the death of iPAQy

Oh, christ on a cracker. Yesterday while rocking out and polishing my mom's hardwood floor, I smooshed my pda. ACK! I aparently have butt bones of steel, because this is not the first time I've run around cleaning with it shoved in my back pocket but it is the first time that my butt has broken an LCD screen. My personal geek says he can probably get a replacement screen on ebay... so it's not the end of the world.
But geez, if this country is welcoming me a little coldly; First, my computer stopped holding a charge and tried to light itself on fire, so I bought a cute little Acer with tons of ram and all that yummy goodness, but guess what? Vista takes up so much fawking memory that it nullifies the extra gig and makes me feel like I'm trapped in 1993 with 256mhz and a DOS prompt. Hmmph! Seriously, it takes 5 minutes to start up. 5 MINUTES.

*bangs head against wall*

Luckily, the selling price of my dying beloved lappy - the sale price of crappier, but pretty! lappy= happy bank account.

Then, all (ALL) of my flip flops broke. Now, I realize this should strike me as trivial, but I now live in California where a sweatshirt and flipflops is perfect winter attire. Plus, we're approaching fall and so, there are no good flippies to buy, unless you're looking for sparkly wedges. Which I'm not.

Now, the damn pda. Lord, I need to get a job to pay for the damages incurred in moving back. There is, thankfully, some light in my rather dark tunnel; new car = awesome! Loving the Nissan Altima. Also, knitting. Am now knee deep in requests for knit goods... pictures still forthcoming, um, next time.

love you all! Monika, I miss you and our crappucinos in cegled!

9am pálinka never seemed so deserved

Being a Cali-kid I never really experienced thunderstorms and lightning. Nor for that matter did I ever really experience rain out of season, which in California is late fall - winter; it just does not rain in warm weather, what with being a desert and all.

Which is how I found myself sitting on the balcony last night at 11pm watching the most amazing lightning/thunder combo ever. Even when hail the size of gobstoppers began pelting my forearms and head, I could not quit the storm. It is simply amazing to my virgin eyes; I realized I would be able to withstand the disgusting humidity if the lightning is this spectacular.

I may, however, not be able to withstand the serious emotional roller coaster everyone seems signed on for when the humidity reaches its peak: everyone, in my extended family at least, gets all snappy and short the hotter and wetter it gets. Something done in an act of kindness is twisted and thrown in your face or you're schooled like a child for arbitrary allowances.

Or both.

It started on Friday, I guess, when Zoli and I purchased a present for Julia. We thought nothing of it, I mean GAWD, the kid has to wait eternities for things because we're never sure which country we'll be in and whether we should buy something here or there. Apparently, the MIL thought it an extreme waste of money and rather than tell this to Zoli, she waited until we were alone together to throw it in my face the fact that we have "so much money to waste." Her words, translated of course, not mine. Yes, we have money. We worked really hard: first at saving the damn stuff by not buying anything save essentials, and secondly at making it last. Again, by only buying essentials.*

But I digress.

Add to the fact that I cannot really respond besides shrugging my shoulders and harrumphing. Add to that his aunt and sister telling me that I'm not teaching my daughter how to write properly because she writes her /s/ and /j/, /4/ and /5/ backwards. I tried to reason that at 5 it doesn't matter that her letters are often confused, the important thing is that is resembles the character it is meant to denote. But they weren't buying it, they began to argue with me over how stupid my kid would turn out if I didn't stop and tell her she's "doing it wrong."

Ah, yes so wisdomous I could cry. I did.

*I read somewhere that the average couple (average salary, average expenses, minimal debt) is able to save around 11,000 dollars a year. We saved close to thirty. That is some hard shit to do, let me tell you.

The saga continues

Julia's still sick. She suffers from a terrible case of gastroenteritis and yesterday morning her pediatrician said that if she couldn't drink 500ml of electrolyte water by 10 am, she would have to go to the hospital for hydration therapy. She couldn't and so off we went. We arrived at the hospital with a languishing 5 year old and the children's ward doctor said, "If she doesn't get a temporary Hungarian social number, he would charge us 300,000 forints (~$1,600.) for a liter of fluid and a bed for the day. He told us to go to the social security office and request an emergency number, so we went.

