Can't Buy Me Love

During the Easter holidays, we took the kids bowling on base.

Bowling is not cheap anymore, is it? I found myself echoing my grandmother, "When I was young, bowling was only 50¢ per game and my shoes were free!".
I was totally making it up, I can't remember how much I used to pay to bowl, but I do remember doing random yard clean up jobs to get the 25¢ required for an afternoon swim in the city pool.

Anyway, everything is now electronic at the bowling alley.

Turkeys run across the score screen (why don't we keep score manually anymore? Kids already don't know how to read a clock, but now we're taking away the opportunity to do math in a fun setting?), music plays at high volume over tinny speakers as disco lights flash.

It was in that setting that my youngest son, (nearly 7) asked, "Mum, what was that...uh, ...that...uh...thing with the bird on it?"

"The what?" I ask while looking around at all of the possibilities.

He stutters through the question again, clearly unable to pull the word free from his mouth that best described his object, "The....uh, it had a bird on it" and points to the counter that is now empty.

I realized then that he was referring to my change that had been sitting on the counter (what little of it was left after four shoe rentals, slushies and a few games). I had slipped it into my pocket before the oldest got any bright ideas with a candy machine staring him down...

The poor little boy wanted to me to tell him the name for the coin with a bird on it...




a quarter.




How sad is that? He has no idea what this coin is, poor little American boy growing up in Great Britain.



When I was little, the Tooth Fairy would leave me a quarter for my tooth... what's this kid getting?

Pound coins.



I'm not that sad for him anymore.

Please Mind the Gap

"You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by trailway
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can" --Brenda Russell

I wonder why she left out "red double-decker bus" maybe it's hard to rhyme...



Watch your step, you don't want to imitate "While You Were Sleeping"

Straight out the tube door while a lady standing close by grinned at me for
taking photos of tube adverts.

All my friends queuing up to read this blog... or inside the tube, I can't remember which.

Going up the steps under the Tower Bridge.
This is how the Hubby and I travel. I'm like a third-world inferior wife keeping a certain distance from her Husband.
His legs are longer, and I'm dealing with an impairment that keeps me from walking quickly (you know, camerahand)

London Bridge (not the one in Arizona), although I've seen that one too. Also on my birthday. The 26th one I think. It should stand out in my memory, I got a speeding ticket. on my birthday. Wow, cut a girl some slack....

Well that's it (not really, but that's all I'm subjecting you to). It's time to return to my sharp, distinct writing style... fine, it's time to begin rambling again. Cut a girl some slack....

Think of Me

Guess where I am...


Have a great day folks, I wish I could take you into the theatre with me!

My First Ku

Raindrops on roses
whiskers on, no wait, wrong one
"Mem'ries..." that's wrong too

This isn't about
visits to Jellicle Cats
I'm a dog person

"Shall we dance?" Oh no!
I can't seem to get this right.
Let's pause and listen

To the music of--
"To the music of the night"
It's getting clearer...

Michael is now gone
Ramin has taken his place
Robyn is Christine?

London has missed me
Space on iphoto proves it
I'll have to fix that

After I inhale
the essence of pure voices
and colourful sets

And gently gather
the moments meant to carry
through more mundane days

Bless you Lloyd Weber,
for composing the music--
music of the night.

Doesn't Every Beach Sell Doughnuts? All Things British

We arrived at our camping spot around 2pm.

To be honest, the Hubby and I really took our time getting ready to go because
1.) It was drizzly and cold (and we had T-storms only two nights before) and
2.) the people we were supposed to camp with had gone mad and invited 20 other people in addition to our family of six.

Plus we were taking Dog, formerly and currently known as Jake....

Instead of the family tent, we took two dome tents to save time and space. We put those up quickly, headed down to the sea (to tell it we had arrived) and then took a walk into the village... for doughnuts.

Of course I documented it for you.


This is the Pied Piper of Palling, my Hubby-- with waaaay too many kids.

Oh wait, most of them are ours.

Every little village has it's own sign.
I could fill an album just with signs....

And how silly can you get with this one? Hey, I find that A Palling! Oh no, we're Palling down...yeah, apparently not very silly.

