Tales of swearing

Precociousness is a trait I am becoming well acquainted with lately. The Faery just can't seem to help herself.

Take the following brief conversation from yesterday as an example:



The Faery (responding to the wrong TV show starting) said, "Oh fuck."

I couldn't quite believe my ears. "What did you just say?"

The Faery blinked, "Oh fuck."

I sucked in some air, "Ahhh... you know, that's a bad word you shouldn't say. I know you might hear grown-ups using it sometimes but it's really not a nice word and they shouldn't say it either. You can get into a lot of trouble at school if you say it. A lot of trouble."

(Yeah, I am one massive hypocrite, I know - sometimes there's no other word as satisfying to let rip as the old f-bomb, but I'm actually very careful not to say it when she's around.)

The Faery looked up at me, indignant that I'd clearly misunderstood her. "No, Mum... I didn't say 'fart', I said 'fuck'."



Yes. Fart is so much worse than fuck, right? (For the record, we're no prudes in this house about using the word fart.) 

Do you know how hard it was not to explode into giggles at this point? She obviously has no idea what fuck means, but at five years old, I'm in no hurry to clarify.

J had a chat with her about it later. He was great, and didn't patronise her. He let her know that when she grows up, yes, she can say it, but it's still a bad word and not for children to say. In the mean time, if she hears him say it when driving - or any other time - then he has to give her a dollar. Same deal if she hears me say it.

A human swear-jar. Her little face was aglow at the very thought. She's a stickler for rules and boundaries, so the idea of policing her own father? Awesome.

This wasn't the first time she'd tested out the word, but it's been almost three years since the last. When she was a little under three years old, I put her into one of those coin-operated ride-on cars at out local shopping centre. She pretended to drive, tooted the horn, and then muttered, "Youfuckenidiot."

Just like her daddy.

It was all in one word and - like yesterday - I thought I'd misheard so I asked her what she'd said. She repeated herself in barely a whisper, and on the spot, wondering if the people nearby had also heard, I nervously told her that we don't say that. Mentally, I was already berating J.

Twice more, that week, she uttered the same phrase. Both times, we were waiting to cross a street - the Faery perched on my hip - as a car slowly drove past.

Context-wise, it was a stirling effort on her behalf. I didn't want to turn it into a big deal, so apart from a quick "No, we don't say that", that was it. For some reason, she obliged and I never heard her say it again... until yesterday.

She's always been rather advanced with her language skills - something I've considered a blessing. However, J and I can no longer spell out words in front of her. Her literacy skills have come along in leaps and bounds, and she's pretty damn good at putting letters together to work out unfamiliar words. She's also blitzing the weekly lists of sight words she's expected to recognise. Additionally, the way she can read and put together Korean letters to form the syllables in words, and tell me the words... it blows my mind.

It's such an exciting time for her, learning to read and write. I remember so well how it felt like the world had opened up infinitely when I was able to read books by myself.

At the same time that this is happening for the Faery, Miss Pie is at a lovely stage where her speech is really improving. It's taken off at a slower pace than it did with her sister, but she's so pleased when she can make herself understood.

Watching their communicative skills blossom - first with speaking, and now with reading and writing - is beyond wonderful. The ESL teacher in me, especially, gets a real kick out of it.

Fun times.

Pillspills

The childproof packaging on American medication does my head in. 

Every time.

I'm too used to Australian blister packs, where it's easy 

to push the tablets through a layer of foil. Done.

American blister packs are a little more difficult to open.

To the untrained eye, they look the same.

The fact that scissors are mentioned in the instructions

should be warning of the frustration level involved.

You see, in addition to the foil, there is a layer of thick paper.

Impossible to just 'pop' the tablets through.

In theory, the paper is supposed to peel away first,

leaving just the foil. Easy.

In my time here, though, I've yet to have this happen.

Scissors are always required, and the pack ends up a mangled mess.

So annoying if I need to pop some of these when I'm out and about.

It's not like I carry scissors on me.

