Is That How the Brits Spell Toilet?

QUOTE of the blog:

Yesterday I sent out a text to a few members of our British staff asking if they could take a pounds check (meaning a UK check for reimbursements); however, I didn’t see that I sent the phrase “sounds check” instead of pounds check. Kate thought I wanted her to check the sound in the DJ booth in the auditorium and Rodina couldn’t figure out quite what I meant. I told Rodina I should have written cheque. She wanted to know what a sound cheque was and I told her it meant we were going to reimburse her with verbal payment. Oddly, she declined. Had I used cheque instead of check the spelling mistake of Sounds would have been self-evident.

****

I am back in Oxford, England for just about six weeks. I realized few weeks ago that this is my seventh summer of the last ten I’ve spent in England! That is just crazy. The first three, 2003-2005, were six weeks spent with 45 college students in London (including a week in Paris). The latest times around, 2008-2011, has been for five weeks with 140 junior high students (grades 8-9). Coming back to England always brings back memories of summers prior and some of my favorite stories.

Today, walking down St. Aldate’s I saw this sign (indicating the space is for rent) and had to take a picture. It reminded me of a summer with the college students. We had one girl who was, well, not the quickest. We’d been in London for at least three weeks and she and a group of guys were walking down the street. She looked at one of the “To Let” signs (which are all over London) and said, “I’ve been wondering, ‘Why don’t the British spell toilet with an I?” The boys burst out laughing and managed to convince her for at a couple minutes that it was actually the French spelling and pronunciation of the word Toilette. I wish London had that many public toilets!

It’s funny what a differences phrases and spelling make. My first year I asked some staff of the dining hall where I might find some silverware and received puzzled looks. It wasn’t until I used the terms knife and fork that they realized what I really meant was “cutlery.” It wasn’t until later that I realized they probably thought I was referring to the extensive collection of Renaissance silver owned by Corpus Christi.

Just a few summers ago our staff and admin team were having drinks in the back garden (before the students arrived). One of our deans held out her wine glass to our drama teacher and mixed up the British phrase (top up: to fill up or top off) and said, “Simon, will you give me a touch up?” Simon stopped for a moment and said, “I don’t think I will.” Realizing what she said she turned bright red and we all had a good laugh.

Every summer abroad yields fantastic stories. I can't wait for this year. Our kids just arrived last Friday and so far everything is going smoothly (with the exception of one broken window pane). Nothing quite as exciting (yet) as my first summer here when our program was in Oriel and Corpus Christi and, on their first night, students sat down to eat in the Oriel dining hall - imagine a small version of the Harry Potter dining hall and you've got it. They were chatting and getting to know each other when, all of a sudden, a DEAD BIRD plummeted from the 50 foot ceilings and landed in the middle of the table with its little feet up in the air. It took about 3 seconds of shock before the students started screaming. The staff whisked the poor thing away a moment later. I had hoped that they would have been serving Cornish hen or some other small bird for dinner but alas, the comedy ended there. Well, actually not quite, as the Studio Art teacher asked if she could have it to draw and finished out her dinner with the small thing wrapped in napkins near her feet.

For a few other favorite study abroad stories see the March 2010 blog entry titled Loch Ness and Pumas (famous mythical creatures).

We Love Whales!

Quote of the blog:

My mom to a runner on the sidewalk (many years ago) as she drove by: “Run Sucker! Run!!”

***

Years ago, when I was in junior high and my brother Ty was in high school. My parents drove us up to Salt Lake City. We were going to pick up my sister and do some shopping. As we drove through the city we stopped at a red light and waited to make a right on South Temple to State Street. There was a gap in the pedestrians and my dad started to turn as a group of people started across the street. Most of them were on the heavy side but the couple at the front of the pack was, well, corpulent. As they walked closer to the car my Dad slowed slowed and then rolled down his window and yelled, “We love Whales! We love Whales!”

Ty and I, in dismayed horror, actually dove for the floorboards. My mom gasped and hit my dad on the arm. If I didn’t hiss, “drive! drive!” I certainly thought it. Other pedestrians looked at my dad and then the couple – who looked at my dad and smiled and waved.

We were mortified. My dad explained himself:

The evening before he had been in Salt Lake on business. As he drove out of Salt Lake towards 6^th to get on the freeway home he stopped at a Maverick gas station to fill up. As he finished a cute couple walking by stopped to ask him for directions. “Excuse me. Can you help us? We’re trying to find Zickmees.”

My dad said: “Sorry, you’re trying to find what?”

The couple: “Zickmees. The World Famous Store in Salt Lake City.”

