The Cricklewood Yankee Awakens

My apologies to anyone who thought they had been mercifully unsubscribed from these irregular updates; I’ve simply been letting the suspense build these last couple of years.  At long last, the accumulation of life’s trivial idiocies and political monstrosities has become too great to bear, and so, rising groggily from the dead comes the latest installment of the Cricklewood Yankee.  For those of you who have been added to this update, or simply don’t remember being on the list, the Cricklewood Yankee provides increasingly infrequent insights into our intoxicatingly interesting lives… and, in lieu of written letters, telephone calls, and Ashley Madison, a hopefully entertaining way to connect with friends and colleagues past and present.

Much has transpired since the early, heady days of our American repatriation.  Riley has developed from a bundle of sleepiness and joy into a fine, young, bundle of unchecked energy and maddeningly particular Teutonic righteousness. Susi and I have transitioned from the carefree days of urban rented dwellings into the endlessly rewarding world of suburban home ownership, and the global political pendulum has whipsawed in a manner that defies the laws of Newtonian physics.

Now, it has been inferred, on rare occasion, that I might be a living partner of a somewhat challenging sort.  Quite laughable, really, considering that I am a devout follower (and generous teacher) of Tiffany’s Rules of Dishwasher Loading and Refrigerator Organization.  Despite sparing countless roommates and houseguests the iniquity of spotted utensils, Karma decided that I was in need of some additional attitudinal correction, and so, she delivered Riley.

In the early days, things were reasonably tolerable.  With pained expression, I would indulge Riley’s need to reposition his toys and belongings in ways that violated every generally accepted guideline of chromatic and chronologic arrangement… which I would, of course, correct with alacrity as soon as he went to sleep.   I would even allow him to finish the preponderance of his spaghetti and meatballs before clearing away his dishes, lest they find themselves overwhelmed by either gravity or infantile misdirection.  Yet, as Riley matured and began to better understand the role that fate expected of him, my gracious allowances no longer sufficed.

The watershed moment occurred the morning Riley awoke from his slumber with the expectation that his matchbox car configuration from the prior evening would remain unchanged.  With the finality of an executioner swinging his expertly honed axe, Riley assessed the situation using words that have been indelibly tattooed onto my cerebral cortex like so many ill-advised, butterfly-laden [indelible adornments applied to one’s lower dorsal area, often acquired in a state of inebriation] – “Papa!  Thaaaat’s… Not… Riiiiight!!!!”.

No, I reckon it wasn’t “right”, as little else has been in the years that ensued.  Like a couple of lackeys kowtowing to a compulsively self-important Hollywood executive, Susi and I have developed an excruciatingly mental library of detailed notes delineating what is potentially “Right” and what is categorically “Not Right”.  I will spare you the Novocain-free root canal that would be a comprehensive account of the accommodations we’ve made in the name of harmonious balance.  Suffice to say, we have submitted to the realities of Riley’s iron will, abject genius (i.e. wanton irrationality), and attention to detail that will assuredly elate the legions of teachers, friends and colleagues that await his arrival.

After seven years of renting flats and houses in London, wherein (as you may recall from previous blogs) the most demanding DIY challenges involved changing lightbulbs, hanging pictures and degreasing the oven, we decided to purchase a home that wasn’t quite “move-in ready”.  The weeks leading up to our closing were filled with fanciful dreams of spending rainy Saturdays and Sundays employing nail hitters, wood cutters, and an abundance of power tools that make manly construction noises in the pursuit of the perfect home.  As it turns out, the only tools that I can operate on a consistently successful basis are my checkbook and credit cards, but this sad realization did not prevent me from accumulating enough building implements to stock a Home Depot warehouse.

Our single-owner house was built in the 1960’s by a couple who clearly loved their home and garden.  The weekend following our close, Susi and I puttered about the property, extricating and trimming a wealth of exceedingly mature plantings – forsythias, rhododendrons, azaleas, Japanese maples and many other leafy and floral things only Susi can name.  All required some measure of love and attention to get back to their peak splendor, and so we set to work restoring the majesty of the estate’s Nixon era.

