GingaJoy

Saturday Night I Watched The Eurovision Song Contest, and I Knew I Was Home. (And Other News)

2008-05-26T07:56:00.007+01:00

Part One
This weekend I settled down with some relatives to watch my very first Eurovision Song Contest in fifteen years. Would it live up to my memories? I wondered. Or has the Eurovision changed beyond recognition -- like Radio One and MTV, belonging to a new generation, the one about 10-20 years younger than me, now wearing leggings, ballet pumps, bat-wing tops, and mulletty hair-dos (just like *I* did, long ago...) But Eurovision did not disappoint. It is still as deliciously awful as ever, still an opportunity for superior Brits to chortle as each and every European country (and that includes Isreal, go figure!) entered their 'top' artists in a 'pop' contest.

Britain is still united this time of year, not because we are rooting as a nation for our entry to win (we came a resounding last, and no one cared) but because we come together in a collective sense of superiority -- a) we are a nation with a long history of producing good music, and so any sense of 'competition' is a farce, and b) we just adore watching as young hipster presenters from Turkey, Serbia, and Iceland butcher the English language with attempts to make the funny jokes and ha ha-s for de international audience. (Yep, the English is still the colonizing language, and don't you forget it!) It's especially funny when the French commentators come on, because they refuse to speak English, and so everyone gets confused when they pronouce 'huit point' for "Arr-may" and no one quite knows which country they are referring to (Armenian, fyi).

But mainly it's the acts. And this year did not fail to disappoint. As soon as I set eyes on the Russian performance 'I Believe' by Dima Bilan, it was clear we had a winner. It was not the overwrought lyrics and wild flayling of limbs in a white open shirt and bare chest that did it for me, nor was it the dramatically writhing solo violinist that accompanied the singer, though these were gifts enough. No. It was the ice-skating.

If you want to share in the whole experience, check it here. (If you want to skip to the good part -- John Denver on Skates -- then fast forward to about 2:30 minutes in)

Part Two (Yes, that's all very well, Joy, but, like WTF???!)

I know. I know. I won't pretend I've not been tempted to just put an 'On Indefinite Hiatus 'post up and give the blog an official breather, but I've never quite been able to do it. I know if I do that, there is a strong chance I'll not come back to it, and while I am not as sure about where blogging fits into my life as I did in those first breathless and excited years, I am not ready to give up on it yet. I've mentioned before, but one reason I find blogging very different right now is that since moving back to the UK I have skewed sense of audience and purpose.

I was chatting to my cousin about it this weekend (and how nice is it to be able to have a cousin over for a weekend) but it's really a simple fact that the context I once shared with other bloggers is not the same any more. The shift here is less about the move to England (though massive this is -- case in point, Eurovision Song contest post that will likely mean very little to you!) and more about the fact that I have so little spare time, and this means I can't read you all and engage in conversation (although I am seriously thrilled that my old partner in crime, Her Bad Mother, has pushed out that boy child, and in a jiffy too!) As I struggle to write a post now, I realise it's not that I don't have material (I have spades of it, obviously). It's because I feel like I am throwing stuff out there, but not really taking part in any sort of community activity (yes. I know that sounds hopelessly cheesy). I can't reciprocate, comment, react, or support any more -- or at least I can't to the same degree. I have very little clue what's going on with everyone, and BlogHer and other conferences last year suddenly seem a very long time ago. It's like looking back at a parallel version of myself.

oh GOD! How tedious and self-absorbed. Ennui...

So long story short, if I am going to keep up this blogging lark, I have to find a different sense of purpose and motivation. You lot are very motivating, but to reap the benefit of that motivation you need to be present, and I'm not and really can't be in the same way. So, will it become writing for writing's sake? What does blogging from this space really mean?

Part Three
We are still Bastard People, and buying a property in England is bastard hard-work. Many moons (but just two posts) ago I said we were likely buying a house. That likelihood has increased dramatically, and it looks like we're set to decamp from this mould-infested rental in a couple of weeks. This both pleases and grips me with stomach-twisting fear. Not ANOTHER move. Not another massive change, another school to settle Jack into. The whole process has been complicated horribly by the hoops we've had to go through with surveys and searches and reports, and the mad things that happen when many many parties miscommunicate with one another.

This rental might be mould-infested, but at least it feels relatively familiar now, and there's a Waitrose in walking distance.

I console myself with images of new fitted kitchens, restored fireplaces, and freshly painted Edwardian rooms. I try not to think about the 30 year dank decor that will greet us on arrival, smoke-stained and stinking of doggies, which we'll have to remove with steam and vigorous applications of chemicals and elbow grease. I tell myself that bashing down the 1970s tile that covers the fireplaces will be fun. The knocking down of the wall between kitchen and dining room, a gas. All sorts of dangerous things for Sam, our now 18 month old, encounter and likely eat.

But still, Spring has sprung in England, and we have become members of the National Trust. This means we have purchased sensible walking shoes and cagoules for the family so we can enjoy bracing and damp days out at Tatton and Lyme Park to name but a few. I'm learning to enjoy my family in a different way, and have never had so much fun at a wedding as I did a few weeks back when my little brother got hitched.

Life is definitely good, but it's also more different than I ever anticipated it would be.

How to Make A Dalek

2008-04-04T16:40:00.010+01:00

In anticipation of the fourth season of the new Dr Who this weekend, I have been getting crafty with modelling clay and a few pipe cleaners to make my own small scale Dalek Legion. And guess what? You can do it to!

You'll need: A lump of modelling black clay; some white pipe cleaners; a couple of double-headed thumbtacks; and finely tuned artistic ability...

First, you need to make your Dalek foundation. This will be the basis for your modelling:

To get this shape, you need to take your clay firmly in hand and just keep moulding.

You may think you'll never get there, but trust me you just need to be patient. Don't be afraid to use pressure, as the clay can totally take it. Also, the warmth from your hands creates a nice glossy veneer on your model.

Next. Place a three thin sausages of clay around the 'head' of the Dalek:

Then proceed with shaping the tiny balls.
I found that to make the balls stick, a little lick will do the trick nicely.

Next, stick a sharp object like a pin or nail into the head to make a decent sized hole:

This is where your 'Dalek Radar' thingie sticks out. You make this with your pipe cleaners, a little knob of clay, and some tin foil:

Et, Voila!

You've gots yourself a Dalek!

I hope you enjoy making this at home as much as I did. Right now I only have one, as I simply didn't have the energy to do it all again in the same afternoon.

Buying a House in Mo-Fo England (much anticipated update)

2008-03-14T09:57:00.008Z

(Fig. 1. These people are not us. But they have just bought a home, and so have instantly become more Attractive and Fulfilled. This, therefore, is a representation of What We Will Become After We Have Been The Bastard People)

Way back in January, just easing ourselves out of post-Christmas malaise, and wondering what we might do with ourselves that might not involve eating, drinking, or buying stuff, we embarked fresh-faced and enthused into the whole House-Buying business. What better way to spend a weekend than to set up a series of appointments and tramp through other people's houses, escorted by owners who looked upon us with rapt expectation? Initially we felt an instant bond with such owners, we had been in a similar position just a short period ago, of course -- trying to sell our precious house in Michigan while the economy went down the toilet. We understood.

We would not be the types of people to parade through someone's cherished home and then sharply reject it because a hallway was too narrow or a bathroom not palatial. We were not Bastard People. Even if we did not especially like a house, we would at least be respectful enough to let the estate agent know in a timely fashion, and not leave the owners dangling.

Fast forward a couple of months, and witness the path of devastation and dashed dreams behind us. To become a homeowner in this day and age, especially in holymother-of-effing-god-HOWMUCH?? England, one must become The Bastard People.

Pretty soon we were doing dash-and-run viewings, cramming appointments in between nap times and descending on the freshly cleaned homes with two kids in tow -- one of whom drools in copious amounts. Sure, they just spent the last couple of hours making their place spick and span for us, but did it have a third bedroom that could actually be a third bedroom? (lady. a 4ft by 5 ft room does NOT a bedroom make). Sure, mister, you may say that the noise from the train tracks at the end of your garden are 'hardly a bother because trains are electric now' but when the 10:56 am to Manchester went by, we all smiled at one another over the din, our teeth chattering politely as we pretended it was not that big a deal. I think it took your estate agent about 5 days to finally get me to return their call after our visit, desperate for our 'feedback.' "Try a thundering train at the end of the garden" I said.

What I meant to say was "It's a great house with lots of potential, but we've decided to keep looking." Maybe my not-so softly softly approach was kinder in the end, anyway.

Then, one day, the Bastard People found a house that might just work. A fixer-upper, for sure, but decent sized rooms and "original period features" (beneath a century of paint, wallpaper, artex, 1950s tiling, and cigarette smoke, but there all the same). A kitchen the size of a postage stamp, but 'potential to expand.' Right now it looks like we might just be getting this one, but until I know for sure I won't post a picture (also, don't want any of you shitholes to gazump us or anything, because I know what you're like). My husband's home improvement skills are going to be seriously put to the test. But I have faith, and I will be there by his side to support him -- offering whatever advise I can on colour schemes and fabric combinations (actually, I have a feeling I am going to seriously know my way around a wall-paper steamer-offer by the time we're done, but don't tell him that).

Turns out, after nearly 6 months of living in an urban-ish area, we realise that while in theory we are Country Mice (lulled by the idea of stunning views of the Peak District outside our charming cottage home) we are, in fact, City Mice, who like the idea of the country as a place close by to visit on weekends. We like our ameeeeenities, you see.

So please, wish us luck, and know that the Bastard People period was just a mercenary phase that should hopefully soon pass.

I Blame Coldplay

2008-03-07T16:21:00.003Z

Hello! Remember me? I used to be a blogger who posted upwards of 3-4 times per month?!

(insert apologetic rambling stuff riddled with excuses about not posting here...)

Good. Now that's out of the way, let's blog baby!

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. 'I blame Coldplay.'

Actually, maybe it's Kate Bush's fault. It was with Kate Bush that I discovered a great new game I could play all by myself at 11 years old. A game called 'let's pretend you're in a 'Music Video.''

Here's how you play-- whatever you are doing, be it walking down to the corner shop, sitting in the backseat of your parents' car, sulking in your bedroom, pretend that you are in fact in a 'Music Video.' You will need some background music for this, preferably Kate Bush's 'The Man with A Child in His Eyes' but Human League's 'Don't You Want Me Baby' will serve you equally well -- especially if you are tonging your hair.

If you prefer to go with a 'live' performance then a hairbrush is a must-have (naturally) and I would recommend the privacy of your own bedroom, where you can play 'your music' on a 'record player.' If you are taking this to the streets, then a Sony Walkman to play your 'cassette tape recordings' is required.

Once you have these items in place, you have a great deal of creative flexibility as to how you perform in your 'video.' With Kate Bush you might like to gyrate wildly but very, very dramatically around your room -- especially if that song is Wuthering Heights (Heathcliffe! it's me, your Cathy, I've come ho-o-o-o-me. It's me in your windo-o-o-w). But take care with the lyrics -- they are seriously deep and need to be intoned (or mouthed if you prefer) with the appropriate expression of mysterious and yet penetrating angst.

If you are making your video in public, then a certain level of discretion and a good deal of imagination is required. Yes, to an onlooker you might well look like some pimply-faced teen slumping down the street with a pair of head-phones on, but little do they know that a camera is on you and the end result will be a highly produced (quite possibly black and white) montage sequence: 'disaffected working class girl walks through scene of urban blight.' That's you missy, and guess what, you're in the new Smiths video!

I wish I could say that I have grown out of this adolescent game, but every so often an instance avails itself where I just can't help myself. Coldplay on the iPod while I commute is a surefire trigger. One minute I'm charging through the ticket gates to only just catch my train (again) and the next minute I am deep in the reverie of 'Warning Sign' (When the truth is,
I miss you. Yeah the truth is, That I miss you so) . Lights. Camera. Action. And I'm ON.

Add to that an email that appears on your PDA from a dear friend Back Home who tells you of a dream where you appeared back in Michigan...

"When I went to hug Joy, she said I shouldn't get near her because she had some kind of communicable disease.... Then, when we put Jack and J___ [our sons] together, and thought they'd be excited to see each other again, they didn't even really remember each other. I felt very sad in the dream, thinking that they were forgetting each other."

Add that and suddenly you're a blubbering mess on the train, and so the only way to stop your fellow passengers noticing your outpouring is to retreat inside your head and be in the Coldplay video about Loss. Channel that sorrow into a brilliant performance that your adolescent self would have truly envied.

(I miss you too A. Horribly. And everyone there. But, uh, 'communicable disease'??)

To Jack After the Valentine's Disco...

2008-02-08T13:27:00.000Z

Dear Jack,
Last night when I got home from work you were ready and waiting in your 'smart clothes' and excited beyond all reason. I was going to drive you to school where they were hosting a Valentine's Disco for you and all the other 4-6 year olds. I had been forewarned by your Daddy, who had made a similar trek with you to the 'Halloween Disco' in October, that this was pretty much an hour of complete and utter insanity. Good lord, was he right. When we got to school we couldn't get in right away, so you went careening around outside the doors aping at the other children and admiring the boys in their Cyberman shirts.

It doesn't matter if you know a kid, if they are impressive to you, then you'll head right up to them and say 'Nice shirt!' I don't know if it's their englishness or the fact that you can perhaps stun people into silence, but they normally don't react very openly, but when you turn away from them I see a slight smile of pride as they look down at themselves.

Meanwhile, you have your own little cohort of friends, and once we got inside the building you all had a marvelous time 'dancing' (and I use that term loosely) and piling onto one another in great heaps. Before I had boys I was very much on the 'nurture' side of the debate, but watching you and your pals say hello by wrestling one another to the floor makes me seriously wonder, and this creeping realization is only heightened by the fact that as you writhe on the floor all around you are pretty little girls in red and pink valentine's dresses, dancing much more skillfully to the beat.

For you the disco is about hurtling around the room with your friends but mainly it's about the Sweeties. Over to the side of the hall was a little shop selling packets of chews and gummies -- you are drawn to this place irresistibly over the course of the hour. Spinning off to tumble and then every few moments returning to beg for more sweets, more 10 pence pieces to buy them. "But puh-leeeeease, Mummy."

After about 4 packets, I had to put my foot down.

All that sugar and running around, and you got completely overheated. You were begging me to let you take your clothes off, which was something new and also somewhat alarming. Rather than draw such unwanted and dodgy attention on ourselves (I imagined you chasing around the hall in your spongebob undies) we opted to roll up your sleeves and trouser legs, and you reared off again with your pale legs poking out like sticks.

Finally you returned back to my side, and asked to go home. You happily place your hand in mine as we work our way out. That simple hand-holding. I wonder how long I have left of that.
I'm not being maudlin or anything, because I know that it's only natural that one day soon you'll be less likely to hug me on a whim or plant a wet kiss on my cheek, but it's also good for me to remember that one day I'll be looking at this time and wondering where it went.

I love you, sweet boy.

Mummy
xxx

I just believe in me, that’s reality (Hubs Guest Post)

2008-02-04T13:56:00.001Z

Well, finally on this day of days, when the “Beatles” (did they really exist? Were there two or four? Was it all a dream?) song Across the Universe (did they even write it?) is supposedly going to be beamed out into “outer space” (prove there’s such a place), the Truth has been received! Finally, 25% of Brits have come to realise (see I am writing like them now and that means I am one of them; join us join us) that Winston Churchill (who would name a kid after that Bulldog Insurance logo?) and Florence Nightingale (a bird? a plane?) are fictional characters designed to keep us all numb and obedient. We have lived in fear of the so-called Crimean War long enough! Didn’t that Iron Curtain keep you warm? I don’t think too many owed too much to too few, do you? (how Seussian! Or should I say Geiselian?). We have at last seen through the veil of the simulacrum and come to know reality for what it is! Schizo-criticism had us in its clutches too long, and now you fucker Frederic Jameson, you’re gonna pay! Yes, it’s a new day for revisionists everywhere (there’s one in every pot, along with that so-called chicken we were promised; and why does everything taste of chicken? Alien mind traps, that's why!). Soon we will all see what the great doctor has said all along (Doctor Who, that is): it is better not to know what is good or bad, or what is real or false).

Other things once thought of as true:

Cary Grant saying “Judy Judy Judy” (he only said “Judy” or maybe “Judy Judy”, but c’mon; it is preposterous to think he would add the superfluous Judy!)

Humphrey Bogart saying “Play it again, Sam” in “Casablanca”. (in fact, he just said, “you played it for her now play it for me. Play it!”)

Shakespeare writing, “Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well.” In fact he wrote, “You mean I kissed that dead guy!? Yuck!” (The Complete Shakespeare)

It doesn’t surprise me that so many people are getting history wrong. It seems that within the last 40 years, the whole enterprise of history has been to dismantle itself bit by bit. I have taught in my classes how there are myths surrounding George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, and it would appear that those lessons have taken root … a bit too strongly. True, Existentialism teaches us that we cannot be certain anything exists, with the exception of oneself (and here I always compliment my students on their imagining such a handsome professor), but what have we lost now in suggesting that nothing is real. Is 25% of the British public being ironic? What makes Churchill so unreal, and Holmes so lifelike? (I neglected to mention that the same 25% believe Holmes and Watson actually existed).
The article that I got this story from is clearly criticising the dumbing down of all Western societies, and it has a point; however, it is all an outgrowth of our dependence on the sound bite and the medium of television, which states outright that if it is on that box, it must be true. One only need recall the Presidential Debates, where George W. Bush denied that he had ever said of Osama bin Laden, “I don't know where he is. I -- I'll repeat what I said. I truly am not that concerned about him.”

John Kerry quoted him nearly verbatim in the debate, and all Bush had to do was say, “There you go with one of your exaggerations.” More than half of my students thought “W” had bested Kerry with that remark; few had stayed around long enough to hear the tapes after the debate that repeated Bush saying those very words.

So kidding aside, it is becoming increasingly problematic determining what is the truth (or what the truths are and what they mean). Politics has become simply about who can say something that sounds true, or as Stephen Colbert puts it, the winner must have “truthiness” – not, indeed, the truth, but the appearance of truth. And in this day and age where we cannot believe in the sincerity of anyone’s motives, for to do so would mean we have always already been duped, who could believe that there was once a leader who was a drunk, who was somewhat common, who made crass remarks about women being ugly, yet who stood tall in the face of an imminent threat (and then collapsed later)? Who could believe that some nurse on the battlefields of a place no one can even locate on a map could have been the impetus for so many humanitarian ideals? (and remember, nurses were supposed to be sluts then, or something barely above actresses).

The title of this entry comes from John Lennon’s song “God”, where he lists off all the things he doesn’t believe in: Elvis, Dylan (in one version he uses Zimmerman, Dylan’s actual surname – see, you can’t trust even your favorite folk singer … or is he rock because he went electric? Is he still Jewish?), Kennedy, kings, Gita, all concluding with his shocking “I don’t believe in Beatles!” He was an idealist, as we all were, and perhaps as very few are allowed to be today, denying the value of so many things that are put upon pedestals. We are repeatedly told heroes don’t exist anymore, and I think the statistic that was published today is the result of our embracing that idea.

Oh, and it is also because our schools suck and our kids are all morons! Go read a book, you stupid kids! You’d think all you had to do was play fucking Playstation!!

In his Second Life My Husband Wants To Be David Bruce Banner

2008-02-01T11:24:00.000Z

A couple of nights ago the old man and I settled down for a nice night in front of the telly (er, like pretty much every night) and found ourselves drawn into a BBC Documentary on 'Virtual Adultery.'

Main thrust of the programme? There are people out there with crappy real married lives who create insanely sexy online counterparts for themselves in Second Life. Big-boobed Girl Avatar meets Six-pack Boy Avatar, and the mouse-controlled bump and grind of naughty avatar bits begins...

The question. Is this adultery?

As we watched one husband talk about how his wife spends up to 14 hours a day in their bedroom in front of the computer with her 'boyfriend' while he's left to run the house, looks after four kids, and earns a living for them all, we thought that 'adultery' might well be the least of this family's problems.

In the concluding moments -- after this wife had spent some of the family's hard-earned cash to fly out to London to meet her 'boyfriend' in real life (and boy, did he look disappointed when she turned up at Heathrow) only to return to the bosom of the family -- her loving husband declared that his wife was 'Jenny' to his Forrest Gump -- she was wild, lived at the edge, hungry for life, but no matter what, he would be as steadfast as Forrest and remain there for her forever. To which my husband said:

"Yeah. But Forrest Gump was retarded"

We began to see why a virtual life with 'Elliot' might look so enticing to the woman, b'yatch though she was. And there was her husband, trying to make sense of it all by viewing it like the movies. We all want to escape, and for him it took the form of pretending he was a slow-witted adult male from the deep south.

Of course, all this gave the two of us an opportunity to look inside our own hearts, our own marriage, and ask one another the searching questions that had plagued us as we watched side by side.

"So. If you could create an avatar in Second Life, what would it look like?" I asked

~~"David Banner"~~ "Bruce Banner"

The certainty and swiftness of his reply was impressive.

"Which ~~David~~ Bruce Banner? ~~David~~ Bruce Banner when he's on the verge of becoming the Hulk, you won't like me when I'm angry, ~~David~~ Bruce Banner?? ~~David~~ Bruce Banner in tattered trousers? Or worn out and depleted David Banner as he walks down the side of the road thumbing a ride?"

"Well who would you be?" (dodging the question -- pussy-ass)

"Cate Blanchett" (yes. I am seriously predictable)

"Cate Blanchett-as-Bob Dylan Cate Blanchett, or Cate-Blanchett-as-Galadriel Cate Blanchett?"

"DUH! Like you have to ask that question. Do you even know me at all?"

"You'd go for the pointy ears"

"Of course! I know you're a sucker for the pointy ears! I'd do it for you!" (also. who wants Bob Dylan wiggy hair?)

~~David~~ Bruce Banner and Galadriel, shacking up together in Second Life, saving up a few Linden Dollars to buy me a boob job and some property on the cyber-beach. We could be happy there.

UPDATE: And here's me sneering at the idiotic ways of idiotic people, and writing an entire post about how my husband wants to be DAVID Banner, when I meant BRUCE Banner.
So far I don't think my husband has any aspirations to be a Dirty South Hip Hop artist, but then, he continues to surprise me. Such is our love.

Was it Sartre or Fred Rogers who once said, “Hell is other people’s children”?

2008-01-26T12:35:00.000Z

Another feature from the GingaHubs...

While coming out of my son’s school the other day, we left by a different exit because I had parked in a slightly different place. I had no ulterior motive in doing so; I was just there early and wanted to get one of those prime spots, close to the door and facing in the right direction so I could zoom out with my precious cargo. As we were walking, one boy approached my son and simply said, “You!” There could very well have been the “F” word there in front of that “you” (can I say the “F” word in this environment?) but I couldn’t say. I asked my son what the boy had said, and whether the boy was a friend, and he responded, “it’s nothing for us to worry about, Daddy.”

Suddenly I WAS worried and I inquired deeper into the situation. It turns out the other boy and the other boy’s friend, let’s call him Joseph, because that’s his real name, often pick on my son at playtime. (he also looked something like the image here):

I had heard of Joseph before. It was a bit before Christmas, and we were driving toward home, when my son pointed out the window and said, “That’s Joseph; he fights with me at playtime.” After asking what that meant, I learned that Joseph would kick or hit my son during the lunchtime of later afternoon playtimes. I called the school to see what was happened, was told Joseph didn’t have a reputation for acting that way, but they would keep an eye on it.

Assuming no news was good news, this new event startled me to say the least. It seems according to my son’s somewhat cottage-cheese recollection that Joseph and mate often seek out my son when he is alone. They do not always hit him; on occasion, they “do other naughty things … like kick me.”

I wrote to the head teacher this time, explaining my concern, but not asking for blood or discipline. I know my son, and realize that there is more than a smidgen of culpability on his part here. However, this Joseph and other are older boys, and so that has me doubly wary. My son “tells” as he has been taught to do. It may sound like we are raising a snitch, which we are to an extent, but when he fights back, he does so in a rather uncompromising way, having finally lost all patience with the party who has wronged him, and worst of all, in the full viewing audience of the other teachers. Rather than have that, we thought it best to let the authorities do their job. This morning, my son suggested that he could “kick him in the balls”, which is, in one sense, a fine idea, but I had to tell him that to do that would get him into a whole different arena of dirty fighting, one whose doors were better left closed forever.

So, it leaves me and my wife in an interesting dilemma. I realize that kids of both genders are the human equivalent of lizards: they are territorial, they are crafty, they are jealous, they are essentially evil, and they will go after one another with a force equaled only by nature herself (and yes, they tend to urinate in strange areas). Despite the fact that I know my son is involved somewhere, I am also surprised just by how much I want to smack this Joseph and Company around.

I completely feel like I am back in the playground myself, only now it’s payback time and I have, just by chance, been given a rare gift: I’m pissed (not in the English sense, but that could work too), I am big, and I am mean. This little shit has harmed one of mine and he will pay, not only for this crime but for anything and everything bad that has ever happened to me or to someone I love! I do realize that poor Joe and his mate have taken on the mantel of responsibility for things they are unlikely to understand for a long, long time. And so, I return to sanity.

I write a letter. I remain rational. I explain things as articulately as I can, hoping this problem will get resolved in a civilized manner, and I feel more than slightly disappointed with myself. I am the Lizard King, and all I have to offer my son are words, words, words (yes, Hamlet).

Well, the next day things did change. Teachers got involved, talked with the boys, who were aghast that they had done anything wrong (not buying that completely). It is one of their games to go out to the playground and shout rude things to one another; somehow, my son, who doesn’t always have a proper sense of other people’s space, got involved and remained involved until this week past. They would seek him out, in part, because he was a part – sometimes even spitting.

Now I feel even more pathetic, although I remain proud of my primal desire to smite those who harm mine. And yes, my son is on a bit of a power trip with telling – he even told on a friend who took his hat one day, something they were doing to one another and having fun, but suddenly at dinner, the other boy was bad.

So to sum up: all children are demons (and not those cool kinds of daemons from His Dark Materials or the movie The Golden Compass). They will drag you down to the depths of Hell, just because they want something fun to do. In short – they are the living embodiment of every mother’s curse that we will have to endure what we, ourselves, put our parents through. To paraphrase Robin William, performing as Mr. Rogers, I now need to take my medication, because “some days it’s the only way I can tolerate you little shits.”

My Ass Hurts (And Not In A Good Way)

2008-01-23T16:12:00.000Z

Yes, my ass hurts because 'tis the season of self-flagellation. This time in the form of a tortuous "Bums and Tums" workout class that I have been hauling my dimpled regions to lately. (Well. Twice.) My lunchtime was spent kneeling down on all fours and cocking my leg in a drafty gymn. Oh, and the best part was that all around me were pert under 21s. Lovely.

There was a handful of Older Women in the hall, and I found myself grinning at them inanely as we grabbed our mats and got down to the business of squat-thrusting. My smile said "hello! My name's Joy! I am old too! HAHAHAHA! Gosh, look at these here young 'uns. HAHAHAHA!" ("I am lonely will you please be my friend?!")

So far no takers.

This is a technique that has worked OK for me in America, where you can do something radical like strike up a conversation without fear of being frozen out, although I also had a fabulous possy of other Wobblyish Old Ladies to work out with (hungover. because we'd all been drinking a shitload the night before). I miss those ladies and our 9am 'Cardio Buffet.'

Actually, it's not all bad. I have enlisted a coworker to join me for a Tuesday lunchtime of Pilates as of next week, and me being her boss and everything, she said yes. If I cannot ingratiate myself with natural charm and wit, I am not above abusing my power. And then there's another lady who's agreed to do drinking with me in the foreseeable future, so life ain't bad. But will she squat-thrust?

(and let's give a hand for the Old Man, who will likely become a regular fixture around these here parts, and make them less tumbleweedy. Hoorah!)