The office was busy and we waited patiently for an available window. When they finally helped us, we were told there is no such temporary card, but if we paid a half year up front (140,000 Ft. or $700) she would be issued a card, but just one moment while they call the director to speak with us. Zoli drives home to get the cash to pay the fee and we stay. The director comes out, starts speaking to me, asking for her passport. I hand it over and then she asks me what nationality she is, although in her hand is not only a passport, but 3 Hungarian documents all of which read "amerikai." She wants to know whether I have a job and then why I don't have a job. We fill out the paperwork and Zoli returns. Julia is half passed out on my lap, moaning the entire time. When we're about to pay, when the director, as an aside mentions that the benefits won't go into effect until June 1st. We ask about today: it's an emergency, we say, she has an admittance form stating that she needs hydration therapy. Sorry, the director says and turns to speak with the guard.

We flee. Zoli tries to call the pediatrician, then the pharmacy (which his wife owns) when he doesn't pick up; he explains the situation and asks if it is in fact an emergency because while we can technically pay the outrageous hospital fee, we would rather call the private hospital if we have time. Our tale pisses off the doctor to no end. He says that while it is strongly recommended, Julia can wait and he will see what he can do. In the meantime, just make her drink as much of anything as humanly possible.

An hour later he calls back; not only has he called the hospital director and had words, but he called the Health Ministry and filed a complaint. (Apparently you can legally deny healthcare to a adult foreigner, but NOT A CHILD.) He said that he would place the iv himself in our home and that he would be by that evening with his son (who is also a doctor).

They placed the iv*, gave us instructions, and told us to take turns sleeping while the other sat up making sure she didn't accidentally tear it out nor that the bag emptied. It was a long night. She's a completely different person today: still sick but she no longer appears to be knocking on death's door.

The funny (sad not haha) thing is that Zoli's sister is a director for the retirement branch of social security and after hearing our tale said that there while there is no such thing as a temporary card, there absolutely IS emergency activation. She was going to call this morning and have words with the director. Can't wait to hear that story.

(*OMG! can that kid scream when confronted with a needle!)

an appeal

I've thrown myself into all things superficial these last couple of weeks. I've gone shopping, I've gone to lunch, I've finished a bunch of knitting projects, and I've watched a lot of Scrubs. You see, I'm avoiding thinking about a decision that I have no say in. It will essentially decide my future and to tell the truth, I'm frightened. I hate not being in control of my will, and I absolutely hate that a bureaucrat will approve or deny my petition, based on superficial words on a page. A random stranger will pass judgment on my husband and decide whether worthy of citizenship or not.
I volley back and forth whether I even want to return home. I could easily make my life in either place, but I want to be able to go home, all of us, to visit. So, a plea:

Dear Heavenly Father/ Allah/ Thor/ Goddess of The Eastern Light/ Whatever Your Name Might Actually Be:

I bow before You humbly to honor Thee. Although I've no idea why you would appear to men long ago, but now during the darkest of times when man has turned against man in a fight impossible to resolve; I mean, come on. A system of beliefs is invisible and is based upon faith. Faith in Thee, who is also invisible. And yet men slaughter each other in one of Thy names, accusing one another of slander, heresy, and immorality. Why do they not respond in Thy image? Were we not created in His likeness? Should we not be compassionate and respect each other despite our differences? Did I misinterpret Thy Will as recorded by men?

I did not beseech Thee listen to complain. Maybe You believe we mortals capable and thus have not abandoned us to our fate, but rather as a concerned parent allows their child to make mistakes in order to learn life's valuable lesson. In that case I ask Thee to assist with our pending immigration. I do not want Thee to magically take of everything, but if you could just give Mr. Adjudicator an extra dose of Love and Compassion when deciding our case I would forever exalt Thy Greatness by living compassionately.

In Thy Name,
5penny

(And if ya'll don't mind crossing your fingers or doing that thing you do when invoking luck, I'd really appreciate it.)
(More knitting pics soon.)

