How can I not write about last night? I have a lot of good friends from both sides of the political spectrum (admittedly heavily weighted towards the bleeding-heart-liberal have-no-money-but-plenty-of-wine crowd), but it does feel like after all the rhetoric, the voting, the tears, that last night we all won. McCain's acceptance speech was the best thing I've seen from him in the entire campaign. Obama, I thought, was rightly sobre and inspiring. What made me laugh was someone describing the upcoming months for Obama as 'the in-box from hell'. I thought about that a lot as I worked my ass off today at the office. I tried to be swept up in the enormity of the moment and not instead spend time thinking that Mrs Obama's dress looked like she'd just been paint-balled.
I am wary of weighing in with my political opinions, mostly because this is not my country - and nothing can be more irritating than an expat waxing lyrical about the shortcomings of their adoptive homeland (although I do seem to have built a blog around that). I will say, that last night for the first time in 10 years, I felt proud to be living in this country, and hopeful for its future and for the future of my daughters. I am ready to do my part. I feel like I could belong here. It was an amazing night.
Anyway, I just wanted to say, America, you totally rock - and not just because you invented Jalapeno Cheetos.
(and yes, our tenant's offensive banner was prop 8, California did pass it, and no, he has not yet taken it down).
Showing posts with label Expat stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Expat stuff. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Did The Earth Move For You?
We had another earthquake in Santa Barbara this morning. A 5.4, fortunately centred nearly 200 miles away near Pomona. It was just a knee-trembler for us. In my *vast* experience of earthquakes there seem to be two distinct types, the 'shaker' and the 'roller'. This one was a roller; suddenly my office seemed to pitch and roll very gently, as if we were suddenly transplanted on board an ocean liner (well, a girl can dream). If I wasn't sitting at my desk I would have thought 'hmm, when was the last time I ate - feeling a little light-headed'. One look at the potted plant on my filing cabinet suddenly coming to life like a Triffid made me think otherwise though. Well, that and my assistant running in from next day going 'fucking hell did you feel that?' Perfect etiquette in front of our waiting room full of elderly patients, all no doubt in for vertigo who were probably thinking 'welcome to my world young lady'.
It was all over in a flash, like most things that end with a bloke saying 'did the earth move for you'. A quick google of 'recent earthquakes' confirmed this:
Moments later people were pretending they hadn't just been blindly running between door jambs trying to pick the most structurally sound, and instead started pontificating on the theme of 'small earthquakes are good because they relieve pressure'. Not content with this, I googled a bit further and found this:
There is a 99 percent chance of California experiencing a quake of magnitude 6.7 or larger within the next 30 years, according to the Uniform California Earthquake Rupture Forecast, sponsored by the U.S. Geological Survey, the California Geological Survey and the Southern California Earthquake Center and published in Science Daily in April.
I'm sorry what? A 99% chance in the next 30 years. When was the article published???. Plane ticket for the UK right here please! I have been wondering lately whether a 1 in 4000 chance of a baby with Downs was acceptable odds (a different post entirely). A 99 out of 100 chance of a massive earthquake, 'the big one' within my lifetime? Sweet dreams everyone!
It was all over in a flash, like most things that end with a bloke saying 'did the earth move for you'. A quick google of 'recent earthquakes' confirmed this:
Moments later people were pretending they hadn't just been blindly running between door jambs trying to pick the most structurally sound, and instead started pontificating on the theme of 'small earthquakes are good because they relieve pressure'. Not content with this, I googled a bit further and found this:
There is a 99 percent chance of California experiencing a quake of magnitude 6.7 or larger within the next 30 years, according to the Uniform California Earthquake Rupture Forecast, sponsored by the U.S. Geological Survey, the California Geological Survey and the Southern California Earthquake Center and published in Science Daily in April.
I'm sorry what? A 99% chance in the next 30 years. When was the article published???. Plane ticket for the UK right here please! I have been wondering lately whether a 1 in 4000 chance of a baby with Downs was acceptable odds (a different post entirely). A 99 out of 100 chance of a massive earthquake, 'the big one' within my lifetime? Sweet dreams everyone!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Us vs. Them: Fashion
Whenever I go back to the UK I always end up dressing circa 1996. That's the last time I dressed for a cold climate, and my Mum and Dad still have some of my fashionable knitwear from the 90s in my wardrobe at home.
It's a little nerve-wracking going back, particularly if you have to dress for a big event, like a wedding, and you don't want to get it wrong. It is practically impossible to get a dress for a spring wedding in California that is not diaphanous and floaty and would render the wearer frozen in an instant in THE NORTH. Plus if you make the mistake of telling a Californian sales assistant that you're looking for something appropriate for a spring wedding in England they immediately start casting around for the Laura Ashley maternity dresses.
Basically I was really struggling, and I don't have vast expanses of time with which to go clothes shopping as the creature has a ten minute clothes-shop boredom threshold and any longer than that she's running amok in the lingerie section and I'm trying to coax her sticky hands from a rack of immaculate silk negligees. My friend Jen inadvertently came up trumps by inviting me to her four-year-old daughter's birthday party. Not the ideal place to find a dress for a wedding - unless it's in size 4T, or so you would think. I turned up at the party and she said 'you can leave Anna here if you want, we'll be done in about an hour'.
