Subtitle: This Could Possibly Be Two Blogs.
Lists have always fascinated me. I used to spend a fair amount of time in grade school compiling lists of favorite things ranging from pop stars to Friday night venues. A history teacher once suggested it might be worthwhile to make lists of favorite dictators or statesmen but this idea never appealed and my list making days came to an end. I don't even write shopping lists anymore because I keep forgetting them or I forget my glasses and then I can not read the list anyway.
I once started a book in which the plot hung around the old lists found scattered around the home of a dead old woman. Her estranged relatives were going to piece together her life as they read the lists hanging on the fridge door or by the phone or screwed up at the bottom of old handbags. I never really got past the first chapter as I could not decide whether these lists were going to disclose a tragic love affair (think Bridges of Madison County) or whether they were going to form sets of instructions to develop Good Housekeeping skills (think Mrs. Beeton or Diary of an Edwardian Lady).
The last list I wrote, or rather it was written for me, was designed to ensure that a trip to buy a big rock for the garden was successful first time around. As the name suggests big rocks are heavy. They have to be delivered and placed by large pieces of machinery. If you don't like the big rock you first choose returning it to the shop could be a nightmare
Two years ago we decided to have a little landscaping done. A little very quickly became a lot. What started out as few more feet of grass and a blossom tree or two developed into a woodland path, stepping stones, a tasteful statue and two big rocks. It was my job to purchase the big rocks that would be placed just to the right of the entrance to the woodland path. I had never really thought much about the big slabs of stone that people had in their gardens. They made lovely features but I had rather assumed that they were just somehow there left over from creation days. I learnt quickly that this was not often the case and I could go shopping for rocks at a lovely nursery just up the road from our house. Armed with my list telling me that I needed two rocks weighing no more than 5 tons, a credit card and wearing comfortable shoes I set out to shop.
The people at the nursery were very helpful and directed me to a field at the back where I could see row after row of these big rocks. These had not been left there by the ice age but arranged in groups depending on size, color and flat bits. Each had a label that told you how much it weighed. The price could be calculated by doing some very hard multiplication sums.
I wandered up and down, down and up becoming more indecisive as I went. Who would have imagined that all those people with beautiful rocks in their gardens had come shopping like this wearing comfortable shoes and been able to reach a decision. I kept coming across what I thought was a good one only to loose it when I came back to give it the final once-over.
Eventually, the owner of the garden center came up with a helpful solution:- He lent me a piece of chalk and suggested I mark each one I liked I was then able to narrow my search down and then finally watch as two beautiful big stones were loaded onto a lorry and placed at the entrance to my woodland path. As I look at them now it would appear that they were left behind by a glacier millions of years ago.
The final note on big rocks......... I asked the owner of the nursery where all the rocks had come from, he explained that they were locally "grown" and that contractors had cleared them from lots as they built new houses and created new gardens. Do you think my rocks look so good because they had been placed exactly where the glacier had left them all those years ago?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Communications For Today
A SUBTITLE: You Can Hide Your Head In The Sand But Technology And The Way We Communicate Is Going To Bite You On The Bottom More Than Once A Day.
My friend Suzanne made the following comment on Facebook (via the wall or newsfeed or whatever)......... "So many communication tools available and yet so ineffective when it comes to reaching my son"....
This says it all, we are making life too complicated for each other, everything has gone too far. By the time you have decided how you are going to contact somebody you have forgotten what you were going to say.
Last week my beautiful daughter forgot something that she needed to return to a friend at school. And it was important. Whilst in a computer class she was able to chat to her brother in California who sent me a text that advised me to check my email. I did and I was able to read a message from my daughter in which she outlined the problem and I was able to leap in the car, deliver the goods and make everything alright for at least 30minutes.
It seems incredible to me that a message had to go all the way via California to reach me down the road. When I was at school - just after the invention of electricity (ha!) I think we were allowed to phone home in dire emergencies. You went to Mrs Meadows, the very scary secretary, and you explained the nature of the emergency. The need for sanitary napkins or notifying parents about a completely unjustified after-school detention seemed to produce results more consistently than anything else. If she was in a good mood you were allowed to dial out from the Bakelite phone on her desk. Often the deputy head (vice-principal) would emerge from his smoke filled office to listen in. We didn't often forget things or phone home.
Today my daughter is able to sit in class, talk to Alex in California who is then able to attract my attention enabling me to read an email that Imogen wrote half an hour ago. This networking gave me the opportunity and the excuse I needed to talk to Alex on the phone in order to check that he was eating right and wearing clean underwear. I then took the time to email Matthew, tell him about the family networking and I could tack on an inquiry about washing behind ears and remembering 'pleases and thank yous'. I was able to tell David about it all over dinner that night face-to-face and then I could talk about the weather. You are right...... nothing very exciting is happening to me at the moment. I have nothing to say to anyone - and yet I blog!!
My first telephone number (remember I grew up just after the invention of the car - ha!) was Burnham 20. Burnham was a small village but I can not believe it only had twenty telephones, I don't know how the numbering went. The telephone exchange was at the top of the High Street. To make a call you picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect you with Burnham 19 or whoever you wanted to speak to. The telephone in our house was on the telephone table which sat in the entrance hall. The directory was on the bottom shelf and the phone on the top. You didn't have a chair to sit on. If you wanted to communicate at length with someone you wrote a letter.
As time went on our phone number became Burnham 5020 and you didn't speak to an operator you could dial direct. If you wanted the operator you dialled 100 and she could help you with more complicated problems. My best friend Julie and I could be entertained for hours when we were left on our own with the telephone. We would dial 100 and when the operator answered we would say - in what we believed was a mature voice "Operator are you on the line?" If she answered in the affirmative, which she always did, we tried to suppress our mirth and shriek (mature voices forgotten) "Well get off there's a train coming". It would appear that not only have huge strides been made in the communication field but humor has become more sophisticated.
