I got ICE in England and I made a Fabulous Frenchmen fall over

This might have to be my last post about the ICE issue because I actually got some. This is certainly my first story about making fun of a Fabulous Frenchie.

So I was at a pizza place the other day for lunch and, as usual, my kids and I made fools of ourselves. We were eating foods and quizzing each other on times tables and then I knocked Little Stormbringer’s drink over and we all got wet. Good times.

We like to play a little game when we go to restaurants. It is called “How Many Euro-Cubes Will We Get”. So when they deliver our drinks we shout: ‘Two Euro-cubes! One Euro-cube! No Euro-cubes!’ depending on what we have. Usually the inefficient Brit that has brought us our drinks has wandered off by this point.

This time the Brit was still near by. He was confused. I explained about the ice issue. (see here, and here if you haven’t already)

“Oh, you see, in America, they fill the glass with ICE first, then put the drink on top. We always count our euro-cubes because it is funny that there is no ICE here. ha.ha.”(I’m not socially awkward at all. nope.)

Then he smiled and said ” I will get you some ICE!” I have heard this before, people.  This never ends with ICE. It ends with four euro-cubes of ICE. I let the silly Brit go and get me some ‘ICE’. The kids and I laughed, knowingly. Then this motherfucker got me some GOT’DAM ICE. I could not believe my eyes! A whole glass! A whole glass filled to the top with Euro-cubes! It was unbelievable! I took a fucking picture of the glass and then one of the Brit next to the glass of ICE. He was a bit confused, I think, but maybe hoping for the first tip of his life from the silly Americans. (he got one)

I was overjoyed, but now I am a bit sad that I can no longer say that there is no ICE here. Oh well. We got ICE in England. It only took me five years.

When I was on holiday in The North we went to a french restaurant. Our waiter was very French and pretty Fabulous. Terrific. We are going to get some super service here, right? (no, i did not get a single euro-cube, but who puts euro-cubes in champagne? Oh, just me? OK. )

Manboy got an ‘A’ in french and I did some in high-school. Oh wait, I slept through that. Manboy, however, can speak it and did all of the ordering. I do not attempt to pronounce ‘fougasse a l’ail’ or ‘moules mariniers’ and do not get me started on the ‘frites’. Frenchie became all snooty and sniffy about Manboy’s pronunciation. I do believe he came to regret this.

‘Shambolic’ does not come close to describing the experience that we had that evening. If this meal had happened in America, not only would it have been ‘comped’ (free for my UK boos) but we would have had vouchers for our next meal, a massage and at least one bottle of champagne sprinkled lightly with unicorn tears. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Frenchie only managed to order some of our food, so the first course was a mix of one drink, one starter, a bit of one main and something we did not even order. None of it was cooked properly. None of it came with the right sauce, no one got a complete meal and I think the salt was in the pepper grinder.

Frenchie-Fabulous was beside himself. He was flapping his fabulous hands and being all french and wailing about how ‘zis is no szupposed to be like zis! I will get yoo a free bev-er-aj! Please wait a momenz!’

Then on his seventh trip to the kitchens on his useless mission to actually bring us the food that we had ordered, in the right order, and OMG actually bring us beverages, he had his literal downfall.

We had done the unthinkable and brought our souvenir shopping with us to dinner and placed it neatly at out feet while dining. Flapping Fabulous Frenchie managed to hook one of his feet around one of our bags and launched himself into the air and onto the ground. I would like to say that we didn’t laugh at him. I would like to say that my kids totally did not snort into their milk and shout ‘Sacre Bleu! LOL!’

The sound that came out of Manboy at this point made me laugh so hard that I pulled several muscles. I think that it was the most evil, malevolent laugh that I have ever heard. It was at an almost comic-book-villain level. Totally a well deserved laugh on our part. I think our waiter went out-the-back and had a quiet, private cry.

So when we turned up for dinner again two days later, Frenchie-boo spotted us and singled us out. He wanted to redeem himself. He wanted to give us decent food and service. He wanted us to have a Dining Experience.  He did actually manage that last one. A Dining Experience was had.

