365:4 A Gift, originally uploaded by texasgurl.
So, I spent too much time yesterday getting my site transferred to its very own url. And here you are! http://family-of-five.com! Isn’t that fancy? Aren’t you impressed with my techno-savv abilities?
Naw, really, the transfer part was easy, but getting the site to look the way I want will take another week or two, I imagine.
Got a haircut this weekend. That was a big step for me. All the salons in my neighborhood look a little run-down, which had me imagining myself with some kind of grandma-hairdo. Which wouldn’t do.
But there was a girl in a pub with a cute haircut who brought me a cup of coffee, so I said, “Excuse me, but I have to say that your hair is just darling. Did you get it cut around here?”
Turned out she got it cut right next door, and now I have her exact same haircut, pretty much. As did the woman who got her hair cut before me. No seriously, it’s cute–even if the stylist is a one-trick pony I’ll probably go back there again, at least until I find someplace better.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, “Why are you talking about your haircut so much in a blog post that doesn’t include your head?”
Well, Snotties, the answer is that I liked the photo above because it was more welcoming for the first post on the new site. And also, because I’m annoying.
Oh, alright, fine.
After school. And she made a friend, but as predicted, not the assigned one.
And so, so excited. She loves school, like her mama did, but she’s shy in new situations, which her mama never was. She’s there now and although I’m sure it’s going well, I’m nervous. We were escorted to her classroom after the bell rang (the Head Teacher takes an actual bell down the playground and rings it), so that we could meet her classroom teacher and see where her room is. She has a male teacher again this year, and he was calling roll and asking the children whether they’re having “school dinner” or “packed lunch.” He asked Girlish as she walked in the room, and she was a bit confused about how she was supposed to answer, so she said, “School dinner,” so quietly he had to ask her again. I fought down the urge, first to answer for her, and then, to sneak up to her seat and give her a little pep-talk. As he went down the roll after her, we learned that the standard roll-call exchange actually goes like this:
“Johnny Whitsteed?”
“Good morning, Mr. Guy. School dinner, please,” or, “Good morning, Mr. Guy. Packed lunch, please.”
The British are really rather proper compared to, “Here,” which is what I used to say when they called my name. And please? Please.
Then Mr. Guy assigned Girlish a “friend for the day,” so hopefully that will go well. I mean, we walked back by the front office with the assigned friend and Girlish to drop off the class roll, and although she didn’t say a word to any of us, I’m sure she was just feeling shy, like Girlish was herself. I keep thinking about it though, wishing he could’ve assigned her a more talkative friend. But I didn’t go back to the room to suggest that. That would be inappropriate–even I know that. I wouldn’t want to hurt that rude little girl’s feelings, right? Maybe that’s the just the British way, to not say a word to your assigned friend.
Sigh. It feels like a long time until 3:15.
Today my doorbell rang at 7:30am (it’s what time my mail arrives) and Rod went down and retrieved a girnormous box from the Postman. In it were clothes for Babe-ish, who has outgrown almost everything I packed for her due to the delay in the arrival of our things from California, a cute outfit for Boyish, a cute outfit for Girlish, and for me: two gorgeous new pans. The perfect pans. The kind of pans you can never have too many of. I can’t wait, can’t WAIT to cook with them tonight. Girlish and Boyish stripped off their pj’s and got dressed in their new clothes immediately. Everything fits. Especially the pans. They look really really good on me (dontcha think?). Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Bella!
My pans. When oh, when will my pans arrive? Fiona left us a couple of pans, a few dishes, a mixing bowl, 2 cookie sheets and some flatware. Some odd glasses and mugs. I favor the one with sketches of Pooh Bear, not because I love Pooh, but because it is the largest. The pans are crap. I would have left them behind, too. They heat up, in like one spot, exactly where the burner is touching them, and despite the nonstick coating everything sticks to them and I have burned more in the last month than in the last ten years.
I miss my mugs. I miss the small brown clay one, round like a ball in the palm of my hand, with its rough exterior and carefully finger-painted stripes, its smooth green interior. I miss the blue clay one, with its faded suggestion of a dragonfly on the side, the one that feels as if it was made for my hand, fatter and thicker at the bottom and more narrow at the chipped rim, so my tea stays warm.
I miss my teapots.
My pans are Calphalon, by the way. They are thick and heavy and they get hot fast; they heat evenly.
I know I’m rambling but I also miss my clothes. I thought I brought enough to get by with Babe-ish, but she has outgrown just about everything in her drawers. And I miss our drawers.
I miss putting my children to sleep in their beds, and I wish I had their furniture so I could set up their rooms and put out their toys and make them more at home here.
