Can you really enjoy a Bake Sale?

I sometimes struggle to enjoy "special" occasions because there's so much pressure for them to be "special". I find myself asking throughout the day, "Am I enjoying myself? Am I enjoying myself enough? After all, this is a 'special day' and so I should be enjoying myself significantly more than I do on other days."

It was my birthday this week, and I don't think I asked any of those questions at all.

You see, even on my birthday, the kids need packed lunches. The dog needs walked. Turned out I had a client in the morning. It was full on busy till around noon, so my birthday lunch was leftovers from the night before. 
And then it was all about cake.

This year there was a lot of cake. But not for me. ...read more

Lessons Learned

I never ever planned to teach. Sure I'm bossy. My friends will tell you, I'm never shy about offering up 'my experience'.
But to actually do it for money seemed terrifying to me. 
And yet here I am,  already ensconced with my third course of storytelling students.
And I like it. No, I'm lying, I love it. 
It seems like it's the point of everything. That humans were meant to pass information from one to the other, like you are passing the baton in Nature's great relay race.
(Granted my feeling of euphoria might not be so clear were I trying to teach Latin in Inner City schools, rather than storytelling in a pretty little theatre in California.)
Anyway, the point is I'm enjoying the experience of teaching so much, I almost can't believe I haven't thought of doing it before.

I blame Mrs Dunbar. To most people reading this, the name Mrs Dunbar will mean nothing, but to anyone who attended Muirfield Primary school in the early 70s, it's the equivalent of mentioning Lord Voldemort - Like even saying her name will mean that she'll appear round the corner  - eyes glistening with fury, leather belt in her hand, calling you out to the front of the class for the inevitable.
Mrs Dunbar was the 'Infant Mistress' - a quaint term meaning she was like the School Principal for the youngest classes - in American terms, Kinder through to 2nd Grade.
I remember her as being short for an adult. She had curly hair and glasses and you should never look her in the eye, because if you looked her in the eye....
I don't know if she had family. When I first encountered her I was 5, which is not an age when you ask those sort of questions to an adult. 
And you would never ask questions of Mrs Dunbar anyway. 
Ever.

She would belt you if "you left your schoolbag in the wrong place," or "until you learned to whisper." She would visit the classroom in the morning and, though there'd be a shiver down your spine, you'd politely say, "Good Morning Mrs Dunbar." And you had better be careful if you passed her in the corridor, because if she thought you looked like you had "a bad attitude"....

I lived beside a heroin store in the lower East side of New York in the 80s. I've done stand up in all sorts of clubs and pubs over the world. I've attempted cabaret in auditoriums crammed with pissed up rockers baying for a band. 
I think it's fair to say that in my, so far, given time on earth, I've taken a lot of chances in situations that a wise person would not have taken chances. 
For these experiences, I credit Mrs Dunbar. For in all the craziest places I've been to, I have yet to have met anyone who sparked with the same potential of unpredictable violence as she did. Unwittingly, she taught me not to be afraid of the angry guy with the tattooed face, or the girl screaming for a fight, because I will never be as scared of anyone as I was of her. 

But it wasn't all roses with Mrs Dunbar. She wasn't aversed to a little psychological work too. 
I was 6. I had been ill and was absent from school for a week. When I returned, I had been put in a lower reading group and my mother had called the school and asked that I be put back in the higher reading group as reading was something I was strong at. I knew nothing about it at all.
Then Mrs Dunbar visited the classroom. "Good Morning Mrs Dunbar."
But on this particular morning,  she wasn't furious. She was casually gleeful- in the way that psychopaths are, just before they kick a puppy.
The teacher, Mrs Ramsay, asked her with great ceremony, if there was a reason she was calling this morning, to which Mrs Dunbar replied that she had popped round because there was a "Very very special person in the room. So special in fact, that they were almost Royalty."
We were all silent. It was only a matter of time.
I waited for one of the usual suspects to be called out to the front of the class, but this time it was me.
"Tell everyone why you think you're special." she said. "We're waiting. Everyone wants to know why it is that you think you have the right to be different from anyone else.  Don't we all want to know why Lynn here is better than us all? You were able to tell your Mother, weren't you? Now we'll all just wait, until you can tell us all as well."
And everybody waited, relieved that it was my turn and not theirs.
"I'm not." I said.
"That's right. You're not. You're nothing. Understand?"
"Yes. I am nothing."

One of the things we discuss in storytelling classes is that often when you look at what a story is, you get to see it with the eyes of the person you are now, and not as the person you were then.

I am probably older now than Mrs Dunbar was when she terrorized children for a living, yet still when I'm in times of pressure or self doubt, I allow her to be there in my head.
"You're nothing. Understand?"

I had a whole load of other teachers through the years.
 - Mrs Borthwick, from whom I randomly found a love of all things Norwegian. Mr Stevenson, who taught me the importance of community. Mr Doig, from whom I learned that language teachers can be hilarious and Mr Morrison, from whom I learned that a great sense of humor can help you pass geography exams.
And they are just a few of a long list.
In turning to look at the story, I noticed there are many more characters than just the wicked Witch of the West, so she shouldn't get to have all the lines.

I really hadn't expected that teaching other people how to find their stories, would result in me looking at my own.
It's made me wonder if Mrs Borthwick found greater appreciation of her country by teaching people about it, whether Mr Stevenson found his community by watching students discover the importance of it, and if Mr Morrison survived his Geography degree by having a really great laugh. 

I almost began to wonder what had inspired Mrs Dunbar to so relish punishment. Then I stopped.
I've thought too much about her already. It's time to let her go.

Hot - and not in a sexy way

It's been a rough couple of days. Firstly, Mr Tweddle caught Man-flu. (It's like ordinary flu, but A LOT worse...apparently)
There was a whole lot of lolling in nightwear and grunting around the house - and not in a sexy way. And then I caught his Man -flu - and there was more lolling around in nightwear and groaning around the house - still not in a sexy way.
Then as fever hit so did soaring temperatures in LA, and that is precisely when our air conditioner ground to a halt.
It was grim.
100+ degrees is hot anyway, but for a Scottish person - someone who was brought up in a climate of  sleet and rain - it's like the halls of Hades itself.
Now, in between cold drugs, and nightwear changes, and the obligatory feeding of the children (it's the law apparently) we had to work out a way to find an available air conditioning repair man during a heatwave - which is about as easy as trying to find a rainbow flag in Kim Davis' garage.

So, we call round a couple of friends and they refer their air-con people, and appointments are made, and round they come.
By this time, Mr Tweddle is half-ways recovered - he's dressed at least and awake for most of the day. I on the other hand, sit glassy-eyed and sniffling in 'loungewear,' as each air-con company gives us their pitch.
The first guy starts off with "Well you're lucky your house is not on fire. The fuse blew. Otherwise the whole thing would have gone up."

Apparently we need a whole new air conditioning system.
"Really , you're looking at around $16k," he says, in a tone that makes me feel guilty for not just having $16k in my pajama pocket - (I knew there was a reason for that pocket on the chest.)
I am sick and ashamed and really really frickin hot (and not in a sexy way) so I decide to switch off for the rest of the conversation.
And I do.
Then one single sentence is audible through the fog. I am sick, I am tired, I am going through all sorts of economic shame and yet this one sentence stands out.
I hear him say.
"And all of our workers completely speak English, so you have nothing to worry about there."

