I drove about a bit. At least if I could make it that far, I'd be in the right area.

"The map's not here," said DD1, emerging dishevelled from underneath the dashboard.
"It's ok. I have a plan," I replied, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. The road I was on did not look the same coming along it as I was from the opposite direction than I had done previously. The last time I'd driven this street was in the snow in the little red truck coming home late at night. Don't forget, this is also an American street which means it's 4 lanes wide!

I had cars coming at me from all directions, cutting me up at every opportunity. I held on to the steering wheel like grim death, my knuckles turning white with the effort. My breathing was laboured and my language was foul. "Bloody Hell! I hate driving in America," I declared, "And you think you're so keen to learn to drive here!" I turned to DD1, who looked at me with sympathy. Her mother was clearly verging on the insane and needed TLC not chastisement. She made a good call.

As we headed up the hill to yet another set of lights, I had an epiphany. This was the junction I'd turned on to to come home from the yarn store that had had a closing down sale in the spring. The store was just a few blocks from the clinic. If I turned right at the lights I'd be on the correct road, but would just approach the pediatricians office from the opposite direction to normal. To top it all, we'd actually be 15 minutes early. Eureka! I'd done it.

Relief swept over me as we cruised into the car park in front of the clinic five minutes later. In fact I was laughing. "You've got to see the funny side," I said appealing to DD1's sense of humour. "We took the wrong turning all the way back at home, when Mr Sleepy nodded off at the first set of lights, but neither of us realised it."

She gave me a withering look. "Mum, I think we should get out of the car and go straight in now. That way you might not get lost between here and the front door."

Huh, teenagers! They've got no sense of adventure.

Reflections

2008-08-26T06:17:00.004-07:00

Summer seems like a distant memory already and it's not even the end of August yet. The rain has been lashing down for the past few days and it feels like Autumn already. Thoughts have turned to roast dinners, thick soups and lashings of Birds custard on treacle tart. (Some British comforts are impossible to shake however long you've been away from the motherland.)

Summer was so late arriving this year that I'm not ready to kiss it goodbye quite so soon though. Deep down I'm still holding out hope for another dip in the pool before the end of the season and a few more burgers cooked on the barbie. Somehow though, it just doesn't feel the same now that soccer season has started.

Yesterday I found myself doing back-to-back driving stints - again. (Hello people, it's still August!) I returned to the drivers seat and felt it welcome me like an old friend. Yes, my chauffeuring duties have returned and the kids aren't even back at school yet.

DD2 has started earnest practice with the Hip Hop Dance team in preparation for the first assembly of the school year. This necessitates rides every day this week. The Little Guy is back with his soccer team and trying to assimilate three new boys who "don't even go to my school, Mum." His irritation was mildly assuaged by the fact that as soon as they started kicking the ball about, the heavens opened. The prospect of ending the day covered in mud is a big draw to a nine year old.

Dressed in sandals, capris and sporting a 'my-hair-desperately-needs-a-dye-job' look, I beat a hasty retreat to the car. I picked up my ever present knitting and my thoughts turned back to our summer staycation. Was it really only two weeks ago?

My favourite part had been our trip to The Museum of Glass in Tacoma. We had seen a PBS documentary earlier in the year about the history of glassblowing in America and particularly the influence of the Italian masters. I was keen to see the work of Lino Tagliapietra, the Italian who had bravely shared the ancient secrets of Murano glassblowing with his US students. It was a breathtaking exhibition. I spent hours watching a film about Dale Chihuly and his time with Lino, then wandered the galleries marveling at the displays. The rest of the family were equally taken with the live hot shop display, watching intently as the team of workers blew glass vases and then made leaves to adorn them.

Later that week we'd managed a bike ride and picnic together around Lake Sammamish. We'd followed an inter-urban trail from Marymoor Park and then returned through the middle of the renovations that are going on there. It made for some interesting off-roading! For a moment we thought we were back in England as we passed a group of people playing cricket on the dry, brown grass. I resisted the urge to yell "LBW!" at the top of my lungs as I cycled by and contemplated cucumber sandwiches and Robinsons Barley Water instead.

Then, we hit the Velodrome. This outdoor stadium was a new experience for us, but an excellent one. We spent a beautiful sunny evening nibbling on our monster-sized hogies (large, long bread rolls for the uninitiated) and watching top-class cyclists racing around the steep banks of the track. The Little Guy took 150 pictures on his Dad's camera, some of which came out quite well. As the sun sank slowly on to the horizon, we piled on warmer clothes and snuggled under blankets in our deck chairs. The floodlights kept the riders visible and we marvelled sleepily at the strength and strategy displayed by Beijings hopefuls. We were truely blessed to see such talented athletes compete just before leaving for the Olympics.

Sitting in my car back at the soccer fields knitting a blanket for my niece and listening to the rain thundering down on to the cars roof, I was reminded of what summer vacations are all about. They are about making memories to look back on when the weather has changed and the cold sets in once more. As I unpicked the two rows that I'd managed to make a mistake on, I reflected on the fun we'd had and the memories we've made (not so far from home) that will carry us through the winter to come.

I smiled.

It's been a good summer.

Boeing (Part 2)

2008-08-21T08:41:00.005-07:00

After watching a promotional film all about the history of Boeing and the influence aviation has had on the world, we were split into two groups and herded on to buses. We made a quick plan of who was to sit with whom, leaving ExpatOwl as the odd-one-out who would have to sit next to a stranger.

The buses took us over to the main factory where our tour guide led us along a service tunnel underneath the building and then into an elevator. If you suffer from claustrophobia, this was the worst part. We all snuggled in together, praying the fire alarm wouldn't go off while we were all forced to invade each others personal space!

We were a multi-cultural group. I heard a variety of languages drift by as people conversed with their friends and family in the confines of the maintenance lift. The tourists, devoid of cameras, looked a little naked (no cameras, no cell phones, no bags or purses of any kind), but made up for it with inquiring, animated expressions during the tour.

Out on the balcony in the centre of the biggest aircraft hanger in the world, we watched as ant-like people skillfully made their contribution to each plane that passed by. Some were on a conveyer belt system just like a regular factory production line (the planes just moved so slowly that you couldn't tell that they were mobile); others were stationary throughout the process, only moving once completed.

The boys were fascinated. The Little Guy was particularly excited to see the new 787 being built. His interest in this plane started when it was launched last year on his 8th birthday!

DD1 made a point of touching the great hanger door as we waited in line to board the bus back to the museum at the end of the tour. She wanted to be able to boast that she'd touched that door, whenever we drive by on the highway in front of them in future. DD2 didn't really care. At this point, she was more interested in beating her sister to the window seat on the bus.

The whole tour took us about 2hrs. We arrived back and were deposited directly beside the entrance to the shop. The Little Guy bought a T-shirt.......of an Apache helicopter. (There is a logical explanation. His uncle builds them.)

We ran the gauntlet of the self-flushing loos once more and then headed for home. We all agreed though, that this had been worth every penny. It was a fascinating insight into the world of American aviation and an education about the biggest employer in our area.

Boeing (Part 1)

2008-08-19T07:30:00.004-07:00

Ever since we moved to America three years ago, the one place we have wanted to visit locally has been the Boeing factory. How could we live in the Northwest and not take a look at the place that makes many of the worlds aeroplanes? (airplanes in American English.) There's been just one problem - The Little Guy.

The factory has a height restriction and so The Little Guy's ducks disease (short legs, bottom too near the ground) has meant that we've had to play the waiting game. If your children are under 4 feet, it's ill-advised to go on this tour because you are not allowed to lift kids and they are not allowed to climb up to see. There is the odd perspex panel built into the balcony walls, but it's still not the best view of the proceedings. Consequently, we had been eagerly anticipating this visit for a long time.

We decided to order tickets online, despite the fact that each ticket incurred an extra fee to do it this way. We felt it was worth the extra cost to secure the tickets beforehand rather than go down to Paine Field at the crack of dawn on the off chance. The heavy summer tourist load and the potential for three disappointed kids were the driving force. We had to find out The Little Guy's height first though.

We got out the tape measure and held our breath.

He was a glorious 4 feet 3 inches! Yes, after three years of waiting, he'd finally made it. As we all whooped with joy, The Little Guy beamed delightedly from ear to ear. He wasn't so little after all!

The following day we ate a civilised brunch and then drove to the Museum. It was spitting with rain as predicted, so we took comfort in the fact that we'd be inside for the next hour or so. We were all a little nervous. DD1 was anxious not to miss the start of the tour. I was anxious that I might get caught short on a tour that included zero restroom stops.

I went to the loo, nearly having heart failure when the toilet decided to flush itself beneath me. Yes, it's all high tech at Boeing!

We killed time wandering around some exhibits in the foyer. There was a flight simulator with a screen outside it that showed you not only video of the ride the inhabitants were experiencing, but film of their faces as they experienced it. Totally humiliating if you have a white knuckle moment. Can't say I fancied staggering out of the machine to meet a sea of faces wearing 'we-know-what-you-were-doing' smiles.

By this point DD1 was getting very agitated. She didn't want to miss the start of the tour and was making sure we all suffered her stress with her.

I used the bathroom again, cursing that third cup of tea I'd had with breakfast, but running the gauntlet of the self-flushing toilet never the less.

After a quick reconnaissance job on the shop, it was time to queue for the tour. Five minutes later, we handed our tickets to a very amiable tour guide and headed into a small cinema. DD1 was relieved. The tour was about to begin.

The Great Staycation

2008-08-18T07:35:00.007-07:00

So, back to 'The Great Staycation'. First of all, we made a plan. A little late perhaps, but when we finally realised that going away was not a good idea under the circumstances, we decided to make the best of a bad lot.

We had a family meeting. Everyone made a list of the places in our area that they wanted to visit. It was hastily explained to 'The Little Guy' that this was a 'Wish List' not an 'it's-definitely-going-to-happen list!' It was then that we realised just how much there is to see and do around here. It will take us years to do everything!

Late that night, I checked out the weather forecast. It was disappointing mid-week, so Tuesday and Wednesday would be the museum days. Friday was due to brighten in the afternoon, so that would be a cycling day. Saturday and Sunday we had already been invited to an outdoor movie at a friends place and were camping on their property afterwards.

We had a plan!

The first day dawned bright and sunny. Every great event has a t-shirt, so the first thing we decided to do was tie-dye our own staycation shirts. This was a first, but proved to be a great lesson in 'sharing.' We'd bought a kit with three colours in it. the box said that it was enough for 8 shirts. Naturally in practice, this turned out to mean eight Youth Small shirts. ExpatOwl was given 'the look' by the kids every time he squeezed dye on his Adult Large t-shirt!

The tie-dying was performed in the garage using an old sheet to mop up drips from the floor. The sun streamed in through the open doors as the kids sat around it wearing an interesting array of oversized cast off shirts and blouses to protect their clothes. After a quick hunt for extra rubber bands (those kits never contain enough), we wrapped our masterpieces in cling film and prepared to wait the minimum of seven hours for the dye to do its thing.

A dip in the pool to cool off was the perfect break followed by a cycle ride to the next village. We loaded up the cycle packs with drinks, snacks and gallons of water and set off. It was at this point that we discovered that DD2 has outgrown her bike. Not a regular rider ("I'll do it Mum, because we're on holiday and Dad likes it!") she was mortified to discover that she looked more like a French onion seller riding a 'sit-up-and-beg' bicycle in the Loire Valley than a NW cyclist with 28 gears! Let's face it, most of us look like dawks with a cycle helmet on, but to our little fashionista, having oversized feet and legs as well just added insult to injury. To this day I don't think her father realises just how much she was praying we didn't run into anyone we knew.

Ten miles and a couple of hours later we were back. The girls staggered up the drive and were silent for the first time in days. They didn't even have the energy left to complain. The rest of us, used to doing this run, hardly broke a sweat. The Little Guy was eager to swim again, which did elicit a groan from his teenage siblings. As they flaked out on the sofa, we supervised our turbo-charged boy in the refreshing waters of our above-ground pool (truely the best investment we've ever made!)

After dinner, we remembered our T-shirts. Somehow all five of us squeezed into the laundry room to watch the unveiling. As I clipped the rubber bands off each shirt and unfolded them, the 'oohs' and 'ahhs' rang out. The Little Guy's was a perfect tie-dye bullseye right in the middle of the shirt. We threw them into the washing machine, then hung them on an airer to dry over night.

We knew what he'd want to wear the following day!

Life

2008-08-13T06:47:00.004-07:00

In the US you only have to give two weeks notice when you resign from your job. This is great if you're doing something you hate and can't wait to get out, but if you're on the receiving end of two weeks notice, it can change the landscape of your life extremely quickly.

I used to think that a month was a short time. When we lived in Europe, we usually got about a months notice of an impending job change, as the Powers-That-Be shuffled ExpatOwl around and I was left to pick up the slack on the home front; pack up, sell up...oh, and pop out a baby now and then, somewhere inbetween.

They call it Corporate Restructuring. (I won't tell you what I call it.)

The bottom line is, it's been the reason for our nomadic lifestyle. Changes at the top always lead to changes further down the ladder, as companies strive to streamline their business and (most of the time) cut their costs. This is the basis of effective money management. It stinks though for the people involved.

Sometimes our moves have been dictated by the company:

"We're closing down this office. If you want to keep your job, you've got to move to another part of the country!"

Sometimes we've jumped before we've been pushed:

"Hello America, you're looking at your new Marketing Director!"

Yes, sadly, this is the background to the great Staycation. Just as we're starting to come up for air after moving halfway around the world, we find ourselves in the same position we were in 4 years ago (just in a different country.) Things are closing in around us on the work front, but with only a two week notice period over here, things close in very fast!

Four weeks before our vacation, ExpatOwl's boss resigned out-of-the-blue. Alarm bells started to ring very loudly (we have, after all, been in this position many times in the past 20 years.) The "Powers- That-Be" flew in 2 weeks later for a good old 'Goodbye' knees-up, then made the most of the visit by announcing to Office no.2 that they were being made redundant.

ExpatOwl works in Office no.1.

Since January Office no.1 has shrunk from about 50 employees to five. The walls are closing in. Funnily enough, this has little to do with the present economy. The fact that we've lived like this for twenty years tells you more about the nature of the industry ExpatOwl works in (small, but cut throat!) than about the present economic climate. It's the nature of the game.

Only time will tell how well we've played the game. My prayer is that we've repositioned ourselves in a bigger marketplace, with greater opportunities than before. That was the strategy, now we'll find out if it works. After all, the only 'Company' we're interested in, is the company that lives in our house!