It was like the jailer had forgotten to shut the door.
Three nano-seconds later I was in the Department Store across the street looking at posh frocks. My mind was racing. Must find dress. Must find dress. Of course there was nothing. Everything remotely appropriate was in this season's 'jewel tones' and I have the colouring of, well 'colouring' at all is stretching things rather. In a fit of panic I grabbed, tried on and purchased a black polka-dotted halter-neck dress.
A black, halter-neck dress for a Spring wedding. My brother's Spring wedding.
They are an amazing couple and will certainly be married for a lifetime. I would be in their wedding pictures in my accidental purchase for a lifetime.
I was terrified that I'd bought the wrong dress. That I would appear the brash, ridiculously-attired American at the English country wedding. Then my friend told me to take a long hard look at every Hello magazine littering my bathroom *admits to guilty pleasure*. It was clear that you could wear anything you wanted to at a 21st Century English wedding as long as you had a pashmina and one of those feathery doo-dads perched atop your head. A fascinator, I learned. A collection of artful feathers, and in some cases twigs? on an Alice band instantly transforms any sad sack into a wedding guest. I absolutely loved mine, despite one of my brother's friends pointing to it and saying 'I'm surprised a blackbird asn't tried to ave a crack at that' (imagine a very broad Yorkshire accent). So yes, fascinators, great things, especially if your husband keeps accidentally calling them 'fantasizers'.
I am more and more aware though how inappropriate my typical Southern Californian wardrobe is for England - and not just in terms of warmth. Basically, one mans swimwear is another mans disgusting Euro speedo. LK and I frequently look liked we've dressed for a beach party every time we land at Manchester airport. My fantastic Ebay-steal Uggs that I thought perfect for April in North Yorkshire:
Were only slightly more upscale than the fake Uggs (Fuggs) worn by every single teenage girl in the UK. Whoops.
I did however stumble on my own personal clothing Aladdin's cave. I once had a dream during a particularly uncomfortable and insecure time at College that I found a shop where every single item of clothing was perfect for me. Turns out, fifteen years later, this shop actually exists. White Stuff, or 'Caucasian Clothes' as LK coined it was like dying and going to heaven. If heaven involved a horrible exchange-rate induced financial enema with every purchase. Honestly, just linking to that website again had my index finger poised over the 'add to your cart' button. Damn that's an amazing shop.
Must go and lie down now.
It's a little nerve-wracking going back, particularly if you have to dress for a big event, like a wedding, and you don't want to get it wrong. It is practically impossible to get a dress for a spring wedding in California that is not diaphanous and floaty and would render the wearer frozen in an instant in THE NORTH. Plus if you make the mistake of telling a Californian sales assistant that you're looking for something appropriate for a spring wedding in England they immediately start casting around for the Laura Ashley maternity dresses.
Basically I was really struggling, and I don't have vast expanses of time with which to go clothes shopping as the creature has a ten minute clothes-shop boredom threshold and any longer than that she's running amok in the lingerie section and I'm trying to coax her sticky hands from a rack of immaculate silk negligees. My friend Jen inadvertently came up trumps by inviting me to her four-year-old daughter's birthday party. Not the ideal place to find a dress for a wedding - unless it's in size 4T, or so you would think. I turned up at the party and she said 'you can leave Anna here if you want, we'll be done in about an hour'.
It was like the jailer had forgotten to shut the door.
Three nano-seconds later I was in the Department Store across the street looking at posh frocks. My mind was racing. Must find dress. Must find dress. Of course there was nothing. Everything remotely appropriate was in this season's 'jewel tones' and I have the colouring of, well 'colouring' at all is stretching things rather. In a fit of panic I grabbed, tried on and purchased a black polka-dotted halter-neck dress.
A black, halter-neck dress for a Spring wedding. My brother's Spring wedding.
They are an amazing couple and will certainly be married for a lifetime. I would be in their wedding pictures in my accidental purchase for a lifetime.
I was terrified that I'd bought the wrong dress. That I would appear the brash, ridiculously-attired American at the English country wedding. Then my friend told me to take a long hard look at every Hello magazine littering my bathroom *admits to guilty pleasure*. It was clear that you could wear anything you wanted to at a 21st Century English wedding as long as you had a pashmina and one of those feathery doo-dads perched atop your head. A fascinator, I learned. A collection of artful feathers, and in some cases twigs? on an Alice band instantly transforms any sad sack into a wedding guest. I absolutely loved mine, despite one of my brother's friends pointing to it and saying 'I'm surprised a blackbird asn't tried to ave a crack at that' (imagine a very broad Yorkshire accent). So yes, fascinators, great things, especially if your husband keeps accidentally calling them 'fantasizers'.
I am more and more aware though how inappropriate my typical Southern Californian wardrobe is for England - and not just in terms of warmth. Basically, one mans swimwear is another mans disgusting Euro speedo. LK and I frequently look liked we've dressed for a beach party every time we land at Manchester airport. My fantastic Ebay-steal Uggs that I thought perfect for April in North Yorkshire:
Were only slightly more upscale than the fake Uggs (Fuggs) worn by every single teenage girl in the UK. Whoops.
