auntie pantie's speech

we are here today, with friends and family to celebrate darci alice fedorowicz. she is only 10 and a half months old, but she already has a history. she is a dunnage, a barnes, a hobson, a hood, a mason and a stefaniuk. darci has been born into an extraordinary family; one who served their countries during world war two; of survivors who lived through the bombing of three homes during the london blitz; of immigrants who started new and better lives for themselves learning languages, finding jobs and raising the next generation. a family of entrepeneurs and small business owners, hard working people who also knew how to enjoy the freedom they had struggled for. as she grows up, darci will hear stories about a great grandfather who was a competitive bareknuckle boxer in the 1930's, and another who was an accomplished pianist and small dance band leader up until his death. a great grandmother who left iceland on a military ship with her new husband and 1,000 british servicemen, and a great grandfather who escaped from siberia as a teenager and joined the parachute regiment of the free polish brigade. to look at her, you might think you are also looking at james or alison at that same age. and it is abundantly clear, that the apple will probably not even fall off the tree, darci; your parents will show you how to be patient, kind and tolerant of others, but also how to identify the present perfect tense, cure a salt beef and appreciate a good pinot grigio, they will provide a home to root you in, but they will also show you how to explore and travel the world- but only from a first class seat. your grandparents (both near and far away) are here to dote on you, sing to you, teach you how to play the piano, love the outdoors, to tell your incisor from your canine, a petunia from a pansy and develop the art of navigating every department store on oxford street in a single afternoon. your aunts and uncles (again just a short drive or boarding pass away) are here to inspire you to take risks, move across the globe and try something different.. they will instill in you the rules of football and in particular the merits of arsenal. they will show you how to put together a killer outfit for any occasion, win at scrabble, and develop an appreciation for lavatorial humour. they all await your visit. darci, we are all gathered here today to commit ourselves to loving and supporting you. may you always be active; socially, physically, spiritually and intellectually. whether you choose to run marathons, run for office, run a company or run up your air miles. welcome to your family darci!

keep calm and carry on

i was about six or seven when why my avi died. we were living in the united arab emirates at the time, and i remember seeing my mum take that phone call- all of it. we flew back to england for the funeral, it was cold, everyone was crying, i didn't want to be part of any of that.

my amma passed away when i was 17, i was at boarding school, i got the phone call from my mum, she was so upset, i couldn't say anything to make it go away, i knew she was overwhelmed by it all, i couldn't and wouldn't try and empathize with her, because then i had to deal with the concept that one day it would be her, and she would be me. so instead of going home that weekend, i went to my friend's birthday party- my mum told me i should go. then we had her funeral, i was there, we were all there, i felt the same way i did when i was six.

i am 36, today my dziadza passed away. he was old, he had been struggling with cancer, but he was one of those people who was just invincible. he got caught up in the chaos of world war two as a young boy; sent by train to siberia from poland, separated from his family. he fought for his country and for freedom for europe, he came to england with my babcia and married her at 16. he had some made for movie type stories.

i have a friend who's family get together for dinner twice a year- well, more than twice a year- but twice a year as the 'original five'; mum, dad and three girls. no spouses, no kids, just them; before all the major life stuff happened. she knows that some day there will be a place setting missing at the table. now that my dziadz is gone, i know this means everyone moves up a place. and i move back to my place of 'not thinking about it'.

you may say that i'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one...

father's day is almost here (again), and not un-like mother's day, facebook has kindly prompted it's masses to copy and paste (and post) assorted pater related paraphernalia (south africa, 1975, dad is third from the left, next to mum, both sitting behind me).



but which photo? staring at the albums i got that same glazed over feeling which happens at baskin & robbins. but this is the one i went with; awali, bahrain, sometime in the mid 80's, on his way to work to do a couple of fillings. there were a lot of different names on the house signs, some in arabic, but as far as i can remember there weren't any others that started and ended with a z-- and believe me, there are a lot of arabic names that do.



at this point i think it is fairly evident that i cant commit to much of anything-- and i do thank, not blame, my dad for that (it is his fault about the flat feet though) geographical transience can do that to a person. iceland; circa. we were very small-- somewhere in the 3 foot range-- but this demonstrates how the fedorowicz's never travel light, regardless of how much practicing at it goes on.



