Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts.....

Hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew with this party. Received this e mail from my friend Maria in Greece this morning......


Hello Hilary, Thanks for the lovely invitation. My husband and I would love to come with my daughter. My husband's mother, brother and aunt and her husband would also love to come too. So see you all soon. Yipee. Love Maria...xxxxx PS> His mum needs an oxygen tank three times a day and his uncle drinks one and a half litres of retsina a day. Hope that's not too much trouble to organize.

It's Our Party, and We'll Cry If We Want To

What's the first thing you do when you buy a neglected old house? Paint the walls, tidy the yard? No..organise a party!
Before we left England we told everyone we would be having our housewarming party on July 22nd. Of course we didn't have a house then, but it seemed a minor point at the time.
The reason for this date is because it is the weekend of Ross' 50th birthday. Traditionally we have celebrated every year with a barbecue in our back garden in England. So this year, we wanted to hold an extra special one in the garden of our new home and invite as many of our friends from around the world as possible.
The good news is that we do indeed have a house. The downside is that our contractor has about six weeks to knock it into shape before we fill it with guests. We have five family members and two American friends from out of state booked already and I have only sent out the first round of invitations. We are hoping building work will begin next week, which will probably merit a whole blog of its own, so watch this space...

Home Sweet Home

Ross and Hilary are proud to present their first American home, in the leafy subdivision of Cress Creek in North Naperville, Illinois.

Below are a few scenes of the neighbourhood....

Driving Force

I knew Buffy couldn't be trusted! I caught her practising in advance of our golf lesson later this week.

The Parade Passes By

Done up like a dog's dinner - even pets are patriotic in Naperville.
But it's 6.30 a.m! Where is everybody?

The Horse of the Fallen Soldier symbolises those killed in battle.

Old soldiers never die....
...they cruise around in classic cars!

The fleet's in
Surely that's cheating?

Happy Memorial Day!

Those of you across the pond may have little idea what Memorial Day is - I certainly didn't. It's a bit like Remembrance Sunday in the UK, where everyone remembers those who died for their country in wars. Of course America is still at war, so for many it is even more poignant, particularly the "gold star" families, who have lost relatives in Iraq.
In England we remember the dead in a quiet way. Laying wreaths of poppies at war memorials, somber marches, that kind of thing. If nothing else, the British believe in dignity.
In the mid-west of America, it may not exactly be an excuse for a party, but it is a time for concerts, parades and much flag waving.
My new friend Jill insisted we should be her guest at the Naperville Memorial Day parade. The main aspect of military precision turned out to be not with those involved in the parade, but those spectating.
"We must get there early for a good spot," said Jill. "My husband will go along at 6 a.m. to put the chairs out. I have to drop my son off at school at 7 a.m., so I'll be round to you at 9."
Six, seven, nine? On a bank holiday?
When we arrived just after nine, the streets of downtown Naperville were already lined with garden chairs and blankets. If you did this in England, they would all have been stolen before you arrived, but the God fearing folks of Naperville would never consider such a thing. In fact I'm surprised they didn't provide free picnics and pillows.
A mere two hours later, the parade began. It consisted of some very proud old veterans of World War Two and every child who lives in Naperville. Every high school had a marching band, every scout and brownie troop some exhausted kids dragging themselves around the route.
Row after row of youngsters marched by. The flautists seemd positively perky; the euphonium players less so as they struggled under the weight of their instruments.
"They must be so tired," I commented to Jill, watching some being pulled along in little wagons by their parents.
"I don't know why," she sneered. "The route's less than a mile long".

A Good Time in the Old Town Today

This weekend we went back in time and visited the Naper Settlement in downtown Naperville.

"Ow...get off my foot!"
Little houses on the prairie

So this is where Santa keeps his sleigh in the summer!

"If you water her carefully she'll grow this big."

"Who needs a tumble drier?"

No washday blues in Naperville.

"Write 100 lines - I must not come to class in clothes which have not been invented yet."