5penny and the terrible horrible no good very bad day

I haven't suffered much tragedy in my life, sure there have been hard times, but very few instances of actual why God? type tragedy. There is, however, a day I would consider The Worst Day of My Life.

It all started out normal enough. I was living in this super tiny (think the size of your kitchen) studio cabin in the mountains, it was my haven. Sure there was no indoor plumbing save for the kitchen sink, but an outhouse is a small price to pay for the view from my outdoor shower. Yes, I said outdoor shower. It was magnificent, there is no comparable experience to showering while snow falls around you. While not a very good picture, it is the actual view from the mountain where I lived. (courtesy of Nicole Holmquist)
Despite awakening to this beauty, February 14, 1998 was anything but a beautiful day. I started out on a walk with my dog, Shiloh. We were headed to a very secret meadow, my thinking spot. As we walked along the bank of the canal, I let my mind drift as my body continued on autopilot. I may have also been talking to my dog, she was a hyper boxer and seemed not to walk so much as bounce. Bounce, bounce-bounce, splash! She had bounced herself right into the ice cold canal and was quickly been swept downstream with the current. Pulling myself out of my reverie, I sprinted downstream, passed her, bellyflopped onto the hard ground and extended my upper body into the ice cold water and scooped her out. I zipped her into my jacket so we would retain some body heat and headed home. Of course, the fire was out. I got it going and we cuddled in my sleeping bag until normal temperatures were restored.

I was supposed to visit my parents later that day and so I packed my dirty laundry an overnight bag and we got into my p.o.s. orange Volkswagen bug. It wouldn't start. No problem, I told myself, I live on a hill so I'll just pop the clutch on my way down and all will be well. Or so I thought. The blonde in me had different plans. She thought it would be hysterical if I forgot to turn the ignition key on. Fucking hysterical. At the bottom of the hill, no running engine, no problem, I decided to a) turn on the damn ignition, and b) push the damn car until I got enough momentum to pop the clutch.

Which, obviously as this is my story, did not work.

After an hour or so of pushing, I gave up. I walked back up to my cabin in paradise and made a sandwich. A couple hours later, I went down to inspect the orange nightmare and thought, hehe, I'll just try to turn it over and see what happens: the car started. Of it's own volition. I whistled for the dog and we were off.

The drive to my parents took about 45 minutes of foothill driving through the barren nothingness. Golden grasses and rolling hills. Coming down the last big hill, I slipped the gear clutch into neutral and coasted (which is totally illegal in California, so I, of course, didn't really *wink*). It was the only way my orange p.o.s. would hit 65mph. Nearing the bottom of the hill I heard a clunk and looked out the driver's window just in time to see my rear tire pass me, roll off the highway, jump the bridge, and land in the middle of the creek. I amazingly kept the car from losing control and by the grace of a higher power, maneuvered it onto the shoulder where I did not turn the engine off, in case it would not start. (You know, cause tires that fall off can be easily reattached without the need for specials tools or parts. Geez, what an idiot.) The car behind me pulled over as well, stunned that I hadn't gone off the bridge and offered to let me use their cell phone (in 1998! how lucky was I) to call for help. A tow truck was dispatched and while I waited for it to tow my sorry ass to my parents, I took my second river bath that day.

By this point I could not believe the day I was having and immediately upon arriving started relaying my craptastic day to my dad. He was somber and not very interested and didn't once laugh at me. Something was wrong. My father would never purposely pass up an opportunity to laugh at my pain.

When I had finished my "can you believe this crap?" story, my father said the oddest thing. "Well, no matter how shitty your day, it's definitely better than Uncle Ted's."
"Whaa? What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"You know about Ted, doncha? Oh.", he sighed.
Loooong silence.
"Of course you don't. You don't have a damn phone, how would you know. Um, your uncle was involved in a fatal farming accident this morning. He's dead."

Ever have a day like that? Tell me about it.

closing the divide

Yesterday just happened to be International Women's Day, which in the U.S. means conversations regarding sexism and the how's and why's, etcetera are sparked. I definitely do not want to beat a dead sheep repeating thoughts, ideals that are better said by someone who believes them. Why? Because I don't enjoy pointing out the differences between anyone let alone men and women. It's obvious we're different. And it bothers me that all we can do is state the obvious. You and I are both women and yet we are not the same. I am a domestic goddess, you may be a corporate goddess, I don't know.

