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.

Girl meets boy

I have always had crushes on celebrities. I think it’s weird if you haven’t ever had one. What?  You only go for real, attainable men? Weirdos.

For me, it started with Timmy from Lassie and Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains and then progressed to Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid. But my biggest celebrity crush was Devon Sawa. I had posters covering my walls and I had even created mock-ups of wedding invites for Devon and me.  I actually wrote a letter to him once, asking if he wanted to be pen pals.

I also wrote our initials on the side of the house. On the cement between two bricks. With a pencil. I was so badass, you guys wouldn’t even believe it.

But when I was 14, I became obsessed with Prince William. I was devastated when Diana died because I actually thought she might be my mother-in-law one day.

We had internet access at home but I never used it. I’m not sure I even knew what it all meant. Then we started having classes at school centered around the World Wide Web and all the neat stuff you could find on there.  I used to go to my friend’s house after school and we would go on British chat rooms on the hunt for Prince William. Because, you know, he was probably at his friend’s house playing on this newfangled internet too.

We began chatting to someone named Joey. Turns out he was actually three 18 year old guys who had just moved in together and pooled their money  for a computer. We spent many hours talking to them – we were clearly charmed by their British wit – but one of the guys stood out in particular.

He explained how there were these free email services and how we could write each other messages for free and you could check your email anywhere. I got my first hotmail account and got myself on ICQ too. We talked about growing up in different countries, we told each other about school and our familes, we shared favorite books and songs and films.

In the beginning, it was something to kill the time. It was also a novelty. It was just meant to be a bit of fun, nothing serious. My mom knew it was more than just something to kill time when I started spending a lot more time on the computer. (And these were the days when you waited for five minutes while you listened to the dial up modem whizzing and buzzing away, certain aliens would arrive at any moment. These were the days when we paid by the minute.These were the days when there was no way you could sneak onto the Internet. Kids have it so easy these days.)

I told my mom I was speaking to someone on the web and she responded as any mother would. She was concerned. After all, back then all you heard about were the girls who went missing after meeting their supposedly 17 year old suitors they met on America Online.

Naturally, she was worried and didn’t want me giving out our phone number or address. She asked lots of questions about him and what we talked about for so long. She was just being a mom. (I admit, at the time, I was all,”You just don’t understand me! No one understands what it’s like. My life is so hard!” I’m sorry, Mom.)

We had been chatting for months when he asked if he could send me a mixed tape of songs that he had recorded off the radio. I asked my mom and at first she said no but after I argued my case we agreed that if he was a 50 year old serial killer, he probably would have found me by now. So, yes, he could send the tape but my mom needed to listen to it.

And she did and she was satisfied that there were no sinister messages laced throughout the Sunday night Top 10 singles. She also read some of the letters. I was okay with it too. I knew that if I didn’t include her it would all be over.

We continued chatting and sending tapes and letters. We finally exchanged photos – through snail mail since I probably had never even seen a scanner, never mind a digital camera. It was so strange to see the person I had spent all those months talking to. He was and wasn’t how I imagined him but I was pleasantly surprised.

Then one day he asked if he could call me. I was a nervous wreck. I had talked to boys on the phone. A few of them I even liked but no one like this. I’d like to say the conversation was amazing but it wasn’t. I struggled to understand his broad northern accent. I said “sorry, what was that?” about fifty times and laughed at his jokes 20 seconds after the punch line. He could understand me better because he watched Friends and The Simpsons.

I was falling for a guy I had never even met. I was 16 and wasn’t even allowed to properly date anyone in real life. This guy lived in England. He had just started university. He wasn’t real.

Neither of us really knew what to make of it. We certainly liked each other. We missed each other when we didn’t speak. But we didn’t really know each other and yet you could argue that we knew each other better than anyone.

We talked about meeting up one day. Maybe some day after I graduated college. We could meet up and see where things went from there. I don’t think either of us really believed that would happen.

As the months went on, we talked more and more about how we could meet. I think he was more serious about it than me at first. When I thought about meeting him, I felt sick. I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. I still had Devon Sawa wedding invitations tucked away in my bedroom. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the risk and spoil things. I liked having him in my computer, listening to me, asking me questions, caring about me.

And then there was the whole issue of my parents. My dad was stationed in Korea and during his weekly calls, my mom would tell him how serious we were getting and what would she do if I really tried to meet up with this…this man! My dad told her not to worry about it, he was sure it would just wither away. It was a stage. It was a fad. It would never really happen. Then he probably hung up the phone, cursing God for giving him three daughters who had all these icky emotions and trivial problems when he had bigger issues on his mind. Like North Korea.