I did however stumble on my own personal clothing Aladdin's cave. I once had a dream during a particularly uncomfortable and insecure time at College that I found a shop where every single item of clothing was perfect for me. Turns out, fifteen years later, this shop actually exists. White Stuff, or 'Caucasian Clothes' as LK coined it was like dying and going to heaven. If heaven involved a horrible exchange-rate induced financial enema with every purchase. Honestly, just linking to that website again had my index finger poised over the 'add to your cart' button. Damn that's an amazing shop.
Must go and lie down now.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Food Glorious Food?
Does anyone really go to the UK for the food? Well, times have changed, so yes people do, but more particularly, ask any ex-pat and they'll confess to buying that first packet of hula hoops the second they reach their first drizzle-suffused high street.
In the past I've actually gone on diets prior to a trip back home, knowing full well that as soon as that plane lands I would be on a sweets and carbs binge to rival any sixteen year-old with the munchies.
This trip was no exception. Even though I can get a lot of 'Brit foods' (Heinz baked beans, McVities chocolate digestives, Branston Pickle) at World Market, or funnily enough the 'Indo-China Market' over here, there are still so many things I miss that I don't seem to stop stuffing my gob for a single minute. That's one of the things I've never got used to about emigrating. That I only ever go back to my native country when 'on holiday', so for short oases amongst a desert of time I have to try and fit in an entire year's worth of British epicurian delights.
Yes I did just write 'British epicurian delights'.
That results in me eating non-stop trying to literally 'fit it all in', or packing my suitcase full to the brim with Wheat Crunchies, Nik Naks, Thornton's toffee, and Cadburys chocolate (because as Little Britainer so scientifically researched, the Cadburys you can buy stateside is a poor imposter!!).
I had to write this post because it's only 2 weeks (a fortnight!) since we arrived back to sunnier climes and my 'stash' of Euro junk is almost gone. I have one sticky lump of Thornton's original toffee left - and let's be frank I packed three giant bags of licorice, treacle and original toffee - no more crisps left, and the last of the chocolate was polished off by a pack of post-concert friends the other night. The only things that remain standing are Typhoo Green Tea Bags (sadly no longer available online), and a jar of M&S Fruit Chutney.
I must have ploughed my way through a staggering 25,000 calories in about fourteen days. My teeth and gut hurt just thinking about it. Add that to the stuff that I just couldn't bring back in my suitcase and felt obliged to work my way through while we were over there (fish and chips, curries, endless poppadums, Dandelion & Burdock, Wensleydale & Lancashire cheese, M&S prawn & mayo sandwiches, meat pies!!, washed down by endless gin and tonics. I think it's time I started training for this year's triathlon.
Why don't I ever lust after anything fresh, healthy and green? Well the truth is I do, but when you're awash with calories, adding some runner beans, rhubarb, gooseberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants and Victoria plums is not going to save you. Plus these items are seasonal, and the only things I managed to scarf down this year from that list were runner beans, which I love and are strangely completely unavailable in California - land of all produce.
Oh, and these things, can anyone take a guess what these are?
Tiger Nuts!! I only know one or two places that sell them back home, and I absolutely love them, and it appears they're really good for you too. Can you get them in the States - does anybody know?
What about you lot? We're all expat's to some degree, I know very few of us actually live in the same County or even Country that we grew up in. What's the first thing on your list when you go back home?
In the past I've actually gone on diets prior to a trip back home, knowing full well that as soon as that plane lands I would be on a sweets and carbs binge to rival any sixteen year-old with the munchies.
This trip was no exception. Even though I can get a lot of 'Brit foods' (Heinz baked beans, McVities chocolate digestives, Branston Pickle) at World Market, or funnily enough the 'Indo-China Market' over here, there are still so many things I miss that I don't seem to stop stuffing my gob for a single minute. That's one of the things I've never got used to about emigrating. That I only ever go back to my native country when 'on holiday', so for short oases amongst a desert of time I have to try and fit in an entire year's worth of British epicurian delights.
Yes I did just write 'British epicurian delights'.
That results in me eating non-stop trying to literally 'fit it all in', or packing my suitcase full to the brim with Wheat Crunchies, Nik Naks, Thornton's toffee, and Cadburys chocolate (because as Little Britainer so scientifically researched, the Cadburys you can buy stateside is a poor imposter!!).
I had to write this post because it's only 2 weeks (a fortnight!) since we arrived back to sunnier climes and my 'stash' of Euro junk is almost gone. I have one sticky lump of Thornton's original toffee left - and let's be frank I packed three giant bags of licorice, treacle and original toffee - no more crisps left, and the last of the chocolate was polished off by a pack of post-concert friends the other night. The only things that remain standing are Typhoo Green Tea Bags (sadly no longer available online), and a jar of M&S Fruit Chutney.
I must have ploughed my way through a staggering 25,000 calories in about fourteen days. My teeth and gut hurt just thinking about it. Add that to the stuff that I just couldn't bring back in my suitcase and felt obliged to work my way through while we were over there (fish and chips, curries, endless poppadums, Dandelion & Burdock, Wensleydale & Lancashire cheese, M&S prawn & mayo sandwiches, meat pies!!, washed down by endless gin and tonics. I think it's time I started training for this year's triathlon.
Why don't I ever lust after anything fresh, healthy and green? Well the truth is I do, but when you're awash with calories, adding some runner beans, rhubarb, gooseberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants and Victoria plums is not going to save you. Plus these items are seasonal, and the only things I managed to scarf down this year from that list were runner beans, which I love and are strangely completely unavailable in California - land of all produce.