We're holding our breath.

Mamma Mia!

2008-07-21T07:45:00.010-07:00

Yesterday DD1 and I went to the cinema to see 'Mamma Mia!' Wow! What a movie. I laughed, I cried and quite surprisingly didn't cringe at all. We sat, two generations of women, united in our enjoyment of this film and each developed a greater understanding of exactly where in life the other is at present.

DD1 loved everything to do with the young girl, Sophie, and her friends. I loved everything to do with her mother, Donna, and her friends. The two generations were so similar and it proved what I'm always telling my girls, "We adults feel just the same as you do inside!" Julie Walters was utterly hilarious as one of Donna's friends and I laughed until I cried. And then I cried.

I cried for my lost youth, for my lost life in Europe and I promptly told DD1 on the way home to make the most of being young because you only get it once. A few years ago, her aunt, my sister, had asked me if I had any regrets. Were there any choices I made when I was young that I now regretted? Opportunities not taken, songs unsung?

Looking back now, I can honestly say I grabbed every opportunity that came my way and ran with it. The location in the movie, a Greek island, reminded me of those years. I spent summer holidays in the Mediterranean, riding pillion on a motorbike (with no protective clothing!) in the French Pyrenees, checking out the St. Tropez talent by day and disco dancing by night. I visited the Greek islands, swimming in the ocean by day and plate smashing in Greek restaurants at night. One winter, I hitchhiked to Paris with friends to raise money for charity and stood under the Eiffel Tower at midnight in the snow. (What my mother didn't know never hurt her.) I froze my do-dahs off in a stone cottage in Cornwall, where "You can sleep in my bed with me," was not a sexual invitation, but a smart decision made by someone determined to maintain body heat! In short, I lived.

A few years later, ExpatOwl and I honeymooned on the island of Corfu, with its ancient olive trees and little white houses. The azure blue sea was our home for two weeks and the lemon trees and local bar were all the friends we needed. He was an engineer, sinking into the corporate world, but trying to hang on to the serious 'Surfer Dude' overtones of his Cornish childhood. I was a young film student, barely out of college. We were on the edge of a new life that was to present us with other opportunities that we would grasp hold of and run with, this time together.

And run with them we have.......all the way to America so far!

When I was 18, I bunked off school on my birthday to go and see Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice." It was worth every stolen moment and I carried the effects of the movie with me for days afterwards. Now here I am 26yrs later, taking a two hour time-out from domesticity to watch the same actress sing and dance her way across the screen with the passion of a woman half her age.

She did not disappoint. Neither ofcourse did the music. "Mamma Mia!" had us singing along with all those old ABBA favourites and laughing fit to burst at some of the interpretations of them.

I laughed............. until I cried.

Road Lines

2008-07-15T08:10:00.005-07:00

The powers that be have just re-marked the road at the end of our street.

I drove out on Sunday morning to find freshly painted lines all the way along it. Once I'd got over the shock of the fact that a team of erstwhile workers had seemingly spent their Saturday night painting new lines on our road rather than downing pints and singing karaoke with their friends, I admired their handiwork.

Each side of our country street is now quite clearly delineated.

Somehow though, I still had an unsettled feeling as I looked at the freshly painted markings. Then it hit me. How could something so simple as painted lines on a roadway be so different from one country to the next? Yes, I realised that what was unsettling me was the colour of the lines. Even after 3yrs here in America, I still cannot get used to the fact that the white lines are on the outside edge of the road and the yellow ones are down the middle!

In England it's the other way around.

Then I wondered who decided this fact in the first place? Does the US deliberately do the opposite to its founding father in an act of teenage rebellion, or do we stalwart Brits just dig in our heels and refuse to copy 'the land across the pond?'

Who knows?

One things for sure though, it brings a whole new meaning to the act of 'parking on a double yellow!!'

Broer Som Binder

2008-07-07T07:58:00.010-07:00

Here's another picture or two from our regular cycle route. Not an exactly pretty bridge, but functional!

Her er en til bilder fra sykkelveien. Ikke en særlig vakker bru men funksjonell!

Broer Som Binder/Bridges Between - Rune's TX-Blog

Pictures Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

What Not To Wear

2008-06-30T07:25:00.005-07:00

It's unbelievably hot! Yesterday it reached a mighty 120F on our back deck. ExpatOwl has a red nose that could light up a darkened room because he insists on sitting in the hottest spot with his t-shirt draped over his head (socks and sneakers peeking out under bermuda short encased legs) a la Benidorm Brit!

Thank God he's only in our back garden. I wouldn't let him out in public like that, although I do have serious concerns for the 4th of July. If it's that hot, the Benidorm Brit might be tempted to subject the entire 'hood' (neighbourhood) to his dress code at our annual cul-de-sac BBQ. On reflection though, there is the small matter of the dreaded mosquitoes, which we're both highly allergic to, so hopefully ExpatOwl will be the only one there in long trousers as he was last year. If I'm really lucky, I might manage to get him to do away with the knotted hanky too!

I can't really complain though. As soon as the sun comes out here, it's amazing how brave people get in the clothing department. Twice this weekend I've been caught in "Home Depot" (America's B&Q) minimally dressed myself. It was not my intention to turn up there on Friday still sporting my yoga gear, but when petrol is so expensive, you have to double up on your errands. Rather than head home to change first, I by-passed that step and drove straight there. It was so incredibly hot though, that I bit the bullet and wandered around the garden center in my figure-hugging sports top and skin tight leggings, trying to project an 'I'm-really-confident-about-my-body-because-I-work-out sort of aura.'

I needn't have worried.

Washington is not California. People up here have no qualms about 'letting it all hang out' once the sun shines. It doesn't matter what shape you are or how much of your wobbly bits are trying to escape from the confines of your attire, anything goes. It's very liberating!

Buoyed by this revelation, I bravely chose not to bother to change when ExpatOwl requested my presence on a similar trip to the DIY store on Saturday. In a stripey, spaghetti strap top and short shorts, I resolved to remember not to bend over while I was there (not easy when your other half is deliberately pointing out items to you that are on the bottom shelf!) Still a little shy about flaunting quite so much leg in public, I was relieved to see that several other women were sporting the same length of cut-off shorts (and no it's not Home Depot's standard summer uniform!)

As I climbed back up into the truck as delicately as I could, we looked at each other and then burst into fits of laughter. No, we weren't laughing at some clothing malfunction. We were laughing at something situated directly in front of us, a giant sign with the letters "S-O-D" emblazened upon them. It was attached to a white awning which covered stacks of beautifully rolled, green turf. Oh, the joy of the differences in American and British English!

Yesterday summer clothing, in fact swimwear, was a topic of conversation in our house again. We watched the fantastic UEFA cup final (actually screened on ABC for once) while our backyard pool was filling up for the season. We'd spent most of Saturday preparing the platform that it sits on and then smoothing out the pool lining in preparation for filling. The Little Guy had been running around in Speedos and swim goggles all day in eager anticipation, unaware that it takes two days to fill the 18 foot pool skin. By Sunday afternoon though, it was all systems go.

DD2 had just about forgiven her father for not informing her before Friday night's Mandela Concert of his connection with Roger Taylor, the drummer with Queen. (Thank goodness for Canadian TV who screened the concert from Hyde Park just hours after it finished. We'd never know what's going on in the world if we couldn't receive TV from BC!)

It transpires that they went to the same boarding school. When ExpatOwl was a spotty 11 year old, Roger Taylor was a spotty 18 year old. With only 400 pupils in the school, this constitutes a connection, at least it does to DD2. She was furious with him for keeping this fact to himself.

"Dad, I could have lived off that 'street cred' at school for the past few years! Now I'm going to a different High School to all my friends, it's not the same."

Teenagers!

After all his hard work preparing the pool though, she seems to have forgiven him. She has however discovered that bikinis and swimming pools are a recipe for revelation. As she jumps up, the bikini jumps down. She should count herself lucky that she's learning this lesson in the seclusion of our own back garden. Her mother was not so fortunate. The school swimming pool is no place to lose your bikini bottoms. Take it from me, never dive in wearing a bikini unless you want to see your panties floating to the surface beside you!

I'll leave you today with another quick summer clothing warning. Always, always make sure that you remember to put on your very best 'grandma' mega knickers when you wear a short wrap-over skirt to the grocery store.

If there's a warm breeze blowing, a thong just won't do!

ABC Wednesday

2008-06-25T08:03:00.010-07:00

As I live in the Pacific Northwest, "W" has to be for .......

..........Washington State, in fact I'm going to narrow it right down to...........

Washington Wine.

I took this picture of Carpenter Creek winery in Mt. Vernon on my trip to the tulips back in April. We fell out of the limo right in front of this cute little shop and tasting room. The wine was wonderful, particularly the Syrah, although the weather was so cold here this Spring that perhaps ice wine would have been more appropriate!

This is the inside of another winery. You can see the giant silver vats in the background where the wine is fermented. I climbed up a ladder to look inside one of those vats and the wine looked just like a huge, fluffy pink mousse! The contents of the vats are tested every day during this process and the results are logged.

One of the things that gives wine such a great flavour are the oak barrels that it's eventually stored in. These ones were imported from France. The wine that graced these barrels went on to become one of Washington's most sort after. This winerys Cabernet Sauvignon has twice received 100 points from Robert M. Parker, the equivalent of the wine world's Olympics. A bottle of the 2003 runs at about $195 now I believe. It's name? Quilceda Creek.

Mrs Nesbitt's Place - ABC Wednesday

Photos Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

ABC Wednesday

2008-06-18T06:35:00.010-07:00

We made it. School's out! Yesterday's half day was utter craziness. The final 5.15 am start had DD2 and I celebrating our success - we'd made it to zero period on time for a whole year! She was weighed down with baggage as she was going home with a friend for 4 days straight after school, so we said our "Goodbyes" discreetly in front of her Jazz Band pals.

DD1 and the little guy were duly delivered to school and then the cat had to go to the Vets (why did I book that on the last morning of school?!) No sooner was I back from there, then it was 10.30 and time to collect DD1 again. Just as we pulled up in front of the local supermarket to gather a few quick treats for the afternoon, I got a frantic call from DD2;

"Mum, the driver won't let me on the bus!"

"Why not?"

"Something about not taking any extras today."

"Are you sure it's not because you've got a sleeping bag, pillow, duffle bag, trumpet, music folder and two plastic carriers of food?"

"No."

"OK, wait there, I'm coming."

We abandonned our treat sortie and DD1 was dispatched to meet her little brother on his last morning in 3rd Grade. I would try to make the 45 minute round trip to the middle school, then the friend's house and back to town, hopefully in time to collect The Little Guy's asthma medication from the elementary school nurse before she left (wasn't sure they'd give it to his sister.)

I drove like the clappers.

Children, bags and pillows were all deposited to the correct places and I sped down the highway into the valley at top whack. Despite the rising sense of stress though, the Valley still worked it's magic on me. Every time I drive into the valley where we live, I feel enveloped by a great sense of peace and tranquility. The area here is densly populated right up until the edge of this beautiful farmland. Driving through the sprawling suburbs to get back home, I always feel as if I can breathe again as soon as the car cruises down into the valley. It has been like this since the first time I came here. I guess I have always been and still am a country girl at heart.

So, this ABC Wednesday is all about the letter "V". Although it could be "V" for valiant or victorious, because that's how we all feel now that we've survived another school year, it's not. Today, "V" is for Valley - our valley!

Mrs Nesbitt's Place - Home to ABC Wednesday
Pictures Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

This and That

2008-06-16T09:14:00.007-07:00

I'm sore! The sun came out this weekend and caught me totally unawares. I was so astounded to see it that I raced outside, knitting in hand and sat out there for a couple of hours (on and off). It was early morning, so I didn't think it would be too bad. I was wrong. Today I have two bright red patches on my legs from the bottom of my burmuda shorts to the ends of my knees! It's not a pretty sight.

Last night I grilled burgers at the neighbours house. I could feel my skin starting to tighten, but just thought it was muscle strain after the 12 mile bike ride that I'd just undertaken. My butt was aching from sitting on the cycling industry's answer to stadium bleachers for several hours (why are bike saddles so uncomfortable?) and my legs had developed muscles to rival The Hulk! With all that discomfort going on, what bother was a growing tingling sensation around the knees?

Then I pulled my chair up to the glass-topped outdoor table and sat down to eat. There was a gasp from my hostess as she caught sight of two bright red limbs glowing through the table top.

"You've got some colour today," she politely remarked.

"Yup! Think I'm going to buy shares in Solacaine (aftersun lotion)" I replied, longing for some Aloe Vera INSTANTLY!

As the evening cooled though, so did my knees, but I'm sitting here today still sporting those patches, along with a pair of rosy cheeks and a nose to rival Rudolph. Boy, did I get caught out.

The weather only really changed on Saturday. Friday night was the great Middle School Graduation for DD2, so I spent most of that day racing around gathering together last minute things like a cardigan. With 24hrs to go, she discovered that regulations stated she had to have her shoulders covered for the ceremony and so the halter neck dress we bought two months ago would need a top. With hours to go before the actual event, I found myself doing the one thing I hate; shopping for clothes at the last minute!

All went well though and despite a hall that was heaving with people (standing room only half an hour before the event started!!) DD2 looked fantastic and we watched proudly as her name was called and she went up to receive her certificate from the school Principal. If there's one thing they do extrememly well here in the US, it's applauding the kids achievements. There were 400 8th graders and each student got their moment. It was a great evening.

Saturday dawned promisingly dry. I say promisingly because it was the World Wide Knit In Public Day and I was meeting some friends for a picnic and some knitting. Amid the usual crises amongst the crew, which always start with the word "Muuummm!" delivered in a whiny, weedling sort of way, I ran for the minivan and managed to escape for the best part of the day. The worst part about meeting knitting friends though, is the tips you get. You know, the ones about the yarn store in x or y that's got a 45% closing down sale on. Naturally a tip of that kind is far too tempting to resist and so I delighted myself for the second time that day by finding my way to a new destination without the aid of a Zog or Lowrance GPS (I'm not allowed to say Tom Tom or Garmin as they're ExpatOwl's competitors - shhhh!)

