Rincon Classic

I spoke to Mum and Dad on Sunday and heard they'd had sleet back home.

*Sigh*.

Not quite as gloomy over here. This weekend we decided to head out to see the Rincon Classic, a surf competition being held on a famous break just outside Santa Barbara. It was beautiful weather, so here, mostly for Daffodillly, are some sunny quintessentially Californian weekend photos:

























I'm not sure quite what I expected in a surf competition, but when we arrived it was the 'teeny wahinis' (young girls) surfing, and it had the bizarre feel of a soccer tournament transposed to a rugged stretch of coastline.

Things soon picked up with the Mens Open, which I was able to appreciate only slightly more than mens luge at the Olympics courtesy of LK being a surfer and me picking it up through, well, osmosis probably.





Our little klepto with approximately 45 shells she 'hunted' at the beach (look closely at her pockets....)

They stank to high heaven. I think one of them was carrying a carcass.







And finally, because even surfers can get a little put out by bad manners, here's a little education in surf etiquette. Not that you didn't already know this of course, but just in case you wanted to surf the left at Mavericks and weren't quite sure of the protocol:



















If you're anything like me (and God I hope for your sake you're not) just reading this will be enough of an education in why I shouldn't be surfing at Rincon -

This reads like the surfers Highway Code, you mustn't 'drop in' or 'snake', the 'furthest inside and closest to the peak' has the right of way, 'paddle with commitment' (too right) and I'm assuming at the bottom it says 'danger, while you're floundering around snaking and dropping in we're up top at the car-park torching your car because these are our waves dudes.

Have a nice day.

Question - Has Craigslist Ruined Garage Sales?

One of the things I love most about America is garage sales, or yard sales or even 'yarda' in deference to most of our customers this morning. I love the fact that you can make a huge pile of all your rubbish on your front lawn, post a sign on the nearest cross-street and watch your hard-earned stuff walk away for 25¢ a piece. I know the UK has jumble sales at the scout hut and drizzly car-boot sales on that field off the ring-road, but there's something heartwarmingly freeing about being able to host your own, on a whim, because you need to raise a few bucks for your upcoming trip to England.

OK, not actually our lawn, because being professional slum-lords we know that if we even let our tenants have a sniff at having a yard sale there'd be one every weekend and suddenly all our garden furniture, nicer shrubs and guttering will have walked. We are nothing but cheap, and not a little savvy so we 'borrow' our friends yard in a much nicer neighbourhood for the occasion and make them feed and babysit our child while we make money. Good times.

I love selling too. Napoleon called England 'a nation of shopkeepers' and Good Lord it must be in my blood because I'll admit I get a little frenzied when the hoards arrive to nose through my hand-me-downs and it's a good job it's not held at my house otherwise I'd be plundering every room for things to sell.

It's an education in the true value of 'stuff' though. You have to mentally let your crap go well before you hand it over to that shuffling bloke who's spent an implausibly long time looking at your cast-off sports bra. There is nothing as disheartening as watching someone walk off with that mirror you spent $150 on two years ago, that has now a market value of $8 (and only $8 because you originally said $20 then they frowned, and you thought, crikey, I need the money, and then they didn't have a $10 they only had $8 and would you consider that?). Sheesh.

However, if you think about it in terms of people paying you to take away your rubbish then it's fine sport indeed. I would do it every month but even in America it's hard to accumulate crap that fast.

My question is though - have garage sales gone downhill? We don't go to as many as we once did, it used to be our regular Saturday morning pursuit, grab a coffee and a bagel and drive round the nice neighbourhoods hoping to pick up a $10 coffee table. Now LK works on Saturdays and the thought of buckling and unbuckling Anna into her car-seat so I can look for that one back issue of Hello magazine in a big pile of 'Watchtowers' leaves me cold.

Now that everyone uses Craigslist, no-one would even consider selling a nice couch, or an armoire that used to house a TV but no-thanks-we-now have-a-flat-screen at a garage sale for $30 and a chance it might not sell when you can just post a photo online and wait for the customers to come to you. Don't you think? If we were ever to get a flatscreen (ha, oh ha ha ha) and needed to ditch our armoire I would never dream of hauling it out on to the street on a Saturday morning when I could get my full asking price from someone who will haul it out of my house themselves. Has anyone else noticed this or is it just Santa Barbara? Is anyone still getting amazing yard sale bargains?

Imagine

The question of race seems to have been cropping up on a lot of blogs I read lately.

It started when I read this post on racism by the always brilliant OTJ. One or two of her readers commented that they'd found the UK to be a much more racist place than America. I was honestly surprised at reading that, having personally experienced much more overt racism here than back home. I have been called 'the right kind of immigrant' more times than I care to remember, I've known so many intelligent and well-educated people carelessly toss the words 'wetbacks' or 'illegals' into conversations and blame them for everything from ERs closing to peeing in fountains. I always found this a shock, being an immigrant myself and knowing becoming legal is not as simplistic as some might imagine, and having struggled myself to keep everything above board. Plus, my one big issue with people spouting about 'immigration' here, is that their definition of an immigrant usually starts about 10-25 years after their forebears arrived.

You're all bloody immigrants.

This overarching concentration on race can go both ways too. At my first job over here one of my colleagues went to great lengths to explain that her fiance 'was white'. Ironically, her name was Blanca.

I was consistently amazed at the way racial slurs were bandied around over here, at the number of mass emails that would arrive in my inbox forwarded by people I knew, concerning how America was better when it was whiter, churchier, and everyone assimilated to a perfect WASPy norm. I'm sure this isn't specific to the States, I'm sure the same emails are flying around the UK, I just haven't seen them because I moved over here before the age of email *gasp*. Those emails make my blood boil though, and moved by what OTJ had said, I spoke up on a website that had published one of them. I agree that no-one should suffer discrimination, whether it's reverse discrimination or not, I agree that being seen as too tolerant a country can make you feel that your society is being taken advantage of. I understand what it is to love and cherish your country (two countries in my case). I understand it's a many-layered debate. I don't think that justifies vitriol. I think we should be trying to find some common ground, channel our inner John Lennon. This is America after all, the land of diversity. There was a lot of respectful discussion, and eventually a consensus that you don't have to agree on every issue in order to be friends. And after about 3 days my heart stopped racing at a thousand beats per minute.

I am not a confrontational person.

In contrast, my experiences with racism in the UK were very limited.

Until I gave it some thought.

Doris Lessing once wrote that the only people in the UK who thought the class system was dead belonged to the middle class. Basically if something isn't affecting you first hand it is hard to have any perspective on the issue. I grew up in a very white, rural area of Northern England. I distinctly remember the first time someone who wasn't white-skinned joined my primary school class. I was intrigued. Turns out they weren't Indian, or Pakistani, or Arabian - they had just come back from a holiday in Israel and were tanned.

When I went to University one of my non-white friends said she couldn't believe what a bubble Cambridge was, and how predominantly white. To me, on first arriving, it had seemed wonderfully diverse.

In essence, my experiences with race and racism up to the time I emigrated to California had been mostly academic in nature. I had not perceived the UK to be more racist than the US because I'd simply not been anywhere near the issue whilst knee-deep in sheep droppings or libraries. Upon closer reflection, I was being more than a little naive.

I thought I'd better turn the mirror on myself, was I standing in a big glass house with a fistful of stones?

When we moved to our present house, school districts were not at the forefront of our minds. The fact that we had the chance to own property where a two bedroom fixer-upper is six figures was our main concern. Plus the creature was minus 2 weeks old when we signed the papers. Things change though, and I found myself on this website last week and was pretty gobsmacked that Anna's prospective primary school was 98% Hispanic. You can bet that the phrases 'white flight' and 'sanctimonious hypocrite' flashed through my head.