Among other things, the doughnut shop also sells ice cream. With flake.

The first week we were in GB, I wanted a soft-serve cone. With a very thick British accent, the vendor asked if I wanted that with flake.. "Um.., what? Sure, ok..." (smiling stupidly like a tourist who is over-excited to be somewhere will)
He handed me a cone of vanilla ice cream with what appeared to be a big piece of wood sticking out of it.
Flake is a Twix-sized chunk of chocolate (It's very aerated and therefore tastes and breaks like outdated chocolate). Everyone here has to have it, me... not so much so.
Chocolate should NOT be messed with-- not like that, anyway.

Oh, we've made it to the shop....Inside, I'm waiting patiently. Taking pictures helps pass the fifty or so seconds it takes to make a doughnut. She suckered me into EIGHT since the little bags fit four. (so?)

I only wanted six, but ok, if you insist.I'm ready, I'm ready....

She adds the sugar.
Caster, Cinnamon, or chocolate?Guess. Just try and guess which one I picked.


YUM.

Totally unrelated subject:

One day we were walking around a car boot (the infamous one where Miss Ky tried to adopt a new home) and the little beasty child was in her "push chair" (stroller), admiring every dog. "Woof woof" she would say as they walked on by.
One lady stopped so Miss Ky could "woof" a little closer to her furry companion. The dog lifted his leg on the push chair. I've told you how fond Britain is of dogs, so kicking him wasn't an option.
I did gasp and attempt to convince the wheels to go a direction they're not designed to go to put a little distance between Ky and the golden stream-- that she most likely would try to put her graham cracker into...
And the lady says, "Healmostnik'dyourbikkie,didn'the?"

Wha..?

I did what I usually do when I have no clue what someone just said to me, I smiled and walked away. ("So, you're one meaty gal and I bet you tip the car, don't you?" Me, smiling and nodding my head).

Anyway, as I was walking and thinking how that naughty old lady said those terrible words about dogs and their privates to my sweet little angel--"niky bicky", holy cow can we be crass?!-- her words finally managed to make their way through my brain's Babel Fish.

"He almost nicked (stole) your Bickie (biscuit--cracker), didn't he?"

She had had no idea he was wee-ing on my push chair, because she was looking at Miss Ky and her cracker. I'm the one with my mind In The Gutter and thinking of dogs' nether areas...

Back to the beach...
The penny arcade.

You put a two-pence coin in to win more two-pence coins or a lolli (sucker).

My opinion on why this is a dumb idea...

First of all, why would I want more two p's when they're heavy in the purse and worthless? My other option to win is more sugar for kids I just fed eight doughnuts?


Oh well, it's all in a day at the beach...

Whew! It's Wednesday

Mothering Sunday or, The Plague is Coming!

Happy Mum's Day to you celebrating it. Mothering Sunday is held in March, usually preceded by a Saturday where Tesco's are bursting at the seams with frazzled men and their children. I was foolish enough to go in for scones yesterday and dang near didn't live to see my breakfast in bed this morning.

The first March we were here to experience the bombardment of adverts for the upcoming day, we were the very tired parents of a non-sleeping five-month old. I dashed about madly to get cards for our three mothers and spent hours contemplating the best British-type gift for the cherished women in our lives. Reflecting back, I remember thinking, "Has this holiday always been in March? I could've sworn it was in May." The Hubby never corrected me, but looked as bewildered as I was.
Imagine our surprise when we finally figured it all out-- and I was two months early for "our" holiday (I think I still mailed them late though).

This year, I'm better rested. I know now that I should buy my Mums cards on Monday (they'll disappear quick, these people don't mess around in changing holidays) to mail to the U.S in May.

This year I received breakfast in bed (oops, it was Fast Sunday),
and some of the most beautiful cards ever made (in my opinion). Mother's Day is getting better.



I used to dread Mother's Day like the plague and I'll tell you why (gee, must you?).

Every Mother's Day falls on Sunday-- strange coincidence, I know.
As a family, we strive to keep the Sabbath day holy-- pretty much like Biblical times, meaning: we don't work and don't want to be the cause of somebody else working.

All Mother's Day Brunches are on Sunday.