Getting around without a GPS seems to be a dying art these days. Not that map reading has ever been my forte, but there is a certain sense of achievement that you get from successfully arriving at a previously unvisited destination without the aid of artificial intelligence. ExpatOwl had offered to lend me his Zog, but to be honest my relationship with that machine is somewhat strained. We call her "Dashboard Doris" and she's turned henpecking into an art form! I do have a tendency to ignore her and then shout back at her when she won't shut up. Many's the time I've driven along with her shut inside the glove compartment yelling at me to turn left in two hundred yards. I think her favourite phrase when she's with me is, "Please make a legal U turn at the next light!"

However, I will concede that when the chips are down, Doris can get me where I want to go. Here where the streets through major cities consist of 4 lanes on each side of the road, and every junction houses a set of traffic lights, there's just too much to try to look out for even when you do know where you're going. The role of the navigator, human or artificial, has never been more necessary than on American roads.

There are still some of us old-fashioned beings who are capable of doing without though. Thanks to the expert directions from my friends, delivered as only women can (i.e. using landmarks as opposed to road names), I made it to the sale where I acquired some delightful yarn at a truely cracking price. I also successfully navigated my way back home again with the new additons to my stash.

I shall be thumbing my nose at Doris all week!

ABC Wednesday

2008-06-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

Now, I know it's not very original, but "U" really has to be for Umbrella right now!

We have been having torrential rain for well over a week and I have to say I am totally sick of it. Last night there was even 5 inches of snow in the mountains again. Can it really be June? The only good thing is that the plants are growing really well. I have corn, tomatoes, carrots and potatoes, which are growing hugely and I don't even need to remember to water them. Come to think of it, that's probably why they're growing so well!

The downside ofcourse are the weeds. These have sprouted in all the places that I've already extracted others from and I can't get out to redo the procedure without getting soaked to the skin. Oh, well. I live in hope of some finer weather.

In the meantime, I will keep rotating my 'brollies', (as we call them in the UK) so that they can dry out inbetween forays into the great outdoors, and you'll find me sitting by the heating vent dreaming that I'm on a sunsoaked desert island.

Mrs Nesbitt's Place - the home of ABC Wednesday

ABC Wednesday

2008-06-03T13:30:00.006-07:00

"T" is for my favourite dessert..........................

..............................Tiramisu!

The wonderful thing about America is that when you go out to eat, if you can't finish your food, they'll offer to box it for you. Yes, you get to take home your leftovers. Makes sense to me. After all, I've paid for it.

Now, I don't normally eat dessert, but the one dish I will never pass up is Italian Tiramisu. It is divine. I succumbed to this particular portion at lunch on Sunday. We were celebrating DD2's confirmation and so we treated ourselves to a rare Sunday lunch out. Despite the fact that I'd already consumed calamari with red aeoli dressing and half a roast chicken ciabatta sandwich, with (a rather soggy) ceasar salad, the knowledge of the box drove me on to dessert. Forcing my 'British' politeness behind me and with my boxed half sandwich sitting before me, I unashamedly ordered the Tiramisu!

I knew that I could only manage a few mouthfuls, but the wonderful thing about this dish is that it still tastes great the next day. Armed with this knowledge, I squeezed in a few spoonfuls along with my coffee and then asked for another box! Oh, the luxury.

Yes, I felt greedy and totally un-British in my rudeness at hogging all of this delightful food, but what a prospect for Monday's lunch (or Sunday supper). Left-over Italian!

To ease my guilt-ridden social etiquette, I congratulated myself on my British restraint when it came to the Ceasar salad. At least I hadn't sent it back or, worse still, made a major list of substitutions! Now that would have been just too un-British!

ABC Wednesday - Mrs Nesbitt's Place

Photo Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

Broer Som Binder

2008-06-03T09:21:00.011-07:00

I know....I'm late again. Saturday really was the eye of the storm! Ja, jeg vet det! Seint igjen! Lørdag var riktignok øyen av stormen!

I am grateful to everyone who stopped by yesterday to remind me that it was the first Monday in the month, but I just plain ran out of time.

Mange takk til alle som gikk hit for å minne meg at det var første mandag i måneden, men tiden bare løpet ut.

I had been thinking about my bridge though. A couple of weeks ago we took our first bike ride of the season. I noticed several bridges along the way, not always pretty ones, but bridges all the same. Todays bridge I've called "Road to Nowhere."

Jeg hadde tenkt om brua likevel. For et par uker siden gikk vi på sykkeltur for første gang i denne sesong. Jeg lar merke til flere bruer underveis, ikke alltid det fineste, men bruer likevel. Bruen i dag har nå fått navn " Vei til Ingenplass."

As you can see, this bridge is no longer in use. Som du kan se, den bru er ikke lenger i bruk.

For more info go to Rune's TX-Blog

Photos Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

The Sound of Silence

2008-05-31T10:26:00.005-07:00

In a recent post, Expatmum described a typical day for many American mothers at this time of year. As the end of school approaches, we are all caught up in a veritable maelstrom of activity. The more kids you have, the harder it is. Life becomes one long to-do list and everyone needs you to help them glide over the glitches that inevitably arise.

Just yesterday I found myself sending e-mails at 6am to solve issues for DD2 and performing the very same function at 10pm to put out a potential scheduling 'fire' for her next week. Indeed I have become so adept at 'putting out fires' that the fire department should issue me a uniform!

As we approach June the days have morphed into a complete blur and my affection for my giant Flylady Calendar has become an addiction. Interference with the thing by anyone else now carries 'pain of death!

The positive side of all this intense activity is that I sleep like a log.

In fact on Wednesday night I slept so soundly that I completely missed the greatest amount of nocturnal activity that we've ever had in our cul-de-sac. It would appear that at approximately 2am I had a cop car 'butt up' on my driveway!

As he surveyed the houses opposite with his giant search light, several other police cars entered the scene. They all woke my neighbour and asked him to come outside and open his wife's vehicle. Naturally, he obliged and just as he stated that everything looked fine, the cops were leaning over him, guns drawn, aiming at the back seat. There, croached down, trying to get some sleep, was a homeless guy. The shouts of, "Come out with your hands up!" and all the flashing lights, woke everyone but Expatowl and I. We were happily in the land of nod and blissfully ignorant of the events until the next morning.

Gulp!

We have since checked our security lights and resolved to make sure we always lock the car door, the front door, the side gate, the shed...................etc.

Which brings me to today. Today I seem to have hit 'the eye of the storm.' I have found myself totally alone at home on a Saturday! This is such a rare occurance, that I'm really quite unsure of what to do. The First Mate has banned me from housework and reminded me that in 2 weeks time I'll have them all home for 3 months. That leaves me with the unaccustomed luxury of either reading, knitting, cooking, gardening or just plain snoozing for the next few hours.

Coffee anyone?

ABC Wednesday

2008-05-28T08:37:00.006-07:00

This week we're on to "S".

It was supposed to be for socks......

.............................but, as you can see, I got a bit behind, so there's still only one! This is a project that's been 'hibernating.' I came across it over the holiday weekend when I was sorting out my stash of yarn and trying to organise my needles.

This is no easy feat (excuse the pun!) As with all things 'expat,' US knitting needles are different to both British and European. This has caused me no end of trouble when it comes to buying yarn or knitting patterns. Add to this the fact that yarns are sold in ounces not grams and their lengths are in yards not metres and I have a recipe for disaster. Even if I'm lucky enough to manage to buy enough wool for a project, the question, "Do you have the right size needles?" is sure to throw me.

This weekend, I resolved to create a little notebook in which I log all the needles I own with their corresponding US sizes. I'm hoping it'll prevent me from buying the same needles over and over again. This proved to be easier said than done though. As I waded through twenty years of knitting tools, I discovered that many of my European models fall inbetween the common US sizing numbers. I also learned that the British knitting needle sizing system is the exact opposite to the American one. In the US, the higher the number the wider the needles diameter. In the UK, the higher the number the smaller the needles diameter is. That makes my triple 0 needles the fattest ones I have!

Which bright spark decided that?!

I therefore think that "S" should also be for "size."

For more on ABC Wednesday go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Photos copyright: The Pea Green Boat

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2008-05-26T11:04:00.008-07:00

This morning I woke up dreaming that I was wearing a large monkey costume! I hope it's not prophetic.

I tried to decide whether anyone had made a monkey out of me recently, but could only come up with the usual catalogue of faux pas and calamities that are a fundamental part of my quirky existence and are always down to the prevalence of 'Murphy's Law' in my life - i.e. they're down to me.

In recent years however, I have adopted an old management adage with my kids. In an effort to teach them how to be more solution oriented, my standard problem-solving line has been:

"The monkey stays with you."

In an effort to prevent myself taking on any and every minute challenge that each individual in this household faces, I have used the 'monkey' to get them to see the problem as theirs and attempt to solve it themselves. I have been open and willing to discuss any and every issue that arises, the monkey sitting between us all the time. But the moment they leave the discussion, they must take their monkey with them.

I thought it was working well. In fact, it has. It's been so successful that teachers have been impressed with The Darling Daughter's leadership skills and shocked by their mature approach to challenges.

It would appear though, that life has overwhelmed me at the moment. I suspect my subconscious is telling me that not only have I picked up their monkeys, I'm actually running with them!!

So, who's made a monkey out of whom?

Postscript

2008-05-23T08:31:00.007-07:00

It's a relief to get to the end of the week this week. I certainly know that we've reached that time of the year. Everything seems to be culminating all at once.

This week DD2 had three days of try-outs for the High School Hip Hop Dance Team. We've all lived through the experience with her. For the past couple of weeks the house has been alive with Hip Hop music and heated discussions about moves. There's been a lot of screaming, yelling and slamming of doors. That's teenage girls for you!

All credit to her, she is not even at High School yet and hasn't danced since she took a 10 week ballet course last summer (hardly perfect credentials for a star turn.) Undeterrred though, she informed us that she wanted this sooo badly that she was prepared to preempt the Freshman class and try out with all the older kids now before she goes there in the Autumn. Talk about potentially biting off more than you can chew.

Still, we've all been supportive in our own way. I took her to the doctors last week to have a physical and get the appropritate form signed proving she's physically fit, Then I filled in rhemes of paper myself. I promised to pay the School District's athletics fee if she made it and to drive her to and from the try-outs because the school bus would get her into town too late.

DD1 tried to assist with the choreography of the audition piece, but her efforts were normally met by a staccato of rapid fire reasons why they wouldn't work! In the end she resigned herself to just handing in the paperwork to the right people on her sister's behalf.

The Little Guy kept out of the way. ExpatOwl flew to California!

With the same music blaring out of the front room every night for the past two weeks, I sort of became dead to the lyrics. It was only when the dance was almost completed, that the words "shake your moneymaker" hit me with full force. Bravely, I peeped round the doorway to see my 'not-yet-fourteen-year-old' shimmying her 'booty' with the expertise of a belly dancer. I swallowed hard, but said nothing. Checking out some moves on You Tube later, I realised that I was getting off lightly.

The three days of try-outs were a rollercoaster of emotion. Ofcourse she was the youngest there, but not the only 8th grader. Someone from the other middle school had had the same idea. The competition was on. The night before the solo presentation, we got a preview of her dance. The Little Guy opted to play outside with friends. DD1, who could turn criticism into an art form, didn't hold back. Ever the peacemaker, I explained the process of choreography to her, banished her from the room and then told DD2 to keep practicing until she was so sure of her moves that they were automatic.

The day dawned. The mad dash to the middle school, which I'd perfected over the previous two days, was ofcourse almost compromised by traffic rerouting during the exact hours I needed to use the road! I drove like the clappers up the highway instead and saved the day. DD2 was deposited as planned and proceeded to 'shake her moneymaker' for the afternoon.

That night was a long one. The list would go up at 7am the next morning. DD1 was to head to the High School early and then call me so that I could relay the good or bad news to DD2.

I was just returning from that particular school run (The Little Guy sitting sleepily in the back with his supersuit on) when my mobile rang. It was DD2:

"Mum, I made it! I'm in!"

"What? Who is this?"

"It's me, mum. I made the Hip Hop Team! One of the Seniors just called me."

I parked up.

"Well done. That's fantastic."

"I can't believe it. I'm so proud of myself."

"I'm proud of you too, hun."

" I did it! I actually did it!"

Memories of her failure to complete basketball try-outs and last years marginal defeat at the polls when she ran for student treasurer had finally been put behind her. The relief was palpable. We'd done it. We'd all got through the experience that she'd 'wanted soooo badly.' There would be celebrations, not heartache; ice cream not hot chocolate; smiles not tears.

DD1 photographed her little sister's name up on the list at school so that she could see it for herself and basked in the reflected glory all day. ExpatOwl was bombarded with text messages from all of us relaying the exact same news. The Little Guy told his friends.

I guess I'll have to get used to the Hip Hop sound, the bandana round the head and the racy moves. My trumpet-playing, jazz-loving musician is starting High School in September and has found another passion...........and it looks like she's good at it!

ABC Wednesday

2008-05-21T13:45:00.002-07:00

In our house R these days is always for...........

..............................Rabbits!

We got them last September. One is a dwarf Rex and the other a Netherland dwarf. They certainly keep us entertained. We've had a moment when their behaviour indicated that perhaps they were not two 'girls' after all - but a quick study of some bunny books told us that they were just trying to dominate each other! To be on the safe side though, I decided that they had to be sexed, so there I was one evening last October, gardening gloves on, bunny books beside me, rabbit in my arms, trying to work out each bunny's gender. Naturally ExpatOwl called from Florida right in the middle of this procedure.

"What are you doing?"

"Sexing rabbits."

Silence................

"Oh."

I don't think he'll ever ask me what I'm doing again!

The second bunny wasn't easy to determine, so I resolved to take him/her to the vets to make sure she was a girl. Josie (or Joe as she became for a week) was separated from Jemima and put into an old dog crate. The crate faced the hutch so that they could still see each other. They looked so sad, but the prospect of hundreds of baby bunnies appearing and the pure hassle of having to find homes for them was enough to help me remain cold-hearted.

Finding a vet was an adventure. It would seem that the animal hospital round the corner where the cat goes to get a regular nail trim does not take rabbits. No, nothing so simple or convenient could possibly have a place in my life! Instead you have to find a vet who specialises in small animals and the nearest one of those was half an hours drive away.

That's how I found myself a week later driving to the most deluxe veterinary hospital I've ever been into, with a baby rabbit safely ensconced in a kitten carrier. The physical confirmed that she was after all a Josie, despite the vet himself having trouble deciding. Following some tips on bunny care, I was then offered a guided tour of the facilities, something no one in any country has ever offered me before. I met veterinary nurses, technicians and fellow doctors who all greeted me as if I myself was a specialist (in fact I began to wonder if they'd mistaken me for someone else!) Either that or they were hoping to make mega-bucks out of me.

