A memorial to a Polish bear

There's a campaign to erect a memorial a Polish bear. Well, an Iranian bear enlisted in the Polish army.

No joke.

Known as the "soldier bear" he saw action at Monte Cassino, in Italy, before being billeted - along with about 3,000 other Polish troops - at a camp in the Scottish borders.

And like any other combatant, he is even said to have had an official name, rank and number.

Now a campaign is underway to build a permanent British memorial to the remarkable bear who fought so valiantly for the Allied forces and lived out his final days in Edinburgh Zoo.

Voytek the Bear carried munitions for the troops and also discovered a spy. And his reward? Beer and cigarettes and access to the shower hut. Oh, and a retirement villa at the Edinburgh Zoo, where apparently his old comrades tried to chuck him cigarettes.

Polish veteran Augustyn Karolewski, 82, who still lives near the site of the camp in Berwickshire, said: 'He was like a big dog, no-one was scared of him. "He liked a cigarette, he liked a bottle of beer - he drank a bottle of beer like any man."

When the troops were demobilised, Voytek spent his last days at Edinburgh Zoo, where died in 1963.

Mr Karolewski went back to see him on a couple of occasions and found he still responded to the Polish language. He explained: "I went to Edinburgh Zoo once or twice when Voytek was there. "As soon as I mentioned his name he would sit on his backside and shake his head wanting a cigarette. "It wasn't easy to throw a cigarette to him - all the attempts I made until he eventually got one."

Yes, you can just imagine the Polish old soldier tossing lit cigarettes into the bear enclosure. Or did he toss him cigarettes and a lighter. If so, that's one talented bear.

Anyway, best of luck getting a memorial to Voytek the Polish bear.

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Reminds me of that bear that lived at a gas station in Pigeon Forge, TN. It was before my time, but I've been told that there was a bear that lived in a cage at this gas station in Pigeon Forge. It was kind of a tourist attraction. Obviously you can't do that sort of thing anymore, but folks would do anything to drum up business. Even cage a bear and show it off to the motor tourists. Sad really.

And like Voytek, this bear was partial to treats of a human nature. You know, junk food. Snack cakes. Peanuts. Bottles of coke and 7-up. He especially liked the coke. You could hand it into his big paws (if you were brave enough) and he'd tip it up and drink it right down.

Well, one day some drunken rednecks or maybe it was some uncouth yankees who weren't raised to know any better gave the bear some gasoline in one of those coke bottles. Just handed it right over. They probably reckoned that the bear wouldn't actually drink it. But it did. Just tipped the bottle up and drank it right down.

Well, that gas didn't agree with the bear. It started frothing at the mouth and raging and rattling in its cage and throwing itself about. And to be honest, the workmanship on the cage maybe wasn't what it should have been. Anyway, the bear got loose (scaring the pants off the drunken rednecks or uncouth yankees, depending on who's telling the story). And it took off up the road. Back towards the park. I guess it wanted to go home. (Well, who can blame it?)

That bear ran right up the road. And the people in the cars were pulling over. It ran up past where the outlet malls are. It ran up past the all those miniature golf places that are there now. It ran past where Porpoise Island used to be. It ran on past where Dollywood is now. It just ran and ran.

It was running up toward the park and then, just about where the welcome sign is for the park it just stopped. Fell over in the road. Fell into a huddled hunk of bear right there.

And you know what happened?

...



....

....

....

It ran out of gas.

_________

Sorry. Sorry. My friend Vol-K told me that story one time as we were leaving the park, just as we were passing the sign and going the other way into Pigeon Forge. Man, she totally got me, too.

Years and years later she was visiting me in London and telling me about the bear scene in that horrible movie Borat and I said -"Did I ever tell you about that bear that was up in Pigeon Forge?" And she said no - and she had totally forgotten the story and I got her with it. Ha, joke revenge.


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Check out these awesome bear pics. Including this one, which should be a lesson to all gas station bears.

Welcome sign photo from Flickr user The Paradigm Shifter used under Creative Commons license.

Anticipation

Genderist is still waiting to find out about her thyroid cancer treatment:

I'm still waiting until May to know how well my November's treatment worked. To say I'm pre-occupied with thinking about May is almost accurate. I think about it when I wake up in the night, when I hit the alarm clock, when I drop the soap in the shower, when I'm packing my lunch, when I'm stopped at a red light, during meetings, when I read email, when my patients at work come and tell me either really good news or really bad news, when I'm waiting for the microwave to cook my lunch, when I check my pedometer, when it's time for my three o'clock snack, when The Hater sends me sweet text messages to tell me he loves me, when I'm trying to look busy, when I actually am busy, when the cat runs to meet me at the door, anytime in church that anybody refers to faith or hope, when I water the plants (including John Wayne, which still isn't dead after 2 years under our care), when I'm grocery shopping, when I tie my shoes, when anybody asks me how I'm feeling... and any other time when I breathe.

Unhypothetical

"It won’t be hypothetical if and when it occurs. We are not legislating now on
the basis that we are bringing it in now for something that might happen in the
future; we are bringing it in now for something that might happen in the future;
we are bringing in a position for if it becomes unhypothetical. If,
unfortunately I and many other experts are right and we do need it in the future
it is in place."

Jacqui Smith, Home Secretary, securing her place in history. Sadly, only in the book of ridiculous political quotes.

I heard this on the radio while still lying in bed unfreakin'-believable. Iain Dale posted the words.

About the quote:

Jacqui Smith wants new legislation which would allow the police to hold "terror" suspects without charge for 42 days. (I use "terror" in quotes not because I don't believe that there are real and legitimate threats, but because I worry that the Government will use terror charges without real and legitimate threat.)

Not in good conscience

Londoners were treated to a Channel 4 Dispatches expose on the methods and madness of our dear leader, Mayor Ken Livingstone. Among the charges:

• violating electoral rules - appointed staff working on his re-election campaign while being paid from the public purse - on his orders.




• spending vast amounts of money on thinly justified foreign junkets




• allowing millions of pounds to be funneled to sham companies owned by cronies and fellow travellers




• drinking on the job, not just at his desk, but brazenly drinking whisky at council meetings and at "town hall" style question time with the public




• appointing inappropriately skilled cronies to high paying jobs

Really, this is more than enough to not only turn the man out of office - this is enough to start criminal investigations. Any one of these alone represent a bad sort of politics, but together render the man wholly unfit to represent perhaps the finest capital city in the world.


And this is before taking into account that the man acts like an ass. That he refuses to answer legitimate questions from friends and foes alike - the key means of accountability for elected officials. That he bullies, blusters and evades. That he name calls like a child in the playground.


And this is all before you take account that he associates with some rather nasty characters like Qaradawi and seems to overtly endorse a radical, political Islam. And anyone who questions his association with Muslim Brotherhood fronts and members is called an Islamophobe.

The worst thing about all of this is that dear old Red Ken is likely to get away with it. His jocular bluster seems to sway large parts of the electorate. And in this country Socialist is not a dirty word, so his association with the Socialist Alliance doesn't sound so bad. Never mind that they don't practice the kind of socialism that's essentially benign -no - it's that deconstructionist, let's destroy everything that's good so somehow, some way a new society will come rising from the ashes - meanwhile we'll wander around drinking champagne and totter around on our hind trotters unless our snout is in the trough type socialism. And folks seem blind to the difference.

I know a lot of people don't like Boris Johnson. I know his manner is odd and his hair is wild and he's a master of the self-deprecating. I know that Mr Johnson hasn't yet really communicated his vision for London - and he must do that. But please, Londoners, you cannot in good conscience re-elect Ken Livingstone.

Why him?

Both the Vol-in-Law and I reacted a little more strongly to the death of Heath Ledger than we would have thought. It's not like we were big fans. It's not like we even go to the movies. But it did seem a little shocking.

The Vol-in-Law said "He seemed so full of life, and yet that Shane McGowan just goes on and on and on."

"Why couldn't it have been Amy Winehouse or somebody like that?"

Signs of life

I tend to think of the horticultural year following the calendar year. I often have a few hardy flowers hanging on in sheltered areas of my garden well into December. The weather in England is mild, but the early days of January can bring some harsh cold. But rarely, if ever, pipe freezing cold.

But by the end of the first month I expect to signs of spring, the hellebores in bloom - the green tips of narcissus and snowdrops poking through.

