Run Ragged

Some people just don't deserve to have servants. (see Clean Sweep). Today my new help paid her second visit. I duly got up at 6.30 a.m. to prepare the house for her arrival at 6.55 a.m. (yes, honestly). This time we didn't even pretend to converse, mainly because her English isn't good enough and even as an English teacher, I don't have the time during her busy schedule to teach her much.
As last week, she did a stirling job, but as she left presented me with her cell phone. On the other end was Paul, the man who runs the operation.
"Ze gerel tells me you still do not hev enough rags," he reprimanded.
"But I bought new ones, specially," I answered sheepishly. I felt like I was giving an excuse for not handing in my homework on time.
"Yes, you bought one, two. She needs 20. She cannot clean floor properly wizzout ze rags. You know, she had to bring her own rags today? Get more for next time pliz."
I know my house isn't what you would call small, but it's not that big.
"Und ze paper towel. It is too gud. Get cheap stuff. You don't need zuch gud stuff. Ok?"
Wiz zat, sorry, with that, he hung up. I sheepishly handed Kristina back her phone.
As she left, she shot me a smile, the one the school bully reserves for his weakest victims.
I have obviously failed in my attempt at being an employer of servants. So if anyone reading this has some rags, can you please forward them on?

Hold the Front Page

Most British newspapers thrive on celebrity these days, with the latest marriage or break up often making the front page. Celebrity is big news in the U.S too, but it seems to be confined to magazines like Ok!

So you can imagine my excitement when I thought I was in for the big scoop on Brangelina this week. You can never believe what you read in the Press (!) so I felt privileged to be dished the dirt by someone in the know.

I went along to a screening of A Mighty Heart at the After Hours Cinema Club, held as I have mentioned previously, in a wonderful old art deco movie theatre in nearby Downer's Grove.

The exciting thing was that one of the actors was due to answer audience questions after the movie.

Gary Wilmes was introduced as a local boy before the film started, having been brought up in the Chicago area. I assumed I hadn't heard of him because I am English, so looked forward to seeing him alongside Angelina. Those of you who have seen the film will know how exciting it is. Quick shots, almost documentary like, make the time whizz by. After 20 minutes I realised I seen the major characters, but no sign of Wilmes. Eventually he turned up about half an hour into the film, gave Angelina a hug and only mumbled as he popped up here and there for the next hour. He played a journalist colleague of Pearl's, investigating his disappearance. Hardly a major player.

Still, the question and answer session was interesting. Luckily the questions weren't too probing. I wasn't sure how much of a grip Mr Wilmes had on the political situation surrounding the film. Seemed like he'd been flown into India for a few weeks of filming, and did exactly have a journalistical knowledge of the events surrounding the story. He perked up when someone mentioned how beautiful India was in the rain, (the film had been shot there) and seemed happy to answer questions on his days as a bit part actor on the Conan O'Brien Show (very late night chat show for British readers).

Finally someone was brave enough to ask about Brad and Angelina. Brad Pitt was the producer of the film, so around the set much of the time.

"Don't believe what you read in the Press. They're lovely. Just like royalty, and perfect together," Gary confided to us.

That was it? He sounded like their PR man. What we really wanted to hear was that they fought all the way through the making of the movie, that she had bad breath and in real life was 200lbs. Obviously not a journalist at all.

Party Poppers: The Sequel

We held another barbecue this weekend, this time for Ross's colleagues at CA.

Annamarie put on a brave face as I presented my home economics project to her as a birthday cake. She made sure everybody got a big slice so she wouldn't have to take it home with her.

If everyone has food poisoning tomorrow, this is why - Ross's attempt at BBQ ribs.
Somehow I don't think he'll be competing in next year's Rib Fest.