We had booked the kids in for an activity that evening. (Centerparcs, I love you,man!) I was going to have dinner, alone with my husband, for the first time in almost a year. So Excited! Ordered a bottle of champagne. Happy days!

What followed was chaotic, disorganized, and mismanaged. I actually had to point to my empty glass and then gesture to the bar where our beverages were waiting. I ordered a rare steak and got one well done. (Gross!! you know that shit got sent right back to kitchen for reals) We ordered food that never came. We ordered drinks that never came. I had to have Manboy steal a salt grinder from another table. All of this is true and I cannot type all of the things that went wrong because there is not enough blog space in all of the world to hold the tale of how genuinely fucked-up-the-eyeball this meal was.

We ordered in the standard way:

1) Order drinks then read menu

2) Order starters and mains (appetizers and entrees in American)

3) Drink drinks and wait for first course

So what do you think should happen when you follow these three simple steps? Would you expect to get drinks, then starters, then more drinks perhaps, then your main course? That is kind of what I expected to happen. After all, our-man-Frenchie was on the job and ‘determainez to gets zis rvight!’ Nope. None of that happened.

The good news is that we were having so much fun on holiday that none of this made us even slightly annoyed. Had this happened to me at any other time or place I would have set fire to the tablecloth and shot a hole through the bill. However, this was somehow entertaining and made us just giggle and shake our heads in amusement. And poor Flappy-Frenchie even got a tip. Hilarious. Maybe we should drink champagne more often.


This is super silly now England part II (with wasp bears)

You guys, I cannot any more with this horseshit. You need to cool yourself off for realz. I did not move to the UK to be hot. I came for the clouds and I want them back.

This is the drawing that I made when it was hot for THREE DAYS one time in the UK

I posted about it here. And that when it was only a few days. I have done weeks of your hot weather and I am DONE. I am fighting the air.

For those of you in the US, let me just tell you a couple of things.

THERE IS NO A/C here. There is no air conditioning. None. Nope. This is an old and backward country and there is no a/c anywhere. Unless you are in a Tesco, you are going to roast and there is no reprieve.

THERE IS NO ICE HERE. Even in a Tesco, you are not going to get ice.

THERE ARE NO WINDOW SCREENS. I’m usually upset with this, but it is so freakishly hot here now that I am all…meh. let them all in. Who cares.

The UK can not handle weather of any kind. I am OK with this because there is usually no weather here. But our roads are melting, our train tracks are buckling and there are fucking wild-fires and people are dying of heat and NO JUST NO.

It is like the sun never goes down. It starts at 3 AM and just keeps on giving until Ten PM. This is just stupid.

I have been so angry these last few weeks. I am melting and I am pissed off and I want to kill people and I have yelled at every member of my family because SO HOT.

I hear the south-west might get a break a minute this weekend then back up into the nighties (30C or what-fucking-ever) for the rest of the month.

I am done with this and you need to stop England. I even told Manboy that we need to move to Scotland or Finland or Iceland or something because I was not made to do sun and heat.

He has been mostly staying out of my damn way because I am just hot and angry like a  bear shitting wasps. Not a single stitch of house work gets done after 10 am because fuck all of the things it is hot.

I went to make Manboy a coffee before work, and grabbed the milk and it was SOLID. Everything that I own that is food has gone off. This can not continue.

Please England…can we have some rain? A cloud perhaps? Maybe can it stay normal and not freakishly weird for a minute?

I’ll just hang in here with the rest of you suffering Brits. Just do NOT ask me if I am ‘enjoying the nice weather’.

One Year I was in charge of a camping experience for the Retarded. (this won’t upset anyone, I am sure)

