I love California

I screech to a halt just outside the restaurant to leave skid marks by the entrance. I take a deep breath before meeting my pals for dinner. It’s a posh restaurant so I obey the dress code: ‘shoes and shirt required.’

“Hello! Long time no see!” is my original opening. My pals are well turned out, as casual Californian attire is an art form.
“Hey you look flustered?”
“Do I? I thought I remembered to breathe?”
“Sit down. Take the weight off.” I plop into the empty chair and beam. The bliss of grown up people. A server snaps a napkin onto my lap and commences his spiel about the specials on offer tonight. Jack. Jack is a snappy dresser himself and the hand gestures that accompany his short order description is lengthy and purple in style: enrobed, glazed with a tincture of lemon rind zest. No doubt it will arrive tied in a knot or something more exotic. “So can I start you ladies off with some beverages?” he grins. We send him away with an order full of fizz and ice and no alcohol for the drivers. It’s a pity we’re all drivers.
“So did you break the speed limit to get here?”
“Er no…..you know me, I always tow the line, too much of a scaredy cat to speed.”
“Just look at the menu Maddy. We want to order before we die of starvation.” I open the menu the size of a broadsheet, nip to the fish section and select, “done.”
“Done?”
“Yes.”
“Already? What are you going to have?”
“Bouillabaisse followed by mussels in white wine.”
“Is anyone having dessert? Who else is having a starter?” They all vote for dessert and to skip the starter. We await the waiter.
“Did the baby sitter turn up on time?”
“Yup.”
“Did you have trouble leaving the house?”
“Nope! Easy peasy. I skipped out during pizza.” The waiter waits on us as they all slowly plod through a minefield of indecision. My turn. “I’ll have the Mussels in White Wine and the Bouillabaisse for dessert please.” He looks up from his note pad, frowns ever so slightly and then returns to his scribbles.
“Did you have a tough day?”
“No, not really. Actually no, I had a great day. How about you?”
“Oh well……fine I guess.”
“So Jenny couldn’t make it afterall?” I ask them all collectively. Collectively they squirm, “no……she’s probably the only person who’s busier than you.”
“Too true, too true. Working mother’s deserve medals.”
“Are you sure you’re o.k.?”
“Who me? Yes. I’m fine.” They look from one to another, a conspiracy. “What is it? What’s up?”
“Nothing really…….we were just wondering how you are, how you really are?”
“I’m fine. I just said so.” I wonder whether the words that I think are managing to come out of my mouth successfully. “Didn’t I just say that I was fine?”
“You did.”
“O.k. that’s good.” The server plants a large basket of bread in the centre of the table, my exit cue, “I’ll just nip to the restroom….you know……retainer!” I explain waggling my pink retainer case to dispel confusion. I skate over to the bathroom where a woman titivates in front of the mirror. Her mascara clad eye lashes look me up and down with a hint of disapproval. I skulk into a stall rather than use the mirror next to her to unlock my teeth and expose them to the fresh California air. I pop it in the box and flush the loo. She’s still there when I come out. She snaps her make-up bag shut and drops it into her purse with a flourish. I step towards the sink to wash my hands, the third sink, the one furthest away from her. She sniffs and departs. I wish those retainer boxes didn’t resemble something else. I remember the dentist’s incredulity, “it looks like a what?”
“Um…you know….?”
“A what box?”
“The kind of box you put your diaphragmme in.”
“A diaphragmme?”
“Er….cervical cap?” What is the right word in America?
“What sort of a cap?”
“You know…..contraception?”
“Oh….does anybody use them anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you use one?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, you’re not gonna get them muddled.” I leave the restroom in Ms. Beauty’s wake and return to my table with my retainer.
“What kept you?”
“There was a queue.”
“Really?”
“No not really I lied, anyway hasn’t Jack turned up with the feast yet?”
“No. It’s really busy tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so busy. Are you very busy these days?”
“?”
“You know…..busy……tired…..distracted perhaps?”
“No more than usual.” I look up at them with my mouth full of bread as I attempt mastication in public. They in turn are all looking at me. I look from one, to the other to the other until my mouth is empty, “what is wrong with you all?”
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“It’s you!”
“Me? What about me?”
“Why are you wearing your slippers Maddy?”

Good question.

I love California

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-love-california.html

The Empress nips into the lead

We chat over coffee, my pal and me.

My pal and me chat when a truly beautiful woman approaches us, or rather, approaches my pal,

“Hi there! Howayadoin?”
“Hi,” my pal replies, surprised and delighted. Pal’s new pal is accompanied by another pal. Introductions are made and we huddle down for an extended chat, which of course is known locally as a chatterbox, because there are now four of us.

