Some of you (ha! I haven't had a hit for ages!) may be wondering if I, Moominmama, am the same person as Chaucer's Bitch, aka Mrs Chaucer's Pirate, and if so, why change?
Firstly, yes, I am.
Secondly, well, the old moniker just didn't fit me any more. Pirate and I are still very much together, but the whole Chaucer thing is feeling more and more like a past life. It just doesn't feel as relevant, or certainly not as dominant in my life any more.
And it occurred to me, maybe that's why I've found it so difficult to blog ever since getting married. Marriage was a massive life change for both of us, and I just couldn't squeeze myself back into my old avatar anymore, as it were.
Recently I've been struggling emotionally. The NHS has been surprisingly deft and supportive (maybe they take depressed people more seriously if they are pregnant, I dunno), but Pirate suggested that a return to blogging and hence, writing, would be therapeutic. He's not wrong.
But to start again I needed to start over, just a bit. I didn't change URL or site name, becasue that would feel like jettisoning my old life, which is not what I want. All the old posts are still there, becasuse all the old stories are still a part of me, and I treasure them.
Just the look, layout, and pseudonym are new.
So, why Moominmama? She's my idol. I adore Moominmama; she is (almost) everthing to which I aspire. And I don't think that's aiming low, so please don't sit there thinking, "Oh Christ, another intelligent, ambitious woman who let her brain turn to porridge just becasue she had kids." No. No no no no no no.
My brain is still here, and it still works (mostly), my priorities and the rhythm of my life have changed for a while. Motherhood is a full time occupation, period. If it doesn't consume your life, you're doing something wrong, frankly. I sill have ambitions, but they are on hold until the kids are a bit more independent and, quite honestly, in school full time. Until then, this is who I am.
I will try not to turn this into a baby blog, becasue one of the things I need and crave is to think about something other than babies and potty training now and again. So there will be thougths of a politial and philosophical nature appearing now and again.
That said, I am pregnant, and come the New Year, there will be a small(ish), squirming, pink, hungy, pongy parasite to deal with, so a few baby-related posts are inevitable. I will try to be funny. I make no guarantees.
Do, please, visit often and leave your retorts in the comments box, becasue they make me feel loved. No, really.
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Monday, August 26, 2013
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Watch this space...
I'm back.
But that's not the big news. THIS is the big news:
And this photo is a couple months old already. I'm T minus 2 weeks, and boy am I ready to pop. My mom and doc don't think I'll make it to 40 weeks, which is good, because I'm SO FREAKIN' SICK OF BEING PREGNANT!!!! (I know I know, after I wanted to be pregnant soooooo badly. So I'm a hypocrite. Shoot me.)
In other developments, Pirate and I no longer reside in sunny Cornwall. Now we're living in bloody Swindon. Thank fuck it's only temporary. We'll be out of here in July.
So why the sudden return to blogging? You can thank First Nations for that. I saw that she was back on line again and it inspired me. That, and Pirate has been bugging me to get back in the blogging saddle for a while. He's scared I'll get hit with post-partum depression (a legit fear, with my family history and my own history of depression) and knows how supportive all my imaginary friends have been in the past, and figures one more safety net can't be a bad thing. Plus all kinds of zany crap keeps happening to us, and he's constantly saying shit like "this would make an awesome blog post." And he's right.
So watch this space...
But that's not the big news. THIS is the big news:
And this photo is a couple months old already. I'm T minus 2 weeks, and boy am I ready to pop. My mom and doc don't think I'll make it to 40 weeks, which is good, because I'm SO FREAKIN' SICK OF BEING PREGNANT!!!! (I know I know, after I wanted to be pregnant soooooo badly. So I'm a hypocrite. Shoot me.)
In other developments, Pirate and I no longer reside in sunny Cornwall. Now we're living in bloody Swindon. Thank fuck it's only temporary. We'll be out of here in July.
So why the sudden return to blogging? You can thank First Nations for that. I saw that she was back on line again and it inspired me. That, and Pirate has been bugging me to get back in the blogging saddle for a while. He's scared I'll get hit with post-partum depression (a legit fear, with my family history and my own history of depression) and knows how supportive all my imaginary friends have been in the past, and figures one more safety net can't be a bad thing. Plus all kinds of zany crap keeps happening to us, and he's constantly saying shit like "this would make an awesome blog post." And he's right.
So watch this space...
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Golant Is Not Enough
I've gotten back in to rowing. Sculling, specifically, which is better for my back. I found a club near here (only an hour drive!), called Castle Dore Rowing Club, which is a recreational (ie, non-competitive) community fitness club, largely made up of middle-aged vets with busticated back. Perfect! (Or so I thought.)
For the past month or so I've been going out with them on a Sunday afternnon. The river is lovely (when there's water in it). It's always a scratch crew, made up of whomever shows up: men, women, novice, vets, whatever; we all get lumped in together. I was really enjoying myself, just pissing about on the water, not having to think about upcoming events, split times, or whether stroke could possibly go any faster up the fucking slide (Jesus Christ, Becky, it's not a race to the catch!).
And then something happened. I was in a crew with 3 blokes, all of them half-decent oarsmen. We set a rhythm. It wasn't shit. We pulled on it. The boat moved. We lifted the shell onto the surface of the river and heard the water bubbling cheerfully as we whizzed along. We moved. It felt fantastic.
And I was done for. The adrenaline all came surging back in time with the surge of the boat. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my quads say to me, "Oh yeah, we remember this!" I fell in love again.
The quiet, little, recreational club isn't enough any more. I want to go fast. I want to go fast now. I'm too young to be an allakadoo. I'm too young to be this old. I'm getting back on the ergo. I'm setting training regime, and when Pirate and I move away from Cornwall sometime this spring, I'm joining a proper boat club again. I want to win shit.
For the past month or so I've been going out with them on a Sunday afternnon. The river is lovely (when there's water in it). It's always a scratch crew, made up of whomever shows up: men, women, novice, vets, whatever; we all get lumped in together. I was really enjoying myself, just pissing about on the water, not having to think about upcoming events, split times, or whether stroke could possibly go any faster up the fucking slide (Jesus Christ, Becky, it's not a race to the catch!).
And then something happened. I was in a crew with 3 blokes, all of them half-decent oarsmen. We set a rhythm. It wasn't shit. We pulled on it. The boat moved. We lifted the shell onto the surface of the river and heard the water bubbling cheerfully as we whizzed along. We moved. It felt fantastic.
And I was done for. The adrenaline all came surging back in time with the surge of the boat. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my quads say to me, "Oh yeah, we remember this!" I fell in love again.
The quiet, little, recreational club isn't enough any more. I want to go fast. I want to go fast now. I'm too young to be an allakadoo. I'm too young to be this old. I'm getting back on the ergo. I'm setting training regime, and when Pirate and I move away from Cornwall sometime this spring, I'm joining a proper boat club again. I want to win shit.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Historic
While the last bricks of a long-held, deep-seeded American bigotry were being pulled down in Tuesday's historic election,
a new one
rears
it's ugly, ugly head.
I'm absolutely thrilled that America finally decided a black child can have the same dreams of growing up to be president as a white child. I'm utterly appalled that a lot of those same people think they get a say in who people marry.
Eighteen THOUSAND couples in California who got married this summer, thanks to the acknowledgment of their rights by the CA legislature and supreme court, have just been told that their marriages aren't valid. That despite the licenses, vows, parties, and cakes, they are no longer married, because of a bunch of bigots decided so.
I can't imagine how I would feel if someone came a long and told me that I was no longer married to Pirate. That for some reason the public disapproved, and without my consent, invalidated my marriage.
I think I would kill myself.
What happened today in California is utterly despicable.
Today I'm thrilled for Obama, but I'm still weeping for the state of civil rights in America. Congratulations, African-Americans, you're officially off the bottom rung of the latter. You've been replaced by a deeper loathing of gays.
a new one
rears
it's ugly, ugly head.
I'm absolutely thrilled that America finally decided a black child can have the same dreams of growing up to be president as a white child. I'm utterly appalled that a lot of those same people think they get a say in who people marry.