But it didn’t seem to be a fad. It certainly didn’t feel like I was going through some stage either. One day when I was chatting to this funny and smart Englishman, he suggested that he and a friend come to the US in the summer. They would fly to DC and meet me and my friend and if it was weird and didn’t work out, that would be ok. They would continue on with their vacation in America. No pressure. But what if we never got another chance? What if it was fate? What if we were meant to be together?

And because I was am a hopeless romantic and watched way too many Nora Ephron movies, I said yes. Er, I mean…I said, let me ask my mom. (By this point we had been talking for a year and he still had not abducted me so my mom said ok.)

The lead up to that day in June 1999 was a whole mix of emotions. I was nervous. I was in denial. I was excited. I was, in the only way I knew how, in love. I was terrified.

It was a horrendously hot day in Virginia. I put my hair in velcro curlers the night before and wore a blue shirt. My friend wore a cream skirt. My mom (yep, she had to come) sat on the other side of International Arrivals, reading a magazine. These are the things I remember.

I also remember waiting three hours because their flight was delayed. I remember my friend sitting on an empty luggage carousel and standing up to find black grease across the back of her skirt. I remember my mom telling us she was heading to Starbucks – there was only so much waiting one could do. I remember watching his flight disappear off the board and thinking, he’s not coming. What was I thinking?

And then there they were. The two guys from the photos. Only they looked much younger and much more scared. The look on his face in particular was a look of pure shock, as if he couldn’t believe he just spent all his part-time job earnings on a flight across the ocean to see a girl he had never met before. A girl who wore braces and loved Third Eye Blind and hadn’t yet been allowed to drive with friends in the car. He was as white as a ghost.

I wanted to turn and run away. That sounds horrible but you have to remember I was 16 and terribly self conscious and suddenly faced with what was essentially a blind date. But with so much riding on it.

I didn’t run though. My friend pushed me forward. He saw me. I think a bit of color returned to his face. I actually don’t remember much from those few seconds where he walked out from the big crowd of people. I remember we hugged. I remember he was wearing a grey t-shirt. I remember saying, “You came” in a surprised and totally relieved voice.  I remember looking at him, thinking… is this really you? Is this who I tell my secrets to? Who are you? I hope I know.

The guys checked in to a hotel but came to my house for a BBQ on the first night. We played Scrabble and took my dog for a walk. They charmed my mom with their polite manners and English accents. She let them sleep in the guest room in the basement for the rest of the week. (With a chair under the doorknob, just in case.)

If I were a country singer/songwriter, I could make a killing with a song about that week. It was a week I will remember for the rest of my life. For a week that summer, I felt pretty good. And that’s no small feat for a teenage girl just starting out in the world. I am eternally grateful for those seven days. I am grateful to my mom for listening and acknowledging. I am grateful to my friend who wouldn’t let me run from the baggage claim at Dulles Airport. I am grateful to “Joey”.

In the end, it really did happen. It didn’t wither away. So what if he wasn’t Prince William? Turns out he was something better. He was my first love. He was my future husband.

Devon Sawa, if you are reading this – I’m grateful to you too. Thank you for never writing me back.

Ask and ye shall receive IV

And here we are for another installment of Ask and ye shall receive.  (See Part I, Part II, and Part III)

Wow, you people really want to know about Kate Gosselin’s hair, don’t you? I hope you’re not printing out photos and taking them with you to your next hair appointment. It’s also thrilling to see my own name being searched for as well as Chuck Bass, Edward Cullen and Oscar Mayer. (Anyone looking for them on this blog will be thoroughly disappointed. Anyone looking for me? Here I am, Internet!)

1. Zac Efron coming down stairs

This is a no Zac Efron fly zone. Move along.

2. Dips men love

Dips…how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I’ll be sharing more recipes with you soon but for now, make yourself your man a vat of this. STAT.

3. Has one had their sofa not fit in one’s door

Yes, one has had that problem and one was prepared to throw a royal tantrum if one could not get their sofa through the door. One would recommend measuring before moving in. If one’s husband decides not to and says it will be fine and it’s not, one believes it’s perfectly acceptable grounds for divorce. (One should expect to get the sofa in the divorce settlement.)

4. Playhouse for my kid

Was there anything better than playing pretend when you were a kid? Sometimes we used boxes as a house but more often than not, we draped blankets over chairs or just simply didn’t put up any roof and just got on with it. But kids these days…they want things. They want those $6000 playhouses. What happened to the old’ “Here’s a cardboard box. Go play” attitude?

