An Honest Holiday Newsletter

WARNING: contains totally made up things and real things and exaggerated things. 

Holiday Greetings from the whole Oslott-Joseph Family?!?!

Merry Christmas, nearly, and Happy Hanukkah and, well, there are just so many options. Whatever yours is, I hope you have a great time or at least get a few nice naps in so you're refreshed!

Our year has been just spectacular. Little Joey has become a real problem eater; he just screams at most every meal until the rest of us can't stand it. So his diet is largely made up of yogurt, fig newtons, and goldfish crackers. It's not the best, but it works for us! He's also having a great time in daycare a few days a week while I look for work (gotta pay for Marsha's piano lessons somehow!). I'm told he likes to bite the other children and occasionally steals pacifiers with fresh drool to use for himself. This explains the multiple rounds of stomach flu and regular flu we've had in the house for the past six months. He is still awfully cute though and has taken to calling Daddy "poop, poop."

Speaking of Marsha, she's growing up so fast and makes us laugh every day. She's started kindergarden this year and has surprised us all by being sent to the principal's office twice for stealing another girl's lunch box. It's a Bratz lunch box like the one we wouldn't buy her. She keeps taking it and trying to make the other girl keep her Dora the Explorer box. Still, Marsha has also been learning to read and write. We're so proud of her letter to Santa this year. She wrote quite clearly that she'd like a "bicycle, shoes, and a new mama." Our proudest moment though came during the school Christmas play, just yesterday. While sitting on stage in her adorable donkey costume, she began to chew her toenails. With her mouth. While center stage. I have photos!

Billy, our oldest, started third grade this year and with the exception of his math teacher telling us that he's at least a year behind all his peers, it has been a stellar first semester. We would tutor him, but we don't understand the new math. So perhaps those piano lesson will have to wait as we find the money for a math coach. Oh well, at least he's enjoying playing football. His dad says little Billy has become quite the bench warmer! Billy's greatest skill though is his kindness, he's the sweetest big brother he could be, for which I am extremely thankful.

But how are Jeff and I you ask? Well, between his long hours at work, financial pressures, my exhaustion, and our oppressively judgmental in-laws, I'm not sure we know. We had to stop having a once a month date-night after my mother scared the kids with a bed time story involving Wall Street "pirates" pillaging the "99%" and leaving us all "homeless and abandoned by the state." When we do get a few minutes together, we both agree our kids are nuts but may come by it naturally. We day dream about when the kids are older and start ignoring us so we can get to know each other again. Then we stop and look at each other's photos and videos of them and try not to cry about how lucky we are to have them and our crazy little life.

From our family to yours, dear friends and family, we wish for you a year like ours filled with mistakes, shenanigans, laughter, tears, fights, make-ups, winning, losing, togetherness, and all the things you'd like to ask Santa for and more (except for a new mama. y'all are stuck with me and I love you.)

Cross-cultural Exchange: Put on your sweats and bodge it.

I recently watched an episode of Castle wherein one of the lead characters used one of my favorite British-ism, knackered (meaning really tired), and calling redheads "ginger" is definitely being used more widely. I've seen a few articles saying that British slang words are on the rise in America thanks to Harry Potter, Doctor Who and Downton Abbey. Overall, I think this is a good thing but I believe we can learn from each other on both sides of the pond. Here are but a few examples of words I think the Brits might want to adopt, plus a few things the Americans might enjoy championing the use of over there.

First and foremost, "sidewalk." I cannot tell you how difficult it is as a parent to attempt to retrain my brain and mouth to say "pavement" instead of sidewalk. In America, the pavement is the road! So imagine telling your child, "Please stay on the road!" Which is what it feels like to me to say pavement. Honestly, doesn't sidewalk just make sense? It is the walking area beside the road. And yes, I know it is also known as a "footpath" but so is a muddy track as is the stone path in my back garden (garden sounds prettier than yard, I'm good with this one). Let's just accept the Americans have the better idea here.

Next, please call them "sweats" instead of "tracksuit bottoms." Such a mouthful for what are essentially trousers one wears to do something strenuous or, alternatively, lay around the house. Let's just call them what they are for rather trying imply we are all going for a run around a mythical track in a dream of fitness glory. I've heard people call them "trackies" but that's really not better and for me evokes an image of people addicted to dog racing, gripping betting forms and smoking half crumpled cigarettes.

