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LIBBY’S LIFE #43 – Alone again – naturally.

Leave a comment Posted by on March 22, 2012

“Four days. That’s all. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Oliver drags his black leather carry-on down the garden path and onto the driveway, unlocks the doors of the rented Ford Taurus, and heaves the case into the boot.

Carefully, I lumber after him, even though we’ve already said our goodbyes in the house.

“Do you have to go?” I sound whiny and pathetic, even to myself, but I can’t help it. It’s better than lying on the floor and having a luxurious Jack-like tantrum, though, which is what I really want to do.

“I wish I didn’t, love. But it’s the last trip before the babies come. Promise. After that, I’m grounding myself.”

He drops a last kiss on my cheek, then opens the driver’s door and sits behind the wheel, peering at the rental car’s unfamiliar dials and levers.

“I’ll text you when I get to Seattle. You’ll probably be asleep, though. Look after the four of you,” he says.

With a wave and a beep of the car horn, he’s off to Logan Airport.

And here I am, again. On my own.

* * *

Evenings are long when Oliver’s gone. Anita says she loves it when her husband’s away, but I must be very needy or something, because I detest having only my own company plus that of a three-year-old who isn’t yet fluent in the English language. Jack, exhausted by a busy day of Lightning McQueen role-play (I really should start charging Pixar for advertising) is in bed by seven, so, rather than watch hours of TV commercials interspersed with the odd five minutes of American Idol, at eight o’clock I’m in bed with a cup of tea and the eReader Jack gave me for Christmas.

The great thing about eReaders is that there are lots of cheap books to be had, all without venturing from the comfort of your armchair. There are even free ones, if you care to read the classics. Now, I’ve read and enjoyed my share of Tolstoy and Dickens, but as my due date gets nearer, I can feel my brain turning to incoherent mush, so any reading material now is light, romantic frippery. All light, romantic frippery involves tall heroic men (in touch with their feminine sides of course) and women who pretend to be modern and feisty, but usually show their true colours by shagging the bad boys from their high school days who used to torment them for being fat. You know your brain is mush when you’re not outraged by this scenario.

It doesn’t really matter what I read, though, because after ten minutes, I feel my eyelids drooping, and I shuffle down under the duvet with an assortment of strategically placed pillows.

Just for once, the babies aren’t having a private rave party. The full moon is under cover of cloud, and the dark outdoor silence is only enhanced by the chirruping of crickets, who arrived early this year.

I shut my eyes. The world fades.

* * *

Four hours later, I am awake again, with a burning desire to listen to a 70s disco playlist, clean out all the cupboards in the junk room, and scrub the bathroom grouting with a toothbrush.

This phenomenon is known as “The nesting instinct” and is a bald reminder that humans are, in fact, animals, however sophisticated and evolved we pretend to be.

It’s also happening too soon. I’m about 32 weeks along now, and pretty sure I didn’t hit this stage with Jack for another month or so. Could it be that Megan and Sam are going to arrive even earlier than Dr. Gallagher predicted?

The thought gets me both excited and nervous at the same time. The twins sense this, and start hacking at each other’s shins.

Sleep is impossible now.

* * *

American houses have wonderful cupboards — sorry, closets. They’re the size of English spare bedrooms. They hoard clothes you won’t admit will never fit again; started-and-abandoned craft projects; paperback books you will never reread, but Brits just love hanging onto their books; lightly used sports equipment; and outgrown, slightly chewed baby toys.

This last category is what I’m looking for. Somewhere in this cavern of a closet lurks a baby bouncer, a mobile, an activity centre, one of those little horseshoe beanbag cushions, and all sorts of goodies for the frugal second-time mother. When Maggie and I went shopping the other week, I picked out two of everything to be fair to the babies, but was so horrified by the total at the checkout that I returned much of it a few days later. I figured that newborns aren’t likely to get a lifelong complex if one has a brand new, wind-up, musical, Peter Rabbit mobile and the other has a few moth-eaten dangling teddy bears.

I find the boxes quite easily, and begin to haul them into the bedroom where I can sort through them in comfort. As I shuffle the first one across the floor, side to side, it knocks something over, and I squat down to prop the object back up again.

A badminton racquet cover. I remember unpacking it in July, looking inside, and finding something that, unbeknownst to me, Oliver has treasured for nearly thirty years: a 6th birthday card from his absent father, who at that point had supposedly run off with a local librarian, with never a thought for his wife or 6-year-old son.

Once again, I unzip the racquet cover, take out the birthday card.

“Dear Oliver — so sorry I can’t be with you on your big day. See you very soon, Tiger. All my love, Dad.”

Nope. It still doesn’t sound like a message from a father who has run off with a local librarian and doesn’t intend to come back.

Far more likely that Sandra has told Oliver a surgically enhanced version of the story; the truth, though, is probably vastly different. It sounds, I think with a sudden chill, as if her husband was away for a short time that coincided with Oliver’s birthday.

A business trip, perhaps.

Pondering this, I push the box of Jack’s baby toys into the bedroom and sit down on the bed before pulling back the packing tape to open the box.

Inside is a time capsule of nearly four years ago: the blanket we wrapped Jack in to bring him home from the hospital, the plastic identity bracelets, now cut, that encircled newborn Jack’s wrist and ankle. A pair of bootees, knitted by my mum for her first grandchild. A pristine copy of The Times, dated May 13, 2008. I remember hearing, later that day, that China had had its worst earthquake for thirty years, with thousands feared dead, and I’d felt guilty for being so happy while so many were suffering.

And Oliver. What had he felt that day, I wonder? Had I bothered to ask, in my post-birth euphoria?

Happiness, of course, that he was able to be with his new son as he began life; determination, I hope, that he would stay with him until it was Jack’s decision for him not to do so; sadness, I imagine, that his father was not around to share in this family event.

My mobile phone trills a blues scale: a text from Oliver.

Just arrived at hotel, it says. Miss you.

Miss you too, I text back, and within half a minute, the phone rings again.

“You not in bed yet, babe?” Oliver’s voice is comforting in the silence of the night.

I explain about the cupboards and 70s disco music cravings. He laughs.

“I remember this bit,” he says. “Which is it getting the nesting instinct treatment? Pantry or utility room?”

“Spare bedroom closet,” I reply.

A missed beat at the end of the phone, as he recalls what is in that closet. “You’re not throwing any of my stuff away, I hope.”

I hide a smile, even though I know he can’t see me. “Not even the box of squashed ping pong balls. Don’t worry.”

“That’s good. Having a clearout is fine, but you can go too far with these things. Look, why don’t you get back to bed now? You need your rest, and if I’m honest, I need mine, because it’s been a sod of a day. Nearly missed my connection in Salt Lake City, and—”

“Oliver,” I interrupt. “Do you ever think about your dad?” There’s something surreal about a conversation that crosses time zones in the wee hours; it makes you say thing you ordinarily wouldn’t. If there’s a no-go area in our marriage, it’s Oliver’s father.

Another pause — surprise? Anger? I wait. Would Oliver answer?

“Never.” Oliver’s voice is casual, cool. “Not since the day he left.”

You know, I’ve heard that casual, cool tone before. I’ve used it myself as a child, after a slap on the legs from my mum. “Didn’t hurt,” I’d say, bracing myself for another slap that would sting twice as much.

It’s the tone of defiance, of buried hurt feelings. A lie, in other words.

“Go to bed, Libs.” He sounds gentle now. “You must be tired.”

“I am. I think I will…Love you too,” I say, and click to end the call.

But against my better judgment and Oliver’s exhortations, I don’t go to bed right away.

Instead, I head for the computer. I log into Facebook, click Search, and type a name I’ve seen many times over the last year, on Oliver’s birth certificate.

Dean Patrick, I type.

It’s four a.m. before I eventually get back to bed.

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #44 – Past imperfect, perfectly tense

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #42 – Something in the water

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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Fashion Speak: The Idiot’s Guide to Fashionese

2 Comments Posted by on March 16, 2012

Although “Couture” and “Haute Couture” get bandied around to mean any new clothing items that don’t come from Walmart, technically these terms have a very exact definition:

To earn the right to call itself a couture house and to use the term haute couture in its advertising and any other way, members of the Chambre syndicale de la haute couture must follow these rules:

▪ Design made-to-order for private clients, with one or more fittings.
▪ Have a workshop (atelier) in Paris that employs at least fifteen people full-time.
▪ Must have 20 full time technical people in at least one atelier or workshop.
▪ Each season (i.e., twice a year), present a collection to the Paris press, comprising at least thirty-five runs/exits with outfits for both daytime wear and evening wear.