Soon after, we began addressing the rather lengthy list of repairs indicated by our home inspector – the first of which being some minor improvements to the septic system.  (note to lifelong denizens of the city – a septic system is what we do here in most of rural and suburban America – we build our very own sewage treatment facilities right under the back garden.)  Just following the onset of work, we were overjoyed to hear that our situation required an entirely new system, including pipes, tank and “leeching fields” (i.e. underground draining fields)… and since the current system was based on drywells, we were even further overjoyed to hear that we would be significantly expanding the size of our back garden.  What luck!  In lieu of the aforementioned cornucopia of floral goodness, we were left with an exceedingly exhilarating-to-mow field of dreams.

Subsequent repairs have included the full replacement of virtually every piece of mechanical equipment in our house (including the well), enabling us to be completely self-sufficient in the event Trump tweets us all the way into Armageddon.  Despite this added measure of personal security, I sometimes long for a dwelling where one’s potable water and heating fuel are transported in from some magical factory, and where one’s effluent gets carried away to some other magical factory.

Happily settled in and enjoying country life, we’ve established a robust side-business offering suburban weekend retreats to our friends and associates languishing in the city.  Thanks to our clear cutting a soybean plantation’s worth of land to make way for leeching fields deemed legally robust enough to support the collective 300 pounds that is our family of 3, we were left with a lumberyard of felled tree parts, mountains of woodchips, and a football field worth of ready-to-use arable land.  These amazing facilities inspired us to create several exciting B&B packages with mandatory activities such as: stack-that-wood, spread-that-mulch-right-now, and move-those-rocks-over-there (a fan favorite).

Once one’s inner Charles Ingalls has been satiated, guests are invited to partake in our many suburban mentoring sessions, including: It’s OK to say Hi to your Neighbor, Who's Your Mailman, and When to Keep the Front Door Unlocked – Always Silly!  Riley even offers a Saturday-evening babysitting package – perfect for those empty-nesters!   To top it off, every guest receives either Lyme’s Disease or an epidermal affliction from a succulent irritant of their choice, along with as much pachysandra as they can grab with one hand.  As Tripadvisor’s Number 1 (of 1) things to do in Suburban Connecticut, you can be assured of a truly memorable experience.

Now that our little habitat for insanity has come together, we’ve been able to turn our attention to some rather profound political events.  As a British citizen, I was terribly dismayed at the UK’s decision to exit the European Union.  This was my primary defense against Susi’s (admittedly quite justifiable) threats to remove Riley from my destructive influences and hide him safely away in Germany.  Considering that post-Roman European history can be summed up as an endless series of “[Object Country or Fiefdom] takes over [Subject Country or Fiefdom] in the name of [Faction of Abrahamic Religion or Megalomaniacal Ideology], the collaboration and cooperation seen these past 70 years can neither be understated nor underappreciated.  One can only hope that this represents a necessary correction rather than an enduring trend.

More recently, America made the slight minority of its voices heard, and those voices called for the seemingly impossible task of restoring the US to its hegemonic glory days of the 50’s and 60’s.  The challenge, of course, is that instead of a world filled with war-torn countries and recently released realms of the British Empire, the US does not stand so remarkably alone in its economic and military might.  And so, The Donald’s stated approach of hard-nosed deal-making appears to deemphasize longer term diplomacy in favor of shorter term gains.  That said, one could equally question previous administrations’ far longer game of magnanimous deconstruction: destabilizing unsatisfactory regimes with a vision of democratic nation (re)building.  If nothing else, perhaps Trump’s polarizing personality will pave the way for a more productive application of America’s checks and balances system.  I look forward to keenly observing and occasionally commenting from my conveniently irreproachable armchair of political ambiguity.

Our best wishes to everyone!!

Rich, (and with the usual “this blog in no bloody way represents the views of…” disclaimer, Susi & Riley)

The Eagle Has Landed

Dear Friends and Family -

I am writing you from the debatably friendlier climes of Connecticut, though it seems we did well to ride out this past winter in London.  We moved back to the US in March, meaning that I’m no longer a Cricklewood or Wembley Park Yankee… I’m back to being just another Connecticut Yankee.  As I reflect on this recent relinquishment of relative remarkability, I can only hope that you do not take offense to my satirical depictions of the world as I experience and languish in it… which will now be focused on American life.  Perhaps the British contingent of this distribution list will finally appreciate some of the content of these crudely unsolicited commentaries.

