You Want Fries with That? or How you Know your Not in Kansas Anymore Dorothy

So we got off the London Underground at the Queensway Station and were greeted by my Dad. Hugs and kisses all around, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The streets of London were busy and bustling as I expected them to be. My Mom wandered over from the souvenir stand that she had been perusing. More hugs and kisses were exchanged. Then my Dad looks at my Mom and says "Tell her about Burger King," and I was a little confused. Burger King? What did the food taste funny?

Mom giggled. I got this weird feeling they weren't going to be telling me about the food.

"Well, we got off the Underground and went to the hotel to drop off our bags, since we couldn't check in yet. Then we walked around the corner to find something to eat because well, you should have seen the sorry excuse for breakfast that the airline served. We saw a Burger King and thought "well that should be safe enough" and went in. We ordered and sat down. Well this guy came in. He looked a little strange and we didn't really think anything of it. While we were eating I heard this tapping sound coming from his table. So I kinda looked over. He was cutting up COCAINE on the table with a credit card. That is what the tapping noise was. He was doing lines of cocaine right there in Burger King in broad daylight!"

Then my Dad cut in to help with the story. "He was on his phone too. He had this heavy Eastern European accent and he was saying 'I got prostitutes. I got big big prostitutes,' and making these gestures with his hands to show how many prostitutes he had even though he was on the phone."

My eyes must of been as big as saucers. Then my mom chirped "He must have wanted some coke with his fries" That my friends is when I lost it and about peed myself laughing. Then she added "We're definitely NOT in Kansas anymore!"

And this is how I began my weekend visit to London.

Flat John

My buddy Mary Anne or better known as The Stiletto Mom is one hot mama (with a kick ass shoe collection). Not only that, but she is an awesome blogger to boot. If you are still living in the Dark Ages and haven't checked out her blog The Stiletto Mom, you won't be disappointed. She is full of wit, charm and most of all a good sense of humor. Oh did I mention that I lust after her shoe collection?

I have to start this by saying, I envy Kat...I really do. Living in England sounds like absolute heaven to me.

My husband has been there more times than he can count. Being in the Air Force and stationed in Germany for four years (while running a women's dorm...) had it's fair share of perks for a young, single, guy. I've heard so many stories about his travels through London (and his travels through the women's dorm but this is probably not the forum for that) and more than anything I had always wanted to go and see all the sights he had told me about.

Finally, two years ago, I had the chance.

We were invited to the wedding of a friend of ours. Being the Royal whore I am (and not whore in a royal way, more of a rabid fan of all things royalty...just to be clear) we stayed in a super nice hotel across the street from Buckingham Palace. Big brass doors, shiny hardwoods, well dressed doormen...it was HEAVEN. Also? It was off season so half price. SWEET!

I headed over to London several days before my husband with my best friend Korey. I felt like I needed a full week to see the sights and for three days I traipsed around London checking out Trafalgar Square, The Tate Museum, St Paul's Cathedral...you name it and I was going to see it.

John finally joined my friend and me on Thursday just in time for the wedding festivities to kick into high gear. He flew overnight to get there and while it would have made sense to let him rest, I greeted him like an excited puppy demanding he take me immediately to The Tower of London. If you've never been there, trust me, this is no small tour. Tons of buildings to go through, grounds to walk, history to soak in.

Oh and BTW? King Henry VIII? VERY proud of his package. Look...

After hours of touring the Tower, making faces at the guards, hugging a few Beefeaters and causing general mayhem among the torture devices we headed back to the hotel to get ready for the night.

That evening we were joining the bride and a bunch of her friends for dinner at a swanky little brasserie then heading off for a night of dancing at the legendary Annabelle's. We ate, we drank, we talked, we drank, we danced and then we drank some more. Finally, somewhere after 2:00 am we decided to call it a night and head back to the hotel.

This is the part of the story that makes me a really bad wife...

So remember how I told you I should have let him sleep? And how I dragged him all over London Tower and then dragged him to dinner? And then forced him to do the white mans overbite dance with me until the wee hours?

Yeah, that will take a toll on a man.

