The Trials and Tribulations of a Green Card Wannabe

"I need to see more evidence of your Maryland address."

"Oh no, this is just our mailing address, for the tour you see, Cory is an actor, we are travelling and-"

"I need more evidence of your Maryland base."

"I didn't make myself clear, sorry. You see this is just a -"

"I can't give you a green card if you can't prove you live in Maryland."

Thus began our doomed green card interview.

After expensive flights, a night at our old Baltimore haunt, a somewhat premature celebratory dinner at our favourite sushi joint the night before, we left Federal Hall numbed with disbelief. How could we have flunked the test so royally?! How could it have taken this strange turn after the upbeat pep talk with our lawyer all of 24 hours earlier. Did I miss the part on the application form that said the address you give MUST be the one where you reside? Obviously. This is usually what addresses appertain to. Two disgruntled and somewhat damp actors bedraggled their sorry selves into the gloomy Baltimorean morning trying their best to soak up the playful energy of their son, now free to run. Looking back I am grateful that our lawyer was in LA. With the time difference we had no choice but to wait two hours before his office was open. I think if I had spoken to him directly I would have come across more truck driver than compliant green card wannabe. Certainly every curse word flew through my mind as the dreadful realisation that months of preparation had culminated in an aborted trip. A simple mistake, albeit a rather obvious one in hindsight, threw me into depths of anger that I like to visit but rarely.

"I am so sorry," I offered the immigration officer, "At no time were we lead to believe that giving Cory's working address would jeopardise my eligibility. We thought this was the safest way to receive communication from you. To avoid delays. We were always under the understanding that the most important thing to prove was our marriage." No doubt I turned in a lowsy job of hiding my frustration.

"Excuse me." was her reply as she left the room to talk with a supervisor.

On her return, and, to be fair, with a somewhat more collaborative attitude (she had to do good and bad cop I spose) she explained that she would agree to carry on with the interview but that my green card would not be issued until such time as we could prove our ties to Maryland.

"We can't do that." answered Cory

"I am going to carry on with the rest of the interview now." she answered.

"I have a house in upstate New York does this help?"

"It shows residence ties yes but in New York state. You would have to move your case to the New York office."

"How long will this take?"

"I don't know. I will carry on with the rest of the interview now."

On she ploughed, verifying that I was neither Nazi, communist or terrorist and, after handing me a green piece of paper (oh the irony) which I was to return in 30 days with proof of our financial and residence ties to the country we were asked to leave her office to face the drizzle outside. I really wanted to kick everything in foot's distance on the way out. I was just in one of those rational frames of mind.

Cut to my angry facebook update an hour later over lunch and an almost immediate response from a very close friend who knew of a kindly man who works for a congressman, who, having heard of our plight, was eager to help. There I was, a little later, in the middle of what was supposed to be a celebratory hair chop with my favourite hairdresser down the Little Italy way, fiercely emailing said man with details of our case, the immigration officer who saw us and other requested details. By the next day Baltimore office had been spoken to by said man. Two days later he had had a private phone conference with the administrator batting for us and attempting to clear up the confusion which culminated in the decision to move our case to New York. Four days later our files had arrived in the new office and on the fifth day we had been called with a rescheduled appointment on Cory's day off. In Buffalo. It is true what they say. It's who you know.

Good people like these who fly in, angel like, in times of crisis. All the while we scramble for a file load of bills and papers to prove our financial and residence ties, calling on favours of friends to scan, fax and photocopy them, as the clock ticks and ticks away the time we have to secure my eligibility to travel for my best friend's wedding. I don't want to picture me saying goodbye to my boys at the airport as they jet off for ten days with family leaving me behind in the distance. People at my in-law's church are praying for me. My friend and mum are reiki-ing. People send us their best wishes.

It was not until 9am on Monday April 26th that either Cory or I could breathe a sigh of relief. We left number 130 Delaware avenue, downtown Buffalo, with a pretty stamp on my passport to permit immigration officers to let me in on our return, and a green card on its way. I don't think joy was what we were feeling exactly. More relief. Gratitude. Overwhelmed at the kindness and generosity of our friends. We have no idea how you can repay that kind of gesture, other than perhaps to be ready for when the same is required of us.

I have been the recipient of American spirit at its finest. Bravery. Energy. Efficiency. Generosity. An instinct to fight the cause. The utter, unswerving belief in freedom, opportunty for all. Many are those who knock this country for its historical and cultural immaturity, but all I know, is that when Cory and I needed help more than ever, it was there. Humanity transcends boundaries of every sort. Our friend has assured us he expects nothing in return, "This is my job. It's what I do everyday. I get great pleasure in doing what I do. I get to delve into the lives of others. Face their difficulties. Fight for them. Share their joy. I get to really help people. That's enough for me." Course you know, my Italian side rears it's head, as I wonder, if years down the line we will suddenly be asked for some incredibly difficult favour in return. I hush it gently. No doubt Dad will presume him a Mason....

Whatever so, we say thanks to him, our friends and the workings of the universe that put us through the ups and downs so that we really feel we have earned this! Now the new challenge of creating residences in both places. Of really setting to work on our transatlantic dream. And I don't mean cultivating that grating twang most Brits develop after some time over here, even if, I will admit to asking for waddderr for the simple reason that waTer never gets me understood till the fifth attempt by which time any waiter is no longer pleased to help me and is silently not wishing me a nice day.

But nice days is exactly what we have been having here in Boston-land. If I ever thought Washington DC felt like London then Boston is the same but ten fold. The Georgian streets are breathtakingly red bricked and bay windowed. The cluster of boutiques and such along Beacon Hill a delight to the eye and the Boston Common, a hop and a skip from our hotel, dotted with 17th century graves gives a palpable gravitas to the place. Akin to London. You can really feel the history here. Quincy market, in all its cobbled piazza-ness harkening to covent garden, street performers and art stalls included. Newbury street with its clash of designer stores and thrift shops a whisper of Marylebone or Notting Hill. The grandoise of the houses clustered around manicured squares, mirror images of the back streets of Bayswater or New Bond street. It is all so familiar, and induces a welcome home-sickness, that allow myself to wallow in for fleeting moments in the knowledge that I can soak me up some London living in a few days time, albeit for just over a week. Just enough perhaps to enjoy the highlights of my town, chinwag with ma n' pa, watch my best mate strut down the aisle trying my best not to break into tears during the reading she has given me to say. Pint at the Hollybush perhaps. Quick trip into the BBC to see my producer and record a few lines of dialogue for the comedy children's series I completed back in September. Just enough of a breather before we start jaunting around the mid west....

For now, I kick back and send out a prayer of thanks for our little journey so far. In all aspects. Now to plan the green card celebration bash for tomorrow night. Have some ideas on a concoction involving food colouring for my own green card cocktail. It's gonna take new-immigrant parties by storm, I can just feel it. May have to iron out some teeth-staining issues...

I gaze about our huge suite and wonder how I will resist becoming accustomed to this luxurious way of life. Mind you, we never pretended we were living reality.

There's plenty of time for that.

Thoughts From Egypt

We have just returned from a brief jaunt to Egypt.

Twenty minutes in the car and there we were. Howsat? Yes siree, just past "Loud Road" we found ourselves in the "hamlet" of the above named, though the lush green of the rolling hills bared little resemblance to the dusty land I visited some years ago. A mile or so into the new world we arrived at our destination: Little Gym. Now before you go panicking that we have strapped our three year old to a diminuitive treadmill in order to counter act the vast amount of supersizing that has been going on over here let me explain. The location in question is like any three year old's dream, especially those of the ilk who believe sofas, walls, cases, windowsills have been constructed solely for their upsiide-down enjoyment. It is a place for those who have spawned tumblers, twirlers, general monkey acrobats and trundle through day to day living just hoping to make life inside and out as safe as possible so they can sommersault to their never tiring delight. Mum and Dad sat, on the edge of their seats with enjoyment, muttering barely audible coaching to boy who, on the otherside of the glass wall dashed in enthusiastic leaps around a padded gym, swung from high bars, balanced on beams and generally frolicked with others his size. The group is kept in line by the burly Tony and his colleague Tina, the two, a limber, energetic gymnast duo who put the "funny bugs" to work. The parents sit in a neat line of chairs. It was not disimilar to watching the monkey encampment in Colombus Zoo, without a Gorilla to suddenly thump the glass and scare us into submission. Come to think of it, Tony did poke at one of the more provocative older brothers who started pulling faces at his younger sister in a vain attempt to distract her.....

