...and I didn't forget it up there!

Thanks to the copious amounts of brandy in it, the xmas pudding hadn't
grown a beard since I last saw it. In fact, it was delicious. Some of it,
of course, we'll keep for another occasion. There surly will be a worthy
one coming up in the new year. By the way, a happy new one to you all!

"Happy Xmas!"

With two kids down with the flu, zero sleep for several nights in a row (what's up with Santa's elves these days?) and an ambitious three day Xmas marathon planned with the family, this could have easily gone south.

Peta, who has sworn off Xmas for good reasons, had let me know early on that no questions would be asked if I showed up on her door steps in blood stained PJs, with a butcher knife in my hands and a crazed look on my face. Really, she said, any time.

But no asylum was necessary (although hanging out with my reformed friend is something I rarely pass up). All was cool. In fact, it was a lot of fun. Zoë was in top form, playing fiddle tunes and singing raunchy xmas carols. My mom was as witty as ever and I, for a change, kept my trap zipped. No blood was shed.

And so, we had a really good time, a "Happy Christmas." And reckless as we tend to be, we may end up doing it again. Just not this year.

Chained

Okay, I am beginning to have not such a great time. I am a sucker when it comes to xmas, so it is pretty hard for me to be in a foul mood at this time of the year, but I have to admit that there are far too few outrageous christmas decorations around. I have only spotted two reindeers so far and they acted kind of shy.

And another thing: what is wrong with keeping the xmas lights on in the streets throughout the day? It IS after all GRAY enough in this part of the world. So why not lighten it up a bit more? Is it wasteful maybe? Is it squandering our scarce resources?

I will tell you what’s wasteful (and it’s not to lighten up a bit for a couple of weeks a year). It’s producing miles and miles of christmas lights that don’t work.

If one is concerned about wasting energy and resources one should start there. Never have I had such a lousy experience getting the lights going around the house. I can’t really blame anyone who doesn’t even bother.

As for me, I am beginning to wonder how many trips to the recycling dump it will take to get rid of all those non-functioning miles of cheap imports. In fact, I am not even sure I am willing to make the trip. These lights may just have to fester in the local dump with all the rest of humanity’s detritus. After all, you gotta start saving energy somewhere.

What's that doing up there

It’s done. I have made a christmas pudding. I am quite proud of myself even though that thing looks pretty vile and mildly aggressive. For now, it’s perched on top of the kitchen cabinet glaring down at us like a fat crow. And I am beginning to think that I might just forget about it up there. After all, I have no intention of laying hand on it. And, as I was repeatedly assured, it wouldn’t do it any harm. Xmas puddings last for years.

For new-comers, these deserts are a mildly puzzling phenomenon, because unlike their name would suggest, they are neither pudding nor uniquely tied to christmas. And even if they belong to xmas like Santa and his gang of elves, this homeliest cousin of all fruitcakes is likely to make a reappearance at many other occasions throughout the year (and not just because somebody forgot to get it down from the kitchen cabinet earlier on).

It’s a strange thing but this smelly calorie bomb will show up again and again at christenings, birthday parties, and even weddings. And much like a grumpy aunt it will sit there and stew for everyone else to see or ignore.

Oddly enough, I can’t remember what sort of wedding cake Matt and I had. But I am sure if it had been a xmas pudding, I would. The resulting trauma would be severe.

And the Next SURVIVAL Winner is...

Six married men 
will be dropped on an island each with one car
and 3 kids (one under age six). 
All three children use some form of car seat.

Each kid will play two sports 
and either take music or theatre classes.

Each man must:
correct all homework, 
complete science/art projects, 
cut finger nails,
cook balanced meals, keep up with the laundry,
routinely review health and safety
guidelines, watch out for perverts, 
recycle, and pay a list of bills with not enough money. 

There is no fast food. 

Each man will be ranked on making his house
a reasonably clean, fun and safe place. 

Each man must also take all three children to
a doctor's appointment,
a dental check-up,
a haircut appointment and
one run to the emergency room. 

He must keep track of immunization records,
passport expiration dates, school application deadlines,
and exam dates for each child.

He must also attend two birthday parties and
organize one himself (including written invitations to at least ten friends,
party decorations, gifts, foods, games, prizes and self-made thank-you notes
as well as a slide show to share with the in-laws). 

He will have to plan, organize, and go on one weekend trip
with all three children.

Each child is allowed one sleep-over and
two play dates at the house per week.

Weekly shopping trips with all three will have to show his competence in
dealing with tantrums, sudden cravings and small injuries.

The men must attend weekly school meetings.

He must participate in two school fundraisers and
organize costumes for at least one school performance. 

At least one afternoon a week must be spent at the park,
the zoo, or a museum.

A fifteen minute night time routine with each child will test their ability to
read, sing and be ready to discuss God, death, and sex when prompted.

Every morning he must feed the children, pack a lunch/snack, make sure
they are dress appropriately, remind them to brush their teeth and comb their hair
and have them at the school gate by 8 am. 

The men must 
shave daily (including legs and armpits), 
wear presentable clean clothes and
appropriate footwear.
They must work out at least three times a week to keep in shape.

At least twice during this time, 
severe abdominal cramps and back aches will be induced.
During this episode he must never complain or 
slow down from other duties. 

As a special challenge, he will be asked to set up an internet business
of his choice that promotes women entrepreneurs in the developing world.

The men will only have access to television/internet/reading materials
after the kids are asleep and all chores are done. 

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each of them
will be required to know all of the following information: 

Each child's current height, weight, shoe and clothes size, 
doctor's name, food allergies as well as 
each child's favorite color, best friend, saddest memory, 
favorite snack, song, toy and book, their biggest fear and 
what they want to be when they grow up. 

The kids vote them off the island 
based on performance. 

The last man wins only if...
he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice. 

If the last man does win, 
he is invited to play the game over
and over again and eventually earn the title  
Mom (sorry no cash prizes)! 

Still Standing - one leg only!

In a way it’s all about balance, isn’t it? Balanced diets, balanced opinions, balanced outcomes, we usually give more credit and credence to the temperate zones of our existence. As if we feared to either get frostbite or sunburn if we venture too far.

Maybe it’s the illusion of a safe zone to amble around in. After all, as long as one takes in a bit of everything, you can’t go completely wrong. Of course, as the reverse conclusion would tell you, one will also never be in that case completely right.

But then, what is right and what is wrong often is just a matter of opinion. Generally, truth seems to be hard to come by and even if at hand, it is rarely much appreciated.

Playing it safe in the grey zone may have in fact proven to be of some evolutionary advantage in the long haul. Showing your colors is only for the brave of heart...or slow learners.

bee-eye-tea-see-age !

Okay fine, so I come across as a man-hating single breasted crazy bee-eye-tea-see-age! But I can live with that quite happily. Life can be good.

So why all the raving? Because life is not that good for everyone. Even though I found a niche, got lucky, and now may live on happily ever after, what about all the nasty chapters of human existence -- the ones most of us prefer to skim over?

I can’t help but stew over them, however tempting it is to see the glass as half-full. I have a hard time looking the other way (or turning the other cheek frankly). And so I sometimes don’t make for good dinner conversation, and my posts can get a bit screechy.

Oh, well. Kick ass!

Here is another one:

Over the past two years, I have somewhat followed parallel discussions on primary education in the US, Germany, and the UK. The general mantra is that schools supposedly are ‘failing our boys.’

The argument goes like this: Boys are disadvantaged in today’s educational systems because most teachers are female.

Hmm.

