I stopped by the grocery store on the way home last night. In the window was a large sign "half fresh pork picnics $1.99/lb" "Yum" I thought to myself "what could be more appetizing than a half fresh pork picnic." I mentioned to the girl at the register that perhaps they might want to replace the sign, pointing out that selling "half fresh" pork picnics might not be a good marketing ploy and mores the point might actually be illegal. She looked at me blank. That is the funny thing with signs. People merrily put them up with little or no regard to spelling or grammar, there have been numerous examples posted on the internet of hilarious signage that people have quite innocently (and in some cases not so innocently) put up. However, it occurred to me when reading a grocery store flyer the other day how silly the "signs" sometimes are. I am always fascinated for instance when they advertise produce as "grade A fancy" (strawberries for example), okay so what if grade A fancy strawberries are 4.00/lb, what if I don't want grade A fancy strawberries, what if I actually want the Grade B not so fancy strawberries, can I get them for 3.00/lb? or better yet what if I want the Grade C, homely strawberries can I get them for 2.00/lb? or as I am a thrifty sort can I actually buy the Grade D downright ugly strawberries? Nope there is no option, so why go to the effort of telling me that the only strawberries you are selling are "Grade A Fancy" And lets face it what is a "fancy" strawberry? I mean a strawberry is pretty much a strawberry, I would admit that a strawberry wearing a small hat would be "fancy", or even embellished with a bow tie, but other than that, a strawberry is a strawberry, how on earth could it be described as "fancy?" According to my dog chewed dictionary "fancy" means "the capacity for imaginative vision" further down the descriptions appears "not plain" so obviously what the grocery stores are selling here are "not plain" strawberries, so have the strawberries been to strawberry college and therefore possess a degree in "strawberryism?" Or perhaps, as I suspect, the people who write the ads are possessed with "the capacity for imaginative vision?" thinking perhaps that if we feel we are buying "grade A fancy" strawberries we are perhaps somehow superior to our neighbours who, shopping at the store down the street, are reduced to buying "plain" strawberries, and who shuffle back to their hovel, which is lit by only a small candle, and once home, cower round a small fire made of twigs while they consume their "plain" strawberries as the pigs and cows bed down in their living rooms. While we, with our "grade A fancy" strawberries return to our luxurious single family home and consume our "grade A fancy" strawberries in the decadence of our great room in front of our big screen tv, wondering for just a moment how those who are unable to buy "grade A fancy" strawberries manage to survive? Madison Avenue amazes me sometimes, in fact I actually think that Madison Avenue is another planet, and has about as much understanding of your average every day human being as does your average every day gnat to be honest. And I know you are thinking how the hell is she going to illustrate this post with a photograph? Okay you got me.... but let me think about it....

Hey Madison Avenue get a clue!

It is amazing to me how my pets, being fascinated with everything their "pet" human does, are bereft when I have to use the bathroom (most pet owners are familiar with this problem, hence the now famous "letter to my pets" section "there is no secret exit from the bathroom" I hope you have read it, it is hilarious), where was I? Oh yes, when the urge takes me to the bathroom inevitably a cat will manage to slither through the closing door and seeing me sat down (a rare occasion) will decide that is a perfect time to jump on my knee and knead, this of course being an incredibly inopportune time to knead because invariably my knee is sans clothing and they of course are therefore kneading into bare flesh. My two boxers cannot abide that I am in the bathroom and actually doing something without their being aware of it, however, their solution to the problem differs. Judy chooses to address the problem of me being behind a closed door by sitting outside the door and whimpering gently, sounding for all the world as if her entire universe has just been taken from her. Cueball however does not do the "whimpering by the door" thing too well, oh of course he tries it for a few minutes then, when it becomes obvious to him that it is not going to work he just uses brute force and shoulder charges the door open, this despite the fact that the door is locked from the inside. Cueball is like that, he tries the gentle way of things to begin with but having a short attention span (that of a gnat for instance), he usually resorts to brute strength to get the job done, and lets face it, brute strength is something that Cueball has in spades. I shall illustrate with another story. Cueball, for some reason that only Cueball knows, will occasionally take it into his head to attack Lucky (who you will remember is my lab cross who is just like a miniature lab). So, to ensure the health and welfare of both Lucky and me (seeing as pulling a dog who easily weighs more than I do off another dog is I am sure not good for my heart), Cueball goes to "Cueball jail" while I take Lucky outside. Cueball jail consists of three chairs around the piano, inside which Cueball is attached to a chain attached to the piano leg. It works well most times, most times Cueball will accept his temporary time out and sit there sulking. One day however something must have piqued his interest while he was in Cueball jail (I think his favourite squeaky toy was just out of his reach), a normal dog would bark, whimper, or generally make it known that he wasn't happy about not being able to move, not Cueball. When I returned to the house from the back garden to bring Lucky safely inside Cueball and the piano were halfway across the living room and Cueball was quite happily chewing on his squeaky toy. The boy scares me sometimes.

Strange coincidence happened today. We had scheduled the deposition of a personal injury client of ours. Opposing counsel had requested the deposition and had therefore ordered the court reporter. So our client shows up, a darling English lady who had moved from Bournmouth to the US in the 1940s, (a GI bride), along with her sister in tow for hand holding duties (also from Bournmouth). The court reporter arrives, she is a familiar face, another English lady who had been in the US for at least 20 years. So there we all were in the reception area yapping away to each other talking about the differences living in the US when my boss arrived. "It's your worst nightmare boss, a room full of English women" Then opposing counsel arrived, a very pleasant young attorney that I have worked with on numerous cases. As he sat down for the deposition he joked "well I think *my boss* is the only person here that was born in the US" turns out opposing counsel was born in Canada. However, we talked that day about what is "home" is where you were born "home" or is where you have put down roots "home?" I was born in the UK (obviously), however as a child I moved a great deal, until my mother remarried when I was fourteen. At eighteen I joined the Royal Navy so as a matter of course I moved every two or three years. When I moved to the US in 1991 my husband had already bought us a house, which I loved on first sight. When my husband was unceremoniously thrown out of the marine corps as a budget cut (thanks Bill Clinton - NOT), after 16 years of loyal service, we tried to figure out whether to stay in Jacksonville or move to Oregon (where my husband was from). The winner of the argument was that being in North Carolina I was 3,000 miles away from my mother (in England) and he was 3,000 miles away from his mother (in Washington State). So we stayed. We have been in this house for 14 years, we have been through hurricane after hurricane and THE hurricane Floyd after which we rebuilt the house from the walls up. When the court reporter asked me today "if anything happened to your husband would you move home?" I thought for a while, I mulled the thoughts over in my brain, I thought of my house, my pets, my gardens, I thought of the wonderful relationships I have with the people in the court community, I thought of how familiar I am with all of the attorneys, paralegals, clerks and judges and said, in all honesty "I am home." While England will always be my "homeland" and will always be a place I want to spend a great deal of time to visit with my mother and my sister and my other relatives, I think at this point my roots have gone deep into this soil, and even without the anchor of my husband, it would be hard to pull them up. So, what is the answer to the question? I don't know, but I do know that this english rose was transplanted to the US, and despite a little transplant shock her roots eventually reached down into the soil and took hold, now she blooms, and now her roots are set. This is home, and this, will always be home until it is time to "go home" and at that point, my bones (or my ashes I haven't decided yet) will go home to the Church yard at St. Mary's in Warton in Lancashire, where my ancestors lie, where the ancestor's of George Washington and my husband lie, and where I am meant to be, I think it is only right. Until they change the law and allow people to be buried in their gardens, then England is where I shall lie.

What me an Immigrant?