What irks the most

Last week I had the pleasure of experiencing two situations that really ticked me off.

Situation 1

Scott dropped off two pairs of trousers at the dry cleaners. I stood by the door, waiting for him. I didn’t say a word.

He spoke to the woman and explained that he also wanted them hemmed. Because the shop was so small, there was no place for him to try them on. Scott suggested measuring them against another pair of trousers he had brought in. The woman dismissed that idea and looked at me. She proceeded to tell me to go home, pin up the trousers, and bring them back in.

Um…hello? Those are not my trousers. He can do that. Of course, I didn’t say what I wanted to say which was, “Listen here, you miserable cow, don’t just assume I do everything because I’m the woman. You should see this man with an iron. He’d put you to shame.”

Situation 2

Last Wednesday, during the tube strike, I had to get a cab on the last leg of my journey into work. The line was out of control and I was the last one in it (before the next rush of commuters arrived.) Transport of London employees were helping with crowd control. It was finally my turn and when the next taxi pulled up, one of the workers opened the door for me. Out of nowhere, a man dressed in a pinstripe suit with shiny shoes and matching briefcase jumped in front of me and said, “This one’s mine.”

The TFL worker said, “This lady’s waiting–” and the shiny shoes man replied, “There are other taxis.” Then he slammed the door and the taxi took off.

I stood there, stunned. The TFL worker sighed and called shiny shoes man a not so pleasant word. I couldn’t even form words to agree (though I wholeheartedly do!)  I was quickly ushered into the next taxi as a line formed behind me.

I spent the rest of the day flip-flopping between rage and self pity. Am I invisible? Am I not as important as you, shiny shoe man with the unfortunate thinning hairline? Do people just see some push-over when they look at me? Did that dry cleaner just assume I do nothing but take care of my husband’s errands? I’m somebody too! I have places to be too!

This post makes it seem like I’m still not over these situations. And I’ll admit, it still irks the hell out of me but I am over it and I’m simply just sharing my experiences. It’s not worth dwelling over, people are jerks, it’s important to just live well, etc etc etc.

(Plus I have better hair than both of them…so there.)

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.

It’s the American way

I was always sorry that we didn’t know our neighbors. We lived in our old flat for two years and there were just three other flats in our building. We passed the other residents almost daily. The couple upstairs had a little girl who waved to us from their balcony every time we saw her but her parents never even smiled. The people across the hall had a puppy who on more than one occasion ran into our flat. I walked to the station every day with the man upstairs. Yet we knew no one and no one talked to each other.

When the neighbors had a baby, I wondered if I should take them cookies or banana bread or lasagne. Something. Scott told me “we just don’t do that here.” So I didn’t do it either.

When we moved to this flat we were the first ones to move in on our floor. It was a blissful six months with absolutely no neighbors. I’d like to say it was peace and quiet but we live next to a major train line. But besides that, it was pretty peaceful here.

Then a couple of weeks ago, we noticed that someone moved in next door. All we knew about them was that they liked their music and they liked it loud.

A few days later there was a note pushed under our door. It was from the man next door. He wrote: Hello, I moved in to 143 and wanted to introduce myself. I’m not sure how the walls are but I do like my music. I hope it is not too loud.

Scott thought the note was very nice but there was no way he was going to say anything. I saw the note as my opening to say something.

I decided to do the friendly American thing. I’d bake brownies, wrap them in ribbon and go introduce myself.

He didn’t answer. I knocked again. I could hear him on the other side of the door. Finally a young man answered the door.

I explained that we received his note and how nice it was of him blah blah blah. I introduced myself and held out the brownies for him to take.

He looked stunned and then said, “Is my music too loud?”

“It is a little loud,” I smiled. “What about ours? Please feel free to come over and tell us whenever it’s too loud. I had some friends over this past weekend and I’m sure we were noisy. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

He stood there, looking at the brownies and then back at me. “No. Sorry about the music.”

“That’s ok! Welcome to the building! Enjoy the brownies!”

When I came home, Scott said, “I can’t believe you did that. He’s probably freaked out.”

I’m sure he thought if he just sent a note to his neighbors, he’d feel like he did the polite thing but no one would actually be so forward as to tell him to turn his music down. Ha!

There has definitely been a change in the volume of his music. I no longer hear Christmas music when I’m trying to watch quality television like Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

But we have another problem. The guy sits out on his balcony and sings. He’s reeeeaalllly loud. Right now he’s singing along to Sarah McLachlan’s Silence Remix. It’s not pretty.