You have no idea how difficult and gross this was. It was also incredibly rewarding and also a bit sad.
I need to credit the great Gweenbrick here. He has given me the courage to post this. Do not blame him though. He writes about his work with the less gifted. (and other hilarious stuff. He also has fantastic comics. Go check him out and say hi. )
I worked with the DD (developmentally disabled)  and Old Folks for many years before I had kids, and (strangely) hope to again someday. Or maybe Dementia. Or Fostering. Nothing has ever been so hard and awful, but, somehow? Rewarding in a way that…what am I saying? That was years ago so I must just have blanked out everything and be remembering it fondly like a bad acid trip or a toddler.
So, I signed up for four weeks of *volunteer* camping ‘experience’ to help further my career, and because i wanted to see my people in the great outdoors.
Six adults and two carers. In wooden platformed tents. With port-a-loos. And Poison ivy. And swimming and canoeing. I would like to remind you that I signed up with no pay.
Week one was awesome. We had your usual DD and one Downs and one GIANT man who looked like Shrek. They were awesome. They loved making fires (GASP!) and singing and even eventually went to sleep. They ate foods and we wiped butts and they were weirdly making ‘boy/girl friends” and it was totally OK. (omg so not ok)
We had also reserved a Christian Camp for this. This means it was extra weird at ‘vespers’ and meal times.

Believe it or not, it gets weirder.
The second week was…i kid you not..’Clown Camp Week’. We all dressed as clowns, did makeup, juggled (bwahaha..i still have the scars) and basically consoled the extremely confused retarded campers who had just been thrown into one of the seven circles of hell as far as they were concerned. I agreed.
The third week we got a lot of high functioning Downs and a few elderly DD. This week went well. Except my male counterpart was from Nigeria and spoke ‘only some’ English. We had a  lot of sing-alongs at the fire and no one got poison ivy that week because My Nigerian Boo was All About Fels-Naptha on the hands. I had to explain foxfire to some of them, got to stargaze with the weirdest of them and no one fell out of a canoe.
The fourth week was when we got the ‘rest of them’ from the group home. I felt so bad for these kids. Kids are the only way to describe these folks. I can remember one young-ish manboy in a chair that used to slap and drool furiously when we sang koombyya (or whatever it is called, i have had to have wine to even type this out loud to other humans so whatever)
It is a weird thing, working with persons with no verbal skills. One never knows how we are affecting the non-verbals. Maybe they had fun! Maybe this was awesome to them! Maybe they wanted us to all just shut up! Maybe they wanted to go home, but judging on how much they flapped at the fire? They had some clue that this was different and interesting. One hopes.
But six of them? CAMPING? Drooling and shitting themselves? Being sprayed with chemicals to keep the mosquitoes off? Shoveling food into them then lowering them into a pool? Taking EVEN ONE of them in a canoe? FIRE MAKING?
I don’t know if you know what these folks are like.  I hope you can look on them with respect and humor, because they are awesome.  But, can I just repeat, six non-verbals, two of them in chairs camping in the woods with port-a-loos and fire. Sleeping in cots, in tents, with only two caretakers. .
I remember one boy, Paul, who was profoundly handicapped. He had such dark hair and such a horse like, almost noble face. He used to slap his arms together in an awful way whenever we started a fire. One time He somehow gestured to me in a way that made me think he wanted the marshmallow that I was roasting out of desperation.
I cooled it off and attempted to let him have a bit in his ever drooling mouth. *I think* what he really wanted was the burning stick which he grabbed in one of his malformed and *not functioning* hands and then burned me with it. I have never heard a laugh so guttural, so visceral, so cruel and well deserved EVER.
I imagine he was thinking  ‘BITCH P00ned you ya’cunt!’
After the four weeks were over the staff had a get together where we made fun of, and laughed at every one of these poor son-o-bitches and defragged ourselves.
Sometimes you just have to laugh.
Look, I gave you a story about compassion and kindness and laughing at the retarded. I must be insane.
Ready for the hate mail but if you have never been related to them, worked with them and BEYOND ALL never camped with these fuckers,,,just laugh and do not judge. We are all funny and retarded in our own way.
comment anything, you guys?

Two Things that I find Hilarious about the British

You guys. There are so many things that I laugh about here. The Brits are Funny. In ways that they can not seem to see. Here is a short list.

They Love A Sing-Song.

America might have a bit of karaoke, but they have NOTHING on the Brits. These folks love a sing-song like the sun loves the morning. Get a few of them together, and they will *sing for all of the life*!  Really these folks will sing for anything, and when they do they are hilarious. Wanna sing Happy Birthday? Fine. Wanna sing ancient pirate songs? Fine.  Wanna sing England/Wales/Scotland hymns? Yep. Would you like to sing a negro spiritual?  OH WAIT that is your national anthem for ‘football’?