The hellebores are in bloom (pictures from last year) and the bulbs are coming up.

We took a walk in Richmond Park today - for the first time in a while. The weather has been so rainy and overcast that we can barely go for short local walks some days.

In Richmond Park, the witch hazel trees are in bloom. I've never been able to take any photos of witch hazels that I've been happy with - so this one is from Mason Bryant that I found on Flickr. It was too gray today to an attempt a shot against the sky and I can't seem to get the effect I want with the camera's automatic flash. And I guess I can never quite capture the sweet and spicy smell of the witch hazel or the brightness of the yellow in a bare and cold winter forrest.

I did photograph some other signs that the horticultural cycle is starting over. Like these incredibly early azaleas



or these mahonias - another sweet yellow bloomer in the winter woodscape

Buddy guest blogs

Hey Coach Pearl



Are there any vacancies on your staff? Or is more formal attire required.

Or maybe with my skills, I should be applying to Coach Fulmer:



I'll do anything:



I'll be the mascot



-Big Orange Buddy
________

Out for lunch today I overheard a father at the next table say to his toddler son "How would you like to wear a track suit like that?"

He said it like it would be some kind of joke or punishment or something.

You could tell it just slipped out. You could tell that he was thinking "Did I just say that, like that, out loud? I know they heard me."

And I'm thinking - "Hey, we're just at the next table. We heard you."

And then he says to us "That's a really nice track suit."

Errrm....thanks. Fact is, you don't see an outfit like that in South West London every day.

Wither Freddie?

So is the Fred campaign at an end? I bear him no personal ill will - but I do find it ironic that he seemed to do so much better before he was an official candidate. And I do agree with Knoxviews contributor Elrod that Fred's campaign provided a distracting magnet for TNGOP cash and attention. I just hope he stays in until the 5th of February so he can continue to do so.

I am a little sad that the value of my little personal heirloom has probably already bottomed out. Any offers? No timewasters, please.

But the best thing about the Fred campaign has got to be this picture. If I'm not mistaken, I know this woman. I don't know if this is her grandson, but I guess it must be. She's had some bad luck lately, but this is a fantastic photo. (It's published under a Creative Commons license under the Flickr ID Freddthompson).
There are some other great pictures of Lawrenceburg around and about because Fred's homecoming. (The bloggers who bring us the great pics and blogs at Sugarfused and Nashville Files were there with their cameras.)

One Saturday in January

Hey South Carolina and Nevada - what a great day to hold an election. Seems like maybe more people could get out and vote on a Saturday, maybe that's what the US should do. And then I wouldn't feel bad about staying up all night to watch the returns. But of course, so many states are going for the early voting that maybe it doesn't matter anymore.

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My dad and brother will be visiting soon and will be here on election day. Both of them have opted for early voting. Apparently VolBro has already voted and we don't agree on a primary candidate.

VolBro says that Hillary Clinton is the Republican's best chance at the White House because she's so divisive. You know, I used to think that, too. But the Clintons have overcome that before.

Besides, seems to me like the last election we had was the Democrats to throw away - given that the Republicans were running that "uniter" George Bush. If ever a candidate was divisive, that must be the guy. Seems to me divisiveness maybe isn't the handicap people think it is.

-0-

I sure hope Fred does well. It'd be great to see prices going up on this thing..

At least he made the buses run on time

While the American readers will be focusing on an election months and months away (ok, I know the primary season is upon us), the London electorate have a campaign coming up in May. For London mayor.

It's Boris v. Ken - and it should be interesting. And just based on the names, if you didn't know the characters involved, you'd be surprised at which one of them has nasty Trotskyite tendencies.

It's no secret that I really, really, really hate Ken Livingstone. I hate his Marxist style empire building amongst the London boroughs. I hate his divisive politics under the name of cohesion. I hate the cozying up to the Islamist elite.

Apparently there's to be an expose on some of his political shenanigans on Monday night through Channel 4's Dispatches programme.

Check out a little foreshadowing here at Harry's Place.

secret high school diary

Now, I'm not really into the teen tv scene. I know what Hannah Montana is, but I'd never heard of this Zoey 101 until she turned up knocked up. Minor relatives of washed up musical celebrities, anyway...

I assumed that Zoey 101 was an American only thing, 'cause I'd only heard of through blogging world. Good for her for keeping her baby. Bad for her, 'cause she's a role model, etc. etc. etc.

OK, then.

Well, as far as I knew she wasn't on tv here in the UK. But since we have 10 year Sally Jesse Rafael's in endless rerun on British tv, why wouldn't a current teen phenom also have some place on children's channels? Anyway, she must be on Brit tv somewhere because today I saw a Zoey 101 part series advertised on tv.

The part series

I don't think Americans do the "part series" - at least I never noticed it. Anyway, these are things where you buy a part of a model of a sailing ship or a toy dinosaur skeleton, a chunk of mineral, some beads and gew-gaws or improvised explosive device each week and each part is accompanied by a magazine explaining the wonderful world of pirates, dinosaurs, geology, jewelry making or insurgency or some such and further instructions for the use of the part you bought.

The first "part" is usually at some knock down price and then once they get you hooked, the price jacks up. And these magazines with crap attached in a plastic bubble are available at your local newsagent.

Like Zoey 101, these things seem to be aimed at the 8 to 12s. Anyway, the Zoey 101 part series and magazine advertises "tips from Zoey" like "get the Zoey look" and "Zoey's secret high school diary". I don't know why, but that sort of cracked me up.

Dear Diary

I wondered what was in Zoey's secret high school diary...


16 August 2006

My sister thinks she's so hot, but she's not. Ever since she got pregnant she got fat.


10 February 2007

Now that I've got this tv show, I'm earning enough money to live in my own apartment. I'm 15, so I think I'm old enough to live on my own. It's not like I won't have my boyfriend with me.


11 October 2007

I think I might be pregnant. Thank goodness my tv high school has one of those in school day care centers, although I plan to raise the baby in Louisiana where it can have a normal life. At least, now I can show the world that I can be better than my sister at something.

the lottery dream

VolBro has a recurring dream where he wins 41 or 43 million on the lottery. He's very specific about the amount. And he told me that if the lottery jackpot ever reaches 41 or 43 million, I should buy a ticket because it's kinda preordained. He's very specific about the amount. He says the type of currency doesn't matter.

I just can't remember if it was 43 or 41 million - or was it 45? No. Definitely 41 or 43.

Tonight's estimated jackpot is 41 million - pounds. I think that's roughly a squillion dollars with the current exchange rate. I've been thinking about calling him and asking him what numbers to pick.

Would I be morally obligated to share the winnings with him if he told me some numbers to pick on this preordained lottery win? Or could I, you know, just buy him a beer?

Back to work

I went back to work today. I'm only working one day a week for a little while. But it's good.

The Vol-in-Law called me at about 11am. When I got off the phone, my co-workers wanted to know if the baby was doing alright, if the ViL was doing alright.

"Oh no, everything's fine" I said. "He was just in the cemetery and told me there was a floral tribute of leaping dolphins that I'd probably want to photograph tomorrow."

Old co-workers were not surprised. New ones - well, they thought that was a little weird.

Keep on rockin in the free world

Yesterday I got my paper notice about the Global Primary. (If this link doesn't work, don't worry - more info below). Since Buddy is eating paper these days, I wanted to get it on the bulletin board and out of his way. But of course, I forgot and left it dangerously close to the changing area.

Me: Hand me that voting thingy.
Vol-in-Law: Voting thingy?
Me: Yeah, that paper there.
ViL: Oh, your voting thingy. (Extra derisive tone where you see italics).
Me: Yeah, you know the vote the directs activities in the free world.

_________
Living abroad? Want to vote in the primary? Check out the Democrats Abroad site.
Need to register to vote? Check out - www.votefromabroad.org

Your good advice, I disregard it

That's not really true. I've asked for reader advice before and I always - always listen. I've often changed my mind or at least moderated my course of action. But y'all told me it was tacky - but I've decided to go ahead anyway.

I've submitted info to receive a quote on the fake grass lawn.

But let me tell you, y'all saved me. 'Cause there's been a huge advance in fake grass technology between then and now.

I'm telling you, at a glance, the stuff we're getting looks really real. Even the chunk of sample turf looks like a little chunk of real turf - like maybe a zoysia - or a really fine, fescue blend.

