Cry baby

Whenever I see a person with a baby on an airplane, I never think, oh great, a crying baby for the next eight hours. I just start to feel heart palpitations at the thought that it could one day be me. And even then I’m not thinking about a crying baby. I’m thinking about having to walk up and down the aisle for eight hours. I’m thinking about having to hold s/he on my lap for eight hours. I’m thinking about how in the heck I would keep somebody entertained for so long. I’m thinking about me and only me, which is how it usually goes because I’m still very selfish.

This article about traveling with a small child makes you think the world is against you when you fly with a kid. I didn’t realize people were filled with such anger about children on planes. According to parents and the previously mentioned article, fellow passengers are known to roll their eyes, sigh heavily, and even vocalize their dismay the minute you set foot on an airplane with a child in tow.

There are more irritating things about air travel than a kid. Like when the bonehead in front of you puts his extra large roller suitcase in the overhead bin and refuses to accept that it won’t fit. Or like when the person behind you holds onto the top of your seat every time they get up and when they let go, you spring forward like a slingshot.  I could go on because there are hundreds of annoying things people do every day in the air and on the ground.

There is only so much you can do for kids. Even I know that. Sure, it seems to be easier these days with kids club programs (online resources with downloadable and printer-friendly activity sheets to keep children entertained) and the invention of the trunki (I knew this was a winner when I saw it on Dragons’ Den. Move aside, Theo Paphitis). Not to mention iPhones, iPads, and even the personal television systems on airplanes. I remember being on a plane when I was a kid and the only movie they showed on the screen at the front of the plane was “Fletch Lives” and the only thing I remember from it is a shower scene with Chevy Chase. This is what I will tell any future children of mine when they complain about life. Forget walking to school in the snow. I win.

When we traveled as kids, we were allowed to take anything we wanted to keep ourselves occupied. The only rule was “you bring it, you carry it”.  After the first leg of our flight to Korea, I found myself regretting bringing all the Lego pieces, coloring books, cassette tapes, and Barbie dolls as we walked up and down the halls of the airport in Detroit. I became a savvier flyer after that, let me tell you, but I still got bored. The airplane food still tasted weird. I still grossed out my fellow passengers when I vomited after drinking too much Pawberry Punch. (God, that stuff was good. Does Delta still serve it?)

So if I feel the pressure of keeping a kid entertained and/or smiling and/or sleeping without even having a kid of my own, how must those real parents feel? I try to keep that in mind when I fly.

You could also just think about the clip from Family Guy where a father is trying to placate his crying baby. A flight attendant announces that the film on today’s flight will be “Hancock”. The father bursts into uncontrollable tears, out-crying the baby. Grown ups–even if they have a legit reason like a Will Smith superhero train wreck of a movie–always turn out to be way worse than children, so save your eye rolls and heavy sighs for them.

Under his watchful eye

That chest infection turned into a nasty case of bronchitis. After antibiotics, an inhaler, and a week to do nothing but sleep upright, I’m on the mend.

It was a lonely week without work colleagues, friends or family. Scott tried to come home at a reasonable time in the evenings to make tea and heat up soup.

Luckily I wasn’t completely alone.

The Edward Cullen blanket is the perfect weight and size to hang on the curtain rod to block out the afternoon sun, which means he spends more time protecting our eyes than warming our bodies.

I thank my sister’s coworker who acquired an extra Twilight-branded throw blanket and my sister who had the good sense to call dibs on it.

Even though I love Twilight, this doesn’t really go with our decor so we usually stash him under a large pillow or another blanket. But every once in awhile, you get that feeling you’re being watched.

There is something strangely comforting about it.

Good like Tebow

I’m beginning to think the best thing about living in England is that very few people know who Tim Tebow is over here. He must be mentioned in 90% of the facebook updates from American friends on my newsfeed right now (the other 10% are “going to bed now” updates).

Last week Scott had what turned out to be “just” a man cold and I was on tea patrol. This week I have a chest infection and Scott’s on tea patrol. But Friday he began to complain about a pulled muscle in his back (not from pouring cups of tea, I’d like to add) and I knew exactly where this would lead if I didn’t take control. So I introduced him to Tylenol PM.