Yea, Verily: What I Have Learned Living in England These Past Four Months

2008-01-17T12:43:00.000Z

The Ginga one has asked me, her loving, doctorate-holding, and jobless husband, to contribute again and write a guest blog. She is currently on some sort of leadership conference thing today, and left the house bemoaning that she failed to look professional, let alone of leadership material. I sent her out of the house with a slap on her bum, and kiss on her cheek, and orders to bring me some money too. I am not a chauvanist, but I can play that part when necessary. And she looked very, very professional to boot.
So, now I have been pondering about what I have taken in as a result of my new-found status as ex-pat, and there are quite a few things, both good and bad, both poignant and misery- inspiring, and then there are others which are just, frankly, pointless.

1) So, I was told that people in the North were friendlier than people in the South, something which I was denying for some time. I would drop off my son at school, and no one would talk to me after the first week he attended. That first week was great, with lots of questions about why we moved, where we came from, and what we were planning to do. Then suddenly, it all went silent. I would smile and say hello, and about 25% of the time, I may get a friendly response. Most of the time, I got a look of panic, as the person would say hello back and speed away. A fellow ex-pat who lives near here told me it was because the English are quite tribal, and I am starting to see what that means. I mean, they are not as bad as the Germans, whom you can know for nearly a year, and if you call them friend, you will get an explanation about how you are not, since you and the other person do not really know one another. The other difference is, of course, to an English person, you can mention the War and they didn’t invade Poland (boom! boom! good ol’ Basil Brush and Basil Fawlty); however, even in the friendlier North, there is a bit of some strange stand-offishness at first. They do not like making eye contact with a stranger and saying, “good morning” in an overt way. I didn’t either, until I moved here and was the proverbial white elephant, accent wise. Slowly and surely, however, it changes. It started with old ladies suddenly talking to me as I jogged with my son. I jog with my baby boy in a jogging stroller, something quite common in the U.S, but here it still gets looks. We would be stopped at a light, waiting to cross the street, and out of nowhere I would get “well, that will keep you fit” or “soon he will be pushing you in one of those.” Then in a grocery store, an old woman told me all about her nephew, who calls his mother all the time, and although she, herself, never had any children, her glorious nieces and nephews always made sure to inquire after her. Now at my son’s school, people greet me, ask about either of my boys, and make jokes. It would seem I have been partially adopted into the tribe. I say partially only because I created an air of awkwardness when I suggested to one that we all get together some time for our kids to play. I have since learned that such suggestions are typically only allowed among mums; any dad coming in and trying to get some of that action summarily receives a bit of the cold shoulder. I can understand it, however. I think if my wife were hanging out at odd hours during the day with a host of dads, all of course for the purposes of allowing the respective children to play, I would be a little anxious. I admit to you all here now that I can be a tad jealous if the need arises.

2) Next thing: Tesco Club Points are great! It took me almost three months to get my Tesco Club Card, but it was so worth it. You get a point for every pound you spend, and then they send you a check, in points of course. I realize that it all somewhat dull, and being paid in points that you can only redeem at Tesco is a bit like working for Pullman and earning Pullman dollars, but there is something of an accountant in me for these kinds of games. You can even earn points for returning your plastic grocery sacks! So far, I have over 1500 Tesco points, so I am going to receive, any day now, a check worth £15.00 – that’s two bottles of really nice plonk, or one really really nice bottle, and since there was a report here recently that said a wine with a more expensive price tag makes us believe the wine tastes better (and the tests prove that when we taste the wine, we also still believe it), it is almost like getting a really really nice bottle of wine, drinking it, tasting its pecuniary value, but yet it costs nothing. Alright, I realize it cost me something, but I am getting the wine simply for shopping at Tesco. Isn’t that great? I can see by your eyes, you are silently judging me. Please remember I am a teacher who isn’t teaching right now, so I am a bit like a border collie who cannot go and herd sheep; I must make up my own games, and there is just so much “In the Night Garden” I can take – even though it is narrated by Derek Jacoby, who also just recently starred as The Master in Doctor Who and was a bad guy from the Magisterium in The Golden Compass.

3)English politicians are their own caricatures. There is no wonder why a show called “Dead Ringers” which featured puppets would be such a huge success. For one, they simply made the puppets look exactly like the politicians, and that was funny enough. They would add certain elements, for example the John Major puppet was colored grey, because his was a grey personality. All in all, the real humor was simply that the toys looked just like the original, and the original looked like something from Punch in the first place. For example, Tony Blair really is creepy looking! I remember when he was first running his campaign, and the Tories created attacks adverts that simply had a pair of evil-looking Blair-ish eyes, with the phrase, “New Labour, New Danger.” But look at the guy. He looks slightly insane! Look at Gordon Brown – he looks like a cranky bear. Look at David Cameron. He just scares me, even more now that he talks about being an “Inner Smiths Fan.” They are all an editorial cartoonist’s nightmare, because what can you do with them. You can make them slightly more grotesque, but it is as if they were designed, by their genetic code, to be in the public spotlight for our amusement. I do realize that “W” looks elfish, Gore looks like a sleeping giant, and Newt Gingritch does resemble a bigger version of one of the Lollypop Kids from Wizard of Oz, but you still have to work for it.

4)McVities’ milk chocolate and dark chocolate (called simply plain here) are simply the best things I have ever eaten … after Galaxy chocolate bars and Magnum Icecream bars (which are fantastic vanilla icecream on a stick, covered with Galaxy chocolate). For real food, I could eat curries every day. I am not partial to fish and chips, however, so there is still hope for my waistline.

5)For some reason, I cannot find French Roast coffee here. Not even from Starbucks (and yes, they are everywhere too). I can find Italian Roast, but not French. I once found “French Style”, but that wasn’t it; in fact, I am unsure what particularly was French in the style of the coffee, since no matter how strong I brewed the coffee, it tasted weak, until I went too far and made sludge. I had to return to the US for my mother’s funeral last month, so I stocked up on the good stuff, and then some heavenly friends sent me 2 (count ‘em 2!) pounds of my absolute favorite coffee in the world: Peet’s! So I am set for a bit. But one day, and that day will quickly come, I will have to go back and begin my search in vain again. I do not measure my life out in coffee spoons (that’s not what I said at all), but I do mark events by good coffee.

6)There is a rising wave of Puritanism here lately. Recently a teacher was dismissed for having been in a rather sexy ad for construction clothing. Now, granted, there was simulated sex suggested (all right, people were a-bumpin’ and a-grindin’, makin’ the beast with two backs), but still I had thought the moral views were more open here. I mean the first time I saw a topless woman was on Monty Python (and that was on PBS!), so it surprised me to hear of such concern. It also seems that those who profess to believe in Intelligent Design followed me out to the UK, because that, too, is getting discussion. It was a shock enough having my son climb into bed with us one morning and ask “Can we talk about the baby Jesus”, but it was close to Christmas, and he was in the school Nativity play (where he played Santa – go figure), but this wave of I.D. proponents in the UK makes me even more nervous than it did in the US. Sure, we can all play Natural Philosophers and admire the eye, and wonder how it could have been made by chance, but advocating teaching I.D. in the science classrooms is simply preposterous and far beneathe this highly intelligent, articulate, and amazingly literate culture. So stop it. And that’s all I am gonna say about that,

7)I am simply amazed that anyone in the US could posit that the National Health System is a bad idea! Even my brother argued with me that socialized medicine would mean no one gets good care at all (and he knows that most Americans are without health insurance, and therefore excluded from good health care, despite the US’s boasts of having THE BEST). Stupid arguments with siblings aside, I have been singularly impressed, not only with the care, but with the fact that I was able to get care so soon. My two sons and I got our NHS numbers almost as soon as we landed; my sons get immunized on a regular basis, I get my cholesterol medication, and we all get regular check ups. Go see Sicko and you will get a sense of how generous the system is. Sure, it has its problems, but remembering that Cook County Hospital in Chicago closed simply because it couldn’t afford to stay open any longer treating the uninsured (by its charter) and many such hospitals have done likewise, and you will know that something very wrong has happened with the American healthcare system.

8)British Telecom, or BT, sucks the big one! They are kind of like AT&T, only without any sense of customer relations, customer service, or anything that would resemble a company that has real business sense. I have lived here now for four months, and they still had my name wrong on the bill. I would stay on the phone, sometimes in a phone booth (yes, they still have them here) for hours trying to get through, only to get cut off at the last minute. When I did get through, I was told my name could not be corrected without canceling the whole account and opening a new one (which would cost £45.00, or $90.00). Some how then, trying to get things fixed, I succeeded only in getting a second account opened; so for four months I have been getting two phone bills: one for my actual phone number and one for another line, which was never used. Each month, I would call, be put on hold, and then be told everything was sorted only to receive two phone bills the next month. Our broadband is also with BT (don’t ask), and suddenly I was getting two bills for that. Take the worst experience you have ever had, times it by ten carried to that power, and you will have BT. I have read that they are actively trying to gain back customers who have left in recent years, but I have no idea how that plan has been put into place. Advice if you are moving here: go with Orange. They are a mobile phone company (cell to you yanks), so you don’t need to pay for line rental from BT, and you can get your internet service through them too. Avoid Virgin as well. The postoffice apparently offers phone service too, but I only just learned about that.

9)I am going out on a line here, but I think cars in Britain are better built than they are in the US (please forgive me Detroit and Lansing; hey wait, what am I saying; we drove Toyotas!). We have a Vauxhall Omega 2.5 litre, 6 cylinder monster earth f***er (my wife’s brother and sister in law generously gave it to us); Vauxhall is GM, and this particular car is a combination Chevy of some sort and the Cadillac Caterra (the Caddy that zigs). It is quite old, but it keeps on going. Sure, it drinks petrol like water (and it costs me well over $100 to fill the sommabitch), but I am well pleased with its reliability. I don’t think anyone in my family ever owned a GM car that didn’t some how die early because of bad design. Like all English-made cars, it leaks oil, but I have come to expect that.

10)The Peak district is by far one of the most beautiful places on earth. I would add a photo here if I knew how, but google it and you will see. Amazing, craggy hills and breath-taking valleys. I just love the place. My only complaint is that with all the rain, I have not had a chance to drive there and run up the Big Peak.

Well, there you have it. Thank you for reading the ramblings of an undignified house husband (yes, I do play Beatles songs for my boy, just like that other, slightly more famous house husband did for his boy Sean). And now back to your regularly scheduled program.

Tardis Updates

2008-01-10T13:21:00.000Z

I promised feedback on the house-hunting, and in an completely uncharacteristic gesture, I am actually keeping that promise and writing this entry. You're dripping with gratitude, I know.

Sooo, the house I showed you in the last post was, indeed, like a Tardis. In other words, Dr Who, Daleks, and all and sundry of otherworldly creatures were crammed into the 8 year old boy's bedroom.

[note: one distinct plus of having homeowner there when you visit, is appearance of various kiddiwinks for your bouncing 5 year old to play with. Each house we visited had plastic daleks in it. This was the real clincher for Jack, let me tell you. Screw garden space to kick a ball around in, can we intone Exterminate! Exterminate! in machine-like monotone to our hearts content?]

However, for our needs it was not quite Tardis-like enough. While I am getting used to smaller rooms in Engerland, a 6ft by 6 ft kitchen still makes me want to weep, as does a 7ft by 7ft lounge. Nonetheless, the owner and her kids were sweethearts, and made us feel all the better about moving to that area (where? small town in the Peak District)

But there are Tardis's out there.! I present Exhibit B:

Looks quite dinky, doesn't it.? WELL, inside lurks a lounge like this:

And a kitchen like this:

We're quite smitten...

Downside -- that kitchen is on a lower floor to the main living area. Too much of a pain with a toddler? [Plus side: Whole cellar room to expand this kitchen to double it's size and make into attractive kitchen/diner/living area...]

Downside -- rather small garden, with stream running through it. Gorgeous, but the stream is quite low down, with stone walls on each side-- our kitchen would actually open out onto a bridge that goes over it. [Insert image of toddler falling down into stream, hitting head on stone walls, and...]

[Plus side: Trout! Heron that we saw! ]

Nice, innit?

This was the very first house we saw, so we're still looking, and trying to weight the options of quaint smallish house with lots of character with tiny garden and no offroad car parking, OR larger house with offroad carparking, nice sized garden, and ZILCH character.

Any thoughts?

A House-Hunting We Will Go.........

2008-01-05T22:26:00.000Z

It's Saturday evening and I have just spent the main proportion of the time drinking cheap Chard (procured from Tesco Express, securing me Tesco Club Points, no less) and watching The One and Only -- hosted by Graham Norton. It was a reality game show with competing look-alike folk (Madonna! Rod Stewart! Diana Ross! Sinatra! To name but a few!) who will be on LIVE SHOWS over the next few week, competing for a dream job as LAS VEGAS look-alike tribute act. Well, for many of them, I suppose that beats the pub circuit in Wigan.

It all feels so foreign. (Well, apart from the guzzling the cheap Chard and watching reality game shows).

I am unsettled this evening. I've vacillated between being overly excited and crushed by impending sense of doom. Once more I am living my life on Rightmove.co.uk, where I whiled many an hour away last summer trying to determine a place to rent for this entire fricking life move thing (sorry to be a stuck record. I am seriously boring myself with it. so. uh. sorry). Renting is all well and good, and thanks to the sage of advice of a few good souls (thanks Lindy) we found ourselves in probably the best possible area for newbies like us. The house is fine, even if the bathroom is a touch rank, and if it was ours... well, Changing Roomss/Trading Places eat your heart out. I have a husband who knows his way around a sander/nail gun/slab of dry wall. (and I, ehem, have good taste in decor) (if you give me a good magazine or summat).

But renting is not owning, and renting feels like biding time. So it's Time to Start Looking. We have secured a mortgage in principle that would buy us a fricking MANSION in our former home town (and MANSIONS for our friends, on US!!!) and tomorrow morning we embark on the first tour. Three in one day. With a five year old and a baby. Are we insane???

I think what has me rattled is the fact that each house will be shown by its owner/inhabitant. In the good ole U.S. of A we get to not deal with the actual homeowner, thankyouverymuch. Just me and my realtor -- true luv! But here, apparently, you have to deal not only with your own hopes and desires as you tour a home, but also those of the desperate sods who are showing you around. It's one thing to comment to the realtor about the living room the size of a pack-and-play, but I know I will gripped to just stroll around saying "ooh!' and "aaah!" and "how luverly!" as I smack my son's hand away from some porcelain object bought in Lourdes. And as someone who's just been through all that with their own home, it's hard not to empathize (update on that: the house is now being rented, with a clause that they will buy within two years. hoorah!) Cold blooded anonymity of American Capitalism, how I miss thee! (on this occasion)

(How about that Obama, eh?)

(p.s. UK Politics? Sucking serious ass right now. booorrrrring... When I left this country I was an ardent Labour Supporter. Gordon Brown? Gordon Bennett!)

Oh, and the other reason this house-hunting has me rattled is because I am still in quite a bit of denial over what it is we have actually done here with this little ole move and everything (is it time to just laugh this whole thing off and go home yet? no? well fuck y'then.)

This is one of them. The houses we're creeping over tomorrow. It looks quaint. I fear it is like a TARDIS but in reverse (for the uninitiated, just google tardis. but basically it's a time machine that looks much smaller on the outside than within, where it is mega. (fyi: Tardis's are very huge in our house right now, since Jack has become utterly and completely obsessed with Dr Who. Beats Lazytown, so we're in)

I shall report back on whether this is a time machine or not forthwith.

Blogging. It's Calorie-Free.

2008-01-02T10:19:00.001Z

Yet another yawning gap between entries means that there is way way too much to write about, and the urge to put it off becomes all the stronger. Nonetheless, I am not ready to give up the ghost on this blogging thing right now, because tis the season of miserable January and renewed interest in lives of others outside selfish little inner-sanctum returns... Also. If I'm blogging, I'm not helping myself to large portions of stilton, crackers, and chocolate truffles. This is a Good Thing.

Whenever I look back on 2007, and think about where I was a year ago (answer: In Michigan with one month old baby Sam, healing c-section stitches, and filling up homemade Christmas stockings because my Mummy was in town) I'm blown away by all the changes we have made in our lives. This is mostly good, and this morning when I came into work after a chunk of time off I was really pleased to see my workmates. Frank and I are gearing up for some serious house-hunting, and are aiming to find a place with a nice woodshed where he can get cracking on Bed Frame 2.0., stoke up a wood-burning stove, and drink lots of whiskey/tea. This gives us a sense of excitement, and the British housing market has been polite enough to stop escalating wildly since our arrival (not that this doesn't mean we're like looking at about half a million dollars for a miniature semi somewhere).

Jack has settled into British primary school so so well that he received the plum role of Father Christmas in the school Christmas play, 'A Sack Full of Presents'; a remarkable production that featured not only Santa, but Rudolf, the Sugar Plum Fairy, Toy Soldiers, Mary, Joseph, Three Kings, Shepherds, and a Baby Jesus in a Manger. Yep. After 5+ years of dodging the whole religious issue, one term at a British state school where there is no separation of Church and State, and Jack has got Jesus bad. He has been coming home regaling us with tales of the True meaning of Christmas, and when we let slip that we were well aware of this King of Men dude, he looks at us with disappointed eyes -- you guys where holding OUT on me....

His devout Grandma would have been absolutely delighted. Finally!

I don't feel I can write this entry without noting something else monumental that has happened this last month, even though it feels slightly disrespectful or flippant to do so. A couple of weeks ago Frank and I flew to the states to attend the funeral of his mother. It still doesn't feel real that she has gone, especially as she was always one of those Lazarus types, a tough old bird who became deathly ill and then rallied back to full health. She passed away on December 11th, and we're still reeling from it really--the fact we didn't get to say goodbye, the guilt of being so far away, and having to tell Jack that Grandma has died. Right now we are grateful for the concept of Heaven that has crept into his little imagination.

So Christmas has been interesting. Frantic activity, travelling, eating, more travelling, crying, laughing, the lot. When we came home to our house on December 27th after 2 weeks of being away, it was a relief that it did, at least a little bit, feel like home. But home still feels a million miles away, and when I spoke to one of our dearest friends and neighbors the other day, I couldn't help the floods of tears that came afterwards from the sense of isolation. We miss them all so much.

2007. What. A. Flipping. Year.

Live From London (And yes, it is pissing it down)

2007-12-05T10:15:00.000Z

It's a bit ironic that while my personal blog has done nothing but languish over the last month, my life is full of conversations about blogs, wikis, web 2.0 and What It All Means. Yesterday morning I left the house at 6:15am and hopped on a train down to London (doesn't *that* sound swanky?) Along with every other geek and 'informational professional' in Europe, I have descended on the annual Online Information conference, and was captivated by the opening key note by Mr Wikipedia himself, Jimmy Wales, who showed us in soft and rosy terms how web 2.0 can Change the World. Since then, lots of discussion over how we can harness the potential of facebook to edumacate the masses, and what happens when you give over control of content (answer: Nirvana or Anarchy, depending on your persuasion).

Anyhoo, I am slowly finding my way. Yes, I am sitting in a cafe in South Kensington with wet hair, a dripping umbrella, and a tube to get in 5 minutes. That makes me sound like I actually know where I am, but I don't. Since arriving yesterday I have relied on buses, taxis, and the tube to cart me around, and as I race around the city I feel completely disorientated--no clue where I am. Hey! There's Hyde Park, Ooh! and the Royal Albert Hall! I am hemorrhaging money as I wend my way. $10 quid for a sandwich and a bottle of water, no problem! £3.50 for some rank coffee? Here. Keep the change!

If that's not enough to remind me that I am 'home,' the shabby yet genteel quality of my minute hotel room brings it all back. It is the size of a postage stamp with a bed that would be termed 'suitable for toddler' back in the U.S.A. I am not a tall woman by any means, but my feet flopped over the edge last night and got a good airing. Which was fine, because the heat was on full blast, so I sweated my way through the hours. By the time I fell asleep, I was woken by the sound of the man next door cleaning his teeth and then flossing. Thanks to the flimsy nature of these here walls, not detail need go unmissed (thank GOD they are singles). All this was mitigated by the full English breakfast that was laid on this morning--slowly but surely I am reacquiring my taste for dire British sausages and buckets and buckets of tea on tap.

So now I am going to plunge back into the rain and try and avoid getting run over (I've has some seriously close misses). I wearing a suit and heels. I have a drag act as an information professional to perform.

Remember the Fifth of November, Gunpowder, Treason, and Snogs...

2007-11-05T11:50:00.000Z

It is fitting that on this fifth day of November, my very first Bonfire Night in well over fifteen years, I was transported back in time. This morning I made a distinct tactical error by "experimenting" with my commute to work, and deciding to "give the bus a try." I was by far the oldest person on the thing, the other seats being crammed with every assortment of school-uniformed adolescence you can imagine. Why I did not just poke my head around the door, scan the scene, and promptly opt for the train instead, I'll never know. Instead I paid for my ticket and hauled myself, very stupidly, to the top deck where about 50 teenagers were crammed and getting up to no good whatsoever. I quickly turned around to try my chances with the bottom level, but they'd seen me and cackled at my embarrassment as I made my way down "We're LAFFIN at you, Mrs!" (Yes. I know. Thanks for vocalizing it for me).

So I spied one spare seat and wedged myself next to the poor teenage boy who had clearly been selected as School Pariah, and whose fate was not at all helped by the fact that the practically middle-aged woman sitting next to him was (according to the other kids) "his girlfriend." I sat there with my iPod on, trying to look dignified and pretend I couldn't hear any of them, but their clamour completely drowned out anything I could listen to. So I sat there pretending to listen and took note of how school buses still smell of farts and raging hormones after all these years, how they are still very much that space where pecking orders are established, where language is unutterably foul, and where teenage girls can sit on one anothers' laps and flirt outrageously with the spotty youths who are learning to be men by trying to flirt back and by calling one another "girls" to mitigate the attempts.

"One day" I thought, "One day my sons will be taking this journey, and I won't be here to help them navigate."

It was quite a ride, and not one I intend to repeat any time soon. The school bus must remain a sacrosanct space, and I am much happier on the 8:09 train with all the rest of the bourgy commuters, fiddling with my new blackberry, listening in on phone calls, and reading the paper. If nothing else, it stinks a lot less.

Tonight we will take our boys to their first Bonfire night and teach them the gunpowder, treason and plot rhyme. We'll explain where the tradition comes from, because we'll have freshly googled it during the day. Mummy and Daddy and Fireworks will be the centre of the universe. At least for a little longer.

My Blog is Looking at Me With Reproachful Eyes...

2007-11-02T12:44:00.000Z

This morning on the train I was composing all sorts of posts in my head explaining why I have been so absent for so long.

Have you ever thought to yourself "I really must call my Mum, it's been ages" but then you don't call her, and the longer it goes, the more you keep putting it off, all the while the guilt begins to build up, and the hugeness of not having called begins to hang heavily and unspoken between you. If you call her now, you'll have to explain, or deal with a big guilt-trip, and just a quick call for a nice chat becomes a task of monumental and weighted consequence.

That's how I am beginning to feel about my blog. Which is completely unfair, as you lot are nothing like my Mum. Nonetheless, I feel like I need to say I'm sorry, that I really miss you, and would you like to come over for dinner on Sunday, as I'm doing a roast?

Why haven't I written?
1. Time (or lack thereof). This is the most obvious answer. I am now commuting up to two hours a day, and seeing my two boys for not much more than that on a week night. Finding space for "me" time seems a tad selfish considering the schedule here, especially in light of the fact that I am an unfit, ambitious, grasping type of woman who has put career before children. When all I had to do was haul my fat ass into my fat-assed minivan on a morning, and pull up into the driving lot a mere 10 minutes later, there seemed to be more time to pratt around with blogs.

2. There's too much to process. There have been many peaks and valleys in this jolly old adventure, and the thought of sitting down and composing something remotely focused exhausts me. I then feel guilty about it, and we're back in the situation where I'm treating you like my mother again. Not good. I know. We need to work on that one, don't we?

There is also a sense in which I am resisting writing so I don't have to process. Some of this has been very hard, and there have been a few days or weekends when I feel plummetted into a depression, and crave above all something familiar and ordinary. I crave home, and this place--lovely though it is--just is not home. Not yet.

3. Lack of emotional reserves (related to the above). Blogging is not just about writing is it? As we have hashed out collectively for quite some time now, blogging is about (mwah!) relationships. Frankly, people, you are not only like my Mother in this regard, but also a bit like the beloved family pet who you see as your own little baby, until actually have your own little baby, and then you could give a rat's ass about said pet, because you have nothing left to give, dammit. Sorry about that. Hey, when did I last refill your water bowl?

4. Skewed sense of audience/ complete identity crisis.
My blogging friends and community is a largely a North American one. Although I have not actually met 99.9% of you, I realize there is still a tangible sense of place connected to my blog. As I am learning how to be British again (and I know this sounds completely nuts) and negotiating how I am in this place--professionally and personally--I find it difficult to simply "walk into the other room where the old American friends are" and just be myself again. I feel completely unrooted and in flux, and it's really affected my sense of self. I'm not talking crisis here, but just a sense of constant adjustment. I am always the new person in the room. I am always having to introduce myself and second-guess myself over what type of impression I am creating. I sound like I am whining about it, and I'm really not. I guess it all comes back to craving the familar, the shared contexts and points of reference that can make you feel at home.
There's also the little matter that I am moving in completely different professional circles, some of them rather big-wiggy and important on a national level, and I've abruptly realized that you can google me under my real name and this little site comes up rather near the top. I am not remotely ashamed of anything here, and I've even used it to expand some of my own research, but I am still unnerved that Mr So and So from this particular International Consortium might enter my name into a search engine and find various posts on weak bladders and nipple thrush. Oy... For that reason, I am going to take off the profile pic.

God. I hate this post. I hate how I sound. I realize I sound quite miserable, and actually I'm not. Normal is arriving in slow and steady bursts, and I am beginning to feel much more like myself again. Or, I should say, I feel much more confident that I can be myself here. And that I can dispense with the mindf*cking bit.

So I'm sorry I've not called or been around lately. I promise to try and make it happen less. Remind me to tell you about the First UK Halloween, and the nearly doomed First Trick or Treating Expedition. It's MUCH more interesting.

Can't talk, but here are some pictures

2007-10-11T16:29:00.000+01:00

Me on plane to England. Note head of sleeping infant to the right. Thassmyboy!

My brain is officially full to capacity, what with newjobandeverything. I promise a post soon soon soon. Once some brain matter comes available....

This is Kent, and the luverly village my parents live in. Imagine birds tweeting, cows mooing, and the stench odour of lots and lots of sheep poo that squelches underfoot.

This is Castleton in the Peak District, and a mere 40 minutes from where we live. There is an massive underground cave there called the Devil's Arse, which pleases immensely.

Manchester University. Lovely isn't it? If you think my office is in one of these buildings, you'd be very wrong.

***Imagine fetid redbrick building here--that's where I compute***

That's all for now. Blogger is barfing on my pics. (Gah!)

GingaJoy.....Mad Fer It

2007-10-02T14:14:00.000+01:00

There you go, Nat--"mad fer it" title as requested. How's that for service?

"Mad fer it," for those unaware of the great dialectical glottal stop that defines this fair isle, would be how certain people from where I now live would pronounce "I am mad for it" or, to translate further, "I am very excited at the prospect of X, my dear chap."

I now have internets, people. Not at home, but in my office, which so far is completely bare except for a table and a computer that I threw myself upon, wracked with tears of gratitude, when I arrived.

It's hard to know where to start with this whole thing. For those of you who might be newcomers--here is the story in sum:

Lived in Michigan, USA for 15 years (HOW long???).
In June, contemplated moving back to the motherland, England, along with my American family (Husband and two boys). (Thought "maybe in a year")
Applied for a job to test the waters, and got an interview (via video conference). Did not blog about it, but made furtive references which were probably dead annoying to my 3 readers at the time.

Got the fudding job offer on July 4th.

July and August were manic, and I can't quite believe (as I solipsistically look back at posts) how much we managed to achieve in such a short space of time.

