Please Please Me

I feel like I need to preface this with:

YES I KNOW SHE'S ONLY TWO.

But.

Anna will not, no never, never ever say please. Unless coerced or prodded with a red-hot poker and then she will spit out a 'plissss' like a basketball leaking air.

It was killing me and I couldn't for the life of me understand it, because she will say thankyou at the drop of a hat (mostly 'aww fanks').'You're welcome' is practically a visceral reflex. You should have seen her puzzlement when in England she would say 'fanks' to my Mum and wait patiently for her to say 'you're welcome', which obviously is never going to happen in the North of England. You've just thanked me? Well so be it, but I OWE YOU NOTHING!

I couldn't work it out, because the easiest ways to learn something as a toddler are by repetition, copying or reward, right? Thankyou gets you nothing, (except a knee-jerk 'you're welcome sweetie'). If you say 'can I have some candy?'. Not bloody likely. 'Can I have some candy please', absolutely, go crazy, since you asked so nicely. You would think please would be a no-brainer because the bottom line is, it gets you stuff.

Besides, Anna is generally a really well-mannered little girl. Staggeringly so sometimes. The other week I was hunkered down on a toddler-sized picnic bench having a 'Mothers Day Brunch' at Anna's preschool. Suddenly Anna trotted off and returned with a tissue. I was just in the middle of saying 'oh I have a napkin for you love', when she turned to the smaller girl sitting next to her, gently cradled the back of her head and wiped a giant trail of snot from under her nose whilst saying 'there you go sweetie'. Obviously she put me to shame - I hadn't even noticed the little girl's snot-slug. Anna's a genuinely good kid, and a fast learner. Why wasn't she saying please?

Then my friend R. enlightened me. People don't say please anymore (and I'm not prepared to make the cultural leap here and say it's just California - I honestly had not been paying attention to this phenomenon when in England, so I don't know if it's been abandoned there either). R's point was, please gets you nothing, because not saying please very often gets you the same stuff anyway. Furthermore, kids, and since I've started paying attention, adults too, don't 'ask' for things. They command.

"I want Anna tunes"
"Sure, do you want Old MacDonald or Twinkle Twinkle"

"Dada, I need a drink"
"Sure, do you want water or juice?"

"I'll take a ham on wheat, mayo no mustard"

See what I mean?

It's amazing that since we've issued the 'must say please' rule for getting stuff that what we're actually realizing is the number of times we give her things when she doesn't say please, and the number of times we don't say it either. No wonder she wasn't picking it up, we were effectively making it redundant - R. was spot on!

I know there are bigger pre-schooler battles so fight. Not peeing on somebody else's carpet for example (sorry Jen!), but I always wanted my kid to be the polite one. It would seem I might need to lead by example?

I blame the parents.

The Anna Button!!

When I first got my new car it came complete with XM radio. LK pre-programmed some channels for me and it was goodbye NPR, hello non-stop 80s at the press of a button. I can't tell you what a hit that 80s button was on our girls-only wine tasting trip in February, while Anna cooperated by sleeping through Men at Work and some cracking Cindy Lauper.

I wasn't the only one who got used to the XM radio, as soon as Anna got in the car she would demand I press the 'Anna button' switching us from 80s gold to the mind-numbing nursery-rhymes that are her current vogue. Sadly I had to ditch the XM a few months ago. I have a four minute commute to work and I couldn't justify the luxury, so it's back to eight minutes of NPR a day, which leaves me tantalisingly half-educated about Ghandian basket-weaving.

Unless Anna is in the car and then she still demands 'the Anna button' .

I would actually welcome any suggestions from parents out there who have some good kids CDs to listen to that won't leave me wanting to claw my own ears off at every 'hey diddle diddle'.

In the meantime, I bring you this, courtesy of my friend Jen. Kids songs that won't have you resorting to driving on valium. Damn this is funny:

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.

Happy Mothers Day/Mothering Sunday

Rare photo of me caught in the act of 'mothering'.

Did you know that the UK and the US have different dates for Mothers Day? I'm sure every US/UK expat is more than aware of that logistical nightmare thank you very much.

In the UK 'Mothering Sunday' is tied to Easter and is thus a 'floating holiday' usually floating in to my consciousness the minute I turn my 'Yorkshire Beautiful' calendar over from February to March and realise YET AGAIN that Mothers Day is mere days away and I'd better getter my arse on Amazon.co.uk pdq.