Ross discovers how to ensure a good view of tomorrow's Memorial Day Parade. Even in the summer heat, the ladies of Naperville like to be prepared for a sudden cold snap by knitting winter woollies.

Rising petrol prices call for drastic measures.

"I may have wanted a traditional American home, but I didn't expect Ross to build it himself."

Local children enjoy the latest craze to hit Naperville.

Strangers in the Night

Yesterday evening, for the sake of the blog, I went along to a jewellry party. It wasn't that I wanted to buy anything, of course, but I thought it a useful way to look at another slice of American life.

The party was held in a magnificent house on the outskirts of the town. The dining table was laden down with silver jewellry; the kitchen with the ubiquitious platters of food. Cakes, fruit, giant subs, wine, cocktails. I'm beginning to think homes are automatically set up like this, just in case anyone stops by.

The jewellery was produced by Silpada, a literally shining example of pyramid selling, still very popular in the USA.

"This stuff sells itself," said Karen, our representative for the evening."I just have to wear it and people will ask me where it's from."

Not surprising, if last night was anything to go by. A human manniquin, she was dripping from head to foot in the stuff.

She had thoughtfully scattered brochures everywhere, one called something like Empowering Women. This was the one for the reps., full of real life stories of women who had sold a couple of pairs of earrings and changed their lives, and photos of sales trips to Hawaii.

Karen seemed to think it would be a good idea for me to try this new career path. It's the first time I've been grateful to still be awaiting my work permit.

More interesting were the other women there. There was Debbie, originally from Holland so technically another foreigner, who told us about some kind of dragon she kept as a pet. I didn't catch exactly what it was, but she said it definitely wasn't an iguana. Don't think I'll be visiting her house any time soon!

Marie was a fascinating creature. Petite with red hair scraped into a sixties topnot, she was full of the most extraordinary snippets of information. Her brother, it seems, dressed in full native American regalia for his marriage. Simple reason - his bride was the daughter of a chief. Marie's mother's favourite hobby was hanging a mousse and then gutting it - and I don't mean the chocolate variety. Marie herself, preferred something more energetic - belly dancing. You just don't meet people like this is London, or at least I didn't.

Just as I was getting into the swing of things, I was disturbed by the sound of piano music. I had noticed a grand piano in another room, nothing unusual in Naperville, I have observed. However, when I went to investigate who was playing so beautifully, it turned out to be no one. It was run electronically and the keys moved alone as if played by a ghost. Apparently these are not uncommon here. You like the sound of live piano music, but cannot play, so you simply get a virtual pianist! The selection - Disney's greatest hits - seemed a somewhat bizarre choice, but I suppose you can hardly ask for a request with no one actually at the keys.

Child's Play

Today was my first real day volunteering on the floor of the Children's Museum of DuPage. When they ask you to work on the floor, they mean literally. After all, you can hardly build blocks with little kids whilst standing up.

The problem for me, is many of the staff don't seem much older than the children. They are either school kids themselves, or fresh out of college. Maybe I have just got to that age where everyone seems younger than me.

Anyway, today's session did not begin well. Being English, I like to see myself in kind of Mary Poppins role - where little children will gravitate towards me just to hear my voice. At least that's what the adults here do.

The first two I spotted were trying to poke white plastic rectangles into a board to create a ramp for balls to run down.

"I see you are poking white plastic rectangles into a board to create a ramp." I said. We'd been trained to state what the child was doing as an act of affirmation or irritation, not sure which.

The child continued to work, totally ignoring me.

A young woman, I think his Eastern European nanny, bounded over.

"No, no," she told him. "That's not how you do it. You must do this. It will never roll down."

We had been told that children must learn for themselves, but anxious not to start an international incident, I ignored her.

In the end she pulled her young charges away, leaving me to play alone, which was, after all, what I wanted.



Upstairs I had much more fun engaging with some adorable American kids - you know the ones you see on sit coms. They were happy to chat with me. John Francis explained he was building a house out of blocks without a roof because his family liked to get wet! Four year twins Natalie and Melita seemed positively delighted with my stupidity that I wouldn't realise they were the same age and shared the same birthday.

