What do you expect after a two week absence?

So the weather has been beautiful in Liverpool recently…which was really annoying during the period of time when this household was under quarantine. Now that we are all mostly better (I promise you my son is not suffering from a smokers cough) I’ve been trying as hard as I can to get out and enjoy it- which mostly means copious amounts of trips to the park. When that gets boring (there is only so much fascination in looking at a duck) and the time until Henry goes to bed is still ions away, I hop on the bus with Henry and go somewhere. You know, just because I’m a stay at home mom doesn’t mean I actually have to stay at home.

Our trips out can be really pointless. I could say to myself, “You know, I am running out of deodorant, I better pick some up.” Now, my Tesco down the road sells deodorant and they actually sell one brand that is half decent but since I have time and it’s a nice day outside I’ll take Henry out for 3 hours to buy a single stick of deodorant at the Mega Boots downtown because they have three brands of deodorant that are half decent. For clarification purposes, I do not actually spend 3 hours purchasing deodorant.

A couple weeks back in the brief period where no one was seriously ill, I got it in my head that I was going to go to IKEA. I needed fancy napkins for Henry’s upcoming birthday party after all. Now the nearest IKEA to us is in Warrington which takes about 25-30 minutes by car. I checked the public transport schedules and it appeared that if I took the train, then the bus, it should only take us 53 minutes to get there. “Fabulous!” I thought and left the house around 11 AM with Andy shouting after me that I was crazy.

The first leg of our journey (train) went very well. I entertained Henry by giving him a bottle of Beano to shake. The bus part wasn’t as smooth as I first got lost trying to find the bus depot (it’s across the street) then had stomach distress (I still wasn’t quite recovered) and I ended up missing the first bus out to IKEA. All in all it took us an hour and a half to get there.

Of course, once you decide to take on an epic hour and half journey to IKEA, once you get there you try to make the most of it. Sadly, the children’s play area where you can drop your kids off while you shop (which I was kind of hoping for) doesn’t allow children under 3 (well played IKEA, well played). After doing the entire store and getting my napkins and a last minute decision for a collapsible mesh tube storage thing that I planned to use for Henry’s toys but had the overwhelming desire to wear it over my person and pretend that I was a robot (in red), it was time for lunch.

For all the times I have been to IKEA, I have never had their meatballs. Now I have. I’m not sure what the meatballs are made out of – seemingly salt, lard, meat paste and gravy – but they really are quite tasty. Henry liked them too which upset me only because I got the 10 count and he ate most of mine. I made him eat the cranberry sauce side as punishment though he didn’t seem to take the punishment seriously by constantly asking for more (well played Henry, well played). After lunch I let him play in the little children’s play section in the cafeteria to work off those meatballs. I had to navigate myself out of IKEA so I wasn’t concerned about burning off mine.

To conclude this story about IKEA (that wasn’t going to be about IKEA when I started this), it took me another hour and half to get home because I sat on the wrong side of the fucking street for 20 minutes and actually missed my bus (again!) that was going the right way. I think IKEA puts something in their meatballs besides salt, lard, meat paste and gravy that messed up my brain that day. Probably drugs. Illegal drugs. Smuggled drugs from mules that go “eee-haw, eee-haw” when they go through passport control.

On a somewhat unrelated note to all those Liverpool residents out there – did you know that there are different bus companies that run the same bus line? Like, you can take the 80A from the same stop and you’ll either get a Stagecoach or an Arriva bus. If you decide to get an all day bus pass, make sure you get on the Stagecoach bus when you purchase it. You can use it on either Stagecoach or Arriva but the pass on the Stagecoach is only 3.30 and the Arriva is 3.90. 60p in savings! Yes, I fully expect you to buy me a Toffee Crisp with your savings.

Oh yeah, also saw this at the pub this weekend.   No, I have no idea what it was about.

