No need to dream...

This is what we have been up to this last week...

Life

At ninety-one, my grandma continues to represent an old ideal: stoicism.

She is composed and kind, generous and forgiving, a fearless mind and a calm soul.
Nothing has ever succeeded in breaking her spirit, not the loss of her mother as a child, nor the experience of a father lost to depression, nor her childhood during the depression, nor the birth of five children during the war in bombed out hospitals, alone, alone, and again alone.

I wouldn’t prescribe that life to anyone, but I would hope that everyone could learn from it. It’s a powerful message about the ability to move on, not like a tank, but like a gentle breeze, one that touches flowers and stones alike, that spreads life in its passing and leaves a soothing sensation in its wake.

It’s what we associate with mothers. It’s what we should expect from humanity.

Today

I woke up early and ambled over to my desk in the dark, carefully, so the promise of a mouse bite of undisturbed time wouldn’t be nixed by ‘i-am-hungry’s and ‘where-is-my-fly-wa-honk’.

And so here I am, in this pitch black corner of the house, with my hard drive humming away, and my curser pushing onward while my feet are turning cold around the edges, because I couldn’t locate my Crox in the dark.

But I treasure this little space of time and silence. It’s mine for now, my moment of silence and sanity before the rumble, which has become my life, is to begin.

And I love that life. Often, these days, I think, how great it is. How wonderful to have three kids. What better investment in a life could there be?

I see dear ol’ Zoë, whose growing thoughts are pushing me onward, letting me rethink what I have learned so far about myself, about people, and about the world. And then Lea, on the other hand, at seven, who doesn’t ask, who simply knows. Her mind is spinning, her eyes are two bright, little, fiery diamonds and her smile is triumphant. No need to ponder there. And then, there is Julian, who is busy explaining the world to us, and who is inviting us so generously to hug and squeeze him 24/7.

It is a good life, lived in a world that could be better. But it is still good. I have wondered these days, whether I should fret more and worry, whether I should be out there to fight for lower emissions.

I do hope that there will be a decent future for our children and their children, and the generations to come, but I am doubtful that we will manage to get there in time. We are, after all, very limited. The drive for supremacy and our still rather underdeveloped emotional intelligence are serious challenges for our long-term survival, I believe. Far beyond rising sea levels.

And so, I have decided to be happy. Today.

Panpanic

A quick pit stop between emptying buckets, checking on temperatures and refilling warm water bottles: After Matt came down with swine flu a month ago, we have tried to stay healthy, albeit with moderate success. Jules was prescribed Tamiflu a while ago by the Pandemic National Health Line, but we ended up waiting it out. They are awfully quick with their diagnosis, even if you check NO to most of their questions. Off they send you with an authorization code in your pocket to pick up the miracle drug at one of their ‘collection points.’ In the end, it was only a a very virulent stomach virus, fever and all. And while it is noisily making its round through our family, I am glad that I didn’t combat it with viral cyanide. More than a pandemic, this seems to be a panpanic.

Nothing more dangerous, than...

thinking for yourself.

In times of relativism where the individual stands to decide for her or himself everything including sexual identity, spiritual affiliation and source of information, it seems dated to speak about norms and taboos. Political correctness yes, but divine censorship??

In fact, it has become sort of démodé to mention the old iconoclasts, all those individuals and movements of the past who passionately fought for fairness, justice and equality. After all, we’ve got it all.

Why mention that a mother’s job is grossly underpaid? Get a better paying job then!
Why insist that the services rendered by society’s hardest working population should be reflected in the GDP? Who cares?
Why point fingers at tenaciously persistent gender inequalities? Get a life!

Just please don't think!

Whodunnit

Anna: Look, Jules, it's a half moon!
Jules: Who ate the other half?

Got a Room

I am living through the most stressful November of my life. I remember that, for a number of years it used to be Spring, especially April and May, when Matt’s social skills plummeted, friends and family got a bit demanding, and my pets died.

But this November is the mother of all hair-pulling and Tylenol-popping months. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and immediately roll over to check the calender. Not over yet. Inevitably, as daylight creeps in, I try to play dead, which requires determination and stamina with Jules around. He likes boobs.

After this school thing had been settled, I was hoping that we would settle down as well. As a matter of fact, we nave been trying to get back in the grove, but for some reason, it seems, that we can’t find one grove that fits all. Or maybe we have forgotten what a groove feels like.

We are stumbling around in some odd syncopated pattern that makes Ragtime sound like a Waltz. One of us always has a headache, feels unappreciated or is going bald while the other feels it’s time for Tequila. Like an odd couple tripping each other with their wobbly canes, the two of us are entangled in a strange off-beat Tango. And Fridays are the worst.

Six o’ clock rolls around and I know we are off to our dance macabre once again. Whatever I do in those doomed hours that usher in the weekend: smile, not smile, listen or ignore, offer drinks, or get drunk, unfailingly we hit the wrong key and it’s downhill from there.

So, last weekend I skipped the dance and instead took off at five to six to return only when the chamber maid breathed heavily into my ear indicating that it was time to vacate the bed. Yes, I rented a bed for myself, free from spiteful snoring and groping critters. For a full 39 hours (yes, I counted) my life belonged just to me. Time was mine, and silence reigned. It was heaven.

I just might try that again some time.

Not so poor boys !

If I have to hear about one more whining and complaining husband/father, I am going to vomit.

What on earth can be so horrible about being male in this world? Last time I checked every single political system was thought off my males and dominated by them, capitalism isn’t a woman’s idea, all dominant ideologies are man-made (including religion) and have worked out very well for that minority population, I’d say.

Also, major artwork, literature and technological inventions until very recently have been produced almost exclusively by men, not because men are more capable but simply because they are physically stronger and have ruthlessly threatened women into subjugation and isolation, relegating them to chores that they subsequently classified as inferior: Childcare, housework, teaching, social work, nursing, midwifery, you name it.

