tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88656316900230841112024-02-20T13:35:08.982-05:00newyorksubalienUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-88426349177155746062013-11-13T18:40:00.000-05:002013-11-13T18:40:15.974-05:00newyorksubalien has moved - to Chicago! Why not go visit her at <a href="http://www.chirishchatter.com/">www.chirishchatter.com</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-1708040138622010132012-04-20T13:41:00.000-04:002012-04-20T15:30:57.312-04:00Preparing for Prom - the biggest High School test of all“I’m going in!” said the girl in front, grim determination
written all over her face and armed for battle with the necessary weapons –
backless, feathery, sequined-studded and meringue-shaped. Yes, we were Prom dress shopping and it was
not pretty. Or rather it was pretty, if pretty in pink is your thing.<br />
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The scene was outside the dressing-room of a Fifth Avenue
department store on a floor dedicated to a world I would best describe as
“Dancing with the Stars” meets “Dallas” meets “Gossip Girl”. Women mainly of a
certain age (we all obviously had 17/18 year daughters so you can do the Maths)
were standing around in our sensible shoes, jeans and black sweaters while very
certain young-aged women in flip-flops, cut-off jeans and white T-shirts were
clutching arm-loads of dresses, each the opposite of each other – long, short,
puff-balled, sleek, mono-chromed and multi-coloured. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In Prom Dress World, trying is trying. When faced with
thousands of strips of material (and sometimes it is indeed just strips) there
is no other option but to hit the dressing-rooms. All around me I could hear
Prom-Mums whispering the same mantra – “Just try it on to see how it looks”.
Result – huge queues outside the changing-booths and some very disgruntled
Prom-Mini-Mums. Because they want Prom-minis, not the floor-length fuchsia
organza creation their Mum is insisting they put on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not that a shorter dress means a smaller price tag. According
to a recent telephone survey carried out by Visa, families with teens are expected to
spend an average of $1,078 this year on Prom, up from $807 in 2011. A Visa
official described it as “social-arms-race” spending and I’m not arguing with
them. Tickets, dresses (where less usually costs more), make-up and hair appointments, limousine rental (dance poles or smoke machines optional),
flowers, after-prom parties and photos all add up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What the survey also discovered was that spending varied
dramatically based on family income. Families earning less than $20,000 will
spend an average of $1,200 while those earning between $20,000 and $29,000 will
fork out an average of $2,635. At the other end of the scale, those earning over
$75,000 will only (if you can say that) spend around $742. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You would be excused if you thought the whole experience sounds like a dry run for a much-hoped-for-one-day-in-the-future wedding. Many of the shops that specialize in Prom dresses are indeed bridal salons. And
apparently you should buy Prom dresses one size up from your usual as they run at
least one size smaller “like bridal gowns”. This also means inevitably any
dress you choose needs to be altered for a perfect fit so ideally we should
have started our hunt for THE dress several months ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps this accounted for the many frazzled and
panicked looks on local aliens’ faces this weekend. Or perhaps it was because
we kept on seeing the same panicked faces time and time again. In keeping with
the grand old European tradition (the word “prom” originates from the French “promenade”
when guests marched at the start of a ball or formal event), it seems there is
also a set “Grand Tour” of prom shops, Europe being downsized to a 25-block
square in Midtown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The obvious worry is that if we are all going to the same
shops and (not intending to buy a one-off-the-shoulder designer gown) are
looking at the same racks of the same multiple dresses, how do you avoid the
ultimate Prom disaster – being a Prom Twin as opposed to the Prom Queen. This
is where social media comes into its own. Apparently Mini-Mum’s class of 2012
is posting details of frocks so there is no fracas on the big night. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I say “frocks” plural as for many, the actual formal is just
the formal start to the celebrations. Organised after-prom parties such as sunrise
cruises are understandably big business. But they have an extra dimension here
given the minimum drinking age is 21 and Prom-goers are generally in the
17-19 year range. Hence the latest addition
to my Subalien dictionary, the term “No ID event”. Initially I mistakenly interpreted this as “No
questions asked” but quickly realized I was heading down the wrong track when I
read the tagline “Unlimited juice and soda all night”. But I have to admit it
does sound cooler than “Teen Night Event”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Many Prom-goers prefer the private party option and stories
abound of chartered buses (dance poles or smoke machines again optional) picking
up crowds of kids after the main school event and whisking them away for a
weekend of festivities at someone’s house in the Hamptons. Hence the need for
more than one frock (we would hope). I hope they also have the foresight to organise transport back at the end or it could be a very long "promenade" home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For those of you interested, our own personal Grand Tour proved educational but shopping-bag free. Given Prom is such a cultural milestone in our current planetary home, we have jokingly suggested Mini-Mum go dressed in an Irish potato sack to represent her national heritage. As Male Mini-me sweetly said, she would still look beautiful. If not "Prom(enade) Queen", at least "Pommes (de Terre) Queen". </div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-7535744320985157112012-04-05T13:13:00.000-04:002012-04-05T13:15:44.744-04:00Hail the new "sense-ible" New York taxi - smell less, see more, it's even quieter tooting its own horn!<br />
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If Planet New York’s streets and avenues are the arteries
and veins of some never-sleeping beast, its blood is not red but yellow –
little yellow globules that hurtle madly around, causing many a heart-stopping
moment but likewise saving the lives of ever-late aliens who need
to get from A to B five minutes ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The classic New York cab has a distinctive aroma, a variation of “eau de Manhattan” I call “eau de Man/Eating”. The black floor is perfect for
rendering invisible wallets, mobile phones and leather gloves and it never
ceases to amaze me how there is often more space in the boot – <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/11/lampese-realtorese-its-all-americanese.html">sorry, trunk</a> –
than for the passengers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But all this is set to change. This week Mayor Bloomberg rolled
out the new New York cab, scheduled to hit the streets from the end of next
year and set to totally replace the Ford Crown Victoria, the iconic design that looks like cars I used to draw when I was 5 years old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The pluses of the new cab on paper would appear to be many –
special passenger seats that “help neutralize interior odors” (not sure if this
stretches to the driver’s seat as well), more leg room, chargers, USB ports and a sunroof to allow passengers to admire the skyscrapers as opposed to the
fender-benders. There is also floor lighting so you’ll only need to buy the one pair of
gloves each winter and, my personal favourite, a “low-annoyance horn”. I searched in vain to find an online
recording of said horn but only succeeded in making myself mildly-annoyed at my
failure to do so. I imagine it will appear as a highly-annoying app soon
anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the outside, it is still yellow, in fact an even brighter
yellow than its current counterpart. Shape-wise though, I have to admit, it looks
more like the kind of car I used to draw when I was 3 years old (except that it
does have 4 wheels) – definitely not “Back to the Future”, more Postman Pat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For all its increased comfort inside, I suspect that it
might take a while for the 600,000 odd daily taxi-riders to warm to the new
design. Learning how to hail a cab, even how to give your address in the right
way (always an intersection, number of street first, then avenue) is a rite of passage
to living in this city. Take, for example, the Masters of the Universe who, in the
morning, stride purposefully out of their townhouses and in the evening, out of their offices. They walk two steps to the kerb, raise arm
commandingly with crisp newspaper in hand and stand there for, oh, two seconds.
Like magic, a cab appears. In one fluid movement, Master of Universe opens
door, lowers himself smoothly into seat, slams door and is off, oozing power and manlihood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now imagine the same scenario with a slow, sliding, mini-van
type door and an entrance that requires you to bend in head-first rather than drop down head-last, putting you at risk of a socks-reveal that would seriously dint your sex appeal. Less Master of the Universe, more Mister Bean.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hasten to add that the Superalien morning ritual
goes a little differently. The master of my universe dons his "manny-hood" - a fetching
yellow bike jacket (interestingly similar in hue to the new cabs), brazenly
flashes socks or rather one of them as he dons bicycle clip, slams apartment
door, lowers himself onto bizarre-shaped bike seat and then is off, oozing, well, pedal power. Energy-efficient, good exercise and a source of much affectionate teasing on the part of his office
colleagues. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fear not - you still have plenty of time to hail an old-fashioned, door-opening-out-into-cyclists (hopefully not Superalien), saggy-bottomed seat, uber-odourous, suspension-free cab. With 13,000 yellow blood globules currently hurtling around, a complete blood transfusion is expected to take until 2018. </div>
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And I'm confident that one thing will not change - New York taxi drivers. The life stories I have heard over the past 4 years have convinced me that if cabs are New York's lifeblood, Big Apple's cabbies are its DNA - even if that sometimes means Destination Not Assured!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-69598057006439249282012-03-06T18:07:00.002-05:002012-03-06T18:16:51.352-05:00Birthday Ode to a planetary institution: the Oreo-iginal dunkin' biscuit<div class="MsoNormal">Today, March 6, 2012, is a momentous day in the history of Planet America as it marks a big “Double O” anniversary. And in more ways than one, as today is the 100<sup>th</sup> birthday of the quintessential American cookie, the often imitated but never quite replicated true Double O, the Oreo cookie, born right here in New York. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before we landed here, the concept of “milk and cookies” is something I associated with life in the movies and our current home. And of all the cookies on offer, nothing quite personified American living as the Oreo. American friends in Paris would lament their absence from local supermarket shelves and bring back suitcases of the distinctively dark discs from home visits. We tried them but, as with the love affair our Australian friends had with their sacred Vegemite, we just did not get it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Three years in and it’s happened. Male Mini-me, rapidly sprouting into Male Mum-minizer, is heeding his doctor’s advice to eat us out of house and home and the “milk and cookies” ritual is a daily ceremony in our household. Although I have to admit his allegiances are still with Hobnobs or Chocolate Digestives. But we still have a packet of Oreos handy in the house for the local alienettes and I consider it a privilege to have seen the “twist, lick, dunk” ritual performed by a true expert. Several tips if you are trying it out yourself - <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 7pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"> * </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Make sure your Oreos are at room temperature for a successful twist and split. Broken Oreos do NOT taste the same. In fact they taste like ore (as in ore - o. Sorry.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 7pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"> * </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Don’t lick </span><u style="text-indent: -0.25in;">all</u><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> the creamy filling off as apparently, for a true dunk, you need to put the two halves back together. And too much licking means no sticking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 7pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"> * </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Choose your milk glass wisely. Big clue, the cookie should be able to fit into it. Don’t laugh, not that obvious if you’re an Irish-subalien-first-time-dunker.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While there is only one, true Oreo, this does not mean there are not different kinds of Oreos - Mini Oreos, Golden Oreos, Double Stuf (really, that’s how it’s spelt), Triple Double Chocolate, ones with original creme fillings or those with mint, peanut butter or chocolate in the middle. The list gets longer if you include overseas offerings – in Argentina there are banana and dolce de leche creme options, in China strawberry fillings and a less sweet wafer variation which appeals more to the local market. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The sweet factor is not an issue here - back in the 1980s, there was a “Big Stuf Oreo” which, as you probably guessed, was a pretty big cookie. But coming in at 316 calories a piece, it was eventually sent to cookie heaven in 1991. Even the amazing deep-fried oreo cookies sold here at street markets and fairs are estimated to have only around 100 calories each – and believe me, you are usually not tempted to have a second.