* Note to animal hospitals - it works. They made me feel so special that I was easily parted from my cash and will be returning annually.

Since then, the rabbits have become part of our daily lives. Naturally it is I who have accommodated their early morning feeding pattern into my routine, but as they do actually belong to DD2, she has to clean them out each week. If she stays over with a friend at the weekends, she pays The Little Guy to take over her job. He runs a 'Cash On Completion' policy and charges interest if her payment is late! Look out Richard Branson!

ExpatOwl has just finished building the Snuggling Sisters their own rabbit haven, so that they can run around to their hearts content when the weather is good. They are certainly entertaining to watch and keep us all amused. Even the cat has his beady eye on them!

(For more on ABC Wednesday go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.)

Photos Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

Feelin' Hot!

2008-05-19T09:09:00.020-07:00

Wow! What a weekend.

My skin has that slightly tight, tingly feeling you get when you've been hibernating for months and your body suddenly gets a peek at some serious sunshine.

Thankfully, I managed to find last years suntan lotion just as the first rays of our present hot spell streamed out between the early morning clouds on Saturday. We all slapped a good load on while my Norwegian bread dough was processing in the bread machine. The 3yr old device is beginning to tire and not only waddles across the work surface as soon as you turn your back for a second, but the bucket inside has a tendency to jump off its supports on a regular basis too. This results in a coagulated mass of unmixed flour and yeast if you don't keep an eye on it for the first half hour of the cycle.

We took it in turns.

The effort was worth it though. Fifteen minutes in a hot oven and my Norwegian rundstykker (rolls) were ready to be enjoyed with a selection of fillings: smoked salmon and egg, blue cheese and cucumber, local honey or homemade strawberry jam. Mmmmmm - washed down with orange juice, a great start to Norwegian Independence Day. To add to our excitment, during a heated breakfast discussion in Norwegian, The Little Guy asked; "Hva sier du?" There was stunned silence. This was the first Norwegian sentence he has uttered in more than 3 years!

"Who said that?"

"It was him!"

"It was? Are you sure?"

"Yes. OMG, it's still there!"

We were all thrilled that somewhere lirking at the back of his brain is The Little Guy's first language. Maybe with time (and more effort on my part) it will come back.

By midday it was already uncharacteristically hot for the time of year. Our usual smart attire was abandoned in favour of shorts and t-shirts. The kids all remembered their caps (a miracle!) and I dug out the biggest, floppiest sun hat that I could find! With flags at the ready, we set off in the little red truck heading for the city. The thermometer said 92 degrees fahrenheit! (33C)

Tempers were, shall we say, a little edgy. The AC was working flat out and still not penetrating the three sweaty little bodies in the back seat. They all jostled for position, flags bobbing dangerously. The Darling Daughters rounded on The Little Guy, who'd managed to stab one of them in the unmentionables with his flag, as he'd tried to get comfortable, seated between the two paragons of virtue. He burst into tears and declared "Nobody listens to me!"

"Shut up!" they chorused, in true teenage sister fashion. Poor lad. When it comes to dealing with the hormone-laden Ugly sisters, ExpatOwl and I do at least have seniority on our side. TLG however, cannot pull rank and sometimes feels his familial position is only marginally above the cat and the rabbits.

He wasn't the only one in a mood though. Parking was naturally a nightmare. Suddenly the little red truck did not seem quite so little when the only space we could find was about the size of a Smart car! We all got out so that The First Mate could manouvre the vehicle better. Wouldn't do to prang the sleek, black car in the next space, whose driver was now trapped inside putting up sun shields. It only took us a few moments to get the truck into position, but in that time a friend of the driver in the black car wandered by calling his name. He couldn't see his trapped pal because the sun shields were now up! A moment later a very moody man emerged from the black car, yelling at the passer by and looking daggers at us. For a second I thought he was going to hit me as he tripped over the curb behind his vehicle just to add insult to injury. Yes, it was hot and tempers were frayed.

We found a great spot to view the parade from. This year we'd brought our chairs, so we staked our claim to the only unoccupied access entrance on the street and settled down. I bought our annual treat; Norwegian wiener hot dogs wrapped in lefse and the most expensive bottles of orange soda in the whole of Seattle. It is only once a year.

For the next 2 hours we watched the parade in the uncharacteristic May heat. It was a real combination of Scandinavian and American tradition, with marching bands, national dress, unicyclists and police motorbikes. There were Norwegian folk dancers, choirs, viking ships and clowns all parading on the hottest day of the year so far. We were glad of our loose clothing, even if ExpatOwl said my empire line top made me look pregnant!

The journey home was quiet. We were each lost in our own thoughts and exhausted from the overpowering heat. I'd fought my way into the Scandinavian grocery store before we left, umbrella chair still strapped to my back and floppy hat obscuring my view. Battling to the counter, I'd stocked up on ingredients for homemade cookies, meatballs and more wiener sausages and was now contemplating many happy hours in the kitchen recreating our favourite Scandinavian tastes and smells. It was a good day.

Postscript

2008-05-16T08:26:00.006-07:00

Yes! The sun is finally shining! In fact, it's due to reach almost 90F today. Talk about going from one extreme to another! Apparently a warm front is pushing up from California and records are due to be broken in the NW today.

This strange phenomenon has created an even stranger one in our valley. The local news crew were here yesterday filming our rather swollen river. An eerie 'Harry Potter' style mist was hanging just above the water all the way along the river bank, due it would seem, to the fact that the air is warm, but the river water is freezing. The record amount of snow in the mountains is melting so fast that the water levels are rising and carrying with them great lumps of ice and snow. In the early hours a strange mist is created and the river is dotted with white lumps. It is an unusual sight so close to sea level.

Add to this the excitement created by the arrival of the first of this season's Wild Copper River Salmon to Seattle this morning and we're on to a winning day. (This is the best fish I've ever tasted in my life and I don't normally like salmon!) Sadly, the price is prohibitive (approx $37 per pound) so it'll be cod on the barbie for us today!

To all my Norwegian friends who celebrate National Day on May 17th, may I say "Gratulerer med dagen!" I shall be decorating my house with flags this evening and preparing 17. mai frokost (17th May breakfast) for my family as always. It looks like we'll be blessed with sunshine for this years parade too, which is always a plus when you're standing around for hours. Better break out the sunscreen. Hurrah for 17. mai!

I'm All Right, Jack!

2008-05-15T11:33:00.004-07:00

I seem to be in need of the old 'thumbs up' - that little bit of reassurance that I'm doing ok and I am of value. I debated whether to write today, or just not inflict myself on other people. Didn't want to get too personal, you see, but then I thought, may be others might benefit from my thoughts.

I went to collect my mail this morning (only a day late!) and there was my welcome pack from "The Sons of Norway." Yes, I am now a fully-fledged member of an organisation that spreads across, North America, Canada and the home land. Inside was a magazine, membership pin and a sticker for my car. I was sad and excited all at once. Now I will have regular reminders of the country I've left behind and more opportunities to educate The Little Guy about the land of his birth.

As I read through the membership brochure though, I felt like I didn't quite fit. As I scanned the information about genealogy and tracing ones roots, I realised that I'd have to go back to the Viking raping and pillaging of Anglo-Saxon England, before I could find a drop of Nordic blood in my background! The illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate daughter 100 times removed is not exactly close kinship.

Yet Norway has been part of my life for half my years on this earth and the fact that I ate, slept and breathed it for seven of those years must count for something. Frankly, when you even dream in another language, then you know you've arrived - the country and it's culture has become part of you.

I wonder if the same will happen with America? Will I wake up one day dreaming of hot dogs with relish and kettle corn (the latter has strong potential) or nod off thinking about NFL players (more strong potential!) Nothing is impossible.

At the same time, I've reached that time of year when I always re-evaluate my skill set and decide where I'm heading. Where shall I invest those few hours a day that I get sans kids. Where exactly is my life heading (besides menopause.) Which skills should I develop; what do I have to offer the world? Well, guess what? It seems that I don't quite fit.

One of the perils of a trailing life is trying to get your qualifications recognised in different lands. Some countries have organisations that will validate your papers for you, others do not. I have known many people with advanced degrees from their own countries, condemned to work at dead end, minimum wage jobs in their host country. The loss of identity and self-esteem can have far-reaching consequences. If you know that your posting is for a limited time, you can plan accordingly, but when your new country is set to be a permanent fixture, the onus is on you to build a new life. The prospect of starting from scratch....again......is not a pleasant one.

But....... it could be....if I decide to look at it in a different way. If I can set aside the sense of 'not quite fitting', if I can embrace what is different about me and find a way of looking at my American life as an opportunity, then I'll be ok. Isn't this the American way after all?

You see, I'm different. I don't quite fit. My education is different, my accent is different, my view of the world is different, my tastes are different, my values are different, my priorities are different...(my jokes are different)...........but, hey.............I'm all right, Jack!

ABC Wednesday

2008-05-14T08:30:00.003-07:00

"Q" has to be for "Quilt."

My mother-in-law makes the most wonderful quilts. She hand pieces and then hand quilts them. They are truly works of art and will become treasured family heirlooms. Each one has a patch on the back which is inscribed with the date and her love. She always buys her quilting cotton when she's visiting the US and is extremely talented at matching her fabrics. Even the quilts borders are expertly thought out.

This is the latest one which we have on our bed. The pattern is called "Carpenter's Wheel" and was by all accounts a bit of a pain to make! I think you'll agree that the effect is fantastic though.

(Mrs Nebitt's Place - the home of ABC Wednesday)

Photographs Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

Rockin' My World

2008-05-13T08:28:00.001-07:00

I'm feeling a bit maudlin at the moment.

I seem to have lost my self-deprecating sense of humour. I put it down to lack of sleep, the bloomin' awful weather we're still having, and the International disaster news that we seem to constantly get these days.

Everywhere you turn right now, it's doom and gloom! We're in recession. Food prices are astronomical; petrol prices are sky-high too. According to the Discovery channel, our total dependence on electrical power is going to leave us all plunged into darkness one day, thanks to the biggest solar storm ever, which will inevitably strike our planet in the not too distant future. Cell phones are seriously damaging our health and for 1 in 4 women over 50 osteoporosis is a given! For most Americans, retirement is an impossible pipe dream because the spend, spend, spend culture here has only made the Fat Cats rich and if the Democratic candidates don't stop their mudwrestling soon, John McCain could be the next President of the Free World. What a lot we have to look forward to!

Right now though, I'm thanking my lucky stars that I'm not buried under a load of rubble in Sichuan province. In the light of yesterday's earthquake, all of the above pales into insignificance. The sheer enormity of what has happened there is really hard to take in. Thousands of lives have been snuffed out in an instant. Hundreds of school children buried at their desks, China's "one child" policy making their loss doubly tragic.

I have no ties with China; no youthful travel tales or Chinese friends that link me to that country. What connects me to them though, is the fact that I too now live on the edge of a major seismic fault line. "There, but for the grace of God, go I!"

As I watched the images of death and destruction on the morning news, I couldn't help but realise that it could so easily happen here. I saw people cowering under desks, others fleeing from buildings and once again remembered just how ill-prepared I am as an Expat.

I have not grown up with earthquake drills at school, so I wouldn't have the first clue what to do if one struck. As a Brit, no one has ever told me where the safest places are in my neighbourhood or my home. In the three years that I've been here, I've relied totally on my children to teach me what they are taught at school. If I didn't have school-age kids, I'd be in deep do-do.

Two months after we arrived in the Northwest we experienced our first quake. It happened at night. We were sleeping on airbeds as our shipment had not arrived from Europe yet. First of all I thought that ExpatOwl was rolling around in the bed and that was why I was suddenly feeling sea sick. Then, as I came to, I realised that it wasn't just the bed that was moving, it was the whole room! The quake was small, 3.6, and the epicenter was about 6 miles away. For a girl from East Anglia though, it was a wierd experience! It happened again about 4 weeks later. This time I knew what it was, but it was still a strange sensation.

The whole thing made me realise how vulnerable we are, not just to the power of nature, but as Expats, we're really vulnerable to the consequences of our ignorance. When you move to a new country, no one comes along and gives you a book that tells you what you need to know about the area you live in. No one explains the subtle cultural differences to you, or addresses safety issues, like how to maximise your chances of survival in a tornado, hurricane or earthquake. How many Americans or mainland Europeans have been killed crossing the street in Britain, because they've looked the wrong way before stepping out into the street? (we drive on the left, so you have to look that way first.)

This morning I read this article about an Iraqi family who have come to the US to live. Britain would not let them in, despite the majority of the family having British passports (mind you, the social services are stretched there as it is), so they dreamed of moving to America. Once here though, their dreams are fading. They are used to living in a supportive community where everyone helps each other to survive. Families are close and share childcare and other daily duties, to help each other cope. Here, they are struggling with the whole concept of fending entirely for themselves. They don't understand how they can be granted "green cards", entitling them to permanent US residency with the right to work, yet receive no help in adjusting to the complexities of an alien culture.

Perhaps this is an issue that the next President should address? Even although I am English speaking, I've still had my problems. Word abbreviations for example, are a daily occurance in America. You pick up your RX from the pharmacy and use a Ped Xing to walk across the road! These were double dutch to me when I first saw them and please, don't ask about a drive thru! What I want to know is, where are the 'How to' instructions on those?! The first time I used a Starbucks, I drove straight up to the collection window to order! Somehow, I'd completely missed the tiny little microphone next to the welcome sign 3 yards beforehand. Sorry, but if you're not born here, you just don't know!

"Sink or Swim" is very much a part of the Expat life. Sometimes our cultural ignorance is hilarious, but at other times it has the potential to be very dangerous. You don't have to be an expat to fall into this trap either, any traveller can find himself inadvertently caught up in a life threatening event. Right now there are 15 British tourists unaccounted for in Sichuan province. I pray that their understanding of earthquake drills is better than mine.

Mother's Day

2008-05-11T14:23:00.001-07:00

Today is Mother's Day in America - the day to make a fuss of the women in our lives who 'mother' us. Not that we shouldn't appreciate them every day ofcourse, but it is always nice to have a special day when your daily efforts are truly appreciated by those around you. Everyone needs to feel that their work is recognised and for American mothers that day has arrived.

As an expat, Mother's day gives me a peculiar dilemma. As a mother myself, I enjoy the special attention of my family on this day, but as a daughter, it is strange to mark the day without paying attention to my own mother. You see Mother's Day in England is celebrated in March. I have, technically, already been through this!