I hadn't been aware that I was worried.
I wanted someone to fix my air conditioner, not read me a book.
I was too sick to understand why I was annoyed, but I was really really frickin annoyed.
I decided, somewhat groggily that even if I did have $16K in my pajama pocket, I wouldn't be giving it to this guy anyway.
Mr Tweddle continued to listen (he's a facts collector) and eventually this aircon guy left - after charging us $99 to frighten the frickin life out of us.

He was replaced my the aircon guy 2, who announced, smilingly,  that his immune system was made of steel. I retreated to the coolest part of the house. I hated him for being healthy and I hated me for not being the kind of person who could just rustle up $16K. And the speak English thing was still bothering me, but my head was too much of a fog.

He wanted us to rip the house apart.
"Ditch everything and go solar."
"Uhm...isn't that kind of wasteful?"
 "No. It's the proper thing to do environmentally and it'll only cost you $22K!"
(I have to point out, this one wasn't recommended by a friend.)

It was a hot and uncomfortable night in Tweddley Manor.

The third air con man came this morning. He'd being working on air conditioning for years. He'd fixed and fitted for a friend of mine and for her parents, and he basically is 'the go-to guy' for her whole family.
He wandered up to the air conditioner, flicked a couple of switches and announced the condenser was broken and had blown th fuse. He had it fixed in around 20 minutes and left with a check for $235.
When Mr Tweddle had dolefully mentioned that he supposed we'd need to replace the whole system pretty soon, air-con man had laughed and said, "Not at all, that's good for another 10 years."

So, my point.
Sitting in the refreshingly cool air, first day in real clothes rather than pajamas, out of all the things to be annoyed about, I find I am still really really really really irritated by the, "And all of our workers completely speak English, so you have nothing to worry about there."

When we first arrived in this country 7 years ago, one of the first people we got to know is Latina. She speaks hardly a word of English and yet she is one of the most trustworthy, kind and hard-working people I know. She would never try to screw anybody out of money and if someone were poorly or frightened, she would offer a hug or bring soup.
I have never known her to lie.  She would never treat anybody as being beneath her, and in all the time that she has known me, she has never assumed that I am stupid or lazy or that I might delve into the contents of her purse, because I can't speak very good Spanish.

"And all of our workers completely speak English, so you have nothing to worry about there."

I wonder if he would have said the same thing to me were my eyes brown and my hair dark. I wonder if it would have felt quite as eager to point that out,  were my skin not sickly, Scottish translucent, white.
It irritates me because I can't work out why he would say it. But in a way I am glad he did, because in the middle of my Man- flu and $16K shame, I might not otherwise have heard the truth.

Which is.
The words Air Con1 man and I use are the same. Our speech sounds and sentence structures generally equate to being 'English', but the language we speak is  totally different.
And his language is not one I have any inclination learning.

Instead when I bump into my Latina friend this week, in very very bad Spanish I will try to tell her all about my weekend, and in very very bad English she will try to tell me about hers. And we will laugh about the Man -flu and the heatwave and the pajamas and shake our heads about the different air conditioning guys. And we will understand enough of the words exchanged, to feel it was a satisfying conversation.
Because, aside from the fact that I'm 5"10 and she's 5'1, we basically view the world the same.

Not taking the hump on hump day.

I keep thinking it's time for me to take a break from social media, and then catching myself in it all the time. And it's a nightmare, because there's some stuff I just don't want to know.

The constant barrage of crayzee Kim Davis, and horrendous detail after detail about Syria - if you haven't seen the video of the Hungarian photographer, then don't look for it - and photograph after photograph of smiling barbarians holding up dead animals are beginning to persuade me that the world is full of hate.

This morning, the first thing to to greet me on Facebook was some vacuous looking creature smiling as she held up a dead dove. A dove!
That's right, the universal symbol of love and peace.
And there is this complete idiot, smiling obnoxiously and holding up the body of the life she has taken.

And it's infectious.
Watching this crap I become so full of rage myself, that I dream of a scenario where the Hungarian photographer, and the female dove killer, and the lion murdering dentist from Minnesota, could all be stranded on a desert island, and we all get to watch who survives the longest. And the only rules for this scenario would be overseen by Kim Davis, because we all know how well she upholds the letter of the law.

And it's wrong.
I don't know who said it - I could look it up on the Internet but there's a good chance the answer would be false - but the saying 'Be careful how you choose your enemies, because they are whom you'll become most alike,'  has never been so relevant for me.

I'm not about to spend $50,000 and take my bow and arrow to a safari park, or start shooting pretty birds, or trip over helpless people as they flee from a war zone carrying their infants, but the level of disgust I find myself feeling when I see what these creatures are out there doing,  must be similar to the level of disgust those particular life forms feel for the rest of the world themselves.

So what do I do? Do I just steer clear of all electronics and hope that the situation will just go away? Do I tinker with my news feed, so that all I get are pictures of smiling babies and cats wearing hilarious party costumes? Or do I write a blog and say, I am not like them and I don't believe most of the world is like them either?

I've opted for the last one.

So...

When I don't know what to think about Syria.

When I think find myself thinking about lions.

When I see a photograph of some bimbo holding a dead dove.

And I had tons of links I could've put right there. Tons. because all over the world right now, some people are doing good - no, in fact, great -  things.  Don't forget to turn your attention to them. There are plenty of good people in the world. Plenty!  Just sometimes the ugly ones seem to make the most noise - and seem to be plastered all over social media.

xxx

Peanuts

My six-year-old is properly opinionated.
Actually, when I say "properly," what I really mean is "outrageously" and he's been like that from birth.
From the moment his bossy wee body first entered the world, he defied medicine by lifting his head to look around, the message in his new-born eyes, "I am the boss, deal with it."

Throughout his six short years, he has taken his own time with whatever task is in front of him. He caused concern, developmentally, as he didn't really bother talking until he was three. Then, when he did talk, it was in fully-formed sentences.
He is the single, most-opinionated, person I know,  so although I should look back on his pre talking days with a sense of "how worried I was, " I occasionally reminisce, "Those were the days."

This year, at kindergarten, he has worried teachers by his initial apparent inability to comprehend math - though now he reliably informs me that 62 plus 62 is 124, and dividing is about knowing how many groups of things you would get in a number.

Presently his reading is dodgy. There are certain words that he can read and when he comes across a word, he cannot read, he will look me in the eye and say - without any sense of doubt - "That isn't a word." So at the moment "monkey" "tree" and "umbrella" simply do not exist.

But the weirdest he has always been, is in terms of food.
To say he is picky would be an understatement. More accurately he is, "An ongoing pain in the ass."

He eats: cheese, pasta with no sauce, bread (wholemeal and french), french toast, bananas, apples, carrots, chicken, pizza, salmon, pretty much any kind of fruit bar from Trader Joes, and of course, an insurmountable amount of crap covered in sugar or chocolate.
Going to a restaurant is a drag, because there are only certain things on the menu he will consider as foodstuffs and if they're not on the menu, he would rather starve. (Except, of course, he would never really starve, as I know he keeps a stash of stuff he has pilfered from the kitchen cupboard,  in a drawer in his little desk, and under his bed.)

