"You know something important is going on today as there are helicopters over Westminster. Of course, they (ed note: the helicopters) may be cut in the next few minutes (ed note: referring to the upcoming Spending Review Announcement/Bombshell), but let's just enjoy the view for now..."
Now to watch the kindergarteners sling insults and mud at each other...sorry, for those not watching the BBC News Channel, I'm referring of course to the Prime Minister's Questions. Good LORD it's like "Cheers" in there...Labour Leader is announced and the entire room full of pompous and pious MPs shouts, "ED!!!!"
20 October 2010
13 October 2010
Thanks, Kiddos
I was just looking back through my blog to find when I moved to the myriad of places I lived between 2005 and 2010, and I was struck by what a support and saviour my greyhounds were through all of that. Of course, my Daisy is continuing in that tradition, but I'm thinking now of Hunky, Profile, and Jeany who have left me for the Bridge...where hopefully they can stay in one place for a long time.
They put up with moving three times in as many years. They put up with living in two houses in Greenville and Anderson. They did so many tours at the Carolina and Georgia Renaissance Festivals, and all they wanted in return was my undying love and...well, in Jeany's case for sure, worship. They had it, and they still have it. Miss you guys. Love you to bits. Thanks, kiddos.
They put up with moving three times in as many years. They put up with living in two houses in Greenville and Anderson. They did so many tours at the Carolina and Georgia Renaissance Festivals, and all they wanted in return was my undying love and...well, in Jeany's case for sure, worship. They had it, and they still have it. Miss you guys. Love you to bits. Thanks, kiddos.
Gracias a Dios
07 October 2010
Soon and very soon...
See that view? That's what my parents see EVERY DAY as they eat their meals, venture out onto their back porch, or just gaze out the windows in the great room. I don't know what mountain that is, exactly, but I'm sure my dad does. He was born and raised just across the road from where this picture was taken, and has made these mountains home his entire life.
There are just 20 days left until Simon and I leave for our much needed holiday in America. While I'm still fretting over fitting in visits to everyone that I want to see, scheduling a time to meet with a real estate agent in Greenville, and possibly chasing down leads for jobs for me once we move back, I'm also just desperate to be home. I think it's the amount of time I've been away this time that's making the homesickness worse, plus the stress of the house not selling and all the rest.
But seriously, if you had THAT view to look forward to, why would you ever leave? Soon and very soon, we are going to see...home.
There are just 20 days left until Simon and I leave for our much needed holiday in America. While I'm still fretting over fitting in visits to everyone that I want to see, scheduling a time to meet with a real estate agent in Greenville, and possibly chasing down leads for jobs for me once we move back, I'm also just desperate to be home. I think it's the amount of time I've been away this time that's making the homesickness worse, plus the stress of the house not selling and all the rest.
But seriously, if you had THAT view to look forward to, why would you ever leave? Soon and very soon, we are going to see...home.
29 September 2010
This time next year...Ahoy CRF!
My last entry was a bit of a downer, so I wanted to think of something happy to write about today. As I looked around the web for inspiration, I found it in the strangest place...the calendar at the bottom of the screen. It's coming up on October, which means it's coming up on the 10th season that the Hounds of East Fairhaven have made an appearance in the cozy village at CRF! Ten years...
The first year there were four of us humans and about ten greyhounds all together. We didn't have our own building but were annexed onto the Lord Mayor's Court instead. We sat on benches in the back. We left during the shows so that we didn't steal focus. Orphans brought the dogs water and tucked blankets around them when it got colder. We learned to stick weave and more than we ever needed to know about bullfrogs. We probably lost several stone among us from the sheer amount of walking we did.
The second year we were thrilled and amazed to have our own tent, despite it's placement in front of a storm drain that sadly got blocked halfway through the season. Our tent, or "A River Is Still Running Through It," was too small for a platform, but we brought a dining room table, chairs, trunk, sheepskin, and a variety of oriental rugs and made it home. We had new members and I think our running total was about 6 humans and 15-20 greyhounds.
Something happened before year three and we lost lots of members. There were three of us that were regulars, but luckily we all had multiple hounds so we still had at least 5 hounds at any given time. Our tent was in a new place, over by the joust. We drank chai tea and listened to the horses behind us in their paddock. We played with the drums from the stall next door, and put fairy wings on the greyhounds (much to their general UNamusement). With a huge open area behind the jousting arena we did lots of lure pole and other demonstrations, much to the delight of the patrons (and the dogs, who got to RUN). We camped on site for the first time, some in tents and me in my Element. We were feeling like part of the CRF family.
Fourth year rolled around and we ended up at the other end of the festival, right by the front gates! There were cinnamon almonds and chai teas within arm's reach, as well as pumpkin milkshakes and tiramasu. The lure pole demonstration was a great hit, even when the dog being demo'ed ran past the handler and joined the audience at the Tortuga Twins show. There were hay bales and yellow jackets...the latter giving us trouble in the tent and in Joanne's corset.
We started our fifth season with a new spring in our steps and our hips, as we were positioned next to the Jewels of the Caravan. We snuggled with our dogs on our new platform and learned new words like yalayahabeebee. We feared being so close to the petting zoo, and were thankful when only one rabbit broke free and came visiting...luckily during houndie nap time. By the end I think some of us had morphed into half fewterer, half bellydancer!
The sixth season is a bit of a blur to me because I was in Alabama. The woman in the photo up there was an absolute lifesaver for me, as she agreed to take on the leadership of the group in my absence. HOEF is like my child...it was my idea in the beginning, I gathered a group and went to CRF to pitch the idea, and I'd been there almost every opening since we were given the green light. To hand it over was heartbreaking, but at the same time I knew Debbie loved it as much as I did. There were growing pains that season including a strange argument over a displaced young tree, but the two times I visited it was like I'd never left.
Come seventh season I was BACK and raring to go. Our tent was borrowed, due to Mother Goose's inability to be there due to illness. We painted a concrete goose, put a bonnet on it, and put it in front of our tent lest we forget to send her our best good wishes and thoughts for recovery. Once again we were near the almonds and the chai, but I was without one of the originals...as I walked the grounds the first morning, I could feel the presence of a certain white and dark brindle hound just to my left, nuzzling my hand and then dashing off in search of a Tortuga show. It was Daisy's first season, and the first time that I went Pirate...and may never go back.