As the temperatures begin to fall, can we drop the pretense and just say "sweater"? Even you don't know why you call a sweater a "jumper." I've seen several children's first words books label various things jumpers including one-piece dresses, sweaters, and overalls - I'm sorry, they can't ALL be a jumper. Sweater is evocative of what it is and we can agree that it is just for knitwear worn on the top of the body, generally over another shirt. Thanks. Wasn't that easy?

Now to the naming of types of schools. The British really just need to scrap their terms and start again because it makes no sense whatsoever. A "public school" is what Americans know as "private school", which makes the phrase "public school kid" into a classist insult in the UK. A "state school" is known as "public school" in America whereas a "state school" is usually just one of perhaps several American state-sponsored universities and colleges. I am sure the British system is rooted in tradition and history but so was beheading and nowadays we find that repulsive too.

In the interest of equal time here are four British words I think Americans would enjoy using.

I love the word "bodge." It means to put together quickly just so the thing will work. Honestly, this is the American way. Why don't we use this word already?

The word shambolic, while not disused in the US, deserves a renaissance. It means chaotic, disorganized, or muddled. Can anyone say American politics? Also, this is an excellent alternative to the not always socially acceptable "cluster fuck."

Say this one with me, "He got quite shirty with me!" It can mean rude but mostly it means pompous or perhaps flustered. For some reason this one really paints a picture for me. I imagine someone doing up their top buttons on their shirt or pulling a sweater in at the collar harshly while lecturing me on something inconsequential.

This last one I am less sure of because it is overused in Britain, especially with children - cheeky. I like it because it portrays well the playful nature of misbehavior, in particular with kids, but I've also heard it used to excuse sexist comments from men as humorous. I leave this one to you America, you bunch of cheeky monkeys. (see, that could really go either way.)

OH, but I have to add one cute phrase that WeeC has adopted - easy peasy, lemon squeezie. It is just kind of adorable. Use it instead of "easy as pie" because pie making is actually not that easy while squeezing a lemon is very straightforward!

Coming Home?

WARNING contains: grammar, gross generalizations about whole countries full of people, me, exaggerations, biscuits, and origami.

I recently traveled back to the good ol' US of A for the first time since moving to England. We took the whole family to my birth place, Georgia, and spent time with each of my parents plus other family and even squeezed in a trip back to North Carolina to see friends.

Being home did not feel strange or even hard won, having been away only about nine months. Since I've made my home in North Carolina for several years, visiting my family in Georgia feels normal to me. The temporary nature of the time spent, the focus on being together, the desire for comfort foods, and the even the feeling of sadness when it is finished - are all very familiar to me as someone who has lived away from my childhood home for such a long time.

Visiting North Carolina was a little odd, but only because every interaction over the mere 24 hours I spent there was tinged with a bit of sadness. That feeling of needing to savor and to say important things before it all goes away. It was odd to try to talk about daily life things. I kept wanting to impart something major when all I really needed to do was be present. In the end, I think I did a good job of focusing on the moments spent with friends whom I miss dearly.

Almost everyone asked me variations of the following two questions:
1. What do you miss most about America? (beyond all my friends and family, cos obviously LOTS!)
2. What do you love about where you live now?

So in case I didn't see you or I didn't answer you when you asked or you're just wondering, here are the answers.

I miss biscuits and iced tea (yes, I can make these. Not. The. Same.) I miss ch1ck_fil@ (sorry, don't want brands searchable, you figure it out) because they're so helpful to moms with kids. I miss St@rbuck3 drive-thru. But let me tell you, my ass doesn't! I lost eight pounds during our first two months in the UK and I'm pretty sure I can chalk it up almost completely to to the total lack of drive-thru and fast food where I live now. Seriously y'all, I gained four pounds on our trip, all carbs and tea.

