Help me help you

I did survive boxing with only a few moments of panic, mostly about whether it would be better to puke in the ring or on my trainer. Thankfully, I did not puke and we never discussed my green face. As I was getting up from the final set of crunches, she said, “Welcome back. Go home and take a hot bath.”

And that was that.
—
I’m in jeans I couldn’t wear three months ago. Of course I can’t really wear them now either since about 20 minutes after eating lunch, I felt like the button was going to slice through my stomach. I’d be just a torso for the rest of my life and the only redeeming thing about that is I’m pretty sure I’d get on Oprah’s new TV network.

The jeans made concentrating at work ever so difficult this afternoon. I started imagining my computer suspended from the ceiling and me sprawled across the office floor, arms in the air, typing away all Michelangelo-like. Laying down is how I got the jeans on in the first place. So go with what you know.

Speaking of lunch, check out my new lunch bag. It’s like 5th grade all over again.

Ten months out of the year I get lunch through my job but I’m on my own in the summer. After a tragic accident involving soya yogurt in my handbag, I decided to purchase a lunch bag. Overall, I’m happy with it, even after a coworker saw it and said–lovingly, I’m sure–, “You are so American!”

I give it a week before Scott, in a cleaning frenzy, hangs it up with all my handbags. I’ll have to school him in how he can tell the difference–the smell of string cheese and peanut butter maybe. Oh, and insulation padding!

(Yes, a cleaning frenzy. No you can’t have him, he’s mine!)
—

I’m making a playlist for my next boxing session. Because the playlist will be pumping through the speakers for all to hear, I’m not sure it’s the time or place for The Biggest Loser theme song (but man, does it make me feel good).

So, help! I need suggestions. What songs make you move? Or what songs make you feel guilty for not moving? I’ll share my playlist in return.

Game plan

Even before we got married, we talked timelines. I’m a planner. If I knew Excel better, I’d use it more.  Not necessarily for budgets but for lists and schedules and lots of other things Excel isn’t really meant for.  I like to wake up and talk about the day’s plan. I also like to talk life plans before falling asleep. (Scott enjoys neither of these things.)

I like plans.

Our timeline went something like this: get married, move to England, get good jobs, buy a home, move to the US after two years, pay off loans and student debt, and after five years, have a baby.

The five-year mark was a big one. It was the number in my head that sounded the best. To be married five years, to be debt-free by our fifth anniversary, to think about having a kid after five years. Five. It just sounded good.

But now that the big five is here, I need a new plan.

On our anniversary, we went out to a very nice restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine after enjoying a bottle of champagne before dinner. We laughed and drank and ate and laughed some more. We talked about where we thought we’d be, where we are right now. We talked about our changing timeline.  We talked about moving, about staying put. We talked seriously, seriously about Big Life Decisions.

I didn’t want the night to end.

And then I noticed it. Scott was starting to slump in his chair. His eyelids were heavy. After five years, I know the signs well. He had crossed the fine line of joyful tipsy to sleepy drunk. There was no coming back from this.

The conversation, no matter how hard I tried to salvage it, was over. The making of plans, the goal setting…it was all over. There was no way to bring him back.

And so I put myself in a bad mood and we spent the remaining half hour in silence. Scott, not at all sure what happened but just wanting to go to bed, looked confused and was excessively blinking against the dim light in the restaurant.

“This isn’t how I thought it would be.” I pouted.

Baffled, Scott said, “I’m lost here. I thought we had a brilliant night. I’m tired and we’ve been drinking. Nothing’s happened.”

And then I said it. “It’s just not how I planned it in my head.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew how silly they sounded. We had had a brilliant night. It had gone mostly to plan.

And that was the problem. Plans.

“It’s fun planning with you,” I said. “I just didn’t want the night to end.”

“Ok, but we don’t have to make all our plans tonight.”

I think he actually quoted John Lennon when he was going on about life happening while I’m busy making plans. I should have retaliated with that saying about the value of planning ahead and how it wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark, blah blah. But I had had my fair share of wine too.

I pouted a little more and declined dessert in a pointless act of stubbornness. I really wanted dessert.

On the way home, I apologized and told him he was right. We don’t have to make all our plans tonight or tomorrow or this year. We’re still on the same page, heading the same direction, even if we don’t know how and when we’ll hit all the stops. We don’t need Excel to tell us that.

