Making you feel bad

We drove past a quartet of teens yesterday parading down the street wearing, I assume, some of their newly unwrapped Christmas clothes. Bare skin aplenty. 

B, being the rabid sun smart advocate he is, commented, "the message just isn't getting through, is it?"*

"People aren't going to cover up completely until they have options for clothing that is fashionable, cooling and affordable," I replied.

His response? "That will never happen. The goal of the fashion industry is to make people feel bad about themselves. In order for sun smart behavior to be adopted, it's going to take a paradigm shift or legislation, like with bike helmets and seat belts."

"I don't agree," I said. "I find a well made garment that is cut for my body type gives me confidence and makes me feel better about myself."

"Maybe for today," he said. "But they want it to be short term. Then it's out of style and you need the next thing to feel good about yourself."

"Again, I don't agree," I said. "I think true fashion tries to be timeless and classic. Fads are a different thing. Fads want people to feel bad about themselves, not fashion. You want a wardrobe of classic pieces, then, if you feel it necessary, you can sprinkle in fadish accessories to freshen the look. If sun smart clothing could be made that was attractive and affordable, it would stick."

We went around and around like this for a while and came to no agreement. 

Wanna weigh in? Fashion as friend or foe?


*A bit of background: research finds full clothing coverage superior to using sunblock and B follows the Australian Cancer Council SunSmart behavior recommendations when the UV is above 3 (it's currently 12). This means hat, long sleeves and long pants between 9am and 6pm. Always. No exceptions. I find this unreasonable. Either one has to 1)stay inside, 2)be super hot and driven back inside, or 3)pay outrageous prices for clothing engineered to cover and cool.

A cookie by any other name ...

Currently, the Smitten Kitchen's ginger snap is on heavy rotation in 

my kitchen. Soft and spicy, and oh so yummy. Highly recommend.

... may taste just as sweet, but I feel like an idiot when someone is using another name and I don't know what they're talking about.

I like to bake. I don't know if it's the stirring or creating or smells of something yummy in the oven, but I find baking a great stress reliever (fortunately, baking is my #2 de-stresser and working out is my #1, because eating is a very close #3). 

Plus, people get happy when someone comes along with fresh baked tidbits to share and I like to be around happy people. One of my tricks for producing a tasty treat on short notice is to mix a batch of cookie dough when I have time, roll it into cookie-size balls and freeze them. Then when the need arises, just pop the frozen cookie balls onto a baking sheet, 12 minutes in a 350 oven and voila, you've got cookies. 

My stash of freezer dough has also come in handy for playgroup, too. 

M's Monday playgroup has a shared morning tea. Everyone brings a little something (fruit, crackers, cheese, etc.) and the snacks are served family style to the kids. I've raided my stash a few times when I didn't have anything handy in the pantry to take. Yesterday, out came the ginger snaps.

As the kids were eating their snack, one of the mom's asked, "who brought the bickies?"

I start going through my mental filing cabinet. Bickies, bickies ... need a definition for bickies (note, it could be spelled bikkies, I'm not clear).

Since no one claimed the bickies, the mom started asking people directly. She'd asked two people when the mom I had been talking to said, "Pamela brought them."

Shoot, I missed the connection. American cookies = Australian biscuits, which gets shortened to bickies/bikkies.

I stammer something about not knowing what bickies were. Yes, I brought the cookies. Sorry, I didn't realize that's what you were referring to. Everyone was very polite and understanding, even talking briefly about what American biscuits are, but I still wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

Oy. I've spent the last 24 hours feeling like a dolt. 

I wrote previously about how unnatural, awkward and fake it felt for me to use Australian words, but clearly I need to know them in order to fit in here (and maybe more importantly, for M to fit in here). Time to start studying an Australian into American English primer. 

Or start baking more to ease stress caused by my cringe inducing cultural faux pas.

USPS, yes!

I'm a big fan of the US Postal Service.

No, really, I am.

I think there's something magical about being able to send a card or letter from Alaska to Florida for less than the price of a Snickers bar.

I am also a big fan of the handwritten thank you note. If you've known me for long, worked with me or served on a volunteer committee with me, chances are you've received a thank you note in the mail from me. I believe a mailed note demonstrates putting more time and effort into the thank you than an email thank you. The USPS has been my partner in saying "thank you" for years.

The Australia Post isn't living up to the standards I've come to expect from my general mail delivery provider.

First, they DO NOT pick up outgoing mail from your mailbox. I know, right?! It took me a long time to wrap my head around this one. You have to take your letter to a post office or drop it into a postal box. I mean, the postal employee is already there, delivering your mail, doesn't it seem more efficient to have them pick up your outgoing mail?

Second, no Saturday delivery. You wouldn't think just one day could slow things down so much, but it does. I know the USPS is considering dropping Saturday delivery to meet budget constraints and I think this will be a huge loss.

Third, when we moved from the holiday house to our permanent home, I wasn't allowed to have my mail forwarded. You have to be a citizen with an Australian passport or have permanent legal resident status (and documents to prove it) to even request forwarding. On top of that, you have to pay about $20 for each month you want it forwarded AND it takes about four weeks to process your request.