Boy and I revel in dad's weekend visits. Mum has done quite a job of finding daily activities for both of us to enjoy but Daddy coming home tops them all. Last night, after an impromtu trip to stock up at the local MEGA store, boyo was konking out in my arms after a rather late pasta dinner. Door opens, and daddy gives a "honey I'm home!" and our tadpole suddenly wriggles like a frantic electric eel, recounting his week without commas or breath whilst jumping around every piece of furniture. Jelly beans were taking effect also. It was Easter sunday admittedly, and the two us us had been riding a tidal sugar wave since breakfast. I don't think the boy knew what to make of the fact that mum was pleased for him to eat as much choco sugariness as he wished. He turned to me later to say his belly hurt. I gave him one of those told-you-so mum looks. Poor kid.

Easter is BIG here. Between the demonic pink eyed chocolate bunnies that overfill the shelves to the easter flags waving outside the houses and the egg hunts advertised spanning from the middle of March to the big day itself it is a bunny-lovers paradise. My sister in law organised an egg hunt for the tyke where he manically collected brightly coloured plastic eggs dotted around her lawn and beds. He then grappled them open to reveal a plethora of candy and socks, and cars and jelly beans and and and. It was a delight to watch my family enjoy spoiling him. Luckily for him he did not have to share them with anyone else, I suspect having a gaggle of children doing so would have unfolded into quite a different scene! After the hunt we all went inside and chowed on a brunch of wonderfulness, hand baked and cooked and whipped by my superwoman sister in law who bakes goods with the ease that most of us breathe. I ought to take a leaf out of her book. How differently she sways around her kitchen measuring, filling, whipping. I can safely say it paid absolutely no resemblance to my cock-eyed spirinting around our kitchen during my baking drive a month or so ago, which by the way, I am totally cured of. Something about summer in the near distance does not make me want to eat dough three times a day.

We had certainly worked up an apetite after the easter service at church. Of late, in attempt to integrate myself into the community I have enrolled in a group that I believed would give me the best taste of local life. The Walworth Methodist Church Choir. Yes you read right. I was brought up by a Catholic ma and a Jewish Pa. Methodist living was an absolute mystery to me when I first visited Cory in his homeland. My first memory was of his father exclaiming, on my first arriving that, "she looks so dark she could be an apple picker!" I was both confused and instinctively slightly offended. A secondary thought was dissappointment at my own snobbery; what was there to be ashamed of being an apple picker for? Years later that is exactly what I am especially around September down the plot and I love evry minute of it. But that is by the by now. Nor do I suggest that this has anything to do with Methodist faith. These days, visiting church is a staple of our stays here, Cory and I were married there, and I have to admit that there is something very special joining with a group of people in a moment of communal reflection. Nothing sitting in the audience of of Young Frankenstein won't cure I spose. I have vivid memories of the theatricality of the Catholic churches of my childhoods, all pomp and gold. There was something deeply alluring to a luxury aspiring child of the 80s drawn to the garish, heavily under the influence as I was of the gloss clad shoulder padded heroines and villains of Dynasty and Dallas.

For me to first step into the pared down sanctuary of a Methodist church was shocking to say the least. During my first service I watched, wide eyed, as people walked across the altar, held up their hands to share announcements, prayer requests. I gaped at the passing of the peace where people stood up and left their seats for a chin wag with their friends at the other side of the baby blue room. I admired the stained glass cross of the altar but wondered what had happended to all the other props and curtains and ingle nooks. I had a lot ot learn. On this visit we have become regular churchees. Sam has sung with the children on Palm sunday (he hammed it up centre, girating to Little Grey Donkey) and he has partaken of the sunday school. Most of it seems to have gone over his head, upstaged as it all is by his two friends Kyle and Kaitlin who together have mothered him for the entire mornings pulling him from arm to arm so, that he walks around the place like a mini Jesus on the cross. It is a deep love the three have for one another. They are children of one of Cory's first crushes and it seems fitting that tradition continue methinks. They are already on his wall back in NW2. Boy did turn to me the other day to ask who thei "jesus was anyway?". I took a bretah to find the words to phrase an answer that would not be tempered with religion but before I could respond he foudn the answer himself, "Oh yeah, he's one who rides a donkey!" I left it at that.

Back to the comedy that is mother in the choir. I thought I was doing rather well I have to say until the leading soprano had to leave rehearsal early and I carried on warbling full volume. I had the sudden painful realisation that the wonderful voice I had been hearing did not belong to me after all. Well, as Pastor Jenny said this week in her sermon, there are strengths we come to realise we have been blessed with and others we realise others have been blessed with. Tuning aside, it was quite cathartic to warble with the best of them, to wear a cream nylon disguise with a red satin collar and pretend to be the kind of person who is able to blend in a group, to take their part for the better good. It was a great balancer for my naturally more exhibitionist streak that needs careful reining at teh best of times. I cannot deny I felt somewhat hypercritical in proclaiming my personal saviour when really, I stand more comfortably spouting pseudo spiritual yogi teachings or the thoughts of Paolo Coelho. I grew up with Jesus on the near horizon but when it came down to it, even back in primary school, when Mrs Hampton asked us to draw a picture of God I offered her a piece of paper with a haze of yellows and blues scribbled in a "heavenly" fashion. No beard for me. Only my own as it came to pass....

I apportion entire blame on my airy fairy views, much to the likely desperation of my brother in law Craig who together with my lovely sister in law Robin form a central role in their Christian fellowship, on my father, who from when I can remember poured over books on Atlantis and links to outer space over the dinner table. I am still fascinated with these thoughts today. Despite starkly different views on religion and its place and purpose in the world, I was delighted to watch Craig deliver his erudite sermon on Good Friday down in the city what is Rochester. His fellow Christians, bibles in hand, muttered in agreement as he passed through passages of the bible with the ease of a learned historian. It was very impressive. I was lost after the first five minutes. It was like being in a literature class when you haven't even read the first page of the book in question. My knowledge of the bible was based on the first seven years of my eductaion. After that that part of my brain was filled up with tit bits of knowledge about almost every other religion on the planet thanks to my inspiring religious studies teacher. She used to jump on the tables to get our attention. It worked. She was also a Hindu-phile and would describe her weekely visits to Southall with such vigour that we felt as if we had actually been with her that Saturday. Lush.

The whole notion of resurrection is something I am very interested in however. Nothing feels more like a rebirth of sorts than leaving your normality to go nomading with your family. Putting yourself through weekly changes and the major and minor challenges it throws at you. I know now, after only a few weeks without Cory to help in the day to day rhythm of life with our son that I have more patience than I actually realised. Travel days have taught me that my son and I can create any place we wish within the commercialised flouresence of any airport. And that there are a host of things to play whilst sitting for hours on a plane. If you take the time. And the breath. And don't fight where you are. This appears to be the biggest lesson being offered to me at the moment. My long suffering in laws have had to put up with Sam and I's rampaging chaos and noise for the past few weeks and no doubt it is beginning to challenge their daily routines. I'm sure they enjoyed my twirls about the kitchen the first week but I am also sure they will enjoy having their home back to how they know it. Not so full of Sara's concoctions and potions of the culinary kind.

Over these past few weeks I have had a chance to reconnect to my family here in a different way than I would have done with Cory by my side. I have had more one to one time with my mother and sister in laws. It has been a huge tonic to have such great women to spend time with. Cory's dance teacher for one and her affable husband, who, grandad like, took the Sam man under his wing and teased the daylight out of him until they were both slightly tipsy with outdoor fun. My sister in law Sid (the baker extraordinaire) and Cory's borther Kris even lent me their car so I could take a few hours away whilst they enjoyed Sam. I found myself an antique emporium, a coffee stop and a few hours of utter relaxation. Nothing makes me happier than trawling through anitquities and wowing at pretty china. My great aunty Rosa, named Duchess by my father because of her unbridled need to collect silver and china and who swanned aroudn our house on her trimesterly stays in high cork platforms and fuschia nail polish wioth lipstick to match. I remember resisting her influence as she tried, desperately to make me into a lady like sort of gal aged 9, dragging me around Alfie's of a saturday afternoon pointing out the royal albert here, the sheffield silver there and other stuffs in between. I do recall enjoying the costume jewellery but that is where my appreciation appeared to end much to her frustration. She also tried to persuade me that eight chips was quite enough for one girl. This always perplexed me because I grew up with her niece Patricia, who was of the school of thought that if all the food was eaten at a dinner it was clear that not enough had been made. Besides, you never know when the Russian army might stop in for two or three bowls of pasta each.