Oh and I've read those articles too about how you just have to "make problem foods into an interesting little model like a train or a smiley face on a plate," and it's all wonderful. And maybe that works for some kids. Maybe.
But for my kid, if you dish him up something looking like a little train, he will look at you with such disdain, that you will be ashamed for even considering yourself to have parenting skills.

He is vehement on foods he will not eat.  Vehement, because, as he explains, "They are not food."

Pretty much from the moment he decided he would concede to conversation, he has taken great offense to 'The Peanut".
Randomly, sniffing something placed before him at mealtimes or as snack,  he would ask, "Are there peanuts in that?" 'Does this have peanuts in it?"
And, I mean, for no reason.
We're not particularly big on peanuts in our house and I've always gone with the medical advice of no peanuts before 6 anyway, but from time to time, his distrustful little expression would eye me, like we were in an Agatha Christie novel and I was the butler, "Any peanuts here?"

He was complaining of late, that he felt he wasn't being respected at school. When they refused to let squeeze in beside his friend at the  'No peanut table" he announced that his life was being put in danger.  I figured that at some point, to keep the peace, I'd get him tested - if not for allergies,  for being a cantankerous, wee, know-it-all.

Recently though, that changed.
He had been given a bag of assorted candy from school and squirreled it away in his "secret stash" in his desk drawer, probably so he didn't have to share it with his brother.
It was not a school day and the house was relatively calm,  both boys were playing on computers (bad parent, bad parent).
Suddenly my 6 year old let out a weird, loud, gutteral noise and ran out of his room. Almost getting to the bathroom, he started vomiting, his little body spasming with the strength of the wretching.

Both Mark and I ran to get to him. His whole body was rigid, tears down his little red face both from crying and from the sheer force of his gagging reflexes.
We were both trying to work out what had happened?... what to do?... had he swallowed something?  should we call an ambulance?
Only 6 years old and so completely small and vulnerable. We were terrified.
"Chocolate. Chocolate." he managed to wheeze.

My other son fished out the chocolate wrapper from the hidden stash. Peanut butter cup.
When my 6 year old stopped vomiting, we gave him water,  and as a ruby-red rash started to creep its way rapidly up one side of his body,  antihistamine.
Within minutes he was fine, and announced,  "Somebody tried to poison me," in an accusatory tone.

We had him allergy tested for peanuts and the result came back, positive. Super positive, in fact.
The allergist told us if he has peanuts the next time, it would likely affect his respiratory system.

Nowadays he has his own EpiPen, he always sits in the 'no peanuts" table at school, and he is much more careful with the calibre of foods he squirrels away ( in the secret stashes in his desk, and under his bed, that none of us are supposed to know about).

And I have conceded. When my six year old dogmatically states that some foodstuffs "are not food, I'll (mostly) accept that for now. Just as he has to accept, that sometimes I'll, by chance, happen upon his stash and announce that some of those foodstuffs are "not real food either".
I hope that just as my eldest's food choices expanded with age, so will it be with my youngest.

Announcing I thought I should get my  eldest tested for allergies too, my six-year-old, chipped in.
"I can tell you what Fergus is allergic to."
"Oh what?" I asked, intrigued.
"Sharing," my six-year-old announced. And on that, with a smug little chuckle, he headed off to his room.

Tripping

Been an odd couple of days. Have this constant niggling in my head, like I've left the cooker on, or there's a bill that should have been paid, or a meeting I didn't remember to go to. It's been driving me mad.
It's dawned on me this morning as I got an e mail from my 11 year old son's school, announcing what time he'd be back from the annual school trip,  that I may be having detachment issues.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't cry when he went on the school trip or plead with him to take care. I may have nagged him slightly about teeth brushing and deodorant wearing, and suggested how he put laundry in one bag and keep clean clothes in the other, but I didn't think I was clingy. And I definitely didn't make one, single, comment about how I couldn't even call him on the phone for almost three whole days

Since he's been gone, I haven't sighed to my husband  or my 6 year old about how I wish he was home. I haven't commented on how quiet the house is. I haven't let myself get into the place where I worry that he's sleeping alright, that he's eating properly, that he's taking care of himself. I haven't focussed on how much I want him to be happy.

But as I look over the photographs the school are diligently sending on of the kids on the trip, I find myself hoping that when he put on that sweatshirt this morning, he remembered I packed it for him because I wanted him to be warm. When I see him sitting down for lunch, I hope he's chosen vegetables because it's important to be healthy. Looking at him settling down for the night in his sleeping bag, I hope that he closed his eyes knowing how very much he is loved.

The school say this trip is absolutely instrumental in developing the confidence to allow independent growth.
And I get that.
But for me or for him...

To or From

Mucho apologies to anyone who may have been attempting to reading these on a semi regular basis, for not having blogged for ages.
The trouble is, that though I absolutely love love love the nature of blogging - which is,  you can throw down your thoughts and then send them out into the stratosphere for anyone to pick up or bin (according to their preference) my appreciation of it completely gets in the way, once I sit down to write.

There's something so intensely personal about a blog. You can read when the writer is not being honest, or wants to impress, or is trying to hide something from you or from themselves.
With a blog the fact is, it's always best to say what's on your mind.
The problem for me is,  I often find the contents of my mind so seemingly random, that the idea of placing them into a blog for anyone to read, seems about as entertaining a prospect as emptying my Hoover bag out on the carpet and asking if anyone wanted to look through the contents.
With blogging, as with many things,  it's difficult to know where, or even when, to start.

So why now?
Well, Mark and I have been collaborating on this project called "Journeys to Glasgow" an online storytelling site about Glasgow, to coincide with the 2014 commonwealth games, along with some great friends of ours from old.
Everyone else involved in the project seems to do a whole lot of hard work, grafting, thinking, constructing, traveling, navigating through the early mornings and late nights caused by the time zones between us, based here in Los Angeles, and everybody else based 8 hours ahead in Glasgow.

My input has consisted, so far, of a bit of posturing saying stuff like, "Have you thought about that?' "Remember to mention this" and "You know your logo looks squinty?"
I figured the least I could do was write a little story about what I think of the city.

That should have been easy enough,  Glasgow is a place I absolutely love,  but when I sat down to write, I got as far as stating that Glaswegians are brilliant, and that I still think that when the sun hits off the red sandstone buildings after the rain, it is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Though I was born in Cumbernauld, I lived in Glasgow for 8 years from when I was 18 till I was 26. As anyone over the age of 26 knows, a lot of stuff happens between the ages of 18 and 26 - way too much to put in any one blog.  But, long long before I ever moved to Glasgow, I knew it would be my home some day.

My parents were both Glaswegians, who moved us all out to the newly built town of Cumbernauld before I was born, with the promise of a better lifestyle and a bigger house.
They definitely needed a bigger house as their "room and kitchen" in Alford street was cramped, to say the least, with three young children and another on the way.
And though my parents loved Cumbernauld, they never lost their own affection for Glasgow, the city where they had grown up and their parents before them.

My Mum and I used to travel on the bus from Cumbernauld to Glasgow some Saturdays. I don't always remember why exactly we went.
Sometimes we went to go shopping, or to visit my Nana (my Mum's Mum) who seemed, often, to be in the Royal Infirmary - James Miller's giant imposing hospital perched next to Glasgow cathedral and - from my point of view on the bus - next to the biggest graveyard in the world.
(When I was a kid I reckoned they had the graveyard there to remind patients, that they'd better get better or else.)
Then the bus would wind its way down Cathedral street, past Strathclyde University, where my sister and brother - Janice and Scott -  were studying, finally coming to a stop at Buchanan Street Bus Station, where we would disembark.

