Goodwill to all Peoplekind

I escape from the house in a hurry. Although generally I can find any excuse to avoid shopping, currently it’s a valid excuse for freedom. Now that Target provides groceries and prescription refills, I shall probably never need to shop anywhere else ever again. With luck on my side, I should be able to make a round trip in under an hour, long before Nonna awakens.

It’s a short list of necessaries, essentials, extras and maybe’s. I cast grumpiness aside, or is it fatigue – this must be the true definition of retail therapy; the chance to move about freely in a crowd, anonymous with a big cheesy grin plastered on my face. No questions, no demands, no repeats; it’s just like being in a spa:- a holiday for the mind.

I spend far too much money in far too short a time.

I step out towards the car, the final gallop to the finishing line. Always racing when I’m accosted by a large woman, with a loud voice and a bell – ‘spare some change for the missing children?’ I can feel a scowl cross my brow as I fight with the cart and it’s square wheel. Thwarted. Another interruption. I have no time to stand and stare, a white rabbit with a stop watch lashed to my ankle. My handbag is open in the baby seat shelf, my purse on the top, stuffed with receipts and lists, as I search for suitable lies:-

‘I’ve spent it all already,’ - but of course I used plastic.
‘I’ve already greased the palm of every Tom, Dick and Harry with an open hand this week,’ - but there’s always another one.
‘What do I care about missing children, the starving masses or the global warming?’ - but I can’t lie.
‘I’m too busy, too tired, too harassed to give a rat’s arse about anybody else for the moment,’ - would be the honest to goodness truth.

She is far too physically close, as she examines the contents of the cart – “I’ll take one of those milks instead if you like, or the bananas, a few of those rolls of bathroom tissue? Anything’l help.” I know my face is a sour pudding as I struggle with glasses, keys and life. What the heck. It’s only money. I’ve not had to slave for hours in an air-conditioned, soulless pod. I hand over the readies, into the black slot with the padlock and chain attached to the table leg – as if that’s a deterrent? “Thank you!” she beams with far too much enthusiasm than is warranted for such a bah humbug moment. “Give me some love with that,” she adds as I’m enfolded into her soft body with warm hands. I cannot remember when I was last hugged, properly, by an adult woman, let alone a stranger. I feel the surrender as I remember to breathe; it’s oddly comforting as I lay aside my English, ‘do not touch’ body language. “Now you sure have a Happy Holiday,” she insists as she releases me.
“I shall indeed, you too.”

Goodwill to all Peoplekind

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/12/goodwill-to-all-peoplekind.html

11 + Cake Topper for Twins

This is a ding bat design for some chums of mine who successfully passed the 11+ examination. The boys are twins and took the exam in the States which enables them to enter the Grammar School System back in England = an amazing feat!





I have no idea how often twins both manage to pass this test, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to celebrate with a dingbat on binary.




Interestingly it was all the thicky adults like me who had a hard time figuring out the message.

11 + Cake Topper for Twins

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/12/11-cake-topper-for-twins.html

Who are you?

Take the Quiz here!

Who are you?

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/11/who-are-you.html

A sporting chance

Let me just say from the get go that I know nothing about sport, with the exception of Tiddly Winks, nor have I ever coached anyone to play any kind of sport, which is probably just as well.

That said, I would guess that being a coach is akin to being a teacher, but I’m happy to be corrected on that score. I have the opportunity to observe a coach working as we walk along the edge of the fence that surrounds the playing field, towards the dog park. Although we walk along a clearly delineated path, I have each boys’ hand in one of mine, just in case a squirrel or some other distraction might prove too much of a temptation - the traffic flow in the road is exceptionally busy.

Different groups play different games, some near a soccer goal, some near basket ball hoops others on the asphalt track. As we walk we see the coach, a tall middle aged man who sports a baseball cap, reversed, on his balding skull. He has a very loud voice which is probably an asset in an open field. People of diminished stature are in his care. I would guess that they spread over the age range of 5 to 7. They are all kitted out in similar attire which makes them easier to spot as a group.

There are lots of balls and lots of running and lots of shouting, although only the coach performs the vocals. There are lots of instructions. None of them make any sense, but of course they wouldn’t make any sense because we are ignorant of all sports, American and otherwise. The coach is displeased with his charges performance. Despite all his incomprehensible instructions, the children, individually, continue to flail about the field like headless chickens, but I suspect it’s a team sport. We can all tell that the coach is angry, not just because of his voice but because of his stance. He is very good at hand gestures too, exceptionally so - we all know that whatever it is that they’re supposed to be doing, they’re not doing it.

