I need a costume for Hallowe’en

I have the most random of Hallowe’en plans, which is that I’m going to a party at the Australian embassy in Paris. Yep. That’s me; Ms. International. But it’s going to be hard to top the costumed performance of my sister last weekend. She lives in China, as some of you may know, and she has a bit of a ‘Mando-pop’ obsession. As do I, now that she’s been feeding me things to listen to. I love music that’s good no matter what the genre, and some Mando-pop certainly qualifies (Leehom anyone?)

Over the weekend, my dear sis went to a concert for the band ‘Sodagreen’ in Shanghai and apparently managed to attract more than just a bit of attention.

Sodagreen:

Now I can highly recommend Sodagreen as a band, as silly as the name sounds, it’s some of the most innovative music I’ve heard in a while–combining pop music with classical themes, and I’m hooked. Yes, I’m hooked on Chinese pop music. Welcome to expat life. It’s a bit random and global. But you can see the whole lime green hair thing. So then we have my sister at the concert:

These images were taken from a Chinese chat website or similar, where apparently my sister had become famous for wandering around Shanghai as an Anglo wearing a lime green wig. She tells me the comments are on the order of, “I spotted her on the subway” and she also appeared on the jumbo-tron during the bid for an encore, so clearly she became a ‘15 minutes of fame’ local celebrity in Shanghai. The full concert story is archived on a blog from her friend here, along with this photo:

Now two things are true. I have never been as creative as my sis, and I absolutely adore that she was wandering around Shanghai in this wig. And using it as part of a greater plan to be the lead singer of Sodagreen for Halloween. Second thing, I still don’t have a costume for Hallowe’en and I need help, being not as creative as my sis I’m a bit baffled at the moment.

Oh and maybe a third thing, I can’t wait until spring break when I’m going to China to see my sister’s life in person! Planning must commence immediately…

Ordinary world?

Came in from a rainy Thursday
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly

I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can’t escape the ghost of you

What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some are saying
Where is the life that I recognize?
Gone away

But I won’t cry for yesterday
There’s an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

We all have them, ghosts in our past.  And no matter how things have changed, how we all move on, it’s hard not to stop and have a good cry for the past when big things change, even if you’re not really actually sad about the end result and you definitely don’t wish for any other outcome.  So tonight, conveniently Friday night, I will raise a glass to my ex-husband and his new wife.  Cheers.

Minnesota trip, by the numbers

• 5: number of total nights in the trip
• 4: number of nights spent in Minnesota
• 1: number of nights spend in Wisconsin
• 3: number of visits to my beloved nonagenarian grandmother
• 1: number of grilled cheese sandwiches (Velveeta, of course) eaten at the home of my nonagenarian grandmother
• 3: number of cups of tea drank at the home of my nonagenarian grandmother
• 4: number of games of Scrabble played with my nonagenarian grandmother
• 1: number of games of Scrabble won by me when playing with my nonagenarian grandmother
• 2: number of times I had lunch at the new Burger Jones in Uptown
• 2: number of times I had bagels for breakfast (Bruegger’s once, Einstein’s once)
• 0: number of times I had Starbucks coffee in the midwest (Dunn Bros. and Caribou are both firmly non-zero tallies)
• 3: number of purchases at the Uptown Art Fair
• 3: number of purchases in the Maple Grove Shoppes
• 2: number of awesome gifts from family members
• 2: number of items I had to carry on the plane in a separate shopping bag when all of said new acquisitions did not fit into my luggage
• 5: number of times I drove over the new 35W Mississippi river bridge
• 2: number of times I turned on my rental car to find Jack Johnson playing on Cities97
• 2: number of new songs heard on Cities97 in 6 days of driving around in said rental car (not that familiar music is a bad thing…)
• 0: number of times I drove directly by one of my old apartments in Minneapolis
• 4: number of times I was close enough to one of my old apartments in Minneapolis to feel nostalgic
• 3: number of times I randomly teared up while driving around town
• 3: number of times I was asked if I had heard from my ex-husband (not in over 2.5 years, for the record)
• 1: number of times I had a bad dream about said ex after everyone kept asking about him
• 2: number of good friends from high school that I got to see on this trip
• 1: number of high school friends that I meant to see but ran out of time
• 0: number of cousins I got to see on this trip again due to very limited time (maybe next time…)
• 2: number of times in the last 3 trips to Minneapolis that I’ve ended up spending time out of Minneapolis at another midwestern town with a Big 10 University
• 0: number of times in the next 3 trips to Minneapolis that I intend to spend time out of Minneapolis at another midwestern town with a Big 10 University (although who knows if I can really control this…)
• 3: number of gifts for my parents that I forgot back in England
• 1: number of gifts for my parents that I brought with me to Minnesota but forgot to give them
• 4: number of possessions of my sister’s that I meant to bring and also forgot in England
• 2: number of “care packages” that I will have to send from England to deliver items to parents and sister
• countless: number of times I’m glad that I finally made it back to Minnesota after a year in England and traveling elsewhere

And this is why I live in the city

I have been out in the wilderness of New England this week, experiencing what has (to me) become fondly known as “science summer camp for grown-ups” — a conference at a remote location, where a medium (100 to somewhat less than 200) people camp out in college student dormitory rooms together and spend a week immersed in a single topic of scientific inquiry. The brilliant thing about this format is that the science bits are in the morning and evening thus leaving the afternoons free for other forms of entertainment. Which sounds lovely, except that this week has been more of an adventure than I bargained for.

