The eagle has landed

Surprise! I’m back in the US, writing this from the comfort of my bed, in the comfort of air conditioning. It’s 5 in the morning and although my body is tired, my mind is all abuzz with thoughts of artificial cheese products, Target shopping bags, and the possibility of returning to England with a bit of a tan.

You have no idea how hard it was not to tell you. This has been in the works for months. I still can’t believe we pulled it off. My mom was absolutely shocked when she saw me sitting at the table with my sisters when she and my dad arrived for her birthday brunch. She burst into tears and just cried and cried. She said she hadn’t realized just how much she missed me until she saw me which is pretty much one of the saddest things she’s ever said. God, this living-4000-miles-away thing is really hard.

But.

Target!

Tan!

Cheese-flavored Puff’n Corn!

I arrived on Saturday and spent the day with my sisters and cousins at the Kenny Chesney concert. I don’t know his music (other than the one about his tractor being sexy) but it was the perfect way to assimilate to summer time in Virginia.

I find myself thinking ‘This is so American!” and “It really is just like the movies!” I am thinking a lot of the same things Scott thought when he first came to visit all those years ago (and actually still thinks). Just as you can’t really know about life in the UK by just visiting London, you can’t really understand life in America by only visiting New York City or Washington DC. I feel so privileged to know both countries.

I refuse to let this become a weepy post where I sentimentalize about expat life so I’ll just show you some photos of my surprise trip so far.

You’re never too old to play flip cup:

But you are too old to wear this:

Still crying at her birthday brunch:

After brunch we went for pedicures. Even the Colonel had one:

And then we sat outside on the deck and ate homemade peach pie:

It’s good to be home.

May it please Your Majesty

It’s after two in the morning and I’ve just arrived home after a fun night out with…well, I was going to say coworkers but most of them I can call friends now. Scott is out with his coworkers (friends?) too and we were going to meet up at Kings Cross and come home together but he decided to stay out later.

When I got home, I checked the mail box even though we haven’t received any mail in days.  We discovered that some of our mail is being returned to sender because our mail box is apparently “inaccessible”. It’s another thing to add to the list of issues we need to speak to the management company about. But something made me check the mailbox anyway.

There were two envelopes addressed to me.

One was from the Home Office. The other from the local citizenship unit.

Both told me that my application for British citizenship has been approved.

I stood in the hallway, flicking through the pages of details about the citizenship ceremony, the photographs you can order, the words to the Oath of Allegiance. And then I felt the dull ache in my throat, in my chest. Then the tears.

And I don’t even really know why.

I’m sure it probably has a lot to do with all the vodka and diet cokes I’ve consumed tonight but I just stood there and cried. I went through the list of people I could tell. I sent Scott a text message. Then I scrolled through the list of contacts on gchat. Nope, no one. I emailed my friend. I told her I cried. I told her I didn’t know what that meant.

I just have this overwhelming feeling of wanting to tell someone. So here I am, here it is.

————–

Dear Lillibet,

You like me. You really, really like me.

Thank you for granting me citizenship. I’m truly touched.

I’ll be pledging allegiance to you some time in the next three months. Go easy on me, ok?

Lots of hugs (the American kind)

Caitlin

P.S. I’ve got some great ideas about boosting the economy. It may or may not have to do with the importing of Ranch dressing. Have your people call my people.

You dazzled me

Some of you will appreciate this more than others. If you have been living under a rock don’t know about Twilight, you’ll have to suffer through this one. But it’s Monday and you’re at work…don’t tell me you have anything better to do.

While I was folding laundry or cooking dinner or flipping through US Weekly – I can’t remember exactly what I was doing but it was important – Scott interrupted me with this:

“The other day at work, someone pointed out that I had glitter all over my face. And I spent all day trying to figure out where it came from. I thought it must have been from your make up or something. I spent days thinking about it. Where is this glitter coming from?”

He was so very serious. You don’t joke about glitter.

“And then I realized that-that…that…hand soap pump thing! In the bathroom! It has shimmer stuff in it!”

He holds up his slightly shimmering hands to show me.

“See? Glitter!”

I nod, laughing, and say, “But how would it get all over your face?”

And he’s all, duh, “Because I’ve been washing my face with it!”