I needed to pop some of these today, and had the brilliant idea

of documenting just how ridiculous it is. 

I should have known - Murphy's Law.

WTF? 

The pack opened for me in a way it's never done before. 

Never.

I was gobsmacked.

I threw away the empty packaging, put the camera back, 

and grabbed some water to swallow the tablets with...

...only there were no tablets on the table.

WTF?

I searched everywhere.

They were in the bin, on top of the coffee grounds.

Nice one, MJ.

You can probably guess that in my sneezing foggy haze,

with genuine surprise thrown into the mix, 

I'd accidentally thrown out the proverbial baby with the bath water.

Yeah.

I won't combine medication and blogging again...

Use as directed

Courtesy of a rewards-type card, every three months I receive a batch of coupons to use at my local supermarket. 

In case you can't see the picture clearly, this coupon is for Stayfree products. In other words - pads.

I'm so glad they reminded me to use as directed. When I think of all the ways I could possibly misuse this product, I can only feel grateful for this sage recommendation.

More than awkward

After yesterday's efforts, I thought I couldn't feel any worse today. Surely not.

One of J's colleagues (I'll call him A) was having a barbecue today, so we made the 40 minute drive to his place. Along the way, we picked up another colleague, who needed a ride. I'll call him V.

*  *  *

Less than five minutes after getting in the car, V mentions that he's going to do the driving test next week, and asks if I've taken the test yet.

I'm tongue-tied, really not wanting to talk about driving tests. "Um..."

"... She just booked her test yesterday." Thank you, J. That much is true. I did book a test yesterday. No one needs to know it won't be my first time. It's not really lying...

I feel grateful to J for coming to the rescue. The conversation that follows is mostly V noting how he'd heard the test was ridiculously easy, and me forcing cheerful sounding replies.

*  *  *

About half an hour after arriving at the barbecue, I finally sit down in the lounge room to eat a burger - as happens when chasing a toddler around. J and I usually take shifts eating at these things. Now, it was J's turn to chase.

My eye casts around the room, taking in the Halloween decorations.

I look up and see the host, A. He adopts a sympathetic expression, and says "Sorry to hear you failed the driving test."

If there'd been music playing on a record-player, the needle would have screeched to a resounding halt.

I feel V's eyes on me. "You've already taken the test, then?" 

Feeling like I'd just been busted telling a massive lie, all I could manage was a nod. My mouth starts going dry, and the burger I'm eating is rendered inedible.

The only people in the room I know - and not that well - are A and V. That doesn't stop the others from chiming in, though.

"You failed the driving test? Seriously?"

"How did you manage that?"

And the final person - I don't remember his name so I'll call him Dick (because, well, he's a dick) wags his fingers in my face. Only inches away, "BAHAHAHAHAHA!!! You failed your driving test? What did you do? It's so easy! You drive every day, don't you? How did you fail? What happened? BAHAHAHA!"

Silence. 

I squirm. 

I feel five sets of eyes on me, waiting for me to answer. I can't even look at anyone properly. My vision blurs as I try to blink away tears.

I glance around, hoping that J is nearby and will swoop to my rescue with a nicely timed smartarse comment aimed squarely at the maturity level of these guys... but he's outside, toddler-wrangling.

In true cliché, I want the ground to open up and swallow me.

Despite wanting to yell at everyone for being so rude, possessing zero sensitivity chips, and to just shut the fuck up, I stammer out a few words about my nerves just getting the better of me, and attempt to continue eating. 

Dick is like a dog, though, and won't let up. He keeps on about it, and I pretend I'm not bothered, but I can feel the lump in my throat getting bigger.

Ultimately, I don't like making scenes. I wait another minute or two - until I think I'm going to explode - then disappear to the bathroom to calm down. Once safely inside, I splash cold water on my face, and observe angry red blotches creeping over my neck and chest. I've never seen blotches like that before; not unless wine was involved.

