A mother’s curse: the horror of the toploader

American washing machines are terrible. Let me count the ways.

1) They are enormous. This means they are invariably located in the basement. If you live in an apartment, standard practice is that there is a laundry room for the whole building (ours is pictured above). Therefore you have to trek up and down from your apartment every time you want to check that they’re free; load them up with washing; move the washing into the dryer; empty the dryer.

Hence, I can never do any washing while A is awake, because repeatedly going up and down two flights of stairs and 50 metres round the back of the building is not a very toddler friendly experience.

2) The water never gets very hot. How hot, I can’t say, because the settings on American washing machines are a vague ‘cold’, ‘warm’, and ‘hot’. Which seems a bit pre-industrial to me, frankly, accustomed as I am to European clothing labels specifying the temperature you should wash an item in degrees celsius. And, of course, to a washing machine dial full of symbols you neither recognise nor understand, and just three cycles that you ever actually use. 

The key point is that the water here is not heated by the machine, but comes off the building water supply, so at its maximum temperature it’s the same temperature as your hot tap. I would guess ours is around 40 celsius. 

Hence, the water is barely hot enough to get food – or worse – out of clothes.

3) Because the voltage is a puny 110 volts (around half the standard voltage in the UK), the spin function is feeble, and clothes come out of the machine much wetter than they would from a British machine. 

Hence, unless you use a dryer the clothes take forever to get dry. And I hate using the dryer for everything. But then I also hate lugging wet clothes back to the apartment, hanging them out next to one of our three radiators (American apartments seem to have fewer, bigger, but less handily clothes drying adapted radiators) and waiting for A to pull them all off the airer onto the floor.

4) Apartment communal machines require an endless supply of quarters to operate, which feels expensive – though it may be no worse than paying your own electricity bill – and is definitely inconvenient.

Hence, we can normally only muster up enough coins for a couple of washes a week.

5) Toploading machines shred your clothes. There’s a pole that comes up the middle, and that stirs the clothes around, kind of (look, I’m not an engineer, there’s a proper explanation on Wikipedia here), amusingly called an ‘agitator’, and it is much tougher on fabric than the tumbling drum on a frontloading machine. As well as less effective at getting them clean. There is a ‘delicates’ setting, as well as a ‘normal’ one and a ‘permanent press’ one. But my impression is that that just shudders politely and briefly in the general direction of the clothes. That’s why it’s over in 10 minutes. Whereas permanent press… permanently locks in creases you didn’t want in the first place?

Hence, A’s clothes start to look terribly shabby even before she outgrows them.

6) Seems they are far less efficient in terms of electricity and water usage too. 

There is a lot of ranting on the internet about how bad American washing machines are. I don’t quite understand why they persist with toploaders that look like they were built in the 50s and have a similar level of performance, but my guess is ignorance that there’s something better out there. After all: who but an out of work expat mother spends much time investigating global washing machine comparisons?

Valentine’s Day: it’s all about the children

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sure it was supposed to be Christmas that was all about the children. Valentine’s Day, surely, is about the following: making single people feel desolate; charging couples a mint to go out for a multi-course dinner where they dare not express any loving emotion lest it feel too forced; allowing stalkers who send anonymous letters to feel socially acceptable for one day of the year. 

It’s not like I’m a fan or anything. But until we moved over here I did, at least, think Valentine’s Day was strictly for grown ups – or at least teenagers – and about the momentous decision of whether to send a card, and if so, to whom? 

Witnessing the Stateside kiddification of V-Day, I decided to borrow a library book to clear things up. Evanston library has a whole bay of books for children on this specific subject. Things to Make and Do for Valentine’s Day explains: ‘on Valentine’s Day we tell people how much we like them’, and suggests ‘make the same card for all your friends!’ Really? This seems to be the convention at any rate: kids make Valentine’s cards – or cookies or cakes.  (Check out the list of child Valentine crafts on this blog for a small sample.) Then they go to school, send everyone in the class a card in a specially orchestrated postal distribution thing, before they all, presumably, collapse in a haze of glitter and pink fizz. (But for a darker view, see here.) If they aren’t old enough for that, they simply dress up in clothes covered in hearts or a red tutu – as witnessed at this morning’s Wiggleworms class. 

In fact, this has gone so far that yesterday Time Out Chicago Kids proposed something of a perfect storm of nausea by requesting that you send a Valentine’s card to a sick child in hospital. Because what could be less meaningful than sending a pre-formatted electronic expression of your love to a child you have never, ever met?

Now, I know I wouldn’t find all this depressing if I weren’t, at heart, both a curmudgeon and a romantic. I’m pretty sure I don’t believe that love is all you need. My faint dislike for pink increases every time I look at clothes for little girls and can find nothing else. But more than that, I like the idea that a Valentine means something: that it expresses a true romantic feeling, a little bit tortured, a little bit dangerous. I don’t want toddlers to feel tortured – least of all, the ones in Lurie Children’s Hospital. I just don’t want to see them playing with those dangerous pink hearts. 