Eighteen THOUSAND couples in California who got married this summer, thanks to the acknowledgment of their rights by the CA legislature and supreme court, have just been told that their marriages aren't valid. That despite the licenses, vows, parties, and cakes, they are no longer married, because of a bunch of bigots decided so.
I can't imagine how I would feel if someone came a long and told me that I was no longer married to Pirate. That for some reason the public disapproved, and without my consent, invalidated my marriage.
I think I would kill myself.
What happened today in California is utterly despicable.
Today I'm thrilled for Obama, but I'm still weeping for the state of civil rights in America. Congratulations, African-Americans, you're officially off the bottom rung of the latter. You've been replaced by a deeper loathing of gays.
Monday, October 13, 2008
TAFKACB
(The Artist Formerly Known As Chaucer's Bitch)
Timorous Beastie recently brought it to my attention that there might be some confusion over what to call me, now that my name has changed:
"Bitch, I don't know what to call you now! I can't call you Pirate, as that's him indoors. Mrs Chaucer seems too formal, and besides, it's you, not him with the Chaucer connection. Any suggestions?"
It occured to me that other people might have been wondering the same thing, so I thought I'd better address the issue.
I guess the answer is: whatever you want to call me is fine.
One thing I've noticed is that just about everyone called me something different, anyway. People seem to generate their own pet names, and that's cool with me.
Dave used to refer to me as "Chaucer's Lady-friend." (He has an excellent sense of propriety.) I suppose now that I've become respectable he'll call me Mrs. Pirate, and that's fine, or he may come up with something else.
A lot of people referred to me as CB, which I quite like, and anyone who fancies is invited to continue to address me as such. Or perhaps people would like to switch to CP, my new initials? That certainly works.
Herebe Monsters took to calling me Ceebs, which I always found rather endearing. I hope he doesn't stop.
Some people have called me simply Bitch, which is also fine. Hell, I've been called that since I was 11 years old, and getting married is unlikely to change that, so by all means carry on!
Annie Rhiannon tends to call me Chauce or Chaucer's, and again, that works just fine.
It's funny how the blonkosphere (if I may commandeer a term of Annie's) reflects the real world. In meatspace just about everyone I know has their own nickname for me. I've been called everything from Snowblower Lips (thanks to Andre Wajtusik in first grade) to Wench (first bf in college), as well as all possible variations on my given name, of which there are many. I like that.
Naming things is, on a fundamental level, a sign of ownership (Yes, I've read Genesis and I think that part is spot on.), but it also says "you are special to me." You don't go to the trouble of naming something to which you are completely indifferent. It takes effort and thought, even if your goal is to insult. (Cheers, Andre.)
People sometimes ask me when they first meet me, "Do you prefer {my full name} or {the obvious nickname}?" and I always tell them that either is fine. I like people to make up their own mind about what to call me. They always have in the past, and I think that's A Good Thing.
Timorous Beastie recently brought it to my attention that there might be some confusion over what to call me, now that my name has changed:
"Bitch, I don't know what to call you now! I can't call you Pirate, as that's him indoors. Mrs Chaucer seems too formal, and besides, it's you, not him with the Chaucer connection. Any suggestions?"
It occured to me that other people might have been wondering the same thing, so I thought I'd better address the issue.
I guess the answer is: whatever you want to call me is fine.
One thing I've noticed is that just about everyone called me something different, anyway. People seem to generate their own pet names, and that's cool with me.
Dave used to refer to me as "Chaucer's Lady-friend." (He has an excellent sense of propriety.) I suppose now that I've become respectable he'll call me Mrs. Pirate, and that's fine, or he may come up with something else.
A lot of people referred to me as CB, which I quite like, and anyone who fancies is invited to continue to address me as such. Or perhaps people would like to switch to CP, my new initials? That certainly works.
Herebe Monsters took to calling me Ceebs, which I always found rather endearing. I hope he doesn't stop.
Some people have called me simply Bitch, which is also fine. Hell, I've been called that since I was 11 years old, and getting married is unlikely to change that, so by all means carry on!
Annie Rhiannon tends to call me Chauce or Chaucer's, and again, that works just fine.
It's funny how the blonkosphere (if I may commandeer a term of Annie's) reflects the real world. In meatspace just about everyone I know has their own nickname for me. I've been called everything from Snowblower Lips (thanks to Andre Wajtusik in first grade) to Wench (first bf in college), as well as all possible variations on my given name, of which there are many. I like that.
Naming things is, on a fundamental level, a sign of ownership (Yes, I've read Genesis and I think that part is spot on.), but it also says "you are special to me." You don't go to the trouble of naming something to which you are completely indifferent. It takes effort and thought, even if your goal is to insult. (Cheers, Andre.)
People sometimes ask me when they first meet me, "Do you prefer {my full name} or {the obvious nickname}?" and I always tell them that either is fine. I like people to make up their own mind about what to call me. They always have in the past, and I think that's A Good Thing.
Friday, September 26, 2008
WE'RE MARRIED!!!!!
Hi all! I'm sorry I haven't been able to blog. As you know, I moved out of my flat last Wednesday week. The days leading up to the wedding were manic, despite my best efforts at preparation and organization. (Remind me to tell you about baking the cake.)
The wedding last Friday we beautiful. After 4 months of rain and grey and utterly shit weather, the sun broke through and we we had absolutely spectacular weather. My bridesmaids were fantastic, and as we walked to the church with all our flowers, me on my father's arm, I felt like a queen. (Looked like one, too. Might as well be honest.)
The service was lovely. Even the minister said it was the nicest wedding she'd ever presided. The light was blazing in through the stained glass, and all the church was aglow with autum flowers and amber light. I will post photos as soon as I have some. I, obviously, wasn't taking pictures, so I don't have any off my own camera to upload.
The reception was a blast, and by 11 pm the dancing was getting very silly indeed. I got thrown from person to person during Cotton-eyed Joe until I passed out, and Pirate's sea-faring friends did some very inappropriate things with his mother. Oh, and I have to tell you about the paper airplanes!
During dinner Pirate began writing his speech (nothing like a little preparation, is there?). He had a pad of paper, which promptly got confiscated by his mates for paper airplanes, which were thrown all over the room. There were dozens of them going back and forth, landing in people's food, the candles, hitting people in the head, etc. It was a great laugh. Then when it was time for speeches, when Pirate stood up the entire room threw all their paper airplanes at him, as well as a few napkins and anything else they could lay hands on. It was absolutely hilarious. Despite having the air of complete spontenaity, we found out later that my dad had orchestrated the whole thing during dinner with a particularly effective game of 'telephone'!
Anyway, now that i'm back online I'll have lots more stories to tell, and hopefully some pictures soon.
Married life is great! xoxooxoxox
The wedding last Friday we beautiful. After 4 months of rain and grey and utterly shit weather, the sun broke through and we we had absolutely spectacular weather. My bridesmaids were fantastic, and as we walked to the church with all our flowers, me on my father's arm, I felt like a queen. (Looked like one, too. Might as well be honest.)
The service was lovely. Even the minister said it was the nicest wedding she'd ever presided. The light was blazing in through the stained glass, and all the church was aglow with autum flowers and amber light. I will post photos as soon as I have some. I, obviously, wasn't taking pictures, so I don't have any off my own camera to upload.
The reception was a blast, and by 11 pm the dancing was getting very silly indeed. I got thrown from person to person during Cotton-eyed Joe until I passed out, and Pirate's sea-faring friends did some very inappropriate things with his mother. Oh, and I have to tell you about the paper airplanes!
During dinner Pirate began writing his speech (nothing like a little preparation, is there?). He had a pad of paper, which promptly got confiscated by his mates for paper airplanes, which were thrown all over the room. There were dozens of them going back and forth, landing in people's food, the candles, hitting people in the head, etc. It was a great laugh. Then when it was time for speeches, when Pirate stood up the entire room threw all their paper airplanes at him, as well as a few napkins and anything else they could lay hands on. It was absolutely hilarious. Despite having the air of complete spontenaity, we found out later that my dad had orchestrated the whole thing during dinner with a particularly effective game of 'telephone'!
Anyway, now that i'm back online I'll have lots more stories to tell, and hopefully some pictures soon.