He woke up at 11 am the next day, refreshed and pain-free.

“That stuff is good!” he exclaimed.

Don’t I know it! What I wouldn’t give for a solid hour of sleep! I can’t lay down for long without sputtering and coughing. Our bed has never been so uncomfortable and my pillow has ignored my pleas to do its damn job and hold up my damn head.

Before going to bed last night, I rummaged around in the bathroom for medication. I realized I gave the last NyQuil tablets to Scott. After digging through packages of Band-aids and bottles of expired vitamins, I had to accept the outcome of my selfless act. There was nothing left for me, nothing to help me get through another sleepless night, but a swig of Buttercup cough syrup and two chapters of the last book in The Hunger Games trilogy.

I have no photo to add to this post, but just imagine me Tebowing next to the bed, with empty boxes of NyQuil scattered around me. That should do it.

FFF (facebook friends forever)

Thud!

Did you feel that? That was me coming back down to earth after an awesome vacation back in the US.

I won’t go on about it too much. It was lots of fun. It was great to see my friends and family. Christmas was lovely. Blah blah blah.

Sob!

Ok, just one little thing about it and then I have to go cry into my bowl of soup while I’m wrapped up in my Edward Cullen fleece blanket because it’s so cold and damp here and also, why isn’t Gossip Girl on anymore?

—

We gave my mom the best Christmas gift she’s probably ever had.

For the last couple of years, my sisters and I avoided being friends with anyone in our parents’ generation, including our parents. Facebook is not for parents, I’d say. Or at least, it didn’t used to be. Now everyone and their mother is on there and it’s getting harder to ignore the friend requests, especially when you don’t really have a good reason to.

It’s not that we had anything to hide. It was the principle of it and we were going to stick to it, dammit. But then my friend had the gall to “friend” my mother which led to another friend–after seeing it in her newsfeed–saying, “Your mom’s on facebook? I’ll friend her!”

Noooooo!

After awhile, it just seemed futile to resist. I also started to think a Facebook friendship might help our situation. My mom might feel a bit more connected to us if she could see photos and all the inane places Scott checks me into.

So, after a family powwow, we all decided to give our mom the gift of Facebook friendship.

She actually burst into tears.

If you’re stuck on a gift in the future, I highly recommend this. (It’s also kind of fun to come up with the terms and conditions even though my mom violated #5 not even 24 hours later.)

If you’re still debating adding your parents on Facebook, you can also use this handy flowchart to help with the decision. (I used it and I ended on “friend ‘em” so that’s a relief.)

The joy of the season

I’ve been in the US for two days and not one person while we’ve been out and about has wished me a merry Christmas. I was told to take care, have a good day, and come back and see them soon. A few wished me happy holidays. (The immigration officer at Washington-Dulles said nothing except, “You visiting relatives?” and then peered over his glasses, sussing out Scott and his level of danger to homeland security.)

I forgot about all that. I get why we don’t greet everyone with an assumption of their faith and/or what they celebrate. I used to say happy holidays too. But in England, you can’t get away from Christmas.

See the "Merry Christmas" on the sign?

When I was up at 4 am this morning with jet lag, I started thinking about this when counting to 100 didn’t put me to sleep.

Is it because Christmas is seen as more of a commercial holiday in the UK so it’s ok to plaster explicitly Christmas ads and signs all over shop fronts, magazines, newspapers, and TV?

Is it because the UK is just not as worried about being as politically correct as the US? (Remember the man-size Kleenex?)

Is it because saying “happy holidays” in the UK means “have a good vacation”?

Or is it because the UK is a Christian nation and they have no qualms about showing it?

It’s interesting because although a large percentage of people in Britain consider themselves Christians, only a small percentage of them are practicing Christians. (Someone who has taken the Life in the UK test more recently than me may be able to provide real figures here.) If you had to guess which country had separation of church and state, you’d definitely go for England over the United States. Not true! But the only thing that would make you think otherwise may just be Christmas.

I stopped at Harrods at Heathrow on Wednesday. As I was paying for my purchases, the salesman said, “May I wish you a happy Christmas, madam?”