Oh, it's sweet. It'll look like the lawn I'm too lazy to ever have.

-0-

Here's a picture of Buddy watching me take the pictures to send off to the faux lawn place. My brother and I wore similar expressions when VolMom made us come outside and keep her company while she gardened.

Unforgettable

I've got this user ID and password for this website that's kind of important, but not something I'd be checking all the time.

So I chose something unforgettable.

I've pretty much been through all my unforgettable combinations of user IDs and passwords and no dice. (Yes, I do know it's not as secure as it could be, but I do have a little collection of these passwords)

Dang it.

Reliance on appliance

Steve at WhitesCreek Journal has a busted dishwasher. The way he's written the post, I've just totally spoilered it, but I think it'll be alright.

He thinks the modern human cannot live without the dishwasher. Millions of Britons would disagree.

But they are, of course, in the wrong.

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My in-laws are kind of anti-appliance. Well, they're anti-convenience. I've joked with the Vol-in-Law that there's the easy way, the hard way and then there's his dad's especially difficult way. Seriously, that man goes way out of his way to make his own life hard*.

But anyway, they don't have a microwave, a dishwasher or a dryer. They don't even have a hairdryer.

My father-in-law told me once that by the time you've unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher you've spent just as much time as hand washing the dishes.

I asked him if he'd ever had a dishwasher. No. Well, then, I've lived with dishwashers and lived without them and I guarantee it takes less time than washing up by hand.

-0-

The Vol-in-Law doesn't have his parents ideological opposition to labor saving devices, but he doesn't have an American's experience of them either. So it took me a while to convince him that we needed a dishwasher. Once we had one, he agreed that a dishwasher was a higher priority than a washing machine. When our dishwasher went bust last year, we wasted no time getting a new one. We probably should have spent a little more time, because the new one isn't nearly as good as the old one.

And as for dryers.... I don't really know why but he resisted that one for years. Years I tell you. Which was kinda dumb because he was the one who did the laundry. And like millions of Brits we had laundry hanging off radiators and drying racks in our living room and in our kitchen and goodness knows where all.

But once he had the dryer, he felt that his life was transformed. Transformed, I tell you, and we don't even have a good set up. We don't have room in our tiny house for a dryer, so we have it in the shed. But still what took him all day now takes him mere hours. And sometimes a lot less, because with the dryer I'm sometimes willing to do a load or two myself.

But now our dryer has had an accident. A stroller and extension ladder precariously stacked on top of the dryer fell off the other day, striking the door and causing it to be - and this is a technical term - wonky. So now it cuts out, unless you prop something against the door. (I'm thinking of rigging it with a bit of bungee cord). Until we figured it out, the dryer was suffering from a mysterious ailment. I was panicking about the dryer situation.

But the ViL, his view was starker. "Our whole way of life depends on a working dryer."


___________
*Although my husband has given them the URL for my blog, I think my inlaws don't read it. Though I would be so curious I wouldn't be able to help myself. You know, to see if there were any posts like this one here, for example.

Reunion

Nicole -another South London American expat blogger - wants to go to her 20th high school reunion this year.

I do, too.

I mean - not to hers. That would be weird. Plus, I bet her reunion is in Vegas and I've kinda sworn I'd never pay to go there again.

No, I want to go to mine. Mine should be sometime this year, too. My 20th high school reunion. Holy moly.

I gotta lose weight and make up a convincing, yet over-the-top tissue of lies and half-truths about my glamorous London lifestyle. And get a haircut.

And now I ask you...

OK, do you like the new look? The Vol-in-Law hates it. He's offered some constructive and un-constructive criticism. He says I should go on my baby discussion forums and say:

"DH says my blog looks like cr@p. Tell me it doesn't, support only please." (You have to spell crap like that because the discussion forum has naughty word filters.)

I don't have a lot of time to wrangle with HTML or CSS, but I can always go back to an earlier version.

-0-

How do you feel about the Princes in the Tower. I mean did Richard III do it, or did he do it? VolMom passed along a book which exonerates Richard. I haven't finished the book, but I'm pretty unconvinced.

-0-

Tortillas: Corn or flour?
Popcorn: Butter or plain?
Peanut butter: Crunchy or smooth?

Dog bites man

I don't really know how to tell my non-Tennessee readers just how ridiculoso this headline is:

Moonshine and marijuana found in Cocke County

And in more breaking news...

Pope confirmed Catholic
Shocking new evidence: bear poo found in woods.

Even the discovery of a stash of oxycodone along with the grass and whiskey isn't in the least surprising. Perhaps if the police had bothered to check the back yard they might have found the chop shop and the fighting cock houses.

Thanks to KAG for that gem.

The disputes of the wallabies

Doot-do-do, I'm eating my cabbage, yummy cabbage.


That's a tasty leaf you got there.


Hey wait a minute, that's mine!



Maybe we can share?


Or maybe not now that it's got your slobber on it.



Or yours.

Hurray for Hillary

I've already stated that my preferred candidate in the Democratic primaries is Hillary Clinton. But I'm not bashing anyone else in the race, because we've got a bigger, more important race coming in the Autumn.

However, with yesterday's election results I was quite happy to say Ha ha

Not to the other Democratic candidates, certainly not to any of their supporters. But to the media who gleefully predicted Hillary Clinton's demise in this "fight of her political life."

New Hampshire is just a small Northeastern state, not a deathmatch. But even so, I'm glad she won.

And now I will blog about the 2008 Presidential race

For so long I've avoided blogging about the 2008 run for the White House and sworn I wouldn't until it was seemly. Maybe it was because I was a bit sickened by the campaigning kicking off before the 2006 Midterms even concluded. It's like retailers putting up Christmas decorations before Halloween. It ain't right.

I did have a post or two about Fred, but I tagged them Not the 2008 election, so I feel I kept my promise in a moral sense.

But now it's 2008, so I'm ready.

To the Republican party:

Y'all are making me laugh. Your candidates are crazy or lazy.


To the Democrats:

Can we please avoid having a nomination until the rest of the nation freakin' votes? We did this last time and look who we got. A loser. A guy who was so lacking in charisma and winning-ness that he couldn't resoundly beat that no-hoper George Bush.

To the "liberals":

Stop calling Hillary Clinton "shrill" or "close-to-tears" when she's not. Y'all need to take a look in the mirror and think about where this attitude is coming from. From what I've seen Hillary Clinton has acquitted herself admirably. Yes, I am voting for her.

But here are two people who probably/certainly aren't voting for her who've spotted the woman bashing, too. (Kathy Flake and the Tennessee Guerilla Women here and here and elsewhere). Heck, even my husband who subscribes to Pat Buchanan's American Conservative magazine noticed and has been stunned by the level of woman bashing.

To the British media:

Stop pontificating on this election as if a) you have a vote or b) you deserve a vote. You are merely outside observers. You do not get to anoint your chosen candidate - Barrack Obama. Although, maybe I shouldn't say anything since I believe that The Guardian with their stupid letter writing campaign along with the some vote tampering managed to lose Ohio.

And since I'm supporting the shrill and close-to-tears Hillary Clinton (yes, this according to the British media), go ahead, please shoot yourselves in the foot on this one, too.

The mismanagement of the social diary

Do y'all remember that Andy Griffith episode wherein Andy is overwhelmed with social engagements? A dinner party and a bridge night. And he reckons that he can go to both if he skips dessert. But the problem is that he goes to dinner at the bridge folks' house and then he shows up to play cards after the dinner party is over.

Yep.

We were invited to a family party this weekend several hours away by car. The Vol-in-Law isn't especially close to his extended family, but he really wanted to show off his new boy - especially since he's the first of his generation to reproduce.

The last time we went up there we did have two social engagements. A traditional wedding in this quaint East of England village and then a wedding reception back in London with yummy margaritas made with real limeade smuggled in from the States. We actually did go to both.

And did you know that champagne does not mix well with tequila? I'm saving you the two-day hangover by telling you now.

This time we didn't have two social engagements.

But we got the day wrong. (And by we, I'd like to make it clear that I'm taking corporate responsibility for the actions of another member of our family management team.)

Because of the baby, we went up the night before so we'd be fresh and ready for the day long party. Only as soon as we arrived, after packing and dealing with the baby. And did you know how much stuff you have to pack for a baby? And then driving up and checking in. And then we discover that we got the day wrong. And the party is almost over.