I met some pretty cool grown-ups too. One grandmother told me all the details of her 70th birthday party at the weekend. American families tend to be spread all over the country, so it was a real treat for her that they would all be joining her in her back yard. As with all U.S. women I have met, you can take no one at face value. This lady was a former psychiatric nurse, who in her retirement became a chaplain and now counsels oncology patients.

Not a bad way to spend a morning. If nothing else, it keeps you young.

Only in Naperville.....

Ten things I have observed here which would never happen in England.

1. People can safely leave their houses unlocked when they go out.
2. You can leave a cell/mobile phone on your car seat and it will still be there when you return.
3. Construction workers help little old ladies across the street, telling them to "have a nice day."
4. People can leave their car windows open and still find their cars where they left them on their return.
5. Fedex drivers can leave their vans with the doors open wide and the keys in the ignition and still find them there on their return.
6. Pedestrians call out "thank you" when you stop for them.
7. Teenagers say "excuse me" when they pass you on the street.
8. Assistants in the aisles of supermarkets will stop and ask if you need any help finding anything.
9. You can find a space to park for free.
10. When you walk past a stranger in the street, they will smile and say "hallo".

Naperville Riverwalk

This beautiful area is just a 15 minute drive from where we live.

Teed Off

Unlike some people, sport is not my middle name. Sloth, greed, maybe, but definitely not sport. At school I was not only the last to be picked for a team, but my classmates would refuse to play if I even watched from the sidelines.
However, faced with life in a new country, I thought I would give it another shot. That and the fact that my new friend Buffy, not her real name, was eager to give it a try.
I have always thought of myself of a little uptight. I like to know details and have everything in its place. But next to Buffy, I am a slob. We're like the odd couple.
Buffy is tall, blond and extremely slim. She looks very fit, even though she claims to only attend pilates once a week. I think she's lying.
I, on the other hand, am short, brunette, blond and God knows what else since my visit to the local hair salon. On a good day I would describe myself as "cuddly", on a bad day, "flabby".
We arrived at the golf course early, which came as no surprise to me. If I am always early, Buffy is always even earlier. Our instructor was Jason. He normally teaches school kids, so to come across two older women must have been a refreshing change. At least we weren't chewing gum and wearing ipods.
I was astonished to see we actually had to drive out to the back of the course. I was happy to have Buffy drive. The buggy was no bigger than my new car, but I'm not sure I'm ready for another vehicle just yet.
The first 10 minutes were spent in Jason explaining which end of the club was which, what each part was called and how to hold it. Since my only previous encounter was being wacked in the eye with one as a 10-year-old, I needed this information. Buffy pretended she did, but I bet she didn't really.
We practised our stance. I stood behind Buffy since the last thing I needed was a slip of a girl standing behind my ever widening girth as I addressed the ball.
"You should be good at this," said Jason. "You come from the place golf first started."
Guess he doesn't realise how far London is from Scotland, but never mind, we were here for golf, not geography.
Buffy "I haven't had a lesson for 20 years", took her first swing at the ball and watched it fly into the air. So did I. Watch her, I mean.
Then it was my turn.
The first swing missed completely. Subsequent ones tore into the grass like a mechanical digger. This was harder than it looked.
Apart from my lack of hand/eye co-ordination, I also faced the other problem of my chest getting in the way of my arms. Bet Arnold Palmer never had to worry about that.
"Let's try it without the ball," Jason suggested.
"Right, that'd make it easier," I grumbled. "How about without the club?"
This time I hit the tee so hard it compressed into the ground. If only I could have done that with the ball.
Apparently you have to keep your eye on the ball. I had heard that expression before, but never realised its origins. Of course if I looked at the ball, which wasn't going anywhere anyway, it meant I couldn't twizzle round to see where my club was.
After a few minutes, Buffy was really getting into the swing of things - another golfing idiom I guess.
"So what angle does my number 7 iron need to be at with the perpendicular of my right knee to make the ball travel at 23 miles an hour in a south westerly direction?" she asked gaily.
Ok, she didn't exactly ask that, but she's certainly one for details. She likes to ask every conceivable question in order to improve her game. She'll probably be playing against Tiger Woods next season.
Personally, I'd be happy to find out how to attach magnets to the club and the ball. It's probably the only way I'm going to hit it.
By the end of a very long hour, I'm pleased to report I did actually hit a few balls, and one or two of them even made it into the air without hitting anybody.
However, my back was aching and I was so exhausted I thought I was going to pass out.
"How about one more perfect shot before we finish?" Jason asked bravely.
I don't think he saw me sneer from my place on the bench. I was obscured by Buffy's ball sailing up into the heavens.