Married life is great! xoxooxoxox
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Stay off the roads
for I am having my first driving lesson on Saturday.
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
- (the obvious) automatic transmission (A surprising number of people don't know that every car with an automatic can be put manually into a low gear for when you need it, such as descending steep inclines or getting out of snow banks. You've got more control than you think.)
- clutchless manual (This is an option on both the Smart Car and the Toyota Yaris. You still change gear when you want to, but there is no clutch to operate. The car does the clutching for you. Much easier to drive, and still affords all the control of a stick. WHY OH WHY HASN"T THIS CAUGHT ON YET???)
- spiral transmission, such as are found on the Toyota Prius and several Lexus models. This is not an automatic transmission because there are no gears to transmit. Instead of gears of different sizes, the transmission is one, great, conical gear with a spiral arrangement of teeth. When you accelerate from a stop it is completely smooth. This freaked the hell out of the Pirate when he rode in my parents' Prius 2 years ago at christmas. I think ultimately this will be the winner in the transmission war (that I'm attempting to start).
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Thursday, June 19, 2008
We have a house!11!!
Pirate just phone from the office. He never phones from the office. This was the first time ever.
He wanted to tell me he'd just received the paperwork and we've been allocated a house. He couldn't wait until he got home to tell me. (All together now: "Awwww!")
We'll be living in Torpoint, just on the west side of the river from Plymouth.
View Larger Map
It's close to Pirate's work, a short walk to the ferry, and (and this is the really nice bit) it will be ...
...quiet.
No ambulances every 15 seconds, no screaming drunk people, no stepping over pools of vomit on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings. Few cars, more birds. Lovely.
A house. A home. Our home. My first home with another person. My first home with my Pirate. Yarr. I can't wait.
He wanted to tell me he'd just received the paperwork and we've been allocated a house. He couldn't wait until he got home to tell me. (All together now: "Awwww!")
We'll be living in Torpoint, just on the west side of the river from Plymouth.
View Larger Map
It's close to Pirate's work, a short walk to the ferry, and (and this is the really nice bit) it will be ...
...quiet.
No ambulances every 15 seconds, no screaming drunk people, no stepping over pools of vomit on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings. Few cars, more birds. Lovely.
A house. A home. Our home. My first home with another person. My first home with my Pirate. Yarr. I can't wait.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Some changes
Apparently I've been bitten by the 'mess around with blog' bug.
Must've got it from Dave.
(anyone know how i can make the orange stripe go all the way over to the left?)
Must've got it from Dave.
(anyone know how i can make the orange stripe go all the way over to the left?)
Monday, December 03, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Weekend musings, part the turd
2 (or maybe 3) weeks ago, at the conclusion of a snuggly, pillow-talk discussion about the future, both the long-term and what we were going to do with ourselves the rest of the afternoon:
{disclaimer to A, close personal friend (and now part-time housemate) of Pirate-- if you're reading this, please pretend you didn't. thank you.}
Pirate: I know. I've got an idea that will answer your questions and solve the problem of what to do today.
Me: Oh?
P: We need to go shopping.
M: shopping?
P: But I need to ask you a question first.
M: (mind spinning!)
P: or maybe we should go shopping first, and then I should ask you the question...
M: (stunned silence, terrified to hope)
P: (more to himself than me) I'm not sure the best way to do this. Question first or shopping first...
M: (remembering that Pirate has a habit of saying things that are open to a variety of interpretations) You realize how this sounds, don't you? My mind is spinning. If you're talking about going grocery shopping because you're low on yogurt and bananas, please Please PLEASE for the love of all that's holy -- disillusion me right. now.
P: I know how it sounds.
M: (waiting)
P: (also waiting. for what? invitation from the Queen?) I don't know if I should ask you the question first or if we should go shopping first.
M: If you can't decide, then I will. Question first.
P: (more silence)
P: (still more silence)
M: (gives P kiss for reassurance)
P: (squirming)...
M: (eventually deciding that P has painted himself into a corner and in need of a rescue) If it's that hard to spit out, this obviously isn't the time. You wanna go to the gym?
P: (leaping out of bed) Yes! Let's go to the gym! (bounces like Tigger into his gym shorts)
M: *sigh*
progress. definately progress. I decided to let it lie. I genuinely don't want to pressure him. Then last weekend:
Sunday night Pirate says (in the course of a long, silly conversation about nothing in particular), "I'm really happy with life the way it is. I don't feel the need to change it."
I, of course, am slightly concerned by this seeming turn of events, but it was late at night, and I'm shit at discussions late at night. I get all emotional and cry at the drop of a hat and nothing is ever accomplished, so I decided to forget it.
The next morning we had a few minutes before he had to be off for work. I was packing my bags and he sat down beside me. Perfect opportunity.
"Perhaps you could clear something up for me," say I. "Remember your little waffle a couple weeks ago when you couldn't decide to go shopping or ask me a question and ended up doing neither?"
"Yes"
"I'm just a little confused, because that seems to conflict with what you said last night. Could you clarify that for me?"
"Oh! Last night I meant that I was happy with the universe in general. I don't need superpowers or anything to be happy. I just meant that I'm happy the way I am, and life is good. And I've worked out that other matter. You'll find out next weekend."
Well! That was far more of an explanation than I'd hoped for. (And when I thought about it later, I realized what a romantic thing he'd said. We had been talking about silly party questions like 'If you could have any one animal part as part of our body, what would it be?' and that kind of stuff. But he's genuinely, completely happy with his life and himself, and that's a hell of a thing. It really is.) And the 'next weekend' of which he spoke is this coming weekend. I haven't done a lick of work all week. I'm all a-twitter. My brain is everywhere except where it should be.
So kiddies. Be here Monday afternoon (Greenwich time), and maybe, just maybe, there will be an exciting announcement here at M.E.
(and if the suspense is killing you, just imagine what it's doing to me!)
{disclaimer to A, close personal friend (and now part-time housemate) of Pirate-- if you're reading this, please pretend you didn't. thank you.}
Pirate: I know. I've got an idea that will answer your questions and solve the problem of what to do today.
Me: Oh?
P: We need to go shopping.
M: shopping?
P: But I need to ask you a question first.
M: (mind spinning!)
P: or maybe we should go shopping first, and then I should ask you the question...
M: (stunned silence, terrified to hope)
P: (more to himself than me) I'm not sure the best way to do this. Question first or shopping first...
M: (remembering that Pirate has a habit of saying things that are open to a variety of interpretations) You realize how this sounds, don't you? My mind is spinning. If you're talking about going grocery shopping because you're low on yogurt and bananas, please Please PLEASE for the love of all that's holy -- disillusion me right. now.
P: I know how it sounds.
M: (waiting)
P: (also waiting. for what? invitation from the Queen?) I don't know if I should ask you the question first or if we should go shopping first.
M: If you can't decide, then I will. Question first.
P: (more silence)
P: (still more silence)
M: (gives P kiss for reassurance)
P: (squirming)...
M: (eventually deciding that P has painted himself into a corner and in need of a rescue) If it's that hard to spit out, this obviously isn't the time. You wanna go to the gym?
P: (leaping out of bed) Yes! Let's go to the gym! (bounces like Tigger into his gym shorts)
M: *sigh*
progress. definately progress. I decided to let it lie. I genuinely don't want to pressure him. Then last weekend:
Sunday night Pirate says (in the course of a long, silly conversation about nothing in particular), "I'm really happy with life the way it is. I don't feel the need to change it."
I, of course, am slightly concerned by this seeming turn of events, but it was late at night, and I'm shit at discussions late at night. I get all emotional and cry at the drop of a hat and nothing is ever accomplished, so I decided to forget it.
The next morning we had a few minutes before he had to be off for work. I was packing my bags and he sat down beside me. Perfect opportunity.
"Perhaps you could clear something up for me," say I. "Remember your little waffle a couple weeks ago when you couldn't decide to go shopping or ask me a question and ended up doing neither?"
"Yes"
"I'm just a little confused, because that seems to conflict with what you said last night. Could you clarify that for me?"