So we change out of our baby food decorated clothes and run up there. Where Buddy appeared for a quick photo call (at one point there were four or five cameras flashing and popping in his face), which Buddy loves. He's ready for his close up now.

And then we go back to our bed and breakfast. And that's it.

Oh, except for the travel cot which Buddy mistook for some kind of Dick Cheney approved interrogation cage and just would not use. And the bed that was way too small. And the heat that went off at two in the tiny room with no insulation - meaning it was hot, hot, hot and then freezing cold. So no sleep.

But all was not lost. For on the way back we stopped at Woburn Safari Park, where we petted wallabies.

Seventy-six trombones

If you're the hoping, praying, rub on a brass monkey, knock on wood, send good vibes type person please hope for me that a daycare place at my preferred provider opens soon.

I'm ready to go back to work. I've been at home long enough.

I'm hoping to go back part time which actually shouldn't be a problem, but I need to a place to stick Buddy. We went by the place the other day and said "Puuhlease, next available slot please." We're waiting to find out if someone else is declining a place. They're vacillating, apparently.

-0-

Returning to work will obviously be a little bit bitter-sweet. Probably more on the bitter than the sweet. I've been unhappy with my job for a while. It's not the work (well, a little bit) or the people (hmmmm) or my short attention span (this is the longest I've ever held a job - though I've worked in this field for a long time). It's mostly the h.ot.des.king. You see I have an office job, one that requires a small amount of travel (like maybe once every six weeks or so and can be a lot less) and that does require meeting with folks off premises on average once a week, but mostly I'm IN. But without a desk to call my own. Top management, who all have desks of their own, were sold a pig in a poke by some fancy-dan architects.

What, you don't have h.ot.des.king? Why, how can you even call yourselves a _______ business. Everyone has h.ot.des.king these days, prevents the corruption of the workforce, you know.


I could go on and on and on and on about the stupidity of all this, but I really don't want to give away too many details on a blog that I have pretty much tried to keep work-blogging free.

When I was pregnant, I insisted that they keep a desk reserved for me on health and safety grounds. Which was mostly rubbish, there was kind a tenuous argument because I use a footrest and it was uncomfortable to get down on the ground and move that around. Really I needed the desk reserved because I'm a human and therefore a creature of habit. But pleading the belly worked. But now that I'm not pregnant any more it'll be back to rats in a sack when it comes to finding a place to plug in my laptop and park my behind.

But I have to go back for at least three months or else I have to pay back maternity leave. (Yikes). But I also resolve to be looking for something new, too. Something maybe with a desk.

Namer's remorse

Katie Allison Granju points to an article highlighting the phenomenon of baby namer's remorse. Too many people on the baby forums I frequent were "I don't care what other people say, I'm going to name him Laffable McStoopidname or Ridiculously Over-popular if it's a girl."

Maybe, just maybe, you should care what other people say. Now, I'm not saying you should necessarily bend to other people's whims. There are lots of names that might be perfectly acceptable but that I would never use because it's the name of an ex-boyfriend or that boogery girl in 3rd grade. But maybe a little market testing isn't such a bad idea. And then you wouldn't have to re-name your child. Not that I would do that, I've tried it with pets and unless you do it straight outta the pet rescue it doesn't work. (Our own Fancy was aka Missy at Battersea.)

I knew the first name we had chosen would be popular - maybe even the number one choice in Tennessee (it has been for several years) and it makes the Top 10 in England and Wales, where it's probably been since the decade or so after 1066. Although it's not the US national choice, not even in the top 10. But it's a name with a little bit of choice for nickname and it's a family name. His middle name is in current vogue - not sure where it figures exactly - but again it's a family name. And given that it's a family and coincidentally reflects the Vol-in-Law's Ulster heritage, too, it's gone down well with both sides.

For a girl's name, our choices were less solid. My favorite shortly before the gender was revealed to us rendering the discussion moot was Edith. No one much liked it, but I didn't care - I was thinking of using Edie as a nickname. But recently I read that Edith might be on the comeback - and while for a boy's name I like the traditional yet popular, for girls I like the traditional yet unusual. (Not unlike what my parents and the ViL's parents did.)

-0-

In the UK, I think it's a bit easier and a lot cheaper to change your or a kid's name.

down home taste

I didn't actually give him SunDrop, I mean do you know what's in that stuff?

They shoot kitties, don't they?

VolMom bought her most favored son-in-law a BB gun for Christmas. She tried to make me promise not to tell my brother about this gift, but she'd already bought the thing. There would have been times growing up that VolMom could have made VolBro the happiest boy in the world if only she'd given him a BB gun. Or maybe he would have put his eye out. But my mom was so anti-gun than I'm pretty sure he never even asked for one.

Anyway, the gun was a gift to me too if I could say "Hey, my brother, mom bought my husband a BB gun for Christmas. Something she still wouldn't buy you."

This BB gun is some sort of "safe" version, though - hardly what a boy most desires. For one thing, the safety won't stay off unless you're actively pressing on it. For another, it's battery operated with a constant force of BB expulsion - that means you can't pump it up higher and higher and higher resulting in a more painful shooting experience. And it uses plastic pellets, not those little metal eye poppers.

But it still hurts to be hit by this BB gun. I know this because that's what the Vol-in-Law told me when I shot him.

It sounds like a domestic, I know, but it wasn't. It was a carefully controlled experiment. Kind of like science.

First I put on the ViL's down jacket and had him shoot me in the back. I couldn't really feel the impact, though I kinda felt the fabric move. That was a bit disappointing, given what we had in mind. Then the ViL put on the jacket. Similar experience. Then I tried to convince him to let me shoot him in the chest with only a shirt between him and the plastic pellet. He said no. He did let me shoot him in the butt. Over the pocket, he felt it, but it wasn't painful. Above the pocket he said it stung.

Good.

-0-

We want to use the BB gun to shoot cats. We don't really want to wound them, but we do want to scare the begeezus out of 'em. There are a couple of neighbourhood toms that come into our house, eat our expensive anti-allergy cat food, terrorise and wound our kitties costing us money on vet bills and piss on our stuff. Not acceptable. We've tried locking them out, we've tried squirt guns, yelling and arm-waving.

Now it's time to bring out the small guns.

So far, the Vol-in-Law has managed to wing one of the cats. The result is that the cat does make itself scarce - as in over the garden fence - when he sees us, where before he arrogantly retreated a mere few feet.

That's a start.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year - I hope every day next year is lucky for you.

And for those not in the know - black eyed pea eatin' for us is like dram drinking or first footing for the Scots.

a bit of light

Yesterday we had our first blue skies in a while

Jab the kids

Y'all remember how Bob Barker used to admonish the viewers to spay and neuter their pets at the close of every Price is Right? Man, I wish somebody would update that message for the noughties.

And remember, please vaccinate your children.

For pete's sake people, pleeeease, vaccinate your children.

I participate in these online forums for babies born in May 07. Yes, my baby wasn't born in May, but he was supposed to have been. Anyway, on both the US and British equivalents, there are a number of parents who have chosen not to vaccinate their children. Generally, the discussion forum etiquette is to not criticize. I skirt the line already and I knew that I couldn't reply and be civil. These are threads I've seen today:

American scenario in which I paraphrase:

I want to give up pumping breast milk. It's a pain. It takes a good part of my day and I only get 8 oz a day for my 7 month old son. But the thing is, I haven't vaccinated my child so my husband is on my case saying that what's a little bit of time when it's our son's health on the line? What should I do (support only please)?

OK, sweetie. I'm a big breastfeeding advocate, and I would gently (hopefully) encourage anyone with a baby under one to stick it out a little longer. But I gotta admit the pumping thing is a pain in the ass and frankly I probably would have given that up ages ago. But kudos to all the pumping moms who are able to do it. And for sure, your hubby probably doesn't understand what it's like to have a machine slurping at your bosom, so I'd discount his opinion slightly.

Yes, I also believe that breastfeeding helps with immunities and it's part of the reason I continue to breastfeed Buddy.

But breastfeeding is not a magic bullet. It does NOT GUARANTEE against your child catching infectious diseases. If it did, do you think infant mortality pre-vaccines and pre-formula when babies breastfed would have been quite so high? If it did, do you think we'd have epidemics and stuff? We'd all be drinking little bottles of breastmilk daily.