My dad: “Zickmees?”

The couple: “Yes, Zickmees.”

My dad couldn’t figure out what they could be talking about so he asked them to spell it out. Using a napkin from his car they wrote out the name and handed it to my dad. When he saw it he started laughing. On the paper was written Z.C.M.I. pronounced: Z.C.M.I. The store was founded in 1868 by Brigham Young and was one of the first department stores in the United States (they were sold to Macy’s and Dillard’s in the late 90’s).

The couple was from Europe and my dad told them how he and my mom had lived in England and traveled around etc. He had even visited beaches near their hometown and talked about how lovely it was. They talked for at just about five minutes and my dad gave them directions to Z.C.M.I. and they walked on their way and my dad drove away on his.

The next day, when we turned the corner in downtown Salt Lake, my dad recognized the couple in the front of the tourist group as the couple looking for Zickmees the night before. He rolled down his window, and shouted out something they had in common – a love for their home country, “We love Wales! We love Wales!”

Judgment Day! Party Time!

Quote of the blog:

Text from Kayla to Brook. May 22nd, 2011 (one day after Judgment Day was predicted to happen):

Kayla: Looks like we're still here after the Rapture. I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow.

Brook: Sorry for the delayed response. It takes a while for texts to arrive from heaven.

******

We've been talking about the upcoming Judgment and the Rapture in the office for the last few weeks. We talked about the process of deciding on May 22nd as Judgment Day (I like to imagine there was an abacus involved), how the general public was reacting (not really), the posters (all over the subway), family radio (who knew there was such a following), and how and if Camping would respond Sunday (he hasn't yet). I found it all fascinating - unlike a lot of people, including Ty: "I find the whole thing quite boring."

There are just so many weird and intriguing aspects. Did you know that there are services where you can pay a company to rescue your pet after you've been Raptured? The company pays non-believers money to take care of the soulless animals left behind. I wonder how those interviews go and how one takes the implications of being hired: "Well, we figure you're going to be left behind anyway...do you mind looking after Fido?"

I had read the news and seen the Judgment Day! posters on the subway but hadn't seen any actual Believers until Friday the 13th. And they were out in force.

It was Friday, I was leaving for Boston with friends in just a few hours, and my coworker Talia and I had just left Magnolia's bakery - where we had picked up some Banana Pudding. We laughed and chatted the whole time, I was in a great mood.

On our way back to the office we passed a group of 15 or so people. They were clad in green shirts that read "Judgment Day! May 21st!" and held signs proclaiming the end of the world. Well, remember in Wayne's World how they say, "Party Time! Excellent!" Keep that tone and inflection in mind for the next bit. As we walked passed the group of people I thought, in the Wayne's World inflection and enthusiasm, "Judgment Daaaay! Party Tiiiiime!" It was about halfway through - when some of the group turned - that I realized I was using my outside voice (and not the library outside voice variety). I thought Talia was going to die - but wasn't sure if embarrassment or amusement would be the primary cause. She looked shocked but was laughing. She couldn't believe I had said it -and I couldn't either!

It was a catch phrase in the office all last week and I think I blushed every time.

As the predicted Judgment Day approached, I knew one thing for certain, after that experience I'd be a prime hire for that post-rapture pet-rescue company.

The Dog Thief

Quote of the blog –

My Aunt visited New York last weekend with her friend. We met up for dinner and a trip to see Jersey Boys on Broadway. I had heard great things about the musical but was surprised (and then not surprised considering the name) at how much swearing there was. I squirmed a few times hoping I hadn’t given my Aunt reason to question my taste. During intermission she turned to me and said, “The acting and singing are phenomenal! But you know, they could do with a few less F* words. I’m surprised they swear so much. Do they really need to say – and here she quoted a few choice phrases from the play- “That bleep, bleep, bleepity, bleeps, and bleeped, bleepity, bleep?” Then she shrugged. “Seems unnecessary to me.”

****

During dinner with my aunt last week we retold one of my all-time favorite recent family stories about her daughter Shanda Lear who is a bonds woman. I’m not joking, about the name or the job. She runs a pawnshop called Shanda’s Pawn & Bond in a small town in Missouri. I’ve kind of always been in awe of Shanda. I remember going out to MO for a family reunion when I was eight. Shanda drove a couple of my sisters, my brother, and me to the lake. She smoked, she swore, and we flew over the hilly roads to the lake blaring Joyride by Roxette (thank you Sweden) at volumes I’d never heard.

