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.

Be careful what you wish for

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did she suggest?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl meets boy Part II

American Pie was on TV the other night. We had it on while we were both on our computers in separate rooms. Scott would come in the living room every few minutes to do one of his many American Pie movie lines. At one point he got very serious, looked over at me and said, “This movie was out 10 years ago. 10 years! Where have the last ten years gone?”

Hey, buddy! Yoohoo…remember me? You spent them with me!

I do know where he’s coming from though. It is crazy to think how the years just fly by.

10 years ago – to the day – this girl met this boy.

And this is where all the time has gone:

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.

On marriage

Go big or go home – that’s how I see this whole blog thing.

I never wanted my blog to just be a collection of vacation photos or a detailed account of what I did each day down to what I had for dinner. Sometimes I want to just share a funny story. Other times I want to write something more serious and I am hopeful that someone somewhere will relate to what I write. I always try to be honest and real.

But every once in awhile I write something that I later decide not to publish. This was one of those pieces before I resurrected it from the “don’t publish for fear of being taken out of context/upsetting your mom” file.

I decided to post it for the following reasons:
1) I think people can relate
2) I just feel like it, plain and simple. That’s the beauty of this whole blog thing
3) I am in a happy, loving marriage with a man who read this and agreed that no husbands were harmed in the making of this post.

———

I’m not sure many people would admit to thinking about how life might have been if things didn’t last with their partners. Think about a time when you fought and how it would have been if you never made up. A moment when you thought it was over and what it would have been like had you let it be.

I believe there are times in a relationship when you or your partner, or both of you, have to make a conscious decision to stick it out or throw in the towel. Have you ever thought about what would have happened if you had chosen differently? Do you ever imagine a different life? Do you ever wonder about where you might have ended up?

I met Scott at 16 and we spent many years apart, working towards a time when we could be together. Maintaining a long distance relationship is one of my greatest accomplishments. I’m really proud of how we did.

But let me tell you, it’s extremely difficult to grow up with someone and not grow apart. I felt myself shaping and I wondered what parts of me were because of him and how I might be different if I were with someone else or with no one at all.

Some days I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t understand how I had managed to find a guy like him and to have him love me in return. Other days I questioned whether we were developing into the people we were meant to be or not.

I know we both wondered if the distance – the hardships of doing it for so long – would be too much. I was concerned that one day we’d look at ourselves and who we’d become and we’d be resentful.

We’ve gone on though, completely committed to each other, and we said vows in front of family and friends, promising to be faithful and true to one another.

But after very nearly ten years together, I look at him, looking at me and I can’t help but wonder if he sees me, really sees me. And I look hard at him, searching, wondering, worrying. Has he settled for me? Have we settled along the way?

Usually when I am having one of those days, I pick a fight. I bring up the fact that he never read that book he told me he would. I had asked him to read it so we could talk about it. I want him to ask me about the book, to listen to my thoughts, to share his opinions.

Suddenly we are no longer talking about a book. I want him to get to know me again.

And then he says, Ok, what are you thinking about? What are your thoughts on this book? What do you think about this issue? How do you feel about this event/problem/ TV show?

And before I say anything, I remember that my answers are no different than a year ago, ten years ago. He knows me.

I feel it building up inside me and I want to blurt out, If we were strangers in a bar, would you approach me? Would you pick me out of a crowd?

Maybe he would say yes. Maybe he would say, What does it matter now?

I don’t know.

But I am certain I am not alone in this.

Six months ago, I spent an evening with a dear friend and after half a bottle of red wine, all this came tumbling out. And I saw it. I saw the relief spread across her face. I watched her shoulders relax. Me too, she said. I know exactly what you mean.

We took comfort in each other’s unsettling, niggling feelings. We felt like we could say what we were experiencing without all the judgment, without the looks, without the trouble in paradise comments. We felt normal. We are normal.

Love is the easy part. The hardest is saying I choose you no matter what. I choose you even if you don’t choose me. I choose me with you, me shaped by you.

After ten years, after all the goodbyes, the hellos, the tears and the joy, after moving thousands of miles away, after buying a home together, after leaving family, changing careers, losing loved ones, making friends, after choosing each other over and over again – marriage is hard.

Even if there are no fights, no mean words, no children, no money trouble, no someone else – it’s still something to work at and work for.

You have to be there. For a marriage, for that sort of commitment, you have to be present and aware. You have to just stay in the room.

In all situations, I have a bad habit of thinking the grass is always greener. But the truth is, you’re just as likely to step in a big pile of dog shit whether the grass is green or not.

So I look hard at the grass. And the thing about grass is that it grows and it changes and there’s potential, you know? I try to remember that. I try not to look too hard. I just try to keep looking.

Maybe if we had ended up with other people life wouldn’t have been any less full, any less rich.

But for me, it would have been a life without him. And that…that would just be less.