If you don't want to pump anymore, fine. But please, vaccinate your child.


British scenario:

I think my 4 year old son has measles, he's been (a run down of measle like symptoms). I asked the doctor what I should do? He said not to worry, but to keep my son away from old people and those who haven't been inoculated. Now my baby has a fever, too.

I feel bad for this woman. I do. I hope it's not measles. I hope it's just a little snuffles that goes away tomorrow. But she'd be a lot more sure it wasn't something serious if she had vaccinated her child.

And you know, I'd be a lot more sure that Buddy wouldn't be exposed to measles before he was old enough to get the shots if she and a lot of other people had vaccinated their children.

The Vol Abroad reviews some stuff

Sometimes I wish I was good at film or book review. Maybe it's years of built up resentment from the school book report, but what I really want to do is say "I read it. I thought it was boring/ok/pretty good/great. I would (not) recommend it." Strike out as appropriate.

Film:
We saw Borat. Rubbish. Can't believe I spent money on the DVD. He should be slapped for rudeness. The character on his old show was pretty well conceived - but in the movie it was executed lazily. Only the bear head and the line "We support your war of terror," were any good. And continuity...did anyone notice he went to DC and then to a local tv station in Jackson, Mississippi (without naming it - but they did show the weather chart - and everybody knows that Yazoo City is in Mississippi) and to Virginia and then to Jackson.

He's goin' to Jackson and people gonna stoop and bow.


We saw Magicians. Written by the writers of a British tv series Peep Show - one of those Brit specialties in cringe humor - so funny sometimes I couldn't breathe while watching it - and co-starring Robert Webb and David Mitchell - the stars of same Peep Show - it plays off some of the same riffs. Not quite as uncomfortably funny, it was still pretty good, enjoyable. Watch it.

Last night on broadcast tv, we watched The Queen. It was watchable. Interesting reliving the time after Diana's death. Helen Mirren was soo much better than all the rest of them, why did they get that James Cromwell guy to play Prince Phillip. I normally like him, but he just couldn't wear the part.

Books:
I'm reading pretty slowly these days. Buddy has started to take an interest in the things we take an interest in. Like the tv remote control or books. Buddy likes to grab books. Buddy likes to tear pages. Buddy likes to eat books. But I have fairly recently completed Wicked. I thought it was pretty good. If you kinda like the whole Oz thing and maybe have read one or more of the original books and you're over the age of 14 - like a mature 14 - then I would recommend it.

O'Henry twist

It's not quite The Gift of the Magi - but both of us received DVD sets for Christmas - and last night our DVD player gave up the ghost.

-0-

We didn't pay much for our DVD player. We bought the thing at ASDA - a supermarket chain owned by WalMart. We bought it because once during a trip to the dump I found about 30 ring binders full of porn DVDs. Clearly a local production company was having a clear out. Now, I have to say I'm not a big fan of porn or the porn industry but also not being one to sniff at dumpstery-goodness, I thought - this must be a sign. A sign to get a DVD player. Because up until that point the Vol-in-Law was having a one-man boycott on DVD players because of the the artificial segmentation of the global market into DVD regions through a mere twist of code - just to extract the maximum consumer surplus. Code which some poor Swede went to jail for cracking.

But when you've got 2 binders full of dumpster porn (we randomly selected two - it just wouldn't be right to have a whole shelf of the stuff - that would be trashy) you gotta have something to watch it on. So we bought a cheap DVD player and 8 Mile with Eminem which was super discounted.

Thanks goodness Mr Marshall Mathers. It turns out that they weren't porn DVDs at all, but rather CDs storing files of porn movie cover art and promotional materials.

And I really enjoyed watching 8 Mile. And we returned the nasty promotional materials whence they came.

How's that for an O'Henry twist?

experimental pork

I don't post about recipes or food very often, but I just had to share this.

Last night, for Christmas Eve dinner, I marinated pork loin in Dale's sauce (smuggled from America)and oven roasted it with acorn squash, a sliced fennel bulb and a sweet red pepper. I also baked a quick cheesy grits loaf (or polenta if you must).

It really didn't take very long to prepare - it does take a while to actually cook. I did pre-cook the acorn squash as it takes a little while to get to the perfect soft/sweet stage.

Wow!

I just coarsely chopped the veggies, so mine didn't end up that pretty - but this dish could be presented beautifully.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas!

Missed chances

Here's the thing about growth spurts. Certain outfits are too big, still too big, too big...oops...too little.

So yesterday, I finally dragged out the real tree baby camo outfit. And dang if it wasn't just a little too small. My mom paid full price for that outfit down in Loretto, so we wedged him into anyway.



Before he was born, I had planned on a little photo shoot - putting the baby in his real tree camo in the leaves - captioning it "Where's the baby?" But he mostly sleeps during our walks in the park and I couldn't really justify dragging him out of his cosy warm blanket just for a funny picture. Though I did think about it.

He was wrapped in his new fleecy Vols blanket, before we put it on him I asked the Vol-in-Law if he thought hunter camo goes with Tennessee orange.

"I dunno," he says. "Shall we be the first to try it?"

Soltice sun

Yesterday was the shortest day of the year and also the Vol-in-Law's birthday. As we did last year, we took a walk in the deer park.



It was very cold and the lake was frozen over



And the pond was frozen over, too. And we learned that ducks either can't read or just think that it won't happen to them.

Things I'll never do

Did I ever tell you about how I used to sell Christmas trees? I don't think I have. Anyway, I did. When I worked at a garden center in Knoxville we sold Christmas trees, at Christmas obviously. Mostly it was pretty good fun. The smell of the firs and spruces. Using a chainsaw to put a fresh cut on a Christmas tree. Chainsaws are fun.

Mostly it was fun. But sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes people weren't as nice as they could have been. Like the guy who threatened his wife because she ordered a big ass live blue spruce for their entry foyer and he was gonna pop her if it scratched the marble tiles. (It was a questionable choice of tree, but hardly an excuse for domestic violence)

Another time, I saw this mom tell her kid who was - I don't know - seven? - that he could pick out any tree in the lot. He was a thoughtful little guy and he wandered amongst the trees and picked one out. It was a good tree. Even, full, of a harmonious conical shape, nice good limb development for optimal ornament hang-age. Well, I can't remember, but I do remember being pretty impressed with his choice. On the other hand, we didn't have many duff trees.

All the trees were hung up with twine from the marquis frame, so the kid pointed out his tree and Bruce (a co-worker) and I cut down the tree and started to take it over for the fresh cut to the base. Now once we make that fresh cut, you have to buy that tree - that's the rule. But mom comes out and directs dad and kid inside to look at the poinsettias - and tells us that she really wants this other tree instead.

The tree is really no better, really not that much different. But mom's the one with the money, so we do what she wants and we don't say anything.

Bruce and I feel bad about it, so we work quick. Normally the fresh cut and the baling will be more or less a one person job, but we worked together so that we could get that tree baled up and tied onto the roof of their car before the kid comes back out again.

We were just tying the last knots on the luggage rack when the kid comes up to us and says, in a quiet voice. "That's not my tree, is it?" He seemed more resigned than upset. We could have lied - cheerfully. We could have. But something about the way he said it - we just looked at each other and said "No, it's not." And the kid was not surprised, it clearly wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

Anyway, I swore when I had a kid, this would be something I'd never do. If it mattered that much to me, I wouldn't offer a choice. Cause a kid can tell his own tree even baled up and tied to the roof of a car.

-0-

Chris is wrestling with the things he said he'd never do as a parent. Like use the tv as a mollifier. I think I said something like that, too. Plus we agreed we'd stop swearing. Well, that hasn't happened. Never say never. But I'm still sticking with my promise not to pull a stunt like the Christmas tree swap.

Frost on flowers

A hard frost on a gerbera daisy left at the local crematorium.

What are the chances?

This year retailers must be desperate to make their Yuletide targets. Today for example, someone brought their wares to me.

"Eh," shouted a man from an unmarked white van "you want to buy a new plasma tv?"

When it comes to blogging, does Knoxville ever shut up?

Knoxville Talks --- what she said

The world is just about enough

Now I'm as imperialist as the next gal and I'm not against a little world domination and you know I'm proud as punch to be a citizen of a superpower. We are a lucky few in the grand scheme of history and all that. But even I was a bit surprised by the information flier which accompanied Buddy's new passport.