Oh, and these things, can anyone take a guess what these are?
Tiger Nuts!! I only know one or two places that sell them back home, and I absolutely love them, and it appears they're really good for you too. Can you get them in the States - does anybody know?
What about you lot? We're all expat's to some degree, I know very few of us actually live in the same County or even Country that we grew up in. What's the first thing on your list when you go back home?
Friday, December 28, 2007
Auf Wiedersehen
I've just said goodbye to Mum and Dad, something that never gets any easier. A sadness and a heaviness sets in, like grief. One thing I've learned over the years is that the throat-tightening and the tears will go away, but that the heaviness needs to be dealt with, that being sad is such a ridiculous waste of time.
The only way to do this is to have a plan - I need to have the next visit if not booked then at least penciled in. This time I am lucky enough to be seeing them in only three months as it's my brother's wedding in April. Usually when we say goodbye, sad hugs saying all that we cannot, it's for at least a year. This time they will be seeing Anna before she's grown much bigger, before she makes another giant unrecognizable leap from babyhood. Crikey, three months might not be enough time for them to recover from the last fortnight of non-stop Dora, WonderPets and Nemo.
The fact that I'm seeing them soon made this morning a little more bearable. It certainly made me a nicer person to be around over the last couple of days. Usually I'm so eaten up with anxiety and portentous gloom that I have LK looking at me wondering what on earth he's got himself mixed up with and where my loyalties truly lie. On those lines it doesn't help that I know that this situation is entirely self inflicted. Just add a big dollop of guilt to that simmering stew of loss.
Saying goodbye, even if it is only auf wiedersehen does seem so very wrong. A fact that's inescapable when you break down because your toddler has just asked 'are you coming back Ganny and Gandad?'.
Ouch.
So I've concluded I need to take matters in to my own hands. Not move back to the UK of course (have you seen the exchange rate?!), no I've decided that having another child will force Mum and Dad back for a visit - and besides right now the exercise would do me good. Talk about making your bed and then lying in it!
OK - I realize that was a bit drastic. I know I'll stop being sad soon. As LK said 'think about poor me, my Mom's been gone for a whole month'.
The only way to do this is to have a plan - I need to have the next visit if not booked then at least penciled in. This time I am lucky enough to be seeing them in only three months as it's my brother's wedding in April. Usually when we say goodbye, sad hugs saying all that we cannot, it's for at least a year. This time they will be seeing Anna before she's grown much bigger, before she makes another giant unrecognizable leap from babyhood. Crikey, three months might not be enough time for them to recover from the last fortnight of non-stop Dora, WonderPets and Nemo.
The fact that I'm seeing them soon made this morning a little more bearable. It certainly made me a nicer person to be around over the last couple of days. Usually I'm so eaten up with anxiety and portentous gloom that I have LK looking at me wondering what on earth he's got himself mixed up with and where my loyalties truly lie. On those lines it doesn't help that I know that this situation is entirely self inflicted. Just add a big dollop of guilt to that simmering stew of loss.
Saying goodbye, even if it is only auf wiedersehen does seem so very wrong. A fact that's inescapable when you break down because your toddler has just asked 'are you coming back Ganny and Gandad?'.
Ouch.
So I've concluded I need to take matters in to my own hands. Not move back to the UK of course (have you seen the exchange rate?!), no I've decided that having another child will force Mum and Dad back for a visit - and besides right now the exercise would do me good. Talk about making your bed and then lying in it!
OK - I realize that was a bit drastic. I know I'll stop being sad soon. As LK said 'think about poor me, my Mom's been gone for a whole month'.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Come on you Railway!
England didn't qualify for Euro 2008.
The more I think about it (and I have had a few days to mull this one over) the more I'm certain this is akin to rabbits eating their young so the fox won't get them. If we don't qualify, then we won't lose on penalties will we?
Being an ex-pat means experiencing this kind of thing in a vacuum. It is strange to have something so personally momentous happen and for it to cause so little stir in your immediate surroundings. As if a tree fell in a crowded forest and no-one heard a thing.
Being an England fan this kind of travesty is nothing new, and fortunately, being a football fan you can usually find something else to cheer about (even if it's only Chelsea losing at home). My silver lining to England's giant nuclear mushroom cloud is Harrogate Railway still being in the FA Cup.
For those of you not in the know, the FA Cup is a competition any football team in England can aspire to win. Any team no matter how lowly can work their way up through grueling early rounds played on dodgy pitches with only two old blokes and a dog for support, to having the BBC film your next match. Can you imagine that happening in baseball or basketball? I don't think so.
These are not professional players, they all have full time jobs elsewhere, my brother used to play the occasional game for this side, and now the BBC are to pay £75,000 for the rights to show the match because they've hung on long enough to reach the 2nd round where the League Teams are introduced. Hopefully some of that money will trickle down to the players this time.
The match is to be played on Sunday December 2nd - I'm sure you'll want to check ESPN or your local listings(!) If they win this match they get through to the 3rd round where the really big boys enter the fray, the Premiership sides. I can see it now, Manchester United v Harrogate Railway.
Stranger things have happened - as it says in the flyleaf of my Christening Bible, '1973 The Year Sunderland Won The Cup.'
