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.

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.

The art of gift giving

I like the idea of surprises but I don’t actually like surprises. I feel the need to prepare my reaction – good or bad. I like to know what’s happening so I can prep myself.

Scott thinks that because I’m a girl I’m supposed to love surprises and be swept off my feet by any remotely romantic surprise. Instead surprises can make me feel panicked and uneasy. I feel much better knowing what’s coming my way. Especially if it’s a bad gift. I really, really would prefer to perfect my “Oh wow, thank you!” look. I can do a really good one.

Not that Scott has ever given me a bad gift. He does very well even though most of the gifts are things I have pointed out, cut out, left up on the computer screen, whatever tactic is necessary. 

I love giving gifts and pride myself on giving good ones. I listen all year long and make notes of things he mentions. Of course there are times when I am at a complete loss as to what to give him but I keep looking. I keep thinking. I love when he opens the gift and says, “How did you remember this?”

I know that I am partially to blame. I have ruined many, many surprises. One Christmas I actually used nail clippers to slice open one of my presents. Just a peek, I told myself. But then I couldn’t stop and I had opened all my gifts and had to re-tape them all. Unfortunately Scott had rearranged the presents strategically and had noticed they were out of place. He called me out on it. It was very embarrassing. 

My birthday is coming up and Scott has started to ask me what I would like. I’d like to say, “Oh, don’t worry about me. You don’t have to give me anything. Every day with you is a gift.” But even he knows that would be a big fat lie. 

In his perfect world, I would give him the color choice, size, spec, and URL of my ideal gift. 

The problem is that I always hold out hope he will know exactly what I want, that he will be trawling through a website and see that forget me not ring and think, yes, she would really like that! (Scott – don’t bother. I already bought it for myself.) Or be wandering around the cosmetic counters at a department store and spy some new Benefit products that are just the perfect shade for me. 

That never happens. One year I dropped him off at the mall so he could do his Christmas shopping. I even pointed out the areas of the mall that would be the most promising. When I picked him up nearly four hours later, not only was he almost in a catatonic state but the only thing he had purchased was a Taco Bell combo meal. Note to self: send in reinforcements way before the four-hour mark. 

What I would like for my birthday this year is something he knows I want. He heard me talking about it. He saw a picture of it. I can’t give him any more clues or else I will essentially be picking out my own gift and I just don’t want that. I want him to know. 

This is a problem because Scott doesn’t know. He has no clue. He actually just said to me, “This is a really busy time for me – can’t you just tell me?” Oh, with that kind of sweet talk, I’m practically putty in his hands. 

I think he thinks this is a game but I couldn’t be more serious. In fact I told my friend at work about my dilemma and she actually said she would email Scott herself and tip him off just so I’m not disappointed. Now that’s a coworker for you.

It doesn’t look like she’ll have to though as Scott is planning on asking my sister. I can’t tell you how many times she’s had to come through for me on the gift front. I quickly sent her a message saying, “If Scott asks, I’d like _____ but I really wish he would just know what I wanted.”

She replied, “Ok, got it. Boys are idiots.”

But I told Scott that before he asks her, I wanted him to think really hard about it, that he really did know what I wanted, that I had showed him a picture once before. He sat there, his forehead creased, clearly in deep thought.

Then he switched the TV back on and said, “Just tell me and I’ll get it and everyone’s happy.”

Sigh.

Must. keep. thinking…every day is a gift, every day is a gift, every day is a gift…

This is what happens

…when you take your husband to Target

…and the outlet mall.

Irreconcilable paint differences

This is what our divorce papers will say.

Initially I had wanted to paint the master bedroom and the living room. With a moving date of 26 July approaching quickly, we abandoned the idea of painting the living room and focused on the bedroom. Now, I will say Scott wanted to leave everything white and I persuaded him that adding colour would do wonders.

Because we were short on time, we foolishly skipped the tester pot and bought a can of paint in Celestial Cloud. I originally wanted Pebble Drift but I followed Scott’s insistence that Celestial Cloud would look better. I was worried it would be too light. I was worried it wouldn’t match the accent pillows.

After taping off the room, we started painting. I certainly didn’t have to worry about it being too light. It was actually too dark. Too blue to be exact. It looked like we should follow it up with painting fluffy clouds on top of it.

I wanted to stop painting immediately. I wanted to just quit and repaint it white and pretend it never happened. Scott, with his oh-no-you-don’t attitude, started painting more furiously. I urged him to be careful around the ceiling, which he proceeded to tell me didn’t matter because he’s painted loads of rooms without ever wasting time taping off the walls. And just like that, his brush hit the ceiling.

Cue dramatic, sulky temper tantrum laden with curse words and me saying, “See, I knew we should have picked Pebble Drift.”

In retrospect I know, because I am reading Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, that Scott heard this as, You’re to blame. It’s all your fault. You are a failure.

He replied, “We are going to finish this. We are not repainting. You will live with it.”

Which I heard as, Your feelings on this don’t matter. I’m tired of listening to you whine. You’re being irrational.

So we both painted in silence until we realized we didn’t buy enough paint and we would not even finish half the room. But because this is England and convenience is not something stores are concerned about, we could not buy more paint because the stores were all closed early on a Sunday.

The next day Scott set off to buy paint and boxes. He bought the paint but returned to the new flat only to realize I was right and we would have to do a second coat after all. He still had not purchased enough paint.

So then he sat down on an old deck chair in the empty living room and – I imagine – he was cursing me and my desire to paint. And then God bellowed from up above, “Thou shalt not blame wife for one’s own mistakes” and then threw a lighting bolt at the deck chair. The arm of the chair snapped off and caught Scott’s finger in the twisted metal.

He returned home with a bandaged finger and no boxes. He proposed changing the moving date to two weeks from now so that we have time to paint and pack properly and most certainly not because he has nights out planned and can’t be bothered to get up for the movers on Saturday morning. Oh, and because his thumb hurts.

While I resisted saying “I told you that chair should be thrown out,” I couldn’t help but say, “Looks like I’ll be painting and packing all by myself then. Hmmpf.” And then I proceeded to throw things in the few boxes I did have and I made sure to sigh loudly so he could hear me as he got ready for bed.

Knowing I would never get it all done by myself so I might as well stop trying, I closed up the last box and went to bed. I told him to call the movers in the morning and push back the date.

Scott turned over to face me and said, “It’s for the best really. It will give us time to get everything done. We won’t have to rush.”

I thought about it for a minute and replied, “I guess this means we have time to paint the living room now too.”

Scott didn’t reply. He just turned away from me. I imagine he was mentally shaking his bandaged finger up at the ceiling and crying, “Why me, God, why me?!”

Or maybe he was just imagining smothering me with an accent pillow.

England finally gets something before the US and this is the reaction we get!

From: Caitlin
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:42
To: Scott
Subject: satc

Message from Jane:

have a good day
and ENJOY the movie
text me after with your impressions
i will say this:
as a movie…it wasn’t great
it was just amazing because it was “Sex and the City”
you may want to warn scott

From: Scott
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:48
To: Caitlin
Subject: RE: satc

So it’s not even that good. Boo.

From: Caitlin
Sent: 29 May 2008 11:55
To: Scott
Subject: RE: satc

I think it will be like the Simpsons movie. Just like a long episode.

You like the Simpsons.

From: Scott
Sent: 29 May 2008 12:10
To: Caitlin
Subject: RE: satc

Yes, I like the Simpsons. The SIMPSONS.