Hold it right there. You say what? You’re washing your face with my imported Bath & Body Works Antibacterial Moisturizing Soap in Sweet Pea with Green Tea Extract and Shea Butter? How long has this been going on? I should have smelled the sweet pea flower mixed with pear, loganberry and green rhubarb on you!

But then I thought…huh…shimmer, you say? Hmm…I know someone else who sparkles.

Muahahahaha.

“Oh my God!” I said, excitedly. “You’re just like Edward Cullen!“

I think that’ll teach him.

This is for the German Girls

We lived in Alabama for a year when I was in the sixth grade. The base had an elementary school but not a high school so my older sister, Amanda, had to go to a private Christian school because the schools around the base were too dangerous. (No joke. We went on a tour of the middle school and the teacher told us a student stabbed another student just the week before – with forks in the cafeteria. This was after we walked through the metal detectors and heard the lock-down alarm. Twice.)

At this private Christian school, Amanda was constantly referred to as the German Girl. Even after she explained multiple times that she was not German, she just lived in Germany. It’s a good thing they didn’t catch on to the fact that we lived in Korea before Germany or their minds would have exploded trying to come to terms with this strange, new girl.

It didn’t stop at German Girl. They didn’t have nice things to say when Amanda brought in her yearbook to show them that she went to an American school abroad and they saw that she went to school with lots of different kinds of people. You know what I’m saying.

I’d like to say that they didn’t know any better but the truth is, a lot of them had the money to travel and the brains to learn about other cultures and good Lord, you’d think they had the sense to accept all kinds of people. They just chose not to.

(I don’t know if I have any readers from Alabama but here’s a disclaimer – I’m just talking about the stuck up a-hole teenagers that went to school with my sister. Everyone else is cool. I love your sweet tea.)

I was reminded of the German Girl comments when I got an email from a reader – someone I don’t know at all – who said I was turning my back on America (the greatest country in the world) by getting British citizenship. I thought it was a joke. Or maybe it was from my mom.

(Just kidding! She is ok with it really.)

But it wasn’t a joke. This person told me that I should be ashamed especially since they knew -from previous posts- that my dad was an American soldier and didn’t I feel proud of my country? Didn’t I feel like I should support the US economy by working in America or at least for an American company? Didn’t I feel like I was turning my back on America? How do I put up with socialism and freeloaders?

I laughed when I read this. I think I’m still hoping it’s a joke but I know that there are crazies out there and when you share your thoughts on the web, you have to accept that sometimes people will disagree with you. Sometimes you get a mentalist.

I rant quite a bit in real life, and on this blog, about the things I miss about the US, how things just aren’t the same here. I miss home a lot. I am proud of being American – anyone who knows me here would say that.

But this email from a “proud” American- it is embarrassing. I am embarrassed for you. It did not shame me. It made me even happier about where I am. (There’s a woman in Virginia not very happy with you right now. She was banking on me moving back sooner rather than later. I might give her your address.)

Thank you.

Your email really helped me.

It makes me want to hug the American tourists in London who ask where Ly-sess-der Square is. Thank you for coming. Thank you for wanting to see the world.

It makes me even more glad to have a socialized healthcare system. Freeloaders? Yes, we’ve got them. But I am happy to pay a little more out of my pocket to ensure everyone gets the help they need. If I had only read that last sentence, I would have thought I was talking about the American mentality. We love this kind of help-your-fellow-man thing, don’t we?

It makes me all the more eager to get my British citizenship (still waiting by the way). I get to have both. The British government doesn’t want to take away my American citizenship – they are comfortable with what they have on offer. They don’t make me choose.

It makes me grateful that because my dad was an American soldier, I grew up all over the world. His father was an American soldier too and they lived all over the world as well. My dad would rather live in Europe than in the US. (I can feel another hate email coming my way.)

I think I addressed all your points…except about supporting the US economy. But you haven’t seen my credit card bill so you can’t possibly know how much money I pump back into the economy when I’m in the US for a visit. And I didn’t even get one of those handy stimulus checks from the President! (I file US taxes so… nope, that’s not the reason.)

Oh, and just one more thing:

It makes me disappointed in you. The America you love so much – the America I love so much- is built on the idea that you can do and be anything you want. I’m disappointed that this is all you could come up with.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to show some American tourists how to get to Ly-sess-der Square. I wonder if they, by any chance, brought some Velveeta.  I could use some cheese after your whine.