I culled my friends' opinions. Was my sudden decision to start researching other primary school options for Anna as bad as saying 'if you don't speak the language get out of the country'? As usual my good friend set me straight:

"Dude, half my family's hispanic and I wouldn't have Anna go to that school either. That doesn't make you a racist. If it was the best school in town and you didn't want her to go because it was mostly Hispanic then you'd be a racist."

Big sigh of relief.

"It makes you a snob."

So there you have it. 98% of the school may be Hispanic, but 100% of the kids are listed as 'socioeconomically disadvantaged'. Apparently you can't be a Brit and shrug off that 'clarse' thing.

Gerald and Hims Baby Flies

I had not intended to take Anna wine tasting with the girls. Even I thought she was a tad young to appreciate the subtle nuances of the Zaca Mesa Cab Franc.

It had been raining all week, so I gambled and didn’t organize a babysitter. What were the chances that the sun would break through that very afternoon forcing LK away from the Golf Channel and back to work?

She was an absolute diamond though, and so were my friends and cousin who indulged the creature in all her two-year-old games, the most entertaining of which had to be 'Gerald and him’s baby flies'.

At the first winery Anna grabbed a Nemo book, crawled under a display table and quietly ‘read’ to herself for a staggering fifteen minutes while we worked our way through the enamel-scorchingly acidic whites.

Then she grew restless.

She decided to go hunting.

She saw a big housefly buzzing around the massive wall of windows to the left of the tasting table and she asked what it was, "a fly" I replied.

“What’s him’s name?” a question I was expecting because my little Buddhist is very conscious of the individual, and always asks me to name everybody and everything. After all, people have names, why not flies? Knowing that not providing a name would lead to five minutes of ‘what’s him’s name, what’s him’s name, Mumma, what’s him’s name’. I said ‘Gerald’.

She watched Gerald crawl towards the ceiling.

Then she spotted a cluster of tiny fruit flies on the lower panes by the
floor.

“Gerald’s Baby Flies!” she squealed and set about ‘taming’ them. She was amazed at how many she caught. No doubt drunk on some highly potent late harvest Zin Gerald’s baby flies proved an easy prey.

She caught about five, each one perfectly content to rest on the tips of her fingers - or so she thought. We hadn’t the heart to tell her that pinning them between her sticky toddler hands and the glass had not so much 'tamed' Gerald's Baby Flies as sealed their fate. She had five tiny carcasses on her right hand.

“I’m the best Gerald Baby Fly catcher ever,” she said “and now I’m going to hunt Gerald”

'Go for it', we were thinking, concentrating more on the double gold medal winning Syrah than the fate of poor Gerald. Imagine our surprise then when she runs over to us with Gerald pinned between her tiny fingers.

"I got him Mom, he's the biggest fly I ever seen".

Lord knows how she pulled it off, but she did indeed catch Gerald, and we put him in an envelope (makeshift coffin) for safe-keeping. Anna was worried about the likelihood of Gerald making a break for it, but Chilly comforted her by saying "I don't think so Anna, Gerald's not looking so good"

Let me know if you're ever overrun by Gerald's or hims offspring and I'll send her right over.

Necessity Is The Mother

The potty training is going very well, thanks for asking.

We did have that one 'wanna get away' moment in Longs Drugs last week, and a couple of accidents at school, but other than that she's being a little star.

As with all developmental milestones though, new accomplishments lead to new challenges. Now that we've chucked all her nappies we're now having to deal with the horror of our potty-training fledging and public toilets.

As most of you know, one of the tricks to keeping your day and your toddler urine-free is to ask them every hour on the hour whether they need to go to the loo. Then when they scream and say no, their tiny little arses heading for the hills, you ignore them and make them go anyway. This is all very well at home, but proves much trickier out in the real world. Fortunately, any mother of a toddler will have developed an excellent working knowledge of all public toilets in her home town during her last month of pregnancy when it was necessary to be no more than five minutes from that Nordstrom bathroom at all times. The problem is, even with the nicest public loos, they tend to have that little hygienic cut-out at the front of the toilet seat, which happens to be the perfect size of a toddler's pelvis. It puts a whole new meaning to 'mind the gap'. I could never do that to her.

Unfortunately, neither will I hold her over the loo until she performs. She's still getting the hang of the controls as it were, and despite several months of 'Body Pump' at my gym I would defy anyone to be capable of holding a 28lb toddler at arms length for more than five minutes while she tries to remember how to do a wee-wee.

She's pretty adept at straddling a 'grown-up potty' but that always leaves her clutching the underside of the toilet seat to hang on, and urrghh, no thanks. Another option was to go everywhere with her bulky toilet-seat insert, but there are some parenting lines I will draw. I mean, who wants to be the 'I've given my life and my dignity over to my child' parent toting a miniature loo seat with them everywhere?



















OK, that is me at a winery this weekend with a glass of Pinot Gris and a toilet seat.

How times have changed.

I can't be too drunk to care about embarrassment all the time though, so I thought, there has to be a better way. Necessity is the mother of invention, and lo and behold I came up with my million dollar, guaranteed to lift us out of financial penury idea:

A blow-up toddler toilet seat (acronym BUTTS). Genius!

Until LK reminded me I'd be putting my lips near something that went in a public toilet (said the actress to the vicar).

Hmm. On second thoughts.

Actually, I did come up with a solution, and I know that all you seasoned parents out there will no doubt beat me to it with your time-tested tricks, but here's my offering; I worked out that if you use the disabled toilet, cover the seat with bum-protectors (thanks America, I love you), and have your toddler turn sideways she can hold on to the disabled bar and support herself while her bum overhangs the porcelain precipice. Bingo!

You're welcome.

Socked In

It's always lovely to have friends and family visiting from home. The kettle has been boiling nonstop for days and I have almost doubled my tea consumption in the last week. However, there is a downside to having guests from England, and that's the cast-iron guarantee that the weather will be awful throughout their stay.

This is California, sunshine is what we do. We'll give you a melanoma in half the time for God's sake. Not this week though. Rather like a toddler who will happily recite her ABCs until the big moment when called upon to impress, the California climate has taken one look at my cousin's suitcases and in the words of Anna has said 'NO I NOT!!!'.

It's grey and miserable and rather reminiscent of an English summer's day actually. Last weekend we were sunbathing on the beach, Anna running around in nothing but a sunhat, factor 50 and some very fetching Dora knickers. Then as soon as Ruth's plane touched down we were socked in with impenetrable cloud. I suppose this is why we are the 'Golden State' and not the 'Sunshine State'.

If you go anywhere else the weather is always a bonus, not a given. If you spend a week in the UK and are blessed with sunshine you think, wonderful, how lucky. If you arrive for a stay in California and are met with drizzle and gloom I think you're justified in asking for your money back quite frankly. I feel so bad, our guest only got to see a glimpse of our famous mountains after 3 days and she's off cycling around town this morning in a borrowed fleece and jeans. I understand that this is our 'rainy season' but that usually means a couple of days of torrential rain and then the odd cloud if you keep your eyes peeled. When I first came to SB, LK would point at the sky and say 'oh man, aren't those clouds beautiful', and I'd be thinking, 'oh yeah, clouds, marvellous'. Now I understand why, you just don't see them that often.

Until you have visitors of course.

Ruth's plane leaves first thing Saturday morning, so we should be in for a heatwave this weekend.

Doctor Who

My cousin is driving up from LA right now for a week's visit after having spent a few days kayaking in the Sea of Cortez. My cousin who's training to be an anesthesiologist (anaesthetist to you Brits) and who took a year out from medical school to be the ship's doctor in a round-the-world yacht race.