Because my father worked away from home a lot we were one of the first families in our small community to get an extension line so that Mum could have a phone by her bed. This enabled Julie and I to try daring new tricks. We would dial a random number and then as someone picked up we would start this conversation between each other using the extension line. We would pretend to be robbers planning the next heist or a couple who needed to plan a murder of an unwanted husband or wife we were desperate for the unknown number to be sucked in. They never were. I can only think that we weren't allowed much television in those days.
Sadly opportunities to have fun on the phone have been diminished greatly with the invention of the itemized phone bill and the technology that allows you to identify the number that has just been rung. I can not think that my parents or Julie's parents would foot the bill for so many calls to the operator if they had known they were going on.
Kids these days are called into account for the cost of their communicating. If you are on the wrong plan teenage texting can do serious damage to a bank account. This is especially annoying if the level of communication is not particularly inspiring. One text message 'what's up?' with the reply 'nothing much' can cost as much as three dollars.
Texting, tweeting, IM'ing or working with facebook have created a whole new world which is much too complicated to understand. The remake of E.T. is obviously not going to include the line "phone home". He would give us a facebook link.
My friend Suzanne made the following comment on Facebook (via the wall or newsfeed or whatever)......... "So many communication tools available and yet so ineffective when it comes to reaching my son"....
This says it all, we are making life too complicated for each other, everything has gone too far. By the time you have decided how you are going to contact somebody you have forgotten what you were going to say.
Last week my beautiful daughter forgot something that she needed to return to a friend at school. And it was important. Whilst in a computer class she was able to chat to her brother in California who sent me a text that advised me to check my email. I did and I was able to read a message from my daughter in which she outlined the problem and I was able to leap in the car, deliver the goods and make everything alright for at least 30minutes.
It seems incredible to me that a message had to go all the way via California to reach me down the road. When I was at school - just after the invention of electricity (ha!) I think we were allowed to phone home in dire emergencies. You went to Mrs Meadows, the very scary secretary, and you explained the nature of the emergency. The need for sanitary napkins or notifying parents about a completely unjustified after-school detention seemed to produce results more consistently than anything else. If she was in a good mood you were allowed to dial out from the Bakelite phone on her desk. Often the deputy head (vice-principal) would emerge from his smoke filled office to listen in. We didn't often forget things or phone home.
Today my daughter is able to sit in class, talk to Alex in California who is then able to attract my attention enabling me to read an email that Imogen wrote half an hour ago. This networking gave me the opportunity and the excuse I needed to talk to Alex on the phone in order to check that he was eating right and wearing clean underwear. I then took the time to email Matthew, tell him about the family networking and I could tack on an inquiry about washing behind ears and remembering 'pleases and thank yous'. I was able to tell David about it all over dinner that night face-to-face and then I could talk about the weather. You are right...... nothing very exciting is happening to me at the moment. I have nothing to say to anyone - and yet I blog!!
My first telephone number (remember I grew up just after the invention of the car - ha!) was Burnham 20. Burnham was a small village but I can not believe it only had twenty telephones, I don't know how the numbering went. The telephone exchange was at the top of the High Street. To make a call you picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect you with Burnham 19 or whoever you wanted to speak to. The telephone in our house was on the telephone table which sat in the entrance hall. The directory was on the bottom shelf and the phone on the top. You didn't have a chair to sit on. If you wanted to communicate at length with someone you wrote a letter.
As time went on our phone number became Burnham 5020 and you didn't speak to an operator you could dial direct. If you wanted the operator you dialled 100 and she could help you with more complicated problems. My best friend Julie and I could be entertained for hours when we were left on our own with the telephone. We would dial 100 and when the operator answered we would say - in what we believed was a mature voice "Operator are you on the line?" If she answered in the affirmative, which she always did, we tried to suppress our mirth and shriek (mature voices forgotten) "Well get off there's a train coming". It would appear that not only have huge strides been made in the communication field but humor has become more sophisticated.
Because my father worked away from home a lot we were one of the first families in our small community to get an extension line so that Mum could have a phone by her bed. This enabled Julie and I to try daring new tricks. We would dial a random number and then as someone picked up we would start this conversation between each other using the extension line. We would pretend to be robbers planning the next heist or a couple who needed to plan a murder of an unwanted husband or wife we were desperate for the unknown number to be sucked in. They never were. I can only think that we weren't allowed much television in those days.
Sadly opportunities to have fun on the phone have been diminished greatly with the invention of the itemized phone bill and the technology that allows you to identify the number that has just been rung. I can not think that my parents or Julie's parents would foot the bill for so many calls to the operator if they had known they were going on.
Kids these days are called into account for the cost of their communicating. If you are on the wrong plan teenage texting can do serious damage to a bank account. This is especially annoying if the level of communication is not particularly inspiring. One text message 'what's up?' with the reply 'nothing much' can cost as much as three dollars.
Texting, tweeting, IM'ing or working with facebook have created a whole new world which is much too complicated to understand. The remake of E.T. is obviously not going to include the line "phone home". He would give us a facebook link.
Monday, February 1, 2010
How To Win AT Bunco Whilst Looking As If You Don't Care
As a responsible writer I have, of course, researched my subject matter thoroughly and I can report the following facts. Bunco was invented by the English in the eighteenth century but it has recently become popular amongst middle-aged suburban housewives and teenagers who use the opportunity to drink irresponsibly. In 2006 as many as 27 million enjoyed rolling the dice. It is widely reported to be a game of no skill. I dispute this. If you read on I can offer tips that will make you become a phenomenal and much feared bunco player. These tips are probably more pertinent to a suburban housewife than a hell bent teenager. I find it hard to imagine many leather clad, wayward teenagers worrying about winning a vegetable platter.