“swing LOW sweet CHARIOT comin’ for to carry ME HOME!”

As an American, i can only be confused at this. That is putting it nicely. REALLY? SWEETCHAROIT? oh, just wow. Lawd.

They Do Pantomime

If you are like me, you have no idea that this is a thing at all. I had never even heard the word ‘pantomime’ before i moved to the UK. They love this stuff. I am, even 5 years in, unable to find the words to even tell folks in the US what this is.  I guess it is where b-listers dress in drag and the audience participation is a bit ‘rocky-horror’

Little StormBringer had a school assembly the other day and we were encouraged to BOO the ‘baddie’ and CHEER for the other side. It is all so insane. But fun and also funny. I might one day see a proper Panto. I might one day get Cricket as well. (not gonna happen)

The Brits are hilarious. Every day, all of the time. I love it here. I may not get everything that they do, (no, do NOT look up dogging y’all) but I get to have a chuckle once in a while at their foolishness.

Did I miss anything? What do you find funny about Brits or Americans?

I Blog Because… I am an embarrassment, a spokes-person and a goodenough mum.

God I love the emails from folks saying ‘wow, awesome, I hear your voice, it speaks to me’.

I should do stand-up. But I don’t. I blog. So lemme tell you a funny story.

So the other night, I put the kids to bed. Manboy makes dinner. I am playing the Sims 3. I do this most nights. Look, if your choice is Coast, or playing PC games…what would you choose?

I choose Sims. Now, I have been playing The Sims since 1997. OK? So I know my sims. I know Sims, also sims 2, 3 and (thank the gods above) the new sims 4.

These sims I made? They were the most racist, horny fuckers I have ever encountered. And I have partied in New Orleans, Alabama, Ohio, New York and England.

These Sims? just wanted to ..uh…’make love’ and also be as racist as possible. One of their ‘uncle toms’ died and they just Buried him out back. SIGH.They steadfastly refused to have any housekeepers that weren’t black, and if I left them alone for 10 seconds they were all DOGGING lets DO IT …OUTSIDE!

This is very disturbing to me.

Manboy asked me what was wrong,. as I continued to sigh at this foolishness. I said “it is like Gone With The Sims” up in here!

I actually thought he was going to break his back laughing.

This is why I do not do stand up.

The top ten things I miss about living in America (England bashing again)

I love the UK. I never want to leave. No, really, I am never leaving Devon. If I need a passport, then no.

BUT, there are some things that I would love to have here. My top Ten list starts with:

1. A dryer. look, my man is buying me a new washer-dryer thingy. cause he loves me. But it will still be a euro washer-dryer thingy, powered by wind and sadness. See my illustration on why USA  has better appliances. COAL and NUKES. just give me dry clothes. *sob*

2. A refrigerator. Could I please have a fridge that holds food and keeps it cold? Like, if i have food in, could it keep it cold for a day or so?  If i buy apples or meat, I would like them to stay OK for two days.

3. Ice. just ice. I have given up on ice in the UK. Ice tea would be awesome. I will never realize this dream.

4. local news. Can I have the weather for my city? Or tell me what is happening here? the BBC is great and all, but what happened today in my city? no idea.

5. sport. I am so tired of football. (soccer) Rugby is where it is at. and they put the ball backward. At least I didn’t have to live thorough March Madness. But at least, in the US, I understand the rules.

6. Police. in the US, when you call them, they come. In force. With help. Helpfulness.  I cannot overstate this.

7. school busses. Yellow, pretty busses. They pick your kids up, then drop them off. At/to your door. USA USA!

8. I am struggling here…OK, Food. massive food. when you go out for breakfast you embark on a food challenge. With 4 eggs and hash browns.

9. lack of actual fascists/communists.  you think you have them, but, i promise that you do not.

10. Patriotism. Please, can we have some of it in the UK? I miss it. I want to cheer for my side.

So, ten reasons I miss the US. I could give you as many that I would never move back, but I didn’t . Keep calm and have a well deserved seat. ❤

OK, England, you are super silly now. I humbly offer my help.