Because they are all American they list off a whole slew of complements to one another with reference to each other’s clothing, personal appearance and visible attributes. I cannot fail to notice that pal’s pals have very obvious and large attributes, quite intimidating ones. I suddenly feel both round shouldered and "flat chested." There is an odd symmetry about the two women, but I don’t think that they are related by blood? It’s not just the fashionable attire. I try and put my American thinking hat on, but I have left the baseball cap at home.

I need to think of something nice to say, preferably something that is not sarcastic. Something that cannot be mis-interpreted. I must not let pal down, by saying something stupid in the presence of her pals. I am not naturally nice. Being nice is very hard work. I wish we were in England where we could discuss the weather instead. I decide to be quiet and polite, which just might be mis-understood as enigmatic. I ensure that my retainer is on public display, but still in my mouth. After only a few seconds, I realize that I have been lax about my smiling exercises. My companions still beam without effort, whereas my mouth’s muscles begin to ache.

“So yur the one with all the jaw surgery huh?”
“Yes that’s right!” Beam restored!
“They’re gonna look just great when they’re bleached.” My crest falls between my knees, never to be retrieved.

I generally abide by the Marquis of Queensbury's rules of engagement, but not always. I decide that I have been ‘good’ for a very long time, too long. I determine to use the only 'advantage' I possess, my BBC accent. For some unaccountable reason, an English accent sometimes lends an air of authority in America. It seems so unfair and unkind that Americans are not more familiar with the "Emperor's New Clothes." I do not feel kind. I wield my unfairness.

“So which surgeon did you use?” I ask in an amiable tone. The name of the doctor means nothing to me, as I already knew. “Oh really? Why did you pick him?”
“Oh all my friends, er……my circle,… go to him,” she demures. Her sunshine falls on each one of us in turn and eventually comes to rest upon the upper torso of her companion. The giggle of school girls is inaudible.
“My! So you both used him then?” They beam back, unanimous. Their smiles match. They could be twins. Other parts of their anatomy are as uniform as the fruit available in the produce aisle. It is mind numbingly disturbing.
“I didn’t use him myself,” I announce to the centre of the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my pal. My pal starts off as horror struck, as if I have kept a secret from her. Horror changes from one kind of horror to another kind of horror, but I refuse to allow her to interrupt or stop me.
“Really?” coo the twins, a tad disinterested. I straighten my square shoulders and thrust forth my pimples, “indeed, I think you’ll find that Dr. Pain did a matchless job. I recommend him to all my friends. The man’s an artiste of course.”

The twins’ eyes flick over my chicken chest, uncertain how to proceed. “Quite! But he’s very exclusive and the waiting list, oh my dear! it’s as long as my arm, twice maybe?” I model arm waving of the extended spaghetti variety. The twins exchange glances. There are times when it is best to show no mercy. “Yes it’s just so wonderful what they can do these days. All the optional extras and so on.” I let it hang there a moment, until one of them feels brave enough to ask.
“Howdaya mean, optional extras?”
“Well, if you look closely, you’ll see that I choose the nipless option, guaranteed to please.” Three pairs of eyeballs glue themselves to my chest, an experience more rare than hen’s teeth.
“Howdaya mean ‘nipless?’”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I add as I raise my ribcage another inch in the air.
“D’you mean…..?”
“That’s right, detachable ends to ensure that smooth look for those oh so special occasions. They’re right here on my purse, in this little pink container!” I pat the curved plastic box with my finger tips, a mini drum roll. Pal’s pals, look a little green about the gills. They both stand at the same time. One covers her mouth with a couple of quivery flutter hands. Hasty goodbyes are exchanged. “Don’t forget!” I add as they scrurry towards the door, “Dr. Pain!”

Pal and I plop back down on our chairs. I grin at her. “Ohnygod yur bad!” she accuses, with a quite unnecessary venom.
“They weren’t real friends of yours were they?” She huffs in response, “well they sure aren’t now! That’s your empty retainer box isn’t it?” My beam is restored, although still grey.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t!” Smug.
“Shame they’re not made of elastic, so I cud whack em back in yur teeth with a snap!”

Well we all need to escape to dreamland every once in a "while."

The Empress nips into the lead

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/10/empress-nips-into-lead.html

Shape shifter

A long time ago I used to have a number of useful skills such as the ability to darn socks, knit and sew.

These days I am not so fortunate, as life is too short to peel a grape, stuff a mushroom or prick your finger on a spindle.

“Please Mom! You promised!” she pleads. I look at my nine year old daughter, a sleepy beauty, who has more patience in her pinky than I have in my entire body. “Look, I even wrote you a note, a reminder, coz you keep forgetting.” I do not sigh. I read the carefully penned missive and place it on her cuddly tiger on the kitchen counter, a 3 foot carcass of striped fur. I give her a hug, “I promise that I’ll try and find a needle and thread today. That rip is getting bigger by the day.”
"I don't want his head to fall off!"
"Indeed, that would be most unfortunate."