At this point I had better mention my own bunco buddies and explain a little bit about our group which has been playing together each month for about five years. Our neighborhood has seen other groups come and go but ours remains strong. In fact we have had waiting lists of people wanting to join us. I think we might start hazing would-be dice rollers. I find this in some ways surprising as although all the women are fabulous the standards we set ourselves are high. To be the bunco hostess can lead to financial ruin, threats of divorce, high-blood pressure and at the very least a migraine. Our hostesses provide clean, beautifully decorated surroundings, really tempting appetizers, wine, cocktails, desserts and prizes that cost more than the sum of all the entrance fees. We all do this for each other. Quiet suggestions about the merits of an open jar of salsa and chips or a bring-your-own booze policy are never followed up. Whilst other groups have been known to spend money on male-strippers and dispense with actual prizes our group carries on with the Full Monty and we love it.
The second Thursday of each month will find children left to fend for themselves and husbands left with microwavable TV dinners. We are all off to so and so's house to eat some delicious food, knock back a cocktail or two and, most importantly, win a prize.
Whilst carrying out the extensive research which is necessary to write a blog I came across a statement which is untrue. Bunco was described as a game that required no skill. This statement needs to be expanded apon. You can play bunco in an unskilled way. Each group has plenty of spaces for a player who just wants to drink the cocktails and gossip but if you want to win a prize some skills can be employed so that you reach the next level of bunco playing and walk off with the prizes. Drinking, chatting and rolling dice can be regarded as a level one performance. Drinking, chatting rolling the dice, using some winning strategies and winning a prize are identified as a level two performance. But at the top of the pyramid is the level three bunco player. She is able to drink, chat, roll dice to win prizes and no one realizes she is focused on winning. It comes as a surprise each month when she walks away with the platter, soap dish or candle.
To win this is what you have to do......
1. It is most important that you hurry the dice rolling along. As soon as your table is complete get set. When the top table rings that bell get going. Listen politely to your friends, grab that handful of nuts but move those dice along. The total of dots will soon add up and the more times you roll the greater your chances of rolling the magic three. If any of the table get up for whatever reason, get the partner rolling for them, just keep it rolling along.
2. Do not sit at the top table any more often than you can help. At this table you can only roll until someone reaches 21 whilst the rest of the room can go higher. Although the appetizers are exquisite and the call of the cocktail shaker shrill when someone suggests the start of play make a deadline for table two or three. There is little you can do if the order of play leads you to the top table but try and make your stay there short.
3. Don't offer to keep the score too often, you don't want anyone to think that you would cheat but try and wrangle the pencil and pad away from a friend who has had a lot to drink or has a lot to say (they are often one and the same person). If you have spent the first part of the evening rolling like a demon you don't want some lush ruining your total with bad score keeping.
4. Finally, remember no one must suspect that you care that much about winning. After all it is much better to impress your friends with your children's acoomplishments or your diminishing waistline than your collection of bunco trophies.
Now, why will no one forward me a bunco schedule and how come my neighbor was talking about a chance to play with our group. Have I made myself too obvious?
At this point I had better mention my own bunco buddies and explain a little bit about our group which has been playing together each month for about five years. Our neighborhood has seen other groups come and go but ours remains strong. In fact we have had waiting lists of people wanting to join us. I think we might start hazing would-be dice rollers. I find this in some ways surprising as although all the women are fabulous the standards we set ourselves are high. To be the bunco hostess can lead to financial ruin, threats of divorce, high-blood pressure and at the very least a migraine. Our hostesses provide clean, beautifully decorated surroundings, really tempting appetizers, wine, cocktails, desserts and prizes that cost more than the sum of all the entrance fees. We all do this for each other. Quiet suggestions about the merits of an open jar of salsa and chips or a bring-your-own booze policy are never followed up. Whilst other groups have been known to spend money on male-strippers and dispense with actual prizes our group carries on with the Full Monty and we love it.
The second Thursday of each month will find children left to fend for themselves and husbands left with microwavable TV dinners. We are all off to so and so's house to eat some delicious food, knock back a cocktail or two and, most importantly, win a prize.
Whilst carrying out the extensive research which is necessary to write a blog I came across a statement which is untrue. Bunco was described as a game that required no skill. This statement needs to be expanded apon. You can play bunco in an unskilled way. Each group has plenty of spaces for a player who just wants to drink the cocktails and gossip but if you want to win a prize some skills can be employed so that you reach the next level of bunco playing and walk off with the prizes. Drinking, chatting and rolling dice can be regarded as a level one performance. Drinking, chatting rolling the dice, using some winning strategies and winning a prize are identified as a level two performance. But at the top of the pyramid is the level three bunco player. She is able to drink, chat, roll dice to win prizes and no one realizes she is focused on winning. It comes as a surprise each month when she walks away with the platter, soap dish or candle.
To win this is what you have to do......
1. It is most important that you hurry the dice rolling along. As soon as your table is complete get set. When the top table rings that bell get going. Listen politely to your friends, grab that handful of nuts but move those dice along. The total of dots will soon add up and the more times you roll the greater your chances of rolling the magic three. If any of the table get up for whatever reason, get the partner rolling for them, just keep it rolling along.
2. Do not sit at the top table any more often than you can help. At this table you can only roll until someone reaches 21 whilst the rest of the room can go higher. Although the appetizers are exquisite and the call of the cocktail shaker shrill when someone suggests the start of play make a deadline for table two or three. There is little you can do if the order of play leads you to the top table but try and make your stay there short.