My friend and I breezed through the door as the bellman opened it for us and waited in the lobby as John paid the cab. After paying, he made his way into the hotel through the same door, held open by the same bellman, and I'm not sure what happened next but he fell. And by fell, I mean he never bent, never crumpled, NEVER REMOVED HIS HANDS FROM HIS JACKET, and all without a single sound...he went down as flat as a board, on his face. Almost as if in slow motion, in one swift silent move, my husband became FLAT JOHN...a virtual wool coat of a puddle on the floor, like this:

Photo re-enacted for dramatic purposes. No wool coats were harmed in the downfall of this man.

The thing is, after he fell...he didn't move for a minute or so and the entire lobby was sitting silently with their mouths hanging open, having a hard time believing they had just seen the prat fall of the century. All of the nice English people working there started to scurry around him trying to help him up all while having a nervous breakdown because my husband was lying ON HIS FACE on the floor and they honestly thought he might be dead he was so still. Being the wonderful wife I am, after a few seconds of stunned silence, what was I doing?

Laughing my ass off...that's what.

After the nice men boosted him upright and gave the very polite English side eye for being such a horrible wife, well, I continued to laugh until I cried...and snorted a few times sorta loudly. I was doubled over and at one point it became so bad that my friend and I were leaning on each other for support.

Amazingly enough, he got up unscathed, brushed himself off and walked it off. Give the guy some points, he knows how to take a fall.

Those "Mind The Gap" t-shirts they sell in England? Make a whole lot more sense to me now than they used to.


Kat will be back at the Bungalow tomorrow. Come by and read a bit about the Bungalow clans adventures in London.

The Fantastic Jess Has the Keys to the Bungalow

Jess is my home girl from Savannah, GA. That is a whole 2 hours from my hometown of Charleston and is considered our "sister city". Does that technically make us sisters, Jess? If yes, rock on. Jess is a connoisseur of the finer things in life such as beer, American Idol, and karaoke. One of these days I am gonna road trip it down there while I am visiting my mom and go sing some karaoke and get embarrassingly drunk. I am sure Jess will post the pictures on her blog This Life is Mine. While Jess is here at the Bungalow make sure she doesn't build a beer-a-mid with the cans and puts them in the recycling bin.

First of all, I want to give a shout out and a holla to Kat, who was [brave] kind enough to ask me to guest post! Love ya, mean it!

So, I do a lot of blog reading. I read you, and you, and most certainly you, you – not so much, but I still like you. I noticed that many of you have pets, some of you have kids and if you don’t have kids, you party like it is 1999. Then some of you have pets, kids AND party like it is 1999. All the same, a commonality can be reached by most.

Mrs. Kat here has some little ones AND a dog with little ones! Don’t get me wrong, I love me some kids, but my repeated inquiries about when some of my favorite bars will be getting child care services has gone unanswered for quite some time, therefore, no human children quite yet only children of the four legged, furry variety.

Stick with me here…I get off track every now and then…oh, look, a squirrel!!

So in recent years I have found some things out about my parents that have struck me as very interesting.

For instance, my parents have kept a folder on each of us kids from the time we were born. They are filled with humorous things that we have done over our lifetime.

After being out of my parent’s home for almost 10 years, my Mom finally brought out my folder (about two years ago) and showed me some of the things she had kept. I had NO IDEA! By the way, each of the items are laminated for safekeeping. My mother is very efficient.

One of the items was a church bulletin in which I had written a note to my parents that I didn’t want to sit by the window because “there are spitters over here”. Spitters = spiders. Mom said she and Dad almost lost it right there in church.

There were some very interesting letters to Santa as well.

Other items are notes from my kindergarten teacher expressing her concern over my constant chit chat and never being able to sit down. Mom found this to be hilarious due to the fact (1) I was in kindergarten and what child isn’t full of chit chat and energy and (2) that she birthed me and found it humorous that someone else FINALLY had to go through what she had been going through for years.

The best items were from my high school days.

When ever I got in trouble it was common practice that Mom would make me write a two page paper on what it was that I had done and what I felt should be my proper punishment.