My cousin Ruth.

How many of you thought I was talking about a bloke after that first paragraph? It amazes me how many people do, and it also amazes me how often I fall for gender stereotyping myself. I said the same thing to my office, and not one person assumed she was female (including a female doctor who was interning with us).

So, fess up? Did you assume wrong?

He Who Laughs Last...

.....is never usually me.

Twenty valentines later, I pick Anna up at school yesterday to discover, twenty unopened cards in a bag stuffed on top of the pigeonholes!! A very apologetic teacher explained they must have been overlooked in the general valentine melee, but still.

I can't win.

I know Anna ended up having a great time, and I know that none of her two year old cohorts are going, 'wait, Anna gypped us, let's kick her arse'. It's also good to know that of the 19 cards she came back with 80% were shop-bought (yay other preschool parents, solidarity in our crapness).

Still. Roll on Valentines 2009. I'm going to own you.

....................

Then, as if going to the 'drug store' (chemists) to buy sundry ladies items wasn't bad enough, attention can really be drawn to the fact you're standing in front of the 'unmentionables' section when your toddler looks up and goes 'Mummy, oh no'. I'm thinking, what? surely she's not critiquing my choice of lubricant (ahem) when she starts a little lubricating of her own.

Clean up on aisle 4, someone had 'a accident'.

.....................

On a brighter note (slaps that smile right over those gnashing teeth). A huge thankyou to ExpatMum for these awards:












Deeply humbled etc etc.

Raises cup of tea aloft *cheers my lovelies*.

Dear World: Please Be My Valentine

I've just stuffed twenty valentines into twenty envelopes complete with twenty chocolates nicked from our office candy bin. Good grief America! Once again you've stymied me with your cultural holiday-a-palooza. I was really hoping to avoid this valentine-a-thon being as how Anna is only two and a half and the only thing she could possibly do with a Valentine is eat it, but then I found a 'Starfish class list' in Anna's pigeonhole at school yesterday and knew I was sunk. Yes my daughter is a 'Starfish', something I found out literally months into her preschool life which finally explained why she kept asking me if I was a 'Starfish friend'. I had been thinking we had a budding marine biologist on our hands, but no.

LK and I did have a lot of fun the other night drafting Anna's Valentine messages; 'Dear Shanti, I know you think you're cool with your organic individually crafted packed lunches, but you can share my PB&J if you fancy slumming it'. My fave was 'Dear Jack, have enjoyed checking out your delicious diaper-less arse from afar. How about a drink sometime?'. That sounds like Anna. In the end I went with the safe, vanilla option (moi?) and in each card I stuck to 'Dear Blah, Happy Valentines Day, Anna', even though some of these kids clearly do not go to school on a day that Anna does and have I ever met Jaia or Riley, and are they even male or female?

Nothing illustrates the difference between the UK and the US better than Valentines Day. In the UK, it's about sending that one person you fancy a secret card, poem or if you're really hard-up for a shag, maybe a small present. It's about romantic love and trying to get laid. Over here it's Love Inc ™. Everyone sends everyone else a valentine, because to miss someone out would be discrimination and we'd hate that wouldn't we? Our local parents.org (or similar) had an article about a woman with three children who started to rethink her plan to handcraft each valentine after completing only five of the seventy-five that she was required to make for her kids classes. WTF lady? Who would even embark on such a sisyphean task? I wouldn't get as far as Michaels to shop for supplies. Maybe things have changed since I was at school (sound of chalks on slates), do British children now have to bring a Valentine for every other child in attendance?

When I first moved here I was completely freaked out when Lance's Mum sent me a valentine. There was me thinking 'gosh thanks, but it's actually your son I'm after'. Just as well she didn't get him this years gift at the time, otherwise I would have probably run for the hills:











Nothing says 'I love you son' like Valentines pants.

I suppose the easy thing would be to claim cultural ignorance and avoid the issue entirely, but as I've learned with this whole parenting caper, it's not about me is it? I don't want Anna to be left out. I want her to have fun. I made the chuffing valentines. Given my history though I'm sure we'll be walking through the school gates this morning with our bag full of valentines only to be pulled aside by a teacher saying 'the class list was for informational purposes only Mrs K, we're not doing valentines today and certainly not chocolates, for Pete's sake they're only two'.

Anyway, happy Valentines day bloggy readers. I want to shag you all.

Sooper Toosday

I couldn't vote in this week's primaries, because I've never become an American citizen. A fact that Netflix appeared not to be aware of when it decided to send me Maxed Out and Sicko this weekend. Both have been languishing on my 'queue' for a while, but interestingly popped up right before election time. Hmm. Nice try with your subliminal brainwashing Netflix! I wonder how many people across the States were going, wait, 'Sicko' was #1327 on my online DVD list - what the chuff, where's my 17th season of Lost?

One of the reasons I've not yet become a citizen, despite being out here for over a decade is because the US and the UK do not observe dual citizenship, unless you happen to be born with parents from each nation (although a lot of 'aliens' I know hold 'secret' dual nationality). Basically, if I chose to agree to bear arms for this dear country, then I would technically have to relinquish my rights to being a British citizen - and quite frankly after watching Sicko, not bloody likely!! Also, Anna has dual citizenship and so will any future K-spawn, and in this increasingly unstable world giving them the opportunity to hedge their bets citizenship-wise seems no bad thing. I have visions of them flitting between Berkeley, and the Sorbonne, living for a year in Paris then Prague, just because they can; whereas I'm sure they will actually use their US/EU citizenship to bum around Europe in a VW van until they find some equally directionless creature to marry so that they can live thousands of miles away from me.

Just like their dear old mother.

Anyway, I am a little conflicted about the issue of jury duty, err, I mean citizenship. Unlike a lot of immigrants to this country, I did not move here for the chance of a better life (Lord knows), I moved here in hot pursuit of some fine California ass. I do feel some form of obligation to the States though. I understand that citizenship for me, is not a right it is a privilege. I should support my adoptive country with more than my taxes, I should be more involved. I know that I'm lucky to have had the opportunity to move here, live life on the other side and move on from that deeply ingrained opinion that America=arrogance, waste, conspicuous consumption and insularity that most non-Americans hold.

The main reason I will not become an American citizen any time soon is because of the US Immigration Service.

Does any native-born American have any real idea how rude, inefficient, degrading, chronically underfunded and understaffed the INS is? I suppose if they did you'd hear fewer stories about how awful the DMV is. The DMV is a cupcake picnic compared to immigration.

I've been meaning to write a post about my experiences, but quite honestly even years after the event I am still so angry at the way I was treated that I can only throw down a couple of 'gems' by way of bullet-points. Spit them out as it were:

• The Los Angeles INS (Immigration & Naturalization Service) opens at 6am, the line starts forming at what, 4am? I live over two hours away. If you arrive at 6am and get to the back of the queue, chances are you won't get in because they have already seen their quota for the day.

• My fingerprints expired 3 (three) times during my 'adjustment of status'. The third time I had them done I had a small cut on one finger, which rendered my fingerprints 'invalid', but they failed to notify me of this, and closed my case.

• I had to get 'parole' each time I went back to the UK and wished to re-enter the United States, so that I could keep my green card application ongoing. The second time I applied for 'parole' they sent it to me with page 7 unsigned. Stamped, but unsigned. When I arrived at Atlanta airport they allowed me to carry on to LAX but took my passport from me and promised it would be returned. After hours or frenzied phonecalls, misdirected transfers and hang-ups I had to drive down to LA one month later, and stand in line at 5am to get it back.