"Oh! Last night I meant that I was happy with the universe in general. I don't need superpowers or anything to be happy. I just meant that I'm happy the way I am, and life is good. And I've worked out that other matter. You'll find out next weekend."
Well! That was far more of an explanation than I'd hoped for. (And when I thought about it later, I realized what a romantic thing he'd said. We had been talking about silly party questions like 'If you could have any one animal part as part of our body, what would it be?' and that kind of stuff. But he's genuinely, completely happy with his life and himself, and that's a hell of a thing. It really is.) And the 'next weekend' of which he spoke is this coming weekend. I haven't done a lick of work all week. I'm all a-twitter. My brain is everywhere except where it should be.
So kiddies. Be here Monday afternoon (Greenwich time), and maybe, just maybe, there will be an exciting announcement here at M.E.
(and if the suspense is killing you, just imagine what it's doing to me!)
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Sex, drugs, and the inevitable conclusion
So after the last two posts I guess I need to write something about Rock and Roll. Except what I know about Rock and Roll could be carved in courier caps on the Pirate's big toe nail.* I thought about putting up a link to Herebe's place, because he knows everything about Rock and Roll that I don't (which is all of it), but that would be a cop-out. So instead this is going to be an educational post... my education.
I'm getting bored with my current music collection and I want to find some new artists that I like. This is not easy for me. There are a lot of new artists out there, I'm picky, and I don't listen to the radio (except for Radio 4), which, I understand, is the main was of learning about 'hot new talent' (as they say in the 'biz).
So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tell you some of my favorite artists and what I like about them, and you're going to play the Amazon game and suggest some new artists/groups/vocalists that you think I might like, based on your assessment of my taste. Sound like fun? No? Do it anyway.
I Like:
Simon and Garfunkel
Meatloaf
Brian Adams
Melissa Etheridge
Def Leppard (especially "Rocket," best drumbeat EVER)
some Billy Joel
Boyz 2 Men (ok, that's Motown not Rock, I know that much)
Indigo Girls
Jeff Buckley
some Kaiser Chiefs
Journey (stop laughing)
The Monkees
The Pogues
Flogging Molly
QUEEN!!!!
some Green Day (American Idiot is a great tune)
Survivor
In general, I like music with
a. Words I can understand
b. energy and a good beat, and
c. (and this is KEY) a melody I can hum
Inarticulate screaming rage just doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid.
So, my little Amazons! Can you suggest any recent artists that I might like? (You'll notice there's nothing on that list more recent than about 7 years old, and only a small amount of that. Most of it's from the 80's.)
I can't wait to read the comments!
*the Pirate doesn't have a nail on his big toe. Seriously.
I'm getting bored with my current music collection and I want to find some new artists that I like. This is not easy for me. There are a lot of new artists out there, I'm picky, and I don't listen to the radio (except for Radio 4), which, I understand, is the main was of learning about 'hot new talent' (as they say in the 'biz).
So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tell you some of my favorite artists and what I like about them, and you're going to play the Amazon game and suggest some new artists/groups/vocalists that you think I might like, based on your assessment of my taste. Sound like fun? No? Do it anyway.
I Like:
Simon and Garfunkel
Meatloaf
Brian Adams
Melissa Etheridge
Def Leppard (especially "Rocket," best drumbeat EVER)
some Billy Joel
Boyz 2 Men (ok, that's Motown not Rock, I know that much)
Indigo Girls
Jeff Buckley
some Kaiser Chiefs
Journey (stop laughing)
The Monkees
The Pogues
Flogging Molly
QUEEN!!!!
some Green Day (American Idiot is a great tune)
Survivor
In general, I like music with
a. Words I can understand
b. energy and a good beat, and
c. (and this is KEY) a melody I can hum
Inarticulate screaming rage just doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid.
So, my little Amazons! Can you suggest any recent artists that I might like? (You'll notice there's nothing on that list more recent than about 7 years old, and only a small amount of that. Most of it's from the 80's.)
I can't wait to read the comments!
*the Pirate doesn't have a nail on his big toe. Seriously.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Reality Bites
sounds like a new product, doesn't it? [read in cheezy announcer voice] "Try new Reality Bites! The little chunks of life that are hard to swallow!" Hmm. Needs a jingle. You wanna get on that, Herebe?
I'm still chewing on the Reality Bite that the Pirate fed me this weekend. Still havn't managed to swallow it. (get your collective filthy minds out of the gutter.)
Basically, he got the news from his boss of where and when the company will be transferring him. We knew this was coming, and he told me about it last year. But last summer it seemed so far away still, and it was all so abstract -- undefined date, undefined location -- that it was easy to forget. Now that he's been told where (a city 2 1/2 hours drive from bristol) and when (January fucking 2nd) it's a lot more real.
There's a bit more to the story, but the gist is that as of the New Year we'll officially be a long-distance couple. Blech.
I'm still chewing on the Reality Bite that the Pirate fed me this weekend. Still havn't managed to swallow it. (get your collective filthy minds out of the gutter.)
Basically, he got the news from his boss of where and when the company will be transferring him. We knew this was coming, and he told me about it last year. But last summer it seemed so far away still, and it was all so abstract -- undefined date, undefined location -- that it was easy to forget. Now that he's been told where (a city 2 1/2 hours drive from bristol) and when (January fucking 2nd) it's a lot more real.
There's a bit more to the story, but the gist is that as of the New Year we'll officially be a long-distance couple. Blech.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Frivolous II: The Guilt Strikes Back
Seeking advise from those I trust most, here are the words of my dear pater:
You may want to read Ann Rand's book on selfishness for a bit of philosophy on human nature and why it may not be so bad as it first appears by my and your Christian moral heritage. Also, there is an issue of pleasing the father and looking accomplished in his eyes, but that's probably well buried deep in the Pirates's sense of worth or accomplishment. I bought a Rambler sedan rather than the Jag I really wanted when I came home from Vietnam, looking back I would have been no worse off and would have had many happy hours cruising in the Jag vs the more rational Rambler. You have a limited time on earth so perhaps, when you're young is the best time to reach for the brass ring and damn the consequences. Enjoy the ride, don't worry too much about the trade-offs.... both his and your economic potential over the next 50 years is very substantial, you are poor as a church mouse now, but that is a temporary affliction.
Love,
Dad
Perhaps a touch of hedonism isn't a bad thing. Again, as with all things, it's a matter of scale. Dad is also of the ilk that my feelings are the result of my temporary poverty, and such feelings will disperse when I'm back on a more sound economic footing. This may be partially true, but I'm pretty sure that even if/when I have that kind of money, I would still consider that level of luxury unecessary and decadant.
I've been giving this whole issue a LOT of thought lately, in an attempt to understand exactly what is upsetting me, why, and what steps, if any, I should take. Here are some ideas that have occured to me:
It may simply be human nature to view all those with less than us as unfortunate and underpriveledged, while those with more than us are spoiled, greedy, mean, priveledged, etc. I think every one of us feels that our personal balance between frugality and indulgence is an appropriate balance, and anyone differing significantly from out own spending habits is in the wrong, one way or t'other.
It may also be partly due to the fact that growing up in a very working-class and pro-labor household I was taught to resent on some level those people who were more affluent than myself. Furthermore, such people were often described in terms of their material wealth, such as "people who live in houses like that X___." or "people who drive cars like that Y___" etc. I think the unfortunate coincidence that Pirate has purchased an item which in my youth was made out to be an indicator of greed and selfishness is, when I really think about it, at the bottom of what's troubling me.
So I'm left to reconcile the apparent paradox that either my parents were wrong and wealthy people with unnecessary and expensive cars aren't necessarily the greedy bastards who are the source of all the world's ailments,
or
I have critically misjudged the Pirate and actually he's not the amazing guy I thought he was, but actually he's one of the rich, greedy baddies. (I am exaggering slightly for the sake of clarity, but I think you can forgive me for that.)
On the surface this doesn't appear very difficult. The first statement assumes a lot of absolutes (all problems are caused by rich people, all people who drive nice cars are rich, it's easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, etc.), and absolutes are rarely true. So it should be easy to write an addendum to that philosophy pertaining to exceptions and accept that my parents are not always right and that wealthy people can be good people.