But banking - uh, yes, we are all supposed to be oh-so-grateful for these emotionally challenged asses to dominate our world. Let’s pay them really well, preferably by laying off teachers!

No, I am not sorry to say, that men should just shut up when it comes to their work life. Go figure it out, boys - it was your idea to begin with.

If you’re smart, you’ll change it. If you’re stupid, you will probably end up buying a gun and shoot up a convenience store - that or vote Republican.

Kafkaesque - or one of the many reasons why Citibank sucks!

THIS IS CITIBANK CARD SERVICE - PLEASE ENTER YOUR 16 DIGIT CREDIT CARD NUMBER !

PLEASE HOLD...

“This is Citibank Card Services, Underpaid Bangladeshi # 873. Can you please tell me your 16-digit card number?”

“I just entered it”

“I don’t have it, Ma’m”

“Why do I have to type it then when I call this number?”

“You have to identify yourself”

“I just did.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Hm. I think what you mean is that you want me to identify myself AGAIN.”

“How can I help you?”

“I would like to use my card to pay for my groceries online as I do every week and a CITIbank SecureCode screen popped up where I was asked to enter my name, security code and experation date. When I did as I was told a text in red letters informed me that the information wasn’t correct and it asked me to re-enter it. So I re-entered the card details and when that didn’t work I called this number.”

“Your card has been blocked because you entered the information twice.”

“I was asked to do that.”

“If you enter your information too many times your card is automatically blocked.”

“I entered it twice because I was asked to.”

“You have to register your card to receive a temporary code on a webpage that I will give you and then you will have to change the password and re-register your card.”

“Can you guide me through the process step-by-step because it sounds a bit complicated?”

“Go to securecode.com and enter your temporary number.”

“I don’t have that number.”

“Please hold.”

And I did until I was disconnected.

While I am writing this I am on my third attempt to do as I am told. Kafka would have a field day.

Passed that!

Zoë passed her entrance exams - state and private - with flying colors. I was very impressed with her calm, after all, there I was in the background seething with scarcely concealed wrath. How dare they subject young children to this charade of ambitions and blatant cynicism? But, it’s done and time to move on and, as it looks, we are moving away from the idea of ‘selective’ education. Hurray!

Lea (7) is convinced...

...the Devil invented mistakes !!

No good

Once in a while, I look at my children, and I wonder who these little people are who keep calling me ‘mom.’ And, more intriguingly, I wonder, who they think I am. Do they know that I have not the slightest idea what I am doing on this planet? That, whenever Jules hollers “Mom, I went pee and poo,” my head whirls around in search of that fat lady with smelly armpits who clambers up from her laundry pile to help junior with his predicament. It’s me, they mean! Poor kids - there is no one else. They actually think, they can rely on me. Me, little me - who never thought she was going to be a mom, least of all a butt-wiping one. And I try to pretend to the best of my abilities, because they are far too cute to disabuse of their lofty ideals. Not yet, anyway. Zoë, of course, is onto me. And I am glad, because I am no good at pretending.

Spooky!!

Big time...
Boo

Can't do without It

“I still love you,” Matt tells me and it sounds as if he was noticeably surprised that after fifteen years of bearing children, scrubbing stoves and occasionally kicking doors I am still able to conjure up that deep seated emotion in him.

Maybe it is surprising. After all, familiarity can breed contempt. It is not an easy feat to stick together throughout the slime of childbirth and running noses, the grime of dirty bathtubs and worn-out underwear and the occasional (very occasional) bad sex.

Bad Apple

EU regulations have clamped down on apple producers in the UK over the past years. There seems to be a standard apple, call it Braeburn, Fuji, Gala, or whatever, that everyone in the EU is supposed to want. All other varieties are out. It’s really much like the British school system...

Isn't that Cute!

Watching the weather forecast last night we were informed that a "benign and blissful spell of autumnal weather" was headed our way. Nicely put, Sir Weatherfrog, very much so indeed.

Ouch!

I suppose I should have seen it coming right then, when she downed that horrible tea I served on her first visit. Her upper lip was as stiff as the brew I had concocted. Formidable.

Since then we have exchanged many friendly words on the street, strawberry baskets and raspberry jam, and Lea left a number of drawings at her doorstep and wrote a ‘Get Well’ card when she fell ill last Spring.

It was always a nice surprise to run into Mrs. Bumble on the street, or as she was turning the corner on her way back from the mailbox, or when we all were lining up to buy some organic produce from Weller’s at the Wednesday market.

It, therefore, came as somewhat of a surprise, when her little beady eyes went cold on me the other day, as I was joking about the leaky ceilings of the supposedly elite Grammar School I had just visited. “Why don’t you go home to your country? Why don’t you go back to Germany?”

Touché.

Seeing how Britain treats its less fortunate citizens, I sometimes wish I could.

Imagine That

Girl graduates and lands well-paying job with great benefits right out of school. On-the-job training, and monetary rewards follow. By the time she is in her late twenties, she has contributed a good amount to personal IRA and 401K and she is ready to sign a marriage contract with her partner who will help her through the years of parenthood, which naturally will affect her in more ways than him. Her boss and colleagues will send her on to her two year maternity leave (with full benefits and Social Security contributions), telling her how much they look forward to promoting her to a part time junior management position when she gets back, because they value the experience as multi-task talent, emergency responder, ad hoc problem-solver, and mature team player that she will gain. When she replies that she appreciates the offer and will consider it (given her partner’s flexibility in sharing in paid and non-paid work), they look relieved and grateful. Their future is in good hands, thanks to and not despite of the female life cycle.

