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.

Stay where you are

I intended to write a lot more often when I was in the US. I figured I’d have the time since I’d probably be up early with jetlag and Scott wouldn’t be there and I was sure I’d have more downtime. But somehow, I didn’t.

Or I did but I chose to spend it watching TLC, reading on the deck, getting reflexology*, and spending way too much money at the outlets.

*(Who knew by squeezing your toes you could ease pain in your sinuses? I tried to do it myself but it didn’t work. I plan to show Scott how to do it tonight.)

Speaking of Scott, him not being there only added to my busy schedule. Suddenly I found myself in stores without him saying, “Do you really need that?” and “Where are you going to put those?” and “No more shoes!”

So, that’s why you haven’t seen me on here more often. I was buying shoes and replenishing my supply of Bath & Body Works hand soap and paying extortionate rates for someone to squeeze my little toe while Enya plays in the background.

Oh, and I was spending time with my friends and family. Every minute I could. You see it’s not so easy anymore. Turns out my friends and family have their own lives and they aren’t just waiting for me to come home. The nerve!

This was the first visit home where I stayed with my parents without at least one of my sisters living there. It was so much easier when they lived at home. They may have still worked during the day but at least we got to hang out at night. Now it’s all about scheduling their free nights and working around HOV lane openings and battling DC traffic.

A lot of my friends from high school have moved away and I am lucky whenever I can see any of them. I actually do get to see some of them more than I ever thought I would. I should really be grateful.

I can’t help but be selfish. My sisters are talking about moving away and I find myself thinking up reasons for them to stay. The unspoken truth is that as my friends and relatives get new jobs, settle down, break up, move away, have babies, just simply live, it makes this harder. When I’m the one coming and going, it’s easier. I want them all to stay just as they are. I’ll always come back. Don’t go. Don’t change.

I never come right out and say it though. I know how unfair that would be. Why should I be the one allowed to move away? Why should they stay?

So I keep my mouth shut and wait to guilt them with a blog post.

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.

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.

My kind of post-college spring break

Living abroad, for me, usually means spending a great deal of my vacation time visiting family and friends in the US. I’m fortunate to have parents and sisters who love to travel and get to come over here at least once a year.  However, this year my sisters and I decided to do something a bit different and meet…well, not in the middle, but somewhere new.

There were eight of us in total – two Brits and six Americans.We rented a villa on the Costa del Sol in Spain. It sounds impressive to the Americans but to the Brits, Spain is pretty much their equivalent of Florida and the Costa del Sol is Daytona Beach.

We weren’t really looking for that Spring Break experience so we chose to stay in a new development outside a small, sleepy Spanish village called Torre del Mar. The house was great (minus two Spanish plumbing issues) and we mostly spent the week lounging around the pool, bbq-ing, and laughing. Lots of laughing.

As always, it was really sad to say goodbye to my sisters and cousin but I was so grateful to have had a week with them and we’ve vowed to do it again soon. Only this time we’ll know to use less toilet paper.

Now we’re home and I can already see my tan fading. I’ve had enough chorizo to last me for quite some time but definitely not enough Sangria. Never enough Sangria.

I tried to think of something that would make this post more exciting and it seems giving people shiny photos usually works. But you need a cute baby or kittens sleeping in a basket or something equally awww-worthy. I’ve got nothing.

I attempted to post a video of us playing charades because I think there is nothing more entertaining than being forced to watch other people’s home videos. Lucky for you, our Internet connection is too damn slow and I keep getting frustrated/distracted/hungry/thirsty to persevere. Maybe tomorrow.

——————–

UPDATE: Here is a video of the guys playing charades. They just could not get The Bourne Identity.

I feel like I’m cheating on America

I often get asked if it’s still hard for me to come back to England after being in the US. And the short, and easy, answer is yes.

The long answer is this:

When you go back for a visit, it is so hard to know that you only have a set amount of time to get everything in. It doesn’t seem right to be so strict about scheduling time with your friends and sisters. It is difficult to make sure you’re spending enough time with everyone.

It is tiring trying to fit a vacation into it at all.

It is heartbreaking to realize that everyone else is moving on and when you come back, it can’t always be the homecoming you wish it was. It is bittersweet to have a family dinner so reminiscent of family dinners in the past that you almost believe nothing has changed.