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In honour of today’s birthday, there is a “special edition” birthday cake version on sale at the moment with sprinkles in the filling. Ever ready to celebrate any occasion, I am off to seek them out so I can crush them and sprinkle on vanilla ice cream – my guilty Oreo secret. And while savouring my variation of “milk and cookies”, I will offer up my Birthday Ode to the Oreo.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Oh, Oreo, we did not know<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">That to your hometown we would go,<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We weren’t sure, we thought we’d risk it,<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">But we’re glad we did ‘cos it takes the biscuit!<o:p> </o:p> </div><div class="MsoListParagraph"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-35999124251087642362012-02-29T11:28:00.001-05:002012-02-29T11:29:47.879-05:00Leaping with joy at an extra 24 hours on a new planet<div class="MsoNormal">As you start to get older and greener of the subalien tooth, you appreciate so much more any extra hours bestowed upon you. Little joys such as the clock going back in the winter or “gaining” up to an extra day when you fly west from our current planet. But in both these instances there is always eventually the need to head in the other direction and I’m the first to feel (totally irrationally) shortchanged by ye gods when time goes against me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So today – February 29<sup>th </sup>or Leap Day - is a win/win situation for me. A whole “extra” day with no looming reversal of the clock to cast a shadow over my joy. It also makes me think back to previous February 29<sup>th</sup>s and how they represent our own interplanetary “leaps”. Our most recent two were in Paris but even that length of time was insufficient for me to learn how to even say “Leap Year” in French. I’ve just had to look it up and it is apparently “l’année bissextile”. Now I know it is all to do with Latin and “bis” and “sextus” but honestly, who is going to look at that word and not see something else. Especially given this is the nation that produced the marvellous term “cinq à sept” for post-work afternoon liaisons, niftily timetabling the hours between 5pm and 7pm for lovers’ rendezvous but still leaving time to be home for dinner. Please note, in French-speaking Canada, “cinq à sept” has a slightly different meaning – it is indeed a “happy hour” but of the bar variety. Just so you know.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I now have in my own mind how the nation of love may choose to spend its extra 24 hours. In Ireland, where we were in 2000, the thought process is still the same although the focus is more on managing to achieve the “sept à cinq” time slot. For according to lrish legend, on this day alone, young lassies in the Emerald Isle were allowed by St Patrick to propose to their young men; those not agreeable had to pay a forfeit which in olden times was a dress but in my youth had been reduced to a kiss. We explained the custom to Male Mini-me this weekend just in case - he was very disgruntled and expressed a desire to be living in olden times. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there was Brazil in 1996. I have to confess I also had to look up Leap Year in Portuguese, only to discover it was “ano bissexto” – think there is a pattern forming here? I also have to confess that I don’t actually remember that one as we were probably all recovering from the exertions of Carnival the week earlier.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I have been looking forward to seeing how our current planetary hosts make use of their extra day. I was a little disappointed that <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/search/label/valentine%27s%20day">with the local love of the greeting card</a>, I have seen none wishing the recipient a “Happy Leap Day”. But there are “Happy Leap Year Birthday” cards, including one that reads “Happy Birthday for real this year”. Some locals are preparing to take advantage of the additional recreational time to have a special “cinq à sept” although of the French Canadian variety involving beverages not beds. And elsewhere on the planet, that great alien playground, Disneyland, is staying open for the first time for 24 hours straight from 6am this morning (is that a “six à six"?).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And if you didn’t feel the need before to celebrate these extra 24 hours, then the media yesterday made sure you might want to start appreciating them. Many ran a story that NASA scientists have identified an asteroid that currently has a 1 in 625 chance of crashing into Earth, possibly on 5<sup>th</sup> February 2040. Fear not, reassuringly, were it to hit, mankind is expected to live through it. Even more reassuringly, NASA officials separately also said they expect the odds of an impact to go way down in the coming years. But heavens above, let’s take this opportunity to make the most of today’s Leap Day – there may only be 6 more left! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-6686428886748196202012-02-14T09:45:00.000-05:002012-02-14T09:45:09.972-05:00Surviving two cultural revolutions with hands and head intact<div class="MsoNormal">The past two weeks have seen me go through a cultural evolution – a subalien I still may be but at least I now know how to clap on cue, cheer on command and, at the other end of the scale, survive three hours of Shakespeare with my head still intact (unlike most of the characters).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My evolution centred around two revolutions. The first was the name of the lunchtime chat show looking recently for members of the public to fill its seats at one of its tapings. This being a brand new “transformational” show (and, as I have since learnt, one which replaced a much-loved soap opera) it is, somewhat understandably, working hard to find suitably responsive and adequately enthusiastic audience members. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is also probably not helped by the fact that, having sat through an entire morning of on-off whooping, cheering and applauding (I did not think hands could hurt so much), I would have to describe it as what I call a “once in a lifetime” event. So much so that I felt it would spoil the memories to watch the one-hour show when it was actually broadcast.<br />
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Let’s just say I didn't want to face up to reality and accept that others now know the secrets I gleaned from the show. Such as how a bowl of macadamia nuts has more calories than a platter of vegetables. Or that the dark brown/black combination I have always worn was in fact a fashion faux-pas but now apparently is “in”. I know it is – in my wardrobe and has been for years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of you vaguely interested, the key is while chocolate is good (but no macadamia nuts thrown in, of course), tan and khaki are both big no-nos. If you’re confused about the khaki, here this means beige and not dark green – something I wish I'd known when buying Mini-Mum's first school uniform. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No danger of any of those colours appearing in the audience. We had all been given instructions to wear bright colours and it was heart-warming to see so many members of the audience applying this request to their facial colour palate as well as their wardrobe. And that they continued to apply them so many times during the taping. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps their ever-appearing gold compacts served a secondary purpose in that they attracted the TV cameras as bright objects attract magpies. By the way, “in” colours for TV production crew - most definitely black and white. Anyway, I have it from reliable sources that those of us more shrinking violets (not exactly a bright colour, I know, but at least it wasn’t black), did not make it onto the big screen. What can I say – heart-broken, gutted, deeply relieved. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If that was a girly, local planetary cultural experience, you couldn’t get "butcher" (in more ways than one) than our most recent one. <i>The</i> <i>Revolution</i> might not have quite fulfilled my <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2012/01/even-intergalactic-subaliens-make-new.html">New Year’s Resolution No 2</a> but I think few would question our cultural credentials after seeing Kevin Spacey in <i>Richard III</i> this weekend. Now there's a man who knows about overthrowing existing leaders (we're talking the king here).<br />
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Our theatrical outing was supposed to have been a family event. But as in the play, where men and women fell by the wayside one by one, so in the run-up to the big day, our party of four was first reduced to three and then two. My two, I hasten to add, in contrast to Richard's relatives, did live to tell the tale, despite dropping out because of the length of the telling of the theatrical version.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">To give Superalien his due (and in the spirit of <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2012/01/even-intergalactic-subaliens-make-new.html">New Year's Resolution No 10</a>), I did not see him dropping "out" once during the performance - something I could not have denied him, should I have forced him to watch <i>The</i> <i>Revolution</i>.<br />
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To be fair, there were similarities between the two shows. Both had the same “audience-in-seat-time” and both focused on resolving problems and changing lifestyles. Although in the case of <i>Richard</i>, the main "presenter" was predominantly interested in sorting out his own problems and lifestyle changes he “suggested” tended to be rather permanent.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">And both involved the audience coming to its feet at the end and applauding wildly – I’ll let you guess which one evoked the spontaneous reaction.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-19712593122489351362012-01-31T20:02:00.002-05:002012-02-01T10:39:51.513-05:00Feeling a bit of a donkey about local planetary politics<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve tried to ignore it for long enough but it’s time to face up to the elephant in the room – as well as the donkey.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s Election Year in Planet America and while we've already experienced the country going to the polls shortly after we first landed, with the usual complications moving involves, I was more concerned then about the state of our heads than our head of state.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This time around we have no excuse – and frankly we don’t need any as it’s impossible not to get caught up in the coverage of the race to the White House. Who wouldn’t be interested in a race that pits an elephant against a donkey? Who wouldn’t be interested in a political party that picks an elephant or a donkey as their symbol? So hence my first bit of cultural research – what was the story behind the pachyderm and the pack-ass?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most of us would associate a donkey with (let’s just call a chad a chad) stubbornness and even stupidity and apparently, we’re not far wrong as to the original use. The Democratic Donkey evolved after opponents of Democrat Andrew Jackson called him a jackass in his 1828 presidential campaign. He in turn decided to adopt the image as meaning strong-willed in his election posters. Political cartoonist Thomas Nast then jumped on the donkey-pulled bandwagon and used the animal to represent the party, hence its existence today as the unofficial but accepted Democratic emblem.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over to the Republicans who have the elephant as their official symbol. Nast is also accredited with this one after depicting a donkey hidden in a lion’s skin scaring away all the animals in the zoo. One of these was an elephant labeled “the Republican vote”. And that was all it took. That and a good memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today’s Democrats apparently view their donkey as humble, hard-working and courageous while Republicans, far from seeing the elephant as slow and bumbling, believe it represents dignity and strength. Hope my subalien evolution turns out as well!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another previous hurdle in my own race for local political wisdom was the constant use in political commentaries of the term GOP. I now know that this stands for the Republican nickname, the Grand Old Party. But 55% of Americans didn't when asked in a sample poll last August. Even more amazingly, only 51% of the Republicans polled got it right. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To confuse you even further, GOP was originally used to describe the Democrats before the Republican Party even existed. They would appear to have (stubbornly?) resisted any other acronym since so headline writers are forced to reduce them to Dems where necessary. Although (contrary to what many paleontologists say), apparently DINOs still exist (Democrats In Name Only). In the interests of fairness, I should of course add there are many humourous “alternative” versions of GOP, my current favourites being “Greedy One Percent” and “Grumpy Old Patriots”. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then there’s the colour issue - and I’m not talking about the “of color” issue here. In most other democracies, any party on the political left would usually be associated with the colour red and those parties more right-wing or conservative would see their leaders bedecked with blue ties (or skirts in the case of the UK’s Mrs Thatcher). Here, with the national flag a very convenient red, white and blue, and a clear political case of left versus right, an interplanetary visitor could be excused for assuming the same rules would apply. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wrong – in fact it’s exactly the opposite. Red states are those where local aliens generally vote for a Republican president, blue for a Democratic one. It’s not always been that way. With the advent of colour television, networks all adopted their own system, some apparently alternating every four years between blue and red for the incumbent President’s party. This led to one famous comment by an anchorman when (Republican) Ronald Reagan won his 44-state landslide in 1980 that his electoral map looked like "a suburban swimming pool". Other commentators called it “Lake Reagan”. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was only in 2000 that the accepted red/blue Republican/Democrat divide set in. This was the famous “chad” election when the viewing public were subjected to the electoral map for days after going to the polls thanks to the close contest between George W (did you know it stands for Walker?) Bush and Al Gore. Given the political shenanigans were confusing enough, it helped that at least all the TV stations were on the same page - or screen - as far as the political colours were concerned.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is one other suggestion that the evolution of the colours is because donkeys can have a reddish coat and elephants a blue-ish hue but I'll not wait for the count to come in on that one....</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-67933673715802814552012-01-06T18:08:00.001-05:002012-02-14T10:29:44.005-05:00Even intergalactic subaliens make New Year's resolutions - 'though doubt if many include first manicure and new underwear!<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s that time of the year when Planet Big Apple literally becomes an urban jungle, with the pavements - sorry, sidewalks - strewn with abandoned Christmas trees. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The holiday season is at an end and while the local aliens stretch it out at the other end,<a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/12/getting-into-spirit-of-big-apples-extra.html"> getting into the festive mood from Thanksgiving in November</a>, they seem more than ready to draw a line under it all before the start of January.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">So it’s time to move on and embrace the New Year, even if it pains me particularly this time around to enter 2012, the year Mini-Mum blasts off to her own little planet (exact galaxy still to be determined). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And in keeping with tradition and with the final batch of ski socks washed (I’m sure they re-populate if left to their own devices in suitcases), I’ve forced myself to sit down and draw up the following resolutions, designed to make me a better subalien.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Lose my nail virginity - in other words, </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">have my first manicure. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I realise this may not sound like much of a sacrifice to many of you but this is the girl who survived three years in Brazil without stepping foot in a beauty parlor ( I was also, according to my hairdresser, THE only girl in Rio with short hair). So this year, I am going to take the plunge. I appreciate that it will change me forever but am willing to make the sacrifice in the interests of total immersion in our current home.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Be more cultural – by this, I don’t mean eat more bio-yoghurt but rather force Super and family to make a monthly outing to see something that does not involve a screen. Thought we might start off easy this month with Kevin Spacey in Shakespeare’s Richard III. Or perhaps the off-Broadway return of “Carrie”, the musical….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Explore</span></span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> new corners of Planet New York. Over three years here and the "can't teach an old dog new tricks" syndrome has well and truly set in (as opposed to the "I could teach a new dog great tricks" campaign that is currently being waged by Male Mini-me). Believe it or not, a 30-minute subway ride which would take us to the other end of the island, opening up the cultural (there’s that word again) vistas of Chinatown, Greenwich Village and Washington Square now seems like a transatlantic voyage. In fact we are more likely to get in a taxi and head to the airport than head downtown. Shame on us, I know. Must do better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Visit new corners of Planet America. Does it count if we do get in that taxi and head to the airport in order to see aliens in other cities? Or do we still have to go downtown? Only kidding. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">5. Learn the names of all of the united states. Very helpful when trying to fufill Resolution No 4 and also, I expect, in trying to keep up with this year's main topic of alien conversation. Plus brush up on essential election vocab such as pork barrel spending, wingnuts and dimples.</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">6. Discover why no matter what combination of groceries or the actual number of items, my bill at our local supermarket always comes within $2.56 cents either side of $50. Always.</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">7. Work up enough courage to one day actually walk into Bergdorf Goodman on 5th Avenue. Even the glass doors look too expensive for me to touch them. Put it this way, <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011_12_01_archive.html">gift cards are only sold in $50 denominations</a> - then again, that's only one trip to the supermarket!</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">8</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">. NOT take up Pilates or Yoga. This way, I know I will be able to keep to one resolution at least.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">9. Cross the final divide and start buying socks (and other essential undergarments) in our new planetary home. You may laugh but as an eternal traveller, one clings to certain things from one's homeland - even when they start to lose their cling, so to speak. Time to start talking DKNY instead of M&S.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">10. A</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">nd apparently I’ve got to be kinder in this blog to old Super.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">So probably shouldn’t have included the “old” then.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"> So there they are - my 10 Self-Commandments for this year, in print so no excuses. I'll keep you posted.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-28011851503000059472011-12-07T18:11:00.003-05:002011-12-07T18:13:46.720-05:00Getting into the spirit of Big Apple's extra planetary season<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s time to get into the holiday spirit. At least I certainly felt that way yesterday after braving the crowds in Macy’s, allegedly the world’s largest department store. At the time 'though, I have to admit the spirit I was thinking of was the liquid kind that soothes aching feet and erases all lingering memories of the 25 versions of “I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus” I'd heard all day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you hadn't noticed, we've entered into the extra fifth season in Planet Big Apple, the one that runs from the last Thursday in November ie Thanksgiving until January 1. It's the holiday season, so-called to encompass all cultural festivities held over the period, <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/12/happy-christmahanakwanzaka.html">be it Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanzaa</a>. Holiday season traditionally kicks off with Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when shops hold 24 to 72 hour sales designed to kick start the holiday present-buying bonanza. Please note, this is not to be confused with Blackout Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving, when everyone back home for the big day hits the local bars and well, you can guess the rest....<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By all accounts this year, Team Retail’s kick start was a great success with record spending reported in excess of $52 billion over the holiday weekend. That should go a long way to allowing Black Friday to live up to its name (or at least one interpretation of it) as the point in the calendar when shop bank balances move out of the red and into the black.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a day spent on one of the main shopping thoroughfares in Big Apple, I can vouch for the fact that nearly 2 weeks on, the shoppers are still there, the sales are still there but there is something still missing. To get into the holiday season, you need seasonal temperatures and if the discounts are in the double figures, so are the temperatures. November saw records broken, with temperatures at the end of the month hitting 21 degrees Celsius. That was warmer than New Orleans, Las Vegas and even New Delhi.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things have cooled down a little since the start of December but we’re still in double digits – and summer jumpers and lightweight coats. The only gloves I’ve worn so far have been to lug home the Christmas tree, passing guys in shorts and T-shirts on the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it takes more than balmy temperatures to keep me from getting into the Christmas spirit. As we said on our annual "holiday" drinks invitation, who needs the weather to turn cold to start serving the “vin chaud”? I’m also well into the Christmas list-ing (note the hyphen - as opposed to “listing” to one side or the other from too much “vin chaud”).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My lists are of course not what to get from Santa but rather what to give from “Santa”. If I really wanted to go native, apparently I’d be stocking up on gift cards which are set once again to be the most popular holiday present amongst local aliens. I suppose in the land of choice it makes sense the best present is deemed to be the one you choose yourself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I fully understand the concept behind such sophisticated thinking, I am evidently insufficiently evolved as a species to appreciate the concept and gift cards (unless they are of the “Choose one thing I can do for you today - as in tidy my room” variety) are not be found under our tree. Plus there’s the whole “how much” issue – and even when I do decide on an amount, inevitably said card can be purchased in increments of $33.67 only.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still there is some hope for the old-fashioned gift-givers amongst us. This holiday season, the U.S Senate is having its first “Secret Santa” gift exchange. More than half of the 100 members have signed up to take part although the total is unevenly split between the 2 parties, with 37 Democrats versus 21 Republicans. Presents must be wrapped and limited to $10 – so no gift cards then! Apparently likely offerings could include an Arkansas paper weight, New Mexico chili, a Nebraska coffee cup and a recycled pair of socks. Nothing like keeping to tradition.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But wonders will never cease - in the time that it's taken me to write this, the temperature outside has<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>fallen to single figures with the longer-term forecast even showing a few minuses - a real plus for us. So here's hoping that t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">he temperatures continue to drop so the needles on the Christmas tree don't, that the person who "doesn't want anything" sees the joke when presented with a beautifully-wrapped empty box and, most importantly, may you be filled with the holiday spirit - in every way.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-27999175047974184222011-11-15T18:04:00.002-05:002011-11-15T18:15:19.608-05:00The Movember challenge - forget Hallowe'en, this is the real hair-raising experience<div class="MsoNormal">We’re in the middle of a hairy situation – it’s November 15th and hence half–way through Movember, a great planetary tradition in which certain local aliens (as opposed to the alienettes) forgo facial harvesting for the month of November and put their money where their mouth is - or just above their mouth to be exact.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The point (or eventual points) of this forbearance is that said nurturing of hairy upper lip is a constant source of amusement for fellow alien and alienettes who, in gratitude for this moment of light relief in the darkening autumn days, donate to help raise awareness and funds for men’s health issues such as prostate cancer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As you have probably gathered, Superalien has decided to go native and join his 'mo bros' as they are known. There are certain rules – there is to be no joining of the mo to side burns (that apparently is called a beard). Nor should any bristly handlebars connect to one’s chin (there goes the Johnny Depp/Captain Jack Sparrow goatee look!) Mo bros should “grow and groom” and lastly, conduct themselves like true country gentlemen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know about a country gentleman or Captain Jack – we’re currently more at the Farmer Jack stage in our household. Still I have to say that I do feel closer to nature at the moment when Super is around - thanks to the giant hairy caterpillar permanently nesting on his upper lip. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is a certain air of excitement in the house as to what the caterpillar is going to transform into – will it develop “wings” and transform Superalien into Super-Victorian-acrobat? Or will he dabble with a Dali, grapple with a Clark Gable or wrestle with a Wario? Personally I think he’s secretly going for the Sean Connery look, especially given they share the same hairstyle!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course it takes more than just the ability to grow facial hair to get through this experience. For the first two weeks you have to be able to withstand the side glances from complete strangers as they try to decide whether you were just feeling lazy that morning or going for, as one of our neighbours put it, that "weekend look". Then there's the repeated shocks you must suffer each time you look into the mirror and discover that you are more Charlie Chaplin than the mental image of Zorro you cherished in your mind.