Know yourself

Ok, I think I am just going to ignore the fact that I haven’t talked to you in two weeks. This is not the first time I’ve done this but I’ve really tried to be better this past year. I won’t go into why I haven’t written because you wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t have any time (but it’s true).

Anyway.

By the look of this post, it may seem like I am going to channel Oprah and harp on about how you can truly know yourself, how to open yourself to your life’s meaning. No. I have no idea.  Don’t look at me. I pretty much failed my Identity Interview on Saturday.

See, when I became a British citizen, you probably all thought I was done with the tests and the paperwork and the fees. In a way, I was but if a British citizen wants a passport (which I still need even though I have a perfectly good American one) they have to attend an Identity Interview at the Identity and Passport Service office.

It doesn’t matter that you send in all the supporting documents and photos. They want to see you and quiz you and read your body language.

Here’s the part that any male readers can skip:

Ladies, you know those days when you just don’t feel good about yourself? Well, that was Saturday morning. I had a hair cut booked in the afternoon so I didn’t bother to wash my hair and I chose an outfit I didn’t feel good in. Recipe for disaster.

(Ok, men, you can come back in.)

When we got to the IPS office, Scott was told to sit in a separate seating area while I waited to check in with reception. When the man called me to his desk, he said he was just going to check my appearance against the photo I submitted.

Now, what really gets me about this photo is that the British government does not let you smile or show any teeth in your photo. If anyone knows me in real life, you know this is really difficult. I got the photos taken in one of those little booths at Kings Cross train station during rush hour. I have the most deeply troubled expression on my face in the photo, as if someone just ran over a puppy in front of me. When really I was just thinking, Are my eyes in the right position? Am I sitting high enough? Do they consider side swept bangs to be in the category of hair covering the face?

So, the man peered over his glasses and eyed me up and down. Then he tilted his face to the computer and said, “Hm…you look quite stern in this photo.”

You wouldn’t let me smile!

My eyebrows must have gone into the same shape as my “deeply troubled” photo because the man approved my photo and sent me to the waiting area with Scott.

When they called my number, I went into a small interview room with just a man, a desk, a computer and a chair for me. I imagined a table with a low lamp and maybe a lie detector test set up. This was better but still unsettling.

I perched in my seat as the man explained the process of the interview. He told me we’d be going over the answers I provided on my application form and he would ask me for details about my bank accounts, my parents, the person who acted as a reference for me, etc.

The first question I got wrong was my home phone number. Who uses their landline these days, I ask you? He kept looking at the computer and then back at me.  He said, “Why don’t you try to remember the number?”

“Um,  1…4? 5? Umm…8? 7…”

“Ok, let’s move to the next question.”

As he’s asking the questions, his eyes are all over me. Not in a gross way – but in a trained government agent way. I kept fidgeting with my top. God, why did I wear that top? Why did I even buy it?

He sees me fidgeting. I start scratching my neck, suddenly aware that I must be showing him about ten red flags right now. He doesn’t understand. I am who I say I am. I just hate this stupid outfit!

The IPS agent asks me other questions about banks and accounts and even though he told me he doesn’t know my credit balance, I blurt out that, “Oh, yes, I do have a store account. I forgot. But I only bought one thing! Just one thing in September and I’ve never used the card again! I don’t even like what I bought!” (No, it’s not the top I was wearing.)

The agent says, “Ok, it’s all right. Remember you don’t have to tell me what you bought” but he’s really thinking, I can’t wait to get out the FRAUD stamp and stamp the hell out of this one.

He asks about my reference and I practically jump out of my seat with relief because I know this one! I know the answer!

“See, my husband and I have actually been together for 10 years and 8 years ago I was visiting England and I met a friend of my husband’s on a night out and eight years later, by coincidence, we work together! It was his birthday yesterday!”

Yay. I get a point! Not so fast with that stamp, mister.

He asked more questions which I won’t detail here because there are real frauds out there and I don’t want them getting any ideas. But I will say that there were a few more snafus on my part. I just hope they look at my file a little more closely and see that I am actually who I say I am, it’s just that my husband handles all the joint finances and I don’t listen to him when he tells me about it.