• When they take your photo at the INS there is a big sign that states 'if you blink you will be charged $10'. There are also posters everywhere in the INS building alerting people to overpopulation in the United States. As if they're trying to say, 'no breeding on the premises you filthy immigrant breeders'.
  

• When I received my notice of receipt of application, the only piece of paper I was to get from the INS for a couple of years, my 'alien number' had been transposed by whatever muppet had filled in the form. For the next 4 and half years I had to explain at every work permit application, parole hearing, and fingerprinting, that I was not in fact Kim Phan from Vietnam.

• Each INS official has a sign next to him/her that states 'we will not answer questions'. If you blurt out 'but am I even in the right line?', they will keep their heads down and gently tap the sign with their pen.
  

• When I finally had my green card interview, four years later, the INS official said 'you guys don't have any kids?' (we gave you enough time, dammit). When we shook our heads he said 'Pets?' He then asked me to verify my phone number, that we filed our taxes jointly, then he apologized and said my fingerprints had expired (no joke) and my application would be held up until I got them redone. I was more amazed that he'd apologized than the fact that my fingerprints had expired again.
  

• About three weeks after we went down to LA for the eleventy-billionth time to appeal that our case should not be closed, that my fingerprints were in fact valid, that I was not in fact, Kim Phan, my green card with arrived stealth-like anti-climax in the mail.
  

A green card when issued, is good for 10 years. Mine is due for renewal in a couple of years, which means I should probably get in line right about now. So you see, I will not be upping the ante and applying for citizenship any time soon. Well, not until you can check your application status online anyway.

I realize that getting an immigrant application in Southern California probably means I witnessed the worst side to the INS, and that hopefully people in North Dakota, Michigan and Washington are sailing through the requisite hoops with smiles all round. I would also like to say that for the record, the first time I re-entered the US with my Green Card, the immigration official at LAX smiled at me and said 'welcome back Ma'am'.

My point, to this diatribe, is that there is a general misconception in this country that it is somehow easy to immigrate here. That you just stroll across the border, or sneak across, and then a couple of months later fill in the papers and you're in. The truth is that it is so amazingly difficult, but that the States has a border with a country where people would happily stand on their heads for five years if it meant the chance of a work permit here. These same people are met with incompetence, hostility, rudeness and contempt. Their first introduction to the bureaucracy in the country is the INS. What a terrifying thought.
I would have liked to have voted in this week's primaries, but I won't be doing so any time soon.

Yoga For Juveniles

About once a week I go to a yoga class. Now, I'm about as supple as a plank of wood, which may be why LK is so keen on me going, but this class is mainly about de-stressing. It is a restorative yoga class, and these days I am finding it one of the only healthy ways to quiet the endless chatter in my head. This class works like a charm, and I sleep like the dead afterwards.

I started doing yoga when I was pregnant with Anna, under the impression that it might help me keep fit and strong whilst pregnant, and possibly even help with the birthing process.

HA!!

It did not help the birthing process. Apparently, my 'practice' had not quite reached the point where I could effectively breathe through open heart surgery.

I've continued with the yoga despite the intimidation factor of being one of the few people not to touch their noses to the floor during a forward fold. I used to think it was the baby bump hindering my forward fold. No, apparently I'm the tin man of yoga.

Sadly, birthing a whopping great 8lb 10oz baby has not made my yoga any easier, namely because for a long time I remained a little *loose* down there and found it quite hard not to fart. Basically, for many months after spitting out my little watermelon, trying to do a kegel exercise was like trying to wiggle my ears. There was simply nothing there. This has been a running joke between my stalwart yoga-partner RedFox and myself. So you can imagine our delight at overhearing this little gem:

Yogi: How are you ladies doing over here?

RedFox & Me: Ommmmm, ostentatious yoga breathing....

Yogi: And you, random yoga woman?

Random Yoga Woman, in reverent tones: Wonderful, I just experienced a big release.

Stiff Upper Lip

I'm pretty sure my yoga teacher has had a nervous breakdown. There's an odd immutability to his smile, a smile that never wavers, never gets bigger or smaller depending on circumstance. An air stewardess smile. He has a manner that cries out 'cheerful', 'life is fabulous', and eyes that are just a little too bright, a little too sparkly.

Or maybe that's just what happiness and inner peace look like and I'm just to English too realize.

I had a maths teacher with the same kind of look when I was in the sixth form, and he had had a nervous breakdown. His was the same plastic smile, the haunted eyes that said 'I've been there and what I saw will never leave me'.

I'm not saying I'm about to have a complete mental collapse (not right now, I've just made a cup of tea), but I'm becoming more aware of the masks people put up, and the hundred different metaphors we use for it. Serene as a swan on the top, paddling like a mother-fucker down below, stiff upper lip, I'm alright Jack, putting a brave face on things. I've just had a letter from my Nanna admitting to a long wintery depression and that coupled with our nuclear-mushroom cloud of a mortgage and the economy in general have made me to want to put the mask down and come clean.

I've been longing to write that post, the one about how we so nearly didn't make it with the condo conversion project we're in the middle of. I so desperately want to be on the other side right now, the 'phew, things looked really bleak there for a moment, thank the Lord everything turned out just fine' side. Right now I spend 20% of my time being absurdly excited about the future, about the opportunities this project will afford us, about how lucky we are to have been pointed in the right direction by a mentor who told us absolutely no to buying a condo 3 years ago (thankyou, thankyou, thankyou). I spend 60% of my time keeping my fingers crossed, slapping a fake smile on my face, wishing for the best, worrying for the worst, and trying to just preoccupy myself with the small joys of life. I spend the remaining 20% of the time absolutely paralyzed by fear. As you can imagine, that's making for a bit of an emotional rollercoaster.

I can still see a future in which we complete this project, and sail on thankful that we're one of the few people to have been lucky and well-advised enough to weather this recession and come out on top. I still really think that'll happen. Even when I read the Economist. I still think I'll be writing that 'wow, things looked a little thin there for a while but I can't believe our good fortune' post. As a very wise friend said, 'it's always darkest before the dawn'. To that I feel like adding, you just have to have faith that there will be a dawn.

It is absolutely not the done thing to admit defeat over here. I know it's perceived as very British not to moan, to keep a stiff upper lip etc, but it is quintessentially American to be up shit creek and still maintain the appearance of a completely successful and optimized lifestyle. If you can afford a nice car you should be driving a nice car, if you can make your smile brighter and whiter you should do it. It is completely unfathomable to the American psyche to not try and strive for the best and to appear like you're on the up and up. I suppose this post is me saying, this is real, this is honest and for the record I was really scared. I know things could be a hundred times worse. I only have to look as far as my friends to realize what a lot of class it takes to keep smiling while the world repeatedly screws you over. This is not intended to be a pity post. I do realize that in the grand scheme of things my life is a cake-walk. In all honesty my most pressing fear right now is that Anna will wake up before I've had chance to finish writing this. I suppose I'm just trying to admit the fear of the unknown, that it's hard to keep smiling when you're facing so much uncertainty.

I knew I was starting to lose it when we had a contractor (a builder) over to give us a bid for the renovations, and I literally had to stop myself asking 'how do you feel about this project, what's your gut feeling, are we going to make it?'. I'm sure he would have looked at me and said 'somebody get this chick outta here'.

This post doesn't have a tidy ending, because right now there doesn't appear to be an ending. Although I did just ask the Magic 8 Ball if we were going to make it and it said:

"My sources say no"

Farging bastages.

Armageddon Wet

It's raining
It's pouring
And my old man is snoring....