I think next year we’ll celebrate our anniversary without meat and now without booze.

Oh. I’m doing that planning thing again, aren’t I?

Twenty Dollar Baby

I used to be involved in so many sports when I was a kid. I’d go from soccer practice to softball practice to dance recitals. I played basketball and baseball. I was the only girl on the team more often than not. I was best at soccer and worst at dance, but I was active.

I stayed with soccer until I became so self-conscious and so self-aware, I decided it was easier to quit than to work through whatever teenage mental and emotional freak out I was going through. And that was the beginning of the slippery slope.

12 years later, here I am. I remember being strong and athletic and I’m shocked when I realize it was 12 years ago when I was really, truly healthy. Sure, I’ve dabbled in gym memberships, jogging programs like Couch 2 5k, and kickboxing classes, but nothing stuck. Correction, I didn’t stick to anything. And there are a million reasons why I quit but really only one reason why I didn’t stay. It was the same feeling I had when I quit playing soccer as a teenager. I was too worried about what others thought, about how I looked, about not being good enough. What I’ve passed off as a teenage phase has become a very real part of my adult life.

After thinking about thinking that way, I suddenly realized how much energy I spend perpetuating the situation. Do you realize how exhausting it is thinking about yourself and comparing yourself all the time? This isn’t who I want to be. This isn’t who people think I am. This isn’t who I am.

I knew I needed to challenge myself and I started researching women-only kickboxing classes. I had done kickboxing classes before and really enjoyed it. Most importantly, I felt stronger after doing them. But as I was researching the classes, I started reading more and more about boxing. Not kickboxing, not Tae Bo, not boxercise. Proper boxing. Million Dollar Baby boxing.

I found a professional boxer who offered classes and training sessions. The reviews said she was tough as nails and no nonsense, but she empowered you. She worked you hard. Too scared to just go to a class, I wrote her a rambling email about myself. Did she think I could do it? Did she think I was worth her time to train? Was it ok if I had some personal training sessions first before I went to a class full of people who may, or may not, know what they are doing? I’m sorry for rambling here but please just tell me if you think I’m not going to be good enough.

That’s not exactly what I said but the email had that apologetic tone to it, for sure. It’s actually pretty embarrassing to admit it, but that apologetic outlook was… is… was real. She emailed me back and I think she must have had to suppress every cell in her body that wanted to just type, “GET YOUR ASS TO CLASS”, but she told me to just meet her once for a consultation and a fitness assessment and not to worry. She works with people at all levels, at all sizes, at all ages.

I emailed her manager and booked myself a session. I told Scott I was going. There was no backing out.

—

The boxing gym is in the basement of what looks to be a block of flats in north London. The problem with it being in the basement is that you can’t casually walk by and check the place out. You have to be all the way down the stairs to see anything and at that point, it’s too late to turn around and run.

The hip hop music is blaring and it smells like men. The gym is small and there are two men sparring in the ring. I am early. I don’t know what to do with myself. There is a sofa but if I take a seat, what does that say about me? But if I go stand by the speed bag and do nothing, I look pretty ridiculous as well.

A man introduces himself. He is one of the owners of the gym. We chat about where I’m from, who I’m training with. He pats my shoulder and promises me I’ll still be smiling at the end of the sessions. I look at the photos on the wall. The owners stand next to Mike Tyson and Amir Khan and a dozen other boxers I don’t know.

Suddenly she is next to me. She is tiny but tough. Even though she is dressed in an over-sized hoodie, you can see her broad, muscular shoulders and arms. She is terrifying. She doesn’t say anything as she rummages through her gym bag.

The owner asks her how about her upcoming fight. She moves her head likes she is trying to work out a kink in her neck and she gives him a look as if to say they’ll talk later. She starts wrapping my hands in what I can only describe as bandages. She looks at my polka dot nail polish and then up at me.

I want to be street-level, heading towards the Tube, heading towards home. I want to be anywhere but there. Why am I here? This is crazy!

“I like your nails,” she says. Her voice is soft and feminine.