Eventually I emerge, bi-pass the lounge room, and head outside. I can handle ribbing from close mates and family, but not from people who are practically strangers. Grown men, acting like fourteen-year olds. Rude.

*  *  *

Ever met someone who rubs you the wrong way, immediately? Well, in addition to laughing his arse off at me, Dick continued to irritate me by 'accidentally' bumping up against me one too many times throughout the afternoon, asking if I'm Swedish (which I'm normally flattered by, but in his case made him look even more stupid - I mean, c'mon, Australian and Swedish accents are nothing alike), and making consistently moronic remarks in general. Dick. He was somewhat inebriated, but I don't care. I was glad to go home and get the hell away from him.

Calling...

Along with ridiculous steps to access information, or retrieve some phone messages, it would appear that receiving recorded phone messages is the norm here in the US of A.

Every Sunday night, my mobile phone rings and I'm cheerily informed, via recording, of "important announcements" and reminders from the principal of the Faery's school, regarding the upcoming week.

Twice in the last few days, my phone has rung and - despite not recognising the number - I've answered it.

Instead of a real live human on the other end, a recorded female voice has greeted me: "Hello, I have a call for you. Please hold while I connect you."

Several moments of muzak passed, then, "All of our representatives are currently busy with with other customers. Please wait for the first available..."

I have no idea what she said next, because it was at that point I hung up. Both times. I don't know why I expected something might be different the second time.

But really, is that the best they - whoever they are - can do to get my attention? Seriously? I wonder what the actual success rate is of interacting with people who are dumb enough to wait around? Or don't have anything better to do?

Listen, if you are going to call me and interrupt whatever toddler food fight I'm busy diverting, you'd better bloody well have something of interest to tell me. Nope? You want me to sit on hold? I have a response for that - it starts with "F" and the second word is "off".

Time to go back to ignoring the numbers I don't recognise, and letting voice mail catch them - although somehow I don't think these people will be leaving a message. It's funny how I never get messages from them.

Perhaps some companies believe that leaving an air of mystery will give people hope that they're sitting on hold so that they can be told they've won a million dollars.

Oh crap. I hope they weren't trying to tell me I've won a million dollars.

Unless I really have. But they'll have to try harder...

Please enter

In past posts, I may have referred to the health care system here, and how I'm not a fan.

Last week, I made an appointment for something that wasn't urgent, but I'd been putting off for a while. Women's business. Naturally, there were slim pickings for times that suited me (ie not having to drag both girls along). Three weeks from now, I should be sorted - a whole month after I made the appointment, for what is essentially a basic check-up.

Yay American health care.

As I was making lunch for a suddenly-starving Faery today, my mobile phone rang. I didn't recognise the number, but answered anyway.

There was a pause, I almost hung up, then a pre-recorded message greeted me.

"Hello, MJ. This is an important announcement from Kaiser-Permanente. For your patient notification, please press one, or you can retrieve your message at any time."

Kaiser-Permanente is the stupid health insurance company we are with (as provided through J's workplace), and has us by the short and curlies. I'm unimpressed with them because our options seem pretty limited - we can only see doctors in their medical centres as it seems the more independent practicioners don't accept KP. Thankfully there is a centre close by, but as mentioned before, I can never get an appointment when truly needed without waiting. It's quite ridiculous.

So, being KP, I thought I'd better quickly listen to the message, in case it was about a change to my appointment.

I pressed one.

"Please enter your patient medical record number, followed by the pound key."

Really? The message isn't just waiting for me after all? I scrambled to find my purse so I could grab my KP membership card -

"The number you have entered is invalid. Please check the number and enter it again."

Sheesh! Give me a chance to find my number, why don't you? I located my card, and entered its number.

"The number you have entered is xxxxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

Oh my god. Just give me the frigging message already - YOU were the ones who rang ME. I pressed one.

"Please enter your date of birth, followed by the pound key. For example, if your date of birth is January 12th, 1973, enter 01121973, followed by the pound key."

Aaaaaghh! I entered my date of birth, and pressed the hash key.