3. Don't offer to keep the score too often, you don't want anyone to think that you would cheat but try and wrangle the pencil and pad away from a friend who has had a lot to drink or has a lot to say (they are often one and the same person). If you have spent the first part of the evening rolling like a demon you don't want some lush ruining your total with bad score keeping.
4. Finally, remember no one must suspect that you care that much about winning. After all it is much better to impress your friends with your children's acoomplishments or your diminishing waistline than your collection of bunco trophies.
Now, why will no one forward me a bunco schedule and how come my neighbor was talking about a chance to play with our group. Have I made myself too obvious?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Skiing
Before I can write anything about my own skiing experiences I should record a story which I think is very funny. My husband and the boys don't think it's funny they doubt it ever happened and cringe everytime I tell it.
A friend of a friend of a friend was asked to go skiing for a weekend with some corporate clients. Not wanting to admit that she had never tried this sport she thought she would just bluff her way through it. On the Saturday morning she met up with the corporate crowd at the bottom of the lift and travelled up a frighteningly steep slope. At the top, having had difficulty just getting off the lift she realized that she would have to leave the group at least for the morning. As she excused herself she asked the way to the nearest restroom. On being told the nearest one was at the bottom of the hill she decided she would just have to stagger into the trees and turn the snow yellow in the great outdoors. Leaving the ski's on but pulling the awkward padded trousers to her ankles she attempted to perform. Within seconds her balance was lost and she found herself travelling down the hill at break-neck speed with the padded trousers trailing behind her. When she came to rest at the bottom she pulled her trousers up and hurried into the lodge before anyone could see her or recognize her. The next morning she excused herself from joining the group and prepared to spend the day enjoying a book by the log fire at the lodge. As she settled down she struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was sitting by the fire his leg propped on a stool and swathed in bandages. She naturally asked how he had been injured. He explained....... In all his year's skiing he had never fallen but whilst skiing yesterday he had lost concentration as a woman with her "pants on the ground" had sped past him. Whilst studying her bare arse he had ploughed into a tree and hurt himself badly.
Now I have never turned the snow yellow at the top of the slope because I konow that the clothes you wear to ski are so difficult to get on and off or adjust that once you are in them and all equipment is dangled from your limbs it is best to leave everything on and in place until you are in the privacy of your own condo.
Everytime I go skiing I am at first struck by the beauty of the mountains, the blue skies and the crisp air. Once I have breathed deeply it creeps up on me that I am either too hot or too cold, my feet are already killing me and I can not bend over as every pocket of my ski jacket is crammed with essential things that make me look like a lumpy and abominal snow man. I have to take a spare hat, goggles, sunglasses, reading glasses in case I need to look at the map, suntan stuff, a mobile phone, and occasionally, a walkie-talkie thingy. And lets not forget the camera.
With all this electronic stuff strapped to my body it is not surprising that on the lift I bleep alot. It will either be my phone going off, the camera being short on battery power or family telling me over the walkie-talkie that they are at the top and heading down for lunch. this will causes three different parties that i don't know, to reply that they are at the bottom and have been waiting there for hours and anyway its only 10.30 and nobody is hungrey yet.
This year I am going to unload the jacket. After all I can not answer the phone whilst skiing or on a lift. I might drop something. Extra clothing will also be jettisoned. If I have paid for a ski in, ski out I can ski in and ski out to get the extra hat or vest. I have not decided how to simplify the eye-wear but an idea is forming.
The next best thing to speeding down the mountains and beeping as you go up is drinking in the hot tub when its all over.
A friend of a friend of a friend was asked to go skiing for a weekend with some corporate clients. Not wanting to admit that she had never tried this sport she thought she would just bluff her way through it. On the Saturday morning she met up with the corporate crowd at the bottom of the lift and travelled up a frighteningly steep slope. At the top, having had difficulty just getting off the lift she realized that she would have to leave the group at least for the morning. As she excused herself she asked the way to the nearest restroom. On being told the nearest one was at the bottom of the hill she decided she would just have to stagger into the trees and turn the snow yellow in the great outdoors. Leaving the ski's on but pulling the awkward padded trousers to her ankles she attempted to perform. Within seconds her balance was lost and she found herself travelling down the hill at break-neck speed with the padded trousers trailing behind her. When she came to rest at the bottom she pulled her trousers up and hurried into the lodge before anyone could see her or recognize her. The next morning she excused herself from joining the group and prepared to spend the day enjoying a book by the log fire at the lodge. As she settled down she struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was sitting by the fire his leg propped on a stool and swathed in bandages. She naturally asked how he had been injured. He explained....... In all his year's skiing he had never fallen but whilst skiing yesterday he had lost concentration as a woman with her "pants on the ground" had sped past him. Whilst studying her bare arse he had ploughed into a tree and hurt himself badly.
Now I have never turned the snow yellow at the top of the slope because I konow that the clothes you wear to ski are so difficult to get on and off or adjust that once you are in them and all equipment is dangled from your limbs it is best to leave everything on and in place until you are in the privacy of your own condo.
Everytime I go skiing I am at first struck by the beauty of the mountains, the blue skies and the crisp air. Once I have breathed deeply it creeps up on me that I am either too hot or too cold, my feet are already killing me and I can not bend over as every pocket of my ski jacket is crammed with essential things that make me look like a lumpy and abominal snow man. I have to take a spare hat, goggles, sunglasses, reading glasses in case I need to look at the map, suntan stuff, a mobile phone, and occasionally, a walkie-talkie thingy. And lets not forget the camera.
With all this electronic stuff strapped to my body it is not surprising that on the lift I bleep alot. It will either be my phone going off, the camera being short on battery power or family telling me over the walkie-talkie that they are at the top and heading down for lunch. this will causes three different parties that i don't know, to reply that they are at the bottom and have been waiting there for hours and anyway its only 10.30 and nobody is hungrey yet.