Buchanan St Bus Station - which confusingly was actually on Killermont Street -  was always busy, serving busses on local routes, as well as coaches that would travel to further off places such as London.
As a child,  I never thought much about London. I'd heard that it was big and busy, but I couldn't imagine anywhere being bigger and busier than Glasgow.

At Christmas time we'd always head to Goldberg's - a huge department store that offered a new fangled thing called "credit" and had the best Christmas displays around. Animatronic elves would pretend to wrap presents, or reindeers would shake their heads from side to side in the window displays.
Inside the store was just as brilliant.
You could spot dark haired women with great make up and fur coats and great jewelry, or smart guys in suits with slicked hair and chunky gold identity bracelets. They talked loudly and had great smiles and huge arm movements. They were exotic amazing creatures, not like anything else I'd seen in Cumbernauld. Once, I asked my mother what  made  these people so different, and she whispered "They're Jewish."
 I had no idea what that meant, but I decided that I definitely planned to be Jewish some day.

Later, when I lived in Glasgow I would meet my mother at the bus station.  Though Goldberg's had long gone by then, we'd explore the random ridiculous wonder of Nash's, a magnificent wee stationary shop on Miller Street, that laughed in the face of modern technology.
Or maybe we'd go to Fraser's on Buchanan Street and snigger at the orange ladies,  their fake tan messing up the collars of their coats,  after the rain had managed to somehow make its way underneath their umbrellas.

We'd marvel at the selection of cakes - or "cream cookies" - with synthetic cream and a wee mandarin slice in the windows of bakeries, and sometimes go for lunch at one of the many emerging Indian restaurants.
Then, when it was time for her to go home, we'd head back to the bus station to wait for her bus.

Years later, so much has changed. I've travelled more than I ever thought I would and seen some ridiculously large train stations, airports in all different parts of the world, but none of them I've ever held in as much esteem as that daft bus depot on the side of Killermont Street.

So Mark told me that our photographer was out and about in Glasgow this week,  and was there something specifically I wanted her to shoot pictures of?

"Definitely, " I said, "Buchanan Street Bus Station"
He looked at me in that way that I always say, means that he thinks I'm an idiot, but he always says, he's just trying to work out what I've said.

"You heard me" I say, "Don't bother doing that look. Buchanan Street Bus station."
"Ok. But why? It's a bus station. There's amazing amazing architecture in Glasgow and bus stations are pretty much the same all over the world."
"Not that bus station. " I say, "I used to meet my Mum there,"
"I get that.  But that was a really long time ago, you're not going to see your Mum there now."

Of course he's wrong. In every single photograph,  I totally will.

Two wrongs. You're right.

When my kids get caught doing something wrong or have screwed up, I have this thing that I tell them to do - it's the same thing I was told to do when I was a kid: Admit your mistake and apologize.

Sorry. Begging your pardon. Let's sort it out and we can move on. Let's let bygones be bygones.
But that can only happen when you admit it's your mistake.
Otherwise the 'sorry' could really just mean  "Sorry, I got caught." "Sorry, you're such an arse." "Sorry, I have to spend my time talking to idiots"
My kids are 10 and 6. They understand this. Granted, they don't always live by it, but they understand it, perfectly.

If you follow me on Twitter, firstly thank you you gorgeously foolish thing,  and secondly, you may have noticed that the content of my tweets has included the odd barbed comment to @chasesupport about stuff going on with my bank account.
And I'd like to apologise.
Twitter isn't meant for stuff like that.  It's meant for cheekiness and important news reports.
Everybody's just trying to get through the day dealing with their own fair quota of assholes: bad drivers, wrong bills and annoying wee numpties whose sole purpose seems to be to annoy the Hell out of everybody.
Nobody needs to be brought in to some stinking wee gripe of mine.

BUT when I'm mad about something I talk about it. and I talk and talk until I'm not mad anymore. I think that may be why some of my closest friends are deaf. (True)
So, I figure I'd put it all down in a blog and that way, I'll get it off my chest, and if anyone wants to read it they can, and if they'd prefer to look away and smell some pretty flowers, or notice how blue the sky is today, or marvel at the sheer concept as to how many universes there are out there yet to be explored, then that's totally fine too.

OK, so here goes.

It starts in June 2012. I'm out shopping in LA for a dress.
I remember this for two reasons
1. Because I was shopping for an actual dress rather than jeans, pants or something made of flannelette,
and
2. Because the dress was for the premiere of Brave. I had sorted my kids with suits, my other half was wearing his kilt, so that just left me to be suited and booted. I was stressed.

I had tried on all sorts of stuff to no avail, (pressure) and was, not secretly, cursing the genes that had bestowed me the "child bearing hips" (they had proved useful twice in my life and otherwise were the proverbial pain in the ass.)
Having wandered around the stores most of the morning I found myself in need of a snack and passing a Panda Express (classy right?) decided that this would be the time to try there.
My brother-in-law Eddie, told me once, that whenever he visits the States he likes to go and have a chicken thing at Panda Express. I figure if it works for him it will work for me.  (We are a classy family)
So I ordered something chickeny, paid for it by card, sat down to eat, deciding that maybe I feel about Eddie's chicken stuff, the way that my kids feel about fresh green vegetables.
Anyway, the point is, whilst I was here in LA eating on something chickeny that I'd paid for with my Chasecard, someone had walked in to a branch in Texas, supposedly saying they were me, and had withdrawn thousands of dollars from the very same bank account.

I know. I can't believe there was actually thousands of dollars in our bank account either, it was a fluke, honest. But the point is, someone went into a bank in a completely different part of the country from where I live and withdrew it-  cash first and then a bankers draft.

I know what you're thinking. Chase are a big respectable banking institution, surely they noticed, or maybe called to double check I was me? No.  Not at all. Money gone.
We called the bank to point out there was money missing. They told us, that I had withdrawn it. I had gone all the way to Texas, gone into the branch with my driving license and credit card and cleared out all the money.
Mark and I went into Chase bank here in LA to prove who we were - me breathlessly clutching a Panda Express receipt for sweet and sour chicken balls.
Then I saw the withdrawal slip for the money taken.
Not only did the thief not bother copying my signature, it didn't even look like my name.  In fact, if you had a pet mouse and you dipped its feet in black paint and let it run across a piece of paper...you get the idea.

But the woman (if it was even a woman) supposedly had my driving license and credit card. Yes, but the driving license given was a completely different driving license number from mine and more importantly, a completely different  number from the number Chase have on file as mine.

In short, a person went into a bank of Chase bank in Texas with my bank account number, said they were me, doodled (badly) on a slip of paper, handed over the wrong proof of ID  and the teller cleared out the bank account without a blink of an eye.
The irony being if I went into my own branch - where they know me-  and asked them to give me more than $500 at a time, they'd react like a I wanted a kidney.