It is not easy to track two Mothers Days, or at least that was LK's excuse this time last year when we were England. I dug deep into my passive-agressive personality when I informed him he'd best call his Mom as it was Mothers Day in the States. I watched his Adams apple bob as the repercussions hit home.

"You're not my Mom" he countered.

To be honest, fair play, I'm not, but we both knew that such an approach would jeopardize his Fathers Day golf game. A handcrafted 'Anna special' card and a few hastily plucked flowers from my Mum and Dad's garden about fifteen minutes later meant we had entered into a new detente. I think we both knew that 1 for 2 for Mothers Days was not an auspicious start and that he'd have to come up trumps in 2008.

At least I think we both understood that. The Lakers do in fact have a play-off game tomorrow so we shall see.

---------------------------------------------

Updated to add:

Here's just a small selection of the thirty+ homemade Mothers Day cards I received this morning:




















These, coupled with a picnic with friends at a private beach this afternoon, I would say he is *redeemed* wouldn't you? and I will now officially quit my damn whining.

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?

Weddings: Part Deux

Where was I? Oh yes, so we came back from London, having had a simply marvellous time running around being both childless and childish, and taking ridiculously touristy photos like these:













































This doesn't look at all like London does it?







We had a fantastic time staying with some old friends Eggy & Tom at their shamefully fabulous place which made me want to start working harder in life, and then I realised I quite like having Fridays off and must content myself with living in squalor. Sunny squalor. I did have a long hard lust at their bookshelves in the guest bedroom where I wanted to read 89.9% of their entire collection, and only then because I'd already read 7.8%. My second night away from the creature ever, a skinful of fantastic wine and all I wanted to do was stay up all night and read. Prize for wife of the year right here please.

We literally stepped off the train from London and my brother's wedding arrived.








Thanks to my cousin Andrew for the photos.


And it was absolutely perfect. Even the terror of me doing a reading, and LK being the best man and having to do a speech to rival the Father of the Bride and the groom (no easy task) did not detract from the day. It was one of those weddings where everything seemed to go right. Of course I missed the juiciest part of the night as Anna fell asleep on my shoulder at 10:30pm, and if she could sleep on me while I was dancing to 'Night Fever' then all was lost and I clearly had to take her to bed.












I missed dancing with my brother (who dances so well only the fact that he was the groom would make you not question his sexuality), and I may never forgive Anna for the fact that I missed the bacon butties brought round at midnight.

The amount of love in that room was overwhelming (and not just from my brother's friend who was trying to mate with everything in a skirt). It sounds trite, but it was very life-affirming to be surrounded by all those people that I love, and to see them so happy.

Thanks P & L, I think you made me realise that things can never be truly bleak when everything we'll ever really need we have.

Two Weddings & A Fascinator

Oh, you want to hear more about the trip?!

As much as we all love going to England, we wouldn't ordinarily have left our nuclear-mushroom-cloud of a life in California just as the fiscal A-bomb was about to make landfall. However, my baby brother was getting married, and thanks to some generous financial assistance, we were able to buy that one extra plane ticket for the creature. Our child who no longer flies free. She already has a passport littered with immigration stamps, but now that she's old enough to require her own seat her traveling days may be limited to the Ventura Target, and that's only if gas prices don't keep rising.

We had to take her though, as not only did she have a fabulous dress to wear:













but she's the only recent offspring on both sides of the family, and therefore about as popular as a half-price sale in the Marks & Spencers knicker section.

*Very popular*.

As luck and fantastic friendship would have it though, we ended up sneaking in a second wedding a few days before my brother's big bash. My BFF from University, Sus, is getting married in May. She knows pretty much all my secrets, so I'm not going to publish *that picture* (plus, she's an incredibly famous actress darling, and there is such a thing as bad publicity - or bad hair). Sadly we can't make it over in May, because breaking it to an American employer that you're taking three weeks off in a single year is hard enough. Twice in one year, not going to happen. So we were truly gutted that we would miss her walking down the aisle with this fabulous man:



















How Sus, who is half American, married a bloke from Yorkshire, and I, who can't leave THE NORTH without hyperventilating, married an American, has got to be one of the biggest, but most fantastic mix-ups of all time. If someone had told us 15 years ago in the College bar that was going to happen, we'd have wanted to be drinking what they were drinking.