"You have entered xxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

With an almighty exhale, I pressed one... to receive a general message about the importance of having a pap smear, and if I have not already done so, I should make an appointment as soon as possible.

Oh the pain.

If I hate bureaucracy and the American health care system, I think I detest automated phone prompts equally - especially when I didn't even make a bloody phone call in the first place.

How. Rude.

(Meanwhile, the Faery almost passed out from hunger.)

I also hate having to call customer service, and this perfectly illustrates why.

I'm glad I found that. I needed a laugh...

Automatic for the people

I'm beginning to have real 'issues' with American toilets. Not the ones in homes, but public ones.

It's got nothing to do with germs or hygiene, either.

It's all about the flush factor.

You see, the lack of cistern/tank at the back of public toilets here means that they all more or less look the same. Unless there is an actual lever to pull, it's difficult to tell at a glance as to whether or not it's an automatic toilet. Just a small cylinder with pipes, and a few round buttons... or what appear sometimes to be a flush button, but is actually nothing of use.

(Photo source)

We all know what automatic toilets mean - getting one's privates splashed at times by an unexpected flush, if hovering for just a second too long between sitting and standing. I first found out the hard way when using a toilet at the airport in Amsterdam. Given the amount of Mary Jane consumed that day (hey, I was young!), to say I was freaked out is an understatement.

So there you go. I don't like automatic toilets... but if there's one thing worse than an automatic toilet, it's not being able to tell.

I like to be prepared, and know how quickly to get my butt up and away. Knowing in advance that a toilet is automatic helps to avoid those cold splashes of shock.

Unfortunately, most public toilets look the same. Too often, I go about my business and hurriedly retreat, waiting for the flush... and waiting... to realise it's not automatic. Then begins the fun of trying to locate a button on the pipes at the back. Sometimes it's easy to see, sometimes it's well-camouflaged - one of several round, shiny surfaces on the pipe.

Sometimes the small black circle is a motion sensor. Sometimes it's a manual flush button.

You know, signage or labels wouldn't hurt, would they? Or maybe it's just me.

Having had family in town this past week has meant that we've been out and about every day, and have had to rely on using public toilets from time to time. The odds of me getting peeved with my 'awkward' toilet encounters were quite high.

Please. Someone tell me I'm not alone in hating these modern American loos, or whatever you call them.
I'm not weird, I'm really not...

Toilets aren't the only things of an automatic nature that are prolific here. It seems that in most restrooms, the taps (faucets) and soap dispensers have motion sensors too. Again, I often feel stupid when waving my hand around under the tap, waiting for that stream of water to start. Sometimes, waiting... then realising the tap is faulty and I need to move on to another one.

Then there are the paper towel dispensers that have motion sensors.

Only this morning, I saw a video taken by some friends of mine, in a parents room, changing their daughter's nappy. Some genius had thought it would be perfect to place the paper towel dispenser flush level alongside the baby change table. Brilliant! Every time my friend's baby kicked her legs, more paper would churn out of the dispenser. It was noisy, got in the way of her legs, and scared her - making her kick her legs more, starting the cycle all over again. Painful and funny to watch.

The argument that these 'advances' in technology are great for hygiene makes me laugh. What's the point in avoiding touching those things, if in the end, you still need to touch the doors to get out?

This need for things to be automatic - to have one less button here to push, one lever less there to pull... does it really improve our quality of life? Especially for such trivial tasks? I can't help but wonder about the culture of laziness that's inspired this technology.

Wooden silliness

Cars with wood panels on the exterior - is there anything more American?

[Source]

When my family first acquired a VCR in the 80s, a movie which got played on high rotation in our home was National Lampoon's Vacation. The puerile crassness of it appealed immensely to my father, and was barely tolerated by my mother, but allowed because she had a big old crush on Chevy Chase. As for us kids, so many of the jokes went way over our heads, but subsequent viewings over the years have taught me one thing: I have (mostly) inherited my father's same sense of humour, and laugh at the most politically incorrect of scenes.