The eighth season saw us with new wonders to behold. Under Debbie's leadership the group had been given a BUILDING! A permanent place to be...no river would run through it and no late autumn Carolina monsoon wind would carry it away. We had sparse furnishings but we had a storage room/time out room for tired hounds. We had our own real backstage area. We settled in and made ourselves at home. We had become part of the CRF family.
The ninth season I only made it for one weekend because I was away...far away, here in England. I remember walking past the flying machines and toward the HOEF building and feeling like I was going to explode from pride, from jealously, and just from happiness to be there...to see them doing what I knew they were so good at doing...to see what HOEF had become, and to remember huddling in the back of the mayor's tent that first year. This year will be the tenth season and again, I'm only there for one weekend. But next year...Katy bar the door, I'm back! Now...where's my sewing machine?
For more information about the Carolina Renaissance Festival or the Hounds of East Fairhaven, please visit the CRF website and click on "Entertainment." Much love and thanks to all the cast and crew over the past ten years, and special thanks to Debbie Rater, who flies the flag high for HOEF every day of the year, and has kept it alive for me to come back to next fall. Ya-lah, ya-lah? Arrrrrrrrr...
The first year there were four of us humans and about ten greyhounds all together. We didn't have our own building but were annexed onto the Lord Mayor's Court instead. We sat on benches in the back. We left during the shows so that we didn't steal focus. Orphans brought the dogs water and tucked blankets around them when it got colder. We learned to stick weave and more than we ever needed to know about bullfrogs. We probably lost several stone among us from the sheer amount of walking we did.
The second year we were thrilled and amazed to have our own tent, despite it's placement in front of a storm drain that sadly got blocked halfway through the season. Our tent, or "A River Is Still Running Through It," was too small for a platform, but we brought a dining room table, chairs, trunk, sheepskin, and a variety of oriental rugs and made it home. We had new members and I think our running total was about 6 humans and 15-20 greyhounds.
Something happened before year three and we lost lots of members. There were three of us that were regulars, but luckily we all had multiple hounds so we still had at least 5 hounds at any given time. Our tent was in a new place, over by the joust. We drank chai tea and listened to the horses behind us in their paddock. We played with the drums from the stall next door, and put fairy wings on the greyhounds (much to their general UNamusement). With a huge open area behind the jousting arena we did lots of lure pole and other demonstrations, much to the delight of the patrons (and the dogs, who got to RUN). We camped on site for the first time, some in tents and me in my Element. We were feeling like part of the CRF family.
Fourth year rolled around and we ended up at the other end of the festival, right by the front gates! There were cinnamon almonds and chai teas within arm's reach, as well as pumpkin milkshakes and tiramasu. The lure pole demonstration was a great hit, even when the dog being demo'ed ran past the handler and joined the audience at the Tortuga Twins show. There were hay bales and yellow jackets...the latter giving us trouble in the tent and in Joanne's corset.
We started our fifth season with a new spring in our steps and our hips, as we were positioned next to the Jewels of the Caravan. We snuggled with our dogs on our new platform and learned new words like yalayahabeebee. We feared being so close to the petting zoo, and were thankful when only one rabbit broke free and came visiting...luckily during houndie nap time. By the end I think some of us had morphed into half fewterer, half bellydancer!
The sixth season is a bit of a blur to me because I was in Alabama. The woman in the photo up there was an absolute lifesaver for me, as she agreed to take on the leadership of the group in my absence. HOEF is like my child...it was my idea in the beginning, I gathered a group and went to CRF to pitch the idea, and I'd been there almost every opening since we were given the green light. To hand it over was heartbreaking, but at the same time I knew Debbie loved it as much as I did. There were growing pains that season including a strange argument over a displaced young tree, but the two times I visited it was like I'd never left.
Come seventh season I was BACK and raring to go. Our tent was borrowed, due to Mother Goose's inability to be there due to illness. We painted a concrete goose, put a bonnet on it, and put it in front of our tent lest we forget to send her our best good wishes and thoughts for recovery. Once again we were near the almonds and the chai, but I was without one of the originals...as I walked the grounds the first morning, I could feel the presence of a certain white and dark brindle hound just to my left, nuzzling my hand and then dashing off in search of a Tortuga show. It was Daisy's first season, and the first time that I went Pirate...and may never go back.
The eighth season saw us with new wonders to behold. Under Debbie's leadership the group had been given a BUILDING! A permanent place to be...no river would run through it and no late autumn Carolina monsoon wind would carry it away. We had sparse furnishings but we had a storage room/time out room for tired hounds. We had our own real backstage area. We settled in and made ourselves at home. We had become part of the CRF family.
The ninth season I only made it for one weekend because I was away...far away, here in England. I remember walking past the flying machines and toward the HOEF building and feeling like I was going to explode from pride, from jealously, and just from happiness to be there...to see them doing what I knew they were so good at doing...to see what HOEF had become, and to remember huddling in the back of the mayor's tent that first year. This year will be the tenth season and again, I'm only there for one weekend. But next year...Katy bar the door, I'm back! Now...where's my sewing machine?
For more information about the Carolina Renaissance Festival or the Hounds of East Fairhaven, please visit the CRF website and click on "Entertainment." Much love and thanks to all the cast and crew over the past ten years, and special thanks to Debbie Rater, who flies the flag high for HOEF every day of the year, and has kept it alive for me to come back to next fall. Ya-lah, ya-lah? Arrrrrrrrr...
22 September 2010
Happy Inside
Can you imagine if they released 100 greyhounds into an IKEA? There wouldn't be a meatball left in the store, I can assure you of that, and they'd find them all asleep on the Ektorp sofas.
(There's a ginger tabby that looks right at the camera at one point...looks SO much like my Mills...)
Seriously.
Things have gone from weird to totally nuts in two days here at the Lettuce. (Nods for that to my former boss, Roger, who taught me that totally nuts IS in fact a diagnostic term.) We got a phone call about 2pm on Monday that someone wanted to come see the house THAT DAY. Considering at that time the house looked like a tornado had not only hit, but had brought its friends Hurricane and Duststorm and settled in for the long haul, that was not going to happen. Friendly and Not At All Helpful Estate Agent suggests Wednesday at 5pm. I agree, hang up the phone, and PANIC.