Come on you Railway!
The more I think about it (and I have had a few days to mull this one over) the more I'm certain this is akin to rabbits eating their young so the fox won't get them. If we don't qualify, then we won't lose on penalties will we?
Being an ex-pat means experiencing this kind of thing in a vacuum. It is strange to have something so personally momentous happen and for it to cause so little stir in your immediate surroundings. As if a tree fell in a crowded forest and no-one heard a thing.
Being an England fan this kind of travesty is nothing new, and fortunately, being a football fan you can usually find something else to cheer about (even if it's only Chelsea losing at home). My silver lining to England's giant nuclear mushroom cloud is Harrogate Railway still being in the FA Cup.
For those of you not in the know, the FA Cup is a competition any football team in England can aspire to win. Any team no matter how lowly can work their way up through grueling early rounds played on dodgy pitches with only two old blokes and a dog for support, to having the BBC film your next match. Can you imagine that happening in baseball or basketball? I don't think so.
These are not professional players, they all have full time jobs elsewhere, my brother used to play the occasional game for this side, and now the BBC are to pay £75,000 for the rights to show the match because they've hung on long enough to reach the 2nd round where the League Teams are introduced. Hopefully some of that money will trickle down to the players this time.
The match is to be played on Sunday December 2nd - I'm sure you'll want to check ESPN or your local listings(!) If they win this match they get through to the 3rd round where the really big boys enter the fray, the Premiership sides. I can see it now, Manchester United v Harrogate Railway.
Stranger things have happened - as it says in the flyleaf of my Christening Bible, '1973 The Year Sunderland Won The Cup.'
Come on you Railway!
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Turkey Day
Happy Thanksgiving, or if you're reading this from the UK, Happy Random Thursday!
Obviously this is a quintessentially American holiday, but honestly I'm surprised it hasn't caught on in the UK, because a holiday devoted entirely to food - how brilliant is that? It's definitely a holiday I would carry back to the UK should the situation ever arise. Much better than that other American holiday, July 4th which I'm still struggling to get in to. A little too much jingoism if you ask me (perhaps I just need to get over the fact that you lot won).
The only downside to mountains of mashed potato, gravy, turkey and pie is the familial guilt that's often involved. So thankyou English family who are no doubt right now helping at 'Riding for the Disabled' or at either badminton or pilates. No guilt - more food! I think for Thanksgiving to be a success you have to either have an unbelievably amicable relationship with both sets of in-laws, or one set has to be foreign and happily oblivious.
Whilst mashing a Matterhorn of potatoes this morning I told Lance that come the inevitable divorce I would quite happily let him have the kids on Thanksgiving. He took a thoughtful sip of coffee and said 'nah, there's always an amazing swell on the holidays, you have them'.
How could I divorce a man like that?
Obviously this is a quintessentially American holiday, but honestly I'm surprised it hasn't caught on in the UK, because a holiday devoted entirely to food - how brilliant is that? It's definitely a holiday I would carry back to the UK should the situation ever arise. Much better than that other American holiday, July 4th which I'm still struggling to get in to. A little too much jingoism if you ask me (perhaps I just need to get over the fact that you lot won).
The only downside to mountains of mashed potato, gravy, turkey and pie is the familial guilt that's often involved. So thankyou English family who are no doubt right now helping at 'Riding for the Disabled' or at either badminton or pilates. No guilt - more food! I think for Thanksgiving to be a success you have to either have an unbelievably amicable relationship with both sets of in-laws, or one set has to be foreign and happily oblivious.
Whilst mashing a Matterhorn of potatoes this morning I told Lance that come the inevitable divorce I would quite happily let him have the kids on Thanksgiving. He took a thoughtful sip of coffee and said 'nah, there's always an amazing swell on the holidays, you have them'.
How could I divorce a man like that?
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Earthquake in Santa Barbara!
We had an earthquake last night!
I know everyone who lives in the UK thinks we have ten earthquakes before breakfast here, but no, sorry to disappoint.
My very first morning in California I woke up thinking crap, this is it, it's an earthquake, only to realise next door had their washing machine on. I used to look at people's houses, with their rows of wine glasses on shelves and think 'God you complete muppets, these'll be gone within the week'. Several false alarms later (train rolling past, overly enthusiastic neighbour on treadmill) I stopped giving it a second thought despite SB being built on one big fault line.
I've experienced only three earthquakes since being here (bloody lucky I know) and one of them was last night!
Look, do you see that big blue box at the bottom of this map? That's our chuffing house!
It was only a baby earthquake, more of a foetus really at 3.4 but SB was the epicenter which explains why we felt it. There was just one large jolt, as if a really big lorry had just driven by. I honestly didn't think much of it until Red Fox called to confirm. Then Mooks called to say she'd got in to a fight about it as her husband had yelled 'get in a doorway' and she was not sufficiently spry and would clearly have faced IMMINENT! DEATH! if it was a bit more powerful.
So, what do you do if you've just experienced nature's fury? You go out dancing that's what.
LK and I went out on the town and tore it up K-style, and this morning I woke up wobbly and bleary to find Anna munching away on my 'guaranteed hangover cure' Jalapeno Cheetos from the night before. That child is like a waste disposal.
I know everyone who lives in the UK thinks we have ten earthquakes before breakfast here, but no, sorry to disappoint.