I know him. He knows me. Sometimes it’s tempting to think about what it could be like meeting someone different, learning new things about them, having them ask your likes and dislikes. Most of the time it seems natural to think about those things. Once in awhile, I worry that it’s not. I worry that it means something more. I worry that he is thinking the same thing. I worry.

But then my hand finds his next to me on the sofa, across the table, under the covers.

He squeezes back.

And my heart settles and I know that’s the very opposite of settling.

Cheaper than couples therapy

Scott has a famous recipe for salsa, which is pretty much my mom’s recipe for salsa, minus the tomatoes and the addition of cucumber. Scott’s salsa is very easy to whip together but it takes some serious chopping time, especially since he makes truckloads of the salsa at one time.

He is so proud of the salsa that no matter what dinner party I have planned he suggests his salsa. The last time we were visiting my parents, they hosted a party and Scott served his salsa and the three kinds of chillis nearly killed a few unsuspecting guests.

This salsa inspired my sister to give us a gift certificate to the cooking school, CulinAerie, on 14th Street in Washington, DC.  She chose the Knife Know How class since we would both find it useful in our cooking adventures and we went to the class back in January.

Unfortunately on the way to the class, we got in an argument. We were early to the class so we sat for awhile in a Starbucks, still upset with one another.  We walked into the cooking class, not speaking to each other, which was actually ok because for the first hour the instructor is taking you through all the best knives and chopping techniques.

Then it was our turn to work together to debone a whole chicken. I don’t do chicken on the bone so this was a very challenging task for me and not one I really wanted to do while Scott sat back, watching me, judging me. It didn’t take him long to see that I was about to do it all wrong (I’m sorry but I could barely look at that blue-ish chicken skin, nevermind touch the damn thing.)

The truth is I needed Scott and he saw it. He took the knife and came to my rescue just before the instructor arrived at our table to inspect our techniques. At that moment, Scott was my Jack Bauer of the culinary world.

We cut oranges and onions together and Scott cut my portion of carrots. We made a great team. Then it was time to cook the chicken and make a thick creamy mustard sauce. Finally my chance to shine!

I took over the sauce and then we watched the chicken pieces closely, waiting and hoping to get it right. We managed to only burn one piece, which we were able to conceal from the instructor* by quickly flipping it over.

Then it was time to serve up the food and it was delicious. Way more tasty than any chicken I’ve ever made and maybe it had to do with the fact that we made it together and actually had fun doing it. Or maybe it was just because it was covered in creamy goodness.

We ate our entirely homemade meal and left the class with some awesome chopping skills, a great recipe, full bellies and content hearts.

Most people wouldn’t suggest handling knives when you’re fighting with your spouse but for us, it was the perfect way to get over it quickly, have some fun and work together to make something we can both enjoy.

Bottom line: Go to a cooking class. It’s cheaper than therapy and you get to eat and drink your way through it.

* Our instructor, Susan Holt, was great. She was so kind and encouraging and she entertained us all night with stories from her restaurant days.

So when are you having kids?

I slept terribly on Sunday night. I woke up several times even though I was so very tired after staying out too late and drinking entirely too many cocktails for Scott’s 30th.

I kept having these strange dreams involving a baby crying. The first time I woke up, I sensed that Scott was awake too and we murmured to each other about the baby crying.

But it wasn’t a baby crying at all. It wasn’t a little girl screaming either (thank God, that was terrifying there for a minute). The screeching and whining continued.

We realized there were a couple of foxes just outside our window.

The noise went on for hours. I drifted in and out of sleep and when I did sleep, a baby always showed up in my dreams. It was downright creepy.

Turns out Scott was having similar dreams and we both went to work feeling slightly weirded out. (Why do so many scary movies involve a creepy little girl?)

Anyway, this whole baby-crying-thing got me thinking.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been asked if we’re having kids. People always ask “When are you having kids?” And when I shrug and say “in a few years”, they smile and move on to the next subject.

Recently, when asked, I have said, “I’m not sure if we will.”

And they always look so surprised and sad and full of follow-up questions. I’d like to think it’s because they think we’d be great parents but I think it’s more of a surprise because it’s taboo to say you don’t want children. Everyone wants to be a mother. It’s natural. It’s what we’re here for.

I’m not saying I don’t want to have children. I am just saying I don’t know if we will. This was probably not the best reply to my mother after she asked if Scott wanted a baby for his 30th birthday.

While Scott and I are not always on the same page, we’re usually in the same chapter. I knew Scott didn’t want a baby for his birthday. I knew I wouldn’t be giving him a baby for his birthday if he had wanted one.  See, same book at least.

My mom followed her birthday suggestion with the “when are you having kids?” question. My answer is I don’t know. There are no plans except the “not any time soon” plan.

But that never seems like enough for people because I am constantly met with these:

Don’t you want kids?

I always thought I did. I always pictured them in my future. But the older I get, the more I think I don’t feel that strongly about having them. I might feel differently in a couple of years.