Thankfully my employer was sympathetic and let me switch one of my work days this week so that today can be spent getting ready for the potential buyer that may or may not turn up.
No, before you say anything, that's not my general pessimism about the world at large rearing its head. That's an assumption based on the cold hard fact that in the two years plus that the house has been on the market, we've had five calls that someone was coming and only three of those have turned up on the day.
So, laundry's in and I'm taking a tea break, and I started thinking about what might happen if the bloke actually turns up AND wants the house. Remember the previous post and my thoughts on change? Yeah, anxiety times infinity. But good, really good I think. When I start getting nervous about the move and think it would just be easier to stay here because I sometimes can't be asked to do anything difficult (go on, those that know me, laugh, I'll keep going though if you don't mind?) I start thinking of specific things I've experienced in the past two years that have made up my mind that this is not the place to be for me at this time. Here's a few, for your general amusement, pity, shock, awe, horror, and ambivalence. Enjoy.
1. At work one day a customer said to me that he'd never visit America because he wasn't a fan of George W. Bush. I casually mentioned that we'd elected a new president and had high hopes for his administration. The customer went on to tell me that Mr. Obama wouldn't be in office long because, "he'll get shot. That's what you American lot do, you get a gun and shoot people."
2. I miss my car. It worries me that if something should happen to Daisy I don't know how I'd get her to the vet quickly because most of the taxi drivers here won't transport dogs...or if they do, they put them in the boot and won't allow them in the backseat with me.
3. "What part of New Zealand are you from? Oh...you're American. Huh."
4. "What part of Canada are you from? Oh, I see, well I guessed Canadian first because most people are offended if you call them American and they aren't."
5. During a conversation that I wasn't an active part of but was close enough to hear, the statement was made that "America is always going to be at least two decades behind the rest of the world." The person then noticed me, grinned, and said, "I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, right Nancy?"
6. I miss my dishwasher, my tumble dryer, my box springs, Kraft Dinners (that I don't have to go to Manchester to purchase or pay close to $4/box for), Target (yeah, I know, boycott, blah blah), WalMart (back off man, I'm poor), Renaissance Festivals, greyhound adoption work/events, and Hazelnut flavoured CoffeeMate coffee creamer (creamer, not whitener!!).
There are things that I love about living here, but this isn't a post about that. I want to stop feeling like an outsider. I want to be home.
And speaking of home, my current one isn't going to clean itself. Ta-rah!
Thankfully my employer was sympathetic and let me switch one of my work days this week so that today can be spent getting ready for the potential buyer that may or may not turn up.
No, before you say anything, that's not my general pessimism about the world at large rearing its head. That's an assumption based on the cold hard fact that in the two years plus that the house has been on the market, we've had five calls that someone was coming and only three of those have turned up on the day.
So, laundry's in and I'm taking a tea break, and I started thinking about what might happen if the bloke actually turns up AND wants the house. Remember the previous post and my thoughts on change? Yeah, anxiety times infinity. But good, really good I think. When I start getting nervous about the move and think it would just be easier to stay here because I sometimes can't be asked to do anything difficult (go on, those that know me, laugh, I'll keep going though if you don't mind?) I start thinking of specific things I've experienced in the past two years that have made up my mind that this is not the place to be for me at this time. Here's a few, for your general amusement, pity, shock, awe, horror, and ambivalence. Enjoy.
1. At work one day a customer said to me that he'd never visit America because he wasn't a fan of George W. Bush. I casually mentioned that we'd elected a new president and had high hopes for his administration. The customer went on to tell me that Mr. Obama wouldn't be in office long because, "he'll get shot. That's what you American lot do, you get a gun and shoot people."
2. I miss my car. It worries me that if something should happen to Daisy I don't know how I'd get her to the vet quickly because most of the taxi drivers here won't transport dogs...or if they do, they put them in the boot and won't allow them in the backseat with me.
3. "What part of New Zealand are you from? Oh...you're American. Huh."
4. "What part of Canada are you from? Oh, I see, well I guessed Canadian first because most people are offended if you call them American and they aren't."
5. During a conversation that I wasn't an active part of but was close enough to hear, the statement was made that "America is always going to be at least two decades behind the rest of the world." The person then noticed me, grinned, and said, "I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, right Nancy?"
6. I miss my dishwasher, my tumble dryer, my box springs, Kraft Dinners (that I don't have to go to Manchester to purchase or pay close to $4/box for), Target (yeah, I know, boycott, blah blah), WalMart (back off man, I'm poor), Renaissance Festivals, greyhound adoption work/events, and Hazelnut flavoured CoffeeMate coffee creamer (creamer, not whitener!!).
There are things that I love about living here, but this isn't a post about that. I want to stop feeling like an outsider. I want to be home.
And speaking of home, my current one isn't going to clean itself. Ta-rah!
20 September 2010
On Entrances, Exits, and Just Passing Through...
Like a lot of my photos, the one for today's post is of a gate and a passageway. I seem to be obsessed with them, and if you check out Coming Out of the Tunnel and It's a Journey, you'll see that there is a reason for this obsession.
When I was a kid (and still today, if I'm honest), I had a big problem with change. Mom tells me that I used to cry during the credits of TV programs because I didn't want them to be over. I can remember anxiety hitting just before the bell rang in school because I was changing classes. I never wanted the change to occur because, I think, I wasn't self confident enough to know that I could handle what was coming next.
What the heck is someone like that doing moving to another country, you might ask? Been asking myself that for the past 17 months, if I'm honest. Everything has been a struggle for me, from the first time I took the bus on my own to the supermarket to the first time I used my debit card and remembered the PIN (those happened in the same trip, coincidentally).
Yeah, I know, this blog is all about sunshine and happiness, isn't it? Watch out, the unicorns in the corner may poke you with their horns as they scamper away from the leprechauns holding balloons.
I was thinking about my photos of entrances/exits as I stopped by random bacon, a blog run by a fellow American expat and friend of mine, Julie. Her post, Somewhere In Between, struck a chord in me, specifically when she said:
Just as I was turning left to take a short-cut through a nearby park, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling of "foreigness". Potentially only other expats can fully understand what I mean by that statement, but basically I was riding along on my bike and this huge swell of emotion came up involuntarily, pushing the thoughts of "I live in a foreign country. This is not my culture. This is England. How did I get here again?" into my mind. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling necessarily, but just a highly intense awareness around the fact that I'm not in my native land. These thoughts were then followed up by mixed feelings of pride, sadness, intrigue and loneliness all at once.