When did anyone ever say that about girls in the past when the staff was mostly male? As far as I know, girls’ lower math scores were blamed on everything under the sun except male teachers. So why change the conclusions now?

Ah, but then, men-can-do-no-wrong...so sshhh.

You Gotta Be Stronger

Have you ever wondered why fishing or car racing are considered sports, or why you can win prize money playing computer games?

Did it come to your attention that professions such as secretary or teacher, have suffered a bit of a status slide ever since they became predominantly female?

And while it doesn’t necessarily have to irk you that taking care of others earns less than municipal garbage collection, it should make you wonder why it is that women in most countries continue to be paid considerably less on average than men doing the same job and are prohibited from swinging a club at Augusta National.

The reason for all of this, however, is as simple as it is base: Men are mostly interested in bolstering their position. So, whatever it is they like to do, it is usually considered ‘cool’ even if it is inherently dull (i.e., fishing) or loud, smelly and annoying such as car racing.

The fact is, whatever it is that men do (really whatever!), it holds prestige and/or some -- often considerable -- monetary reward.

But, one may counter, there is nothing wrong with promoting your own interests unless they encroach on others.

Ah yes, but that last bit can easily be neglected. After all, it is tempting to assume that everyone has the same interests anyway, or that someone who doesn’t share the same interests is wrong and, therefore, needs no consideration. Who in their right mind could possibly NOT be interested in the NBA playoffs, right?

Unfortunately, this kind of thinking is quite common and can generally be attributed to a low social IQ.

Just in case you are wondering, social intelligence denotes the ability to empathize with others and, unlike analytical, verbal, or spatial intelligence, it is generally overlooked in the IQ arena. It obviously doesn’t rank very high in a world riddled with wars, genocide, and inequality.

By the way, did you know that autism, a form of mental disability due to low social intelligence, is much more common among men? Hmm. In fact, it is often paired with an acute interest in the inanimate world. Aah. But, as ‘Rain Man’ enlightened us, even that is kinda ‘cool,’ isn’t? After all, why write Christmas cards if you can calculate probabilities instead.

Of course, I am not saying that men don’t write and women do nothing but knit for the elderly. But it does bother me that even women, who try to warm up to traditionally male domains such as accounting, prize fighting, and the armed forces, don’t really receive the same benefits as men.

Beginning with fewer endorsements (unless she has a nice back-side to flaunt), being belittled, to being, side-tracked, attacked or outlawed, the road to social acknowledgment for women is rocky.

Women have obtained the right to vote, they can run for public office and become astronauts; they don’t need to put up with domestic violence, they can open bank accounts and even say the most outrageous things in public...at least in any of the countries that I would ever consider living in...but let’s face it, they don’t hold the same status as men and probably never will.

Men are quite clever, you know...

Thud !

We all remember such evocative army battle names as Operation Desert Shield, which was followed by Operation Desert Storm, and, more recently, Operation Desert Strike and Desert Fox.

There were flashy ones such as Operation Steel Tiger and Flaming Dart during the Vietnam war. And more somber ones from the recent Israeli attacks on Lebanon, such as Operation Just Reward and Truthful Promise.

Two of my all-time favorites are Operation Tomahawk and Noble Eagle. The irony is just exquisite.

Without even trying too hard one can picture little boys squatting on the edge of the sandbox, grubby feet immersed in builder’s sand, teeth clenched under the thudding sounds of approaching allied armed helicopters. Kaboom!

Doesn’t it get old? But then there are still medals to be earned and positions to be attained. Oh, brave world.

Touchy-Feely

Part of me tends to stay on the outside. I look at people and I look at myself and more often than not, I am surprised at what I see.

If one manages to stick to simple observation the greatest insights will come from one’s own reactions.

It is amazing what we are capable of feeling and thinking in just a fraction of a second. But yet it usually goes unnoticed. There are fleeting feelings of intense pleasure as much as sudden pangs of frustration.

As an adult we have generally been either trained or have otherwise learned to adapt to the middle way. The state where feelings are supposed to be docile like a purring cat on a downy pillow.

And yet, all those feelings, and thoughts are there. And they are usually anything but cute and fluffy.

All of them are real. Not acknowledging them can be a lost opportunity and a big waste of time in the long run.

With feelings it is a little bit like with children: Not acknowledging them just makes matters worse.

Hurray at last!

Okay, maybe now that it has all settled in, it’s time to say it, even for someone like me who wears cynicism like a comfy bathrobe: President-elect Obama is the best thing that has happened to the US of A -- EVER (...granted I would have preferred Michelle, but I am willing to settle for her choice of partner).

Smart, even-keeled, charismatic, educated, irreproachable, dedicated, open-minded, and smashingly good-looking, Obama was the obvious pick, of course. But then most Americans are not like him so....

I am absolutely ecstatic about the turn of events. That being said I am truly grateful for the timely eruption of the world financial crisis which admittedly did help in the election of a black President with such an unlikely name as Barack Hussein Obama.

I would even go as far as saying that I am slowly warming up to the idea of reading a daily newspaper again. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

So for now: hurray!

Let Barack have a go, Georgie...

"Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried..."
Winston Churchill

Deeply Divided

Halloween is an American thing and most Brits politely decline to partake in it. But some of them really really like it and do so in a thunderingly quirky way. In fact, if they could they would be living Halloween every day.

So while the residential streets look just as discreetly blissful as always, clubs are rivaling for goriness. All I have to do is to wait another eight years to introduce my oldest one to the concept. In the meantime let's get out the knives...

Paradise

We all want different things for ourselves, but we all want something at any rate, whether that is a slick roadster, Siamese cats, better sex, a PhD, or ten pounds less to haul around.

Most of us would probably agree that they want love in their life, maybe even children, while others are okay with settling for a decent way to spend their time on this planet.

Wanting something is what gets us up in the morning. The lack of want is often associated with either depression or a mythical place called paradise.

But imagine you got up in the morning and the one and only thing on your mind was the paradox of wanting absolutely nothing.

My question is: would you be able to make it through the day?

Or would wanting nothing at all be too unattainable a goal because suddenly one would become aware of all the little things we want in a day like, say for instance, undisturbed sleep (and nipples!), or taking a dump unwitnessed.

After ten years into the mind-changing business of raising children I am proud to declare that I am fine doing without the undisturbed bathroom routine.

So I am beginning to think that I must be hitting paradise any time now!

One button at a time

Jules made me appreciate our little daily triumphs: feeding everyone, blowing noses, drying tears, sums of ten, and finding socks, because there he was putting all his efforts into getting that one button through the button hole, trembling with the effort, his little ears a flaring red.

Straight Thinking

Zoë has started to tune her ears into the morning news. They are on as soon as Matt enters the kitchen at eight o’ clock. But while Matt listens selectively and usually intuitively skips whatever might trouble him, she doesn’t.

Every sound bite enters her nine-year old auditory channels and is swiftly forwarded to her decoding center which is quite active. The little cogs and belts are churning away as she processes news bits, such as: nineteen year old arrested for torture and murder of a 37-year old Lithuanian woman, suspect arrested for the rape and killing of a seventeen year old girl on her way back from school, fourteen year old sexually assaulted and strangled by her driver.

And as always, all of this is conveyed in a matter-of-fact tone in under three minutes i.e., before she gets a chance to see her Weetabix cereal bloat up with milk and to sink her spoon into it.

Mind you, this is on a good morning.

I have made daring stunts across piles of Lego and castle extravaganzas from remote corners of the house to slam the OFF button at the story of babies being slaughtered, and pregnant women raped and mutilated in front of their children.