When she finishes wrapping my hands, she leads me through a warm up of jumping jacks, skipping rope and star jumps. I want to die and it’s only been ten minutes. It’s only the warm up. She puts boxing gloves on me and instructs me to get in the ring. If I could catch my breath, I would say, “Um, when does the consultation start? When do we get to sit down and talk about stuff?” WHY ON EARTH IS THERE A SOFA IN HERE, TEASING ME?!

The next hour is full of jab, cross, hook, uppercut, push-up, sit-up, punching bag, treadmill, skipping rope, push-up, sit-up, medicine ball, jab, cross, hook, uppercut, uppercut, and suicide drills. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until you want to die.

Holding the punching bag, she says, “Just think about someone you can’t stand or something that really made you cross. Just attack the bag. Really get in there, move from the hips, use your legs for the strength behind the punch.”

I don’t think I’ve ever thought to myself, I’m so mad I could hit something. It’s something you hear loads of people say but I cannot think of a time I really felt that way or even said it. I’m so mad I just want to cry. I’m so sad I could eat the whole chocolate cake. I’m so upset I just want to talk and talk and talk some more. That’s what I’m comfortable with.

At the end of the session, she doesn’t ask how I feel or what I’m thinking. She unwraps my hands and I thank her. Then I ask if I did ok. She seems surprised at the question and then she must remember my neurotic emails, because she cracks a smile and says, “It’s not going to get easier because if it does, it means I’m not doing my job right and you’re not getting your money’s worth. But you’ll feel better after a few sessions.”

When I got home, I told Scott I knew what I wanted for my birthday and he purchased ten weeks of training sessions for me.

—

After that first session, I could not even get up from my chair at work. It hurt to sit on the toilet. Every muscle in my body hurt. I ached where I didn’t even know I could. Turning over in bed was like being kicked in the ribs by miniature horses. My arms hurt the least. That surprised me the most.

The next few sessions were almost as bad as the first in terms of pain and sweat and general exhaustion. One night I stood outside the tube station for 40 minutes, afraid that I was going to hurl all over the place. I nursed a bottle of water behind a phone box and waited for the majority of commuters to disappear before I slowly made my way home.

Actually getting to the gym hasn’t really gotten easier. I still have to psych myself up. I still worry that I won’t be better this week. I worry what she’ll make me do this time. I dread the beginning of it. I still get nervous about going in the ring even though I’m only swinging at her and I know she won’t really hit me back. I still feel intimidated by all the men. I still struggle to push past the embarrassment of being in a boxing gym with a bunch of guys (some really cute ones too!) who actually know what they’re doing.

But afterwards, I am smiling. I really am. It feels good. It feels like me. I am doing it. I am doing this.

—

A few weeks ago,  I was doing step-ups on the side of the ring while two guys sparred. Every twenty steps, I had to get on the ground for push ups. Up, down, up, down. I tried to think of our upcoming vacation, projects at work, Gossip Girl, anything. As I was staring in the distance, trying to block out everyone around me and just get through it, I saw the owner who talked to me at my first session come into view. He waved, smiled big, and said, “I like your red face!”

Then he came over and gave me a high five.

“Doesn’t it feel so good?”

—

What’s it like learning to box? What’s it like to get personal training from a professional boxer? I chose to write a lengthy post about it because this is what I do. I talk it out. I think too much about it. But the short answer is…well, it’s like being in PE class and it’s always your turn.

Only, unlike PE, no one is forcing you to be there. No one is grading you. Really. No one is looking at you, judging you, talking about you. You’re there for you. I’m there for me.

—

Last week, as I am stretching after the session, she says, “So, how are you feeling about this?”

This is the first time she’s asked me how I feel.

Instead of telling her about my worries, my concerns, my fears–everything I would have said before–I say, “I know I’ve got a long way to go but I feel good that every time I come here, I do it all. I don’t quit. I feel good about that.”

As I lean down to touch my toes, I say, “Yeah, I feel really good.”

I say it for myself more than for her.

—

I’m nowhere near a Million Dollar Baby and I don’t ever plan to be. But I say 20 bucks, because if I have a few seconds to get in the right stance and the other person is unsuspecting, my right hook is pretty damn good.

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.

You dazzled me

Some of you will appreciate this more than others. If you have been living under a rock don’t know about Twilight, you’ll have to suffer through this one. But it’s Monday and you’re at work…don’t tell me you have anything better to do.