That's it. That's what has been following me like Winnie the Pooh's stormcloud since I got here a year ago in April and for the life of me, I can't shake it. I think that what I'm realising is that I'm not really cut out to LIVE permanently outside of the US, and that's okay. There is no shame in knowing who you are and where you belong...in fact, that's the same thing that settled expats feel, just they feel that they belong here.
So are my photos entrances or exits? Neither. I'm just passing through, on my way home to regroup before I head out to explore again. Only next time I'll take an extra jumper...
When I was a kid (and still today, if I'm honest), I had a big problem with change. Mom tells me that I used to cry during the credits of TV programs because I didn't want them to be over. I can remember anxiety hitting just before the bell rang in school because I was changing classes. I never wanted the change to occur because, I think, I wasn't self confident enough to know that I could handle what was coming next.
What the heck is someone like that doing moving to another country, you might ask? Been asking myself that for the past 17 months, if I'm honest. Everything has been a struggle for me, from the first time I took the bus on my own to the supermarket to the first time I used my debit card and remembered the PIN (those happened in the same trip, coincidentally).
Yeah, I know, this blog is all about sunshine and happiness, isn't it? Watch out, the unicorns in the corner may poke you with their horns as they scamper away from the leprechauns holding balloons.
I was thinking about my photos of entrances/exits as I stopped by random bacon, a blog run by a fellow American expat and friend of mine, Julie. Her post, Somewhere In Between, struck a chord in me, specifically when she said:
Just as I was turning left to take a short-cut through a nearby park, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling of "foreigness". Potentially only other expats can fully understand what I mean by that statement, but basically I was riding along on my bike and this huge swell of emotion came up involuntarily, pushing the thoughts of "I live in a foreign country. This is not my culture. This is England. How did I get here again?" into my mind. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling necessarily, but just a highly intense awareness around the fact that I'm not in my native land. These thoughts were then followed up by mixed feelings of pride, sadness, intrigue and loneliness all at once.
That's it. That's what has been following me like Winnie the Pooh's stormcloud since I got here a year ago in April and for the life of me, I can't shake it. I think that what I'm realising is that I'm not really cut out to LIVE permanently outside of the US, and that's okay. There is no shame in knowing who you are and where you belong...in fact, that's the same thing that settled expats feel, just they feel that they belong here.
So are my photos entrances or exits? Neither. I'm just passing through, on my way home to regroup before I head out to explore again. Only next time I'll take an extra jumper...
13 September 2010
All Together Now...
(from Lulu.com )
"The entire Proud Racer series (One Greyhound's Journey, A Tail of Two Brothers, Blind Faith, and Half Crazy) is now together in one volume: The Complete Proud Racer! As told from the perspectives of the greyhounds, follow Hunk as he leaves his athletic career behind and becomes a pet in One Greyhound's Journey and A Tail of Two Brothers...will he be reunited with his littermate Marky? In Blind Faith, available for the first time with Lulu.com, meet Shotgun Liz, a fiesty old greyhound lady whose faith leads her not only to a new home with new friends, but possibly back to the old friends from home. Finally, in Half Crazy, follow the newest pack member, Daisy, as she learns the ropes at Home...with the help of a former pack member turned angel. This series is sure to delight both those who share their lives with greyhounds and those who don't...yet."
I have my copy in hand now...and I hope that wherever he is my Hunky-man is happy with seeing his beautiful face on the cover of this new book...yet another way for me to tell his story. Thanks for looking, y'all...and thanks even more if you buy one!
"The entire Proud Racer series (One Greyhound's Journey, A Tail of Two Brothers, Blind Faith, and Half Crazy) is now together in one volume: The Complete Proud Racer! As told from the perspectives of the greyhounds, follow Hunk as he leaves his athletic career behind and becomes a pet in One Greyhound's Journey and A Tail of Two Brothers...will he be reunited with his littermate Marky? In Blind Faith, available for the first time with Lulu.com, meet Shotgun Liz, a fiesty old greyhound lady whose faith leads her not only to a new home with new friends, but possibly back to the old friends from home. Finally, in Half Crazy, follow the newest pack member, Daisy, as she learns the ropes at Home...with the help of a former pack member turned angel. This series is sure to delight both those who share their lives with greyhounds and those who don't...yet."
I have my copy in hand now...and I hope that wherever he is my Hunky-man is happy with seeing his beautiful face on the cover of this new book...yet another way for me to tell his story. Thanks for looking, y'all...and thanks even more if you buy one!
06 September 2010
On Tea Bags, Birth, Truth, and America
I was listening to Radio Four's Americana with Matt Frei yesterday while having my tea, and the topic was "Conservative economist Thomas Sowell on how America's greatness is being dismantled." Let me pause a second before I get started and say that while I do enjoy listening to this program, it's a bit of a bone of contention in our house because my husband LOVES a good debate. I do not share that love, and often come out of these "discussions" feeling as though I've endured an hour's worth of America Bashing. My rational mind knows that is not the case, but my emotions often take over when the topic is my country.
You would think that since I freely admit to loving the United States of America, warts and Republicans and all, that I would understand the motivation behind the "Tea Party Movement" even if I don't agree with it. This morning I've devoted quite a bit of time to researching these "teabaggers" (*snort*) and I've got to say that I'm even more puzzled by them than I was when I started.
Call me naive. Call me a tree hugger. Call me a socialist. I'm not thick and I'm not reading "left wing propaganda" describing this movement and its proponents. I'm going to their own websites and checking out the profiles of their champions that are in their own words...and I gotta say, I still don't get it. Here's what I'm seeing and what it is leading me to believe...I'm sure I'll be corrected every way but Sunday, but y'all, maybe before shouting at me you should look at your PR people with a closer eye because they're the ones that are producing this convoluted information.
Aren't you proud of me? I haven't called it drivel...yet.