My very first morning in California I woke up thinking crap, this is it, it's an earthquake, only to realise next door had their washing machine on. I used to look at people's houses, with their rows of wine glasses on shelves and think 'God you complete muppets, these'll be gone within the week'. Several false alarms later (train rolling past, overly enthusiastic neighbour on treadmill) I stopped giving it a second thought despite SB being built on one big fault line.
I've experienced only three earthquakes since being here (bloody lucky I know) and one of them was last night!
Look, do you see that big blue box at the bottom of this map? That's our chuffing house!
It was only a baby earthquake, more of a foetus really at 3.4 but SB was the epicenter which explains why we felt it. There was just one large jolt, as if a really big lorry had just driven by. I honestly didn't think much of it until Red Fox called to confirm. Then Mooks called to say she'd got in to a fight about it as her husband had yelled 'get in a doorway' and she was not sufficiently spry and would clearly have faced IMMINENT! DEATH! if it was a bit more powerful.
So, what do you do if you've just experienced nature's fury? You go out dancing that's what.
LK and I went out on the town and tore it up K-style, and this morning I woke up wobbly and bleary to find Anna munching away on my 'guaranteed hangover cure' Jalapeno Cheetos from the night before. That child is like a waste disposal.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Football v Basketball
Proof positive that LK is having a serious effect on UK culture:
For some reason he didn't believe my Mum and Dad when they said they'd run in to a Lakers Bar near Keswick.
Perhaps basketball is going to become the world sport after all (!)
Maybe you lot can weigh in on this one for us. The first night I met LK we got into a debate about whether football (soccer) or basketball would be the most global sport in 50 years time.
I said football he said basketball (well, duh).
It's scary to think that so far 10 years have already passed but I'm quite confident that I still have the upper hand here.
I have been known to be a tad biased though, so any thoughts?
For some reason he didn't believe my Mum and Dad when they said they'd run in to a Lakers Bar near Keswick.
Perhaps basketball is going to become the world sport after all (!)
Maybe you lot can weigh in on this one for us. The first night I met LK we got into a debate about whether football (soccer) or basketball would be the most global sport in 50 years time.
I said football he said basketball (well, duh).
It's scary to think that so far 10 years have already passed but I'm quite confident that I still have the upper hand here.
I have been known to be a tad biased though, so any thoughts?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Halloween Horror
Oh America I cannot pretend to understand you.
You make Halloween an entire month-long festival of candy and costumes and props and spray-on cobwebs, yet when I drop Anna off at preschool this morning resplendent in her Tinkerbell outfit it seems she was the only belle at the ball. WTF? Halloween-a-palooza somehow doesn't extend to the actual day? There was one other pint-size fireman cowering by the rabbit hutches, but everyone else was as we Brits say 'in mufti'. What, suddenly you're all concerned about the practicality of this holiday and decide to dress everyone sensibly and appropriately? I have been assailed by pumpkin paraphernalia for weeks! I repeat, WTF?
I died a million repressed British deaths. It was the parental equivalent of that dream where you turn up to school naked. Fortunately my little Flower Fairy is 2 and didn't realise the massive faux-pas that had just been committed. She trotted off to find little Jayden/Brayden/Squayden to say "fuck yeah I'm wearing wings beotch, throw-down Ugg-boy". While I mumbled about a change of clothes being in her cubby and fled.
Her father will be picking her up.
You make Halloween an entire month-long festival of candy and costumes and props and spray-on cobwebs, yet when I drop Anna off at preschool this morning resplendent in her Tinkerbell outfit it seems she was the only belle at the ball. WTF? Halloween-a-palooza somehow doesn't extend to the actual day? There was one other pint-size fireman cowering by the rabbit hutches, but everyone else was as we Brits say 'in mufti'. What, suddenly you're all concerned about the practicality of this holiday and decide to dress everyone sensibly and appropriately? I have been assailed by pumpkin paraphernalia for weeks! I repeat, WTF?
I died a million repressed British deaths. It was the parental equivalent of that dream where you turn up to school naked. Fortunately my little Flower Fairy is 2 and didn't realise the massive faux-pas that had just been committed. She trotted off to find little Jayden/Brayden/Squayden to say "fuck yeah I'm wearing wings beotch, throw-down Ugg-boy". While I mumbled about a change of clothes being in her cubby and fled.
Her father will be picking her up.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Boobs & Utah
I know, boobs and Utah in the same post.
Well apparently I don't know as much as I thought I did about my friends back home in Blighty. I've just learned that some of them are hiding more than what God gave them underneath those handknits. Good Lord!
I will take their identity to the grave (hint: it's a woman) because with our history I owe this person some discretion, but honestly, who has a secret boob job? Are they possible? Apparently so.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled program, with a satellite delay of only three weeks. Sorry! I'm rubbish and also a very busy person....
So there we were leaving Las Vegas, the creature all fueled up with Old MacDonalds FIES! Then we hit a snag. The first hint was when LK said 'I don't want to alarm you, but'. He is not a man for superlatives. For him 'Houston we have a problem' was probably a bit overstated.
I turned down my ipod and braced myself for disaster.