Anyway, back to the story. In order for them to get married in a rose garden in Kent, they would have to get married in a registry office first (in England the place is legally consecrated for marriage, not the person). Here is where I will be forever grateful. Instead of going to the registry office the morning of their big wedding, they chose to get the legal bit over with a month earlier so that we could be present. When she first suggested this as an option I literally choked up. It was an incredible honour.

My Mum and Dad watched Anna overnight, and we headed down to London, to Haringey registry office where it was truly beautiful to see two very accomplished actors fluff their vows ever so slightly because they were overcome by the enormity of the moment. It was beautiful, classy, sweet and sincere. And then we went for ice-cream:















and they called everyone they knew and said 'we just got married' and the bloke at Thornton's gave them free chocolates because they'd only been married for fifteen minutes, and love ruled Haringey(?) High Street and all was right with the world.















.....to be continued.

It's A Bit Parky

She looks cute, but she's actually frozen solid.














One of the first things people ask when you return from a trip to the UK is 'how was the weather?'. I usually reply, 'there was plenty of it'.

California doesn't have weather, it has a climate. Not so the north of England!! What a difference a few weeks make. Last year we went home in early May, and England was at her sun-dappled green and leafy best. This time we went home and the phrase 'it's grim oop North' certainly seemed more appropriate. You know how people returning from Las Vegas always say 'but it's a dry heat'. Well in North Yorkshire 'it's a damp cold'. A malevolent cold that penetrates your core and refuses to leave, like someone's stuck a wet facecloth down your woollens never to be seen again. If you leave a damp towel on the floor it will not dry over time, in fact it will suck up more moisture, like a giant clammy sponge. It took me two weeks to remember to leave our towels over the radiators, and then it was time to leave. I think Anna first realized she wasn't in Kansas anymore when she sat on her first UK toilet seat and said 'Mummy, my butt is cold!'. British bums are made of sterner stuff.

I'll be the first to admit that my memories of the weather in North Yorkshire have become a little hazy with time. I didn't bring capri trousers in my suitcase like I did last year. *Moron*. The phrase 'ne'er cast a clout til May is out' is time-worn for a reason. You know that facial expression when somebody first dips a delicate toe into the frigid Californian Pacific? That was our facial expression for the entire trip. I began to rethink that halter-neck dress I'd bought for my brother's wedding, and started wondering if I could fashion a pashmina out of a goose-down duvet (tasteful darling, but I can't walk through doors).

Surprisingly LK loves British weather. He works outdoors, so the chance to escape the never-ending sun is a real holiday for him. I was worried about Anna though, whether her delicate Californian constitution would hold up to the wuthering of THE NORTH. I couldn't have been more wrong, because Anna had arrived in the Land of Puddles and was having the time of her life. It took us fifteen minutes to go a hundred yards, but hey, she was happy. This is 'stock footage' of her reveling in a puddle after a brief rainstorm in SB in February. See how happy?













She even got to make a snowball, and was so thrilled with the idea that she asks me at least once a day since we got back if it's snowing. Err, no, it's not snowing, it's 97º in the shade sweet-pea. That's why Mummy's blogging with no clothes on (apologies for that visual).

Basically it didn't rain that much, it just looked like it was going to all the time. It would go from hail to sleet to rain to sun then back to hail in a dizzying five minutes that would have us racing to the washing line four times an hour to retrieve the laundry.

People hang their washing out to dry in England, always have done. If anything embodies a spirit of absurd optimism in the face of reality, it's hanging your washing out to dry in North Yorkshire. Now it's the cool and eco-friendly thing to do of course, but it's mainly done out of thrift. I once asked some friends in SB why nobody does that here. I mean it seems far more sensible to hang your washing out in California, land of perma-sun, than in Manchester, every Atlantic raindrop's first port of call. Someone replied 'oh, we have tumble dryers here'. Ah yes thankyou! The industrial revolution. We Brits must get on that. I think thriftiness/tightness has to be the only answer because there is nothing as soul-destroying as hanging cold, wet washing out under a leaden sky.(For the record my Mum and Dad do have a tumble dryer, used for monsoon-like conditions). But why don't people hang their clothes out to dry in the States? Are you embarrassed people will think you can't afford a tumble dryer? Is it laziness? My excuse it that I'd be worried our tenants would nick our clothes, but we don't all live in ghettos. What's your excuse?

Tag You're It

I've been tagged on a meme by the ever inspirational Almost American. I mean, what's not to love about someone who posts things like this?

