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.

Call your mother

I’m sure we’ve all been there. You’re sitting in your little desk at elementary school and you are so enthralled by the picture you’re coloring or racking your little brains trying to figure out what in the heck 24 + 13 is that when your teacher walks by, you accidentally call out, “Mom?” instead of Mrs. Whatever.

Then there was the time when you ran up to a man in the store and grabbed his hand only to realize this man is not your father and he’s almost as freaked out as you are. You could have sworn your dad was wearing the exact same jeans and loafers. Where is your dad? You knew you shouldn’t have been pretending to work in a jewelry store, rearranging all the nuts and bolts in the hardware aisle.  Cue hyperventilation and tears and ooooh the embarrassment!

You think it’s something you grow out of. For the most part, I’m pretty sure I have. But if I’m deep in thought or not really paying attention, I find myself close to slipping up and calling someone a name that is way too familiar. Or worse. Let me explain.

Sometime last year I was home for a visit and my dad was in the middle of tracking down God knows what, but he was frustrated and furiously opening drawers and digging through piles of paperwork. A family friend called and my mom asked my dad if he could answer it and firm up their plans for the evening.

My dad made pleasant small talk on the phone while he was still searching. He was clearly not completely in the conversation. As he was saying goodbye, I heard him say, “Yep, will do. See you later. Love you.” And then he hung up and cursed under his breath about having to look through 50 million things before finding what he was looking for.

I stood there, horrified.

“Dad, did you just tell her you love her?”

“What?” he asked, annoyed.

“You just told her you loved her!”

“Did I? Oh, whatever. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Call her back! Tell her you weren’t thinking straight! This is so embarrassing. Oh my God, do something!”

He shrugged and said she probably didn’t even notice and he continued on with his search. I was mortified for him and made sure my mom knew the whole story in case it came up that night. It didn’t. The family friend either (A) didn’t hear him say it or (B) knows how my dad is and didn’t take any notice.

Moral of the story? This sort of thing can happen even when you’re middle-aged, people.

I am known as Caitlin at work – not Cait. There is really no issue here except that pretty much everyone outside of work calls me Cait. If I’m in a hurry and not really thinking about it, I have been known to sign my work emails with just Cait. This is not the end of the world but I always wonder if the guy in Computer Services thinks we’re on a nickname basis now. (It’s more likely that he didn’t even read my email to the end to see my name, I know, I know.)

We were talking about this in the office a couple of weeks ago. A coworker said she once told a London bus driver, “Love you” as she got off the bus. She just wasn’t thinking. This is something I am very conscious of at work, especially on the phone, if I’m having a busy day, doing lots of different things. There have been a few times when I caught myself almost saying, “Love you” before hanging up. Now that would be awkward.

But not as awkward as this little gem.

One time we were visiting my parents and we were all standing around the kitchen island, eating and talking. I crossed over to the morning room to grab the papers. As I was walking back, I gave Scott a little smack on the backside.

Except it wasn’t Scott.

It was my dad. MY FATHER!!! Ewww.

I’m cringing just thinking about it.

We sort of just looked at each other. I imagine I had the same look of horror on my face as I did all those years ago when I accidentally took that stranger’s hand.

And while we’re on the subject, after having my parents over for a visit, I mistakenly called Scott “mom”. Twice. Yikes.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Anyone…anyone?

Ask and ye shall receive IV

And here we are for another installment of Ask and ye shall receive.  (See Part I, Part II, and Part III)

Wow, you people really want to know about Kate Gosselin’s hair, don’t you? I hope you’re not printing out photos and taking them with you to your next hair appointment. It’s also thrilling to see my own name being searched for as well as Chuck Bass, Edward Cullen and Oscar Mayer. (Anyone looking for them on this blog will be thoroughly disappointed. Anyone looking for me? Here I am, Internet!)

1. Zac Efron coming down stairs

This is a no Zac Efron fly zone. Move along.

2. Dips men love

Dips…how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I’ll be sharing more recipes with you soon but for now, make yourself your man a vat of this. STAT.

3. Has one had their sofa not fit in one’s door

Yes, one has had that problem and one was prepared to throw a royal tantrum if one could not get their sofa through the door. One would recommend measuring before moving in. If one’s husband decides not to and says it will be fine and it’s not, one believes it’s perfectly acceptable grounds for divorce. (One should expect to get the sofa in the divorce settlement.)