If she thinks as straight and unfettered as she does when jotting down a math equation, there are only few logical conclusions for her to draw.

None of them are reassuring.

This much we've learned

"A banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining, but wants it back the minute it begins to rain."
M. Twain

Last Chance ...

It was only a dream. It was completely surreal but at the same time so very sharp and to the point. In it I was somehow caught in a purchase dilemma and I almost fell for it: I almost had my toe nails pulled for the mere reason that I was told that it was my last chance to do so!!

But, as luck had it, I was last in line. Throngs of people where pushing towards the booth with the enticing last-chance-offer and I happened to be nowhere near the lucky ones in front.

For a moment, cold panic took hold of me. What if I was going to miss out? What if I was going to get stuck with my toe nails sadly stuck to their beds? A worrisome look at my toes and the still attached nails made me re-assess the situation, however.

Was there any trouble with my toe nails? Granted, they could need a little trim around the edges, but I had proven to be quite capable of doing that myself in the past. No need for yanking devices and fees charged for services rendered.

So while people ahead of me were still pushing onward to make their way to the booth, I slowly withdrew from the crowd only to wake up in my bed, toenails and all still intact...

I really liked that one!

"Excellent!!"

I believe that it is our fear of failure that makes us pressure our children to excel and be nothing less than excellent.

With that much more ‘excellence’ around every generation, the bar has been pushed higher and higher since the 1970s: more homework, more exams, more exclusive (and expensive) schools...

Children lose their childhood years to memorizing random facts and cramming for one test after the other - and I am not just talking about China.

But why do we seem so nervous about the future of our gene pool? Why the clenched teeth and pulled up shoulders? Is it maybe because at the age of 38 we as parents feel outsmarted? Is it because we already are being out-competed by somebody only ten years younger who is willing to apply his IT conditioned brain for even longer hours?

I admit it can be scary, but fear has rarely proved to be a good guide for decision-making.

As it is we are ruining our lives and those of our children by dedicating the few precious years together to night time homework, tutoring, and pre- and post exam anxieties.

And the pressure is rising on homeschoolers as well. So far I am fairly resilient but I wonder how long my bastion of pig-headed opposition is going to to hold up. The force behind this insanity is pretty formidable.

The Case for Sarah Palin

(...and this one is going to be really short!!)

Believe me it doesn’t come easy but I will stick to my principle that true equality is only achieved when as many incompetent women occupy positions of power as do incompetent men.

But did it really have to come to this???

A No Go

I am trying to figure out whether I should brief Zoe on the current credit crunch crisis. She is almost ten, she probably would be quite interested, she actually might have figured out that something is in the bush already, and so far she has taken any crisis, including my daily one’s, with untrammeled equanimity.

We could, for instance, run a little homeschooling project on “How not to be greedy and mess things up for everyone,” but then, we already did that with the Kyoto Protocol, land development in the Americas (just to name one continent), and a couple of World Wars.

But somehow I think she got the point already. Knowing her, she probably would look at me with that ‘Okay-what’s-your-point-mom’ look that would bring home HER point: Don’t be so bloody (yes, we are acclimatizing quite well) redundant, mom!

Learning never ought to be boring!

Vicarious Bliss

It wasn’t a real vacation mostly because once again Matt had to leave us in the midst of it to go save the world...swoooshhhh!!!

But it all was good in the end anyway because the kids were happy. They just love to hang out on the beach and visit Fred and Yia Yia on the island.

In my last year before the big four-oh, I have come to realize that my happiness is most reliably guaranteed when my children are in a chippy mood.

As pathetic as it may sound, living vicariously through them has become a very convenient alternative to hunting down on my own that ephemeral state of bliss.

It’s pathetic, it’s lazy, but it works. So yippiiieee !!!

Gone fishing

I am off to check out the beaches on other shores since they are kind of rocky here...I will check in with you.
:-)

Zoe says...

“Sometimes when I have figured something out I am ready to start all over again like a white sheet of paper that life scribbles on.”

You probably know someone like this...

Someone who feels eternally misunderstood and unappreciated and who is quick to point fingers. Someone who cannot take feedback because s/he already feels beaten down by the world. But also someone who feels criticized when they are not, and lashes out with the conviction of the unjustly treated...the victim. Ah, what a superb position of power.

Have you ever tried to stop someone like that?
Have you tried to come to their rescue by explaining the world and setting right what was wrong, maybe even by profusely apologizing for an unintended perceived transgression? Has it worked? Has that person taken off their tainted glasses and said, “Oh, now I see clearly. I was wrong. Thank you.”? Really, be honest, has it worked for longer than the duration of one tense luncheon?

Have you wondered?
Have you asked yourself all these questions starting with “why,” like “Why does s/he always....” and “Why can’t s/he....”? If you have you might as well stop right there because there is no answer other than: “Because s/he wants to.”

For someone suffering from low self-esteem, the role of the martyr/victim is one of self-redemption. Assuming that role, proclaiming to be the target of unfair attacks and ill-intended actions, opens the door to retributions against an unfair world, and then accusing, judging and condemning it. It’s their last stronghold. Give it up? Never!

I have seen people go berserk with vitriolic diatribes against alleged aggressors. There was no stopping them. It was their moment to shine...the darker the world around them the brighter their bolts of lightning appeared.

What’s left?
The effect of this kind of negative self-indulgence on the surroundings, especially immediate family, can be devastating. Relationships are strained and may eventually crumble under the stress. It is sad and can be extremely frustrating, especially for close relatives. I have been a witness to this kind of dynamic for many years. I can assure you the force of destruction is formidable.

So what now?
Leave the theatre. Don’t be an audience to a bad performance. And it’s always a bad performance when someone assumes a self-righteous position and points fingers in every direction proclaiming themselves the one and only victim again and again.

Leave the theatre. It’s a colossal waste of time and energy. And let’s hope you didn’t have to pay for your front row seats.

That's not a fair lie !

Groomed by Western marketing and product promotion, which often involves tricks, including air brushed models and crafty photo montage, the Chinese went ahead and creatively promoted their Beijing 2008 Olympic opening ceremony.

So what’s the big brouhaha? They went too far? Is it that? They went darker than black on the lie scale?

Really, let’s be fair...they were pretty good. After all, we all believed them.
But that’s probably it. It’s never fun being at the receiving end.

Boohoo!

Changing Signs

Someone has been doing the walk and not just the talk. Signs are popping up here and there that reserve strategically located parking spots near store entrances for women with small children.

Whether it was due to organized lobbying by unnerved mothers or smart business thinking by store managers, what’s important is that times are changing and with them the signs.

Change, however, usually takes a while and so far I have only spotted a few of these signs around the US and England (mostly in front of baby supply stores).

But I think there is hope that maybe in a few years from now, wobbly toddlers won’t have to be dragged in tight motherly grips across sweltering seas of asphalt while dodging the bumpers of the octogenarians’ chariots. And mothers won’t have to be reminded again and again what was meant by the ‘weaker sex’ as they haul their well-fed infants’ car seats towards the queue of shopping carts beckoning in the distance like a fata morgana.

It’s great when something you always wished for actually happens, just like red roller skates under the xmas tree. A Big Thanks to you out there who made it happen...and sorry Santa, I don’t mean you...not this time anyway.

Keeping Shit from Happening

Much of parenthood is about anticipation. It’s about anticipating what may happen and then about avoiding all the unwanted turns of events from actually happening.

Unwanted can be anything really from spina bifida to spilled apple juice, knocked out teeth and broken toys, bad posture, bad boy friends, bad attitudes...you name it.