Somehow, though, it's just not the same. First of all, I rely totally on a phone call from my sister a week beforehand to warn me that the date is coming up (I really must remind her that a week is not enough!) Secondly, I have to fly around in a panic trying to find a suitable blank card that will pass as a Mother's Day card. Hallmark have yet to realise that other countries celebrate on different days and perhaps it's worth stocking a few for those estranged offspring of no-fixed-abode who may actually still care enough to want to send a card. Thank goodness for scrapbook paper and wooden stamps! This year I created my own cards just in time to catch the mailman, crossing my fingers that the 2 postal services involved with delivering my missive would actually pull their fingers out and get it there on time. I got lucky. The follow-up phone call told me that the thought had really counted.

Today, I decided to be even more prepared and have bought cards for both my mother and mum-in-law for next year while they're still in the shops. Hopefully, this will counter any potential time hiccup that may occur next March. Now that my sister is a mum herself and working full-time, remembering to call me well before D-Day may result in a work overload that could leave me in the family 'Dog House' next year. I'm not taking any chances! It's not easy to make your mother feel special when you're a long way from home, so that card means the world, to both of us.

Finally, here's a few words that a friend e-mailed to me yesterday. I thought I'd share them with all you blogging women to remind you how special you are. Happy Mother's Day!

This is for the mothers who have sat up
all night with sick toddlers in their arms,
wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying,
'It's okay honey, Mommy's here.'
Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can't be comforted.
This is for all the mothers who show up at
work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains
on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and
make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.
And all the mothers who DON'T.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to
babies they'll never see. And the mothers
who took those babies and gave them homes.
This is for the mothers whose priceless art
collections are hanging on their refrigerator doors.
And for all the mothers who froze their buns (bottoms) on metal bleachers at football or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth of their cars. And that when their kids asked, 'Did you see me, Mom?' they could say, 'Of course, I wouldn't
have missed it for the world,' and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with
their children and explained all about making
babies. And for all the (grand)mothers who
wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.
This is for all the mothers who go
hungry, so their children can eat.
For all the mothers who read 'Goodnight,
Moon' twice a night for a year. And then
read it again, 'Just one more time.'
This is for all the mothers who taught
their children to tie their shoelaces before
they started school. And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons
to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little voice calls 'Mom?'
in a crowd, even though they know their
own offspring are at home -- or even away
at college -- or have their own families.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids
to school with stomach aches, assuring them
they'd be just FINE once they got there, only
to get calls from the school nurse an hour later
asking them to please pick them up. Right away.
This is for mothers whose children have gone
astray, who can't find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips until they
bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.
For all the mothers of the victims of
recent school shootings, and the mothers
of those who did the shooting.
For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for all the mothers who taught their
children to be peaceful, and now pray
they come home safely from a war.
What makes a good mother anyway?
Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and
sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache she feels when she
watches her son or daughter disappear
down the street, walking to school alone
for the very first time?
The jolt that takes her from sleep to
dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put
her hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
The panic, years later, that comes again
at 2 A.M. when she just wants to hear
their key in the door and know they
are safe again in her home?
Or the need to flee from wherever she is
and hug her child when she hears news
of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
The emotions of motherhood are
universal and so our thoughts are for
young mothers stumbling through diaper
changes and sleep deprivation...
And for mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money, mothers without.
This is for you all. For all of us...
Hang in there. In the end we can
only do the best we can. Tell them
every day that we love them. And pray
and never stop being a mother...

Broer Som Binder

2008-05-06T09:58:00.002-07:00

Måtte vente en dag å gjøre dette, fordi jeg vil så gjerne få tid å gjøre det riktig.

Had to wait a day to do this as I really wanted to have time to do it justice.

Dette er min bro......

This is my bridge......

Jeg var på besøk i Washington State's første State Park, Larrabee State Park. Så kom jeg ned denne trappen her og rett ved siden av stien var den liten bro.

I was visiting Washington State's first State Park, Larrabee State Park. I came down these steps and right beside the path was this little bridge.

Man kunne høre vannet fra en liten bekk som rennet under broen. Det var fantastisk!

You could hear the water from a small stream running under the bridge. It was fantastic!

Og.....det rennet helt fram til sjøen som var andre siden av meg!

And....it ran straight to the sea which was the other side of me

Det var et herlig sted å ta bilder.

It was a wonderful place to take pictures.

(For more on "Broer Som Binder"/"Bridges That Unite" go to Rune's TX-Blog.)

Photographs Copyright: The Pea Green Boat

Postscript

2008-05-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

For the uninitiated, this is a fart machine! (see Night Terrors.)

As the label states, it now produces "New, louder, realistic farts!" I can testify to this. It is controlled by a remote button which the perpetrator of the prank surreptitiously presses at the appropriate moment, causing the main body of the product to emit said bodily noises.

The Little Guy received his several years ago as a Christmas gift from The Naughty Nephews, who were obviously eager for him to join in with their fun. It has done its job well, causing maximum embarrassment to many unsuspecting guests over the years.

Word of warning though. It would appear that as the batteries wear down, the delightful device seeks revenge on all those who have perpetrated past flatulant fun. The absense of an 'off' button would seem to be a major manufacturing oversight.

Perhaps it's now time to kiss goodbye to the happy hoaxers' hidden friend?

Long live the Whoopie Cushion!!

Night Terrors

2008-04-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

A decent nights sleep has been a treasured thing in my book for some time now. For years I have suffered from varying degrees of insomnia brought on by a variety of different causes. By rights I should be the Maggie Thatcher of my time - able to survive on next-to-no somnolent hours, yet still able to rule the country with a rod of iron. Frankly, I'm not interested in a whole country. I'd just settle for successfully captaining my own little vessel after a diminished night of 'restorative' sleep.

I can still remember being rudely awakened by my mother as a teen. Having the duvet yanked from the bed sending a shockwave of cold air cascading over your half-clothed body is not my idea of a gentle wake-up call. Yet, as time has shown me, this was just the tip of the iceberg (so to speak.) As a hormone-high teenager, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that I was actually enjoying the best sleep years of my life!

Two children were guaranteed to put paid to any chance of a decent sojourn in bed. Babies with croup always choose the middle of the night to begin their breathing troubles. In the early years I became adept at snatching sleep just about anywhere. Several times The First Mate found me fast asleep on the shower room floor, baby asleep in her bouncy chair and the hot water all used up, after a night of steaming open her little airways so that she could breathe.

My problems really took off though when I was pregnant with The Little Guy. I guess it was my fault for having a third. The insomnia hit during the last trimester. I'd wake up at 3am with the baby racing around like Jensen Button unwilling to make a pit stop. Sleep was impossible, so I'd get up, do the ironing, sew, read, cook....whatever. As with all babies, years of broken nights and semi-comotose days have, ofcourse, followed.

Then I completely screwed my sleep up by taking evening classes. Ignorance was bliss. I had no idea when I started that four years of two nights a week would just about ruin my sleep pattern for good. I discovered that I had a lot in common with shift workers, I'd just about get back to normal on a break, only to mess everything up again as soon as I went back to school.

Add to this picture all the nights that I've slept in the bathroom (or even the kitchen) because I've searched the house for a place to escape from the SNORING plus the irregular disturbance of sharing my bed with my travelling husband some weeks and not others, and you can understand why I've longed for the day when I could finally get my sleep in order.

Thanks to the yoga and the 5.15 am starts, I've mastered the art of dropping off within 5 minutes of my head touching the pillow. The Little Guy rarely disturbs us now either (once I explained that he didn't need to wake me to tell me he was going to the bathroom at 2am!) So, I was really beginning to think that my nights were going to improve. Until last Thursday!

At 2 am the telephone beside my bed rang. The display said 'Unknown Caller,' which usually means it's someone from overseas. "What's happened back home," I thought. "There must be a crisis!"

Dazed, I whispered "Hello" into the receiver. The voice on the other end was not English. I hung up. The phone rang again. " Something, something, Salam" greeted my exhausted ears. I heard voices speaking Arabic in the background. I hung up. "Bugger, it's not home." The telephone rang again........

"Hello, hello" they said, copying my English. I hung up. By now I was wide awake. The next time I let the answer machine take the call, but that was a bad move. I ended up with the blasted thing beeping downstairs. As our house is open-plan, I now risked waking the entire household. The phone rang yet AGAIN.

This time I answered in Norwegian. "Hah! I thought, "That'll get 'em." It didn't. Finally, I swore profusely as I slammed down the receiver and stalked downstairs, where I ripped every imaginable telephone/answermachine connection out of the wall (did I mention that I get ratty when my sleep's disturbed?)

On Friday, I looked like the walking dead. I'd been unable to go back to sleep, despite earplugs and sleeping mask. ExpatOwl, realising that I was handling the situation, had drifted merrily back into the land of nod and snored contentedly all night long. After tossing and turning, I resorted to drinking vast amounts of coffee to get through the day. I drove with my eyes out on stalks, was extremely laid back in Costco, propping myself up on the cart, and snuck a power nap on the way back home whilst waiting for DD2 and her friend to load the car with all the stuff teenage girls cart to sleepovers.

In an effort to make peace with me on Friday night, ExpatOwl kindly offered to unplug the telephone himself that night. I readily agreed, thankful that at least it was Saturday the next day and, with no sports to go to, I could have a lie in. The teenage girls would be doing just as I'd done at their age and wouldn't surface until half the day had gone. I guessed I was in for a clear run.

At 4.30 am, a frantic tousle-haired boy landed on my bed making the most infernal bodily noises!

"Mum! MUM!" whispered a sleepy voice, "Mum! My fart machine won't turn off!"

"What?"

"MY FART MACHINE WON'T SWITCH OFF!"

"Shhhh! Go and put it in the bathroom and close the door," I said, rolling over to try to rescue my night before too much damage was done. But it was too late........

The Little Guy did as instructed, then went back to bed. I lay there listening to six different types of flatulent noises coming from our uncarpeted bathroom. The sound seemed to echo all through the house and I was terrified that everyone would wake up. Thankfully, as the noise turned more into 'silent but deadly' mode, I drifted off into some semblance of sleep once more.

The next morning sunshine was streaming through the window. I rolled over and addressing the large mound of bedclothes beside me, asked,

"Did I dream it, or were we woken up in the night by a frenzied fart machine?"

The bedclothes sniggered.

"Yes," he said, "Pretty unbelievable really."

"Thank God for that," I replied, "For a moment there I wondered what you'd had for dinner!"

Postscript

2008-04-25T06:50:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago our accountant told us that as a married couple with 3 children, we would be eligible for a substantial rebate check (cheque) under President Bush's "Economic Stimulus Package."

This news was greeted with delight by all and, like most families, we have mentally spent this money about ten times over!

The house needs painting (we haven't done a thing since we moved in), 4 of our window blinds decided to die within weeks of each other and the garden needs some serious attention. The emergency fund could do with a boost (the odds of an emergency having increased considerably for everyone this year) or making an extra payment on the mortgage would be a good idea.

The Little Guy suggested we should "put the money where it will grow." He's a smart 8yr old. Or perhaps he was just angling for that 529 education savings account!

.......BUT...... then I got the dental bill!!

Looks like the only economy our check will be stimulating is the dentist's.

ABC Wednesday

2008-04-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

N is for.................................

............................the one 'constant' in our lives.............

No matter where we've lived, we've always been able to buy chocolate spread - thank goodness!

(For more ABC Wednesday go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.)

Earth Day Every Day

2008-04-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

Today is Earth Day here in the US.

At first I was confused (nothing new there!). I could have sworn everyone in the Southern Hemisphere had turned their lights off in unison about a month ago. I'd thought then how strange it was that with all the 'green talk' going on here now, no one did anything that day.

In the end I just put it down to inertia. Ok, I thought. This is America, the country famed across Europe for refusing to sign the Kyoto Protocol; the land of excessive consumption, where big is better and 'global warming' is just a rumour spread by those opposed to the Capitalist machine.

But then, news of Earth Day in April started to leak into the mainstream media. "Oh," I thought. "So it isn't just talk. There is a genuine green movement here!"

The whole issue of the environment has been one that I've found the hardest to reconcile with the culture I now live in. Not that I'm a banner waving environmentalist, but being careful with our natural resources has been something I've learned from the cradle. The only time in my whole life that I've ever heard the scientific evidence of global warming disputed has been since I've lived here. The more I learn about American culture, the more I realise that those who have most to gain from shooting down this theory are the ones who have a financial stranglehold on this country.

Brought up in the East of England, where drought was a given, I learned to conserve water at an early age. Shared baths were the norm and once showers were in vogue, heaven help you if you spent too long in one! Every summer a hosepipe ban was issued by the county and we had to watch the lawn slowly die back to a dusty brown colour while we trooped down to the local river to cool our feet in its clear, fish- filled waters.

We each had our own cloth napkins, all families did. Some were embroidered with initials, others differentiated at the table by an engraved silver napkin ring. Often given at Christenings, these would become lasting family treasures. When we picnicked, the plastic (or china) plates came out and were always transported back home to be washed up and put away until next time. At work everyone had their own coffee mug. The one with the smiley was the bosses; the one with "Save water, bath with a friend" was mine (it also said "Join the army, travel the world, meet interesting people and kill them," but that's another story.)

Moving to Norway ten years ago, I was sure I'd landed in one of the 'greenest' countries on earth. Initially I was shocked. Having saved water all my life, I was horrified to see people hosing down their driveways without a care in the world! Having recycled newspapers as long as I could remember too, suddenly here I was lumping the garbage together again. Little did I know that things were about to change........massively.

Within a year or two of our arrival, the local district introduced a garbage system that would make an environmentalist shout for joy ( and a regular homeowner weep with frustration.) We were to start recycling EVERYTHING! We had to sort all of our waste. I ended up with about 10 garbage cans!! I had:

1 for soda bottles that could be returned at the supermarket for 2 kroner;

1 for food waste that went into a large paper sack which was collected every 2 weeks (awful in the summer!)

1 for newspaper (don't you dare put gift wrap in there! The see-through bag made it easy to be fined for failing to recycle correctly.)

1 for green waste;

1 for clear glass;

1 for coloured glass;

1 for cardboard;

1 for aluminium cans;

1 for tetra-pack cartons;

1 for plastics.

These could all be returned at recycling bins outside each grocery store. Every time I went to the supermarket I'd load my car up with garbage to recycle before I went inside to buy more overpackaged goods to take home again. It made you want to stand outside with your shop bought pizza and divest it of its cardboard covering before going home to put it in the freezer!