And now we're here... It's been nearly three weeks, and feels like a lifetime. I am slowly coming out of the extreme shock I experienced when we actually moved into the rental house, which is completely fine, but only if you don't examine the grout in the bathroom any closer than say, ten feet away. We've grown much more used to having next to no furniture and sitting all tightly together on the revolting couch that was left with the property. Dinner time at the white plastic table and chairs in the kitchen/diner now has a certain appeal, and I am pleased to announce that a visit from new friends left a nice load of yellow curry stains on the tabletop. So it feels more like home. (And Lindy was very gracious and did not run a mile or laugh and point or anything, when I decided to trip and literally sprawl out flat on my face as we walked to pick up the Indian). (Oh, and I knew I was in England when the group of teenagers walking by cackled loudly with laughter, and everyone else ignored me)

Yesterday I got up bright and early, put on grown up clothes, and walked to the station where I got on the train and sat rather smugly crammed in among the commuters. I managed to get lost on my way to work, and immediately regretted the lady shoes I was wearing as I slogged over to the campus. I've gone from a 5-10 minute commute, sitting on my arse in my big-assed minivan, to one hour with lots of walking and sitting in very close proximity to lots of people in suits. I know the whole routine is going to get old fast, but so far I get a real thrill from taking that train ride and descending into what is turning out to be a fantastic and vibrant city. In the field behind our house there are gorgeous fields to walk, a stream, and honest-to-god horsies that Jack can pet and feed. Twenty minutes later and I am bustling about with the grown ups, grabbing a newspaper, gripping my iPod, and dashing madly across streets congested with traffic. Another twenty minutes, and I have picked my way to the University campus, which instantly brings me back to my own undergraduate college days--streets littered with fag ends, a million butty (sandwich) shops and various pubs and student union bars that smell of piss outside.

My office is in a strikingly ugly 1960s brick office building, and the women's loos are slightly rank and very cold. I have a small floor heater in my office blowing hot air at my ankles, as heating doesn't really work properly, and the building manager is surly and completely unhelpful. But my coworkers are a cheerful and friendly lot, and there's always a pot of tea on the go. So far today I have had about five cups. Partly to keep warm, but mainly because it's there. The addiction is now back with a vengeance, and the only other downside are multiple trips to The Toilet. (I am only now managing to announce that I am "off to the toilet" as opposed to the "restroom" although it still feels terribly gauche and TMI to me) (The TOILET? Well. There's only one thing she can be doing in there, isn't there?) (As if I was "resting" in the "rest room.")

Jack has started to ask "when his British accent will come?" and we have told him "soon enough." And it's creeping in in quirky ways. He refers to his new friend at school as "Amunda" (Amanda) and seems to be acquiring a touch of northern twang and glottal stop here and there. Frank and I now communicate on our "mobiles" and fill the cars with "petrol." (Although when Frank self-corrected his pronunciation of "Controversy" the other night, Lindy implored him to "not turn over to the dark side" which made us like her all the more). I, on the other hand, am asked why I didn't lose my English accent on a fairly frequent basis, which is beginning to make me feel a little bit self-conscious, so I am slipping in a "uh-huh" and a "like, oh my god" when I can.

Nothing feels normal yet, but we're getting there. I am told our shipped belongings are getting very close to Liverpool dock now, and so we should expect them in the next week or so. It will be like Christmas, methinks. You never realize how much you'll miss your own crap. I also have a swanky new camera, courtesy of my old workmates (bless) and so promise to get some sodding photos up next time.

Well. Have You Tried To Use Blogger from Flippin' Dialup??

2007-09-25T15:01:00.000+01:00

~~Rumors~~ Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I have been desperate, desperate to get at a PC with any sort of usable connection over the last few weeks, just so I could drop a quick post and do something that felt normal. Right now I am on a timed computer at the local library--yes, in the Manchester vicinity. We have taken occupancy of our perfectly located but shabbily appointed 3 bedroom rental, and are rattling around the place feeling slightly out of sorts as we slowly but surely fill the place with the finest IKEA has to offer, and wait anxiously for our shipped belongings to arrive. We have no phone, no internets, no friends (sniffle) and frankly, the sheer enormity of what we have done is really beginning to set in. Basically, we are uprooted and completely unsettled, and when the evenings draw in I have had a few darker moments when I pine for my old HUGE and SPACIOUS and NON-GROTTY house (with functioning tumble drier, phone, and internets) and more to the point, our bevvy of lovely friends who were always just "there."

We do, however, have all the BBC has to offer sans commercials and as many maltesers and bacon butties as we could care to eat. Which, let me inform you, is an enormous amount. Jack started at his new school yesterday, and seems absolutely thrilled with it, which was our biggest fear. My husband is taking everything into his stride, and has already taken to drinking copious amounts of tea throughout the day, and goes off on runs coming back with tales of "I found another Indian Takeaway" or "Nice looking pub. Look, it's got high chairs" and the like. And just sitting here in this library, writing this post, feels tremendously reassuring. I start my new job next week, and New Life officially begins.

I'll try and be a more faithful poster and reader, folks. Bear with me til we gets the in-home internets.

Gripping On For Dear Sweet Life....(Fasten Your Seatbelts. We're Taking Off)

2007-09-13T17:06:00.000+01:00

How can you be emptying a house of all its contents over two months, and still find on the day before you leave that you have MORE junk to dispose of?

It's been a trying week, and this afternoon I am going to pay my respects to Mike and his family. Ironically, his funeral is tomorrow--at the same time we take off for England. There's something morbidly poetic about it, and my work colleagues have commented how much of a gap there is there now, with both of us suddenly gone. It reminds me how much the cliches ring true--to seize the day, to treasure each moment, to live each day to the full. You could be dead tomorrow. Remember to put on clean underwear.

Mike would have made every morbid and black joke available at a moment like this. He was relentless and unapologetic about finding something funny in the most dire of moments. The fact that the hospital shaved his head into a mullett when he was in a coma--that would have provided him with much fodder. His wife wants that trait remembered beyond anything else, and so those who knew him are taking care to make fun of one another as much as possible, calling one another pussies, even while we cry at the awfulness of it all.

When I arrive home, neighbors will be at our house ready to drink with us on our last night here. And then tomorrow we cram the very last of our worldy possessions into a few suitcases, and head off to the airport for a new beginning.

We leave behind us so many dear friends, and Mike's death brings home how much it is easy to not take enough notice of those around you who make you who you are. As someone far from home, the friendships I have made over the fifteen years here have been everything. I have grown up here, become an adult, a wife, a professional, and a mother.

I am British, but much more so I am from here, where I have truly lived and become who I am today.

My husband Frank and I, we take with us our two little Michiganders. Jack, who was five on Monday, and Sam who is about to turn 10 months.

Me and my boys--Off on life's next great adventure. We're fearful, we're hopeful, and we're gripping on for dear sweet life. Wish us all the best. We'll see you on the other side....

my friend is dying (edited)

2007-09-08T03:23:00.000+01:00

my friend is dying.

in my last post, a few days ago, I put in a postscript.

[Written for Mike. Co-worker, conspirator, complete asshole, and dear dear friend. You are much, much missed. You'd better show your face soon, you prick].

I keep writing and rewriting lines in this post. I have very mixed feelings about even writing a post on this, because this is not about me, and I don't want it to be. But I also feel I can't let this moment go unmarked. In years to come, when this little archive becomes a way to remember, I want to remember.

So I am here, messily remembering.

Mike has been my dear friend for a decade now. I have worked with him for eight of those. I have seen him every day in the grind. He is brilliant and hilarious and caustic and curmodgeonly. He is an a-1 asshole with a broad shoulder to lean on. Mean-spirited and big-hearted. He can be trusted to make you laugh your ass of at your own self (and, ok, various others) but is there for you at a drop of a hat.

He is 37.

Last Friday morning Mike had a stroke. He called his wife at work at and said "I think I am having stroke. I am calling an ambulance. Come home." His wife sped home to find one of her sons on the front lawn, ready to flag down the paramedics.

He was lucid in the ambulance but faded at the hospital. He suffered a stroke.

At first we thought he would rally. His pupils dilated and he responded to his name, even when under sedation. All the signs said "it will be tough, but he will be back.

But now he is bleeding and he will be lost to everyone by tomorrow. To his wife, and to his three boys. This morning his two eldest boys came to the hospital to say goodbye. Ethan, 12, and Harrison, 6. He youngest was born in June, and will have no memory of his father.

How do you write about something like this? But how can you not say anything?

Mike. I am so so so fucking sorry. You are so very loved, and you will be so very missed. If it were not for you, I would not be leaving this Friday. I'll never forget that.

POST SCRIPT
Mike slipped away this evening, Saturday, September 8th, 2007. It was the night of our going away party. We ate American Fayre to mark our occasion--chicken with a beer can up its butt and mac and cheese and smoked ribs. There was much boozing.

I know he would have approved.

Well. Where Have the Buggering Hell Have You Been???

2007-09-05T00:26:00.000+01:00

Brought to you as my eldest son pounds a "V-Tech See Me Go" device that is officially doing my head in....

Let me start by apologizing for the yawning stretch between entries, especially when you know I simply *must* have shitloads of fodder to act as my muse. Shitloads is right, so many many loads of shit, I've not been able to sit and actually string a thought for an entry

(and I know, I am overthinking it when I impose the notion of "stringing a thought" onto this form of writing. Just write a flipping post. DO IT. I hear you say).

I've even received a couple of toe-tapping emails along the lines of "uh. write a post already. please. you are annoying me with your selfish refusal to post" Which made me feel both loved and mildly guilty, a mixture of emotions with which I am only too familiar.

Main reason for my absence--end of my Real Job in America. i.e. two weeks of frenetic attempts to finish up one billion tasks and not shit royally upon my co-workers with my departure. General consensus among my friends is that try though I might to leave a legacy of professionalism and "my GOD that woman had an astounding work ethic, and ran all her projects in the most efficient yet humane way" the fact of the matter is that She Who Last Leaves becomes The Scapegoat Upon Which All Future Fuck-ups Will be Blamed.

And I am, now, at peace with that logic.

So now I am free of work and at home with a house that feels empty, but apparently has an endless source of junk through which to sort. My husband just asked me what exactly was in the ten bags we just hauled to Good Will.

"Clothes" I answer defensively, even as he raises an eyebrow of disbelief that we could not have possibly accrued such vast quantities.

What did you get rid of that's mine...?

Don't worry, sweetheart, your 120 "running t-shirts" that are "worn in" and therefore ~~riddled with holes and questionable stains~~"comfortable" are safe...

Since I last wrote, the "spacious, pared down, unfettered" feeling of rattling around a house devoid of clutter, a lot of furniture, and signs of humanity, has worn a little thin. We're a little tired of living in limbo, a holding pattern.

Also, figuring out what you can cook for dinner with an ancient frying pan and a 4 quart pot gets boring... But I will admit there is something liberating about wading into a cupboard and being utterly mercenary. Do I want to launder this, fold this, and pack it lovingly in my suitcase for England?

No.

And so, one very lucky Good Will shopper becomes the proud owner of a Union Jack "Swinger" T-Shirts (yes. Austin Powers has a lot to answer for) some blousey, floral numbers that seemed a good idea in 1998 (thank you Phoebe of Friends fame) and a series of tanks with the scuba logo, purchased over a couple of summers where I felt that some snorkeling expeditions and "one day diving experience, no experience necessary" excursion in Key West was reason enough festoon my person with signs that I was a professional.

We leave in one week and 3 days (next Friday, the 14th). This date feels miles away and yet also breathtakingly close. I've been asked by so many friends "what will you miss about this country?" I can't voice the answer to that one yet, but I am working in it. Apart from those we hold dear, the answer lies somewhere between fried cheese and loving John Stewart in Bush's America.

[Written for Mike. Co-worker, conspirator, complete asshole, and dear dear friend. You are much, much missed. You'd better show your face soon, you prick].

I'm Moved..to Make a Confession

2007-08-24T03:07:00.000+01:00

This morning two very chipper guys in shirts and shorts waded into our worldly goods and wrapped each vase, each piece of pottery, each mother$%&*%g piece of mother($&%ng tiny, infinitesimal playmobile f%$#@kng pirate ship in premium quality shipping paper. Husband and I (kids at daycare) watched them intently, hoping to exude energy and a sense of being involved, even while we didn't lift a finger (because we weren't supposed to) and fervently whispered in the back kitchen over the guilt we both felt over the fact that we didn't lift a finger.

So now we sit watching the the crappy tv (the Big Fuck Off TV of 10 year wedding anniversary having been sold and happily carted off several weeks back now) rugless, coffee-table-less, dining-set-less. The garage sale last weekend proved very fruitful (and my husband nary shed a tear over whoring his various power tools, miter saws, and googynad watsit machines) but lord we still have so much more shit to unload.

But now, at least, there is no choice that it is nothing but shit to unload. Suddenly, when you are faced with the option of unloading or carting as precious cargo to England in your minimal luggage allowance, you become all the more mercenary (Let's just say I chucked out a lot of lumpy bras today) (I know I should handwash) (Deep sigh...)

Oh, and uh, I have a confession to make.

we ended up not shipping the bed...

Don't leave! Let me explain! Let me present the evidence.
1. Miniature Worlde English "Master" (Master! Hahaha) Bedrooms. Stress of finding a place for it to fit and/or pay storage fee
2. Many more thousands of dollars to include it in the shipping costs.
3. My husband declaring that a) he didn't want to be lumbered with a black bed for years to come, because we shipped it, after all.. and b) I want to make another one. Better.

Whatever you say, dear.

The pitcher? Well, the good pitcher is wending its way to some dock, USA. The battered pitcher? Its fate is yet to be determined.

Mommy Guilt. It's The Drugs...

2007-08-22T03:34:00.000+01:00

So, this whole MOVING TO ANOTHER COUNTRY THING (in case you didn't know, we're moving from Michigan USA to Manchester, England in just over 3 weeks) has found us both seriously lacking and seriously over-attentive as parents.

Seriously lacking, in that we are most definitely over-relaying on the boob tube to entertain Number 1 son as we drag stuff off shelves and out of cupboards out to the everlasting garage sale.

Seriously lacking in that we are not having those earnest conversations about every piece of cheap-ass dilapidated plastic we call "toys" that are not making it into the "ship to England for a million dollars" pile. (Hey! The stupid Burger King Shrek toy is making the cut. What d'you want from me???)

And yet. Yet, when we sit back from the dust bunnies and the carefully wiped 1996 funky tableware that we'll surely make a mint on, we ask ourselves how is he handling this? And bravado aside, we've really done our best to talk him through what this whole move might mean. Quite honestly he has been nothing but gung-ho about the whole concept, as much as a nearly 5 yr old can. But in the last week, he seemed to turn a corner.

Suddenly he was Acting Out, especially with Mommy. Flying off the handle when instructed it was time to have dinner, clean his teeth, go to bed. I mean flying off the handle more than usual, you know?

This was Our Fault. No Doubt. We are not Paying Enough Attention. We are not guiding him through the whole process as well as we should. We are relying on Noggin too much as we ransack the house for precious belongings. We totally deserved this, and we needed to do something now.

My husband and I proceeded to self-flagellate and plan lots of extra quality time one-on-one activities. Very pleasant, but still with The Behavior, you now? And so, in a flash of inspiration, Husband mentioned that the boy had been on a certain medication (Nasonex, for allergies) for about the same period of time as The Behavior had emerged.

Try googling "Nasonex and Behavioral Changes."

Yeah.

3 days off the drugs, and Number 1 son is back to his sweet-ass self. Yeah, he whines and pushes the limits, but he's back to his largely giggling, silly and mellow self. Thank God. Now at least I know that if I am going to fuck up my son, it's all my doing. I hate it when people blame the drugs.

In Which I Wax-Lyrical About the Kindness of "Virtual" Strangers/Friends...

2007-08-17T00:23:00.000+01:00

I realize I have been doing a lot of pissing and moaning on this here blog lately. About bastard people, and "whaah!!! poor me. I can't decide what furniture to bring" (whah!!!!)

What these mini-rants and pity parties omit to mention is how much this whole experience is bringing me to a whole new level of appreciation for the innate goodness of most people. You've already heard about the neighbors/dear friends who offered to take the dog for us until the new year, so she would not have to endure several long months of ~~prison~~ doggie quarantine at an undisclosed location... Add to that a slew of offerings to watch the kids, help pack, "whatever we can do to help..."

And then there was Jenny, an American based in the UK, now returning to Wisconsin, who sold me all her electronic goods (including TV--ohthankGOD---DVD player, and Coffee Maker) . When I said "sold," she took it on faith that if she dropped off these items (Spongebob DVD included!) at the house of one of my relatives in the area (after a two hour drive across the North-West of England. Good LORD!) I would then be honest enough to deposit payment into her paypal account. (Which I did). (Honest!)

And then, most gobsmacking, there is this lady, who has been thoroughly, thoroughly exploited by me lately, despite protestations that she enjoys this sort of thing. This woman, who knows about as much about me as you do, has been an amazing source of help lately. She lives in my new neck of the woods, and has been my doppelganger (if you will). Scaling walls of rental properties to ascertain their security levels, sniffing bathrooms to divine for mould, and basically ensuring that we end up in an area where my son can truck around on his bike without me shitting a brick over his safety (because that pretty much sums up our needs right now).

Thank you Lindy. We owe you a shitload of cheezits and our 3rd born. (seriously..)

(consider yourself horribly stalked in about 5 weeks time)

Ship Or Get Off The Pot....

2007-08-12T16:50:00.000+01:00

You know you have an indecision problem when you find yourself at 4am in the kitchen, mixing a bottle for your nine month old, and mulling over the sturdy but weathered pyrex pitcher in your hand.

Do I ship the pitcher?

If I ship the pitcher before we actually leave the house, will I need the pitcher?

Is the pitcher valuable enough to warrant shipping?

How much does Tesco's charge for a pitcher (sorry, jug...) in England?

Does the pitcher mean anything to me emotionally? Spiritually?
In England, when I use it to measure out a spot of gravy for my Yorkshires, will doing so immediately prompt a proust-like onslaught of sensory pasts? Of 4am feedings, and weening, and a time when, in my all-American kitchen, I mulled over what each and every object and whether its nostalgic resonance far outweighed its monetary value?

A time when I quite naturally called a jug a pitcher?

Four weeks and five days to go... Right now I am fretting almost constantly over what to ship to England. What parts of our life From Here do we pay oodles of money to transport Over There? Are we silly to even ship large items like our bed and our dining room table in the first place? How do we make this decision when we don't even have a clue where we will live yet, or if it will fit a gorgeous but gargantuan American King-Sized bed (made by my husband from scratch) that will likely take up every spare inch of a tiny British master bedroom?

Remember this? It became this:

How can we say bye bye to that?

My oldest and dearest friend Jill has been up to visit from St Louis this weekend, and her dogged rationality has helped me work through this paralyzing state. It's time to make a decision and just go with it. So in a couple of weeks, we will let the international movers come in and crate up those belongings that we would like to have on the other end. We will be rugless, table-less, and no doubt sore-backed from nights on blowup mattresses and days carting belongings out the house for the endless garage sale I am anticipating.

Let the culling begin.

(But tell me. Do I ship the pitcher?)

Dear Bastard People... With Bloody Bugger Update

2007-08-09T20:12:00.000+01:00

Dear Hoardes of People who have traipsed through our pristine, pristine, home and decided that it's "lovely but not what you are looking for." I am trying really hard not to hate or resent you right now, but you see I need a focus for all my pent up frustrations and hostilities and you, faceless people who nose in my cupboards and check to see if my toilets are clean, you, my friends, are complete fucking assholes who do not deserve to cross my threshold, let alone wander into my lovely boys' carefully staged bedrooms that literally scream "this is a happy happy home, and you can BUY this happy happy happiness. Please admire the carefully selected finger paintings as you breathe in the Happy."

I resent the shit that we have to transform our house into a showroom at least three times a week, and although I appreciate that it forces us to keep things tidy, I have never, never, felt the urge to cave to my inner filthy pig more acutely (and yes, Husband, I can hear you right now saying, "what do you mean, inner...?")

Updated to add:
Dear person who expressed such sincere and enthusiastic interest in our minivan. No it was not a pain in the least to photocopy and fax you every single piece of sodding paperwork related to the sodding minivan, piece by piece. And no it was not a pain in the least for my husband to drive out of his way all the way to effing Detroit to let you and your hyper children crawl all over the inside of its plush interior. And no, it was not a pain in the least to go back and forth with you over price and warrantees and all manner of shit, because, "hey. this is a big decision. We understand."

Thank you for your recent email in which you state "We still have not decided... Our style is to mull things over a bit, then we'll either quietly bow out, or we'll be in a hurry again to formalize everything.... 8 ) Please let us know if you get another offer...BLAH FUCKING BLAH"

Is there an emoticon for punching another person's emoticon in the stupid sodding face?

(God. This feels good. I need to slapdown-blog much more often).

for now please to enjoy this this picture of kittens:

More Notes from Limboland

2007-08-07T19:27:00.000+01:00

Did I mention we're leaving the country in six weeks? In five weeks and four days to be precise. This here blog was meant to be a wondrous record of this massive life-changing-event; something we could look back on with the grandkids in a few decades time..."We used to call this a Bloooog."

The only problem about using the blog as a wondrous record during this wondrous wondrous time, is that there is no fucking time in which to write anything except random fragments. But fragments I will write, because I want to get this shit down if it kills me (and it just might...)

With astonishing speed and efficiency, both sets of passports have arrived for our boys, including the U.S. ones. This is a huge load off our minds, as we were picturing last minute mad-dashes to the British Consulate and/or Chicago Passport Office. At the same time, it's unsettling, seeing both boys described as "British Citizen" on their UK passports. No they're not. Actually, yes they are, thanks to Mummy's celebrated Canterbury birth.

Seeing those little passports that will afford my sons unlimited access to all the pleasures the EU has to offer really drives it home. We're not quite going to be American any more. Jack, nearly five, is our gorgeous, golden, all-American boy. When he put on a baseball helmet the other day and started swinging around a bat and I lost it.

What are we DOING??

And everything suddenly becomes so thick with meaning. Our last Fourth of July, our last walk with the red painted wagon, our last visit to a restaurant where our boys are catered to with such cheerful spirit with all manner of crayons, chocolate milk, and chicken finger dinners.

(and on our long trip home from gramma's this weekend, what I hope will be our first and last, ever, trip to a grimy-assed McDonald's playland...)

(Because, you know, in England, a rest stop involves pulling off at picturesque country village and enjoying tea and crumpets while the children amuse themselves with tales of Narnia or by prancing around a maypole...)

We are living in limbo. Too soon to say goodbye, but soon enough to feel this sense of steady and inevitable withdrawal. I hear plans for events that will take place after we are gone. I sit and eat lunch with a friend, or make get-together plans with our neighbors, and wonder "how many more of these? Is this the last time? Is this? Is this? How can I make sure this moment is meaningful?" I end up dancing around the enormity of it all, and moan about the endless (and largely fruitless) house-showings, and make small-talk, but each time a certain heaviness presses more deeply, and I wish I could say something that makes everything more memorable, that does justice to how much I am going to miss these people who have become my family.

But it's too soon for tears.

Withdrawing Symptoms. Notes from Limboland... (yes this is my BlogHer post)

2007-08-01T00:55:00.000+01:00

A post-BlogHer-post is long overdue, and my reasons for not tackling it yet are manifold. The first is the practical one. Life is kicking my ass, what with The Move and only four weeks left at work and one million projects to tie up with a pretty bow before I leave. That and sell the house, sell the minivan, sell the other car, sell, give, sell, trash, sell, sell, sell our lives out from under us. (sobs...)

Yeah. It's that kind of post. I'm a tad melancholy. BlogHer was Awesome, Inspiring and completely Overwhelming. When I blithely (and a bit snottily) left a post last week about how I am not shy and I am woman hear me roar I was not fully prepared for how a situation like BlogHer can make the most extrovert among us get a severe disorder of the socially anxious variety. HBM has written at her place about how she feels a sense of regret and guilt about not being able to touch base meaningfully with people she knew. I have only a fraction of Her Bad community, and I still came away with some pangs over people I had not had a chance to really have a juicy talk with. Women who write so brilliantly, and who make me laugh and think, and who I am likely to never, ever meet again (because BlogHer from the UK is likely to be rather dear and not entirely easy to justify)--it felt like there they all stood among a sea of brilliants. And the sea of brilliants was busy yak yak yaking to one another. Noisy. (insert linky love here...)

(If you were not there, you should know that the blogher "speed dating" ice-breaker exercise just about put me over the edge, and I actually had to leave the room before my head promptly exploded off my neck).

By the time Friday night rolled around, the idea of chatting in a quiet room and eating pizza while the babies slept was extremely appealing. These were the gals who had started blogging at the same time as me, and we had all cheered each other on in those early months when you don't think anyone is reading and just about shit a brick when you get a comment. Meeting them in person was so fucking affirming. (Yes. I said "affirming." Piss Awf). Anyway, we were all quite giddy with it. Some of us to the extent of passing out. Well. You all know how that went.

But I feel I should point out in regards to that incident (and perhaps I should be ashamed to say this) I was not even drunken. I was actually quite sober, after determining that I would *not* overdo it like I did the night before, when I boozed so badly I ended up buying a pack of smokes [don't tell my husband] and puffing away enough to feel absolutely dreadful the next morning.

(Just so you know, I don't smoke, but apparently being completely ass-faced on an empty stomach around a bunch of newly discovered BFFs triggers me to regress to a teenage state of rebellion where I binged on all life's evils. There's nothing quite so sobering as a 7am hangover while you "pump and dump" as discretely as possible while your (similarly hungover) roomates lope around the room looking for painkillers. But what delightful roomates they were).

Anyway. Apart from a certain person (who was wasted, wasted tired, bless her) we were all quite clear-headed. It was the food of love, you see, that made us all turn into such idiots. And yes, we were idiots, giggling, crying, peeing our pants silly people. And it was quite wonderful. When Catherine said her only regret was that she was not actually "there" to be part of it, I sensed a real pang. She totally meant it.

Because, how often do we really get to be that silly? Not often enough. I love silly so so much. I want to be that kind of silly when I am a grandmommyblogger. Please.

So now I am suffering from what SlackerMamma calls it BlogHer Lag. So much talking talking talking about blogging blogging blogging, and the idea of coming back and trying to synthesize something in words feels just impossibly exhausting. (sidenote. I now know why people don't write a lot about blogher. Blogher itself sucks the very blogging lifeblood out of you in this regard...)

But I do want to make a few comments about the panels. I was both a speaker and moderator, and on Thursday afternoon there was a training session for all of us in that boat. (There I met my co-panelists, who were so very nice, and so very smart). During the training, a great deal of emphasis was put on interactivity. That the audience should have opportunity to contribute as much as possible. That each person in the room should come away with something, a sense that they were part of it all. As a teacher, I fully concur, and as an academic I can quite honestly say that there is nothing quite worse than being talked at by four consecutive panelists, but Karrie summed up the problem with the approach much better than I could:

"While many interesting positions were expressed in other sessions, the sheer number of bloggers present made it difficult to participate, and the discussions were (understandably)somewhat limited, since so many voices were clamoring to be heard. In my personal experience with larger groups, many people will sit waiting to pose a question or share a comment, and by the time their turn to speak comes around the discussion may have veered in a completely different direction, or the participant loses their train of thought."

If I had any complaint (let's call it constructive criticism, shall we?) it was that in the interests of including everyone, a lot of extremely interesting issues that were raised ended up getting lost in the chorus of opinions. As a moderator, I myself attempted to reach every hand that was raised in the room, eager not to leave anyone out. Though it was an excellent discussion, and the time flew by, I came away feeling that we only scratched at the surface, that we flitted about various topics but did not get our teeth into any one of them. Which is probably fine. I suppose that's what blogging is for.

But an exemplary incident of this was at the State of the Mommasphere panel, which was by far the most interesting to me. Mocha Momma raised a crucial question about diversity in the mommasphere, challenging the marketers present in the room to explain why women of color were not targeted for advertising dollars. Her comment was both bad ass and incendiary (God, I love that woman) and promptly lost as the next person got to voice an opinion--on something completely unrelated (though I should say that CityMama managed to pick it up again, if fleetingly).

This is no criticism of the moderator, Jory, who was working that room and creating a fabulous energy in the process, but an observation that as the community grows and passions escalate, at a certain point it's not necessarily possible or even desirable to allow everyone to have their soundbite, you know? [Aside--Mocha and Glennia from Kimchi Mamas have both agreed to write on this topic for BlogRhet.... so, I guess the conversation will continue. Stay tuned.. ]

So. A lot more to say. But I need to click on publish before this gets hopelessly out of date.

Nope. No Fun To Be Had Here. No Sirree..