Shanda has some of the best stories. Maybe ever. Most of them are about the bail bond business, but last time we were there she told us a different kind of story. It began when Shanda and her boyfriend Phil bought a little Maltese puppy for Shanda's daughter. One quick note about Phil – the first thing I noticed was the tattoos. They’re all over his muscular arms and body. The most recent edition is a sizeable five-pointed red star on the side of his shaved head. One star-point runs longer than the rest down the length of head and stops in a sharp point at the edge of his eye. He’s intimidating. The second thing I noticed when I met him was that he was working on a painting. He’s a curious cat and, from everything I can tell, is awesome. His soft-spoken disposition is a nice compliment to Shanda’s spitfire personality.

One night, Shanda, Phil, and Sidney, who was nine at the time, had been out with their little Maltese, Angel. They stopped for dinner and left Angel in the car with the windows rolled down a few inches – they didn’t lock the door (they never have). When they came back from dinner the dog was gone. Sidney was distraught and they spent an hour in the parking lot searching for Angel – even though Shanda knew the dog had been stolen.

She put a Lost Dog posting up on Craigslist and offered a reward (the site wouldn't allow her to post that the dog was stolen). She wrote about how sad Sidney was - how she wasn’t sleeping because she had lost her puppy. A woman who bred and sold Maltese responded to the posting a few days later and said she felt so badly for Sidney she would give her a new Maltese puppy for free. So, Sidney got a brand new little puppy that they named Paris.

A few days after the arrival of Paris Shanda got an anonymous call from a woman saying that she knew who had her dog but was worried the thief might find out she had tipped them off. She said the dog had been stolen and gave Shanda an address in Springfield (about 30 miles away).

Well, Shanda planned a stakeout with Phil. They drove to the address and parked down the street a little from the house – prepared to wait all day if necessary. But they didn’t have to wait long. About twenty minutes after they parked a large woman lumbered out of the house and down the steps with Angel in her arms on a cat leash. Shanda started pushing Phil out of the car, “Go! Go get my dog back! I don’t care if you have to make out with her! Go get my dog back!”

Phil told her to stay in the car, got out, and started walking down the street like he had been walking in the neighborhood. When he reached the woman he greeted her and asked, “Do you know where Willie Mays lives?” The woman said that she didn’t know but that the name sounded familiar. Meanwhile, Phil had confirmed the dog was angel (he'd recognize the hair bow and pink painted puppy toenails anywhere). Angel had also recognized Phil. She was wagging her tail and squirming in the woman’s arms. Phil told her how cute her puppy was and asked if she would mind if he held her for a moment.

When the woman passed Angel to Phil he yanked the cat leash out of her hand and ran down the street to the car. Shanda got out of the car and started swearing and yelling at the woman as Phil was yelling, “Get in the car! Drive! Drive” while the woman on her lawn yelled, “Ramone! Ramone!” Shanda pulled down the street just as Ramone, in a wife beater, bolted out of the house and started sprinting down the street after the car as they drove away.

A moment later Shanda got a phone call. It was the informant, “Was that you? Some tattooed man just grabbed your dog and took off! If that wasn’t you, you'll never see that dog again!” The woman lived across the street and had seen the whole thing happen!

After Sidney and Angel were reunited, Shanda called the woman who had given Sidney the other puppy and offered to give it back. The woman told them to just keep her so my aunt inherited a new dog. Shanda and Phil also tracked down the location where the informant worked (via cell phone) and gave her the reward. The last time I saw Angel she was nestled in the crook of Phil’s tattooed arm, a tuft of white hair held up with a blue bow and her paws, with their dainty pink painted nails hanging over his forearm.

A Mini (Cooper) Adventure

Quote of the blog:

At a party last weekend during a deep discussion to determine which brother from Dukes of Hazard had blond hair:

Dave: Brook, you have a smart phone, just look it up.

Ty: Nope, she has a dumb phone, but I can look it up.

Dave: Brook, you do know it’s 2011?

***

One night, a few weeks ago, I thought about my pseudo-love of technology and innovation as I sat, stranded, in my rented Mini Cooper at a bulletproof glass clad gas station in the Bronx.

Forty minutes earlier I had walked to the car-rental near my office in midtown. I was visiting some schools for work up in Westchester County, CT and needed wheels. I had left work later than I had planned and had a two-hour drive in front of me. I wanted to get the car and get on the road. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait very long. This car rental/garage is right by Rockefeller Center and is always busy. There are only three lanes in and three lanes out and very shallow. It’s the kind of garage where they bring cars down in elevators and line them up to be driven out. It’s busy under normal circumstances and that night was no exception.
A worker named Brock welcomed me when I walked in. He got excited when I introduced myself and told me that he’s often called Brook! Small world. I smiled and told him to that I am happy to say that I’ve never been called Brock. His coworkers sniggered.