LK works outside, so when it rains, he pours.....himself another large cup of coffee and settles in to watch the Australian Open. And crikey did it pour down today. It may not rain often in this dear old town, but when it does it is a thing to behold. No polite British drizzle here, the storms slam in straight from the Pacific and literally spew rain.

Here's a quick shot of some disappointed car owners only a couple of blocks from our house:














So there's me thinking that after working all day, dealing with feisty transcriptionists and a backed up office sink gushing rainwater that I'd earned some downtime. In our cobbled together marriage rules, working trumps not working in terms of Anna-sitting and sundry domestic duties so I'm driving home thinking, I'm chuffing golden.

Imagine my surprise when I suggest the vaguest possibility of going to the pictures with the girls and he says:

....'but you had a bath last night'.

If there was ever a sentence that summed up marriage after children it would be that one. And for the record, I did go to the movies, which must kill my free time allowance until about March I'd say.

Ramble On

I feel like I'm getting a cold because, what, it's been almost two weeks since my last brush with viral death so I'm clearly overdue. What the chuff immune system?

Now I realize that I'm lucky enough to be woken up most mornings by a crusty snot-covered toddler breathing heavily into my face or, double-trouble, licking my nose whilst meowing and pretending to be a cat but sheesh, where's my bug fighting stamina? I'm beginning to think that somewhere in my monogamous 10 year marriage I've managed to contract AIDS. Did I tell you that after my last dose of flu I had a raging yeast infection in my mouth? I really hope you're not reading this first thing in the morning, with a visual of little mushrooms growing on my tongue. Sorry. After much urgent 3am googling I discovered that's a sign of a depleted immune system, oh or AIDS. Despite appearance to the contrary I am still sane enough to figure out that I might just be a little stressed and run-down. Do you know how I know that? Because I'm hiding at work right now....

It's late and everyone's gone home and it is so deliciously, beautifully quiet. Just me and the hum of several dozing office machines. Aaahh. Off the clock obviously, but it is just so peaceful here that I'm finding it hard to leave. No-one to demand I wipe their bottoms, no-one asking me questions about construction loans or renters. I'm tempted to pull an all-nighter - all I'm missing is a large glass of wine.

It's too late now to pick up my dry-cleaning, which is a shame because my cold-weather winter wardrobe consists of 3 cashmere sweaters from Costco all of which are now locked away for the night at the dry cleaners. I have no idea what I'm going to wear tomorrow to keep warm - maybe my entire summer wardrobe all layered on top of each other? It is cold here - I heard that harumph New England, but really, it is verging on the chilly. I had to spend five minutes de-icing my windscreen this morning. You can trust that 4.5 minutes of that was spent locating the de-icing doohickey on my new car, but still. Actual ice, and all me woollens are being held prisoner.

Sniffle.

A Little Pivacy Pease!

In the true spirit of revolution, reminiscent of women burning their bras, Anna has decided to potty train herself. She is saying no more! to nappies, and don't let the door hit you on the derriere to diapers. Her plastic Elmo potty lies dusty and discarded, untouched for months. No, Anna suddenly decided she wanted to use the 'Big Potty' and with very little else in the way of coercion, maybe a few chocolate-covered pretzels, she is now using the 'Big Potty' several times a day.

I've bought a couple of those plastic child-seat inserts because the sight of her tiny white peaches teetering on the edge of that massive precipice made me a little nervous. Not for her you understand, just the possible humiliation of being that parent whose child drowned in the toilet. So, safe in the knowledge that she's protected from diving head first down the Big Potty I left her to her 'privacy'. And yes, two year-olds in this day and age do ask for privacy, I even heard one of her preschool friends the other day saying he needed 'to hydrate'. Precisely.

So, Anna asked for privacy, and I knew I'd childproofed the bathroom.

I will freely admit that I was the one who installed the plastic childproof latches on the bathroom drawers, and I will also confess that I'm more Spongebob than Handy Manny, but I was not expecting this after her requisite five minutes of 'pivacy':











































...and a poop! Everyone's a winner!!


Is it just me or does she look like Courtney Love?

Recycling Is Good For The Soul

Goodbye old bills, hello free guinea pig bedding.

It's so poetic to know that our guinea pig Louis gets to treat these old bills with the respect they deserve - and poop all over them.

Winter Sunset on the Beach

A couple of shots from tonight's family bike ride down to the beach:

Geography

I'm working on a post about place, about what it means to me. For any survivor of a modern Human Geography course it's a word fraught with meaning and half-forgotten murmurings of 'post-modernism', 'urban polemic' and horror of horrors 'social justice and the city'. Did you know that the field of Human Geography barely even exists in the US? That Geography over here is relegated to GPS mapping and everything else is lumped in with Geology?

In the meantime though I'm finding it hard to concentrate on serious writing, because the chuffing fleet's in town, and what am I doing tapping away at my computer when Santa Barbara's literally awash with 6,000 sailors!

Six THOUSAND sailors. Surely one of them could babysit? Surely one of them is over the age of 17 (on initial inspection during my morning power-walk along the beach I would have to say, no, sadly they all looked thoroughly prepubescent -or maybe it's just the ludicrous trousers?).

So, in lieu of a deeply thought out post, check out this fantastic article about Geography written by Guy Browning of The Guardian:

How To....Do Geography

Geography is the study of where things are, what they're doing there and why they aren't somewhere else. In the old days, it used to be the study of places and maps. This is now seen as an outdated approach, and to suggest that a certain place might actually be somewhere else is bordering on cultural imperialism.

Geographers have many unique skills. For example, they are the only class of people who can ask for directions and then understand where to go after they've heard them. Geographers also have an instinctive grasp of spatial layouts, and can walk quickly through any given department store to its toilets without walking through the centre of the lingerie section.

Many geographers opt to study the sexier side of geography, which is natural disasters. For example, a lot of work has been done on how volcanos can wipe out advanced civilisations that stupidly decide to live near volcanos. Another favourite topic is tectonic plates and earthquakes, and why California is about to experience the tectonic equivalent of a Greek wedding.

Human geography is a study of who is doing what where. That sounds gossipy, but in reality tends towards the study of tram systems with which geographers seem to have an almost mystical bond. Physical geography, on the other hand, is excellent for understanding the landscape and answering tricky questions such as "Why do rivers always flow straight through the middle of big towns?" and "Why does the sea fit so snugly round our coastline?"

Geographers like nothing better than studying the effect of ice on the landscape and how early man survived on Glacier Mints. A trained geographer can pick up a loose piece of rock and explain exactly where it came from, how old it is and what forces have acted on it. No one will be there to listen to him, but it's pretty impressive in its own way.

Like other academics, geographers love conferences. Interestingly, they can never decide where to go or how to get there. When they all finally get together, it's noticeable just how much corduroy geographers wear. That's because in long meetings they can look closely at their jacket sleeves and imagine they're studying ridge and furrow cultivation on a periglacial landscape.

Blogging About What I Had For Lunch

LK often says that I'm a creature of habit, to which I reply you're damn lucky I am mate otherwise I'd be flinging my ovaries at any sailor in a fine pair of trousers. And then we laugh and both wistfully look around for that sailor.

Anyway, I have my little routines and today, I threw caution to the wind and did something different. I can understand that to the casual observer someone capable of moving thousands of miles from home may not seem like a nervous Nelly when it comes to change - but it's one thing to make the decision to emigrate, another entirely to live with it. As this blog is endless testament to.

I've been feeling a little hemmed-in lately, with a creeping desire to push my boundaries and try out the unknown. The last few years of our life have been so crammed full of change that I comforted myself with the known, the routine. Buying your first property two weeks before you have your first child, then trying to remodel whilst learning how to be landlords made 2005 a bit of a corker. I'm finally recovering, and I'm not sure if it's the advent of the New Year, or just fiscal restrictions making me want to break out, but I'm wanting to move on. I thought lunch would be a safe place to start.