While happy Mother's all over the United States are washing crab legs down with champagne, I am bathing four very different kinds of stinky little critters that want to give me grief on everything from the clothes I've laid out to who each critter has to bathe with.

I've showered (before the dawn of time), fixed my hair hastily and dressed in the clothes I should've thrown out on my 5th wedding anniversary, but by the time the little beasts are fed, bathed and dressed, I look like I've been in a fight with a wet dog.

I do all of this while my husband attends church meetings. He then arrives (looking pretty scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit), five minutes before the meeting is to begin so that we can jointly tie--I mean safely hook--each wriggly, angry mini-monster into their car seat...while the teenager exudes attitude. ('nuff said)
We then begin the 2 1/2 hour drive to church.
Alright, I might be exaggerating on the time taken to commute to a building a few blocks away, but when children are screaming in your ear, time seems to go more slowly-- like "I think I remember that last ice age" slowly.

Next, I sit in a church meeting listening to MAN after MAN speak about how wonderful his mother was.
You know her.
She was the lady that NEVER raised her voice at the children, always had a clean, warm home and delicious meals on the table that said MAN would never have dreamt of saying, "I don't like that! Can't we just have chicken nuggets like billy's family?".

I am shrinking further and further into my wrinkled, Mork & Mindy-style cowl-necked sweater (or did I buy it during the Three's Company run?) wishing for the roof to collapse.

Can it get worse? Of course it can!

The children are dragged up front to sing about their Moms, "Mother, I love you, Mother, I dooo--hoooo", all smiling lovingly at their perfectly pressed mothers. But mine....

My children have memories like elephants. They remember that I made them eat their greens the night before. They remember that I shouted at them before breakfast when they dropped a baseball on the baby's head...and when they dumped the bath water all over the floor while playing "sinking ship", and when we were getting in the car and again when they darted out of the car into a busy parking lot.
Yep, there is love just oozing from their smiles..NOT.
They look like someone pinched them. They're NOT singing, they are just looking terribly uncomfortable.
My scowling kids are given flowers to hand out to the mothers in the congregation. Luckily they don't try to pretend I'm not there-- in fact, now that they're waltzing through the aisles with flowers, they are each quite happy. One gives me some. Now I get to take home a beautiful reminder of Spring, WHO's LIFE WAS CRUELLY CUT SHORT TO COMMEMORATE THIS BLOODY, HAPPY HOLIDAY.

Um,
sorry about that.

That was past Mother's Day. Present Mothers Day is Mothering Sunday in the U.K.
For some reason, it just works better here.
The Hubby, who was scheduled to work, got a call before we left for church saying his shift was cancelled. He looked scrumptious in his pressed, puke-free suit-- but even better, he had bathed the kids while I dressed in something purchased in this decade.
My kids honored me. They sang. J2 even participated in a duet.. with a smile... directed at me! I came home with a potted flower, picked out of the box by the child that knew I liked purple.

I am feeling so fuzzy that I want to share this day with you, regardless of what month you observe it. Since I can't mail you a Mum's Day card, I am sending you flowers. Daffodils from my front garden. I even knocked the bugs off... you're welcome, and have a great Sunday!!

Sitting in the doorways...

Wow. That was some experience.

On an almost nightly basis, we have a little man come creeping into our room, where I (the super light sleeper) will lift the blanket and wrap it around him as he climbs in.
Well last night, after singing several horrendous rounds on Wii Karaoke American Idol, I was sleeping like a brick (nothing like thirty minutes of tearful, hard laughter to help you sleep).










Me before 1 am

Along comes the heaviest, nosiest child I have ever experienced. He stomps up the stairs, jumps up and down beside my bed and begins shaking it.

Alright, I know I was sleeping soundly for a couple of reasons.
My bed is a sturdy African Cherry Wood bed that stands high enough that even with my tall 9-year old, the matteress hits him about mid chest-- pretty hard to move it around.
I also can't imagine how any stomping could sound like a freight train.

So, still fuzzy headed, I lifted the blanket for him, but there was no one there. That's when my husband and I sat up simultaneously and said, "What the crap was that?!" It's not exactly what I said, but this is a G-rated blog.