If that seems too sensible mean, buy them this eco-friendly cardboard playhouse which they can paint and color on. They’ll love it and you can throw it out when they get bored of it.

Though I suppose you could move into the $6000 playhouse when you can’t make payments on your real house.

5. How to get laid in high school

Why are you looking at me?!

Why we shouldn’t have a reality tv show

As we were settling into bed last night, Scott and I had this conversation.

Caitlin: I think Jon and Kate Plus 8 might be breaking up.

Scott: So?

Caitlin: Isn’t that sad?

Scott: I don’t know them.

Caitlin: But you know who they are. I don’t want it to be true. I’ll be so sad.

Scott: You’ll get over it just like with Nick and Jessica.

Caitlin: No, I am still not over them!

Scott: You know what both couples have in common? In both situations, the women caused the problems. Kate is so mean to Jon. Always emasculating him.

Caitlin: Jon says he’s not happy and can’t just be a regular guy anymore. But Kate is really happy with the show and feels like her career has really taken off. Jon’s just feeling lost.

Scott: It’s all about her. No wonder they are breaking up

Caitlin: Well, no one said they are breaking up for sure. It could just be the media.

Scott: Why are we even talking about this? Who cares? We don’t know them.

Caitlin: It could just be her hair.

Scott: It’s because they have a reality tv show.

Caitlin: What? You think Amy and Matt Roloff are going to break up too?

Scott: <sigh> G’night Cait.

I will always be 17 at heart

While Scott was away, I spent most of the weekend here:

With just these:

And it was amaaaaazing.

***

Can we please discuss Twilight? And why I have been able to resist the Jonas Brothers and Zac Efron but not this…this…this book series that has taken a hold of my life?

When I first heard about it, I was like, Vampires, are you for real? Yeah, right. So not interested. I don’t like fake stuff. Never read Harry Potter. Never saw Lord of the Rings. Not into wizards and half-humans and magic.

And then my friend at work convinced me to read the book so I could see the movie everyone was raving about.  At the end of it, I was in love with a vampire – that totally took me by surprise!

I took Scott to the cinema. We were with about 100 shrieking, giggling teenage girls, about fifty swooning  women, and about ten men (a mix of boyfriends, husbands and fathers) taken there against their wills.

I loved it – not as much as the book(s) but as a take on the book, the characters were exactly how I imagined them to be.  (Scott didn’t mind it either.)

(And yes,  it’s totally cheesy and ridiculous at certain points. But I like it. So there. )

I have issues with some of the storylines and I’m not quite finished with the last book yet but overall, it has provided me with some much needed entertainment on my commute and in between work and class. It’s been nice not to read something so heavy (like…um…The Economist. Which is what I usually read, Dad.)

17 was one of the best years of my life  – so far.  I loved being 17 and I may act like a teenager about Twilight. What can I say? It brings that out in me.

A warning though – human boys have lost all their charm after reading Twilight. Edward Cullen will do that to you.

I know I’m 26 and married and people think I should be into more high-brow stuff.  Oh, and not have a crush on a teenage vampire character from a book (can you honestly help yourself???)

But I know moms who love these books! Real mothers! There are websites dedicated to moms who love Twilight. And Edward drives a Volvo – a Volvo, people! How could I not fall in love?

(And yes, I know it’s written by a woman. Scott reminds me all the time when I say I love so-and-so from Grey’s Anatomy, Twilight, etc. I know they are created by women who are just as romantic and unrealistic as I am. But I still like it.)

Last night, when Scott got home and I pulled myself away from the book, we were talking in the kitchen and I just blurted out, “I wish you were a vampire.”

He says “this Twilight thing” is getting out of hand.

Psssh!

I say,  love me, love my obsessions.  Now, maybe you could grow your hair out a bit and ruffle it up. And wear a grey pea coat. Sparkle, damnit! Sparkle!

Skin deep

Last year Scott gave me a gift certificate to a spa in Notting Hill. It was my first ever facial and I was really excited to get some treatments done that the hassle of actual getting to the spa didn’t seem so much of a hassle. The facial was incredibly relaxing and my foot massage was amazing but as soon as I stumbled out into the rain, the feelings of complete and total relaxation were gone.  After fighting my way onto the Tube and standing pressed up against strangers, I needed another massage to get the tension out of my shoulders. I stood there watching people sneeze and cough and drop bits of their McDonalds value meal onto the floor. All I could think was, oh no, my clean pores!