In this particular instance I wanted to go with my friends to Six Flags Over Georgia for the day, but earlier in the week had an “attitude” towards my Mother, in which she was not inclined to forget and therefore told me to write a paper on why I should get to go with my friends out of town.

It has come to light that this type of punishment was of great entertainment for my folks. They have even admitted to administering said punishment, winking at each other from across the room and anxiously waiting to see what we would write. They also admitted that on MORE than one occasion they retreated to their closet, which was located at the very back corner of the house, to stifle their laughter.

All these years…and all this time…I had no idea. My parents are absolute geniuses!! Poker faces like you wouldn’t believe.

I will have you know that I was able to go to Six Flags with my friends…and all this time I thought my paper writing skills got me there. No, not in the least; Mom said it was one of the hardest they had laughed and that is what won me my ticket.

Here is the letter typed out, grammatical errors/spelling errors and all…

[Mom dated it at the top – 5 Nov 96, which means I was 15 years old]

The reason you should let me go:

Well, first off everyone is entitled to a bad attitude sometimes. Things will just build up and the littlest things will set you off. I think it is a teen thing, because we all seem to have that problem at school. In all I think I handled my anger in pretty well, because even though you saw an attitude you didn’t’ see it all. (I know, that sounds bad)

Things are better now, and I have no idea what I was “attituden” about. Just stuff I guess. You have to admit that I am a perfect child most of the time, so I am entitled to an attitude day ever once in a while. I think the short temper and impatience in hereditary.

Gee, I’m not sure from which side though…

Going tomorrow is important to me, but not so important that I would absolutely die if I didn’t get to. But I still think you should let me go!

Buy anyway…there is really no reason any normal mother should let her daughter go. But you are not a normal mother. You’re a very loving, abnormal, wonderful, graceful, (sometimes cantankerous), exotic, excellent mother, who loves her only daughter and understands o-so much about her attitude. But her daughter will make no promise that her temper, or over all attitude will not show through sometime cause like I said you have to show your butt sometimes.

I

I will

I will try

I will try not

I will try not to

I will try not to have

I will try not to have an

I will try not to have an attitude

I will try not to have an attitude!

A page and ½, I think you get the main jest of it. If I wrote anymore I would be really studdering

With all love and due respect of any other teen,

Jess #15

I particularly like how my mother is cantankerous and exotic. Secondly, I like how I took up half of the second page by writing the “I will” sentence and lastly, I signed with my basketball number. I can’t believe I lived to the age I am now!

You better believe I am keeping a folder on my kids!

SETTING COURSE FOR CRAZYTOWN

Have you guys met my buddy Irish Gumbo yet? I am sure you have. He's everywhere, man. I have tossed him the keys to the Bungalow today. Make sure he serves you a heaping serving of gumbo (I hear it is very good) and make sure you use a napkin and proper table manners. Oh and IG, make sure you do the dishes before you leave.

I was delighted and flattered when Kat generously asked me to write a guest post for 3 Bedroom Bungalow to Let in Crazytown. Hooray! My first guest post, ever! Very cool, so I skedaddled myself to the ol’ keyboard, cracked the knuckles, ANNNNDDD….nothing.

Nada. Nyet. Zip. Zilch. The Big Goose Egg. Hmmmpph. Not often that the Gumbo noggin is free and clear of ANYTHING, so I went to my fallback, my ‘go-to’ guys for some help.

I went to have speaks with the geese and ducks down at the lake. And they didn’t let me down. After much consultation and muttering, they posed the question:

Where, pray tell, is Crazytown? And how do I get there? Good questions, mates. I’m going to hazard a guess, so please stick with me.

As many of you already know, Kat is a military wife and mother, her husband being in the Air Force. This by its very nature leads to a rather nomadic lifestyle, one that requires a certain amount of self-sufficiency and the ability to quickly adapt to changing conditions “on the ground” no matter where one is told to go and what one is required to do. I am used to staying in one place for extended periods of time, with the decision to pack up and leave pretty much entirely at my discretion. This suits me just fine.