Anyhow, thanks to childhood memories of this film, I have always associated wood-panelled cars as being, how shall I say?  Uniquely American. A species unseen in Australia.

So much time has passed since these cars reached their height of popularity that I'd forgotten about them. Coming to America and being on the roads, I never thought to look out for them.

Until last week. Exiting our local Target store, parked outside was a prize specimen of a wood-panelled car. I was ushering two tired, hungry small children to our own car, so walked past in a blur and didn't look too closely. I have no idea what type of car it was, but it appeared to be a gen-u-ahn relic of the 70s, with a complimentary hue of dark green.

It was somewhat of a "Yes, you really are in America" moment. I have those from time to time.

Then last night, I went for a walk in an attempt to undo some overdone Ben & Jerry's goodness. As I made my way up the hills and passed increasingly lovely houses, a car pulled into the driveway of one such lovely home. The happy sunset-viewing soundtrack that was playing in my mind screeched to a halt, record-needle style.

This car appeared not so old - and it had faux wood panelling.

Seriously, people think this is a good look? Or is it part of the trend of 'vintage' from the 70s and 80s?

You know what I think? Some hipster, of a design team somewhere, is laughing into his egonomic, organically fair-trade-filled coffee mug and... all the way to the bank.

I present to you, a sample of l'ugliness I saw yesterday:

[Source]

Actually, if it had been maybe another type of car, I may not even be writing about this... but I've never liked these Chryslers. They've always struck me as incredibly offensive-looking cars (sorry Chrysler).

Perhaps on a Mini Cooper, or VW Beetle, the faux wood-panel look could be seen as cutely retro, but not on the Chrysler.

To wrap up this randomness, and link to the beginning, I just thought I'd mention that not far from where I live, there's a long road called Chevy Chase Drive. At the far end of it is Chevy Chase Golf Club, and Chevy Chase Library. I keep forgetting to mention this to my parents...

Measured

I can live with driving on the opposite side of the road.

I can deal with dimes, nickels and quarters.

I can  even accept candy, elevators, gas, yielding to and passing cars, faucets, bath tissue, potties, diapers and pacifiers.

A country where lemon-lime soda is what I've always known as lemonade, and lemonade is glorified - and deliciously sweetened - lemon juice. Butter is the palest shade of yellow, and cheddar cheese resembles bright orange plastic (okay, I still have issues with the cheese).

The biggest part of the U.S. experience that my brain isn't willing to embrace is the U.S. customary units of measurement. Inches, feet, miles, pounds, ounces, quarts, gallons... there is no easy way to convert these. Not accurately without a calculator. These units get divided or multiplied by eighths, twelfths, sixteenths, and so on.

It seems rather silly to me. Archaic.

Perhaps I'm lazy. Or perhaps it's just that I grew up with a logical system of measurement. The metric system - everything divided or multiplied by ten. Simple, yes?

It's not that I'm unfamiliar with the concept of pounds and inches - nearly five years in the U.K. and the dregs of their imperial system meant that I had no choice but to get with the programme. Officially (in line with the rest of the European Union), they were supposed to be in metric, but I saw and heard imperial measurements all the time.

There are some differences, though.

Firstly, I never drove in the U.K. Although I got used to judging distance in miles when I saw signs and maps, I never had to judge miles per hour while behind a steering wheel. Here in LA, it still feels odd to look at the car's odometer and see 35 (mph) instead of 55 (kph), when it's actually the same speed.

The other difference is Fahrenheit versus Celsius. The U.K. may have dragged its feet regarding metric use, but they at least use Celsius when discussing the weather - a popular topic of conversation, but really, how many different ways can you say cold with grey skies and drizzle?

After thirty-something years of thinking in Celsius, I struggle with Fahrenheit. I don't like it, so there.

My highly accurate internet research tells me that only three countries in the entire world have yet to adopt metric. The U.S. is in good company with Myanmar and Liberia. Sure, sure, just because the rest of the world is doing something, doesn't mean it's right... but maybe, just maybe, metric is better?