Oedipal but really sweet

Jules: I like your mudgy arms.
Hmmm. (Is it really THAT bad??)
Jules: I like your big fat butt, Mom.
It IS that bad!!
Jules: Can I give you a kissy. Kissies
are happy and tickly.

SIGH!

And for my Sunday eight-thirty pm thought...

I am not religious and probably never will be, just like I will probably never belong to a political party although I accept the reason for their existence. Democracy, just like religion, can guide people away from petty self-interest. But, just like anything else, it is constantly threatened by the onslaught of small-mindedness.

Any organization, institution, or ideology, however solid and well-intended its underlying principles may be, is subject to the mediocrity of human self-interest.

Whether Green Peace, Amnesty International, the Club of Rome or National Public Radio, the monotony of dealing with the selfish motivations of many of their members likens them to most other organizations, whether the Latter Day Saints of Jesus Christ, the National Rifle Association and (for good measure) the Ku Klux Klan.

What sets them apart are a few magnanimous minds that rise above human decrepitude.

Humanity is but the sum of a handful of humans.

Born to Strive

I think, what makes the British middle class a bit jumpy is the fear of drab row house living. And they may have a point. Being poor in the UK is no fun. Being poor is no fun. But don’t try it in the UK...unless you have cancer (I am a big fan of the NHS, the National Health System, because despite all Republican diatribes to the contrary it actually works).

But otherwise, there are few redeeming aspects of low income living on this picturesque little isle. Once you have made one too many wrong checks on your entrance exams at age 10 you are bound to take the lower road. And mind you, there is no return. It’s mediocrity from there on. And mediocrity stinks in this country of bucolic countryside and afternoon tea parties. You feel shamefully left out. And worst of all, you know what your missing out on, because everyone knows how it is to live the regal life here.

So, no wonder, the Whitneys and the Scornfields have their seven-year olds pick up a third instrument and study Latin after school; chess on weekends and witty word games on New Year’s Eve...I am not kidding you.

Good Point

Are you happy, Jules?
YES
And why is that?
BECAUSE IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.
And when it's not your birthday?
THEN I WAIT.

What shall it be...

“I think I should go to school. It just doesn’t seem fair, if I didn’t. All my friends have to!” This, Zoë announced the other day as I was stirring an extra helping of sugar into my chipped and battered coffee mug.

Although my immediate response was a gaping jaw and blank stare, I can see her point. Unlike in Costa Rica, most of her friends here are enrolled in some form of formal education. And, as it is, unless she joins the rank and file within the next two years, she will forever be barred from that hellish experience... How will she ever relate? I get it. The only problema is that pulling ones children out of school is much easier done in this country, than actually getting them in.

Let’s say, for instance, in the best case scenario, your children are under thirteen (fourteen years and you may as well homeschool until you drop dead), then the steeple chase across a vast terrain of ifs, buts, and nots is just about to begin.

In our case, the hurdles and ditches are quite substantial and include such foreboding categories as denomination (neither of us are either Anglican or Catholic!!!). The latter rules out one of the major two players in affordable schools. However, we were assured that denomination alone wouldn’t make any difference (we asked)... more important is regular church attendance and a recommendation from the local vicar... Deafening silence.

Then, of course, there is money. With three children, the costs involved in getting them through ‘public’ (read: really private) education may end up making that leap out of a second (no, make that third) floor bedroom window ever so much more inviting.

Ah, and then there is sex: male, female, in between or otherwise...that sort of consideration. Many schools are still single sex, which is just an additional annoyance. If you have both boys and girls, get ready to deal with disjointed vacation schedules, as well as term breaks, half-term breaks, and national holidays that will drive you mad.

Last but not least, to clench buttocks up just a tad bit more, there are so-called ‘catchment’ areas which are ever so tiny for reputable schools and which tend to vary from year to year...so keep your pop-up tent handy.

Say, for example, you have decided that your pocket money just doesn’t allow for lofty academic extravaganzas. You then are left with either making the cut and getting into one of the very few Grammar Schools by answering one hundred and sixty-five questions of the type “CX is to DW as HS is to...???” and “If you change the third letter of all the words in the second column and the second letter of all the words in the third column to make a new five letter word, which word in the first column is an antonym of that word? You have 15 seconds.” Fail this test, and consider putting the house on the market.

Anyway, the message is quite obvious: Come back when you are:
a) rich
b)cunning
c)blasphemous; and/or
d)trans-gender

Hm...

Jules: I like you Mom. I like to sit on your knees always always always.
Lea: You cannot sit on Mom’s knees when you grow up.
Jules: Then I will grow down.

That Thing about the Pie

Whoever came up with the saying “You can’t eat the pie and have it too” was not only grammatically challenged, s/he was right. You see, something usually has got to give no matter how good the deal seems. However, it is not always apparent what that ‘something’ is, least of all if you’re the one enjoying the pie.

We have been enjoying the pie for quite a while. Homeschooling. We have had all the freedom and time in the world to explore; there were no schedules to abide by, no exams to pass, and no curricula to dutifully stick to.

Learning up to this point has been free, unencumbered and enjoyable. And no matter how eagerly people in the past have tried to point out that we were supposedly missing out on ‘something’, we were one happy group of larks.

But it looks like we are finally coming to a point where our freedom will have to give way to the culturally overpowering system of British formal education. In a class society like this one, eyebrows are constantly raised, and noses pointed upward at non-conformers (unless you have the funds and/or arrogance to back it up).

I never really cared because I know it is not only reprehensible but also futile to measure people by the school they attended, the badges they have obtained, or the number of A-pluses on their report cards. But Zoë is beginning to be more aware of cultural norms and the expectations that go along with them.

At eleven, she wants to be like everyone else. She wants to enjoy the walk to school with her friends and join in on the complaints about her teachers and the terror of the next upcoming exam. She has all but forgotten about her time in Germany, where she was sidelined and walked home from school alone every single day.