Weather Warning

A word of warning. Any visitors to the Chicago area should always bring the following, regardless of the time of year.

1. A warm overcoat.
2. A light sweater.
3. A tank top.
4. A woolly hat
5. A sunhat
6. Chilblain cream.
7. Suntan lotion.
8. Snow shoes.
9. Sandles.
10. A snow shovel.
11. A fan.

This weekend, the temperature reached 80 degrees on Saturday, 45 degrees on Sunday and today it is currently 81 degrees. Be warned.

Chocs A-Weigh!

To those of you who have only recently met me, it may come as a surprise to learn that I used to be a queen bee with Weight Watchers. Yes, I was half the person then I am now. It's not that my lapse hasn't bothered me, it's just lately I've had a few things on my mind - like thinking up excuses not to rejoin.
It helps that clothes sizing is done differently here. I wear a size smaller than I would at home, but confusingly my feet have gone up two and half sizes.
We hadn't been in Naperville for 5 minutes when I noticed that Weight Watchers had kindly opened an office not two minutes from our apartment. Crumbs, I wouldn't even have to drive there.
Sending someone with a life long weight problem to live in the U.S. is like sending an alcoholic to do work experience in a bar. I expect even anorexics here weigh 200lbs. Portion sizes in restaurants are enormous, snack foods in supermarkets come in bags the size of coal sacks and most of the food is slathered in fat or sugar or both.
For those of you who have recently met me, it may come as a surprise to know that Ross and I had such success with WW 10 years ago, that we not only ran meetings, but appeared in a radio ad., the national press, members magazines and I even worked as a co-ordinator for WW from Heinz foods.
Anyway, this weekend, for the sake of the blog you understand, we decided to try out the American version to see how it compared.
The first difference was that we could actually go into a shop to attend meetings. In England, meetings are mostly run out of church halls and the like. In fact they do have many meetings like that here, but it does make the whole thing seem more professional when you don't have to be weighed by an often highly overweight volunteer as the leader struggles in under boxes of programme material.
The weigh-in is also more discreet. The member stands on a scale in a booth, and does not learn the result until the weigher tells them. Personally I prefer the other method. I'm sure the weigher lied just so I need to pay for longer. It's free when you reach your goal weight. I reckon she added at least another 20lbs, but without the proof I have no comeback.
But the most amazing thing were the times. In England, apart from the odd rogue meeting, they were usually held Mondays to Thursdays. Here, not only are they every day of the week, but on a Saturday morning you could attend at 6.30 a.m.! Honestly!! I can only assume this was to give members time to go to IHOP afterwards for a stack of pancakes.
Disappointingly, all the other people at the meeting were not 350lbs, although I'm sure I could be given the encouragement. Ross and I looked at though we fitted right in.
23 hours in, I am already not happy. Yesterday's lunch comprised of a few bits of salad without dressing. For dinner Ross made us a stir fry, except we forgot to buy vegetables, so it comprised of chicken, onion, coleslaw mix and ketchup. By lunch time today I was nearly fainting, because I couldn't find sugar free cereal anywhere, and had to resort to an apple for breakfast.
As a former expert, I can assure you this is only down to my own mis-management. You can actually lose weight and eat like a king - well a prince, any rate. It's just it's hard getting back on the wagon when you've fallen off it for so long you can no longer hear the wheels in the distance.
At least that's the excuse I'll be telling my new leader next week....