Also, for Beth, some Liverpool fashion:

I'm not dead, but I feel like I should be

March sucks.   Well, THIS March sucks.  I'm sick with yet another bug and although it's only 9 PM, I'm going to bed....and this is the latest I've stayed up all week.  Sorry, A,. for not sending your egg yet.  Sorry world, for not giving you a new post.  Sorry, husband, for getting you sick (again).  Sorry, vodka, for not opening you once this week.  Sorry, tea kettle, for over-using you.   Sorry sorry sorry zzzzzzzzzz....eggplant jacuzzi fly!

My Public Apology to My Husband

So if you read my Henry blog, you will know that we’ve had to deal with a sick baby for the first part of March. It turned out that Henry contracted a bad stomach flu which lead into 5 solid days of very unsolid shits and lots and lots of vomit. I was averaging 4-5 loads of laundry per day which included not only Henry’s clothes, but our clothes that were in direct fire. That doesn’t even include the bed linens and one lovely load of wash where there were 5 stuffed animals with their little faces swimming around the machine. I am glad to report that Henry is indeed on the mend now, but I am sad to say that both Andy and I have caught it. It’s not been a good month thus far.

There's a lot of this going on in this house.

As you can imagine, dealing with a sick baby has its own set of challenges. I will fully admit that I am not the most patient person in the world and I will also admit fully to being easily frustrated when things aren’t going well. If you tack on lack of sleep, you might as well be handling a badger with a ticking bomb inside. This is to say that by day three of the child being ill, I kind of lost my shit.

The fact of the matter is, I yelled at my husband. The English use the phrase, “shouty” by the way. It was Sunday morning and we were all upstairs in Henry’s room changing yet another diaper blow-out. Andy and I both had on fresh clothes and Henry had just been put in clean pajamas. As Andy picked Henry up from the changing table, “BLEEEEEEEGH!” puke everywhere, though mainly down Andy’s shirt. I grabbed Henry and began the process of changing him into another pair of clean pajamas. Andy in the meantime was just standing there dazed. I know that dazed look because I had that same look every time Henry had a diaper blow-out. It’s that whole, “I have no idea on where to begin cleaning this.” This didn’t stop me from saying, “Don’t stand there like a dillweed, do something!”

This brings me to the following points:

1. Who the hell uses the word “dillweed”? I mean, I have a complete catalog of colorful phrases and insults and the one I pick out of all of them is “dillweed”?

2. When was the last time “dillweed” was used as an insult before last Sunday? It’s got to be awhile. By my records, the last time it was used as an insult was in 1994 at Chad Banister’s 8th grade basement graduation party and it was used unintentionally ironically. Yes, that can happen.

3. Why is “dillweed” even an insult? I’m going to start calling people “parsleyhead” and see if it catches on.

4. Did you know that Americans eat 9 pounds of pickles per person per year? The internet said so, so you know it’s true.

From harmless herb to 90's insult - what went wrong dill weed?

Due to my frustrations and everything that has happened since last Sunday, I never did apologize to Andy for calling him a dillweed. So here’s my public apology: I’m sorry Andy for calling you a dillweed. Next time you are covered in vomit and you are standing there wondering what to do next, I promise I will not call you a name such as dillweed, turdface, dumbbell, nincompoop, or parsleyhead. However, if I actually remember “ignoramus” I might say that because it’s a funny word to say…but I won’t mean it seriously, promise.

And the Winner is....

Congrats!  And thanks for everyone for commenting by the way.  I feel all warm and fuzzy inside and that's only somewhat from the stomach flu I caught off of Henry.

UPDATE: I just want to clarify that the voice I use in this video is my "speaking to Henry voice" and not my normal voice.  Coincidentally, this is also my waitress voice when I used to be a server.

*By the way....whomever A. is, please email me at casey4791 at Yahoo (dot) com with your address details on where to send the runner up prize.

Mom Gail Asks...