2007-07-28T16:40:00.000+01:00

Last night I decided I would retire early in order to prepare for this afternoon's session. I wanted to be refreshed and well prepared for what promises to be an intellectually rigorous session on the politics of online communities (this afternoon). (wish me luck).

I politely opted out a few invitations for dinner, and even refrained from overdoing it at the cash-free bar. Instead I schlepped back to the hotel with a few ladies who are pregnant or wearing babies in slings, and we ordered a pizza.

My roommate was pretty pooped too, having kicked some serious ass at the State of the Momasphere session.

Very very pooped.

Pass out comatoze on Kristen's hotel bed pooped.

And suddenly I was pissing my knickers like a 12 yr old again...

Well BlogMe Senseless...

2007-07-24T18:57:00.000+01:00

This was me a year ago:

Anyone want to interview me for BlogHer? Oh, hang on. I'm not going. Is it me, or is this a weird week in the lady-blogosphere for anyone not going? Is this what being Jewish at Christmas is like? Interesting...

I felt like a right knobby-no-mates, with all my online BFFs(!) abandoning me for real life physical contact, and not blogging every detail as I had wished! This was why I determined that this year I would do without the obligatory "OMG! I am so totally going to BlogHer! OMG OMG OMG! I'm, like, so shy! OMG Will you please speak to me?" (if you are shy, then it's ok to write posts like this. Wise, in fact. But I am not really shy, see) (You are really beginning to hate me now, aren't you?)

Yep. I am going. And I anticipate you will feel my absence so very very acutely, and for that I apologize. I have tried to keep the "I am SO SO going to BlogHer" posts to a minimum, because if you are not it can be dead annoying. Well, it annoyed me anyway. Mainly because I was steaming with jealousy.

You are, however, spared from having to read some long-ass interview where someone who is also going to BlogHer interviews me (Also going to Blogher. In case you missed it before.) But I do feel obliged to do the "BlogMe 2007" challenge, triggered by the inimitable and deeply gorgeous Mocha.

ME. IN TEN SECONDS.
I like pina colada. And getting caught in the rain. I am 36 years old, and have two sons, 4yrs old and 8 months old., and they are divine. There's a husband too. He's not bad, either. I am a lefty liberal feminist with a deeply crass sense of humor. I am a teacher, researcher, and "digital media expert." I loves me some telly. Am big fan of twizzlers. Right now I live in Michigan, and in less than two months, I will be back in England, from whence I came... I talk a lot, interrupt a lot, swear like a sailor, and cannot possibly distill anything into ten seconds.

I Am In and I Am Out. And That's OK

2007-07-19T01:14:00.000+01:00

[this post is part of a discussion that is currently going on at blogrhet. if you have comments on this one, please head on over there]

It was about a year ago that I started getting my teeth into what this whole blogging venture might mean to me personally, and also what it might mean in broader, more overarching terms. I was positively giddy with the realization that though competitive and hierarchical models for evaluating how social networking occurs in the blogosphere, when it came to the smaller communities in which I was participating, the theories could not adequately account for how these networks cohered and were successful. I was, at that time, an excellent blogizen. I diligently reciprocated all comments, added everyone who had even breathed in my direction to my blogroll, and while I still faithfully read the entries of “big” bloggers (back to “being big” shortly) I became much more invested in my own niche. It was much more rewarding. My writing improved as I became part of a lively conversation, and I gained a lot of personal satisfaction from the relationships that were emerging.

As I continued along in this fashion, my comments section and reader stats steadily increased. I knew this because I was quite, quite obsessive about checking them. Stats were checked daily (hourly. ok. every 5 minutes) any linky love or referrals swiftly followed up on, I went about visiting blogs and leaving comments all over the place. To boot, my pregnancy at the time was not doing my traffic any harm, and as the due date approached, I got lots of hits as people checked in to find out the scoop (want to raise your readership? Get preggers or married. Or divorced.)

I was in the thick of it, and loving it. I had been blogging for about six months and I felt suddenly extremely tuned in to how the community worked, its norms of participation. I smelled fascinating research hypotheses, and steaming hot feminist arguments about the reinvention of motherhood. And I still do.

But…

Now an old and sage 18-month blogger, I still enjoy blogging a great deal (and could not be more delighted with the collective success of BlogRhet) but I have begun to experience some of that ambivalence about it all which is so familiar to many.

At what stage does “community participation” become obsessive? At what stage does commenting on other people’s blogs become less about reciprocity and good manners, and more about maintaining the readership, keeping that comments thread nice and healthy and full? When you find yourself slumping into a black mood because you posted one hour ago and “still no one has stopped to show me love,” then what does this reflect about the "relationships" you are cultivating? If you remedy the situation by carpetbombing a few blogs you’ve neglected lately, is that quite right?

Let me tell you a secret. After my baby was born last November, my blog became a pretty dead space. Understandably. I was not really motivated to write. I was simply motivated to function in some kind of human way. Sleep was also a priority.

Fast forward a few months, and I was ready to leap back in. And (it seemed to me at the time) in terms of my blog I really paid for my hiatus. It was like starting from scratch. I would post what were (to me) HI-LARious posts, and get only 1 or 2 responses. My STATS were pathetic, in my mind, and all those people who had been part of my community before were off enjoying other blogs. And how could I blame them? I had dropped off the face of the earth. When it comes to blogging, out of sight, out of mind can be very true. I knew this. I had observed the community norms, for chrissakes!

So I got busy. I was suddenly everywhere –at my old haunts, but also lots of newer bloggers I had not read yet. And it was a heady time. How I had missed Mama Tulip and Mom 101, those girls can write. And the more I commented, the more I saw a spike in my own comments, and while my stats did not exactly soar, they became much healthier. Then came the day when this post got linked from Zero Boss and Babble, and finally, I thought, I have arrived. Stats continued to escalate, until there was a week where I was hitting about 500-700 a day. (it was a lot for me, ok???)

The writing! The writing is speaking for itself! All my work is paying off!

Yes. My “work.” (Is it work, this thing we call “reciprocity”?)

Anyway, I did not think to check and see exactly which post was drawing the traffic. But surely it was my witty political commentary on the breastfeeding that ZB and Babble had so rightly picked up for its sheer genius.

Think again, Joy…. Try this post.

Yeah. Apparently I was the only blogger on the planet to actually think to put those funny math pictures on a blog so that people could email a link instead of forward all those jpegs about among their contacts.

That post, to this day, draws me as much traffic as pretty much everything else combined.

So, uh, the writing was not speaking for itself. [hangs head in shame...]

Don’t get me wrong. I am not putting myself down as a bad writer. I think I have some pretty good moments there, and only wish I could have the stamina to write more creatively more often, but I just don’t.

But the whole situation caused me to look hard at myself and ask “what exactly are you in this for? Because if it’s fame or status, then you are so totally SOL, woman!”

I questioned how my participation in the community—my devotion to reciprocation—was actually fuelled by less than “community-minded” goals, and more about traffic traffic traffic. Yes, it was about maintaining ties with writers I enjoy and respect, but the more feverish part of it was driven in part by a fear that if I don’t, they will forget about me. This was combined with a heavy sense of guilt and obligation.

And suddenly it wasn’t so enjoyable any more.

So I stopped. Not completely. (Obviously). But I stopped worrying about reciprocity quite so much. I came to a realization that the weight of obligation was entirely about me, and that even if I didn’t visit someone whose blog I adore on a regular basis, this didn’t mean they’d written me off. And if they had written me off, then tough shit for them, you know? Life was too short.

As Tere notes, this topic of “inclusion” and the appropriate rules of conduct in blogging communities has produced some in depth and even (politely) heated conversations at BlogRhet. It is obviously something that many of us feel very strongly about. Concerns over how blogging “cliques” might emerge, where only certain parties can be included. What this reveals to me is how emotionally invested we are in this whole process. So many of us started blogging as a means to write for an audience, then we discovered that with audience comes community. And despite my story, I will maintain that it is this community dynamic that is to me the most meaningful aspect of blogging. Nonetheless, there are some interesting and potentially sticky issue to raise:

Reciprocal commenting is a primary means through which certain blogging communities—small clusters of blogs—interconnect and gain strength.

Are these communities grow in size, are they also potentially jeopardized? Is there a critical point here in which a healthy and densely interconnected smaller community cannot sustain itself? I am thinking here not just in terms of people’s experiential relation to blogging (a sense that a community that was once quite tangible has disintegrated or shifted) but also, empirically, about how clusters and nodes in social networks might emerge or break down as they grown in size (I will be boring people with this at BlogHer, and no doubt in a few posts beforehand).

As I argued before, when we look at this through the lense of social networking theory, these individuals become dense nodes around which many of us cluster and coalesce. For example, I might not have a direct relationship with whom I perceive as a Big Blogger, but I observe other bloggers like me in the comments thread, and so I go and visit and make friends).

I do believe, that as certain bloggers “mature,” develop a following, embark on entrepreneurial ventures, their status in the community will automatically shift. They will become outsiders to some degree, dense nodes or connecting points, and though they might undertake very significant work to strengthen the community, they will not be able to participate in the same way that those of us who occupy the “long tail” of the blogosphere can.

This, I believe, is an issue of scale more than anything else, though the perceptions about status and inclusion are very real, and possibly contribute to this hierarchical dynamic. Of course they do. For as we go about looking for community (validation? traffic?) we forge relationships with those who can return the favor, and move away from those who do not. We seek peers, other people "like us" who can endorse this whole blogging thing and say "hey! I'm here! I"m listening!" And this is very meaningful.

The question of how the "like us" aspect of this dynamic works remains, but I'm going to end here. But the issue Tere raises about inclusion, and especially how race, sexuality and class figure into these equations is worthy of a post of its own, and I'll be returning to it pre- the panel at BlogHer (The Politics of Inclusion and Exclusion in Online Communities) where this question, among others, will be of central importance.

And Now We Move On to the Abject Fear Portion of Our Trip...

2007-07-16T21:07:00.000+01:00

It's been less than ten days since we realized we'd be moving to Manchester, and it feels like a lifetime. Husband and I go through similar cycles over the whole thing, though not necessarily in synchroncity.

It goes something like this:

Euphoria --> Anxiety ----> STRESS -----> o.ooo2 seconds of calm ------>Abject Fear....

Part of our problem here is having so little time to process all of this. While I know that all will be fine in the end, there are so many variables in this whole thing, that it's very very difficult to switch the brain off. Hence the whisky (wine vodka, beer, anything-will-do-really-just-pour-the-damn-thing) drinking. I would stop and consider whether this is becoming a potential problem, but who has time to ponder one's potential alcoholism when one has so much to do?

Same logic goes for "watching one's figure." At one stage late last week, I had this sudden thought "my GOD! I am hardly eating a thing, and seem to be bouncing around on nervous energy! I MUST be losing WADS of weight." I then made that familiar yet fatal error. I reached into the closet (wardrobe) for the "When I am less squidgy" jeans which surely, surely, will be hanging off me now.

Yep. You know the drill. I pull on said jean, and find that while they can be zipped up, the spillage factor ocurring above *the jean was less "muffin top" and more **"industrial waste."

And so I reflected upon my so-called "lack of eating" over the last few days, and realized that this was actually "lack of paying any kind of attention to what I am cramming in my mouth because "who gives a shit?" and how much longer do I have to enjoy twizzlers anyway?" And, of course, the booze helps loads in retaining that girlish figYURE.

Anway. Back to the Abject Fear part of this post. The fear that is plaguing me and Mr Ginga right now concerns The Boys. My eldest will be starting school for the first time in September, and I have no clue where he will be going. To get into a school, we need an address. To get an address, we kinda need to be in the country. (Apparently it helps). And there's no guarantee that he'll get into a good school, because all the places are likely to be gone at those. (and by "good school" I mean those where learning actually takes place and the kids actually like school enough to stick around...)

Suddenly, overperforming parents who dilligently went to all kind of kindergarten roundups in January, and had his place carefully picked out and signed up for in February--a place that would nurture his creativity, and provide a nourishing environment where his desire to learn would thrive, blah blah blah---well suddenly we're gaping down the jaws of the Great Unknown, which is fine when it comes to us grownups, but what are we doing to our childrens??

I'm just thankful as all hell that is he only a malleable and good-natured 4 (nearly 5) and not 12 or something, as this would be merry fucking hell with a preteen or teenager...

It'll be all right, it'll be all right, it'll be all right....

It will.

*notice my use of singular for "jean." I have picked this habit up from Stacey from "What Not to Wear." What's with that usage, lady? I hate it, and yet I cannot help but absorb your fashio-savvy lexicon....

**As a feminist, I hate submitting to the "I'm such a fat girl, waaaaah" post impulse. But as a female product of this culture, I cannot help it.

p.s. why does blogger keep putting huge spaces in my posts. me no likey.

One of Those List Posts Written Under the Influence (and yes, this is About The Move)

2007-07-11T03:14:00.000+01:00

Two expedited U.S. passports for your lovely boys (so they can Leave and Re-enter the Country Legally): $288

Two British Passports for your lovely boys (so that they can actually Live in England Legally): $350

One Spousal Visa for Spousal Unit Who is Totally Spousal and so Really Should be Legal too: $1050

Various photos from Kinkos for various visas and passports ("can we suggest JC Penney's for the infant photo, we really don't specialize in those...well. If you insist."): $55

Air Tickets for family of 4 (one on lap): $2,000

"Cargo" Ticket for Doggie (who had better effing know how effing lucky her stinking ass is): $1,500

Vet bills for above dog to get her certified rabies free...: who the fuck knows????

Realtor Fees for Realtor who might be able to sell the house, maybe for this price: $Fucking shitloads

Shipping life's possessions because it's actually cheaper than buying all new at some UK based IKEA: $2,000-$5,000

Deposit and first month's rent on accommodation in UK as of yet to be secured. $Also shitloads.

5 quarts of Mrs Butterworth's Syrup I realize today we had better buy as they sure as shit do not have that in the UK. Oh and I had better buy some Monistat while I'm at it, as you need a prescription (and exam) to get it there: $let's say $150

Mental power tallying as of yet unthought of costs that will surely surely cost millions...: Who knows?

....Fat bottle of Irish Whisky to CHUCK LIBERALLY DOWN ONE'S GULLETT WHILST WATCHING AMERICA'S GOT TALENT

(and also learning that where you are moving to currently has air tickets to Dublin for 49p ($1)

Priceless......

Every street lamp seems to beat...a fatalistic warning

2007-07-07T22:34:00.000+01:00

First, Thank You for all your responses to our news--awww, you guyses.

Since getting the news and posting that, we've been with friends at their cottage on a gorgeous lake in Michigan--the same friends who live next door to us in our neighborhood, and the same friends who christened it "the enablerhood." The last few days have been sun-drenched, kids galore, and all rather experienced through an alcoholic haze of "what the.....?" and "I can't believe you guys are leaving" and [breaks down sobbing] "You'd really take care of our dog so she doesn't have to go through quarantine, and cost us many many pounds????"

(Yeah. This is the kind of friends we're leaving. The kind who offer, completely unprompted, to take care of the mangy pestilence ridden doggie so she can be chipped and tested for rabies, and then do her time on this side of the Atlantic before being shipped to Blighty in January, and thus avoid doggie prison on the other side.

I know.)

There is so much to do, and so much emotional processing to do spending these few days next to water and a well-stocked fridge has been extremely well-timed. And the nice thing is that now I have a date, a goal, and sense of what to move towards, the last few weeks or months of living in limbo seem to have finally passed, and I can (to echo my mother) get on... And by "get on" I mean, of course, obsessively stalking rightmove.co.uk and drooling over cottages (that we likely could not swing a cat in) and trying to figure out where in the hell our boy will start (not kindergarten) primary school in (motherfudding) September. And I realize he'll wear school uniform and have to learn to say "Zed is for Zebra." It's that small stuff that does me in--not the small matter of selling a house and figuring out how to ship our life's possessions, and then live without them in a strange(ish) land for two months. And then I become anxious about furnished rentals with velour settees and whiffy shag pile carpets.

But it feels right. We suddenly feel that life, for good or for bad (uhm, let's say good, shall we?) will be moving forward, and something that seemed unattainable, a pipe dream, and even frightening, is going to happen. And what is life without some reckless acts of ~~stupidity~~ courage? Though it is bloody nice that one of us has a job squared away before we take the plunge. (thank you karma, fate, or whatever for that one... thank you).

Much water under the bridge still to pass. And yes, I am blogging it. Forget all that shit about this blog not being therapy or a journal, ok? This, my dears, will be my shrink's couch for the next few rollercoaster months. Hold me...

Does anyone want to buy a house? A car? A flatscreen TV? We're Moving to England, baby!

2007-07-05T16:36:00.000+01:00

FINALLY! After all the opaque references to "things are happening, related to England, but of which I cannot speak..." etc etc. I can finally spill the beans. This has to be short, as I am again "oop north" on another spotty connection, but here it is in haiku like format.

Job Interview last week with Manchester University--via video conference.
Formal Job Offer Yesterday. Independence Day (oh ironies of ironies).
We're doing it.
Moving to England in September.

My baby boys are going to Northern Accents, ala Wallace (of Wallace and Grommit)

'Ay 'Up!!!'

More soon. I promise!

Review of Vaccinated by MrGingajoy, PhD.

2007-06-25T16:46:00.000+01:00

Along with handcrafting wooden furniture, writing subversive lyrics to innocent children's tunes, retelling my birth-story, and being a total (if warped) romantic, my husband possesses many other skills. Among them is a PhD in English and an alarming level of knowledge about all things James Joyce and the Beatles. He also teaches courses in Science and Ethics, and so when the Parent's Bloggers Network asked for reviewers of Vaccinated: One Man’s Quest to Defeat the World’s Deadliest Diseases, I knew he would do a far better job than me.

I bring you Mr GingaJoy, PhD:

Late in November of 2002, according The New York Times journalist Donald G. McNeil, Jr’s article “When Parents Say No to Vaccinations (30 Nov. 2002), Vashon Island, a small, somewhat prosperous enclave across from West Seattle via a 20-minute ferry ride, experienced an outbreak of the measles. Not really a big deal overall, but the scenario is increasingly less rare these days, not because measles is becoming immune to the common vaccine, but because, like the residents of Vashon Island, many parents and guardians are becoming, in the common idiom, “philosophically exempt” from normal vaccination requirements: “exemptions that in Washington and several other states, including California and Colorado, can be claimed simply by signing a school form” (McNeil, 2002).

Vashon Island is, as I said above, no longer atypical; I have repeatedly heard on news reports and in articles in various newspapers and magazines, concerns over health problems that many parents directly attribute to vaccinations: mercury in the vaccine, a terrifying correspondence between the rise in vaccinations and the increase in autism, and horrifying side effects that often include illnesses worse than the disease treated by the vaccine. Although I firmly believe any of the pharmaceuticals available should safer and better, what the well-intentioned parents and guardians fail to realize, largely because most of them did not live prior to the vaccinations we take for granted, particularly those that give us the upper hand against polio, measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, whooping cough, tetanus, hepatitis B and chicken pox, is that what may seem just minor illnesses remain potent dangers and are still possibly deadly.

Rubella, or German measles, according to Paul A. Offit’s Vaccinated: One Man’s Quest to Defeat the World’s Deadliest Diseases, may only cause a minor red rash on the person who develops the disease, but if a pregnant woman contracts it, her baby, more often than not, can be born blind, mentally retarded, or dead as a result. Mumps, which most people think of today as an amusing disease where the sufferer’s face simply swells up, is also very dangerous: “In the 1960s, mumps virus infected a million people in the United States every year. Typically the virus attacked the glands just in front of the ears, causing the children to look like chipmunks. But sometimes the virus also infected the lining of the brain and spinal cord, causing meningitis, seizures, paralysis, and deafness. The virus didn’t stop there. It also infected men’s testes, causing sterility, and pregnant women, causing birth defects and fetal death. And it attacked the pancreas, causing diabetes” (Offit 22). In under a decade, the vaccine worked well enough that we could laugh at Bobby Brady’s silly worries that he may get the mumps because he kissed a girl who was infected; it is amazing that a serious childhood disease could be the subject for comedy!

Offit’s book, therefore, comes at a very important time and stands, not just as an important biography of Maurice Hilleman, the man who nearly single-handedly worked to create most of the vaccines for the diseases listed above, but as a testament to our need to keep our children vaccinated. The book itself is a tour de force through Hilleman’s life and genius at being able to make exactly what was needed, and often to begin to make them before an epidemic erupted. For example, it was Hilleman who recognized that the flu virus recycled itself, so to speak, and that influenza pandemics seemed to come every sixty-eight years, realizing that “This is the length of the contemporary life-span ... [which suggests] that there may need to be a sufficient subsidence of host immunity before a past virus can regain access and become established as a new human influenza virus in the population” (Offit 19). Because of his actions at developing a flu vaccine against the virus that caused the 1889 pandemic (the H2 virus), thousands of Americans lives were spared in 1957 when it returned, whereas four million people, who did not have the proper vaccine, died elsewhere of the same virus. This same strain is set to attack us again in 2025 and Hilleman said, tongue in cheek, that his prediction for its arrival is more reliable than “the writings of Nostradamus or the Farmer’s Almanac (19); sadly, Hilleman died in early 2005.

Although the book is, in my opinion, a direct, unapologetic, and authoritative response to those who are problematically denying their children and wards the chances most of us take for granted, namely a life without worry over diseases that rampaged through prior generations, it does get quite heavy-handed in many places, and its tone too easily becomes a somewhat irritating homage to Hilleman. Offit’s sentences read more like the sentiments from Leonardo/Total Television’s 1963 cartoon The World of Commander McBragg, whose theme song claimed “With a canon in hand, he can beat any man. He can do anything ...” In that sense, the book is quite off-putting – I welcome a biography of a gifted scientist, researcher, and humanitarian, but I am skeptical of any narrative that offers a story that is so unabashedly glowing in every angle its reporting. Few obstacles, it seems, stood their ground before Hilleman.

In one case, Hilleman needed specially bred chickens to help him develop his measles vaccine (all vaccines are grown in animal or human organs, but most are initially developed in eggs). He went to Kimber Farms in Fremont, California, to ask the owner, W.F. Lamoreaux, if he could buy all of his leukemia-free chickens; he asked Lamoreaux several times for the chickens, suggesting that Lamoreaux could directly and positively affect future children’s lives, and to each request Lamoreaux refused. As Hilleman was leaving, “he stopped, turned around, and tried one more time. Recognizing a familiar accent, he asked Lamoreaux where he was from. ‘Helena’ said Lamoreaux. ‘Miles City’ replied Hilleman, extending his hand. ‘Take them all’ said Lamoreaux, smiling broadly. ‘One buck apiece.’ The first measles vaccine required a virologist and a chicken breeder. If both hadn’t been born and raised in Montana, the road to a lifesaving vaccine might have been much longer” (Offit 55). Scenes like this are often quite satisfying in movies, but in a biography, particularly a biography of a gifted scientist written by the head of infectious diseases at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, they come across as ostensibly amateurish and unbelievable.

Another example that is actually quite disturbing shows that not even Hilleman’s use of retarded children as lab rats gets more than a sentence of critical scrutiny. I must admit, I was surprised that when working on vaccines, many scientists went to asylums where retarded children were cared for to see how their drugs worked prior to giving it to other members of the human population. The unethical practice is immediately explained as just yet another humanitarian move on the part of Hilleman – many of the children in these institutions were abused, there was rampant over-crowding, which directly helped to spread the various diseases; therefore, Hilleman presented what he had done through in the most uncompromising terms: “My vaccine gave all of these children the chance to avoid the harm of that disease. Why should retarded children be denied that chance” (Offit 25)? Seemingly to counter the ethical problem presented, Offit does explain that Hilleman and others also used their own children to test the vaccines, which is my opinion makes the research even more problematic, despite the benefits that I and all others who have received as a result of their invention.

Rather than always attempting to show how Hilleman had only the greatest intentions in every act he did, it would seem more appropriate to explain that he was a man of his time: brilliant but often myopic and clouded as a result of his own perspective, when it came to his scientific desires and his past exploits. These oversights are explained somewhat via the prologue where Offit tells that prior to Hilleman’s death, he had a chance to sit down and speak with the gifted virologist and the book is a result of those conversations. I must admit, after reflecting on that statement, it is indeed clear that Vaccinated, in many places, reads more like a companion to an oral history transcript than an objective biography. A few more revisions could solve this problem.

Nonetheless, it is a good read. The historical and medical value of Vaccinated is without question – yes, any drug has side-effects, but the possibility of abandoning vaccines altogether is, as we see in the details of what life was like for many without them, terrifying and dangerous to everyone (it is interesting to note that when some parents and guardians stop vaccinating their children, we all become more susceptible to viruses again – it is called a reduction in the “herd immunity” which is actually strengthened when a majority of the population is resistant – they act as a barrier, stopping the disease from attacking even the most vulnerable). Hilleman’s contributions to medicine are obviously unquestionable, and it is a necessary biography of someone who did so much to help maintain the general health, in the same way that we, as educated individuals, must know the names of Jonas Salk, Edward Jenner, and Louis Pasteur; however, the text’s true worthiness is its response to the many people’s problematic denials of vaccines’ usefulness and their necessity in keeping everyone healthy – that above all else is what I see as Offit’s crowning achievement in writing this book.

Any Garage Sale Addicts Out There?

2007-06-20T15:10:00.000+01:00

Readers of my personal blog will know that at present I am doing much handwringing over Big Life Decisions of the Leaving America for Britain variety. Nonetheless, I can't read a delicious book like Bruce Littlefield's Garage Sale America and not feel like it is a testament to so much that I would miss once we are gone....

[find out why I am garage sale obsessive and read the rest of my review of Garage Sale America over here... Go on!]

Really Really Reeling...

2007-06-18T18:02:00.000+01:00

Envision tumblweeds here....

Meanwhile activity has been occurring here and here.

Sorry to be so absent--was "Oop North" in Michigan where it has been unrelentingly hot this last week. Cure for this heat: Lake, Pontoon Boat, Friends, and endless supply of Beer Keg. Oh, and no internets. Weeee!

And then there's the mental absence. Despite all this tranquility (although life knows no tranquility with a 4 yr old and a baby, least of all by a Lake) my head is in a rather chaotic space right now. I can't go into particulars, but suffice it to say it has something to do with this, and how the "Long Term Plan" has turned into potentially "Huge Life Changing Decision Within a Couple of Weeks." Holy crap. Extremely exciting, and just a touch nervewracking. Sorry to be opaque. Once I can write more on this I will, and hopefully it will be good news. (EVERYBODY SEND ME GOOD NEWS VIBES NOW, PLEASE)

(heh)

I'll be back with more of my self-deprecating witty banter ASAP. Though if you have a meme you need to tag someone for, especially if it's an asinine one, I'm available.

Mother of Two Piddles the Day Away...And is Lovin' It.

2007-06-08T19:42:00.000+01:00

Today I am enjoying a day off from work. I am at home sans children. This is a rare and wonderous thing. Last night, as I lay my head to sleep, I made a mental list of all the things I would Get Done On My Day Off.

This list included:

--Color hair (and yes, I am a natural redhead, but the grays--they are impinging...)
--Add "illuminating highlights" to hair.
--Clean downstairs bathroom
--Go to gym
--Stop by at work to pick up some items I want to work on over the weekend
--Pack for weekend trip to in-laws
--Weed garden
--Buy cute summer outfit for baby for weekend trip to in-laws
--Take a nap

So far the list looks like this:
--Color hair (and yes, I am a natural redhead, but the grays--they are impinging...)
--Add "illuminating highlights" to hair.
--Clean downstairs bathroom (closest I have come is to peer closely at the sink and toilet and think "I need to get the bleach out on that one...")
--Go to gym (By this, I obviously meant: Go to refrigerator and eat 3 cheesesticks and a slice of cheesecake. Stop a moment and think "I need roughage" and have an apple. For health).
--Stop by at work to pick up some items I want to work on over the weekend (or: blog incessantly)
--Pack for weekend trip to in-laws (stalk various British expat and job sites and dream of England)
--Weed garden (blog incessantly)
--Buy cute summer outfit for baby for weekend trip to in-laws (get dressed)
--Take a nap (I think I can do that. But first I need to blog incessantly. Then a shower's not a bad idea either...)