I do know however, that by lending ourselves to a fight which is pointless and painful and in which we seek to prove that we are not different only showcases that difference. You cannot disprove fact. You just can't.

My point of view may be refuted based on case studies of income discrepancies, inequalities, whatever, but I don't really care. I believe in women's rights, hell, I believe in men's rights too because I believe in human rights. Most of us with the time and resources to blog and read blogs and wax poetic on the injustices of the modern world have been blessed with privilege. The privilege of living in the free world, the world of excess, of opportunity. Therefore, we have the privilege of time to rant about the perceived inequalities among us. Because we don't have to worry about where our next meal will come from.

It seems that as long as we point out how we're perceived differently or paid differently we are hindering ourselves from narrowing the divide. We should instead celebrate diversity, that we aren't all cut from the same pattern and just enjoy our lives, differences and all.

blogger is trying to kill me

I hate blogger.

Does anyone know why I haven't been able to upload a single picture, any which way, in more than 3 days? I just keep getting an error message.

*grumbles around house kicking and generally throwing quite the tantrum*

wah.

it's like a hug

While the holiday season ended up being easier and less stressful than I anticipated, it was lonely still. It's a hard concept for me to wrap my mind around, this, this homesickness, when I've spent the last 12 years running as far away as humanly possible. I had to see the world and not get stuck there. Until Julia came along, I only went home when I had to. And now, because I physically can't be anywhere near them, I long to be there.

It did not help that I've only met one person who has become a friend here (Hi! Monika).

It does not help that my life is in transition, always coming and going, back and forth. This is life as an international family: time here, time there, but when is it time for us? (Not that I would change it, it's just harder)

So, I've avoided this place for awhile now because I'm not sure who I should be here. Which mask should I don as I've felt so incredibly raw and vulnerable and unable to commit to virtual paper, my innermost fears. I called it "vacation" but really I was just afraid to tell you all what's going on inside here: I'm blue. That winter and darkness are conspiring against me. That I rarely leave my apartment. That I'm afraid I'm not a good mother. But then I read your pages and realize that I am just me, so similar to the me we all inhabit. Similar fears stain our hands, similar joys wash them clean.

During this journey (although it feels more like standing still than moving) I've made some amazing connections through this platform; I never imagined how supportive and friendly you would be. Or how excited I could get to be given the privilege of sharing in your lives. When I'm blue and can't find the words to describe my pain, I hang out with you guys, reading through your archives, remembering I'm not alone.

beware the ignorance, it is contagious

This is an open letter to Kindermusik:

What's with all the Kindermusik love? Why the promotion of poor spelling?

Now I'm aware that you'll probably sue me for copyright infringement and to this I have but one thought: Bring It On, if you can spread ignorance like a fucking communicable disease then I'll happily take one for the team. Of edumacated parents, that is.

Why all the hate, you ask? Well... I think you remember my not-so-nice email that I sent you to which you've never responded. It was in this email that I pointed out a false statement in one of your alphabet books: namely that there IS, in fact, an animal that begins with X. Exhibit A showcases the 'X' page of your book Awesome Animals ABC, it states that "X is for x-ing/ No animal starts with the letter 'X.'/But you've all seen animals x-ing, I'll bet."

X-ING? Is that kindergarten slang for crossing? Will my child automatically intuit what in the hell x-ing means? Is it a good idea to erase any doubt that an animal might begin with the letter x? Like, say, maybe the South American bird xenops?
Ooopsy, my bad, it just that we also have this book which clearly marks Xenops as both an animal and beginning with X. This is Animals AtoZ by David McPhail.

As we all can see, there is in fact a "X" animal; why can't we all just do a little fact check before printing blatant lies? I realize that I am culpable of posting whatever I feel like, fact checking aside, but I Am Not An Author Nor Am I A Publishing House. I am merely an invisible blogger (gah) and a concerned parent.