You meet your girlfriends for drinks and you listen to them talk about their careers and their houses and their husbands and you have to pinch yourself. You have to remember you have those things now too.

You still care what pictures your mom hangs in your room even though there is hardly anything of yours left in it. You hate telling your parents you’re not sure when you can see them again. It’s upsetting to think of all the big events and all the small moments you’re going to continue to miss.

But the hardest part is realizing and admitting that you are actually happy where you are. And that is ok. That is good. That is what your family and friends want for you even if that means you might be wherever you are longer than they thought.

And you should be ok with that. You should stop fighting it. You should stop panicking when you feel yourself getting happier, more settled. You should just be.

This past trip was the first time when I really felt like I was ready to come back here. I didn’t get to do everything I wanted and I didn’t get to see everyone for as long as I would have liked. But I was ready. And I desperately wanted to be ok with that.

I’m still working on that part.

When it rains

On Sunday, Mom and Dad buy a new car. Dad sells old car. On Monday, Amanda’s car breaks down. Amanda borrows Dad’s car. Lisa starts to move out. Luckily the new car is big enough to haul her furniture all over Northern Virginia. Dad books new car into dealership on Tuesday to get extra features added. Down three cars. One car for the family to share. Hell.

Dad decides to push back flight to Iraq. Mechanic calls. Amanda’s car is not well. Dad books a rental car for Wednesday. In preparation of a road trip to New York, we trade last remaining cars with Amanda. Discover that car has no heat. Not very good for driving in January but even worse when it’s pouring rain and the windows keep fogging up. Go home to tell Dad. Down another car.

Decide to trade cars back with Amanda in the morning. Drop Dad off at car rental place, leave Dad standing in the rain as car rental place isn’t open yet. Drive 25 miles in the opposite direction to find Amanda. Locate Amanda and switch cars. Warn her about no heat and having to wipe the inside of the windows often. 

Drive to New York City in Lisa’s car. Park overnight in Queens. Move car at 8:30am before street cleaning begins.

Meanwhile, Dad calls dealership. Dealership says they haven’t even started work on the new car. Dad flips out. Dealership offers a free rental car. Up two rental cars.

Leave New York City. Drive back to DC. On 495, a truck passes and kicks up a rock. Rock lands on Lisa’s windshield. Windshield cracks. Feel terrible. Drive home to tell Dad. 

Call insurance, schedule appointment to fix windshield. Follow Dad to the auto garage. Watch Dad crash the rental car into another car. Wait on the side of the road while four fire trucks, two ambulances, and three police cars come on the scene. See fire trucks survey the scene – a fender bender- and leave. Watch the ambulances leave. Get questioned by police. Wait for police to tell us we can leave. 

Get windshield fixed in 15 minutes. Up three cars.

Tomorrow the car with no heat goes into the garage. Still haven’t heard the outcome on Amanda’s car. Dad and Amanda start car shopping. Maybe get the new car back tomorrow. Still keeping the two rental cars. Thanking our lucky stars Dad opted to take the extra insurance on them.

Don’t feel so bad about the cracked windshield anymore.

The Truth about Santa

During the holiday season, it’s inevitable that you will be asked at least once how you found out Santa Claus (or Father Christmas as he is better known in the UK) wasn’t real.

For those who know me, you have probably heard this story before. Or maybe you’ve even been lucky enough to have seen the home video.

When I was applying to university, I had to write an admissions essay about a moment in my life when I realized something was not what it seemed to be and how that affected me. I’m sure this story is not what the admissions board had in mind when they asked the question, but they did offer me a spot at the journalism school anyway.

———

Santa and I had reached the end of the line. It wasn’t a plate of cookies left uneaten or foot tracks (that oddly resembled the bottom of my dad’s Army boots) that did us in. It was, sadly, the art desk I never got.

It was 1987 and when all the other five-year-old girls were asking for pink Big Wheels and Jem and the Holograms figurines, I was wishing for an art lap desk. It rested perfectly on my chubby little thighs and it was just big enough for a coloring book. It had a little cup holder and cubby for exactly six crayons and two pencils. I would be able to take it anywhere since it conveniently came with a pop out handle.

My sister, Amanda, received the coveted art desk for her seventh birthday in October.  I was filled with envy every time she pulled it over her lap while we were on a car trip or just watching “Family Ties.” I had to have it.