I feel that calling the current loose conglomeration of dissent the "Tea Party Movement" is disrespectful to those patriots that opposed the taxation imposed by the British. The main problem there, unless I seriously slept through ALL of my history classes, was that there was no representation of the colonists in Parliament when these taxes were voted on and approved. None. As in zero. The people voting on the taxes lived in England, not Virginia. Now all of those people that you Tea Party members see as oppressing you? They're all Americans. YOU voted them into office, if you voted. So...um...not the same thing. Dissent may be patriotic, but this isn't dissent. It's more like you've changed your minds.
I already know what the argument will be for my next statement, and I can bet it will have the word conspiracy in it at least once, but this one is for the birthers out there. Barack Obama, II is an American. He was born in Hawaii, and I think we all agree that Hawaii is a state and not just some random collection of Polynesian islands. I feel fairly safe in believing that when the then senator from Illinois submitted, via his political party, his intention to run for the office of the President, SOMEONE up there in Washington vetted his creds to see if he was elligible to run. If he'd been born in Kenya or Bali or wherever else these folks claim he was born, HE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ON THE BALLOT.
I will say that I'm not sure how I feel about the Health Care Reform business because I'm still weeding through all the miles and miles of text of the bills and the amendments and the opposition and and and...but I can say this: Those of you that are outraged because the law forces you to have health insurance, are you kidding me? I suppose you're also opposed to laws that make driving a vehicle while intoxicated illegal, and the one that requires you to wear a seatbelt? I was pleased to see, however, that there is a tax imposed on indoor tanning...or as I like to call it, Please, Give Me Skin Cancer and Let Me Pay You For It.
Here's a neat tidbit I uncovered: all that bailout business that the right whinges on about being proof that Obama doesn't care about America etc etc etc? Yeah, that was a Bush thing. How soon we forget.
And what of the ringleaders of what seems to me to be quite the circus of discontent and anger and...patriotism? I've never liked Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, or Rupert Murdoch. FoxNews is a joke as far as Fair and Balanced goes. (And before you ask, no, I don't watch CNN. Currently I'm getting my news from the BBC and the Daily Show, thanks for asking.) Sarah Palin? Seriously, that's a whole blog post in itself but I'll sum it up by saying I think she's a victim of a political machine desperate to lure in female voters. You can't dress up a pit bull in lipstick and expect it to do anything but bark incoherently. Mama Bear will still maul you as soon as look at you...she's not the best choice for rational conversation.
This post is sliding down into a right proper rant so I will wind it up by saying that I love my country. I'm proud to be an American. I don't think that Mr. Obama is a savior, I'm not waiting for him to pay for my way through life, and I feel that he has missed the mark on some things that I was hoping to see when I cast my vote for him as my choice for President...and I can't wait to get back home and add my voice to those rational Americans not won over by the current cacophany of fear-mongerers and bullies.
You would think that since I freely admit to loving the United States of America, warts and Republicans and all, that I would understand the motivation behind the "Tea Party Movement" even if I don't agree with it. This morning I've devoted quite a bit of time to researching these "teabaggers" (*snort*) and I've got to say that I'm even more puzzled by them than I was when I started.
Call me naive. Call me a tree hugger. Call me a socialist. I'm not thick and I'm not reading "left wing propaganda" describing this movement and its proponents. I'm going to their own websites and checking out the profiles of their champions that are in their own words...and I gotta say, I still don't get it. Here's what I'm seeing and what it is leading me to believe...I'm sure I'll be corrected every way but Sunday, but y'all, maybe before shouting at me you should look at your PR people with a closer eye because they're the ones that are producing this convoluted information.
Aren't you proud of me? I haven't called it drivel...yet.
I feel that calling the current loose conglomeration of dissent the "Tea Party Movement" is disrespectful to those patriots that opposed the taxation imposed by the British. The main problem there, unless I seriously slept through ALL of my history classes, was that there was no representation of the colonists in Parliament when these taxes were voted on and approved. None. As in zero. The people voting on the taxes lived in England, not Virginia. Now all of those people that you Tea Party members see as oppressing you? They're all Americans. YOU voted them into office, if you voted. So...um...not the same thing. Dissent may be patriotic, but this isn't dissent. It's more like you've changed your minds.
I already know what the argument will be for my next statement, and I can bet it will have the word conspiracy in it at least once, but this one is for the birthers out there. Barack Obama, II is an American. He was born in Hawaii, and I think we all agree that Hawaii is a state and not just some random collection of Polynesian islands. I feel fairly safe in believing that when the then senator from Illinois submitted, via his political party, his intention to run for the office of the President, SOMEONE up there in Washington vetted his creds to see if he was elligible to run. If he'd been born in Kenya or Bali or wherever else these folks claim he was born, HE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ON THE BALLOT.
I will say that I'm not sure how I feel about the Health Care Reform business because I'm still weeding through all the miles and miles of text of the bills and the amendments and the opposition and and and...but I can say this: Those of you that are outraged because the law forces you to have health insurance, are you kidding me? I suppose you're also opposed to laws that make driving a vehicle while intoxicated illegal, and the one that requires you to wear a seatbelt? I was pleased to see, however, that there is a tax imposed on indoor tanning...or as I like to call it, Please, Give Me Skin Cancer and Let Me Pay You For It.
Here's a neat tidbit I uncovered: all that bailout business that the right whinges on about being proof that Obama doesn't care about America etc etc etc? Yeah, that was a Bush thing. How soon we forget.
And what of the ringleaders of what seems to me to be quite the circus of discontent and anger and...patriotism? I've never liked Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, or Rupert Murdoch. FoxNews is a joke as far as Fair and Balanced goes. (And before you ask, no, I don't watch CNN. Currently I'm getting my news from the BBC and the Daily Show, thanks for asking.) Sarah Palin? Seriously, that's a whole blog post in itself but I'll sum it up by saying I think she's a victim of a political machine desperate to lure in female voters. You can't dress up a pit bull in lipstick and expect it to do anything but bark incoherently. Mama Bear will still maul you as soon as look at you...she's not the best choice for rational conversation.
This post is sliding down into a right proper rant so I will wind it up by saying that I love my country. I'm proud to be an American. I don't think that Mr. Obama is a savior, I'm not waiting for him to pay for my way through life, and I feel that he has missed the mark on some things that I was hoping to see when I cast my vote for him as my choice for President...and I can't wait to get back home and add my voice to those rational Americans not won over by the current cacophany of fear-mongerers and bullies.