I felt I should reply with something like, “You may, kind sir!” (I didn’t because I would have sounded like a total goober.)

“Yes, thank you. Merry Christmas to you too?” Halfway through my response, I changed it to a question, trying to show him the same courtesy.

He smiled, “Yes, thank you. Happy New Year, madam.”

Ah, happy new year. That’s the safest option, right?

Christmas tree made out of Lego in London

The pursuit goes on

“Hope you’re ready for some serious Trivial Pursuit sessions. My dad was slipping over Thanksgiving so looks like you’re gonna need to carry the guys.”

It was only a comment my sister wrote on Scott’s facebook wall and I know she said it in jest, but for a few seconds, my stomach was in knots. And not because I give two hoots about the board game.

My dad is the king of Trivial Pursuit (blue and yellow are his strengths) and you always want him on your team. I must add that my mom is very good as well and if they were on a team together, they’d trounce you, especially if you play the version printed in 1980, which we sometimes do. So when making teams, we split them up and hope for the best.

I always say that I will know my dad’s health is in decline when he starts losing, especially on any of the history questions. (I will also think Scott has a brain tumor when he can no longer parallel park. You might think I’m dying when I pass up garlic bread.)

Of course I say these things in jest as well, because otherwise it would just be too morbid/I don’t want to jinx anything/a person is allowed an “off day”/I may be on a date with Ryan Gosling and not want garlic breath.

(Also, my parents are only in their 50s and healthy. My mom would want me to add that in here.)

I get schmaltzy at this time of year anyway but I’ve noticed I’m thinking about these things more and more. I know a big part of it is living so far away. I am always going to question where I live. I have to trust that what I have going on here is worth what I’m missing over there. I probably won’t know if I’m right until something goes wrong.

The other part is just getting older. You know more people touched by sadness and hardship. You thank your lucky stars it isn’t you, but you start to wonder when things go too well for too long. Is it your turn for the sadness?

The biggest change is that you worry about your parents and what’s to come. When did that happen? What do you do about that?

You used to think, me, me, me, me, me, meeeee!

You used to say, “Can you put money in my account? Send more packs of instant mac & cheese! I’ll see you when the semester’s over. Unless I get a better offer.”

Now you think, should I live closer to them? Will I regret not being there? Am I missing out?

Now you say, “Can’t wait to see you at Christmas! There is no better offer. P.S. Want to be on my team?”

Protect yourself this holiday season

It was this time three years ago when, after partaking in a few festive bevvies, I woke up to discover a cheeseburger in my bag. Someone reminded me of that story just the other day when we were talking about the best drunk food.  (I’d make a good case for McDonald’s but from all the chicken bones on the streets of London, I’d guess KFC or the generic fried chicken joints come out on top. Seriously, what is up with all those chicken bones?!)

We all seem to have our favorite stops on a night out. Mine happens to be whatever is closest to my train platform. Sometimes that’s a Cornish pasty, sometimes it’s a croissant. Whatever it is, I stick it in my handbag for later.

The last train usually smells of beer, body spray and Big Macs. It seems everyone has stopped for sustenance before boarding. If they aren’t sleeping, they are in deep concentration, trying to type a drunken text while holding a Yazoo chocolate milkshake and a bag of cheese and onion crisps. (I’m not sleeping or eating. Clearly, I’m only there observing, judging, and sending totally coherent texts.)

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking home and only too excited to remember that I have food! In my bag! It’s a wonderful feeling I like to recreate for myself on every night out. You no longer care that your feet are hurting or that it’s freezing outside. The food is the perfect distraction for the walk home.

It works for me.

Because the one time I ate a baguette on the train home resulted in me waking up at my stop with ham in my hair. HAM IN MY HAIR.

Christmas can’t come soon enough. I’m adding this to my wishlist.

Do you think it will make my face look fat?

Goodbye nose neighbor, hello December!

How the Sam Hill is it already December? I don’t know, but I like it.

I like it because it’s totally acceptable to bust out the Christmas playlist. I like it because I get to go back to the US in 21 days to see family and friends. I like it because I get to wrap presents using my mom’s gift wrapping station. (There’s something so liberating about just leaving the tape and scissors and rolls of paper right there until you need them again. No hunting around for labels or Scotch tape or wrapping paper that isn’t covered in engagement rings. You must try it someday.)