But he has to be into you!

Let me make something clear. This is not going to be one of those posts where at the end, I say how happy I am to be married and not doing the dating thing.  Not because that isn’t how I feel but because I find it obnoxious. Single friends reading this – don’t worry, I won’t go all smug-married-person on you.  I hate when people do that.

Maybe it’s because I like listening to other people’s problems. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my fill of bad dates. But I actually enjoy hearing about my friends’ dating escapades. I like helping them* by going out and having a good time with them. Sometimes they meet people, sometimes they don’t. I would hate to miss out on all the laughs just because I’m married.

*Ok, ok. I just like going out – helpful or not.

I’ve lamented before about the lack of good-quality, single men out there.  A Male Friend once told me that all the 20-something guys are dating 18 year olds because the 20-something girls are all dating 30- something guys. Then when the 20-something girls, now close to being 30, find themselves single again , there are no guys around their age because they are all dating those 18-25 year old girls.  The Male Friend is right.  Damn those 18 year old girls.

All hope cannot be lost though. A quick look at my friends’ match.com and mysinglefriend.com’s accounts prove that there are single men out there looking for single women like my friends. They’re exchanging winks and favorite-ing each other. Once they send a message, the game begins.

And as much as they don’t want to refer to their dating lives as a game, they have to because that is exactly what it is.  It’s a game that takes constant attention and effort. My friend – we’ll call her Katie – is on match.com and has had a few successes in the past but nothing panned out in the end.

She took a break from the site because it took too much effort to keep up with the correspondence and she was busy with friends and it was the holidays blah blah blah.

Truth is, she was just tired of it. The roller coaster effect of finding someone, exchanging messages, going on a date, being slightly disappointed by the date, exchanging more messages, feeling positive about a second date, having a good second date, kiss on the cheek, obsessing over what that means,  decide it’s sweet and respectful, ignore the fact that you really wanted a big fat kiss on the lips, send text, don’t receive a text back until two days later, decide not to send him a text until three days later, then get really annoyed when you haven’t heard from him in a week.

See, it’s a game.

The thing I first noticed about online dating is that – in general – it seems women put in more effort with their profiles.

First, you’ve got the photos. Maybe it’s because men don’t take cameras with them everywhere they go, but you should see some of the photos up there.  It’s like they had two from their office Christmas party, one of them drunk at a music festival last summer, and one post-coital pic their ex took. Sometimes they don’t have enough photos of themselves and upload photos of their cars, motorbikes or a sunset from a recent vacation.

Women, on the other hand, have a billion photos to choose from and selecting five or six takes up a whole afternoon. You want to look good but you also want to look realistic. You need at least one that shows below the shoulders.

To complement the photos, you can also pick from a list of  preset adjectives to describe your interests, drinking style, job/income, and body type. We saw a guy who said he was “heavyset” and we’re pretty sure he doesn’t know what that word means unless he’s one of those guys who actually has a slew of very flattering photos.  Or as my friend, Maria, pointed out, “Sounds like he has body issues. This could be a good thing!”

Then you’ve got the profile they have to write about themselves which is no small feat. To write Katie’s profile, three of us spent a Saturday emailing drafts back and forth. To write Maria’s mysinglefriend.com profile, we did our nails and went through three bottles of wine trying to come up with 150 words. And the whole point of mysinglefriend.com is that your friend writes the recommendation, you don’t even have to write it yourself.

I don’t know about you but I can’t see a group of guys sitting around, drinking beer, and writing match profiles for each other. Which is why, in most cases, they leave a bit to be desired. It is not uncommon to hear the girls dismiss guys over lack of information or bad grammar. I’m with them on the bad grammar and complete disregard for punctuation i mean how annoying is that could they not even be bothered to spell-check this is a representation of themselves they should be ashamed!

It makes it all the more wonderful then when you run across a profile where the guy is the next Nicholas Sparks (or has asked his sister to write it). One potential suitor wrote, “I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for but I have a picture in my mind of a morning spent lazing together on the sofa, newspapers strewn about, filling the time between a full English breakfast and a late afternoon Sunday roast.”