Fourth, they don't deliver direct mail. Now, you may think that's good, but stay with me on this one, because I still receive junk mail ... lots and lots of junk mail. However, the publishers of the weekly store ads and such pay people to go around and deliver them to each mailbox. These various groups aren't connected or coordinated and I often end up getting "mail" delivered two or three times a day (this is in addition to the Australia Post delivery). 

Fifth, not only am I getting less service, I'm paying more for it. For example, the price of a USPS First Class stamp is .45 compared to .60 in Australia. To send a letter from the US to Australia is $1.05.  To send a letter from Australia to the US is $1.65. And I suppose that's the bottom line difference.  Australia Post appears to be a financially healthy organization by doing less and charging more. The USPS is facing major financial shortfalls and looking at major organization overhauls to stay viable.

Which makes me sad, because I really am and have always been a huge fan of the USPS.

Having a ball

I'm blessed to have several rather spectacular mommies in my life to watch, learn from and (try) to emulate. I've asked questions and gained tools to make mommyhood easier and less scary. Personally, I often still feel quite clueless and hesitate to offer advice to new mommies I encounter.

However, I do have one piece of advice I'd like to pass along: get a yoga ball. 

My trusty blue friend has served me well beginning with pregnancy through to today. To be honest, I don't know how parents manage it without one.

Pregnancy:
From about 28 weeks on, my joints ached ... a lot. Walking and sitting became very painful. I had been using my yoga ball for preggo yoga routine and discovered it was a more comfortable sitting option for my hips. Thus, I rolled it out into the living room area and it became my "chair" of choice.

When we wrote our birth plan, I included the yoga ball as one of the options. I wasn't particularly keen, but figured I'd rather have it available and not use it, than regret not having it. Of course, as is often the way with plans, ours went by the wayside when circumstances required a cesarean performed prior to me going into labor.

Newborn:
We found great success with the "Happiest Baby on the Block" method and M responded perfectly to the motion from bouncing on the yoga ball. We eschewed rockers and gliders, and bounced him to sleep.

Once we hit the six week mark and I could workout again, it was great to have the ball there to use to stretch my back or sneak in a few crunches in my few spare moments.

Baby:
I continued using the ball to bounce M to sleep for several months after we stopped swaddling and shushing. I gradually used it less and less, but kept it nearby for those times when nothing else worked.

The ball became a sort of baby massaging tool. I could place him on top-either on his back or stomach, hold onto his ankles and give a few small rolls. He loved it. 

Toddler:
Even now, when M can't sleep, he'll say "bounce" and he's usually out after two rounds of "Twinkle, twinkle little star". Granted, it's a bit more difficult to hold, balance and bounce a 19-month-old, but I like to think I get a quick core workout in while helping him fall asleep.

Plus, he has a giant blue ball in his room to play with. And what little boy wouldn't love that.

The ball may just work for me and M. I've never read or heard of anyone else using it as we did/do. But, who knows, maybe it's the thing you've been searching for and didn't know you needed. Consider or disregard as you see fit.

Lipstick on an American

I don't wear lipstick.

Since I was a teen, each time I apply lipstick, I feel like a fraud, like I'm playing dress up in my mom's clothes.  I feel foolish and clown-like and pretentious, all at the same time.

I see women wearing bold reds, soft pinks and warm browns and they look gorgeous (and completely absent of clown-like pretensions). I'm tempted to make another trip to the cosmetics counter, because I want lips that look like that. And generally, once a year I submit to temptation. I usually wear it daily for the first week. Then, I put it on if we go out at night. Then, I forget about it until my next make-up bag purge of old, expired products.

This is similar to how I'm feeling about using Australian English.

At our Monday playgroup, we have a communal tea at 11:00. Each family brings a little something (crackers, fruit, cookies) and it's served at the table, family style. A new mom asked me how it worked and what I brought. When I said, "cookies", she corrected me and said, "you mean biscuits". She wasn't being mean about it, just making a little fun of my accent.

The thing is, I know they're called biscuits here, but I can't get myself to say it. Nor can I say lollies (for candy), petrol (gas) or mobile (cell phone). I can't make myself call a squash a pumpkin. Or a cantaloupe a rock melon. It feels like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. Like I'm "putting on airs" (for lack of a better cliché). 

I'm also struggling to us metric measurements in general conversation. For example:
Playgroup Mom: "Do you have far to walk home?"
Me: "Not at all, just a little over a mile."
PGM: giggling "A mile. You're so funny. A mile."

I know exactly how many kilometers playgroup is from the house (2.2 kms - my iPhone gives me driving/walking directions in km, not miles), but my mouth refused to say the words. 

So which is better, to be the "silly American who refuses to adopt our culture" or the "silly American who thinks we don't know she thinks a biscuit is a cookie"?

Either way, it feels like putting lipstick on an American.

Sure it's wireless, but plenty of strings attached.

I know, I know ... there's no such thing as a good cell phone company. And I'm not demanding perfection, just a willingness to work with me and make things right.

In the era of electronic bill pay, I assumed managing things from the southern hemisphere wouldn't be too terribly different. But, you know what assuming gets you.

I've had several issues. Some companies, like State Farm, have been incredibly helpful (problems researched and answers given within 24 hours). 