The Windy City

I was just enjoying an afternoon coffee round at Buffy's, when Ross called.
"Where are you?" he hissed, sounding a bit panicked.
"In Buffy's bathroom, we're looking at her tiles," I answered, as you do.
I should, at this point, explain that now Matt has finished with me, he is already moving onto his next conquest- Buffy's master bathroom. So fickle, that man.
"Get into the basement," Ross continued. "Haven't you heard the news?"
"Well, no, I'm looking at the bathroom. When we women get together we have far better things to do than watch TV."
"There's a tornado watch. Get into the basement," Ross repeated. "I have to go down to the basement at work now. Bye."
Looking out of the windows, we saw it was a little dark. Actually the trees did seem to be lying horizontally, now I thought of it.
So we went down into the basement to watch TV to find out what was happening.
Tornados had indeed been spotted a little to the north and a little to the south of us.
As a native mid-westerner, Buffy seemed unfazed. They seem to have to take cover at the drop of a hat. She gave me some good advice.
"The time to worry is if the sky ever turns green," she warned. "That means a tornado is coming. When it passes it sounds like a freight train overhead."
Coming from a country where the whole place grinds to a standstill if a few centimetres of snow fall, this all sounded a little worrying. The problem is, from the basement we couldn't see out, so there was no way of knowing what was happening. I certainly couldn't hear any trains, freight or otherwise.
Eventually we went back upstairs to find the skies brightening. The schools had kept children back as the warning occured as soon was letting out. Buffy's son rang to say he was on his way back.
"Still," I confided to Buffy. "At least you get a warning. I'd much rather live here than on the West coast with all those earthquakes."
"Didn't you know?" replied the font of all information. "South Chicago lies on the edge of the San Andreas Fault."

Playing A Round

Today I played my first round of proper golf. Ok, well when I say "played", I mean hit the ball occasionally and walked a bit. When I say "proper", I mean on a nine hole course, which techncially is only half a round. But it was golf - sort of.
My golfing partner Buffy has been out practising every week since our golf lessons. I've been out shopping and escorting my visitors around.
She turned up in a natty little Addidas top and tight black crops. I wore a baseball cap from K Mart.
There is more to golf than just playing, I discovered. There is a whole etiquette involved. For example, what is the rule about handbags? No one ever tells you about that during a lesson. I was just at the point of committing a terrible faux par by taking mine out onto the course when I discovered my new golf bag had lots of pockets. It is great - just like a giant handbag. I quickly filled all the pockets with money, bottles of water, tissues and the like before realising they are actually for more technical stuff like golf balls and tees.
Luckily I had sensibly removed all the little plastic bags from the top of the clubs just before Buffy came to collect me. It hadn't even occurred to me that I would need balls and tees, I just sort of assumed they'd be left lying around the course somehow.
It was a pleasantly sunny morning and we got off to a great start. This was so easy. I was able to pull my shiny new bag along on a trolley, stop, hit the ball, then carry on. Like sport without the exercise.
The course was cleverly marked out with numbered flags so we knew where to go next. I secretly sniggered (well actually not so secretly) as Buffy hit a ball straight into a tree and it never fell out again. She responded with enormous sympathy as my ball landed straight in the water. Twice.
By hole 5 the novelty was wearing off. The temperature was rising. This was hard work. I thought a par 3 course meant 3 holes, not that you were meant to get the ball into the hole in only 3 shots. (I bet even Tiger Woods can't do that).
By the eigth hole the sun was beating down and I began to feel faint. This was ridiculous. Who plays golf in 95 degrees anyway?
But suddenly we were at the ninth and final hole. Oh good. Luckily we weren't keeping score because it would have been too embarrassing. (For me, not Buffy).
"What are those people doing walking in front of us, they should know better," said Buffy indignantly.
Well, I thought, they have certainly broken the etiquette rules. Just walking straight over the green as we were about to tee off. How rude. Typical Americans. Still, it did give me a chance to sit under a tree to draw breath.
As I sat, I noticed Buffy walking backwards and forwards. Then she gave a silly laugh.
"Whoops," she said. "Their flag says number 5, we should be facing the other way."
My rest over, I reluctantly wobbled up, my hair dripping in sweat under my $2.99 hat, my knees covered in mud. I completed the course (probably with a score of 540) before virtually passing out on a nearby bench. Never again.
"That was great," said Buffy, bounding up beside me. "Same time next week!"