Suddenly I’m imagining myself reading a newspaper with this man!

So you exchange messages. You ask each other about different things mentioned in your profile – you ask about his trip to New Zealand, he asks what red velvet cake is. You spend your evenings trying to craft witty and interesting responses. You count the days until you receive a message back. You try not to freak out when he suggests talking about his trip in person.

You arrange to meet for drinks on a Thursday. You make your friends come over and drink white wine, give you pointers on things to talk about and assure you are showing just enough cleavage.

You have your date. It may or may not be wonderful. It’s always weird meeting someone in person after having an image of them in your head. You wonder if he’s happy with who you turned out to be. You text your friends on the way home and begin the next part of the game.

The thing about online dating is that everyone is on there, trying to meet someone. It’s not like when you go to a bar and casually meet someone. If it doesn’t work out, you can both make some excuse about not really wanting to meet someone anyway but with online dating, we all know what’s happening here.

You’re all looking for someone and while he’s out with you, he might have two witty and interesting messages waiting in his inbox from someone else.

The competition – this is is the hardest part.

If match.com has to put commercials on the TV announcing that they’ve just had a huge batch of men join, you can pretty much guess that there are more amazing single women on there than men. You’ve got stiff competition.

As the friend, as the one not dating, this is the hardest part for me too. I love my friends. I think they are amazing women. I don’t understand how someone wouldn’t like them.

When a guy Maria was seeing seemed to be messing her around, canceling at the last minute, giving mixed signals, I couldn’t tell her to cut him loose. I knew she liked him, or at least wanted him to like her, and I couldn’t bring myself to suggest that maybe he just wasn’t that into her. Look at those photos we chose! Read how cool you sound on your profile! You’re so fun and pretty – he has to like you!

When she told her story to The Male Friend, he listened. The Male Friend stayed quiet as Maria explained how the guy seemed interested – he told her this and that, he was the one who asked her out  in the first place, but going two weeks without a date, what did it all mean?!

Katie and I stood nearby, listening to the story for the fifteenth time, nodding sympathetically.  Just as I was about to say something like, “Maybe he’s really into you but he doesn’t know how you feel and he’s scared,” The Male Friend spoke up.

‘Dump him and move on.”

It was that easy to him. The facts were on the table and it didn’t matter what The Male Friend thought about Maria. It was clear as day to him. The guy was not interested and Maria should not waste any more time thinking about it.

But that would be too easy. Instead when the guy canceled their date again, we all sat on Maria’s bed, thinking of something she could say in response. We knew it would be the last time she would be in contact with him. She wanted to play it cool but also let him know that she wouldn’t be hanging around for him again.

“Can I add an exclamation mark?” Maria asks.

Katie and I both say no.

“But I like them and I usually include them.”

Katie says it will sound like she’s yelling at him. We thought she wanted to play it cool.  She says she is and this will show she doesn’t really care…it’s more of a happy exclamation mark.

“So you’re happy that he canceled? You’re happy that he’s not interested?”  I ask, knowing the answer already.

The tone of exclamation marks does not come across well via text but we still debate it. In the end, she sent it exclamation mark-less.

However, my thoughts on this are not exclamation mark-less.  Throughout this process, I have continuously pointed out that we sound as though we could be in the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You.” We laugh and all agree but we don’t change because honestly, how can they not be into them?!

There is no moral to this story. Or at least not one that I’m willing to accept.  I have three other friends asking me to help with their online dating profiles and I have yet to be able to say that my help has led to a success story.

But, friends, I swear I will never say, “God, I’m so lucky to have found someone!” and wax lyrical about how nice it is not to be dating anymore.  Instead, I will promise to help, to listen, to drink wine, to edit your text messages and to tell you your rack looks amazing in that shirt.

Surviving the distance

I got an email from someone who asked me how Scott and I managed to last after being apart for so long. She had always heard that long distance relationships didn’t work.  What was our secret?

I thought about it for a couple of days before writing back – mainly because I don’t have any secrets.  I don’t know if I even have any great advice on the subject because – even after all that I will say here – I would tell you to try to avoid long distance relationships in the first place.  They are so difficult. They suck.

But I figured that I couldn’t just tell this woman that long distance relationships suck.  I needed to be more eloquent, for one. I also needed to do my relationship justice.