I moan to spouse. “Life is too short to spend two hours in a dentist’s chair!”
“Take your book, you could do with the rest. Just try and relax!” He sounds irritated but I am more irritated.


I amend my never ending to do list with red ink:
1. sew head back on.

For some reason this strikes me as a little odd. He peers over my shoulder and grins. I do not smack his smug face, I merely pout, in time honoured fashion, as it’s too early in the morning to flounce to full effect.

After two hours of reading in the dentist’s chair I begin to doze. I tune out the buzz of dental equipment, the terrible movie with the volume on too loud and the hum of the air conditioning. It is so cold I could be fossilized before I ever get the chance to escape. I decide that hibernation provides the best means of survival and snuggle into my cardigan.

I think of the years I have spent thusly, horizontal and freezing regardless of the season. All the other patients are in shorts and T-shirts because we are in California. I wear long trousers, socks, a T-shirt and a cuddly, a thick fleece with a zip from crotch to chin. I wonder if they have any blankets on the premises? Maybe I should admit defeat and bring a sleeping bag next time, or would that cause undue offense? It seems I am their only reptilian client.



I debate why it should be that my daughter’s bedroom is a zoo, full of furry animals? Not a doll in sight but a menagerie of plush creatures. Any spare shilling she acquires is hoarded and then squandered on yet another fur ball. Who ever heard of a furry bee or snake or tortoise? Surely this will severely harm, if not warp, her ambition to be a vet?

“All done,” says a cheery voice calling me back from the lagoon. I am presented with my new retainer. “Let’s see if it fits?” he adds. I oblige. The plastic snaps into place securing my teeth in my mouth for another 11 months. “Sorry about the delay, but we needed to get it just right.” I smile, dozy and partially awake, the world is over populated with perfectionists.

Delay. Delay? Delay!

I glance at my watch and leap from my bed, to rush to the exit, “agh! I need a needle! I forgot the tiger in the kitchen!”

I wonder why no-one ever understands me?

And in my other "life."

Shape shifter

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/09/shape-shifter.html

Open your cake hole and flash us your enamel!

[Translation = mouth and teeth, just in case you were wondering]

I’ve always had them of course, the bad teeth that is to say, well ...after the baby teeth dropped out. The difference now, is that I’m aware that they are bad. When I was in England I was vaguely aware that they weren’t the best set of snappers around, but since I was in England, I blended in perfectly with my surroundings.

When we first arrived in America, the land of gleaming, white enamel, I did become a little more self conscious about the gnashers. My first visit to an American dentist confirmed my worst fears. [translation = failed the teeth test] I was immediately advised that surgery and braces were an absolute MUST. “But how do you eat?” they would wail. [translation = a foreshadowing of the experiences I would later have with my children] Since I was alive, obviously I had managed to eat quite successfully for any number of years. [translation = approximately 34 at the time]

It took me a long time [translation = 9 years and three visits home in one particular year] to make me realize the truth of the matter.

Now that I have emerged post surgery, post braces and accepted the confinement of a retainer, I have to learn a whole new skill. The skill that I need to acquire, is the ability to smile. It’s not that I don’t smile of course, I do, frequently. [translation = at least once every five minutes, but I’m still struggling to match my American cousins and their semi permanent state of smiling] No, the difference between my smile and yours, is that I never show my teeth when I smile.

It’s more a curling of the lips at the corners, rather than what would commonly be described as a smile. [translation = no enamel shall be exposed on pain of death] If I was asked to describe my smile, I would describe it as grinning from ear to ear. If you grin from ear to ear, then you have more lip skin available to stretch from ear to ear, than you would do if you parted your lips. You can easily demonstrate this fact for yourself. [translation = I hear your doubt] If you take one large elastic band and stretch it from one ear to the other ear in a double line, you can clearly see that it doesn’t have to stretch anything like as much, as if you slip each end around your ears. [translation = don’t ping your nose by accident] It’s almost twice as much elastic. [translation = wasteful, save that planet]

So for the time being I’m trying very hard to change my 'every five minute grin,' from a gentle curve to a……a……smile, I suppose.

My son approaches me from behind as I type.
“What you are do?”
“Oh just typing dear.”
“No! What you are do wiv yur mowf?”
“Oh I see! Well, if you move your head a bit, like this, [translation = I demonstrate by modeling the desired behaviour] then you can see your reflection in the computer screen, a bit like a mirror. See?”
“No! I know bout dah mirror. I wanna know bout dah teef, dah mowf?”
“Oh. I’m practicing my smile, smiling er, yes, that’s what I’m doing, I’m practicing my smile. Look you can see my teeth. Can you see my teeth?”
“Er yes, but I am seeing dah plastic more, er morer dan dah teef. It is dah plastic, dah fake.”