It's always nice to be tagged (particularly if you're still feeling some post-vacation lethargy and are about as inspired as a Wet Wednesday in Wetherby). To be honest though, the real clincher was the first question, as you will see:

1. What was I doing 10 years ago?
I always think the word 'apropos' is used by ponces, or as my friend Sue would say, 'nobbers', but damn if this question wasn't, well apropos darling. While I was back home cleaning out any evidence of my existence from my former bedroom (Hi Mum!) - I came across a letter I'd written to my parents in April 1998.

Before reading the letter I would have said that 10 years ago I was newly married, had just emigrated to the US, was dealing with immigration, not able to work, out of my gourd with boredom, and coming to terms with the fact that bravery does not come with the act of moving to a new country, it comes with living with that decision. I remember with absolute clarity the first time I realised (in 1998) that I was only ever going back to England for a couple of weeks every other year, for the foreseeable future. The homesickness was desperate and overwhelming.

LK remembers it like this:

LK: Can you pass the salt?
Me: *Sob* They have salt in England! (followed by 10 hours of foetal position wailing).

As you can imagine, when I found the letter I was pretty interested to see if AliBlahBlah circa 1998 felt the same way:

It begins, 'Today is officially the last day of my 3-month visa waiver, so as from tomorrow, just to make my immigration situation more interesting, I'll be carrying round an expired visa in my passport'.
Then I mention the fact that I probably wouldn't be able to go to my oldest friend's wedding that May because of immigration, and my need to get 'Advance Parole' in order to leave the country. (In the end it did not arrive in time and I did not make it to my friend's wedding because they sent paperwork for 'political asylum and establishment of refugee status' because the INS are absolute morons.)

Towards the end I wrote 'sometimes I get the distinct impression that I'm not doing justice to my life and that I could be getting an awful lot more done' - don't I sound the doe-eyed bride?! My parents must have been so reassured and happy. Clearly things have not changed much in 10 years, although I am slightly more reconciled to my underachieving.

and the piece de resistance, I wrote that our friend Mooks had just been round to set us up with 'our very first e-mail address'. I remember it being completely useless for months as no-one in the UK had one, but hey - that was progress 10 years ago!

Anyway, on with the meme:

2. 5 snacks I enjoy:
Salt and vinegar hula hoops
Guacamole and chips (and margaritas)
Jalapeno Cheetos
Sourdough bread & butter
Kettlecorn

3.Things I would do if I was a billionaire:
Buy a small one-bedroom fixer-upper in Santa Barbara.
Ha, oh ha ha ha.

4. 5 jobs I've had:
Production Studio Assistant - where I met REAL STARS (well, Jeff Bridges).
Exam Board Mark Checker - I actually stapled my thumb out of boredom.
Paper-girl - I earned about £1.35/hr as each drive was about .5 miles long in poncey Harrogate.
Receptionist - I still have nightmares
Medical Practice Manager - I'm living the nightmare (only joking).

5. 3 bad habits:
Situational alcoholism
Looking for split ends in my hair
Worrying.

6. 5 places I've lived:
Derby
Harrogate
Cambridge
Carpinteria, CA
Santa Barbara, CA

I know, I've hardly been slumming it have I?

7. 5 people I want to know more about:
Me
Me
Me
Me
Me

Or else why would I blog?

Sounds Painful

Anna, last night while we're all fighting to stay awake until 8pm Pacific Time:

"Momma, I need a band-aid."
"You do?"
"Yep I do. A big one. I have an owie." *pained expression*
"Really, where?"
"Right here" - rolls up trouser leg and points to pristine chubby flesh
"Huh, I can't see anything, does it really hurt?"
"Yep it does. I have jet-leg".

It Was The Best of Times...It Was The Worst of Times

I know, where the bloody hell have I been?

Sorry.

I went home, and I didn't tell you did I? Not even a Dear John letter. We went home to weddings, snow, sideways sleet and hail and we loved every minute of it.

Now I'm back and curiously not as terrified as I thought I would be. We have some rather worrying times ahead (in American, read 'scary-ass-shit') - things that would make a grown woman cry - and frequently have -, and this vacation was rather like landing in the eye of a hurricane. Major crapola flying all around while I enjoyed endless cups of tea and Anna stalwartly refused to pick up a British accent. I had thought that I'd be on the plane coming back to the States as someone mounting the steps to the guillotine, but I feel oddly calm.