At the end of the interview, he said I should hear something from them in four days but if it’s been more than 10 days, get in touch.  He points to the reception desk and suggests I pick up a pamphlet about identity theft. I nod and hesitate by his desk. He smiles and says, “I hope the interview was ok.”

I want to tell him, It’s not you, it’s me. I just hate what I’m wearing. But if you’re asking, where are the questions about my hopes and dreams? What about who I really am inside?

Instead I laugh nonchalantly – “Oh sure. It was fine!” – and grab a pamphlet on my way out.

It’s been four days.

I could get used to this

Last weekend I kept telling Scott “I’m becoming British for you so you have to let me buy this/watch Twilight again/eat at my favourite restaurant.” You get the picture. He humoured me by going along with the weekend I had planned out.

First up was visiting Pearce’s farm shop in Hertfordshire.  They had some of the biggest pumpkins I’ve seen in the UK. They had all types of gourds, squash and pumpkins. It was a cold Saturday afternoon and it reminded me of America – even though I cannot tell you the last time I was at a pumpkin patch. But that’s the thing about living abroad…you might never eat Taco Bell back in the US, but when you can’t have it, you suddenly want nachos bell grande more than anything in the world.

We browsed the small shop and we were completely overwhelmed by the delicious looking produce, olive bar, fresh cheese, and meats. They had several shelves dedicated to Italian pasta, Indian sauces, and English jams and chutneys.  And then I saw this:

Be still, my beating heart.

Ignore the regular Frank’s Red Hot sauce – I’ve seen it in Sainsbury’s. Focus on the bottle in the middle. Do you realize how many bottles of this stuff I have to pack in my bags? Do you understand how many people request that I make buffalo chicken dip? Do you know what this means for the people of Britain?

I didn’t buy any this time because I have a few bottles in the cupboard but I took a photo and posted it on my blog hoping to spread the word.  Now run to Pearce’s Farm Shop! (I also bought The Farmers Calendar – which is full of naked men working on the farm. I do my best to support small businesses in Britain. Remember this when you’re finished reading this next bit.)

On Sunday we went to Cambridge and spent the afternoon here:

Do you see that one on the right? That’s Britain’s version of Home Goods. Home Sense is Home Goods. TK Maxx is TJ Maxx. Clever. It’s a gold mine in there, I tell you. A gold mine. Even Scott got swept up in the Home Sense madness and we purchased a vintage bird cage and a tall decorative vase. For. No. Reason. At. All. (We purchased other sensible things like lamps and a Chop to Pot Flexible Chopping Board.)

Next door is the equivalent of Bed, Bath & Beyond. It’s a bit smaller than your usual BB&B but once inside you’d never know the difference. You’d still end up at the cash register with all the things you never knew existed but you desperately needed once you saw them like the Ped Egg and the Banana Guard.

They were having a massive sale on Yankee Candle products – America’s Best Loved Candle. So now I have pumpkins in my vintage birdcage and the best smelling flat in the building thanks to all my Yankee Candles.

It was like the universe turned for me last weekend. Nothing like a little bit of good ol’ American consumerism to make me feel at home.

I was feeling a range of emotions about becoming British. It certainly meant something different to me than I imagine it meant for a lot of new citizens coming from disadvantaged backgrounds, war torn countries. I came from one great country to another great country and I’m so grateful to belong in both.

And there the universe was nudging me along. See, you can live here. We’ll bring your favourite things to you. Here, have a candle. Or four. We’ll work on those nachos.

***

This afternoon we talked about a future vacation – one we’ve talked about for years. I asked Scott when he thought we’d take this trip and he said, “Well, I figured we’d do it when we moved to the US.”

I replied, “That’s not going to be for a very long time.”

“You don’t know. We could decide to move in the next year.”

And I said, “No, I’m not ready.”

Holy shit. Did those words just come out of my mouth? Do you think I was somehow secretly brainwashed at my citizenship ceremony? That painting of the Queen was kinda spooky… no matter where you moved in the room, she was always there, watching.

A right royal day

There’s a lot I want to tell you but all you really need to know is that today I became a British citizen.