(Wikipedia)

In an industry that sets such a definition for what is essentially “Manufacturer of overpriced frocks for people with more money than sense” it is not surprising that this is only the tip of the iceberg — especially recently.
Fashion jargon, it seems, is out of control.

Couture or calculus?

In a statement last year, Ed Watson, a spokesman for UK department store Debenhams said:

“It’s now easier to understand complex calculus than some of the words commonly used by commentators within the fashion industry to describe garments.”

While I personally disagree with him, on the grounds that I would find the Dead Sea Scrolls easier to understand than complex calculus, he has a point.

Debenhams, apparently, had to introduce a lexicon of fashion terms so its personal stylists could translate modern Fashionese into plain English for their customers.

Sadly, I couldn’t find a copy of it online to assist TDN readers, so I’m having a go at recreating it myself.

Fashionese and How To Speak It

Parts of Speech:

When translating Fashionese, one needs to be aware that it has an extra part of speech — the Absensicoun.

That’s a contraction of three words: Absolutely, Nonsensical, and Noun.

Contracting words is how much of Fashionese is derived.

For example, the Skort (Skirt+Shorts) and Jeggings (Jeans + Leggings). While we all might be familiar with these two, some more obscure Absensicouns are:

• Jorts = Denim hot-pants (Jeans+Shorts)

• Mube = a long, tight dress (Maxi + Tube)

• Spants = Harem pants (Skirt+pants)

• Swacket = something that is not quite Sweater, not quite Jacket

• Coatigan = a cardigan that resembles a coat (presumably for people who don’t want to admit they’re wearing cardigans)

• Glittens = Gloves that roll up into mittens

• Shress = a dress that’s like a T-shirt. (They couldn’t call it a Tress because that’s already a word. “Dirt” wouldn’t work, either. See how complicated this is?)

And my favorite:

• Whorts, which are winter shorts worn with woolly tights.

Words purloined (“Worpurls”) by Fashionese

Just as the English language shamelessly pinches foreign words and gives them different meanings from the original, so do words purloined by Fashionese (“Worpurls”) take on a new dimension.
Directional —
English (adj): having a particular direction of motion, progression, or orientation.
Fashionese (adj): something that looks completely weird now but is so trendsetting that in a few months’ time everyone will be wearing it. It will look weird again in another few months, when people look through last year’s photos and say, “My God, can you believe we actually used to wear that?”

Faux pas —
French (n): Literally “wrong step”.
English usage (n): A social blunder or indiscretion.
Fashionese (n): Dressing in a way to cause minor embarrassment to oneself. Examples include shrimp cocktail toes (wearing open-toed sandals that are too small so the toes extend past the end of the shoe, like a shrimp cocktail dish), inadvertently leaving your flies undone, and all of the 1970s. (See Directional, Past Tense.)

Thrifting —
English: No direct translation, since Thrift is a noun, not a verb.
Fashionese: Hunting for vintage clothes (must be over a certain age to be considered vintage and not just last season’s cast-offs) which have taken on an aura of mystique due to the fact they were produced at the same time as, say, the Ford Edsel.

Arm party –
This should have been an Absensicoun, but it’s difficult to contract satisfactorily. (“Arty”? “Arparty”? “Parmarty”?)
English: Umm…Beats me. A variation on “Twister”?
Fashionese: An armful of bracelets, where less is less.

Covert couture
English (n): Not sure. Anything to do with James Bond’s suit?
Fashionese (n): Clothes that cost a fortune but don’t look as if they did. (See Joel, Billy; Still Rock & Roll To Me: “You can’t dress trashy till you spend a lot of money.”)

Play them at their own game.

Back to Mr Ed Watson, the Debenhams spokesman, who had this to add:

Ideally we would like to drop all these amalgamations, but our hands are tied due to the terms being used on search engines.

Indeed. So the only solution is “If you can’t beat them — join them.”
Which words would you like to see adopted by Fashionese?

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Displaced Q: What fashion souvenirs find their way into your rucksack?

Img: By mandiberg [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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LIBBY’S LIFE #42 – Something in the water

Leave a comment Posted by on March 15, 2012

With just weeks to go before the arrival of the twins, Libby is making the most of her life with only one child by finding him a new nursery school and thereby becoming a Lady Who Lunches. But it’s not all Fun, Fun, Fun, she is finding.

“Libby, do stop worrying. Jack will be just fine.” Charlie shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “I know you had a bad experience with that other nursery, but Helen Flynn’s place is wonderful. He’ll love it there.”

“But suppose he doesn’t? What if it’s a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire for him?” I said, pulling out a chair from under the restaurant table, and sitting down heavily. The chair wobbled. It had a wooden seat, and wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the padded benches in the booths along the walls, but I could no longer squeeze into those, so Anna Gianni had tactfully seated us at one of the Maxwell Plum’s large centre tables.

Anita opened up the black padded menu. “Think about it logically,” she said. “The owner told Caroline to find Dominic another school because his idea of free play was beating up smaller children with whiffle sticks. She’s not going to stand idly by if someone’s giving your son a hard time, is she?”

I opened my own menu. “You’re probably right. It’s difficult not to worry, though.”

“I hate to tell you this, hon, but it only gets worse. Wait until he’s at elementary school.”

I don’t know why some people think you’ll feel better if they tell you things will be even worse later.

“Well, fortunately, I don’t have to think about that,” I said. “By the time Jack’s ready for elementary school we’ll be safely back in Milton Keynes. He’ll be starting Year One at the local Infants and learning how to spell properly instead of missing the U out of all the words.”

Anita and Charlie exchanged knowing glances.

“You say that now,” Charlie said. “But most people stay much longer than two years. Woodhaven draws you in.”

“I’m not most people, and I’m not being drawn in anywhere,” I snapped, banging the menu down on the table. “I agreed to two years, not a bloody life sentence.”

Here’s the thing. Oliver and I have been here barely nine months, and already the people in HR are talking about extending the contract. The initial two years? Fine. I can cope with that. Three? OK — I think. But where does it stop? At what point do I put my foot down, or, worse, at what point does I discover that it’s harder to go back than it is to stay?

“It’s terribly slow service today,” Charlie said, looking around the restaurant. “At this rate we won’t have time for dessert.”

“They’re short-staffed,” Anita said, studying her menu again. “There’s only the owner’s wife. That other loopy woman who works here is nowhere to be seen. I bet she’s out somewhere with a small animal in a pushchair. Last time I saw her, it was a rabbit. Honestly, she’s so many sandwiches short of a picnic—”

“Carla’s a whole loaf short.” Anna Gianni materialised at our table behind Anita, notebook and pen in hand. “But I’ll take her, both minus the Wonderbread and plus small animals in strollers, any day, rather than be the only server on a busy lunchtime. Now — what can I get you, ladies?”

Anita’s face turned a delicate shade of magenta. Charlie bit her lip, either in embarrassment or in an effort not to laugh, and I threw Anna an apologetic smile. She winked at me as we gave her our orders, then glided away to another table, where a couple of businessmen in suits were having a loud, showy-offy conversation about the price of Apple stock.

“You and your big mouth,” Charlie muttered at Anita.

Anita shrugged. Her face was still a bit pink. “It’s true, though,” she whispered. “She’s as nutty as a fruitcake.”

“Must be something in the water.” Charlie picked up her own glass of water and examined it. “Take Caroline.”

Caroline still wouldn’t say whether her new baby was a boy or a girl, and although she had now given it a name, it was the unisex “Taylor”, so we were none the wiser. Her husband, the boss, was equally silent on the subject.

Anna came back with our drinks and appetisers, and Charlie asked her sympathetically if she would be holding the fort on her own for long.

“Only until Saturday.”

“And then Carla will be back?” I asked.

Anna’s tone softened. “Sadly, Libby, no.”

I saw Anita raise her eyebrows as Anna said my name.

“She’s having a bad spell right now,” Anna continued. “Maybe she’ll be OK enough to come back in a few weeks. We’ve ordered her one of those life-like baby dolls to look like the photo of…well, you know. So that will help her, we hope. And me, come to that. I’m tired of looking after a menagerie.”

She bent down to pick up a napkin from the floor — mine, since I no longer had enough lap to keep a napkin secure — then patted me on the shoulder.

“You and I should get together again,” she said. “As soon as—”

“Miss?” One of the loud businessmen waved at her from across the room. “Miss? How much longer before you bring our order? We have a very important conference call at 1pm.”

Anna smiled in their direction. “I’ll be right with you,” she said loudly. Still smiling, she muttered “Never mind gun control in this country — what we really need is to keep jerks like that separated from their BlackBerries.”