Brock told me that he could upgrade my car to a Mini Cooper for just a couple dollars a day. I experienced a moment of driver’s lust but hesitated - I didn’t really need an upgrade, and while the increase wasn’t much, it was still company money. Then he told me that the weather forecast said it might snow and that they handle really well in bad weather. Well, if it’s for safety…

A few minutes later Brock pulled up in this gorgeous cream/black topped mini. I won’t lie. I was beaming. My two and half hour drive to CT just got so much better. I almost skipped to the car. I’d never driven one and I was excited. I put my purse in the front window (which was rolled down) and put my bags in the back. We checked the car for dings or scratches. There weren’t any. Brock checked the mileage: 453 miles. She was a brand new. I got in and Brock smiled and patted the top of the like one might tap a police car – you’re ready to go – but I wasn’t. I had to do some rearranging in the car.

Sine the garage is so busy and so small one feels pressure to rush: get in the car, get out of the garage. But I needed to set up the gps, get out my phone, and plug in my iPod adapter (all very important!). Cars pulled behind and around me as I set things up. Finally, I finished with evertything but realized my window was still down. I went to roll it up, but there was no switch on the door. I started to look around for the switch but could feel the eyes of the rental guys on me and the presence of cars waiting to pull out behind me. I flipped a few of the switches on the console, turning on inside lights, etc. and finally just pulled into the night, as if I wanted nothing more than to drive with my window down in the frigid wind.

A few streets later I pulled into the bus lane and searched for the switch. I’d only been in a Mini once before and that was on a double date (my date and I pretzled ourselves, if you imagine it, into the back seat for the short drive. I think the backseats are made for babies and the legless). I tried various buttons until I found the window control at the bottom of the console in front of the gearshift. Sheesh! But I wasn’t discouraged. This little car had pick up and great bass. I was going to love this drive.

At least, that’s what I thought as I followed the GPS directions North on the FDR towards Connecticut. Around 180^th the GPS directed, “Keep Right.” So I kept right and found myself crossing a bridge to the Bronx. Halfway across the GPS politely repeated, “Recalculating route. Recalculating route.” What! I’ve since learned that “keep right” often means, “keep going straight.” I heard “recalculating route” more times than I’d like to admit on that trip. After crossing the bridge I followed the detour directions and found myself in a sketchy-looking neighborhood. I passed a gas station about the same time I noticed that they gave me the car on a quarter of a tank. I pulled in, hit the “Start/Stop Engine” and pulled out the key. Since the car was started when I got in it, this was my first time looking at the key – which didn’t look like a regular key at all. It was simply a round fob with buttons on it for popping the trunk, locking the doors, and setting the alarm. Awesome. I loved this car.

I filled up the car and went in to get my receipt. The clerk slid it through the two-inch gap under the bulletproof glass and I hurried back to the car. There were a few, well, shady-looking people hanging around the station. I got in the car, put the key in, and hit the “Start Engine” button. Only the lights and radio turned on. I sat for a moment, puzzled. I hit the button again and the lights and radio turned off. I took out the key, put it back in. Hit the button. Lights on. Lights off. Lights on. Lights off. I did this three times – thinking maybe I was doing something wrong. I’m glad the man filling his car in front of me was too busy to pay any attention – otherwise he might have thought I was flashing my lights at him. He had one hand on the gas nozzle, one on the hood of the car, and was watching the gallons and $ signs behind him – all while violently rocking his car. I don’t know what he was doing. Maybe he thought he could fill the car with more gas that way.

I tried searching for other switches. It didn’t make sense to me that there would be another one in addition to “Start Engine” but that button wasn’t working for me. I tried holding the button down for three seconds. Five seconds. Hmmm. Then I sat in my car. What was a girl to do? I didn’t really think it prudent to walk up to someone in the neighborhood and say, “I’m sorry, but I wonder if you can help me? I’m stranded in this brand new rented mini…”

I had to smile. My general curiosity has me sneaking copies of my brother’s Wired magazine and looking up “how cell phones” “cloud computing” and “car engines” work on howstuffworks.com. I like cars and their design and the ingenuity of engines. I think many are beautiful. I’ve been to the International Auto Show in NYC and even got Road and Track for over a year. I subscribed to it - unlike Essence (The Black Woman’s Guide to What’s Hot Now!) that I somehow was subscribed to last year. But, I have to admit I got R&T for the pictures. And I enjoyed a moment of irony as I sat at that gas station thinking that I had no idea how to start this car with the tricky switches, fob key, and “Start/Stop Engine” button.