So, what gives, America? Why not ditch a complicated, out-dated system and adopt a sensible one instead? Why the stubborn cling to the past? (Trust me, it's not just this one Australian lass who thinks it's funny, in a sad kind of way...)  

Legal Alien

That's a box I had to tick to describe myself at the Social Security Office today. Legal alien with working status. It has a nice ring to it, yes?

So why was I there? Now that I have a work permit, it's time to apply for a US social security number (SSN). I've been here over a year, without a social security number. No drama, really, except for two things:

1. Every organisation and their dog inisists that they need your SSN for every single form you fill out, when in fact (I'm told) it's not a legal requirement - but so many Americans seem bogged down by their love of - and need for - bureaucracy that they can't accept it's possible to exist without a SSN.

2. The Social Security Office will not just hand out SSNs to anyone. You need to either be a citizen, or have legal working status, which I recently received.

So on this fine hot morning, I found myself at the Social Security Office in Burbank.

I walked in with Miss Pie, and was directed by Mr Security Guard to take a number and fill out a form. He complimented me on my wedding ring, which I thought was a little odd.

My number was A36, and the number on the screen was A34. Sweet! Won't be a long wait.

I sat down and completed the form. At this point Mr Security Guard approached me, and began talking about how he'd spent time in the Australian Outback, training with the Australian Army, "Those guys are crazy - they have a real death wish!"

Being the polite person that I am, I listened as he continued, "And your beer. Fosters? Such big cans - I drank it. It's strong!" He spoke about what a great time he had, and how he thought Australians were the friendliest people - so, of course I was going to be polite and and conversationalist for a minute or two.

Then as Mr Security walked back to his desk, I heard "A37", and I looked up at the TV screen to see A36 change to A37. Crap.

I began to call out to the available window, just as Mr and Mrs A37 took a seat at that window.

From across the room, Mr Security's voice rang out: "Ma'am, these numbers are not called out in unison. Please take a seat."

I explained that I was pretty sure I'd just seen my number momentarily on the screen, and he wanted to see my ticket to check the number. Then he said, "Well, you'll need to wait until another window is free, then ask them if they called your number already. This is why you need to listen carefully."

Um... WTF, dude? I wasn't listening 'carefully' because you were in my face talking about good times in Australia, and I was being a polite listener. 

I sat down in disbelief, and waited for a window to become free. When it did, Mr Security walked over and I heard him enquire about my number. Then I heard the staff member reply that they'd called out A36, three times.

Mr Security strolled over and informed me that, yes, my number had been called out - and I interjected, "Which I didn't hear because you were talking to me."

He replied "Yes, ma'am, my bad I'm afraid, but you'll need to take another number and wait again. I'm sorry, ma'am."

It took all of my resolve NOT to open a can of whop-arse right there and then. If anyone has ever had to wait at such places, with bored toddlers wanting to run amuck, they'll understand how badly I wanted to scream.

However, Mr Security was also Mr Ex-Military (I'm guessing - why else would he be hanging out with the Australian Army?). Opening a can of whop-arse wasn't really an option, even if he did seem to have a soft spot for women with Aussie accents.

So I sighed - heavily - and took another number.

A year in La La Land

It's been a year since we stumbled bleary-eyed through the gates at LAX and arrived here. In the spirit of this milestone, I thought I'd list some of the good and bad about life in La La Land so far. Not in any particular ranking...


Things that amuse me

1. The advertising for prescription medicine
I'm guessing there are federal guidelines which state that medication can't be advertised on TV, radio, or in print media unless the risks and side effects are clearly stated. All the commercials I've seen for various anti-depressants, contraceptive pills and so on have a large portion where the negative risks are mentioned. Call me crazy, but when I've just listened to 30 seconds where possible nausea, blurred vision, diarrhea, incontinence and worse are mentioned as possible side effects... I'm not really tempted to buy or ask for this product. Also, given that prescription medicines aren't advertised in Australia or the UK, the fact that they are even advertised here has always struck me as odd: Doctor, I don't want that brand of anti-depressant, I want this one that I saw on TV. I may not have a medical degree but I'm sure I know better than you because I saw the ad for it...