And so, here we are like a slowly retro coiling spring waiting to bounce back into our travelling life in just a few weeks. There is one, important task on the ever so near horizon that must be successfully be completed before we can all truly move on. On Tuesday, April13th, at 10.30 am sharp, the pleasure of our company has been requested at an immigration office in Baltimore where we will present our case for Green card to a kindly official, who, I have decided, will take great shine to Sam, and stamp my passport there and then. Least this is my fantasy version and I am sticking by it your honour. I mean your honor. Ladies and gentlemen wish me luck, say your prayers, light an incense stick, send some reiki. Whichever God or goddess you turn to in times such as these, I urge you to invoke them for their support. You will be rewarded ten fold. I might even learn to write in shorter sentences....

For now, we play in the spring greeness of the back yard, do the pre school run, enjoy coaching high school kids in the english accent way for Jekyl and Hyde, cook for the family, take in the breathtaking spring sunsets and sunrises of our upstate retreat. There will be a time I will look back nostalgically at our 5 week stay.

Time to go; our boy is doing an experiment on top of an 2 ft high antique coffee table, I mean, steamer trunk, which Dad picked up in Toronto for 100 Canadian dollars....

Country Roads, Take Me Home...

I am writing from our country retreat. Our family idyll. Our escape from reality. Truly, since our 8 hour drive from not-so-sunny Detroit I have been kicking back with the fam and getting accustomed to driving the country roads in my father-in-law's boat. I mean car. Anything bigger than our fiat seicento back at home always feels like a Cadillac.

My lasting memory of Detroit will be leaving my Broadway debut behind me in the damp distance. 1515 Broadway to be accurate. The aptly named black box commune across from the opera house saw Mariela's much anticipated half length show in its first, trueset, most terrified form. I think I have discovered a new angle on fear. Nothing can quite prepare you for the nerves and adrenalin that preceeds your first foray into solo performing. I turned to share my feelings with collegaues, but there weren't any. Cory feeding the cast and crew in the foyer. I jumped around, waltzed with ghosts to the Sardinian music pumping into the house and generally noticed the tightening of my throat and any other muscle in its viscinity. Then the crowd entered, quietended and we opened with the screening of a short movie I had made of her some 4 years ago. After the first few shots there were belly laughs. It made me happy and terrified in equal measures. Then, out I came, all be-tached and grinning like a stocky Sardinian street cat and offered Mariela's bawdy obsevations and wise tales of her beloved farm land. And her husbands genital peculiarities. There were a lot of laughs. At least that's what I remembered. We managed to get it all on tape so at least this time I will actually have a record of the madness. my producer has already gt me planning my San Francisco full length version. Talk about cracking the whip. Gheesh. BAck at the theatre the 45 strong audience all gave me their ideas for how I should continue to develop her into a full show. Their support was a beautiful thihng So too was the bear hug Theo, the tecchie gave me just after the end of the show, humming the last song out loud. Hard to imagine a tecchie in a pub theatre in London doing the same thing after having known me for all of, what, one hour?

What a wonderful way to leave the desolate metropolis that is Detroit. Slightly marred perhaps by the fact that an hour or two before the show, Cory lost his wallet yards from the theatre and the nice person who found it chalked up small sums at the local McDonals curtesy of American Express. What this meant was that our first few days upstate New York when Cory had planned to put his feet up and put the worlds to rights with his brothers on the sofa was taken up with driving all over town getting a new drivers license and sorting out grubby credit card details. These things always take more time than you expect. Our drive home was long, but smooth. Sammy-man was in good spirits, if somewhat bemused by his mother's alter ego. We left the industrial landscape of Michigan behind us and drove through Pennsylvania and on to upstate New York. As night fell we scoffed on fried goods and later at around 1 in the morning we drank coffee for the last leg from Buffalo to Rochester. Sam, woke, somewhat delirious, had a doghnut ball and drifted back into chocolate fuelled sleep. At last the rolling moonlit country hills of Walworth welcomed us home. Grandma was up for a quick 2 in the morning chat, Sam delighted with the conversation and eventually the family relaxed into a much needed slumber.

So now, with Daddy, recovering from strep throat, up in Toronto with our other family the boy and I are organising our days into some semblance of normality. With the help of our friends and family we have found a lovely little pre school which the boy will be given some freedom at a couple of mornings a week. As we arrived, Mrs Bonnie, a smiling kind but firm lady introduced herself to Sam. Quickly, one young Nevin took Sam's hand and introduced him to the rest of the children. It was hard to leave. We have been counting the sleeps till Tuesday ever since. The weather has been glorious and beyond Cory's parents home are some inviting woods. Boyo and I trekked through the corn field to reach them, and tip toeing through the brambles found ourselves a log to have our picnic on. He picked up a stick and declared it to be his violin. I was handed a "bass drum" and requested to play every song from the show. I was corrected on my tuning several times. Some people are so hard to please. Then we listened to the woodpeckers. Peeked for deer and peeled the bark of a disintegrating stump. I watched him run back to the house through the corn and imagined his dad having done the same thing through most of his childhood. These woods were Cory's playground. He and his three brothers were allowed to roam free. Magic. I hope that the place will become a treasured space for our boy. You can give a child nothing better than freedom. This is such a fiercely strong feeling from my memories of my summers in Sardinia. The adults always seemed on the periphery of our world. People to visit at food times and in times of, rare, trouble. Otherwise we were all happy to let each other get on with our own work. I came to know the cobbled back streets of my mother's home town very well as well as the children who ran them. I would wish the same liberties for Sam. Here. There.

A lady who always makes our stays here specail is Sandy. She is probably the reason why Cory ventured into the business of show in the first place. I ought to thank her for our tour. It was she, who spotted Cory at a choir rehearsal at the age of 12 and suggested to his parents that he dance. The rest, as they say is history. Think of the teacher in Billy Elliot and you get an inkling of this lady's perseverance, fierce loyalty to her students and unswerving attention to detail and technique with which she raises outstanding dancers every year. Without her steel Cory would have been eaten alive in New York. Nowadays she is my creative mentor, inviting me to join class at every opportunity and every trip we make time for at least one session of brainstorming of ideas. Last year she even let me choreograph her show's opening number and write the dialogue for the piece which gave me a huge amount of pleasure. This morning I took the floor barre class and tried my best to keep up with the limber 16 year olds in front of me. Turns out my P90X work has not been in vain. Well, as usual what I lacked in fitness or technique I made up for in ham. Give me a space, some music and a few moves and I think I'm Matthew Borne or Isadora Duncan. I take off into my little world and feel alive with expression. Total, unadultered indulgence. Food for the soul. My body willl thank me for it later.

Whilst mum made like she was god's gift to Martha Graham boyo was a jumping bean next door, and in the final across the floor jetes of mum's class he was escorted back by Sandy's grandaughter Nicole and sat watching the young ladies and me sweat into the closing bars of the class. It was followed by a sumptous brunch cooked by my sister in law Sid. Blueberry goodness drizzled over waffle wonderfulness. Much coffee. Chat. General at home feeling.

Just before I get too comfy cosy though do we receive an excitement announcement. Ladies and gentlemen (drum roll please Stan) I am now the proud owner of workng papers! Yessir! I am all bone fide almost green carded legit working gal. Now all I need is a job. Details details. Point is I can charge tickets for Mariela now. Ok, lets not get ahead of myself. But hey, perhaps I can find a little somethin somethin on our travels. Ride the rodeo in Texas? Play the joanna in San Fransisco? Who knows? Point is I can! Now the little detail of our imminent Green Card Interview.

It is scheduled for April 13th in Baltimore. Back we will go, to one of our home stops to persuade smiley Imigration officer to let me have free leave of the joint. Sam is probably going to come for the ride too. He is a little peturbed at this fact, but reconciles himself to it by the fact that Blue Ian and Silver Ian have to collect their "pink card" there too. At the same time. How very convenient. Fingers crossed that they are willing to give it to me there and then. It would make life much easier. Will keep you updated.