And for those who know me on facebook, Chuck Bass was not the special local representative at the British citizenship ceremony. It was some old guy. But I’m planning on photoshopping Chuck’s head on his body when I get the professional photo anyway.

Pumpkin puree in the UK

It’s really Autumn. There’s no denying it.

I love the crunchy leaves, the crisp air, the smell of hot apple cider. I love the excitement of a new school year, new TV season, and new clothes. I love that the Autumn season is filled with fun holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving.

But Autumn is not the same without pumpkin. I’m talking carving pumpkin and eating all things pumpkin. I’m talking pumpkin patches and pumpkin festivals. To go through Autumn without pumpkin is just tragic.

While pumpkins are getting easier to find in the UK, canned pumpkin puree still hasn’t quite found its way into the hearts and minds of the British. I know this because if it had the supermarkets would be stocking it like crazy. They’re very good at this consumer behavior business.

In the past, I’ve found Libby’s pumpkin puree in the larger Waitrose in South Kensington. This wasn’t surprising since there seem to be more Americans in Kensington than in the whole of England. When I spotted the cans, there were only a few left and they were stuck randomly by the instant soups. I bought them – even the dented cans. I risked paralysis and possibly death for pumpkin pie.

I haven’t been back to that Waitrose in years so I can’t tell you where to find this year’s dented cans. But I’m here to tell you that there is hope for the rest of us. Pumpkin puree does exist outside the M25.

My local Waitrose is on the smaller side and I don’t think Stevenage is particularly bursting with Americans. But there she was, sitting pretty in the tinned fruit section.

You snooze you lose, Libby. There’s a new girl in town.

Sky’s the limit

I’ve mentioned a few times on here about my love for Sky+.  I don’t watch that much television during the week (except the usual music videos I have playing in the background while I stand in the hallway doing my hair. Damn you UK builders for not putting electrical outlets in bathrooms. Safety schmafety. )

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, my love for the UK equivalent of TiVo. We had Sky for ages and Scott kept saying he was going to tell them we wanted out of the contract so that they would offer us a free upgrade to Sky+ to keep us as customers. I just wanted to pay the extra money and get it immediately. Let’s not play these games. Then our satellite dish was taken down by the property management company and we were suddenly stuck paying for Sky and actually only getting the five basic channels. It was like we were suddenly transported to Scott’s grandmother’s living room in Huddersfield circa…well, circa now.

When we bought our flat, we upgraded to Sky+ and after a few days, I declared it almost up there with my top three life-changing items (ghd, Parlux 3200 compact and Seche Vite topcoat). My favorite channels are in the 200s…the lifestyle channels, if you will.  It takes the best of  tv – Other People’s Breast Milk, Real Housewives of Atlanta, Split Ends, Dr. 90210, 17 Kids and Counting (we are a little behind over here) - and makes them all available on demand. My favorite channel is Diva TV. Scott’s is Discovery Turbo. So you see we’ve got a problem. He wants to watch Seconds from Disaster and I want to watch How to Look Good Naked.*

(*He’s caught on that this show isn’t really what it sounds like to most men.)

So the good people at Sky invented Sky+ and the divorce rate went down. True story.

But what they didn’t think about was all the fighting that would be started with the planner. The planner! You see, you can keep recording all your favorite shows and there’s no time limit on when you need to watch them but you’re only allocated so much memory. Scott tends to freak out if we get close to the 50% mark. I suppose he’s worried about stumbling upon an Air Crash Investigation marathon Monday – in HD no less – and not having enough space to handle it. ( This has never happened but he lives in hope.)

Our latest argument was over this:

And this:

And about four other pages of The Oprah Winfrey Show taking up 73% of the memory.73%!!! He didn’t seem to care that Scarface is taking up about 20% of that. And I know that’s not a cosmetic surgery reality show so it’s not all my fault.

Needless to say I’m home tonight, wading though it all. Luckily I was able to eliminate a few episodes on hormone replacement therapy (not there yet) and money saving tips  (don’t have any) so it’s been manageable.