I miss people being nice and saying hello and helping me of their own volition. This is partially a Southern (US) thing versus a southern UK thing. The southern US is known for hospitality, while that's more the case in northern Britain and the south here is known as more urban and cold personality wise; the reverse of the American stereotype. I've largely found this to be true. People just don't go out of their way. Certainly, not everyone in the southern US is falling over themselves to help out strangers, but people hold doors when you have a stroller. They say, "have a nice day," and mean it. They don't mind a little light chit chat. Sometimes, I find the Brits in my area to be quite distant. Though, I have also had success with "killing them with kindness" too and some folks seem quite open to my openness. Just not as much as home. I've found a good local coffee shop where mostly the people are nice and respond well to my outgoing nature. That's a comforting thing to have access to on hard day.

I miss Target; or maybe just everything I need being in one place. I miss knowing about how much good and services should cost or knowing someone who knows. Having recently bought a house in the UK, it is impossible to convey just how frustrating it is not know these things. We bought a natural gas powered tumble dryer as it is far more environmentally friendly but cannot find anyone to install it as a special certification is needed. I got estimates on work we had done to the house, but was mostly at the mercy or tradespeople.

I miss bear hugs from friends and family. Brits don't full body hug.

What was most interesting about the trip though were the things I missed a bit about England. Naturally, I missed being in a house with easy access to all my things and more flexibility with timing for activities as well as time with my husband (he worked in NC half the trip and the rest of the time we were too tired to talk to each other most nights). But I didn't expect to miss anything else.

I missed the fine British art of receipt folding. When you've made a purchase at a shop here, the cashier folds your receipt at least once, sometimes two or three times, before handing it to you. It may be the only time they make eye contact with you, depending on the store, and it is a nice little moment. Americans often lay it down on a table/counter or just shove your receipt at you, sometimes even looking at the next customer while they do it.

I missed easy access to parks/play areas/activities for kids. I will hand it to the fine folks of Surrey County. There's a lot for kids to do and see around here and it's all fairly close by. I'm from near Atlanta, so everything must driven to and it can take 30 minutes or even an hour or more to get to something. You can play on school playgrounds, but only when the school is not in session and other play grounds are around, but not with the frequency you'll find in Surrey. I can walk to a play park in two minutes from where I live now. Where we rented before, there were three play parks, a community pool, and two water areas with ducks within fifteen minutes walk. There are also a number of indoor (for obvious, British Isles reasons) play places and very child friendly museums and historic sites around. Where we lived in North Carolina was quite child friendly and I had plenty to do there with the kids, but there's more variety here and literally some kid friendly thing to do/go/see every single weekend on Saturdays AND Sundays.

I missed better drivers. Sorry you freedom loving, texting and ranting while driving, drinking and eating in your car, DVD watching, sound system cranking, leaning hard American drivers. You suck. You are selfish and dangerous. The Brits respect the passing lane as a place to speed past other cars; not as a place to park yourself with your cruise control set at the speed limit. People rarely talk on their phones and drive let alone text. I do see people using hands-free systems to make calls, but the iprayer position as you hurtle down the freeway at 55 miles an hour (the speed limit is 70 and you're in the passing lane, having slowed down when you picked up to see your latest fantasy football stats) just doesn't happen much. I say this having had someone honk at me this morning as I drove my oldest to school. I wasn't going through the round-about fast enough for them. But it is such a rarity that it occurred to me that I was previously unsure what a car horn sounded like in the UK.

There it is people. My summary judgement of America versus the UK after about ten months of living in England and 11 days back in the US. If I saw you, don't forget to give me a big hug when next we meet. If I didn't see you, I owe you a big huge hug when I finally get my grubby paws on you. I love you America; your biscuits, your tea, your "Hey there!" and the generosity of spirit that your people share with strangers and friends alike. And I miss all your good people.

Viv and Cal

competition entry :O

“Ghosts don’t sing in tune you know,” she said, twirling a length of red hair around her thumb, the tip purpling. “It can drive you crazy.”

I’d met Sarah over a week ago, but I can’t say I knew her better. She offers these declarations, “The vet said my pet frog died of influenza. I think he was murdered.” But never carries on with an explanation or the slightest hint of mirth. I mean, that may be my fault, as despite being thirteen and Scottish, I’m really bad at spotting sarcastic, dry humor; especially here in America. So, as I watched Sarah allow her thumb tip to survive another day, I finally broke.