I SO get her.

Five Seconds

Sure, more money would be swell and a couple of touch-ups to the rear façade would be welcome, but if you asked me, what I really need, I would say it's time. Time, and that tad bit of youthful energy, would make my life ever so much more enjoyable. But, I guess, I shouldn’t complain, because more important than time, money, energy (or that lifted bum) is health. Whenever I am about to forget that, I am sorrowfully reminded.

My friend has been doing admirably well with her treatment, but it has taken a toll on everyone in the family. Worries, pain, the change of routines and a complete overhaul of short-term plans and long-term aspirations are some of the gloomy companions of disease. I try to be more aware these days, aware and also humble. After all, what is a truck load of time worth if it’s delivered to you in a hospital bed?

I have been thinking about life quality lately. Apart from health, I have realized that the other important factor is a close network of family and friends. Having moved around a lot, there have been times when my relationships with those dear to me were put to a test. And I have, at times, envied others for the help and support they were able to count on from their families, while Matt and I had to steer our ship alone through the shifting seas. But throughout it all and over the years we counted our lucky stars as friendships prevailed and family ties were reinforced.

Now, let’s say you are through and through healthy and can count on a handful of die-hard fans and family that stand by you, including maybe a significant other, some well-adjusted kids and/or couple of cats, why is it still so hard to lean back with a smile for longer than five seconds at a time?

Because it is. That’s just how we are, how we’re wired. We are eternally geared towards wanting to climb that next step, reaching a new target and rounding yet another corner. It’s what keeps us all whirling and twirling day in and day out. And yet, what really counts are those five seconds of clarity...where life is good. In between it’s all a daze.

Not Dior

Admit it, when you think of the Brits, the very first thing that comes to your mind is probably several galaxies away from Miss Universe and fashion shots. But what’s the second thing?

When I told one of my friends that we were moving to England, her first thought was, “School uniforms!!!” She had me baffled. I was still thinking of pink mohawks and crooked teeth.

But as it turns out, she was right. School uniforms are big here, in fact, too big and invariably uninspiringly black, blue, grey or green.

Like oversized shoe-boxes, they encase the little bodies with a pair of gangly legs dangling from underneath them, like with one of those ridiculous bookshelf cows that were popular a couple of years ago.

It’s pitiful...well, definitely nothing like the Royal Guard, anyway.

EL-OH-VEE-EEH

Julian: Zack is my best friend.
Anna: Really? I thought Jeremy was.
Julian: Jeremy likes Power Rangers.
Anna: And Will?
Julian Will likes Power Rangers.
Anna: So what does Zack like?
Julian: Zack only likes me!

Big Surprise!

I doubt that we will ever know who we are. All our lives, we wander about trying to define ourselves - often in contrast to others around us.

We look at the world eager to find our own reflection in it. The things we like, the people we keep in contact with, all that we do in a day, and the sequence of choices we make throughout our lives, everything points to who we are.

But then this multicolored, kaleidoscopic image diverts our attention and, in fact, makes it impossible to capture it. Any moment, a new shape may evolve, a slightly different image develop. And then, who are we to decide who we are?

I am easing into the knowledge of my ignorance both about myself and about the people in my life and, for the sake of generalization, humanity in general. And for all that it is worth it delights me that it will forever surprise me.

Blurred

No one will ever understand how all the pixels fit together, for our vision is blurred by our limited experience, neurons firing away, chemical potions drowning our awareness.

Any Given Moment

I am stirring Pad Thai noodles into an overcooked stir-fry concoction, brown rice is on its way. The early evening has settled on the kitchen like a beehive on a bear’s head. Lea is reciting from Kingfisher, The Sea is Salty. Her little voice melts words and sentences into an ongoing phonetic stream. Zoë, after a frenzied half-hour search, has located her mobile and is chatting away, oblivious of her surroundings. And Julian is beating his tambourine, shouting some staccato nonsense into the air which is already replete with sound bites, “Pow-uh-ane-juh, pow-uh-ane-juh...” “The Gulper Eel has an enormous mouth, look!” Lea lets us know and adds, “He can eat prey several times it’s own size.” I try to steady my eyes for a second on the open pages, while continuing to stir. The doorbell rings, and then the phone. I answer the first and Julian beats me to the second. Pinching a Royal Mail delivery under one arm, I snatch the receiver out of his grubby hand and hiss, “Go wash you hands, NOW!” before answering with an unadulterated British accent (eighteen months of practice and this is the best I can do...), “Hilowwh?” Water is splashing, Zoë is giggling, Lea has moved on to the Angler Fish. My friend has been diagnosed with cancer.

Somewhere the rice is dutifully burning.

Scooooot!

There is not a single time I enter a room in our house without picking up the one or other odd item on my way. Remember the mouse a couple of weeks ago? Although that was a tad bit beyond my normal load, there are always stray Legos and their relatives, abandoned socks of all colors, and at least a couple of shriveled up coloring pens sorrowfully awaiting my arrival. In fact, so much of my life is about reclaiming my space...I have dug myself out of a ton of stuff to regain the surface, it’s become second nature. And mind you, not all of it has been as harmless as children’s toys.

"Good Afternoon, ...

...I am calling about the crossroads at High Street and Pembroke Road. I am concerned with the lack of pedestrian lights.”

I practiced that line in the bathroom this morning and I expect some interruption like, “But there are pedestrian islands on two sides.” I have made this call and similar ones before and I know the full bandwidth of replies. One of my favorites is “This intersection has a low priority with the Transport Commission, because there have been no fatalities so far.”

On my earlier calls, I ventured as far as questioning pedestrian safety standards in all of the UK. Why not, once you’re at it? But this time I am more cautious and a wee bit more concise.