This brought up one problem. I had already mailed Santa my list in August and because Christmas was only two months away, I quickly scribbled a memo to him. I was sure he would have an extra art desk or two in his sack. I just needed to make sure he saved one for me.

I had notified Santa late in the season so I wanted to make it as easy as possible for him to bring me that desk. When my parents began to ask what I wanted for Christmas, I told them everything else that was on my list so I would be sure to even out the load.

When Christmas morning finally came, my sisters and I raced down the stairs to dive into the presents under the tree. I anxiously ran around the room picking up all the gifts with my name on them and stacking them against the couch. My dad filmed Lisa taking her first ride on her Big Wheel and my mom was busy watching Amanda testing out her multi-colored Cyndi Lauper wig.

I studied the different-sized boxes closely and decided to work my way up to the biggest box. After a couple of minutes, I had torn through all but one present. I had a nice collection of Barbies, my own Cyndi Lauper wig and a Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag. I even got a pair of tights from Blitzen and underwear from Rudolph. I was sure my lap desk was coming up.

The next ten minutes seemed to go on forever as I sat nervously watching my family open their gifts. I wanted my last present to be seen by everyone. I had been waiting for the moment when I could pull out my very own yellow and blue desk. I was positive I would get it. I had been good all year – except for the one time I stole a piece of taffy from the Pick n’ Pay. I figured the fact that I was the only kid in my preschool who knew how to zip up their jacket made up for it.

“Cait, go ahead and open your last present,” my mom said.

I slowly slipped my fingers under the reindeer wrapping paper and gently forced the tape off. I wanted to save the wrapping that protected my dear art desk.

When I got just enough of the paper off, I peeked inside.

A burst of joy shot through me. I saw a miniature art desk picture on the box. I shrieked. I screamed in excitement.

“This is just what I wanted! Mommy! Look, this is what I asked for!”

My dad stopped talking and Lisa stopped cycling around the kitchen. Amanda steadied her wig and my mom’s jaw dropped. Her eyes darted to the video camera and back at me.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know…Santa might have just used the box.”

I didn’t hear her. This was better than meeting the height requirements at Disney World.

“He got it for me! I knew he’d get it for me!” I said, tearing off the rest of the paper. There was no time to be gentle. I had to touch it.

My mom continued to stammer about how sometimes Santa had to recycle boxes but it was just a distant sound.

I dug my hand under the flap and pulled as hard as I could. The tape ripped off and my hand met a fluffy material. My smile disappeared and my eyes filled with tears.

In complete disbelief, I said, “It’s…it’s snow pants.”

Amanda let out an evil cackle and my dad shut off the video camera. My mom sat on the floor, motionless. I slowly unfolded the sea foam green snow pants.

My bewilderment gave way to utter disappointment. I was being punished for a measly piece of taffy. I couldn’t believe in a Santa that not only hadn’t come through for me but also gave me snow pants and packed them in the art desk box. He didn’t even care that I could zipper! What kind of jolly, old St. Nick was that?

But then, his suit had buttons. Or Velcro for all I knew.

More than enough

This project turned out to be much bigger than I ever imagined. I had over 200 handwritten cards from friends, family, coworkers and strangers.

A girl scout troop even got in touch and sent packages and cards of their own.

People I’ve never met asked me what they could do and if what they were doing would be enough. Friends and coworkers worried that what they had written wasn’t meaningful enough. I kept saying that just the thought, just that little bit of effort, was enough.

I mailed all the packages and cards last week. I felt so good once they were in the hands of the Royal Mail (and I don’t think I’ve ever said that before). I can only hope they get there in the next 11 days.

When it came down to it, I didn’t know what to write either. I worried that what I had put in the packages wasn’t enough. Of course the cards and the packages aren’t going to make up for the fact that they’re missing out on the holidays with their families and friends. I knew that. I kept telling myself all I was trying to do was make it a little bit easier for them. All I wanted to do was let them know that there are people all over the world who are grateful to them and proud of them and most importantly, haven’t forgotten about them.

Yesterday I read that four Marines were killed in Afghanistan. Two were from the unit our cards and packages are going to.

And in that moment, I realized you can never really do enough. You just have to do something.

I am so grateful to everyone who helped me do this. Your time and generosity really touched me. I don’t think there is a better time than now to let these guys know we’re thinking of them. Thank you for helping me do that this holiday season.