With Your U.S. Passport, the World is Yours!

Not your key to the world, not the world is your oyster, not you can see the world...but no - the world is yours (exclamation point!), for the American was given dominion over the earth. Note how for once the globe is not centered on the continental United States - see how the non-US territories are ours.

Note also the old style abbreviation and capitalization styles. Interesting. You'd be forgiven for thinking this flier is a relic of our unreconstructed past. But I don't remember getting one of these. And the passport pictured is of the new style - with integral electronics - that's what the little eye-ish symbol means. Well, that or it's the mark of the Illuminati. Hard to tell.

Not dead

We're not dead. We're just resting our eyes.

My mom has been visiting and we've been out and about seeing the sites and sounds and smells of London and environs. City sidewalks, busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style.

I'm pretty tired, 'cause what with my entertaining duties and all I'm not managing to get my 20 minutes of snooze during the Rockford Files. (It also works with other old crime solving series) It's my sleuth sleep. I need it. Buddy is still waking in the night to eat. We're almost to the point of serving him three meals a day - so maybe when that happens he'll start sleeping through again.

Is this the sort of rubbish...

....that passes for art these days?




South Bank, London near Waterloo Station

Not something you'd expect from the Welsh

An Irishman, a Scot, an Englishman and a Welshman all walk into a bar. No, that can't be right, at least three of them must have been smart enough to duck.

Seriously though, of those four - which is the least bright? Did you say the Irish fellow? Shame on you. You're not allowed to say that anymore. It's racist. The Irish have their own box now to tick on forms. You can't have said Scottish or English because they have different cultural stereotypes. So it must have been the Welsh guy. He must be the stupid one.

The thick Welshman was a new stereotype for me when I came over here. I had no idea. But it's pervasive. I once had a long, long conversation in the first class smoking carriage of a train to York with a Welsh fellow. We traded secrets about how we'd played on our regional accents (I can still sound Southern if I want to) acted dumb and gotten away with - if not murder - then free bus fares and out of traffic tickets and used it to gain advantage in sales. How we laughed. How we garnered the sulking, resentful looks of the English on the train. Surely, they didn't think the Welsh really were that stupid, surely they must have had some suspicions all along?

In an age of offense, there do still remain some groups it's ok to pick at. Groups which it's still OK to make fun of - like Redneck Southerners or Welshmen from the Valleys. Hey, it's all for a laugh right?

Apparently so. The Adverstising Standards Agency has rejected a series of complaints about an ad which cast less than flattering light upon the Welsh intellect:

The advertising watchdog has rejected 21 complaints about a commercial which featured a Welsh team in a quiz show. Complainants said the advert for Welsh firm Brecon Five's vodka presented Welsh people as of low intelligence.

It showed a woman called Jones getting a question about a philosopher right, before a voiceover that said: "That's not what you'd expect from Wales".

Hardy, har, har.

The Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) ruled it was light-hearted and unlikely to cause widespread offence.

Well, it's not likely to cause widespread offense outside Wales, I guess. I mean, I admit - I'm not offended and my mother's maiden name is Welsh and all.

-0-

And in other news from Wales, this story also struck me funny.

Warren Gatland [the new Welsh rugby coach] has dismissed the notion that there is a widespread drinking culture in Welsh rugby.

Mwwwa, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. ROFL, LMAO

That's not what I'd expect from Wales. Or rugby players.

To boldly go

Regular readers may remember that I collect floral tributes. The curious custom of laying shaped and decorated wreaths on graves and at the crematorium. Since we go walking in the graveyard on a regular basis to cool fractious tempers (Buddy's and mine), I've been able to capture even more.

Mostly floral tributes are just flowers, a wreath, maybe a heart shaped wreath. But sometimes they're little works of art that capture something about the personality of the dearly departed.

Like this:



I can certainly say I've never seen a Star Trek floral tribute so I was quite excited. I told the Vol-in-Law about it and the Superman one I'd seen the same day.

ViL: On the same grave, I suppose?
ME: Oh, yes. You don't see many like that.
ViL: I guess geeks don't die very often.
ME: Or maybe they usually don't have enough friends to actually bring floral tributes.

Busy mom's poinsettia

A couple of years ago Busy Mom blogged about a weird light up poinsettia Christmas decoration that she'd somehow inherited. As usual, it was a funny post. Ha, ha. All the comments were like "Poor Busy Mom, but you should see the weird decorations I/ my in-laws have" But me - I was like, "Man, I want a light up poinsettia."

Oddly, I think about that thing, every now and again. But I try not to comment on it more than once a year. I don't want her to think I'm internet stalking her Christmas decorations or anything.

So when Busy Mom opened a contest to win an MP3 player of a well-known brand and all you had to do was name the craziest thing you'd ever bought online - I thought, well, if she'd sell that poinsettia to me - that would be the craziest thing I'd ever bought online.

But honestly, I couldn't think of anything really crazy that I'd ever bought online. I did shop for door knockers on e-bay. I wanted something kind of different, kind of unique and I got some kind of weird lion manimal thing that reminded me of that mutant lion-guy show that used to be on tv in the 80s. (What was that show?) And I do do a lot of shopping online - but mostly for things like cereal or diapers - as we have our groceries delivered.

But then I did remember something I had bought online. Something that might fall more into the stupid than the crazy category. This was my contest entry:

I bought a house for frogs. We found a bunch of tadpoles near my in-laws house in Scotland and my husband carried them down to London on the plane. We dug out a pond for them in our garden - but they needed some place to live after they got legs, right?

So, I bought a frog house online. It was really cute, with a thatched roof and everything. It wasn't forty dollars cute though. (I'm an idiot). And the frogs? After the first storm they hopped away and we never saw them again.

My cats enjoyed sitting on the forty dollar frog house for a while and sharpened their claws on the thatched roof. And now, it's forty dollar mulch.

Yeah, of course when I bought the frog house the dollar hadn't slid into the latrine storage area so it wasn't actually a forty dollar frog house - but it was still stupid enough. I mean any money spent on a house for frogs is stupid money. After all, how would they know the house was for them? I should have bought the $5 sign that said "Frog house".

You can see a corner of the thatched roof here in the lower left hand corner of this picture.



And I do know what some of you must be thinking - Did she buy that paint-it-yourself gnome online? If so, why is she going on about the frog house being the craziest thing ever?

Well, I didn't buy the paint-it-yourself gnome - online or anywhere else. My mom did, online. That's what we got for Christmas last year. The now inhabit a very, very dark corner of the garden. Next to the frog house.

Anyway, you can add your own entry up til tomorrow over here.

He's an American boy

Today we finally got to the US Embassy to register the birth of an American child. Our child, Buddy. After the calamity of trying to find our marriage papers which we needed (apparently) and requesting a last minute copy of my high school transcripts to prove I'd been in the US for a period of time, we were pretty convinced that we'd be missing something essential. Or that somehow the US Embassy records would be linked the University of Tennessee's traffic citation section and that Buddy couldn't get his passport until I'd paid off my brother's campus parking tickets. And that was before we left the house.

We were only a little bit late leaving the house, but we didn't reckon on the fact that we'd have to queue up in the rain (stupid really) or that all the sidewalks and the road in front of the embassy were completely torn up as part of a "beautification" effort. The US Embassy is one of if not the ugliest buildings in that area of London, and it takes more than a new forecourt and little bit of window cleaning to beautify that thing. If I weren't afraid that it might be construed as a terrorist threat, I'd say that only a stick of dynamite could beautify that building. But anyway, why lie? They're not beautifying - they're bolstering the security cordon, which does need doing.

Another couple nipped ahead of us in the queue, so we were a couple of minutes late for our appointment, otherwise we'd have been there on the stroke of eleven.

Now, when I say appointment, I assume that means we'll meet up at the appointed time (or slightly later since I'm punctuality challenged) and we'll discuss stuff and then we'll part having accomplished something.

When the Federal Gummint says appointment, they mean that's the earliest that you should show up to wait in their well appointed waiting room.

I digress:
A few words on the waiting room. It's oddly transatlantic. The snack machine is stocked with oreos and Hershey bars and pretzels and Reese's Cups (American snacks not usually found in British vending machines and Scottish shortbread and flapjacks (oaty bars).