We’re off to the US this weekend for a visit and as I’ve mentioned before, there are many, many things I look forward to -seeing family and friends, shopping, driving on wide roads,  eating at my favorite restaurants.  But the other thing I look forward to is the ease and availability of beauty treatments.

It’s funny that now when I have the most money I’ve ever had, I don’t spend nearly enough on beauty treatments. It all comes down to convenience for me. And yes, London is full of fabulous spas but there really is something to be said about those little nail places in strip malls. The ones wedged between Starbucks and Wholefoods or Safeway and Michael’s. The ones where you can just pop in on a Saturday morning or even a Tuesday night. The ones where a mani/pedi combo costs $30.

Of course those are also the ones where all the nail technicians speak in Vietnamese and most likely about you. The ones where the technician looks up at you over her surgical mask and says, “You big eyebrow. Want wax?” You smile politely and say, “Not today.” The technician shouts something you can’t understand to the other technicians. They all laugh. Then the technician says, “What about upper lip? I do good price.”

And then you politely say, “No thanks” and sit there as they talk about you some more.

Yes, I miss those nail salons.

It’s not that I don’t need my eyebrows groomed, it’s just that I wasn’t going to let just anyone do them. I have been going to the same spa in Virginia for years. I didn’t trust anyone else with my brows, though I knew when I said “I do”,  I would be saying goodbye to my threading practitioner.

After one horrible waxing experience out where I used to live here in England, I decided I would have to find a new place to get my eyebrows threaded. I found the Blink Brow Bar at Selfridges. It’s a great concept if you don’t mind having your brows plucked and threaded in the middle of one of the most famous department stores in the world. In the stationery section, next to office supplies, of all places.

And in the quest for beauty, I could deal with it. I could even handle not ever having the same practitioner. But what I can’t stand is the actual journey there and back. Oxford Street is just not conducive to a relaxing hair removal experience.

As for hair in general, I have finally found a stylist I actually like out by where I live. Her proximity is the main reason I like her so much and the fact that she has finally mastered my bangs (after many attempts because for the love of God, she’s the only half-decent stylist out here and I refuse to give up on her. ) But she doesn’t talk much and that’s unheard of when it comes to hair stylists.

I don’t necessarily miss the chit chat but I do like when my stylist shows some sort of enthusiasm for the job. Last time I told my stylist I was looking for a change and I was toying with the idea of getting highlights. She picked up a piece of my hair, shrugged and said, “Ok.” I asked if she thought that was a good idea or if she could recommend something else. She looked at my hair and then shrugged again. It was clear she just could not be bothered. Did she not want my money?

As you can guess, I miss my old stylist. I miss the ease of getting there and of knowing exactly what to expect.

My hair stylist did my hair for my senior prom and my wedding. My threading practitioner did my brows for my senior prom and my wedding. I imagine it’s like those people who stay with the same doctor their whole life – the doctor who delivered them. You feel safe. You feel known.

I gave all these securities up when I got married and moved abroad. In sickness and in health, in groomed eyebrows or in overgrown…

So when I have a trip back home planned, I feel like I have to take advantage of these conveniences. It’s like I’m forced to let myself go so that I can be put back together in my motherland. (And what this really means is that if I’m seeing you before next Tuesday, my brows are going to be looking a little full. Apologies.)

I’ll be booking an appointment with my old hair stylist as well. Just as soon as I decide on a style.

You too can spend hours (and I do mean hours) trying on different hairstyles. And for a limited time, you can try on the hairstyles of Sarah Palin, Michelle Obama, Hilary Clinton and Cindy McCain. Seriously. It’s even more exciting than receiving my absentee ballot.

England finally gets something before the US and this is the reaction we get!

From: Caitlin
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:42
To: Scott
Subject: satc

Message from Jane:

have a good day
and ENJOY the movie
text me after with your impressions
i will say this:
as a movie…it wasn’t great
it was just amazing because it was “Sex and the City”
you may want to warn scott

From: Scott
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:48
To: Caitlin
Subject: RE: satc

So it’s not even that good. Boo.

From: Caitlin
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:55
To: Scott
Subject: RE: satc

I think it will be like the Simpsons movie. Just like a long episode.

You like the Simpsons.

From: Scott
Sent: 29 May 2008 12:10
To: Caitlin
Subject: RE: satc

Yes, I like the Simpsons. The SIMPSONS.

I said 4-eva and I mean 4-eva

And now the rumours are being stomped out.

By Danny Wood, or Dwood to his friends. It seems Dwood wants everyone to know that there aren’t any plans for a NKOTB reunion. But his album is coming out in Australia. Hint, hint.