It should be easy. But accepting a change in your views, a change in a philosophy that has colored the way you've seen the world since you were old enough to open your eyes, rarely is. In some ways it would be easier for me to admit that I was wrong about the Pirate, because that's a view that I've only had for a year, as opposed to a lifetime. Furthermore, changing your view about one person does not shatter one's whole socio-economic mindset.
But of course I love the Pirate deeply and I don't want to be wrong about him. I want to continue to believe that he is a good, moral, ethical, generous, honest man. As I've often pointed out before, though, wishing don't make it so, and wanting to believe something, even believing it, doesn't make it true.
Do I really think that buying a car suggests that I've grossly misjudged the Pirate's character? No, not really. I'm just trying to explain to you lot why this whole situation has made me squirm so much. Fundamentally it boiled down to me being wrong about something, either the strong, anti-money values I'd been raised with, or my assessment of Pirate's character. And that, I think, is what this whole thing is all about. It's forced me to confront and re-evaluate some of the assumptions I make about people and the world regarding material wealth. And questioning one's fundamental assumptions about the world is a very squirmy process indeed.
You may want to read Ann Rand's book on selfishness for a bit of philosophy on human nature and why it may not be so bad as it first appears by my and your Christian moral heritage. Also, there is an issue of pleasing the father and looking accomplished in his eyes, but that's probably well buried deep in the Pirates's sense of worth or accomplishment. I bought a Rambler sedan rather than the Jag I really wanted when I came home from Vietnam, looking back I would have been no worse off and would have had many happy hours cruising in the Jag vs the more rational Rambler. You have a limited time on earth so perhaps, when you're young is the best time to reach for the brass ring and damn the consequences. Enjoy the ride, don't worry too much about the trade-offs.... both his and your economic potential over the next 50 years is very substantial, you are poor as a church mouse now, but that is a temporary affliction.
Love,
Dad
Perhaps a touch of hedonism isn't a bad thing. Again, as with all things, it's a matter of scale. Dad is also of the ilk that my feelings are the result of my temporary poverty, and such feelings will disperse when I'm back on a more sound economic footing. This may be partially true, but I'm pretty sure that even if/when I have that kind of money, I would still consider that level of luxury unecessary and decadant.
I've been giving this whole issue a LOT of thought lately, in an attempt to understand exactly what is upsetting me, why, and what steps, if any, I should take. Here are some ideas that have occured to me:
It may simply be human nature to view all those with less than us as unfortunate and underpriveledged, while those with more than us are spoiled, greedy, mean, priveledged, etc. I think every one of us feels that our personal balance between frugality and indulgence is an appropriate balance, and anyone differing significantly from out own spending habits is in the wrong, one way or t'other.
It may also be partly due to the fact that growing up in a very working-class and pro-labor household I was taught to resent on some level those people who were more affluent than myself. Furthermore, such people were often described in terms of their material wealth, such as "people who live in houses like that X___." or "people who drive cars like that Y___" etc. I think the unfortunate coincidence that Pirate has purchased an item which in my youth was made out to be an indicator of greed and selfishness is, when I really think about it, at the bottom of what's troubling me.
So I'm left to reconcile the apparent paradox that either my parents were wrong and wealthy people with unnecessary and expensive cars aren't necessarily the greedy bastards who are the source of all the world's ailments,
or
I have critically misjudged the Pirate and actually he's not the amazing guy I thought he was, but actually he's one of the rich, greedy baddies. (I am exaggering slightly for the sake of clarity, but I think you can forgive me for that.)
On the surface this doesn't appear very difficult. The first statement assumes a lot of absolutes (all problems are caused by rich people, all people who drive nice cars are rich, it's easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, etc.), and absolutes are rarely true. So it should be easy to write an addendum to that philosophy pertaining to exceptions and accept that my parents are not always right and that wealthy people can be good people.
It should be easy. But accepting a change in your views, a change in a philosophy that has colored the way you've seen the world since you were old enough to open your eyes, rarely is. In some ways it would be easier for me to admit that I was wrong about the Pirate, because that's a view that I've only had for a year, as opposed to a lifetime. Furthermore, changing your view about one person does not shatter one's whole socio-economic mindset.
But of course I love the Pirate deeply and I don't want to be wrong about him. I want to continue to believe that he is a good, moral, ethical, generous, honest man. As I've often pointed out before, though, wishing don't make it so, and wanting to believe something, even believing it, doesn't make it true.
Do I really think that buying a car suggests that I've grossly misjudged the Pirate's character? No, not really. I'm just trying to explain to you lot why this whole situation has made me squirm so much. Fundamentally it boiled down to me being wrong about something, either the strong, anti-money values I'd been raised with, or my assessment of Pirate's character. And that, I think, is what this whole thing is all about. It's forced me to confront and re-evaluate some of the assumptions I make about people and the world regarding material wealth. And questioning one's fundamental assumptions about the world is a very squirmy process indeed.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Song of Innocence
I almost didn't notice that today is the Fourth of July. You would think that for a cheerful expat happily living in the country from which America violently liberated itself over 200 years ago Independence Day would be a day of shame and regret, not pride and joy. And yet...
I don't have a lot of political associations with the day, but I do have a lot of memories of intense happiness, innocence, and frivolity. I LOVE the Fourth of July. For years it was my favorite holiday. The Fourth for me is a bit like Christmas is for people like, well, like me. The original intent of the holiday has been all but forgotten, but that doesn't negate the joy brought about by family traditions and celebrations.
This is what the Fourth of July was like in days of yore...
I grew up in a small city neighborhood. It was a dead-end street on the south end of town comprised of 23 homes and as many huge silver maple trees lining the street. The houses were built in the 1920s, and each home was unique. It was a quiet street, and as kids we used to sit on the porch in the summer eating watermelon and cherries (we weren't allowed to eat fruit in the house -- we lived in an agricultural state and fresh produce in the summer was so sweet and juicy you couldn't eat it without making a huge mess) and have contests to see who could spit their seeds the fartherst. There were no cars except the residents and the occassional idiot who thought he could use our street as a shortcut to dodge two sets of traffic lights, and would get really annoyed when he would discover the dead end. We thought this was endlessly funny and used to point and giggle and these directionally-challenged people (who invariably drove big huge Lincolns or Caddies and drove at 6 mph).
It was a close-knit neighboorhood, too. By the time I was 7 I knew every person on the street and they all knew me. Same went for all the kids. Most of the grown-ups worked either at the local utility (like my dad) or were teachers.* Us kids were allowed to play in most anyone's yard (we knew who the exceptions were), and if anything went wrong we would be looked after by whoever was nearest at hand. By the same token, if we ever misbehaved we were certain to be caught and recognized and a phonecall made to mom and dad before we even managed to get home.
*One year when the public school teachers threatened to strike our neighborhood had a little meeting and decided it wasn't a big deal because among them there was someone amply qualified to teach every subject at every level, so they were just going to open a neighborhood school and go at it the old-fashioned way. I always was bummed that the teachers' union managed to sort their problems out, because I reckon a neighborhood school would have vastly superior to the Catholic Prison I was attending at the time.
There were regular parties and get-togethers throughout the year. A "Progressive Dinner" at Christmastime, when each course would be served at a different home (no kids at that one), a corn roast on Labor Day to celebrate the harvest, a Graffiti Party on July 3 (more about that later perhaps), and the big one on the 4th.
The custom was that the newest residents on the street were put in charge of organizing the thing, which gauranteed that they had to meet everyone on the block and get involved. ("Welcome to the neighborhood! Guess what!") It was our equivalent of a hazing ritual, but it worked. And let me tell you, there were logistics to be worked out. (Though to be fair the 4th of July block party had been going on so long pretty much everyone knew their assigned role and did it whether or not the newbie organizers thought of it.)
If dad hadn't already bought enough red, white, and blue crepe paper and scotch tape he got yelled at and had to rectify the situation immediately. I used to spend hours in the drive way covering every inch of my bike in the crinkly, patriotic toilet paper. Every bit of frame, streamers from the handle bars, and we'd weave it in and out of the spokes so the wheels were solid colors as well. If we were feeling especially ambitious we add things like pinwheels, action figures (G.I. Joe of course) or stuffed animals (in my case).