The family and I are enjoying life back under the watchful and usurious eye of Uncle Sam.  It seems that rarely a weekend goes by without the opportunity to reconnect with good friends and family - be it at a BBQ, the celebration of all manner of religious rites, or an invigorating visit to the labour camp that our aptly named vacation home in Block Island has become.  Chez Bon Repose indeed!  I have nestled right back into my previous habits of seven years prior - gorging on New York sports without exacerbating the myopia caused by the grainy delivery of illegal international webcasts, listening to New York talk radio without suffering the ineptitude of the 3AM D-league, and indulging in caffeinated creations that are measured in gallons rather than shots.  I missed you Dunkin Donuts…  only in America can you blast right on through the adult male’s recommended daily caloric limit with a simple morning coffee.

The British culture - in business and in life - is exceedingly polite.  I was recently ridiculed for signing off my eMails with such pleasantries as “all the best”, “kind regards” and “warmly”.  I had forgotten that such needless courtesy is interpreted as a sign of weakness and sycophantery.  In the UK, simply signing off with “regards”, or perish the thought, only your name, incites a maelstrom of anxiety and fear that you have been egregiously offended by some matter of grave importance.  Never one to push against generally accepted local culture, I now review all communications to ensure that they are sufficiently abrupt and humourless, leaving no room for doubt that I am terribly important and horrifically busy.

Although I have not acquired the highly bastardized Yorkshire accent that I brought home from an earlier secondment to the wilds of Northern England, it is evident that a bit of the British culture has indeed taken hold, and it is in the most common of daily interactions that this has become most evident.  I break out in a cold sweat when asked how I am doing, and then I endure pained and quizzical looks when I wrongly interpret such questions as an invitation to engage in a mutually undesired conversation.  But then comes the merciful flood of relief when I remember that all that is expected is an effortless “Good - you?”, with no need at all to break stride or even make eye contact.  This is in stark contrast to British culture, where you are obligated to ease the psyche of your asking counterpart by assuring them that your life is indeed a series of rather dull, yet unfortunate, catastrophes.

I’ve also become baffled by the incredibly inconsistent institution of American tipping.  There is neither rhyme nor reason to this madness - I was nearly chased out of town for tipping 13.9% on one of the worst dinners I’ve ever had the misfortune to endure, but when I tried to give a twenty to the kindly policeman who let me off with a warning for doing 80 in a 55, I ended up in the clink!  To be fair, the latter part of that anecdote was embellished (I received a stern and disappointed look), but the fact remains - generally accepted tipping protocol in America has little correlation with the value provided.  I’m a reasonably good tipper, and I start my restaurant experience off at around 18%, allowing the service dictate the rise and fall of my ultimate donation.  In the aforementioned case, repeated mistakes and exceedingly prolonged conversations with people at adjacent tables kept driving that down to the already-insulting 15%.  However, it was the unapologetic explosion of moules marniere across my brand spanking new wal-mart cargo shorts that compelled me to make the profound statement of displeasure that is a 13.9% tip.

All in all, we’re loving life back in the USA!  Riley (AKA Mr. Fun) has barely missed a beat in using his unbearably cute wiles to secure the sustenance and entertainment he requires - strategies Susi and I continue to encourage as it has secured the voluntary childminding necessary to obtain the sustenance and entertainment we require.  We are forever grateful for the grand-parently support - a romantic night out on the town no longer costs us a small fortune in babysitting fees.  These days, any time Susi and I have the burning desire to grab a couple of happy meals followed by a smidge of two-for-one bowling - we just go right on ahead and get Jiggy with it.  When you combine all of that with sunshine of the like we haven’t experienced in almost a decade, life has become a perpetual vacation.

We have truly enjoyed reconnecting with so many of our friends and family here in the States, and hope that we will see many more of you in the coming months!

All the best (kindly and warmly intended),

Rich, Susi & Riley

Light Poop for 3 Days - 20 Month Old

Yes - that was an actual recent Google search, and that was not even close to being the worst of them.  What has life come to!  One of the toughest things about living away from close family - particularly those that have gone through the trials and tribulations of parenthood - is relying on Google to diagnose most infant conditions not involving blunt force trauma.  There’s a wealth of information out there - but never anything close to a definitive answer.  Web MD’s symptom checker came up with crone’s disease, multiple kidney failure, or an upset stomach.  Thankfully, browner hues have re-emerged, and we seem to have escaped lifelong dialysis.  But enough talking *poop*.