27 August 2010
Didn't I tell you not to blink?
Well, after the exciting and scary and revealing events of June and early July, I was hoping for a bit of calm. A bit of warmish weather. Peace. I was going to enjoy the British summer and relax after staring my own mortality in the face twice in as many months.
Wrong.
With August came family drama that I won't rehash here save saying that I will go to my grave being proud of myself for sticking to my guns when it came to getting what I needed, and proud of my husband who remains, to this day, the most romantic and wonderful man on the planet. I felt our family solidify over the course of some very ugly and potentially soul destroying days, and I'm thrilled to report that we've come out the other side intact.
And that happy, smiley British summer that the cider ads were all touting on telly? Yeah, apparently that was over last week but no one sent me the memo. We're now fully into the August Bank Holiday weekend and I was wearing a scarf to work this morning. A Scarf. In August. I'll leave you Southern Americans a moment to fan yourselves madly as that thought settles in.
Today was a lesson in patience as far as getting to work goes. I was out of the house on time (two hours and fifteen minutes prior to my official start time at work) and made my bus as well as the train from Keighley to Leeds. However, forces outside of my control and all the way down the line at Fitzwilliam (remind me to tell you why I hate that town one day...it has to do with a long walk to a greyhound event and quarter-sized hail in June) conspired against me. I boarded the 0940 Leeds to London KX at 0925 (along with about a million happy Leeds Rhino fans and others wearing kit I didn't recognize) and settled into the one square foot of space left in a vestibule to read while I waited to arrive at Wakefield Westgate at 0952...however, at 0951 we still hadn't left Leeds.
A broken down train at Fitzwilliam (just typing the name of that town makes me go all stabby) had caused delays up the line at Leeds...delays that turned into cancellations. When it became apparent that I wasn't going to leave Leeds until well after I was supposed to start work in Wakefield, I called in and started looking for a train BACK to Keighley.
At least the laundry's out on the line.
So I think that summer is officially over and we can now slink into my favourite season of them all, Autumn...as well as start the countdown toward our American holiday at the end of October. Life isn't GOOD yet, but it surely is getting BETTER every day.
Now if we could just find a buyer for the house...
Wrong.
With August came family drama that I won't rehash here save saying that I will go to my grave being proud of myself for sticking to my guns when it came to getting what I needed, and proud of my husband who remains, to this day, the most romantic and wonderful man on the planet. I felt our family solidify over the course of some very ugly and potentially soul destroying days, and I'm thrilled to report that we've come out the other side intact.
And that happy, smiley British summer that the cider ads were all touting on telly? Yeah, apparently that was over last week but no one sent me the memo. We're now fully into the August Bank Holiday weekend and I was wearing a scarf to work this morning. A Scarf. In August. I'll leave you Southern Americans a moment to fan yourselves madly as that thought settles in.
Today was a lesson in patience as far as getting to work goes. I was out of the house on time (two hours and fifteen minutes prior to my official start time at work) and made my bus as well as the train from Keighley to Leeds. However, forces outside of my control and all the way down the line at Fitzwilliam (remind me to tell you why I hate that town one day...it has to do with a long walk to a greyhound event and quarter-sized hail in June) conspired against me. I boarded the 0940 Leeds to London KX at 0925 (along with about a million happy Leeds Rhino fans and others wearing kit I didn't recognize) and settled into the one square foot of space left in a vestibule to read while I waited to arrive at Wakefield Westgate at 0952...however, at 0951 we still hadn't left Leeds.
A broken down train at Fitzwilliam (just typing the name of that town makes me go all stabby) had caused delays up the line at Leeds...delays that turned into cancellations. When it became apparent that I wasn't going to leave Leeds until well after I was supposed to start work in Wakefield, I called in and started looking for a train BACK to Keighley.
At least the laundry's out on the line.
So I think that summer is officially over and we can now slink into my favourite season of them all, Autumn...as well as start the countdown toward our American holiday at the end of October. Life isn't GOOD yet, but it surely is getting BETTER every day.
Now if we could just find a buyer for the house...
21 July 2010
Our Great British Summer
As we wind down July and head into the hottest month on the planet in every other place but England, I wanted to take a minute or two and catch you up on what's been going on here in our little corner of this damp island.
June was a bit of a wash, really. For those that don't know (and I'm going to apologize here to my more sensitive and MALE readers, this is heading into serious TMI territory), in early June I found a lump in a place women never want to find lumps. We did the responsible thing, of course, and headed to the GP. Turns out she couldn't definitively (I think that's translated as "without fear of a lawsuit") say what it was, so we were "fast tracked" to the Breast Care Clinic at Airedale Hospital over in Steeton.
PS-Steeton is a lovely village, and the staff at Airedale were just fabulous.
Why is "fast track" in quotes? Because here being "fast tracked" means that you'll be seen not more than two weeks from your referral appointment. I was seen on the day before the two week deadline, so I suppose that's pretty "fast." Nevermind the absolute panic and dread that had set in...a friend of mine here said that when it happened to her she'd planned her entire funeral before she got in to be checked out. I can relate.
The first something turned out to be mostly a nothing, a cyst to be exact that they gave me the option to have drained with a needle. Seriously? Y'all, don't ever give me the option when it comes to a needle because I will say no EVERY time. This time, though, they asked me what my husband might say...to which I replied that he'd want it drained and let's just get on with it. I came away from that thinking I'd truly turned a corner and Holy CRAP am I brave or WHAT?
Then I found out about the second somethings.
Seems that when they did a mammogram (which, to the delight and amusement of the techs, I referred to as Twister Plus a Vice Grip) they found five little itty-bitty things that they wanted to check out further. Okay, more xrays? Um, no, we need to remove them to check them out.
See above dire panic and funeral planning. This time I went so far as to pick out flowers.
A week later I was in to play another round of Vice Grip Twister while they did what is politely called a Needle Core Biopsy. I don't really know what they did, to be honest, I looked the other way, stared at the poster of Scotland on the wall, and tried to ignore the sound of the needle as it removed sample tissue. Actually, it reminded me so much of a staple gun I was finding myself amused a few times remembering staple gun fights in the theatre shop when I was in college...but I digress.