So for now, its back to a real proper Saturday afternoon with the family. There is talk of movies, dinner, of which I have been doing much of. Last night we went out for a Friday fish fry. Yellow Mills, somewhat of an institution amongst the locals was packed with fishy folk tucking into sea-friends. Amongst which were my in laws close friends Jan and Tom (eating not being eaten) who invited us back to their place after dinner. Sam hit it off with them immediately (they have many grandchildren) and we giggled into the night. Mum practiced her night driving keeping a watchful eye out for renegade deer making suicidal dashes across the road, which, by the way was littered with squashed Easter bunnies, racoons and skunks. Not a good time of year for the wildfolk I guess. The other night we drove back from Orbakers, a burger joint that has been there since the twenties and which I have to visit at least once when we are back. Its bright red bar is manned by a cluster of willing young high school folks and the fare is delicious. I never knew I liked malted milkshakes till I came there. No better way to pass a thursday night. As we hit the road home a fireball sun was dipping into the horizon and the indigo orange sky silhouetting the pine and firs on the wide sweeping curves downhill to the homestead were simply breathtaking.

Hubby may have become a commuter boy, staking it out in his hostel up north but life is still sweet. Perhaps it was time after all for these restless folk to take the time to smell the flowers. At least until monday when we hit the road again to Buffalo to meet my aunt Pat and uncle John. The former is a nun, whose mother was my grandmother's sister. She is quite a special lady full of curiosity and affection for the wolrd and its people. She is also a fantastic cook. Every time we have visited she has laid on a feast that brings tears of joy to the eyes. Dad will meet us there and then come on home for the night just enough time to take his boy to his first day of American pre school. Kleenex at the ready no doubt.

In the words of John Denver, country roads have, if only for a short time, taken us home....

Fun (with a big fat frenetic capital F)

The last few days has been a frazzle of social delights. From high tea down Birmingham way to play dates of an inflatable bouncy nature, posing as a law student in Ann Arbor to running around the back doubles of the theatre dressed as a member of the white trash brigade - all for the sakes of a party. But I get ahead of myself. Perhaps I should take the time to piece apart the torrade of frenetic friendly fire.

Last week ended on a note of splendour as our friend Matthew Vargo, cast member, took us to tea at the Townsend Hotel don't you know in fashionable Birmingham. It's main street boasts a noticeable lack of chain stores and an abundance of uber stylish boutiques of the paper bag & tissue paper ilk, selling trinkets and, well, paper and crockery and bathrooms and anything else the hoy poly of the town delight in spending their disposable incomes on. The wealth from the car industry that grew and then in its demise ultimately crushed Detroit is still visible in the jaw dropping homes that encircle the town. Vargo - delicately named by father and son - had arranged for us to perch on a 4 seater velvet sofa by the roaring fire bestooned with spring blooms and belanterened with chandelier. Boy had been be-tweeded on request and even Dad had put on a fancy jacket (with sneakers of course, just in case he came over too posh n' that). Backs straight, tea cups pinched delicately in the hand, free flowing tea and staff that couldn't pamper us enough, family and friend were happy campers. Add to this a beauty of open tea sandwiches displayed with the pride and care of an award winning sushi chef followed by a plate of chocolate delights and mama was a happy, if slightly calorific lady. Towards the end of tea, Cory got a phone call from an old New York friend living just down the road from our tea haven. Ten minutes later I had the pleasure of befriending said pal, an effervescent Melica, an actress of Serbian descent full of Eastern European warmth and zing. I could have talked to her for hours (and later in the week we did, but more of that anon). Mr Vargo and I then perused the shops whilst Cory and Melica caught up, hanging out at the local library with the, still be-tweeded, Sam-boy. I managed to buy a few unnecessary items including a little gift for the lovely Austin who was set to inaugurate his travelling, fuschia, pin up decorated bar. You can never have enough cocktail sticks in the shape of luminous pink flamingos. Everyone knows that surely.

Yes, siree, come sunday night Cory and I were unrecognisable as a white trash couple trashing the party down Dearborn way. Least that was the plan. In practice I looked more like a Mexican just smuggled over the border and Cory, well, looked a lot like Cory. Inspite of this, and perhaps somewhat disturbingly so, we fit in rather well with the millais of randomness that greeted us on the 1st floor. At the entrance to the party was a patch of astro turf complete with picket fence and paper decorations. Real mud included. As the door swung open a mason jar found itself into my hand, my name was written on it and some sweet rummy red stuff filled it and my gullet in almost one swoop. Around the crowded room mason jars bobbed about filled with various concoctions which the Austin man had cooked up some time earlier in 5 gallon buckets with taps attached. Everybody was giving it some with the old trash accents. I found myself sounding like a drunk Indian in Wales. Top marks went to the hair department who turned up in force utterly in character the whole evening and somewhat alarmingly in tune with their inner trash. There were "preggos" pretending to smoke, men with "black eyes" and girls who had used the world's supply of hairspray on their heads. We were loud. It was good. Cory and I took it in turns to run in to the bedroom to check on the boy, now lifted out of car seat and into a bed.

He had been well and truly tired out at the theatre earlier. Firstly, by watching the matinee show; it takes a great deal of fierce concentration on his part. Always seeming to me, like he is checking if everyone remembers their lines correctly. Secondly, by listening to the evening show from back stage, where stage manager Joe and dance captain James talked the boy through the science behind the video monitors and flicked between channels so we could even watch the scene changes normally done in black out. That was after Marcus (sound) had taught him how to use a laser spirit level and dad had zoomed around with him on his bike. Meantime mama chatted in the girl's dressing room. When Cory later went on to do his little turn on the hay wagon, he looked discreetly up at the overhead camera and waved to us. It delighted boy and mum in equal measure. Took me back to 1980 when Dad came back with a similar monitor and filmed me prancing about and generally being my 5 year old exhibitionist self. The pleasure and unadulterated excitement I got from watching it back is a memory so crisp and visceral even now. Back in the dressing room, a few minutes of Samuel Whiskers later, and the boy was out to the world straddled across two armchairs and tucked in for the night with the echoes of the show swirling through his dreams.

Who could blame him? It had been a full day, topped off by a trip to mum's venue for the Mariela extravaganza. Last night Cory glibly announces that 20 minutes of material is good but thirty would be better. I tell him to stop taking his producer role so seriously. Then I go into the other room and come up with ten minutes more stuff. The venue was purchased by the lovely Chris back in 1987, who then moved in upstairs and developed the cafe and theatre space downstairs. The air of ageing roadie hippie wafts about him in a barely perceptible purple haze. The kind of loveable eccentric who would not be amiss down the allotment. His reliable tecchie Theo can't do enough to show me different lighting states, and the smiley Dave offers to operate the film for me. Artist Joe, tumbling out at the same time as we arrive surrounded by be-speccled trendy film students gives me permission to borrow his projector. I suddenly feel like I am in a film commune. The spirit of support and curiosity is a marvel to behold. It is true what the sign read outside then: "Detroit. Always an Adventure." This wonderful find is an oasis of experimental splashes in the middle of what, in Chris' own words was a "waste land.". He points at the former crack house, the new car park and the theatre and paints a dreary picture of the place 20 years back. As we are speaking on the sidewalk, I see a two car mono rail glide above in my peripheral. The eponymous "people -mover". I don't know if the folks who designed it ran into copyright issues with Monorail inc. but the title tickles me. Sam and I are due to be "moved" tomorrow during the matinee show. It will be a way to distract mum from any residual fear of getting up in front of friends and, well, generally being foolish for their entertainment. And mine of course. I love to bear my pre-wax pre-excersise alter ego. My mum once succintly described her as "well, you really, just with a costume on." This was after she, my dad and my aunt sat front row on my first outing as the quirky widow in a cavernous cellar of a pub in Great Portland street and proceeded to listen to me tell stories about Sardinian pubic hair topiary. They walked on the same side of the street as me after. Proudly even. Now that's what I call love. I remember catching a glimpse of my aunt, during the act, laughing in spite of herself. Its a cherished memory of the usually poker faced Sardinian undisposed to fits of giddyness.