My crowning achievement? I am now an official L'Oreal Couleeeeeeuuuur Experte. For I have used the Expert Multitonal Color System on my now "Beautiful, Rich shade of Ginger Twist, with Golden Copper Brown Illuminating Highlights" hair. And I will say just this about the "illuminating highlights"--No it is not as easy as putting on mascara. Unless you're Tammy freakin' Fay, that is...

So far this day is a resounding success. I have pretty much done nothing. O rare and beauteous thing. If the kids were not going to be needing a ride home in an hour or two, I'd be getting buzzed just about now. But you can't have everything. There is more cheesecake in the fridge, after all.

[Part of the "Where Does My Time Go?" PNB Blog Blast]

Wherein I pretend that I am really married to Aidan from Sex In the City...

2007-06-05T18:27:00.000+01:00

When I first met my husband he was not particularly fond of swimming, Christmas, or power tools. He was not in touch with his inner Bob Villa, and nor did he think he ever would be. When something needed doing on the rental house we lived in for eons, something that required more than a perfunctory slosh with the toilet plunger, we called the Landlord and offered him a coffee while we watched him at work.

A decade plus with me, and he is a changed man. He's all about the holidays and takes our son swimming most weekends (though he still does not much like to get his nipplies wet in the icy climes of Lake Michigan or the English Channel).

Since we bought our first home four years ago, my husband is Home Improvement nuts. He skulks the aisles of Home Depot, Lowes, and Menards carefully comparing prices and customer service (Results: Menards= Cheap and Shit Service; Home Depot = A little more expensive and nice, knowledgeable service....). He comes back home, proudly declaring that he "managed to get that wax ring I've been wanting," or "there's a Dremel on sale with a Flex Craft attachment..."

(Did you know, it's physically impossible for a man to make one run to Home Depot in a day? Universe says that if there is one run to the Depot, then at least 3-5 subsequent runs must be undertaken, which we do not complain about at all if he also takes the manic 4 yr old...)

In the last four years, the man has:

1. Ripped out our upstairs bathroom sink, toilet, and (gulp) wall, and completely reinstalled new ones.

2. Refinished our basement study. i.e. ripped down nasty-assed walls and shit, and rebuilt them with wood and dry wall and plaster and nails stuff. He used a nail stapler thingy and everything.

3. Completely removed each and everyone of our rickety, 1926 windows, stripped, sanded, painted, and restrung the things.

4. Stripped and refinished wooden floors

5. Painted six of our rooms (I did choose the paint color)

6. Built a garden fence, from scratch (none of that pussy-assed premade fencing for this boy)

7. Painted our garage (I did choose the paint color)

8. Stripped and refinished various pieces of furniture so they look effing fabulous

9. Built, from scratch, two Arts and Crafts Style bedside tables, and stained them ebony. (his color choice, and actually very marvelous despite my initial ~~bitchy comments~~ reservations)

10. And now. Now. He's gone and built this: Again. FROM SCRATCH. From big bits of lumber he had to cut down to size. The spindles you see here? There are something like 150 of them, and they very nearly did him in, and destroyed our marriage in the process.

This masterpiece (now also stained ebony) is going into our boudoir, which is at this very moment being painted by...him. As I sit here in my office, I like to think of him silently cursing me for choosing a two tone paint palette (slate gray and duck egg blue) and thereby creating an edging nightmare...

I have been informed that if we move to England, this "%$U*%" bedframe is getting &%&$#*$ shipped....

I Do Want to Change the World. I Am Looking for a New England.

2007-06-01T20:19:00.000+01:00

So, a post on facing The Big Decision over the Move Back To England is long overdue. I have avoided writing on the topic because it's just such a doozy for me, but at the same time I know that if I sit and sort through it all--in writing--I will be better off. So, where to begin? How about the fail-safe Pros and Cons list. How can I lose?! Yes. I will write a pros and cons list and then everything will be clear.

Cons (i.e. reasons to stay put...)
1. Our Home. Not our house, but our home. I do not have any family in this country, and my husband's is also remote. But somehow we have managed to find ourselves with a (if I do say so myself) gorgeous older home in an honest-to-god Community. Our neighbors have become our dear friends. In fact, we call it the "Enablerhood"--we skit across to one another's houses, kids in tow, Flyer wagons loaded with bottles of booze and delicious snack-food items, and then wax lyrical (after a few tipples) over how lucky we are to live in the 'hood and to have found this commuuuuunity. (Yes. I am commuuuuunity obsessed, even in real life). When I was preggo with Baby Boy, we did not have to think twice about enlisting the help of neighbors to jump into action when we hotfooted it to the hospital, and our 4 yr old did not bat an eye over "sleeping over" next door while mummy had the baby.

Our home. i.e our friends. It would be very hard to leave this part of our lives behind. (though they would have a great vacation destination, no?)

2. And also our house. Our things. Though life is much more than material things we collect around us, it's pretty hard to just cut loose from it all. I LOVE MY THINGS!!!! Our house is an old colonial, and by British standards it is large and airy. It's got green siding and cherry red shutters and shiny red front door. (sniff...) It has several bathrooms and a big fat ass refrigerator, and is just easy to live in... Could I ever, ever go back to not having a downstairs loo??? It is also filled with things like furniture, and pictures, and bedding and curtains. There would be a day when we'd put price stickers on it all, and open our home to strangers and let them cart it away for the right (or wrong) price. GULP. And the minivan. The mini-vaaaaaaan!!!!!

3. Income. Income is good. We have one. We have jobs, and they pay the bills. We live comfortably, and we both quite like our jobs. And the cost of living here is so, so much cheaper than the UK, where the housing market is through the fucking roof. Income in Britain, so far, is a very uncertain thing. Though ideally one of us would get a job before we made the move, realistically it's very hard to compete for a position when you are across the Atlantic. A move over there would likely take an enormous leap of faith. It's a frightening prospect, especially with two children. I am sure we can make it happen, we do have skillz after all (as long as we're not looking for academic teaching jobs, which are pretty much out of the question--but there are other interesting options).

4. America The Beautiful... Say what you want about this country, but it's a pretty amazing place, and it's been good to me. It's a cliche, but American is just friendly, and you only have to be back in the UK for two minutes, growled at by a surly shop assistant and you're off dreaming of the days when you were being stalked around Macy's by someone with a "canIhelpyou??" grin plastered on her face. I would miss "Have a nice day" because though it is a nicety, in my experience people actually mean it. I would miss not being asked by the supermarket cashier "how are you?" and saying in return "I'm fine. How are you?" I would miss my OB-GYN office and its soft furnishings and roaring (gas) fire welcoming me in the waiting room. I would miss humane dentists.

Ah. yes. I am not even gone, and I am idealizing already... I'm going to have to watch that.

So. The pros (i.e. why we should do it):
1. My family. Now with two children, yearly visits from/to the grandparents just seem woefully inadequate. Now, with two children, I know how awful it must have been for my mother and father to pack me off on that plane (gulp) fifteen years ago, 21 and clueless. I was meant to be here for two years, and since then all the big life announcements (I'm engaged! I'm pregnant!) have all taken over long distance phone calls, as have the moments where my father has undergone triple bypass surgery, or when I am told that one of my grandparents has passed away... and "people will understand if you can't make it to the funeral..."

Last week at school, my 4yr old had to answer "Does your Mommy have any brothers or sisters?" And there on that sheet of paper was his answer: No.

I have a brother. Did you know that? Yes. One baby brother. And he and his partner had a baby two months ago, a baby I have never seen except through digital photos, and who I am not likely to see until at least Christmas. Of course, Jack does know about "Uncle Jonathan" but he's not seen him in 18 months, and so he...forgets.

2. It's Time to Move On. Despite loving our house and our neighborhood, we have lived in this area for as long as I have been in this country. If you had told me at 21 that I would be settled here with a spouse, a mortgage, two children, a lab, and a minivan, I'd have laughed in your face. And then I would have become very, very afraid. And then I would have become hysterical.

We've made a great life for ourselves here, here in Lansing, Michigan. This is home, and we love much about it.

Do we want to be here in five years? In ten years? I am not so sure.

And I come up with the same answer when I look at my job. Again, I love my work, and enjoy the people I work with, but in many ways I have gone as far as a non-tenure tracked academic can go in a position like mine. I attended Grad school here, and in many ways, until we make the change I will feel like the eternal faker, and the Old Man often feels the same way.

3. Custard Creams and Cadbury's chocolate in plentiful supply... And Sarah, a sweet and funny blogging friend, a Kent girl just like me, sent me a care package containing those items this week. This, along with her stunning photographs of the countryside where I grew up make it very hard to not feel homesick...

Damn you woman!!!

Uhm, Yesh, Mmmm. (gulp. swallow...) Damn-You to hell.

(THANK you Sarah!)

Well. No doubt this little saga will rear it's head a few more times in the next few months. (months? years?) But right now my head is filled devising a master plan for our return in the next year to eighteen months. The paperwork alone is mindboggling, not least because ironically I find that if we do it, it would be a very good idea to become a citizen of the U.S.A. before we go, because if we ever change our minds, or the boys want to take up residency here as adults, it would be very difficult for me to come back. The Green Card would go "poof!" after 364 days. Yikes!

Fact is, if we are going to do it, it has to be soonish, before my boys get older and then hate me forever for depriving them of basketball and "football" and baseball and, and....make them speak in poncey English accents, or worst still, make them objects of derision because they say "budder" and "blahg"

Oy. The handwringing.

On the other hand, it is also exciting.

Thanks for bearing with me, folks. I'll keep you up-to-date.

(and, God, even clicking on "Publish" is frightening--somehow commits this as something very real... Gaaaaah!)

Blog on Blog Action Meme: Round One...

2007-05-30T15:28:00.000+01:00

This is the kind of post where I tag myself for a meme I created. It feels.. naughty. And yet so right.

Yes. well. anyhoo. After much hinting and stalling, the Blogrhet team is ready to launch it's first meta-meme. Not that's not a meme about memes (although there's an idea). It's a blog meme about blogging.

Our mission--select one or more of the questions and post a response (or series of responses--depending on how much you want to get up close and personal with that navel). Link back the original post, and then tag three people. I am going to give the first question a stab, and maybe come back to the others.

1. Go back to first or early post. How would you describe your voice back in those early days?Who were you writing to? What was your sense of audience (if any) back then?

Why did I ask that question? I hate revisiting old writing, for some reason. I am always convinced that I was talking rubbish at the time, which is not always the case, but a few glaring errors and trite turns of phrase, and that's all I see.

So my first post was the old "allow myself to introduce myself" one most of us kick off with. The immediate thing I notice is the "i will not use caps at all in my posts. this way i will look cool and edgy." A few posts later, when I realized that I was spending more time editing *out* the caps than anything else I gave it up. It seems really silly now, but I think I was working to make my writing style seem effortless and casual. Also, I think I had seen it somewhere, and I thought it was rad.

Good God.

Actually, now I reread the post, it's not half bad, although I remember thinking after I'd written it, and included a slew of edgy things about myself, "well now that's done. what the hell else can i write now?" This is evidenced by the next few tentative posts where I a) declare I am mommyblogger; b) write a cringeworthy post on Lost; and c) do my first meme and get all excited. (all in lower caps).

I do see the seeds of the kind of writing I enjoy doing now (when I have the time) --a mini-essay on my son's spidey valentines. (At the time I was thinking I'd start doing a series, Bill Bryson style, called "Notes from a Small Blog" that played up the I'm a Brit in the U.S. angle. Although I still do a few posts like that here and there, this shifted as I got a sense of audience and community--probably about two months or so into blogging).

Who was I writing for in those early posts? No one specific. Not even my husband knew what I was up to, and when he discovered it he was mildly alarmed that he and our son would become blog fodder. But I been reading a few blogs religiously, especially Tracey's--who I knew from Grad School--and thought "hey. this looks like fun. i can do that!" (I even thought in no-caps, see).

I liked the personal, self-deprecating, sharp and funny voices I was coming across, and I wanted to play too. I'd just completed my PhD, so I was used to writing pretty dry and dense prose and having it ripped apart by committee members. I'd become quite jaded and even crippled as a writer. Looking back, I realize I was still kind of reeling from that experience, and this was a way I could feel a sense of confidence and enjoyment about writing once more. I also liked the idea that I could write in this more creative and loose style, and instantaneously get an audience. (Yes. I was a tad naive. And egotistical).

In those early days I was slightly adrift in terms of who I was as a writer or blogger. I "tried out" different styles, topics, and felt a little like I was muttering in the dark.

2. Do you remember when you received your first comment? What was it like?

I think I had an almost visceral response to that first comment--it was by a blogger named "Sheriff" who had a (now defunct) blog called "MothrFkr" and another one called "Emotic*nt"--and I will confess, the first heady thrill of "someone is reading!" was swiftly followed by alarm when I clicked through to his site. But it turned out Sheriff was a very nice lad from Newcastle, UK, and he was a very kind cheerleader in those early days. I have great affection for him still, and take it as a lesson that even the most unsettling of blog-titles will most likely harbor mild-mannered and polite bloggers who are good to their mums.

Other early responders were Jon and Mike--also seriously nice blokes and excellent bloggers. It's interesting to look back and realize that for the first month or so, it was The Guys who were there for me. (I heart you guys... Sniff....)

And then I found myself tapped into the (largely) mommy community. A lot of women like me, who had only been blogging for a short while, and who were finding their feet as writers--and very nicely too. We were all writing and reading one another, and diligently commenting on each and every post. Oh sweet heady days.... When I look back, I can see a shift in my writing as I become more confident in who I am writing for, connecting with.

But more on that in another post (maybe). Right now, my navel's all wet from the open-mouth breathing.

Time to tag: Hmmm. How about the lovely Mrs Fortune (she's baaaaa-aaaack!!! WOOT!) Mad Hatter Mommy and Julie.

Light Iris. The New Google for Moms?

2007-05-24T21:33:00.000+01:00

(I'm crossposting this from my review blog, because I think some of you might be interested in this one...)

Last night I was trolling the internet for information on Rota virus symptoms, and trying to determine if I should be dashing to the ER or riding the tide as my six-month old entered the fifth day of Rota virus symptoms. (thankfully, as I write this, he is now showing real signs of improvement. phew…).

Light Iris is exactly the search engine for parents like me. Touted as “only the best of Google for new Moms,” the site’s creators certainly set up high expectations for users. But as a parent and as a web usability expert, I can say without reservation that Light Iris is an excellent tool for those new moms (and Dads) it attempts to serve.

Do a straight Google search for “Rotavirus” and “listless” (yes. I was a little panicked) and you immediately receive a dizzying array of results. First off the bat is a document by the Center for Disease Control, on some levels useful—presenting some basic facts about the virus and its symptoms--though likely to scare the bejeezus out of you with statistics on infant mortality, and also focused on vaccine development. Interesting, but not what I was looking for.

What I was looking for was help, reassurance, and information specific to my personal situation as a parent of an ailing child.

At Light Iris, a similar search for “Rotavirus” information immediately took me to a first tier of reliable sources for parents in my predicament—sites that, as a more seasoned parent I am now very familiar with, but as a new parent had little knowledge of: kidshealth.org, askdrsears.com, drspock.com, and information from the FDA. Of course, this is information I could have found through Google, though I would have spent considerably more time digging and sifting through the results before landing on what I was looking for.

More to the point, Light Iris returns effective results for less clear-cut searches, and this is where the site’s real strength begins to come into play. As a blogger, I often play the “check my search referrals” game. It’s normally cause for a bit of a giggle, but among the pursuit for “Ostrich Sleep Habits” (to mention one of the cleaner requests) there are other searches that speak of other stories, of other women, like me, who are not only in need of information, but also of reassurance and connection. Several of my posts deal with my struggles with breastfeeding and self image, my ambivalence towards to Dr. Sears, our familial trials with C.I.O., and it is these posts which repeatedly attract readers who find me through a google search, and who have paged through screen after screen of results before landing on one of my pieces.

As Mad Hatter Mommy put it so perfectly a few months ago, “the parenting blogosphere is big. It’s messy. It’s unwieldy.” On her own post over breastfeeding, she writes:

"I have often said that if I could save one woman even one of the tears I shed over breastfeeding then the absolute hell that I went through would be worth it. I don't know if the women who find my post find help. I hope they find solace. What I hope most of all, though, is that they find more relevant search results than Google is likely giving them. I know how much Google search hits lack relevance in this instance because I was that desperate, searching mom just two short years ago."

When we write posts about our experiences with parenting—mess and all—we provide something that the standard parenting sites to not. Light Iris, for understandable reasons, directs users first to those standard sites—and even in this, it is far superior to Google as a search tool for parents. But also among the results, users can begin to locate the voices of bloggers who might provide that solace that Mad so eloquently describes.

Don’t get me wrong, Light Iris is *not* able to do the deep mining of the parenting blogosphere that I (and Mad, among others) would like to see eventually, but I see clues that its creators are working towards that end. Right now quite a few blogs are showing up via the regular search, but the site’s blog-specific search produces very thin results. But this can change as content developers like many of us take the steps to submit our sites, as invited. (And this overall omission is partly down to us bloggers and our resistance to tagging, and our constant use of colloquialisms. For instance, my breastfeeding posts rarely use the “proper” terminology—instead they are littered with references to The Lactator, boobs and tits. I am not about to change that (thank you) but I could at least employ a few more standardized metatags so some poor soul with nipple thrush can feel someone shares her pain).

Before I conclude, I do have a few comments on the design of the site. I’ll admit, when I first entered the site’s URL, I was put off by a number of design elements, first and foremost a flash-animated splash page with no “Skip” function. (Tut Tut). While I understand that the splash works to “brand” the product, I do know that usability studies show that splash pages annoy the crap out of most users—including this one--especially if you are trying to do something simple and fast. Light Iris is not selling me an “experience” or “life choice,” so I strongly recommend skipping the flash splash.

I have to also say that apart from the flash, I was initially put off by the liberal use of pink (and hard to read) font, and the soft, fuzzy, slightly hallmarky and inspirational feel it emanates. Star bursts for “New Moms. Unique Needs” and such. A little too cutesy and even preteen for my tastes, but certainly not annoying enough to stop me from using the site.

On the other hand, I appreciated that the interface, a la Google, is stripped down and uncluttered. This was Google’s strength, after all, years back when the standard search interface was crammed with text and browse functions (remember Lycos and Excite?). Light Iris retains the Google feel, but makes the site different enough conceptually to reassure users that this is something new.

I am extremely impressed with what Light Iris accomplishes, and realize—as a metadata expert--that the “behind the scenes” work going into this tool is no mean feat. (And I’d really like to know how they do it!) Since I started using Light Iris a week ago, I have been surprised how often I have already used it for my personal needs. Overall, it is an excellent tool, worthy of much attention and investment on the part of people like us who want to provide other voices and perspectives on the experience of parenting.

This review was part of a Parent Blogger's Network campaign. Interested in going to BlogHer but wondering how to afford the registration? Check out the PBN's Blog Blast Contest, enter, and they, along with Light Iris, might just pick up that tab for you.

Where'd She Go?

2007-05-21T18:08:00.000+01:00

Posting has been thin on the ground of late. I know, I know, I'm sorry. There are several reasons for this.

1: The Plague. In the space of one week my gorgeous baby boy has had conjunctivitis, dual ear infections (Nice when you go to the doc for eye goop, they check your still-smiling babe's ear holes, and inquire... "did you know he has an ear infection in each year?" Uhm. Nope. Please commence flagellation now. I really don't mind. In fact I'd prefer it) and now some sort of puking/diarrhea, crying-all-the-time-because-he-is-so-miserable thing going on. He is at Home With Daddy right now, who, as he reads this, is resenting the shit out of me for having the time to sit at my desk, sans kiddies, and write this sloppy post.

2: I have been cheating on this blog, with a couple of fluffy posts about Briddish PopCulture over at Mamapop you might have seen (Pop Britannia, Mondays! Check it betches!). And also behind the scenes with planning for new launch of BlogRhet. More on that to come for sure, but team BlogRhet has been hatching plans, and you will invited to participate in our mission for world domination very very soon (we've got a bloggy game/activity in mind). This week, if it kills me.

3. Real Work at Real Job. And lots of it. I could tell you what I am doing, but then I'd have to kill you. Also, people in my workplace are beginning to get a whiff of this blog, and though I am never likely to be dooced, I am likely to be continuously harangued by the geek squad we've got going on over here if I misrepresent anyone or any event. (And by "harangued" being mercilessly ridiculed to where "it's NOT FUNNY any more guys!!!!").

4. Being invited to speak, here:

OMFG! Yes sirree. I am speaking on Saturday at the session on "The Politics of Inclusion and Exclusion of Online Communities." I am there as a blogger and an academic. So I am both thrilled and mildly shitting my pants. Brain power is being devoted to this dual state, and not a small hint of Writer's Block (as I think about the politics of inclusion/exclusion I enact just with this space, and wanting to write about it in meaningful and productive way and not do something idiotic like create an unmitigated us-vs.-them minefield).

I am in no doubt that I will end up ~~boring you to tears over~~ enlisting your opinion on this topic very soon. Yes. This here blog is going to get seriously meta on your ass over the next few months. Lots of banging on about "community" and "identity" and "online spaces." (btw--I don't think all the speakers are announced or finalized for BlogHer yet, in case you were wondering...)

And, of course, for all this I need to focus. (See 1, 2 & 3). I am seriously inspired, seriously schitzo, and seriously stinking of baby vomit.

School Fundraiser...The Damage

2007-05-16T19:29:00.000+01:00

I realized I promised to post on what happened on Friday. I've been flooded with emails since then, begging, literally begging to know what happened.*

It's frightfully gauche to talk about money (and yet I still do it...). But let's just say we managed to get ourselves the "plum" items from each of our children's classes, and were in some serious bidding wars. It did get ugly, but we were triumphant as the ugliest of them all. I am even considering charging a premium for the unbearably adorable pictures of other people's children (and their babyfootprints) that I now legally own as they grace the pages of the highly prized Baby Room Scrapbook (because, frankly, I could care less about their kids, and this might help recoup some costs).

I now feel that I can safely spend the next year without participating in one single School Read-a-thon, Pizza Fundraiser, Cookie Dough Fundraiser (actually, I rather like that one) Scholastic Book Drive, Zoo Field trip, or anything else nice for our daycare. ever. And if the teachers think they're going to get end of term, christmas, or valentines gifts, they can think again... I've done my part. License to be the school curmudgeonly asshole, granted.

*remember, I am a liar.

Morning Rant of a Hungover Mother of Two Who Should Know Better...

2007-05-11T15:21:00.000+01:00

You know you're in trouble when it's 11pm and your Stitch N Bitch group should be wrapping up, but instead you decide (upon seeing the empty bottle of Pinot Grigio) "Nev' mind..I'm switchin' to red..." You also know you're in trouble at midnight when your husband calls "not to hassle you or anything, but to just check you've not been mugged or are lying in a ditch somewhere..."

Oy... I feel...fragile.

I reserve my main sympathy for my good friend who kept me company, and who has to be all peppy, social, and organized this evening at our Preschool Fundraiser because she's in charge. An Auction. Do your schools participate in this seventh-circle-of-hell type activity? Have you ever found yourself in a bidding war for a step stool with your kid's (along with a bunch of other kids' you could care less about) footprints on it?

Does your preschool/daycare take the most adorable pictures of your preshus baby all smiling and chubby, pop it in an album (along with a bunch of other baby pics you could care less about) and force you to pay upwards of $100 for the thing (just because the idea of another parent getting that preshus portrait is simply too much to bear...)?

It's Dog Eat Dog out there, people. Sure they feed you pizza, and watch your kids for free, but in the end it's an all out frenzy by bourgy parents like us who haggle ferociously over stuff our clearly superior children made. It can get ugly and very, very expensive.

(And: SULK. This year I have been informed by MrDrGinga there will be no bidding on various "Vacation Retreats" that come up, because this year he'd like to not come home a thousand bucks or so lighter. Although I will counter, what is the use of Big Fuck-off Minivan if one is not to vacation-retreat in it?)

All right. I'm a tad jaded this morning. It's the tannins and searing headache. Entres Nous, I enjoy a good haggle (as you know). I will report the damage to you Monday morning.

Also--Mother's Days plans. I know you're dying to know what I have lined up. Well MINE (HINT HINT) involve being brought breakfast in bed (bacon sammich on french bread. crammed with bacon. crammed). Cup of tea. Laptop for a little recreational activity, perhaps. Trip to the garden center (because yes. I am becoming my mother...) in search of devastatingly beautiful plants that flower all summer and that do not require watering or taking care of in any way (i.e. am becoming mother, expect part where green things actually remain alive...). Possibly an afternoon trip to Spiderman 3 with my Big Boy (possibly).

~~How will you beat your husband and children into servitude for one day?~~ What're your Mother's Day plans?

I Heart [tag] Geeks [/tag]

2007-05-08T18:26:00.000+01:00

I also love that I work with clever young 'uns who wear "I code so you don't have to" T-Shirts. Awwww! Bless.

Currently gracing their collective workspace as a poster:

From XKDC, A Web Comic of Romance, Sarcasm, Math, and Language. Click here for Big View.

I'm Awesome (But Then You Already Knew That...)

2007-05-04T17:26:00.000+01:00

This last week or so there's been quite swell of "I am a Good Parent" declarations going on, all triggered by Rebecca of Girl's Gone Child who suggests that this new trend of confessing one's self as a bad parent is the new form of saying "I'm so fat."

Interesting. And she's definitely onto something. But what? Like Her Bad Mother, I am very aware that most of my "parenting" posts relate tales of chaos and questionable mommy skills. Even in this last one here, I am regaling you with how I did not leave the house with my children as a well-prepared mommy of two should.

Let me tell you a secret. I did not get my kid to eat cheetos off the floor.

Also. There was a teeny weeny plastic dinosaur in my purse, which Big Boy played with quite nicely for a while.

Also. Although I had no snacks, we did have a couple of singles and there was a vending machine. Filled with candy and granola bars. I opted for the granola bars, though he begged begged begged for chocolate. And he had water to drink, not pop.

Also. In moments where he was really bored, when we were waiting for paperwork and all that other time-consuming stuff that happens when you spend your life away in one morning, I found a pen and paper, and we worked on his letters, and drew pictures and made up little stories and rhymes.

Why did I not tell you these things? Why did I lie? Well, as HBM says, it's not as much fun. Good is. Well. Good. Nice. But I can't get my comic jollies off it. Also. I'm not so much interested in telling you the minutiae of my day as much as picking a moment, and telling a story. And you know I like to tell a story with a bit of comic effect, normally with myself as the butt of the joke. I select some details, omit others, and even fabricate a touch here and there for the sake of literary effect. (yes. I said literary. shut up).

(see? I just did it, up there. in that parentheses. it's a rhetorical tactic--perhaps an overplayed one, but I like it, so bugger off!)

Rebecca is right to point out that this constant self-deprecation needs to be looked at a bit more carefully. On one level I see it as a kind of social gesture that says "I am not a competimommy! I do not judge! I am crap too. See see! Let's be friends!" There's definitely a specifically feminine discourse mode going on here, imbued with self-deprecation tactics in order to show comradeship and community. And in this way, I think it is actually extremely valuable. It's part of our community-building schtick. It's a form of rhetoric. It's a way we tell stories and engage one another. And within this context, I would even say it's empowering.

Stories.

Fiction?

HBM asks: "Are you as good or as bad or as in-between in real life as you portray yourself on your blog? How much of your 'self' IS portrayed - revealed? exposed? - on your blog? Do you lay it all bare, and if not - what aren't you telling us?"

I know that HBM is a Good Parent. Even through her writing. Especially through her writing. Would we be reading her if we really thought she was a seriously Bad Mother. Course Not.

I also know you are an excellent parent, and you are, and you are, and you are. And I am pretty certain that you folks know I also rockit in the parenting department (as does my partner in crime, DrMrGinga).

What am I not telling you? The stuff I think is boring. The details that can make a post spiral out of control and lose focus. You lot have no clue how long it can take me to write some of these things sometimes. But I carefully cultivate an off-the-cuff style so it looks effortless and conversational (I hope). And I also omit the stuff that is too private, and that extends beyond me (which is a lot, also).