Expecting a reprint within the year,
5penny

P.s. My 4 year old daughter refuses to read this book because she knows it's lying (and lying is BAD!), despite her undying LOVE for Noodles From Scratch.

The meaning of home

I always thought the generic house we all drew as children was some inherent, life-has-one-door-and-two-windows, a-chimney-and-an-attic typo in our artistic renderings of life. Similar to the stick figure representation of people. Today, if prompted to draw a house, I will infallibly revert to my inner 5 year old and whip out an exact replica of that model and even worse, I will feel compelled to add an apple tree with an owl hole. I've never even seen an owl in real life.

I thought it would be interesting to see how the children would draw "home". In hungarian, when speaking of "your house" you say otthonod or "your home". Not apartment, not house, but rather, home. I like that. But even here, in Hungary, where 2/3* of the population live in communist housing like this:

The children in Jules' class all draw the aforementioned house when asked to draw their homes. Except of course, my George. You knew there had to be a catch, right. She apparently, has changed her mind as to what "home" is: last year it was the requisite house despite never having lived in a house and now it is the sweetest representation of the crazy-14-billion-people-could-totally-fit-if-only-all-our-apartments-were-stacked- on-top-of-each-other, "personal space is for pussies"** type propaganda that has everyone (still!) living, sleeping, and eating in 3 rooms.

But I digress, the point was supposed to be the entertaining rendering of home as perceived by George.


She would make a great pr person for the communist propaganda. "But look, beds in the staircase, beds in the kitchen, beds fit ANYWHERE. The cold is for pussies, y'all. And look how many people fit in each apartment. You only need to eat and sleep there; whaddya need privacy for? You got a front door, close it."

I love that despite the apartment building as "home" (which is an accurate representation of where we live, except for the beds in the hallway.) we still have a kick ass apple tree with an owl hole. And not one attic window, but nine. Nine, read 'em and weep. How many you got?


*I totally made up that statistic, by the way. I have no idea what percentage of the population reside in apartments. Furthermore, I can't be bothered to do more than generalize. But believe me when I say these are everywhere.
**I doubt Stalin's campaign was ever quoted as sayin personal space is for pussies, but I did watch a very convincing propagandist documentary, Budapest Retro regarding this living arrangement. Something about how convenient it is to hang your chairs on the wall because you need to unfold your couch to sleep in your living/dining/bedroom. I understand the theory behind Ikea ever so much better.

Ambivalence is the new Happy

What is wrong with me? Let's check out the contradictions happening over at 5penny's place:

- I don't love living here but, I enjoy living here.
- I don't particularly like parenting but, I love being "Mommy."
- I hate excercising but, I love the results.

I was sure there were more... I'm sure they'll come back to me. However, it would seem that I'm not the only one having a hard time lately. Everywhere I go, virtually anyway, it seems that ambivalence is the autumn happy.

Julia and I have going round and round lately and it's left me too exhausted to give a rat's ass, quite frankly, about life. She's on the cusp of turning 5 and in her heart she's an adult. She wants the same rights as her parents, she wants to be able to talk back in smart-ass tones of condescension, and she wants to mimic us until we physically want to clamp hands over her mouth and never let her speak again.

I actually freaked out yesterday morning, screaming at both husband and child, "why do I always feel at fault; why do you like to make me feel like crap?" And then I immediately started crying. This was over two things: 1. who's at fault for not replenishing the onions (obviously, me) and 2. trying to get Julia to leave her folded bedclothes folded (impossible). A rational person, I was not.

I realized however, that my daughter is playing me like the fool that I am. She's seeking boundaries and I was negotiating them. She works best in a black and white world, where behavior has consequences. She takes advantage of warnings, pushing buttons until you're ready to hit her... She's a kid, she's exploring her world and I just need to be a more consistent part.

I had been courting her; I will be the first to admit my feelings had been hurt and so, I was trying to be her friend. You see, she loves Daddy. He is first and she will cry if she gets stuck with me. It hurts. I know that it's not intentional but, my emotions do not. So, I thought that if I were more enjoyable on a play with me, friendly level than the favoritism would lessen.

Instead, it grew.