Do you like kids?

Yes, I love them. I have been a camp counselor, a preschool assistant, an art teacher, a baby sitter, a summer nanny. I like being around children. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, I think it’s very magical watching a child play, talk, think, and experience life.

What about that ol’ biological clock? Tick tock.

I’m 26. I’m fine, thanks.

Have you ever felt those maternal feelings starting up?

I can remember one summer when I was babysitting a little boy named Dylan. When Dylan would cry and I would go into his room, I’d see him standing, holding onto the sides of the crib. When Dylan saw me, he’d reach his arms out for me.

Dylan clearly just wanted to get out of bed, but for a few seconds, he wanted me and wanted to be held by me.

I know that if his mom had been there, he would have wanted her more. I think that must be an amazing feeling.

Doesn’t your heart nearly explode when you see children?

That depends. When I see them running wild in our parking garage or when I read “We Need to Talk About Kevin” or when they’re laying in the middle of the aisle at Tesco throwing a tantrum? No.

There are more moments when my heart does almost seize up and explode at the sight of something cute and child-related.  But I never think, “Aww, I wish it were me” or “I want one!”

But…you’re married.

I know it’s easy for people to assume first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. And certainly for us, we’ve got the first two under our belt but what if having a baby is not the next step?

I don’t want to have a child because it feels like the next thing to do. I don’t want to have a child right now because we’re married. I don’t want to have a child because I think it will help my marriage. These are all reasons other people have told me and while the child has brought so much joy to their lives, I can’t help but think…ugh.

How about getting a dog first?

I know people mean this well but a dog is not a good indicator of how I’d do as a parent. I desperately want a dog but I’m not getting a dog. Why? Let’s just get it all out on the table.

I want to go out for drinks after work. I want to sleep over at my friend’s house if I’m out too late. I want to go away and not worry about where the dog will go. I want, I want, I want. I’m allowed to be like this.

And that’s it – I’m too selfish to be able to give selflessly to something else right now.

Are you scared?

Um, yes! Don’t you know having a baby changes everything? If I have a kid, I want to know it was for the right reasons and because we both wanted the child, not because we felt we should.

I know you shouldn’t take life advice from celebrities but I read an interview with Seal about his marriage to Heidi Klum and while I have never really thought of them as the ultimate marriage model, something he said really struck a chord with me.

He said their children don’t come first. He said his wife is his top priority.

Who knows if they will last but personally, I wonder if there is a greater gift to your child than to give them parents who love each other.

I also know that having a baby changes your relationship, so…yeah, I’m scared. I don’t know too many people who got the balance right.

But if you had a kid, you would have lots to blog about.

What, you don’t like talking about biscuits and Twilight and finding cheeseburgers in your handbag? I’m sorry, Internet. This blog is going to be about me – all me, all the time- for a lot longer.

In the meantime, we’ve got foxes and that is a pretty good simulation of what a baby would be like right now. Nightmares and all.

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!

This says Eye love you

I am allergic to several different types of raw vegetables and fruit. I can eat them once they have been cooked but when I chop them or eat them raw, I am guaranteed to have some discomfort. It’s never really, really bad. I might have an itchy mouth. My lips might swell a bit. I might get a rash on my cheeks. But sometimes I just really want to eat an apple and the slight discomfort is worth it.

I decided to go all Delia Smith for Valentine’s Day and make a traditional English meal for Scott. He wanted a pork roast with all the trimmings. I spent the afternoon making trifle – which is actually really difficult without a mixer. (I am shocked too that I don’t even have a hand mixer. And I call myself a baker!)

It was all going well and I had only set the smoke alarm off once when I started chopping parsnips. Then some time shortly after that I must have touched my face. It went horribly wrong from there.

I have never cooked parsnips before and have only really eaten them a few times. I didn’t think about parsnips being related to the carrot (which I know I am allergic to). I was busy thinking, don’t let the sauce burn, is that what it’s supposed to look like, where did I put the salt, how small should I chop these things, what exactly does Heidi see in Spencer? And poor Rihanna!

Internet, I am allergic to raw parsnips.

“Some people can have an allergic reaction to parsnip, and parsnip leaves may irritate the skin.” No shit, Wikipedia.

(I am fully aware that these photos look like they belong on Cops, America’s Most Wanted and/or Crime Watch. Feel sorry for me.)

These were taken just before my eye completely shut due to swelling and hives went down my face. I spent much of the night saying, “It hurts! It burns! It itches!” and talking Scott through making the rest of the meal, while trying to resist scratching my face off.  Then the Benadryl kicked in and I passed out. It was a wild and crazy night of love for us.

Needless to say, this is not how I thought last night would go. I went all Hitch, rather than Delia. But at least I can say Scott sort of made me dinner.

(I am feeling a bit better now. Scott says I just look like an alien with one really small eye. )