“The problem is,” I continue, “that it is a very busy crossroads with turning lanes on all four sides, and short green periods so the cars zip around the corner like pin balls...”

I pause, waiting for some acknowledgment but for lack thereof I add, “You see, it is rather challenging for children to estimate speed and distance, and...” But this time he has a verdict ready for me, “Pedestrians cross at their own risk, and children should not cross streets unsupervised.”

Ah, yes, now he’s found a familiar tune: Blame the parent, children belong behind closed (and preferably locked) doors/in the back seat of an armored vehicle. Obviously, I have landed with a hard-liner.

However, ironically, the one time, when there actually was a close call, Zoë was with my mom, and it was my mom who needed the extra help.

But it’s useless. He has boxed and stacked me. Me, the negligent parent who assumes that crossing high street should be manageable without risking life or limb.

As if!

More on the subject of...

Julian: My Pene (penis) doesn’t talk. He just pees.
(Roaring laughter from Zoë)
Julian:
(Slightly indignant) Don’t laugh at Pene. It’s not his fault.

Hear, hear!

Barack Hussein Obama, now there is a person with a fair amount of emotional intelligence.
Have you had a chance to listen to the speech he gave at Al-Azhar university in Cairo a couple of days ago? Good stuff. In my opinion, he could have elaborated a bit more on the point he was trying to make about US courts upholding the right of muslim women to wear a head scarf in public. It seemed a bit sycophantic. But overall, he did well and he did send a clear message that past errors should not haphazard future opportunities. Well done.

It would be really nice if he survived.

Shove this where the sun don't shine!

I might have mentioned before that getting into a reputable secondary school in the UK is not easily done. It takes a lot of time and energy (not to mention money) and the road is arduous and annoyingly narrow. Endless hours of tutoring and booklets upon booklets of mock tests and online coaching are offset only by a handful of canceled vacation. Not a good deal, I say.

But then, Brits seemingly like to test, quiz and outwit each other. It’s a bizarre national sport, just like cricket, which no-one in there right mind cares to watch. It must be something that makes their adrenaline roar.

When I complained about one of these exams, pointing out that young children are forced to perform like monkeys and that the tests are designed to trick them and put them under pressure, to my surprise, the parent, who otherwise seems fairly level headed, argued that “Children like to shine.” Yeah, in the sun!!

Out of Ideas

Not surprisingly, societies that have low rates of gender equality also belong to the ones that are the least innovative in the world. Repressing 50% of a population is a hell of a job. Not much time and energy left, I guess.

Damn Stewart!

This day was not meant for greatness. It started late, it ended early and somewhere in the middle I got bitten by a mouse. There are days like this and, needless to say, they are annoying from beginning to end. But the part with the mouse was truly humiliating and will hopefully not be repeated. Ever.

It just so happened that as I had decided to give up any further attempt of healthy cooking and instead retreat with a bowl of granola onto the couch (quinoa pancakes…what was I thinking anyway!), that little critter planted himself right there between me, my bowl, the promise of five minutes of peace and thereby confirmed my sneaking suspicion that this was not my day.

But just to top it off, instead of making a speedy exit, as I had hoped, the mouse continued to remain where it was, and I had to call for backup. Leroy!

But, alas, that no good son of mine took one look and two sniffs at the little fellow and lazily retreated to Zoë’s bed where he has spent the last three month of his fat life. I was left with Mr. Little.

So I did what I had to do to prevent little Littles from entering the world. I caught him. Ah, yes…but that moment of glory didn’t last, of course. Instead that sneaky big ear dug his little chompers into my thumb and escaped.

As I said, not my day. Not at all.
Glad it’s over.

Never say Never

Sometimes you just wonder. You sit there and shake your head thinking, “I can’t believe he just did that.” And maybe you even think, “I would never do such a thing.”

And, of course, you wouldn’t, but then...maybe you would too. Maybe, just like that ill-fated guy you thought you were saying something completely inoffensive, when you said “I am tired.” However, everyone in the room fell over backwards and spilled their beer, because what they heard was “I am tired of you all!”

In a way, it’s good to know, that at some point everyone is left behind dumbstruck wondering.... It makes the world just a tad bit fairer.

All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.
Arthur Schopenhauer

ΚΡΕΤΑ

Crete, two weeks of rocks, thyme, shards, copious amounts of wine, honey, and feta.

There is so much to discover on that little plot of land suspended half way between Europe, Asia and Africa. It’s one of the corners of the world, like Egypt or the Ganges valley, where civilization started early and then went dormant to remain in that wistful state of forgotten glory for centuries. Much has been unearthed but there are still secrets that lurk under the surface for some eager, sweaty archeologist to poke around in.

And yet, Crete is developing fast. A coastal highway now snakes along the Aegean to connect the four major cities. Sprawl mars the face of Venetian ports and gas stations have sprouted up everywhere like smallpox. But, then, that is happening almost everywhere. It’s part of our civilization.

But when traveling in the ‘hinterland,’ one still finds expansive areas, where the traces of modern civilization are less visible. Little mountain villages cling to the sides of rocky slopes, and where women and men, dressed in black, populate the streets, and the popular Tavli (backgammon) is played on the shady terraces of the town taverna.

Cretans, the ones who haven’t ever left the island, are a people unto themselves. Fiercely independent, they have fought off invaders, including Turks, Venetians and Nazis, for centuries and to this day they keep their rifles handy, just in case. But it seems that they are not too worried about the more recent invasion that is sweeping across their land. Granted, it’s of a more gradual and gentler kind but it is an invasion none the less: tourism.

What one will find when visiting this island is a society divided between new-comers, the ones who have returned after making their fortune abroad to build their ostentatious dream house, and those who are set in their traditional ways, with the occasional family feud, week-long weddings, and the inevitability of bow-legged old age on the town platia.