Some companies have been maddening, like US Bank. First, when I called to change my mailing address, I was told it couldn't be done over the phone and I had to do it online. I went online, couldn't figure out how to do it, sent an email and was told I had to do it on the phone. Called again and was told, again, it couldn't be done over the phone. In the meantime, they locked me out of my online banking account and it took five emails and four phone calls to get it fixed. Fortunately, the absolutely wonderful person who finally did fix it for me also updated my mailing address ("they can do it on the phone, it's just a little more difficult with international addresses, so they probably didn't want to"). Unfortunately, I just received a notices that they changed my mailing address back to my previous address and to contact them in writing to make further changes. Grrrr.

And some just make me wonder why they put customer service processes in place that take into account neither the customer, nor service.

Here's where Verizon joins the party.

1. Verizon overcharged me because the company failed to correctly process my request when I cancelled my account and moved to Australia.
2. I was sent notice of a statement in mid June, but couldn't view it online ... again, because my request to cancel was processed incorrectly by Verizon and I couldn't access my account. Had I been able to view it, I would have known I was overcharged and not paid it.
3. I made multiple attempts to work with Verizon's support to view and pay the balance, however, as I did not want to be late in paying the account, I went ahead and paid it without seeing the itemized statement.
4. I requested confirmation from Verizon that the final balance was paid. I still couldn't see the itemized statement.
5. I received a response in July that Verizon billed me in error (again, the cancellation was processed incorrectly), my account would be credited and a refund would be mailed.
6. I requested the refund be credited to the credit card used to make the payment as I live in Australia and wouldn't be able to cash a check from the US.
7. Verizon responded that refunds were only given in checks, but I should be able to cash it, because, after all, they're a US company.
8. In August (about four weeks later), since I hadn't received the refund, I requested Verizon tell me when it was mailed.
9. I was told it had not been mailed and would be sent in four to six weeks.
10. So, here we are, another four weeks later ... and nothing from Verizon.

Nice.

The magic of ordinary things

I jettisoned a lot of stuff before our move to Oz. I miss a few big things (my car, the purple couch, the lavender in my yard), but I expected that. It's the little things I didn't expect to miss.

I suspect it's because I thought they would be easily, inexpensively replaced. Maybe with the newer, better, fancy-schmancier version of what I had in the States.

However, here I sit, mourning the loss of a simple $4 kitchen tool ... my pastry blender.

I think I've been in every kitchen shop on the Peninsula in search of a pastry blender. Responses to my inquire range from blank stares to "we don't carry electronics" to "if I were a pastry blender, what would I look like and what would I be used for?" to "will a potato masher do?"

Argh.

My explanation of "you know, you use it to cut the shortening into the flour to make a pie crust" is answered with "what's shortening?"

Argh.

B's sister and mom tried to offer alternative means to make a pie crust, but I long for the comfortable, the familiar.

I'm just a simple girl, wishing for a simple kitchen tool to come along and complete me ... and by complete me, I mean, allow me to bake a pie.

Boxing her in

B: "So, the talk at the office today was the women's body image issue du jour, the box gap. Have you heard of it?"
Me: "I think I can guess what it refers to, but tell me."
B: "It's the gap between a woman's upper thighs when she stands with her legs together ... thus the box gap."

The concept wasn't new to me. Years ago I read a novel in which the heroine recounted her teenage failure to achieve the three triangles of space between her legs (upper thighs, below the knees, above the ankles) requisite for all the girls in her summer camp in crowd. Since then, I've periodically attempted to reach the golden proportions of female thighs ... with no success.

It's a tricky balance ... you have to be thin enough to have the gap, but shapely/tone enough to achieve the desired diamond or triangle shape (diamond from the back, triangle from the front). Too thin and you end up with twig legs/table legs/insert equally offensive label here. Too muscular and you lose the "ideal" gap shape. Too plentiful and you lose the gap altogether. I suspect it comes from a combination of diet, exercise and awesome genetics. 

Anyway, the conversation with B left me thinking of two things:
1. Lobbying for a new term for it.
2. Is there any solution to our thigh loathing?

First ... I want to rename it "the light box". The term retains the crudeness of "box", but is elevated by the "light" (referencing a little peak of light between the upper thighs). For me, it conjures up a Botticelli-Birth-of-Venus sort of etherealness (although, ironically, I suspect his Venus wasn't slim enough to sport a light box), whereas "gap" just makes me think of the London Underground or a missing tooth.  Mull it over, let it marinate, let me know what you think.

Second, as an American female of my generation, I've been well schooled on thigh revulsion and carry the appropriate amount of hate/dread/fear of my thighs. Why? They're relatively strong, hardworking sections of two perfectly serviceable legs. They help me move from here to there, they run, they dance, they stretch. So, what's my problem?

They don't look they way I think they should. I have ... cellulite (gasp, I can't believe I just said that out loud ... well, not out loud, but in a public way). I've been an avid and faithful worker-outer since my mid 20s. I've climbed mountains, I've rocked half marathons, I've never succeeded in ridding myself of the dreaded bumps and ripples. However, they work well and look okay and B thinks I'm beautiful.

So, again, what's my problem?

I guess, ultimately, I don't think it's my problem. It's your problem. It's our problem. It's an institutional problem.