While I was folding laundry or cooking dinner or flipping through US Weekly – I can’t remember exactly what I was doing but it was important – Scott interrupted me with this:

“The other day at work, someone pointed out that I had glitter all over my face. And I spent all day trying to figure out where it came from. I thought it must have been from your make up or something. I spent days thinking about it. Where is this glitter coming from?”

He was so very serious. You don’t joke about glitter.

“And then I realized that-that…that…hand soap pump thing! In the bathroom! It has shimmer stuff in it!”

He holds up his slightly shimmering hands to show me.

“See? Glitter!”

I nod, laughing, and say, “But how would it get all over your face?”

And he’s all, duh, “Because I’ve been washing my face with it!”

Hold it right there. You say what? You’re washing your face with my imported Bath & Body Works Antibacterial Moisturizing Soap in Sweet Pea with Green Tea Extract and Shea Butter? How long has this been going on? I should have smelled the sweet pea flower mixed with pear, loganberry and green rhubarb on you!

But then I thought…huh…shimmer, you say? Hmm…I know someone else who sparkles.

Muahahahaha.

“Oh my God!” I said, excitedly. “You’re just like Edward Cullen!“

I think that’ll teach him.

But he has to be into you!

Let me make something clear. This is not going to be one of those posts where at the end, I say how happy I am to be married and not doing the dating thing.  Not because that isn’t how I feel but because I find it obnoxious. Single friends reading this – don’t worry, I won’t go all smug-married-person on you.  I hate when people do that.

Maybe it’s because I like listening to other people’s problems. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my fill of bad dates. But I actually enjoy hearing about my friends’ dating escapades. I like helping them* by going out and having a good time with them. Sometimes they meet people, sometimes they don’t. I would hate to miss out on all the laughs just because I’m married.

*Ok, ok. I just like going out – helpful or not.

I’ve lamented before about the lack of good-quality, single men out there.  A Male Friend once told me that all the 20-something guys are dating 18 year olds because the 20-something girls are all dating 30- something guys. Then when the 20-something girls, now close to being 30, find themselves single again , there are no guys around their age because they are all dating those 18-25 year old girls.  The Male Friend is right.  Damn those 18 year old girls.

All hope cannot be lost though. A quick look at my friends’ match.com and mysinglefriend.com’s accounts prove that there are single men out there looking for single women like my friends. They’re exchanging winks and favorite-ing each other. Once they send a message, the game begins.

And as much as they don’t want to refer to their dating lives as a game, they have to because that is exactly what it is.  It’s a game that takes constant attention and effort. My friend – we’ll call her Katie – is on match.com and has had a few successes in the past but nothing panned out in the end.

She took a break from the site because it took too much effort to keep up with the correspondence and she was busy with friends and it was the holidays blah blah blah.

Truth is, she was just tired of it. The roller coaster effect of finding someone, exchanging messages, going on a date, being slightly disappointed by the date, exchanging more messages, feeling positive about a second date, having a good second date, kiss on the cheek, obsessing over what that means,  decide it’s sweet and respectful, ignore the fact that you really wanted a big fat kiss on the lips, send text, don’t receive a text back until two days later, decide not to send him a text until three days later, then get really annoyed when you haven’t heard from him in a week.

See, it’s a game.

The thing I first noticed about online dating is that – in general – it seems women put in more effort with their profiles.

First, you’ve got the photos. Maybe it’s because men don’t take cameras with them everywhere they go, but you should see some of the photos up there.  It’s like they had two from their office Christmas party, one of them drunk at a music festival last summer, and one post-coital pic their ex took. Sometimes they don’t have enough photos of themselves and upload photos of their cars, motorbikes or a sunset from a recent vacation.

Women, on the other hand, have a billion photos to choose from and selecting five or six takes up a whole afternoon. You want to look good but you also want to look realistic. You need at least one that shows below the shoulders.

To complement the photos, you can also pick from a list of  preset adjectives to describe your interests, drinking style, job/income, and body type. We saw a guy who said he was “heavyset” and we’re pretty sure he doesn’t know what that word means unless he’s one of those guys who actually has a slew of very flattering photos.  Or as my friend, Maria, pointed out, “Sounds like he has body issues. This could be a good thing!”