I haven’t had such noisy neighbors since junior year of college when the guys above us rode ironing boards down the stairs on a nightly basis.

So…what next? Chocolate chip cookies? Apple pie? A very loud “shut your trap – I can’t hear Oprah”?

Whatever it is, it’s clear I need to step up my game.

Time for another thought shower

Something that has always irritated me is the use of women in pretty much every commercial about medication.

We don’t get very many commercials advertising medication in the UK but when we do, it’s a woman featured, usually holding her head or looking pained because of a sore throat. Or rubbing her belly and complaining of indigestion.

These are all things men experience as well. Why can’t they be in the commercial? Even Viagra commercials show women and seem to be reaching out to the female audience.

It seems the advertising agencies heard me and while they were sitting around having a brain storm, or thought shower as they say now, some arrogant, probably too pretty and too keen MALE account executive thought this one up:

I’m sorry but whaaaaat? Oh, yes, a smear test! <smacks forehead> Now that I’ve seen a relatively good looking man on the back of the bus telling me to be cervix savvy, I’ll go right away.

There are so many things wrong about this campaign. Just a quick glance at the website and the lineup of men and I don’t want to be thinking about anything body part related. I’m just completely creeped out.

The only thing worse would be if they slapped a photo of your father on that ad.

Being thankful was so last week

I am having one of those no good, very bad days. I really don’t have them often but when I do….whew.

Everything that could go wrong this morning did. The alarm clock on my T-Mobile G1 is finally working for me so when it went off, I was actually glad to hear it. And then it just kept going and going. I couldn’t stop it. Then the screen went dark and I couldn’t get it to turn back on. I tried the old “shut down and reboot” method but the phone wouldn’t shut down. I stuffed it under the pillows in an attempt to muffle the alarm and got on with getting ready.

I finally got the phone to turn off as I was walking out the door. I went down the lift and out the door and realized I forgot my umbrella. Back up the lift, grab my umbrella, go back down the lift. On the first floor it stops. A guy gets on and presses second floor. I tell him the lift is going down. He presses the second floor again and the lift stops. We’re between floors. The guy starts hitting all the buttons. This is what all humans seem programmed to do and this is something I would have done but I know this lift. And it’s absolute crap and pushing too many buttons totally confuses it.

I thought my luck was turning around when I heard someone else call for the lift. It jerked the lift back into service and I only had to go up to the fourth floor before I could get off at the ground level.

Normally when it’s raining, Scott gives me a ride to the station but since he was away with work, I had to walk. My umbrella flipped inside out (even though it said “non-flip-outable” or something like that on the packaging) no less than ten times before I just gave up and walked the rest of the way without it.

I missed my train and had to get the slow one but thought, hey, this means I can watch a whole episode of Gossip Girl before work. As I settled into my seat, I turned on my ipod, selected my episode, and then watched as Serena’s face froze on my ipod. Then it went black. I was thisclose to smashing my ipod against the window and crying, Noooo…not Gossip Girl. Don’t take this away from me today!

Somehow I made it to Kings Cross after nearly 45 minutes of nothing but watching the woman across from me paint her nails.

I stood outside the station, waiting for my bus. Every bus that came by was packed. Typical. Finally I saw a bus with space pulling over to the station and just as I was walking towards it, another bus sped past and sprayed a huge puddle all over my legs. Of course everyone was looking at me, thinking, ooooh, she didn’t want to stand that close to the street, did she? So I just pretended like I didn’t even feel the cold water seeping through my socks and I didn’t care that my jeans were now splattered with mud.

It’s a miracle I wasn’t hit by a bus. There’s still time, I suppose.

In the meantime, I’ll share some photos from our Thanksgiving on Saturday. I was very thankful that day.

I was thankful that the extra oven rack I ordered arrived in time and we were able to fit the turkey in there.

I was thankful that we managed to cook all of this without setting off the smoke and heat alarms (but that was because we put pieces of tape over the censors. And yes, we took them off when we were done baking.)

I was thankful for friends who helped me celebrate (and didn’t mind wearing paper hats.)

I was thankful for our new flat. We could actually play Wii games without having to straddle the coffee table.

I was most thankful no one spilled anything on my new chair even if it meant Neil, the most accident-prone man on earth, had to drink out of a sippy cup.

Oh, look, the sun has come out.

That means my chances of getting shat on by a bird have just gone up.

Stupidity Tax: 100 euros

We were in Barcelona this past weekend celebrating a friend’s 30th birthday. We had been to Barcelona before so it was nice to just chill out this time – drinking sangria, eating tapas, browsing the markets, and hanging out with friends.