But that side is vanishing. Crete, just like other developing regions around the globe, has become a place for gold diggers. Land speculation is on the rise and private property is slowly taking over public space. But still beautiful beaches lie hidden away in rocky coves and mountain goats graze between thyme and sage bushes, undisturbed by the bustle of the 21st century.

Go see it now!

Ah, Spring in England...

It is awfully pretty!
We will return to it shortly but for now it's Hail Hellas!
Will send pictures!

The Biggest Stunt of Them All

Ruth Benedikt, a famous anthropologist once said, when asked why she got her PhD so late in her life, “I don’t have the strength of character not to have a career.”

After years of forging my character and coming to terms with the fact that this is as good as it gets, her words still ring in my ears.

She is right. It takes a hell of a lot of emotional strength and stamina to remain on the side-lines, cheering on, smiling at this farce and continuing day after day doing the most suicidal job in the world: Stay-at-home mom, no income, no benefits, no social security, and often no life to call her own.

According to the measuring sticks of this world, I am a true hero: Fighting for a better world because I believe in it even though the stakes are high and the outcome unsure.

But that title has been already awarded to someone else, medal and all. I, and the other Stunt Mommies, will remain in the shadows of our own courage.

It is a good place to be. Knowing that, is all that counts, even if at some point, it will land us all in the poor house, a grubby family album clutched between shaky hands.

I can crochet my own medal, thank you.

More of the Same

So, apparently within the US government’s Afghanistan-Pakistan Initiative, which is supposed to promote peace in that region, certain issues will have to be sacrificed. Certain issues are, of course, human rights...more precisely women’s rights.

In order to cut down on drug trade and armed resistance, the US, and other governments, may henceforth suck up to their emotionally challenged political counterparts in those countries to safeguard their overarching interests.

Pathetic, once again.

No Leak, Girl!

Brussels - a weekend away with my very pregnant friend.  What fun it was!  We have known each other for years.  And while she is a connoisseur of non-alcoholic brews now, she used to be able to ‘drink any sailor under the table,’ if you know what I mean. 
Currently she sticks mainly to copious amounts of water. At eight months, that can keep you busy looking for toilets wherever you go. There simply is no more room for extra storage.
So there she was waddling across a church square trying to make it back to the hotel in time... Ironically, if she were a guy, there would have been an end to the waddling.  Men are not asked to hold it (pregnant or not), not in Brussels, not in most places. 
In fact, just there, as we were walking along the side of the church, we spotted a pissoir attached to the church exterior.  Three open stalls with a little awning and electrical light dangling from above. 
Even my friend cringed and she usually keeps her muted criticism of patriarchy to the fact that Japan’s Emperor is considering taking a concubine to produce a male heir.

Pretty, Pretty Please Mr. Karzai!

Please, please Mr. Karzai, try to understand us. We want to be friends with you and get along okay with all those mean mean brothers of yours.

Unfortunately, raping women and locking them up doesn’t go over well with our constituents. Our fault, I know. The world is just so much more complicated ever since countries like ours decided to treat women more like human beings instead of cattle. But, you know, they really are kind of human, because they can actually say “NO!”

It is complicated and you surely have loads of interests to consider that are more urgent than the rights of those unfortunate few who agree to a forced marriage.

Hmm...well, anyway, some people we know are really upset about reintroducing rape in marriage, and we are having a hard time keeping them quiet. I know, it usually blows over in a couple of weeks, but it would be really kind of you if...

Please!

Calling Praveen

I spent another forgettable afternoon (1 hour and 41 minutes of it, that is) on the phone with Praveen. I wonder how Apple gets around child labor restrictions, because surely Praveen, who answered my exasperated call, was only in his teens and very bubbly. Or maybe it was that he SOUNDED so young.

After years of ranting and raving against computers (and especially Apple) and then buckling down and buying yet another one, I have resigned myself to rainy afternoons of conversing over “Finder Windows,” the “Dock,” and the many, many “Applications” this magnificent specimen has to offer. Ah yes. There is so much to learn.

As I was trying to sound like I had brushed up on my Apple lingo since my last call and doing my best at pointing out where I had gotten stuck this time, I realized that what was puzzling me more than the problem I was calling about, was the obvious generation gap.

While dear Praveen was putzing about, troubleshooting, opening this and that, pulling down menus here and there and softly talking me through the many possible ways of getting around the problem I was dealing with, it suddenly dawned on me, that sooner or later, I would not have to worry about all this anymore. And that in due time HE will be the one calling in and pretending that he knows what he is talking about.

It’s only a matter of time.

He is awfully cute, but...

... I can see where it’s headed... Jules, at three years, has fallen prey to a first onslaught of phallo-mania. And although he is still praising every inch of the female body, his most profound fascination rests on his own physique, or rather, more precisely, all three centimeters of it. By way of example, today in the car, we were all informed (and I tried my best to return the favor) about the male anatomy:

Jules: “My penis can get big very, very fast.”
I countered: “Sure, Jules, it will also get little again very, very fast if you stop yanking on it.”
Jules: “No!”
I insisted: “Oh yes. And guess what: that’s a good thing. Because
sticking out like that, it looks a bit silly and definitely inappropriate under the circumstances. That, I am sure, no
one present would deny."
Jules (grins): “I would deny it.”

See what I mean...

Just for the record

I do not believe women to be better than men. All I know is that they have reaped less havoc on the world for reasons that may very well lie beyond their consciousness. It is simply a fact that they haven’t. It is men not women who fill prisons, and who commit the worst violent crimes. Serial killers and mass murderers are notoriously male.

But still I wouldn’t say that men are worse human beings than women, simply because the human consciousness is quite over-rated. Most of the time we are sleep walking. I believe that most of our actions follow a preset course that has proven successful throughout evolution. In that, humans do not differ very much from other species, whether primates, dogs, or ducks.