Undomesticated Goddess

"It'll just be a couple of people from the office, don't worry about it." said Ross. "I'll do a barbecue. It'll be fine."
I was fine until "a couple" turned out to be 12.
You may recall we have barely tidied up from the previous party when "a few" turned out to be 60. That was alright, because I had my family (caterers) and my gbf (former pastry chef) to call on. To be honest the only role I played in the whole thing was to run around before hand telling everyone they were doing everything wrong. Mind you, I did buy the anchovies for the caesar salad. They're still in the cupboard.
This time I would be on my own!
One of the problems with the whole entertaining thing in the U.S. is that everyone is so darned good at it.
"Dessert? Try one of these six. Meat? Would you like beef, lamb or chicken?
The other is that they already know how to use their appliances. I couldn't even get the dvd that explains how to use my oven to work.
Today I decided to conquer my fears. After a fortnight's practise I can use the microwave to reheat and use one programme on the dishwasher. I can also use the cooktop, but there is only so much spaghetti bologonese you can eat, especially at a barbecue.
So I decided to bake my first cake in the new country, no doubt like millions of immigrants before me.
I hadn't brought any recipes from the old country with me, so decided to check out the internet.
"You will need" - so far so good. "One cup of sugar, a stick of butter and all purpose flour."
Oh oh.
What did that mean? In the UK these days we measure in grams, or the older folk use ounces, but a cup? Did that mean a tea cup? No, they don't drink tea here. A coffee mug perhaps? And what on earth is a stick of butter?
In the end I called the gbf who was able to translate for me.
It took me an entire day to make two rather flat sponge cakes which I put together with a cream cheese frosting before sprinkling chopped pecans around the edge. It looked like a home economics project.
Amazingly my state of the art oven was only able to help with the baking part. I had to do the rest myself! You would think it would at least produce frosting at the press of a button, or would that be the refridgerator?
Exhausted with the effort, I sat down to check my emails to discover one from the wife of one of Sunday's guests.
"Ross says you don't want any help, but are you sure you don't want me to bring anything?" she asked.
He must have been snitching on me again. Now I have to make at least six more desserts before even starting on the salads.
"Oh no," I replied graciously. "Well, maybe the Peptobismal..."

Indiana Wants Me - Lord I Can't Go Back There

Illinois is well placed for visiting other mid-western states. We have already been up into Winsconsin, and this weekend decided to venture into Indiana. The problem with heading off without proper research is that you never quite know what you're going to get. Picking a place by name only can be quite a risk.
The only things I knew about Indiana I had learnt from old songs. Looking on the map, Gary seemed to be the nearest big town across the border. I had a vague memory that there was a song about it, so how bad could it be? (Turns out to be from The Music Man, so perhaps I should have doubted its relevance).
The weather forecast was not good. But storms here tend to be short lived, so we didn't let it bother us.
As soon as we entered Gary I began to think we had made the wrong choice. A billboard showed a message from the mayor; something to the effect that things can only get better. The houses were tumbledown and railroads criss-crossed all over the town.
"This looks like it might lead to the centre," said Ross, ignoring the GPS system as usual.
"Yes," I agreed. "I bet its just the outskirts that are bad. The middle is probably quite modern. There must be some redeeming features."
There weren't. The main street looked liked it hadn't been altered since the sixties. Actually that's not true - many of the buildings looked liked that had been closed down around 1970.
At that point the heavens opened and torrential rain began which was to last all day. The car needed petrol, but somehow none of the gas stations looked safe enough to stop at. In the end we gave up and drove on.
Once home I did some internet investigation and discovered that Gary is actually a much better place to live than it used to be. For example, it used to be the most dangerous place to live in the entire country. The good news is that now it has dropped to 10th place. It is also a renowned steel town and this year celebrates its 100th anniversary. None of these things, of course, make it a tourist venue.
I'm sure Indiana has some wonderful places to visit. Next time I'll find out where they are before crossing the border.