Maybe that's why going on holiday is such a good idea. Maybe I just needed a little break, a little time, a little perspective. Genius!

I suddenly feel like I can cope, at least in the short-term. Of course right now I'm horrendously jet-lagged and walking around high as a kite on fatigue and caffeine, so my perception of reality may be a tad skewed. I have already driven on the wrong side of the road twice since we arrived back on Saturday night. ­ The first time I made a comically exaggerated right hand turn into oncoming traffic until I realised what the chuff I was doing and veered back in to the correct lane. Good times.

I'm sure if you ask LK about my newfound sense of inner peace he'd raise an eyebrow about a foot in the air and point out that I freaked out on the plane flying back from Manchester. Justifiably I would say though. There was another plane at the same altitude as us, and we were nowhere near an airport. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and thought, hmm, that's odd you never see planes flying parallel, and especially not that close. Hmm, quite close really. Yes, gosh, really quite close now. Holy fucking shit, it was getting closer, and closer, and I was trying really hard not to watch it, but damn if I couldn't see it clearly enough to register that it was another United flight, and how many windows it had, and Jesus bloody Christ do planes have blind-spots because what the hell is our pilot trying to do, play chicken? An instant later we were flying through it's jet-trail and LK peeled me off the ceiling.

At least I didn't projectile vomit upon landing, like Anna, but hey, Chicago can have that effect on some people.

So yes, calm and collected that's me. We'll see how long that lasts.

The Best of Both Worlds

With a nod towards Rudyard Kipling; for my daughter, my little half-breed, I wish her:

• The freedom of the New World and the humility of the Old World.

• An English vocabulary, the American confidence to speak up.

• The drive and ambition of America, coupled with a sense that the greatest happiness can come from a quiet and unassuming life.

• The competitive spirit of American sports with British fair play and good sportsmanship.
  

• A good education without the need to wear it across your chest or on a bumper sticker on your car.
  

• That knowledge is an end in itself, not just a step in the pursuit of the almighty dollar.

• To know that beauty is not defined by blonde hair, blue eyes, a size zero or straight white teeth (sadly both of her countries will fail to teach her this).
  

• To live in a country where neither the Old Boys Network nor a lack of money will determine her future.
  

• The confidence of her own opinions without the need to enforce them on every person she meets.
  

• The 'freedom' to support the Lakers, Manchester United, the Dodgers and England football club otherwise she will be disowned.
  

• To be as happy knee deep in muck on a windy hillside as lying on a million dollar yacht in a sun-drenched harbor.
  

• American generosity, without overeating, over-dressing or over-killing.

• To be comfortable with her own body and able to physically express herself, with the knowledge that she won't die if she sees a naked breast on TV or on a beach.

• To have fun, play, and be a child, yet be able to behave with dignity and class.

• To dream big, like Americans, and still be happy with living small.

• To forgive her mother her idealistic ramblings.

Tennis

LK knows a lot about tennis. When we first started going out he told me that he was 'All American', and I replied 'oh that's nice, I'm All British'.

I'm amazed we've made it thus far.

Anyway, one of the wonderful things he has introduced me to is a love of tennis. In 2005 B.C. (Before Child) I must have played about 4-5 times a week, rising to the rank of '#1 doubles team' at our local club.

It's an honour to know me isn't it?

Now, 2008 A.D. (Anna Dominates) going to Palm Springs to watch the Pacific Coast Open is about as close as I get to a tennis ball. I miss tennis, I really do, but not enough to pay someone $15/hr to watch the creature while I run around having fun. These are tough times people.

We bought grounds passes to get in to the tournament, which is such a brilliant deal because every single player you could wish to see is there warming up on the side courts and you can get much closer to them than if you were in the stadium watching them play.

Being that close brings out the star-fucker in everyone. Check out this ASS (actual star sighting):














Federer (looking rather dapper and far less caveman-ish than usual I thought).

Plus, the players are having fun, warming up, playing practice sets, and in the case of Djokovic taking his shirt off entirely and running around with a bunch of other Croats playing football leaving LK to comment 'he should really stick to tennis'.






Nadal, he seems like such a nice bloke but I can't get over the fact that he looks like a rodent.
















My Mum saw these pictures LK took of Sherapova and said
'at first I thought it was you'.















Thanks Mum!!