I like it because people seem happier, jollier, friendlier. I like it because I feel more generous and helpful and so damn cheery.  I like it because of all the holiday parties. I like it because you get free rein to eat and drink yourself silly. I like it because you get to put things off until January and no one judges you. I like it because we finally get to watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation after quoting it all year round. (“You serious, Clark?”)

I could go on and on. I really do love December, but now I like it even more because it means Scott can shave off this ridiculous moustache he’s grown for Movember.

Since it was his last day of being a “Mo Bro”, Scott sported the Ned Flanders look today:

(When sending this photo from my phone to my email, I accidentally selected the email address for the woman who does my taxes in the US. I did a lot of panicked stabbing at the screen. No, no, abort, abort! She may or may not have received a blank email with just this photo of Scott. I don’t even want to think about it.)

It’s all glitter and glamour over here

Did you all have a fabulous Thanksgiving weekend?

We celebrated on Saturday when our friends could get a bit lairy and not have to worry about going to work the next day. For those who have asked me if we celebrate Thanksgiving in England, please just think about that for a couple more minutes. Facepalm. Don’t worry, I won’t name names. Not on my blog at least.

—

Even though I was cooking for 15 people on Saturday and I had a friend from the US visiting and I really should have been doing a million other things, I did take the time to get some festive nails.

I thought it was a great idea at the time because I had hired cleaners to do all the dirty work before the Thanksgiving party. Little did I know that the washing machine would flood the kitchen about 20 minutes after the cleaners drove away and I would be left to clean up the mess. That’s when the glitter started to fade.

Anyone who has ever tried to remove glitter nail polish understands how incredibly frustrating it can be. Say hello to aluminum foil.

1. Cut cotton pads in half and soak with nail polish remover. Wrap a cotton pad around your finger.

2. Take a strip of foil and scrunch it around your finger.

3. Enlist your husband to help with the scrunching of the foil. (When he’s finished, announce, “Next we learn to braid my hair!”)

4. Wait 8-10 minutes. Ask your husband if he would still love you if you grew aluminum foil growths similar to the Treeman’s tree-like warts.

5. Remove foil and cotton pads. Rub residual glitter patches with the wad of foil.

6. Wash your hands & lotion them up real good. Your finger tips will be very dry.

7. Make a mental note to never, ever use glitter nail polish again.

It must be time for house guests

We’ve had two household scares this week. First, I noticed our washing machine was leaking water. Scott was asleep and I had to get to work for an early meeting. I left two notes for Scott that suitably evoked my panic. Basically, I THINK WE HAVE A LEAK INVESTIGATE WILL YA? and OK WE REALLY HAVE A LEAK HELP DO SOMETHING QUICK HEEEELLLLPPPP!

Later that day, Scott emailed me to say that it wasn’t really a leak. He had overloaded the washing machine with too many towels. Phew! (But don’t think this means he gets out of doing the laundry.)

When I went to do another load of laundry this weekend, I noticed the washing machine was filled with water. Of course I didn’t notice it until I had already thrown half the load in there.

I didn’t want to get too upset because last time the washing machine “broke” it was due to a bobby pin, which I guess could be blamed on me. And following the Nail Polish Remover Disaster of 2011, I knew I had to tread carefully.

Turns out the hose just needed to be adjusted. Or so we think. I’m sure you’ll hear from me when the flat floods and I have to move the Thanksgiving festivities to our local Nando’s.

Then a lamp in the living room sparked and popped and wiped all the electricity out. When Scott reset the switch, nothing in our living room turned on. No lights, no TV, no nothing. Well, I thought, this’ll be handy when the water from the washing machine reaches the living room.

Thankfully, we got the electricity back on without the help of an electrician but have all but wrapped yellow police tape around that devil lamp.

With numbers on hand for local electricians and plumbers, I wonder what else can go wrong before our house guest arrives and 15 people come for Thanksgiving dinner? I’ll let you know.

At least I have enough canned pumpkin to last me until 2014.