(If you're reading this and your name is Lynn Ferguson and you have an account with Chase bank, it's completely understandable to crapping it right now)

So, back to June 2012. the bank 'helped' us change all our bank accounts to different numbers and gave us back our money (which we, pretty much instantly, moved somewhere else for safe keeping).
Though the staff in our branch were embarrassed about how appallingly easy it had been for a complete stranger to clear out our bank account, they did their best not to show it. They told us that "Chase take their security very seriously"
Chase would look into what happened. there'd be an investigation. It wouldn't happen again.
Problem over right? Wrong.

New bank account number. Less than a year later. Repeated $250 charges at Macy's in Texas, (running theme here, right?) supposedly made by me whilst I was using the very same card to buy cupcakes for a school picnic here in LA.

Again WE are have to inform the bank. Chase hadn't noticed. but they do take their security very seriously.

Though they did notice when my husband used his card to buy a a new water heater from Home Depot and denied the payment. That's right, because on Chase banking system, the purchasing of a water heater, in a home improvement store less than 5 miles from your home, is A LOT more suspicious than having a sudden unexpected $750 shopping spree in Macy's in a completely different state, whilst simultaneously grocery shopping in LA.
Chase apologize. They assure me, they take their security very seriously.

So if all this happened then, why am I angry now? Surely, I moved banks or something? I must have done. I mean what idiot would still have an account with a bank after that. Hands up. Yes. That would be me.

So, two weeks ago I get a letter from Chase bank. It tells me they have been informed by the FBI that my bank account details AND my social security number have been discovered as part of a fraud ring that they've just busted. Chase have been advised by the FBI to inform me. And Chase take security....you gottit.
Chase tell me that - despite the fact that it's nothing to do with them and completely and utterly not through any failing on their part, they are willing to put extra security measures in place.
"Extra security measures? Oh why thank you. Surely you put them in place after the Texan cleared out all the cash?..oh you didn't?"

I don't know whether to be flattered or astounded. I've been in the country less than 5 years, have had a social security number less than that and yet here I am, getting a message from the FBI that it's already compromised.
Look at me, Mrs Popular.

But it's nothing to do with Chase apparently. Nothing to do with them that the fraudsters have my social number and my Chase bank account details - but  not any other bank. Chase tell me how bank fraud happens all over the world and just because these criminals obtained all my Chase bank details - TWICE - how can it possible possibly be anything to do with them. They take security so incredibly seriously.

Now I have dealt with quite a few of their staff in customer services and actually they seem like pretty sweet people,  just trying to get on with their day, solve a few problems,  make a living and avoid taking on too big a quota of assholes.
I've also talked a very nice lady from their executive office who looked into the complaint and guess what she discovered?....that's right. Chase. Security. Very seriously.

Except. They don't. Because saying something over and over again doesn't make it true.
(Or else my name would be Mrs Lenny Kravitz  and Wolf Blitzer would really be a wolf.)

The fact is that Chase are so busy posturing about their supposed security, they have no room for accountability at all. When you make yourself blind to the fact that you might have faults, then you never have to look and see.

Just like I was so busy being outraged by Chase, that I started demonstrating on Twitter how it's possible to be passive aggressive in 140 characters - a quality I enjoy as much as ...well as my kids enjoy fresh green vegetables.

You know, it's been a tricky week all round. My 10 year old had to 'fess up that he'd 'omitted' to do a school project that should have been done and he was now in trouble with his teacher.
I told him I was disappointed. that I trusted him and he'd let me down, but I appreciated that he'd 'fessed up.

"I've been an idiot" he says.
"Me too" say I.

And as he sits at one side of the desk doing his school report, I sit at the other changing banks.

First blog of the season.

Felt like Autumn when I got up this morning and I felt guilty.
Because, despite claiming I'd be writing weekly or even regularly, I haven't written a blog all Summer.
In my defense, it has been quite a Summer.

Firstly I got ridiculously sick with sinusitis and the drugs they gave me to combat it, not only didn't cure my sinusitis,  but also gave me tendonitis and gum abscesses to boot.
All that wheeziness and shuffling made it impossible to write a blog. OK, so it didn't affect my hands but...
"Dear blog, I feel crap. That is all"
No, you are welcome. For the sake of everybody, I shut up.

Anyway, it has given me new respect for people suffering long term illnesses. Not just the illness itself, not just the relentlessness of it all, but for not being able to tell people EXACTLY how you really feel, whenever they ask. (because it's generally not 'fine').

I don't mean to be a conventional health batterer, but what six weeks of fearsome antibiotics couldn't cure,  was suddenly and most spectacularly cleared up by just two sessions of acupuncture. I've taken this as a sign that, in future,  maybe I'll head in an alternative direction first and the conventional second. And if neither of those work, I'm going to tell people how I really feel whenever they ask , and pretty soon one of them will be forced to put me out of my misery.

On the up side, because I was too sick to fly we went on family vacations where we could drive. Big Bear - adorable. (Lady Gaga has a house there, which makes me believe she's not really crazy after all)
Las Vegas - where my 10 year old, immediately alarmed, said we had to escape from, because "everyone around us was secretly really unhappy." and to Utah - a place both boys loved, though my youngest informed me was "full of Normans"

There were times of incredible ups, for example I became  involved with the Moth  - delectable people who tell stories. I saw my friend Kemp's first play being performed.  I loved it because it's a great piece, about an amazing moment in history, and because it was brilliant to watch a stage full of real-life black actors doing real, proper acting without any of them having to say  "Massa." We are, all of us, infinitely more interesting than our skin says we are.

I went to New York and had a home-cooked meal with my Auntie Susan and Uncle James, and it made me remember how much I miss my Mum and Dad and how grateful I am for what they left behind.

I watched my friends Colette and Diane deal with the loss of a, much loved, husband and son respectively with agonizing practicality and dignity.
And how friends Cherie and Todd proved, that for a baby to become part of a family, it really doesn't matter who gives birth.

This was the year too, when my eldest started 5th grade - the year before middle school - and my youngest Kindergarten. Watching them both go off to school on that first morning,  I had to remind myself that 'the end of Summer' was not a metaphor,

My youngest loves homework - it's early days obviously, but he relishes it, saying, "I have a lot to learn Mom. I know a lot already, but I have a lot to go." (sadly one of the things he'll learn, no doubt, is that nobody really loves homework)
My fifth grader has a ton of reports to do this year, one of which is to write four things that happen to him each month and how he felt. It made me think of the Summer when I was 10 and how, weirdly, that doesn't seem so long ago.

We discovered as a family, that: pancakes on a Sunday morning, work. Nobody likes getting up for school. Flies in America are a lot more persistent than those in the UK.  Grilled cheese is the same as 'toast and cheese' but 'toast and cheese' sounds better,  and the best way to have dinner is Chinese take out in the living room, whilst Doctor Who is on tv.

The Summer is over, but the sun's still high in the sky.

Raccoon Tennis

It rained in LA today. Just for a minute or two but it rained nevertheless and the feeling was brilliant.Don't get me wrong, I am Scottish and fully in the camp that when it rains all the time it's a nightmare. Even now, the smell of wet dog takes me right back to Cumbernauld in the 70s and the long walk to Muirfield primary school, wearing a dufflecoat.
But a little bit of rain is fantastically refreshing.

Similarly, I was refreshed by the BBC apology about commentator John Inverdale this week. 
Refreshed? Why? Wasn't it the same old, "We're terribly sorry blah blah blah, in no way reflects the opinions of blah blah blah". Well, yes it was. But this time the BBC was apologising for on-air comments made by an employee, rather than for him being a pedophile. 
(I've had sinusitis for ages now and I'm looking for positivity where I can find it - so I found that a refreshing change.)