Yesterday, Zoli suggested that maybe I stop The Friend Thing and instead hold fast and firm in the discipline/actions have consequences areas. By bedtime things had improved drastically. Phew. He also told Julia that Mommy was off-limits yesterday until she apologized for her behavior: I wasn't allowed to help her, i.e. make breakfast, help her get dressed, etc. She woke up and played in her room, she needed help to find something and Zoli told her she'd have to find it by herself. She got dressed, brushed her teeth, and was generally cool with the Mommy's Not Helping Thing... until she realized she was hungry and can't reach the cupboards. She then gave me a hug and said, "I love you Mommy," and then whispered, "but not a lot."

Awesome. *bangs head against wall, repeatedly*

duh, Mom. Like, Oh. My. God.

My respect for my mother has increased ten-fold. She tells me how similar Julia is to myself as a child, that gentle was just impossible as was calm. She says that, in our family, at least, girl-children are bitchy mean towards their Mommies.

Is this true for anyone else?

all(or none?)recipes rant

To the Powers that Be at Online Recipe Database:

Since when is a recipe that calls for 1 bottle Italian dressing or 1 bottle favorite BBQ sauce, a fucking recipe? (If you clicked through, you feel my ire, yes?) Or, for that matter, one that calls for 3 cans refrigerated biscuit dough.... These are not recipes, but rather Items Which Can be Purchased at the Local Grocery; they are the manufacturer's recipe, which I don't believe they care to share publicly. (By the way, monkey bread I is fantastic.)

Just so we're on the same page, yeah, because as I know it a recipe is comprised of ingredients, i.e. 2 C flour, 1 tsp. salt, 1 T Honey, 2 tsp yeast; they are items that are not necessarily edible in and of themselves. Rather, they require work and complementary ingredients to be transformed into food. I turned to your pages in hopes of a recipe which I can *make from scratch*. A bottle of my fav. BBQ sauce can hardly be considered scratch.

Don't get me wrong, before you f'd up the user compatibility by "changing the face", I frequented your site often; I believe there are a lot of excellent recipes waiting to be found. Unfortunately, they seem to be hiding out behind those that call for readily available items.

You should know that I spend obscene amounts of time planning my meals and your site is one that assists in making me a better chef, when I'm not suffering through those that think adding minced garlic to a bottle of sauce constitutes a recipe.

Upholding the ideal of a recipe,
5penny

(Never fear, the humor I derive from perusing your pages guarantees that I will continue. At least until I find a site more ridiculous than yours.)

(haha, karma is swift 'round these parts. No sooner had I begun my diatribe than the 3 shots of palinka kicked in and caused me to trip over the laptop cord, stub my big toe on the metal coffee table leg, rugburn my toe to the point that it bled, and fall on my face trying to get away from said posessed laptop cord.)

(Check out the homemade bandage my husband rigged up to aliviate the swelling. Should I, who is obviously skating the line of white trash, be allowed to bitch so openly about bottled recipes while sporting a wet rag taped to my foot? hmm... I think that is the real question here.)

gone to hell, will return shortly

Well, in case anyone is wondering, courtesy of Laid off dad, I've been stuck in the online game version of hell (Warning: do not click unless you are prepared to be sucked in.) for going on three days. It originally made me laugh and kept my interest. That soon turned to bloody knuckles and an addiction that has caused me to google the following: scientology + british bands + karma, Jesus + computer science + poker stars, and levitation + time + statue of liberty. This is not a pretty place people, but I love this fucking game.

it's a sad world but also kinda funny

After Julia fell asleep last night, we decided to recapture our childhood and watch one of her movies. Specifically, El Dorado. My husband finds every innuendo hysterical; it cracks his shit up! Anyway, we're watching, him laughing spastically and me narrarating. We get to the part where Cortes tells Zekel-Khan, "there is no El Dorado here, you lying heathen," and thus, my diatribe:

Me: Yeah, you lying heathen. Where is our gold? We've come to rape your women, spread disease, steal your gold, and kill you. Jesus said we could, so there.

Z: (doesn't get it at first) yeah, huhhuh. Jesus said so... HAHA, JESUS SAID SO! Ahahahahahaha...