“I’ll call you on Sunday after we get the agency staff settled in,” she said to me. “I promise I’ll call.”

She hurried away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Anita turned to me. “How do you know her so well?”

I explained about Maggie, and how she seemed to know everyone in Woodhaven.

“Maggie?” Charlie asked. “You don’t mean Maggie Sharpe, do you?”

I was surprised. “You know her?”

“I know of her. Everyone knows of her. Or at least, everyone knows about her daughter…what’s her name?”

“Sara.”

“That’s it. Sara. Anyway — according to town legend, she’s the reason Carla Gianni lost her mind. About twenty years ago.”

“What?”

“Small town talk, but it’s what I’ve heard from quite a few people.”

“And…” I fumbled around for words, did a few calculations based on what Maggie had told me about her daughter. “How did someone barely out of her teens make Carla lose her mind?”

Charlie shrugged. “Like I said, there must be something in the water here.” She picked up our water pitcher and refilled all our glasses. I waited. “But the story I’ve heard is — she killed Carla’s son.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #43 – Alone again – naturally

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s introduction to Haute Couture for the Dolce-and-Gabbana-challenged.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

5 Comments Posted by on March 8, 2012

Despite Oliver’s best intentions to put Libby in a state of nirvana with hourly facials and pedicures, Libby has decided that the way to mental peace is via a lengthy shopping session in a baby equipment store.

“This is the closest I’ll ever get to shopping for a grandchild, and I’m going to make the most of it.” Maggie manoeuvred our shopping trolley into an aisle stacked with Pampers. “You use the disposable type, I suppose? Everyone seems to now, despite all the fuss they make about saving the environment.”

“I’ll save the environment when the twins are out of nappies, and not a minute before.” I waddled to the section where the smallest sizes were. “How many boxes, do you reckon?”

“Not too many.” Maggie hefted a jumbo-sized box into the trolley. “Babies grow fast. One minute they’re spitting up milk, and the next they’re off to college. And in some cases, that’s the last you see of them.”

I picked up a multi-pack of baby wipes from the shelf, and said nothing. This, I knew, was a reference to Maggie’s daughter, Sara, who left America in her late teens and never came back apart from one unannounced visit a few years ago, for a school reunion. Maggie hasn’t said as much, but she must have been pretty hurt that when her daughter finally elected to return to her hometown, it was to see her old friends rather than her mother.

“I’m never going to be a grandmother now,” Maggie said again. “Not that I can blame Sara for that, of course. I was hardly a good example of motherhood. Barely in my twenties when she was born, and Derek and I divorced before she finished kindergarten…although I’m sure that’s not the only issue. The Max affair has a lot to answer for.”

I raised my eyebrows, willing her to say more, but she turned away and seemed very interested in a rack of burp cloths.

Max Gianni, I assumed she meant: the mysterious dead brother of Frankie, and brother-in-law of Anna Gianni. As far as I could piece together, Max once had something going with Maggie’s daughter, and it hadn’t ended prettily. In my eight months in Woodhaven, I’d heard a lot of half-finished conversations on this subject, all with tantalising missing endings, and I’d have liked to ask Maggie more, except that it was obviously something she didn’t like to talk about much.

I wondered what my own life would be like when I was Maggie’s age, when my children were grown up.

Would I be bitter at the years I’d lavished on their upbringing, only to have them live across oceans, as far away from me as they could? Or would I consider it a job well done, that my children were independent and free of me? A job rather too well done, in fact?

And I wondered what they would say about me in years to come — how would Jack look back on his childhood, the twins on theirs?

Would they view me with affectionate pride, or with contempt and disdain? Would I visit them in my twilight years, knowing they’d be glad to see me return home, when all I wanted was to hold on to them forever?

I thought of Sandra, of how thankful I’d been to see her return to England. I thought of my own mother, whom I’d not seen for eight months, but didn’t really miss.

I thought of how I would feel if my own children viewed me the same way.

And, as Maggie hinted just now, are the sins of the parents gifted upon the children, so that, no matter how hard you try, your offspring make the same mistakes as you did? Or, in recognising your failures, are they forced to break away, severing an invisible umbilical cord by putting thousands of miles between child and parent — and even then, does anything really change?

In other words — would Oliver and I become our parents?

Damn these pregnancy hormones.

“Libby?” Maggie was looking at me with concern. “Are you feeling all right? Do you need to sit down?”

I collected my thoughts and smiled quickly at her. “I’m fine. Just thinking about—”

My sentence was cut short by a pigtailed girl around Jack’s age, who, unlike Jack, was not securely strapped into the child seat of a shopping trolley, and appeared to be unaccompanied by any adult, responsible or otherwise. The child thundered past us, unbalancing me enough to make me throw out my hand to steady myself, and she headed straight for the automatic exit doors. Normally those doors need something at least three times heavier than a truculent three-year-old to make them open; today, however, Murphy’s Law dictated that they be in a particularly sensitive mood. The little girl rushed straight through them towards the busy parking lot, and I watched in slow-motion horror as a huge black SUV came weaving through the parking lot, along the lane that led past the baby shop. I could see its driver clearly: a woman chatting animatedly, obliviously, on a cell phone.

I turned to Maggie, to squeak at her that somebody must do something, but Maggie was no longer there.

Considering Maggie must be in her mid-sixties, she can move fast. Faster than I can at the moment, anyway. She was already at the store’s exit.

She dashed through the automatic doors and, just as the child was about to step into the path of the black SUV, grabbed the back of the child’s pink jacket and pulled her back. Then Maggie took her by the hand and led her back into the store.

“Where’s your mommy?” I heard her ask. The girl shrugged. “Well, what’s your name?”

The girl said something. Maggie nodded, and together they walked to the back of the store, towards the sign that said “Customer Service”.

Soon, a disembodied voice on the loudspeaker informed us that there was a lost child in custody and that the parents should think about collecting her before she was sold or returned to the warehouse, or words to that effect.

Ten minutes later, Maggie returned to me and Jack, alone.

“That’s your good deed done for the day,” I said, patting her on the shoulder.

Maggie shook her head, and carried on shaking it, as if bewildered.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did the parents not come for the little girl?”

“It wasn’t a little girl.”

“But—” You know, I don’t want to stereotype, but when a child is wearing a pink jacket and ribboned pigtails, you kind of assume certain things.

“The mother had a baby, too. Couldn’t have been more than two weeks old, and it’s tough trying to keep hold of one child, never mind look after a baby as well, so I can’t blame her for the girl — or boy — running away like that. Anyway, the baby was all dressed in green and yellow, and I asked the mother if it was a boy or a girl, and do you know what she said?”

“Surprise me.”

“She said, ‘We haven’t decided yet.’ I kid you not. ‘We’re letting our child make its own mind up about its gender.” Maggie shook her head again. “Do you want to know the worst part of it?”

“Go on.”

“This woman was English. I always think of people from the old country being very down to earth and no nonsense, and in five minutes, this woman shattered my illusions.”

A nasty suspicion formed in my mind.

“This woman,” I said. “Was she wearing diamond earrings, by any chance? Big diamonds?”

“Huge.”

“And did the child tell you her or his name?”

“He did, but of course, I got it wrong. I thought he said his name was Dominique. Shame. It’s a pretty name, for a girl.”

Poor Dominic, I thought.

Still, it’s an ill wind.

I suddenly feel much more confident about my own parenting abilities.

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #42 – Something in the water

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R&R: ABBA-style

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R & R: ABBA style

4 Comments Posted by on March 1, 2012

As a surprise Valentine’s gift, Oliver has arranged a babysitter (and dogsitter) for a few days while he takes Libby for a well-earned rest at The Health Grange Spa and Resort in New Hampshire. After less than twenty-four hours there, though, Libby is discovering that you can have too much of a good thing…especially when you have other things on your mind.

Frederika adjusted the the towel over me and started to knead the muscles at the back of my neck.

“There. Does that feel good? You relaxed now?

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured.

Inside my head, a little shopping list began its loop again. Two cots, double pushchair, six sets of sheets, two car seats, two bouncy chairs…

“You’re tensing again.” Frederika gave an extra little push at a muscle, and I winced. Her own arm muscles would rival Arnie’s

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I try to be gentle with you pregnant ladies, but you know, I was professional sports masseuse in Sweden for a long time. Sometimes I forget.”

“I should send my husband to you.” He’d enjoy it as long as he kept his eyes shut. Well — I wouldn’t be recommending her services to him otherwise, would I?

“You do that. If he’s as tense as you, he needs it.”

She continued to rub at my neck, and my shopping list commenced again.