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it's not just the mo bros who have to suffer. We mo sistas have to make our sacrifices as well and I haven't (as yet) started insisting on the use of hair conditioner - something Superalien has not had the need to apply for many years (see reference to Sean Connery's hairstyle for those who do not know him).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But we're proud of our Superhairy-one, so proud that when he first announced his intention to get involved in this worthy cause, we presented him with the ultimate mo bro accessory for his bike. A giant, attachable (can you see it coming) - handlebar moustache. Now that's a mo bro with mojo!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.movember.com/">www.movember.com</a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-53541932940204708072011-11-11T17:39:00.000-05:002011-11-11T17:39:54.131-05:00Finding your pigeon hole in the Big Apple city grid<div class="MsoNormal">East, west, up, down – nothing says more about you to the local aliens on this planet than the geographical position of your chosen nesting place on this wee island which is just short of 24 square miles. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This of course is not unusual for me coming from another wee island where everything – and everyone - is divided into North and South. But here, as with everything else, there are more options, variations and differentiations. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first big decision you have to make is whether you are an Uptown or a Downtown kind of girl. It is probably fair to say that announcing that you live Downtown gives you a hipper, trendier image - although if you are blessed with Nor'n Iron intonations, that hipper, trendier image vanishes immediately you utter something which ostensibly sounds like "Dine-Tine".<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Uptown invariably suggests that you are upper-everything – unless, that is, you are upper Uptown as in Harlem. Just to confuse new aliens even further, there is also Midtown. I’m still undecided about the implications of that one – or perhaps that it is exactly it. If you are a Midtowner, you’re undecided, you’re looking to keep all options open and have a foot in both demographic and geographic camps, so to speak. Either that or you’re someone who loves having the taxi-blasting, siren-wailing soundtrack that is Big Apple on at full volume 24 hours a day, seven days a week.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once you’ve established your longitudinal preference, then it starts getting really interesting. Downtown, for example, specializes in hip, trendy (of course) acronyms. SoHo (not to be confused with its London counterpart Soho ) stands for South of Houston Street. Although here Houston is pronounced “How-ston” as opposed to “Hugh-ston” so if you’re really being pedantic, that little enclave of all that is cool should be pronounced “So-How” (as in “So how pretentious can you get” maybe??)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s also NoHo – you got it, North of Houston, home apparently to some of the most desirable lofts in the city. So doubly appropriate as whoever lives there certainly has the “know how”.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then there’s the well-known Tribeca (Triangle Below Canal Street) and the not so well-known Alphabet City. This is the clump of land that sticks out well east of First Avenue so instead of starting off a Negative First Avenue, Negative Second Avenue series, the city’s planners (rather sensibly I think) decided to go with Avenues A, B, C and D. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now for the Uptowners – of which I am one, I hasten to admit. As I said before, we are deemed “upper” everything including uber-boring, uber-staid and guilty of upping our unit size to an average of 4 aliens as opposed to the trendy two-somes down below. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here the division is simple – East or West with that great common denominator Central Park acting as the perfect no man’s land. Emotions run high as to which is better – when we were debating our allegiances, an Eastsider’s bewilderment that we would not immediately choose the side that had the best hospitals in the city only served to send me in the other direction – literally. In the end, for us, it came down to a gut decision – to me, Upper West Side feels more like the set from Friends, Upper East Side is more Gossip Girl. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After three years of living here, I've decided to give Uptown my own acronym – BOGOF (before you get offended, as in Buy One, Get One Free). This special deal would appear to have been running for quite some time for the many commercial establishments in the area. Because for all of the occasions one side lords it over the other about having X restaurant or Y shop, if you look carefully enough, there’s undoubtedly a sister venture quietly doing business in enemy territory. Going from one side to the other feels like entering a parallel universe each time my taxi whizzes past yet another UWS favourite’s alter ego. Don’t tell anyone, but secretly I think UWS and UES are essentially the same place – which kind of confirms the Downtowner’s view of us as uber-boring, I suppose.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Crossing the divides can sometimes feel like interplanetary travel and it is not without reason that I carry my passport in my bag at all times. But all the nabe snobbery aside, one of the most endearing characteristics of our current planetary home is that even the most sub of subaliens, so long as they have parked their spaceship on the brightly-lit landing strip that is Manhattan, is entitled to call themselves a New Yorker - and how cool is that ! </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-8745134828240909762011-10-27T14:54:00.003-04:002011-10-31T08:08:34.904-04:00From store candy to eye candy: getting into the spirit of Halloween!<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We saw our first vampire the other night. It was about 1030 pm on a quiet tree-lined street but we quickly decided that he – together with his 40ish vampiress companion – posed little danger, except perhaps to the laws of good taste (if you excuse the pun).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The sighting, chilling as it was (I’ve long decided that 40ish is too old to wear a vampiress outfit) did serve to warn us of the start of the Halloween party season. We had been aware of its imminent arrival thanks to the myriad of “pop-up” costume shops which had sprung up over Planet Big Apple, all of which seem to specialize in variations of “pop-out” outfits for women. Until we arrived here, I had not appreciated that to be a true celebrant, you have to take the “wee” in Halloween very seriously, especially when it comes to skirts and bodices!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This poses a dilemma for every parent with a teenage daughter, in fact forget the teenage, just a daughter. Our first year here Mini-Mum was shocked when she turned up at school on October 31<sup>st</sup> – it seemed some students like to keep up with certain Halloween traditions ie plenty of displays of flesh rather than blood and gore. Let's just say, for someone dressed up as a wicked witch, she looked positively saintlike.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Costumes are big business, no matter how skimpy they are. In total the US National Retail </span>Federation anticipates Americans will spend $1.2 billion on adult costumes, $1 billion on children’s costumes and $310 million on pet costumes. Just to be clear here, we’re talking costumes FOR the pets. <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/10/its-dogs-life-planetary-customs-and.html">My favourite – the killer whale – </a>doesn’t seem to have caught on as pumpkins and devils are apparently still the top two pet get-ups.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">In total, spending on Halloween is expected to reach nearly $7 billion - now that’s a lot of candy. I know </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">because I see it in the shops around me – bags and bags of it. Of course you don’t have to succumb to all this consumerism - I’ve never been so proud of Mini-Mum as when she manufactured wings for her Batgirl outfit from two “dead” umbrellas. But at the same time you have to let go a little – having sugar-free treats only at the Halloween party at Male Mini-me’s first school was, to me, a little excessive (or should that be "not excessive enough").</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">Let’s face it – 90% of the sweets the children gather that one night just sit in a bag at the bottom of the </span>wardrobe for the rest of the year. If you’re really into recycling you could just quietly bring them back out again 12 months later and stick them in the calling bowl by the door (only kidding – I know Halloween is all about mean, evil people but I’m not that mean and evil).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If I sound as if I don't get into the "spirit" of things, you couldn't be further from the truth. This is the alien who proudly discovered that she could see the Halloween lights in her Paris apartment from the top of the Eiffel Tower. But I have to admit this year, I reached a kind of a watershed. Now that both Alienettes are in the dizzy heights of Middle and Upper School, I wondered whether they would think it silly to have decorations gathered lovingly from three different planets sprinkled all over the apartment. In other words, I worried they had been weaned off Halloween.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The nudge I needed came from the most surprising source - old Killjoy himself, Superalien. He pointed out that just because the Alienettes didn't say anything, it didn't mean they wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't go to my usual lengths of getting the right planetary atmospheric mood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Mind you, he also pointed out our local pop-up costume shop. Any messages there???</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.5in;"><o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-32094423732024024442011-10-20T14:37:00.004-04:002011-10-20T14:41:32.753-04:00Discovering the secret agents in Planet Big Apple customer care centres<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve just spent the last three days on hold – literally. It’s <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/05/finding-out-true-cost-of-arm-and-leg-in.html">medical plan renewal time </a>and that means hours on the phone trying to find out details about new schemes and sorting out issues with the old one. Not to mention booking flights home to Planet Europe for Christmas and trying to get a plumber to fix our loo (<a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/11/lampese-realtorese-its-all-americanese.html">I refuse to call it the “john”</a>). Although you’ll be reassured to know we do have more than one loo so I haven’t been totally holding on, so to speak.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I shouldn’t complain overly. Even getting to the “on hold” stage is a major accomplishment over here, thanks to the mysteries of local call centres. With French automated customer care centres, I used to take great pride in the fact that my Irish-French accent - almost always - passed the voice recognition test. Not quite so for Superalien (or “Extraterrestre Extraordinaire” as I suppose I should have called him there). He would spend his time trying to say “oui” in fifteen different ways. It was as if the French language had more tones than Mandarin. Poor old Double-Extra would get more and more frustrated, with his “oui”s ranging from sounding like someone who had just dipped an extremity into boiling water to John Wayne telling his horse to stop.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least, I thought, this would be one less thing to have to contend with in Planet Big Apple. Mais non! I quickly discovered that I was the one sounding like John Wayne as I attempted to give account numbers/flight reservations/my DNA code over the phone only to be greeted with “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you try that again?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The number 8 is a particular problem – I keep forgetting over here it usually involves two whole syllables and the only way I can get it right is by pretending I’m a grande dame of English society describing what she had for lunch in full-bodied vowels (think Dame Judi Dench and the words “I ate” and you’ll get my drift).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My apparent subnormal ability to speak the language is only compounded by my subalien, socially insecure status with no 12-digits against my name. Too many times after finally negotiating the vocal hurdle, I would stumble at the ultimate numerical challenge - being asked to key in the last 4 numbers of <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/11/so-what-is-is-new-york-subalien.html">my (non-existent) social security number. </a>With no other alternatives or options offered, my failure to respond would result in calls disappearing into thin air. Eventually out of sheer frustration, I discovered the magic key. Forget 007 – my new secret agent identity in these instances is 0000 – and it seems to work.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly a whole new world opened up to me – I actually got to speak to real, live people (not that it meant my reasons for calling were ever resolved of course) but still, it felt better. I became bolder. On one call, when faced with what seemed like 6 million numerical options to get through to the next stage, I pressed the one number not listed - 0 - and shock horror, I was put on hold to go straight through to a representative.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, after expressing my pleasure at managing to break through the system, one very helpful representative let slip the ultimate password, the magic key, the way to cut your on-hold time in half. You don’t need a secret agent, just a secret word – “agent”. Just say this at any time in any call to a customer care centre and the real people come on. Now if only they were as good at getting rid of problems as James Bond!