After a while our garage looked like an obsessive compulsive recycler's paradise!

Despite all the hard work though, the benefit to everyone would continue to be seen in Norway's pristine fields, crystal clear waters and unpolluted air. There was a lot of money to be made from this too, so the big businesses were happy. Ever wondered where your trendy plastic Ikea chairs originated from? Yes, the plastic tops on soda bottles!

My latest garbage system is so easy by comparison, yet still provokes discussion. You see, although we are a family of five, we only use a mini garbage can (recommended for a household of 1 or 2.) Many people have asked me how we manage it. It's simple. We rarely eat out so have no polystyrene take-out boxes, we recycle our cans, plastics, cardboard etc into a separate wheelie bin and I have small garbage cans in just about every room in the house. These get emptied once a week and just fill our mini can.

You can argue the positives and negatives on recycling or energy conservation until you're blue in the face .............e.g. If I reduce my ironing time by folding clothes fresh from the dryer I'm saving energy...........er, hello, did you factor in using the dryer in the first place? If you want to save energy, stop using the dryer!.............but, the bottom line is global warming is a reality. We've seen it most recently in our crazy weather patterns.

We are ultimately only stewards of our planet. We have a generation coming behind us who deserve to live in a healthy environment. Do we really want to go down in history as the generation who killed off their own off-spring? By committing to changing our every day behaviour, even in small ways, collectively we can make a lasting impact which will make our world a better place for everyone.

*****

(In December of 2006, the American Association For The Advancement of Science adopted an official statement on climate change in which they stated, "The scientific evidence is clear: global climate change caused by human activities is occurring now, and it is a growing threat to society....The pace of change and the evidence of harm have increased markedly over the last five years. The time to control greenhouse gas emissions is now.")

Postscript

2008-04-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

Here's a little PS to my Inadvertent Eavesdropper post.

The dentist drives.................................

..............................................this!

Isn't it cool? It's a Chevy SSR (Super Sport Roadster) with an LS2 V8 'Corvette' engine. They were only made for 3yrs. He showed me some wonderful photographs on his iPhone before I told him that, although my vehicle of choice right now is a Dodge Minivan, inside beats the heart of a Bugatti Veyron driver!

Who Will You Be?

2008-04-17T09:42:00.000-07:00

Yesteday afternoon I was watching Oprah while I waded through all the ironing that I'd had to put off while my back was bad. She interviewed Maria Shriver, member of the Kennedy dynasty and First Lady of California. The interview was based on Maria's latest book "Just Who Will You Be?" which she says she wrote with High School students in mind. What she has come to discover since though, is that this question pertains to women, not just once in our lives, but throughout our lives!

After speaking candidly about her loss of identity following husband Arnold's election to the position of State Governor, Maria found herself swamped by women of all ages saying, "Me too!" The voyage of self-discovery she embarked upon as a consequence of her grief at losing her job and therefore her identity, has actually, she claims, brought her to her true self.

The loss of 'self' which Maria Shriver described yesterday was astounding in it's sincerity. I was amazed by her frankness (for which I applaud her) and staggered that a woman of her stature had experienced such an intense loss of identity. How could someone born into one of the world's foremost families lose herself? Hasn't she always had every possible reinforcement and aknowledgement from society? Immense wealth, social status from birth, a successful career, a loving husband, parents and children. Aren't these the things we all strive for in the hope that they will somehow endorse our perception of who we are? How could a woman who has it all, cry herself to sleep at night grieving for her loss................................just like me?

Loss of identity is something expat spouses should be expert at. It is an issue we deal with every time we move, yet one that we're ill prepared for. Many of us are young and naive when we embark upon this journey. Some of us are newly-weds, flush with the excitement of blossoming love, others have enjoyed a longer relationship, but will now put it through the refiners fire of relocation. For each trailing spouse though, the loss of 'self' is an issue that raises its head as soon as the wheels of the plane touch down.

"Who am I?" is a question I've asked myself a million times. (But that's not a bad thing. The day you stop asking that question, is the day you die! ) I've tried the 'I'll-be-whoever-you-want-me-to-be" routine. That doesn't make for true happiness. I've play-acted the Executive's wife, the PTA mum and the Dutiful daughter, but that's all about other people, not about me.

Living in different communities and different societies, sometimes with different languages, forces you to face truths about yourself. If you let them, these experiences can shape you and lead you on a journey of self-discovery like no other. Being a square peg in a round hole 24/7 is a challenging place to be. Psychologically it can be exhausting, depression can be a threat, but if you dare to take the opportunity to search yourself for who you are in it all, your expat experience can become the most rewarding one of your life.

The realisation that we are not what we have or what we do is fundamental to this. In Norwegian culture, people are very much identified by what they do. On shaking my hand, the first question I was always asked was, "What do you do?" I wish I could say that I mastered this one, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it always made me feel pathetic. There's no riding on hubbies coat-tails there, no reflected glory. Not that that was what I wanted. I just wanted to feel valued for who I was. It was very challenging.

I often asked ExpatOwl if people thought I was stupid. "No," he said, "As soon as you open your mouth they can tell you're smart." Just one problem there though. They'd never hear what I had to say if I couldn't be heard. I learned the language and became a freelance translator! (not a 'proper' job, but one I was happy with.) In doing so, I not only silenced my critics, but I learned that it's important for me as a person to be able to communicate; to be heard.

Finding the essence of who you really are is a lifelong voyage. In England, I was the daughter, the wife, the mother, the dancer, the student, the teacher, the volunteer. I had a maiden name, a married name and a nickname. In Norway, I was all those things still, but this time packaged as the foreigner with the double-barrelled first name (they joined my first and middle name.) Now the parcel has moved to America where this time it is labelled with a first name and last name, punctuated by 'a middle initial.'

The packaging may be different, but the person is the same. "Who I am" is who I've always been if I can take the time to find her. It was truely validating to hear so many women on Oprah's show yesterday aknowledge their own identity crises. It illustrated that you don't have to be an expat, a First Lady or for that matter a female, to experience this. You just have to be human!

What I thank Maria Shriver for is daring to voice it and for giving us all permission to say to ourselves "Just Who Will You Be?"

I'm excited to find out!

ABC Wednesday

2008-04-16T09:05:00.002-07:00

Around here M can only stand for one thing.

Yes, M is for..............

..............................mountains.

This is the sunrise from my bedroom window. In the background you can see the Cascade Mountains. On a good day, I can also see Mount Rainier. The entire range is volcanic and apparently Rainier has been dormant for 100yrs, so is due for some activity. Did ExpatOwl mention this before we moved here? Er......It may have been a small detail that he omitted, along with the earthquakes!

I took this picture of Rainier from the top of the Space Needle overlooking Seattle. It's actually difficult to photograph because it always looks way more spectacular in reality.

Driving down to Oregon freaked me out once. I saw what I thought was Rainier.........you know, white, snow-capped etc, but half of it had been blown away! It was ofcourse Mount St. Helens.

I love the mountains. On one side we have the Cascades and on the other The Olympic Mountain range. Sometimes, if it's a really clear day, you can see Mount Baker to the North and Rainier to the South.

Driving up into the mountains in the winter is always an interesting experience.

It still amazes me that the roads in the Passes are dual carriageways (2 lane highways). It's very different from the nailbiting, single lane, windy winter mountain roads we drove in Norway.

The Autumn is my favourite time of year to make this journey though. The reds, golds, browns and yellows of the Fall foliage are spectacular in amongst the evergreens.

Just for good measure, here are some Norwegian mountains too. This was taken when I was up in the Hardanger region of Norway. At the top of the picture you can just see the Folgefonna Glacier, Norways third largest ice field.

(For details on ABC Wednesday visit Mrs Nesbitt's Place.)

Inadvertent Eavesdropper

2008-04-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought about how funny it is at the dentists?

Well, I know, most of the time we're just feeling pretty apprehensive about any work we might have to have done. But beyond that, have you ever thought about what a funny situation we find ourselves in when we're laying semi-comotose under the effects of the gas?

I met my new dentist for the first time last week when I took the whole crew for a 2hr appointment. We were all taken away by separate hygenists to have our teeth suitably prepared before each of us was looked at by the presiding dental physician. It smacked somewhat of a factory production line, but the facilities were polished and immaculate, as were the shiny awards displayed in the waiting room.

In contrast to previous dentists I have known, this American dentist was a quietly spoken man of few words.

" How refreshing," I thought. "He's obviously realised that being a 'people person' is not a major asset when you spend most of your time with your hands inside your patients' mouths!"

Still, it struck me as strange. It was all so business-like in a country that delights in preamble. He informed me quickly and clearly of the situation for each of us and then politely went on his way. He was like a consultant doing his hospital rounds, used to speaking to and being respected by his aids, but with little time for the patients themselves. Neverthless, there was something about him; something about his manner that was reassuring. He had a quiet air of confidence that told you he knew what he was doing.

How was I going to get on though when I had to go back and get my cavities filled? At least I knew he wasn't going to try to engage me in conversation as he chipped away at my bad bits! Why bother with the impossible. It would certainly also save me the embarrassment of trying to grunt a response under the onslaught of water and utensils that invade your mouth in the dental surgery.

They were ready for me when I arrived yesterday. I lay in the leather dental chair watching Whoopi Goldberg on the women's discussion show 'The View' which was displayed on the TV screen opposite me. The subtitles told me they were arguing about politics. Whoopi had cut her hair.

The hygenist placed a mask over my nose and I started to breathe in oxygen. Then they turned on the gas. Whoopi's hair seemed to grow longer as I tried to stay focused on the screen. Did she get extensions during the commercial break? I closed my eyes.

"Kat?" "Kat?" "Are you ok?"

Someone's calling me from a long way away. Concentrate, try to stay focused. I'm tired. I don't want to hang on. Please, let me go to sleep.

"Kat?" "Are you ok?"

Hmmm, they're still calling me. Better try to answer. "Yes, but I think I'm going to pass out."

They reduce the gas. Whoopi's still talking. The dentist walks into my cubicle. He's ready for action. He doesn't speak to me. The hygenist tells me that they are going to start and that they will stop at any time if I raise my left hand. I give her a left-handed thumbs-up to show I've understood.

"Are you ok, then?" she asks.

"Yesth," I reply, smiling, "I'm vewy melloww!"

Frankly, this is the best I've felt for the past few days - totally pain free. It's wonderful!

I'm laying there with my mouth hanging open enjoying my kaleidoscope dream, when their conversation begins. It goes like this:

Dentist: "Did you go to California this weekend, then?"

Hygenist: "Yes, it was great. We went to Disney, stayed at blahblahblah."

"The Dr Seuss books were written there."

"I didn't know."

"Jim Carrey's doing the voice of a character in x,y or z movie."

"Jim Carrey. Wasn't he on Letterman recently?"

"Yes, I saw him too."

"How old is David Letterman"

" About 56/57, I guess"

I know how old David Letterman is! Hey, whoohoo! You up there! It's me. I know! You're wrong, he was 61 two days ago!

The conversation's moved on.

Hygenist: "They drive madly down there."

Dentist: "I know."

"Bikes are terrible. They weave in and out of the traffic."

"They're allowed to, I guess."

" Bikes are a pain to look out for down there. Bike, Kat!......Bite!............Kat, bite!"

What 'bike?' I don't have a bike, well just a mountain bike, but Suzuki, Yamaha, forget it...... oh, bike or bite? Blimey, she's saying bite! She's talking to me!!

I dutifully bite down and grind my teeth so that they can check that their work is precise. Inside, I'm laughing my head off. I thought they were still talking about motor bikes. It seems so funny that I can hear every word they say, but it's as if I'm not there. The last time that happened to me, I was in labour with DD1 and the midwives talked about the stresses of the job as if I didn't exist. I wanted to shout at them, "Hello, remember me? I'm the reason we're all here!"

My psychedelic fantasy is on its final leg now. My mouth is still hanging open attractively, the left side twisting slightly at the corner in merriment. The right side is as numb as a frozen chicken. I would be locked in this grimace for the next 3 hours. I hoped I wouldn't meet anyone on the way home. Perhaps this was not the best time to kill two birds with one stone and go to Costco.

Hygenist: "How's your new car?"

Well, actually I'm still driving every soccer mums dream, the big white minivan. Oh,.... not me.........you're not talking to me.

Dentist: "Wonderful. We took it out at the weekend."

"It's such an unusual car up here."

"Yes, you see more of them in California and Florida. They only made them for 2years, you know."

" Wow, I didn't know that."

"Yes, it's a great vehicle."

"Ok, now Kat, it's time to sit up, but don't get up yet."

They stopped! I don't believe it, they stopped! After all that 'Top Gear' I finally find myself involved in a car conversation and I can't converse! Well, I suppose I'm not really involved am I. I'm not really here. I'm just 'any-old-mouth'; an inadvertent eavesdropper.

The hygenist starts talking to me again. All has gone well. Whoopi has talked herself off the screen above me and all's right with the world. Slowly I return to full consciousness. The right side of my mouth is numb. My head's pounding and still a little muzzy. I'm looking my best!

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I say," relieved to be able to speak again.

"Is there anything you need?

"No," I reply, " but please, I'm desperate to know.................

What type of car does the doctor drive?"

ABC Wednesday

2008-04-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

Well, this one came quite naturally for us.

L is ofcourse for............

.........................Lure!

We've acquired quite a few over the years..........

......but this one takes the biscuit!

Have we caught anything? Well, actually 'The First Mate' has had a little success in this area.......

(Mrs Nesbitt's Place - the home of ABC Wednesday)

Broer Som Binder

2008-04-07T08:10:00.001-07:00

Welcome to 'Broer Som Binder' (Bridges That Unite), a monthly project from Rune's blog. The idea is to post a picture of a bridge on the first Monday of each month. I hope to continue building bridges by posting in Norwegian as well as English that day (apologies now for any spelling mistakes!)

So, here goes.........

Ikke det beste bilde, men dette er broen over Deception Pass her i Pacific Northwest. Det er et fantastisk struktur, men hva som imponerer meg mest er utsikt. Dette området med alle furutre-dekket øyene, minner meg så mye om Norge.

Not the best picture, but this was the best view I could get of the bridge at Deception Pass here in the Pacific Northwest. It's an incredible structure, but what impresses me the most is the view from it. This area, with its pine covered islands, reminds me so much of Norway.