2. Commonly used euphemisms
Bath tissue = toilet paper, nursing = breastfeeding, restroom = public toilet
Toilet is an embarrassing word to use? Or maybe it's considered distasteful - I haven't figured it out. And breastfeeding? Really? This makes me laugh because there's a stereotype of Brits as being prudish, yet they have no problem using these words - and Australians definitely don't have a problem with them. But then, we can be a crude bunch.

3. Drive-through ATMS
Enough said.

4. Squirrels
I stalked them obsessively in London parks when we lived there - feeding them by hand - and I stalk them here when I see them, too. Which is often.

5. Nickels and dimes
I can never remember which ones are 5c or 10c coins, so I'm always thrown when someone refers to a nickel or dime during cash transactions (it doesn't help that the 10c coins are significantly smaller than the 5c coins). I know I'm not stupid, so I'm going to use the old - and convenient - 'baby brain' excuse. Let's overlook that fact that Miss Pie is now a toddler.


Things that will make me grumble

1. The health care system
I don't have the space here to rant about it, but simply put? It's woefully inadequate. The paperwork involved, and the time spent finding the appropriate doctor who actually accepts the health plan you're on is frustrating at the very least. I wouldn't want to be a person on a low income in the US. Free basic health care should be a given. For everyone.

2. High fructose corn syrup
Sure, food is really cheap here, and there's a reason for that - high fructose corn syrup. It's BAD for you, and in most of the food - unless you take the time to seek out the food that hasn't got it. Annoying.

3. Los Angeleno drivers
They seem oblivious to what an indicator is, they really do.

4. The coffee
Thick, tasteless foam in lattes and cappuccinos - yuck. I prefer my lattes creamy in texture - and with actual flavour - but my standards are gradually slipping and I'm becoming more accepting of how it is here.

5. American date format
Month/day/year? Sequentially, so illogical. After a year, I still have trouble writing it this way, and on more than one occasion I've had to tear up cheques I've written because of this.


Things that I love

1. Amazon.com
We had access to Amazon in the UK as well, and I missed it when we went back to Australia. In those days, it was mostly books and music that were sold; these days, it's everything. Good prices and fast, cheap - if not free - shipping. What's not to love?

2. Trader Joe's
This grocery store is right up there with Whole Foods in my book, and their staff are so much friendlier. Their service is genuinely cheerful, and their food presented so appealingly. An early morning weekend visit there is always a happy start to the day.

3. Inn-N-Out Burgers
The tastiest fast food. EVER. All made from scratch on the premises, too.

4. America's love affair with peanut butter
A year ago, I'd have said that there's peanut butter found in places it has no business being in, but I've now embraced this. Peanut butter cookies, peanut butter ice cream with peanut butter cups, peanut butter-filled pretzels... I am a convert. My most recent discovery is the Tagalongs/Peanut Butter Patties (Girl Scout Cookies). To die for.

5. No more freaky creepy crawlies 
I saw my first American cockroach only last week, and it was tiny. It may just be that our apartment building is fairly new - so the pests have yet to move in - however, going a year without seeing a cockroach in Sydney would be unheard of. In the old terraced houses that we'd rented there, cockroaches were a fact of life. As were hideously fat stripy slugs, and an assortment of nasty spiders. Just the memory of brown huntsman spiders that gallop is enough to make me shudder. I'm not saying that Los Angeles hasn't got its own nasties; I just haven't encountered any yet. Here's hoping I don't!

Apple bytes, square donuts and snow

We have a beautiful Mac Notebook. It's fairly new - acquired last year to replace our old laptop, which had died a slow death. This newer version is a thing of beauty, and her name is Sabrina, but that's a long story.