then there was the "badass" one where he ran the comrades ultra-marathon in south africa (that's 90k south of the equator) some time in the late 70's.



or the one where he took "teenage me" mountain biking around the jebel (bahrain) with his windsurfing buddies, post-gulf war (the first one).



speaking of windsurfing...sheik's beach, bahrain, the 90's.



there was also the apres 'ride around the desert', in the paddling pool, with floating beer...



scuba diving in the red sea in the 80's. well, diving and drinking home brewed wine for the grown ups, ripping apart sea cucumbers and starfish for the under 9's.



and the "poo thing"...duba, saudi arabia; we were so proud of the home made camping toilet that was the sum product of the fedorowicz, wood and barnes families' hard labour.



because this is what we all had to put up with before; a shovel, sand dune and a roll of andrex...



always a family favourite, dad laughing uncontrollably while pointing out the giant, steaming pile the horse (that just carried his son and future daughter-in-law away by carriage) left behind. (keysoe, england, 5-ish years ago).



my birthday card (from my brother), detailing the finer points of a dog's bum, caused such silent mirth and tears of appreciation, that we could not miss the opportunity to document it (buckden, england, two-ish summers ago).



at this point, it's clearly evident that freud would have a field day; the apple cant even be pried off the tree. dad in his dental chair, bahrain.



last christmas.

booze in a bag

i drink wine from a box-- on a semi-regular basis. which means i have officially become my parents- in their thirties, not sixties, that would involve duty-free sized bottles of gin. things have changed- a little- since then. the empties my then, six year old brother, and i were given to use as booze cruise floaties in the novotel pool used to be all silvery and space suit looking, now you just get a giant sandwich bag with a spout- the box to bottle equivalent of a cork versus screw top. fortunately my parents were able to redeem their lower end table wine loving selves once we moved from the u.a.e. to 'dry' saudi arabia.

there is a perception that the middle east is one giant sand pit where people live in tents and children go to their biology and history lessons via camel. the truth is, central AC is far more common there than in england, and you can buy grape juice, pre-pressed, in bottles; cases of them.



our villa even had a "wine room", which is different to a cellar, and family trips to the supermarket revolved around the usual cornflakes/milk/eggs/12 pack of loo roll on the shopping list, but also chucking a 500 gram bag of sugar and box of yeast into the trolley. perhaps it was naive of our parents to assume that cashiers thought all the expats were making loaves of grape bread?

in lieu of the impending holiday debauchery, i am reminded that it is ultimately tradition, imprinted from childhood, that creates a sense of home and associated behavioural patterns.



like restlessness and drinking.

what do a padded bra, christmas tree ornament, bathmat and squeegee have in common?

my mum never travels light. this visit she came baring two suitcases, one of which was a veritable mary poppins gift bag. i have since acquired; several t-shirts (3/4 length and short sleeved, both black and white), two skirts, three dresses (all appropriate for summer weddings), pyjamas, a push up bra, decorative wine bottle cover, christmas presents for other people's children, and i even get to keep the suitcase it all came in. the winner by far, is definitely the radiator duster; "look, it's really good, you can get between all the nooks and crannies, see? my god, it's filthy in there, don't you dust?"



she even vacuumed the dog.

there are definitely more than 12 days to christmas

in no particular order, except the gregorian one:

one nice idea (to invite far flung aunt/uncle/mother/sister/3 nieces, for a lampoon christmas vacation).

two mildy traumatized pooches (from either being picked up, or fiercely patted on the head by an overzealous toddler).



three bottles of wine/beer/2% milk consumed daily (by each age group, respectively).

four o'clock in the morning wake-up calls (related to the senior family members rising to brew coffee, or the junior ones to make a general "what's on disney channel?" ruckus).