So I was a bit surprised when I read a comment from Beth’s mom, Gail, in last week’s post. Not that I was surprised at the content of the comment but rather that I sometimes forget who all knows about and reads this blog. Gail (or as I call her - ‘Mom Gail’- due to the semi-raising she did of me during the very angst ridden 16th year of my life (and with a smile on her face during it no less!)) is one of those incredibly kind, gives the shirt off of her back sort of person. She’s also a great listener and as the comment so shows, also can throw out a good curse and sarcastic remark when the need arises. Because of this, I decided to answer her questions posed in her comment for you…and for her obviously. I’ve also sent a couple Radio Times her way.

Sadly, if there is anything I know about with great detail, its television. Television had a great hand in raising me too. Not only can I count to 10 in Spanish in my sleep, know which this is not like the other, but thanks to Kirk Cameron in that fateful ‘Growing Pains’ episode, I know that cocaine is Bad Business. For the thousands upon thousands of hours of television watching I’ve done in my life time, I think those three things alone are well worth any potential brain damage I might have occurred along the way.

With that said, this post will probably bore anyone who claims to “never watch television” or my personal favorite, “doesn’t even own a television – just watches a few things on the internet” to tears. Those who never watch or don’t have access to a BBC broadcast like BBC America won’t probably be that interested either. No worries. This one is for Mom Gail and for that couch I probably ruined sleeping on it night after night.

Mom Gail Asks….What The Fuck Happened to DR WHO? On BBC America I watched the WHO marathon in FALL and thought it lead to the new season,,,,But Noooo WTF

This is a tough one to respond to because I don’t know how far in the season Mom Gail has watched. Is she on the Matt Smith ones yet? I will assume that she watched the latest season that was broadcast last summer. That’s the thing with many British series. They will have 8-12 episodes in their season then that’s it for the year. Dr. Who, which is a popular show, has gotten a Christmas Special every year since 2005. The Christmas Specials are a tad longer than “regular” episodes with a Christmas theme. Some years they have thrown in an Easter special as well. From the official Dr. Who website, it doesn’t look like they’ll be having another “special” episode before the official season starts again this spring\summer. Basically, if you’ve seen “The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe” then you are up to date and I know no more than you do.

On a side note, my all time favorite Dr. Who Christmas Special was “the Runaway Bride” with Tennant as the Doctor and Donna Noble as his sidekick. The bit where the Doctor is waiting for the ATM machine just gets me in stitches…because I SO DO THAT. Well, the annoyed face anyhow. I wish I could get the ATM to spit out free money. (Note: This episode was cut short for the BBC America version to fit in the commercials and the ATM scene was completely cut out.)

"What are you deleting my best scenes for America?"

Mom Gail Asks…Is Graham Norton Big in Liverpool? I think he's a hoot.

I wouldn’t necessarily say Graham Norton is big out here but he certainly pops up in a lot of places…or at least it seems like he does. I haven’t really heard any negative press about him either so I’m assuming he’s pretty well received. The only thing I know of for sure is that his talk show used to be shown on BBC 4 – a channel that is known for taking risks on shows that might not do well with the general public but are usually the most funny and entertaining – and in the last year or so, the show was moved to the more mainstream BBC 1. You might have noticed a slight change in the format with this move. There are usually more guests on now and far less audience participation. I really miss the old format. The only reason why I started watching in the first place (I’m not a big fan of talk shows) was because the audience really got to be involved with the show and the guests. Now, not so much. Andy and I almost threw in the towel in regards to watching the show altogether with that horrible Madonna episode a few weeks back. Sadly, when we see “Graham Norton” recorded on the DVR, it’s no longer “Oh yay! A Graham Norton is recorded!” it’s more of a “there’s nothing else on – want to watch this week old Graham Norton episode?”

"I also do EuroVision, bitches."

Mom Gail Asks…What is the point of Top Gear or is that just shown is in USA?

I am so going to get in trouble for this one. And I want to clarify before I get into trouble; we will be discussing the UK version of “Top Gear” and not that Jell-O flavored remake with Muppets as the hosts “Top Gear” they tried to pull off in the States.