The science bits were great, I should start with that. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself and written more than 20 pages of A4 notes. Which is amazing in and of itself–I’m sufficiently old and jaded that I don’t often have that much to write down. One of the afternoon social events was brilliant, it was a beer tasting at a local swanky brew-pub complete with a hilarious brewmaster with a sharp wit, an English degree, and lots of audience participation. There were lots of shot-glass-sized beers to drink, and everyone left happy but not sloppy. But Tuesday we went hiking, and had a spectacular time. Except it was hard going. And I’m clearly not as young as I used to be.

Step back, the group was two of us “senior” colleagues (at all of mid-thirty-something) and two very junior (young twenties) colleagues. We older folks (ugh) were scrambling to keep up with the two youngsters. And it was not pretty. I got my foot caught in a gap in the rocks and I’m pretty sure my left pinky toe is busted (again… it’s happened many times before) and my compatriot experienced some sort of bout of food poisoning and was rushing down from the summit while I was limping. I was literally doing the bridal half-step except leading with my right foot every time I had to descend vertically, such that the pressure would not be on the left pinky toe. Fun. But the views at the top were awesome.

I thought this particular hike (fun and picturesque as it was) was but a distant memory, until I woke up this morning, aware that what I thought was just a mosquito bite on my leg was actually sort of strange in shape and appearance, looking nothing like a normal mosquito bite on closer examination. Fast forward a few hours, and the thing just kept growing and growing, until it was about 3″ across by the last scientific session of the evening. At that point, I had noticed steady growth in the thing over the last few hours especially (not to mention the itching) and realized I had to do something about it. So I left the last scientific session of the evening mid-way and went to the tiny-town New England ER because I had the background to realize it might be serious, and at least worth a look by someone more qualified than me in the medical milieu. I spent a lovely hour as the only patient in the ER of a tiny town New England hospital, chatting with the lovely doctor, who happens to have a son studying for a PhD in my field. I could have predicted what the doctor would recommend (broad-spectrum antibiotics for a longer-than-usual time) which he did, but at least it was a pleasant medical experience.

I now have to get up early in the morning to get an antibiotics prescription filled in the local pharmacy before heading out to my next meetings in Boston. I have a disgusting bulls-eye rash on my right shin, and I can scare people with it. There’s a medical bill careening towards my parents’ house in Minneapolis, because that was the easiest way to handle the emergency non-resident healthcare scenario. I was happy, I was treated. I had a triage EMT, a nice nurse and a chatty MD. I got a first dose of anti-biotics and a prescription for 2 more weeks, which is a big deal when faced with this sort of skin penetrating rash. But I have no idea what it cost, and I will be eagerly anticipating the numbers. I did not need as much time as they gave me, or as much high-level effort as they gave me. I have an obvious rash with an obvious cause.

Queues and Kids

I know that some wonderful stores have a single queue, usually snaking back and forth a few times, and then many registers that call the next person forward by register number. WH Smith, Boots, and the bank branch near my flat all seem to follow this very fair system of queueing. (I can’t believe spell checker is not flagging those five vowels in a row, U-E-U-E-I!) However, not all stores have this sort of arrangement, including grocery stores (except the express line) and a few others. So the experience I’m about to relate has to be considered unique to stores with individual check-out lines.

I had my basket of goods and was looking at the three open check-out lanes to try and optimize my store-exit strategy. Lurking behind one of the lines was a woman with a baby in one of those car seat-carriers stuck in a cart and there was also a little girl running around her. It was actually not clear that she was in line, but I still avoided that one and got into another line. Suddenly I hear this voice behind me, “Ma’am, Excuse me but I was already waiting for the next available cashier.” I turned around, I’m guessing that my jaw was dropped in shock and that I gave her one of those “You’ve got to be kidding me!” looks. She said, “Give me a break, I have an infant and a two-year old here.”

I let her go. I was not really in the mood for a fight, but now I’m sorta peeved with myself for allowing this obnoxious woman to redefine the queue structure from individual lanes into she-moves-around-and-gets-whatever-comes-up-next. I might have felt differently had she said, in a polite tone of voice, “I’m sorry but is there any way possible I could take the next lane?” but she did not actually ask me. And her tone of voice was neither sweet nor polite, and it only got worse with the comment about the kids, as though she was somehow entitled to special treatment by virtue of being a mother.