And so, trashed and Mariela'd out the family found time for some serious mental stimulation in the form of the University of Michigan's Law School. Cousin Jess (a student there, I didn't just gate crash) met us in her lunch hour and whisked me into a den of deli-sciousness that is Zingerman's. A local and much loved institution serving up an array of fat sandwiches from a tiny kitchen huddled beyond a small mountain of delectables from olive oil to peruvian dark chocolate nubs. I spotted, and tasted, a fine Sardinian Olive Oil and coveted some aged vinegars irresistably decantered in gorgeous bottles. I sniffed and stared and wowed and ate. Rather quickly. Boyo had been left sleeping in the car with dad who had much neede time to catch up with some calls. My disguise as a student involved black dressage with scarfness for relaxed comfort topped with my thick rimmed glasses for a projected level of superior intelligence. I think it worked. As we hurried into the hall a student turned round to me and asked if I was a prospective one. I was tempted to give an affirmative. Your honour.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the first thing that struck me beyond the beautiful loftyness of the stone walled room dipped in the diffused afternoon light filtering in through the frosted leaded windows was the sea of open lap tops. It was like Tom Brown's School Days meets Spooks. I felt rather, well, old. Time warped. As if I had missed the past 15 years of technological development. You'd think, from my reaction, that I had never seen a computer before. I just had never seen so many. In one go. Clever people decked the tiered desks. All doing some serious Learning. And typing. The professor is a firm favourite amongst the group revered for her frighteningly sharp memory and ability to run the gamut of years worth of analysed cases with the speed and grace of a mental gymnast. When I meet her, she is surprisingly approachable. We compare notes on our 2 and 3 year olds. She describes the marvel at her daughter's astute sense of negotiation, attributing it to the fact that both parents are professors of law.

Oh how my father would have been proud to see me strut these gothic corridors, books underarm. Well Pops, this is the closest I will ever be to becoming an International Lawyer, in every sense of the word. Is it wrong that after the class I co-ersced son into starring in a short film of him filtering through oversized volumes of law books in the silent reading room, or running down the corridors towards lecture theatres, or, giving a counting lesson at a pew in a seminar room? Surely that is not pushy? Or phony? Or unnecessarily exposing him to the perils of filming and law?

To be sure, my mind was very much excersised for the entirety of the 50 minute class, where we watched a real poice video and then worked through potential ways that the state and defending lawyers would argue their cases to victory. I wrangled with the voluble ethics of the lawyer's role. The way arguing a case is divorced from whatever personal bias they may have. Many times during a lawyer's career they must needs often argue a point they do not agree with in any way. How a professional lives with this dicotomy is something I grapple with. Unsuccessfully. I suppose in the end it really is no different from me standing in front of a camera telling you to eat such and such, packet a fat cheque and bury the feelings that the product I have just endorsed represents everything about the state of our food industry I am opposed to. Kinda.

I love the atmosphere in the place. A viscious buzz of Thinking. A tangible feeling of Growth. Quest. Drive. Fear. Courage. And the gothic celinings and orginal painted window pains representing famous cases from the last century weren't too bad either. Back out in the real world we scoffed a Korean sesame ball, put the world to rights over Orange Pekoe tea and shared a cup cake on our stroll around the characterful Ann Arbor before starting a mad dash home to get the working man to, well, work.

Interspersed with all this activity was some serious playing time for the boy-o. Our little friend Jack made it back up to us and his nanny Jess made reservations for Bounce-U (grammar and marketing are not of the same gene pool). Since meeting her, our son has whined on why he doesn't get to have a nanny. After my non-committal answers he settles on an ultimatum that we either find him said nanny or place a dinosaur infront of the house.

After signing a waiver where I declared that I took full responsibilty for letting my treasured son loose on equipment that could potentially cause injury and/or death we head on through to a flurescent lit carpeted warehouse pumping out beach boy's classics pumped with giant inflatable slides, climbs and general bumpable-ness. It was like all your christmases in one. Sam froze with excitement and then through himself down a 10 foot inflatable slide with his dad a close second. By the time Jack joined us he had built up a sweat (dad that is) and the three of them threw themsleves around whilst Jess and I were giggly spectators. Once the crowd had been moved into the next room mama was ready to flex some jumping action too. I went down a slide (and left my stomach at the top) and then rose to the challenge of racing Cory through an inflatable obstacle course. I was going to prove to him that 7 weeks on P90X taught me to Bring It and that years of watching the Krypton Factor, I was, by the marvel that is osmosis, capabale of any army standard obstacle course let alone this kiddy one. Give me a break. This'll be synch.

Carpet burn and bumped nose later I conceeded defeat. Both hurt. The former has since turned into a bright red scab that bemuses the boy (the big one I mean). After a burger lunch, with comiseration maragrita for mum we shared fond goodbyes to our friends and set off back down the road. On our journey I passed a truck who was a Proud American, or so it's sticker said, a clothing company called "Closet" Man, a food chain offering "Lent Specials", a centre for Growth & Enlightenment at the periphery of the village of Beverly Hills. My personal favourite was the Sadkhin complex offices, who were offering "cures" for hunger. Or so the sign said. I never knew it was a disease. I wondered if it might actually be a charity for foreign food aid. After a minute or two of research I have come to understand that it is actually a "rapid" weight loss program. Dr. Sadkhin has personally "discovered" the:

"sixteen biologically active hunger control points behind the ears named The Sadkhin Points®."

Isn't it great that he discovered things with his name already?! Wait, there's more:

"This non-invasive technique allows you to stimulate the hypothalamus and secrete the hormones that control hunger and dramatically reduce hunger pangs. Patients follow a strict dietary intake program without the difficulty normally associated with debilitating hunger."

Or so the website tells me. Excersise. Schmexcersise. Get me some earrings and I am all set.

This week has been perfectly capped by a wonderful afternoon spent in the company of some luscious local ladies, actresses and director friends of Melica. We spent most of today chatting about life and theatre over coffee and bagels and soup and any other delights the wonderful hostess could shower us with. The four friends are like your thinking girl's version of Sex and the City. It was a pool of creative comfortableness and a great tonic for me. One of the ladies' three year old joined us, and she and Sam flexed the muscles of their upper registers whilst running like crazed puppies around the centre of her beautiful colonial home. I inhaled too much chocolate cake. It was a vegan recipe.....

As if all this whirlwind were not enough lets add in an ADR session into the mix. Yesterday saw me smuggle into Marcus' pad, where he and his colleague Wes from the show wired up a mini studio all for my benefit. My producer back in London on the series I had just completed before we came over had called to see whether I would feel comfortable recording a few lines from various episodes which they had added during the edit. There I stood, in front of a big ole mic, all proper like, with cushions on the chest of drawers in front of me to avoid reverb, revisiting the voices of some of the colourful characters I had been pretending to be all that time ago. Within an hour the boys had put it onto a CD, uploaded it onto a web site for the BBC to download and one producer in a small wood lane office was heaving a brief sigh of relief. The gentlemen will be thanked profusely during the Toronto stay starting next week in drinkable delights.

Sunday sees us heading on a mini road trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house immediately after the matinee. Cory + Sara + GPS = domestics. Cory will be heading on up to Toronto after a few days with us in upstate New York whilst we sit tight for the card what is of the green shade. I'm considering writing to Obama reminding him that I was the one in the chocolate number at his house back in December and could he, if I teach his kids piano and acting, speed up this whole process malarky already. Doesn't he know who I think I am?!

Cory plans to pitch up with several of the crew at the local hostel. Rated top party hostel in the world. He is a slightly scared man, but tempted by the ludicrously low charges for a room seeing as a chunk of wages will be used for car hire to and from Canada as he commutes the three hours south to his home town for a Sam fix. If that isn't fodder for a blog I don't know what is.

So there you have a whistle stop tour of my life this week. Fast. Furious. Fun. But, as always there is an end in sight. Going back home, for so the place upstate now feels to me (why have one when you could have three?) will be a tonic. Methinks it is time for some family recharge. Walks in the woods. Reading with grandma. I'll try to convince Grandpa to take up Sam's baseball coaching where his father left off when we could still get outside.

Time to see the spring in.

I can already pick up a whiff of its sunny, if slightly rainy head....

Buster, Meet Buster

In retrospect, my decision to expose our son to several Buster Keaton clips on You Tube this week may have been made somewhat in haste. I came to this conclusion when, son in question, climbed onto the armchair's arm rest balanced on one leg, called out to is dad that "this is what Buster Keaton does!" and then proceeded to forward flip down off it landing on his bottom on top of two cushions on the floor. Unfased. Unhurt. Mum and Dad had that heart throat feeling, and with as serious faces as they could muster (it really was quite a trick) to offer firm but hopefully not fear inducing suggestions to "wait for the gym" together with the "remember what Judith taught us" number. Judith is a kind lady at the sports centre gym we let steam off at back home, and who, having built a friendship with Sam, now gives him quick tips on tumbling here and there. She is probably the reason he does forward rolls every opportunity. He would do them along the aisles of the supermarket if we let him. It all started in the bath the other night when I called boyo Buster without thinking. Interrogation followed and a plotted history of the Keatons was delivered, with special attention placed on the fact that from the age of three he was in his parent's travelling act. Tykey's eyes twinkled with recognition. The next day, he hadn't forgotten I had promised to show him who the chap was. There you have it. I am a fan myself. He could be running around the house pretending to be Wayne Rooney or Peter Andre. Surely an stunt man comedy genius as an idol can't be a bad thing. Right? Right?