How much of my "self" is portrayed or exposed? Everything and nothing. Most people who know me say that this blog reflects my personality to a T. I've done well in creating an authentic "voice." On the other hand, there is so, so much that is not written. Sometimes because I simply don't have time to sit and process with words, and sometimes because to tell would be to tell too much, and to make this blog into a more confessional or journal form that I don't really want it to be. This is not therapy for me. And although I value all of you, when I need help or support I look to those immediately around me. Ones I can physically grab in my vice-like grip.

So do you know me? Yes. And I know myself better through writing here. But I am edited. And tweaked. Just like you. Just as we are, everyday. I really don't know what authenticity is. It's one of those concepts that crumbles as soon as I attempt to define it. But I will ask--Is saying we're a fiction the same thing as saying we're false?

Note: While I am on another metablogging tangent, you should know that HBM and I have been devising ways to shift BlogRhet to the next phase. We want to make it a group blog where some "thinky" writing can take place--not necessarily academic, but certainly more research and exploration in orientation. If you are interesting in collaborating with us on this project, shoot me an email at gingajoy [at] gmail.com. Please! If you've already stated interest, expect to hear from us soon.

But Actually, I am the Quintessential Ugly American...

2007-05-02T20:39:00.000+01:00

And I've now got the minivan to prove it (Yes. Did It).

We went off to "just look" on Saturday morning. Two boys, no snacks, and "No! No I haven't got any toys in my handbag. NO! Here. Play with this key chain. Look. Eat those cheetos from the floor"

We come back nearly three hours later with a Toyota Sienna, a four year old who was nearly climbing the walls from boredom, and a Fat Chunk of New Debt. Yay! (it does get good gas mileage. relatively speaking. honest.)

I tend to handle "negotiations" in these situations. i.e. I barter. I have no shame or sense of dignity (unlike my Husband, who did manage to stop me from letting them add all sorts of "fabric, paint, and whatever "proofing' to the thing in my frenzy to BUY BUY BUY).

Here's how the "brokering" went:

Teenage Car Salesman: "If we factor in the blah blah rebate, and the blah blah interest rate, we're looking at [Insert obscene amount of $$$$$ here]"

Me: "Really. OK. Well let me just be upfront with you. Tell it to you straight. Let's not mess around here. We have a limit. If you can make that figure [Insert obsene amount of $$$$, less $5,000. Aim low, right?] we are ready to make a deal today

Teenage Car Salesman: (sits at his desk and makes show of using calculator and "checking figures." I am not fooled in the least. I'm going to hold my ground). "I think we can do that...."

[beat]

Me: "Wha?" (thinks: FUCK!)

Yeah. I'm such a fricking hussler. Outwitted by a spotty youth. I think we got a good deal, but how can I be sure?

Ah. Who cares? I now have my minivan, and another American Dream is fulfilled....

Pimping this British Thing For All It's Worth

2007-04-30T16:13:00.000+01:00

I now have a completely legitimate excuse to work phrases like "what a wanker!" and "it's the dog's bollocks" and "PONCE!" into my bloggy lexicon, because the kind folks at MamaPop have asked me to be a contributing writer at their place.

Yes please, guv'na!

Head on over to read the first of my installments of Pop Britannia and be wowed by how artfully I can work that cor blimey factor into deliciously trivial pop-culture news from across the pond. (It would be awfully, awfully nice of you, chaps)

(bloomin' heck. i'm making m'self nauseous already. I'm laying it on thicker than Madge!)

Vast, ungainly whale of a man seeks petite women 25-35 who taste of pizza. Box FE8093

2007-04-27T21:15:00.000+01:00

Yes. I know I have three more Unmet Goals to laboriously recount to you. The reason for my tardiness? Goal #3, actually do some real work at my real job for a real change.

So, I have been working at my real job. Has it been real work? Sadly, I don't think so. (deep sigh...)

See also, Goal # 4: Write deeply fascinating and revelatory post on either

a) Moving Back to England
b) Becoming A U.S. Citizen
c) Wanting to move back to England, and seriously thinking about it, but at the same time being scared shitless by the prospect, and thinking we'll stay put, and so thinking it would be nice to be able to vote the next election....so I think I might become a citizen.

Yeah. It's total inner turmoil of the mindfuck variety, and not something I seem to be able to grasp mentally, let alone write about. But I'm working on it.

Meanwhile, this lovely lady makes me hanker for Old Blighty all the more. Have you read Antonia of Whoopee? You must.

I discovered the The Framley Examiner through her. It's like The Onion but with liberal usage of the word "bollocks." The best section by far is The Personals.

Ladies with hemorrhoids, stretch marks, and possibly a touch of constipation right now, this one’s for you….

2007-04-27T21:04:00.000+01:00

Liz, Tammie, and Christina are all great with child, and several lovely ladies are throwing them a baby shower. Wheeeeee!

Right. So first we are to offer the best ass-vice offered as a new parent.

Let’s see. How about the old “Sleep when the baby sleeps” adage. Excellent in theory but reliant on several crucial variables.

A) that your baby actually sleeps

B) that if your baby sleeps you don’t have anything else you might be needing to do to, you know, actually function in life. Like having a shower, taking a shit, or (ehem) blogging.

C) that if your baby sleeps and you do lay down for a rest, you won’t be laying there tensely attempting to sleep and getting increasingly pissed off because goddamit I am exhausted and why I can’t I just sleep already…

D) you won’t need to sleep because you’re getting plenty of rest at night, thankyouverymuch, because you’re babywise and the baby sleeps all through the night (if it knows what’s good for it). (*snort*)

And next, the best advice offered:

Remember the baby hasn’t read the books, so stop killing yourself and acting like a freak… (thanks, Mum)

When Ira Glass is my Boyfriend

2007-04-24T17:15:00.000+01:00

[Part Two of the "Name Five Goals You Have Largely Ignored" meme Slouching Mom tagged me for. Part One below.]

Another Life Goal I have on my mental back-burner as "something I must really get to some day because it would be brilliant if I do say so myself" is to:

Make a short radio documentary on breast-pumping. This would no doubt bring me instant fame and fortune via the This American Life lineup. A reproductive Sarah Vowell, if you will.

Wouldn't it be brilliant? I have it all mapped out and organized already (in my mind).

America's Secret...Millions of Women Are Exposing Themselves in the Workplace, and Doing It With Style...." (or something).

Radio would be the perfect medium for this subject matter. We could sidestep all the full-frontal censorship issues that would annoyingly arise, and so also avoid having our audience visually distracted by the alarming level of equipment involved. The focus would be on the stories.

And, of course, lot could be connoted through ambient sound (ladies who pump--you know what I'm talking about here) and personal anecdotes from various women about "my first time," or "why I opted for the black leather," or "what I did when the Boss walked in" or " "don't tell anyone, but my keyboard is sticky..." and "why does this seem slightly shameful?"

For me the culture of pumping is fascinating because it is so private, so underground, so taboo. All us women sharing the same experience, but sitting (hiding?) in splendid isolation at our desks (or wherever the hell else has been designated a pumping zone) while we pour forth our bounty. So much to talk about. I'd love to produce something that places pumping in its historical and cultural context. I'm envisioning something funny, poignant, and political. I'm envisioning a Pulitzer, dammit!

Yes. This is a goal I would love to get to one of these days. I've been chewing on it ever since I unravelled the tubes and adjusted the flanges for that first tearful session, and my father (Yes, he was there. At this stage in my life I had no sense of personal boundary) said "I am reminded of Barbarella." (Yes Dad. If Barbarella had chapped nipples, "production issues," and a pump that resembled like a nineteenth century combustion engine, that is....)

But stay tuned for the next three installments, where I list all the other fudding Life Goals I need to get to first.

How I manage to keep myself awake at night (Or. Five Goals I've largely ignored). PART ONE

2007-04-23T20:47:00.000+01:00

Slouching Mom has tagged me for this meme: "What five goals have you largely ignored?"

Allow me to rephrase that:

"So, Joy, what keeps you awake at night? Are you happy? Do you consider yourself a fulfilled person? How do you fail on a monthly, weekly, nay, daily basis? Do tell"

Thanks for the mindfuck, SM.
UH. TOTALLY. (heh)

I should state up front that there is no goal that I have largely ignored as much as Done Nothing About It Whatsoever (Except to Fret Over Having Done Nothing About it Whatsoever).

Goal 1: Lose twenty pounds by summer.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. (wipes tears).

Remember earlier in the year, when I was all, like, "here's a post where I casually reference that I am going to the gym! Hey! And here's another one! I am SOOOO energetic and crazy fit! Whoop-de-whoooo! GOODBYE PREGNANCY POUNDS!!!"

So. I've not been the the gym in about 5 weeks, and the fleshly hula-hula skirt is still a swingin'. Oh. And I might be the only postpartum woman alive who actually loses the weight after 10 weeks, and then slowly but surely piles it back on again. And surely the milk-bag titties only account for 10lbs (each) of that weight???? Right????

I also have several false starts in sparkpeople.com where I obsess over their calorie counter. I became QUEEN of the calorie counter. For a week. And then comes the weekend of binge eating and (cough) drinking, and uh, who wants to actually write that stuff down and see it all in print, y'know? So, uh, let's forgeddaboutit. Forever.

This week is the week though. I have roped in a friend, and we're having weekly weigh ins. We are both horribly shallow and unmotivated, and so need some sort of accountability--i.e. Monday Morning Email of Shame. To use her phrase. "I've got to do something. My stomach is trying to reach out and touch someone.." It's trying to reach out and touch mine, Jen. In fact. I think they were making out on Saturday night. (How was it for you?)

And for the record. I am not a freak about this. I simply want to approximate 150lbs and have a size twelve fit comfortably. I also plan to keep enjoying my food with my accustomed gluttony, uh, I mean gusto. And no one is taking my wine. (Bitch).

I just think I could do without standing in the kitchen mindlessly chowing down the Boy's Easter basket. I mean, I have succumbed to binge-eating Brach's candy, forchrissakes. BRACHS!!! WHERE DID MY STANDARDS GO????

(for the record, Yanks. Your candy is for shit. There. I've said it.)

(OK. Except for Jelly Bellies)

(Oh. And Good N Plenty)

(Dove's not too bad either)

(Not that I eat those things)

Anyhooo. Moving on. I am supposed to do five. But I cannot sustain the freakish pace I've established for myself.

Part Deux tomorrow....

I need to get my drink on.....

2007-04-20T18:41:00.000+01:00

In case you're the only person alive who's not seen this one already:

Because seriously. Drunken, swearing toddlers. What's not freaking hilarious about that? I'm just wondering why it's never occured to me to get the video camera out and tape that shit before.

Oh. and while I am up for Parent of the Year award, you might want to pop over and check out my review of Let's Get Ready for Kindergarten over here.

But before you do that, check this farting baby.
It's a baby. Farting. It's AWESOME!!!!!

Hi. I'm not here right now...

2007-04-18T03:06:00.000+01:00

But you can catch me at some burlesque blogging at Her Bad Mother's...

Letting Go...

2007-04-17T19:37:00.000+01:00

He is four years old. Though he still clings to me at times, demanding mommy love and protection, he is slowly finding his own way. My hand is no longer automatically sought after when we approach a street; my company is not immediately required for bedtime rituals and upset tummies. He can choose his own clothes and ride the bus to Kindergarten all by himself… And I notice that his cheeks are losing some of their sweet roundness, his face taking on an angularity that suggests his father.

At the airport I watch awkward teens accompany their parents on spring break trips. Slumped and hooded, absorbed in their iPods and Consoles. All adam’s apple and acne.

When August brings the freshmen to campus, I watch the parents with new interest. Letting go. Cars crammed with lamps and laundry baskets, unloading at the side of the dorm. Photos and kisses and I love you, Honey.

Then the quiet drive home with them gone.

Today it is hard not to be preoccupied with what has happened at Virginia Tech. It’s hard to listen to the news accounts without imagining the unspeakable experiences of those parents whose children died or were in danger, without imagining what it would be like to receive that petrified call from your child in peril, and knowing you can do nothing whatsoever about it except to reassure them that there’s nothing to worry about… Mommy and Daddy are here to keep you safe...

I'm so sorry...

And this one's about my dog. Yeah. That's right.

2007-04-13T18:41:00.000+01:00

Since February, when I announced that our vet recommended an Ostrich and Rutabaga diet for our faithful lab, my email In Box has been flooded with inquiries as to her health and well being.* We have been touched by your concern, and would like to share with you this official update on The Dog's progress.

You'll remember, of course, that before we were forced to completely lose our nuts and start shopping for roadkill in Australia or wherever-the-hell Ostriches (or Emu) happen to be in cheap and plentiful supply, we were first given the option of feeding her an allergen-free food called Your Child's College Fund (YCCF).
Well, YCCF is apparently not price high enough for whatever malodorous pestilence has descended on our pooch, now positively riddled with yeast and bacteria, a nasty ear infection, and smelling, quite unpleasantly, of Dorritos. She was pronounced as "diseased" by the specialist vet the Husband took her too this week. Nice. And apparently we can't give her away for medical experiments, so we're faced with Plan Not-Quite B.

So yesterday, I found myself on the phone to several Meats Suppliers (that's "Meats" and not "Meat." Just so you know) inquiring as to where I can score me some "Low grade Lamb meat, for stewing. Cheap..." I am pleased to report that I managed to negotiate quite a deal with a certain "Dr. Beef," no questions asked, and the Husband had the pleasure of hauling the hacked up carcass home.

At this very moment, he is boiling up great vats of it on our stove, periodically skimming off the fat as the vet instructed. The whole process, apparently, is "revolting." Hopefully revolting enough to actually work; the poor dog is in misery and right now we're looking at several hundred bucks a month in meats alone.... We are told this is just a temporary measure for now, but we could end up having to do this for the rest of The Dog's life.

We shall, of course, keep you apprised as to her progress. Thank you for your kind wishes in this challenging time.

(And if any of you folks have dealt with something similar with your dog, TELL ME. Jokes aside, this is too expensive. Too expensive to be funny, really. But we're not on the Ostrich yet, so I should probably shut up).

*No one wrote to inquire actually. I think this is cold. Bastard People.

Yes. This Is A Post About the Weather.... Well F*^^% You Too!

2007-04-11T19:57:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, here in Michigan we enjoyed a spate of balmy weather topping out into the 80s. Spring's early arrival triggered the annual en masse exposure of flesh that only a Midwestern campus town can know, and in my own neighborhood small children once more tore around the block on their bikes while their parents gently chatted over fences. People came together to revel in warm and open spaces and to admire one another's bulb gardens.

Except me. I was freaked out. Freaked out by this sudden onset of warmth and clamminess. The lack of appropriate clothes. The realization that my legs still wore their customary winter shag and my feet in serious need of a pedicure (or at least some de-gnarling). And then there is that pressure to Be Outside Enjoying It While You Can. And to Make Sure the Children Get Plenty of Fresh Air.

I am not an Outdoorsy Person. I think you could safely describe me as an Indoorsy Person. When August fades into Fall and that first cold snap hits the air, I love the anticipation of hunkering down and become positively giddy as I sit on the couch and watch my Husband lug in several tons of logs for the fire. I even like it when it gets dark earlier, and we are safely coccooned in our living room enjoying that blaze while I ~~watch endless hours of television and blog and stuff my face~~ knit and do jigsaw puzzles with my son. I'm English. We dig gloomy weather.

But Holy Fuck. I can't take any more of this. I'm sorry already, ok? Days and days of snow and wind and wrestling my boys into padded garments. The daffodils are fucked and my son is asking if this means it's Christmas soon...

Is it too late to bring civility to the Web? Wrong Question.

2007-04-10T21:06:00.000+01:00

Yesterday's NYTs article on the so-called "conversational free-for-all" that was making The Blogosphere such a "prickly and unpleasant place" poses this question to its readers. "Is it too late to bring civility to the Web?"

Well. First, define civility. And then define The Web. (I'm not being facetious. Just bear with me a sec).

There are dozens of conversations going on about the whole Kathy Sierra online harassment case, and Tim O'Reilly's subsequent Call for a Blogger's Code of Conduct. The Call has prompted, unsurprisingly, a lot of knee-jerk reactions concerning censorship. For instance, O'Reilly suggests, among other things, that bloggers "own" not only their own words, but also the "tone that you allow on any blog or forum you control" and this includes inflammatory comments, which he suggests be removed. He also suggests that bloggers disallow anonymous comments and to employ the "Don't say anything online that you wouldn't say in person" mantra. Instead, "imagine you're talking to your mother." (A very telling analogy, if you ask me, but I'll hold my tongue on that one for now. OK, except to say that wouldn't many of us perhaps less "innocent" mothers be utterly fucked if we had to live to this rule?)

I'm not about to take on the whole Freedom of Speech can of worms that is opened up here. (Holy Shit!). I do have very mixed feelings on this, and this is partly about the concept of "ownership" and the Broadcast model O'Reilly uses to characterize the way that the blogging medium works. On a personal level, much of what O'Reilly states makes sense to me, even if its a little overwrought and heavily reliant on notions of snazzy badges to mark one's tolerance level for abusive comments. (If you ask me, there is nothing that would bring on the trolls more than if I posted a big Good Behavior Badge on my site that says something along the lines of Stop In the Name of the Blog Law! I Will Not Accept Your Abuse! Go'Way... As far as I'm concerned it would just function as a big fat label that tells my readers that I am automatically suspicious of them. And a touch paranoid. En Guarde!)

What does interest me in all of this is how the mainstream media, and even O'Reilly to an extent, use this social concept of The Blogosphere or The Web in such relatively uncomplicated ways. As if The Blogosphere is one homogeneous (if rather unruly and uncivil) "society" that needs, at best, a good telling off, and at worst, a system of rules and procedures for accountability. In this vision there are the Good Blog Citizens who abide the rules and then there are the Nameless Trolls who threaten to spoil it all. Not that there aren't trolls or pretty foul people out there who seem to have some serious psychological issues to deal with, but the examples we've seen discussed in the media have been pretty extreme. When I think about adopting a Blogger's Code of Conduct, I'm really not sure who I am protecting (if anyone).

So. Define "Civil." I've already mentioned that the "Don't say anything you wouldn't say to your mother" rules out a lot writing that occurs in our often deeply personal and confessional spaces. Does this make us uncivil? Of course not (and I don't think O'Reilly would make that claim either). What this does show is that any attempts to establish codes of conduct or ~~policing~~ whatever we want to call it cannot adequately take into account the myriad of contexts and communities that make up this messy thing we're calling the blogosphere. What might be perfectly acceptable within one community would be utterly inappropriate in another--including what counts as "civility." (A point that BlogHer's Lisa Stone made to the NYT reporter, but which did not manage to find its way into the final print of the "Nasty Blogs" article)

This is all to say that I don't believe that there is such a thing as The Web as a discrete place in which to be civil. As I stated in a comment over at BlogHer, "The Blogosphere" is made up of innumerable, smaller communities of practice, each defining itself and its norms in very different ways. The various communities that make up the "mommasphere" are certainly prime examples. And its these communities, those which do not fit in the Broadcast or Author/Reader model so comfortably, that are less in need of some sort of protective Code (presuming anyone actually is). These communities--according to their own often implicit and intuited rules--are policing themselves very effectively.

An all-encompassing concept of The Blogosphere is not really very useful any more, especially in these types of debates, where it removes from the equation the diverse range of contexts in which we are all blogging, interacting, and being. We're only beginning to scrape at the surface of what these contexts are, and how these communities of practice actually work, but this, for me, is an essential starting point of we're going to start asking questions about online conduct.

Kitchen Conversations of the Delusional

2007-04-09T22:59:00.000+01:00

Me: You know. We really should start thinking about keeping these little jars that the First Foods come in. They could be useful [goes about screwing and unscrewing babyfood jar lid as if to demonstrate "usefulness"]

Him: Define "useful."

Me: Weeeeelll. For instance. We could use these jars to put Homemade Baby Food in. You know. Stuff we make ourselves. I mean, how hard can it be? To puree some carrots and stuff.

I have a thing. For pureeing....

Him: [stares intently at this Strange Woman]

Me/Him: BWHAHAHHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Me: Sling these chicken nuggets in the microwave will you?

Sedaris Gem...

2007-04-09T17:09:00.000+01:00

David Sedaris pontificates on the perfect Male Accessory. If you've not watched this, you must....

MyBlogLog My Self?

2007-04-05T21:51:00.000+01:00

It all started earlier this year. Around January or so I started seeing more and more instances of that intriguing little widget so many bloggy types are plopping their right navs. See? To the Right there? My Recent Readers? (Are you there, my gentle one?) Being the pursuer of all shiny objects that I am, I got myself the widget and became quite obsessed with it for a while. I even made it orange. For style.

2007 has been the year of the profile image for me. Did you notice? Gingajoy is connoted by mere citrus fruit no more. Instead I decided that an honest-to-god photo was the way to go. This stems in part from all those "how do communities work?" "how do we represent identity?" type questions I've been asking lately. I had resisted a photo, at first for the sake of anonymity, which became less of a concern, and then because I was not sure if I wanted to personalize or stamp the blog in this way. I wanted the writing to speak for itself... (shuddup).

Oh, and I also did not want to distract you with my dazzling beauty.

Photos give us a sense of intimacy and connection. How much is this false or any less "authentic" than the personae we create for F2F communications? Who are we seeing in those tiny snapshots? Who do we want to see? Why is there a certain pleasure in looking at those faces in your sidebar? This are some Big Questions. And if I attempt to answer them here, this post is never going to make it. So let me spew out some of my initial and sketchy thoughts on the MyBlogLog tools and see what you others think.
Who's with me??
Hoorah!

(and let me say up front these are my thoughts only--anything vaguely suspect or reprehensible in the following can be attributed to me, and me alone)

MyBlogLog confessions

When I first got the widget, I found myself automatically drawn to other MyBlogLoggers, because I could go and stamp my face on their site. No commenting required... They knew I'd been. They felt the love.

This is great for me on many levels because I can show support without summoning up something terribly clever or insightful to place in the comments section. In this way, it's a bit like drive-by commenting. You can very swiftly stop by a place, deposit your mark (there's that metaphor again) and the obligation to comment is considerably diminished.

And...if there is no comment there is a nice picture of that face, which, depending on readership, can remain in that nav, smiling beneficently, for quite some time. "I simply must drop by Ginga's place" you think to yourself....

In this way and others MBL's a networking tool par excellence, and (perhaps) more to the point it's a great way to bring traffic to your site. For instance if you go into your MBL communities you can immediately see who "belongs" to certain sites you love. You can then go and visit these foreign-types and go get your face on their blogs (and, uhm, maybe they'll return the favor...). It's a tool that breeds community spontaneously and efficiently.

And yes. It can get a little mercenary. Maybe?

I will admit, there have been quite a few times when I've looked at my own widget and been pleasantly surprised to see some newbies there, especially when that person falls outside my usual crowd. In fact those faces invariably look like quite a different group compared to those who fill up my comments section, and I've come across several fab bloggers as a result. I think there are many positive advantages to tools like MyBlogLog and I certainly enjoy having a more tangible sense of community.

Lurkers are Made of People....

And now even if they are not commenting (which is cool with me) they are at least embodied somewhat.

But. I do wonder sometimes about how the tool can be exploited. (Spammers are already having some fun with it--which is inevitable. I was quite disappointed when I realized that this pretty boy to the right was only interested in me as a potential visitor to his e-card sites. Clever, though, using that face to get me to check out his ass. Totally worked).

How much can a face, a "quick popping my head in for a visit," supplant a written comment? Does it matter if it does? How much is this immediately gratifying sense of community, a posse in your right nav, actually very superficial--like a race to get as many friends as possible into your Facebook Profile, and activity which certainly preoccupies a lot of my student's time?

I don't have answers to these questions at all--there aren't any clean ones (and nor should there be). But as we increasingly live online lives, and rank our worth in terms of comments and links and communities of faces, I think it's definitely worth thinking about.

Any thoughts?

Edited to Add: Case in point. Without MyBlogLog, I would not have realized that Jean Luc Picard had a blog. Sir. If you are reading this, I would be honored if you'd stamp my blog with your stunning visage.

Veni, Vidi, PeePee (edited with postscript)

2007-04-02T16:06:00.000+01:00

We Came. We Saw. We peed on territory...

We're back! We did it. We're exhausted. We're Rock Stars.

A synopsis of this weekend:

"Blah blah blahBlogmommmymommymommymommyblogblogblogBlah blah blah mommmymommymommymommyblogblogblogblogblogblogBlah blah blahblogblogblogblogblogblogBlah blah blahmommmymommymommymommy

blogblogblogBlah blah blahblogblogblogblogblogblogBlah blah mommmymommymommymommyblahblogblogblogblogblogblogblogblogblog"

Blah blah Communications.
Blah blah Online Communities.
Blah blah Facebook.
Blah blah Constructed Self.
Blah Blah. More wine please.
Blah Blah. I'll have a margarita
Blah Blah. Issmybirfday. I's celebratin...
Blah Blah. I need coffee.

Forgive me if I cannot string together a coherent thought in this here post. But suffice it to say for now, I think that between us Her Bad Mother , Bub and Pie , m'old pal Paula and I now have enough for a very thick book on the subject of women, mothers and blogging (along with all of you who have written those fabulous metaposts). And, in the sage words of HBM, we have taken that first vital step towards "peeing on territory." Which, in many ways, is what all this academic conferencing tends to be about. We have descended on Kentucky and one chunk of the Communications Research Profession, left our stinky mark, and promptly quit town.

(and a heartfelt Thank You to all those of you who contributed to this work. A post on the future of BlogRhet to come--but we might well be enlisting any willing bloggers to help us build on this project)

Other highlights that are sure to make for some interesting blogfodder here and elsewhere (eventually illustrated with a smattering of the one billion photos HBM took, I hope):

Swarms, and I mean literally swarms of Mary Kay Ladies who went around Louisville Downtown in well-groomed packs as they attended their Annual Conventions. Imagine groups of 10-15 women, all in black suits with red or pink accessories (including the odd hot pink feather boa) and enormous make-up totes, all stomping around town in stilettos in search of umbrella drinks and bar snacks after a long day of listening to inspirational speakers. One nice lady rode with us on the elevator and boy she knew how to work it. We were very nearly whisked up to her room for complete makeovers (the disappointment on HBM and Paula's face when we couldn't swing it.....tragic....) We did converse with the Mary Kay Lady long enough though to provide a quick explanation of what a blog was and why she should totally think about getting one for her Mary Kay Marketing..... She seemed intrigued. You heard it here first folks!

Swarms, and I mean literally swarms of Hard Core Mulletted Bow Archers attending the National Field Archery Association, stalking about town with bows slung over their backs and quivers slotted casually into their back pockets (or their children's strollers). And this at the very same convention center as the Mary Kay Ladies. It was the stuff that arsy academics interested in the performativity of gender norms dream of. It was also highly entertaining. The indoor archery competition--which, let's face it, could have gone horribly horribly wrong as about 200 people competed at one time in an enclosed space--functioned like a well-oiled machine. Props to indoor archers and the men and women who risk their lives to let them compete...

A very fun way to spend one's 36th birthday (and thanks soooo much to all those of you who emailed me. That alone is worth joining Maya's Mom for, m'ladies. They send nice little reminders to your online pals: "Today is Joy's Birthday! Tell her Happy Birthday! Do it! DO IT YOU HEARTLESS BITCH!!!! Or something along those lines....)

Pics to come folks. Pics to come....

Bub and Pie's post captures the talkingtalkingtalking aspect perfectly. And she's inspired me to add this postscript.

Only one thing is better than spending several days away from home with women you hugely admire, and that is Coming Home. A belated birthday greeting, handdrawn cards, framed art by Big Boy, cards and gifts from friends and family, a sparklingly clean house and laundry all done and put away, fireplace aglow (God. I am almost nauseating myself here, but it's the God's Honest Truth!)

Baby Boy made a great (and noisy) display of demonstrating how he had missed The Boobs, and Big Boy was a frenzy of giddy excitement galloping around me and constantly grabbing my hand to plant sloppy kisses on it. (Mamma, I missed you!!!!1).

And my dear Old Man grinning and pouring me a fat glass of Cab Sav, and informing me that three nights of being solo with Baby Boy had made him feel like he "now knew the operator's manual much much better..."