Put the kettle on

Before living in the UK, I imagined that a cup of tea might be consumed in the morning before work or school and then again in the late afternoon with biscuits or finger sandwiches. Because that’s what I’d seen in the movies. I had no idea big burly men in hard hats would stop doing manly things like building houses, digging holes, and hammering roofs to enjoy a cup of tea.

I’d seen construction workers on their breaks in the US. They would hang outside 7-Eleven, smoking and drinking Red Bull or a Big Gulp. Maybe a coffee. But I can’t imagine them making themselves a cup of tea. (They do ogle and cat call. Construction workers are the same the world over but I digress.)

Drinking tea in the UK is not just reserved for Afternoon Tea at swanky hotels where you’re bound to see more tourists than locals. Tea is casual and something you consume all the livelong day.

In fact, a Brit drinks on average 2.1 kg of tea each year. That’s about one of these massive bags per person.

Builders and construction workers are not the only ones stopping for a cuppa. In my office, the men drink far more tea than the women. They are always in the kitchen making a round.

Of course women enjoy a cup as well and don’t have to have theirs with cucumber sandwiches and scones. Drinking tea with English people is not nearly as exciting as I thought it would be!

Although we had tea in my house growing up, I only remember really drinking hot tea when I was ill. The only time I remember tea being served all day was at my Irish-American grandma’s house. When we’d go for a visit, she had the kettle on before we even got out of the car. (Ireland actually consumes more tea per capita than Britain, thank you Trivial Pursuit.)

Our visits centered around her kitchen table, where we laughed and laughed over many cups of tea. We would solve the world’s problems over a shared pot of tea (and it was literally a shared pot of tea. She would just add more water to the same three tea bags all day long. That’s what growing up during the Great Depression does for you.)

My grandma was disappointed when she found out Scott didn’t drink tea regularly. He just didn’t fit her idea of an Englishman. But when he’d come to visit, we’d still sit around the kitchen table while she drank tea. She would say,”Did you know in England they call condoms ‘hats’?” and look at Scott for confirmation of this so-called fact that she must have heard on late night TV. He would turn several shades of red and I’d shriek as my grandma would follow it up with, “Don’t forget your hat!”

So, you see, tea brings people together.

English people love their tea. It gives them something to do. In the mornings, they can make awkward small talk or make a cup of tea. I know what I would rather do!

In Kate Fox’s Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behavior, she writes that tea can be a polite procrastination tactic. Before a business meeting, people make pleasant chitchat usually about the weather and then all find themselves fussing over tea and coffee. There is no talk of business for the first ten or 15 minutes. Fox says it’s down to them pretending this is all a nice social gathering, everyone too nervous to say, “Let’s just get down to business.”

I don’t know if that’s entirely true but I have noticed that the making of the tea is a perfect excuse for a social gathering. If you don’t know the person on the other side of the kettle, you can say things like, “It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop raining today. Nevermind – it’s good for the garden” (they love their gardens)  or the fail-proof, “There’s nothing like a good cup of tea.”

If you know the other person, making a cup of tea is the perfect opportunity to talk about your weekend, talk about your ailing health, or talk about someone behind their back. According to the UK Tea Council, 80% of office workers say they find out more about what’s going on at work over a cup of tea than any other way.

When I interned at a magazine company in London, I was terrified to do a tea round. I had never really made tea for anyone and I didn’t know all the rules. The water must be boiling hot. Water first, then milk. But some people like to have their milk first so the tea doesn’t get filmy. How much milk is too much milk? What constitutes one sugar?

Then there are the logistics of making tea. Who is in the round? Once you’ve asked the nearest four people, you notice the woman sitting by herself in the next bank of desks. Do you ask her if she wants a tea? But she’s never made you one and if you ask her, you might as well ask the other three men in the office. It’s a minefield, I tell you!

And we wonder why Starbucks is so popular.

Dear Unhappy Expat

Recently I was contacted by an expat website and they encouraged me to fill out a simple interview form – most likely so they could gauge how interesting I was and possibly feature me if I was deemed interesting enough. I haven’t filled in the form yet for many reasons (one reason being that I was forced to watch a minimum of three episodes of 24 each night so we could finish season 7. The things I set aside for Jack Bauer!)