By far the most time consuming aspect of writing this blog is transforming my original content into something politically correct enough to keep me off the CIA (and my wife’s) hit list.  It’s not just bleeping out the four letter words, either.  For example, in my last blog, “Non Nato Countries” had originally been “[South Asian Metropolis] Sweatshops”, then “semi-terrorist states”, then “Axis of evil call centres” followed by 6 or 7 progressively tamer variations until I finally settled on “Non Nato Countries”.  On hindsight, “Numerous Non Nato Nations” would’ve made for a quadruple-contiguous-alliteration - a 4 point play!  Anyhow, after a mind numbing series of political softening exercises, the blog still has to pass the Susi test, to ensure that there are no objectionable references to either her, Riley or any of Germany’s more sensitive historical eras.  I can, however, slay myself to my heart’s content.

A few months ago, Susi, Riley and I muddled our way through yet another one of our increasingly-arduous aviation adventures - this time to Germany.  For a kid who’s managed three trips to the US and two to Germany in his first 16 months, Riley is not an optimal traveller.  In fact, he is getting decidedly more difficult with age.  He does not empty his pockets and remove his laptop before getting prompted by an agitated luggage screener.  He does not remove his belt or shoes until he’s been shuttled through the scanning machine at least twice, and he always hides some innocuous piece of contraband under his bib - ensuring that he can engage some attractive screening lady in a full body search. 

On this particular trip, the gentleman in front of us in the security queue decided to transport an entire server room in his hand luggage - wires, drives, laptop, racks, generators, blade servers and various other devices - all quite plausibly vital components in a homemade nuclear weapon.  The security screener actually took a step back when this guy opened his suitcase, exposing his melange of mechanical madness.  Then, instead of simply removing the electronics and placing them into the provided trays, our technologically tricked-out traveller proceeded to pick up each device and have a conversation with the security screener (in German, of course - which takes about 50% longer than in English) about whether it needed to be placed into a separate tray.  After monopolising 10 minutes of everyone’s time, and about fifteen individual trays, Riley and I were able to go through the human screener.  Unfortunately, the conga line of trays our technophile produced took up the entirety of the outbound side of the security belt, forcing the entire operation to stop while he repacked his Radio Shack yard sale - one maddeningly deliberate item at a time.

I cannot speak about the many manners in which I fantasized “dealing” with this person in my head.  Suffice to say, Roman Polanski would’ve blushed.  If there are 101 ways to skin a cat, I have invented 1001 ways to deal with imbecilic travellers.  Making matters worse, Riley was utterly ahowl, but his pram, his toys and his formula were all stuck inside the scanning machine as this man went about his repacking in obnoxious oblivion. 

Summoning my greatest creative talents, I chose to stand right behind him, innocently facing the opposite way, while putting Riley over my shoulder and mere inches from the traveller’s ear as Riley wailed away.  I employed a mien of the harried but diligent parent trying desperately to quiet his young and preserve the eardrums of the masses - singing well off-key and inching Riley’s head ever so closer to the target of my ire.  Yes, I used my 18 month old as a weapon of mass annoyance.  I’m not proud of it, but it did inspire the alacrity and efficiency I expect in a single, adult, male traveller with no bloody kids, strollers or any of the other paraphernalia required to transport a toddler across country lines!  Susi occasionally complains that I am rather deficient in the areas of tolerance and patience.  I strongly disagree.  I simply live and breathe process excellence and efficiency.

It's Too Hot!

Despite my insufferable griping, we’ve had the first decent summer in the six years that we have lived here.  We topped out in the high seventies on multiple occasions - resulting in countless cases of heat stroke, reckless skinny dipping and the other usual British chicanery a little heat will cause.  It has recently emerged that the gas and electric conglomerates made a historic killing over what was the coldest winter in decades, and they are now flooding the media with air conditioner advertisements to keep the bulls running.  Now the water companies are getting their laugh as full reservoirs, crispy lawns and saggy begonias have created another little perfect storm.