Keeping life under control is a very strong impulse inside us. But predictability is the first thing that falls by the wayside with the arrival of a mini human. Pregnancy can be quite an eye opener in that respect, since the vagaries of life manifest themselves only too boldly during those nine months of anticipation.

Yet, we try to make ourselves believe that we are in fact in charge, and that after all we do hold some invisible golden thread in our hands that pulls luck onto our side when needed.

Over a life time we accumulate a fat pocket full of tricks to use in the event of trouble. Anything from religion to social networks, access to information, and money can be summoned to keep the worst from happening (like that bad boy friend).

But what about all the rest? The daily skips and bumps, the heart breaks and runny noses, the ripped pants and flat tires, and above all, the dozens and dozens of glasses of spilled apple juice?

Well, there is not much we can do about them and maybe it’s good that way. Life is life after all and shit is bound to happen.

Buckle Down

What I like is this: towns you enter and the first thing you see is NOT a Shell station or a car dealership but maybe an overgrown church yard or a pub by the name of ‘The Queen’s Tale’.

But what happened to the rest of the world? Everything is about cars: Fields are being eaten up by winding snakes of asphalt. Trees that line old roads are cut down so drunk drivers don’t hit them. Parking lots sprawl everywhere.

Even shopping nowadays means driving, and driving means seat belts and car seats, and subsequently confinement.

It’s strange what we will put up with for the sake of so-called convenience.

Twenty-four is all

It is a given that the day has no more than twenty-four neatly packaged time slots.
Twenty-four hours to fill for each and every one. Time knows no difference between rich and poor, smart and not-quite-that smart, old or young. It is up to everyone of us to choose how to spend their day, or at least part of it.

And sometimes there are simply too many choices.

With high speed internet, digital this and that, and discount shopping, there is always something that is awaiting us. The temptations are many. And more often than not, we
fall into the one or other trap and rush life to squeeze it all in.

But if you think week days are hell, try a sunny weekend that sits there like a popsicle tray, waiting to be filled.

Life can be just cruel.

Just bad enough

I checked out the online bios of some of my new literary discoveries the other day and it turns out that quite a few of them are (or were) borderline criminal. One of them, G. D. Roberts, thought that with a bit of luck, there was money and fame to be made and he turned his life into a fine piece of literary art. “Shantaram,” is the title, and it’s well worth a day or two in a hammock. I’m off to visit ‘the continent’ but shall return shortly.

homesweethome - part two

When you move around a lot you become an expert in some odd disciplines. Picking dentists for instance. I have become an expert at locating benign dentists around the world. I can point out the psychos almost instantaneously. They usually have TV screens overhead and take x-rays of your bite gear every other visit.

Over the years of moving from place to place, I have also developed a hawk eye for functional communities. They are the ones with sidewalks that lead to places such as parks, playgrounds, community centers, libraries, and shops.

Finding such a place to live in can mean real quality of life. Everything else from making friends and building up networks to finding that gentle dentist is a piece of cake after that.

However, settling into new places and getting used to its wheelings and dealings is not an easy task. You either get really good at it or you end up avoiding it by all means because it is rather time and energy consuming and it can be a killer for relationships.

Whichever way you take it, packing up the belongings of an entire family and moving them only to unwrap them in some unknown and most likely temporary place is not that much fun even when you are good at it.

Transitioning, as the first months are generally called, can be a real drain on everyone. In a way, every day starts again at zero.
It's a seemingly endless process of adjustments like a dog settling down on a flee ridden blanket.

But it is also exciting because all cards are on the table and it's your turn to pick and choose.

homesweethome --part one

After years on the road, tossed from one shore to another, and at times living without any commitment to any given country or culture, I have lately found myself pondering the idea of settling down.

But it’s not the kind of settling down where one gets a mortgage and a dog but rather it’s about finding a comfortable state of mind.

For one, I don’t think we will ever live in just one place. How could we since everyone in our family has different attachments?

The girls, for instance, still think they are Ticas hailing from the South Caribbean, Matt although being the most adaptable of us is, in his heart of hearts, still mostly American, and I for my part, truly enjoy a handful of European castles around me. Settling down in our case will mean to find a way of living in many places at the same time.

At night, before I fall asleep I like to mind-travel. My imagination creates an image of a place I have known well and I then recreate the sensations that made that particular place so real at the time. Sounds, smells, and even feelings come back to me in their colorful range of hues.

I see the green volcanic slopes, their peeks shrouded in mist. I can smell the rain coming in from the coast on a tropical mid-afternoon and I am back in our home in Costa Rica. A high-pitched twitter of voices rings in my ears. The back patio is filled with life and the children are chasing each other in the yard behind. I wonder whether I need to check on dinner but then decide to linger because I have tired out my Spanish for the day and just want to take in the moment, sniffle the sweetness of the approaching rain. It is that real.

While time moves on mercilessly minds are allowed to linger. Moments of our lives are engraved into the backdrop of our minds just like long gone loves, and so is our notion of home.

Once we have thrown out our anchor and connected, learned the language, followed the local news, made an appearance at the town fair, gathered friends and shared food, a place becomes more than a couple of coordinates.

England will be such a place, I am casting my anchor.

if

Linear thinking is big in the First World. In highly individualized societies, where choices start with birth, failure also is individualized. It is a way of dealing with the ‘losers.’ Since everyone has a choice, nobody is a victim and, hence, no one but oneself can be blamed.

Around us it works somewhat like this:

If you live in the right neighborhood, you can send your children to the right pre-school that will get them into the right primary school. That primary school will then prepare them (i.e., coach and train or, bluntly put, condition them) to pass the selective examinations to get into the right secondary school.

And getting into the right secondary school figures prominently in countries that have privatized education such as the US and Britain.

In those countries state education simply won’t do. It’s a known fact that is rarely questioned. Everyone seems to have accepted the educational chicken ladder as the way to personal success (i.e., Oxbridge and onward into the mills of accounting offices and law firms). The pecking order is harsh and the losers are many and sorrowfully young.

In the late sixties, Britain passed an education reform that introduced the Comprehensive School, a system where every child is admitted and subsequently moves along according to her or his abilities.

But it immediately came under attack and was ultimately undermined by the parents from well-to-do areas who insisted that differences are in fact good. Of course, these same parents are able to make sure that in a soup bowl of inequalities their children will float like oil. Needless to say these children are by no means smarter, just more privileged.

In return that has led the middle class to fear for the well-being of their offspring. After all, no one wants to be stuck with the hoi polloi especially when entrance into Cambridge or Oxford is at stake. So better to take out loans and pay whatever the tuition, tutor, or training sessions may cost to make the grade and get them into one of the cadre academies.

It’s always the same. As soon as education gets tied to income it becomes unpleasant and on average still mediocre. Or have I missed all the fanfare announcing the future generation of geniuses pouring out of the gates of these skewed systems?

At some point, of course, the insanity is exposed. Children who graduate from so-called elite institutions don’t all have successful lives, they aren’t all well off, and they certainly aren’t all happy.

But guess what? They must have made some wrong choices along the way. Maybe if they had networked a little better and if only they had joined the right country club, or...

However, whatever they did or didn’t do, one thing is for sure: you can’t blame their parents.

And maybe that’s what it’s all about.