Nice.

Probed by Tulip...

2007-03-30T02:31:00.000+01:00

Brought to you live from Marriott Downtown Hotel in Louisville from The Conference. So much more blogging on THAT in next few days, you are likely to gag. (HBM and Bub roll in tomorrow...I am getting my beauty rest after this so I can receive them appropriately....)

(and yes, this post was just an opportunity to play on word "probe")

I asked Mama Tulip to interview me earlier this week (she did offer. to anyone) Here are her questions and my mangled answers.

1. When you moved abroad, what was the most difficult transition for you to make?
Well I was 21 when I moved to Michigan. At the time the most difficult transition was having to wear midwestern down-filled winter outwear and sensible snow shoes. I was in a hot pants and platform shoes phase, you understand. Bulky clothing was an anathema. I also sorely missed British Telly and thought Seinfeld was dead boring. Yes. I was an idiot.

2. Do you have a British accent? Do you say things like 'mumsy' and 'jolly' and 'righty-o, then' and 'innit'?
I still sound quite Cor Blimey, most certainly. I say "bloody hell" and "shite" and call my husband "love." But I've adjusted my tongue. You say tomayto and I say....tomayto. Mainly because I got a bit sick of being asked to "just say Tom-ah-to one more time, pur-leaaaze." (how I have suffered, Mama T....) To 'mericans I sound like a right old Eliza Doolittle. The folks at home inform me that there's a perceptible shift which is gone within two seconds of a phone call to me Old Mum. I can also really creep out my friends in the States by slipping into a passable midwestern accent from time to time. Oh, and my four year old has a bit of British diction now and then, but has recently taken to informing me that it's not "Cah-stle" it's "Casstle" and not "Ahse" but "Ass" etc., etc. No, I do not say "mumsy," "jolly," or "righty-oh." That's for posh twats from Chelsea, innit?

3. Do you fart in front of your husband?
Did so on our second date. We were engaged within two weeks.

4. What has been the most difficult part of being a mother of two for you?
It's the typical issue of feeling like you are not as "present" for your second as you were with the first. Every milestone with our first was recorded for prosperity; we obsessed over him; we lavished him with attention. With the baby, we (his Dad and I) both have pangs of guilt because he feels like part of the scenery in some ways.

To be honest, though, (and give me time on this--he is in the 4 month relatively mobile and easy stage, after all) it's not anywhere near as tough as we thought it would be. There's something to be said for the four year age gap in that regard. (and of course, as I sit here in my hotel room with a wine buzz and my husband deals with the offspring solo for the long weekend at home, it's easy for me to pontificate on how eeeeeeeasy it is. [Loveyoumeanit, love!])

5. What's your all-time favourite movie?
Waiting for Guffman. ("Those people are Bastard People")

Want to be probed by me? Go on. I dare you. (just say the word...)

Oh--and if you want to know more about the British Language and also want to see House (Hugh Laurie) as I have always known him, see:

2007 Odyssey. One baby, a Four Year Old, Three Adults and an Eight Hour Road Trip.

2007-03-26T15:56:00.000+01:00

This morning our oldest staggered into our room at 7:30am and asked "How did it get to be morning so quickly?" How indeed.

This weekend we hooked up with our old friend, Jen (and her delicious minivan) and embarked on an 8 hour trek to celebrate our friend Jill's 40th and her PhD graduation. Old friends descended on St. Louis from Michigan, California, Oregon, North Carolina, Tennessee, fricking everywhere, just so we could be there for her and although I feel like the walking dead today, it was well worth it. I think I'm still hungover though. And yes. there is nothing that says "responsible adult" better than getting trashed on Saturday night because you've got a babysitter at the hotel, godamnit, and who has time to eat anyway with all these old friends to catch up with??! Yes. yesterday's looooong journey back with an infant and a bored 4 year old in the back of the van--it was delightful. And completely self-inflicted, so I could not even play the sympathy vote. We rolled back into town at 10pm. Exhausted.

And let me tell anyone who turns up their nose at the minivan concept has not travelled for 8 hours in the beauteousness that is a Honda Odyssey. I've never been shy about declaring my love and wont for a minivan (we're a Toyota Matrix family right now) but this was the clincher. I could wander up and down between the two boys imparting pacifiers, new DVDs, and corporeal punishment at my complete leisure. Aside from reconnecting with old friends and the balmy 75 degree weather, that fricking minivan was the highlight of my trip. Serious. And actually, I was pretty lucky in my delicate state yesterday, as my boys were both rather angelic for the whole trip. (Well, apart from Friday night at the hotel, when Big Boy reenacted The Exorcist for us by hurling all over the room. Poor wee thing). I attribute this exemplary behaviour completely to the van experience. No doubt about it. That and the "Spare Adult." We decided as a group that the Spare Adult was something that no family should do without. I'd even consider going Mormon--at least for vacations.

(p.s. this was meant to be a deep and meaningful post about the value of long-term friendship, and blah blah blah, but I am too knackered. For now I will mark this experience by fetishizing the minivan. For now.)

(p.p.s. I am hopping on a plane for The Conference this Thursday to meet old and new friends. At this very moment, the very thought makes me want to curl up in the fetal position. But I put that down to the rotgut and bad living. If I am quiet or absent from your place for a while, just picture me feverishly pulling together a powerpoint slideshow with lots of animation and sound effects;-)

Musical Meme (Or, God. I Am Old)

2007-03-21T14:19:00.000Z

I am finally getting back the Fairly Odd Mother's tag, spurred on by some of the fine ladies (and chap) in last night's AI open thread at MamaPop. (If you are an AI fan, this thread seriously enriches the entire experience. It's like being in a room of slighty tispy snarks. It's delightful. Do Not Enter if you are a Sanjaya fan though. Or if you do, prepare to be politely ridiculed).

Guidelines:
list seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

1. Lilly Allen, "Everything's Just Wonderful." The thing about Lilly Allen is she makes me feel Old. I also feel like she would be one of those rough girls down the bus stop who would have hassled me shitless as an adolescent. My husband thinks it's a persona, but I am not so sure. She intimidates me, but I think this add to the certain frisson when I listen to curiously banal lyrics like:

"Oh Jesus Christ almighty, Do I feel alright?
No not slightly,
I wanna get a flat I know I can't afford it,
It's just the bureaucrats who won't give me a mortgage,
Well it's very funny cos I got your fucking money,
And I'm never gonna get it just because of my bad credit
Oh well I guess I mustn't grumble,
I suppose that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

2. I often rely on my pal sweetney to inform me as to what the Hipster Parent about town is listening to. There's only so much ColdPlay a girl can listen to after all. Her Spring Mix was crammed with arteeestes I had no clue about. This also made me feel old. And then I listened.... and my Hipster Parent Image was duly returned. I particularly enjoy Postcards from Italy by Beirut.

Who is Beirut? Fucked if I know. But they can play a mean ukelele? Banjo? Harpsichord? I dunno, but it's a bit like Rufus Wainright meets Surfjan Stevens (yes. I know. I should be writing for Rolling Stone).

3. The car I tend to drive to work has a radio only. It is normally tuned to NPR. (Can I put down NPR? Don't think so). If I am driving it, it is also sometimes tuned to the Student Radio station here. It's my way to stay in touch with the masses (and also have a good yell at the DJ when she refers to SOOOFRA-GETTE City..... Lord!).

I have been listening to two songs at Full Radio Volume: Shake that Ass On the Dance Floor by Vicious Vicious. (audio sucks on this--sorry) This is the most ponderous remonstration for one to "shake one's ass" I have ever heard, but I like it all the better for it.

4. And also: Grace Kelly by Mika. It makes me nearly as buoyant as Scissor Sister's I Don't Feel Like Dancing.

5. Badly Drawn Boy: Easy Love on One Plus One is One. I like all things Badly Drawn. All things.

6. ...running out of steam.... At work I listen to Magnatune.com, and particularly enjoy a bit of Bach at my desk while I'm pulling my hair out over multimedia specs. (Happy Birthday Bach!!!) Antonio Meneses, Bach Cello Suites. Totally stops me from going postal. Also pleasant music to pump by.

7. Ok. Coldplay. The ubiquitous ColdPlay. When I am feeling particularly melancholic or overly dramatic I like to wallow in the lyrics of "Fix You." Much as I like to pretend I am Clare from Six Feet Under when I listen to "Breathe Me" By Sia on a quick run to the grocery (in the Good Car with CD player).

Tagging! Well, I tag Sweetney, but she actually beat me to posting this meme (she did this officially tagless, sad whore). Here it is, along with some quite reprehensible references to my dark colonial past.

Who else?
Oh the Joys, Mama Tulip, Flutter, Birchsprite, GunFighter and One Weird Mother.

It's Not Just About the Cha-Cha-Cha, Y'Know... (edited with epiphany!!!)

2007-03-20T19:51:00.000Z

Edited to add: OK. Tina C asks in the comments why people bash this show as the worst form of entertainment. GOOD QUESTION. On one level this does seem the "lowest common demoninator" form of entertainment--totally glitzy, girls in skimpy costumes, cheesy jokes by the host, lounge acts at half time. But the reason why this show is a superior talent/reality show in my opinion is that despite the personalities and the glitz, etc., this show is *not* about self. In fact, to do what they do requires not only an amazing amount of discipline, it requires a good degree of self effacement. The unique talent or personality of an individual does not come into play, instead he or she must entertain by a strict set of rules. Very strict. One aspect of the enjoyment here is watching how well people allow themselves to be taught, how well they give themselves over almost entirely to something totally difficult and new. Now I realize this I LOVE IT MORE!!!

OK. That might be a tad over the top, but you get my general drift.

I was in a stink yesterday. In fact, all weekend. Boob Douche aside (and the magical cure for the itch? Monsistat. Fucking Monistat) it's been like Typhoid Mary around our place lately. I am sick of listening to myself complain about various ailments, but suffice it to say that our walls have resonated with the sounds of hacking coughs, raspy voices, and throwing up. It's been pretty rank, really. But now I think we are all on the mend.

So last night I was prepared to let my mood grow even fouler by complaining about the dearth that is Monday night television (and no we don't Tivo. We just don't. And yes. Television is My Life).

And lo and behold, I discover a new season of Dancing with the Stars is on and I become a new woman. DWS stands out as a reality show for me, because it's nice. It is seriously just some good, clean fun. No backbiting or voting off because of personality (although Tucker Carlson was the first to be voted off last season, which pleases). Just a bunch of D-list celebrities who can't dance for shit actually learning to dance rather well. And not just dance, but dance traditional ballroom, which requires a whole new level of discipline and honest hard work, and so garners my respect for these D-Listers all the more.

For instance, Billy Ray Sirus--who "demulleted" his partner in a playful dance move last night (genius!)--was compared by the judges to a Bear staggering in the swamp. And yes there was something tragically lumbering and buffoonish about his performance. Will Billy pull through and astound us all? It can happen. (but not for Master P, it seemed)

Joey Fatone from 'N Sync--What a goofball! I love him. I didn't know it before, but I am a mega Joey fan! I have never seen anyone have such gleeful fun while dancing the Cha-Cha-Cha, or anything for that matter. It warmed the cockles of my heart. Watch Joey and I challenge you not to smile.

Laila Ali. Boxer. (Daughter of Muhammed). Brick. House. Lady's got an arse on her (which I can respect) and let me tell you she carries it with grace and dexterity. She is also probably the only non-vapid (or criminally insane) female contestant this year.

John Ratzenburger. Cliff from Cheers. Came into the competition two weeks after everyone else (replacing Uncle Pussy from the Sopranos--a loss sorely felt in these here parts)Looked like it could be a clusterfuck in the making. But no sirree. He was lithe, playful, and totally pulled off the fancy footwork. Fabulous! He was even--dare I say it--a teensy bit sexy. (Yes. These miracles occur on DWT). Last season's show made me a believer in Jerry Springer (what a great attitude) and this year I am hoping Ratzenburger can prove to the world he is so so so much more than Cliff from Cheers and the voice of all those Pixar creatures.

Shandi Finnessey. Former Miss USA. Seems nice enough. Had the tremendous misfortune of being paired up with this guy. If you think he looks alarming here, you should see him in live action. Makes your jaw hurt.

Heather Mills (formerly McCartney). Was referred to as "Celebrity Charity Worker" all night (as opposed to Paul's psychotic? ex-wife). I was impressed by how much the show downplayed the fact she has a prosthetic leg. NOT!!!!! (cue video clip of her bandying about her various prosthetics five million times). Her appearance marred the evening for me, not least because it made my BeatleManic husband veritably froth at the mouth. When she was awarded the scores of 6, 6, and 6 he started ranting about Satan's Spawn and "the sign, the SIGN." (you think I'm kidding). I found her attempt to join in the good clean fun rather strained. Anyone would think it's a publicity stunt to curry good favor among the plebs or something.

Insomnia Not Required (Review of Breus's Good Night)

2007-03-19T16:03:00.000Z

There's a bitter irony to the fact that as I wrote this post (a particularly desperate rant about baby-induced sleep-deprivation) there nestled gently on my nightstand was this book, Good Night: The Sleep Doctor's Four Week Program to Better Sleep and Better Health.

Read more of my review over here...

"Real Mothers" Meme Spawn

2007-03-18T20:41:00.000Z

For BlogWhore and Mama Tulip

Real Mothers...

Find themselves googling search strings such as:
"nipples + itchy + searing pain + wimp" and (on a weekend) "thrush + homeopathic remedies"

Real Mothers closely examine the gruesome gallery of thrush nipple pictures available online and thereby stand for long periods in front of the bathroom mirror in vein attempt at visual self-diagnosis.

Real Mothers find themselves ransacking the cupboards for White Vinegar "they fucking knew they had..." for homeopathic remedy.

Real Mothers begin to fantasize about mystical healing powers of White Vinegar Boob Douche on a Sunday afternoon.

Real Mothers piss and moan about Nipple Itch and White Vinegar shortage to such excess that Male Partners are left with no choice but to go in search of Great White Vinegar, taking offspring along for the hunt.

Real Mothers, blogging about boob douches because, like, they haven't got anything better to do..

Part of the Real Mothers meme spawned by the evil Kristen at The Mom Trap--see the rules here and then break them, like me.

(I am supposed to include a picture. Uhm. I think I'll spare you...)

I tag:
HBM, Miscelleaneous Mum, Tere, Amanda, Slouching Mom

We interrupt this broadcast for some Funny.

2007-03-15T15:31:00.000Z

Big Fat Caveat (edited with another smaller caveat from Mad)

2007-03-13T16:12:00.000Z

Before the Fat Caveat, I need to thank everyone who has commented here or at blogrhet. Thank you also to those have written posts on the topic (even by coincidence) and shared your links--I intend to create a list of these to share and reference. HBM and I have also enjoyed some spirited emails with a few folks. Debate has ensued. And it's been great. My head has been spinning, my brain ticking, ticking, ticking. And I'll confess to being a touch overwhelmed with it all, sorting through responses and figuring out what it all means (or trying to). (Does anyone else go to bed with a blogging blogging brain???) Once we get closer to this "what does it all mean?" question, we'll be sharing our views--views that have been shaped and informed by your contributions. A working example of what we intend to argue about these networks being knowledge-making communities.

But before we get there, I needed to write this post and more directly address one of the central critical issues several of you have raised.

When we ask "Who are we?" we also need to pay close attention to Who We Are Not. In other words, who does not get to be included in this "feel the love" community so many of us are describing. Exclusions that may not be deliberate, but are certainly there.

The staggering response to the Today Show's vilification of mothers who (gasp) have a drink while their children play was without doubt a community-strengthening moment. Bloggers--especially mommybloggers--wrote insightful (and I would argue, feminist) critiques of the piece, and argued that it participated in a larger culture where double standards for mothers are the norm. Over here I was rubbing my hands in glee as the community went into action in a way that so perfectly fit into the arguments we were forming for our research.

But check out this lone comment on the issue over at Izzy's place (from the Lovely Mrs Davis):

"I totally agree that the sub-text of the segment was that mothers are unable to think critically and that they need to be told how to parent. But I also think that there is more to this. There's a qualifier there that isn't being said out loud by anyone, yet seems to exist. I think when we (moms/bloggers) say that this is okay for moms to do, we only mean it's okay for "moms like us" to do — middle class (or higher), educated moms who are married, with seemingly stable lives. I don't think we would all respond so positively if the mom in the Today Show hot seat was a single/divorced mom who works nights and lives in a crappy apartment complex. Would we trust her judgment as well as we trust our own?"

Would we?

That unspoken qualifier, that it's okay for "moms like us," reveals a great deal about the boundaries of this community and reminds me uncomfortably that we are in many ways a blogging elite. As I noted last week, mommyblogging is a largely white, privileged enterprise. In this way, it is directly reflective of a broader digital divide--both socially and globally. Though my experience is that the bloggers in these networks are largely liberal and embracing in their perspective (and we've certainly heard stories of exceptions to this) the fact of the matter is that we are largely straight white women with enough education and income to be at this "technological cutting edge."

This of course means that any democratizing or liberatory claims about "blogging" (whether in this context or in others) need to be seriously scrutinized. Who's getting freed here? (And, more to the point, at whose expense?)

If we're attaching this argument to women, and specifically mothers, what version of womanhood or motherhood is being redefined in this equation? I am sharply reminded that to refer to "motherhood" as some sort of universal that can be "transformed" has a leveling effect that can be deeply problematic. And over at blogrhet, Aurelia at Mama Scribes has applauded the project but cautions,

"I just wonder if this transformation of motherhood will systematically leave out groups of women who have been historically left out of these discussions. Also, if motherhood can indeed be transformed through blogging, how would it alter the realities of motherhood for mothers outside of the blogosphere and how long would it take, I wonder."

In the 1980s, "feminism" came under attack by women of color and lesbian feminists who were marginalized by "mainstream" white, heterosexual feminism. It became clear that recognition of "women's oppression" also required attention to historical and social specificities because, in the words of Michele Barrett, "how useful is it to collapse widow-burning in India with 'the coercion of privacy' in Western Europe, into a concept of such generality?.

As several of you have pointed out, the transformative and political claims of this panel might well repeat that act of leveling and therefore exclusion. Not good.

But does this mean that the panel should shift its focus and examine these other marginalized communities? I would say no (for now). Does it mean we have to be very explicit about the specific context for this analysis? Absolutely. Any claims for transformation need to be tempered. Always. Analyses such as these need to be considered as groundwork for other much-needed analyses of other marginalized communities, part of a broader conversation that must take place as we move into an increasingly wired social world.

And am I arguing that mothers and women--even white women--are marginalized or subordinated? Yes I am. As a feminist, my fundamental belief is that we have not achieved gender equality in society. I believe the digital divide takes place along lines of race, class and gender. (As I sit here in my largely white, male workspace at an academic computing center and take lunch orders for an upcoming meeting)

This is important work, and I think something very interesting is happening socially. It's our charge to articulate what that is, and ask ourselves hard questions about how "radical" such changes actually are, but at the same time not lose sight of what positives are emerging--in specific contexts--that can potentially make a change to that uneven field many of us are playing on right now.

Let me hand over to Mad, who has framed this change far more eloquently than I could hope to...

Mothers (gasp!!) have taken back their authority to mother from the experts; the parenting books are now being read simply as supplements, not gospels. Yes, blogging mothers have recreated much of the support network that has always been
a vital part of parenting. They have gained confidence in their roles as mothers and have crafted a sense of agency to think and act as women integrated in the various mantles they are forced to adopt (employee, mother, wife, intellectual, activist...). In short, they have created a whole new set of operating instructions for what it means to be a mother.

[Edited to Add: Mad has rightly emphasized in the comments that this quote is from a paragraph in her original post where she is using the term "mother" is a very situated and context-specific way, to refer to mothers who are experiencing a sense of transformation through blogging. In light of the overall topic of my post here, this is a point worth emphasizing!] (Thanks Mad)

Hot Blog on Blog Action (Or "When Academic Blogging Chicks Go Wild")

2007-03-09T16:33:00.000Z

Last summer, when I was on some sort of second trimester “I am a fricking machine right now, keep the estrogen a-comin'” buzz, I wrote this impossibly long post. My brain was utterly on overdrive as I thought about this whole blogging thing, what it meant to me personally and also what I was beginning to think about it all from an academic perspective. In it I yak on about dominant theories of social networking, such as Barabasi’s, which argue that a site’s power status is acquired through the volume of linkages to it (linkages that are largely not returned). This is why “linky lurve” posts, like my last two, are a “nice thing to do.” Such gestures say “I think you’re special, and you deserve a higher technorati rating darnit.”

But comments don’t count in this measurement at all (and not in technorati ratings either). And I think is a big problem if you are going to do a qualitative analysis of the (largely) women’s community we have right here (hey ladies! And gent! How are ya?). Because commenting is a fundamental attribute to how these here communities (smaller, technically lower "ranked" blogs like this one that make up the “long tail” of the blogosphere) are developed and maintained.

That’s all I’ll say on this for now, but if you are remotely interested, stay tuned for another post on the role of commenting (or not commenting) for us all. (And I so would like your ideas on this one) Anyway. In the beast-post (and apparently I am writing another one right now) I threatened to start researching and thinking about these issues in more depth. Her Bad Mother offered to join me for the ride (and who can say no to such a purdy companion? And her technorati ratings are way higher than mine, so my association can only bring me power and glory, of course. That and the fact that the woman can think up a storm and I love her.)

The first thing we did was send out a panel proposal to the Gender Studies sessions for this communications conference (along with another very sharp blogger who shall remain nameless until I know she does not have a problem with being outed, and then also joining us is one of my b.f.f.s, Paula, who does not blog—what’s up with that?—but who is a supersmart theorist and teacher of writing in online environments). And in order to share ideas and prepare for the panel, we decided to (you guessed it) get ourselves a blog. And it’s right here.
http://blogrhet.blogspot.com/. And our panel summary is here.

Some of you have stumbled on it already and made “uh, I am not sure if I am mean to be here, but here’s what I think..” types of comments. We LOVE visitors! (Otherwise, why make it open?) but we’re also slightly paranoid that we’ll bore the tits off you by inflicting the arsy-academic speak, which is probably stupid because one of our main contentions is that women’s blogs (especially so-called mommyblogs) are knowledge-making communities. (As opposed to a bunch of "creepy" or "mindless" women blogging about all the mundane and trivial details of their private lives and stupidly putting their kids out there in the process, which seems to be popular public perception many of us our familiar with).

Anyhoo. Drop on by. There's not much there now, but we're hoping to change that and even do some cross posting here and at HBM's. My friend, Paula, has a distance from this community that is actually pretty useful (God. I hope she is not going to find the rest of us hideously tedious by day two when we're still banging on about who's been blogging who here, and what this blogger blogged there). Her distance is important in that she can actually ask us questions that force us to define what this community "is," and more specifically the understood conventions and community-building practices of so-called "mommyblogs" (I know my community is made up of more than mommybloggers, and that "mommyblogging" itself is a loaded term, but for the purposes of the panel we're sticking to that focus, even while we're complicating simplistic notions of what mommybloggers actually do).

Most of us intuit how we work our blogs and our communities, and write with presumed knowledge to one another about it, but sitting down and describing how we do this thing we do to an outsider so can be another matter. So Paula's posed a few questions for me, and you can see my initial brainstorm responses below. And, you guessed it, we would love your feedback, criticism, suggestions. If for no other reason than to prove in practice what we're arguing in theory--that we are a deeply interactive, knowledge-making community (and not a bunch of scribbling women with no sense of private boundaries).

Here's a summary of the questions for you:

1. Who are we? (Who is writing these "mommy" blogs?)
2. Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
3. Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
4. What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
5. How does the medium of blogging affect all this?

And here is my first stab at answering them:

Who are we? (Who is writing these blogs?)
I can only answer this one based on my own experience, and we need to do a wider quantitative survey here--but I would say it’s largely North American women. Mainly white, college degreed, and in the great scheme of things relatively privileged (there are certainly exceptions--do they prove the rule?) Age range is wide, but I would say mainly in the 30 something range, and mainly women with young children (but this might be the bloggers I gravitate to, being a thirtysomething myself). Again, there are exceptions to prove the rule here. There are a lot of women who are educated, have or have had careers, and who took up a blog when they became mothers.

Many SAHMs who use blogging as a means to combat isolation but also women who work—and in this space “mommy wars” between SAHMs and working mothers do not seem to exist—even though the topic is debated widely. I find this very interesting (and I was just talking to someone about this, but can't remember who, so please forgive that I am not crediting you on this!)

Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
I'd say that those of us who occupy this "long tail" of the blogosphere are mainly writing for one another--it's a means of communication and interaction. This is certainly not to say that higher ranked bloggers are not communicating and interacting, but participating in the community in a reciprocal way would be impossible for bloggers with thousands of readers (and it often feels impossible to those of us with considerably few--hence comment fatigue for many of us).
However, these bloggers (dooce, sweetney, amalah) become dense "nodes" through which other bloggers meet up and connect.

Interestingly, and I've just been chatting to HBM about this, it seems comments are often proportionally much higher in these "community-centered" blogs in relation to visits (you there, lurker;-)). It seems as traffic (and rank) goes up or is perceived to be of high status (and what cues us in that a blog is a "biggy"? That's worth thinking on some more, certainly) comments diminish (dooce is the one glaring exception to this, methinks--proving the rule, perhaps?).

We think this reveals a lot about the way in which audience perceives the blogger, who perhaps shifts from “friend” or “peer” to “writer/author” perhaps? (what do you think, dear reader-slash-friend? Clearly, there’s a lot to say on this alone, but the distinction seems to be one of peer-writer/community vs. author/audience. Not that this is cut and dry by any means—we can all find ourselves vacillating between the two, for sure. (I think. Yes?). (I know I write for an audience as well as for the community--but more on this in another post. That and the fact that I am closet exhibitionist who can be a little more obsessive about her stats and comments than she would like).

I think it would be very easy (and interesting) to do a content analysis of our blogs to show that we are presuming a shared knowledge among our readers (related to kids, breastfeeding, sex, etc). This will reveal a great deal about our perceived sense of audience and also our community.

Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
I know this only anecdotally and experientally: Many women start blogs so they can share photos and stories with friends and families. Others start them because of a sense of isolation (especially SAHMs). Dooce and Sweetney have both written extensively on this. I think other reasons include the wish to write and express one's self. I have written, and so has Mom 101 and many others, on how the blog starts as a means to "be" a writer, but that it becomes about relationships. The community becomes a central reason and motivator to continue writing. (I've been chatting with Slouching Mom about this one via email). Significantly, it can also become a central reason people quit--it can feel overwhelming at times (again--worthy of another post).

Along with community--and I am not sure if this is the same--is the addiction of knowing you have readers via comments and webstats. This becomes another incentive to keep writing. The sense of validation it gives us.

What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
Everything. Certainly the recounting of personal experiences is most common. The sharing of experiences concerning kids, relationships, life as a mother. The sharing goes on in the form of posts, comments and interlinking. One person might write a post on breastfeeding, citing news events, and then another person posts on the same topic, linking to the original--continuing the conversation, and so forth. It would make a very interesting network map. Networks and conversations emerge around specific topics (the cocktails on playdates debacle and its overwhelming response in blogland is an excellent example, as is the response to the infamous Time article on "hipster parenting").

To a point, it is good form to always mention the original post and link to it--this builds trust and a sense of good faith (stealing ideas and posting links to news articles or such as if you found it yourself is considered bad form).

How does the medium of blogging affect all this?
Well, obviously, the linkages I mention above could not take place. Neither could the comments. The blog as a medium is critical because knowledge and ideas emerge as a result of conversation and interaction. You can track how a topic is discussed, how the community interprets it, and the consensus (or lack thereof) about what it all means. There are many other significant ways in which we bloggers adapt our blogs to signify belonging to a particular community (and I myself an exception in this, because Oranges don't signify nothin' relevant here, which was actually one reason I chose them).