This year I am going to unload the jacket. After all I can not answer the phone whilst skiing or on a lift. I might drop something. Extra clothing will also be jettisoned. If I have paid for a ski in, ski out I can ski in and ski out to get the extra hat or vest. I have not decided how to simplify the eye-wear but an idea is forming.
The next best thing to speeding down the mountains and beeping as you go up is drinking in the hot tub when its all over.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
How This Page Got Its Name.
I am sure that the Bogging Universe is full of words of advice which help parents of picky-eaters come to terms with the lack of green stuff and the amount of calories and chemicals their children consume. To my mind all this worry is a waste of time. Parental worry is much more worthwhile when it is focused on the amount of time their offspring spend enjoying drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll. I site Adam Wood, Alexander Evans and Freddy Tripp in support of my opinion.
Adam Wood, my brother, grew up in the sixties and survived very well on a diet of tinned spaghetti in tomato sauce followed by a lot of chocolate cupcakes. He played soccer, did well in school and was almost a rockstar. He is now a successful father.
Alexander, my son, grew up on a diet of chicken nuggets and fries. he was nauseated by the smell and appearance of any other food. He will now eat pizza, red meat and chicken curry. Lettuce leaves still offend him but he is a healthy 22yr old surviving on his own.
Freddy Tripp, my best friend's son would only eat burnt toast and marmite at my house (and not much else at his mother's). A year ago I sat across from this beautiful 21 year old and watched him enjoy a salmon fillet and asparagus.
All that anxiety was wasted.
With one son only eatting nuggets and fries whilst the other was a vegetarian who ate no vegetables. Going out to eat was a challenge. We didn't do it. The Italian restaurant that served a pizza for the vegetarian served no fries. The fast food restaurant that served the nuggets and fries used the wrong kind of oil. We gave up and stayed home drinking some lovely glasses of wine.
In later years when food preferences could be compromised it was me that made the stipulations. Before we set foot in any restaurant I always wanted to know.......IS THIS PLACE LICENSED?
Adam Wood, my brother, grew up in the sixties and survived very well on a diet of tinned spaghetti in tomato sauce followed by a lot of chocolate cupcakes. He played soccer, did well in school and was almost a rockstar. He is now a successful father.
Alexander, my son, grew up on a diet of chicken nuggets and fries. he was nauseated by the smell and appearance of any other food. He will now eat pizza, red meat and chicken curry. Lettuce leaves still offend him but he is a healthy 22yr old surviving on his own.
Freddy Tripp, my best friend's son would only eat burnt toast and marmite at my house (and not much else at his mother's). A year ago I sat across from this beautiful 21 year old and watched him enjoy a salmon fillet and asparagus.
All that anxiety was wasted.
With one son only eatting nuggets and fries whilst the other was a vegetarian who ate no vegetables. Going out to eat was a challenge. We didn't do it. The Italian restaurant that served a pizza for the vegetarian served no fries. The fast food restaurant that served the nuggets and fries used the wrong kind of oil. We gave up and stayed home drinking some lovely glasses of wine.
In later years when food preferences could be compromised it was me that made the stipulations. Before we set foot in any restaurant I always wanted to know.......IS THIS PLACE LICENSED?
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
What's Wrong With Plain Soil?
I know the answer to this question before I've got started. If you plant your flowers in a bed and do just that. The soil, and plants, will either be washed away by rain or a hundred weeds will grow much faster than your plants spoiling your beautiful landscaping.
In Connecticut we laid mulch on our beds. These dead bits of tree bark weighed a ton and cost lots. I think the job was done every other year. A mountain of the stuff would be delivered and you would have to use a shovel and a wheel barrow to move it around the garden.
When we moved to Atlanta I was amazed to find that all the beds were covered in pineneedles. As our new house was on a new sub-division the landscaping was very raw. Rather than flowers surrounded by pineneedles there was just areas of pineneedles with neatly trimmed edges to separate the grass from the pineneedles.
I am not sure when pineneedles become pinestraw. It must happen when they are transported from some far away forests to Atlanta and then tied in bales with plastic orange string.
It all seemed very strange and not very attractive.
When we had lived in our house for a year we were aware that we had rather more bare, rocky areas than pinestraw covered areas. Nasty rumours were spreading around the neighborhood concerning by-laws that made it essential for all residents to cover all their bald spots with pinestraw. We dug deep into our pockets and ordered a frightening number of bales to be delivered. It was at this point that I suddenly realized how much better pinestraw is than mulch: it weighs next to nothing. No shovel or wheel barrow are needed you just have to carry the bales and then sling the stuff all around you. Your muscles don't become sore, it's just that your arms are scratched to death and the dust inthe bales makes you retch for hours.
Some pineneedles are better than other pineneedles. You need the right color, the right supplier and you need to have paid a bargain price for it otherwise you can not chat over a cocktail with the neighbors. Of course everyone has only paid half of what you paid for yours and it is of a much better quality than the stuff you picked up yourself from Home Depot. The conversations remind me of those that take place on airplanes when everyone is claiming to have got their seat for next tonothing.
Finally, the most annoying thing about all this seems to be troubling me right at this moment.... Our house is surrounded by pine trees and within the next few weeks they will shed bales of pinestraw onto my lawn. It then needs to be racked off the lawn and onto the flower beds BUT it is the wrong color and leaves then fall on top of it. SO I have to go to Home Depot and pay a load of money for there bales that I have to lay over the dead leaves and the wrong colored pinestraw.
In Connecticut we laid mulch on our beds. These dead bits of tree bark weighed a ton and cost lots. I think the job was done every other year. A mountain of the stuff would be delivered and you would have to use a shovel and a wheel barrow to move it around the garden.