We can tell ourselves, our daughters, our nieces (hell, our sons, too; body image issues wreak equal havoc on men) to be proud of who they are and to embrace their particular loveliness, but until our culture genuinely embraces this, real change isn't possible. The view of beauty is too narrow and the variables impacting self image are too numerous.

I'll keep striving towards lasting change, but until society makes the shift, what do you think about joining me in calling the elusive upper thigh diamond a "light box"? It's good, right?

I don't say butt anymore

When a friend's son was four or five (I can't remember exactly ... he's 17 now, it was a long time ago and I'm old), she put great effort into getting him to stop saying "butt" (I also can't remember why he started saying it in the first place, but suspect it had something to do with having a brother six years older who thought it was funny to get his little brother to say "butt" and annoy their mother, but I digress).  For months, he went around saying "I don't say butt anymore", thus finding a loophole in the "we don't use that word" reprimand. My friend just rolled with it and, upon getting no reaction, the toddler stopped saying it altogether. 

I remembered this tale of buttness after a recent unintentional ugly American incident.

Since his birth, I've used "bum" when talking with M to refer to the buttocks. My sister used it with her kids and I liked it. It was slightly cheeky, but not offensive. And, quick and easy to say (M mastered it early on). 

Then, B told me I needed to rethink my "bum" usage, especially with M. He informed me it would be the equivalent to saying "ass" in the US ... and not permitted at school.

I. Was. Mortified. I'd been a prolific user of "bum" with M at our playgroups.

On the slide: "Okay, not get your balance, sit on your bum, get your feet right aaaand let go!" or "Do you want to slide down on your bum or on your tummy?"
On the swing: "Shimmy up onto your bum ... hold on tight ... and away we gooooo."
After playing in the sand box: "Come see mommy so I can brush the sand off your bum."

My bum offenses go on and on.

First, I was embarrassed and didn't want to face the other mommies after having established myself as the vulgar American with the potty mouth. But I decided to just soldier on, change my vernacular and pretend it never happened (I initially considered apologizing to the groups, but decided this would make an even bigger deal of it).

Second, I became stumped with what to use instead. I don't like "butt". Or "bottom". Posterior? Derrière? Fanny? Rear? Rump? Tush or Tushy? 

Meh.

I'm leaning towards Tuckus, but would like to open up to suggestions. Australian playgroup-friendly suggestions. What have you got for me, people?

Until then, I don't say bum anymore.

Frating

I think it's time I start "frating" ... you know, dating but for friends.  I've met someone I kinda like and I need advice on how to ask her out for a "frate".

We met in one of M's playgroups.  She and her family moved here from the UK about a year ago.  In the snippets of conversation we've had between wiping noses and pushing swings, we seem to have a few common interests.

Do I just say, "hey, I think you're cool and I like your hair, let's go out for coffee sometime." Or is that weird?  It feels weird.

Plus, what if she say's "no". Then I'll feel foolish when I see her every Monday at playgroup and all our future conversations will be awkward and forced.

What say you all?

It's (kinda) all about me

M calls me "Me".

I attribute it two possibilities:
1. the end sound in "mommy" or 
2. he hears me refer to myself as "me" a lot (come see me, hold still for me, etc.).

B posed a third possibility based on the theory that infants and toddlers don't see their parents as separate entities, but rather an extension of themselves ... I think it's a form of narcissism, but I'm not sure of the actual clinical term.  Thus, by calling me "me", he's reiterating that I am simply another appendage of his, there to do his bidding.

While I recognize the reasoning behind this idea, I'm not on board with it.  After all, M calls B "Buhben".  If M viewed us as part of him, wouldn't B also be "me"?

And, I know M is pretty self involved and lacks empathy, but I think he's aware enough to know I'm a completely separate person.

I think.

Things that make me go "huh?"

A while ago, I posted about my general surprise over being frequently asked about guns and God in relation to my being an American.  Now that we've moved to a more urban area and I'm interacting with more people a couple fresh questions seem to be playing on a continuous loop.  Both of which, never crossed my mind before the last couple weeks.

1.  "What is he eating?"

This is asked as the asker points at M happily munching his O shaped cereal.  No, not Cheerios.  Although they technically have Cheerios in Australia (I previously wrote about my trouble finding Cheerios here), they are heavily coated in sugar and nothing like our Cheerios.  M's on-the-go snack is Oobie Doos, an O shaped rice cereal marketed by the Wiggles machine.  

Although Cheerios are a staple in virtually every US toddler's diet, they are so rare and so peculiar in Australia, that people stop me on the street to ask what they are.

Huh.  Who knew.

2.  "Is your husband Italian?"
This is asked after I tell someone Mateo's name.  Australia has a significant Italian population and the "o" ending name is immediately associated with that ethic group.

My introduction to Mateo was through Spanish (mostly Mexican) speakers.  Apparently, the "sunburnt country" didn't appeal so much to the Spanish.  And there are virtually no Mexican's here (as witnessed by the painfully lacking supply of Mexican-style foods).

At least once a day, I meet someone who tells me about an Italian they know named Mateo.  They ask if my husband is Italian, then tell me about their son/daughter/friend who studied a term in Italy and became friends with a Mateo.  

On the plus side, these people all pronounce his name correctly.  So, there's that.