I miss my books. My god, I really miss my books. I have a list of them that I use to make sure I’m actually reading all the books I buy, and today I was looking at that list and wishing I had any one of those books here so I could read them. I am working on a story about mental illness, told in the second person, and I need my Lorrie Moore, my Julie Orringer, my Mark Haddon.
Because I have been feeling this way, I have been calling the movers, trying to get some sort of status report on our things. I called before we left for Germany, trying to talk to “Dave,” some guy who was supposed to know how to help us. Dave was out, but he’d be back around 2:00. So I called back at 2:00, and Dave was busy, could he call me back? Sure, I said, leaving my California number–we have, via the marvels of modern technology, ported our old number so that it rings in our house in London. It couldn’t be easier, really for Dave and his people to call us back. So, of course, he never called.
When I returned from Germany, I called. Because of the time difference, I was able to call the night I got in, after taking one plane, three trains and a cab to get to our house. Dave was unavailable, could he call me back tomorrow?
I called on Wednesday, and Dave was—you guessed it—on the phone, and could he call me back?
Today, I had no illusions, really, that Dave might call. I called him, but I was prepared to tell Andy or Joe or whoever happened to answer the phone that I had called three days in a row, and twice last week, and I was prepared to wait for Dave to come the phone. Tell him it’s me again; tell him I’m waiting, please.
So, I talked to Dave just now, and he told me, yeah, he needed my address so he could send me a FedEx with some paperwork they needed.
I gave him the address and asked what sort of paperwork? “Oh, copies of your passports, a couple other things, then we can ship your stuff out.”
“Okay,” I said, not getting it, “Has it arrived in London, then?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, “It’s still sitting in our warehouse in Oakland.”
* * *
I could go on, obviously. I could tell you exactly what I said to him, about why no had one called me for 60 days to let me know they needed some “paperwork,” about how I had FedExed them money to expedite the shipment and had called them repeatedly, and was never told anything about “paperwork”; about how I was practically camping in an apartment with 3 children in London, waiting on our things, and even, about how my baby was fucking outgrowing her clothes waiting for them to arrive, and could he please, rather than making me wait on the international mail, just tell me what they needed, and work with me to expedite it so that our stuff could leave the mother-fucking dock, like, yesterday two months ago?
I am trying to get my head around this. I am getting ready to write some letters. I will not. Cry. I will not cry. I won’t.
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Fries = Chips, and
Chips = Crisps, but
Crisps ≠ Fries, even if they’re overdone.
Other Food:
Fiona offered my chickens some fromage frais that first day we met and I, feeling worldly and European, said sure, they could try fromage frais. Um, okay, it’s only flavored yogurt—like the kind I buy for my kids all the time. The only difference I can see is that fromage frais sounds French, which makes it fancier, and it comes in a tiny container, like a serving of baby food.
Rocket. I have no idea what this is, but I’ve seen it on several menus. Any help, here? Buffy?
Things To Know:
A rack to dry your clothes on is not a drying rack, or even a clothes rack, but an “airer;” and, according to the label on the package for the one I bought, a spatula is—I love this—a “slotted turner.”
Movies = Cinema
Change = Sterling
Cents = Pence or simply, “P”.
It’s About Communication:
Your diary is not the written repository of your innermost thoughts and feelings, but rather, the daily schedule you check before you plan something; and if you need to use the bathroom, better ask for “the loo,” no matter how silly you might feel saying it. If you ask for the bathroom, the restroom or the ladies’ room, people will usually point you in the right direction, but there will be a pause—a hiccup in the communication as they take a moment to work out what you mean:
Does this woman need to wash her hands, or take a bath? Surely she doesn’t intend to bathe, here, in the restaurant? She looks relatively clean, I suppose, and there is that rather hyperactive child clinging to her hand, jumping up and down and whatnot—oh! She’s looking for the loo!
Half-Nine = 9:30. I like this one; it saves a syllable.
Bin, both verb and noun, is used to refer to trash cans and the act of throwing something out. Rubbish, not trash, goes in the bin. Rubbish can also be used to refer to something you don’t like, are disdainful of, or find to be in poor taste or of poor quality.
Sort, or sorted. Used as a verb or an adjective to mean worked-out, work it out, figured out, figure-it-out, or resolved. Overused, even.
Mail is “post,” both noun and verb, as in “Here is your first bit of post,” and “Do you need to post a letter?” Post boxes, incidentally, are shaped like cylinders, and the Royal Mail’s signature color is red.
Hoover is huge over here. Did you know they make refrigerators? And clothes dryers? (Our refrigerator is a Hoover, but I can only assume the bit about the dryer is true based on rumors and reports. I haven’t actually seen a dryer here, yet. More on that later. I have issues.) The British have adopted “hoover” to mean both the act of vacuuming and the vacuum cleaner itself. Fiona told me, “I’m so sorry, I forgot to hoover the cupboards before I left.”