What’s amazing is just how much I’ve seen in my neighbourhood over the last week that I had no idea existed.  I could have sworn that we had exactly three lousy pubs, a decent convenience store and three indistinguishable Indian restaurants… it turns out we also have a very nice Italian Café, a (disconcertingly incongruous) TGI Friday’s and seven (7) indistinguishable Indian restaurants!  The perpetual drizzle and raw weather forces one to keep their head down, but since July I have felt like Dorothy after landing in OZ - munchkins and all.  The world has gone from black and gray to comically overcontrasted Technicolor.   I was so overcome with goodwill that I deigned to give a classic perfunctory semi-nod with grimace-smile to a mother and small child whilst walking home from the tube yesterday... earning me queer look from Mom and a brusque ****-off... from her 8 year old daughter.  I’m not sure what else I could have reasonably expected.

Of considerable agitation over here (and perhaps in the US as well) is the awareness that our hallowed government has been illegally monitoring people’s internet and telecommunications activity.  I am shocked and outraged that the NSA has somehow gained access to the same ‘classified’ information that armies of perilously under-regulated and under-paid support technicians in various non-Nato countries sift through as part of their every day job.  At least they might have possibly signed an NDA.  Since it seems inevitable that you’ll all find out anyway, I will just come clean - Riley has made me download the intro themes to MacGyver, the A-Team, Airwolf, Magnum PI, Knight Rider, and every sit-com that aired before 1987, as well as countless YouTube montages of classic commercials… on over 100 separate occasions.  I think Riley is trying to vicariously embrace my eighties’ childhood… a simpler time when we were incredibly consumed with edible consumables, and every problem could be solved in sixty minutes or less without sex, potty mouth or anyone actually getting hit by a bullet.

What is genuinely frustrating is that these eyes in the sky and over the wires could be used for the greater good.  For, if it were left to my devices, Riley’s entire life would be documented by hundreds of out-of-focus iPhone pictures and this rather meaningless blog.  For example, we recently spent the weekend in Rye (England), and treated the wee man to his first muckabout on the beaches of England.  It was to be undoubtedly the absolute highlight of his entire summer.  The entire session - all 17 minutes of it - consisted of me frantically chasing Riley between the cricket games and sun worshipers, simultaneously trying to take pictures while keeping him from being swept out to sea by the rapidly approaching tide.  I didn’t manage a single good photo before he decided to vehemently object to having become a piece of human sandpaper by tumbling about with his not-yet-dry slathering of SPF 50.   Surely the NSA had satellites in the area and found something suspicious about an aimlessly cantering 15 month old!  As the social security shortfall grows greater and greater, it’s only a matter of time before the government starts offering a catalogue of personalized memorabilia - particularly to those unfortunate groups who’ve been illegally profiled… such as the computer literate.  You heard it here first!

And finally - a quick shout out in honour of the DUFF grabbing his first major at the PGA.  I think we may comprise the lion’s share Jason Dufner’s entire fan club - certainly internationally :-).   More on that here: http://thecricklewoodyankee.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/dufnering.html.

We hope things are well with all of you!

Rich, Susi & Riley

Dufnering!

Hello everyone from the coldest and rainiest place I’d only wish upon my bottom quartile of enemies!

I’m sure that many or even most of you have been swept by the latest athlete-behaviour craze since the advent of Tebowing…. Dufnering: http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/dufnering

Jason Dufner is a golfer I decided to champion (and place a few quid on) during the 2011 PGA championship, simply because he nearly shares my wife’s last name, Duffner. As a 250 to 1 long shot in that tournament, he was on pace to make me look like a handicapping genius before squandering a 5 stroke lead with 4 holes to play. Damn you Keegan Bradley - what the heck kind of name is Keegan, anyway!

I certainly felt like Dufnering at that point, but I was able to take solace in the fact that Dufner is the Americanisation of Duffner (my wife’s family), and that maybe, just maybe, way back when, the Duffner blood was blessed with some serious golfing genes! I mean, he's not even one yet, and Riley's already mastered the art of Dufnering https://themetzwedding.shutterfly.com/babymetz/1155. (contact me if you don't have the PW).

Anyhow, on to what’s really been monopolizing my thoughts of late… the barber shop. I hate getting haircuts. I mean I just haaaaaaate getting haircuts. In fact, I can’t think of a single thing about going to the barber shop that I don’t hate.
- I hate the invariably awful selection of tawdry magazines, vintage 90's hairstyle catalogues, and tragically overused newspapers.
- I hate the self-loathing that ensues when I find myself immediately engrossed in a month-old tabloid punting a since-disproven sex scandal between two decidedly unattractive celebrities.
- I hate the six seconds of awkward suspense that follows the seemingly innocuous, but dreadfully menacing: “so how would you like it done today?”.
- I hate the feeling of failure, when, despite feverishly scanning the endless mélange of overly sculpted, mulletted hair models sneering down at me from the shop walls, I find nothing more creative to say than “same as last time”.
- When my barber confirms what “last time” consisted of, I hate hearing that my entire hair style can be described in terms of half and full integers, rather than in much cooler, oxymoronic terms like funky-neo-retro.