4. Playhouse for my kid

Was there anything better than playing pretend when you were a kid? Sometimes we used boxes as a house but more often than not, we draped blankets over chairs or just simply didn’t put up any roof and just got on with it. But kids these days…they want things. They want those $6000 playhouses. What happened to the old’ “Here’s a cardboard box. Go play” attitude?

If that seems too sensible mean, buy them this eco-friendly cardboard playhouse which they can paint and color on. They’ll love it and you can throw it out when they get bored of it.

Though I suppose you could move into the $6000 playhouse when you can’t make payments on your real house.

5. How to get laid in high school

Why are you looking at me?!

Time for another thought shower

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. )

I should take up trainspotting

As we turned onto our street, we saw cars lined up on both sides and people gathering by the fence. Our street is usually deserted as we live in a new development and all that’s back there is the train line. 

And that’s exactly what these people appeared to be wanting.

We dashed up the stairs and out on our balcony to see what all the fuss was about. We stood in the freezing cold, waiting. I tried to convince Scott to ask the neighbors what we were all looking at but…well, Scott’s British and he would never do that.

Then we heard the horn and saw this coming our way - the first new mainline steam engine in 50 years.

It was almost as exciting as the time I discovered that Chuck Bass is originally from Stevenage. 

We sure know how to pick the hotspots.

No need for caffeine

When I was younger and watched way too many musicals, I was convinced there’d be times in life when people broke out into song and dance. 

This is why I find this commercial so exciting. If only they’d plan it for my morning commute. 

Watch this video for more information on the making of the commercial.

My mom will be so proud

Remember that uneaten cheeseburger found in my handbag?

Well, when I told my mom the story, not only was she horrified that I fell asleep at Kings Cross, but she was visibly worried that I had picked the cheeseburger out of the trash or something.

Since I couldn’t remember buying it, she was convinced I had rummaged around for something to eat and hit the jackpot with an uneaten, wrapped cheeseburger. Because people throw those away all the time. And it’s so easy to find a trash can in London.

But she can rest easy.  I checked my bank account yesterday and whaddya know…there is a charge for a lone cheeseburger.

Yes, I charged a cheeseburger to my card but most impressively, I remembered my PIN.

Being thankful was so last week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, look, the sun has come out.

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

Planespotting

When Scott and I fly on airplanes with seat configurations of 3-3 or 3-3-3 or 3-4-3, we usually sit apart. I like the aisle and he likes the window. And if we’re unfortunate enough to actually have someone sit between us, we act like we don’t even know each other so it’s not like we’re leaning over the stranger to talk or passing books/ipods/snacks over. People find this really strange, but it’s just something we’ve always done.

Not only do I get my seat of choice, but I also don’t have to listen to Scott’s running commentary about planes. His fascination with aviation is endearing but when I’m in a 250 ton piece of aluminum hurling across an ocean, I don’t want to know about the statistics of it crashing and what that noise means or why they turn off the lights during take-off and landing.

Scott spends a lot of time reading about aviation news and watching programs such as Air Crash Investigation (which I don’t recommend before a flight.) Whenever I see him on the computer, looking at airplanes, I just thank my lucky stars it isn’t porn.

When booking our flights to the US this time, we had to have a layover in Detroit. It wasn’t ideal and I was struggling to stay awake while we waited for the connecting flight. Scott was excited. We would be flying on a DC-9 which meant nothing to me. Then Scott said it was 40 years old and probably the last time we would get the opportunity to fly on one. He used the word vintage, but it doesn’t have the same effect on me when you’re not describing fashion. I didn’t want to fly in an antique plane!

We made it to DC with only about 35 minutes of the 50 minute flight spent talking about the vintage aircraft.

My parents live close to Washington-Dulles International Airport so just sitting out on their deck, watching planes, is entertaining enough for Scott. But we do try to get in something he wants to do when we come back for visits and usually it’s a trip to the Air & Space Museum.

One year I planned to take him to Gravelly Point next to National Airport which I had heard was great for plane-spotting. I made chocolate chip cookies and packed a thermos of milk. It was after 10 pm by the time we found the spot and just as we were settling down on our blanket under the stars, Scott said that there would only be a few more planes before they stopped for the evening. It was even more disappointing when we realized I had taken us to the wrong spot entirely.

So this time we ventured out again – with directions and in broad daylight. We sat on a picnic table and watched the planes pass over us, as Scott rambled off facts and figures about the planes and their assumed destinations.

I think it was a pretty fair trade-off for a couple more trips to Target, DSW and Ulta. Marriage is full of compromises.