    “Ok, how do you know ghosts don’t sing in tune? And why would anyone murder a frog? And, well, that’s just the beginning of my questions. Because, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg or just a really dark person or , I dunno, weird.” I wished I hadn’t said weird the moment it pushed its way into the air. I am weird. What’s more, Sarah knows it. I think it may be the only reason she speaks to me. So to imply that perhaps I don’t like weird people is both wrong and dangerous to our new and fragile friendship. “Not that any of that is bad. I’d just like to know because I’m not good at telling when you’re serious.”

    “Is it the accent? Like, you can’t tell by tone? I have a hard time telling if you’re serious sometimes, especially when you talk about Scotland. Like, do people there really eat sheep stomach?” Sarah said the last two words in an approximation of my accent. I tried not to smile.

    “We do. Now, answer my bloody questions woman.” No good. I smiled.

    Sarah took a slow breath. Her pale skin pinked under the splatter of freckles across her cheeks, “I see dead people.”

    “Ok, that was a joke, right?”

    Sarah had been reclined on a large root of the oak tree we lounged under, but she sat forward to look me in the eyes and said, “Yes.” The sideways autumn sunlight made shadow shapes on the ground.

I sensed I was not going to get any answers so I boldly stood up, dusted my trousers and hoisted up my backpack, as though leaving.

    “I think you have a hard time knowing when people are joking because you don’t joke much yourself.” She cocked her head and furrowed orange brows.

    “Perhaps. But that doesn’t answer my questions.” I attempted a sigh.

    Sarah stood as she spoke, not looking at me, “My mother killed herself in our house two years ago. Sometimes...I think I hear her singing. She never could sing worth a damn, so maybe ‘ghosts’ is too much of a generalization.”

    I took her hand to steady her as she wobbled, off kilter on the root. I promised myself not to let go, if she didn’t let go.  She didn’t.

How Scottish...

My writing prompt from weeks ago was to think about the word “ancestors” and what it means/evokes. Honestly, I was too busy to really think on it. But tonight I got the news that a friend, a once close friend, from university has died. The moment I read the news, I had an instant image in my mind of him in a formal kilt, white button down shirt and tie with a glass of whiskey in hand. I think there might have been a sword as well. In fact, I am certain there was a sword. This gentleman was, at least in university, a bit attached to his Scottishness. He had this mild accent that crept into his speech which naturally increased with passion and/or liquor. He knew a lot about his heritage, as many Americans do, but sort of took his knowledge and admiration to a different level. He completely defied that “first generation loses all signs of the motherland” thing.

If you’re a fan of Doctor Who or, most recently, Arrow, then you know who Jack Barrowman is and that his outtakes are hysterical. No, I have not changed the subject. John was born and partly raised a Glaswegian but then moved to Chicago. Both accents come naturally to him and he occasionally forgets which one he should be using. So his outtakes on are often very funny. It wasn’t until I saw these, years after university, that I started to understand why my college friend would come in and out of the accent. And why it wasn’t, probably, an act. In particular, I felt in college that my friend was just being a bit pretentious. Which he was. If you can’t be pretentious at university, especially at the University of Virginia, when the hell can you be? But he was also genuinely forgetful about his not actually being “really” Scottish and what he sounded like to others. That’s how much he wanted to be a true Scot.  

By a similar token, I once thought I was a bit more Irish-American than American-with-a-lot-Irish-heritage. Then I lived in Ireland via study abroad. My third day in Dublin I said to a kind shopkeeper, “Have a nice day.” And she laughed loudly and remarked, “So you Americans do really say that.” I told her we did and that I meant it. I tried to watch an Irish soap opera and found I couldn’t understand half the dialogue. Then, I went to a Irish music jam session and though I desperately wanted to join in, I couldn’t figure out how. My life in Ireland for four months illustrated to me very clearly that I was nothing but a silly American with delusions of celticness.