Food, Glorious Food

Six weeks in and the guilt is beginning to get to me, so I thought I would send my children a little gift in the mail today. They have inherited my sweet, and come to that, salty, tooth, so I decided a food parcel would be just the thing.
I am gradually coming to terms with the fact that every item has at least 50 varieties, but with Ross safely at work, it was much easier to pick and choose what I wanted.
So into my cart (that's what American call trollies) went all sorts of goodies. The peanut butter M & Ms were a must - you can't get them in England unless you buy peanut ones and drive over them. Then there was the maple syrup. Of course you can get this, but this is all the way from America, so it must be the real mccoy.
Time for something savoury. I popped in a pot of instant Mac and Cheese. It looked disgusting, but according to an article I read recently, all true bloodied Americans have fond memories of growing up with this comfort food. Anyway, the pot was virtually weightless, so it must be worth including.
Hersey's Kisses, just the one bag so they wouldn't weigh the package down too much. Oh, and some Goldfish. (They're savoury snacks - sending real ones would just be wrong).
Clips to hold the open snack packs together in the unlikely event they don't eat them all at once;
a couple of t shirts they'll never wear but they say Chicago on them; some tooth rotting candy - nothing's too good for my kids. (By the way, for those readers who don't know them, they are 20 and 23, so quite old enough to drive themselves to the dentist).
I popped the shopping into the boot of my car ( that's what the English call a trunk) and drove off to my nearest Fedex office. I'm quite well known in there already, and was delighted to find the English girl who works in there behind the counter. Later I was to be positively ecstatic.
As I struggled in with the shopping, a thought occurred to me.
"Er, I may have gone a bit over the top here," I warned Heather. "Could you just weigh this and let me know how much it will cost?"
She looked at me knowingly.
"We've all been there," she said. "That's why I work for Fedex. It's for the discount I get."
She squinted at the computer screen in front of us as we loaded up the scales.
"Hmmm. Seems that will be $139. Plus the cost of the box."
I gulped. Ross would kill me. That'll teach him to buy me a car.
"Er, maybe I could send it in bits?"
At that rate it would take up to a year for the parcels to arrive, and the kids are visiting in the summer anyway.
"Don't worry," said Heather. "You can use my employee discount. That'll bring it down to around $30."
Who said the English aren't helpful? The Americans may say "have a nice day", but here was someone who was ensuring I did. What a relief.
The food parcel should arrive on Monday morning. Of course the kids won't be in, so they will have to collect it from the depot, which probably means they won't actually get it for another month.
At least they know they have a mother who cares....and a father who will soon be bankrupt!

Fire? Fire!

So there I was, checking my site meter when this deafening screech reverberated around the apartment. I leapt up, my heart pounding. What was it? My first thought was that it was my alarm clock. But why would that be? Firstly, it's so quiet I can barely hear it when it goes off next to my ear, and secondly, I haven't had the need to set it since I've been here. (There are some benefits to not having a work permit, you know).
Then it must be the cooker. I have used this more than my alarm clock, well barely, but I think it has a timer. Was it that?
I realised the sound was coming from out in the hallway, particularly when I opened the door and noise got even louder. You can't get much past me. I shot down the stairs to find one or two people congregating in the lobby and a maintainence man trying to turn off the alarm.
Now people say living in an apartment block can be really lonely because everyone goes inside their little space and you never meet your neighbours. Well, I met some of them today.
One woman, a bit too large to be wearing shorts unless she pulled them on in an emergency, complained: "This is the fourth time this has happened since September."
What would she prefer, that the whole place burnt to the ground quietly so she wasn't disturbed?
In the end it turned out not to be a false alarm. One of the other residents was burning something on her stove, her extractor fan wasn't working, the smoke poured out into the second floor corridor and the alarms went crazy.
All this has taught me two things:
1. Always dress appropriately, even if you are slobbing out at home all day.
2. Cooking can be dangerous. Leave it to the experts.