We were 25 miles outside Vegas on the most deserted, windswept piece of desert highway you could imagine. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and 110º. The last turn-off we'd so blithely passed was appropriately 'Caliente, Nevada' - and for good reason. The temperature gauge needle was vertical and we were spewing engine coolant. LK pulled off the freeway in to the sand and scrub and 'popped the hood' (opened the bonnet) to survey the damage. There wasn't even a lone Joshua Tree for shade. The trucks thundering by mere metres from our heads were creating quite a breeze, but breeze is a misleading word isn't it? You automatically think, cool, refreshing. This was like standing in front of a hairdryer to keep cool. If you haven't been to the desert before this kind of heat is surprising. The first time I ventured anywhere with that dry, arid heat I was casting my eyes around for the fire - for the open oven, for anything that could generate such fiery energy.
Don't say 'but it's a dry heat'.
The rest, three weeks later, is all rather anti-climatic. LK poured several canisters of coolant back into the molten radiator, we did an extremely ill-advised but absolutely necessary U-turn on Interstate 15 and crawled back to Vegas on the hard shoulder at a measly 17mph, our sweltering tails between our legs. Neither of us daring to breath in case the temperature needle started to climb again. Our favourite Vegas road-trip game of 'spot the car-fire scorch marks by the side of the freeway' was not quite so entertaining this time. I have never wished so fervently for a GMC Behemoth or a Dodge Leviathan, something absurdly large and garish with ice-cold AC. There are occasional reasons why American 'cars' are giant tank-like gas-guzzlers. Our little sedan had thrown in the towel.
The miracle of the situation was not that the head gasket had not blown (it's not that I don't love double negatives), it was that we didn't see a cop for the entire 90 minute mis-adventure. We ended up limping back to Santa Barbara in the dead of night, with no air conditioning, to take advantage of the cool 90º night-time temperatures. We did not get to Utah to visit the cabin that LK's Dad built entirely by hand. A cabin I've only ever been to once. But if we had made it to Utah and taken pictures, they would have looked something like this:
Oh well, next time. In our Ford Four-Miles-to-the gallon McMansion on wheels.
And no, for the record, it was not lost of me on my 10th anniversary that I am married to a man who is not only smart enough to think ahead to buy engine coolant, and a cooler with ice and gallons of water, but who knows how to 'pop the hood' and is man enough to work out how to fix the damn thing too.
Woof!
Well apparently I don't know as much as I thought I did about my friends back home in Blighty. I've just learned that some of them are hiding more than what God gave them underneath those handknits. Good Lord!
I will take their identity to the grave (hint: it's a woman) because with our history I owe this person some discretion, but honestly, who has a secret boob job? Are they possible? Apparently so.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled program, with a satellite delay of only three weeks. Sorry! I'm rubbish and also a very busy person....
So there we were leaving Las Vegas, the creature all fueled up with Old MacDonalds FIES! Then we hit a snag. The first hint was when LK said 'I don't want to alarm you, but'. He is not a man for superlatives. For him 'Houston we have a problem' was probably a bit overstated.
I turned down my ipod and braced myself for disaster.
We were 25 miles outside Vegas on the most deserted, windswept piece of desert highway you could imagine. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and 110º. The last turn-off we'd so blithely passed was appropriately 'Caliente, Nevada' - and for good reason. The temperature gauge needle was vertical and we were spewing engine coolant. LK pulled off the freeway in to the sand and scrub and 'popped the hood' (opened the bonnet) to survey the damage. There wasn't even a lone Joshua Tree for shade. The trucks thundering by mere metres from our heads were creating quite a breeze, but breeze is a misleading word isn't it? You automatically think, cool, refreshing. This was like standing in front of a hairdryer to keep cool. If you haven't been to the desert before this kind of heat is surprising. The first time I ventured anywhere with that dry, arid heat I was casting my eyes around for the fire - for the open oven, for anything that could generate such fiery energy.
Don't say 'but it's a dry heat'.
The rest, three weeks later, is all rather anti-climatic. LK poured several canisters of coolant back into the molten radiator, we did an extremely ill-advised but absolutely necessary U-turn on Interstate 15 and crawled back to Vegas on the hard shoulder at a measly 17mph, our sweltering tails between our legs. Neither of us daring to breath in case the temperature needle started to climb again. Our favourite Vegas road-trip game of 'spot the car-fire scorch marks by the side of the freeway' was not quite so entertaining this time. I have never wished so fervently for a GMC Behemoth or a Dodge Leviathan, something absurdly large and garish with ice-cold AC. There are occasional reasons why American 'cars' are giant tank-like gas-guzzlers. Our little sedan had thrown in the towel.
The miracle of the situation was not that the head gasket had not blown (it's not that I don't love double negatives), it was that we didn't see a cop for the entire 90 minute mis-adventure. We ended up limping back to Santa Barbara in the dead of night, with no air conditioning, to take advantage of the cool 90º night-time temperatures. We did not get to Utah to visit the cabin that LK's Dad built entirely by hand. A cabin I've only ever been to once. But if we had made it to Utah and taken pictures, they would have looked something like this:
Oh well, next time. In our Ford Four-Miles-to-the gallon McMansion on wheels.
And no, for the record, it was not lost of me on my 10th anniversary that I am married to a man who is not only smart enough to think ahead to buy engine coolant, and a cooler with ice and gallons of water, but who knows how to 'pop the hood' and is man enough to work out how to fix the damn thing too.