These include:
1. Using "Mom" "mommy" or "mother" or even "Mrs" in the blog's title. (and/or using a child's name "Keira's Mom"; "Bub and Pie" etc.)
2. Developing graphical banners that ironically play on notions of "perfect" motherhood--often through nostalgic visual references to "wholesome" 1950s mom and/or Pulp fiction iconography: http://mom101.blogspot.com/
http://www.girlsgonechild.blogspot.com/
http://www.suburbanturmoil.blogspot.com/
http://sarahandthegoonsquad.com/

Or alcohol (to signal--'let's have a drink together, relax, have a chat"): http://www.mothergoosemouse.com/
http://www.suburbanbliss.net/
http://mommyofftherecord.blogspot.com/

The visual rhetoric of our blogs is worthy of a book alone, not to mention the role of photo-sharing. I would argue, along with Her Bad Mother, that photo-sharing is a critical means by which the community comes together and establishes trust and a sense of intimacy, though this issue is highly contentious and debates also center on the issue of children's privacy and potential risk factors that come with this activity (you'll have noticed that I do not share pics, and mainly because my husband is on the other side of the fence on this issue and as I respect his views and wishes--and want my dinner cooked for me when I get home--I don't post pics--but you should know, my boys are freaking gorgeous).

******************************************************************

Tell me. What I am missing? What am I getting wrong?

OK. I am going to stop here. Too much already. But as you can probably tell, I am very excited by all this because I think it's important to talk about what we're doing here. And do it ourselves as opposed to let others do the talking and theorizing for us. What we are doing by blogging our lives is in many ways pretty radical (remember finslippy--mommyblogging is a radical act? yes. yes it is). The next challenge is to keep articulating just exactly how it is radical.

So. if you have the time, let me know your thoughts. If you are not a commenter, then do consider emailing me (gingajoy at gmail dot com). I'd really like to know your reasoning for not commenting (or you can just tell me to mind my own business). No judgements whatsover--jeebus, most of the people reading this post will not feel the need to pontificate on it openly, and that might be the wiser gesture! (I am a self-confessed Attention Whore, but thankfully, not everyone else rolls that way that way) But if you have anything to say, I'm all ears, people. Talk to me (to us)!

No need to worry about Junior knocking back the Purell

2007-03-09T02:36:00.000Z

That's if you were worried about Junior knocking back the Purell, which I'm not. (But check back when he's 15, and I might be singing a different tune)....[read more]

My inaugural review for the Parent Blogger's Network has hit the presses, and you can check it over here at GingaJoy Assesses

(that's "AssesSES")

(Asses)

I Blog, Therefore I Think.

2007-03-07T20:34:00.000Z

Last week, Oh The Joy's gave me a Thinking Blog Award (last week I could think, y'see). Anyway, this is one of those pay it forward things.

I would like to bequeath a Thinking Blog Award to the following folks who normally get this old brain matter a-churning.

Toyfoto for Changing of the Gardisil. If you want a balanced discussion of why this whole Gardisil business is a tricky one for many of us, I highly recommend this post. I'd also like to tack on award for "most generous commenter" (apart from Ozma and Doow, who also need a prize from me on this one).

JenEx for A Really Long Post About Infertility and Pregnancy and Adoption. Jen's story may be familiar if you read Amalah's Daily Dose at all, and it's a fascinating one, but if you've not gone over there, check out this post and also her Greatest Hits list on the right of her blog. The story of Li's adoption had me waste many a ~~work~~ leisure hour, I can tell you. Since reading this, I've been a frequent visitor over there--the lady can write up a storm.

i-obsess for Sticking it Out. Lots of us experience darker and more ambivalent moments in this whole blogging thing. Some of us write about it. And some of us write about it with a rawness that can be both disarming and deeply recognizable. i-obsess is a writer who can always touch the nerve, and sometimes make us see ourselves through that glass darkly. (and if you don't read her, you should, and also know that she's funny as hell much of the time).

Dad Gone Mad for It Ain't No Sin To Be Glad You're Alive. There's a whole lot more going on over there than amusing anecdotes about slacker parenthood . He's one of those writers who can shift from recounting the utterly asinine (themes on a fart) to moments where he truly has you reflecting on the meaning of it all. (life, death, children, love...) Oh. And he now has Hot Wife T-Shirts, and who doesn't need one of those???

Blog Whore for The Cat is Sick. Don't be fooled by the slutty nomenclature. This post about her spiritual life (and not her cat) is written with spare but lyrical introspection. It was when I read this post that I realized there's a whole lot more to BW than I had presumed (and I apologize for that, J).

Edited to add: so apparently there's some kind of telepathic lovefest going on between me, toyfoto, and i-obsess. i-obsess, already recipient of the award via Binky, tossed that burning chunk of love over to Toyfoto, who tossed it to me. So each of us now has at least two of these shiny things on our mantle. Consider us the Martin Scorceses of this here chunk of burning love blog-sphere. YA!

Thank You, Village People (And did Joy get any sleep last night??? Tune In Here.)

2007-03-07T19:11:00.000Z

There is nothing quite like hitting "Publish" on an angst-ridden post like yesterday's and within a few minutes receiving comments that make you feel unbelievably better. I can't convey in adequate terms how much your words and support means to me. And last night as we began our nightly rituals I felt bolstered and newly confident.

Even if it was to be a tough night, I worked to remember that "This too shall pass." That if all else fails a glass of wine and escaping to the basement or the front porch can do wonders. That perhaps I am misremembering the transformation of Sunshine Boy as "overnight" through the glossy veneer of hindsight, and that while it takes time, the benefits are well worth it. That we consistently find ways to beat ourselves up, and that we should definitely get over the guilt thing--even if it seems to be what we do best. That this parenting thing is about survival (and whoever makes us feel guilty can suck it.)

Most of all I found that even if we have differing opinion on what each of us would do, and despite stupid claims about Mommy Wars, the ability of this community to buoy you up without judgement is pretty unbelievable and very real.

(sniff)

(yes. I am still a little verklempt and overwrought. but it's not completely about the sleep thing--you guys made me all 'motional--and for an update on what happened last night, read on)

(and if I have not included you in the linky-lurve fest above, please forgive. shit. linky-lurve is labor intensive when you lurve as much as I do).

Ok. Enough pontificating, Joy. We are the wind beneath your wings. We get it. Let's move on.

What happened last night?

Weeeeelll. While I am very much stating up front "who knows what tomorrow brings?" last night, after my husband set up white noise in his room...

(thank you Dysfunctional Housewife and Elizabeth for that suggestion--have to say, my Husband was two steps ahead of us on this one and already assembling machinery when I got home. In fact, Big Boy was, and still is, a white noise junkie. As are we, for that matter. I think our house must sound like a small landing strip in the wee hours)

....Anyway. Baby Boy slept solidly from 6:30 til 1:30. (Score!) Ate at the Breastaurant (Jozet wins a prize for that term). Cried a bit an hour later and then slept until 5pm when he supped again. He was then awake at 6am, to which I said "he must think it's morning!" and swiftly brought him into bed for a nice hour or so of snuggling and snoozing. Of course, after the 5am feeding, I laid there awake for flippin' ages. But at least I did not lay there listening to his cries.

So. While I am not exactly "refreshed" my eyes are not hanging on stalks like they were yesterday. And if someone asks me how I am, I am not liable to burst into tears and give them waaaay too much information about the minutiae of my night.

So that's good.

I am pleased to report that Husband and I have resumed being nice to one another as opposed to 2am bitch sessions over who's snoring, who's freaking the fuck out, who's got to get a grip, etc etc. (fyi. I only snore very delicately. I am more of a drooler than a snorer)(slurp).

Like I say. It's not like it's all over and we've got a well-adjusted sleeper on our hands now, but at least when it happens again I know I can cope. We've all been there, done that, and got the T-Shirt. So thanks for being my Village, People. Thank You.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child: Living the Dream...

2007-03-06T18:21:00.000Z

Those of you who read my "highly subjective diatribe against Dr. Sears" many moons ago might be surprised to learn that for the last four months we've been pretty much co-sleeping with the new Baby. (although, I will add that my rant was not against the actual practices of attachment parenting so much as the way in which ideological perspective is masked as the "natural" and therefore "morally correct" way to parent. And "don't we have enough to guilt-trip ourselves with, already?" etc., etc..)

From the moment he was born, Baby Boy proved himself to be mellow, smiling, and (treasured above all) a champion sleeper. I have smugly taken credit for this latter quality, making sure this time to not make any of the same mistakes I am pretty sure we committed with Big Brother. For instance, we put him down in the crib awake, and he nestles his head into his carefully selected "lovey" (a fleece blanket) and drifts off unassisted. We are attentive to his need to nap, and never let him stay awake for more than 2 hours. We lay him to sleep before he becomes worked up and tired, and he dutifully smiles up from his swaddle before taking that nap. We have avoided all motion assisted devices to aid sleep such as swings and car-rides, lest we have a complete motion junkie on our hands

(in other words, not as we were: boing-boinging the living daylights out of a bouncy seat as our swaddled First Born drifted off very, very much assisted, only to wake up and protest when we stopped).

When I started bring him into bed with me after that first nightly feeding, it felt completely right. It was a La Leche League success story in the making. He got to feed on demand from about midnight til 6am, and I only had to wake partially to gently bring him to my welcoming bosom. I was positively smug about the fact that I was the mother of a newborn and "No. I'm not sleep deprived actually...Thank You. I feel great" He was sleeping for a good portion of the night in his crib, so we did not need to worry on that score, obviously. Eventually we'd transition him in there once he was waking less in the night. For now we were enjoying the intimacy of the family bed, and my guilt pangs over being away all day were assuaged. Maybe that Sears was on to something....

Needless to say, it hasn't lasted. Nope. For the last few nights, while Baby Boy has been as good as ever about putting himself to sleep and taking naps, the night times are now much less than lovely. Now he is awakening at least every hour; and though not completely waking up he is twitching and kicking like a crazy thing. All the old tricks--swaddling, pacifier, boob in face--are beginning to come up short. It's like being in bed with a small grunting, flailing monkey. Who scratches his face and mummy's boob. So no one is getting any sleep. Not me. Not Daddy. Not him. And we're all pretty foul the next day as a result.

So co-sleeping is not working. Time to put him back in his crib. He likes his crib. He's a self soother. No problem.

Think again.... Even more crying and protest than in our bed. Of course.

If you've been reading this blog for a while or know me, you'll know that I am fundamentally cynical about the plethora of publications put out by "experts" on parenting, pregnancy, and all that other "helpful" information we use to mindfuck ourselves with. I'm definitively of the "whatever works" school of thought when it comes to parenting, as are most of you, I know. However, experience with our first son who was colicky and then deeply sleep-deprived for the first 5 months of his life has made Sleep Nazis out of his father and me. And I've got an extremely dog-eared copy of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child to prove it.

I know from our experiences with Big Boy that while listening to your child cry is extremely difficult, this is quickly outweighed when you reap the benefits of a well-rested child and well-rested parents. The transformation of our son was so dramatic that it made stalwart believers of us. And now, 4 years later, even if my son fights us tooth and nail about teeth-cleaning and eating his broccoli, he does go to bed at a reasonable time and can put himself to sleep quite happily. (Pre-Weissbluth, he was either in our arms or being bounced, and pretty much miserable all the time. He slept for half hour increments, and it was deadly. Post-Weissbluth he slept for 12-14 hours a night and took several 2-3 hour naps a day. He was transformed literally overnight into Sunshine Boy)

Last night I fell back into that old and familiar ritual of gripping my dog-eared copy of Weissbluth, and reading passages over and over again as our Baby began to cry on his first waking (one hour after being fed). Reassuring myself that by letting our Baby cry instead of going to him each time he awakes we are Doing The Right Thing. That he needs to learn to sleep through arousals, and to unlearn that Mummy's obliging boob will be there each time he wakes. That this is for his own good.

I keep telling and telling and telling myself this, as I fight back tears of exhaustion and guilt. I keep telling and telling and telling myself this as I lay in my own bed and cover my head with the covers to muffle the cries. I keep telling and telling and telling myself this while each one of those cries tightens my chest even more. But in the end, all I can say is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" and join in his tears.....

*********************************************************

So. Uhm. That's where I'm at right now. Sleep deprived and writing posts with overwrought endings as a direct result (I would revise to tone it down, but who has the energy?). The fact of the matter is that our mellow boy surprised us last night with just how much stamina he had for wailing--on and off for one hour at one stage. And this pretty much punctuated the whole night. It was awful. Please, if you have any similar stories or words of wisdom, do share. I could use a boost. I need the village.

(But if you are angling to reprimand me or call me names, please would you mind waiting until the Baby's sleeping through the night. I'm too exhausted to debate anyone right now...)

(not that I don't respect people if they have differing opinions on this...)

(agh. never mind)

Godless Blonde At Large in Korea (Guest Post by Actual Relative)

2007-03-04T18:56:00.000Z

Introducing...my cousin, Ele. Four years ago Ele stopped at Michigan as she made her way around the world. We were her last port of call. We came after Vienna, Bangkok, Sidney, and LA. But I am sure you will agree that Lansing, Michigan must have been the absolute pinnacle of her tour.

She was eighteen.

And actually, we had a blast. And I got to reconnect with the young woman whom I had not seen since she was twelve, when she was forced to wear puff sleeves as my bridesmaid (another story--but the sleeves were not my choice). Ele is a kindred spirit, I discovered. And I am hoping to lure her here again soon.

Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she is living in Korea for a year teaching English (before starting grad school). Her emails updating the whole extended family on her experiences are pure gold--the Korean family she drank many many beers with (she managed to impress the men there, let me tell you); the ruler she was handed for "disciplining" her students; her Christmas With Chopsticks in Vietnam(I've a good mind to post that one as it is).

I keep telling her to Get a Travel Blog Already. But she demurs (something about "blogs-being-for-egomanics-not-you-though-but-you-know-what-I-mean").

So I persuaded her to tell a story here:

After living in Asia for six months, I've noticed that Korean habits which at first seemed totally strange and crazy, almost stupid, I have now adopted into my cultural habits. Road crossings here (to cross the eight-lane in-town roads) taunt pedestrians with the little green light for only a minute, but pedestrians have to wait a full few minutes to get this green light; a few minutes which at first seemed bearable but now seems like a lifetime. At first I watched with eyes like saucers whilst people would come running from fifty metres away to make the green light, whilst children sprinted across the road to make sure they get to the safety of the far pavement. Weren't we all told "don't run across the road or you will die"?

There is a madness of road-crossing here which goes so dramatically against the green cross code I didn't know what to do with myself; I comically laughed at the crazy people running across the road, knowing in my western-logic-safety that it was far more sensible to miss one green light if I couldn't make it without walking, and wait for the next one. Simple, no? Weeeeeell.... I'll now be seen running with the best of them. Four shopping bags and a handbag streaming behind me as I race, pushing old women and children out of my way to get to the other side before the light turns red, running towards the crossing from afar to 'just make the light, please make the light'. Whilst in Rome, eh?

Obviously living abroad I can talk with annoying superiority about the "amazing cultural differences" around me. After only six months here things still impact me: I stop in appreciation, sometimes, and anger, at others. The strange movements, scenery, fashions, foods that are all around me are enough to keep every day interesting. Seeing grown women wearing Mickey mouse jumpers (he is inexplicably fashionable here, but Joy tells me it's much the same in Michigan, where Pooh is the character of choice) and six year old boys with permed, highlighted hair. Seriously. Watching all the old women walking with bow legs, and hunched backs - all of them, carrying vegetables and never fruit. Why?

Everything is constantly strange around me, so much so that sometimes it's hard to remember that the strangest, most different thing here, is, well, me. Korea is an extremely homogeneous society; 'mixed race' here means men and women running the track. There are a handful of whiteys, all recruited to teach English, and occasionally an Indian or Russian person will pop their head up. But for the most part walking round in Korea is like walking round in a non-pc children's story: there are different ages and different outfits but everybody has an eerie resemblance. The same shade of skin, the same colour eyes, and the exact same hair colour.

So walking round as a blonde, I blend in nicely with the enormous advertising photos of westerners pasted on walls, but stick out like a sore thumb on the street. Occasionally a child will poke it's head out from behind his or her Mum, and an arm will emerge and point up at me. I'll smile, or 'hello!', and with gained confidence the child will say 'Pishing! Pishing!' Eh? I think... what's this little bugger up to? It took a couple of times before it dawned on me: piercing. Eyebrow piercing. Ahh, I see now.

Facial piercings aren't the done thing here, especially not the done thing by respectable young women, so kids comment, and like to have a bit of a stare. I don't mind, I loved staring when I was little, having a good old look at things that aren't quite normal, taking it in. When adults are the ones to speak to me here, their intentions aren't quite as innocent. An innocent 'hello' usually means either 'I want to practice speaking English' or 'hello, I'm a dirty old man and want to talk to you'. Both of which I try to avoid.

But what I dread is "Hello. Have you heard of the holy mother?" Oh bugger. They've found me. The evangelicals. I thought I'd left the faithful behind when I departed from the (rather apathetic) Christian UK. But believers here are as frickin' devout as they come; and part of their spiritual plan is to recruit the unholy. People like me. This includes knocking on doors, standing on the street, and (my particular favourite) playing an electric keyboard at the street crossings so you're forced to listen to Christian music whilst waiting for the little green man. It's one of the few things I'll be glad glad glad to leave in Korea when I go back to the UK.

I will, however, miss the *practically free* alcohol when I return to the UK (though my liver might thank me for leaving it behind) and I will definitely mourn over leaving behind the cheap as chips eating-out-experience. I will indignantly resent paying anything over $10 for a meal. And I'm sure I will miss the men that hack up their lungs on the street, and the mothers that hold their children up on the pavement to wee into the road, and the little old women who are allowed to push in front of me in queues just because they're old; I will miss them all in their own way.

So I'd better make the most of Korea for the next six months!
************************************************************

So there you go. A testament to how even a blonde girl from Buckinghamshire can be transformed into an object of intense cultural curiosity. I would not like to use the word "freak" but... (she *is* unholy and she *does* have metal in her face).

And that kids peeing in the street thing? Sounds rather convenient to me, have to say.

Joining the Gang Bang. Uh. I Mean the Bang Gang

2007-03-02T20:04:00.000Z

Because I'm a joiner you see. Yep. I'm blogging the bangs. Or "fringe" as the Enger-lish would say (and here is where I also see how much a yank I have become--it's taken 15 years, but I can refer to my "bangs" now with a complete lack of irony or snorting fit).

There's the "My Mummy cuts my fringe. And puts me in polyester" Bangs. (Circa 1974).

(And yes. This was just an opportunity for you to view a picture of me where, let's face it, I LOOK IMPOSSIBLY CUTE!)

There's "My Mummy does my Home Perm" Bangs.

(Circa 1986)

There's "Gollum Ate my Baby" Scraped Back Bangs.

Circa 1995

(And yes. This was just an opportunity for you to view a picture of me, where, let's face it, I LOOK IMPOSSIBLY, IMPOSSIBLY...[your word choice here]).

Finally. "If I take my own picture with this digital camera I can suck in my cheeks to feign bone structure and tilt head to feign lack of several chins" Bangs.

Circa 2007.

Traffic Jam--James Taylor

2007-02-28T19:54:00.000Z

It's Blog Exchange time again, folks! This month we've been charged to write a post where we pick a song and write a post using the content of that song. My partner in crime here is Chrisanne.

After spending one too many evenings sitting in Boston traffic, Chrisanne is now a stay at home mom to two boys, ages 2 and 5. While on corporate-life hiatus, she's taken on new and exciting roles such as taxi driver, janitor, short order cook, and play date coordinator. She's most recently started documenting her days in Life As I Know It.

Give her a big welcoming hand, folks (and check out her blog--it's fab)! And when you've done that, head on over to her place where you can read about my atrocious misinterpretation of Tom Petty.

4:35 pm: Out the door. Headed home. Thank God my boss let me have a flexible workday so I can blow out of work early, hit the road and pick up Tommy at daycare by 5. Life is good. I pity those poor suckers who have to stay at the office until 6pm and sit in Boston traffic for hours on end. Yahooooo for me.

4:38 pm: I love my car. Even though that "new car" smell is starting to fade, it still feels like a novelty. I love the leather seats and the seat wamers (especially wonderful after childbirth). I love the upgraded stereo system. I love the speeds this car can reach on an open highway.

4:40 pm: Pulled out of the office park complex and about to merge onto Route 3. Tonight I might even have time to put some chicken in the oven instead of some nuggets in the microwave.

4:41 pm: Oh crap. A bit of a backup getting onto the highway. Well, no worries. It's usually just a few idiotic drivers who don't understand what should be the seamless weaving motion of merging. Duh.

4:44 pm: Yikes, more idiots than I thought who don't know how to merge.

4:47 pm: Finally. On the move. Moving at a slow, but steady speed. Cranking up the tunes and rolling down the windows. A little behind schedule but should be at daycare by 5:10. 5:15 at the latest.

4:49 pm: Dead stop. Not moving. Blinded by a sea of brake lights.

4:51 pm: Have rolled a total of 6 inches.

4:55 pm: Had several blissful, hopeful moments of shifting into 2nd gear.

4:57 pm: I miss 2nd gear.

5:00 pm: Still not moving. Rolling up the windows. It's getting cold. And dark.

5:07 pm: Why do people want to change lanes when traffic is at a standstill?

5:11 pm: I have found 37 cheerios on the floor, 2 sippy cups filled with curdled milk now resembling feta cheese, 5 (??) maps of the Franklin Park Zoo, and a pair of scissors (huh?).

5:17 pm: Holy Mother of God, could it be? Am I really travelling at 36 miles per hour. Yahoooo.

5:23 pm: Merging onto 495. Only 6 more miles. I can still make it to daycare and home by 5:45 and have a few minutes to start dinner before Tommy starts his low blood sugar melt down.

5:24 pm: Construction next 5 miles.

5:25 pm: Head hurts. Must stop banging it against steering wheel.

5:31 pm: Why am I doing this? Why do I go to work to sit in an office to stare at excel spreadsheets to sit in traffic to be late picking up my kid to have someone else watch him during the best hours of the day? Why?

5:33 pm: I don't even like my job.

5:35 pm: And I hate this #@!#@*! car.

5:37 pm: Should have saved the money spent on stupid car and used it to start Stay At Home Mom Fund.

5:42 pm: Picked up Tommy. Apologized to daycare for being late. Again.

5:46 pm: Fed Tommy the floor-bound cheerios to stop the hunger induced whining. Was careful to pick out the linty ones.

5:50 pm: Have managed to hit every red light on a 2 mile stretch of road. Yay me.

5:54 pm: Tommy has scarfed down the remaining cheerios and is starting his full blown hunger induced whinefest. Or is that me? Can no longer distinguish between the voice in my head and the one in the backseat.

6:01 pm: Home. Finally. Chicken nuggets for dinner. Again.

Must leave earlier tomorrow.

"It's Still Tits Though"

2007-02-26T20:04:00.000Z

Saturday morning I was cavorting around in the boudoir tantalizing my husband by playfully pulling down the flaps of my nursing bra so he could feast his eyes on a flash of nipple and a damp wad of breast pad. "Do you liiiiiike?"
He tittered dutifully before looking me square in the eye:

"It's still tits though."

"HAHAHAHAHAHA" I said, as I hurriedly did the snaps back up.

I finally get a luverly pair of coconuts, all firm and round and standing to attention, and they are the least sexual objects I could imagine. (and I am sorry if this violates some kind of La Leche League ethic--but I just can't embrace my inner sexual lactator as fully as I would like). To my husband, sweet reaffirmer of my desirability that he is, they are still tits.

[EDITED HERE TO ADD--Here, in this room "it's still tits though" is a deeply reassuring and even tender thing to say. It says "you are still very much the object of my erotic attention, and don't-you-forget-it-my-lady-love." Now I understand I am dealing with a primitive mind here, but I really do appreciate these gestures.]

It's one thing for this conversation to take place between two consenting adults, who have had "relations" (in fact it's quite nice) but quite another when the "it's still tits" factor is used as a fucked up means to control women in public spaces.

When I had my first son, I did not think twice about breastfeeding in public. Applebee's booth or friend's party, I'd whip 'em out and plug 'em in. While other friends of mine would excuse themselves to feed their infants, I'd hold court in the corner and not particularly care if someone got an eyeful. Because, it's just tits.

Something this time around has changed for me, though. This time I am not so fearless about performing the act in public. I don't know if I am more lucid and in tune with the world with #2, but I feel that suddenly I am confronted by even more stories about how breastfeeding women are being shat on by society. Whether it's the nursing mother removed from a plane, the removal of a "sexually suggestive" image of breastfeeding from MySpace, or the daycare that charges more for breastfed infants, it's pissing me off royally. And it's also making me self-conscious. Which pisses me off all the more.

Around Christmas my mother and I went out for breakfast, taking my then one-month old with us. We went to a family style diner, which, at 11am on a week day was pretty empty. We squeezed into a booth and both enjoyed our pancakes while the baby slept. As we were finishing, he began to make noises, and it was feeding time. So I put a blanket over both of us and stuck him on the boob. Easy. I even had my mum there to make sure I was not flashing anyone (not that it should matter).

The male manager who had seated us suddenly became very preoccupied with cleaning the booths (all empty) around us. He stalked up and down beside where we sat, always keeping us in the corner of his eye. It was creepy, and at first I though he was getting some kind of perverse thrill. But then I realized that he was actually getting agitated, and I was almost willing him to say something. But instead he just hovered, and there I sat in an empty restaurant, tit out, swathed in "protective" blanket, and clutching my tiny boy. I felt increasingly uncomfortable and exposed. Thank God my Mother was there, who started speaking very loudly in her best clipped British accent, I DO so hate it when people STARE, don't you?

I'll confess, the concept of "Lactivism" has not always sat well with me. Not that I do not see the tremendous benefits of breastfeeding (obviously) or that society is not always kind to nursing mothers. But as a new mother desperately grasping her Womanly Art and tearfully trying to feed my son on a non-existent supply of milk, a few years ago I felt like a huge failure when I consistently had to supplement with formula.

There's at times a zealotry about breastfeeding advocacy that concerns me--I am a breastfeeding advocate, I firmly support women's rights to breastfeed, and I believe that society does not always support breastfeeding and this is a problem. But I also support a woman's right to not breastfeed, and I believe she should not feel like a pariah for making that choice. I know quite a few women who really did give it their best shot, and who are almost shameful when recounting how they had to "give up in the end." As far as I am concerned, there is nothing shameful about that whatsoever--and it is piss poor that they have been made to feel that way. (and I know not all b.f. advocates are like this by any means, but I also don't see a page in Womanly Art where my own (supplementary) breastfeeding story would be sanctioned, let alone celebrated).

But it is sad that women might make that choice because society tells us that breastfeeding is somehow dirty, taboo, and only to be done behind closed doors. And as I head out for a family restaurant with my clan, and I pack a bottle of formula to take-along, I am struck by how much I have actually internalized those feelings by beginning to hide, even if its just a little bit. And that really pisses me off. And I realize a little (or a LOT) of zealotry and fervor is what we need right now to make any real changes in this department and counter the apparently growing tide of anti-breastfeeding policy that is beginning to develop. Hell. I'm even willing to get my tits out in public at a massive nurse in, if it will do any good. I'll even become my super-alter-ego, The Lactator, and take down that daycare owner with my Boob Spray (It's OK, ma'am, it's safe to nurse again).

And so I am thinking I need to begin to embrace my inner Lactivist just a little more. I might start by wearing this T-Shirt (which I notice, thankfully does not have flaps) Because, in the end, they are tits. And they deserve to be magnificent.

Note: I want to thank Oh The Joys for giving me a Thinking Blogger Award. I tried to do some thinking in this post, just for you! I'll be back with my own awards ceremony anon!

Math is Hard...But also pure comedy gold! Gold I tell you! (edited)

2007-02-23T00:37:00.000Z

My friend emailed these to me yesterday, and the husband and I have been snorting over them ever since (thanks K). "Expand" by Peter is my personal favorite. Which one's yours?

EDITED TO ADD: (this is my brain on Nitreous Oxide)

I jess goh bag from havin my woot canal surjy. I am K, but I M dwoolin' summin ro'en. S'not that bad. Cept for jillion jections. I highly 'mend the gas, coz you don weally care mush.

(I just got back from having my root canal surgery. I am OK, but I am drooling something rotten. I think you will find that it's not that bad, except for the multiple injections. I highly recommend requesting nitreous oxide gas because while you're being stabbed in the gum multiple times, it really takes the edge off and you can just kind of trip out)