The dominant male, who will resort to force and violence if deemed necessary, has prevailed. And so has the accommodating female, who will seek to promote her lot by seeking an alliance with him (whatever the cost).

And even if there are examples that seem to indicate that times are changing, these cases are still a) rare and b) usually less successful. Just take the rate of female CEOs who remain childless. That gene pool is not going to make it very far now, is it?

But what I am saying is that for the sake of humanity, and as such, the dignity of our species, we have to move beyond hackneyed responses such as “boys will be boys” or “women are just as bad” and instead be brave enough to call a spade a spade.

Instead of cementing the status quo we must point out harmful patterns in our immediate environment as well as on a larger scale and try our best to come up with strategies to eradicate them.

And sorry, Mr. Ratzinger (alias Benedict XVI), condoms are not the issue at hand. Really, you need to step out of the way where real work needs to be done, you old fart.

Won't Shut Me Up !

I am quite used to being called a “feminist”. And I am also quite aware that often it is not meant as a compliment. I also know that much worse epithets are being attached to my sweet persona behind my back. I have always carried the load with a certain amount of pride. At least, I am not ass-kissing some ninny!

But here is what I find upsetting about all this. It’s the pure ratio of idiots vs non-idiots, with the former in the clear lead. Calling someone a feminist over issues such as
sexual crimes against women, and meaning it as an insult, is clearly misguided. And yet it is not uncommon.

Last time I checked, the right to life and freedom from torture and degrading treatment was a human right, which (surprise, surprise) extends to all human beings, including women.

Kivo (Congo), Darfur (Sudan), or -- maybe a bit closer to home -- Serbia in the 90s, is a threat to everyone and, in fact, to humanity as a whole. We should all be aware of this and no blind eye should be turned for whatever reason but most definitely not out of mere mental laziness.

Zoom Zoom Zoom !

I got up early last Saturday and ambled down the hill to catch the train to Brussels, Belgium. A truly amazing thing that train is. It’s called the Eurostar because it connects the UK with the mainland or, as they like to say here, Europe.

Setting out on its trip from London, it only stops a couple of times in Kent County before it burrows itself into the continental plate only to reappear thirty minutes later on the other side of the English Channel, that little strip of water that separates this island from the buzzing multicultural whirl of mainland Europe. The two top destinations are Paris reachable in a little under three hours, and Brussels in ninety minutes of high speed journey through low lying fields.

I am truly glad the train is making a come-back. It is, after all, the mode of transportation with the daintiest CO2 footprint. It is technology at its best and while contemplating it, I am awed, inspired and ever so slightly amused thinking that autism in its daily occurrence can produce truly amazing output. I am not fully convinced, however, we need space shuttles, semi-automatic handguns, and Viagra.

But the Eurostar is a sight to behold.

still popping ibuprofen

ouch! As I am writing this I am in brain-numbing pain from that spill I took a couple of weeks ago. So will leave the rest to G.Bernard Shaw who flippantly remarked: "A lifetime of happiness! No man alive could bear it: it would be hell on earth." Not sure whether woman agrees though.

Oh Boy!

There is no way of denying it: Julian’s shipment of 100% of the purest and most unadulterated testosterone has come in. As of ten days ago everything has turned into turbo power mode. His sneakers are power-shoes, his pants have rocket implants in them, and any noise level below 10,0000 decibel is greeted with mocking disregard. He is fighting invisible three-headed dragons behind living room doors and has nothing but scorn for objects (and people) who resist his dominance. He hasn’t conquered gravity yet, which causes him sufficient grief, but at the rate he is going, I am sure, it will only be a matter of time before he is airborne.

Taking a Break

I went away with the kids for a week. It was one of the deals where there is something for everyone. Playgrounds, pools, and bike tracks for the children, a spa, restaurants, and fluffy duvets for the parents.

What a treat! And it almost worked out except that two days into it I got a little cocky and in less than 130 minutes managed to spit my lip open on a water slide, jam my jaw, acquire several unseemly bruises, and painfully strain my arm by tripping over a bike rack while on a hasty night-time prowl.

In fact, I came out of that little joyful adventure so torn and twisted that Matt had to come to the rescue and pick us up, which he dutifully did.

Dubai-Adieu

Maybe we are out of ideas. Maybe there is nothing left to do. Maybe it’s all been done and we have been in the midst of it for a little too long.

As it stands, there is no more room for ideology and big words. Wars have become a prime time reality show, so have break-ups and family deadlocks. Community is outdated, success a given, food is plenty, clothes are cheap, and our future is under control -- the climate crisis a mere matter of technological innovation. Someone is going to cash in big on that one!

The question is just whether we put a fifth plasma TV up and whether we revamp the kitchen to look like a French massage salon right now or wait until next week. But, oops, I forgot, we have a financial crisis on our heads. Hmm.

So maybe we will have to do something after all, sell the horse for instance, fire the nanny, drop Friday lunch golf, reduce the endless hours of organized entertainment for the kids. Maybe Dubai will have to wait this year...could that be??? Naaah!

Truly, I wonder whether reality will ever hit or whether we have possibly lost the understanding that not everything is possible, that maybe we have to cut back, that more is not better and that the preposterous egomaniacs who build ten star hotels into the ocean should maybe be looked at for what they really are: neurotic nincompoops.

I wonder whether after all this time we will be able to face the day when many of the creature comforts we have accumulated around us, this world of constant distractions and externalized stress, is gone. Infotainment and heated bathtowels, catered everything, and last minute escapes...Layer upon layer of stuff and services to shield us against our deep rooted fear of failure and death. We, the fortunate few, who have brought this world to where it is now.