Clean Sweep

With the house finally cleared of builders and summer visitors it was time to get the cleaners in. To be honest, this embarrasses me a little. I have ample time to clean these days, not yet having found, or even looked, for a job. However, my cleaning skills are only matched by my inability to use American kitchen appliances, so a cleaner is a must.
My golfing friend Buffy recommended her service to me. If I now find myself living in "Wisteria Lane", which to be fair I do to a point, then Buffy must be the closest to Bree. Everything about her is meticulous. Her hair, her clothes, her house. She makes me look like Homer Simpson.
So I took her recommendation gratefully. She warned me the owner of the company would be a little brusque, not being an American, but assured me the Polish staff were wonderful.
I had a little trouble getting through at first..
"Hello. European Servants."
What! The name is appalling on two counts. Firstly servants died out (probably of malnutrician) in Britain in the early part of the last century unless you are the Queen. Secondly, I'm European. I felt like I was taking advantage of my own kind.
"Hello, I need a cleaning service."
"Do you vish us to provide maderials or vill you?"
Assuming it would cost less to provide them myself, I opted for the latter.
"Zo, you vill need Swifiker broom, toilet cleaner, hooly maker, vacuum, trash knot bags, toodle flipper, sparkly votnot und two buckets."
I searched desperately for a pen as I tried to list American brand names read at speed in a Polish accent over a crackly telephone line.
"Und rags. Some people provide old undervear, but rags are best."
Old underwear? Rags. I've just moved here. I don't have anything old.
"Ze girl vil be zere on Vednesday at 7 a.m. Goodbye."
7 a.m.? I know they start things early here but that is ridiculous. Still, too late to complain now, I have shopping to do....

My laundry room cupboard looks like the cleaning aisle of Jewel. I have every product known to man. It's so much more fun buying these things when you don't actually have to use them yourself. I even have brand new rags, all neatly hemmed and everything. My cleaner, sorry servant, will be impressed.

As promised Kristina turned up at 7 a.m. sharp. She didn't exactly seem impressed by my stash of cleaning goodies, but leapt upon them like a starving man gatecrashing a wedding.
"Would you like me to show you around?" I asked.
"Yes, yes," she said, stuffing things into the buckets.
"Follow me," I said in my best Hyacinth Bucket voice.
I turned round to see she had shot off towards the powder room, attacking the sink with gusto. (Or Biffo, or whatever the sink cleaner is called here).
I realised after a few minutes that her vocabulary was more or less restricted to "yes, yes", so I left her to get on with it, and I must say a splendid job she did too. Everything in the house now looks like new, and to be fair, it is.

A minute after she had gone, I had a call from the owner. I assumed he was going to check I was pleased, but he didn't bother with such niceties.
"I hev spoken to my girl, und she sez she needs bigger rags for next time. She could not clean zee floor properly. Make sure you get them pliz."
Typical, I can't even successfully buy a bundle of rags and I've already upset my new cleaning lady. It was never like this on Wisteria Lane....

Family Vacation

The Decents were reunited for few weeks over the summer

Orphan 1 and 2 no longer - Abi and Robin

Robin takes time out on a family visit to Milwaukee to phone home

And Today's Guest Is...

Greetings fellow blog readers. My name is Robin Decent a.k.a 'orphan 1' and have been informed by mum (you may know her as Hilary!) that I should write an entry under the new feature entitled "Blogging from Britain" (in essence, mum puts people up in the house and they have to write about their visit or pay for room and board (guess which option I chose!) so here goes!
Anyway, apart from the usual shopping and checking out downtown Naperville (Great if you're a middle aged woman who "does lunch" with their "girlfriends") I went on the Segway tour whilst visiting Chicago. For those that don't know what a segway is, it is basically an adult sized motorised scooter with wheels on the side and a $5,000 price tag!
This 3 hr tour took us around the Grant Park area encompassing the museums, Veterans Field (Home of the Chicago Bears) and dodging pedestrians on Michigan Avenue! All in all a great way to see part of the city and if you fancy a change to the usual bus tours and river cruises it's definately worth a consideration. I was the youngest person on the tour so clearly aimed at people who are getting ready to purchase their very first mobility scooter!
So that's my entry over and done with. I wonder what the next visitor will have to say?!