We came downstairs to look around, still trying to determine-- was there a mangled plane crashed somewhere in our garden? Was our house side-swiped by a juggernaut? [All Things British moment: this is what we would call an 18-wheeler. It's a large lorry, or truck]

As I'm tossing these ideas around in my head, I knew it was probably an earthquake and was typing in the address for the U.K. Seismology department. Couldn't get through. Funny thing about that-- the morning news stations keep quoting the U.S.G.S. Dept. I know where to go next time. (next time?!)
My high-strung husband (not) then says, "I'm going back to bed".

"What?! What about the after shocks? What about the kids?".

I blogged (of course) and then sat in front of the telly listening to callers sharing their experiences.


Hats off to you in the western states. I would move. Some people find this stuff exciting. I find it thrilling in the same way of participating in a 36-car pile up on the freeway.

My dusty, useless degree contains a minor in Geology. I know what is happening inside the earth to shake the outside hard enough to mimic a stomping child and I don't like it. It has a way of reminding me how little control I have over the grand scheme of things and how little God consults with me before making any final decisions. I don't like it.

What I do like is the British sense of Humour.
They're playing Martika's version of "I Feel the Earth Move" today.


Oh wait, there's something coming across the telly on the news ticker...
"Largest earthquake felt in Britain in 25 years said to have been caused by...

Some really horrendous karaoke somewhere near Norwich."

Uh oh. The Americans have done it again.

Wood With Water for Wordless Wednesday

Moooo-ve!

Another pretty face....


My comp'oo'er is about to undergo a face lift.
There's 12, 816 photos (give or take a few hundred) that need to be backed up.
I am tired of windows shutting down on me mid-comment, and my mail program closing whenever I open mail from ASDA (I might be missing something important!).
So, my posts may be slow for a few days while we get it all sorted.
Just think... if it takes too long, I might run out of room on my camera's memory stick and I'll have to get a new one... hmmm...



And speaking of things I neeeeeed,


Here's my birthday wish list.
Or if you're really feeling affectionate:

Hubby, you have approximately 105 days, 14 hours, 26 minutes and 44 seconds until my birthday. Think of what I could do with a Hairy Coo and Photoshop :-)
I am so materialistic.....


I can live with that.

The Importance of Support Groups...

There are so many support groups out there.

Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance, Mood Disorders Support Group, Divorce Recovery Support Group, Genetic Support Groups, Cancer Support groups as well as support groups for abuse, weight management, smoking cessation, alcohol abuse etc...



Basically, everyone's covered.




But there's something you may have overlooked in your busy, self-centered lives. Something you've never paid much attention to, mush less wondered or worried about.

I KNOW you've never lost sleep over it.



You should be ashamed, and thank me for opening your eyes to an organization that needs your respect. You see, some cases are so severe, it requires flashing lights (and maybe even sirens).
How many support groups do you belong to that can say that? Tsk Tsk Tsk people, pull your heads out.

Weights and Measurements or Extra Baggage

Can you humor me for a moment please?
Grab your wallet, purse, handbag, coin purse-- whatever it is you carry daily to get you through the day when you're out and about.

Open it.

You're not opening it. You never even got out of your chair... come on....
Look over the amount of money you're carrying with you today.


Exchange all of those bills into coins.



Now you're ready to come to England.

One of the things an American has to get used to here, is the need to carry cash. Very few places will accept cheques-- and that's usually only local places. So, forget driving to Nottinghamshire with that slim, hardly-takes-up-any-space cheque book, because the cashier will look at you as if you were daft for even bringing it.
I have a debit and a credit card, but they're not always accepted. The U.K. has nearly completed the switch to credit cards with chips in them (mine don't have them), so even carrying a card is sometimes pointless.
So, one must carry cold hard cash.

Correction:
Cold, heavy cash.

In a country as old as England, you'd expect that the kinks would be worked out in most matters. But for some reason, no one has seemed to notice-- in all of these years after the end of Roman rule -- that the currency here is heavy. Weigh-your-right-shoulder-down-so-you-look-like-Quasimodo heavy.