</div><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-13034696231573190182011-10-12T18:40:00.006-04:002015-04-29T12:47:01.970-04:00It's a dog's life - planetary customs and costumes!<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s October – the leaves are (finally) starting to turn brown in the city and the city’s brownstones are starting to turn into Hallowe’en houses with pumpkins, ghouls and giant skeletons popping up everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But while October is obviously a blessed month for the little aliens in our current planet, it also brings blessings - literally - for the many four-legged aliens walking the streets, not to mention the two-winged and the floppy-eared. In honour of St Francis of Assisi, the Italian monk known for his love of animals, churches and chapels throughout Big Apple hold Annual Blessing of the Animals services around his October 4 Feast Day. Just in case you thought this simply covered dogs and cats, previous participants at New York’s Cathedral of St John the Divine have apparently included sheep, goats and even a llama.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While this may seem a step too far to some dwellers from other planets, it does not take long living amongst my current companions to appreciate nothing is too far so far as pets are concerned. I mean, why not go to a stationery store with two parrots chained to your shoulder? Or take your pet budgies (still in their cage) for a stroll by the river in your shopping trolley? I’ve seen both this summer while out walking the Alienettes, neither of whom were chained to my shoulder or in a shopping trolley, I might add.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As in any big city, pets mean companionship. In Paris it was the same. A study while we lived there hypothesized that the high ratio of dogs to Parisians was because so many people had moved to the city and were a long way away from family and friends. Hence their dog became their family. Ironically of course having a dog in Paris is the best way to make friends and probably the only way to meet neighbours in your building. I once watched in amazement at a chic Parisian restaurant as the archetypal haughty maître'd proceeded, completely unbidden, to put a plate of prime entrecôte on the table – for the customer’s white pooch. Silence fell around the room as the little dog devoured the food with relish. I waited for the other diners to express their dismay but no, it was all oohs and aahs and “trop mignon” – and they were not talking about the steak!<br />
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Here they may draw the line at eating from the table but your dog may still get brought a drink of water before your thirsty toddler. There is however every reason to take a dog seriously here as he or she is, in all senses of the word, an important consumer. In total Americans are expected to spend over $50 billion on their pets this year, up 5% from 2010 despite the economic doom and gloom. In Big Apple every restaurant that closes its doors at the moment seems to be quickly replaced by a doggy daycare centre, a doggy spa, a gym or a grooming parlour. And let’s not forget the dog walkers who ask upwards of $15 for a 30 minute walk and then juggle a multitude of dogs at the same time – well, not literally juggle, more jiggle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One website noted a dog walker’s rate depended on his or her training and certification (yes, we are talking about the walker here rather than the dog). That said, seeing some walkers calmly stride through the park with 8 perfectly-behaved dogs makes you appreciate how you can be a professional pooch promenader. I sometimes wonder if they could work the same magic on some of the smaller two-legged aliens in the park.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One area where professionals and amateurs both notch up a 100% score is on poop collection. This unfortunately was not the case in Paris. Most visitors do not realize that Parisians are not being grumpy and aloof when they walk around with their eyes fixed on the ground – they are just looking out for doggie doo. Here however the local aliens can be stung with a $250 fine if they don’t clean up after Fido – worse, they are likely to get a stinging ear-lashing from the next passerby. <o:p></o:p><br />
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The plus side of this - apart from clean sidewalks - is that dogs are welcomed pretty much anywhere in the city, even more so when they are carried in one of the many dog-carriers (mock croc anyone?), strollers (all-terrain version starting at $350) and my personal favourite, a puppy purse. This is what it sounds - your little darling is encased in a fitted bodysuit with his legs free and a handy strap for you to carry him over your shoulder, like, well, a handbag.<br />
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And this leads me full circle to the obvious and ultimate Big Apple doggie accessory - the Hallowe'en costume. Bunny rabbits, hot dogs, taco dogs, killer whales - you name it, they have it. Forget the two-legged version in the Village, this is the annual Hallowe'en parade you want to see. Last year's affair in Tompkins Square saw a dog dressed as an ipad, one with a doggy version of Lady Gaga's meat dress and another in a green curtain gown <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">à la Scarlett O'Hara in "Gone with the Wind". Thinking about it, to survive that, the poor little things need all the blessings they can get.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-18561309873175583132011-07-18T11:42:00.001-04:002011-07-18T11:45:39.607-04:00Summertime in Planet Big Apple - and the livin' ain't so easy!<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Usually by this stage of the year myself and the Alienettes have alienated Superalien ie we’ve abandoned him to the sticky sidewalk steambath that is a New York summer. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He actually loves this as it gives him the chance to watch TV at full volume and only use the overhead lights instead of the myriad of table lamps that I insist upon to give the right planetary atmosphere. But most importantly, he can complain about how hot it is whilst we are enjoying the somewhat cooler climes of the Emerald Isle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This year however our need to renew a scrap of paper otherwise known as a visa is being affected by the scrapping of the local planetary governors otherwise known as Democrats and Republicans. We are as a result literally grounded and daren’t risk leaving these sunny shores for fear of not being allowed to set foot on them again in two months' time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So we are finally getting our chance to experience up to 100 degrees Fahrenheit and what’s worse, up to 100% humidity. The plus side is that Male Mini-Me and Mini-Mum don’t actually complain when I drag them out to the occasional museum or exhibition as anywhere is probably cooler than our apartment. This is after ou</span>r old townhouse apartment revealed yet another of its quirks the other night when it stubbornly refused to allow us to have four air-conditioning machines working at the same time.<br />
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I secretly was quite pleased as our old units are so noisy you do actually need to have the TV on full volume to hear anything. Superalien did of course suggest only using the overhead lights instead of the essential table lamps to distribute the electrical usage better but what kind of stupid suggestion was that!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">After years of rushing outside at the faintest glimpse of the sun for fear that I might miss that year's summer, I’m finally getting that the sun might actually shine again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I’ve even bought shorts (when in Rome…). The nights however are proving to be our biggest challenge when the wind drops but the thermometer doesn't. Then we find out why New York is the city that never sleeps. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
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</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US">But t</span><span lang="EN-US">here are many times when it is more than bearable. Sitting in our little patio with the necessary candles (aha, no ceiling light option there) and having our umpteenth BBQ without fear of rain or frost. Or heading down to the river to watch an open air movie or a concert in the evening dressed in shorts (of course) and not worrying about a <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/11/lampese-realtorese-its-all-americanese.html">jumper (sorry, pullover)</a></span><span lang="EN-US">. Or just marveling at the clear, true blue sky that seems to be permanently pinned over Manhattan. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US">So the general consensus is that if we are stranded on foreign soil for the rest of the summer, we'll survive. Granted prior family holiday plans are having to be re-thought to U.S. destinations which do not require passports and this initially caused some consternation on the part of the Alienettes. It didn't help when I suggested that we could use this time to explore the historical ancestry of our new planetary home and start by re-tracing the first steps of its current President. Cue theme music to famous vintage TV show with crashing waves and surfboards. They got it eventually.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US">Yup, we'll survive. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-24900754325659856292011-07-08T09:27:00.007-04:002011-07-08T15:10:43.353-04:00Making sure us subaliens get up to no 'arm<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Well, I’m back. Ever heard of that famous phrase – forewarned is forearmed? My orthopedic specialist obviously hasn’t. Or rather his version goes something like “forewarned re forearms is revenue foregone”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/05/finding-out-true-cost-of-arm-and-leg-in.html">I’ve joked previously about how our sojourn in this planet could cost us an arm and a leg</a>. I didn’t realise it actually would cost me the use of my all-important left arm for the best part of two months. And this wasn’t because in the end I forgot to mark my dodgy shoulder with indelible marker pen before I went in for the operation. Actually my very nice anaethestist who had just come back from 2 weeks’ holiday in Brazil did that for me after being the fifth person that morning to enquire whether it was the right or the left. Never a sensible question to put to me as Superalien will tell you after many years of wrong turns when relying on my navigation skills.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It’s not as if I hadn’t asked. In a former life I have posed as a journalist so I thought “What should I expect post-operation?” basically should have covered it. There was a murmur about perhaps needing to take two weeks off work but of course, <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/11/so-what-is-is-new-york-subalien.html">thanks to my subalien status</a>, that was not an issue. Warnings of a little bit of discomfort and then my five-minute consultation was over. Perhaps I should have heard alarm bells when I checked again one week before the operation after Superalien discovered he had to head to new planets the night of the operation and was concerned about leaving me so soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The very nice female doctor looked a little doubtful but did impart what has proved to be crucial advice – to buy an all-important piece of ladies’ underwear best described as a front-loader and some very large front-buttoning shirts as I would be wearing a sling for a few days. A few days? It finally was put aside after five weeks. Not a good look when the weather is nearing 100 degrees – and the humidity likewise. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The key-hole surgery apparently went very well – or rather my specialist seems to be very pleased with himself every time I see him. I certainly enjoyed the few nano-seconds that I saw of it when I woke up half-way through and started asking about what I could see on the video screen. And the good news is that the pain level at night has gone down to just about the same as I was having before the operation – so that’s progress!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The other big bonus is that while someone else got to see the inner workings of my shoulder, I got to see the inner workings of the medical insurance system. The final statement from my healthcare company shows a billed amount in the tens of thousands. In contrast the company only actually paid a quarter of this to both my specialist and the hospital thanks to a system of agreed charges.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’m not totally out of their grip. Apparently my specialist also forgot to mention the four months of physiotherapy that I supposedly need to get me back to high-fiving with gusto. Here physio sessions last 90 minutes and involve all sorts of fancy stuff such as electrotherapy, ultrasound and specially-designed equipment such as my favourite, “The Stick” – it’s long and straight and would be a fun toy for dogs. I can’t imagine how long it took some medical specialist to come up with that one. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But it’s all helping and today I vacuumed the house for the first time in I’m not telling you how many weeks and typed my first blog since the start of May. And I’ve no idea what to cook for dinner. So everything’s back to normal. Give me a high five - or perhaps a low three might be better at the moment!