Her er et fra strandet med brua i bakgrunnen. Er ikke det flott?
Here is one from the beach with the bridge in the background. Isn't it lovely?

Så dette er sikkerlig et brua som binder for meg. Det binder meg til de årene jeg bodde i norge, fordi jeg føler meg hjemme når jeg ser utsikt fra broen.

So, this is a bridge that truely creates unity for me. It reunites me with the years that I lived in Norway, because I feel at home when look at the view from the bridge.

Sweet Sixteen

2008-04-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

"I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be."

by Robert Munsch

Sixteen years ago yesterday I was giving birth to my first child.

I'd been taken into hospital in Portsmouth, England with high blood pressure four weeks before my due date and I was praying very hard that my baby would hang on until the right time. She ofcourse had other ideas! ExpatOwl had been called away to an annual trade show in Scotland, which had been rescheduled for the first time in its history. As I was already in the best place I could be and there was at least another two weeks to go, we figured he'd be back before the action started.

He left on April Fool's Day. The action started......on April Fool's Day. Some joke, I can tell you. There I was all alone with my family over three hours drive away and my 'First Mate' at the other end of the country. To say I was scared was an understatement.

Then it stopped. Yes, just like that DD1 decided to save her April Fool's joke for another day and I was able to cruise into April 2nd as if nothing had happened. I'd been knitting a blanket to try to stave off the boredom of being cooped up in a maternity hospital day after day, so I was able to go back to that. It was almost done. After my night of Braxton Hicks contractions though, the nurses were taking bets on which would be finished first, the blanket or the baby!

There was an air of anticipation all around me that day. Even the pigeons on the hospital roof, whose freedom to fly away I'd so envied for the past two weeks, were hanging around by my window watching and waiting.

In the middle of the afternoon I started to feel a little uncomfortable. By 4pm I thought I'd better call my friend, who just happened to be a community midwife. I'd only lived in the area for six months and so I didn't know many people. Under the circumstances, a midwife was a pretty handy first friend to have though!

The nurses kept popping in to see how the blanket was coming along. I'd smile sweetly and try not to stab myself with the needles as the next wave of contractions came over me. Once my midwife friend arrived though I felt more relaxed. I took a bath, knitted, took a walk around the corridors, knitted, then took some gas and air and cast off. Hurrah! The beautiful white baby blanket was finished! Now I was free to concentrate on my next project.

"Oh, heck! I think we need to get you up to the labour ward," said my friend. We walked into the lift pushing my canister of nitrous oxide with us and headed for the heart of the maternity hospital. This was really going to happen.

A few hours later I found myself wired to a fetal heart monitor and injected with pethedine. The contractions were coming thick and fast, threatening to overwhelm me in a breathtaking sea of purpose, when my friend realised I was starting to push. The actual midwife hadn't noticed and I was still in the labour room. Somehow we had to make them realise what was going on even if that meant stepping on professional toes.

"She's starting to push!" yelled my friend throwing caution to the wind, and suddenly the room was full of people. They ran down the corridor to the delivery room with me hanging on to the bed for dear life. Puffing and panting like a steam train, my Baja bed screetched to a holt just in time for my friend to catch DD1's head as she shot into the world. Everyone was in a state of shock, except my dear friend (thankfully), who switched completely on to autopilot. Grabbing the long-legged, blue infant who lay stretched out lifeless before us, she injected her with something to counteract the pethedine and rapidly rescucitated her.

My baby was alive.

Afterwards, back in the labour room, I rang ExpatOwl in Scotland. He was enjoying a late night drink in the hotel bar with some collegues. My news was met by stunned silence and then a rousing round of congratulations from half of the Highlands! The following day my 'First Mate' flew, hunched up in chicken class, on the only plane he could get. Arriving at the hospital, he strode through the corridors like something out of "An Officer and a Gentleman," carrying just a pink teddy bear, camera and a dozen red roses. He was a dad.

'Deeply Dippy' by 'Right Said Fred' was at the top of the charts at the time and that just about describes how I've felt about DD1 from that day to this. Looking back now, I can see that her unconventional entrance into the world was the start of an unconventional life. In many ways my tiny little scrap of a baby has lived more in her sixteen years, than many people do in a lifetime. She's attended school in three different countries, learned to speak two languages (and is now tackling her third) and has had some wonderful opportunities. I am humbled by her achievements.

That April day was truely the start of something special, not just for her, but for all of us who know her!

ABC Wednesday

2008-04-01T11:30:00.001-07:00

K is for..............

........Kid.

Isn't he cute! This little pygmy goat came to visit me when he was just 24hrs old. He was so small that we put him in the rabbit run to keep him safe while we had dinner.

(For more info on ABC Wednesday visit Mrs Nesbitt's Place.)

Inch Worm

2008-04-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

We've finally completed a massive 'Absent' folder full of the school work that 'The Little Guy' missed when he was off sick last week.

This is the downside to being home with a fever here in America. While you're consuming hot beverages and snivelling into a hanky, at the back of your mind you know that the work is racking up. It's a shame that they have to learn this at such a young age, but I guess it's preparing them for life in the 'real' world.

Maths was on the menu again (not my forte at the best of times), in particular changing feet into inches. Getting TLG to study is always like pulling teeth. He'd rather be outside, so just pinning him down creates a major attack of the sulks and a lot of kicking and shoving of furniture always ensues. For this reason, I too hate it when he's off sick. The parental agony that starts with the 'Top Gear' episodes 24/7, ends with hour upon hour of homework horror.

The feet and inches thing was not so bad though. He actually got it and after a while took great delight in his multiples of 12. I also found that it was good for me too. The last time I'd sat with a small child doing math conversions, the girls were his age and doing it all in metres and centimetres. You see, over the past twenty years, I've gone from Imperial to Metric and now back again!

This constant mathematical challenge has not been without its problems though. In fact, one of the biggest hassles I've had with moving around the world, has been the every day use of different measuring systems. Who would have thought that the digital kitchen scales with adjustable setting we received when we were married, would turn out to be our most useful wedding present. It's ability to jump between grammes and ounces has been invaluable to me.

Aside from in the kitchen though, I've come across this issue in nearly every area of my day to day living. When I go to the doctors and they measure my height and weight, I have to run home and convert it before it means anything to me. When people tell me the floor size of their homes....I just can't imagine it and when my vehicle's navigation system (Dashboard Doris) tells me to turn right in so many yards, I haven't got a clue when that is!

This difficulty extends to the Darling Daughters too. As an 8th grader (6mths after we moved), DD1 elected to study drafting at middle school. She lasted an entire two weeks! What we'd all forgotten was that all the drawings would be done in feet and inches and as she was so new to the Imperial system, she found it almost impossible.

This regular challenge to our mathematical prowess has therefore made us very appreciataive of any success we might achieve. Recently, I celebrated the conquering of a considerable feat in this department of which I am extremely proud.

*****

Arriving in the US, one of my first discoveries was that bed linen is different here. Waking up in my hotel bed with the top sheet twisted like a tourniquet around my legs and the eiderdown falling off the side, I resolved to look into this issue. I went to Sears on the hunt for duvets and duvet covers. No luck. I went to JCPenny's. No luck. I went to Macy's....."Blimey! I'm not paying that price."

Yes, if you're lucky enough to find a slip-on cover for your comforter, it's usually either imported or it doesn't fit your European-sized duvet.

So, when DD2 recently decided to upgrade from her 'Jungle Animal' designed continental quilt cover to something more sophisticated, I had no choice but to break out the sewing machine. (Yes, readers, I've actually finished a project!) At the superbly stocked fabric store, she found her dream fabric which was......not wide enough to cover the Norwegian duvet. This was going to take some calculating.

As usual I'd not written down all the measurements, so had to go from memory. Then, to make matters worse, I knew the duvet size was in centimetres and the fabric was in inches. DD1 got out her cell phone and, using a table on it, transferred my Metric comforter into Imperial. We then used the calculator function to work out how many yards of fabric I would need. I realised that I was going to have to cut panels to make each side wider, so we erred on the side of caution and bought several yards.

Well, it worked. In fact I had enough left over to make a matching pillow case too. I'm so proud of myself and DD2 is over the moon. The only problem now is that not only does she want to paint her room lime green, she wants a new pair of curtains too. I think I just made a (curtain) rod for my own back!

New Life For Old

2008-03-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's been a funny week. The whole death to new life theme, which started off with Easter last weekend, seems to have continued.

Firstly, I had 'The Little Guy' home for 3 days with a fever and the worlds worst cold. Just as I thought we'd got rid of the smell of menthol from the Vicks humidifier, the house was full of it again. I turned it on in his room, promptly forgot about it and only remembered when all the smoke alarms in the house went into a frenzy. My head's still buzzing 2 days later.

TLG's illness has also meant that I have been subjected to yet more Jeremy Clarkson 24/7. "Top Gear" ( a popular British car show) is his favourite TV show right now and so he's been watching re-runs (kindly recorded by ExpatOwl) from dawn to dusk. I wouldn't mind, but I've already had a week of it in January courtesy of DD1 and a week in Feb, when TLG had the flu. Let's face it, listening to Jeremy Clarkson's constant complaining is enough to make anyone feel suicidal.

Then yesterday I marked the end of an era. I feel quite emotional actually. After 3yrs in the US, we finally closed our Norwegian bank account. I had written the statutory formal letter (my job as I write Norwegian) and received an e-mail from the bank manager. What should he do with the remaining funds? Now, I had been watching this account slowly trickle away, eaten up by bank charges and card fees, so 'the funds' amounted to all of $20! Not exactly a lotto win. Having it wired to the US would undoubtedly send us into arrears, so the best solution was to donate it to SOS Children's Villages (SOS- Barnebyer.)

Then I started a new chapter. I opened a bank account in my own name! No, big deal, you say. Well, it is to me. Until I came to America, I had not been without a bank account in my own name since I was a small child. I had one in England and I had one in Norway. Each time we moved, I rolled my funds into the joint account to prevent incurring miscellaneous expenses on more than one bank account. When I got to America though, my visa status prevented me from opening my own account.

Being treated as an 'appendage' rather than an individual, has been very hard. The lack of 'freedom' I have felt in 'the land of the free' has surprised me. You really don't appreciate what you've got until it's gone. No L1 Visa or permanent residency meant no Social Security Number and so no bank account. It's been a long slow process for me to get to this point. Permanent residency led to the desired SS# which has now led to my bank account and with that a sense of being myself again.

To celebrate............I joined a Hip Hop class! Yes, much to the DD's horror, their middle-aged mother headed off to shake her funky stuff in a room full of mirrors (eek!) with other 'young-at-heart' ladies, all eager to return to their youth and trying not to slip a disc in the process. It was exhilarating, although terms like 'The Snake' and 'The Running Man' are a far cry from the elegant 'chasse' or 'pas de bouree' that I learned at ballet.

The exercise has shaken me out of my 'Top Gear'-induced funk though and with TLG back at school today (under pain of yet more work to catch up on if he didn't), I have only my sore thighs, aching back and weak knees to contend with. Now, who's for a few yoga stretches?

ABC Wednesday

2008-03-26T13:53:00.001-07:00

J....is for......

Just had to join in with this. As a former film student, I was not going to be able to resist the lure of the camera much longer. Perhaps it really is time that I rediscovered some of the skills that I used on a daily basis, pre-husband, pre-kids and pre-expat lifestyle? Not that I'm going to go back to wearing a tutu and soaking my toes in white spirit daily I hasten to add!

(For more info on ABC Wednesday, visit Mrs Nesbitts Place.)

So, J is for.......

Jugs! Not very original, I know, but these are a few of my well travelled collection. The middle is by Kari Trestakk (modern Norwegian.) I also have a Figgjo and one from Egersund Fayance (ceramics) - very '70's looking.

Blue and white is very popular when it comes to jugs it would seem, but I'm most fond of this one...........

This is Norway's Alkemuggen. As you can see it looks like a bird and is based on a design first created by Jakob Sømme ( an artist from Stavanger) in 1910 as part of a series of jugs. They were produced in 5 different sizes by Egersund Fayancefabrik ( ceramics factory) and were very popular. Naturally, mine's a modern copy, but it is made from the original plaster mould.

Gumdrop Heaven?

2008-03-25T09:30:00.001-07:00

Last week I made an interesting cultural faux pas.

I know, you're surprised, but let's face it, cultural mistakes are to expats what fender benders are to teen drivers. We just can't avoid them.

'The Little Guy' had come home from school with a small list of supplies that he needed for a math project taking place on Friday. I was good. I saved the piece of paper and even wrote on the calendar under Thursday - "Math supplies in." This way I couldn't fail. My son would have his gumdrops and toothpicks at school on time and his bridge construction would be a total success.

That was the plan.

On Wednesday DD2 and I raced around the grocery store stopping briefly at the sweet racks to pick up gumdrops. We scanned the shelves, frantically looking for something called 'gumdrops (or spice drops)' as listed on the teacher's note. After a swift debate, we both decided that as the box of 'Dots' was classed as gumdrops, this must be the right candy.

Wrong!

The next day TLG came home from school with his head hanging. He was the only kid in the class whose mother did not know what Spice Drops were and he had soon realised that his 2 boxes of Dots were not going to make the grade.

I tried to reassure him that his gumdrops were far superior to the requested Spice Drops. Dots were stronger and not so likely to collapse in the heat of the classroom. Their rubber-like inside was much tougher than the jellyish consistency of a spice drop, which would mean that his bridge of triangles would last the longest. He gave me that look and I remembered that horrible feeling of being the odd one out and the potential bullying that it can lead to. So, driven by protective maternal instincts, there I was at 7.30 on Friday morning back in the supermarket scouring the shelves for sugar coated spice drops...... in a bag not a box .......prefereably made by Brachs......... just like everybody else had bought.

Thankfully, I found some and TLG got to complete his project along with the rest of his class. Having saved the day, I climbed out of my Wonder Woman red and gold bustier and boots to discover that spice drops are foul. Don't be fooled by their pretty colours and sugary appearance. They taste like winter mixture, cinnamon, aniseed and the worst cough mixture you've ever tasted! I tried an innocuous looking lilac one which tasted like cloves. My tastebuds were so offended that I had to spit it out (something I haven't done since I was in 3rd grade!)

On reflection, the school teacher really is rather smart. If I had to do a math construction project with twenty-four 8 and 9 year olds, some boxes of toothpicks and masses of gumdrops, I'd go for the violent flavoured Spice Drops rather than the Dots too. Much less chance of running out of supplies due to production line sampling in the classroom.