One Eye Half Shut

There are moments when the glass is actually half full without having to squeeze one eye shut and wrinkle up nose, forehead, and a sizable part of the rear end. Moments when there is silence without absence, when everyone is happily and quietly pursuing the one or other interest, when no temples get slashed by the corner of desks, no arms get pinched by baby fingers, no melodramatic ballads get hurled in the air of a tired after-dinner clean up, and no story problems evoke lengthy vitriolic diatribes.

The other day there was such a moment. Zoë had logged onto Skype for a science jam session with grandpa, Lea had a sea of colors assembled around her, eyes steadied on a beautiful O’Keffe rendition of a poppy, and Jules sat by himself in the back of the yard making mud pies for our new neighbors, an extended family of snails.

Funny enough, I almost missed it. I guess I got a little too busy with squeezing one eye shut.

Cut down

It’s a strange thing with mothers. Even though they are irreplaceable in a person’s biography they are often omitted with a blurb about the author, especially in the classics.

Again and again as I pick up this or the other book from Shelley to Tchechov I find no mention of their mothers.

Yet we may rightfully assume they were born by mortal females who surely had some impact on them and their development. Fathers, on the other hand, are dutifully mentioned regardless of their influence as a parent. Ever noticed this?

I have a friend who patiently listens to my observations and then heaves a sigh and tries to push me back in line. Why do I care? After all it doesn’t really matter.

Why, for instance, do I notice and (what’s almost more reprehensible) mention that children’s plastic toy animals tend to be predominantly male?

I don’t know why I notice these things. But someone should. And someone should also say that it’s just a tiny bit off. So why not me?

Okay, okay, don’t tell me.

Woof !

After four months into this island adventure I have to owe up to my unremitting ignorance concerning the ins and outs of the UK education system. In my defense it should be mentioned, however, that there seem to be more outs than ins.

For one, it is rather unlikely that a first attempt at entering an educational institution in this country will be successful. When trying to place a child, so called catchment areas for state schools must to be considered.

However, living in one of these areas does not automatically grant a child access into one of these schools. In fact, we were told that London parents run off to secure a place for their child on the day of her or his birth. Now that’s a bonding parent!

However, as will be made clear to parent and child, remaining at a decent state school will depend on a series of drawn out tests and examinations starting at the age of seven.

Here is another little island fact: girls take secondary school entrance exams at eleven years of age but not so boys. For some reason only obvious to Brits, boys take the exam at thirteen, which by the way is also the last possible date to get accepted into secondary school it seems. I am not kidding. It’s 11, 13, or tough luck folks.

I virtually was told that moving to England with a child older than 14 at the most is a really bad idea since no ‘reputable’ school would want to ‘run the risk’ of taking in a...well, they didn’t outright say stray dog, but somehow I think that’s what they meant.

“Forget injuries never forget kindness.”
Confucius

Not Bread Enough!

That Brits have the worst food in the world is most certainly a thing of the past. Restaurants, grocery stores, and cook books have adeptly incorporated tastes and dishes from culinary hot spots around the world.

In fact, grocery stores everywhere abound in a large variety of veggies and sauces from Asia. And get this -- and you won’t hear that very often from a German -- they tend to have a larger assortment of breads than one would find in Germany.

Everything from baguette, scones, to whole wheat, potatoe farls, stone-oven baked artisan breads, and focaccia is available, even dark German Vollkorn and Swedish crisp breads.

Yet, despite this variety there is not one kind of bread that is outright pallet meltingly delicious.

I feel truly bad to say this. It’s like a beauty contest, where everything is being done to prove that Dominicans can be blonde, too, and the judges just raise their overly arched eyebrows and say: “Not blonde enough!”

Adaptations

Shortly after arriving on this off shore shoal in the North Sea, I wrote a post in which I went on and on about the blessings of a strong middle class and how I had miraculously landed in the bosom of one of its last remaining outposts.

Well, I must have been too tired to keep my eyes open and/or my brain sufficiently nourished when I was writing this or maybe I was simply blinded by all the flashy two- seaters speeding past.

While we may indeed live in a middle class neighborhood, everyone around us is trying to be anything but that. Just everywhere else, the middle class is under such pressure it seems that nobody likes to remain in it, if they can help it. People do everything to move up and out before it implodes and all that’s left will be a couple of bent Volvo hubcaps.

And by that I mean virtually anything. At times it borders on the obscene, especially with parents and their children. From day one in a child’s life all energy is spent on positioning her or him for the big run up the ladder.

Local magazines abound in advertisement for elite preschools, extra-curricular this and that, and distinguished ‘independent’ (i.e., private schools) including training sessions on how to get into one of them. And sadly, parents buy into all this (not just the magazines).

They virtually inhale what they hear, see, or read and with it also the smelly old school us-against-them mentality.

I am not much of a flag swinging socialist but this here has the metallic smell of New Age Darwinism. Funny enough, Darwin said that it’s not the strongest or the smartest who will make the cut “but the ones who are most adaptable.”

So, maybe it’s time to relax and wait until the last one drops dead. It’s too bad for the kids, though. But maybe they’ll learn to adapt as well. The question is...to what.

No such thing?

I remember the sensation of surprise and disbelief when my otherwise quite capable English teacher returned to me one of my papers with the remark, “There is no such thing as self-deception!”

In one respect she was, of course, right since the word ‘self-deception’ does not exist in English, but that wasn’t her point.

I had translated the German concept of a so-called ‘life-lie’ (Lebenslüge), as ‘self-deception’ in an effort to describe the human tendency to protect one’s peace of mind in the face of adversity.

My teacher insisted, however, that the word self-deception was illogical because it implies a subject and an object in the same person.

Maybe I would have faired better had I proffered more sophisticated terminology like “delusional disorder” borrowed from the abundant chest of treasures of the human psyche. But I wasn’t looking for the extraordinary. In fact, I was trying to describe a very ordinary state of mind.

In post-Nazi Germany one very common ‘Lebenslüge’ was, “I didn’t know that my neighbor was killed by the Nazis, I just took over his store.”

‘Lebenslügen’ can be inconsequential but sometimes they are outright criminal. Either way they are adopted to avoid unpleasant truths. They make one’s life a little easier. They are a common coping mechanism. But like all lies, they usually come back to haunt us in the end.

To this day, I find that English is just a tad bit poorer (and maybe less honest) for its inability to provide or simply adopt a term like ‘Lebenslüge’.

A person can be self-delusional or she can be in denial but neither expression captures the subtle as well as sinister state of mind implied in the German word ‘Lebenslüge’.

But then, language always changes and so do cultures. ‘Schadenfreude’, a German term describing an equally unattractive human quality (i.e., the rejoicing in someone else’s misfortune), has made it into English almost unscathed.

‘Lebenslüge’ should be a close runner-up. After all, just take a look around, it’s everywhere in this best of all possible worlds.

Have you noticed...?

It takes some people a lifetime to get to know themselves, most need longer.

That'll do

Let’s be honest. We all thrive on positive feedback. A little slap on the back, an encouraging smile, two thumbs up, anything will do to enliven our minds, to quicken our tread, and to render us just a bit more willing.

It is as simple as it is cheap. The need for reassurance is alive and well in us. Like morning sickness it’s not something that ever goes away although we think we have it under control.

In some unhealthy way it probably tabs right into our fear of rejection and imminent abandonment and likely death. And that’s what makes it just as powerful.

Life here in London provides a realistic insight into the power of that ever-lasting craving. People here seem to be mad with ambition. And while some actually get some monetary return for their breathless strive most of the chaps, mates, and blokes, and laddies who make their way into their little back room offices every day do so on little more than the hope that someone (preferably the front room gray back) at the end of a long day might stretch their pinched lips into a smile that says it all: “Well done.”