3 months of doing 'group power' at the gym have not quite garnered me abs like that....but a girl can dream, and LK can hint. (As an aside, he once said to me 'I wouldn't mind if you got really buff you know').

Hmm, I'll get right on it.








Here's my personal favourite, Ivan Lubicic.

Yum.














This completely throws LK who cannot understand why I fancy this balding bloke who looks more like a thug than a tennis player. To which I reply I'm not exactly a delicate flower myself and 'tall and powerfully built' has always made me look less of a she-man and for heavens sake stop questioning me and let me drool in peace.

So LK wandered off to take eleventy-billion photos of Anna Ivanovic, and the next time I saw him I hadn't moved a muscle and he busted me doing some more Lubicic-stalking:






See how I'm trying to pretend that the massive green stroller to my right does not belong to me?

I may look like a drowning fish, but that's me trying to look shocked and indignant that he thought I'd been watching Lubicic the entire time he was gone......





We went to this same tournament 2 years ago when Anna was knee-high to a grasshopper. LK had wandered off again, and I swear I just happened to be right by the gate when Lubicic walked off the court. I ditched the toddler and grabbed the first piece of paper I could find to get his autograph, and as if by magic LK appeared behind my left ear and said 'oh that's nice'.

Busted.

Palm Springs Weekend

Palm Springs, where white people go to die.















Seriously, have you ever been to Palm Springs? It's got to be one of the most bizarre places on earth. It's full of death-defying Caucasian retirees in pastel-coloured lightweight cotton casuals.

Creepy.

I'll admit we were staying in the heart of country-club-ville but you get the impression that there is literally nothing but gated communities, sprinklers and golf carts. Where are all the normal people who service this lifestyle? Where are the children, the cleaners, the huddled masses?

My sense of the surreal was not helped by the fact that the house we stayed in had piped music playing in every room all the time. Frank Sinatra and the like. For the first few hours as that first margarita sank in it was all rather retro and hip. Then it started to get annoying, and I could only find seven of the no doubt eight radio controls (literally mounted next to the light switch in every room).

Bing Crosby continued to serenade me.

But I could lie in bed and look out at the snow covered mountains, see the grapefruit and lemon trees outside my bedroom window and watch my gently sleeping child.

While LK golfed.















(I think this photo is upside down but I can't be arsed to fix it.)

It sounds fun, but I was literally terrified of falling asleep in case Anna woke and somehow found her way unsupervised to the pool, with which she was obsessed.

My weekend went like this:

"Can we go swimming?"
"No, sorry love it's too cold"
"Why?"
"Because it's not a heated pool"
"Why?"
"Because it's usually too hot here to have to heat it"
"Why?"
"Because this is the desert?"
"Why"
"------"
"Can we go swimming"
"No Mummy has to get drunk now"
"Why"
"Because I said so"
"Why"
"Because this is the desert"
"Can we put our swimsuits on and, and, and, go in the swimming pool" - nice change of tack there with the addition of 'can we put our swimsuits on' - but no dear, it's still a no.
"Why"
"-----"

- Pause of maybe 3 nanoseconds -

"Can we go swimming in the, swimming pool"

Poor thing. Fortunately there was a bathtub the size of a small Santa Barbara apartment. Where we swam.

A lot.



















Apart from the terror of toddler-drowning and 10am cocktails we had a lovely time. We were there to see the Pacific Coast Open (more on that later), the late-night golf cart rides through the sprinklers on the 9th, 10th & 11th holes were just gravy.

The truly terrifying thing about Palm Springs is that's where LK sees us in 40 years time. Him golfing every day and me no doubt on my 4th Bloody Mary by 10am, bracing myself for another browse through the Coldwater Creek catalog.

Yikes.

Bad News Bourbon

A few weeks ago I came clean about some stuff and wrote this post and the lovely Fluffy made good on her promise and delivered both a cherry pie and a bottle of bourbon:








The cherry pie clearly didn't linger long enough to be photographed.....









Anyway, I decided to name this bottle 'bad news bourbon' and to drink it whenever I felt in need of a little Kentucky Kourage (rather than Dutch courage). I can't express how gobsmacked I am that it's almost one month later and the seal is still on the bottle. You can trust me when I say I'm touching wood when I'm writing this!!

The point to this post, other than to thank a truly lovely lady, is to say I will be drinking a shot in her honour tonight as I've just heard she might be in need of some Kentucky Kourage herself.

So here's to you Fluffy.

Cheers!

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.