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-89971284104923667722011-05-09T12:34:00.003-04:002011-10-27T14:58:55.650-04:00Trying to keep mum about Mom's Day<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Yesterday the Subalien family observed their traditional annual abstinence from that quintessential Big Apple tradition – Sunday brunch. Given brunch here seems sometimes to cover all forms of restaurant eating from 10 am to 5 pm this was a big sacrifice in our household. But it was Mother’s Day in our new planet and, as a result, the most popular day of the year for Americans to dine out according to the National Restaurant Association. Think Valentine’s Day but with crying two-year olds at every table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I had actually been trying to hide the fact from the offspring as I'm in the "Mother's Day only matters when you're no longer living with her" camp. </span>I’ve been greatly helped over the years by the fact that it has been celebrated at different times in our various planetary hops. My first few were in Brazil (second Sunday in May) and to be fair, those I did enjoy as Mini-Mum was obviously too small to feel any need to do anything but her Brazilian crèche did. So I am the proud possessor of a number of T-shirts with increasingly larger handprints and verses in Portuguese which I am keeping for posterity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Back to the UK and a return to the fourth Sunday in Lent. Those years were easy as being Irish (and no longer living with her), Mother’s Day was apparently obviously designed as a day of celebration for <u>my</u> mother. Need I say more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then to France and a switch to the last Sunday in May. There they truly celebrate mothers – so much so they actually give out medals at </span>local town halls for their (literal) contribution to society. The “Medaille de la Famille Française” dates back to 1920 when the award was created to help rebuild the population after the 1914-18 World War. Like all good medal ceremonies, there’s a bronze, silver and gold. Bronze for four or five children, silver for six or seven and the gold for those courageous mothers who have brought up eight or more little darlings (in the nomination form, they leave space to put in the details of up to 15 children).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Those still working their way towards such dizzy heights can all the same expect flowers, perfume and lingerie (after all, this is France). The last year we were there, a huge billboard campaign suggested that if you really wanted to spoil her, the ultimate gift would be a one-cup espresso coffee machine. Just what you need when going for that gold medal - something to keep you awake.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now we’ve come full circle and we’re back to the second Sunday in May. Here they don’t give out medals but the President does issue a special proclamation. The cards abound and the restaurants have their special “Mom’s Day Brunch” menus on show weeks beforehand. But as the alienettes are past the kindergarten-present-producing-factory stage, I am usually confident the event will pass my little darlings by. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This year I was helped by the fact Superalien’s and Male Mini-Me’s UK football team was playing a crucial match that day and so they were dispatched to the local Irish pub to drink Irish tea (honest) and have an Ulster fry. But they returned, bearing gifts and out came the handmade cards, worked away on in secret. Mini-Mum’s was a work of art and a message to break your heart; Male Mini-me’s had a biology textbook picture of aforementioned blood-pumping organ and the following greeting inside -<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hope you have a wonderful Mother’s Day<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">PS Most hearts drawn on cards are inaccurate so here is an accurate one<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Between the two of them, I think they got it covered.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-86022252703076331532011-05-03T14:44:00.005-04:002011-05-09T09:04:29.169-04:00Finding out the true cost of an arm and leg in the planetary healthcare system<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I now know what they mean when people comment that healthcare in Planet Big Apple can cost you an arm and a leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’m also realising it will be no mean feat to make it through our planetary visit with all our body parts intact. This is not because the locals have openly displayed any desire to conduct biological experiments to discover why our teeth are so crooked and our brows so furrowed. It is simply that in our current home, how sick you are appears to depend to some extent on which insurance plan you possess and what procedures it covers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Take our annual check-ups, for example. An admirable institution and one I fully appreciate is a good idea now that Superalien and I are starting to look increasingly like ET. However on our last visit, surprisingly both of us were independently advised by our charming general practitioner that our alien hearts were murmuring and that we should have an echo cardiogram. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Just by chance, said doctor had recently installed the necessary device in another one of his offices and when I turned up for my appointment, it would appear from the number of other patients waiting for the same test there is a lot of murmuring in our neighbourhood. Perhaps all this low-key coronary chatter is why New York is the city that never sleeps.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Thankfully, as you may have guessed, both our alien murmurs magically had disappeared and there was no need to remove said hearts. My shoulder however is not so fortunate. To be fair, I have actually seen the golf ball-sized (it looks that big to me) lump of calcium which is preventing me from being the obviously brilliant American football thrower I will become once it is removed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve seen it because it’s there in the MRI images they took when I was stuck for 30 minutes in a very noisy torpedo tube. In my local neck of the woods, Norn Iron, the waiting list for an MRI scan is years as the number of machines we possess you can probably count on one hand - here, that’s as many as can be found in medical offices on just one street. </span>My experience ran like this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Very nice assistant: “The doctor would like you to have an MRI so we’ll just clear it first with your medical insurance” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Me: “Actually I’m a bit claustrophophic. Is it really necessary?” (Remember this is to do with my shoulder).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Very nice assistant: “Well you can have this other – oh, but I’ve just found out that you are covered for the MRI so that would definitely be best”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I made the appointment for the next week (I was busy the next day, not them). The whole thing took an hour. Just like the National Health.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’m also battling to hold on to my teeth. I can understand why, with the preoccupation over pearly white dentures, the locals may be inclined to tear the whole lot out. But this would not be covered in the medical plan. So they’re starting small and my trusted dentist is currently concentrating on getting three out which will allow him to crown another. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This of course has nothing to do with his recent move into enlarged premises. In the same way that my optician who has also moved up and out in the world (office-wise that is) has just decided my eyesight is bad enough to require highly specialized, highly expensive eye-glass lenses. Lenses that are described by my medical plan as only necessary for those who have had corrective surgery. Perhaps she was going on the fact that I was rubbing my eyes and blinking – but only after looking at the bill she presented, almost all of which I had to pay.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We were in fact forewarned. At the famous “cultural" seminar we attended on landing, we were told that when asked their 5 most important goals in life, Americans included being a better healthcare consumer. We had no idea what they meant – literally. At the time we envisaged they meant being up-to-date on the latest treatments or making sure they went to the doctor more regularly. How naïve we were then. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Nearly three years and two medical plans later, I’m still a rookie who gets stung for the non-covered high performance glass lenses but at least my soon-to-be-downsized shoulder is not going to cost me an arm and a leg. That’s because I’m writing “Not this one - the left shoulder” on them before I go into the operating room!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-40308975691666251882011-04-28T16:25:00.002-04:002011-04-28T16:28:56.733-04:00Resisting a "plan-it-early" takeover<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve just realised why so many New Yorkers currently profess they are not planning to watch tomorrow’s Royal Wedding. It’s nothing to do with the early start (coverage begins at 4am New York time) – it’s just that they had not been given enough time to put it in their diaries!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The announcement of the big day some 5 months ago was way too late for many of my fellow islanders who probably are currently already marking 2012 dates in their planners. W</span>e had been warned of this particular endearing New Yorker trait at the “cultural” seminar we attended shortly after landing on Planet Big Apple - and for us it is one of those unexpected insights into individual national quirks that make each of our interplanetary experiences unique.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In Brazil, for example, we were told a common parting salute “We’ll get together some time” in no way meant plans would soon be made to see each other again. This was not too difficult to come to grips with as it was similar to the great Northern Irish passing greeting of “How’s about you?” It took me a while when I first arrived in mainland Britain to understand that non-Norn Iron speakers actually thought this was an enquiry about their health or general well-being and were somewhat dismayed that I was already half-way down the street before they replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In France there was the code of always saying “Bonjour madame” or Bonjour monsieur” as you walked into any shop or restaurant. And the importance of correctly cutting cheese (not to be mixed up with "cutting the cheese") in polite society – important tip, never, never cut the nose off a Brie.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Here we were told how New Yorkers would also invariably say “We must get together some time” and (unlike perhaps some of their Brazilian counterparts) would really mean it – at the time. But once out of sight, the busy whirlwind of everyday Manhattan life would erase your contact details from their memory. So diaries at the ready, any arrangements for lunch, coffee, speed-walking (not my thing, better at the speed-talking) have to be made there and then – although invariably for a get-together months in advance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I have to admit, it’s taken me a while to get used to this system, coming from a more spur-of-the-moment social environment. Luckily my tendency to call up last minute and see if someone is free for a coffee or lunch is regarded as quite quaint by my other “life facilitators” as I call my fellow females. And because I am not a New Yorker, my friends do not have to worry that about how it appears if they are, perish the thought, available and not already booked up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’m currently however feeling the social pressure to commit to summer. One’s plans for summer (which becomes a verb over here as in “Where are you summering this year?”) is the main topic of conversation or rather has been since Christmas. I was used to this somewhat in France where the general rule was to be two school holidays ahead but summer over there essentially involved many families flocking to their country retreats. Why on earth would you want to go anywhere else when your homeland has sea, mountains, beautiful countryside and amazing wine and food?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Here, while Planet USA of course also fulfills all those criteria, one has to be doing something – unless, of course, your country retreat is in the Hamptons where summer rentals can easily be $75,000 for a three-bedroom house in which case your “doing” is spending money.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This year is apparently particularly important as it is the last summer before Mini-Mum applies to college and all her fellow students have the vacation mapped out with internships and summer courses. Her college counselor is starting to panic slightly at our renegade relaxed attitude. My belief that Mini-Mum should be allowed to spend the time reading books outside her examination syllabus in preparation for interviews is not regarded as sufficient - she should be out saving the world rather than learning about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Those of you who know me out there also know that inevitably we’ll all end up having some great adventure somewhere that I’ve booked three days before. I'm determined not to lose my spontaneity (disorganisation?) during our sojourn here but I can feel myself slipping. Already I am booking lunches, dinners one month ahead and, worst of all, I even now know today what I’m doing tomorrow – watching the Royal Wedding of course!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-9049973911481967642011-04-25T13:54:00.001-04:002011-05-03T15:04:32.862-04:00Weddings, weather and wabbits!<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It seems to me on this side of the Atlantic that many of you on the other side of the pond are currently solely focused on the 3Ws – not the World Wide Web but weddings, weather and wabbits (had to get an Easter connection in there somewhere).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Us U.S. aliens however are sadly lacking in all three. So far as the weather is concerned, while Planet WWW may be enjoying 80 degrees and glorious sunshine, here we are, heading towards the end of April and the summer kit still remains stashed away at the back of the wardrobe. Footwear is predominantly of the toes-in variety and street fashion remains focused on variations of black and grey – with a multitude of tones of white from bare, wintered legs only beginning to make an appearance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">If Spring has not yet sprung, it’s fair to say that the Easter bunny certainly sp</span>rang past us this weekend with barely a second glance. This was our first Easter in Planet Big Apple as the school holidays in previous years fell in such a way that we could head back to the wee Green Isle.This year however with Male Mini-Me and Mini-Mum in the same American school, we switched from Easter holidays to Spring Break. This meant that we only had off the statutory holiday of Good Friday. But we did have the added bonus of no school on Tuesday and Wednesday of the same week for Passover. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">With the two big holidays falling so close together, <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/12/happy-christmahanakwanzaka.html">shops here have to be democratic thanks to New York demographics</a>. In the grocery and drug stores, Easter eggs shared shelf space with matzo bread, egg-collecting baskets with disposable Seder plates. In keeping with our new planetary home, Superalien lived up to his name and rose early on Easter Sunday to shop for the necessary ingredients at our local Jewish deli to make chocolate brownies! So much nicer than an Easter egg.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And so to the final W – THE wedding. Hard to believe, I know, but wedding fever still has to grip Planet Big Apple. Perhaps everyone has been waiting for Easter and Passover to end before turning their full attention to the upcoming festivities. But no one I know has asked me about it and even I, in the interests of research, had to force myself to watch the recent Made-for-TV movie on the future royal couple in order to acquaint myself of all the important facts. So glad I did, otherwise I would never have known that the Royal family appear to use at one’s breakfast table the same “crystal” glasses my father collected religiously with petrol coupons many years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Come the big day, apart from the inevitable TV coverage (beginning at 4am local time), the main focus of any celebrations would appear to be two street parties. The first is being held by ex-pats in the DUMBO district of Brooklyn (no comments on the venue please), the other in Greenwich village organized by one of the few “British” shops cum restaurants in the city that boasts such delicacies as Heinz spaghetti on toast, bangers, mash and beans and Scotch eggs. During the wedding coverage however, breakfast will be served by the French restaurant across the way – that probably says it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Personally I think several New York hotels have got the right idea, organizing breakfast packages complete with morning wake-up call. One such package does require you to make it downstairs to watch the great event on a wide screen TV but promises slippers, pillows and blankets on hand throughout to ensure the “coziest of dining experiences”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Now that I know everything about the young couple (said TV movie having being “inspired by true events”), I admit I will most likely turn the TV on after the Minis have left for school and enjoy my own wedding breakfast experience complete with blanket and pillow but without the $150 plus a head price tag. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">All in all, I can cope without the wedding and Easter wabbits, but can we have the weather back please?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-71567571128221259272011-04-05T17:23:00.006-04:002011-04-06T09:01:21.507-04:00Subaliens take on the Big One, where man meets moose and skis are fat<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We’re back with a spring in our step and thankfully no breaks after a new planetary experience - skiing the wilds of Wyoming.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In true galactic exploring tradition, I’ve made it a family goal we visit as many states as possible in Planet America, in order to see its inhabitants in as many states as possible, so to speak. Therefore this ski holiday rather than return to the slopes of our much-loved Colorado, we decided to head a little higher geographically and try out Jackson Hole, referred to apparently as “The Big One” in the skiing community. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Things did not augur too well before our departure – Mini-Mum picked up immediately it was a little more out of the way than she is used to when I repeated the agent’s assurances the resort did not get busy at the weekend. Quote “There’s no big town around for anyone to drive from!” Plus she also quickly ascertained there wasn’t even a branch of that well-known coffee shop that has previously acted as one of our “basic criteria for holiday destinations”, the others being dishwashers in self-catering units (me), lots of shops for impulse buying (Superalien) and free Wi-Fi (Male Mini-me).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then I committed the rookie mistake of looking at videos online of daring-do skiers, daring to do what I do not - jumping off crevasses and throwing themselves into razor-thin mountain corridors. I did however learn some essential vocabulary as many of these videos involved the (fortunately unhurt) skiers losing their skis and poles in all different directions, resulting in delighted shouts from observers of “Yard Sale!” At first I admit I understood “yard sail” and assumed this was alluding to the billowing cloud of snow the poor skiers usually created as they fell. It took Superalien and Male Mini-me to point out the more obvious “belongings spread all over the ground as if on display for purchase”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Needing someone to explain “yard sale” to me led to my second mistake. I was already slightly wary because of the reactions of many here in Big Apple when hearing of our destination (“steep and deep”, “a real skier’s mountain”, “how’s your medical coverage”). By showing Superalien and Male Mini-me said videos, I was then constantly plagued by Male Mini-me in particular maintaining how such and such didn’t look that bad and telling me the age of the youngest person to ski it (never mind their poor mother who aged 10 years the moment they did).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So it is probably fair to say that there were mixed feelings in the Subalien family as we touched down last week, divided between testosterone-filled males and cappuccino-lacking and knee-quaking females. I needn’t have worried. Jackson Hole is no hole in any respect, sitting in a 50 mile-long sun-drenched valley and full of cappuccino-making coffee shops (both in town and on mountain) and enough ski, moose, and cowboy-themed shops to make any impulse buyer happy. And we had a dishwasher and free Wi-Fi.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As for the skiing, I’d like to think the Ballygowan division of the Irish ski team as we call ourselves held its own on the mountain - not too many yard sales and no, I did not allow Mini-me to age me 10 years by trying to jump into afore-mentioned corridor. All the locals had time for a chat - even the coolest of dudes (yes, they did call each other that) would break off their phone calls in the gondola checking their mates weren’t picked up by the local sheriff the previous night to ask where we were from and tell us where to head next on the mountain (and they did not suggest crevasses or couloirs). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Over the space of a week we had everything from 10 inches of powder to spring snow. Superalien discovered “fat skis” which are not apparently designed for the portlier figure but are supposed to help you ski better in powder – either way, they worked. We saw our first wolf, our first elk, our first moose (why isn’t the plural of moose meese?) and decided that while facial hair is big out here, trucks are even bigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We sadly left Jackson on April 1, an important day in our household where previous japes have involved peanut butter smeared on bathroom doors and ketchup sachets hidden between the toilet seat and the bowl (guess, who got that one). This year, Male Mini-me thought he had caught out Superalien shaking his bed at 7am in the morning – it took us quite a while to convince him it actually was a 4.1 earthquake, centred elsewhere in western Wyoming. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">On our way out at the airport, I picked up the town’s freebie newspaper and found out that it too took April Fool's Day seriously. Amongst a host of great bogus stories was my personal favourite, tucked away in its Community Calendar - “French Ladies Society hosts workshop on how to drink responsibly with your children”. In the big country, guess that also applies to the local sense of humour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-19782992225399689942011-03-17T11:56:00.007-04:002011-10-27T14:59:25.720-04:00Little green men and women - Planet Big Apple becomes Planet St Paddy's Day<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">You just can’t beat the luck of the Irish.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday morning the inhabitants of Planet Big Apple awoke to what was a truly appalling day – pouring, relentless, pitiless rain. Typically Irish, except, as I commented on more than one occasion, in Ireland it would be blazing sunshine by the end of the afternoon whereas experience has taught me here, even as far as the weather is concerned, they do nothing by halves.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But sure and begorrah, by late afternoon yesterday the sky was blue, the sun was beaming down and the clouds were as fluffy as an Irish lamb’s fleece. This morning we awoke to the finest Spring Day ever so you just couldn’t help walking with a bounce in your step as if you were dancing to a thousand Irish fiddles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There’s no way you can escape St Patrick’s Day over here. One slogan I’ve seen promoting today’s festivities reads “For everyone has a little bit of Irish in them” and you’d believe it if you walked around the streets of Planet Big Apple today, full of green men and women, some of whom are not even aliens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Of course the manner of professing it varies – head for the main parade area and it can range from bright green wigs (I’ll own up, I have one of those), very short female Leprechaun outfits (Superalien owns up to wanting me to get one of those) and the ubiquitous silly hats, green beads and shamrock sunglasses (because you need sunglasses a lot in Ireland). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In our “nabe” we’re perhaps a little more subtle so I aim for the “colleen chic” look. And I met plenty of smartly-dressed Wall Street Masters of the Universe walking their dogs this morning wearing shamrock-covered silk ties – the men that is, not the dogs. That said, even the dog accessory stores have jumped onto the Irish horse and cart and run an impressive line of shamrock doggy T-shirts and collar and leash sets. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’d always resisted the St Paddy’s Day paraphernalia until we landed here. Back home it wasn't even a full holiday for us when I was growing up. Coming from the little corner of the Emerald Isle where you had to have your feet in one of the two religious camps, we would simply get a half-day off school so we could watch the Inter-School’s Rugby final. There were certainly none of the parades that have started to emerge in recent years but then again as Male Mini-me said on the way to school this morning – “Sure if you’re Irish you don’t need one day a year to celebrate - you celebrate every day!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I think he may have had a certain type of celebration in mind and he’s not alone. The local freebie papers have been running articles for the past week on how to “survive” St Patrick’s Day as well as tips on how to hide your hangover from your boss the next day. Somewhat understandably, public consumption of alcohol is strictly forbidden during the parade itself so that is a true test for some given the march starts at 11am and was still going last year when I crossed it at four in the afternoon. Mind you, parade goers seem to be able to find the necessary moral courage to continue in the many pubs along the parade route.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As you can imagine in the land of choice, Irish-themed eating and drinking options are as varied as the hues of green in the Emerald Isle itself. What true Irishman could resist trying a corned beef and cabbage pizza or a bright green bagel (I had my first one ever this morning). This</span> could then be washed down by a Shamrock Shake served only at this time by a certain well-known burger chain. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span>Or of course there are the numerous alcoholic beverages being promoted for the big day ranging from the obvious traditional stouts, liqueurs and whiskeys to the more visually obvious green-coloured beers to the downright strange. I'd never heard of an Irish Cactus (a mixture between Irish Cream and tequila) nor an Irish Flag - green crème de menthe, Irish cream and then brandy poured in order very slowly over the back of a spoon into a shot glass giving a perfect Irish tricolour.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hopefully all the little green men and women who try these out will also have received the recent Happy St Patrick’s Day greeting from my car service. This wished us all a great day and then reminded us not to drink and drive but use their enclosed $5 off coupon to book a car home. I think they've found their crock full of gold at the end of the rainbow!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As a true green Irishwoman, it will probably come as little surprise to you all that I will not be partaking of the Parade festivities, nor quaffing stout nor whiskey, nor eating corned beef and cabbage. But I will be raising a glass or two at some stage in the day with friends and would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone this simple Irish wish.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Happy St Patrick’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-59160795149043974732011-03-02T14:27:00.002-05:002011-03-03T18:08:53.774-05:00The Adversities of finding Planet Colliversity<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Poor Mini-Mum. We’re just back from a week of intergalactic traveling aimed at helping her decide where she wants to land next as she prepares to launch herself off towards Planet "Colliversity".