Spring Chicken

2008-03-23T16:36:00.000-07:00

Easter really seemed to creep up on us fast this year. No sooner were we done with hunting little 'green' people, then it was on to the quest for coloured eggs.

That's how I found myself standing in the middle of a soggy airfield in the fog early on Saturday morning. I was doing the dutiful parent thing and watching 'The Little Guy' charging around with a swarm of 8 and 9 year olds picking up coloured plastic eggs as fast as his cold little hands possibly could.

I was also doing the American thing and had swung by Starbucks on my way there to pick up a little sustenance (or rather a 'grande' version.) Standing in the freezing cold with my thermals riding up uncomfortably under my jeans, I was just contemplating the likelihood of actually being able to see the coloured eggs in the thick pea-souper that was hanging in the valley, when the sun came out.

Ahh! Spring!

After days of rain we finally got a little respite and the view was beautiful. White-crested mountains beckoned to us in the distance and the luscious green grass we were standing on was speckled with a rainbow of pretty coloured eggs. Naturally all the kids got so overexcited that as soon as the commentator asked them if they were ready, they headed off across their section of the field collecting eggs like a plague of locusts stripping corn.

It was all over in seconds!

'The Little Guy' was soon back by my side with a full basket. He then proceeded to open each rain-soaked egg to retrive the candy inside. To his delight he also got 5 pink tickets which were traded at the prize table for...........yes, yet more sweets. He's now got enough to last him several months or, if he eats it now, to give the dentist apoplexy at next months visit.

Who thought Halloween was bad?

Excitedly clutching his prizes, we then headed for the van and fought the traffic back to town where we met up with the rest of the gang to watch the Easter Parade. This is a truely wonderful spectacle of small-town America and much treasured by all in our community. There were pirates, fire trucks, dogs, horses, footballers, drill teams, you name it. Easter bonnets were also on display sheltering their wearers from the warming midday sun. I, meanwhile, was sweltering in my wrinkled thermals and beginning to develop a complexion more often associated with the middle of summer!

Still, by Sunday we were back to typical Northwest rain, of the torrential type ofcourse. I ran to the car from the church entrance after the Easter service, wishing I had my thermals on again. Arriving home looking like drowned rats, we all fought for nice warm showers and pulled on woolly sweaters................................... just as the sun started to peep out once more!

Yes, despite the presence of blossom trees on our street and the outward appearance of spring, the temperature is freezing. The weather just does not seem to know what it is doing. Even for hardy ex-Scandinavians like us, the Pacific NW damp is bone-chilling.

Tomorrows forecast is potential snow and ice mixed in with the rain! Perhaps I'll be hanging on to my unattractive winter thermals for a while longer. Stylish or not, a girl's got to keep warm!

Taxing Taxes

2008-03-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

It's tax season here in the US, so ExpatOwl and I have had our annual conversation which always goes something like this:-

"Where's the 1099 from the financial advisor?"

"Where I filed it, dear."

"Have you added up the drugs and medicines for the year?

"Yes, dear. The total's in Excel."

"I can't find the 1099 from the bank. You must have lost it."

"No, I haven't. It's right here where I filed it!" (teeth clenched.)

"What did you do with the...... (x,y or z piece of paper that came in the mail last May and I'm supposed to know will be required reading the following April.).................................you must have lost that too!"

Now, the odds of me mislaying an important piece of paper are pretty small. I keep everything. I do so because:-

a) I have learned from moving around the world that covering yourself by proving your right to certain things is imperative.

b) I've actually managed to get better insurance rates etc by being able to prove our payment history.

c) The American tax system is so complicated that for novices like us it's complete double dutch.

d)) My parents always taught me to get everything in writing!

This does not however, deter my other half from testing my patience on this subject every Spring. He, who can never find his cufflinks because they're still where he abandoned them in a fit of exhaustion two weeks previously, always lets me know that it is I who am so disorganised that I leave my towel in a wet heap on the floor of the closet and my bills under the bedside table!

To avoid this annual angst (and the paperwork), I have a plan for next year.

I intend to avoid taxation completely by taking a leaf out of two Japanese sisters book. Last week it was discovered that they had tried to avoid paying inheritance tax to the Japanese government by hiding yen in cardboard boxes in their garden shed. They insist that they are innocent and that the money was gainfully earned. As many Japanese are still very wary of banks, this is perhaps plausible. Mind you, it does bring a whole new meaning to stashing your cash under the mattress.

So, watch out beloved. Now that the tax papers have headed for the preparers' office and my file boxes are getting over the shock of being plundered, I will be exchanging our Queen-sized bed for a fouton and changing the locks on our enormous shed!

Now, where did I put that old shoe box.................?

Charity Auction

2008-03-18T10:44:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday night I went to my first charity auction. It was a bit like swinging on a trapeze without a safety net as I really wasn't sure what to expect and was terrified of getting carried away by the excitement of the whole occasion and going home broke. As we were guests of some friends too, I hadn't even got a clue what the 'charity' was until we walked in the door.

The charity in question turned out to be a minor baseball team. The 17/18yr old players were selected from various local High Schools and were in need of funds to get them to and from inter-state games. A worthy cause undoubtedly, especially if you have a son on the team, but more questionable when you have 3 kids of your own to put through college still.

As we entered the building an extremely tall young man offered us the chance to buy raffle tickets for the prize draw - one ticket for $5 or an arm span for $20. Eyeing up the length of his pitching arm and multiplying that by two, we decided that his arm span was as good a bet as any and bought tickets from him. I teased my hosts, telling them that I'd just bought the winning ticket so they needn't bother.

Moving on, we registered and were then led to the 'silent auction', a set of different coloured tables decorated with a fine array of goods donated by the likes of Starbucks and Trader Joe's. The idea was that you wrote your auction number next to an amount of money written on a sheet of paper beside the product and when the bidding closed the highest bid won. It was really very exciting and I soon found myself rushing around the tables eagerly checking on the bids that I'd made. Sadly I just missed buying a fantastic Margarita basket which would have kept me in tequila and mix for some time to come! True to form I'd misheard the auctioneer calling "3 minutes to go" and found myself stranded between the Margarita basket and ExpatOwl on the other side of the room just as he started to count down "3 seconds!"

After dinner (always guaranteed to brighten any despondent soul) the live auction started. Well, what can I say? I sat on my hands for this one. They blew my budget within the first 3 seconds on every item. The bidding going on was incredible. I think a lot of people had a lot of tax right-offs to claim. It was wonderful for the boys though.

Then it was time for the prize draw. We found our tickets and all joked about the varying number an arms length created. One person had 36, another 40, we had 39. It looked like The Pitchers arm span had been pretty good.

" Not an issue for you though," I told our hosts again. "I've got the winning ticket right here!"

The one and only prize was a 32" LCD flat-screen TV. Many arm spans had been sold and everyone gathered with bated breath.

"Blue. 302..." said the Compare. We were still in.

"35...." still in.....

"27....." OMG, still in....

"9."......OMG, I'd won!...... I'd won a flat-screen TV!!

"I told you," I laughed as I returned to our table after collecting the receipt for my prize.

"I've heard of the luck of the Irish," said my host, "but......Bloody Brits!" and he grinned broadly at me from across the table.

Yes, The Pitcher's arm span had been spot on and Lady Luck had also decided that 'charity begins at home!'

Leprechaun Day

2008-03-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

On Friday 'The Little Guy' came back from the neighbours house with an array of cardboard boxes covered with shiny pipecleaners and pieces of old fabric. He proudly declared to me that he'd been making leprechaun traps!

I have to say, as he gave me the low-down on how each of his traps worked, they were really rather ingenius. By the end of his presentation I was feeling quite sorry for the poor leprechaun.

As he wandered contentedly off to set his traps around the house, I contemplated the whole Irish situation. Or rather, I began to realise that attached to this evil desire to trap (other) 'little people' was some kind of expectation which was beginning to bear a striking resemblance to the whole 'tooth fairy' thing. If 'The Little Guy' was going to all this trouble to build intricate devices of torture, then he must be expecting something in return.

Despite the fact that I grew up in neighbouring England, I can't say that I marked any particular St. Patricks Day traditions. Actually, it was probably because of that fact that I didn't. So, when I came to America and had to dress my kids in green for March 17th and saw my sons' classroom full of the remains of pixie pranks every St. Pats morning, I realised that I'd stumbled upon yet another American excuse for a party. Sounds good to me.

My dilemma now though concerns the leprechaun traps. Do I desimate my house in the name of Irish elfdom or can I pay my way out with some gold chocolate coins? Plus, am I expected to play the leprechaun just as I do the tooth fairy and Santa? Let's face it, in a pair of green tights I'll look more like the jolly green giant than a member of the diddy men!

Mobile Madness

2008-03-13T08:44:00.000-07:00

I've been 'unplugged!'

No, I haven't come over all dillusional and decided to compete with the likes of Rod Stewart and Eric Clapton (my singing is still best left to the morning shower.) No, it's my cell phone - I've been cut off! In a moment of complete and utter madness my provider has switched me off leaving me totally stranded.

I was right in the middle of a friendly little instant message to 'The First Mate' (thousands of miles away as usual) about the merits of memory sticks, when the IM got stuck in my outbox. Naturally I shook the phone first, but to no avail. I looked at it closely, the lights were on so I'd remembered to charge it, but the little receiver display bars were flatlining. In desperation I started racing around the house looking for a signal, eager to breathe life back into my dear old cellular device. It was no good. The lifeline to my beloved lay in my hand with its illuminated screen staring back at me. The lights were on but no one was home.

Resorting to e-mail, it transpires that the company plan (of which we were part) has been discontinued. We had opted into a system whose costs were subtracted from our paycheck, in an effort to reduce the number of things we have to deal with (big mistake.) The package also gave us free calls to each other, which was very handy as ExpatOwl was about the only person I ever called. Now, I don't mind having to sort out something for ourselves, (after this debacle I'm determined to) but what I do mind, is the complete and utter disregard for our family that the company's actions have shown!

My cell phone number is everywhere. It's on forms at the kids schools and at all the doctors surgeries. My friends have it, my husband has it, it is an integral part of my daily life. To have that ripped away without as much as an e-mail warning is downright rude. I know that I am 'The Insignificant Other', but I am a human being and I deserve some respect! I am now left contemplating a situation that hasn't arisen for many years. My husband is half a world away and I have no contact details for him.

I first found myself in this situation more than 10yrs ago. The girls were very young and we were living in England. 'The First Mate' was commuting 2hrs each way every day (when he wasn't travelling the world) and so we hardly saw each other. The travelling was so bad that he was often home just long enough to empty one suitcase and fill another. One day as I waved him off on a trip to Paris after one of these quick change-overs , I suddenly realised that I had no itinerary for him. Yup, no hotel names, no phone numbers, nothing. "Oh, well. It's only a couple of days," I thought.

The following morning I switched on the early morning news to see that a bomb had just exploded in downtown Paris! I went cold with shock. I didn't have the first clue where my husband was or how to get hold of him. The next few hours were a total blur. Friends tried to reassure me that 'no news was good news', but I was terrified that I'd open the front door to find a policeman standing there.

As it turned out ExpatOwl had been on the Metro (Paris underground transport system) at the time and hadn't got a clue about the bomb. As soon as the news reached him, he called home to let me know that he was fine. Since then he has always left me a travel itinerary with phone numbers for everywhere and everyone. That is until recently. In the past few years, we have become so dependent on cell phones and computers that the paper trail has been forgotten.

So here I am again, reliant on my own resourcefulness in the event of a crisis and spitting bricks for having depended on others to organise such a vital piece of my modern day existence.

In retaliation I'm going to ask all those trailing spouses who have been moved as a result of a corporate transfer to get over to Robin Pascoe's site at Expat Expert and fill in her survey called 'Family Matters.' Human Resources departments are looking for more info about the effects of corporate moves on accompanying families in an effort to target their resources more effectively.

Let's face it, after the experience I've just had, they obviously need all the help they can get!

Driving Miss Daisy.

2008-03-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

I used to drive this, a 17yr old white Toyota Corolla!

She'd had one previous owner, an elderly lady who pottered around in her for the majority of those years. She needed an exhaust replacement after I'd had her for a year and you could never fill the petrol tank right up because there was a hole at the top of it. The windscreen wipers had only two functions, 'pathetic' or 'manic' and her idea of air conditioning was to leave you stuck in top gear screaming along with the windows down! She was, shall we say, basic. The old girl got me from A to B though (most of the time) and for that I loved her.

Now I drive this, a great brute of an American Minivan.

She's had one previous owner, a car rental firm for a year before I got her. I drive her sitting with my legs apart, like some long haul trucker on the Alaskan Highway, from a seat so comfortable that it wouldn't look out of place in my front room! Her automatic gear box leaves me free to contemplate my surroundings or drift off into a daze, devoid of the anxieties of coordinating hand and foot that I had in the Toyota.

Aside from this, nothing else has really changed. Both vehicles are white, both have been useful for transporting Christmas trees (one more easily than the other) and both have accommodated my growing family and all their friends (again, one more easily than the other.)

I'm now adept at driving on the wrong (right) side of the road, becoming only mildly confused at roundabouts, along with the rest of the US and Norwegian populations (although for different reasons!) Traffic lights still frustrate me as I'm usually looking at the one 2 blocks in front of me rather than the one right above my head and I've now reached the ultimate in local driving prowess. I know where the traffic cops like to hang out!

Yesterday, DD1 and I arrived at one particular stretch of road on our commute home from the Pediatricians office. It is a long meandering piece of country roadway that runs alongside a local river. The speed limit is 30mph. Halfway along this stretch, I glance into my rearview mirror in time to see a slowly snaking trail of traffic building up behind me.

" They may hate me now," I declare, "but they'll love me when they see the cop sitting around the next bend waiting to catch people speeding."

DD1 started to laugh.

"This reminds me of the time I drove to the beach with my friend and her family in Norway," she said.

"We hit a particularly windy piece of road banked by sheer grey rock on either side. There was a long line of traffic ahead of us and we had to slow down considerably as we joined it. For the next 10 minutes we kept trying to see what was holding us all up. It was a country road so any tractor or trailer could have headed out from a side road and be causing the congestion. Eventually, we hit a straighter stretch and we all craned our necks to try to catch a glimpse of the culprit at the front of the line as the first car swung into a bend ahead. Imagine my horror when I saw that there at the front of the queue was a little white Toyota Corolla!"

"Mum, it was you!"

Yup, some things don't change!