But what do you do when one day you are bundled up against the cold in the Great Plains of the United States, and the next day you have to head off to a remote island somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean? This with the knowledge that soon after that, you might wake up in Italy or Greenland. There is a significant amount of hard work to be done, entailing long hours under dangerous and demanding conditions. You have to be awake and alert, ready for the call of duty no matter the time of day or prevailing conditions. And that’s just Kat’s job! (heehee). So having something familiar to carry with you, remind you of the place you would probably stay forever, would seem to me to be pretty important. Hence, the search for Crazytown.

The issue of familiarity is probably even more important when the orders come in and the whole family has to pack up and move to a foreign country. The distances and time involved will require a significant effort of logistics and preparation. Getting my young daughter from the front stoop to her car seat (a distance comparable with that of pitcher’s mound to home plate) can be exhausting like herding cats, so the notion of packing up a household of stuff, two adults and two kids and transporting them out of country fills me with enough trepidation that I just want to lay down and sleep!

Once in country, then, there are the issues of climate, and cultures and lifestyles. True, one may be living on base and surrounded by a fair number of fellow countrymen, but one can’t remain on base 24/7/365. At least, I couldn’t. I would be too curious about where I am and who lives there and what they eat and what they do for fun. So I am thinking I would be undertaking some scouting missions to get the “lay o’ the land”. Crazytown’s got to be around there somewhere, right? Only one way to find out.

Which brings us to another big issue: interacting with the natives. This would ideally include speaking with the local folks, being able to talk with them, at least be able to say “Hello”*. But that is no easy task, in most of the world. Unless one has trained as a linguist or studied a particular language in depth before relocating, my guess is a lot of the local dialect is picked up on the fly, learning as you go.

Even though the Kat Klan’s most recent move was to England, this is not a guarantee there will be no problems with the local lingo. As the saying goes, England and United States are two cultures “divided by a common language”, and that has a ring of truth to it. Anecdotally, I once heard of a British visitor saying to his hosts “We Brits speak English. You Americans try.” Point to John Bull! The idioms abound:

“crisps” = “potato chips”

“chips” = “fries”

“Oi, referee!” = “Ump, are you blind?!”

“spotted dick” = a dessert, not a disturbing medical condition

“mind the gap” = look out for the space between the platform and the subway car

And, of course, the infamous:

“packet of fags” = “pack of cigarettes”

Yikes. I had a boyhood friend who had lived in England for a while before moving back to our conservative, southeastern Virginia hometown. He took great glee in going into local convenience stores and loudly asking (in a passable Cockney accent) the confused clerks “ ‘ello Guv’nor, give us a packet of fags, would ya?” Very funny to out teenaged minds, but where we grew up, that sort of thing could get you beat up!

All this change, all the adaptation required to maintain an even keel and a grip on a life in motion: lots of time and energy spent on the quest to be home. Maybe Crazytown is home, in some ways, that place where you can always go to stay no matter what, and it is portable. It has to be. When you become part of a life that entails moving constantly with hard work and sacrifice on many fronts, in the cause of something worthy, having something stable and reliable is valuable indeed.

So, where is Crazytown and how do we get there? I kept asking myself. After reading Kat’s blog and chatting with her a bit, I realized its right there, in a plot of land about the size of her heart. Priceless real estate in my opinion. And I am betting we all have our own Crazytowns, with us wherever we may be.

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*Instead of accidently calling someone a harlot, for example. Bad form. Should be avoided. Unless the person is indeed a harlot, in which case I suppose it would be okay. Still, it would be best to avoid that sort of mistake, even if it would be hilarious posted on YouTube. Not that I’ve ever done something like that.

Captain's Random Tuesday

The Captain is one of my oldest bloggy friends and even though he was last minute with his last guest post I decided to call in a favor and see if he would be up to the challenge again. Well he said he was more than happy to do it. However, knowing his track record I also knew to remind him several times in order to get it done. Never one to disappoint he got me this lovely post in plenty of time. Thank you so much Captain Dumbass and tell Liam if he uses the Bungalow's potty to make sure he flushes. M & M's are in the pantry.

Hey 3 Bedroom fans. Nope, Kat's not back yet, today you're stuck with me. Hey! Hey! Hand off the mouse! Come on, it won't be that bad. Honest. Stick around, you'll have fun. Promise. Or you may never come back again and Kat may be asked to leave England, but I'm going to hope for the best.