Again I was on top of the world, I'd survived the removal of 12 tissue samples and was told they were just going to get one more. Yeah, they really could have kept that to themselves. I remember looking at my hand and thinking that it was amazing I'd held onto the machine this long without losing my grip...and noticed that my hand was now turning a weird color, kind of greenish...and then the yuck hit and I told them I was feeling sick.
Did I mention how awesome the staff there are? They did the last one, removed the Jaws of Life, and one of the sweetest nurses EVER literally mopped my brow until my color came back.
The results came back, and I think the best way to tell you is to quote the doctor directly: "We would recommend at this time that we do not treat you any more, as the samples were all normal."
I need to take a moment and admit that I clapped my hands.
In between these two appointments, a former co-worker and friend of mine, Christine, came to visit. In a week, we saw Keighley, Leeds, York, Haworth/Moors, Newcastle, Edinburgh, and Manchester. You can see pics of that week here. Now I'm starting the countdown to our holiday in America in October, and thinking on ahead to our move back to America next Spring...but not too much. There's still allegedly a tiny bit of British Summer left to come, and if you blink you might miss it.
Don't blink.
June was a bit of a wash, really. For those that don't know (and I'm going to apologize here to my more sensitive and MALE readers, this is heading into serious TMI territory), in early June I found a lump in a place women never want to find lumps. We did the responsible thing, of course, and headed to the GP. Turns out she couldn't definitively (I think that's translated as "without fear of a lawsuit") say what it was, so we were "fast tracked" to the Breast Care Clinic at Airedale Hospital over in Steeton.
PS-Steeton is a lovely village, and the staff at Airedale were just fabulous.
Why is "fast track" in quotes? Because here being "fast tracked" means that you'll be seen not more than two weeks from your referral appointment. I was seen on the day before the two week deadline, so I suppose that's pretty "fast." Nevermind the absolute panic and dread that had set in...a friend of mine here said that when it happened to her she'd planned her entire funeral before she got in to be checked out. I can relate.
The first something turned out to be mostly a nothing, a cyst to be exact that they gave me the option to have drained with a needle. Seriously? Y'all, don't ever give me the option when it comes to a needle because I will say no EVERY time. This time, though, they asked me what my husband might say...to which I replied that he'd want it drained and let's just get on with it. I came away from that thinking I'd truly turned a corner and Holy CRAP am I brave or WHAT?
Then I found out about the second somethings.
Seems that when they did a mammogram (which, to the delight and amusement of the techs, I referred to as Twister Plus a Vice Grip) they found five little itty-bitty things that they wanted to check out further. Okay, more xrays? Um, no, we need to remove them to check them out.
See above dire panic and funeral planning. This time I went so far as to pick out flowers.
A week later I was in to play another round of Vice Grip Twister while they did what is politely called a Needle Core Biopsy. I don't really know what they did, to be honest, I looked the other way, stared at the poster of Scotland on the wall, and tried to ignore the sound of the needle as it removed sample tissue. Actually, it reminded me so much of a staple gun I was finding myself amused a few times remembering staple gun fights in the theatre shop when I was in college...but I digress.
Again I was on top of the world, I'd survived the removal of 12 tissue samples and was told they were just going to get one more. Yeah, they really could have kept that to themselves. I remember looking at my hand and thinking that it was amazing I'd held onto the machine this long without losing my grip...and noticed that my hand was now turning a weird color, kind of greenish...and then the yuck hit and I told them I was feeling sick.
Did I mention how awesome the staff there are? They did the last one, removed the Jaws of Life, and one of the sweetest nurses EVER literally mopped my brow until my color came back.
The results came back, and I think the best way to tell you is to quote the doctor directly: "We would recommend at this time that we do not treat you any more, as the samples were all normal."
I need to take a moment and admit that I clapped my hands.
In between these two appointments, a former co-worker and friend of mine, Christine, came to visit. In a week, we saw Keighley, Leeds, York, Haworth/Moors, Newcastle, Edinburgh, and Manchester. You can see pics of that week here. Now I'm starting the countdown to our holiday in America in October, and thinking on ahead to our move back to America next Spring...but not too much. There's still allegedly a tiny bit of British Summer left to come, and if you blink you might miss it.
Don't blink.
07 June 2010
It's a Journey...with lots of rest breaks.
I was writing a post for the other blog for which I am a writer, Touring Old Blighty, and came across the photo I've used for this post. There is a lot going on at the moment here at the Lettuce HQ. Some things I can discuss (my job, our plans to return to the US next year, Daisy's never ending love affair with custard cremes, thank you Simon!) and some I can't. The Hive of Angry Bees that live in my head have reached a fevered pitch over the past few weeks, and I found myself doing the only thing that I could do to calm them yesterday. I did nothing.
Seriously. The only strenuous exercise I undertook was lifting the laptop off the floor in the sitting room and placing it in my lap. My destination of choice? The two-seater with a view of the telly. Sorry, let me translate that for my American readers...I was on the loveseat watching TV. Simon joined me for part of my slugfest, then took on his own slugfest in the backyard with actual slugs. I hope he relocated them to new postcodes but in reality he probably just shoved them under the fence into the neighbor's back garden.
Right, back to my original point, why I chose this photo... This was taken at Alnwick (pronounced Ann-ick) Gardens in Northumberland last summer during my vacation with my inlaws. I took it because there is a photo in existance of Simon in the same spot a few years prior with considerably less greenery around him. Looking at it now, I not only am reminded of how much can change in a short time, but struck by how in the photo as in real life, the path draws me along to the end. The stresses, the problems, the issues (Ihs-shoos, innit?) are like the vines that continue to grow up and over the trellises. One day I will be able to look back on them and be amazed at the journey I've had.
I just have to remember the rest breaks.
Seriously. The only strenuous exercise I undertook was lifting the laptop off the floor in the sitting room and placing it in my lap. My destination of choice? The two-seater with a view of the telly. Sorry, let me translate that for my American readers...I was on the loveseat watching TV. Simon joined me for part of my slugfest, then took on his own slugfest in the backyard with actual slugs. I hope he relocated them to new postcodes but in reality he probably just shoved them under the fence into the neighbor's back garden.