I was going to have to use a lifeline. I pulled out my dumb phone – yes, it has smart phone envy. I thought, “if I had a smart phone I could at least Google the situation.” I called my sister who also has a car with a key-fob-key. Unfortunately for me, fortunately for her, she can turn her car on from inside the house. She was visiting my parents and passed the phone to my dad. He suggested I try stepping on the clutch while hitting the “Start Engine.”

I told him it didn’t have a clutch and imagined what it might look like if NYC rented standard instead of automatics. I think it would be similar to the tour group on Segues I saw in Paris. The guide glided along the sidewalk over curves and weaved in and around and smoothly twirled his Segue around to face his followers. The tour-group was not as graceful. They gripped the handles and the Segues jerked along the sidewalk and over curbs with halting and swaying movements. The looks on the faces ranged from intense concentration to outright fear. Pedestrians, bikers, and drivers all had to avoid the troupe. But the jerky, halting, stop-and-go, reminded me of learning to drive a stick shift.

I told my dad that I didn’t have a clutch and he suggested trying the brake and the start engine button at the same time. VOILA! It totally worked – and I can tell you right now that I don’t think I would have ever thought to try the brake and the button at the same time. I’m just glad that my dumb phone was smart enough to make the call.

An Affair Never Remembered

Quote of the Blog:

Scene: High School, Monday morning

Group of giggling girls run up to me in the hallway -
Girls: Oh my gosh! How was your [first] date this weekend with Sam E??? Tell us about the kissing!
Brook: We didn't kiss.
Girls: He told us you kissed when he dropped you off!
Brook: What!? That never happened!
Girls look skeptical
Brook: No really! He just gave me a hug and then a high five!
[ps. Really]

*****

Scene: Art Show Opening. Upper West Side. Fall '10

My friend Pei had art show opening on the Upper-West side last fall. Quite a few of our friends came to on opening night and at one point during the evening we stood around chit-chatting. Richard said how he had recently returned from Switzerland after a family visit. I told everyone that Richard’s mom was so nice and had sent me a lovely postcard and chocolates two years before. Richard nonchalantly said, “Oh yes. That’s when she thought we were having an affair.”

My jaw dropped.

Everyone gasped. "What! What happened?" This was the first I had heard of it! I turned to Richard, "Yes Richard, tell us more. What are you talking about?”

Backstory:

Two years earlier Richard told me about his mother's love of peanut butter. He spoke of her evolving love - she used to prefer Jif but now she loves Skippy. She used to like chunky but now prefers smooth, etc. I hadn't even met her and we had already bonded. I think peanut butter is one of the best things on earth.

Since Skippy is so hard to get in Switzerland he would buy jars in the city and ship them to her (which is expensive). A few days later I was at Costco with my roommates. We stock up on peanut butter at Costco since it’s so much cheaper than the buying PB in the city (or anywhere else). I picked up an extra set for Richard to take to his mom. I also picked up a box of Reese's Puffs (I don’t know anyone who likes peanut butter and doesn’t like the cereal). The next day I gave them to Richard and told him they were for him to give to his mom. He had a trip planned the next month and he packed them over with him.

A month after he returned I received a beautiful postcard from Richard's mom with a picture of the Swiss Alps and a lovely note thanking me for the peanut butter and “dessert cereal”. She also sent two large packages of delicious gourmet Swiss chocolates. I told Richard that the gifts were far too nice for what I had sent – and was a little upset with him for telling her the gifts were from me. They were supposed to only be from him!

Back at the art show:

I was still standing, floored, as Richard told a part of the story I had never heard. Apparently when he gave his elderly mother the peanut butter and cereal he presented them as a gift from his friend Brook. Not knowing my mutual love of peanut butter (which would have obviously explained the gifts), she decided there was something romantic happening between this “friend” Brook and her son. Well, this new "development" didn't please his mom at all since she had another girl in mind for her son. She vented her frustration (who is this American Brook girl?) with his sister who would then tell Richard. Apparently a few weeks after Richard came back to the states she told her sister that maybe she should make an effort to get to know me - after all, if there was a chance I might become part of the family... (!). I got the postcard and chocolates in the mail a few days later.

Everyone couldn’t stop laughing and I couldn’t get over my shock! He had never mentioned his mother's motives in sending the thank you and chocolates. I think the moral of the story is layered, but maybe one lesson is that I shouldn’t be so nice and the other is that peanut butter is THAT powerful.