---------
Recently, another person has joined our family. Well, he joined the family 2 years ago, but has only recently moved in with us. His name is Rico and according to Julia, his number is a 4 and a 5 (meaning his age is 45), possibly making him the oldest imaginary friend ever. I hadn't realized he lived with us until I laid down on J's bed and was promptly reprimanded for "squipping" Rico. So, So sorry, Rico.

when politics and tv programming coincide

Last night I was truly ecstatic, after almost an entire year with really bad t.v programming I had hit the jackpot. Starting at 6pm both (yes there are only 2: the equivalent of Fox and the WB) decent channels were sporting A-MAZ-ING Sunday evening programming. The absolute kicker to this was that the programming seemed to have changed drastically; as recently as Friday night the big 8 o'clock movie was Lethal Weapon (that's right the first one). But last night? On TV2 - Freaky Friday followed by The Truman Show followed by, well, I forget, I had already fallen asleep, but my husband assures me it was good despite not knowing what it was either. On RTL Klub - James Bond (the Pierce Brosnan one, which by the way, not so good.)

Both channels are preparing for an exciting week of really, actually, decent movies. I was excited. I usually spend my evenings watching burned episodes of FRIENDS. As I was relaying all of this super exciting information to Zoli I see this lightbulb go on inside his head. He interrupts me with Conspiracy Theory - Hungary. According to my husband (who is unqualified as he has no actual proof), the government has bought the silence of the 2 biggest channels by paying the fees necessary to play hip, cool, and only slightly out of date movies.

Now, the country has been in civil disquiet for about a week and we're thinking that since the P.M. doesn't want to resign and the protestors want him to resign, that playing really cool movies during the protesting time is the best way to get the sheeples to stay home and fall asleep with visions of Hollywood bouncing in their petrified brains. This is far better than if the protestors were to, I don't know, continue to protest, growing larger with every gathering until democracy wins and Gyúrcsány is forced to resign. Fucking Brilliant!

"Hey, hon. What should we do tonight? protest the corrupt politician or watch The Truman Show?"
"OMG, I can't believe they're playing a movie worth watching! Oh we have to watch it. Screw the country!"

Open Letter

From: 5penny
Sent: September 08, 2006 11:00 AM
To: Tesco Global Markets
Subject: Is it just me or does your "Global Marketplace" suck?

Dear Financial Big Wigs at Tesco HQ:

Your store sucks.

I'm sorry that it has to be me, but if this is what it takes to open your eyes to the fact that Tesco in Hungary is scarier than the clientele at a red sale at Kmart in Kentucky*, then so be it.

To wit I have made purchases at the local Tesco no less than 10 times in the last year. This is ONLY because we do not have a car, you are only 3 blocks away, and you have an "international" aisle (which is where you find the tortilla chips from Holland and the $5 no brand peanut butter; not so very international, are we?). The most recent occasion was yesterday and is it just me or has customer service devolved to the point where I am expected to believe the following:

1. that if an item I am attempting to purchase has no bar code, it is my fault and your staff will berate me for not noticing before entering their line; she will not attempt to locate the barcode but rather will not allow me to purchase said item?

and

2. that if 1L of apple juice costs Ft.159 (~75cents) and a 2L of the same product is ON SALE it retails for Ft.399 (~$2)? Maybe you're not hooked on math. That's cool, but please, for the love of all that is holy, hire someone who is. The last time I checked, 159 + 159 ≠ 399. 159 + 159 = 318, which is considerably less than 399. Which NEGATES the whole "on sale" idea. Wouldn't you agree?

Please, call a spade a spade, a rip-off a rip-off, and knock it the fuck off.

Oh, and get an email account. Why would I want to waste 8 pence per minute calling you or an international stamp posting this letter? WHY?

That is all for now,
5penny

*Not to diss any of you Kentucky residents, I'm sure you're all smiles, please and thankyous, and not one of you is attempting to buy beer and cigarettes with your food stamps at the sale. Which, FYI, you can totally do in Hungary. Awesome, no?

World's Oldest Carnival

some's pics from the exciting Vidam park or carnival that was here during Easter. It was hysterical, the whole park consisted of 2 adult rides and 4 kids rides, most of which were left over from the 70's.