Happy Days

News of our arrival has spread across the country. Even Henry "Fonzie" Winkler couldn't wait to get my autograph when he came into town this week.

Happy Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother's Day here in America, and it was quite different to the one we celebrated in England in March.
Firstly the advertising began on TV for a good couple of weeks before. Now I know America is the world's richest country, but diamonds from your children? Well, yes, if the ads are to be believed. All I can say is they must get more pocket money than my kids.
On the day itself, there were families everywhere, particularly in restaurants. Both there and in shops, assistants handed out carnations to all women over the age of puberty.
Similarly Happy Mother's Day seemed to be a greeting said to all women, whether they were your mother or not.
Of course I still think my personal Mother's Day in England was better. That was the day I moved my own children out into a flat in London, just before flying across the world without them. Now that's a cause for celebration!

Toy Story

Although this week I have volunteered at the Naperville Cultural Centre, enrolled in golf
lessons (!), driven with the handbrake on and on the wrong side of the road, attended a meeting of the Pageturners Book Group, visited a casino and attended a synagogue service with members of a local church as guests, I still feel I have too much time on my hands.
So with this in mind, I arranged to meet up with Diane Ernst, volunteer organiser for the Dupage Children's Museum.
What most British people don't realise is quite how important voluntary work is in the U.S. It is planned into the children's school curriculum. It helps you get into college. Even businessmen are encouraged to spare some time.
Now the more cynical among you may think this is just a good way for organisations to save money. You wouldn't be wrong, of course, but in Naperville alone there are around 300 non-profit organisations, whose sole purpose is help others.
The museum, for example, does have regular staff members, but also an army of volunteers who appear to be supremely well organised. There is a training scheme, various benefits apart from being paid, of course, and they will supply references should you ever decide to be selfish and actually try to work for money, perish the thought.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, on Monday at 9 a.m. I will be reporting for duty. I'm going to write publicity material for them, but later in the week will begin training as a facilitator. That's actually a fancy title for someone who hangs around playing with little children all day.
The museum, you see, is a like a gigantic playroom full of fun things to do. In encourages learning through play, so one minute I could be playing in a wind tunnel, the next splashing about in a water tray. The downside is there will be all those little kids around, but I'm sure they won't mind if I join in.
Of course the real reason I have chosen this place is not because of any love lost for children. It's only a two minute drive from where I live, so hopefully even I should be able to manage that. If not, I could always get one the little ones to drive me home in their pedal car....

Nervous Brake Down

With a brand new car beaming up at my apartment from the car park below, I could put it off no longer. With so much free time on my hands, I had to go for a drive. Alone. After six weeks I have at least learnt which side of the car to enter. It's quite odd really. I feel like someone recovering from amnesia. I know I know how to drive, but I feel I have to learn again.
In order to get downtown, I have to drive out of the car park, turn right (remember, to all English readers that's like turning left). The speed limit is 25 miles per hour (honestly). Then I have to turn left (that's like turning right, but with a filter light it's difficult to mess up). Then it's straight all the way. The whole journey takes about 15 minutes if you stick to the speed limit, and about five if you don't.
Parking is completely free and there are car parks everywhere. Most aren't even multi storey. It's like a children's driving course, so why I have made such a big deal about it, I don't know. I couldn't have been more proud when I turned off the engine than if I'd won the Pulitzer Prize for Driving. (Now, there's a thought). I celebrated by buying four items of clothing I have no need for.
The journey back was equally simple. I could get used to this! I'd be on the freeways in no time! (Give or take a year or two). But just as I pulled up I noticed a terrible smell of burning. I leapt out of the car, sniffing like a bloodhound in the hope it was my apartment on fire, not my beautiful car. Alas no, it was definitely the car, although thankfully there was no smoke, so no fire.
Eventually I realised what I had done. I had driven all the way back with my handbrake on. Ironic since in an automatic car the handbrake is about the only similarity to a manual. That evening I relayed the whole story to Joe, the kindly salesman who rang to see how I was getting on. He was his usual sympathetic self. Probably figured if I keep on like this I'll be buying a another new car in no time.