The signs say "Please place your rubbish in the bins" and "Please place your trash in the bin".

There were a few toys in the corner and posters suggesting that we register to vote and a lot of families with small babies who looked they'd already been waiting a very long time. A very, very long time. And if I thought that long waits for officialdom were bad when I had sudoku and a novel to keep me occupied - well, with a little baby they're that much worse.

We also waited a long time and I had rehearsed my explanation of why I didn't have the exact dates of my various entries and exits from the US. Like my one evening trip over the border to Ciudad Juarez. I can't recall the exact date, but the buckets of Corona were mas barato.

Anyway, I don't know exactly what checks they do - but they didn't want my high school transcripts (though it was interesting to see how my memories of high school matched up with my permanent record) Nor did they want the sordid tale of the one night in Mexico and the buckets of Corona and goodness knows what else. But they took the papers away and deemed that I qualified as sufficiently American to pass my rights along to Buddy. We swore or affirmed some stuff and paid a lot of money - almost $200 for the paperwork including first passport and £15 for the new passport and social security card to be sent to Master Buddy Vol-in-Law. And then they told us that Buddy was indeed American - and with this finding he had, in fact, been American all along.

We were warned - strongly - by the Consular official not to lose this very important piece of paper. And we tried, very hard, to give him a look like "Who us? Do we look like the kind of people who would lose such a thing?"

And one day, son you could be President

Or maybe not. I had heard that if you got this retroactive citizenship certificate, that meant that your child wouldn't be denied the opportunity to sit behind the desk at the Oval Office just because that American was foolish enough to be born on foreign soil. On our explanatory paperwork that accompanies the certificate of a Consular Report of a Birth Abroad that proves that Buddy was always American is this nifty little paragraph:

Running for President or for Congress
Legal scholars disagree whether someone born overseas to a US parent or parents is considered a "natural born Citizen" one of the Constitutional requirements to become President of the United States. The courts have never made any definitive ruling on this section of the Constitution. One US Senator introduced a bill in October 2004, however, to clarify what this term actually means. If this bill becomes law, your child would definitively be considered a "natural born Citizen" of the US and therefore could run for the White House. At ay rate, as an American citizen your child can indeed run for Congress, even though born overseas,....

and then the kicker

...but he/she would still have to meet the Constitutional residency and age requirements to run for the House or Senate.

So no matter how well your little tot can press the flesh and work the room and raise money and no matter how bright you think their political future ought to be they still have to wait til they're way past kindergarten.

But I guess the point is, it's never actually been tested by the courts. Anyway, I wouldn't want Buddy to be President. I wouldn't want those pesky reporters looking into Mommy's colorful past. And besides, who would want to vote for a guy who said:

My fellow Americans, I end tonight where it all began for me- I still believe in a place called Tooting.


Buddy's first passport pictures

It's political correctness gone mad, I tell you

Check this out. A man from Northern Ireland has been sentenced to 10 weeks in jail (suspended) for calling a Welsh woman English.

Apparently, being called English is a racial slur. Can I demand prosecution of the judges or magistrates who've handed down this silly sentence for declaring that being called English is offensive? They've offended me and my English son.

-0-

Actually, I'm not that bothered about the English bit. What really bothers me:

The former lorry driver[Michael Forsythe], who is originally from Northern Ireland, but lives in Powys, Mid Wales, called Lorna Steele an "English bitch" during an argument after he collided with her parked vehicle in the Welsh market town of Newport in February.

Why is it OK for a probably big and burly trucker to hit a woman's car and then call her a bitch. I'll admit that "English" wasn't the right label for the Welsh woman, but it's hardly the end of the world. I'll even grant that out of the mouth of someone from Northern Ireland, English does carry a bitter weight (whether they be Protestant or Catholic). But the hurtful, hateful part is indisputably calling that woman a bitch.

I can't tell you how many times I've been called Canadian*, and I'm tough enough to take it. I've been called Yank**, too - and while I do find that offensive, I haven't called the cops yet. But I'd be worried if someone hit my car and called me a bitch. To use that word is aggressive and offensive in anyone's book. It's usually meant to offend and when used by big, strange men it's usually meant to physically intimidate, too.

I've noticed this before. Why is it OK to be misogynistic - but even the slightest, tiniest touch of "racism" is deemed worthy of 10 weeks in the poky? I'm not calling for the use of gender-based slurs to go on the books as a crime (we've got more than enough "hate" legislation as it is). But I bet his use of the b-word went without comment.

I'm not defending Forsythe's behavior. Far from it. He sounds like a nasty man. But I'm inclined to agree with him here:

Forsythe has attacked the prosecution as a waste of time and money, according to the Daily Mail newspaper.

"I find it unbelievable that I've been prosecuted for this," he said. "I've travelled all over Europe as a lorry driver and never had any problems with anybody and now they're officially calling me a racist.

"It's political correctness gone mad."

________
* The Canadians, rather churlishly, do seem to take offense at being called American, so a lot of Brits use Canadian first since we Americans don't seem to mind.

** As a Southerner, I really don't like being called a Yank. But I usually just try to explain to the offender what they've done.

Buddy's half birthday

Cletus is six months old today. And now that he's reached his half birthday he's hardly Cletus the Fetus anymore. So from now on, he has a new blog name: Buddy. Sure, it's still a pseudonym. Sure, it's still a little redneck. But we do actually call him Buddy - some of the time anyway. And I don't reckon he'll sue me for the cost of therapy if he reads his blog name was Buddy.

Anyway, I'm very proud of myself for having made it this far. After all, I've had pets that haven't made it this far. Mammal pets, I'm ashamed to say. And pets aren't nearly as much trouble as babies.

Still, I know that getting this far isn't actually the universally recognized benchmark of success. And I also know we haven't done everything right - for example, it's 10pm and Buddy is watching a Canadian crime drama. That's not right on so many levels, but it's keeping him quiet.

They didn't fancy our chances

This was taken before the SEC Championship game yesterday. Clearly Buddy and Smokey don't think much of our chances. And boy, were they right - but not by much. The Vols did pretty good for themselves. I'm down, but not cussin'. Heck, considering the way things started out - I think the season ended pretty well.

And you know what was the best thing? I actually got to watch the game - via pay per view at College Sports TV. The website's a little clunky and streaming video is never crystal clear nor very big - but I was actually watching live. Awesome.

T is for Toothbrush, T is for Tennessee

I'd rather drink muddy water, sleep in a hollow log
Drink muddy water, sleep in a hollow log
Than be down in Atlanta, treated like a dirty dog
- Jimmie Rogers


Nope. I don't care if we are treated like dirty dogs. The point is Tennessee is playing in Atlanta for the SEC Championship. Y'all might not like the way we got there, y'all might think your team should be there, y'all might not have liked the bumpy, hard, hole pocked road to Atlanta - but we made it.

Holy Cow - who'd a thunk it after those losses to Cal and Florida and that humiliating stumble down in Tuscaloosa? Goodness, come again, who'd a thunk it after those nail biting, nauseating overtimes and missed field goal triumphs against ...cough...Vanderbilt?

And if Smokey can sneak away the bone of the SEC Championship, y'all can call him a dirty dog, y'all can say we're undeserving. That'll be just fine.

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This toothbrush has been on reserve for a few years. It's still in its original packaging and it sits on top of our bathroom cabinet, visible but out of reach. The Vol-in-Law occasionally asks me if it's time to open up that toothbrush. Nope, I say, not yet. Not yet. We've got to wait until the right moment.

The right moment is almost here.

He asked me this week if the Vols win in Atlanta if we can open the toothbrush. Yes, I said. If Tennessee wins, I can open the toothbrush.

Brush-a, brush-a

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OK, I just want you to know, before anyone starts with any toothless hillbilly slurs that I've been using other toothbrushes. Orange, yes, but not any special Tennessee Vols toothbrush.

Welcome to the lame family

Today my husband said "Buddy*, I'm sorry we've brought you into such a lame family."

And what prompted such an apology? Well, we've spent the whole day - both of us - looking for a very important piece of paper. Which we did not find.