Anyway, John Inverdale, who is he? He's a British sports commentator who was reporting on BBC radio, live from the Wimbledon Women's finals. 
Here's what he said before the match, about the winner, Marion Bartoli.


"You think Bartoli's dad told her when she was little '...You're never going to be a looker, you'll never be a Sharapova, so you have to be scrappy and fight'?"


Maybe John. Maybe. 
In the same way your mother may have said, 

"Try your hardest to get a job on radio son. That way nobody will see what you look like, and it'll make it that much harder when you say something completely stupid and they want to seek you out to laugh in your face."

Here's a picture of John for reference....just in case.


Look at that. What a prime example of manhood. Why Bartoli's poor, little, French heart must be all broken up inside,  thinking that even though she's won her place in history, and a pretty solid income stream, she'll never win the attentions of such a manly prize.

Anyway, the BBC apologised and now Inverdale's apologized too apparently. Seems he thinks. "She is an incredible role model for people who aren't born with all the attributes of natural athletes."

Ah John. Some sentences you might find yourself thinking, but really shouldn't say. But, thank you for making me feel so much better about myself this week. And for not being a pedophile. (Like I say, sinusitis)

Bartoli is completely over it - and why wouldn't she be? She's young, talented and gorgeous. What does she care about the comments of a frustrated (just guessing) middle-aged, man?

But people are annoyed and I get that. 

It annoys me too when someone who's employed to do one thing, seem inclined to do something else. 
Like when the guy who comes to rid you of your  "Raccoon issue" wants to assure you that your accent sounds much more Irish than Scots.
 "I know where I come from Raccoon guy. Just set the traps and shut your face."  
is what I thought, but didn't actually say - On account of I wanted him to deal with my "Raccoon issue,"  and if you've ever had raccoons setting up home under your home, you'll know why.
(and I've had sinusitis)

Inverdale was at Wimbledon to report on the sport of tennis, not to open his great big mouth and make Homer Simpson sound like a genius.
Just as Bertoli was there to play tennis and not to warm the dark and dormant, front-regions of Inverdale's pants.

The BBC received a number of complaints about Inverdale being sexist. But I'm not sure I agree. Stupid, undoubtably. Ignorant, you've got it. But sexist? Hmmn.

I jreckon his comments come from the same school of "blatant rudeness" as those that seem to crop up about Andy Murray's, supposed, "personality issues." 
(You can bet if Murray hadn't won Wimbledon, his "personality issues" would have had something to do with it.)
I can't tell you how often I find myself yelling at computer screens and radios  - "Andy Murray is not your personal friend. He's a brilliant tennis player and it seems like he might be an all round pretty good bloke. I don't know if he has an odd personality because I don't know him personally and neither do you. Can he play tennis brilliantly? Yes he can. That's all I know."

Commentating on sport  - particularly on radio - can be an art form. Conveying the excitement of a live event, without the need for visual, is a proper talent. Summing up an atmosphere with nothing more that vocal tone and words, is an amazing skill.  
And then there are other forms of commentating ....

There have been calls for Inverdale to be fired, or for his resignation, but to be honest I think he resigned himself a long time ago. 
As much as he knows about sport, Inverdale will never know what it is to be a Bertoli or a Murray. He's as separate a species as Raccoon Guy is to Raccoon.

Raccoon Guy told me he knew about accents, because he'd originally come to LA to be an actor. 
I forced my eyebrows to raise, surprised.
Then Raccoon guy told me that he'd studied accents, and,  He said, I definitely sounded much more Irish than Scottish.
And I nodded and smiled and said it was probably my sinuses.

Shocking Pink.

I have toothache. Actually I'm not sure if I have toothache. Yes I am. No I'm not. See?
There's something going on with a crown-bridge combo in my mouth and it could either be a passing issue or something more sinister.
Point is, toothache is toothache and I'm cranky.

Therefore, for my safety and the safety of those around me, I am wearing a lot of pink.
But, Lynn,  isn't pink a ridiculously girly color?
Yes it is and that is why I'm wearing it.
It's impossible to take anyone too seriously when they're wearing pink.
It makes your skin look all fresh and it has a look of all summer innocence, and pretty flowers and...it's a color that if you're not careful, can make you look faintly ridiculous (that's why golfers wear it). Someone in pink swearing at you is like being cursed at by a giant hydrangea. Ridiculous  but not menacing.
So, if you were to meet some pink attired lady with a grumpy expression caused by something like...say...for example, toothache and she's a little short tempered with you, it's not that bad really.

You could say I'm being pink-ist or say that i'm not fooling anyone. You could.  But I've warned you, I have toothache.

And I'm blaming the toothache for me even reading about Ian Brady - working on the "Distract yourself from something horrible by looking at something more odious" theory.

Now if you don't know who Ian Brady, it's pretty simple. He's a child killer. Oh for sure he's been painted as a crazed troubled soul. An evil manipulator. As all manner of things that make him more exciting/interesting than he really is.
But he's a common killer, who brought immeasurable grief and suffering into a whole load of innocent people's lives when he, and his accomplice, kidnapped children, because they were smaller and weaker than him, then tortured and murdered them and buried them in Saddlemouth Moor, near Manchester, UK during the 1960s.

Brady and Hindley. Their crimes were so horrific, my parents didn't like their names mentioned in our house, like the very sounds polluted the air and left a stench you'd want to bleach out of the room.

So Brady is currently having this tribunal, because he'd like to be released from a psychiatric hospital because he doesn't like it there. He wants to go back to prison instead, and so he's trying to prove he's not insane.
And I know what you're thinking, because I am too.
Who gives a rat's ass what he wants?  He's not a freakin' rock star.

But in his tribunal -the first time he's spoken publicly since 1966 - Brady explained how he's spent his time: He's read Plato, and memorized pieces from Shakespeare, mentioning how he knows the works of Stanislavsky.
Wow. You think someone that smart, would know that being pretentious, doesn't negate murdering kids.

There's no photographs or live video coverage of the hearing but the court drawings are addictive. This guy has supposedly been on hunger strike for 14 years, yet he's surprisingly tubby (and when I say "tubby" I don't just mean tubby for a hunger striker, I mean tubby for a three meals a day, meat-potatoes-two-veg diet)
Then it transpires he enjoys toast in the morning.
Bloody hell, if that's hunger strike, I've been a hunger striker for years.

Honestly, if it weren't for the horrific deaths of those kids, and the unbearable torture he inflicted on Winnie Johnson, he would be nothing more than a ridiculous buffoon.  Without the 'evil' persona,  nothing but a pathetic,  inconsequential idiot.
Maybe he's not insane after all.

His defense argue that he has a narcissistic personality disorder, the hospital label him a dangerous, paranoid schizophrenic - one argues sane, the other insane.
I actually don't care.
Toothache is toothache.

I reckon he should stay where he is (because why should he get to choose?)
And learn how to stick to his diet (cheaters never win)
And before he shuffles off the last breath of his, pretty appalling, mortal coil, he should justify the mistake of his existence, by telling Keith Bennett's family where his body is.
In between times,  he would be allowed to further enjoy the works of Shakespeare, Plato and Stanislavsky  in the certain knowledge that all three of these great masters, would regard him as a complete prick.