Sit Com Mom

Life is beginning to take on some sense of normality - whatever that is. The builders have left and yesterday Orphan No 1 arrived to join Orphan No 2, so we are one big happy family again - for a week at least.
In theory I can now fulfil the next part of our American dream - sit com mom.
I grew up watching American TV programmes like Bewitched and The Brady Bunch. You know the ones, the moms wear gingham aprons and whip up a batch of pancakes before 6 a.m. The children sit gleaming at the table while mom flips out the pancakes. Dad comes down in a shirt and tie before popping on his trilby and skipping out of the door. The reality is more like I Love Lucy.
This is how it actually ran.
1. Dad gets up and immediately starts shouting because mom has thrown away his broken glasses and he needs to take them to the optician after work.
2. Dad continues shouting because he cannot find the charger for his electric shaver.
3. Stomps out of house.
4. Returns to the house to pick up forgotten laptop.
5. Mom gets up, strips bed and removes cardboard boxes from bedroom in anticipation of bed delivery later today. (Finally)
6. Children sleep.
7. After failing to work out how to turn TV on bedroom, Mom finally manages to get the TV working in the family room. (Thank God!)
8. Mom manages to locate ingredients for pancake mixture, but realises she has no bowls to mix the batter in.
9. This is not a problem as she also cannot turn cooktop on.
10. Abandons idea of pancakes in favour of toast.
11. No toaster.
12. Has not yet enrolled for the Masters Course entitled: "How to work your electronic oven". Has lost papers for Bachelors Course: "How to switch on your electronic oven."
13. Does manage to open door of microwave. This is the coolest part of the entire house. It is actually a drawer. Everyone loves it. Mom looks inside it lovingly, but closes it again when she realises she cannot make it actually cook anything.
14. Children continue to sleep.

Work Permitting!

Something scary appeared in my mail box yesterday. Something I had been dreading..My work permit!
I have gone from 'desperate housewife' to 'unemployed' in the time it takes to rip open an envelope.
It was easy to get work as a volunteer. In fact I'm sorry I had never thought of it in England. It's amazing how simple it is to do a job when you don't require any money. God, I could probably have been a brain surgeon! Not only do they throw work at you, but they are so grateful for everything you do. When you get paid they just sort of expect it.
To be fair I do have a job lined up for September, when I begin teaching creative writing to kids. (What was I thinking?) But Ross says that will do only until I get a proper job. But a real job will interfere with my new social life. I like being a lady who lunches. A lady who only has to get out of bed to avoid being covered in sawdust. I like having meetings with the hoi paloy of Naperville society, then running off to Coldwater Creek afterwards. (For English readers, this is a middle aged clothing store where the assistants ask you your name, although to be fair most of them probably know mine by now).
Crumbs, if I wanted to work, I would have stayed in England!
So if anybody has some work for a teacher/writer within driving distance of downtown Naperville..let Ross know!

Hello Dolly!

So where's a girl to shop in New York? Bloomingdales? Macy's? Saks Fifth Avenue? Of course, but the strangest has to be American Girl.
I had been keen to go there for a while. Unheard of in England, it is the mother of all doll stores. I had first seen it in Chicago, but decided to wait until Abi was here so we could go together.
Let me explain, American Girl is a store especially for mummies and their little girls. It sells dolls and accessories, but in an almost creepy kind of way.
As you go through the entrance you are met by a reception desk, just like in a hotel. On the wall is a schedule of events, from shows to tea parties. As you enter the main part of the shop, you are greeted with an army of rigidly smiling dolls, gleaming American teeth glinting through the plastic covered boxes.
Now the whole point of American Girl is that you can choose a doll that looks just like you, then buy a matching outfit - sort of cloning in reverse. Now of course none of the dolls will look exactly like your little girl, unless she fell into a vat of cement, but this is no problem. Once you have chosen the best fit, you take it over to the hair salon where the doll and your little girl can get matching hair dos. The dolls sit in mini hairdressing chairs while the assistants snip away. Once the pampering is over, you can take part in the ultimate dolls' tea party.
Since my little girl is now 20, we declined to actually buy a doll, but had fun talking to the assistants.
It turns out the store began as a mail order company in the eighties, and opened its first stores in 2000. They have become a phenomenon in the U.S, with lines stretching round the block when a new doll is released.
I doubt it will be long before American Girl hits the London streets. Of course there the dolls will have sneers instead of smiles, and when you press a button in their backs they'll have a tantrum. The bigger dolls will all be pregnant, with fake Gucci handbags as accessories. Remember.. you read it here first...

Normal Service To Be Resumed As Soon As Possible.

With most of our guests gone and the work on the house just about completed, you might think I would take some time out to continue unpacking or rest a little. To say we are exhausted is putting it mildly. But by now I guess regular readers will realise I never do the expected, so instead I left everything and jetted off to New York with Abi, hence the gap in the blog. To be honest I did take my laptop with me, but somehow we managed to stay in the only hotel in NYC without internet in the rooms!