For once I decided to forgo the catered lunch at work (so long California Pizza Kitchen, one too many BBQ chicken salads has sent me in to the arms of another.....) and I headed for pastures new. Someone had recommended a deli that has opened in the new hospital multi-storey carpark. I know, that's what I thought! What the chuff! You don't have to be a geographer to think that someone wasn't exactly thinking location, location, location. More like how are we going to get this giant parking structure past the City Planning Board. I know! Spanish architecture and a deli selling Peet's coffee. Sold! I have to tell you though, it was gobsmackingly good, and what's more a fresh Caprese sandwich with couscous salad and a frothy Peet's mocha only set me back $7 which in this town makes you wonder whether Concepcion knew how to operate the till.

Thus in conclusion, change is good. At least for today.

British Beer vs. American Beer

Or rather, the battle of beer commercials, because I'm recovering from another bout of the flu and have spent too many invalided hours playing around with youtube.

One of the things I miss about the UK is the adverts, the commercials over here just aren't as entertaining. Shame really, considering they're on all the chuffing time. To generalize wildly (and what is this blog if not an overtly biased account of a Brit who clearly can't remember how rubbish the UK is?!), American commercials give you the hard sell. They're full of 'our product is bigger, better, 20% more efficient and far more erect than the competition', who they actually name. British ads just try and make you laugh, the result being you remember the ad, but not the product. Hmm.

Take for example, this all-time classic ad from when I was growing up. It manages to combine all that is dear to a Brit's heart; football, the dambusters, beer and us getting a spanking from the Germans on penalties. Still funny many years later:

The yanks did manage to retaliate in style though. Check out this corker:

Evil Beaver!

So who's the winner? British beer or American beer? I think I'm still going to have to say Britain. For the record, both Carling Black Label and Miller Genuine Draft are crap. Nothing beats a good Old Speckled Hen.

Happy Chuffing New Year!

I'd been toying with the idea of writing a brief adieu to 2007, but seeing as I woke up feeling slightly fragile this morning (hangover or flu or both, I can't decide) I'm stealing a meme instead.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before? Parented a 2-year old. Bought a car. Went to Paris. Possibly had a miscarriage.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? No, in retrospect they were pretty challenging. I mean, drinking more water what was I thinking?

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? My good friend Robin had a baby, Hannah. Hannah and Anna, the palindromes. That's going to get more and more annoying.

4. Did anyone close to you die? No thank goodness, but crikey I had to come closer to thinking about it in 2007 than at any other point in my life. When Mum was rushed to hospital while we were visiting in May and they told us they'd found an abdominal mass but they couldn't tell us anything further we were forced to face the unthinkable. I don't think I realized at the time quite how terrified I was. I actually slapped LK across the face at one point, full-on bitch slap, I can't honestly remember why now, except that I was so scared and strung out. It really brought it home how I'd been in the immensely privileged position of not having to worry about the health or safety of those who meant the most to me. That being turned on its head threw me for a loop. I did a lot of growing up in 2007.

5. What countries did you visit? England, ostensibly to help my Mum celebrate her 60th birthday, in actuality to visit her for 2 weeks in hospital. Oh, and Paris. Neither of us had ever been before, the weather was dreary and bleak, but waking up each morning and heading out the door with coffee and only the vaguest idea of where we were headed each day, that was brilliant.



















6. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007? Financial security, and maybe a second child. I am laughing as I write this as I realize they are pretty much mutually exclusive.

7. What dates from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? Again I would have to say my Mum's 60th birthday:



















8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? I suppose I should say getting a personal best in the triathlon, getting final ABR approval for our construction project, or even completing NaBloPoMo (ha!), but in actual fact it was probably getting Anna in to the preschool we wanted. That makes me sound like one of those nobbers who put their fetus down on the waiting list at Eton, but it was so hard to find a decent preschool here that managing to go seamlessly from nanny sharing to a great preschool, with no loss of childcare in between is still amazing to me. The fact that this is my biggest achievement of 2007 just shows how much my priorities have changed.

9. What was your biggest failure? Probably failing to keep my cool when challenged about my 'hugging issues'. I think my classic composure-failure came with me yelling 'I don't have a problem hugging, I just have a problem hugging you'. Nice.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? I'm sick as a dog right now thanks very much 2007.

11. What was the best thing you bought? My brand new Honda Pilot. I can't even tell you how long I'd needed a new car. Oh, and a carpet steam cleaner which has already saved us hundreds of dollars in carpet cleaning thanks to a toddler/white carpet death combo.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? Anna, on so many levels, but not least because she took 10 flights in 2007 and didn't spack out once. She is an amazing traveler.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? For fear of being Dooced I'd better not say.

14. Where did most of your money go? 99.9% went to the bloody mortgage companies, and the rest to Baby Gap.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? My brother getting engaged. Obviously because he'd landed himself a winner, but I can't deny a large percentage of the excitement came from knowing I'd have an excuse to fly home in 2008.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007? Wonder Pets Wonder Pets we're on our way!

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? Happier and more content. I've no idea why, but I have a sneaking feeling it has something to do with our project moving towards fruition, oh and Anna's 3-hour naps haven't hurt. b) thinner or fatter? Pretty much the same, fitter than I was last year although Christmas has wreaked havoc. c) richer or poorer? Hard to say, 2008 is going to be the decider though. Literally make or break.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of? I wish I'd had more date time with LK. I also wish I'd looked after myself a bit better, more yoga, fewer 5th glasses of wine at dinner parties, more time by myself.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of? Worrying. Without a doubt.

20. How did you spend Christmas? At home in SB with my Mum and Dad. A perfect Christmas, even without the roast turkey and Christmas pud.

21. Did you fall in love in 2007? Not in the literal sense, but being re-proposed to on or 10th anniversary could certainly count. The Tiffany ring didn't hurt either.

22. What was your favorite TV program? I know I'm several years behind the times on this one, but I'd have to say Grey's Anatomy. I've been ploughing through each series on Netflix and can't remember when I've enjoyed a TV series as much.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year? Hate's a strong word, but not strong enough when it comes to Verizon customer service.

24. What was the best book you read? I read a lot of really good stuff in 2007, and some pretty whacky stuff too courtesy of my 'It's not about the Book Club', but they came up trumps with 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' by Khaled Hosseini. I haven't enjoyed any book as much as this one in a long long time.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery? Anna singing Trinkle Trinkle ittle star.

26. What did you want and get? Honda Pilot. Honda Pilot. Honda Pilot.

27. What did you want and not get? Building permits and a construction loan. Keep your fingers crossed for us.

28. What was your favorite film of this year? I'm embarrassed at how few films I saw in 2007, despite starting 'Film Club' in the latter half of the year. I would have to say 'Knocked Up' with the caveat that I really need to get out more.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? 34. We were supposed to be at LK's Dad's cabin in Utah waking up to utter peace and tranquility halfway up a mountain. In the end, things didn't quite pan out, courtesy of our aged cars, and I ended up going to work instead.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Sad to say, but large amounts of cold hard cash, and being able to jet to and from the UK on a whim.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007? Denying myself a new pair of jeans until I'm done popping out sprogs.

32. What kept you sane? Sleep.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Daniel Craig. Woof!

34. What political issue stirred you the most? The sup-prime mortgage crisis probably had the greatest personal bearing for us, but what stirred me the most was the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. I saw that headline and immediately had the strongest feeling of icy dread. The BBC is warning about the increasing Talebanisation of Pakistan, that this is a country with nuclear weapons and a large population in the UK scares me tremendously.