What we did find:

• 8 year old adoption papers for our dead cat, which list her as male proving those surprise kittens really weren't our fault
  
• 3 year adoption papers for our live cat
• the first ultrasounds of our baby which we lost before we could show anyone
• the plans to our dream home, which is a little less dreamy than the last time I saw it
• the lyrics to Rocky Top and Family Tradition and You Never Even Called Me by My Name that I handed out like hymn sheets at party I once threw.
  
• receipts from every time we've ordered pizza (wtf?)
• Instructions for our long dead, long-gone washer dryer
  
• Countless warranty registration certificates - partially completed
• a freedom of Budapest card
• a photocopy of a friend's passport that he entrusted to us for safekeeping

Click thru for an even bigger picture of our ex-dream home



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*Yep, we often call him Buddy. Tis but one little redneck step up from Cletus, I guess.


UPDATE: we found it - it was our marriage certificate! I'm not pointing fingers, but I found it in area that someone else said he'd gone through with a fine toothed comb

Chunky monkey

My baby is not a chunky guy. He's just not. My dad was visiting recently and downloaded some photos he'd taken when Cletus was about six weeks old. He looks like a little skeleton baby. He looks almost like one of those little African starving babies. At least that's what he looks like to me now. Anyway, he wasn't a chubby little roly poly baby.



When he was about three months old, I took him to the garden show and some older woman asked me how old he was and I said and she said that was about the same age as her grandson. But her grandson was so much bigger. She asked me how much my baby weighed. I told her (I think it was about 12 pounds). She looked shocked. I said "Yeah, he's little." He was about the 9th percentile for weight at that point - meaning about 90% of babies his age weighed more than he did. And then she said her grandson was 16 pounds. Her grandson was just growing and thriving. He was just coming on leaps and bounds.

Shut the fuck up, I wanted to say. I wanted to say "Hey, you know I'm sure you're thrilled with your grandson's growth. And while on the one hand I don't actively want him to shrivel up and fade away on the other hand I don't know you and I don't really care and I don't know why you think I would care. I don't begrudge you your little chunky monkey, but just so you know I'm actually very worried about my son's growth. I don't know why you'd want to rub in the fact that your grandson seems to be doing better than my boy when you could equally well take private pleasure in it or share it with the parents of your grandson later. But I don't really need you exacerbating my anxiety so you can get off in some kind of weird way. You old freak."

She probably didn't mean anything by it. But her co-grandma, who was standing next to her, looked a little uncomfortable, too. So I know it wasn't just me.

Anyway, it all worked out. Here's Cletus looking like a lumberjack and he's ok.



And there he is as an elf.

He's so OK, in fact, he's up to just over 17 lbs and according to CDC weight charts he's on the 50th centile. He's Mr Median. (According to English charts based on formula fed babies he's just above the 40th centile).



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A blogger with a new baby is having trouble*. She's finding life with a newborn difficult. Really, it's probably all OK or will be OK, but it's really, really hard. And I think she probably feels like if she complains it will seem like she's not grateful for her much wanted baby.

I tell you what, I wonder if I'm guilty of "My baby is easy. I breezed through the newborn thing. He's a walk in the park. I'm a kick-ass breast feeder. My baby can already drive and I would let him start University next fall, but well...I'm needy." A little bit like that crazy grandma and her fat lump of a grandson.

Anyway, if I have been - I'm sorry. I'm just trying to accentuate the positive. The newborn thing sucked. It was awful. In the early days, I had to remind myself that if I didn't take adequate care of him the law would come after me. I had to tell myself "Fake it til you make it," because I really didn't feel especially bonded with him. Not like all those other women on-line "It was love at first sight..." blah, blah, blah. I couldn't imagine my life without him. Well, I could and often did. I kept thinking about how I heard that Bulgarian babies were bringing about 50,000 Euros and so how much more would my baby be worth on the black market? (To a good home only - and yes, I know it's ethnocentric to rate my baby higher, but it was my fantasy)

Breastfeeding actually wasn't that bad for me, but there was an awful lot of doubt about whether he was getting enough nutrition. And there were many times that I was just plain tired of it and felt like it was sucking the life out of me.

Cletus screamed and screamed. At one point, I thought we'd never be able to eat a meal in peace again. He still can't stand to be put down much. He's now old enough to go into a door jumper and a baby activity center - but he doesn't like them if you're not actually looking at him. And heaven forbid you should do something like blog.

He does cry a lot less, but that's because we're better trained to attend his needs as quickly as possible.

Actually, now that we're approaching six months, it's a lot better. He's a lot cuter. He's more interactive. We can kind of share experiences. Really. Like when I help him pet a cat (his fave thing). It's still hard, but the rewards are greater. I guess this parenting thing is always hard, but as you go on it's hard in a different way.

I don't know if this makes you feel any better mystery blogger. Probably not. But I just want you to know you're not alone.
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*I'd link to this blogger, but I don't think she'd want me to. I will if she lets me know.

baby food

Pureed lentils come out about the same way they went in.

Missed it

What a monumental close one. On Saturday, the Volunteers beat Kentucky by whisper after slogging through four overtimes. What a season. Now Tennessee is playing for the SEC championship.

Of course, I missed it. My dad was visiting and even though he's an alum, he's not a football fan. Not in the slightest. And he told me that he was a jinx for Tennessee. If he listened or watched the game, that was it, the Vols would lose.

So, I put chose not to listen live, but hear it in the morning. I don't know what went wrong, but I couldn't load the game. I tried for quite some time before I gave in and watched the video highlights where they freaking gave away the outcome of the game in the first 2 seconds.

Go Vols

At that point in time

Did y'all know Fred Thompson wrote a book about Watergate? Well, he did. At That Point in Time It's not in print anymore, but I got my grubby little paws on a grubby little copy this weekend.

See:



And yes, it's a little rough around the edges, but the darn thing is 32 years old. (Younger than I am, though.) My dad brought it over. It had been languishing on his bookshelves for years, apparently.

It's a signed copy, to my grandfather. He apparently thought so much of it, he passed it on to his son-in-law within a month. I guess he was a pretty fast reader.



My dad thought I'd get a kick out of it. And I have. But I've gotten an even bigger kick out of the fact that an autographed copy is selling for almost $750 - and that's without the dust jacket.




My dad doesn't want me to sell it, but it's sooo tempting when I know the book will return to its normal low,low value after Fred's campaign crashes and burns.

I know what my granddad would do. Oh yes, he'd sell. This was a man who sold junk antiques into his dying week and had a price tag on the walker he used to get around the shop. (For $5 more than my mom and my aunt paid for it)

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers, wherever you are. We're fixing up a turkey day repast. Things are simmering as I type. My dad is here and I reckon we'll have a wonderful meal in about 90 minutes. Giving myself the excuse of the baby, I bought prepared mash and an "easy cook" turkey joint and gravy in a carton. The cornbread dressing, pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce are all made from scratch.

By the way, if you've never made cranberry sauce from scratch it couldn't be easier or more delicious. Just plunk the berries and some water and some sugar adjudged to your taste* in a pot and simmer until all the berries have popped plus a couple minutes little longer. You don't even have to stir it more than once or twice. Let cool and serve.

Thanks again to Newscoma and Genderist for the dressing recipe. (In the comments of this post).

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*Quite a lot of sugar is required even to get a tart sauce

All on the line

I'm kind of an intermittent football fan - and by football I mean soccer. I absolutely love the international tournaments - the World Cup and the European tournament and I support England all the way. But I have to admit, I don't usually watch the qualifying matches and friendlies.

I'll be watching tonight, though. Tonight it's all on the line. If England don't at least tie with Croatia, they won't be going to Euro 2008. And this is a serious second chance. If Israel hadn't beaten Russia recently, this game would be a mere formality.

Tonight they play at home in Wembley Stadium - the sight of great England football victories of the past. But tonight it could be a den of shame, particularly for Steve McClaren the England football manager. He took over from Sven-Goran Eriksson after the last World Cup. Folks criticised Eriksson because they saw him as conservative and lacking flair and because England never went all the way. Others thought he was too in train to personalities (e.g. Beckham, particularly during his lackluster days during Euro 2004) and too obsessed with celebrity life .

But if the Football Association wanted a different style and a different approach why go with McClaren? He was Sven's assistant and a bit of Sven-lite.

I hope England pull it out tonight. I'll be watching. But win or lose, I think McClaren's days are numbered. That it should even be a strong possibility that England fails to qualify for an international tournament should be putting him on seriously shaky ground.