One of the questions on the form is, “What is the best piece of expat advice you’d give?” Because I know many of you are, or were,  expats yourself (and I might not be interesting enough to be featured), I thought I wouldn’t wait until I submitted the form to tell you what I think.

We were in Yorkshire last weekend, visiting Scott’s family, and as we were driving through, I thought of an American woman that I know of who lives there. I don’t really know her but I know that she is unhappy there. I have suggested ways for her to get involved and ways for her to meet some expats. I’m not sure if she’s done either. I just know she’s still unhappy and my heart breaks for this woman who I don’t even know.

Because I remember that feeling. I was that woman.

I did not know how hard it would be to move abroad and I probably had a lot more experience with it than most expats. I’d lived abroad as a child. I’d also studied in England when I was in college and then returned for an extra six months after graduation. I had worked abroad. I knew people here. I thought I was set.

I was wrong. It wasn’t like I was moving here for a year or two and seeing where life would take me. It’s very different to move somewhere knowing that this is potentially forever. It’s very different to move somewhere for somebody.  It was suddenly very real. It was like ok, you’re married, here’s your husband, here’s your home, here’s a job, run with it. But what if I hate my job? What if I miss my friends? What if I made a mistake? What if it never gets any easier?

At first, I was filled with excitement and hope and I really wanted to embrace my new life. Everyone told me that a job would come, don’t worry, enjoy being newlyweds.

A job came up sooner rather than later and I took it. I would quickly realize this wasn’t the job for me but I was so conscious of being dependent on Scott – too dependent – that I really wanted to stick it out. It was important to me to feel like I was contributing and really jumping into life over here.

While I had made some friends, I was missing all my old friends. The ones that know me. The ones that I can just see for lunch and fall back into step with, no matter how long it’s been. I was tired of making new friends – making friends as an adult can sometimes be just as stressful as dating! I would come home and tell Scott that I had met someone, someone I could see myself being friends with. A potential friend target was in sight!

And Scott…well, he had a lot to deal with too. I know now that everything I said I didn’t like about living here was a direct blow to him. I thought I was just venting but for him, it was me picking apart a life he was trying so hard to build for us. I know that now. It’s certainly something I’ll have to think about if we ever move to the US. I’m not sure I could deal well with having someone’s happiness resting on me. I don’t know if I could do it.

Anyway, I thought about all these things last weekend. I wished I could stop by this woman’s house and ask her to go for a walk or go for a beer. And I could tell her what happened to me because I’ve been there. There was a time when I really doubted if this was the place for me and now? Now I think it really is.

So what happened?

Well, a lot happened. I got out of that shitty job. I made more friends. We moved somewhere with a bit more space. Those are the easy answers.

But honestly no job, no amount of square footage, no new friends, made me change so much as I made myself change. And what I would tell this woman is that it’s all up to her.

Only you can make yourself happy.

Not to go all Trainspotting on you, but only you can choose to be happy. It really is just a choice. If you’re unfulfilled in your job or if  you keep missing those potential friend targets, make a change. Widen your circle. Put yourself out there a little bit more. Give this new place everything you’ve got before giving up on it.

If that doesn’t work, call me. I’ve got room in my circle.

A con turned pro

It’s not hard to believe that, as an expat, I keep a running list of pros and cons about my new (ish) country.

My list goes something like this:

Yorkshire pudding – pro

Sky + – pro

Washing machines – con

Dryers – con

Washer/dryer combo – CON

General lack of appreciation for peanut butter – con

Public transportation - pro

The overuse of the phrase “bless!” – con

Public transportation is also on our list for the US but it’s under cons.  Sure, if you live New York City, you’ll be all right but for me, if I’m moving to the US, I’m living in a big house in the suburbs. The kind of neighborhood where yellow school buses roll past the house, children set up lemonade stands on the sidewalks, and neighbors bitch about the house down the street – you know the one with the slightly overgrown grass. I can’t wait.

But for Scott – and truth be told, for me too – one drawback would be the lack of nights out. It just wouldn’t be that easy to orchestrate without good public transportation.