35. Who did you miss? Obviously my family. Every day, particularly when Mum was readmitted to hospital and I was back in the States. Also, my friend C, my first friend in California who moved to Tex-arse this summer. Damn her.

36. Who was the best new person you met? I'd have to say baby Hannah, my friend's daughter who made her appearance in February. She has the biggest baby grin I've ever seen.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007. I wish I could trust in this with all my heart, but I would have to say learning that financial security is not the be all and end all. That you can always start over, but you can never replace those people in your life who mean the world to you.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year. Wonder Pets Wonder Pets we're on our way!

Parlez-vous Nemo?

This will probably only make sense if you've seen Finding Nemo as many times as I have, but then if you have even a passing relationship with anyone under eight I'm sure that includes you anyway.

Anna, sitting on a bench waiting for our friend to fail to appear from the Santa Barbara Air Bus (upon seeing it pull up she squealed 'Ganny & Ganddad are back!', ouch).

Anna, to random nice lady: 'My name is Anna'
RNL, 'hi Anna, my name is Random Nice Lady'
Anna, 'I have a lot of Nemo toys at my home. A LOT'.
RNL, smiling a little nonplussed, 'really?'
Anna, 'yes, twenty-ten'.
RNL, 'how old are you Anna?'
Anna 'I am two'
RNL, 'two, wow I'm impressed, you speak well'
Anna, brightening, 'I do speak whale, oo-ee-arr-oo'
RNL '----'

Goodnight Moon Indeed!!

Because I know I'm not the only one labouring under a big black post-Christmas cloud, I bring you this:















Honestly, get your minds out of the gutter. What did you think it was? Clearly it's a drawing of a moon and stars by the very talented 3-year old daughter of friends of ours.

It was thoughtful of the teacher to annotate it though wasn't it? Just in case there could have been the slightest confusion as to the artist's intent?

Oh, and I have regained enough sanity to realize that adding another child to the K family might bring Mum and Dad back for one more visit - but would bite us in the arse and more importantly the wallet very soon thereafter. Taking a look at Expedia for April's flights to England and realizing the creature would need her own ticket for this trip was enough to do that. It's about time someone swapped some Finding Nemo time for some cold hard cash earning time I think. Anyone want to hire a 2 year old?

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'.

Perspective

I haven't been near the computer in days and now I'm terrified to even look at bloglines for fear I have 600 new posts to check. Sheesh. My Mum and Dad arrived on Wednesday and since then I've been in Hallmark Channel heaven watching Anna play with 'Ganny' and 'Ganddad' while I bask in the knowledge of all that babysitting to come.

I'm so full of the joys that I'm prepared to do something completely out of character. Put that wineglass down? Surely you jest? No, inspired by Little Britain, I'm going to list the things about my life in America that I love. Here I am, secure with all my peeps in town, able to take a step back and be broadminded *gasp*.

So here in no particular order and with very little sarcasm is a little list of what I love about life over here:

1. Going out for breakfast. Growing up in the UK this sounded as absurd a concept as going out to clean your teeth, but it's something I've grown to love. If someone had told me 15 years ago that I would spend every Sunday going for a half mile ocean swim followed by breakfast at a restaurant on the beach the anti-America chip on my shoulder would have fallen off in shock. I still won't put syrup on anything, but guilt-free Eggs Benedict after an icy swim? Now that's a lifestyle.

2. Having an English accent over here generally makes life so chuffing easy. This is a country that loves all things English (albeit a hashed together Disney-fied version of England). Moving from a continent that universally villifies anything British this change is shockingly refreshing. It's an automatic opener at cocktail parties, and only causes a few problems when talking on the phone. Generally, a good thing.

3. Food glorious food. It's very hard to stay skinny in this country there is such abundance and variety. Some of the things I would miss if we ever moved back to Blighty are; ranch dressing, jalapeno Cheetos, Mexican food, Philly Cheesesteak, Hass avocados, decent cocktails and anything from Trader Joes. Oh and free refills. As I said, hard to stay skinny.

4. Sunshine on tap. OK this is obviously a California thing, and probably not going to win me a lot of friends while the rest of the world shivers through yet another ice storm, but the advantages of a climate that never, ever varies are manifold. The thing I will never get used to is being able to schedule an outdoor activity three weeks in advance knowing full well that the weather won't ruin it. Want to play tennis a week next Thursday? Want to have everyone over for a barbecue Tuesday week? No problem. That is a luxury that I won't ever tire of. Putting sunscreen on every time you leave the house is a small price to pay.

5. Bum-protectors. What? I think the official term is 'toilet-seat covers'. Those filmy pieces of waxy paper that are supposed to prevent other people's arse-germs tainting your saintly derriere. I'm sure they're about as effective as a chocolate teapot but the faux-reassurance level is high. I was very surprised at how much I missed them on my last trip home.

6. US Mail. I realise many of you have just sprayed coffee all over your computer screens, but yes, the US Mail rocks, for the reason that you can have them pick up your stuff if you just put up that little flag jobbie on your post-box. No trawling around town trying to find a postbox over here! Try asking the postman to pick up your post in England. Didn't think so, he'd have a hard time trying to get his hand through that letterbox for a start.

7. Have a nice day. Not necessarily true in Brooklyn or downtown LA, but for the most part Americans are absurdly polite and well, nice. We Brits tend to be rather cynical so if a shop assistant welcomes you in to a store and starts offering to 'start a room for you' it's a knee-jerk reaction to think they've just identified you as a shoplifter and are subliminally telling you to watch yourself mate, I've got my eye on you. Customer service here is rampant and not deemed beneath your dignity.

8. Driving. It is so much easier to drive over here. Firstly cars are mostly automatics, which make driving with that latte less of a first-degree burn hazard, secondly most roads were built after cars were invented so they are spacious and being forced to overtake is almost unknown (you haven't truly learned to drive in the UK unless you've had to overtake a tractor on a narrow, blind corner with 17 angry motorists in tow). Plus, the weather in CA makes driving a dream. It rains 2 or 3 times a year, other than that conditions are always perfect, no snow, driving rain, freezing fog, black ice, nothing.

9 People. I've met some pretty kick-ass people out here who I would miss terribly. Smart, funny, warm-hearted, genuine people. Friends who smile politely whenever I say 'shedule' instead of 'skedule' and who feign interest in England's inevitable defeat on penalties. And they all drink and serve great wine, hell, some of them even own wineries. What's not to love?

I know for completeness' sake there should be 10 things but don't push me OK? This was painful enough as it was.

It's The Thought That Counts

I need your help.

I need to know what to get Anna's preschool teachers as a Christmas gift. I was thinking Coffee Bean gift cards, but I'm sure that's what everyone gets them, so what then? $20 in an envelope? I expect that's what most poorly paid preschool teachers would like - cold hard cash.

I asked Anna if she had any suggestions, but my question of 'what would your teachers like for Christmas?' was met with the reply 'a lot of rainbow coloured bunnies in a cage'. Hmm, note to self, don't include a 2 year old in the decision-making process. On the plus side, I now know what to get her for Christmas. Well, that and a diamond.

So in an effort to please I actually asked a teacher from the class above Anna. I said I was new to the 'thank the teacher' thing, and did she have any suggestions? She literally grabbed me by the hands, pulled me to her chest and looked me straight in the eye to say 'anything you get that is from the heart would be gratefully appreciated'.

Waaaahhhh!!! Inappropriate body contact. Inappropriate talk about feelings. I'm too English. Waaahhhh!!!

So, I need your help, because I'm not bloody asking another live human being. The hug risk is too acute.

Who's A Pretty Girl Then?