I then really hate that I’m required to sit still for an agonizingly unspecified period of time in the veritable straight jacket that is the barber’s smock - which has become ever-more excruciating due to the ever-increasing separation anxiety developing between my iPhone and I. These cruel armless detention devices leave me with few options to pass the time other then to converse with my personal demon barber of Fleet Street.  I usually venture out there with a bit of small talk (which I also hate), and follow that up with a little pretend nodding off (at the risk of accidental impalement… which I generally hate), but eventually, I'm forced to attempt having a more interesting and substantial conversation.

Now, although I certainly do enjoy an interesting and substantial conversation, with my barber the topic invariably rushes towards politics like Riley towards exposed wiring, and so I hate navigating the deftly planted minefield my barber lays out for me. He knows that I’m American, and it seems that either he, his family, or one of his best friends hail from every regime we’ve decided to aggravate, attack, or clumsily negotiate oil rights - nay - nation building agreements with over the past 30 years. Painfully aware that he’s holding an 8 inch scissors to my head, and will soon be using a straight razor to do the edgework, I quickly manoeuvre the conversation back to some genre of small talk or simply cocoon myself into a nerve wracking, awkward silence (which, shockingly, I hate).

So recently, I decided to give myself a holiday from this simply unbearable torture. I must give credit to a golfing buddy of mine who gave me the idea. I hadn’t seen him in several months, and when we met up for a round of tomduffery, I noticed that his normally neat and tidy hairstyle had been supplanted by tawny flowing locks - quite reflective of Richard Branson. I naturally opined that he must paying a fortune at some celebrity Mayfair salon, but as it turned out, he was simply growing it out… no styling, no products, no trimming at all! I was sold. I was going to follow his lead, avoid one of my least favorite things, and end up looking like Richard Branson too!

Well, as most of you are probably aware, all follicles are not created equal, and in no time at all, I was using an environmentally-frightening amount of gel and hairspray just to appear respectable enough to attend client meetings, networking events, and even the lonesome visit to my local pub. I compounded my issues with a bit of DIY-Fail manscaping on my sideburns and eyebrows.  Finally, looking like the victim of some horrible fraternity hazing prank, I gave in. Not wanting for despair and defeat, I trudged back to the barber’s for the usual “two-five” only to find the front door locked and no one to be seen (I found out later that this anomaly occurs when my barber is in the back tending to his ablutions). Against all odds, this happened the following week as well, which I took as an unequivocal sign that I should give it a little more time.

Well, Lord have mercy… an amazing thing happened. Shortly after, the Chia-Dingo atop my head began to miraculously render in a debatably stylish fashion. No longer was I the stereotypically neat, poorly dressed, American businessman… I had transformed into the arguably-slightly cool, poorly dressed businessman from an indeterminate North American location. I was redeemed! At least for a couple of weeks until my coif morphed into an even more catastrophic train wreck. I waited that one out as well, praying for a second coming of the hairstyle genie, but things simply got worse and worse until I raised the white flag and donned the black barber's smock again.

As mentioned previously, I am no longer a Cricklewood Yankee. I have moved around the corner from Britain’s national stadium - Wembley Park - making me… well… I reckon a Wembley Park Yankee. Thankfully, our new neighborhood is a far cry from the environs of Yankee Stadium (which, dishearteningly, most Brits believe is America’s national stadium). Our new place is a veritable mansion compared to our previous digs, and I simply cannot get enough “fourth steps”. Some nights, I spend hours taking fourth, and even fifth steps IN THE SAME DIRECTION without having to navigate around some baby toy or toxic piece of furniture (see my first blog for a description of the old place)! It is simply the most glorious thing for me. We’ve had to put down throw rugs so that I don’t create obvious pacing paths. Sometimes, the vast increase in space gives me a touch of vertigo, forcing me to sit down Indian-style, close my eyes and repeat the Jabberwocky until I regain my orientation. Unfortunately, Riley began imitating this decidedly unbrillig behavior, and so I’m seeing a homoeopathic specialist to get my slithy toves gimbling normally again.