This is the kind of stuff that’s churning around in my head as I stir my admittedly unsurpassed parmesan risotto. The kids are kicking a ball back and forth in the kitchen, Leroy is sitting in front of the window contemplating the really big questions, and life is, generally speaking, perfect. It truly is, my life that is, my little square of it. Zoë next to me giggles. “You are too much, Mom.” Don’t read what I write, kiddo, or you’ll go nuts. She hugs me. “There is only room for one nut case in this house, Mom, and you have clearly taken that place. Carry on, you’re doing great!” This is good. And maybe just maybe, that’s all that can matter.

Luxury Items

If you think about how expensive it is to raise children, it is quite a pity we don’t get to enjoy them more! From the day they are born they require enormous investments of time, money and energy. In a way, they can be considered luxury items.

By the arrival of the second or third child, most couples have invested in a bigger house, a safer car and a college fund or two. They are spending a sizable amount of their annual budget on clothing, toys, car seats, bassoon lessons, orthodontics, birthday parties and family-friendly vacation involving ponies, zip lines and boogie boards.

While any parent can pride themselves on how well they are managing this demanding choreography, it is rather obvious that management is the operative word.

We are managing our children, shuttling them through childhood and investing in them as if we were hoping to boost their (and our) rate of return.

Yet, it could be so easy, especially today in the age of dish washers, Skype and disposable diapers. After all, the best thing about having children is growing up with them.

And, yes, of course it is nice if they also play the bassoon and win first prize in a floor routine.

The Elephant's Ass

At some point during the long haul towards a degree in economics, it should become clear that it’s all a bit of a hoax and that predicting human behavior -- after all that is what economics boils down to -- is tricky, especially when one is determined to ignore the elephant in the room.

Which elephant, you are wondering? The one that’s currently sitting on all of us!

This time around it’s called the ‘financial crisis’ brought on us by greedy lenders and borrowers and thereby putting an end to the effectiveness of the much lauded control tool of the eighties and nineties, the interest rate.

Before this, the Keynesian demand-driven theory held true for a number of years but led to over-spending and finally came to a crashing halt in the 1970s ‘oil crisis.’ Ensuing efforts to unleash the market beast for all that it’s worth with a supply-based theory and much neo-liberal blurb has gotten us into the mess we are in now.

Why oh why?

Because no matter which theory is applied, it will not work long term, because it’s only a matter of time for that elephant to reappear to place its sizable behind on whatever crafty mechanism we have invented in order to steer us clear of any possible crisis scenario.

The name of that elephant is Personal Greed, and it is a formidable Mama of a pachyderm, because it is not only huge, it’s also clever. Given time, it will outsmart any system, bend any theory, and call every reform a lie by having it serve it’s own interests. Believe me, this creature will virtually survive anything - it is a true biological winner.

Thomas Jefferson apparently had a closer look at the beast, since at some point he proclaimed that societies and the systems they adopt need to go through periodic reforms.

That, however, in itself may be a theory which, if upheld unchallenged may fall victim to the afore said monster as well.

Fat floats, and that is that.

Perfect Match

Here is a thing or two about dogs, which tend to divide the world of pet owners into dog people and those who are not.

In the social world of pets, dogs are the jovial, genius slobs. The ones who never change their sheets and eat soup out of the can. Dogs generally don’t care. All they want is to have a good time, and they will try to make you join in. They can be a bit pushy at times, but that’s just because they are so utterly devoted to you and they will make sure that you are aware of that every second of the day.

See, I am a dog person. I get them. But since there is enough devotion in my life already, I am quite happy with the choice of my pet, Leroy, who cares only about himself - and does that quite devotedly 24/7. What makes our union so perfect is also that he, like all cats, is a complete obsessive compulsive freak. I mean, the guy cleans up his own butt and sweeps up around his litter box!!

I can’t get my biological kids to do that!

Gone Sledging

Once every twenty years…no wonder London closed down after 5 inches of feathery snow enveloped this busy metropolis in a winter snooze. Snow ploughs are an unknown entity here – and that's a good thing. Every one went sledding…or is it seldging?

Move over, Eva!

Boxes are great for storing things - any thing really: rubber bands, old photos, stray tampons. They are extremely useful when you want to avoid clutter. I have known people who keep their underwear and sox in compartmentalized boxes; and although that’s taking it a bit far maybe, it still looks convincingly neat.

The real problem only arises when people put each other into boxes and shut the lid. One might get stuck in one labeled “uncool” or “too chatty”, but worse than that is to land in one of the big solid boxes without breathing holes marked “wrong background.”

“Wrong” meaning anything really. Nobody really knows for sure what is wrong. There are, of course, the obvious suspects such as “length of ear lobes” and “roof color,” but what do you do about the less tangible distinctions such as “family” and “schooling”?

It seems that in this Island Nation, everyone is very concerned about avoiding the great sucking maelstrom which may end up pulling them into that box without any hope of ever seeing the blue skies again. Ever!!

As an outsider to the struggle for “most royal British accent” etc., I look at it all with mild befuddlement, wondering in which box we have been politely placed. I faintly remember seeing Eva Braun adorned with a New York Yankees baseball cap floating around in it.

At least her husband wasn’t there!

I am glad to introduce...

LEROY - the coolest cat....may he reign our house for a long, long time.
PS Don't you think he has smashingly good looks....?

...oh and she also gave me this...

And she means no offense. It’s a negativity-sucker-upper-mother-goddess tampon fabrication. Like I need that!!! Hahaha.

Zoë blushed politely and sighed “Oh Peta”, Lea pretended to be blind and Jules threw a full blown fit because he was not allowed to touch her (and no man ever will be!!).

I love her and vow to protect her. There shall be no lame gods beside her. A proper atheist alter will be established for her in the bottom of a box in a dark corner underneath my bed and I promise to cherish her to the end of my black days.

Thank you woman!

Look what Peta made...

for Lea's b'day!!