I've always loved advent calendars, the countdown to Christmas marked out with each tiny door. I remember my Mum showing us our first calendar when I was 5 and my brother was 4. We would take it in turns to open it, revealing the Christmas picture within. December 1st was a christmas pudding. I remember that because we had the same advent calendar throughout my entire childhood. After 15 years you start to remember whether the picture of the christmas crackers falls on the 13th or the 15th.

This is America though, so Anna who's 2 has an Advent-Calendarpalooza courtesy of her Nani. No paltry piece of cardboard for her, not even a candy-filled yuletide marker. No, she has giant wooden calendar with an individually wrapped present for each day. I'm not even going to write about how spoiled she's going to become, or how, if we ever move back to the UK she's going to think she's moved back to the dark ages. I am going to write about what happens when a 2 year old gets a Santa ink-stamp on day 9 and you nip upstairs to go to the loo:
















If you look closely you can see each individual Father Christmas. How I managed to produce a daughter so obsessed with make-up is beyond me. She's even adorned each eye.

So, did you get anything just as exciting in your advent calendar today??

Seven Silly Stories About Me

With apologies for the satellite delay, here's the meme that Villa Luna tagged me on. I'm not sure if they all qualify as 'silly' but they're all pretty chuffing embarrassing.


1. Late one night in my first year at University a group of friends decided to come round to my room for the evening. Uncertain of the state of my room and not wishing to embarrass myself, I decided to race off in front so I could do a quick tidy before the hoards arrived. Unfortunately in my haste I tripped on a flight of stairs. My guests were greeted by the sight of me sprawled on the concrete, skirt over my head flashing a very questionable pair of knickers.

2. When my brother and I were very small I wanted to put a picture up in my room. We decided where it was going to go, and he kindly offered to bang in the nail for me. My Dad happened to be walking past my bedroom window at the time - approximately three seconds before my brother would have hammered that nail an inch above the light switch and electrocuted himself to death.

3. I once asked a French teacher how to spell 'double-v' (W).

4. I've been involved in 3 minor car accidents. Two of them have been in a garage.

5. When Anna was seconds old and handed to me for the first time I was so deranged I thought 'bloody hell, a baby'.

6. When LK and I first met we drove cross-country together from CA to NY in a VW Rabbit (a Golf to you Brits). For a reason that is too complicated to explain we had a surfboard on the roof. Whilst driving through Arizona we passed through a torrential downpour. I went "oh no, the surfboard" to which LK replied "shit yeah, we'd better not get it wet".

7. When I was very much younger I 'found' my cervix (don't ask), and thought I was dying of cancer. I never told a soul.

Follow Through!

As LK says every time he watches me play tennis "follow through, follow through, oh for the love of God, nrrghhgrrnnn". So, in the interests of continuity, and well, sense, I'm following up on the last couple of posts. Thankyou for all your lovely comments. I knew you all had diamond car stories and you did me proud.

Firstly, a Honda Pilot. We got a Honda Pilot. It would have been useful to perhaps mention this, as several of you kindly suggested, when writing about my new car. I chuffing *love it*. Apparently so does LK who drove it last night to get milk - 300 yards to the shop across the road.

Secondly, to answer my own question, how did we choose it? Well, I obviously had to solidify my reputation as a mainstream maven, ergo it was either a Toyota Highlander or a Honda Pilot. We are sick to the back teeth of our Ford and its random ailments, and my Honda Accord had eleventy billion miles on it with absolutely no care or attention from me, so another Honda was looking pretty likely. Plus one of my book club cohorts recommended the Pilot over the Highlander because it's bigger and you can haul an entire soccer team in it. That sounded like a nightmare to me, but apparently you want to be that Mum, the 'chauffeur-Mom', because they're the ones who get to listen in on the kids conversations while driving little Xavier/Madison/Ryland and Dave home. Another instance of book clubs ruling the chuffing world.

I will miss Jaffa though, and as my friend the fabulous Ms T. reminded me, I will miss its automatic seatbelts that felt you up every time you put the key in the ignition. I'm sure automatic seatbelts did seem like a great idea in 1990, but bloody hell, if you're driving that self same model 18 years later and the electric's on the blink, nothing screams new car like being constricted to death by an overly-enthusiastic seatbelt that's overridden it's shut-off.

Finally, to follow up on this post, no Cinderella story for Harrogate Railway, despite some very Yorkshire pluck and stick-to-it-iveness. You can read the match report here. They lost 3-2, almost a last gasp equalizer, and I particularly love this comment, 'And in the last minute Davidson, who works for a building society, shot powerfully at goal from the edge of the area.' Stupid building society. If only it'd been a bank that shot would've gone in. Click on the link to the interviews if you can. I may have been away from North Yorkshire for a decade, but Railway's Manager does not have a strikingly Yorkshire accent. Unintelligible yes. If only I could muster that much enthusiasm on the greatest day of my life.

Also, I've been tagged by villa luna, and I'm working on it OK? Seven silly stories coming up. I promise only one of them involves my cervix.

Chitty Chitty Bling Bling

I almost feel like I'm tempting fate by writing this, as if somehow my good fortune will disappear, like the England team always managing to snatch defeat from certain victory:

I have a new car.

This is absurdly overdue, as I've already mentioned, here and here.We have been in crisis mode with both our cars for a long time, managing to staunch vehicular hemorrhaging with regular oil changes and duct tape. My car was in particularly poor shape, because:

1. Smoke would curl ominously from the bonnet every time I drove on the freeway.

2. I didn't feel comfortable driving it more than 15 miles for fear it'd blow up.

3. Last time I went to get my oil changed the bloke said he couldn't do it. He couldn't change the oil if I didn't have any oil. That's how I found out I had an oil leak.

3. I was rear-ended about 4 years ago and as the insurance paid us rather than a garage and as the car was bashed up but still drivable we never had it fixed. The advantage to this was having the only easily recognizable Teal Honda Accord out of a sea of similar ones in Santa Barbara.

4. It was a 2-door. When I was pregnant I knew it would be impossible to get an infant in and out of a car-seat in a 2-door car. Almost three years later, I can add that it's almost impossible. As she got larger and larger I was flirting with the laws of physics to get her in to the back seat. Recently it was proving impossible to do it without banging Anna's head an the car roof as I literally had to fling her 28lb frame in to her car-seat as I couldn't take her weight with my arms outstretched. She's a great car passenger mostly due to a constant state of mild concussion.

The only cons to getting a new car were:

a. Paying for the damn thing.

b. Our tenants thinking we're living large off their hard-earned rents and keying the new car out of spite. Oh how I wish we were living large off their rents.

c. Having 14 feet 2 inches of pristine paint on each side of the car, and a narrow parking space. (this last comment seems to have been added by LK while I was away from the computer - thanks love).

Well, we've thrown caution to the wind and I now have a terrifyingly brand new SUV. Hello Soccer Mom-dom! This is a momentous occasion, as this is the first vehicle other than a bike that I've had any hand in choosing. All my other cars have been hand-me-downs. Not that I'm ungrateful you understand, but I have always merely ended up owning a car, I've never been instrumental in the decision-making process. I mean God Almighty, I drove a red Geo Storm for months that LK bartered from a friend (technically a 'Torm' as the S fell off never to be found). That car blew a head gasket after a matter of months - some would call it assisted suicide.

Going through the car-buying process has made me wonder though - how do you pick a car? There seem to be so many choices out there - how did you end up with yours? Was it a carefully weighed decision made with Consumer Reports in hand? Or did you just nick one you fancied from the local mall parking lot? Does anybody really say yes please, a brand new Dodge Neon, that's the car for me? What's the story behind your car?