Cupboard: generally what I would refer to as a cabinet, but may also refer to any sort of small closet. This is a word I very much enjoy using, as I find it rather quaint, and it puts me in touch with my inner Victorian.
I had originally thought I might feel pretentious using these “Britishisms,” and therefore had every intention of shunning them in favor of the good ol’ American words I already know. I realize though, that now I’m here that won’t be possible. Living in another culture is, at its most basic level, about speaking the language. How arrogant of me, I realize now, to think that I spoke English already.
Taking a cue from my dear friend NatDawg, and listing 10 Things That Make Me Happy (Right Now). If nothing else, it seems like a good exercise. I could much more easily list 20 Things That Bug the Shit Out of Me, but I am resolved to be more sunny and optimistic and I WON’T.
1. My camera. I love it in a way that I have never loved any other inanimate object since Cuddles, a teddy bear with a rattle in his tail that I slept with until he pretty much fell apart. If I get into bed at night, and I can’t see in my mind’s eye exactly where I put my my camera, I have to get up and find it before I can go back to sleep.
2. The internets. It’s sad, but at the moment my entire social life outside my immediate family is online. I have flickr-friends, blogging friends (and new ones here, and here), and twitter friends, some of whom are also my friends in real actual animated life. You know who you are.
3. My chickens. They are loud and high-maintenance; they make me crazy, but they are also my greatest and most reliable source of joy.
4. My man. He’s hot. He’s the rock that I grab onto when the current threatens to sweep me away and pull me under. We have been married 9 years today.
5. My laptop. Oh Mac, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: so silvery, so quiet, so useful. The instrument that manifests my creative endeavors; where I write, play artist, and communicate.
6. Harry Potter. I’m enjoying the mania. I left HP world after Book V, but have been happily dragged back in with this latest and final release. No spoilers, please, our Bloomsbury copy of Deathly Hallows is calling me from the back of the couch where it has lain, forlorn, since we brought it home from the release party. Just as soon as I finish The Half-Blood Prince.
7. My new green amber ring that Rod bought me in New Orleans.
8. Our new house. It’s spacious, bright, and comfortable, and the garden is beautiful. The view from our kitchen window is nothing but green treetops. In London. I can’t wait for our things to arrive so that I can make a home here.
9. British Accents. They are infinitely varied, and oh-so-pleasant to my ears. They have given me a whole new appreciation for the English language, which I was pretty taken with even before I moved here. There’s something about hearing all different kinds of people talk the same, but not the way I’m used to hearing it, that reinforces the fact that we share this human experience.
10. Change. I’m really enjoying the fact that everything around me is suddenly different than it used to be. It’s exciting, invigorating, energizing. I’m looking forward to gaining a more intimate understanding of the world by living in a different place, to eating different food, seeing castles and meeting new people. It’s like starting over, but starting over knowing all I’ve learned so far. It feels, in my best moments, like I might be making the most of my life.
I had big plans to do a sweet self-portrait of me and my chickens tonight, reading a story by lamplight in their sparsely-furnished bedroom—maybe in black and white—and write about how I am trying to help them regain some normalcy after all our travels. I wanted to say that I am trying to feed them earlier, and put them to bed on time, and settle into something of a routine again, because I love them and take good care of them and I am such a fantastic mother.
You know how this story ends, right?
So, since we landed in our new digs, Boyish has determined to discover what exactly will happen if he seriously injures his baby sister. He has pushed, kicked, and pulled her over onto the floor, the bedframe, the wooden train tracks strewn about the living room. The way I figure it, it’s only a matter of time until he discovers the stairs.
So while I’m setting up our portrait, he saw that Babe-ish had his toothbrush (which he never uses) in her fat little fist. So he snatched it away, making her cry. I snatched it back, explaining how snatching is wrong, and gave it back to the her. He then grabbed some dental flossing thing that Girlish had gotten out and left on the floor (we’re really into dental hygiene around here) and began poking the baby on top of her sweet little head.
She is only 9 months old—she still has a soft spot there, and what I do not need right now is a freak accident and a brain-damaged baby. Or my son psychologically scarred for life because of said freak accident and potential brain damage. So, since I am gunning for Meanest Mother of the Year, I grabbed his arm and yelled at him. He cried. She cried. I sat on the floor and tried not to cry. While they both climbed all over me, wailing. It was a Kodak moment.
I read earlier, here, that jet-lag makes a person irritable. Who knew? I thought it was just the personal upheaval and transatlantic move. Honestly, I mean, it makes perfect sense—I can’t sleep; I’m utterly exhausted for a thousand reasons—the person I should be putting to bed early, apparently, is me.