There are SIX coins (1p, 2p, 5p, 10p, 20p and 50p) before you even get to a pound-- and that's a coin as well. Then there is a TWO-pound coin. So in total, there are EIGHT coins before you ever get to a paper bill, and that's a "fiver"or a five pound note.

Next is a ten pound note, and following that is the £20, £50, and the ever-elusive £100 (never had the need to carry one of those. If I were to drop it, there goes approximately $200.00 in one clumsy move-- kind of like Las Vegas).

To really throw a monkey into the cake, most shops prefer you to pay with £20 pound notes or less (and smaller shops request smaller currency).
So if you were traveling, and knew you'd be paying for lodging, meals, train fare and or cabs-- you would be carrying a suitcase of £10 notes and a rolling cart of £1 coins.


A couple of days ago, after carrying a sleeping baby to her room with all of the grace I could muster in a coat clanging against every door jamb, I decided I needed to get the money out of the pockets.

That pile of coins at the top of this post was in my jacket pockets. Even some U.S. coins hitched a ride.

Yes, I could've exchanged most of it for notes-- save your eyes trying to calculate it.

But I prefer to carry as little paper money as possible. You see, I still haven't gotten past the "monopoly money" stage. I have a little blue bill and a bigger orange bill and I'll hand them over to any pimply-faced teenager behind a counter without any hesitation.
"£10 for 3 sandwiches? Great, and here's a cute little blue note (£5) for you to add three tiny drinks on there too please".

$30.00.

THIRTY DOLLARS for a skimpy lunch for three kids?! No way, I'd walk 20 miles home and make them a peanut butter sandwich before I paid $30.00 for six slices of white bread with a little butter slathered on it (and a few shaved slices of meat) and a drink.

Never mind. It's fun, it's exciting. It's culture. And I need some of that.

I didn't need the hunched shoulder.












Here's a close up to give you an idea of the size and thickness of the coins here.

News Alert: UK becomes part of Antarctica

My husband is worried about my Clustr Map. He's an Air Traffic Controller, so Stress is his middle name-- but his concern about my map could be too much.
He mentioned today that IF some scientist in Antarctica were to read my blog, he wouldn't show up on the map. I wouldn't be able to say that I've had readers from all seven continents.

Well, I've been outside today and I've watched the news. The freezing fog we have now, is supposed to come in (which infers that it will first go away) with a vengeance tonight and it's suppose to be -6º.
Do I really need Antarctica? I mean, I'm practically living there already.

Today's art project....

United Kingdom-- The Next Siberia

It was THIS flippin' cold this morning....











Yes, these are frozen spider webs on our house.















And our cherry blossoms....

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

White Fog by Sarah Teasdale

Heaven-invading hills are drowned
In wide moving waves of mist,
Phlox before my door are wound
In dripping wreaths of amethyst.

Ten feet away the solid earth
Changes into melting cloud,
There is a hush of pain and mirth,
No bird has heart to speak aloud.

Here in a world without a sky,
Without the ground, without the sea,
The one unchanging thing is I,
Myself remains to comfort me.

All Things British Day!

I was just visiting Flea's blog, leaving comments for Bessie, when I realized that it's time for more views of England from an American in Norfolk.


I took a trip up through Scotland (the first summer we were here) to ride on the Hogwarts Express (right across the Glenfinnan viaduct you see in the movies), and there I got my first look at a Hairy Coo. Aren't they cute?
There are post cards available with a Hairy Coo standing next to a red phone Box,
and he should count himself fortunate to have that moment forever documented since for some strange reason, the U.K. has started replacing them with boring glass BT boxes (imagine an AT&T box but even less complimentary to this dreamy landscape). They sold them off for nothing, but now if you find one at an auction, you could pay close to £1000.00.

On that same trip, I also had an opportunity to try (and passed on it) a Haggis. Those of you with weak stomachs should scroll down now.
It's basically a sheep's organs minced with spices and boiled in the same creature's stomach. Mmmm, yummy.
Haggis and Blood Sausage from Portugal will fall far below Escargot on my list of things to eat, you know, when the world has ended.


You could skip the eating part and just participate in the Haggis Hunt. My kids did. It's alot like Snipe hunting in the states.