Ok. Now usually when you ask somebody to do a guest post they actually write a post. I've got a little something different for you. Unless you're already familiar with Keely's Random Tuesdays, in which case, just skip ahead. For the uninitiated, Random Tuesday is a post to get rid of all the garbage your head has collected for the week and make people question your sanity. Or reassure them that they're not as bad off as they'd thought. It's almost a public service, really. Anyway, if you're still a little concerned, click on the button below and you can check out my alibi.



Ready? Here we go:

Fellas, I'm ready to get up and do my thing
I wanna get into it, man, you know
Like a, like a sex machine, man,
Movin' and doin' it, you know
Can I count it off?

1,2,3,4!

We're in the worst economic crash since like, forever, right? What the hell is with the credit card companies? My wife received her latest bill yesterday and there was an insert which basically said, you know, credit limit-wise, we'll just leave it blank. Buy whatever you like! Love, MasterCard.

You know the taverns of olden days where they'd just throw hay on the floor and then shovel it out the next day like a barn? With two boys under six I'm thinking this may be the way to go.

Boys Don't Cry from The Cure just came up on iTunes. The 80's sure had some terrible album art.

Here's a question for all my American friends. That telephone thing where you hang up without saying goodbye. How do you know that the conversation is over? Yes, I know I'm generalizing and you don't all do it, but for those who do, how does it work? Do you get a lot of call backs? "Dude, dramatic finish but I wasn't done yet!"

You know why you do spring cleaning? It's because the spring sunshine shows you just how disgusting your house has become over the winter. No, it's not spring yet, but today was abnormally sunny. Remember the hay idea?

I was IM'ing with Kat today and she mentioned that my deadline for the guest post was tomorrow. (Work with me here, this conversation was a week ago) Then I freaked because I hadn't even started it and I left my last guest post until the last moment as well. Since I've become unemployed I've had some issues with time management. Kat was really nice about it though. Or at least that's what I thought until there was a knock at the door and two rather large Air Force security looking guys asked if I was me. (If I was me, heh heh) As they barged in I demanded to know what the hell they were doing since they were in Canada. I expected a little help from my wife but all she said was, not the face. Thanks, hon.

You should see my living room right now. Our couch is flipped forward and being held up with kitchen chairs. An old mattress I'd wanted to throw out but the kids decided was the greatest toy ever is folded over and lying in front of it. The cushions are being used to block the sides and to hold down the blanket "doors." The fort looks more like a WWII machine gun nest. I said you "should" see it, but you won't. You don't need proof of our white trashiness. Or, mixed Asian/White trash. Is there an Asian trash equivalent? I'll ask wife. Er, not that she'd know. Not the face. Right.

Alright, wasn't so bad, was it? Right about this part of the program I list the last ten songs that came up on my iPod or iTunes, so here we are:

1. No Doubt - Simple Kind Of Life
2. Violent Femmes - Blister In The Sun
3. Warren Zevon - Poor Poor Pitiful Me
4. 54-40 - Baby Ran
5. The Mountain Goats - No Children
6. Mylene Farmer - Desenchantee
7. Coldplay - Warning Sign
8. The Police - Walking In Your Footsteps
9. All-American Rejects - Move Along
10. Feist - Mushaboom

PS. Anybody paying attention might be saying, hey, where's The Cure? You said it just came up on iTunes. True, it did, but was like an hour ago. I took a little break in there to read some other blogs. So bite it.

Have a nice day.

Single Parent Dad Makes an Appearance

Have you guys met Ian yet? He is better know by his blog name of Single Parent Dad. He is one of my new Brit friends. He is slowly teaching me all I need to know about football (that is soccer you bloody Americans). He can actually get away with saying "Bloody Hell" and not sounding like a complete idiot. Hey Americans did you know when you say "bloody" it sounds really funny. Anyways, Single Parent Dad has the keys to the Bungalow today. Show him some love and keep your feet off the coffee table.

I have the keys to, what was, a lovely three bedroom bungalow. Anyone want to party?