FIVE christmas presents to RE-GIFT (what social occasion calls for a naughty nun and/or eve costume, paired with an obama baseball cap?).

six lobster exoskeletons discarded (per both "we have visitors in town, let's have lobster for xmas eve and new year's eve, eve, plus i can't be bothered to cook again" dinner sittings).

seven trips to the airport (to include multiples to collect wayward family members caught up in terrorist related delays).

eight incomplete hours of solid sleep (by everyone except the dogs and toddlers, who were at least able to nap at the restaurant table during lunch).



nine two way conversations (going on simulataneously, that no one was actually listening to, of which aunt margaret admitted "i just made that up" to at least three).

ten hours before departure, that one nervous family member insisted upon being dropped off at the airport (to be sure she made the flight).

eleven incidents related to improper or negligent use of a cell phone (infractions include; calling, leaving a message, and then immediately switching off the phone; leaving said phone switched off and in the suitcase at home when going to the airport to collect the uncle/brother arriving from florida, who does actually have a cell and knows how to use it; travelling without a phone during 'terrorist and winter weather' season; not setting up a voicemail, so that messages cannot be left/missed calls cannot be noted when the phone is eventually switched on again some time after the pilot has landed and said it is ok to do so).

twelve frostbitten phalanges (from agreeing to snowshoe in 15 degree weather, never mind about the wind chill, we will do an "activity", damnit).

family reunion

due to various large bodies of land and sea, and the american employer's rather paltry excuse for 'vacation time', the frequency with which my immediate family is able to congregate in the same space- that doesn't require logging into skype- shares approximately the same irregularity as that of a hot flashing female.

rather like a leap year, i didn't know we were having "one", until i saw my dad wheeling his suitcase through heathrow airport towards me. the gestalt was complete, after negotiating the british road system (which obviously borrows it's ruler from the people who established the dimensions of swimming pool lanes), to find mum standing behind the back bedroom door at my brother's house- and had apparently been there since returning from her 3 week trip to visit me, back when there was still some snow on the ground.



when i first moved to the states i was intrigued by the whole ritual of "the family reunion", which appeared to be more of a retreat that revolved around BBQ and green bean casserole, giving people an excuse to make personalized t-shirts commemorating the occasion. my clan likes to engage in the ritual of trimming excess back and ear hair.



like most grandchildren, i spent much of my time visiting the more senior members of the family, making up elaborate magic shows and running around the woods with cousins. this past trip, while we all got to reminisce about those very things, 'visiting as an adult' allowed me to go back further in history to world war II, where, as children, they were bundled out of bed one morning and put on a cattle train; first bound for siberia to cut trees, and then on to kazakhstan for more hard labour and a final separation from their families. the gypsy 'tradition' appears to have been passed down in much the same way as our noses and a tendency to over-cater breakfast.



of course the wonderful thing about the law of universality, and assembling people who share the same DNA, is that it serves to eliminate the: "i am the only freak" feeling. fortunately, we were all in agreement that crack sniffing is the pinnacle of wit and humour.



and finally, 'punting under the influence' with friends from the days when our respective spectacles were larger than our 16 year old asses.

i want my mummy!

listening to an adult woman wax histrionic about how her mother is the prototype human vending machine, dispensing travel sized packets of guilt and criticism, is about as compelling as her equally toxic relationship with cramps and chocolate. ragging on your mum is soooo last season; maternal blame is no longer the new black.

and so mine came to visit for three weeks- try telling that to aforementioned adult woman and prepare to dodge the anecdotal barrage of 'ended in tears' shopping trips, 'silent treatment' holidays, and 'another year of disappointment' birthdays, all marinating in a balsamic reduction of adolescent resentment-- it should be noted that efforts to out-exaggerate girlfriends on who has the most dysfunctional relationship can earn additional points.

we shared a car wreck (not my fault), take-out lobster (twice), copious amounts of alcohol (to numb the consecutive fibre glass wounds from cleaning the attic/deluge in the basement), puppy self-defense techniques, navigating the downtown area with "bostonians are worse than saudi drivers and hoosiers", anesthesia and extracted molars, and a futile power struggle for the remote to watch/avoid 'dancing on ice with your starry idol'.

after years of practice making a building feel like home, once again she has left a ripple. that, a freshly shop vacced basement, and an origami installation of bath towels to bring an entire army of housekeepers to their knees.

dirty little scrubber

a visit from the woman who gave me life, and subsequent years of advice- dutifully ignored- on how best to wear my "you have such a narrow face" hair, kicks off some serious extra credit housework. *

forget polishing the silver and dusting off the 'just for show' china; cleaning the calcified layers of green gunk from the electric toothbrush and wiping pico de gallo fingerprints off the tv remote become the topmost priority. and so i found myself vacuuming the dust colonies that had settled pueblo style, amongst the fireplace brickwork- dog hair is harder to get rid of than a palm full of ringworm.

swiffer brand needs to hurry the hell up and manufacture a collapsible, disposable 'get-down-on-your-knees-and-scrape-the-black-gunge-out-of-the-skirting-board-to-the-sounds-of-kc-and-the-sunshine-band' appliance.