So, here’s my advice. May you never need it.

Go on a date.

If you were together, you’d make time for one another. Even though you can’t physically go out for a meal or see a film, you should still schedule each other in.

There is nothing more irritating than being on the phone with someone while they are trying to do something else. If you’ve planned to speak at 7pm, consider it a date and don’t back out.

I like to think of advice I got before a phone interview I had back in college.  Turn off the computer and TV. Remove all distractions. Have a list of a few things you’d like to talk about. Look in a mirror from time to time so you can watch yourself speaking. Smile a lot. You will seem more friendly and engaged.

Ok, maybe you don’t need the mirror but you get the idea.

Hang up the phone.

I’m not a big phone talker. Scott isn’t really either. This wasn’t a great combination.

We decided talking every day wasn’t going to work for us. We’d rather talk every other day or every two days. I wanted quality over quantity. Figure out what works for you.

But remember it’s natural to have an “off” day.  It’s ok to not have anything to say.  Some days we just didn’t want to talk. Those would have been the days when we would have appreciated just being together the most, not having to verbalize our feelings. Just being.

The problem is that usually you’re not both feeling “off” on the same day so when one of you doesn’t feel like talking, the other person gets upset and there isn’t anything you can say to make the situation better.

For us, this was a surefire way to start an argument. Which is exactly what you don’t want when one of you has already said they don’t even feel like talking about good stuff.

Please, I’m begging you. Hang up the phone. Agree to email later. For the love of God, get off the phone. Only bad things will happen if you continue to cling to a conversation that is already over.

Cherish the butterflies.

While I wouldn’t really want to go back to having a long distance relationship, I can admit that it was a lot more exciting.  I know I will never have that sort of excitement again. What I wouldn’t give to have another handwritten love letter!

I will never count down until we see each other next. I will never panic at the thought that the feelings might not be there anymore. (Ok, so this isn’t a great feeling but man, it just adds to the rush.) I will never have the butterflies again as I see him exit the doors at International Arrivals.  I’ll never have that “first” kiss again.

Remember them. Be glad for them. Don’t wish them away too soon.

Use your time wisely.

I won’t lie. I was a mess when we would say goodbye. I was sad for days until my mind made me shut off that part of my life until the next visit.

In the meantime, we focused on ourselves. I was always thinking that one day we would be together but for now? Now have fun. Go out with your friends. Focus on your job or your dreams or both. Have a life of your own. Make sure there are no regrets.

There is plenty of time to be an extension of someone else. And if you’re anything like me, you’ll hate it when you are.

I think this mentality has really stood us in good stead. We both still really enjoy being with our own friends and think it is important to have our own lives. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Have a plan to be together.

Trust me – it will never work if you can’t work towards something. Maybe you can’t be certain you’ll move by the end of the year. Maybe you’re not sure exactly when and how you’ll be together, but start talking about it.

If you’re moving for a job and you want to stay in your relationship, make a deal to only be apart for a set amount of time. Work to be together – whether that means you agree to see each other once a month or move in together at the end of your contract, you need a plan.

They say it will never work.

Just because they didn’t have what it takes to make their relationship last doesn’t mean you won’t either. Also, remember that it has nothing to do with the distance and everything to do with the relationship. If it’s not going to last, it doesn’t matter how far apart you are.

Every cloud…

It’s not all tears and heartache. There are some benefits to a long distance relationship.

Because all you have is a phone call or a letter, you start talking about things you might not have otherwise discussed. Simply put, you run out of things to talk about. So you move on to the more serious topics like religion, kids, past relationships, money, etc. You get to these topics a lot sooner than if you were together and didn’t have to talk all the time.

Being apart also allows you to really think about where things are going and where you want to be six months from now. You get to take time to make some pretty big decisions and that’s something to be grateful for.

Besides the obvious perk of being able to travel to each other and get to know a different city or country, you also don’t have to shave your legs as much.

Go ahead and write that one down under “Pros.”
———–

I know many of you are in, or have been in, successful long distance relationships so I hope you’ll share your advice too.

Be careful what you wish for

For the past ten years, Scott has always had a regular boy haircut – cut short and only requires a bit of gel.  I could never be with a man who would fight me for my Parlux 3200 Compact hair dryer or ghds. (If you don’t know what these are, please enlighten yourself. As Dr. Phil says, this will be a changing day in your life.)