The hours between the completion of our two-wheeled modern art projects and the parade that began the party were the slowest hours of the year. Marley was a much calmer child, but I couldn't wait for things to get underway. I would run around the street making a nuissance of myself and trying to help everyone with everything and all the setting up. Slowly around lunch time people would being drifting out towards the center island with their lawn chairs and drink holders. Eventually, after a sizeable crowd had gathered, someone would give the signal for the kids to get their bikes, and...
... they're off!
Around and around we'd go, doing laps of the circular course until whichever dad was in charge that year had managed to formulate rediculous awards for us all. We would be called to a halt, line up our bikes neatly, stand at attention, and wait for our names. One by one we came forth, grinned at whatever corny honor was betowed upon us, accepted our brown paper goody bag with glee, and shook the hand of the presenter. The grown-ups clapped, and we took one more lap to give everyone a final opportunity to admire our patriotic velociped creations. And then we ran off to look at our loot and begin swapping the stuff we didn't want.
A variety of games then followed, including the water-balloon toss, which was remarkable organized. Dad used to bring out the water balloons in the wheelbarrow, all brightly jiggling in the hot yellow sunglight, a bouncing rainbow of cool wetness and squeaking rubber. Play proceeded as follows: Get a partner. Stand toe-to-toe along a chalk line in the road, all the pairs standing shoulder to shoulder. Pass the water balloon to your partner. Take a step backwards. Each time to throw the balloon, take another step. Keep passing the balloon back and forth between you, getting incrementally further apart. The pair who makes it the fartherst without breaking their balloon wins.
You wouldn't believe how much fun this is. And it's as much fun to watch as it is to play. When it gets down to 2 or three pairs the crowd starts going nuts and everyone yells "Oh!" when someone barely saves their balloon from breaking and the cringing runs through the spectators like a Mexican wave.
Slowly the game degernates into a free-for-all, with the remaining balloons being used in guerilla attacks and snowball-like water wars. My god those were the days.
Eventually it's time for dinner, and 4x8 sheets of plywood are set up on the saw horses to make buffet tables. Everyone brings out their folding card tables and plastic patio furntiure, someone has been slaving over a hot bed of coals (literally) for hours burning the chicken until it's perfect (perfectly black) which is now presented in a giant tub, and the kids are sent to wash their hands. The buffet becomes full of nacho salad, seven layer salad, potato salad, pasta salad, baked beans, fruit salad, and cole slaw. We all help ourselves to whatever we want and sit down somewhere, maybe with our own family, maybe at someone else's table.
Now, there is a particular order to the after-dinner games. The penny scramble is the last game of the day, but there's no point in doing that until all the kids have been covered in watermelon juice (ergo, sticky). But first the watermelons must be located! So the kids are divided up into two teams, each team is given its first clue, and they're off! Watermelons can't be inside houses, but short of that anything goes. Once they were even burried. First team to find their melon wins.
The watermelons are then sliced, seved, and eaten (with accompanying seed-spitting contenst, naturally). After the chillens are good and goopy, the penny scramble begins. A tarp is laid out on the ground, several garbage bags full of sawdust are dumped on the tarp, and giant piles of loose change are dumped into the sawdust. The smallest kids go first and get 5 minutes or so to dig around, then the older kids and so on. It's awesome. It's the modern equivalent of tarring and feathering, but instead of doing it to convicts it's done to children. It's not considered child abuse becase at the end of it, if you've been doing really well, you are $1.38 richer than you were before dinner, so no complaints!
As the sun turned orange and dipped below the house top it was time to fold up the lawn chairs, gather the remains of the potato salad, and begin packing it in. Kids were ordered to dust themselves off (outside), remove their clothes (also outside) and march inside and get the in the bath. Clothes were either then taken directly to the wash via a strategically held pitch-fork, or simply burned where they lay on the sidewalk.**
**I jest. Sort of.
All squeaky clean and in our jammies, it was time to lather up in carcinogenic insect repellent, grab the lawn chairs yet again, and wander up to the top of the street (grabbing a leftover piece of cold chicken from the tub on the way) where the neighborhood was once again assembling, this time to watch the fireworks. We had an excellent view from the top of the street, overlooking the park where the rockets' red glare lit up the indigo sky. We all shouted "Ooh" and "Aah" together and rated them on a scale of one to ten, Olympic-heckler style. Our towns fireworks were never all that great. They set them off one at a time to drag the show out as a long as possible, so you got to appreciate each firework individually. There were far more "2s" than "10s," but that wasn't the point.
The point was to spend time together as a community, and we were. We were a real community. We knew each other and looked out for each other and yelled at each other's kids and took banana bread to the new people. As kids we played in the street and never worried about a thing; the biggest danger we faced was falling off our bikes and getting a knee full of gravel. (No one wore helmets or knee pads back then.)
So the 4th of July for me was never about independence from the (now defunct) British Empire, or freedom from taxation without representation. It was never about self-governance, liberty, or flag-waving. It was a holiday of celebrating the summer with friends, family, community, barbequed chicken, watermelon, and sawdust. It was about being a kid, being barefoot, and, well, being free; free to throw water balloons at grown-ups, free to stay up past bedtime, free to play outside and eat cold chicken in your pj's, to listen to the drone of the cicadas during the day and the chirp of the crickets at night in total security, free to be completely innocent.
(click to make legible)
The block party doesn't happen any more. None of the annual parties do. By the time I was a teenager the character of the neighborhood had changed dramatically. The new families didn't want anything to do with block parties; they thought it was wierd. They put up tall fences around their yard and kept their children inside them. They installed air conditioning and sat inside all summer, instead of on the porch in the evening to catch the cool breeze and chitchat with whoever strolled by. They bought their kids nintendos instead of bicycles, DVD players instead of slip-n-slides, and the kids stayed indoors. They don't know each other. I don't know them. No one knows anyone. And everyone is afraid. They are afraid because they fear what they don't know, and they don't know their nighbors.
When I ws 16 I tried to organize the 4th of July party on my own. But no one wanted to come. The people thought "who is this stranger person at our door?" and told me they would be out of town. On the 4th of July I put my lawn chair out on the island and sat there for hours, hoping someone would join me, but no one came.
One final note: None of the above photos are my own. I nabbed them from tinternet because all my old pics of my family and memories are in albums back in the States, and thus inaccessible to me via compooter. Sorry if I knicked one of yours. It was with the best of intentions.
I don't have a lot of political associations with the day, but I do have a lot of memories of intense happiness, innocence, and frivolity. I LOVE the Fourth of July. For years it was my favorite holiday. The Fourth for me is a bit like Christmas is for people like, well, like me. The original intent of the holiday has been all but forgotten, but that doesn't negate the joy brought about by family traditions and celebrations.
This is what the Fourth of July was like in days of yore...
I grew up in a small city neighborhood. It was a dead-end street on the south end of town comprised of 23 homes and as many huge silver maple trees lining the street. The houses were built in the 1920s, and each home was unique. It was a quiet street, and as kids we used to sit on the porch in the summer eating watermelon and cherries (we weren't allowed to eat fruit in the house -- we lived in an agricultural state and fresh produce in the summer was so sweet and juicy you couldn't eat it without making a huge mess) and have contests to see who could spit their seeds the fartherst. There were no cars except the residents and the occassional idiot who thought he could use our street as a shortcut to dodge two sets of traffic lights, and would get really annoyed when he would discover the dead end. We thought this was endlessly funny and used to point and giggle and these directionally-challenged people (who invariably drove big huge Lincolns or Caddies and drove at 6 mph).
It was a close-knit neighboorhood, too. By the time I was 7 I knew every person on the street and they all knew me. Same went for all the kids. Most of the grown-ups worked either at the local utility (like my dad) or were teachers.* Us kids were allowed to play in most anyone's yard (we knew who the exceptions were), and if anything went wrong we would be looked after by whoever was nearest at hand. By the same token, if we ever misbehaved we were certain to be caught and recognized and a phonecall made to mom and dad before we even managed to get home.