* the occupant who logs the most hours sitting on the loo, should automatically win the task of chipping all the caked bits of bodily excreta from the porcelain. **


** this never happens.

things learned on my international middle east christmas vacation

~ the similarities between mother and daughter are disturbing, not a good thing when one is the driver and the other is a passenger. and while both father/daughter exhibit a very british selective mutism when in mixed (but still mother tongue) company, oral dilation is swift when the more senior member finds a gulf national to banter with.



~ i am a conservative puritan, where hummus is my evangelical platform; roasted red pepper, sun dried tomatoes, spicy chipotle, chunky kalamata olives, and caramelized onions belong on a pizza. if you want 365 overpriced flavours, rocky-road-oreo-mint-supreme is available at a strip mall near you.



~ architects responsible for designing airports across the globe grew up watching a little too much dr who. as evidenced by "abu dhabi international for the sensory deprived".



(going to the airport also seems to trigger the kind of anxious personality swings usually displayed on those "heavy flow/super absorbency" days-- in all members of the family).

oh shit, i really am becoming my mother

"don't leave your towel on the bed or hanging in a heap, it won't dry and then it starts to smell all mildewy". my mum used to tell me that she knew me better than i knew myself because i was just like her. a 14 year old likes hearing this, as much as the phrases "puberty" and "blossoming into a young woman".

like mother, like progeny; i have devolved into the hypercritical laundry nazi- "were you out sick during the kindergarten class on sorting colours?" [from another room]: "are you sitting on the brand new couch in your sweaty/smelly/dusty/caulky/wood chippy clothes?" . "don't use one of the nice towels to wipe up the dog puke/wood stain/funk behind the dishwasher". "i don't know what i pressed, but now i can't get out of the menu, i hate these bloody remote controls, i can never work them. i AM pressing the TV button, and it's NOT doing anything, i DON'T know, it's frozen on the dish network menu thingy!! here; YOU do it. it was easier with just 5 channels, why do you need 300 channels anyway?". "you're not going to eat that without a plate/napkin, are you?". "this place is turning into a shoe shop, HOW many pairs of shoes do you need out at one time?". "don't just leave a drop of milk in the carton and then put it back in the fridge, that's not enough for cereal or tea. why don't you just finish it and chuck it out instead of leaving it for me to throw out?". "i just spent 3 hours cleaning, i am not the bloody maid service, just take your shoes off before you walk across the floor". "you're snoring, why don't you just go to bed, it's silly to take a nap before you go to bed". "OY! can you either refill the toilet paper when you're finished or bring me a new roll right now, unless you want me to waddle across the bathroom with my knickers round my ankles dripping butt juice on the floor- and try to remember to put it on so the sheets come from over, like a waterfall, and not under". "i wouldn't have to nag if you just did what you're supposed to".

and now the circle is complete, having found my father/dentist/person to nag, in perpetuity.

i am holding out on the whole ironing thing. i will never come to the mindset that tea towels, bedding and pyjamas need to be wrinkle free.

remembering the 80's- when a school picture sparks a thousand memories (and comments on facebook)

catching octopi at the red sea with BBQ skewers, intentionally peeing all over the boy's bathroom floor, having a dunce hat put on your head by the teacher and then being told to stand in the corner, separate swim days at the pool for men and women- so you could never actually swim with both parents at the same time, teachers jailed and then deported for growing marijuana, being warned that you could go blind if you didn't look away as your classmate's father (also your opthamologist) is bringing a cauterizer towards your retina, motley crue tapes being censored with "the black marker" because saudi authorities didn't realize the band members were men, harbouring resentment over an imperfect spelling test when the american teacher docked a point for the addition of a "u" in "colour", even though it was an international school.

and the 90's; where the size of your (ok, my) glasses increased in tandem with the myopia.

the ripple effect

some people body slam into your life, and rapidly pile drive on out, leaving you with bold new habits, little mcnuggets of wisdom, and a deep impression of their left elbow in your ribcage; the evidence, testimony, and future PTSD of your shared encounter. then there are some, more diminutive folks, who's impact is noticeable only by their absence (like a successfully treated UTI). in the absence, a ripple is felt.