Alas, I would be decidedly misguided to think that my friends and family care much about my follicle follies or accommodation adventures as I am no longer of the “new generation”. As I cling desperately to ever-fading delusions of grandeur, I reflect upon the chains of middle-generationality that shackle us in the cave of irrelevance. Even my own parents are no longer interested in me beyond the possibility that I may produce more progeny for them to pamper.

And so… Riley is doing very well indeed. He recently started day care, and from the moment he arrived he started working the staff as only a true Metz ever could. He kicked it off with a Chuckie-like giggle fit that proved irresistible to the ladies on call. When the room manager held him for the first time, he deftly executed a textbook exaggerated, seemingly never ending reach-out to her face (using the classic “I don’t really know where your head is at… well maybe I do… no… damn it, I just can’t find it” style) that would make Swayze and Moore look absolutely summer stock. It was Zeno’s paradox in real life… the world simply stood still… and OMG he still hasn’t gotten there.

The downside of overplaying the cute card is that all the child minders want their turn playing with the happy Germerican baby, fomenting an insatiable need for attention and human interaction. Riley used to be content sitting on my lap, Dufnering away as I churned through my morning eMail, read up on the latest news and nabbed a cheeky game of Backgammon to reset the synapses. Now, he expects me to continuously entertain him as he churns through his morning eMail, noshes Cheerios and checks out the latest sales at Babies ‘R Us. The little man is indeed doing well, and I just keep thinking that if he’s this happy and this much fun today, he’s going to be a simply life-changing pleasure as a teenager.

Hoping all is well with everyone around the world!

Uncle!!!

Yes - Uncle...

is what I shouted upstairs to Susi during my first solo-change of little Riley at 2AM our first night back from the hospital. I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say... I was doing it wrong... really wrong. Thankfully, Susi came down in the nick of time, got Riley cleaned up, gave him a bottle, and got him settled down... then she got me cleaned up and gave me a bottle (of Johnny Walker) to settle me down.

Later that morning, I was at Mothercare an hour before it opened... glaring at anyone who even came near the iron grating should they dare to monopolise the time of whatever hapless salesperson I decided to unload on. In the end, I made the store manager's day - It was like one of those old school Toys R Us shopping sprees, except I wasn't just selecting that one coveted board game or reviewing jigsaw puzzles while the television audience screamed apoplectically at their television sets: "You fool!! Clean out the Trivial Pursuits and Cabbage Patch Kids!!". Nope - I went WHOLESALE, BABY! It was a true mission of mercy, and I already began to feel better as I lugged my sacks of goodies onto the 189 bus back to Cricklewood. Needless to say, I was back the very next morning to return most of what I'd bought.

Since most of you already have kids, I'm not going to presume that this is anything you haven't experienced in some less ridiculous form or another. I had been ready to call in the Red Cross, the National Guard, the ASPCA, ACLU, NAACP, OSHA and the Boy Scouts of America... Hell - I'd have called in the IRS if I'd thought I could negotiate a feed and nappy change into a tax audit. I'd held out hope that I'd be spending the first night home with Riley teaching him the Counties of England or how to play chess, but alas, that was the pinnacle of naive optimism at its finest. I now understand it will be at least a few weeks - maybe even a month - before we can do that. I had been foolishly optimistic, but now I know... and knowing is half the battle.

We're just a couple of weeks into this adventure, and already I'm fighting an uphill battle to be the second-most mature person in the house. The death knell was Susi's polite suggestion that I try to be "more like Riley"... finish my meals, perform my ablutions in an appropriate location, and on the whole, be cuter... a lot cuter! Frustratingly, surprising her this morning by spitting up my pancakes while donning nothing but an Infant-Sized Huggies did little to help my case. I can't see this ending well for me.

Let me step out of character just a moment and offer a most profound compliment without the disclaimers and conditions I usually apply to such things - not even a random reference to eighties consumer product commercialism. Susi has been, and continues to be, insanely amazing - throughout the entire pregnancy, birth, and our first weeks home. Being away from home, family, automobiles, 24 hour pharmacies and, most of all, Mummie, there was no one to turn to, and she led the fight with incredible cool-headedness and valor. She has definitely earned an extra portion of onion rings the next time we head out to the local!