…four packs of vests, babygrows; socks. Nappies! Oh my God, how many nappies do two babies get through?  Shampoo, baby wipes…

*  *  *

“…And Frederika — that’s the masseuse, she’s Swedish — she said her sister-in-law had twins six weeks early, and they weighed five pounds each and were perfectly fine. Six weeks early — can you imagine? It’s only five or six weeks away from where I am now. And I haven’t done a thing with the nursery yet, not even bought a second cot. If these babies were born tomorrow, they’d have to share a bed, or one would have to sleep in a drawer like my granny did when she was born. Although I’m thinking we should buy two new matching cots, because Jack’s old Mothercare cot is much smaller than the standard ones over here and I won’t be able to find fitted sheets that actually fit or — Oliver? Are you feeling all right?”

Oliver put his knife and fork down, his plate of low-fat grilled chicken unfinished, and leaned back in his padded dining chair with his eyes closed.

“Libs. Please stop talking and let us both enjoy our dinner. I brought you here to the Health Grange so you could relax, not so some Scandinavian blonde Amazon could send you into premature labour by worrying over cots and stuff. Do me a favour and request a different massage person tomorrow. Preferably someone who doesn’t speak English.”

A waiter sidled up to our table, eyeing Oliver’s inactive knife and fork.

“Are you still working on that, sir?” he asked, stretching his hand out to take Oliver’s plate.

I held my breath and waited for the inevitable explosion.

“NO!” Oliver sat up in his chair, banged his hand on the table, and sent a butter knife spinning greasily to the floor. The waiter took a couple of steps back in alarm. “Leave it alone. I’m trying to enjoy it, not ‘working on it.’ It’s a plate of poultry, not a bloody PhD thesis.”

Current pet hate of ours — going out to dinner, taking our time over a meal (in my condition, I have no choice but to take my time) and having a waiter hurry us by asking if we are “still working on” our food. As if eating is a chore and not a pleasurable pastime. This particular waiter had already asked me the question twice this evening, and now had just blown his chance of a tip by asking it a third time of Oliver.

“Bring us a bottle of the Chianti,” Oliver ordered, “and don’t come back after that until I ask you to.”

The waiter hovered uncertainly. “The wine…is it for the lady?” He swivelled his gaze at my extended stomach. “Because the Health Grange’s policy regarding serving alcohol to ladies who are—”

“The only policy that concerns you right now, mate,” Oliver said, barely holding on to his temper, “is keeping the customer happy. Either bring me what I ask for, or you explain later to the manager why, rather than adding a tip to the check, I deducted the amount instead.”

Slightly embarrassed by the scene — if anyone needed to relax round here, it wasn’t me — I lowered my head and looked down at my lap.Tried to look at my lap, that is, but I can’t see it any more.

At 29 weeks pregnant with twins, I am as big now as I was at full term with Jack. How I’m going to last another eleven weeks, I can’t imagine — except it won’t be eleven. At my last visit Doctor Gallagher told me, “You can knock off two or three weeks with twins. You won’t want to go the full nine months.”

Too right; although I have a suspicion achieving this will involve elective C-sections and things that would once have appalled me. Now, all I’m bothered about is getting rid of this enormous protuberance. Plus the realisation that we haven’t set foot in a baby shop yet, have nowhere for the twins to sleep, no car seats, no double pushchair — not even enough clothes for them. Those things are starting to bother me a lot.

All this was circling round my mind as the waiter came back with the bottle of wine and nervously set it down on the table.

“Anything else?” he asked Oliver. “Can I take your plate, or are you still work—”

Oliver fixed him with a hard stare, and the waiter blanched. “Don’t even think about saying it again,” he said. “Just bring us the check. We’ll take the wine back to our room.”

*  *  *

Back in our room, I lay on the bed on my side, surrounded by pillows, and tried to get comfortable.

I’m trying to relax during this weekend away. I swear I am, really.

Oliver swims in the resort pool and goes to the weight room and sauna, and keeps himself busy while I “relax.”

I’m dutifully having massages — Oliver made sure we were staying at a place with a specialist in prenatal massage — and herbal facials, and pedicures (although as I can’t bear my feet being touched, these aren’t very relaxing to be honest, but Oliver has already paid for them.)

Am I feeling relaxed as a result?

Despite Oliver’s best intentions, the answer is No. I am not. It all seems a bit forced — “You’re going to relax whether you like it or not” kind of thing — and while the white-coated Frederika is rubbing my back with oil, I’m not so much thinking “Ooh, that’s good” as “You know, we could be spending this time in BabiesRUs.”

Now that I have time away from Jack, the nursery school politics, man-eating landladies, and all the other things that have occupied my mind for the last few months, I can see just how unprepared we are for our imminent arrivals, and it horrifies me.

When I was expecting Jack, I had my hospital bag packed by this stage, my birth plan written, the nursery decorated…

How times and circumstances change.

The birth plan, for example — what a joke that is. As if babies ever read them. My intention, four years ago, was to give birth surrounded by scented candles, essential oils, Vivaldi CDs, and all while floating peacefully in a birthing pool. These fond plans went west when Jack refused to get out of his nice, cosy womb and had to be kick-started with artificial hormones that, after two hours, had me screaming for an epidural while hurling the candles and CDs at Oliver.

So have I bothered writing a birth plan for the twins’ arrival? Of course not. Duh.This is America; I am a “high risk”; the birth will be high-tech; in fact, I get the feeling the people at the hospital would rather I was totally anaesthetised, like they used to do to labouring women in the 1960s.

No wonder I’m tense.

“Libs.” Oliver’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Do you want to risk some wine?”

I shook my head. “Ask me again in three months or so.”

Life was so unfair. The one thing that probably would relax me, and it was forbidden.

*  *  *

“So on the agenda today,” Oliver said next morning, over our room-service breakfast, “you have a facial in the morning, then an hour’s downtime, then lunch, and then another massage in the afternoon.”

I slathered butter on a croissant, and said nothing. When your instinctive reaction at a schedule of massages and facials is “Oh God, not again,” you know the aim of “relaxation” isn’t going to be achieved.

“Do I have to?” I asked.

Oliver looked hurt. “Why? Don’t you like all this pampering?”

“Of course,” I said. “But…you can have too much of a good thing.”

“It seems an awful waste. I’ve paid for it all up front.”

“Well —” Oliver’s feelings were easily hurt, so I had to tread carefully “—why don’t I go this morning, and you see Frederika this afternoon instead? She does guys as well as women.”

A pause, while Oliver tried not to seem too enthusiastic.

“You say she’s Swedish?” he said at last.

I tried not to laugh.Oliver was so transparent sometimes. His view of the world was made up of little stereotypes; it would be good to prove at least one of them wrong.

“That’s right.”

He pretended to consider this option.

“OK then. It would be a shame to waste the appointment.”

*  *  *

“You could have warned me.”

Oliver stood over me, arms akimbo, his face very red.

I looked up innocently from the lounging chair by the swimming pool. So pleasant to be sitting reading by the hotel pool, with the palm trees growing inside, and steel drum music playing on the loudspeakers. If I squinted a bit, I could make believe I was in Barbados instead of New Hampshire.

“Warned you about what?” I asked.

“This Frederika person! She’s brutal! Look —” Oliver turned round and lifted up his T-shirt at the back.

“It looks a bit sore, certainly.” I picked up my magazine again. “Still, no pain, no gain. That’s what you always say.”

“I don’t know where she learnt her massage techniques, but the way she kept pummelling me, I thought she was waiting for the ref to ring the bell while I went down for the count.”

He sat down on the lounger next to me, wincing. “You said she was Swedish.”

“Not all Swedish women look like the blond from ABBA.” I couldn’t contain the giggles any longer. “It’s unfortunate that this one looks more like one of the blokes in the band, though. The one with the beard, at that.”

Oliver sat down on the lounger next to me and winced.

“No wonder you didn’t want to go again,” he said.

“Oh, she’s fine with me. But I’ve had enough of people getting inside my personal space…masseuses, doctors, midwives. At this stage, I think I’d de-stress more by getting stuff ready at home. Nesting instinct setting in, I guess.”

“But we’ve got another full day here. What would you like to do instead?”

I adjusted my sunglasses. I didn’t need them. It just added to the illusion we were in the Caribbean.

“How about a little light shopping this evening?” I suggested. “There’s a BabiesRUs just down the highway.”

Oliver pursed his lips, weighing up the idea of  shopping with another assault by Frederika. “It’s got possibilities. Fancy a steak somewhere while we’re at it?”

“Tell you what,” I told him. “Let’s be entirely bad, go against the philosophy of a health spa, and have dinner in McDonald’s.”