The Superbowl… in food

Everything that I ever posted is now, more or less, a hazy memory. Such has been my neglect of the blog. But I don’t think I ever posted about the Superbowl, despite our friend J’s earnest efforts to explain American football to us back in 2011.

This year we stayed at home Sunday night and concentrated on the TV ads, the singing of the National Anthem (Alicia Keyes at her showiest), and Beyonce ripping off her clothes among fireworks in the halftime spectacle. I didn’t even pretend to follow the game, leaving the room every time the camera focussed on the field.

Then I discovered that there is a totally different, arguably revolting, but inspiringly creative way to enjoy the Superbowl: making your own stadium tableau out of snacks. I did realise that snacking while watching the Superbowl was something of a big deal after every shop I went into for the past couple of weeks had jumbo packs of chilli, tortilla chips, you name it. But I had never heard of this tradition before, so here, dear reader, I present you with a selection of links for your delectation and edification.

Here’s the one that launched me on my voyage of discovery, from Time Out Chicago:

Here’s one from 2011, with the Green Bay Packers’ name piped in sour cream on a ground of cheese dip:

 

One retch-inducingly featuring footballers made out of hot dogs and helmets made out of cheese:

And finally, one from TV chef Mario Batali which, in this context, looks restrained, tasteful and even healthy:

 

Why kiss a baby when you can show them crying?, or: election season US style

I wanted to fill this blog post with video clips of the deluge of negative political TV ads I’ve been watching for the last two months, some of which are intentionally funny, some of which are unintentionally so, and some of which are just distastefully manipulative. But I can’t find them anywhere online – it’s as if they never happened.

On the eve of election day there are finally some positive ads with reasons – policy, character, whatever – that you might cast a vote in someone’s favour. But for months all we’ve had are slurs. Illinois is far from being a swing state in the Presidential race (see this nice New York Times graphic to get a sense of the swing states and the solidly Democrat and Republican ones), so most of the effort is being expended on the Congress race.

What you got, for weeks, was a series of one-minute or thirty-second smears followed, at the end of the ad, by two seconds where a soft-lit image of the sponsoring candidate appeared, saying ‘I’m XX, and I approve this message.’ Or sometimes it’s one of these mysterious PACs like the ‘Now or Never PAC’ or the ‘Freedom Works PAC’.

The flood of negativity seems to have four main streams flowing through it. Tactic one, which surely has the depressing effect of dragging down everyone’s respect for politicians, is to claim that your opponent is self-interested, power-hungry, and enriching him or herself at the taxpayer’s expense. Judy Biggert (Rep) wants pay rises for herself and higher taxes for the middle classes, claims Bill Foster (Dem). Bill Foster is ‘out for himself’, claims Judy Biggert, and wants to pay no taxes himself.

Another tactic, popular in moderate Illinois, is to argue that the Republicans who seem reasonable (such as Bob Dold, who’s pretty moderate) are actually Tea Partiers. A current ad has whistling tea kettles popping up in incongruous settings – the park, a bench, the Lake Michigan shore – to make the point that the Tea Party is out of place here. To do it credit, it’s a) quite funny and b) bothers to include a second half that tells you what the Democrats would do instead – principally, it seems, go around tidying up the tea kettles.

This general approach is also applied to the abortion issue: there’s a crude but effective ad where a clip of Joe Walsh (Rep) saying that there should be no exception to a ban on abortion is replayed a few times and labelled ‘too extreme without exception’. But other ads ramp up the emotion, with women being told that in the worst moment of their lives, if they’re raped, Republicans will accuse them of lying. There was even one full of children crying in a Republican future where services for families were cut.

Finally, you can simply make out that your opponent is downright nasty and mean. This can produce ad and counter-ad. Tammy Duckworth (Dem) accuses her opponent Joe Walsh of skipping out on child support to go on holiday around Europe. Walsh’s son has now released a video telling her to stop attacking their family; but at the same time their campaign is trying to smear Duckworth as corrupt.

I think my favourite, though, is the anti-Bill Foster ad which plays out like A Christmas Carol. Bill Foster, it says, once sacked some people at Christmas. Worse: he outsourced work to China! (The fact that China has the temerity to grow its economy as large as America’s is seen as an act of pure evil over here.) But no, no, actually even worse: he let some Illinois jobs go to… Wisconsin!

And there you have it. Crying kids, Christmas, kettles on the beach. Choose wisely.

Adventures with a baby 3: Halloween

What do a pirate, a monkey, a giraffe, a ladybird, a peacock, Micky and Minnie Mouse and a lobster have in common?

That’s right. They are not remotely scary.