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We arrived in London on Wednesday (? I think, it’s a bit of a blur), and stayed two nights in a Travelodge before moving over to our new apartment on Friday. The hotel was clean and serviceable, but no luxuries whatsoever. As in, no phone in the room, and we had to ask for more than one towel. And sit around in the lobby for um, three hours because we had eight bags and they had no storage room to stash them for us until check in. But it was clean, so I will not complain. Any more.
We ferried a few things over to our new house (like a town house) over the next couple days, and met our landlords, who were just unbelievably lovely people. They are a family of four, and they are moving to the States for at least a couple of years, so it was interesting to compare notes. Fiona was the one we dealt with mostly, and she gave the me the skinny on where to buy children’s shoes and shop online for groceries, and introduced us to several neighbors and parents at her son’s school. While I sat in her living room picking her brain about all sorts of miscellania, Babe-ish did something clever (I forget what it was), and Fiona said, "My, you are a just bright button, aren’t you?" She was terribly terribly charming.
We had a school interview for Girlish on Thursday at the local non-sectarian primary school, which has achieved an "outstanding" rating this past year. That is, apparently, a very rare occurrence, and so we were concerned that we might not be able to get her placed there. As it turns out, though, they have a place for her in Year 3, which was really exciting and a big relief for me (us). The only hitch is that the school where Fiona’s son attends, a Church of England school, has all of Fiona’s friends and neighbors and they all seem to really want us to come there. It’s not as highly-rated a school, but obviously the parental involvement and community there is very good. A sidenote: many public schools in London are religiously affiliated. The CoE school was rated as an "outstanding" school about 10 years ago, but hasn’t been so again since. And there’s the religious issue, which concerns me since I don’t go in for religion much, but the parents I met there assured me that it was very low-key.
Oh, and our checked bags—the other 8 of them—were delayed in Cincinnati on the way over, so Rod had to taxi to the airport to pick them up Friday morning. It rained an absolute gully-washer that morning, and his taxi got stuck in a flood and we almost didn’t make our hotel checkout. A bit of drama. Finally, we got everything over to the new place, where Fiona was frantic with last-minute packing and errands, and then we cleared out until 7:30p.m., when she was planning to leave. When we returned we got to meet our new neighbors, who have 3 children: two boys, 9 & 7, and a girl, 5. All six kids hit it off famously, and after forcing Fiona to stop her frantic packing and have a cuppa tea, we hung out with Karen while she finished up. Karen’s going to be a great neighbor, I can tell. She has a northern England accent, which sounds almost Irish to me, and she’s as sweet as the ginger cake she served with our tea. Around 8:00 we moved back over to "our" house, and it was bliss, bliss, to just be in a place that was a space all our own. We put a few things away, made the beds, and popped some champagne.
Fiona had also given us, because she is so terribly unbelievably lovely, her ticket to claim the newly-released and final edition of Harry Potter, which became available at midnight Friday in the local bookstore. So Girlish and I headed out to the High Street (the main street in town with all the shops) around 11:30, and queued up with all the neighbors to claim the book. It was no problem staying up for it, as we are still jet-lagged in the late-night direction from our travels. People were in costume, and the bookstore owners walked up and down the queue, handing out cookies and punch, and wine for the grown-ups. Some of the parents I’d met earlier in the afternoon happened to line up right behind us, and so we chatted as we waited, and the whole the thing was an absolute blast.
Yesterday we went to the store and bought groceries, which was also a bit of an adventure, the whole family hiking down the High Street with the stroller, bags and backpack for the groceries, with Babe-ish on my back. We stopped in a fruit & veg store, and also a butcher shop, and then on to a big grocery store for staples. I roasted a fresh chicken and some potatoes and red peppers for dinner, and I used some rosemary, sage, and oregano from Fiona’s (our!) garden. The butcher-shop chicken was fresh—as in, I opened the plastic and gasped out loud because the drumsticks had feathers clinging to their heels. I took a deep breath and plucked them out. If I’m gonna eat chicken I might as well remember that it used to have feathers, I guess. It was worth getting over my squeamishness, though. I cooked it at 500 degrees for 50 minutes, rubbing its skin with salt and olive oil and stuffing its little body cavity with lemon, garlic, onion and Fiona’s fresh garden herbs. Little chicken, you did not give your life in vain; we thoroughly enjoyed you.
So, we are well and happy, feeling so grateful to be just the slightest bit settled, and as soon as we get the phone up and running we will start calling all you friends and family that are waiting to hear from us.
P.S. Girlish is already trying on her British accent. "Mommy, can I have some wat-ah?" and, "Ouch! That huhts!" She kills me.