And by party, I mean the jelly and ice-cream variety, rather than the swigging from a barrel or keg, dependent on what continent you learnt your English, type.

The lovely Kat asked me to write her something while she was off enjoying the best of England, so we have not got much time. I expect the full tour to take about 45 minutes.

I am Single Parent Dad, or should that be, I am A Single Parent Dad. I am not an ambassador for Visit England.

My beautiful wife died in the summer of 2005, when our son was just seven months old. And it has been me and him ever since, thus the unimaginative moniker.

This is actually my maiden guest post, and I am lucky enough that Kat has not had enough time reading my stuff to realise an invite might not have been the best idea.

As a temporary resident in this wonderful country, ignore my previous slight, I think it is nice that they are having visitors and are off gallivanting to discover what it has to offer.

Guests are absolutely fantastic, and I think that their stock gets even greater when there are children in your home.

I blogged recently about how much I, or we, enjoy going out to stay in. The same is true in reverse, I enjoy entertaining, and sometimes, even by just having different personnel in your abode, things that had lost their appeal, quickly regain it.

Games, and toys, consigned to history become more interesting when played with new, or different people.

Cooking for a crowd can also be fun. And less of a chore, plus there are more people to load the dishwasher – that reminds me, I must check if there is one here.

There is also greater motivation to go out and explore, or just take lunch or dinner out together.

I have become so used to going out with my son, I actually found it quite difficult a few weeks ago to go out in the day-time just with my folks, and without my usual three-foot-companion.

It is not like I do not enjoy the places I take my son to, far from it. I love places like the Safari Park, Thomas Land, and, what would be like a busman’s holiday for my hosts, the RAF Museum.

But I had got so used to targeting places that my child would enjoy, my simple thought process was finding it difficult to adapt to a different set of requirements.

Namely, pleasing myself, and I suppose my parents.

We actually popped back to the RAF Museum, as I had thought it would be a great place to visit, when I could actually concentrate on the exhibits, and take my time reading through them, rather having to have at least one eye on my child.

That proved to be true.

In the last couple of years we too have relocated, not as geographically dramatic as Kat and crew, but we have built our own home, both figuratively and actually, in a much more rural part of the country.

It was time to be less ignorant of our surroundings and history.

And with the help of the Internet, and the knowledge of the locals, it was not long before our few days together were full of interesting places to go and visit.

I hope that it is the same for my blog landlady, and that you have not been too disappointed with your substitute blogger, all will return to normal soon.

So you can forget this ever happened.

Gone to London to See the Queen!

No not that Queen. My mom. Oh and my dad is tagging along as well. I am leaving at 9:00 AM to head down there. So that is why you will have no comments from me today, rest assured if I was here I would leave witty and insightful quotes on every single one of your blogs. I also have some awesome guest posters lined up for next week. Please come to the Bungalow every day next week and show them some love. My parents will be here for almost 2 weeks but I am hoping that they will cool their heels enough that I can have time to post some of the pics and stories from the first week that they are here for the second week they are here. Does that make sense?

Right now, at 7:45 PM Thursday night I have just finished mopping my laundry room floor, mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning said laundry room and kitchen, cleaning 3 bathrooms (can we say ewww for scrubbing toilets), and more laundry (there is always laundry I swear). I still have more to finish. KiKi and LaLa's rooms need to be picked up again, the living room needs a once over and the house needs to be vacuumed. While I was talking to Captain Dumbass I had this realization that I have 3 standards of clean at my house. I have regular clean, which is picked up and clean on the surface. Then there is Company Clean. Cleaner than regular clean but not labor intensive. Then there is Mom/Inlaws clean. This is a whole nother level of clean. Intensive work and many hours are put into Mom/Inlaw clean. I think the reason is because I don't want my mom thinking she raised a heathen and then secondly because I don't want my inlaws to think their son lives in a sty. Just how my brain works.

Well I need to get back to work but I wanted to leave you with a funny real quick. After I finished mopping the kitchen I told the kids to stay out of there while the floor dried, then I left to take a bag of garbage out to the bin. When I came back in there LaLa told me "Hey the floor is all slippery in there! We busted our butts!"