The chilling out stopped abruptly at 9:04pm on Sunday evening when we realized we were not on a train to the airport. Instead, we were on a train heading down the coast of Spain.

There were several red flags – like the fact that we were on a cushy, high speed train and that maps of  the whole of Spain were where maps of Barcelona would be – but you know what they say about hindsight.

When the ticket collector asked for our tickets, you could see the irritation in his face when he said we were not on the right train and not only were we going entirely the wrong direction, we also wouldn’t be stopping for another 45 minutes.

We couldn’t do anything except sit there and watch as Barcelona, and the airport, got further and further away. When the train finally stopped, we ran out of the station to find a taxi. We had just under an hour to get to the airport before our flight left and even then we probably would not make the flight.

Luckily Scott speaks Spanish so he was able to explain that we had taken the wrong train and needed to get to the airport as soon as possible. The taxi driver wouldn’t make any promises but we decided it was our only option. We waved goodbye to our friends who would be waiting for the next train back into the city as they did not have a flight to catch.

My stomach was in knots at the thought of missing the last flight of the night, having to sleep in the airport and paying for new flights on Easyjet. When I’m in these situations (and this sort of thing has happened before) I like to just sit there, in silence, praying and hoping and wishing that it all turns out ok.

Scott likes to talk. It’s probably the only time he likes to talk. He likes to give me a running commentary on what time it is, how long we have to go, how expensive the taxi will be, where we’ll go if we don’t make the flight, etc. Every two minutes he would tell me the time and say, “We’re never going to make it.”

Needless to say, it was a long drive where I had to hold myself back from strangling Scott in the backseat. After all, I needed him to communicate with the driver.

Of course, when we arrived at the airport, we didn’t have any cash and Scott went sprinting all over the airport looking for a cash machine. I watched him go back and forth behind the glass windows. The taxi driver made judgmental clicking noises with his tongue and asked, “London?”

I replied, “Yeah, if we make the flight!” But the taxi driver had exhausted his English with just the one word and could only give me confusing looks.

Scott returned, paid the taxi driver, and we ran to departures. Only to look up at the departures screen and see that our flight had been delayed for over two hours. We stood there, panting and laughing and then cursing our luck. If only we had known before risking our lives in a crazy taxi ride and forking over 100 euros!

We agreed that it could have been much worse and settled for paying the stupidity tax and vowing to always allow extra time to get to the airport. Oh, and to double-check what train we’re on.

We finally got to sleep around 4am and I was up for work at 6am. It was rough but worth it.

We stayed in Barcelo Raval hotel – it was awesome and it’s only been open for a month. I definitely recommend it.

I loved all the window coverings in Barcelona.

We had beautiful, warm, sunny weather in Barcelona. Now we’re back to London where tonight it will be colder than Iceland and Moscow. It even snowed.

Death by roller suitcase

I have certainly enjoyed my time off these last few months. I know I have been very fortunate to be able to take the time to figure out what I want to do and focus on things I enjoy doing. But it did get boring. And I did miss some things about working life. Like my weekly “you earned this” purchase. Spending money on whatever I wanted. The access to shops, bars, restaurants. Seeing people other than the postman, supermarket cashier and Jeremy Kyle. You get the picture. What about having a purpose, you ask? Yes, that too. I also missed having a very good reason not to do the dishes.

I did not, under any circumstances, miss the commute. Most days it isn’t so bad but other than traveling to work, when would I choose to sit in a confined space with weird strangers? Sometimes I sit there and think…what if there is a train crash? A terrorist attack? I don’t want to die with these people!

These people being the ones I see on a daily basis. There are thousands of people who take my train line into London but when you get the same train everyday, you start to familiarize yourself with the other passengers. And since I’ve been gone, some newbies have started taking the 7:46 but I still recognize a lot of them.

There’s the girl who jumps on at my station, spends 20 minutes applying makeup (and sometimes plucking) and emerges at her destination as a totally different person. There’s the suited and booted businessman who reads self-help books. This week it is Instant Confidence: The Power of Positive Self-Talk. There’s the woman with the beautiful red coat – only now it no longer buttons because of her growing bump. And there’s the nose-picker. He’s still around, unfortunately.

There are others of course. It’s always a full train. But even though I remember when the red coat lady wasn’t pregnant and I remember when the businessman wore a wedding ring, I don’t know them and I have never spoken to them. That’s just how it goes. You don’t speak. You read or listen to music or tap, tap, tap away on your laptop. And I’m fine with that.