I hope nobody who actually has the power to bribe with a smile will be reading these lines. In fact, I am quite sure they won’t. But believe me, accolades are far more manipulative than scorn or disinterest. They are the cheap way to assure compliancy.

That’ll do, pig.

bird

now that i have landed
on this tree
its leaves seem to tremble
the boughs are hanging limp
and the trunk is but a twiggy leg

it will be up to me
to find beauty in its subtle curves
and fill the air with bursting strength
to fight the north wind and the heat
and call myself lucky
that i have landed

The Rope's End

Last night I felt like I had reached the other side of death, and I must have looked like it too!!

Zoë gave me that inquisitive two second glance that let me know that she knew. Then she took it one step further by asking about that end of the rope that I keep referring to when the day goes past seven thirty:

“Mom, do you actually get a new rope every day?”

Less is Best

There is one fact that makes it so much easier to live a modest life and that is that the ones who have money usually spend it on things I wouldn’t want anyway.

And not only that. Because, of course, not only do they own all that stuff, and it’s collecting dust, they are also cursed with maintaining, fixing, and replacing it. Think of the time and energy going into that!

Maybe you say that these fortunate souls have other people deal with that. Well, then they will have to hire and manage them. And that’s not that much fun either.

Believe me: Small is beautiful. And less is better.

If we invested half as much money in the quality of a product as we tend to do piling up mere quantities of stuff, the world would be a cleaner and I even venture to say happier place.

All those tape recorders that never managed to play a single tape, cameras that lost ten of their nine functions in the first month, scissors that cut nothing but air and not even that very well, matchbox cars that lose their wheels faster than they lose their lacquer, and sweaters that started pilling profusely just by looking at them...

Really, what degree of satisfaction can truly be gained from designing, producing, manufacturing, buying, owning, and throwing away all that stuff?

Or maybe it’s not about satisfaction...not of the lasting kind anyway. Maybe we are too busy fulfilling some momentary craving to think about what really matters.

I for my part, however, am much happier with fewer things around me if only I knew that the big picture was all right, that the ozone layer was fat and well, polar bears had more than a couple of wobbly shoals to cling to, and the next generations could grow up knowing that life as we live it is sustainable.

Right or Rong

I am afraid I have gone too far.

Today I managed within less than half an hour not only to cut in front of people in a traffic circle twice and to leave several pedestrians standing baffled at a number of crosswalks on my way to Sainsbury, I also did IT again.

I drove in the wrong lane!

It always happens (‘always’ implying that it wasn’t the first time!!), when there are no other cars around (whew!).

Finding my place in the wrong lane is much easier when everyone else is driving in their respective wrong lanes. When I am all by myself, I naturally revert back to the right lane.

And yes, you Brits, the right lane is called the ‘right’ lane for a reason!!!

Anyway, today, on my way back from dropping off Julian at his friend’s, I took a leisurely right turn out of a parking lot and didn’t think much of it when a car politely swerved out of my way. We all make mistakes, right?

Well, I have to start making fewer of them.

The last time I did it, Fred was next to me as I turned onto a main road and he demurely inquired whether it was indeed a one-way street. NOT !

Stop being so damn polite you folks...I hate having to kick my own butt!

But it’s about time -- right lane or not.

He must know what he's talking about...

The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.
Marcus Aurelius

Annabee for President !

So a study came out in Britain this week that testosterone is linked to greater risk-taking which in turn may lead to greater profit but also greater losses in business affairs.

The study focused on the effect of predominantly young male investors trading in the stock market and concluded that less testosterone-clogged decision-makers (i.e. women and older men) make better traders.

With fewer hot-heads around there would be fewer ups and downs and a better overall turn-out for everyone. And how true is that! Not only for stock markets, one might add.

Just think of all the time, money and energy that could be saved if young men stayed off the streets at night, for instance !!

Instead of cautioning women on where to go and how to behave, training them in defensive martial arts, and reserving extra parking spots for them, we could just put a curfew on 14 - 30 year olds.

Now there is an idea!

Check !

It is a good thing that I scavenged some extra plastic receptacles from the pile of odd shaped multicolored containers before we hit the cash register at our last IKEA outing.

“With kids you can NEVER have enough receptacles!” I explained to Matt whose blank stare went right through me. “Uhuh.”

“You know, they are great for storage, waste paper baskets, Jules likes to use them as a drum, the girls can organize their itsy bitsy Polly dolls in them and last but not least they can PUKE into them...” “Really?”

Oh yeah! You better believe it.

The last three days of my motherhood were spent with three kids either threatening to or actually throwing up into different sized (and colored) IKEA containers. At times unisono.

A moment of pride in a mother’s quest for perfection. I did good!

This Much I have figured out...

1 - The Brits hate tea because they will only drink it with milk.

2 - Their point about drinking is not to enjoy life but to forget how much they hate it.

3 - They like food but they don’t like to cook it -- especially not their own.

4 - They have a problem with time because they have to stay on top of it.

5 - They love to mimic nobility by living in crumbling over-prized dwellings and perpetually
broke.

Cat Person

Zoë is in love. And since she is only nine years old, she still tells me everything: There are ants crawling up her neck, her stomach feels like a sponge, the kid, a pudgy Brit, is as sweet as chocolate fudge ice cream, and life just became colossally more complicated.

The poor child does seem awfully afflicted. Her big brown eyes have acquired a tragic quality and getting her to empty the dishwasher is sheer impossible. Her mind no longer dwells on earthly matters, so much is for sure.

It all started when she enrolled for a musical workshop and met the cast for the first time.
“I am in love with the panther, mom” she declared as I came to pick her up. “We are not getting a cat!!” was my prompt response. “Mo-om, I mean Bagheera, the panther, I don’t know the boy’s name yet.”

Lea, with a big smile on her face that wasn’t without malice added, “It’s pretty bad, mom. She’s all lovey, lovey.”

Lea, six, rejects the notion of love unless it is directed at her blanky. “I am too young for this yucky stuff,” she says and amplifies her words with a heartfelt shudder. And right she is!

Anyway, Zoë is in dire straights and she knows it. Only two days are left and than this Jungle encounter in which she stars as Prickly Pear No. 2 will be over and cat boy will be gone from her life. My only fear: He may remain in ours for a while.

The 'Überich' strikes

As I pushed open the door to our home with my behind, balancing orange and white grocery bags in my arms, the metal taste of my car keys between my teeth, I was greeted by an exhilarated six-year old.

Her voice was vacillating in the upper levers as she announced: "Mom, you won't believe it, I didn't run off to join a gypsy band, I didn't burn down the house, and I also didn't flood it. I was OVERLY good!!"

The actual German word she used was 'übergut.' Freud would have a field day!

Hail Ludmilla

I am back from my little escapade. Can you guess where it took me? Yes, indeed, I went to Prague but that’s not the whole story. When I took to my heals the morning after Easter Sunday I was looking forward to getting some time to myself with nothing but two paperbacks to keep me company.

But alas, motherhood is not shaken off as easily as that. In a way it is latched onto one’s soul like velcro and turns any act of self indulgence into a sordid back alley affair.

So when I got into the car to go to the airport, the grip on my bag was almost as tight as the cheerful smile I managed to dig out of the muddy trenches of my heart. Three little faces betraying nothing but utter misery were glued to the window.

Well done, Anna, I thought, at least you have made sure that this one childhood memory will make it into their bestselling memoir. And quite deservedly so, one may add.

But off I went anyway, heart palpitations, sweaty palms, deep remorse and all. Off into the skies and onto a wintery dream a thousand miles away.