Obviously though,  I'm not the judge. I'm just an angry woman wearing pink.

Mirror Mirror on the uhm...whatever.

OK I apologise. (especially to you Iain Dunlop :) )
It's been ages since I last blogged but, it's been odd of late, and it's been tough to know what to blog about.

It's not that I have nothing to say.
If you know me, you know that I have never nothing to say. In fact, if I ever say to you,  "I have nothing to say," that means, pretty soon. I'm going to have a lot to to say, and it's not going to be pretty when i say it.
(Add "indignant sulk" to my list of natural talents.)

And it's not that nothing's happened of late.
(If anything it's the opposite)
It's been a month of extreme happiness and sadness. Four weeks with great intelligence and great foolishness.

For a start, my youngest turned 6.
That there's enough for a whole series of blogs.
About how 6 years seems to have flown by so fast,  and yet because he's so strangely worldly wise, it feels like he's been here a whole lot longer.
About how we stressed about having a pool party and the hiring of lifeguards and safety in general. And whilst we were stressing, how all he cared about was cake and water-pistols and what present he could open next.
Same event. Different perspectives.

Then how his six year old body suddenly broke into a dance routine, Gangnam style:  All on his own, without a care in the world,  eventually leading a little dance-a-thon.
And then all perspectives were the same.

But these past four weeks were not all stories of birthday parties. For Colette and Mark, and for Carl and Jo, I wish so much it could have been. And nothing can be said to make it better. No words will repair.

My dad, was a firm believer that if there's nothing to say then don't say it.  It used to drive my mother crazy.
My mother was like me. The only time she was saying nothing, was directly before she was properly going to be saying something - pretty loud!

They never experienced Facebook,  but I've often thought about what their pages would be like if they had.
My Mum's full of inspirational memes and random diets from Doctor Oz, and features as to why cream cakes might be good for you,  and pictures of grandchildren.
My Dad's pretty inactive: Perhaps the odd Youtube video of Shirley Bassey.  Something about bowling. Pictures of grandchildren.

I used to have great talks with my mother. In my head, I still do.
We'd talk about all manner of things from the right way to make a clootie dumpling,  to the effect of the Romans in Britain and on random stuff like, do you think trees get apprehensive about Winter or about how a person's skin could become mirrored.
(It's nothing to do with sci-fi. It's to do with words.)

For example. You announce you're pregnant, everyone you meet will talk about their pregnancy. You decide to get married, people talk about their marriage. You say you hate your boss, you'll hear about everyone else's boss. You get bullied -so many other people were bullied too. You deal with a bereavement... that there are some points in life that when a person speaks,  the person listening to them will only be able to see themselves

It used to drive me crazy. "Why can't people be allowed to have their stories? Why is it that when something happens to someone, everybody else has to chime in about when it happened to them"

My mother was much more charitable:  "Because people want to connect to one another. Especially in big life events.   That's why it's important to talk," she'd tell my dad, "Because when one person speaks, others respond and amazing things happen when a person is brave enough to open their mouth"
And my Dad would nod and smile and say, "Especially if that person  is an idiot"

This week my eldest came home from school after what has been a very tricky year, armed with a special commendation certificate for reading and a math one to match.
And I was so proud.
And then I discover he was awarded them at a ceremony I forgot to go to.
And then so ashamed.

(Amazing how rapidly his show of success could become about my failure)

I set his certificates down of the dining room table and picked up my mobile phone to take a photograph.

"What are you doing?" said my other half, irritatingly,  because he could see exactly what I was doing.

"Taking a picture of Ferg's awards."

"Why?"

"Because I thought I'd post them on Facebook."

"Why?"

I looked across at him. His face wore that expression of "Wtf" that had nearly been included in our wedding vows.
"I, Mark, promise you , Lynn, that I will try not to do that 'wtf' face that pisses you off so much"
 In the end, I'd only relented as he claimed it was down to allergies.
10 years on,  I know the truth. Anyway...

"Because I want to show him how proud I am of him."

"He doesn't have a Facebook account."

I found myself distracted by a potential scratch on the dining room table.

"Yes. I know but..."

"You could just tell him. He's in his bedroom."

I decided the scratch was possibly just a trick of the light and headed for my son's bedroom instead.
I opened the door to find him (as usual) engrossed in Minecraft on the computer.

"I took a picture of your certificates to post them up on Facebook."

"I don't have a Facebook account" he said.

"Yes. I know."

"I wanted one but you said I was too young and..."

"Yes. I know I know. And you are. I'm not posting the pictures up. But, I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you."

"Thanks. Can I have a Facebook account then?"

"No. And I just wanted to say I'm sorry for completely forgetting to come to the ceremony."

"No problem. When can I get an account?"

"When you're old enough."

"Ok. Well you should probably hold off on posting the pictures till I'm old enough."

"Sure."

"Though by then I could just post them up myself."

"Good idea."

I've kept the pictures on my phone. They remind me that my son has his own story. That the event is not about me forgetting, it's about him achieving.  His skin is not mirrored.

And that it would be pointless posting them anyway.  My parents can't use Facebook.

No news is good news.

My husband is always amused by my attitude to news.  In that, I generally do my best to avoid it. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I prefer to know what happened, 'today in history' rather than what's actually happening today.
I've pretty much always been that way.
It's a guilty secret of mine.

In the days when there used to be newspapers, I would be reading a book.
When I was a kid and the TV news was on at 6, that would be the time I remembered my homework.
I'm sometimes so completely uninformed, that I have to nod knowingly in conversations. ( In fact, if we're ever in conversation and I nod knowingly at you, be re-assured I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.)

Nowadays though, it's almost impossible to avoid the news entirely, because it's everywhere and 24 hours. So instead, I try my best to be selective.
If there's news of a new invention, I like that. If there's news of a cure for some disease, ooh I like to be informed.
I'm on it for local news: burglaries in the area? lock those doors. Cafe opening down the street? - ooh must remember to try it.
But the lead story, the one everyone's talking about, my position on it is "head-in-the-sand."
I know.
And I apologize.
Sorta.

But in my defense, when May 2013 is history, I'll look back on those girls in Cleveland and how amazing they are. How they managed to endure unimaginable punishment, for an unbelievable amount of time and even raise a beautiful little kid. How it shows the strength of humankind. The force of human spirit.

But right now, it's news. So, instead of considering the magnificence and bravery and extraordinary resilience to be found in three young women,  I seethe every time I turn the tv on,  or when Google news appears on my computer.

I see the squat little face of that pathetic excuse for a nervous system, bowing his head. Ashamed. He really didn't mean it you know. He had a difficult childhood. Life was a struggle. He was poor. Ya-de-ya-de-ya.
Poor thing. he didn't manage to make bail so he'll be incarcerated till his trial. Don't know where to put him? Well, there's a basement in a place in Cleveland that's just become available.

Right now, where I am, the sun is out and my current concerns, re motherhood, are that I have to get cookies ready for the bake sale, and that my kids are due a dental check up. Both remind me of three human beings who didn't get to see the sun, and a six year old who has already seen the unimaginable.

And today, though I should be writing up little pieces about history, when I sit down to write, the same story goes through my mind.