*28/08/2012 addition*
I forgot about "US or Canada?"  Generally, this question comes after hearing my accent.  My initial surprise at this one has worn off (hence, I forgot about it until being asked this morning), and speaks more to my country-centric sensibilities than Australians' curiosity.  

To be blunt, I forgot about our quiet neighbors in the attic and how similar a Canadian accent (well, not French Canadian, but that's a whole other can o' worms) would sound to an Australian ear.

It's unAustralian

I can't claim I wasn't warned.

Prior to our move, Dorcas gave me "Australia: the essential guide to customs & culture".  The book features a text box labeled "It's unAustralian" and the last bullet point reads:
"not to add an 'o' to your mate's first name (unless he's called Antonio, in which case you call him 'Ant')."

I pointed this out to Benjamin and he kind of snickered and said, "it's pretty much true ... and they're going to call Mateo Matt."

I forgot about this until a couple weeks ago, when meeting a friend of Benjamin and the wife of the friend.

Upon introducing Mateo to her, the WotF said, "oh, I'll never remember that. I'll just call him Matt."

She didn't ask "do you mind if I call him Matt?"; she told us what she was going to call him.  I didn't know what to say.  I was dumbstruck.  She was/is super nice and I didn't/don't want to offend her.  So, the question is, how to bring it up with her in the nicest, most respectful way possible?

I'm not new to such situations.  I've gone by my full name since 1992 when I started working in an office with another "Pam".  She was only 5 feet tall, so our coworkers referred to us as "Little Pam" and "Big Pam".  No one wants to be called "Big Pam", so I became Pamela.  That's what I go by, it's how I introduce myself and it's how I expect people (who haven't asked if they can call me "Pam") to address me.  Occasionally, someone will immediately abbreviate my name upon first meeting me, but they quickly realize no one else does and revert to "Pamela".  In the very rare occasions when this doesn't happen, I make a point to be alone with this person and quietly tell them I prefer "Pamela". 

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

But this feels different.  She's made it clear this is what she's decided to do.  And, she has the culture to support her.  Do I just write it off as a cultural clash and get over myself?  Or do I ask her to stop?  And, if I do ask her to stop, how do I do it in a way that not only preserves the relationship (again, super nice + wife of B's close friend), but ensures a happy continuation of the relationship?

-UPDATE 27 August-
We visited with Friend and WotF yesterday.  Not only did she not abbreviate Mateo's name.  She practiced saying it over and over and apologized profusely for taking a few goes to get it right.  Hooray!

However, I'm still open to advice for future such situations.

K thx bai

Law of diminishing retweets

I stop patronizing brands I previously raved about when they don't acknowledge my questions/rave reviews/retweets.  And, I wonder if others do this, too.

I realize I am just one insignificant consumer to them, but I expect more from a brand when they hang out a social shingle.  Isn't engaging in two-way dialog kinda the point?

For example, I made a switch to almond milk a year ago.  I'd done lots of taste testing and narrowed "my brand" down to two  brands, Silk and Pacific Foods.  I tweeted this and asked the twitterverse for feedback on which almond milk brands they liked best.  I hoped I would hear from Silk and Pacific Foods with some additional nuggets of information about their product that would tip my decision.  Neither brand piped in.  Their lack of interest in me spawned my lack of interest in them.  I reopened my taste testing and ultimately chose another brand.

Why be on Twitter if you don't engage?  Why pretend to be social when you're just using a different medium to broadcast the same messages?

In a big country

Australians know a lot about the US.  Their news covers far more about our happenings, our economy and our politics than our news covers of all other countries combined.  However, it's our pop culture that seems to make the lasting impression and fleshes out their perceptions of us.

Recent events have resulted in me suddenly being the voice of my people.  And, being asked to justify or defend behavior I do not endorse.  It's a big country, with a plethora of opinions and lifestyles.  It's been odd to see Americans through another lens ... one that lumps them into a single persona.

For example, the recent Colorado shooting brought the US lack of gun control to the fore.  I heard the phrase "all Americans are armed to the teeth" many, many times a day.  I fielded questions like, "how many guns do you own" and "weren't you afraid".

My personal feelings about gun control aside, I found myself offended.

"How does your politicians spouting platitudes and generalizations about all Americans being armed to the teeth help further along the conversations towards a real solution?" I complained to B.

Another example is religion.  During a visit with some friends of B, the conversation went like this:
A: "Are you religious?"
Me: "I have a belief system that is important to me, but I don't align myself with a particular religion."
A: "Really?  I thought all Americans were super religious."
Me: "I don't don't think so.  I think something like 80 percent consider themselves a certain religion, but don't actively practice that religion."
A: "Huh.  What about all those religious TV people asking for money and those guys picketing at soldiers' funerals?  They're a big deal, right? Isn't that what most Americans believe?"
Me: "Wow.  That's what you think about faith in America?  I think those groups are very vocal, but very small."

We're being judged by the groups that make the most noise.  Right or wrong.

My takeaway?  Be sure my voice starts getting heard and find a way to cancel out the noise of the vocal minority when they don't represent what I believe to be true.  Otherwise, the world will continue to frame all Americans by what the loudest among us says.

Sans brand

Grocery shopping has become a confusing quandary.