I admit it, I do not have children (nor do I intend to, but that’s a different story). So I don’t know if I’m somehow violating a universally-acknowledged right of motherhood by feeling ornery about this particular altercation. But admittedly I do get a bit stroppy when someone tries to get special treatment. I kinda feel like most of us have difficult lives, and are tired, and overworked, and so I don’t see some sort of totally non-level playing field based on to be or not to be a mother. Of course, my cashier in the queue in which I landed was very speedy and I was actually out of the store before the Holy Mother, so I did not have to look at her again, which was probably a good thing. But I’m interested in opinions here, was this particularly brash or am I being sensitive? Should this type of attitude be justifiable solely on the grounds of being out in public with small children?

I’ve missed my calling

Really, I blame authorblog. It was he who posted this story about a little old lady, past 100, and her use of facebook and twitter. Google around and it turns out this has been all over the recent British news. And I love, love, love it. I’ve followed her on Twitter, and had a great look around her care home’s website, which looks really cozy and like someplace I would love to hang around. Thus, my thinking I missed my calling, I’m spending all day every day with the wrong aged people. See, I adore “little old ladies” especially if they’re feisty, as this Ivy Bean appears to be. And my nonagenarian grandmother certainly is. I had at one point in my life entertained thoughts of being a doctor specializing in geriatric medicine; I suspect I made a better choice for me in that engineering is a bit less emotional, and I doubt I could have handled losing patients that I had grown attached to. But it’s certainly true that I look wistfully in the windows of my local care home when I walk to the gym, as I wonder if perhaps the little old ladies sitting there alone might like company. I’ve always been the girl who would rather hang out with the elderly and who is not so interested in the babies as in the stories about the 30s and 40s.

But hey, Britain has a cure for this: you can register as a volunteer on the “Help the Aged” charity site with the category “befriending”. That is totally the right type of volunteer work for lonely me, even better if I can make a “friend” who can teach me to knit! Fingers crossed that they do need a “befriender” in my area, as I really would love to hang around someone like the fabulous Ivy Bean. In the meantime, I’m trying to convince said nonagenarian grandmother to get on facebook, we could totally play long-distance scrabble (although I know she’ll always win).

April 21, 1939

On the 21st of April, 1939, seventy years ago today, my grandparents were married. They were married out in the homestead prairie regions of southwestern Minnesota. The wedding photographs prominently featured a baby goat and mostly took place in the bride’s family home. This was small town/farm country America. My immigrant great-grandparents (grandmother’s parents) moved to the area from the Netherlands in the early 20th century. They initially lived in a sod house with dirt floors; they had 15 children, my grandmother included, of which 14 lived to adulthood. They were so stuck for names that there is a series of pairs, with the first and middle name switched, for most of the older children.

My grandparents fell in love and got married in a scandalous cross-culture experiment: she was Dutch! But he was Norwegian! Tongues were wagging across southwestern Minnesota, although they both came from “highly respected families” in the area. They took up more than a few column inches in the local newspaper with the wedding announcement (I have a scan, hoorah!) My grandfather’s sister was the bridesmaid and my grandmother’s brother was the groomsman–thank goodness these details were preserved in the local paper for posterity! We even know what song was played for the wedding processional. If we didn’t have the photos to sustain us, we could be assured that the bride “was beautifully attired in a floor length white satin dress, trimmed at the shoulders and sleeves and with stand-up collar. An ankle-length veil completed her attire. She carried a bouquet of Easter Lilies and white Sweet Peas.” If we had any doubts, we could know that “A bountiful lunch concluded the reception…” and that the honeymoon took them “for an extended wedding trip, which will take them to the Twin Cities and other points.”

They managed more than 60 years of married life before they left the earth at the same time, after a car accident some years ago. This is admittedly more personal than my usual post, but… Have you ever seen two people so happy in a wedding photo?

Reality check

I’ve been a bit quiet this week, the break in the full-on work action has meant that I’ve had time to really think about things. Not that I haven’t been working, mind you, but just not quite in the same way as during the busy times when I’m in meetings non-stop and never have a chance to think about anything (technical or non-technical). The thing is, I’ve been strangely upset by the whole Jade Goody thing. Wait, let me explain, I think it actually makes some sense. I’m not vicariously upset about the death of a TV “reality” star as though I knew her personally. The relatively sudden and dramatic death of someone younger than you is always something to give a girl pause. But this seems to have put my life situation into perspective on another level: were I to get suddenly struck with a horrible cancer and have six months or less to live, I would end up pretty much dying alone in a foreign country that has been more hostile than friendly. By being diagnosed with something, I would have a “pre-existing medical condition” and not be able to get insurance in the US, not to mention the fact that a terminal diagnosis would be associated with no ability to get a job in the US, and of course health insurance goes with the jobs back “home”. Suddenly living abroad, when put into this context, seems not so fun anymore. Especially when I think about this disaster scenario of what would happen if something were to go very wrong with my health. Not something I think about much, being relatively young and healthy and not being a terribly morbid personality, but for some reason I’m stuck on this right now and having a hard time looking ahead. Perhaps this is why it’s actually a good thing that I normally stay too busy with work and don’t have time to think much….