I have been home long enough to complain now. You have issues, England. I am going to help you through this difficult time.

I have written about UK weather here, here and also here, but what I have not done, is explain the basics. I shall do so now.

*deep everlasting sigh*

OK..so there is this thing called winter. In the northern hemisphere it gets cold from November through March. Occasionally, in the winter, water falls from the sky. If it is cold enough, this water might freeze on, or above the ground. This is called Ice and Snow.  It happens. Every year. In the winter. If you are from the UK, please go back and read that again because I am SURE that you don’t get this.

I understand that snow and ice in the UK is a ‘rare’ thing. In the south of the USA, snow is also rare. I understand if you are surprised and possibly stranded. This is totally fair. What is NOT fair is for the third biggest airport in the world to be closed because of a snowflake. Heathrow airport is huge and it is the only way into London, never-mind the rest of Great Britain. It is now closed .Because of a snowflake. FAIL

The BBC helpfully reported that they have 500 people on snow removal. Five HUNDRED people. Five hundred people were not enough to remove a snowflake from the main airport in the worlds best City. For shame.

(it is a wonder that JFK, La Guardia and O’Hare even operate at all. gheesh.)

*Epic sigh*

I had to walk into a store last week and return some horse burgers. Yep, you read that sentence correctly. Apparently, buying 8 hamburgers for one pound means that you have no idea what is in said ‘burgers’. As an American, I was expecting worms, lips and assholes, just like what we get in the USA in our delicious bologna and hot-dogs. NOPE. What we got was almost 30% horse. Horses. Neigh, I am not down with that. Do I look like I am French or something?

The honest reason that I had to return the horse burgers? It was not from a place of honor or of morality. Nope. It was because Manboy said..”I know you. You could keep them and feed them to the kids. But then you would get silly and be all GUESS WHAT YOU JUST ATE! BWAHAHAHA and that would be bad and then you would be sad about it and the kids would cry. Return them. ”

So yeah. Please, England, keep it to lips and assholes of animals that I normally eat.

So just to recap; snow happens, horses shouldn’t.

I love you England, stay classy.

The one where we had a Raccoon. And many police.

I have an amazing story to tell you. I have been holding onto this one for months. I think this might have been the most astounding and surreal thing that happened to me while I was trapped in the USA.

So it is a normal morning. For a given value of normal. My kids are outside playing and my step-dad is outside working in the yard. (garden, whatever. I can not translate everything for you. I kinda can not translate anything anymore. shuddup)

There are many dogs barking. Step-daddy (hereafter known as Pat-Pat) goes to investigate. There is a raccoon.

For my British readers; I guess you will just have to think of this as a fox. It is fine to feed it, but only if you know that it is totally possible that the cute little bugger might decide at any given moment that it would rather eat your face than the treats in your hands. Meh.

There is a raccoon in the bushes. It is being all friendly and…oddly thirsty. It is not afraid of the dogs or people. This is a bit strange, but not overly worrying. The Pat-Pat tries to run it off. It just moves into the next yard. All of the barking brings out the neighborhood kids. There are now twenty-hundred kids surrounding the ‘friendly’ raccoon, either poking it with sticks or throwing food at it, depending on the gender of the kid.

This is when I bring my kids in the house. I am sorry, but I do not let my kids play with wild animals that are mysteriously active during the day and wandering around looking both high and sniffy. My kids were FURIOUS about my decision. “But the other kids get to play with it!! It’s *cute*! The raccoon is hungry mumma! ” Yeah. No.

That raccoon wandered around the neighborhood trying to die for about two hours. Where does it decide to live out it’s last few hours? Yep. On our front lawn. Of course. My parents decide to take a nap.

There are many  man-folk in the neighborhood. One plaid-wearing man says ” Welp, i would help you, but i left my guns up in the cabin.” One man-folk sits on his fancy-porch-extension and says “gosh you should do something!”  One man drives buy and shouts: “call this number!” This number  belonged to the local police. I have now called the police on myself. Wonderful.

I am frightened, confused and pissed off. Why is it up to ME to do this? I do not even live here! Do these kids not have parents?