While it's true that much is shared culturally between the US and Australia, much is different. Gone are the familiar, comfortable brands with which I've spent a lifetime doing laundry or munching at breakfast.  Now I stand in the detergent aisle disoriented and distracted by the  exotic sounding names (Omo sensitive and Cuddly small & mighty).  


How does one choose a product when one has zero brand recognition?


As a consumer, my answer so far?  A lot of label reading and asking B.  However, time constrains both.  Oh how I long for the days when years of advertising made it easy for me to choose.  When I knew who offered what, I settled on "my brand" and I blissfully lived there.

And don't even get me started on "Tasty cheese".  I still don't understand how "Tasty" can be a variety of cheese. 


Fortunately, some brands cross the equator and merrily greeted me in the southern hemisphere.  Unfortunately, the product in the familiar box isn't necessarily the same.  I don't know what sort of deal General Mills made in order to bring Cherrios to Oz, but it was wrong.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.  A Cherrio should not be covered in a sugary glaze so thick one can hardly bite into them. 

As a marketer, it's an interesting study in brand identity and recognition.  Although I'm too close to the subject matter to be truly objective about it, when I can pull back a little, I find it fascinating that I relied so much on autopilot when selecting my purchases.  It also reinforced for me the notion that marketers need to capture a consumer when they're young.  Had I not been faced with the loss of all "my brands", I doubt I would have ever deviated from most of my original choices.


When B first came to the US, he faithfully read the junk mail each day.  I thought it odd at the time, but it makes complete sense to me now.

It's just stuff

I've always prided myself on my lack of emotional attachment to stuff.  I prefer living in open, airy spaces with clean lines and minimal chatzkies.  I've lived by the "if you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it" rule.  And, for every new pair of shoes I buy, another pair must leave the nest.  Each time I move, I jettison a lot - either give to family or friends, or donate it.


The exceptions:
My books.  I love my books.  I love to see them standing tall on the shelf and feel their weigh in my hand.  I believe the books people read shape them as a human being in a way few "things" can.  Plus, they're a snapshot of who I was at the time I read them.  Each time I've moved, we haul box after heavy box of books.
My framed pictures.  More than scrolling through MBs of digital albums, the pictures I frame say "this moment (or person) is so important, I took the time to freeze it and keep in front of me".
My big, brown chair.  Pre-baby, this was my favorite place to read.  Post-baby, it went into M's room and was where I held him on long nights. 
High school parafernalia.  Yearbooks, graduation program, cheerleading uniforms ... all tucked away in a box.  I'm not particularly sentimental about them, but it seems wrong to toss them out.  And, periodically, the cheerleading uniforms come in handy as a last minute Halloween costume (yes they fit, but I'm genuinely horrified at how short the skirts are). 
Things people made.  I have a few invaluable items made and given to me by people I love, including a quilt my grandma made before she died when I was 14.


However, with an international move, one becomes very calculating about ones things.  Does the value of this item offset the cost of shipping a container (literally) to the other side of the world?


Too often, the answer is "no".


So I find myself parsing up the things that have shared my space and my life as an adult.  Some will go to storage, some will be given away to family and friends, some will be donated and some will be sold at a moving sale June 16.


I think it's the "sold" that bothers me most.  I want to assess each potential buyer to determine if they will love this "thing" as I have loved it ... and, if not, deny them ownership.  But I know that's not how it works.  Dollar values will be attached that don't reflect my personal value and people will scoop up bargains without thought to a "thing's" history.


And that's how it should be, I guess.  After all, it's just stuff.

Highway to the danger zone

Previously, I touched on the issues with Fessenden and how they contribute to making Portland a non-livable place for my family.  Due to speeding traffic and no marked crosswalks, I only cross it with M in off hours (Sunday morning at 7) when I am confident I'll be able to safely navigate the stroller.


An article on OregonLive today highlights the problem and the recommended solutions as proposed by a committee.


But as the advocates for the neighborhood point out, the proposal 1)doesn’t go far enough and 2)isn’t funded.  I’m skeptical anything will happen to truly alleviate the traffic and reduce the danger.


Besides, the proposal focuses mostly on industrial trick traffic.  It’s not just trucks, it’s everybody.  Cars, trucks, busses, police cars and bikes all race past as we stand and wait to cross.  Sometimes one driver will stop to try and let us pass, but the other lane of traffic continues to whiz by and eventually the stopped driver will give up. 


I see only two real solutions:
1.  Install traffic lights, forcing drivers to stop every few blocks.  I would be willing to have a little longer of a walk to use a signaled crosswalk.  Plus, eventually this would make Fessenden an undesirable through-way option for drivers.
2.  Have police officers placed every few blocks and site the drivers who speed or violate pedestrian right-of-way laws (after all every corner is a crosswalk, just enforce ORS 811.028).


However, I recognize both are long shots due to the current state of Portland's budget and the minimal sway many in the neighborhood hold (as outlined in the article) with the local government.  Alto


When I moved to St. Johns, I loved it.  It was perfect for blissfully, fervently single and childless me.  I was three miles from my office, close to downtown, halfway between sister #1 in the West Hills and sister #2 in Vancouver, and a straight shot out Highway 30 to my parents’ home.  And, best of all, the library, shops, the Farmers’ Market, yoga & Pilates at the community center, grocery store and yummy restaurants were just a one mile walk from my front door.