*One year when the public school teachers threatened to strike our neighborhood had a little meeting and decided it wasn't a big deal because among them there was someone amply qualified to teach every subject at every level, so they were just going to open a neighborhood school and go at it the old-fashioned way. I always was bummed that the teachers' union managed to sort their problems out, because I reckon a neighborhood school would have vastly superior to the Catholic Prison I was attending at the time.
There were regular parties and get-togethers throughout the year. A "Progressive Dinner" at Christmastime, when each course would be served at a different home (no kids at that one), a corn roast on Labor Day to celebrate the harvest, a Graffiti Party on July 3 (more about that later perhaps), and the big one on the 4th.
The custom was that the newest residents on the street were put in charge of organizing the thing, which gauranteed that they had to meet everyone on the block and get involved. ("Welcome to the neighborhood! Guess what!") It was our equivalent of a hazing ritual, but it worked. And let me tell you, there were logistics to be worked out. (Though to be fair the 4th of July block party had been going on so long pretty much everyone knew their assigned role and did it whether or not the newbie organizers thought of it.)
- Bob had to arrange for and collect and set up the barricades so the street could be closed off to traffic. (This was important because of the fireworks at the park in the evening. If we didn't close off the street it became a giant parking lot by sunset.) It was his job because he was the only one with a pickup.
- The bed-grill had to be dug out and set up.
- Someone had to buy a dozen bags of charcoal, 50 pounds of chicken quarters, and 2 gallons of BBQ sauce
- Someone had to arrange for, pick up, and tap the keg. (Technically open containers of alcohol are not legal on municipal property, which the "islands" were, but one of the residents was the county deputy sherrif, and he knew that no one ever got drunk, misbehaved, or served alcohol to a minor, so he didn't care. Although the minors did have to serve the beer. We were glorified gofers, and I leared to pull a pint at the age of 8.)
- Someone had to get plastic cups, plates, cutlery, and napkins.
- Someone had to bring out a big washtub for the pop cans and enough ice to last that day.
- Someone had to get prizes for the kids' bike parade and make up silly awards ("Best use of pink streamers," "Best one-handed riding," that sort of thing.)
- Someone had to get a giant pile of sawdust from the local lumber yard and a bazillion pennies to dump in it
- Someone had to procure 2 big watermelons and hide them the night before, along with a trail of clues leading to their location. This was usually done at the graffiti party by our intoxicated parents the night before, and I can remember years when the clues were written and hidden when the poor volunteer had had a few too many, and the following day the clues didn't make any sense and the hider and forgotten where he'd hid the melons. Good times. :-)
- And of course there needed to be water balloons. And tug of war (over a plastic wading pool, naturally.) And sack races. etc. And prizes for all of the above.
- And everyone had to bring a passing dish to share. Joanne made the best baked beans in the history of the world.
If dad hadn't already bought enough red, white, and blue crepe paper and scotch tape he got yelled at and had to rectify the situation immediately. I used to spend hours in the drive way covering every inch of my bike in the crinkly, patriotic toilet paper. Every bit of frame, streamers from the handle bars, and we'd weave it in and out of the spokes so the wheels were solid colors as well. If we were feeling especially ambitious we add things like pinwheels, action figures (G.I. Joe of course) or stuffed animals (in my case).
The hours between the completion of our two-wheeled modern art projects and the parade that began the party were the slowest hours of the year. Marley was a much calmer child, but I couldn't wait for things to get underway. I would run around the street making a nuissance of myself and trying to help everyone with everything and all the setting up. Slowly around lunch time people would being drifting out towards the center island with their lawn chairs and drink holders. Eventually, after a sizeable crowd had gathered, someone would give the signal for the kids to get their bikes, and...
... they're off!
Around and around we'd go, doing laps of the circular course until whichever dad was in charge that year had managed to formulate rediculous awards for us all. We would be called to a halt, line up our bikes neatly, stand at attention, and wait for our names. One by one we came forth, grinned at whatever corny honor was betowed upon us, accepted our brown paper goody bag with glee, and shook the hand of the presenter. The grown-ups clapped, and we took one more lap to give everyone a final opportunity to admire our patriotic velociped creations. And then we ran off to look at our loot and begin swapping the stuff we didn't want.A variety of games then followed, including the water-balloon toss, which was remarkable organized. Dad used to bring out the water balloons in the wheelbarrow, all brightly jiggling in the hot yellow sunglight, a bouncing rainbow of cool wetness and squeaking rubber. Play proceeded as follows: Get a partner. Stand toe-to-toe along a chalk line in the road, all the pairs standing shoulder to shoulder. Pass the water balloon to your partner. Take a step backwards. Each time to throw the balloon, take another step. Keep passing the balloon back and forth between you, getting incrementally further apart. The pair who makes it the fartherst without breaking their balloon wins.
You wouldn't believe how much fun this is. And it's as much fun to watch as it is to play. When it gets down to 2 or three pairs the crowd starts going nuts and everyone yells "Oh!" when someone barely saves their balloon from breaking and the cringing runs through the spectators like a Mexican wave.Slowly the game degernates into a free-for-all, with the remaining balloons being used in guerilla attacks and snowball-like water wars. My god those were the days.
Eventually it's time for dinner, and 4x8 sheets of plywood are set up on the saw horses to make buffet tables. Everyone brings out their folding card tables and plastic patio furntiure, someone has been slaving over a hot bed of coals (literally) for hours burning the chicken until it's perfect (perfectly black) which is now presented in a giant tub, and the kids are sent to wash their hands. The buffet becomes full of nacho salad, seven layer salad, potato salad, pasta salad, baked beans, fruit salad, and cole slaw. We all help ourselves to whatever we want and sit down somewhere, maybe with our own family, maybe at someone else's table.
Now, there is a particular order to the after-dinner games. The penny scramble is the last game of the day, but there's no point in doing that until all the kids have been covered in watermelon juice (ergo, sticky). But first the watermelons must be located! So the kids are divided up into two teams, each team is given its first clue, and they're off! Watermelons can't be inside houses, but short of that anything goes. Once they were even burried. First team to find their melon wins.
The watermelons are then sliced, seved, and eaten (with accompanying seed-spitting contenst, naturally). After the chillens are good and goopy, the penny scramble begins. A tarp is laid out on the ground, several garbage bags full of sawdust are dumped on the tarp, and giant piles of loose change are dumped into the sawdust. The smallest kids go first and get 5 minutes or so to dig around, then the older kids and so on. It's awesome. It's the modern equivalent of tarring and feathering, but instead of doing it to convicts it's done to children. It's not considered child abuse becase at the end of it, if you've been doing really well, you are $1.38 richer than you were before dinner, so no complaints!
As the sun turned orange and dipped below the house top it was time to fold up the lawn chairs, gather the remains of the potato salad, and begin packing it in. Kids were ordered to dust themselves off (outside), remove their clothes (also outside) and march inside and get the in the bath. Clothes were either then taken directly to the wash via a strategically held pitch-fork, or simply burned where they lay on the sidewalk.****I jest. Sort of.
All squeaky clean and in our jammies, it was time to lather up in carcinogenic insect repellent, grab the lawn chairs yet again, and wander up to the top of the street (grabbing a leftover piece of cold chicken from the tub on the way) where the neighborhood was once again assembling, this time to watch the fireworks. We had an excellent view from the top of the street, overlooking the park where the rockets' red glare lit up the indigo sky. We all shouted "Ooh" and "Aah" together and rated them on a scale of one to ten, Olympic-heckler style. Our towns fireworks were never all that great. They set them off one at a time to drag the show out as a long as possible, so you got to appreciate each firework individually. There were far more "2s" than "10s," but that wasn't the point.
The point was to spend time together as a community, and we were. We were a real community. We knew each other and looked out for each other and yelled at each other's kids and took banana bread to the new people. As kids we played in the street and never worried about a thing; the biggest danger we faced was falling off our bikes and getting a knee full of gravel. (No one wore helmets or knee pads back then.)So the 4th of July for me was never about independence from the (now defunct) British Empire, or freedom from taxation without representation. It was never about self-governance, liberty, or flag-waving. It was a holiday of celebrating the summer with friends, family, community, barbequed chicken, watermelon, and sawdust. It was about being a kid, being barefoot, and, well, being free; free to throw water balloons at grown-ups, free to stay up past bedtime, free to play outside and eat cold chicken in your pj's, to listen to the drone of the cicadas during the day and the chirp of the crickets at night in total security, free to be completely innocent.