You might be thinking we probably wouldn’t be moving back to the US for quite some time and that when we do finally get back there we’ll be in a totally different stage in our lives blah blah blah. I can see where you’re coming from – even though I’m not sure kids are in our future, they certainly feature in my American Dream – I imagine them with those bunk beds where the bottom bunk is a double bed. I always wanted one of those.

Anyway, I understand that when you have a kid you’re too tired/too poor/too busy gushing over this itty bitty being you created, and honestly! you tell me, honestly! you’d rather stay home and watch Dancing with the Stars.

But right now, it’s a con.

However, that could change. Especially if we live near my parents. You’re thinking free babysitter. I’m thinking designated driver.

Example #1

Last year we totally intended on getting the metro home after a night out for my sister’s 28th birthday. But then the birthday girl almost lost her lunch/dinner/drinks all over tired DC tourists so we had to get off the metro and call mom. My mom – always telling us, “Don’t drive if you’ve been drinking, call me” – jumped in the minivan and an hour and many wrong turns later, pulled up to Virginia Square metro station, with that slightly crazed soccer mom look in her eyes.

Example #2

This year we didn’t even pretend to get the metro. We just asked my dad to pick us up at 2:30 am after my cousin’s bachelorette party. The Colonel arrived right on time, armed with towels and buckets. He escorted all six of us into the car and nestled trash cans and buckets between us. He also turned a blind eye to the penis whistle around my cousin’s neck and ignored the requests to bring the leftover phallus shaped cake in the car.

We don’t say that here

Even after ten years together, Scott and I still ask each other, “What do you call this?”

We could be talking about anything from food to activities to clothes.  Just when you think you know everything, something else comes up.

A few days ago,  I asked him what he called a wound of any sort when he was a kid. At first, he didn’t understand the question.

So I said, “You know, a boo boo.”

He replied, “We don’t say that here.”

“But if your mom was going to kiss it better, what did she say?”

“Uh…we just called it what it was. A scrape or graze or bruise.”

After a quick survey of other Brits in my life, I feel confident in this statement:

In England, kids say, “Mummy, I have a graze.”

Their mothers answer, “I will kiss your abrasion all better. “

I guess this backs up the theory that children with English accents just sound smarter.

Stay where you are

I intended to write a lot more often when I was in the US. I figured I’d have the time since I’d probably be up early with jetlag and Scott wouldn’t be there and I was sure I’d have more downtime. But somehow, I didn’t.

Or I did but I chose to spend it watching TLC, reading on the deck, getting reflexology*, and spending way too much money at the outlets.

*(Who knew by squeezing your toes you could ease pain in your sinuses? I tried to do it myself but it didn’t work. I plan to show Scott how to do it tonight.)

Speaking of Scott, him not being there only added to my busy schedule. Suddenly I found myself in stores without him saying, “Do you really need that?” and “Where are you going to put those?” and “No more shoes!”

So, that’s why you haven’t seen me on here more often. I was buying shoes and replenishing my supply of Bath & Body Works hand soap and paying extortionate rates for someone to squeeze my little toe while Enya plays in the background.

Oh, and I was spending time with my friends and family. Every minute I could. You see it’s not so easy anymore. Turns out my friends and family have their own lives and they aren’t just waiting for me to come home. The nerve!

This was the first visit home where I stayed with my parents without at least one of my sisters living there. It was so much easier when they lived at home. They may have still worked during the day but at least we got to hang out at night. Now it’s all about scheduling their free nights and working around HOV lane openings and battling DC traffic.

A lot of my friends from high school have moved away and I am lucky whenever I can see any of them. I actually do get to see some of them more than I ever thought I would. I should really be grateful.

I can’t help but be selfish. My sisters are talking about moving away and I find myself thinking up reasons for them to stay. The unspoken truth is that as my friends and relatives get new jobs, settle down, break up, move away, have babies, just simply live, it makes this harder. When I’m the one coming and going, it’s easier. I want them all to stay just as they are. I’ll always come back. Don’t go. Don’t change.

I never come right out and say it though. I know how unfair that would be. Why should I be the one allowed to move away? Why should they stay?

So I keep my mouth shut and wait to guilt them with a blog post.