“Oh Hello! Um, i know you can not do anything about this, um.  But I have a dying and probably diseased raccoon in my front yard and there are a tone of kids poking it with sticks, and um, do you know whom I should call about this?”

RRRRuuuuuuRRRRRuuuuu  rrrrruuuurrrr…The Police show up. All 90 of them. At least, in America, you now that when you call the police, they will show up, in force and within minutes.

Now I have 90 police in front of my parent’s yard. I DO NOT EVEN LIVE HERE. I am wearing sweatpants and a Detroit Lions T-shirt. I could have been a front for a robbery.  I did not look like I belonged in front of that house. They never questioned the fact that a white trash girl was taking control of  a high-class neighborhood.

I want you to take particular care reading these DIRECT quotes from the police;

Do you have a shovel?

(uh yeah) Yes,  yes I do. I think we know where this is going. I give the policeman the shovel .

Do you have a box?

(uh…) Let me look. *much looking happens. My parents are still asleep* No, no i do not have any kind of box or pet carrier. I am so sorry.

I need to call my Sargent. He might have a K-9 carrier.


29 hundred police and one Sargent show up. I am astounded that we do not have fire trucks. yet.

The Sargent looks at the dying, diseased raccoon, lying on the lawn of a million dollar housing gated community surrounded by 20 hundred kids  and says  (and I quote..all of this is real) AND SAYS:

Shoot it.

The policeman looks at me, the kids, the big houses and then slowly, back at his Sargent. Then he says, with conviction;  ” NO, *you* Shoot It! ”

I have to admit that I laughed (in my ever crumpling mind) at this foolishness at this point.  NO, YOU SHOOT IT! bwahhaaaaa

They managed to call a k-9 unit with a cage for the poor raccoon. They used the shovel to urge it into the cage. The poor policeman on the scene managed to step in much dog poop during this ordeal. Mr. porch extension offered his help at this point. ” I have a hose if your shoes are dirty”  Yeah, they blanked him.

I managed to assure the kids that THEY WILL TAKE THE RACCOON TO A VET AND HE WILL BE FINE! RIGHT POLICEMEN? They said yes and they were awesome. They made it down to the end of the street and I swear I could hear the gunshots. So, no, then.

I then walked the half mile to a shop/store and bought some wine. I was so done with all of the foolery. The kids came with me. We braved the no-sidewalk/pavement half mile death-walk of the USA. I even bought them snax and ice creams. Believe me when I say that I was done and had laid my burdens down.

I walk in the house. I have a back-pack full of wine and bubble-gum. My lovely posh parents say:

“hey, have you seen that raccoon?”

I fell out. And when I tell you that I fell out, I am not making that up. I CACKLED people. I hit the floor, laughed the laugh where you cannot speak, and just walked (crawled) away with my wine.

I met Mr. Raccoon Policeman at the library a week later. I am thankful for their help. I am also slightly ashamed.

Next up; the one where I put a hound in someone’s house at random. kinda. At least it is policeman free.


I’m back, and I am Never Leaving the UK again. (the top seven things I hate about living in the US)

I just spent three months in America. I am here to tell you that I am never going back. Holy Crap, America! You suck even more than you did when I left! Get your shit together! Here are my top seven reasons that living in the US is awful and impossible.


They are everywhere. All of the time. NO REALLY. I stayed in a super-posh suburb of D-town and still…everywhere. Boom, boom, crack, boom, bang! If you are not hearing gunshots you are hearing sirens. It is a mess. Even the kids have them. I had to call my children inside because…brace yourselves…one of the kids had A GUN on THE TRAMPOLINE that my kids were playing on. Read that again.


There isn’t any. You get local news, and I kinda miss that, but actual news?  There is none. I made a joke about PSY meeting Ban Ki Moon and not one soul had any idea. “ya’ know? he is, like…in   charge    of    the UN…no? no. ok. ”  People in America are just ignorant about the world. And they don’t wanna be. They want to know. But they do not get to. It is stupid. (Pay your License fee and shut up Brits!)