Scott was never that bothered about where he got his hair cut and usually just went to a local barber. They always seemed to give him a buzz cut and while I enjoyed pretending I was married to a recent military recruit, I think Scott is lucky to still have hair and should be showing at least a good inch of it.

I encouraged him to get his hair cut by a proper stylist and suggested he try mine. He was hesitant. He hadn’t ever really been to a “girly” salon and his only experience had been waiting for three hours in one while I had my hair cut and highlighted. Obviously he wasn’t going to have fond memories of that one.

On the day of his appointment, he was nervous – he wasn’t used to actually speaking to anyone or God forbid telling the stylist what he wanted. (How else do you think he ended up with a shaved head so many times?) I had made the appointment for him and sent him on his way.

Scott returned with a nice hair cut that only cost about four times as much as his barbershop cuts. He liked that my stylist wasn’t overly chatty. He said he would return.

A couple of haircuts later and my stylist isn’t available. I make an appointment for him with another girl. (This was the deal – I would make the appointments. How this man can do presentations and manage an area of a major corporation but not call for a hair appointment, I have no idea. But I do this for him.)

When he comes home, he announces that he really likes his hair this time. I survey it and tell him that it looks the same to me. But good, glad he’s happy.

At my next hair appointment, I see the girl who cut his hair. And it is suddenly very clear why he liked his haircut this time. The girl has long, blond, wavy hair and a body that won’t quit. She is cute and bubbly.

And it has to be said that my stylist is also very cute. So this other girl…she is very attractive. How did I miss this? How could I let this happen?

I think about calling Scott out on it but then I imagine if it were the other way around. What if I had a really hot, heterosexual hair stylist running his hands through my hair? But really, what are the chances of that?

I decide not to say anything. I am in control of this situation. I do the scheduling. I am a confident woman who doesn’t need to worry about this totally gorgeous, blond, hair styling goddess. I am a confident woman. I am a confident woman. I am…AHHHH! Someone slap me!

But I am not in control because on the day of his next appointment, the receptionist calls to tell me our stylist is sick but they have someone else who can do it. Her. I grit my teeth and thank the the receptionist. Yes, that will be fine. Then I consider digging up the clippers and suggesting doing Scott’s hair myself.

I am a confident woman. I am a confident woman.

So he goes to the salon and returns with his usual style.

He finds me in the living room, reading a book. He sits down and announces that he’s thinking of changing hair stylists.

“Oh, really?” I ask, doing my best to sound surprised.

“Well, it’s just that Becca asked me if I ever thought of doing anything different with my hair.”

“What did she suggest?”

“She said that I could grow it out a bit and try another style.”

“But you’ve never expressed an interest in doing anything different with your hair.”

“She thought it might look nice a little longer. It’s just a thought but I think I’d like to go with her in the future.”

“Do you have any idea how wrong it is to change hair stylists at the same salon? You can’t just break up with your stylist! Don’t you know anything? Are you really going to style your hair? I can’t see you blow drying your hair.”

I stop myself from freaking out. What, is she trying to get you to have the Zac Efron hair style? Are we really going to have matching side swept fringes? It’s because she’s hot, isn’t it! ISN’T IT? I’m on to you!

He shrugs and says, “You said yourself that I haven’t had a different hair style in ten years.”

“But…but…I like your hair!” Who is this bitch anyway?!

I tell myself to remain calm. Breathe. What did Maya Angelou say about jealousy? It’s like salt in your food. A little enhances the flavor…too much can be life-threatening. I channel Maya Angelou and decide the game is up.

“I see right through you. You’re not just changing your hair stylist because you think she’s hotter.”

And then Scott blushes and laughs. He knows he has lost. “Damn,” he says.

“Sorry but I’m not going to make another appointment with her. If you want to switch, you’ll have to make your own appointments. Either that or you’ll just have to live with watching her in the mirrors while you get your hair cut.”

He decides that will have to be good enough. He must really not like making hair appointments for himself.

Looks like I’ve successfully kept my Parlux 3200 Compact dryer all to myself for a little longer.

