If the tiara fits

I’ve done a lot of posting and running lately. Sorry about that. Let me make it up to you with the most photo-heavy post I’ve ever written.

Remember when I was freaking out about possibly failing my identity interview? And I said I hadn’t received my British passport yet? Well, yeah…I did eventually receive it and it was actually issued on the day of my interview. Which means that I wasn’t as ditzy as I thought. Or maybe they just felt sorry for me. Either way, I’m here and they can never kick me out!

Then it was Thanksgiving and my sisters came to visit. There were things going on at work too but I won’t talk about it because, let’s face it, no one likes to hear someone go on and on about their job. But all you need to know is that I got bad news on Thanksgiving and I was all, but…but…but it’s Thanksgiving! (The big boss didn’t care.)

So I had Thanksgiving and tried to get into the holiday spirit but then I heard that Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal were breaking up. I was reminded of the Nick and Jessica break up over Thanksgiving in 2005. Only this was worse because Reese is my celebrity best friend and Jake… well, need I say more?

(Thankfully a source close to the couple dismissed the story and said they are still definitely together. Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes!)

As you can see, I had a lot to be thankful for. I had my sisters, my husband, my friends, my job…oh wait, scratch that. Let me start again, I had my sisters, my husband, my friends, a British passport and a party to attend! A party for me! For becoming British!

Is there any other way to celebrate than going to the pub? I think not.

And celebrate we did.

We dressed up.

We ate patriotic cupcakes.

We danced.

We waited for a cab for a very long time in a weird fried chicken joint.

And then the princess couldn’t wait anymore.

Thank you and good night.

Leaving out food for Santa

After watching a commercial advertising food to leave out for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, I asked Scott what he left for Santa when he was a kid.

“Mince pies and beer.”

“No cookies?” I asked. He knows I mean biscuits. (You know what they say about being married for awhile…you stop making the effort.)

“No!” he balks.

“Hmm…” I say, thoughtfully. I’m thinking about how much I dislike mince pies. But I do like those little apple –

Then he continues, “I swear, Santa must have hated America. Cookies and milk? After a hard day’s graft? What?!”

Shaking his head, he mutters, “Cookies and milk…ha!”

So, readers from all over the world, if you celebrated Christmas…and you did the whole Santa thing…what did you leave for Santa?

This is not my vision

Thanksgiving as an adult isn’t what I imagined it would be.

For starters, I have to work on Thanksgiving. This makes cooking a Thanksgiving dinner very difficult unless you move the celebrations to the weekend or you somehow manage to cook a turkey in less than four hours. I have hosted two Thanksgivings in the UK and my turkey has always taken way longer than expected. Yes, I have a thermometer and yes, I’m following the instructions. It may have something to do with the small ovens and the one oven shelf but it’s Thanksgiving and I’m trying to be thankful here.

I’m also not usually able to go back to the US for Thanksgiving. This will come as a surprise to non-Americans but Christmas is actually bigger than Thanksgiving, not the other way around like you think. (Where did they get this idea?) So I’d rather spend Christmas with my family, though this year my sisters spending Thanksgiving weekend in London. Win-win for me.

Of course Thanksgiving is still something I celebrate even if I can’t be with family. It’s a time when I can gather my friends together and share Thanksgiving with them. Last year I made them wear paper hats. You can do these sorts of things with foreigners.

Thanksgiving abroad is ok but it’s not what I imagined.

I imagined that I’d live a few hours away from my parents and on Thanksgiving morning, I’d load up my hunter green Ford Explorer with brown paper bags of delicious food. In my imagination, I also had matching luggage and Devon Sawa as a husband.

We’d both be in thick sweaters and looking like we just fell out of a J.Crew catalog. We’d drive through the mountains, admiring the fall foilage. We’d be laughing and listening to some undiscovered band’s album that we happened upon. We’d pretty much look like a car commercial.

We’d pull into my parents’ driveway and my dad would come out to greet us as my mom watched from the kitchen window. (Yes, the Christmas movie, The Family Stone, is pretty much my vision, minus the cancer and the siblings swapping partners.)

Living abroad makes this vision very difficult.

I’m trying to be thankful for everything I have this year and there really is so much to be thankful for. But at 5:15 am on Thanksgiving morning, it’s hard not to feel a little bit sad. Unless you’re just up prepping the cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Or the turkey. Never can be too prepared. But certainly not being up for work. No. This just doesn’t fit with my vision at all.

Twi-hard

As I was walking to the train station this evening, I was given a free magazine called Stylist. It was mildly entertaining and stopped me from shelling out £4 for People, but there were so many mistakes in the magazine. I’m not just talking typos. I mean, they said Edward Cullen was 19 years old. Did they even read the series? Everyone knows he’s 17! Er…um…Ok, a 108 year old in a 17 year old’s body. Whatever.

Anyway, there was an article about Twi-moms and how middle-aged mothers have gone crazy for the The Twilight Saga. Or more specifically, Edward Cullen. In the author’s words, to be a Twilight Mom you have to fulfil one of the following criteria:

1. You’re over 25.

2. You’re married.

3. You have a child.

Interesting. According to this, I’m a Twi-mom and I’m not even a mom. How is that fair? Why can’t I just be a fan? It’s not like I’m some pathetic woman who actually imagines herself with Edward Cullen. Did you know there are women out there who Photoshop themselves into Edward’s arms? Yikes. Who does that???

Do you know there are women out there who make their husbands read the books?

(Our conversation last week went something like this:

Caitlin: “How far are you in Twilight?”

Scott: “Um…I don’t know. It’s just like the film. Can’t I just see the films and not read the books?”

Caitlin: “The couple who reads together, stays together. Or something like that.”

Scott: “…”

Caitlin: “Have they kissed yet? Have you got to the part in the meadow?”

Scott: “Well, I think I’m almost to the meadow. Bella knows three things for sure.” *

*If you’re wondering what this means, you should probably stop reading. This entire post will be lost on you. Freak.)

Do you know there are women – grown-ass adults – who have Twilight paraphernalia in their bedroom?

Ok, I have to come clean. I do love me some Twilight and I may have done some Photoshopping in my time but this is not, I repeat, this is not my bedroom. This isn’t something I would want for my marital bedroom. The outline of a strange man in my bedroom would scare the hell out of me, nevermind Scott. (For all your Twilight decal needs, visit vinylfruit’s etsy shop.)

Do you know there are women out there going to the midnight showing of Twilight Saga: New Moon on Thursday? On a school night?? And getting up at 7am the next morning to go to work?

They must be real fans.

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.