“They won’t torment you with wine, at least.”

“And they will never,” I said, “ask you if you’re still working on that burger.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

Previous post:LIBBY’S LIFE #39 – Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

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LIBBY’S LIFE #39 – Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Leave a comment Posted by on February 23, 2012

So, here I am, back on Planet Earth, and back to what I was writing before the lovely Oliver whisked me away for a weekend of facials, pedicures, and heartburn-inducing gourmet meals. Thank goodness for Zantac is all I can say.

“Yes, you are going to school this afternoon, sweetheart. And you’re staying to lunch first, but remember – it’s not like proper school today. It’s a just a Valentine’s party. You like parties, don’t you?”

Jack fixed me with a suspicious stare. “Are you sure there’s ice cream at the party?”

“Of course,” I said, without missing a beat. Too late now to backtrack on yesterday’s bribe. “There’s always ice cream at parties. Your favourite. Strawberry.”

He made an exasperated clicking noise with his tongue – a habit he’s picked up from Oliver.

“Chocolate’s my favourite now. I don’t like strawberry any more.”

Ah, Strawberry must have been flavour of the month for January, so the half-gallon tub in the freezer presumably will stay there until it becomes pink sour cream.

I sighed. “I expect there’s chocolate too. Or vanilla. And cupcakes. And biscuits, of course, because we made the biscuits, didn’t we?”

Jack looked at me as if I’d escaped from a high security institution for the prematurely senile.

“Cookies, Mummy! Not biscuits!”

I shut my eyes briefly. It had happened. My son was now American. “Cookies, then.” I hesitated. “And we’ve done all your cards and sweets – I mean candy – for your friends.”

I’d been a little taken aback by Patsy Traynor’s emailed list of instructions for this party. No peanut products – fair enough – BUT, Patsy stressed with random capitals and italics, if you were going to send in Valentine cards and candy, you MUST send in something for EVERY child in the class, not just your child’s special friends.

So we dutifully wrote out eighteen cards last night and Jack, with his tongue sticking out in concentration, printed his name on all of them. That took over an hour. Then we squashed Sellotape around a lollipop onto the back of each card. The Valentines, which we bought in a pack of 32 – 32! So much love to spread around! So much profit for Hallmark! – were only slightly larger than a postage stamp, and (surprise) had pictures from Disney’s Cars on them. Jack spent a lot of time deciding who was going to have which picture. His best friends were honoured with Lightning McQueen; little girls he had a crush on would receive pictures of Sally Carrera, the blue Porsche. His least favourite character in Cars is Mater, the rusty tow truck. Only one child got a Mater card.

That’s right. Dominic.

And the sweets? We bought a big bag of assorted lollipops. Jack likes all of them, except for the Root Beer flavour. (Reasonably enough. It smells like Germolene.) Naturally, Dominic will receive a Root Beer lollipop.

I get the feeling that Jack would rather exclude Dominic from his bounty bag altogether – and to be quite honest, I don’t blame him.

Still, it is a party when all’s said and done, and I think Jack should have a good time this afternoon.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m suddenly so keen for Jack to go to nursery after keeping him away over the Dominic issue.

Simple. Today I need a babysitter. Maggie is going out, Oliver is in Seattle, the coffee morning ladies have gone home en masse for a winter break visit, and I – oh, lucky Libby! – have a three hour appointment at the hospital’s diagnostics office, having starved myself since midnight last night.

While Jack is ingesting sugar in cookie-, ice cream-, and cake-form, I shall be sitting in the diagnostics office having an armful of blood drawn every hour, after downing my own special Valentine’s sugar rush – the most disgustingly sweet fizzy lemon drink, specifically formulated by the medical profession to give me diabetes.

That’s not quite what it’s for, of course – the test is to see if I have pregnancy diabetes in the first place. But as I don’t eat many sweet things – OK, I love chocolate, as you know, but I don’t inhale the stuff – I don’t know why this test is necessary, or even good for you. Mine is not to question why. I don’t wear a white coat, and the white coat people get a bit snippy if you question their methods, and they make disparaging remarks about Britain’s NHS and Obamacare and things.

One thing’s for sure – a twin pregnancy in the USA is very different from a single pregnancy back home.

* * *

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I dropped Jack off at nursery. A celebration at the return of the Prodigal Son? Patsy welcoming us with open arms and tears of joy in her eyes?

A good thing I had no expectations. Patsy’s welcome, while not exactly chilly, wasn’t over-effusive either.

“You’re welcome to attend the party yourself,” she said. “If you want. A lot of the parents are coming back to take pictures and videos.”

Another parenting obsession I never quite get: compulsive filming of the minutiae of your child’s life. I always used to forget my camera for these occasions, although since getting one of those smart phones that does everything, I’ve improved.

“I don’t think that will be possible,” I told Patsy, and explained about the three hour appointment.

She nodded, sympathetically. Or maybe it was mock-sympathetically.

“But you’ll be back to pick him up on time, won’t you?” she asked. “You know our policy on children being left behind at pick-up time.”

“Of course.” She takes them to the dog pound or something. I paused. “It’s taken quite a bit of persuading Jack to come back to school today, so you will watch out for him, won’t you, and make sure there aren’t any…incidents?”

Any sympathy, real or mock, in Patsy’s expression dissolved instantly, and she drew herself up to her full height, although as she’s shorter than me, it wasn’t that impressive.

“I always keep a strict eye on the children. You should know that, Mrs. Patrick.”

Since she was offended enough to call me “Mrs. Patrick”, I refrained from pointing out that she’d been oblivious to previous incidents involving Dominic and my son, and hoped that she’d taken my point.

“Call me on my cell phone if you have any problems,” I said.

And left.

* * *

By the time I reached the hospital, it was 11:45 and I felt ill with hunger. Normally this test is done first thing in the morning to avoid lengthy starvation, but with the babysitting situation, I had no choice but to do it later in the day. Either that, or drag Jack along with me to the appointment, which would send my blood pressure up and precipitate a whole new series of tests to determine the exact cause of my sudden hypertension.

Starvation it was, then.

The appointment wasn’t that bad, really. I brought along a book and my iPod, and once I’d drunk the fizzy goo (and kept it down) I was free to wander around the hospital until it was time to have more blood drawn. Syringes don’t bother me any more. It’s one of the dubious benefits of pregnancy – you become immune to having needles shoved in every available vein.

So, perverse as it sounds, without Jack I had a very peaceful three hours. I toured the maternity wing – more like a hotel than a hospital ward – walked in the gardens, did a little window shopping in the on-site gift shop, lay down on a couch in the diagnostics office and read my book…

In fact, everything was hunky-dorey until the nurse was stabbing me for the final time, and, in the depths of my handbag, my mobile phone began to ring.

It’s not a subtle ring tone. It’s one you have to answer straight away or die of embarrassment.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Find out what it means to me! R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Take care, TCB, Oooh…”

I scrabbled around in my bag with my free hand, but the phone was buried under my book and purse and iPod.

“Honey, stay still,” the nurse said. “I can’t draw blood if you’re moving around. Least, not from where I want to draw blood. If that call’s important, they’ll call back or leave a message.”

I slumped back in the chair and watched my blood slither into the tube.

“Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me…”

After a few seconds Aretha Franklin subsided, and the phone pinged to tell me someone had left a message.

The nurse withdrew her needle for the final time and stuck a Spongebob Squarepants plaster in the crook of my elbow.

I retrieved my phone and dialled the voicemail number.

“Mrs Patrick, this is Patsy Traynor at the nursery school.” Her voice was icy. “I realise you’re busy, but if you could come to the school as soon as you can… I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”

* * *

I burst through the front door of the school, and the polite hum of chattering parents dimmed as everyone turned and looked at me.

“Where’s Patsy?” I demanded of one parent, the mother of Tom, the little Milky Bar Kid.

She pointed in the direction of Patsy’s dusty office, and seemed about to say something, but I was already storming towards the office door.

“An incident” Patsy had said in her message – no mention of what type of incident, or whether anyone was hurt, and yet, when I tried to ring her back, the line was busy. Lucky for me that no state troopers were on the road at the time I was driving here from the hospital, or I’d have clocked up a speeding ticket to add to the fun.

I opened the door, and a small sobbing tornado hurled itself at my legs.

“Mummy! Dom said I hit him, and I didn’t, I only didn’t give him the lollipop.”

I sat on the nearest chair, plonked Jack on my knee, and wiped his face.

“And there wasn’t ice cream, either,” he snuffled.

I looked around the office. Patsy sat regally in her office chair, her hands folded on the desk. Against the wall with the framed preschool artwork sat Caroline with Dominic on her lap. Dominic had bits of dried blood caked around his nostrils.