There is nothing that will put an end to sappy feelings as swiftly as a Czech masseuse. After four days spent in their unrelenting care I was ready to forgive myself.

What came next was the realization that life can be good on the other side of blazing purgatory. And somewhere there, between the playful facades and shady colonnades of that dignified metropolis, I realized that it was okay to be perfectly content by myself.

In fact, it is quite a marvelous spot on the mental map. And it’s worth visiting especially when it lasts longer than a bubble bath.

Happy Bunny Day

Bless Him

Fred is in town and I am wondering whether three weeks will suffice to get him to listen to at least one episode of Bill Moyers’ Journal. He loathes the program but more than that he fears it. To him it is an ever threatening anathema to his Weltanschauung and so is the green movement, and -- for that matter -- any movement at all.

To Fred, the world is at its best. Human beings are the crest of evolution and in light of a dooming ice age, global warming is a good thing. I am not kidding you. Fred, biology professor and renaissance man, believes in fairy tales and lies to soothe his troubled soul.

Why, I wonder, do continue to be amazed and puzzled at the state of this world.

For the next days, however, I will be out of town to find bliss on other shores. I am leaving the kids with Fred and Yia Yia and, hopefully, Zoe will have set grandpa straight by the time I get back. I am quite confident.

When in Britain...

One thing I am beginning to realize two months into our lives in Britain is that British culture is one to reckon with. The Brits have their very own way of doing things and for most part, I think, they’ve got it right.

While it may be debatable whether tea must always be served with milk, they certainly have got a point when promoting locally grown produce, preserving farm land, and supporting the arts in the class room.

As a matter of fact, I like their take on most things. Maybe that’s just because their stubborn approach to so-called progress in some way mirrors mine.

After all, why should streets be broadened only so that more cars can drive on them? Why should more farmland be given up for development so that more people can commute from further away? And, really, why should the UK become part of the EU only because everyone from the Balkan to the Baltic is doing it?

However, I am, to say the least, mildly bewildered when it comes to understanding the rational behind their extremely complex education system.

While it may be regarded as merely cute that they call public all that is in fact private (for what else would you expect a Brit to do?), it can become rather time consuming and annoying when trying to figure out the sheer endless variations on the theme.

There are state-funded state schools, religious schools, grammar schools, and comprehensive schools. Prep-schools and pre-prep schools, however, seem to be always private, uh, public.

And while it is generally conceded that state funded schools are not as good as privately run institutions, some of them may actually be very good and quite exclusive. To get into them you have to be eleven years old and must have taken an exam, the 11+. That much I have figured out. However, different age requirements seem to apply for boys.

I also have figured out that it is basically impossible to find a reputable school to take a child beyond the age of 15 because the so-called top schools are very concerned about their final exam averages and, therefore, wouldn’t want to run the risk of taking on anyone but Einstein (if, in fact, they could make him out in a crowd).

I conclude, therefore, that the Brits are just as confused and panicked as everyone else in this world as far as their off-spring, i.e., their gene pool, is concerned.

How to ensure that their children will make it in this breathtakingly fast and efficient (albeit otherwise doomed) world doesn’t seem that clear to them. And, really, it isn’t.

It’s just sad that for all their stubbornness they haven’t come up with anything more... British.

Just like everyone else they scurry around like a mad bunch of chicken like in the movie Chicken Run advocating tougher entrance exams, national standards, and if all fails, elite education. Like everywhere else, mummies in this country busy themselves running their pallid third graders across town three times a day to keep up with that elusive thing called ‘a good education.’

What ever happened to four o’clock tea, I wonder? What happened to that minute or two reserved for quite introspection?

I saw an add for an after-school study program yesterday that read, “(...)exams, coursework, homework, revisions, essays...secondary school education is not an easy thing. Many children are suffering the symptoms of stress and exhaustion as the demands and expectations on them increase. So what can you do to help your child (...)?”

AFTER-SCHOOL STUDY PROGRAM??? Hellooooo, anyone home? Where are all ye smart Brits now??

I have to admit that while I have a hard time concealing my disappointment about this blind frenzy, I am grateful that at least the Brits are elitist enough to allow home education.

However, for a moment there I was swaying ready to succumb to the pressure, spurred on by the human desire to fit in, because after all most is good imn this corky little island state.

But then, what’s wrong with being more British than the Brits?

Aah

I just took a long bath. I sat in the steaming tub until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.

I was afloat.

For a moment or so, I actually dozed off and found myself in a space between reality and dream. While my mind wandered in the past, my feelings remained suspended in my comfortable aquatic environment.

I relived our last year without the anxieties that have trailed on our heals like a surly gnome. And suddenly it all wasn’t that bad at all.

It was a strenuous year, one that was filled with good-byes, suitcases, taxi rides, water bottles, fluttering hearts and queazy stomachs. But while bobbing in my extra deep tub, my skin turning into a rubbery mess, all of that didn’t matter.

Ah, the midnight bath. It’s a tough drug to resist.

Mad Scientist

I usually have a pretty good gut instinct when I throw clothes into the washer. Anything light or with light stripes or dots, even if most of the fabric is a darker shade, I wash them with whites. It seems logical and has worked for me. Well, friday it didn’t.

The sounds of my quiet and subsequently less quiet desperation called everyone in the kitchen where I sat kneeling on the floor, a pile of bright pink dress shirts on my lap. The culprit, a light pink T-shirt was guiltily cowering on the edge of the open washer.

“Not good,” I scolded the wet miserable lump in front of me (in fact, I may also have used some other more pointed words). I used to be even more of a compulsive type, taking this kind of defeat rather personally. And even though I wanted to kick my own ass (and almost succeeded in doing so), I managed to move on leaving failure behind me like dried out tube of toothpaste.

Years of living with children and being forced not only to face my shortcomings but also to live with them has taught me a neat trick: shrugging. I am still no pro at it and the tenseness between my shoulders tends to get in the way of it...but I am working on it.

Anyway, after the halo of fumes lifted I decided to google and find out what exactly had happened to Matt’s shirts and to see whether a lesson could be learned and maybe even taught. I also decided that maybe the inevitable bleach bath would be fun for the children to observe.

And did they have a ball. Clad in my white bathrobe to avoid further unwelcome stains and wielding toxic substances while elaborating on pigments and dyes I looked like the mad chemist from their comic books. In fact, Zoe liked my performance so much that she has decided to study Chemistry when she is done being a concert violinist and a relief worker in Sudan

That, or she may just have gotten the wrong idea...that scientists are people who walk around in bathrobes all day...

Gone

I should probably not be sitting here typing right now. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Julian and the girls are jammed into a small crowded room pretending they are monkeys in the dark. And if I interpret the noises correctly they are about finished sharing bananas. The thuds and bumps are getting harsher and there are distinctly fewer giggles now than just five minutes ago.

Ah, yes. Life.

I keep sneaking away from it from time to time. I hide in some remote corner of the house, a small space tucked away on the second floor, hoping it won’t stumble upon me. I dig my fingers into the key board as if that would keep me safe.

My words will forever be last words, like the confessions of a death row inmate. And just like that last blabber, my words will remain suspended in a vacuum after I will have been called away.

But right now, I am still sitting here typing away pretending there is no limit to time nor travel. While this moment lasts, I am free.

In fact, this moment is what makes me appreciate that freedom. It reminds me how precious it is. And as with most things in life that we appreciate, we tend to treasure them, because they are scarce.