(click to make legible)The block party doesn't happen any more. None of the annual parties do. By the time I was a teenager the character of the neighborhood had changed dramatically. The new families didn't want anything to do with block parties; they thought it was wierd. They put up tall fences around their yard and kept their children inside them. They installed air conditioning and sat inside all summer, instead of on the porch in the evening to catch the cool breeze and chitchat with whoever strolled by. They bought their kids nintendos instead of bicycles, DVD players instead of slip-n-slides, and the kids stayed indoors. They don't know each other. I don't know them. No one knows anyone. And everyone is afraid. They are afraid because they fear what they don't know, and they don't know their nighbors.
When I ws 16 I tried to organize the 4th of July party on my own. But no one wanted to come. The people thought "who is this stranger person at our door?" and told me they would be out of town. On the 4th of July I put my lawn chair out on the island and sat there for hours, hoping someone would join me, but no one came.
One final note: None of the above photos are my own. I nabbed them from tinternet because all my old pics of my family and memories are in albums back in the States, and thus inaccessible to me via compooter. Sorry if I knicked one of yours. It was with the best of intentions.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I can't sign this
because I'm not a UK citizen (yet), BUT YOU CAN!!!
Petition to ban plastic carrier bags
I realize that plastic bags aren't the worst problem facing the envirnment, but they are a problem, and one of the most easily fixed, at that. Pick up a couple re-usable carrier bags the next time you're at the supermarket, keep them in your car so they're always handy (if you drive) or by the back door. Plastic bags are just unnecessary. There's no excuse.
Petition to ban plastic carrier bags
I realize that plastic bags aren't the worst problem facing the envirnment, but they are a problem, and one of the most easily fixed, at that. Pick up a couple re-usable carrier bags the next time you're at the supermarket, keep them in your car so they're always handy (if you drive) or by the back door. Plastic bags are just unnecessary. There's no excuse.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Bored with the orange
Everyone else seems to be doing it lately, and after more than 2 1/2 years I finally got bored with the orange and white color scheme. Thus, time for a spring cleaning of the blog. There are a few kinks to be worked out (for some reason Sal's link on the sidebar is smooshed), but overall I think the effect is easier on the eyes, which is what I wanted.
The two things that I really don't like tho are
a) at the bottom of the sidebar where the stuff runs out there's just a long, blank, white space down to the end of the posts. Is there some way for me to continue the sidebar background color down to the bottom of the page?
b) that goofy, wheelie logo in the upper left. I was hoping I could replace that square with a photo of my own, but there doesn't seem to be a way to alter it. I think it might be built in to the template. Any genii out there got any genius idears?
What do you guys think of the new look?
UPDATE! AAAAAG!!! I just realized my belovedpopularity indicator counter is gone! I still have the HTML code (saved it before I changed the template) but there dosn't seem to be a way to add it back in. Help me, Obi-Sal-Kenobi; you're my only hope!!!
UPDATE II: I tried pasting the HTML code for my counter into my template just to see what would happen, and it told me that there was an XML error. Does that mean the new blog is in XML and not HTML? And does that mean that I have to get a new counter and start ALL OVER????? I'm so annoyed! I had over 34,000 hits! I felt loved, I tell you, LOVED!
The two things that I really don't like tho are
a) at the bottom of the sidebar where the stuff runs out there's just a long, blank, white space down to the end of the posts. Is there some way for me to continue the sidebar background color down to the bottom of the page?
b) that goofy, wheelie logo in the upper left. I was hoping I could replace that square with a photo of my own, but there doesn't seem to be a way to alter it. I think it might be built in to the template. Any genii out there got any genius idears?
What do you guys think of the new look?
UPDATE! AAAAAG!!! I just realized my beloved
UPDATE II: I tried pasting the HTML code for my counter into my template just to see what would happen, and it told me that there was an XML error. Does that mean the new blog is in XML and not HTML? And does that mean that I have to get a new counter and start ALL OVER????? I'm so annoyed! I had over 34,000 hits! I felt loved, I tell you, LOVED!
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Stuff I've learned from men
(Now new and imporved!)
This is a great little idea from Patroclus. Thus, I'm stealing it.
What I can't decide is should I include all the things I've learned from men in general (not counting teachers and profs, obv.), or just boyfriends? The latter would be a significantly shorter list. So I guess I'll start with that and we'll see where I get to. I can always add stuff from superfluous men* later.
from the first bf, my freshman year of college, i learned:
What have you learned from your boy/girlfriends? Tagging: everyone! Hop to it.
*I'm giving myself 5 bonus XP for using the phrase "superfluous men."
This is a great little idea from Patroclus. Thus, I'm stealing it.
What I can't decide is should I include all the things I've learned from men in general (not counting teachers and profs, obv.), or just boyfriends? The latter would be a significantly shorter list. So I guess I'll start with that and we'll see where I get to. I can always add stuff from superfluous men* later.
from the first bf, my freshman year of college, i learned:
- the naming protocol of organic molecules
- the easiest way to put pillow cases on really turgid pillows
- how not to eat at the dinner table
- how not to practice good personal hygeine
- how not to treat a girlfriend
- how to screw up a clarinet solo in front of 1000 people
- the most effective and publicly humiliating way to break up with an asshole
- how to make really good curry
- how to shag
- how to cook while camping out
- an appreciation of ACDC
- how to treat a girlfriend well
- a deeper level of guilt
- general stuff about cricket
- stuff about archery (did I mention he's Robin Hood? yep. eat yer heart out.)
- how not to throw like a girl and bowl a cricket ball properly
- all kinds of stuff about boats that i'll never be able to remember
- several really crass (and really funny) swear words and euphamisms
- how to dance
- how to accept gifts
- how to be free
- what it feels like to be loved
- UPDATE: how to operate my eyeballs independently. (There's a skill every gal needs.)
What have you learned from your boy/girlfriends? Tagging: everyone! Hop to it.
*I'm giving myself 5 bonus XP for using the phrase "superfluous men."
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Solidarity, people.
We are not powerless.
It's easy to despair, to think 'there's nothing I can do about it.' But we are not powerless, we are not helpess, and we are not alone.
This is the stuff they don't teach you in history class, how an army was defeated by poor, working-class familes, fighting with rubbish and old mattresses. How an army was brought to it's knees by schoolchildren. with marbles. This is the history they don't teach you in school.
It's easy to despair, to think 'there's nothing I can do about it.' But we are not powerless, we are not helpess, and we are not alone.
This is the stuff they don't teach you in history class, how an army was defeated by poor, working-class familes, fighting with rubbish and old mattresses. How an army was brought to it's knees by schoolchildren. with marbles. This is the history they don't teach you in school.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Becoming an Ex-Pat
For those of you who've been reading my blog from the beginning or nearly-so (Herebe, Sal, etc.), you know the story line of my life has unfolded roughly like this:
Chick is lonely
Chick whinges a lot
Chick wants to return to England.
Chick returns to England.
Chick finds man and falls in love.
Chick is in England and no longer lonely.
Fin.
So what does that leave? There needs be a new adventure, a new saga, that you, my readers, may follow with eagerness and anticipation. It should be dramatic, frustrating, heart-felt, and personal. It should be...
The Pangs of Becoming a British Citizen!
And believe me, there are pangs. This will be a long (5 years or more) and arduous (have you seen the Home Office website?) labor of love. And it begins now. Stay tuned.
Chick is lonely
Chick whinges a lot
Chick wants to return to England.
Chick returns to England.
Chick finds man and falls in love.
Chick is in England and no longer lonely.
Fin.
So what does that leave? There needs be a new adventure, a new saga, that you, my readers, may follow with eagerness and anticipation. It should be dramatic, frustrating, heart-felt, and personal. It should be...
The Pangs of Becoming a British Citizen!
And believe me, there are pangs. This will be a long (5 years or more) and arduous (have you seen the Home Office website?) labor of love. And it begins now. Stay tuned.
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