“Is this true?” I asked Patsy.

“That’s correct. There was no ice cream,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “About Jack hitting Dominic?”

“Your son,” Caroline said, through a tiger-mum smile, “has broken my son’s nose.”

Patsy nodded vigorously. “I’m afraid I can’t tolerate behaviour like that in my school, Mrs. Patrick.”

I did first aid courses with St John’s Ambulance many years ago, and his nose looked ok to me. No swelling – actually, it looked as if he’d just had a mild nosebleed.

“And my son,” I replied, “says he didn’t hit yours. Mrs. Traynor, did you see what happened?”

“Well, not exactly, but Dominic says Jack hit him with a toy car, and he’s a truthful child, so…”

“And so is Jack a truthful child. But you thought it would be advantageous to believe the child of the mother who is contributing the most to your new playscape, correct?”

Patsy turned an interesting shade of mauve, and began to splutter.

“Certainly not! I would never–”

“Actually, you would. I think we already determined that, several weeks ago. Jack, sweetheart, take no notice of these nasty ladies, and tell Mummy yourself what happened.”

Jack sniffed; his chest hitched. “I was playing with the Tonka truck. The big one. And…”

“Yes?” I encouraged.

“And Dom wanted it, and he took it off me, only I said no, it was my turn with the Tonka truck cos he plays with it all the time, so I tried to take it off of him, but he hit me on the head with it.” He sniffed again. “And I pushed him away, and the truck banged his nose.”

“Did you tell Miss Patsy this?”

“I tried to tell her, but she was being cross because Dominic’s nose had a bit of blood coming out of it and she said I did it and I was bad.”

I glared at Patsy. “Guilty until proved innocent in this place, is it?”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “no one saw the incident, and therefore… Dominic, is this true what Jack said?”

Dominic shook his head and sucked his thumb.

“One child’s word against another, I’m afraid, and given Dominic’s injured nose, I must give the benefit of the doubt to him.”

“Unbelievable.” I rocked Jack and kissed the top of his head. “It’s OK, sweetie. Mummy knows you’re telling the truth.”

After all — if your mother won’t take your side, who will?

There was a tapping on the door, and someone poked her head into the room – Tom-the-Milky-Bar-Kid’s mother.

“I think you should see this,” she said, holding up a smartphone. “We were videoing the party, and we caught the, um, incident on our camera.”

* * *

“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Caroline said as she stuffed Dominic’s arms into his pink fleece. “I donate generously to your playground fund, and then you tell me you won’t tolerate Dominic’s behaviour? He’s just a little boy.”

“No one would guess it,” I muttered, “the way she keeps his hair long and dresses him like the Sugar Plum Fairy. No wonder he wants to bash other kids’ brains out with monster trucks.”

“What?”

“You heard.” I smiled sweetly at her.

“We disapprove strongly of telling lies, especially ones designed to deliberately get other children into trouble,” Patsy said. “This is really quite serious, Mrs Hatton.”

Goodness. Caroline was now a Mrs.

“Well,” she said, “I’m taking him home, and he won’t be coming back. Come on, Dominic. Mummy’s going for a massage now, and while I’m there we’ll buy you some cream for your dry scalp. I know it’s $50 but you’re worth it. I can’t have a child of mine with dandruff.”

She tried to push past me with Dominic, and as she did so, I looked down at her son’s head, with its mat of long curls. There were white flakes, sure, but —

“Take him to CVS instead,” I said. “That’s not dandruff. That’s headlice. I’ve seen them before, at playgroup back home.”

Patsy’s face was horrified, and I remembered what Maggie and Anna had said about her aversion to things like impetigo. She came out from behind her desk and peered at Dom’s head.

“Definitely headlice,” she said with a shudder. “Perhaps you should consider getting his hair cut. And check your own hair. The health spa you go to on Main Street isn’t renowned for its hygiene, you know. When you’ve lived here as long as I have, you learn these things the hard way. My husband caught scabies from one of their towels after a sauna there.”

Poor Caroline. I had to bite my lips to stop myself laughing as she flounced out of the room.

“Libby,” Patsy said. “I am so sorry. What can I do to make this up to you, in any way at all?”

I stared at her. She really thought she could make this up to me?

“A refund of the weeks Jack hasn’t attended would be a good start.”

“Of course. Consider it done. In fact –” She pulled out a chequebook, scribbled one, ripped it out and handed it to me. “There.”

I glanced at it, nodded, and put it in my pocket.

“And how was the test today?” she asked. “Not pleasant, I imagine.”

“It was fine. I have to have lots of tests, of course, because of –” I broke off. She didn’t know about the twins. What else did Maggie say? Something about her loving twins in school for the publicity? “Because I’m expecting twins,” I finished.

Patsy clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! I love to have twins in the school. My husband is one, you know. You must bring them in when they arrive, and we will have a photograph of Jack with his siblings. My relative at the Woodhaven Observer will be thrilled to have the story in the paper.”

Big story. Small town news. I suddenly appeared to have joined Patsy Traynor’s club of Elite Moms.

She opened the office door for me, and I stepped into the classroom, where quite a few parents still milled around, gathering up paper plates and cups.

“Now that the, um, cause of Jack’s distress is no longer here,” Patsy said in a low voice, “I hope we will see him again next week.”

She held out her hand, and I took it. Held it. Looked her warmly in the eye.

“Patsy,” I said, raising my voice so the other parents could hear, “I would do a three-hour glucose test every day for the rest of my life before I brought my son back to your school ever again. Goodbye.”

I squeezed Jack’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get some ice cream.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R&R: ABBA style

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #38 – The battle of the tigers

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

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LIBBY’S LIFE — A technical malfunction

4 Comments Posted by on February 16, 2012

LIBBY:

Well, this week I fully intended to tell you about my battle with certain tiger-mums, a three-hour glucose tolerance test, a suspected case of galloping dandruff caused by the dry weather, and how all that fits into the context of a Valentine’s Day party for three-year-olds. And I shall still do that — next week.

But here’s the thing: just as I was sitting down to write this week’s episode, Oliver comes home early from work, and says, “Come on, Libs — get packed. I’m taking you away for a couple of nights. Then throw some stuff in a bag for Jack, because Maggie’s having him while we’re gone.”

It’s just so easy when a bloke puts it like that, isn’t it? “Throw some stuff in a bag for Jack” indeed. I mean, I hadn’t done the laundry or anything…and then I look in Jack’s chest of drawers, and found that someone had done the laundry. We have a laundry fairy I didn’t know about!

“Maggie,” Oliver said. He looked all smug.

“Did you ask her to do it?”

“Well…no,” he admitted. “But when I asked her if she’d have Jack because I was planning a romantic surprise weekend, she said something about surprises being one thing, and nasty shocks being quite another, especially in your condition, so I’d better give her a spare door key if I didn’t want another surprise trip to the hospital.”

So there we are. If you remember, Oliver promised me a trip to a spa as compensation for his mother putting me in hospital before Christmas, so that’s where we are going.

“Do they have seaweed wraps?” I asked him, thinking about Caroline’s bony ankles and comparing them to my somewhat waterlogged ones.

He looked puzzled.

“They have white towelling dressing-gowns, from what I can tell from the brochure. Or do you mean wraps like those crispy chicken ones from McDonald’s?”

Ah, bless him. He tries so hard. I’m sure we’ll have a lovely time.

I’ll tell you all about it week after next.

KATE:

Libby is being far too nice and neglecting to mention that I was writing her diary this week, not her — as she said, it was about her “battle with certain tiger-mums, a three-hour glucose tolerance test, a suspected case of galloping dandruff caused by the dry weather, and how all that fits into the context of a Valentine’s Day party for three-year-olds.”

It was a really interesting episode, too.

Such a shame that something malfunctioned somewhere in the bowels of my computer, and despite having saved many times, I lost 2200 words of the episode just when I was about to click Publish.

Oh well. When I’ve finished banging my head against any convenient hard surface, I’m sure it will seem very funny in retrospect.

See you next week. :-/

Meanwhile, here are some links to my own favorite episodes:

#34:  Shadows on a screen – I wrote this one because a good friend who’s a Libby fan wanted to hear more about the pregnancy. When she asked me to do this, I didn’t know at the time that Libby was expecting twins. It was a surprise for everyone.

#11: Neither more nor less than a pig – This episode introduces Carla Gianni. The pig thing, while a surprise, was not entirely unexpected. I’ve known Carla, Frankie, and the Maxwell Plum for a long time. They all came into existence in my half-written novel, which has the working title of “Back to the Green.” Billy Joel fans among you may be able to read something into that — also, why there’s a village green in Woodhaven, an Italian restaurant, and why there are so many flashbacks to the past in Libby.