I stop myself from shouting ‘RETAINER’ at him. [translation = could it be that I have inadvertently turned myself into a fake plastic "American!"]

There again, plastic teeth go quite well with other little fake bits that I've acquired over the years, such as the dyed hair. [translation = no longer it's oh so natural battleship grey] Maybe I should give him a little more "credit."

Open your cake hole and flash us your enamel!

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/07/open-your-cake-hole-and-flash-us-your.html

Brace yourself! Retained and restrained

I return from the braces chappy and immediately pick up the telephone to ask them a quick question. I speak to one of the technicians. [translation = people who tweak your braces]
“Yes, Madeline, what’s the problem?”
“Just a quickie. I was wondering, do I have to rinse the retainer after I have a drink?”
“A drink? Are you celebrating already?”

I pause to think what she might mean? [translation = she might mean an alcoholic beverage, but it’s only 4 in the afternoon and I would never admit to drinking alcohol to an American, because if you consume more than one 4 fluid ounce glass of weak white wine a week, you might as well tattoo AA on your forehead]
“Oh you know, just coffee.” [translation = true, it’s brewing now]
“Yeah, I would.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, you don’t want it to stain.”
No! I do not want it to stain, not at $600 dollars I most certainly do not.
“The thing is, that’s going to be quite often.”
"What's gonna be often?"
"The rinsing the retainer after a drink.......of coffee!" I hasten to add.
“How often?”

I think. How often? There is silence on the line whilst I calculate but she interrupts my train of thought. [translation = mathematically challenged person]

“Madeline! Are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m counting.”
“What, more than six cups a day?”
Is that what the average American drinks per day? Is that the right answer? That should probably be my answer. [translation = lying through my retainer.] “Well, a bit more than that really.”
“Really? How much?”
“Probably one an hour, but of course it’s not American.” [translation = weak, flavourless, colourless, decafinated, dirty water]
“What’s not American?”
“The coffee. I mean it’s espresso. Mugs of espresso to be exact.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone drinking a whole mug of espresso.”
“Really?” Why does that not surprise me.
“Is that cos you’re er, …..European?”
To lie or not to lie, that is the question?
“Probably.”
“Wow. Well if that’s the case I’d definitely rinse it every time, that is nasty stuff!”
“Oh dear. What about the tea then?”
“Tea?”
“Do I need to rinse it after I have a cup of tea?”
“Oh right! Um well,……yes, I think you should, just to be on the safe side. At least that’s cups rather than mugs!”
“Ah, well actually it’s pots.”
“Pots?”
“Yes, pots of tea.”
“How many cups are in a pot?”
“It depends upon how big your tea pot is.”

That was a silly answer, I should have just been truthful. [translation = playing for time] I resolve to stop being obtuse. [translation = another campaign on my ceaseless mission for self improvement]

“How big is yours?”
Now there’s a question you don’t get asked very often!
“Six. One pot gives you six mugs of tea.”
“I thought you said cups?”
“Oh, I did.” [translation = I lied]
“O.k., well six and six, that’s gonna be o.k. right?”
“How did you get 12?”
“6 + 6!”
“Ah, I see I have mislead you. I have more than one pot of tea a day.”
“How many pots of tea d’ya have Madeline?” Do I note a certain tone?
“It depends if I’m home or not?” [translation = no portable tea service available in America currently = roll on Teabucks] I don’t mention that I am at home a lot because I am a stay at home mum, and that’s what we do best, stay home]

“Give me a ball park figure?”
Damn! [translation = dang!] A confusing sporting reference! “Er.. one an hour.”
“Geez Madeline! As well as the coffee! You must……” she remembers that she is a professional person and stops talking to collect her thoughts. “Why do you drink so much?” she enquires tentatively. [translation = politely and not pushy]

It occurs to me that I haven’t got the foggiest notion, that it’s just crept up on me. Glass of milk, then a coffee to take the taste away. Yoghourt drink, then a coffee to take the taste away. ‘Ensure,’ the most loathsome protein drink in the world, then several coffees to take the taste away. ‘Boost,’ the alternative, just for a change, second most loathsome protein drink in the world, and then a vat of tea to take the taste away. “Because I’ve been on a liquid diet for the last 7 months I suppose.”
“Not now!” she cheers.

She is of course, absolutely right. No braces and 6 months post "jaw surgery."
[translation = I will stop drinking, dehydrate and shrivel up to become a tiny, black raisin, eat instead and become a little plump one! [translation = "extra concentrated"]

Brace yourself! Retained and restrained

http://alien-in-a-foreign-field.blogspot.com/2007/07/brace-yourself-retained-and-restrained.html