<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I call it "Colliversity" as once again we’re finding a common language doth not a common education system make. For starters, there’s the college/university name issue – this side of the pond, the next stage on from high school is generally called college which offers undergraduate degrees whilst our preferred term, university, is reserved for larger institutions that includes postgraduates. Confused? I’ve only started. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There are more than 4,000 colleges and universities in Planet America and if our brimming mailbox is currently anything to go by, it seems that most of them are sending letters to my daughter, explaining how they are the one for her. In contrast to Planet Britain, it’s more of case of getting you in, rather than letting you in the door. Perhaps that’s why many are from Recruitment as opposed to Admissions Officers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Most other Mini-Mums in her grade have already embarked on the Campus Trail which seems to involve manic three-day sessions driving hundreds of miles from one college to the next, attending the obligatory campus tours and making sure you register your "interest" at the Admission Office. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Apparently there is even an app that maps out college routes for you, grouping them together so you can maximize your “hit” rate. Although from what I understand, most of the hitting seems to be from the mothers banging their heads against the steering wheel when after driving 200 miles, their beloved offspring refuses to leave the car as he or she doesn’t like the colour of the buildings.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It wouldn’t be Planet America unless you were spoiled for choice, and that goes for your choice of subject - or rather subjects. One of the biggest differences in the two planetary systems is that whereas in the Planet Universal (ie the UK) you apply to study a specific course, in the Planet Collegiate, you simply choose your college and can spend your first two years studying subjects as varied as astronomy, cultural anthropology and newyorksubalien literature (well, maybe) before "declaring your major".<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">For Mini-Mum, this could (ironically) be the decision-breaker. She’s already likened the whole process to the dilemma she faces every lunchtime at the sandwich shop. With the multitude of options available – breads, meats, cheeses, dressings, sides - Mini-Mum is the only person to ask for things to be taken <u>out</u> of her roll. All she wants is a simple ham sandwich. Likewise for her next three years of study – she’s happy to keep it simple. No baloney for her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Personally I feel there is another aspect of college-life that might also tip the scales eastwards. Most US colleges expect first year students to share rooms with essentially complete strangers. Top Freshman survival tip? Invest in a really good sleep mask and ear plugs so you can fall asleep when your roomie stays up until 2.00am. A friend whose daughter started college this year bought her a special present half-way through term – two nights in a hotel so she could sleep, eat, study and watch TV on her own. So you have to pay for fees, living costs – and nights in a hotel as well? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’m already having sleepless nights anyway trying to come to terms with the new vocabulary needed to negotiate the entry systems – SAT, ACT, GPA, AP all now roll off my tongue but don’t ask me what they actually stand for. It’s the sandwich thing again – Planet Universal keeps it simple, a clear-cut offer based on predicted grades in your final exams. In Planet Collegiate, where there is no formal final exam as such, colleges look at your GPAs (Grade Point Averages I’ve since discovered) over the penultimate 3 years plus your scores from the infamous SATs (Scholastic Aptitude/Assessment Tests), SAT subject tests or other multi-lettered equivalents. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As I write this, Mini-Mum and I are about to head off to a "motivational " talk on the Colleges Admissions Game which I am sure will have us all cheering in the aisles by the end of the evening. But when decision time comes round, I suspect that Mini-Mum will be going British rather than Greek, choosing societies over sororities, cream teas over pop tarts and trail mix.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And we'll be left, one star less in our universe. And me, a newyorksobbingalien. That's the real adversity of finding Planet Colliversity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-2996182260615325412011-02-18T10:57:00.006-05:002011-02-18T13:30:40.438-05:00Measuring up in Planet Big Apple and being cut down to size<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We’ve had an Irish Winter this week in Big Apple - or at least that’s what I’m calling the inverse of an Indian Summer, especially given how I’ve already mentioned we come to each of our new planets bearing gifts of EWP (<a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/01/theres-no-day-like-snow-day.html">Extreme Weather Phenomena</a>).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">After the snow, the ice storms, the bitterly cold temperatures, we are currently basking in highs of 16 degrees Centigrade or as they would put it over here, around 60 degrees Fahrenheit. I should actually call it an Irish Summer as with these temperatures, many of the inhabitants of the little Green Island would be out in shorts and T-shirts.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The Fahrenheit as opposed to Celsius thing isn’t really too much of an issue as basically we’ve found Big Apple seems to have two seasons – very cold and very hot. When skiing, we’ve even known the two measuring systems virtually to merge and when it’s that cold, you don’t worry whether it’s minus 32 Celsius or minus 25 Fahrenheit, you just know you’re minus - usually your toes, fingers and the end of your nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But metric child that I am, I do struggle with the old (to us) system of pounds, ounces, feet and inches. I've recently discovered that what looks like the Imperial system is actually called the U.S. Customary system here - virtually identical but evidently more democratic without being demi-metric. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This causes me most grief when being asked weight and height of Male Mini-me and Mini-Mum at their annual check-ups. Apart from the fact that Male Mini-me in particular seems to bean-sprout up some colossal amount each year, I feel such a pathetic mother that I can’t reel off the data without blinking – or resorting to a calculator. And when weight-wise everything is in pounds (as in hundreds of pounds as opposed to stone and pounds), it doesn’t exactly boost the ego.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I still prefer to be imperialized when it comes to the kitchen but there we have another great American tradition – the cup. If you’re like me, you have many cups in your cupboard but they do tend to vary in size. After several culinary disasters, I’ve given in and bought one of those marvellous sets that allow me to measure perfectly my half-cups and third-cups but I still can’t bring myself to use them when adding the cooking wine – where’s the fun in that! Irish measures rule there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Where we European femaliens love Planet Big Apple is when it comes to clothing as we all go down a size – or two. Much is made about Size Zero but from one make to another, the smaller sizes seem to cover a lot of ground – and a lot more girl than you might think. For the more mature figure, you don’t even have to think numbers – just kisses. “Woman’s sizes” as they are called here are very simple – 1X, 2X or 3X and every designer brand from Ralph Lauren to Calvin Klein has its own woman’s section.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Different dress sizes I get as to me there is no doubt different nationalities have different body shapes. In another existence as a journalist in Rio, one of my favourite stories was about trying to buy a Brazilian bikini in an European body. The Northern/Southern hemisphere reverse also applies to the female silhouette, if you see what I mean. But shoe sizes? Why does crossing a stretch of water mean that my feet swell up 2-1/2 sizes. I know they do swell up during the flight but not permanently. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So here we are, supposedly bigger of feet, smaller of body, buying half gallons of milk and weighing hundreds of pounds. And this just because we flew over 3,000 miles – at least we agree on that one!</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8865631690023084111.post-68855949000353274392011-02-10T12:31:00.011-05:002011-10-27T14:59:54.237-04:00Seeing red as Planet Big Apple prepares for "V-Day"<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">As you can imagine, they don’t do things in halves over in Planet Big Apple – and that certainly applies to Valentine’s Day which no one could say is celebrated over here in a “half-hearted” fashion (sorry).<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">As soon as they cleared <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2010/12/happy-christmahanakwanzaka.html">the all-embracing holiday</a> decorations out of the shops, the shelves in our local drug store filled up with little red boxes of candy, enormous rose-carrying, all-embracing stuffed gorillas (I have no idea why – I obviously haven’t evolved enough) and red hearts or variations thereof appeared in every shop window. Even my local shoe-repair store has popped <a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/02/super-bowl-winners-remind-us-of-how.html">some red heart-covered wellies</a> in the window for sale - or would that mean you want to give her the boot.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">And I know that as soon as the candles are blown out and the last champagne, truffle and mungo bean-flavoured chocolate is eaten, everything will go green for St Patrick’s Day. Actually I’ve seen one liquor store that has decided to skip the Valentine’s Day stage altogether and has gone straight to the St Paddy’s Day paraphernalia. Obviously more money in Irish whiskey sales than bottles of cheap pink sparkling wine. Or in the hope that singles will buy Irish whiskey to drink with their mates on St Valentine’s Day – they could call it St Palentine’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">The advanced concept that there’s no reason why St Valentine’s Day should just be enjoyed by lovers is certainly one that has already reached our new home planet. We’re back to that all-embracing, all-inclusive thing again. So of course you should send Valentine’s Day cards to your friends, your work colleagues, your teachers and other members of your family. Walk into a card shop at this time of the year and good luck on finding a birthday card. Rather the walls are full of such permutations as “From grandchildren to grandparents”, “ From woman to woman”, “From your dog”, “From tenant to super” (OK, I made the last one up).<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">There’s the “From wife with religious message” card which seems to me an interesting combination and my favourite - “Celebrating our first holiday together”. No expectations there. Hope there’s an enormous rose-carrying, all-embracing stuffed gorilla waiting for the sender of that one.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">What I particularly love is when the most un-Valentiney products get given the V-Day treatment (yes, they even call it V-Day here). I’m not talking about the obvious special discounts ahead of the big day although who could resist the Valentine’s Day nursing uniform and scrubs sale with their heartbeat and Tweety Valentine prints. No, it’s offers like the “Happy Valentine’s Day” laser removal special for him and her with the great slogan “The couple that lasers together, stays together”. Now there’s a gift that should go along with the “Celebrating our first holiday together” card.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">On the other end of the experience scale, we’re once again feeling our alien genes. This being the first year Male Mini-me is in an American school, I am currently having to go through the same discreet negotiations with my girlfriends as when I was trying to find out about<a href="http://www.newyorksubalien.com/2011/01/facts-of-life-on-tipping-in-new-york.html"> holiday gifts to doormen.</a> Along with the individual, sender-specific cards on display in the stores, there are also multi-packs of 15 cards for schoolkids to send out to their classmates. However given that Male Mini-me has reached the dizzy heights of Middle School, Mini-Mum (a very definite High-Schooler) has pronounced it uncool to go down the card route. I suppose the fact that the cards were all Disney princesses and SpongeBob should have given me a clue.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">Her suggested compromise is to produce Valentine’s Day chocolate rice krispie buns – ie in heart-covered cases and with red sprinkles. These have always been a successful contribution to any class, even in Paris where Male Mini-me's classmates used to ask him for the recipe. I wrote it down for him – it started off “First, find a mother who can’t bake”. Note for all other Mamasubas out there – the same buns in shamrock cases and green sprinkles make great St Patrick’s Day buns – or turf cakes as I call them.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US">And what about my own Valentine’s Day? Well, it will be hard to beat last year – our first with snow on the ground and in an apartment with a little back garden. As it was Sunday, I was lying in bed with my coffee and champagne, truffle and mungo bean-flavoured chocolates when Male Mini-me called me to look outside. There they were, the two men in my life, grinning away – and a great big heart drawn in the snow with red paint. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">They'll always be my v<i>alien</i>tines.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com