Right, back to my original point, why I chose this photo... This was taken at Alnwick (pronounced Ann-ick) Gardens in Northumberland last summer during my vacation with my inlaws. I took it because there is a photo in existance of Simon in the same spot a few years prior with considerably less greenery around him. Looking at it now, I not only am reminded of how much can change in a short time, but struck by how in the photo as in real life, the path draws me along to the end. The stresses, the problems, the issues (Ihs-shoos, innit?) are like the vines that continue to grow up and over the trellises. One day I will be able to look back on them and be amazed at the journey I've had.
I just have to remember the rest breaks.
01 June 2010
Happy June, y'all.
In typical English fashion, the beginning of June has come in with a drizzly annoying rain to accompany it. You know, the kind of rain that means you can't really hang out washing. The kind that turns my hair from carefully straightened to a home perm circa 1980 in a split second, that kind of drizzly rain.
Not much to report, really. It's now been a year since I lost my Hunky man, and a year for Daisy as an only dog. Mills is still enjoying his own personal climbing frame, aka our stairs. The house remains on the market, and we've done some DIY (with much more to go) in the hopes of actually getting someone in the door that wants to buy it.
There are plans afoot for a move back across the ocean, but with the uncertainty of the house sale they're going to have to stay afoot for awhile longer. Eurovision was last weekend and was marvelous, wonderful, and totally kitchy as it always is. The UK's entry was abysmally out of tune and awful, and came in dead last. Better than nil pointe, I suppose.
On the 22nd we took a fantastic day trip to York to meet up with some other Americans. In a way, it made me want to give the UK another try and see if I can be happy here...but at the same time it made me remember what I missed...American accents, shared cultural references and experiences...oodles of advice and reassurance that my experience here has been normal for an expat.
So that's been my May, really. Onward and upward from here, yeah? Ah to be where I was last year, with no job to rule my schedule, but with the knowledge and courage to travel and experience that I didn't have last summer. Eh.
Not much to report, really. It's now been a year since I lost my Hunky man, and a year for Daisy as an only dog. Mills is still enjoying his own personal climbing frame, aka our stairs. The house remains on the market, and we've done some DIY (with much more to go) in the hopes of actually getting someone in the door that wants to buy it.
There are plans afoot for a move back across the ocean, but with the uncertainty of the house sale they're going to have to stay afoot for awhile longer. Eurovision was last weekend and was marvelous, wonderful, and totally kitchy as it always is. The UK's entry was abysmally out of tune and awful, and came in dead last. Better than nil pointe, I suppose.
On the 22nd we took a fantastic day trip to York to meet up with some other Americans. In a way, it made me want to give the UK another try and see if I can be happy here...but at the same time it made me remember what I missed...American accents, shared cultural references and experiences...oodles of advice and reassurance that my experience here has been normal for an expat.
So that's been my May, really. Onward and upward from here, yeah? Ah to be where I was last year, with no job to rule my schedule, but with the knowledge and courage to travel and experience that I didn't have last summer. Eh.
20 May 2010
M is for May...and Mills
Twelve years ago, a perfect little orange tabby cat was born somewhere in the wilds of Spartanburg, SC. He and his littermates were retrieved from a dumpster and brought to the Spartanburg Animal Shelter...and soon after he reached through the bars of his cage and smacked me on the shoulder. He named himself, meowing loudly each time I said the word Mills when we passed Spartan Mills in the car.
Mills has outlived his feline housemates Franny and Zooey. He and Zooey were buddies as brothers often are, but he drove Franny round the bend, puffing up at her and dive bombing her from the back of the sofa. He has welcomed (with claws at the ready, mind you) six greyhounds who became permanent residents and countless others just passing through on their way to their own forever homes. He has become Daisy's shadow and not-so-welcome bosom companion since her status change to Single Dog.
He crawls across my head at night and nuzzles into my hair, purring like a freight train gone awry. He routinely gives lectures on the value of Giving Him Some Milk Right Now in the kitchen (especially when someone puts the kettle on). He would love to explore the back garden, and I'm positive he's keeping minions in the cellar. As I sit here, even now, he stands up and pats me on the arm with one of his paws for attention, then sits back down to guard the door.
Mills never left the house save a few emergency vet appointments in the first eight years of his life. From years nine through eleven he moved six times, one of those being a four thousand mile move to a new country. I think that all that moving has brought my timid little ginger kitten out of his shell. Well, shoved him out, if I'm honest.
No longer a figment of my imagination, he greets visitors from his perch at the bend in the staircase before fleeing to the safety of Under The Duvet. His reward for his 12 long years of service is a nightly nap in front of the gas fire...something he will surely miss when we move back to America next year.
Happy Birthday, my Little Man, my Orange Terror, my Punkin Kitty. Twelve years old this month...I've blinked and those twelve years are gone. Let's take the next twelve a bit more slowly, shall we?
Mills has outlived his feline housemates Franny and Zooey. He and Zooey were buddies as brothers often are, but he drove Franny round the bend, puffing up at her and dive bombing her from the back of the sofa. He has welcomed (with claws at the ready, mind you) six greyhounds who became permanent residents and countless others just passing through on their way to their own forever homes. He has become Daisy's shadow and not-so-welcome bosom companion since her status change to Single Dog.
He crawls across my head at night and nuzzles into my hair, purring like a freight train gone awry. He routinely gives lectures on the value of Giving Him Some Milk Right Now in the kitchen (especially when someone puts the kettle on). He would love to explore the back garden, and I'm positive he's keeping minions in the cellar. As I sit here, even now, he stands up and pats me on the arm with one of his paws for attention, then sits back down to guard the door.
Mills never left the house save a few emergency vet appointments in the first eight years of his life. From years nine through eleven he moved six times, one of those being a four thousand mile move to a new country. I think that all that moving has brought my timid little ginger kitten out of his shell. Well, shoved him out, if I'm honest.
No longer a figment of my imagination, he greets visitors from his perch at the bend in the staircase before fleeing to the safety of Under The Duvet. His reward for his 12 long years of service is a nightly nap in front of the gas fire...something he will surely miss when we move back to America next year.
Happy Birthday, my Little Man, my Orange Terror, my Punkin Kitty. Twelve years old this month...I've blinked and those twelve years are gone. Let's take the next twelve a bit more slowly, shall we?
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