But it’s the dog eat dog world of commuting that I hate. I dread when the train rolls into Kings Cross station and the doors open…and everyone charges onto the platform, briefcases drawn and handbags as shields. Just getting out of the station is a battle.

And that’s why this time around, I’m sticking to trains and buses. I can’t do the tube again. I tried and it was miserable and I feared for my life. I’m happy to say that my theory still holds true. Men turn into animals when they go underground – no matter if it is down to the basement to watch football or down to the Piccadilly line to trample people on their way to work.

And today it hit me. I realized why nobody talks to each other. Nobody wants to feel any sort of guilt when they knock you down with their roller suitcase on the way to the office.

I need to get me a pair!

I haven’t really been driving much. I have a lot of excuses. Really good ones too. But when we went out on Saturday night and I suggested we all go in our car, Scott looked at me funny and then agreed. I said, “Oh, are you thinking if we take our car, you won’t be able to have some drinks?”

He responded with, “No, because my wife knows how to drive and can do it.”

Luckily everyone (except me) had a couple of drinks so the slow and somewhat jerky ride home isn’t as memorable for them as it was for me. Although the jerkiness of the ride probably didn’t make anyone feel very good, I did get us all home, safe and sound.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking lately that I really should try a bit more. It is scary. It’s uncomfortable. But it may just be the time to buck up and do it.

Speaking of cars and balls courage, I wanted to show you this photo I took in the US.

You’re thinking…Only in America. I’m thinking…Only on a truck from West Virginia.

Your card is going to be late.

As you all know, I have battled with the postal service here. Almost a year later and I am still missing that package. My blood is boiling just thinking about it…

But with no other choice in postal services, I got all bundled up and headed off to the post office. Our local post office is wedged in between a bank and an oriental food shop. The post office has five windows but I have never seen all five windows in use. Two, if I’m lucky. Most of the post office is taken up with rows of magazines, candy and cigarettes and lottery ticket dispensers. I don’t think this is an ordinary post office but I’m not sure why they vary so much. It’s all very different to the USPS.

The line for the “post office” is along the side, squeezed behind all the issues of Nuts and Chat. I have never just walked up to the window. I have always waited and waited. So I’ve had to look at these magazines a lot. I’ve mostly looked at them in disbelief as I read such headlines as “Crippled from having wild sex” and “Assess my breasts!”

It’s Christmas and I expected to have to wait today. I didn’t even mind that I stood there for close to 45 minutes. I even helped an elderly woman with her packages. Of course, at first she thought I was trying to steal her packages when she obviously did not hear me say, “Let me help you.” Then she thanked me and said something racist about the postal worker. Happy holidays!

Finally it was my turn. I got up to the window and it was my least favorite postal worker. I don’t know what her name is. They don’t wear uniforms at this post office. I’m beginning to wonder if it really is a post office.

Anyway, she looks like a Neapolitan Mastiff and acts like one too. I have never seen her smile and I go to this post office a lot. I ask her for 24 first-class stamps and 15 stamps for international mail.

“You missed the deadline,” she grunts.

“Sorry, what deadline?”

She lets out a big sigh and rests her elbows on the desk. “The Christmas deadline for your international mail. It was yesterday.”

I smiled and said cheerfully, “Oh that’s ok. People always appreciate mail.”

She looked at me blankly and then grunted. I asked her if I could get the sticker stamps rather than the ones you have to lick. Yeah, I didn’t know they still made those either!

She let out another sigh and flipped through her book of stamps. Feeling the need to fill the silence, I said, “I prefer the sticker ones. The ones you have to lick never stay on the envelope.”

The Neapolitan Mastiff under the guise of a postal worker grunted again. Then she said, “We don’t have any.”

“Oh, right. Well, what about the ones you have to lick?”

“We don’t have any.”

“Oh, ok. Well, I’ll just get the first class stamps for my cards for the UK.”

“We don’t have any.”

Let me get this straight…you are a post office and you don’t have any stamps for national or international mail? How can this be? Why is there not a sign for all the people waiting to buy stamps telling them you’re out and they can avoid the line? Why?

I ask her if this is normal. She says it’s Christmas. I tell her it would have been nice to know before I spent my morning standing in line and suggest politely that maybe one of the postal workers could tell the customers they are out of stamps right now. Anyone who doesn’t want to mail something can wait…the other 95% can leave.

She grunts. I walk out of the post office and see the line of people trailing out the door. It’s a good thing English people are so good at waiting in line.

Or maybe it’s just all the boobs they get to look at on the magazines.