With our new found suburban lives we oscillate between finding stimulation in the outside world and turning our living room into a fairly safe climbing arena for our chimp. Mama chimp is still aping her aunt in the kitchen department. Our bimbo is showing signs of fatigue. I am in denial. I made a batch of banana bread to prove I still know how to cook without buttons and numbers. Just before she came down with the flu I had just finished a batch of profitteroles - (from scratch people from scratch!) filled with bimbo-ed creme patissere and home made chocolate sauce. I don't know who was more surprised, me or the boys. It was in honour of a pot luck dinner round at one of Cory's colleagues flats across the way. 7 of us snuggled around their table inhaling delicious pork loin, breads, salads, veggies. And profitteroles. Happy bunch. It was the first time I felt like going in to do a show with them. No sooner had this thought been shared does Cory pop on his producer hat and beaver away at setting me up with a slot at the black box theatre across the street for a scratch night of moustachio madness. Yes, the merry widow is out again and this time with the aim of presenting a half hour of material. My palms sweat just thinking about it. I have a song, a short film and about 15 minutes so far. Where on earth I am going to conjure up some more abstractions of Sardinian eccentricities frightens and thrills. The plan is to perform in between the matinee and evening performances next saturday (next saturday??!!!!) for the cast and crew post pizzas (on us). In essence I will be bribing them to laugh at or with me. My biggest fear I suppose is polite laughter. But then again, as Cory so delicately put it, if I flop out there at least I won't be seeing the folks for a while whilst I go hide away in a secret location in upstate new york and Cory jets away to the Canada land. Green card is still not in the hand. The authorities have informed me that a decision will be final within 50 days. Cory's stamp for entry into the UK a few days after we were married in 2002 when he visited the British Embassy back in New York took all of 20 minutes. Just sayin. Its getting all a bit close to the wire for my liking, what with best friend's wedding on the spring horizon. But where there is a will there is a way. I'm hoping should it not be tied up soon I can apply for a travel document to get permission to leave and re-enter without upsetting the nice immigration lot that greet you smiling with open arms and cookies when you get to the counter after landing.

The last few days we have been mooching about Royal Oak area where we have found a few activities for the chap. I have just about recovered from the "gym" class. It was led by a substitute teacher, a lithe, tanned converse booted ex cheerleader in her early forties who shouted and screamed her way through the hour as if we were out in a windy field trying to round up 100 rugby players. Even the toddlers seemed a bit be-mused with the whole decibel to size of room ratio. Took me back to high school P.E immediately. That echo-ey screeching of instructions which you could never understand because of the acoustics leading to confusion whilst I scrambled (sometimes without my glasses for added fog) to work out what on earth we had been asked to do in the first place let alone wokr out if I could do the bloody thing anyway. Usually the latter was a negative. Unless it was hockey. With a stick I knew what my objectives were. Which role I had to play. I still have the odd shin bump to prove it. If only Mr Haydn had given clear, quiet instructions I could be an Olympian by now surely? Stop your sniggering. So anyway, there they were, eight little tykes looking expectantly up at Miss Susie who was telling them how good it is to be loud, and how fast can you go and somersault this and crawl that, whistle screech here holler there. Boy was fried by the end in utter delight. He could have kept it up for the rest of the morning. Mum and Dad finally walked him out and on to a place for mama. A charity shop.

It was like getting into a cool pool on a stifling summer's day. I had no idea how much I been missing this quintessential part of our London life. I mean tea and radio and skype for the family is one thing, but there is no substitute for a good old rummage at the local charity shop. The ladies in Golders Green know us so well they will even pop into our cafe and tell us about a particular item we may be interested in. You'd think we were the hoy poly clientele of a classy boutique. Which of course, we most definitely are, clearly. I knew I had let it all go to my head when I was galled to find a pair of real leather boots for sale at £20. I don't shop in double figures people. I was raised with a long line of hand-me-down-borrow-me's. Jumble sales as a kid, my great aunt's wardrobe from the sixties/seventies as a psychedelically attired university student, my other aunt's wardrobe for costumes and all round wear with plenty of mum's (and dad's) bits and pieces in between. So there I was rummaging through American schmutter. Perfect. Or should I say awesome. I perused 1960s corn on the cob sets, shell suits, crock pots, christmas ornaments, frames and frilly lamp shades. Cory saved me from buying a table (yes a table - mini though, for Sammy boy) and a set of antique-ish martini glasses for Austin, a crew member (think back to Cleveland market) who is having a party to inaugurate his hand crafted travelling bar. It essentially looks like the other working gondola trucks used back stage to transport costumes and wigs from the outside, but for it being painted a fanstastic shade of fuschia. When I saw it some weeks ago it was still in its pre production phase, with a glass holder to be added and so forth. It is on wheels and will furnish each of his rooms along the way. He will have it stocked up with every increment needed for perfeck cocktail. He even makes his own vodkas. He gets five stars from me for retro-marvellousness.

After our step into thrift-centre I headed over to the post office, where a little printed sign in front of each of the clerks informed me that today was "a HAPPY day". I wasn't totally convinced. From the clerk's expressions I suspected they had forgotten to change it from yesterday. It was followed by a jaunt around the local health food shop. I'm talking health with a sodium fat free fairly traded organic bio dynamically harvested capital H. On entry I was asphyxiated by that herby hempy lavender-y echinacea smell like those health food shops I remember from my childhood before Holland & Barrett sterilised the market. The manager was a pale wispy haired guy who I caught ushering a customer around the book section and gluten free shelf the latter sporting a fedora and a native american earring dangling from one ear. I never heard someone so passionate about flour. The stock was huge. I've never seen so many variations on the humble peanut butter or organic fairly traded tahini in my life, or vegetarian cheese and buckwheat & quinoa udon soba. Don't get me even started on the teas, I wouldn't get to bed till tomorrow. I jest, but needless to say I bought five things more than what I went in for, including gluten free falafel mix and brown rice and seaweed tortilla chips (?!) I was entertaining that evening. I told Cory quite clearly that if I didn't have some adult company that night after almost three days straight of manic baking and cooking and listening to Sammy's favourite kid's shows tunes I would be in danger of some serious combusting. A couple of our friends came over from the show and I had me some good food, good company and belly laughs. Recharged for the next few days.

Today, on our drive in to the play centre once again, we were invited to celebrate Vivaldi's 332nd birthday by the chummy folks on the radio. I didn't have the heart to call in and kindly point out that the clever chap has long since gone to his harpsichord in the sky. 332 years ago to be pedantic. Maybe I'm just not offay with the music world. Half way through a Carmen Fantasie they interrupted to explain their machine had conked out and that they were sorry and please give them a moment to rev up the manual back up. Nicely played.We drove on past S. Alexander avenue (small things, small minds) and back home for a play date with a friend we met at East Lansing's ice rink three weeks ago. Little Jack, who would not look amiss sitting barefoot and flat capped on a New York stoop in a black and white photo from the Great depression was very much welcome into Sammy's universe. My personal highlight was when Sammy turned to him and took his hand, "I have an idea!", Jack answering, "What is that Sammy?" and the two of them toddling off to Sammy's room. He came along with his nanny Jess, a wonderfully warm easy to be with lady and his mum Seann, and orthopeadic surgeon. I had all I could not to start waxing lyrical about my meniscus repair in 2001 (she is a knee and hip replacement specialist). Our house felt like a home what with it filled with people from the outside world. I mean outside the theatre outside world.

Now if you will please excuse me. I need my beauty sleep for tomorrow where we are being taken a swanky tea room down in Birmingham. Yes I know, you Brits out there would not necessarily put these two images in the same sentence. I mean Birmingham, Michigan of course Limies! We are all set for a slap up delight of wonderfulness. Or so I am promised. Boys are excited. Maybe not quite as much as mama. I have found deeper respect for those who do that baking thing, now that I know how much time and effort and washing up it involves! Also there is that little thing of preparing a show to attend to. I am open to suggestions if they are absolutely magnificent. No knock knock jokes please.