And, whoops, gone...talk to you later...gotta go.

iLife or myLife

I don’t know whether you have noticed, but a rather unethical trend has developed in the electronics industry to boost profit margins. The scheme is as effective as it is cunning and, as far as I can see, it is quite pervasive. Everyone has a story or two to share. Here is mine:

As you may remember, we switched from PC to Apple about two years ago -- just like all the others who have filled the coffers of that Steve Jobs guy. And just like them, we fell for the slick marketing. After all, how could an Apple be worse than the ever crashing PC, right? Editing photos, posting podcasts, and sharing videos on a Sunday morning is supposed to be pure bliss. They call it “iLife”, you see.

Two years into owning that little snazzy device with all its nifty applications, and after having swallowed that initial lure, iLife has taken quite a different meaning.

At times I can’t help myself but smile at how they managed to reel me in, cunningly, patiently, but also mercilessly -- me, the hefty lunker, thrashing about spewing and gaping. But they succeeded. On too many Sunday mornings it has been either iLife or my Life.

Guess what I did last week...

I once again drove out to an Apple Store twenty miles away, my MacBook giving me the silent treatment on the passenger seat next to me. After many Sunday mornings spent in a not so blissful routine, I had resolved to give it another try at finding the answer to one of the most annoying glitches with one of its oh-so-marvelous programs.

This particular one has kept bothering me for the last eighteen months: iPhoto keeps loosing my pictures. Now, loosing pictures is a rather severe problem considering that iPhoto supposedly is all about STORING pictures.

However, thirty-four minutes later and after a heartwarming chat with two of the groovy young chaps leaning against one of the display tables with a self-conscious nonchalance, I left the store with a $200 purchase in my elegant fruit bag.

They had done it again!! They had sold me hope. They had convinced me that the only way to solve the software problem I was experiencing was to buy more products from them.

I bought AppleCare, and with it the hope that some time in the future I will get my money’s worth out of an investment in a product I made two years ago.

Boy, they are good at what they do!!

Not only do they keep getting a seizable chunk of my money, they also get my time and energy. Because, let’s face it, it won’t be Apple fixing the product, but I. I will be the one in front of the screen with some heavily accented person babbling in my ear about where to lick, double-click, or pull down on.

In Apple’s defense, however, I have to mention that Gateway Computers had me on my arms and knees behind my desk armed with a flash light, a pencil, and a screw driver unscrewing the back of the hard-drive encasement ten years ago....

And you’ve got to give it to them all. They have got it right. There is no doubt that it is a lot cheaper for them to have Ms. Jordan and a low cost third-world engineer figure out what’s wrong with their over-prized nothing-but-image product, than having a first-world engineer give it a try.

Chances are, they wouldn’t figure it out either, anyway. And for that there is a rather obvious explanation: The Jobs’ and Gates’ are much better at making money than they are at making computers.

So, no iLife for my life.

At least not today.

Tea Time (Take 2)

So here I am in this quaint...no, I can’t do that one again. So here I am then in this stubborn...nope. That won’t do either. Well, darn, here I am in this place I am trying to figure out while madly falling in love with it. How is that?

It’s a bit of a scary thing to fall head over heals for someone you don’t really know. But it’s even more hopeless to become enthralled with a culture that will forever identify you as a stranger.

And that much is for sure: I don’t know the first thing about being English. I am clueless when it comes to the Royals, mince pie, and, for that matter, tea.

Unfortunately, I thought I could feign it. After all, how difficult can it be to make a cup of tea. Most Brits nowadays use tea bags anyway. So by buying the real thing...actual loose-leaf Yorkshire tea, I was light years ahead of the game. Or so I thought.

That was last week. Since then, I have suffered unspeakable agony, almost peed my pants, and developed a hideous rash on one side of my neck. Not undeservedly, I have to admit.

What was I thinking?

Well, I’ll tell you. I thought that it was a ‘smashing’ idea to have my dear new neighbor, Mrs. Bumble, over for a 3 o’ clock cup of tea together with her friend who also happens to live on our street. In these past weeks, Mrs. Bumble had been very kind to me and the children.

For one, she didn’t as much as frown when Julian nonchalantly ripped out the first tender signs of Spring from her front yard when we were passing by the other day. But then, she also went out of her way to introduce us to a young family with children the same age as ours in addition to hooking us up to an organic milk delivery service and a highly acclaimed orthodontist.

No, Mrs. Bumble didn’t deserve what she had coming when she set foot in my house earlier today. And it is with the most sincere guilt-stricken remorse that I confess to what I did. But even if ignorance is no excuse I must say this much in my defense: I was trying to do the right thing.

In the week leading up to my innocent proposal, I had purchased not only a reputable brand of tea but also what I had believed to be a proper tea pot. Let it be said, this was but another proof of my ignorance.

I don’t know what exactly I bought but it didn’t serve me properly in my attempt to make that perfect little three o’ clock cup of tea. Again, I have only myself to blame because I didn’t even test the device prior to three-oh-five o’clock today.

As I said, I thought I knew what I was doing. After all, just a couple of days ago another helpful neighbor had loaned me his worn out edition of the highly acclaimed Mrs. Beeton household reference book to look up just exactly how to prepare and serve a proper cup of tea.

Tea, tea pot, terse three-step instructions, and a load of good intentions should be enough to achieve a mild success. So I thought.

By 3:11 today, however, I was bathed in sweat and showing the first signs of a blotchy rash.

Of course, with a maximum steep time of three to three and a half minutes, I was already more than two minutes over due...and still I was nowhere close to solving the riddle of how to get the boiling hot tea out of the pot and into the cup without the leaves.

The water had been poured (after appropriately having ‘warmed’ the pot beforehand) and the tea was sitting there, when it suddenly occurred to me that possibly I should have used some kind of filter for the tea. But on second thought it seemed to me that the pot was much too deep and wide to allow the tea leaves to even touch the water if they had been suspended in a filter.

Had I bought the wrong pot? Had I misread the measurements? Was I about to ruin tea time for two very fine ladies?

At that point the urge to pee suddenly manifested itself. But since steeping tea requires immediate action, I instead resolved to dart around my kitchen in an effort to locate a cup-size sifter.

Needless to say, I found none. And despite my cursing at long gone maids, movers, and miserable two year-olds, the situation wasn’t getting any better as the tea was steeping quietly with an unconcealed indifference to me and my desperate situation.

By the time I appeared with my devilish concoction in the door frame of our living room, it was 3:15. I was doomed.

The agony that followed in watching Mrs. Bumble and her friend take a first and then a brave second sip was unparalleled. Neither of them said a word nor did they add more milk. Unlike my disheveled self, both of them served as a lesson in composure and equanimity. Mrs. Bumble even smiled encouragingly at me before she raised the cup a third time.

At that point I broke down. “Don’t do it,” I shouted. “Please, it will kill you. I am so sorry. Let me try this again.” And in a frantic attempt to save lives if not honor I stumbled away from the table and back into my kitchen.

I did manage to brew another cup of tea by pouring the tea first through a veggie colander into a large measuring jug and from there back into the pot to serve it in just under three and a half minutes while apologizing for the amount of noise I had made in the kitchen.

But I am not sure as to why I had to top it all off by adding my ill-advised version of British humor.

“At least, I am glad to report,” I announced with a deceptively confident smile, “That I caught the rat that was having a good old time swimming around at the bottom of the tea pot.”

No, I didn’t deserve a smile. What I deserved was for my clothes to melt away and my bladder to finally let go.

But I was saved. I got the smile instead. “You did very well, my dear.”

I am in love and I am so lost.