Call your mother

I’m sure we’ve all been there. You’re sitting in your little desk at elementary school and you are so enthralled by the picture you’re coloring or racking your little brains trying to figure out what in the heck 24 + 13 is that when your teacher walks by, you accidentally call out, “Mom?” instead of Mrs. Whatever.

Then there was the time when you ran up to a man in the store and grabbed his hand only to realize this man is not your father and he’s almost as freaked out as you are. You could have sworn your dad was wearing the exact same jeans and loafers. Where is your dad? You knew you shouldn’t have been pretending to work in a jewelry store, rearranging all the nuts and bolts in the hardware aisle.  Cue hyperventilation and tears and ooooh the embarrassment!

You think it’s something you grow out of. For the most part, I’m pretty sure I have. But if I’m deep in thought or not really paying attention, I find myself close to slipping up and calling someone a name that is way too familiar. Or worse. Let me explain.

Sometime last year I was home for a visit and my dad was in the middle of tracking down God knows what, but he was frustrated and furiously opening drawers and digging through piles of paperwork. A family friend called and my mom asked my dad if he could answer it and firm up their plans for the evening.

My dad made pleasant small talk on the phone while he was still searching. He was clearly not completely in the conversation. As he was saying goodbye, I heard him say, “Yep, will do. See you later. Love you.” And then he hung up and cursed under his breath about having to look through 50 million things before finding what he was looking for.

I stood there, horrified.

“Dad, did you just tell her you love her?”

“What?” he asked, annoyed.

“You just told her you loved her!”

“Did I? Oh, whatever. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Call her back! Tell her you weren’t thinking straight! This is so embarrassing. Oh my God, do something!”

He shrugged and said she probably didn’t even notice and he continued on with his search. I was mortified for him and made sure my mom knew the whole story in case it came up that night. It didn’t. The family friend either (A) didn’t hear him say it or (B) knows how my dad is and didn’t take any notice.

Moral of the story? This sort of thing can happen even when you’re middle-aged, people.

I am known as Caitlin at work – not Cait. There is really no issue here except that pretty much everyone outside of work calls me Cait. If I’m in a hurry and not really thinking about it, I have been known to sign my work emails with just Cait. This is not the end of the world but I always wonder if the guy in Computer Services thinks we’re on a nickname basis now. (It’s more likely that he didn’t even read my email to the end to see my name, I know, I know.)

We were talking about this in the office a couple of weeks ago. A coworker said she once told a London bus driver, “Love you” as she got off the bus. She just wasn’t thinking. This is something I am very conscious of at work, especially on the phone, if I’m having a busy day, doing lots of different things. There have been a few times when I caught myself almost saying, “Love you” before hanging up. Now that would be awkward.

But not as awkward as this little gem.

One time we were visiting my parents and we were all standing around the kitchen island, eating and talking. I crossed over to the morning room to grab the papers. As I was walking back, I gave Scott a little smack on the backside.

Except it wasn’t Scott.

It was my dad. MY FATHER!!! Ewww.

I’m cringing just thinking about it.

We sort of just looked at each other. I imagine I had the same look of horror on my face as I did all those years ago when I accidentally took that stranger’s hand.

And while we’re on the subject, after having my parents over for a visit, I mistakenly called Scott “mom”. Twice. Yikes.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Anyone…anyone?

Aloha!

My family organized a reunion in Florida last week and as I mentioned in a previous entry, I couldn’t go because I’m stuck in the UK, passport-less waiting for a yay or nay on citizenship.

But you know what? It didn’t stop me. I’ve been in similar situations before and when I felt like I was missing out, I did something about it. (Going to Australia? Not without me!)

Behold the Family Reunion 2009 photo:

Now complete with me and Scott. I would have given Lisa the Lobster a run for her money had I been there in all my tiki drink glory, if I do say so myself. And Scott? Well, he’s so excited, he clearly cannot hide it.  He couldn’t even contain his hip-shaking moves for the photo op.

Nobody has a luau without us.

Speaking American

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: we might speak the same language but there are soooo many differences in pronunciation and words/phrases.

Let’s forget the pronunciation because we would be here for days listing all the little (and sometimes huge) differences in how Americans and Brits pronounce the same word.