Walking alone, I found Fessenden annoying and troublesome, but now that I have M, I recognize how dangerous it is.  I have no idea how we would teach him traffic safety when there is no safe way to cross this street.


We're lucky that Pier Park is within walking distance.  We don't have to cross Fessenden to get to it and it's a beautiful park.  However, we're cut off from all the St. Johns' town center area has to offer.


As much as I wish it were otherwise, I keep coming back to the same conclusion.  Living in Portland is not a long-term, raise-a-child option for us.

Max Monkey and cigarettes

It’s a typical afternoon in the Singleton-Ratcliff household.  I’m working and B is looking at a book with M.  M is pointing at various items in the pictures and B talks about it, things like, "Max Monkey has a ball.  It's a yellow ball.  Oh look, over here he threw the ball to his friend. Nice throw Max Monkey."

Then I hear …

B: “ ... and here’s Max Monkey at the beach with cancer.  Here’s the sand and shells and a bucket ... ”

Me: “cancer?”

B: “Yeah. No sun hats, no Zinc, nothing, it’s ridiculous … we may as well be showing him 7-year-olds with cigarettes.  Hooray, a day at the beach with cigarettes.”

Me: “uuhhhh … “

He's not joking.  B takes sun protection very, very seriously.

Well, of course, you say ... after all, his profession is health promotion.  It's his job to tell us how bad the sun is for us.

You would think that.  But it's more than a side-effect of his career.  It's a life-long passion.  According to B's older brother, he took on the Australian model of smart sun behavior at about 9-years-old and never let go.

When I was growing up, we had "tanning lotion", not sun block.  Somewhere around my early 20s, sun block came into fashion.  In my 30s I heard advertising for moisturizers and foundations with sun block "to prevent wrinkles caused by the sun's damaging rays".  But, as far as I can tell, the US smart sun behavior is about 20 years behind Australia's.

Why?

I assumed they had higher UV index and greater risk to sun damage leading to cancer.  But, looking at the charts, this isn't true.  They're almost identical (just flipped vertically since we're on opposite sides of the equator).  In fact, the risk today in Portland is higher than Melbourne.

So, since no one else is giving you this information, I will.  Here's a sample of the education Australians receive from the time they are wee little ones:

Protect your skin
For best protection, SunSmart recommends a combination of sun protection measures:
Slip on some sun-protective clothing - that covers as much skin as possible
Slop on broad spectrum, water resistant SPF30+ sunscreen. Put it on 20 minutes before you go outdoors and every two hours afterwards. Sunscreen should never be used to extend the time you spend in the sun.
Slap on a hat - that protects your face, head, neck and ears
Seek shade
Slide on some sunglasses - make sure they meet Australian Standards
Extra care should be taken between 10am and 3pm when UV levels reach their peak.
For information on how to protect your skin from sun damage, see SunSmart.

Can you imagine if sun smart behavior was emphasized in public education as much as anti-tobacco efforts? 


**Update (May 12):
B: "I've taken a texter (Sharpie to you and me) to Max Monkey.  Soon everyone will be wearing a hat."


**Update #2 (May 15):
So we've had a "Very High" UV index in Portland for a few days now.  My efforts to persuade my coworkers to stay covered and shaded from the sun have been met with mocking.  Apparently, I'm an overprotective mother hen type now.  C'est la vie.  You can mock me as long as you still cover up people.

Noise cancelling

For a project about three years ago, my nephews' teacher asked his class to ask their extended family and parents' friends to send them postcards.  She wanted to get a collection from across the county and maybe even a few from other countries.  


He asked me to send him one and to ask B (still in OZ at the time) to send him one.


After he left the room, my sister said he would be over the moon if we could do it for him. He wanted to get a lot of postcards and impress the class.


I said I'd ask B and his family & friends and put it out to my network.


I asked a few people directly, then thought, why not put it out there on Twitter and Facebook and see what comes back.  I wrote one post for Facebook and tweeted it once on Twitter ... and I was blown away by the response.


Postcards poured in from almost every state in the US and from Australia, Norway, Thailand, England, Spain, Mexico, Canada, France, Guatemala and on and on.  They all read, "Dear G ... " and made one little boy feel very special and important.


When the teacher asked my sister how G did it, she said, "Oh, that's his aunt. She makes things happen."


That was three years ago, when my SoMe networks were smaller and very few people had even heard of Twitter.  So, when my brother-in-law posted that he was advising a group of fifth graders on their project to use Facebook to create awareness about landmines and asked people to "like" their Facebook page, I thought to myself "self, this sounds like a job for 'Auntie Pam', it's time to take it to the network. Easy peasy lemon squeezey."


I asked people on Facebook, Twitter and Google+ to support the students in their project and "like" their page.  I wrote a blog post about it.  Then I sat back and waited for the "likes" to roll in à la the postcard project.


Tick, tick, tick ... then nothing.


What? What went wrong?  Clicking "like" was soooo much easier than buying a postcard, writing a note to a third grader, getting postage and dropping it in the mail.


I have a few theories:
1.  I've put out too much noise to my network and they've stopped "listening" to me.
2.  Too much noise in general dominates the SoMe space and very little actually rises above it.
3.  People have become more skeptical about philanthropic requests coming to them through their social channels.  A consequence of charity burnout.
4.  People are more discerning and more stingy with their "likes".
5. ?