On second thoughts......

Troy. Michigan-Style

I think I have just about reached my snow limit. No offense intended dear Michigan, but really, the weather you greeted our arrival with has much to be desired. It is also playing significant havoc with our healthy eating. With nothing more than snow and more snow and that cold sharp sleet thing going on outside all I want to do is get cosy with my bimbo and pump out baked delights. And I don't even like baking. Till this week that is.

I am now on my fifth day of domestic pirouettes in the kitchen. That's what you get when you move into a ground floor apartment that looks like one of the Golden Girls just moved out and left the furniture. 1988 gold wall clock included. Also plastic fauna. Lots of them. We have a fat sofa, many lamps, a full size dining room table, an army of closets and two bedrooms. We are, it would seem, playing house. I have taken on my homebody role with gusto - for three weeks that is. I always throw myself into my roles, this much I knew already, and, as with all acting jobs, the end is very much in sight. Now, if this whole cookie baking, brioche braiding had an indefinite nature I would be running up frozen trees and wailing like an imprisoned banshee. That's why Cory sits back, scoffs what he can (roasted a chicken 10 litres of chicken soup created yesterday). He knows these waves are intense when they come and dissapate as quickly as they rear their, mostly garlicky, heads.

I spose there is something to be said about really experiencing an entire winter. When I woke this morning around 5ish, and found myself lying next to Sam in his bed, and had a. the sudden remembrance of his 11pm bedtime having had a fat nap late afternoon and b. the pleasure of taking a moment to look out of the window and notice the tall fir tree being blown by mists of snow flying through the air off the roofs in the midnight blue of a pre dawn wintry sky. It was beautiful. A watercolourist's delight. Not so beautiful was the sound of the glass pane in our bedroom knocking against the frame in the gusts or the whistling of the wind through the tiny gaps. I have been doing my P90X bouncing around there and I fear I may have caused some irrevocable structural damage. I'll send the bill to Tony Horton (he's the man with triceps whose name is synonymous with this three month extreme fitness malarky).

The highlight of my week was most definitely finding out that my family and I were about to move into the city of TROY. Yes sir, for but a few hundred dollars you too can time warp yourself back into that tumultuous era and hide yourself in a wooden horse. I have insisted Cory call me Diana for our stay. Turns out the town isn't so ancient after all. Our complex is much more 80s AD. Still love to look at the sign when we drive down West 14 Mile Road. 14 miles to where? Nobody seems to know.....

Our travel day was as long as predicted. After two flights we arrived at Detroit, grabbed our 700 suitcases and then via several elevators finally found the rental car shuttle. Kind driver then mounted our 700 suitcases into said shuttle and shuttled us, with information blurb to rental car office. All 700 suitcases made it onto the pavement whilst Cory signed bits of paper and looked serious. Car arrived, eventually (we had to ask for one that would hold all 700 cases) and we piled 700 cases and us into it. 45 minute later we had shifted all 700 suitcases into new home, whilst boy, in true travel day style, slept it off in his car seat. Quick about turn and we were on the road again to meet our cousin Jess (you may remember mention of her back in Chicago's November) at Sweet Lorraines. It is always so great to see a familiar face when you are utterly new in town. We scoffed in true weary traveller's style. You'd think we were notching up calories for a marathon the next day. The best bit about the place was the fact that it has been owned and nurtured by the same family team for 25 years. After a jaunt around their varied menu we finally settled on a veggie Jambalaya, rainbow tilapia and tuna fajitas. Our boy uncharacteristically opted for the peanut and jelly sandwich (when in Rome) and gobbled up the home made corn bread and houmous. Mum had a sip of wine. Espressos capped it off. Happy people went home for fat sleep.

The next day we ventured out for a Grocery Shop. It becomes very much an event when you don't know where you are really. Having been presented with a full size kitchen, I will be the first to admit I went a little overboard. Or, as I prefer to think about it, bought exactly enough for three weeks, thank you very much Cory's raised eyebrows! Sam was in overdrive packing the bags, he hasn't seen me shop like that since a tesco run before our farewell barbecue at the flat in London back in August to which about 40 people came. The irony was that after this enormous shop we were all hitting a major sugar low and had just enough time for lunch before Cory had to go in for sound check and so ended up eating out. On the strip mall closest our apartment (the main road is littered with them) we came across a Medittarranean grill. Basically this means stepping in from the cold and into a be-lanterend middle eastern taverna just like the ones down Cricklewood back home. Double dose of what the homesickness doctor oredered. There was nothing more comforting to me at that moment for some proper homemade marinated chicken Kebabs with authentic homous and freshly made rice, with the little noodles in it, just like uncle Pierre makes back at the cafe. I don't even eat it that much at home but on our first day out it was just perfect. Even the waitress looked Polish (until she spoke that is) just like in the bakery by the number 16 bus stop opposite the Crown pub, stuffed daily with pastries and huddles of Arabs and Irish putting the world to rights. And the odd, post dance class Anglo-Yank family inhaling amazing coffee and oversized buttery-ness.

Back to the present....since our shopping foray, we have been very much homebodies, our days spent enjoying the space and dipping our toes out in the snow. I did take the time to discover an Aveda Institute however and took myself in for a haircut. This was quite an event. Being a school, the prices are seriously low and I was asked to sign a form which stated that I understood that the services would be given by senior students and that I would not be tipping. Call me British. Call me English. Call me stingy. Call me a gal from Golders Green. All I know was that for $33 I had be a chic new crop and eyebrows that no longer looked like Mr Groucho (I also bid farewell to the kind of facial hair that reveals my close relation to the ape but I am too vain to mention that in the blog). Course with that fat saving I had to go and splurge on a few of the products. Sucker yes. Or maybe just human. They're all plant based organic goodies, post consumer recycled plastic and all the other check boxes that co-erse you into guilt free spending. Enough already, suffice it to say that the place was quite an experience. I don't think I have ever seen so many hair stations in one room. There were literally thirty or more young women all with Hair Do's shimmy shammying with hairdryers and combs and scissors. The young lady who snipped me was very sweet even if she did cut every hair individually. As did the waxer. When both had finished they called their supervisors to get the A.Ok. My hair inspector opened with "Hi! Oh you're hair looks so cute!". A few minutes earlier I heard her colleague say the same to the girl next to me. With exactly the same tone. That's what I call training. The lady who inspected my face was a little more discerning, so much so that she shoved a flourescent magnifying mirror into my chin and, with the forced calm and slightly hushed tones of a surgeon mid eye surgery, explained to her student that there was a very wirey short white hair still embedded in my skin. She continued the rest of the operation without anasthetic deftly bringing the culprit to a tidy end. Phew. Don't want to be sporting a white wire on the end of my chinny chin chin now do I when we go to the theatre tomorrow?

This is the plan. Sammy and I are going to Anne Frank it in Cory's dressing room, a term coined by colleagues who have smuggled various friends and partners in their rooms after the half hour call. I know Sammy is the mascot and all but we both fear burning of bridges seeing as the gestapo, I mean company management office, is literally next door to Cory. We're taking the chance. Lets hope for the best. The theatre has already been hot with upset this week,wouldn't want to compound it. Roger, who had to fly to L.A for a screen test was replaced by his understudy, this has caused a great deal of commotion. After two nights of understudy 1, understudy number two is going on tonight. The undercurrent to this is the ominous air hovering over the crew with growing unease rooted in various issues. Our flyman Squatch jumped ship some time ago for a better deal elsewhere and for a few weeks there has been a palpable malaise about the merry band over and above the tiredness that a month of one weekers brings even the most energetic soul!

Tonight I plan on finding out about what Detroit can offer a 3 and 33 year old of a (snowy) saturday afternoon. We won't be going ice skating that's for sure, mum made the very wrong choice of hiring hockey skates this morning because the figure skates were gauging a hole into her ankles. I couldn't even stand up on the ice. What happened to my best olympian impression I had down pat last week in Kansas City?!!!! I am looking forward to our city jaunt. It is only 16 miles away, but the little snowy Michigonian bubble we have been floating in makes it seem so very far away to me. Perhaps I have connected to 3 year old sense of time and space. Not a bad place to be I spose.

We're living the suburban dream people! Yihaaaa!...I mean, cookies are up boyssssss!