I don’t see this as horrible news. This sort of desperation is what leads to all future band reunions. I think it’s only a matter of time until all of the NKOTB members start coming out of the woodwork and after miserable album sales on their own, they’ll get together and decide it’s time. Look at Take That and Spice Girls. It’s a classic pattern.

In the meantime, I’ll keep looking for my Jonathan Knight t-shirt.

NKOTB 4-EVA!

The rumours are starting.

My inner 9 year old is jumping up and down and thinking, Where’s my New Kids on the Block beach towel, cassette player and tshirt when I really need them???

My 20-something true self is thinking, And wouldn’t it be great if Mark Wahlberg was there too? Just standing there. With no shirt on.

I’m on to you, Nigella

I love to cook. I like to try new recipes. I like to perfect old recipes. My cooking methods have changed since I now live in England. I’ve posted before about not being able to find certain ingredients but I’ve also posted about discovering new (to me) ingredients like rhubarb.

Our kitchen is also about the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. So add a fridge, dishwasher and washing machine into a Beetle, and that’s my kitchen. (Don’t even ask why the washing machine is in the kitchen. They just do that here.)

So, with limited space and limited access to the ingredients I know and love, I’ve had to make a few adjustments. I’ve also started to steer away from my American recipes and try out some English ones…which means I’m often sitting in front of the computer Googling the conversions for ounces and cups and pints and so on. I’m also watching UK cooking shows such as Nigella Express. Which brings me to the main point of this blog.

Nigella Lawson has this new show where she takes a leaf out of Rachael Ray’s book and shows you how to make meals under 30 minutes. Add a heap of sexual innuendo, a chunk of irritating “real life” segments and a pinch of sass, and you’ve just made Nigella Express. But the woman can cook. I watch the show every week and I’ve bought her book.

So, it was only a matter of time before I noticed the Skippy peanut butter jar in her pantry. This didn’t get me upset because I know you can buy Skippy here and Nigella can obviously afford to shell out £6 to buy a small jar. I have also found large jars of Skippy at Costco. In fact I bought one last week. So I’m okay with this.

I was even okay with her pulling out a package of Oscar Mayer bacon. I spotted that yellow and red packaging. I know what she’s using. But I was okay with it because I have heard of fellow expats finding it in a few shops in London. Jealous, yes. But I was understanding about it.

I am not okay with what I saw last week. The woman pulled out a bag of Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips. Tollhouse, people!

There I was, practically jumping up and down on the sofa, pointing at the television screen. I couldn’t even get the words out. “Oh my gosh! Look….look! Look what they are! Oh my gosh! Where did she find those?” Scott looked at me as if I had just given birth to a three headed dog.

Nigella doesn’t explain where she gets these American gems. No, she just pours in the chocolate chips or scoops out the peanut butter and goes on with the show. And yet, she makes a point to tell you where you can get the best marinated olives and pancetta in the UK.

No, she doesn’t reveal where she gets the goods. For all I know, the Wienermobile might be making special deliveries to her door. But if Nigella is using this stuff then it must be good. And if she isn’t telling me where to get it, then it must be hard to find.

I once heard someone found Oscar Mayer bacon at a Sainsbury’s supermarket in south London. I also know that the big supermarket chains do an incredible amount of research on the different areas of the country and choose the products for each store based on those statistics. I read an article about it in The Economist. (Yes, Dad, really. I read The Economist. That one time.)

For example, if you’ve got a large Polish community, you should carry more Polish products. And that’s exactly what they do. So one Tesco supermarket in the next town might be carrying sauerkraut but you would never know unless you went to every supermarket on the hunt for sauerkraut. And if the sauerkraut is flying off the shelves, the supermarkets will order more sauerkraut and start selling sauerkraut in the surrounding stores. You get the idea.

So, when I was last at Tesco, I was wandering aimlessly down the dairy aisle when I spotted a “NEW!” sign and familiar blue tubes. Blue tubes of doughy goodness. Pillsbury Crescent Rolls!!! Only for some reason, they are calling them croissants. Maybe to appeal to the French population in Hatfield? I don’t know. All I know is that they were crescent rolls and they tasted like crescent rolls.

I’ve been buying the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls with every purchase I make. And if I knew anyone in this town, I’d be urging them to buy the dough too. I’m doing my part in securing the spot on the Tesco shelves for “Pillsbury Croissants.”

So far, with these handy tubes of dough, I’ve made stromboli, cream cheese squares, pepperoni bread, ham and cheese roll ups, and classic crescent rolls.

I’m waiting for Nigella to whip them out of her fridge and pretend she made the dough herself.