My kids got to go to an American school for three months. I think they came out dumber than when they went in. NO REALLY. My kids were  at least two full grades above in everything. They delighted the teachers. My kids were horrified by the way that the students and the teachers acted. So was I. American schools=full of Assclowns. I shit you not.


Nah. No Sir and No Ma’am. I was in the US for the election and I am here to testify that the whole thing is level-crazy. The only way I was able to deal was to stay off facebook and hide under a box’o’wine and/or a table. You have no idea. Give me anyone from Eton to vote for and i am FINE. I am actually amazed that only a few people were killed during that mess.


You can go Nowhere in the US on foot. I mean this. The first month that I was there I tried to walk to the shops. I gave it up for several reasons. There are no pavements/sidewalks. You must walk on a gravel shoulder and hope to live. One of my kids was sick at school and I was powerless to go and get her because the silly mile walk was impossible. I had to wait for someone to drive me. Not just that one time but every time that i wanted to go anywhere.  (for three months)


While I am happy that my kids know all of the “Fifty Nifty United States” and the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful and This Land is Our land and The Battle Hymn of the Republic and the Pledge of Allegiance…Jesus, you guys! America has taken Nationalism and ratched it the fuck up to 11. I was embarrassed several times. I am American and I grew up there and I was still embarrassed by it. WOW.


I used to think my mum was a bit crazy when she freaked out when my children were not in my sight or within my reach. Not anymore. In the US kids go missing all the time. Every day, and not just missing, not just runaways or parental disputes. JUST GONE. Every damn day. I am not exaggerating. America has a BIG problem with kids ‘going missing’. In the UK my kids can walk down the block with a reasonable expectation of getting home safely. Not in the US.

I am going to write about all of the things that I love about living in The States. I am going to expand on many of these topics. I still love you America! I had to get some of these things out because I am so glad to be home in the UK.

I promise not to ever leave the UK again, and I promise that I will bring the funny back to my posts soon!

Got anything to tell me about living in the US or the UK? Would you choose differently than I did? Tell me what you think.

Why Can’t They Shut Up? The Stream-of-Conciousness Summer

I was lied to. I was told that children do not develop an ‘internal dialogue’ until six or seven. You should expect non-stop-sharing of every passing thought until they grow up a bit. I did that. I listened to every thought that they have ever had for almost nine years.

My ears are tired.

My oldest, Little Stormbringer, never stops talking to me. I am sure she does sometimes, like when she is sleeping, but it seems like she has been talking to me for past four weeks non-stop.

I have begged. I often bribe them. ‘Anyone who can stop talking to me for 5 minutes will get a treat at the shop!’ I have bought craft stuff and toys. I have rented movies. I have got new games. I have taken them to parks. Yet…They NEVER STOP TALKING TO ME!

MOM! Mum! Mummy! Knock knock! MUM! blah blah……

Seriously? I spend most of my time trying to get people to leave me alone. I have never needed non-stop attention. My oldest just wants to feed off of my very life-force every got’damn minute that she is awake.

As I said in this post:

“She needs to possess my soul, squeeze out it’s meaty juices and devour them with her never-satiated heart-hole. It’s excruciating.”

My mother used to spend an hour every night playing with me. And then she would read me a book at bedtime. The rest of the time I fucked-the-fuck-off and played with toys and shit.

The thing is, my kids almost never have anything interesting to say. None of it matters. It is all just made of crazy. The greeting that I got this morning, before coffee happened, was: ‘Do baby owls like muffins?’ OMFG. I only have like 7 brain cells left. You are taxing my wee head. It is now late afternoon. I have completely lost my shit. I gave Little Stormbringer to Manboy and said ‘she is yours for an hour.’ and to the blabbermouth; ‘this is your grown-up for the next hour. Do not come near me.’

This kid is nine years old on Monday. She should be able to… I dunno…do something for half an hour without talking to me??? No?

I have never loved anything as much as I love her, but the sound of her voice is making me come unglued. This precious hour is going to be great. I am willing to bet that Manboy will be a mess at the end of it though. BLAH BLAH BLAH question question question. LORD, that child is tie’some! Deliver me!

I know hope that I am not the only one. Do you have any strategies that work, or are you as brain-sad as me? Comment as loud as you want. I can take it.