When we moved to Atlanta I was amazed to find that all the beds were covered in pineneedles. As our new house was on a new sub-division the landscaping was very raw. Rather than flowers surrounded by pineneedles there was just areas of pineneedles with neatly trimmed edges to separate the grass from the pineneedles.
I am not sure when pineneedles become pinestraw. It must happen when they are transported from some far away forests to Atlanta and then tied in bales with plastic orange string.
It all seemed very strange and not very attractive.
When we had lived in our house for a year we were aware that we had rather more bare, rocky areas than pinestraw covered areas. Nasty rumours were spreading around the neighborhood concerning by-laws that made it essential for all residents to cover all their bald spots with pinestraw. We dug deep into our pockets and ordered a frightening number of bales to be delivered. It was at this point that I suddenly realized how much better pinestraw is than mulch: it weighs next to nothing. No shovel or wheel barrow are needed you just have to carry the bales and then sling the stuff all around you. Your muscles don't become sore, it's just that your arms are scratched to death and the dust inthe bales makes you retch for hours.
Some pineneedles are better than other pineneedles. You need the right color, the right supplier and you need to have paid a bargain price for it otherwise you can not chat over a cocktail with the neighbors. Of course everyone has only paid half of what you paid for yours and it is of a much better quality than the stuff you picked up yourself from Home Depot. The conversations remind me of those that take place on airplanes when everyone is claiming to have got their seat for next tonothing.
Finally, the most annoying thing about all this seems to be troubling me right at this moment.... Our house is surrounded by pine trees and within the next few weeks they will shed bales of pinestraw onto my lawn. It then needs to be racked off the lawn and onto the flower beds BUT it is the wrong color and leaves then fall on top of it. SO I have to go to Home Depot and pay a load of money for there bales that I have to lay over the dead leaves and the wrong colored pinestraw.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Family Weekends
It is 'family weekend' time again and it reminded me of a time, some three years ago, when I experienced the family weekend thing.......
That September I had had enough.
My seven year old princess was driving me mad with wardrobe crises every morning and homework crises every night. The level of anxiety generally radiating from my high school senior was wearing me down. I needed to escape. My husband offered spas, a trip home to England or a visit to a big city but rather pathetically I could only consider leaving one half of my family to visit the other half. I would enjoy a weekend with my oldest child, I would be killing two birds with one stone if I went and experienced the Family Weekend at his college on the Hudson River. I could enjoy a couple of classes, talk to other adults and enjoy the fall in New England.
Son number one was thrilled, he even suggested that I stayed in his apartment using his bed whle he slept on the coach. Friends were skeptical about how desirable student accomodation and beds were but I figured such a sincere offer could not be turned down and I had never heard of anyone dying of dirty sheets.
I was all set. I packed carefullybeing undecided about whether I was going to dress to fit in with the student body (ripped jeans with muddy raggedy bottoms and sunglasses), the professors (a lot of Cordroy and very dark sunglasses) or the other parents (rather expensive cordroy with very sleek overcoats and designer sunglasses). I looked like I normally do with dark glasses.
On the Friday morning I packed the children off to school left loads of notes and drove to the airport. It was great. I had allowed a good three hours to find the gate thus reducing the stress level that descends on me when travelling with my airport savvy husband who likes to leave everything until the last minute. I could read in the departure lounge and have a serious listen to other people's conversations. I hired a little car and drove off into the beautiful fall of New England.
I drove along sun dappled lanes, passed wooden houses decorated for Hallowe'en with pumpkins, witches flying into trees and plastic tombstones. I loved it all. Back in Atlanta the skeletons and tombstones don't look as good in the harsh sunshine and browning lawns. The fallen leaves and muddy puddles seemed to create a better setting. In all those frightening films don't the graves spring open from under a scattering of fallen leaves?
Matthew was right where he should have been looking suitably student-like with just the right amount of books under his arm. Memories of high school and spelling lists were disappearing fast. I was the parent of a college student all set for the afternoon reception, to mingle and chat with wise professors, my son's friends and alumni who just wanted my money. I hung out with the French Department who said amazing things about Matthew and were generally very pleasant. I was so impressed that I found myself agreeing to take a French class the following morning.
We then followed the dark glasses crowd to the film school to watch a very famous Japanese film introduced by a famous Japanese film critic. It was all lost on me so we left early and went out for a nice meal. I slept in Matthew's bed while he partied up the road and I got up ready to tackle the french class. Matthew lives in a little village that seems to have evolved along a path that makes it a natural neighbor for the very liberal college next door. The main street offers a tattoo parlor, a sushi bar, a pub, a coffeee shop, an erotic arts gallery that I once took the Princess to by mistake and a launderama called 'The Lost Sock". We avoided the tatto parlor resisted the pull of the piercer and hit the coffee bar for breakfast promising ourselves sushi later on and a drink in the infamous Black Swan.
I was intimidated and very impressed with the French Class. The purpose of the class was to show parents just what an intensive language course is and why our children could become fluent in a language after just one semester.
There were about sixteen of us all sitting around a large table wearing sleek outer garments, sunglasses and name tags. We started with a bang; the teacher firing questions at us. He only spoke French asking us our names repeating his and making us join in all the time. You could not let your attention wander for a minute, I was doing well. I had asked the lady next door her name, I had told her mine and that I was very well. Iwas feeling very Parisienne until I lost it all when I was drawn into French conversation by the couple sitting the other side of me. Their surname was 'Gluick' - this made me sit up. It was a little different from Smith or Jones. But what really did it was when I learnt that their fershman son was called Zoltan. Had they named him after the mechanical fortune teller in the film 'Big'? My mind would not take in anything else, I was lost to the French Class as I pondered this name - Zoltan Gluick. Only at a very liberal college in New England could there be someone with that name. I had to find my own Matthew Evans to learn more about Zoltan.