Last week, the power adaptor stopped working. I plugged the cord into Sabrina, but no little lights came on to indicate that battery-charging was taking place.

This may or may not be related to the fact that moments earlier, I'd found Miss Pie with the small end of the adaptor in her mouth. She'd been suspiciously quiet - for about half a minute - on the other side of the the kitchen counter, from where I'd been making breakfast, unaware that she'd managed to reach up, pull the cord out of Sabrina, and started slurping on it.

After being told about this, and some investigation, J came to the conclusion that the fault may actually be something to do with the battery itself, and not the adaptor. My software engineer husband was in denial.

We'd also had a minor issue with Sabrina's screen - it was coming away from the frame in one corner - and we hadn't got around to getting that sorted out. She was still under warranty, so this was the kick up the bum we needed to take her in to the local Apple Store.

On Saturday morning, J rang up and made an appointment at the Apple store. The only time slot available was 4.30pm.

I'd been running errands - alone (bliss!) - all day and had no intention of going in (again) with him, but when 4pm hit, the girls were going stir-crazy from being at home all day. It seemed a good idea for us all to go in together.

As soon as we arrived at the mall, I regretted it. Late Saturday afternoon at the mall, on a cold, stormy day? I'd never seen the place so packed. Duh. What was I thinking?

We pushed our way through the half-gallon-slurping throngs and finally made it to the Apple Store. The technician's verdict was that it was indeed the adaptor at fault. We may or may not have mentioned the slurping toddler factor. A new adaptor was promptly issued, but Sabrina had to be left at the store for a few days so her screen could be repaired.

All under warranty, though, so we were happy.

Mission accomplished, we did not want to spend a minute longer in the crowds so made our way back to the car. It took another fifteen minutes of mayhem to exit the car park.

When we did, the sky was doing crazy things. Did I mention this was the same afternoon that snow fell in Burbank? As in, snow fell within this City of Angels?

Have I mentioned that we live just three miles from Burbank?

We noticed that some of the closer mountains appeared to have had a dumping of icing sugar on top - something we hadn't seen before, as these particular mountains aren't as high as the usual ones near L.A. that get snow each year.

The sky in that direction looked bruised and swollen, yet the sun setting in the west was casting all sorts of peachy beams over a clearer sky. There were individual clouds, piled on top of one another. We noticed one large, pillowy cloud with a hole in the centre - clearly resembling a square donut. There were simultaneous cravings and stomach-grumbles in the car as J, myself and the Faery began visualising more donuts, Homer Simpson style.

Half-way home, sitting at a red light, a couple of cars drove past... with snow on top. WTF? We couldn't believe what we'd just seen, but managed to catch up with one of the cars at the next set of lights, ogle, and confirm that, yep, it was snow all right.

By the time we parked the car at home, we were pretty happy. We'd just seen snow (it takes very little snow to make this Aussie family excited), and it felt like there were possibilities of more to come. Stranger things have happened, right?

And we had a new, functioning adaptor for Sabrina.

On the way out of the car, J grabbed the water bottle from between our seats, before we began our synchronised efforts at freeing the girls from their car seats.

We walked in our front door, J set Miss Pie onto the floor... and water dripped from his bag. The water bottle's lid mustn't have been on tight enough.

Buggering bollocks.

Sabrina's new adaptor was in his bag. It. Was. Soaked.

Back to square one, then.

Maybe that was the universe having a laugh at us? Telling us that next time, we should just hand over money for a new adaptor, instead of wheedling one from the warranty when we know better...

The princess and the cat collar

This is what a small child is capable of doing with a figurine, a jewellery box, and one cat collar:

I was assured by the Faery that no princesses were harmed during the making of this... well, I'm still not sure what it is.

Despair over losing her glass slipper?

Bungee-jumping?

Kinky activities gone astray?

I was also cheerily informed, following my concerned enquiries, that Cinderella was most indeed happy to be dangling as she was.

What I would give to understand what goes through a four-year-old's mind...