The sun hurt Julia's eyes, so here she is sporting my sunglasses.


This is her friend, Vanda. They're talking on their "cell phones."


The fishing game where she "won" the cell phone with a little help from Zoli


Obviously, the park is quite popular! And what's up with the trolls?


I found these animals positioned this way after I had already taken Julia to school. They man the window at night to keep the bad guys out, according to sass! 2 puppies and a wolly mammoth, guarding my sleeping angel.

roadrage, the alphabet game

When driving in the City, it is important to understand and practice car communications. Blinkers, hazards, lights; they all play an integral role in communicating your intentions to the cars around you lest you believe that all roads were created for your personal misuse.
I was driving in Piedmont (Oakland) recently and was behind a car whose driver had failed to learn this important car language. Julia was in the backseat and while displaying roadrage and swear words is fun to do in front of small children, I tried to make a game out of the total frustration I felt toward the jackass in front of me.

me: H is for Hazards! what'cha doing blue car?

j: I like blue cars. can we get one?

me: Probably not. P is for Parking which if you want to do, S is for Signaling! B is for Blinker! G IS FOR GO, GO, GO!!!!

j: Mama, what's for no?

me: N is for No.

j: N is for NO SCREAMING IN THE CAR!

X is for Xenops

Bedtime stories are finally fun for both mother and child. From birth up until, oh, about 4, they could not be read but rather interpreted. Meaning that Julia had complete maniacal control of the page turning, READ command, and simultaneous incomprehensible banter-babble that honestly made me (woman who started reading by age 4 and hasn't stopped since) want to burn every book in the house.
About 5 months ago Julia asked me during play alone time, to read a book to her. I told her that it was play alone time and that she should read the book. "I CAN'T READ!", she exclaimed, "I don't know HOW!" Duh, mom. I realized how insulting my comment was to the pre-reader and quickly ammended my previous statement, stating that we would most certainly read the book when alone time was over.

Every night at bedtime, Julia picks out one book and we read it and discuss the letters, sounds, blah, blah, T-is-for-tiger logic of learning to recognize sounds. Recently Julia picked out an ABC book that is most unusual in its approach to linking sounds with letters with written characters. Every letter begins with e.g. A is for apple and airplane, etc. but when they arrive at X, which I realize is not a conducive letter to the afore-mentioned strategy of linking logic, they proclaim, "X is for foX."
WTF?!
X is for many things (well allright, not many things, but at least a few), but in following the logic of the preceding 23 letters mixed with appealing to the hear it once, remember it forever brain synapses of a 4 year old, NEVER is it for foX. F is for fox. X is for Xylophone or Xanadu or Xat.
Even worse, there is a picture of a foX playing an Xylophone and now anytime X presents itself in the written form, Julia shouts out, "X is for foX, J is for Julia and C is for Cat!"

Appealing to both Brits and Yankees

I have a pretty heafty fear of embroidered aspirations on my clothing. This whole phobia is enhanced when shopping for pants suitable for my belly dance class. It seems that in my price range I have to announce to everyone (that looks at my ass) that I am an angel, bad girl or swetheart [sic]. Why? Why do women find it so enjoyable to wear their mass produced mission statement on their ass?

That being said, I finally found a zippered-hoodie that had met my every criterion. I was trying it on, deciding how much comfy joy it would give me and twirling in the mirror when I noticed it had embroidery on the back! argh! Not just embroidery but My Favourite British spelling and everything in PINK. Why can't we just mass produce comfortable lounge wear that sends no message of self appraisal?


On a different note, I have a date! And it is to be conducted in English! And it isn't with my husband! (There will probably be less exclamation!)
The local English teacher got wind of my presence, as I am the only other American here it was wont to happen, and get this, she wrote me a note. She passed it to the 5 yr old who told of my presence, the 5 yr old passed the note to the teacher and the teacher gave it to me. How great is that. We're going out tomorrow night for cheap beer and crappy live music. I'm gonna have a friend, unless she's a Jesus freak but maybe still.

I'm not an angel, a bad girl or a swetheart but this hoodie has proven to be my favourite.