I day dreamed and marveled all the way through the video part of the lesson. We were shown films of Jaques and Michelle who were bright young things living in a french city. I could have learnt about where they lived and how they got to work or school but I chose instead to dwell on Zoltan. When I was at school in the sixties I took French but we were not introduced to anyone as bright as Jaques. We met the Domesnil Family. Monsieur Domesnil smoked a pie and read the newspaper. They had a cat called Minou and ate bread but that's as far as I got. I can only think that I would have been better at languages if the hero had been called Zoltan Gluick.
Matthew was unwilling to spend the rest of the weekend in search of Zoltan Gluick. he claimed that I had misheard the name and had not been paying attention. I had been paying attention until I heard the name. We went and listened to the very liberal president ofthe very liberal college. He praised the faculty said too little about the students and didn't even mention Zoltan Gluick.
We went and toured the new film school and attended the opening ceremony. There were a lot of very dark glasses to be seen- also some very odd hair-dos.
It was time to head back to the village next door and eat very good sushi. Everyone else in the small restaurant were parties made up of parents and students. The Gluick family did not make an appearance.
We went back to the Film school and watched somevery short films made by Bard students. The films were very arty - not a lot of storyline, some handpainted, some jerky and all of it lost on me. A party atmosphere prevailed and the head of the film school invited everyone for a glass of wine in the corridor. It was nice and spontaineous, we stayed long enough to note that most people had taken off their dark glasses.
My energy level was going down fast. This had been a big day for me. I managed a glass of chardonnay at The Black Swan and then took to Matthew's bed. He went partying down the road.
On Sunday we decided to leave college life behind and do some sight seeing, the day was a little dismal but we set off in the little hird car for the magical town of Woodstock. I know I am admitting appalling ignorance but I had always believed the biggest rock festival of all time had been held in California. I found it hard to believe that all those legends descended on this little town in the Hudson Valley. My knowledgeable son pointed out that the town was also (and had been before the sixties) home to a school 0f world renowned artists. This wasn't nearly as exciting as being the venue for a pop festival. It was a pretty town with cobbled streets and an attractive village square. We were not the only people there trying to make our way back to the garden. Woodstock had become a bit of a tourist trap, you had to pay a lot of money to park the car, there was a visitor's center and no shop sold anything you would need in the course of a normal week. If you lived in Woodstock you had to go elsewhere for your groceries. I would imagine the manufacturers of plug-in airfreshners did not do well in Woodstock as most people would still use joss sticks. There were lots of clothes stores but if you don't look good in tye-dye forget it. The inhabitants of Woodstock all appeared to have been left there from the festival, everyone was a hippie and quite old. It would be interesting tolook at pictures of the main street with people going about their business before the festival and then a picture in the same location a month or so after the festival. I wouldn't mind betting that in the before shot we see people without beards and in plain tee shirts but in the after shot we see beards, headbands and tye dye. We ate in one of those eateries that are very basic and tatty but very expensive, we were cold though so we needed warm things. In fact, we were so cold I persuaded Matthew to wear one of those funny Tibetan woolly hat hings.
All too soon it was time to go. I needed to get to the airport, spend time at the gate and catch up with the rest of my family. I almost missed them. I left Matthew exactly where I'd first seen him, with books under one arm, on his way to the library. I took off my dark glasses and headed for Atlanta.
My husband and High schooler claimed to love the tie dye. Alex looked up Zoltan Gluick on the web and found that more than one were listed. I promised the princess never to leave her again and gave her the Hilary Duff Cheetah print hair dryer for which she had been desperate.
Life has settled into the same old. same old. The tie dye tee shirts have disappeared into the back of closets although the Hilary Duff hairdryer can be heard every morning. Next year David is going to tackle the Parent Weekend.
That September I had had enough.
My seven year old princess was driving me mad with wardrobe crises every morning and homework crises every night. The level of anxiety generally radiating from my high school senior was wearing me down. I needed to escape. My husband offered spas, a trip home to England or a visit to a big city but rather pathetically I could only consider leaving one half of my family to visit the other half. I would enjoy a weekend with my oldest child, I would be killing two birds with one stone if I went and experienced the Family Weekend at his college on the Hudson River. I could enjoy a couple of classes, talk to other adults and enjoy the fall in New England.
Son number one was thrilled, he even suggested that I stayed in his apartment using his bed whle he slept on the coach. Friends were skeptical about how desirable student accomodation and beds were but I figured such a sincere offer could not be turned down and I had never heard of anyone dying of dirty sheets.
I was all set. I packed carefullybeing undecided about whether I was going to dress to fit in with the student body (ripped jeans with muddy raggedy bottoms and sunglasses), the professors (a lot of Cordroy and very dark sunglasses) or the other parents (rather expensive cordroy with very sleek overcoats and designer sunglasses). I looked like I normally do with dark glasses.
On the Friday morning I packed the children off to school left loads of notes and drove to the airport. It was great. I had allowed a good three hours to find the gate thus reducing the stress level that descends on me when travelling with my airport savvy husband who likes to leave everything until the last minute. I could read in the departure lounge and have a serious listen to other people's conversations. I hired a little car and drove off into the beautiful fall of New England.
I drove along sun dappled lanes, passed wooden houses decorated for Hallowe'en with pumpkins, witches flying into trees and plastic tombstones. I loved it all. Back in Atlanta the skeletons and tombstones don't look as good in the harsh sunshine and browning lawns. The fallen leaves and muddy puddles seemed to create a better setting. In all those frightening films don't the graves spring open from under a scattering of fallen leaves?