Then you’ve got the profile they have to write about themselves which is no small feat. To write Katie’s profile, three of us spent a Saturday emailing drafts back and forth. To write Maria’s mysinglefriend.com profile, we did our nails and went through three bottles of wine trying to come up with 150 words. And the whole point of mysinglefriend.com is that your friend writes the recommendation, you don’t even have to write it yourself.

I don’t know about you but I can’t see a group of guys sitting around, drinking beer, and writing match profiles for each other. Which is why, in most cases, they leave a bit to be desired. It is not uncommon to hear the girls dismiss guys over lack of information or bad grammar. I’m with them on the bad grammar and complete disregard for punctuation i mean how annoying is that could they not even be bothered to spell-check this is a representation of themselves they should be ashamed!

It makes it all the more wonderful then when you run across a profile where the guy is the next Nicholas Sparks (or has asked his sister to write it). One potential suitor wrote, “I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for but I have a picture in my mind of a morning spent lazing together on the sofa, newspapers strewn about, filling the time between a full English breakfast and a late afternoon Sunday roast.”

Suddenly I’m imagining myself reading a newspaper with this man!

So you exchange messages. You ask each other about different things mentioned in your profile – you ask about his trip to New Zealand, he asks what red velvet cake is. You spend your evenings trying to craft witty and interesting responses. You count the days until you receive a message back. You try not to freak out when he suggests talking about his trip in person.

You arrange to meet for drinks on a Thursday. You make your friends come over and drink white wine, give you pointers on things to talk about and assure you are showing just enough cleavage.

You have your date. It may or may not be wonderful. It’s always weird meeting someone in person after having an image of them in your head. You wonder if he’s happy with who you turned out to be. You text your friends on the way home and begin the next part of the game.

The thing about online dating is that everyone is on there, trying to meet someone. It’s not like when you go to a bar and casually meet someone. If it doesn’t work out, you can both make some excuse about not really wanting to meet someone anyway but with online dating, we all know what’s happening here.

You’re all looking for someone and while he’s out with you, he might have two witty and interesting messages waiting in his inbox from someone else.

The competition – this is is the hardest part.

If match.com has to put commercials on the TV announcing that they’ve just had a huge batch of men join, you can pretty much guess that there are more amazing single women on there than men. You’ve got stiff competition.

As the friend, as the one not dating, this is the hardest part for me too. I love my friends. I think they are amazing women. I don’t understand how someone wouldn’t like them.

When a guy Maria was seeing seemed to be messing her around, canceling at the last minute, giving mixed signals, I couldn’t tell her to cut him loose. I knew she liked him, or at least wanted him to like her, and I couldn’t bring myself to suggest that maybe he just wasn’t that into her. Look at those photos we chose! Read how cool you sound on your profile! You’re so fun and pretty – he has to like you!

When she told her story to The Male Friend, he listened. The Male Friend stayed quiet as Maria explained how the guy seemed interested – he told her this and that, he was the one who asked her out  in the first place, but going two weeks without a date, what did it all mean?!

Katie and I stood nearby, listening to the story for the fifteenth time, nodding sympathetically.  Just as I was about to say something like, “Maybe he’s really into you but he doesn’t know how you feel and he’s scared,” The Male Friend spoke up.

‘Dump him and move on.”

It was that easy to him. The facts were on the table and it didn’t matter what The Male Friend thought about Maria. It was clear as day to him. The guy was not interested and Maria should not waste any more time thinking about it.

But that would be too easy. Instead when the guy canceled their date again, we all sat on Maria’s bed, thinking of something she could say in response. We knew it would be the last time she would be in contact with him. She wanted to play it cool but also let him know that she wouldn’t be hanging around for him again.

“Can I add an exclamation mark?” Maria asks.

Katie and I both say no.

“But I like them and I usually include them.”

Katie says it will sound like she’s yelling at him. We thought she wanted to play it cool.  She says she is and this will show she doesn’t really care…it’s more of a happy exclamation mark.

“So you’re happy that he canceled? You’re happy that he’s not interested?”  I ask, knowing the answer already.

The tone of exclamation marks does not come across well via text but we still debate it. In the end, she sent it exclamation mark-less.

However, my thoughts on this are not exclamation mark-less.  Throughout this process, I have continuously pointed out that we sound as though we could be in the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You.” We laugh and all agree but we don’t change because honestly, how can they not be into them?!