.........If I start to mention frilly aprons you can call in the heavies

Blogging or The Art of Avoiding Packing

Cory has just come back to our pad and nonchalantly told me that we have a taxi booked for a 7.45 pick up. AM. Turned my laissez faire attitude to packing into a turbo blasted frenzie of clothes and what-nots. That'll teach me for letting myself get distracted by Hava Naghila on ice, brought to me by the Israeli champions. The ice skating olympians accompanied me through the drafty evening with various shades of surreality. I watched Russians pretend to be aboriginals (I use both terms loosely) and Americans give their best Bollywood turn. This is my parting memory of our last night here in Kansas City.

We have made the most of the latter part of our week. We played - and lost - poker in our living room with a handful of crew, ice skated, ate at a diner that delivered extremely fast fast food to our tables via overhead miniature trains (we placed our order via table top telephone and wore train driver hats) and took ourselves on a date to hear some bone fide city Jazz. After a few deserted streets we hit upon the Phoenix, a red brick, fairy lit corner venue. A laid back bassist, enthusisatic drummer and head swinging pianist were blasting some Ray Charles as we walked in. Tempted as we were by the bar that encircled the trio we opted instead to sit a little further back where we might be able to hear one another speak. Too loud, too old, yes I know. A few business men from Nebraska were giving it some whoops from atop their whiskey glasses whilst a couple in the corner swayed in each other's arms. Cory, ravenous from the show polished off three baskets of tortilla chips. Kitchen had closed whilst we were chinwagging with Brad back at the hotel who had agreed to babysit. When I was reminding Sam that Brad would be in the living room should he need anything whilst mum and dad were out, he turned to me, all earnest puppy dog eyes and announced that, should he indeed wake, it would be a nice idea perhaps to take uncle Brad to the restaurant downstairs. I half expected to see the two of them propping up the bar when we returned. In the end tykey didn't wake at all, much to the disappointment of our friend. So there we were, mid g&t's when in walks John Mark, one of the props team. A quiet, retiring keeps-himself-to-himself sort of fella, but away from crowds of loud actrines and crew he happily joined us for a cider. Over the following hour he educated me on the history of Kansas City and its inability to fully recover after the depression, especially after the stockyards closed, the overall conservative nature of the folk round these parts (he grew up not far from here) and life as number 7 of 7 brought up in Parson, a little known pit stop for mafia bosses who would smuggle prohibited alcohol and dead bodies from Chicago. He, particularly drawn to the occult, then came back with us to feel out our haunted hallways. We left the dimly lit Phoenix behind us in the night mists, under the heady aroma of roasted coffee embedded in the wet air from the Folger's factory around the corner, passing a handful of ghostly 1920s hotels and a curio store of hardware displaying a plethora of antique tools in the shadows of its original windows. Probably a favourite with the godfather's of old no doubt.

Now a little weary from two socials in a row (I have got to build up endurance people!) Sam and I opted to spend the following afternoon at the theatre, more, in truth, for mum's sake. Tiredness shared is tiredness halved right? The boys left me to my X-ing and ran riot around the back alleys of the theatre on Sam's bike. I caught up with them at the half hour call and ensconced myself in Cory's sweltering concrete dressing room and received a few hours worth of friendly visits from his colleagues who took it in turns to chat with Sam and mama. The weekends are when homesickness sweeps by me in general and company was much needed and enjoyed. His room is very close to the wings and whilst the show played overhead on the tannoy it seeped up and into the room from the wings also. Sounds ringing about us as if floating in from a past. Boy had fun calling out the names of who was speaking. Most of the afternoon he had that far away look of concentration. By the time we left for dinner, he looked rather exhausted by it all, compounded by the fact that dad's room was next to Schuler's, who plays the monster. Much energy was consumed repeatedly asking me whether he would suddenly run into daddy's room. I wondered whether I had made the right decision to bring him in. The fear passed as quickly as it descended especially however, when Sammy was introduced to a real, bone fide, Maggie.

Let me explain. As part of the intricate web which is Sammy's Mr. Gee show is a character by the name of Maggie who is good friends with one Bo-Bo and is, I quote, a "summersaulting kind of girl". According to the creator she looks like a girl on the tide detergent bottle - a cute little brown haired twinkly eyed little thing. So when the real version, a brown haired twinkly eyed little thing showed up, boyo was beside himself with a dream realised. He called out to Maggie from Cory's mezzanine to come look at his bike, daddy's dressing room, his hump, his helmet, his bike, his bag, daddy's dressing room, his bike, his bike, daddy's dressing room. She played a little hard to get but by the time we had finished dinner at the hibachi grill round the corner they were playing all over the place, including a brief stint of boy being chaffuered around the space in his pushchair with M piloting. Between the new friend and the theatrical fire-loving chef flicking his knives and spices about in between throwing food into our mouths boyo was hovering ever so slightly off the ground. The three others who sat at our grill, a red faced man, his prim wife and what I presumed to be their adult son fell under a cloud of dour silence induced most likely by the mottley crew about them including a man in Igor make up and two beautiful dancers plastered with stage hues. Needless to say bedtime was a little like taming a crazed baby orangutan after a pint of M&M ice cream. Praise be the lie-in this morning then. Any parent will vouch for the joys of their child waking them with a kiss and exclaiming "It's nine-oh-three mum!" Aaaaaaaaaah. Now if he could just get the coffee making thing under his belt we would have the whole ritual sorted.

We were all rested then, for our sunday matinnee outing preceeded by Sammy's Sunday Bagel Brunch. We suggested (decided) that he spend some of his winnings with those who had helped him become a rich three year old. You may recall some weeks back he had won $100 on dollar Friday. Its a sweepstake tradition where players put in a dollar with their names on and the one pulled out wins the pot. Dad had come back with a fat wad much to the bemusement of our son. Anyhows, a few splatters of paint and we made ourselves a poster invitation of which Sam was infinitely proud. Bagels were delivered around 11 and we had ourselves a party by noon. After scoffing was done the boy and I sprinted through the underbelly of the pit and out into the most magnificent 1930s theatre I have ever been in. What struck me most was the preserved state it was in, every detail was beautifully intact, from the chrome backlit signs to the gorgeous geometric light fixtures and over-size murals. In all its concrete splendour it seemed to have lost nothing of the uber modernity of its day. We dashed to the ticket office, mum open mouthed at the refined style of it all enjoying the stark difference to the older houses we have visited so far, narrowly avoiding the temptation to pull down on eof the signs for our bathroom at home. Even Sam squealed with delight at the diminutive doors of the bathrooms, so low that even I could just about look over the top (turns out people used to be my height) and at the circular mirrors illuminated from inside over the sinks. It was a 1930s collector's paradise. I felt utterly underdressed without my white gloves and hat. Sam enjoyed the show, especially whispering to the friendly folks behind us that his daddy had just come on stage. Time will tell how this Brooks exposure will shape the memories of our little boy. His questions (interrogations) about the show are becoming more specific, drawing on certain lines, usually throw-aways that intimate to something crucial to the plot. I haven't broached the dead back to life issue, but perhaps, in his little head, he has already filed this for another day, waiting for when he intuits his mum and dad know how to explain it.

And yet again, another goodbye. I won't lie to you. My bones are happy to leave the 20th floor in the near distance. Tonight the old sash windows have been rattling with the whistling wind snaking through the cracks and the stairwell next to us has been clanging with activity like a horror movie soundtrack. Perhaps I ought to have taken a leaf out of our neighbour's book of tour survival (Cory's colleagues) and brought our own light bulbs with us in the bottomless hamper, to change a hotel's unforgiving blue flourescence for a flattering warm glow. For those of you out there who are keenly aware about my own obsession with lighting and getting it just so in our home (much to the desperation of all around me) you will be pleased to know that not even I will go to these lengths. Turns out I am a failed lighting designer after all. I have heard stories about vaudevillians taking their own set of gels for the lighting operator to use for their acts. Things haven't changed so much after all I spose.

And so, with the obsessive compulsive bejewelled cleaners - sorry olympic curling contestants - in my peripheral and a pile of dirty clothes to be smuggled into our luggage I make my way reluctantly back to the task at hand. On the news there are weather warnings on snow and people persuading folk to stay off the roads. I spare a thought for the truck drivers trekking up through the night on the highways to the Michigan straits hauling the heavy sets to Detroit's opera house.

A two flight, 30 mile drive travel day is on our own horizon.

Better pack me some Patience pills and a double dose of good humour.