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.

Put the kettle on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, you see, tea brings people together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we wonder why Starbucks is so popular.

Dear Unhappy Expat

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

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

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

Because I remember that feeling. I was that woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what happened?

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

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

Only you can make yourself happy.

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

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

A con turned pro

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

My list goes something like this:

Yorkshire pudding – pro

Sky + – pro

Washing machines – con

Dryers – con

Washer/dryer combo – CON

General lack of appreciation for peanut butter – con

Public transportation - pro

The overuse of the phrase “bless!” – con

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

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

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

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

But right now, it’s a con.

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

Example #1

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

Example #2

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

We don’t say that here

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

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

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

So I said, “You know, a boo boo.”

He replied, “We don’t say that here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.