A real Dutch village

My little jaunt to the Netherlands is almost over, but it is hard for me to hang around here without thinking of how much my maternal Grandmother would have been amused at my being on Dutch soil yet again. So far I have not made it to the ancestral homeland, the town Dordrecht, but it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure! I hear from my hosts on this trip (to Eindhoven) that Dordrecht is lovely and thus definitely worth a visit with my camera. Maybe next time my sister is in town!

I got a little sentimental this evening after wandering around the old town of Eindhoven, recalling the time that my Grandma and I spent bumming around Holland, Michigan, including our visit to the theme park/shopping area known as the “Dutch Village“. My Gram was really enjoying that day; she was proudly 100% Dutch, her parents came over as immigrants to the US (how ironic, says this American expat… only lasted two generations!) and although she was born in the US, she grew up speaking Dutch. Gram charmed everyone in the Dutch village with her fascination for the place and her affection for the homeland she had never visited, and that’s certainly the way I remember her too–she was definitely sentimental about the motherland in some ways, and wanting to pass that to her kids and grandkids. How hard she tried to teach us little phrases, and how happy I am now to have some of her recipes. Her visit for the Dutch village extravaganza was such a really special trip–I lived in Michigan, and she (although around 80 years old at the time) flew from Minnesota for a long weekend to visit me and hang out in America’s own little Dutch enclave: A visit I will never, ever forget.

I get now that my childhood was somewhat unusual in ways: many Americans are quite well-settled in the great melting pot and many generations have been established in the US, while I was reasonably close to the recent arrivals, who all came to MN or thereabouts around the turn of the 20th century. This one was always my “Dutch Grandma” (to contrast with my “Norwegian Grandma” who was similarly first generation American and also speaks her mother tongue). Holland, MI was as close as my Gram ever made it to the Netherlands, so I hope she’s smiling down on me today from the great beyond. I know I’ve enjoyed being here and look forward to another visit, perhaps more leisurely and for soaking up more of the culture, in the future.

Puppies

I’ve returned from Manchester, and having run out of reading materials on the train there (even though I had a pile of work with me–amazing how distraction-free the train ride can be when it’s more than three hours!) I decided that for Friday late afternoon into evening, I would read nonsense. So I bought the book “Marley and Me” at the WHSmith at Manchester Piccadilly rail station, and managed to knock off the entire thing before I got home. And oh, what a book, if you have ever had the pleasure of trying to manage a badly behaved dog.

I was married for six years, and at about year 2.5 in the marriage the ex and I brought home an adorable puppy that sounds a lot like Marley from the book. It was only half retriever (not clear if it was Lab or Golden) and half spaniel of some sort, so only about 50 pounds full grown (half of Marley) but shared so many of the characteristics of Marley that it was gut-wrenching to read. My little darling was Murphy, and he was the most adorable and exasperating puppy, and later, dog, one could ever imagine. I loved him fully and he brought me great joy in the remaining 3.5 years that my marriage survived, including being a strong comfort to me when I lost family members in a terrible car accident about a year before my divorce. I was completely gutted when I had to leave him with my ex-husband when we got divorced; I was in grad school and moving into a studio apartment, and the ex bought another house with a yard in suburbia. But I admit, he was a very badly-behaved dog, Marley-style.

Murphy was the reason that I stayed in touch with my ex after we divorced, after I left Minnesota and even after I left the country. I would dog-sit to see Murphy when I was still in the area, and later I would just visit, spending painful time with my ex-husband for the sole purpose of getting to see, and photograph, my darling and ill-behaved mutt. But I did move to the UK, and eventually I got the sad news from the ex that he had inexplicably–and without telling me–gotten rid of Murphy, then probably about 8 or 9 years old. He claims to have sent Murph to the humane society, but I have my doubts. It was nearly two years ago that this happened, and I’ve had no contact with my ex ever since. I’ll probably never know what became of my darling puppy–for he remained a puppy, a badly-behaved but enthusiastic puppy, the entire time I knew him. I probably don’t want to know what happened in the end, given that the fate of a nearly 10 year old dog given up to the humane society cannot be good, and who knows if that is even the truth of what happened (I don’t trust my ex to tell me the truth).

So for people on the Liverpool to Norwich train this afternoon, who could not figure out why I was crying my eyes out reading this book about a dog, there you have it.