#5: Decaffeinated sherry to toast a Royal Wedding – Written in a befuddled, sleep-deprived state on the morning of April 29 last year, having got myself up at an unholy hour to tweet about the wedding with ML and Anthony. It was the first time I’d met Sandra, the mother-in-law. I blame Princess Beatrice’s hat for the way she turned out.

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Img: Map of the World – Salvatore Vuono

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BOOK REVIEW: “A Tight Wide-open Space,” by Matt Krause

2 Comments Posted by on February 14, 2012

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TITLE: A Tight Wide-open Space: Finding love in a Muslim land
AUTHOR: Matt Krause
PUBLICATION DATE: August 2011
FORMAT: Ebook for Kindle and Nook; paperback; PDF (from author’s Web site)
GENRE: Travel memoir (Middle East)
SOURCE: PDF file from author’s website

Summary:

In 2003, when the shockwaves of 9/11 still echoed through the US and the country was fighting two wars in Muslim countries, Matt Krause met a beautiful Turkish woman on an airplane and decided to follow her to Turkey. This is the story of what happened there.

Matt figured adjusting to life in Turkey would entail some challenges, and he certainly wasn’t disappointed. He survived bomb attacks, lost his cool around beggar kids, drove a jewelry business into the ground, and got into fistfights over parking. Along the way though, he saw beauty in ruins older than the Roman Empire, was wowed by tales of Bulgarian freedom fighters, tried not to hit cows in the road, and drank plenty of peach-flavored Lipton iced tea.

…A Tight Wide-open Space is the story of falling in love not only with a woman, but with a city and a country. (Amazon.com)

Review:

Matt Krause met and wooed his Turkish wife-to-be in a way seldom seen outside Hollywood scripts. A chance meeting on a flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong; Matt’s sixth sense inkling that this woman was The One; his Google search for her name upon his return (“I sent her an email and tried not to sound too much like a stalker”); his impulsive decision, a few short months later, to rent out his Seattle home and follow her back to Turkey (“I thought about the situation for about 10 seconds and then I said ‘Well, I’ll come with you.'”) — yes, there’s a Valentine’s tale there, all right.

The book is a stimulating mix of the anecdotal and informational: first-hand accounts of the (excellent) Turkish health care and (not so excellent) law enforcement combine with Turkish History 101 and swift lessons on the Ottoman Empire. Running like a silver thread through these yarns is the deeply personal and affectionate — the reason for Matt’s presence in Turkey. The love story.

For all that this is a love story, however, Matt pulls no punches in the telling of it. The introduction chapter, a description of the slaughter of a ram for Kurban Bayram (Feast of the Sacrifice) is vivid — lurid, even. Yet it gets the point across as little else could: that a guy who has spent thirty-three years in the haven of America’s West Coast is now a long distance outside his comfort zone.

For me, the biggest charm of A Tight Wide-open Space is the author’s honesty. Matt doesn’t try to put himself in a better light just because a few thousand people are reading about his overreaction to a persistent little boy who wants to shine his shoes :

What on earth had possessed me to act like that? I had just blown up at a little kid on the street in broad daylight. I had just threatened to snuff the life out of a little boy barely tall enough to reach my belt. I hadn’t even been in Turkey for three months yet. What was I becoming?

In the face of this engaging frankness, it’s impossible not to get drawn into Matt’s story. His frankness extends to accounts of his wedding, a trip to hospital, an almighty row with his new wife. A book — appropriately enough, for Valentine’s Day — written from the heart.

As I have no plans for a subheading called “Spoiler Alerts”, I will say no more — except that the book’s twists and turns along the way only remind us that, yes, this is indeed real life.

Not Hollywood.

Words of wisdom:

One thing I learned early on about Turks is that you can never go wrong with a big smile and an enthusiastic introduction.

When we meet someone else, someone from another religion, or another country, or even another profession or another social class, it is our duty to that other person to remember that our understanding of that person is probably incorrect. And it is our duty to ourselves to overcome that incorrectness.

Home is not a place. Home is not Seattle, California, Texas, Ohio, or Kathmandu. Home is the people we love.

Verdict:

At around 190 pages, this is an easy read, but by no means a shallow one. Whatever Matt’s plans might be for the future, I hope they include more writing.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s Random Nomad post.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #38 – The battle of the tigers

Leave a comment Posted by on February 9, 2012

Two weeks with Jack at home all the time, and I’m climbing the walls. I’d got used to three hours of freedom a couple of times a week while he was at nursery, and this makes me even more apprehensive about how I will cope when the twins come. Maggie said she will help, and I’m grateful, but there’s only so much I can ask of her.

My due date is getting ever nearer, I need reinforcements – so this afternoon Jack and I are going out.

In other words, I’m braving the coffee morning posse again.

Today, though, it’s not a coffee morning but a pot luck lunch at Anita’s place. I’m going armed with a big plate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches and some Lays Salt and Vinegar, and with a bit of luck, Caroline and her devil child won’t be there. The lunch coincides with Patsy’s nursery school schedule. I can relax, and Jack can let off steam with other children and make a mess in someone else’s house.

If only it was Caroline’s house he was making a mess in.

* * *

I don’t know why I didn’t like these women before. They’re actually quite nice, once you get to know them and find you have things in common, like a love of American Idol and complete bewilderment at the rules of the game that Americans call football.

For total bonding, of course, there’s nothing like having a good bitch about an absent member of the coffee morning posse while leaning against the kitchen counters. The kitchen is always the best place for a cozy chat.

And it seemed I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t keen on Caroline or young Dominic.

“Isn’t it lovely and peaceful without them both?” Anita said. “Last time they came here, that child decided to cut open the beanbag in our basement. Polystyrene beads all over the place, sticking to everything. I had to empty the vacuum cleaner five times, and I’m still finding those sodding beads. So when it came to my turn to host again, I announced a pot luck lunch instead of coffee morning. While Dominic is at school, Caroline has serious me-me-me time, and the promise of chips and brownies won’t tempt her away from her weekly massage.”

“And she won’t do a thing to discipline Dominic,” Charlie said. “When we were at Julia’s house once, he clobbered Julia’s little girl, Sadie, with a Barbie doll. Really hard, too. Poor Sadie.”

“On Sadie’s head, mind. She had a big lump for quite a few days.” Julia, the tiger-mum who had given me a lift to my first coffee morning back in July, joined the conversation. I was surprised, having always assumed she and Caroline were friends. “And Caroline didn’t say anything to Dominic, apart from asking him if he thought he’d made a ‘good choice’.”

“That sounds familiar,” I said. “He picks on Jack at school, and it’s got to the stage where Jack won’t go any more. So I’m paying for his place, because Patsy Traynor has this rule about giving two months’ notice, and it’s a total waste of money.”

Julia and Charlie exchanged glances.

“And let me guess – Patsy Traynor is turning a blind eye because Caroline has given her a big backhander?” asked Julia.

I almost choked on my egg sandwich.

“How do you know? Does Patsy make a habit of this?”

“I couldn’t tell you about Patsy,” Anita said, “but Caroline thinks money will get her out of any situation. Dominic had a bad habit of biting at one time. Well, OK, a lot of kids do, but Dominic would draw blood. And instead of putting him in time out–”

“Or biting the little bugger back,” Charlie murmured.

“— on one occasion, when he did it to some poor child at playgroup, she offered the mum fifty dollars.”

“Why?” I asked, confounded.

Julia shrugged. “The only apology she knows how to make?”

Anita snorted. “That’s too charitable. It was hush money. Except that it didn’t stay hush. The mother made a real hullabaloo and told Caroline she didn’t care if she was the boss’s wife or not, it didn’t give her brat an excuse to take chunks out of other kids, and she could keep her stinking money, and she’d see Caroline in court.”

“And did she?”

“She might have done – she watched an awful lot of Judge Judy – but instead that woman and her husband and two kids were on the plane back to Milton Keynes two weeks later.”

I was silent.

“It could have been coincidence, of course,” Julia said, “but if so, it was a very convenient one. So, Libby. I don’t know what you’re intending to do – but let me suggest that whatever it is, you do it carefully. Unless you actually want Oliver to be a victim of the next round of redundancies, of course.”

I shuddered. “We can’t afford that,” I admitted. “Not with this on the way.” I patted my stomach.

“Do you know what it is yet?” Charlie asked. “Do you want a boy to keep Jack company, or a girl to even the numbers up?”