Woof!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Fawl and Boobs
I know, I owe you all a post on what went wrong with our trip to Vegas, but quite frankly it’s hard to get in to the mind-set of being stranded in the desert in 110º heat when overnight autumn has arrived in Santa Barbara.
Sorry, ‘fawl’ as you imagine I say.
I love autumn. It’s so much easier to consider a large glass of pinot and some Grey’s Anatomy when it gets dark at 5pm than mid-summer when by rights you should be out ocean-swimming past 8.
There is a barely perceptible chill in the air, at the tail-end of a breeze or in the shade of a building. That feeling that there's just a little more oxygen to breathe. Brittle-cold blue-sky days are by far my favourite, but they are as scarce in Santa Barbara as they are in North Yorkshire, so I will take this sudden greyness just for a change.
Seasons are nothing if not subtle over here. You can tell it’s autumn by the fact the temperatures will occasionally creep below 70 and it says September on the calendar. That’s about it. There is even the half-hearted promise of some rain in our future, although it's been so long since we've had a decent downpour that I might have to explain to Anna what the chuff is going on! It is so strange to live in a place where rain is talked about as an event days in advance. Where people watch the doppler-radar for a hint of green with awe and reverence. Ok, maybe that's just my husband who gets the day off work if it rains....
I've been reminiscing recently about rain, about that sharp breeze you get as a pre-cursor to a shower in England, the one that blows all the leaves backwards exposing their silvery undersides like a sylvan shoal of fish. Trees don't really have leaves here, not big fat deciduous leaves, just small spiky drought-resistant leaves. There is no 'fall', no leaf-mulch, no season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
So you see, I can’t really write about being stranded in an overheated car in the middle of the Mojave, when there’s a slight chill in the air and I’m forced to think about maybe grabbing a cardie. For the love of God!
So I’ll talk about boobs instead.
My muppet assistant handed in her notice last week. Then a couple of days later she told me she was taking 5 days of her 2 weeks notice to get herself a nice new set of boobs. I have two assistants and they both have fake boobs. Hello California! They are so prevalent here I’m surprised they don’t come free if you buy 3lbs of House Blend.
I don't know anyone in England with fake boobs. Quite frankly, under all those woolly jumpers what's the point? Living here makes you think about it though, particularly after nursing leaves you feeling a little, how should I say, 'deflated'.
So I said to LK, "What would you think about me getting a boob job after we're done having our eleventy-billion children" and he replied "you don't need a boob job, you've got a great rack" etc etc.
Good man!
But then a few weeks later he said "So, if you were going to get a boob job......."
Ten years of marriage, and he is still human.
Sorry, ‘fawl’ as you imagine I say.
I love autumn. It’s so much easier to consider a large glass of pinot and some Grey’s Anatomy when it gets dark at 5pm than mid-summer when by rights you should be out ocean-swimming past 8.
There is a barely perceptible chill in the air, at the tail-end of a breeze or in the shade of a building. That feeling that there's just a little more oxygen to breathe. Brittle-cold blue-sky days are by far my favourite, but they are as scarce in Santa Barbara as they are in North Yorkshire, so I will take this sudden greyness just for a change.
Seasons are nothing if not subtle over here. You can tell it’s autumn by the fact the temperatures will occasionally creep below 70 and it says September on the calendar. That’s about it. There is even the half-hearted promise of some rain in our future, although it's been so long since we've had a decent downpour that I might have to explain to Anna what the chuff is going on! It is so strange to live in a place where rain is talked about as an event days in advance. Where people watch the doppler-radar for a hint of green with awe and reverence. Ok, maybe that's just my husband who gets the day off work if it rains....
I've been reminiscing recently about rain, about that sharp breeze you get as a pre-cursor to a shower in England, the one that blows all the leaves backwards exposing their silvery undersides like a sylvan shoal of fish. Trees don't really have leaves here, not big fat deciduous leaves, just small spiky drought-resistant leaves. There is no 'fall', no leaf-mulch, no season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
So you see, I can’t really write about being stranded in an overheated car in the middle of the Mojave, when there’s a slight chill in the air and I’m forced to think about maybe grabbing a cardie. For the love of God!
So I’ll talk about boobs instead.
My muppet assistant handed in her notice last week. Then a couple of days later she told me she was taking 5 days of her 2 weeks notice to get herself a nice new set of boobs. I have two assistants and they both have fake boobs. Hello California! They are so prevalent here I’m surprised they don’t come free if you buy 3lbs of House Blend.
I don't know anyone in England with fake boobs. Quite frankly, under all those woolly jumpers what's the point? Living here makes you think about it though, particularly after nursing leaves you feeling a little, how should I say, 'deflated'.
So I said to LK, "What would you think about me getting a boob job after we're done having our eleventy-billion children" and he replied "you don't need a boob job, you've got a great rack" etc etc.
Good man!
But then a few weeks later he said "So, if you were going to get a boob job......."
Ten years of marriage, and he is still human.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Happy Dependence Day
No, in answer to your oft-repeated question. We don't have the 4th of July in England.
We lost.
.....or, another fave at this time of year, 'yes of course we do, it comes right after the 3rd'.
We lost.
.....or, another fave at this time of year, 'yes of course we do, it comes right after the 3rd'.
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