Here is how two innocent Brits managed to misunderstand American Halloween conventions and terrify a room full of babies and toddlers:

Baby A looked pretty terrifying, I think you’ll agree, even before she threw toy eggshells around like so many corpses and started brandishing a warlike tambourine. Before we knew it she had reduced three children to tears. Or, as I should say, taking on the mantra of ‘blame the parents not the child’, we had reduced three children to tears by applying green face paint, dyeing a babygro and socks a fetching shade of green, attaching goblin ears to a hairband and fashioning a jerkin from a bin liner. The effect is, I’m sure you’ll agree, intensely amateur. And here again we failed: looking around it was clear that you are supposed to buy a costume. Unless you can achieve something a little more impressive with your own sewing (or in our case, mainly stapling) skills.

I should say, in mitigation of a room full of American babies, that there was a spider, and a very scary one-eyed blue monster. There was also a Harry Potter. But clearly the main point is not to be scary – it is to dress up, and to dress up for days on end.

This party was held on Sunday. I assumed this was because Halloween falls on a Wednesday this year and a weekend party allowed everyone to switch their celebrations to the weekend. But NO. It just allows for the costume opportunities to proliferate. We should be dressing baby A up again today to just – hang out. Or to go to Halloween storytime at the library; or the Fairy Tale Trail at the Woman’s Center of Evanston, which is advertised as both ‘non-frightening’ and an opportunity to get more wear out of your costume. The talk at baby groups for weeks has been of nothing but Halloween outfits (hot baby trends 2012: lions and Superman), how to get a good photograph of your child in costume, and whether matching mother and baby outfits are too much. How could they be?

In other news, the houses are just as splendidly decorated as they were two years ago when I last posted. There is a terrifying place up the street with glowing skulls and a blood spattered butcher skeleton hanging in the doorway, but I forgot to photograph it after dark. So the winner this year must be a house on Noyes Street with more inflatables than I could count, including this Dracula in a coffin, with a motion sensor that makes it open when you pass by.

And finally, I must share this gem of American insanity. Dentists are buying back Halloween candy that children have acquired while out trick or treating – to send to the troops overseas.

Signs

Look at the picture above. We have a street corner in suburban Evanston. There are three trees along one side of the road, some bushes, a bit of grass, a drinking fountain, two benches and a boulder with some kind of plaque affixed.

Would you say this amounted to a park?

Well, there is no need to ponder this any further, because if you look even more closely – no, let me help you, here is another image -

…there is a helpful sign on which you may make out the words ‘Harper Garden Park’. You are now in no doubt as to the status of this greenish corner.

Over-signage is an American affliction, it seems to me, and one that sits ill with the vague, muddy, well-I’m-not-sure shiftiness of the British worldview.

You can have signs that tell you what to do: for many months I found the ubiquitous ‘pay to park’ sign amusing for reasons that even I couldn’t entirely articulate. (Something to do with it looking like an advertisement of a thrilling opportunity for consumer spending.) Still, it brightened my day.

And some injunctions are quite a bit stranger (if sound):

But the ones I like best are the simply descriptive. The endless naming of every half acre of green space…

The inadvertent display of the national oil enthusiasm in the guise of a warning…

And the alarm caused by any deviation from the grid system.

 

(Thanks to my mother-in-law whose visit last year gave me the idea for this post.)

The expat visit home

We are not long back from another visit home to the motherland, and I’m starting to realise that the expat home visit has its own peculiar rules and conventions.

First, there’s the question of whom you visit. Family is inevitably first on the list, but then: which family? In which order? And for how long? How many people are you obliged to see if you are only making it over once a year? And if you miss someone out, are you sending out the message that you don’t care if you never see them again?

There’s a Platonic ideal visit out there that goes as follows. You see everyone you care about. You take things at a leisurely pace. You don’t stay long enough with anyone to feel that a) you’re treating them like a hotel or b) your homicide conviction is imminent. I am starting to realise that I cannot manage more than 24 hours in the company of my father before I swear NEVER EVER to stay with him again, and yet a year later I find myself claiming that I can’t wait to do it.

So anyway, once our various parents, siblings, cousins and aunts have been ticked off, there is barely any time to see our scattered friends. We used to resort to the hold-court-in-a-pub model, where you just invite everyone you know for an afternoon or evening and be damned if they don’t all get along or the time or venue doesn’t suit them. But it always feels rude, and with a baby (and, often, their babies) it’s much less practical.

Then there should be the opportunity to do all the things we miss. Eat sausages and custard: tick. Replenish the Ribena and hobnob supplies: tick. Go shopping for baby clothes in British baby shops: tick. Read the Guardian in paper form. Have a cream tea. Drink proper beer and cider in proper pubs. Baa at some sheep. Watch the Great British Bake Off. We made it to the seaside and a medieval church, briefly. I had plans to shop for clothes for myself and go to Tate Britain, but they fell victim to baby exhaustion.

But the funniest thing was our last Sunday, when baby A was surrounded by four adoring adults (in addition to her parents) all lining up to push her at the swings, give her rides on their shoulders, show her the ducks and admire her stumbling near-walking. The intensity of cramming so much affection into such a short time was palpable. It was raining, and we were the only people in the playground.