Little Houses of the Prairie

This weekend's jaunt took us out to Oak Park,

home to two famous Americans -

architect Frank Lloyd Wright who

designed these beautiful houses and

author Ernest Hemingway, who

was born in the first house below.

Frank Lloyd Wright founded the Prairie School of

Architecture at the turn of the 20th century. These

houses were built between 1892 and 1904.

A Car Is Born

Do you remember how I told you when buying a car in the U.S all you have to do is walk away and the salesman will run after you to accept your lowest offer? Well at least that's what happened to Ross. When we tried to do the same for me, it backfired big time and they just waved as we walked off.
In many ways I have enjoyed not having a car. The thought of driving on the other side of the vehicle and the other side of the road frankly terrifies me, and I suspect all the other drivers I have driven past lately while practising.
However, thanks to be the most patient car salesman in history, I am happy to report I am now the proud owner of a brand new car.
Having tried to sell me every used car in the showroom, Joe seemed surprisingly supportive when Ross decided to look at a new car instead. He even kindly explained that by spending a $1,000 dollars extra on the $3,000 we were already going over our budget, it would only add up to the cost of a packet of crisps a day for the next year. (Hope you're following this, it made sense at the time, although now I'm not so sure).
Anyway, an hour later we had fixed the deal, but then came the next problem. The garage was a mere 2 miles from our apartment, but being such a nervous driver I didn't really want to drive it home. Ross didn't seem too keen on my suggestion that he drive his car home, get a taxi back to the showroom and then drive my car back again. Luckily this is where Joe came into his own.
"I'll drive you back," he offered gamely.
At this point you'll need two pieces of information to help you see the complete picture.
Ever cautious, I bought a Toyota Yaris, the American version of the tiny car I had left behind in blighty.
Joe was a 6' 6".
"This is a great car, you'll love it," he said, limboing into the driver's seat.
"Of course I may not want to drive it myself. Not on a regular basis, anyhow."
Comfortably squished in with a comfy half a centimetre between himself and the steering wheel, Joe started the engine, ducked his head down below the sun visor and we were off.
On the way he even set my radio stations for me, whilst filling me in with stories of the charity he runs and his roomful of Mickey Mouse memorabilia. Not the sort of service you would get in England.
My beautiful silver bullet is now safely parked at our apartment, where she is getting to know Ross' larger, fancier car. And as soon as Joe has a day off we'll be off on the open roads!

An Inspector Calls

This week we had the home inspection on our new house. Once again it was a much more, well, homespun experience than in England.
When you buy a home in England, unless you are either a crook, insane, or both, you have to have a survey of the house you intend to buy. This involves finding a surveyor, sending him into your new home alone, then waiting for over a week to read a report which usually reads like Nightmare on Elm Street.
Over here it can be more of a party, or at least it was for us. Everything in this country seems to start early, thus is was we all turned up at our new address at 8 a.m. on sunny spring morning.
Here's the guest list. Most important, of course, was the home inspector, a jolly man called Bill. He zipped round the place running up ladders, photographing nooks and crannies, crawling down under the house, tapping windows and switching on appliances. He had a walkie talkie, over which he reported to his assistant, a bulky lass with a laptop strapped to her front. She typed as he spoke, which meant at the end of his three hour visit he was able to present us with a full report, with pictures, in a ring binder.
Naturally, we weren't idling whilst all this was going on. Ross and I were joined by our realtor Jay, our first visitor Jack, and Matt - the man I hope will make my dreams come true. Matt, let me explain, is a contractor. So while the inspector was telling us all the things that needed fixing on the house, Matt was telling us how we could rip the place apart and improve it.
Having bought a wreck of a house in England 12 years ago, you would have thought I would have learnt my lesson. I really had intended to pick something problem free this time.
But the house that chose us was so desperate for some tlc, it was like picking the crying puppy in the corner of the pen. Perhaps it's us who need to be house trained...