I think a lot of Americans feel this “tie” to another homeland. We may know our family history back many hundreds of years even. But it does not negate the infusion of purely American culture that we are all boiled in from birth. Now, I can hear you shaking your head that there is no “purely” American culture because we are such a mishmash. Well, I tell you what. You get yourself an ocean away, either one will do, and walk out into any city. Stop the first person you see and say, “Nice to meet you.” You will feel more American, more bare, and more other than you’ve ever experienced (unless you’re a poor minority, sorry, you can get that in any “fine” department store.)

Which brings me directly to ancestors. My friend’s were Scottish and he was so tied to that idea, to an ideal of Scottishness, that it affected his entire being. I certainly hope someone gets a piper in to his funeral. He deserves a piper. A good one. And a tall glass, no ice, of excellent whiskey.

Ten Things to a Character

Ten Things

1. a pocket
2. a locket
3. purple socks
4. muddy boots
5. busted brolly
6. hedgehog
7. grass
8. red bucket
9. mash
10. splash

They belong to Polly. Keeper of the HedgeHog:

I keep the baby hedgehog in a red bucket with a bit of grass and some mashed up clover. Her name is Molly. When it rains I have an only slightly broken brolly that I place over her bucket if I am outside. She likes it when I splash in puddles. I can hear her giggling. If my boots get too muddy, I have to leave the on the bristled rug by the washroom door. But then you get to see my purple socks, and Molly likes those too; even if there’s a tiny hole in the right big toe where I stubbed it on the corner of the kitchen door last week. When Molly is big enough, I’ll carry her in the pocket of my dungarees so she can see a bit of the world and not just the inside of the bucket. Maybe I can get my mum to take a picture of her and add it to my locket. Right now there’s only a paper picture of Peppa Pig in there and I think she could use a bit company.

Something controvertial about Depression

WARNING contains love, anger, sadness, references to suicide, feelings of helplessness, and some criticism of people who hop on and off bandwagons.

I've written this is response to the suicide of Robin Williams. And to the suicide of friends and family of people very close to me who have to relive it a little each time someone famous dies this way. Who have to watch as people who've never given mental health much thought (certainly not the funding for treatment and support) throw back their heads wail "Why!? Why did no one help this person!?". Because that's just self-indulgent bullshit.

I'm going to say something controversial, and some might say wrong or detrimental, about depression. It isn't always about getting help. That's an ego-centered way of looking at a disease, a real honest to goodness illness, that puts the onus on those of us who love the depressed person and also on them, on their failure to get enough help. I'm not saying therapy, anti-depressants, faith/prayer, 12-step programs, support from family/friends, help-lines, etc. are not helpful or necessary because they are in fact essential to survival for people who all mentally ill (and I do not use that term as a criticism, in fact I applaud every person who uses it properly to label themselves and their reality).

What I am saying is that each of us has moments in our lives wherein we fail completely as humans. We fail. We find ourselves doing things, saying things, being in places emotionally that are completely bereft of light. As someone who does not suffer from depression, I survive these moments via the logical knowledge that they are temporary. I believe that the horror will pass and, for me, it does. I know that on the other side of my moments of cheerlessness or wrong doing that I can find solace and recovery and forgiveness. Someone who has the disease of depression cannot. No, they literally can not believe the logic that the awful is only temporary. It is a part of their brain that doesn't work, period. No matter how hard that may be to believe, it does not make on iota less factual. It isn't that they weren't helped enough. It is that in those failing moments it can almost be as if help never happened. Robin Williams is a prime example. He's had help: love, therapy, rehab, programs, success, money, accolades and adoration. But his moment of failure occurred at a time and place where the circumstances led to his death.

I appreciate the posts and tweets on awareness about depression and the message that help is out there. It is vitally important that people know they have options and alternatives to suicide. But sometimes, suicide is the option people choose to resolve a problem to which they cannot find another answer. I don't like it. It makes me so angry that I want to break things and so sad that I want to cry all day. I just don' think it is honest or supportive to those who loved and supported people who've committed suicide to say that with enough help these things wouldn't happen. They would and they will. That's just the ugly awful truth of it. This is a thing that can't ever be totally cured, at least not as long as it continues to be one we don't fully understand emotionally and scientifically. For those left behind, I hope they come to believe that they did all they were capable of doing to help and that the person they loved is no longer in pain. Cold comfort indeed.