There is no moral to this story. Or at least not one that I’m willing to accept.  I have three other friends asking me to help with their online dating profiles and I have yet to be able to say that my help has led to a success story.

But, friends, I swear I will never say, “God, I’m so lucky to have found someone!” and wax lyrical about how nice it is not to be dating anymore.  Instead, I will promise to help, to listen, to drink wine, to edit your text messages and to tell you your rack looks amazing in that shirt.

Surviving the distance

I got an email from someone who asked me how Scott and I managed to last after being apart for so long. She had always heard that long distance relationships didn’t work.  What was our secret?

I thought about it for a couple of days before writing back – mainly because I don’t have any secrets.  I don’t know if I even have any great advice on the subject because – even after all that I will say here – I would tell you to try to avoid long distance relationships in the first place.  They are so difficult. They suck.

But I figured that I couldn’t just tell this woman that long distance relationships suck.  I needed to be more eloquent, for one. I also needed to do my relationship justice.

So, here’s my advice. May you never need it.

Go on a date.

If you were together, you’d make time for one another. Even though you can’t physically go out for a meal or see a film, you should still schedule each other in.

There is nothing more irritating than being on the phone with someone while they are trying to do something else. If you’ve planned to speak at 7pm, consider it a date and don’t back out.

I like to think of advice I got before a phone interview I had back in college.  Turn off the computer and TV. Remove all distractions. Have a list of a few things you’d like to talk about. Look in a mirror from time to time so you can watch yourself speaking. Smile a lot. You will seem more friendly and engaged.

Ok, maybe you don’t need the mirror but you get the idea.

Hang up the phone.

I’m not a big phone talker. Scott isn’t really either. This wasn’t a great combination.

We decided talking every day wasn’t going to work for us. We’d rather talk every other day or every two days. I wanted quality over quantity. Figure out what works for you.

But remember it’s natural to have an “off” day.  It’s ok to not have anything to say.  Some days we just didn’t want to talk. Those would have been the days when we would have appreciated just being together the most, not having to verbalize our feelings. Just being.

The problem is that usually you’re not both feeling “off” on the same day so when one of you doesn’t feel like talking, the other person gets upset and there isn’t anything you can say to make the situation better.

For us, this was a surefire way to start an argument. Which is exactly what you don’t want when one of you has already said they don’t even feel like talking about good stuff.

Please, I’m begging you. Hang up the phone. Agree to email later. For the love of God, get off the phone. Only bad things will happen if you continue to cling to a conversation that is already over.

Cherish the butterflies.

While I wouldn’t really want to go back to having a long distance relationship, I can admit that it was a lot more exciting.  I know I will never have that sort of excitement again. What I wouldn’t give to have another handwritten love letter!

I will never count down until we see each other next. I will never panic at the thought that the feelings might not be there anymore. (Ok, so this isn’t a great feeling but man, it just adds to the rush.) I will never have the butterflies again as I see him exit the doors at International Arrivals.  I’ll never have that “first” kiss again.

Remember them. Be glad for them. Don’t wish them away too soon.

Use your time wisely.

I won’t lie. I was a mess when we would say goodbye. I was sad for days until my mind made me shut off that part of my life until the next visit.

In the meantime, we focused on ourselves. I was always thinking that one day we would be together but for now? Now have fun. Go out with your friends. Focus on your job or your dreams or both. Have a life of your own. Make sure there are no regrets.

There is plenty of time to be an extension of someone else. And if you’re anything like me, you’ll hate it when you are.

I think this mentality has really stood us in good stead. We both still really enjoy being with our own friends and think it is important to have our own lives. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Have a plan to be together.

Trust me – it will never work if you can’t work towards something. Maybe you can’t be certain you’ll move by the end of the year. Maybe you’re not sure exactly when and how you’ll be together, but start talking about it.

If you’re moving for a job and you want to stay in your relationship, make a deal to only be apart for a set amount of time. Work to be together – whether that means you agree to see each other once a month or move in together at the end of your contract, you need a plan.

They say it will never work.

Just because they didn’t have what it takes to make their relationship last doesn’t mean you won’t either. Also, remember that it has nothing to do with the distance and everything to do with the relationship. If it’s not going to last, it doesn’t matter how far apart you are.