There's a little yellow school bus with a squat, little driver and the only passengers on it are the two Boston bombers and they're driving to the desert. On the way they stop off to pick up Geoffrey Portway,  whose car broke down when he was out shopping for stuff for his torture chamber.
Anyway, as they get further and further into the desert, the road gets rougher and the little yellow bus bumps up and down, so detonating the pressure cooker bombs, those two douchebags were so smug at having made.
And suddenly there's this massive explosion and the four of them and the little school bus suddenly are wiped off the face of the earth.
And all that's left behind is an indistinguishable pile of dust, under a beautiful, clear, blue sky.

Then I realize that's a terrible story.
What an awful waste of a school bus.

I plan to work really hard at avoiding the news over the next couple of weeks, because I teach my kids that hatred is wrong.

And now I'm heading off to make cookies and book dental appointments. And for Amanda Berry, Gina Dejesus and Michelle Knight, I wish for them, the normality of getting to do the same.

Nothing to explain.

My 10 year old and I had a conversation at the weekend about naked dancing.

The comedy improv class he goes to is moving venue. I am relieved, because parking outside the current one is a complete bitch. He is relieved he says, because 'there are inappropriate billboards outside class, and hopefully there's won't be outside the new venue."

Whilst driving, I am racking my brains as to what these "inappropriate billboards' can be.
"What do you mean honey?" I ask.

"Like that one!" he points, "That one there. Full nude dancing. Why do people do that?"

He waits for an answer. My Saturday afternoon is taking a turn for the worse.

"Well, sometimes people like to feel powerful and seeing strangers dancing with no clothes on sometimes makes some people feel powerful."

"That's just dumb."

"Well..."

"And why would people do that? Why would someone dance naked?"

"Because they need the money. Because they might think that's the only option open to them....

I try to move this cunningly on to, 'that's why it's a good idea to work hard for your CST's conversation' but he's persistant.

"But do they enjoy it? The people dancing naked. "

Inside my head I've decided that until the class moves venue, his dad is going to be picking him up.

"I dunno honey. I've never danced naked. I'm guessing they don't really think about it that much. I'm guessing they do what they do because they think it's the right thing to do for them and... You know what pal, there are things in the world I can't really explain.  Sometimes it's good to consider why someone who isn't you, might do something you wouldn't do. Because, when you understand the "why" then a lot of the time, you can let it go."

"Well I think that's just wrong."

"OK"

He is silent for a moment and I am hopeful the conversation is resolved.

"I am never dancing naked"

"Good. Good for you. I'm glad to hear it"

"And I'm never going to be a gentleman if you have to watch someone dancing naked to join a club"

"That's OK too."

Yesterday he came home from school.  He'd been watching about the events in Boston on his phone.

"This is one of those things you can't explain right?"

"Right"

"Well, I want you to know, I'm not ever going to try to understand the "why". OK?"

"Totally son. Totally. Me neither"

That time already?

I think I might have reached that age. The age when I'm completely an adult.

I don't feel like an adult. I still react to situations like I'm 16 - get ridiculously smug if I'm asked for my ID when buying alcohol, can't believe that if I don't clear up after me, nobody else will.
But I've noticed, of late, the ratio of blind enjoyment to harsh responsibility has changed and I can see - on some not too distant horizon - a day where I might boast about my age to a complete stranger in the post office (if I can still find a post office).

Today I phoned my sister - 8 years apart.
8 years that seemed a massive age gap when I was 5.
She aged 13, studious, tidy, with the miraculous ability to eat one single Mars bar over the space of three days if she chose.
Me wrestling to make my way to school, wearing with my brothers' oversize hand-me-down duffle-coat.

And then again at 13:
Me, all black eyeliner and jumbo cords (never stylish),  acned,  listening to my Blondie records - She at 21 - all Moody Blues and color co-ordinated and sophisticated.

Then I was 21  and still using black eyeliner. And my head was full of Brecht and cabaret and how to market a comedy double act, and she, at 29, happily married,  unassumingly caring for her young daughter whilst simultaneously striding forth in her career, like some feature on "power women" in Cosmopolitan magazine.

Decades later of similarities, differences, family parties, agreements, disagreements, births, bereavements,  successes, failures...time, I find myself in a place of new worries.  I call her today - tired of pressure, worn with sadness, old in spirit, but in my head, still way way too young.

"Some days I really wish Mum and Dad were here,"  I say.
"Me too," says she.

I am at that time where 8 years feels like nothing. Where differences become the same. Where I am grateful not just for what my parents were, but all they left behind.

I'm at that age.

Sudden blog attack...

Hello there,

Sorry I haven't blogged for ages. Here was I promising a blog a week and low and behold it's been what...three? *gulp*

No excuses really apart from it's been kinda busy with stuff here at Tweddley mansions (even after four years in LA, we still find negotiating parts of everyday American life like complete foreigners)
and also - and this is a little embarrassing- (not as embarrassing as Alan Cumming waving to me across a bar, to tell me I had my skirt tucked in to my tights at the back *still blushing*) but I managed to restart my computer and couldn't remember how to get back in to my own blog.

I know. I'm ashamed. And, considering we've started our company offering branding and vids etc and help for people who "want to learn more about social media" this fact alone categorizes me as a complete tool.
But adult life brings with it a whole list of "to be done lists"  and the advance of social media at the moment, feels faster than a speeding three year old at a pick and mix counter.

Anyway, that sort of brings me to my point with the blog.
Two stories I read on twitter this morning in bed. (I used to read newspapers of a Sunday morning, but that ground to a halt, what with the arrival of children and the departure of newspapers)
So, one was about the anti gay Scottish Cardinal being gropey with male priests  - what a surprise - IMHO seems the people who shout the loudest about other peoples lack of morals, are generally trying to deflect attention from the lack of their own.
The other was the demonstration in Paris against gay marriage.
And you know what? I was annoyed.
(more annoyed, in fact, than I was when my "friend" didn't tell me I had my skirt tucked into my tights at the back, so Alan Cumming had to)

Can we all just get over this? If two people are in love and want to marry each other, it's nothing to do with you (unless you're paying for it or you have to wear a bridesmaid's dress - in which case, OK, fair enough).

Every day I go online, and there's some story about the new creation of some 'social media platform" that I'll have to get my head round, and get a password for, and work out how and when to use it, and whether the privacy is safe and I have a little panic.

Every day!
It's in there, nestling between the same old "day-in day-out"  trusty stories:
Somebody somewhere is really mad at gay people for having done something. Some fat, drug abusing, public media hypocrite is cranking on about homosexuals decaying the moral fibre of the world, whilst simultaneously displaying absolutely NO moral fibre of his own. Someplace somewhere said gay people could marry and so somebody else at that place is organizing some kind of campaign to repeal it.

Please, let's move on.
If you don't like homosexuals, I'm sorry.  I personally don't like pan pipe bands, so I just do my best to ignore them.
There are a wealth of problems in the world. If two consenting people want to get married and make something loving and positive, then stop thinking about what genitalia they have and mind your own business.

Besides, every single second technology is moving on and a new social networking site is being created. Technology is now moving on faster than people.
Whilst you've been concerning yourself about what those darned gays get to be allowed to do in front of your very eyes, you've no idea what those computers have been getting up to behind your back.  There's no stopping progress.

My friends Michael and Clark made this video. It's about love.

http://vimeo.com/57651781