Instead I’ll just point out a few differences in terminology:

Cell Phone vs. Mobile Phone

Mostly mobile these days – pronounced mo-bile, not mo-bull. At first I felt like a complete tool pronouncing it the way the Brits do but it had to be done. I still slip up sometimes, in the US and in the UK, and get temporarily confused as to how to properly pronounce it. It comes out something like “mo-by-be-uhhh-blah. My phone!”

Call vs. Ring

I use both but probably “call” more. With so many British phrases I feel like a pretentious idiot trying to use them.

Take out vs. Takeaway

I always had this vision of living in an artsy loft in NYC, working as some super creative professional, and on my way home, I would call my boyfriend to suggest we get take out – the kind that came in those little white boxes. Take out will always have a special place in my heart.

Now, “to go” is a different story. Whenever I say this in the staff canteen at work, the lunch ladies get even more confused than they already are and I end up using my hands to gesture towards the door. It would be easier to use “take away,” I’ll admit.

Braids vs. Plaits

They are braids to me and always will be. I understand though that some people in the Deep South say plaits so maybe that’s not a British thing? I think it comes back to the pronunciation thing again though (plates vs. platts) so if you ask me, it’s easier to call ‘em braids.

Pants vs. Trousers

Pants are underwear in the UK. So if you say “Oooh, it’s cold out. I should have worn pants today” you’ll get a lot of funny looks. My Irish friend says pants so sometimes when we’re talking, she’ll say, “I was wearing those grey pants, er, trousers” and I’ll smile and we both understand. We can speak pants freely.

Butt vs. Bum

While bum definitely sounds more polite, I just can’t switch over. No buts about it!
(OMG, you guys! There is a how-to article on “How to do a sarcastic laugh.” This is heartbreaking.)

Sweetie or Honey vs. Darling

I don’t actually use any of these terms of endearment but if I did, I’d use the more American ones – sweetie and honey. In my accent, ‘Darling’ reminds me of the middle child in Roseanne. Not good.

Cash register vs. Till

Till? Never have, never will.

Dishsoap vs. Washing up liquid

I think I use them both. I don’t know. I try not to think about doing the dishes.

Laundry vs. Doing the washing

Laundry. For some reason when I hear “I need to do my washing” or “I have washing to do” I imagine women hunched over washing boards with a bar of soap. Plus scented candles wouldn’t sell as well if they were called “Fresh washing.”

Store vs. Shop

I shop at a store. I might say “go to the shop” if I am actually talking about a little, specialized store but it’s more natural for me to use “store”. In America, I usually just say where I’m going. Target, Giant, Nordstrom, TJ Maxx, Bath & Body Works, the mall. You get the idea. (Can I get a moment of silence while I think about these stores?)

Bathroom vs. Toilet

I can’t stop saying “bathroom.” I realize I’m not actually looking for a bath but I struggle to say toilet. It sounds vulgar. It always surprised me to see a “TOILETS” sign in restaurants. I don’t want to think about a toilet while I’m eating my dinner. Powder room, Ladies’ room, restroom, bathroom. Any of those will do.

“Loo” is a definitely a nicer way to refer to it but it doesn’t sound natural when I say it. I like it though.

There are so many terms for the bathroom that I just can’t bring myself to use. Don’t even get me started on the term “bog roll.”

(Have you ever looked up “toilet” on Wikipedia? They are so specific with what people use toilets for.)

About the word “gotten”

I don’t really get why Brits have such a problem with this. They don’t object to forget/forgot/forgotten, so why get/got/gotten? If it was good enough for Shakespeare, it’s good enough for me. Any Brits reading this? Please explain yourself.

Swear words and name-calling

My swearing is still very American. Bugger and bollocks and shite just sound ridiculous when I say them. But I do love all the different British swear words/insults.

Idioms derived from American baseball

I’ve been known to say a few of these. Cover all bases, ball park figure, step up to the plate, etc. I also say “He dropped the ball” – is that baseball? I never caught the ball when I played so I’m a bit clueless.

At any rate, these idioms may be used occasionally by Brits (and usually always understood) but they are most definitely American phrases. The baseball metaphor I am asked about the most is “bases.” I’ve done my best to explain first, second and third base. Striking out, batting for the other team, the list goes on.

Oh, it’s times like this when I feel most proud to be American.