Every cloud…

It’s not all tears and heartache. There are some benefits to a long distance relationship.

Because all you have is a phone call or a letter, you start talking about things you might not have otherwise discussed. Simply put, you run out of things to talk about. So you move on to the more serious topics like religion, kids, past relationships, money, etc. You get to these topics a lot sooner than if you were together and didn’t have to talk all the time.

Being apart also allows you to really think about where things are going and where you want to be six months from now. You get to take time to make some pretty big decisions and that’s something to be grateful for.

Besides the obvious perk of being able to travel to each other and get to know a different city or country, you also don’t have to shave your legs as much.

Go ahead and write that one down under “Pros.”
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I know many of you are in, or have been in, successful long distance relationships so I hope you’ll share your advice too.

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.

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.

How to get laid on Super Bowl Sunday

The last time I liked anything related to football was when I was 12. I went to a local high school football game and was bored out of mind. While flipping through the program, I came across a player named Jay. I drew a heart around his face and hung the photo in my room. By the time I got to high school, he was long gone and I had only ever managed to see one more photo of him in an old yearbook. I kept that team photo for years. I still have the photo.

I have been to quite a few Super Bowl parties but I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually watched a Super Bowl game. I find American football excruciating. For one, there are four 15-minute quarters which always makes me think, ok, an hour…I can do that. But it’s never an hour! It’s more like four.

Two: you can’t even see the men properly because they are covered in pads and helmets.

I do like Super Bowl parties though. I can appreciate the excitement other people have for the game and the best commercials are shown during the Super Bowl. But by far the best part is the food.

A  simple Google search will show you how much thought and planning goes into a Super Bowl party. The food that is served always seems to be geared towards men. Lots of meat, cheese, beer, spice. Easy on the veggies.

But the truth is women love it too and it’s the one day you can gorge yourself on 7-layer dip without feeling like you really should be eating the cucumber sandwiches and fresh fruit.

A staple at my family’s football parties is sausage dip. In the past, I had always described it as something men love. These days I add that this is a dip American men love. I haven’t properly tested the British market but the couple of Englishmen who have tried it, liked it, but didn’t loooove it. I know, I can’t believe I’m still with a Brit either. *

Anyway, this dip has now become the “Never Be Single Again” Sausage Dip or maybe more appropriately, “Sure to Get You Laid” Sausage Dip. The women who have made this recipe have nothing but good things to report back. And I do mean good things.

The dip is quick and easy to whip up. You’ll still have plenty of time to doll yourself up for the party. Though, let’s be real here, you could be bleaching your upper lip right next to your man during the Super Bowl and he would not even notice. But don’t do that. Use that precious time to eat some of this dip yourself.

I don’t make this dip often because, as I said, the magic doesn’t work on my Englishman and like many American recipes, it can be tricky to find suitable ingredients. But it’s Super Bowl Sunday and I’ll be damned if I’m going dip-less.

You’ll find quite a few variations of this recipe and the great thing is that you don’t even need to measure. It’s one of those recipes where you are actually required to taste as you go.

As for the actual Super Bowl game – may the best team win…who’s playing again?

“Never Be Single Again” Sausage Dip

1 lb Jimmy Dean or Bob Evans sausage (feel free to choose Hot & Spicy)

1 1/2 8 oz blocks of Philadelphia Cream Cheese

1 can Rotel Tomatoes and Chilis

1 small can of V8 tomato juice (optional)

Brown the sausage and drain. In a pan, melt the cream cheese in with the meat. Add the can of Rotel. If you think it’s too runny, add more cream cheese. This is where you are free to start tasting.

Add a few tablespoons of the V8 to give the dip a deeper color.

Then transfer to a crock pot and serve with Fritos Scoops or tortilla chips.

Notes to my English readers:

Rotel can be found in several specialty grocery stores and also online. There are suitable substitutes in the International aisle at Tesco and Sainsburys too.

Choose any pork sausage and remove the casings before cooking. If you use sausage meat like I did, you may want to spice it up with Tabasco or red pepper flakes.

You can find Fritos at specialty grocery stores and online but really tortilla chips do the job just fine.
 

*After tasting the dip this time around, my Englishman said he did really like it and maybe it was because I used British ingredients. Riiight.