The coach’s cap comes off his head numerous times because he is exasperated - he copes by rubbing the skin raw on his pate. Each time he removes his cap his voice edges up a few marks on the Richter scale, but we’re none the wiser as to his message. For me, fear is a great motivator. It would appear that his team are similarly motivated albeit unsuccessfully. In a final burst of desperation he yells again, repeats a whole stream of instructions. One new small phrase, bubbles up amidst the torrent, “only move when the ball moves.” A current of comprehension courses through the collective – they are back on track.

What a pity he didn’t say that first.

Now, if anyone ever gives me a pointy ball to hold, I shall know exactly what to do, although I can’t imagine how to throw one through the netted hoop?

A sporting chance

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/11/sporting-chance.html

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a movie review

A long time ago I read "this" book by "F.Scott Fitzgerald." At that time, in my youth, I deemed it both ‘a bit soppy’ and ‘highly improbable,’ because I read it as a ‘story’ and not as a literary critic.

For "one" reason and "another" when the movie debuted I failed to connect the book to the film. I wanted to watch the film but there was a lot of "stuff" going on at the time. By happenstance, as is so often the case, my "daughter" borrowed a copy from the library, watched it and suggested that I do likewise. It was a nudge. I was reminded of "This Mom’s" project and thought……why not just make the time? The trouble was that I needed a lot of time because the movie is nearly three hours long. So I did what I always do, cut it up into manageable chunks.

If you have elderly relatives or young children or if you're middle aged or just human, it's well worth finding the time for this poignant drop of escapism.

I won't add a spoiler but I knew as soon as the backwards clock was revealed. There again, it could just be that the recall was prompted by my original reading.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a movie review

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/08/curious-case-of-benjamin-button-movie.html

Evensong – I’ll have the nutty version

On Sunday Evening my jolly good neighbour hands me a plate of cookies with a warm and beaming smile. “And here’s a pack of diabetic cookies but they’re still frozen.” She has taken pity on me after enduring 30 minutes of my moaning about my catering woes. We chat about families, hers and mine, special diets and special needs. As she turns to leave she adds, “anyway, I have to get back now as I still have a bit of cooking to do.”
“Always cooking to do it seems.”
“Yes…….just enough time for divinity.” A string of words bounce up in a blue ribboned silk banner in my brain with gold lettering:- Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline but I cannot recall divinity?
“Divinity?”
“I’ll bring you some.”
“You will?”
“You probably won’t like it but the kids will.”
“!”
“Haven’t you ever had it before?”
“Never.”
“It’s just sugar , eggs and corn syrup, I’ll bring you the recipe next time too.”
“How delightful. "Thank you.”

Evensong – I’ll have the nutty version

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/07/evensong-ill-have-nutty-version.html

Never trust a skinny cook*

Just before four in the afternoon, I put away the last clean, dry plate and pause for a cup of coffee, black. A couple of hours ago everyone was full of barbeque, salads, bread and cake, which took the edge off the hunger pangs after breakfast of pancakes, in-between morning snacks and afternoon snacks.

Because I am so badly organized, I haven’t managed to squeeze in a trip to the supermarket as the prospect of dinner looms. Some time between now and 6 in the evening, I am doomed to hear those fateful words “what’s for supper?” Right on cue, my husband appears, “so how can I help with dinner?”
“Give me suggestions about what to cook?”
“Don’t we usually have left-overs on Sunday?”
“Yes……..but they’re aren’t any, left overs that is to say. In fact, come to think of it, I’m sick of the sight of food. My brain has died. I have no imagination. I can’t think of anything.”
“Ah…….so you’re in need of a little inspiration?”
“That or a cheap slave.”
“To eat or to help?”
“Quite frankly, I beginning to wonder how I’m ever going to keep up with all these permanently hungry people? It’s a complete nightmare. Either I’m shopping for food, cooking the food or cleaning up after the food.”
“Hmm….so ‘and Nonna makes 8’ is proving too much?”
“Not exactly. It’s just the sheer quantity. Everyone seems to have hollow legs. Just think of something……anything……..an idea?”
“Do you know I heard an interesting discussion on the radio about why women were such abject failures …….under-represented in public life.”
“!”
“I mean……too busy with domestic duties.”
“!”
“Sounds like a take out is in order.”
“Ooo you do have the very best ideas.”
“I do try. I expect Mileva Maric would have been a public figure if they had take out back in those days.”
“Who?”
“Oh……Mrs. Einstein.”

p.s. I actually have quite a few adults around here that help a great deal but I do martyrdom so well.

* "Nonna's" favourite phrase.

Never trust a skinny cook*

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2009/07/never-trust-skinny-cook.html