Oliver had been very good at keeping this news quiet, I thought. Or maybe men just didn’t talk about stuff like that at work. Perhaps the men he worked with didn’t know I was pregnant at all.

No matter. Time to drop the bombshell myself.

“It’s the best of both worlds, I suppose,” I said. “We’re having one of each. A Megan and a Sam.”

It wouldn’t stay secret for long now. Want to spread news or a rumour in expat mum world? Dish the dirt at coffee morning. Or pot luck lunch.

The reaction was gratifying. Everyone gathered into the kitchen as Anita and Charlie shrieked the news, and women I’d never met before offered congratulations. Suddenly, there I was: a local celebrity, a major fish in our little paddling pool.

“If you need anything at all…” they all kept saying. “It’s tough, being far away from your family. You’ve only got to ask, if you need help. Just say the word. Just shout.”

Julia nodded. “Honestly, we mean it. We all pitch in and help when anyone here has a baby. You know – organise a meal delivery rota, that sort of thing. You’ll need more help than anyone has before. No one else has had twins over here.”

I felt quite teary. Hormones, no doubt – but I hadn’t expected this level of affection and camaraderie. I hugged Julie, feeling guilty that I’d disliked her so much when I first met her.

“Group hug? That isn’t usually on the pot luck menu.”

Caroline’s crystal tones cut across the estrogen-fuelled scene. Or whatever hormone was rampaging around me right now.

“The masseuse was ill, so I thought I’d come here for half an hour, and call in at the jeweler’s to have a look at the earrings Terry said he’d get me when the baby’s born. Only three weeks to go, girls! But what’s all the fuss about? What have I missed?”

Julia shot her a sideways smirk. “We’re celebrating. Libby’s just told us she’s having twins.”

Caroline had been spray-tanned quite recently. Very subtly, so as not to look like a Jersey Shore cast member, but perhaps it was a bit too subtle. It didn’t hide the way her face turned pale green at this piece of information.

“Twins?” she said, as if she’d heard the word before but couldn’t quite remember what it meant.

“Yes, twins.” Anita turned to me. “Isn’t it funny? Caroline thought she might be having twins at one time, but of course, she isn’t. And you are instead.”

“I suppose Terry won’t be coughing up for the big earrings anymore, will he?” Julia asked, with a huge false smile of sympathy.

I’d been watching them all talk, my head swiveling back and forth, not quite understanding what was going on – until Julia mentioned the earrings. Then I remembered the coffee morning back in July. The one-upmanship competition. Caroline had said her OB/GYN thought it might be twins, and in that case she, Caroline, was going to look for some four-carat rocks.

Caroline coughed. “Probably not. I expect Oscar will buy them for Libby instead.”

“Oliver,” I corrected. “But no. He won’t. He has this funny way of thinking that a baby or two is gift enough for both of us.”

Well, it might be what he thought.

“And he’s quite right.” Charlie put her arm round my shoulders. “You’ve got family, friends, love – why would you need anything else?”

Actually, I’d love a pair of earrings or something like that, but it wouldn’t occur to Oliver, and it seemed a bit shallow to suggest it to him. So for now I could take the high ground. And what was wrong with a nice bunch of flowers anyway?

Caroline had a bright smile sort of stapled to her face. “Well, Terry sees things a little differently, so I still have to pick something out at the jeweler’s. Call it a memento of the occasion.”

“Memento?” Anita echoed. “What the bloody hell do you need a memento for? You’ll have a nine pound boy – isn’t that and a few stitches reminder enough of your two days in hospital?”

Julia said, absentmindedly, “Libby’s having a boy and a girl. Sam and Megan. Pretty name, Megan, isn’t it?”

Caroline pressed her lips together and hoisted her Coach bag higher on her shoulder. “Must be off,” she said – and left.

Everyone was silent until the front door had banged shut.

“Bad Julia,” said Julia. “Bad, bad, bad. Stay behind after school and write five hundred times, I must not torture Caroline. She wanted a girl,” she explained to me. “She’s always wanted a girl. That’s why Dom’s hair is so long still. She treats him like a girl, poor child. I’m all for not imposing stereotypes, but really – buying him a Snow White costume for Halloween? She should be arrested for child abuse.”

“You look tired, Libs,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you go home and have a sleep, and one of us will drive Jack to you in a couple of hours?”

“I’ll do it,” Julia offered. “I’d be glad to, even if you hadn’t just made my day. I’ve been waiting for that woman to get taken down a couple of pegs ever since we arrived in Woodhaven.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I think I will. I’m really grateful, Julia.”

And don’t get me wrong – I was.

But I was also a little troubled. If I’d taken on one new role as expat mum celebrity, it seemed I’d also taken on another – that of human shield in the battle of the tiger-mums.

Yes – I was troubled, all right.

.

Next post:LIBBY’S LIFE #39: Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #37 – Plots (and waistlines) thickening

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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7 foods to seduce your Valentine (or not) — wherever your home and heart may be

11 Comments Posted by on February 7, 2012

As a sequel to Seven deadly dishes — global grub to die for, today’s post turns its attention to foodstuffs that might promote…well, not death, but perhaps a smaller version: the one the French call La Petite Mort.

Food and romance go hand in hand — you only have to think of the restaurant scene in the film Tom Jones — so, in case you’re already planning a special meal with ulterior motives for next Tuesday, I’ve been looking for ingredients to go on your shopping list.

I have to say, after doing the internet research, I have serious doubts about the genuine aphrodisiac properties of most of these suggestions.

But see what you think.

1. Coco de Mer – Seychelles

The picture above is of a nut from the Coco de Mer tree, a palm found in the Seychelles, and for which the ancient botanical term is Lodoicea callipyge. (Callipyge comes from the Greek for “beautiful buttocks.”)

Used in Eastern medicine and as a flavor enhancer in Cantonese cuisine, the fruit is also the basis of a liqueur called Coco D’Amour which is sold in the Seychelles.

After their honeymoon in May, Prince William and Kate Middleton were presented with a Coco de Mer fruit by the Seychelles Minister for Foreign Affairs. (I would love to have been a fly on the wall at that presentation.)

Budget alternative: Since the Coco’s attraction lies in its suggestive shape, try peaches, nectarines, or butternut squash. Frankly, if you’re determined to see innuendo in the vegetable section of the supermarket, anything will do.

2. Oysters – Louisiana, Galway, Prince Edward Island…

Everyone knows that oysters are supposed to be aphrodisiacs. It’s all to do with the high content of zinc, phosphorous, and iodine.

Put like that, they don’t sound romantic at all.

Budget alternative: Fish fingers, table salt, Pepsi, and a couple of cherry Cold-EEZE zinc tablets for dessert.

3. Lobsters – Maine

Presumably considered aphrodisiacs for the same reason as oysters — zinc, phosphorous, iodine — but honestly, lobsters? It is impossible to eat them without looking like the explosion at the end of Jaws. Plus you’re at the table, swathed in a plastic bib while wielding a pair of large nutcrackers — not the best picture to get a new boyfriend in the mood.

Budget alternative: Poor Man’s Lobster. It’s cod, dripping in butter, so you’ll probably still need the bib — but at least you can ditch the nutcrackers.

4. Strawberries – California

They’re red, they’re heart-shaped, they’re the perfect edible valentine.

And, more to the point, you have to buy whipped cream to go with them.

Budget alternative: Just buy the whipped cream.

5. Truffles – Alba

With white truffles costing $2000 a pound, it’s not these overpriced mushrooms per se that’s the aphrodisiac. If your date is buying you these in a restaurant, the turn-on is the size of his wallet.

Budget alternative: Chocolate truffles. Who wants to eat fungus anyway?

6. Champagne – France

Supposedly an aphrodisiac because its bouquet replicates the smell of female pheromones. However, with the expensive stuff, the Truffle Theory of Attraction (see #5) can be applied.

Budget alternative: Since, according to WebMD, there isn’t any solid proof that human pheromones exist at all, save your money. Buy anything with a Sale sticker on it at the liquor store. Anything above 10% proof will work just fine, as long as you adjust the quantity accordingly, otherwise you might defeat the purpose by falling asleep. This is where #7 comes in.

7. Chocolate – the local grocery store

In its more pure forms – I’m talking 70% cacao or more — half a bar of chocolate is more potent than a gallon of espresso. It will keep you awake for hours. For good measure, one brand actually puts espresso beans in its 72% chocolate as well!

Now there’s a company that understands the delicate connection between chocolate, alcohol, and love.

Budget alternative: There is no budget alternative. Chocolate is known as a substitute for love, but as every woman knows, love is merely a substitute for chocolate.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s Random Nomad interview.

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