Matthew was right where he should have been looking suitably student-like with just the right amount of books under his arm. Memories of high school and spelling lists were disappearing fast. I was the parent of a college student all set for the afternoon reception, to mingle and chat with wise professors, my son's friends and alumni who just wanted my money. I hung out with the French Department who said amazing things about Matthew and were generally very pleasant. I was so impressed that I found myself agreeing to take a French class the following morning.
We then followed the dark glasses crowd to the film school to watch a very famous Japanese film introduced by a famous Japanese film critic. It was all lost on me so we left early and went out for a nice meal. I slept in Matthew's bed while he partied up the road and I got up ready to tackle the french class. Matthew lives in a little village that seems to have evolved along a path that makes it a natural neighbor for the very liberal college next door. The main street offers a tattoo parlor, a sushi bar, a pub, a coffeee shop, an erotic arts gallery that I once took the Princess to by mistake and a launderama called 'The Lost Sock". We avoided the tatto parlor resisted the pull of the piercer and hit the coffee bar for breakfast promising ourselves sushi later on and a drink in the infamous Black Swan.
I was intimidated and very impressed with the French Class. The purpose of the class was to show parents just what an intensive language course is and why our children could become fluent in a language after just one semester.
There were about sixteen of us all sitting around a large table wearing sleek outer garments, sunglasses and name tags. We started with a bang; the teacher firing questions at us. He only spoke French asking us our names repeating his and making us join in all the time. You could not let your attention wander for a minute, I was doing well. I had asked the lady next door her name, I had told her mine and that I was very well. Iwas feeling very Parisienne until I lost it all when I was drawn into French conversation by the couple sitting the other side of me. Their surname was 'Gluick' - this made me sit up. It was a little different from Smith or Jones. But what really did it was when I learnt that their fershman son was called Zoltan. Had they named him after the mechanical fortune teller in the film 'Big'? My mind would not take in anything else, I was lost to the French Class as I pondered this name - Zoltan Gluick. Only at a very liberal college in New England could there be someone with that name. I had to find my own Matthew Evans to learn more about Zoltan.
I day dreamed and marveled all the way through the video part of the lesson. We were shown films of Jaques and Michelle who were bright young things living in a french city. I could have learnt about where they lived and how they got to work or school but I chose instead to dwell on Zoltan. When I was at school in the sixties I took French but we were not introduced to anyone as bright as Jaques. We met the Domesnil Family. Monsieur Domesnil smoked a pie and read the newspaper. They had a cat called Minou and ate bread but that's as far as I got. I can only think that I would have been better at languages if the hero had been called Zoltan Gluick.
Matthew was unwilling to spend the rest of the weekend in search of Zoltan Gluick. he claimed that I had misheard the name and had not been paying attention. I had been paying attention until I heard the name. We went and listened to the very liberal president ofthe very liberal college. He praised the faculty said too little about the students and didn't even mention Zoltan Gluick.
We went and toured the new film school and attended the opening ceremony. There were a lot of very dark glasses to be seen- also some very odd hair-dos.
It was time to head back to the village next door and eat very good sushi. Everyone else in the small restaurant were parties made up of parents and students. The Gluick family did not make an appearance.
We went back to the Film school and watched somevery short films made by Bard students. The films were very arty - not a lot of storyline, some handpainted, some jerky and all of it lost on me. A party atmosphere prevailed and the head of the film school invited everyone for a glass of wine in the corridor. It was nice and spontaineous, we stayed long enough to note that most people had taken off their dark glasses.
My energy level was going down fast. This had been a big day for me. I managed a glass of chardonnay at The Black Swan and then took to Matthew's bed. He went partying down the road.
On Sunday we decided to leave college life behind and do some sight seeing, the day was a little dismal but we set off in the little hird car for the magical town of Woodstock. I know I am admitting appalling ignorance but I had always believed the biggest rock festival of all time had been held in California. I found it hard to believe that all those legends descended on this little town in the Hudson Valley. My knowledgeable son pointed out that the town was also (and had been before the sixties) home to a school 0f world renowned artists. This wasn't nearly as exciting as being the venue for a pop festival. It was a pretty town with cobbled streets and an attractive village square. We were not the only people there trying to make our way back to the garden. Woodstock had become a bit of a tourist trap, you had to pay a lot of money to park the car, there was a visitor's center and no shop sold anything you would need in the course of a normal week. If you lived in Woodstock you had to go elsewhere for your groceries. I would imagine the manufacturers of plug-in airfreshners did not do well in Woodstock as most people would still use joss sticks. There were lots of clothes stores but if you don't look good in tye-dye forget it. The inhabitants of Woodstock all appeared to have been left there from the festival, everyone was a hippie and quite old. It would be interesting tolook at pictures of the main street with people going about their business before the festival and then a picture in the same location a month or so after the festival. I wouldn't mind betting that in the before shot we see people without beards and in plain tee shirts but in the after shot we see beards, headbands and tye dye. We ate in one of those eateries that are very basic and tatty but very expensive, we were cold though so we needed warm things. In fact, we were so cold I persuaded Matthew to wear one of those funny Tibetan woolly hat hings.
All too soon it was time to go. I needed to get to the airport, spend time at the gate and catch up with the rest of my family. I almost missed them. I left Matthew exactly where I'd first seen him, with books under one arm, on his way to the library. I took off my dark glasses and headed for Atlanta.
My husband and High schooler claimed to love the tie dye. Alex looked up Zoltan Gluick on the web and found that more than one were listed. I promised the princess never to leave her again and gave her the Hilary Duff Cheetah print hair dryer for which she had been desperate.
Life has settled into the same old. same old. The tie dye tee shirts have disappeared into the back of closets although the Hilary Duff hairdryer can be heard every morning. Next year David is going to tackle the Parent Weekend.
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