the revolving door of mental health, the military, or fathers-who-are-dentists-that-keep-choosing-to-work-in-countries-with-unstable-political-climates, can expedite the resolution (or exacerbation) of any residual attachment issues-- with a side order of grief to go (always: "to go"). ultimately, it is the fundamental need to be remembered, to know that you were "noticed" that accompanies each departure. my office mate left our sanctuary of bodily function humour (for the air force) over a month ago. prior to his exit we talked about his "ripple" (the non-flatulent, non-underpant staining sort). however, asking someone to identify their own ripple is rather like trying to be objective about your "silhouette" in a string bikini.

occasionally i catch a glimpse of what i (like to) imagine my ripples might be. during my tenure, i have become associated with bodily functions, how this supercedes "the accent", i do not know. and while, i don't aspire to the legacy of a nobel peace prize, or memorialized, itallicized and evangelized park bench atop a brick engraved with my name, it is egotistically gratifying to see the tangible remnants across the zip codes; a second hand couch twice removed from "pottery barn girl" in grad school, placed in a permanent adoptive home with "liberal-but-conservative-co-worker-from-seattle", forged friendships based on shared addictions to high cocoa content dessert and higher drama content relationships, a renewed interest in bodily functions (especially the smelly/leaky/dribbly ones), the ability to use british swear words in the appropriate context and accent (an american attempting a british accent sounds like an australian with a mouth full of marbles), or contact dermatitis of the lower phalanges. as a child, i had the chronic habit (diagnosable childhood onset trichotillomania) of picking at my blanket until there was a big ball of fluff to roll around in my fingers. when this was no longer soft and fluffy, it was discarded around the immediate house/car/aeroplane. a friend of my mother commented that she always knew when i had visted because of the little fluff turds she found in the sofa cushions and shag carpeting.

rather than directing the question to self- "what's my ripple"- actualization becomes expeditious when identifying "other"; those who have the propelled the journey, irrespective of whether it's the "pebble people" or the "belly flop people".

ultimately, it's about the memento of relationship, connection and community.

family orchard

there is nothing like the moment (s) of realization that your "apple" fell and got wedged between the roots of your parent's "tree".

growing up, i detested taking aeroplane trips (anywhere, for any reason) with my family, and not because our luggage "allowance" was closer to the population of china, than of 2 adults/2 kids. the pre-departure ritual involved my usually laid back father turning into the travel militia; snapping fingers, barking orders, and asking if we had packed x/y/z while we were trying to sit and quietly watch cartoons. of course, my wonderfully anally retentive mother always packed everything 5 hours prior, folding our clothing in ways that would make the people working at benetton weep. ironically, dad is (in)famous for only packing 3 pairs of underpants, shorts, and running shoes for 2 weeks in spain. my theory is that he could not tolerate seeing his family sitting; waiting to leave somewhere (again).

fast forward, oh, 30-something years. now i get apprehensive about going to the airport, but that is more attributed to turbulence, terrorists and technical difficulties. but when it comes time for me to separate/leave/end any situation, i start to recognize a very familiar; must-keep-busy-and-moving-don't-stop-or-sit-at-any-costs energy.

i have always teased my dad that the only thing i inherited from him was flat feet and myopia. my mother will be delighted to learn that i can blame some of my non-genetic childhood issues on him for a change. and now i am (in)famous for being the person who has forgotten to pack her knickers for a 2 week trip; twice.

no fear

fight or flight does not appear to exist as an option for me, more like "deer in headlights". avoiding based on fear doesn't seem to get much more accomplished than freezing life and frustrating self and others. i had originally decided that 2008 would be my year of "comittments" (resolutions are futile) and this will be my year of the marathon. however, perhaps more appropo is letting go of fear. the trite bumper sticker for "life is..." phrases regarding risk taking and chances are billboard size at the moment.

sometimes, for some people, there are the 'einstein in a bathtub lightswitch eureka moments', for others, at other times, it is a more subtle 'dimmer switch oh wow i just noticed i got pubic hair' moment. as a fanatic planner, who has historically (note the past tense) used planning to avoid, the present and future, not having a defined set of criteria to cross off in the process of letting go can be somewhat anxiety provoking. if all else fails...there must be a book somewhere that can tell this idiot "how to".