Moving on to the wider picture, it was hard for us to reconcile the current severe drought situation in Southern England with the torrent of water that came into our flat through previously unidentified, non-plumbed orifices over the weekend. Although there are few things more banal than whinging about British weather, I'm utterly distraught looking out at our 40th consecutive day of rain while still under the governmental guidance of "If it's yellow, let it mellow... if it's brown, flush it down". Further the Met Office (England's government-run weather channel) is tempering expectations as only the English can by advising that even though the weather has been really 'poopie' for a 'pooping' long time, it's not the right kind of 'poopie' weather required to end the mother 'pooping' drought.

Europe seems to be monitoring the upcoming US elections with the usual sense of bemusement and understated fear. Four years of Democratic leadership has allowed governments over here to lapse into a false sense of security - military spending is down, social programmes are up - but that could all change in the blink of an eye should the "war monger" Republicans unseat the "passably civilized" Democrats. Most Europeans, if they could vote, would be staunchly Democrat, since economic stagnation and rampant social spending dissuades us Yanks from upsetting the delicate balance of quasi-communistic denial Europe has embraced since the second world war. So long as the war on public health care is front and center, our good friends and allies need not fear being squished into the under sole of the international boot we use to kick whatever hornet's nest unwittingly finding itself in our ever evolving "Axis of Evil".

And finally - take a second to close your eyes, sit back in your chair - and imagine whatever heartwarming and cuddly closing you wish to be here.

Have you got it??

OK - that's my signoff!!

Knocked Up

...is a wonderful film starring New Cannan’s own Katherine Heigl, and comedic stalwart Seth Rogen. Although uncharacteristically long for a comedy at 2 hours and 9 minutes, the film moves at a respectable pace, fusing both real-life drama and hallucinogenic comedy. Chris Kaltenbach of The Baltimore Sun acknowledged the comic value of the film in spite of its shortcomings, saying, "Yes, the story line meanders and too many scenes drone on; Knocked Up is in serious need of a good editor. But the laughs are plentiful, and it's the rare movie these days where one doesn't feel guilty about finding the whole thing funny.” And for those who like action, the movie doesn’t disappoint. As the title suggests, there are several fighting and boxing scenes that are a sterling tribute to the finale of Karate Kid and the Ivan Drago / Apollo Creed sequence in Rocky IV.

On a rather unrelated note, we’re expecting!! Susi and I are besides ourselves with excitement as we wait for the arrival of our beautiful baby grand piano! Actually, it’s a Yamaha Clavinova CLP-555 digital grand piano, since we couldn’t realistically fit even an upright in our apartment without sacrificing some of Susi’s flower arranging paraphernalia. Admittedly, I’ve become quite rusty at the old 88 since moving abroad (and frankly, I wasn’t that great before I left). I’m hoping to find a local teacher who can help me get back into some semblance of musical form.

Much more importantly, we have news!! Yes indeed, I’ve finally cashed in on the gift certificate Susi bought me last Christmas for a 3 month subscription to the Times. With the ever growing gaggle of media outlets, it’s a rare treat to sit down with the broadsheets, and get up to date on all of the latest news and gossip. Unfortunately, the traditional print industry is a bit backward, and I’ve been on the phone for over an hour trying to delay delivery until after I return from the US. It would be quite a disappointment if the papers arrive prematurely.

And nearly finally, we are pleased to announce that Susi currently has a bun in the oven! It took far longer than we ever expected, and was much more difficult than people had said. The main problem with baking a monster 18-inch cinnamon-raisin Danish is that it’s almost impossible to shape it so that the dough in the middle cooks fully without the outer edges getting burnt. I told Susi that it would be much easier to make 8 or 10 smaller buns, but she insisted on making this giant “family sized” monstrosity… and to her credit, it’s baking away in there, and so far everything looks good.

And finally finally, we are all very thankful that I could only find 4 or 5 usable mild, inoffensive, relatively uncontroversial phrases for the word euphemism. Likewise, I could only find a similar number of good euphemism’s for being in a delicate condition. All kidding aside, we are expecting little Mortimer or Morticia to wreak havoc on our independent and serene lifestyles this April!!! Really – I’m really saying it now – Susi is pregnant with a child of currently-unknown gender, and is due late April. This is not a test… No crying wolf here… just lots of crying!