How has your engagement through SoMe changed as general population usage has increased.  What do you do to filter out the noise coming at you to get to the messages you want to receive and don't want to miss?  And how do you rise above the chatter to connect with your audience?

The threat you don't know

A neighbor recently posted this sign (left) on their fence.  

We didn't even know they had a dog.  Let alone a possessed one (demonic possession assumed from the glowing red eyes of the dog on the sign, which the picture I took doesn't give justice).  We've never seen it.  We've never heard it.  And we walk by the house often.

The men in my life don't like to loll around the house and walks are an almost daily (sometimes twice daily) activity.  We walk to the park, the library, baby gym, or to the Mexican bakery or the farmers' market to get a little treat.  M has become used to dogs running up to the sidewalk as we pass and barking at us (he cried a couple times, but usually ignores them now).  The path to all these destinations passes by this house and we've heard nary a peep (admittedly, my personal knowledge is limited to evening and weekend walks, but B says they've never heard/seen it during weekdays either).

B argues it's the most effective "Beware Of Dog" sign he's ever seen.  It's simple, scary and official.  No burglar would want to dance with that dog.

It has me wondering about several things.

1.  What did this dog do to merit an official "devil dog" sign complete with glowing red eyes?  Did it bite someone?  Is it a requirement of owning a particular breed?  The lack of evidence of a dog at this house leads me to believe it is an incredibly well trained dog, but, sheesh, the sign conjures up images of some scary behavior. 

2.  Who at Multnomah County designs their signage and decided the image of the dog should imply demonic possession?

3.  How does one teach a child about possessed dogs?  Meaning, how does one teach a child about the threat you don't know?  And, how do you do it without making a child afraid of everything?

Finding Bliss

I live on Bliss Street.  The street name held great sway with me when considering buying the house.  I mean seriously, how could anything too terrible happen on Bliss Street?


I like bliss.  I like happiness.


You know what makes me happy (other than the name of the street where I live, of course)?  Championing organizations, causes and events I think are important.


Here are the ones I currently support and would love for you to support them, too.
Beaverton fifth graders raising awareness to ban landmines
The Peninsula Wrestling Club
Bradley Angle's Wine Women and Shoes
American Cancer Society's Cancer Prevention Study 3

A global issue, tackled by 5th graders

From my brother-in-law:

I am principal of an international school. Our fifth grade students do an end of the year final project called the Exhibition. Groups of 3 or 4 students are mentored by staff member as they research a global issue and take some form of action. The group I mentor has selected landmines as their global issue. The action they are taking is to use Facebook's social media power to encourage the United States to sign the Ottawa Treaty. The United States already uses an internal ban on landmines, but by joining the other 159 counties that signed the treaty we can set an example for the rest of the world. Please take a moment to review their page. Like and share the page if you are supportive of eradicating the use of landmines. Much thanks in advance for your help with their project!

 The kids' Facebook page to like, share, etc., as you see fit.

It's all about me

So, you know how my husband is amazing, right?  No?  Well, he is.


A couple weeks ago, expressed concern (see lectured) me about spending too much time on work, baby, AMA, ACS, other commitments and not enough time doing things just for me.  He encouraged (see lectured) me to make more time for myself.


I admitted he was right (see vehemently disagreed, slept on it and changed my mind) and made a list of things I would like to do.


1.  Join a book club.
2.  Take a cooking class (either learn how to make pastries, Indian food or Thai food).
3.  Take a design class (I muddle through okay, but I don't like being just okay at anything).
4.  Re-enroll in Pilates (or Yoga).
5.  Take a baby and me class (maybe baby and me Pilates or Yoga).
6.  Take swim lessons (my swimming style can best be described as not drowning).


I showed B my list.  Some items were praised (Pilates, swim lessons), some were frowned upon ("A baby and me class would be wonderful, fantastic, do it, but it doesn't count as something just for you).  I decided I would start looking immediately for a book club to join.


Then I hit a road block.  I couldn't find the kind of club I wanted.  I had this image of talking with people smarter than me about nonfiction books that dissected theories of communications, business, personal-professional development, culture shifts, big ideas.  Maybe I was looking in the wrong places, but I just couldn't find it.


I asked a few people (smarter than me) if they had heard of such a book club.  None of them had.  But, all of them thought it sounded interesting and something they would like to do, too.


I mulled it over.  If that was the book club I wanted (and I did), I needed to launch it myself.  So I did.


I went through my LinkedIn connections and invited about 20 people (smarter than me) that I thought might be interested in such a thing.  In less than 24 hours, I had nine "yes" responses.


Whoa, it was actually happening.  Now I needed to actually do it.


I set up a group on LinkedIn so we could collaborate on the plan.  

We've already selected our first book (well, I already had the book in mind ... happily, everyone else is on board with it), Imagine: How creativity works.


I. Am. So. Excited.  It's like I've got my own Vicious Circle full of wit and wisdom.  And, I am all in.


I have no idea how this will go ... I've never done anything like it before.  But, I'll keep you posted on what I learn from it all (even if that is I have no business starting a book club).  If nothing else, I'm going to read some inspiring books and talk about the ideas in them with some inspiring people.


And that is just for me.