this past christmas i did not get to go "home" to "family" (of origin), i had always wondered how this would affect any future marriage partnership/family, but perhaps it was less about the spouse sucking it up and more about re-prioritizing for the appropriate (worthy) spouse. i spent christmas without my parents- we all survived. granted i do not intend to repeat 07 as my new annual tradition. but it is time for new traditions.

i no longer have a valid passport. i am trapped. rather i was unable to leave, but had a chance for a new beginning.

knickers that homeless people and tramps would be ashamed to wear have now been banished from my wardrobe. whether others get to see them in the dryer/machine/on the floor is irrelevant. nice undies are like the shampoo advert; "i'm worth it".

i spent over $100 on make up (not at walgreens). i have not replaced my make-up since my roomate from grad school moved back to florida aeons ago. make up is "supposed" to be replaced every 6 months; mine was no doubt a breeding ground for all kinds of fungus. with that, the holly-hobbie-dress-up-purse-posing-as-a-make-up-bag-with perfume-stains-and-disintegrating-sponge-because-i've-had-it-since-i-was-small(er)-and-lived-in-south-africa was thrown out.

i no longer have the need to hold onto objects, whether symbolic or actual. i have been hanging onto a couch, a kitchen table, an annual holiday, a place, a name. however, holding onto too many things means there are no hands available to hold onto anything new; or another hand.

the dimmer switch is fully set to light. and it is such a relief to be able to see clearly.

"a christmas bollocking"

so read the subject title of an email from my brother. not a forward of a cartoon santa getting his nuts caught in the chimney, rather a multi paragraphed instructional on how to conduct my holiday travel plans to the middle east this year. re-check your luggage when you get to chicago; get in the club class queue so you don't have to wait with all the riff raff; when you get to heathrow meet us (he and my infinitely patient sister-in-law) at the first class lounge by 9am so we can sign you in as a guest- unless you want to sit in a plastic chair with the riff raff, waiting 5 hours for the flight to bahrain; make sure your presents are wrapped before you leave so we don't spend christmas eve waiting for you to wrap yours; make sure you put some of them in your hand luggage in case your suitcase doesn't arrive (it hasn't the past 5 years, why change the habit of a lifetime?); don't put any liquids in your hand luggage. perhaps this should be called a christmas bum wiping?

the night before departure i got out my suitcase, and the unwrapped presents (that's what gift bags are for anyway), and my passport, which apparently expired last month. shit. i was not going anywhere. my worst nightmare was real; landlocked and unable to leave. not only that, christmas has always been "my" holiday, or the expanded version "my day to bicker with my parents/brother with an illuminated red and green backdrop". for 31 years. this was bad. and then my mother called.

"christmas is just a day". no, it is no longer about tearing downstairs in pyjamas to eat all of the cadbury's ornaments off the tree for breakfast and rip through presents by 6am, to pass out in a sugar coma amongst the wrapping paper. now it has evolved into sleeping in, getting a buzz on by 11am (champagne and OJ), peeling potatoes while my brother and i harass my mother (and she returns in kind), to pass out in a mimosa/red wine/vodka tonic/port coma amongst the wrapping paper. it has changed. i have been trying not to. because christmas is also "just the day" where no matter where we were in the world, my mum made sure we were as griswald festive as we could be. when we lived in saudi arabia you couldn't buy trees, ornaments, paper, or mulled wine, so she made ornaments on her sewing machine. the grown ups made wine out of grape juice, sugar and yeast, and we pulled christmas crackers my mum had bought on shopping trips to london earlier that year (and smuggled back in her suitcase). during my (miserable) years at boarding school/undergrad in england, christmas was always the one constant that i would be reunited for the purpose of getting into adolescent power struggles with my mum, my brother would find a way to fart on me (repeatedly), and dad would lecture me about how i should just get on a plane to go teach in hong kong.

my first goal for the new year is to renew my passport.

home...

...is where you start from...where the heart is...there's no place like home...is where you lay your hat...where you can always go back...whatever you make it...everywhere you go...what you need...safe...a shell on your back...there...welcoming...an escape...bricks...memories...where you grew up...picket fences...an airport...people