What is the point of ‘Top Gear’? Who knows? It’s an entertainment show about cars. Being a fan of cars though, I really enjoy ‘Top Gear’. Well, I should clarify again. The thing I like best about ‘Top Gear’ is not the Stig. I hate the Stig. I also hate the pointless reviews of super cars I will never in my lifetime be able to afford. I find the Star in a Reasonably Priced Car somewhat amusing. But what I absolutely LOVE about ‘Top Gear’ and the thing that keeps me watching week after week is the stupid challenges. It’s not so much seeing what shitty automobile can actually make it to the destination but more of how each of the hosts tries to fuck each other up with secret car modifications or awkward gifts that they are required to take with them. I still giggle when I think of Richard Hammond taking that 4 foot long replica model of a sailboat on a back of a little motorcycle in Vietnam with the broken mast flying in the wind. Basically, it’s the Top Gear Specials that I really truly enjoy and I would recommend watching them before completely dismissing ‘Top Gear’ altogether.

Oh, and the thing that will get me in trouble? I LIKE Jeremy Clarkson. There, I said it. He’s rude, obnoxious, a terrible dresser, completely unenvironmental, completely non-PC and pisses people off from time to time. I don’t know, he reminds me of my Dad.

Hee.

Mom Gail Asks…I think An Idiot Abroad gives UK manhood a VERY bad look. It's kinda like our Paris Hilton shows with boobs. Oh wait, she doesn't have any.

You crack me up Mom Gail. Yes, I agree. Karl Pilkington does give UK manhood a very bad rap though I don’t think that’s the intention. I think part of the show’s humor is showing that some people in the UK don’t feel comfortable out of the UK…like Karl Pilkington. I think the show works outside of the UK because there are people everywhere that are like that. I know people in Wisconsin who the farthest they have traveled is to Illinois…once…in 1994. Their whole outlook is, “I’ve got everything here that I want, why go somewhere else?” As “Idiot Abroad” shows, it’s really quite humorous taking someone completely out of their comfort zone and forcing them to experience other cultures. Plus, I think it’s a reality check for those of us who romanticize travel destinations. I know that for myself the IDEA of trekking out to the jungle to see gorillas sounds awesome but as I’m watching Karl Pilkington complain about it the entire way, I realize that I would be complaining right along there with him walking for HOURS only to MAYBE see a gorilla that might just attack you. I think I’ll keep that one off the bucket list. Thanks Karl.

"Why did I have to come here?  I already have the picture."

Mom Gail Asks…Does Simon Cowell insult future stars or is he only in America now?

I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since I left the States. I will cheerfully report that he must have fallen into a well and is currently being eaten by badgers.


Mom Gail Asks…So What is the Telly like after 8pm?

Good use in the word ‘telly’ there! I have sent you two complimentary copies of the Radio Times to answer that. You can use any British slang you might have roaming around in your noggin to do the crossword puzzle in the back. I’ve been here a year and without fail there is always one answer to a clue that was a Britishism that I had no idea about. Last week, it was “remould”. This means to “retread”, as in tires….or, since the Brits don’t think ‘Y’s are used enough, “tyres”.

Thanks Mom Gail for reading!

**********************************

I have a gigantic chocolate Easter egg sitting on my table waiting to be sent to one lucky winner. Apparently my ploy for comments has failed…or the prize isn’t good enough. Free money if you comment! Free money if you comment! Free money if you comment! And by “money” I mean “lots of heartfelt thanks”.

Just look the other way...it's for the best

So I’ve been struggling these past two weeks trying to think of an interesting blog post that didn’t involve the kid. Henry has been growing in leaps and bounds recently and I spend most of my time thinking of ways to keep him entertained. Added in all of this is the fact that Andy and I have been trying to save money so we haven’t gone out much at all. I think our biggest trip in the whole of February was driving to Hale (countryside Liverpool) trying to get Henry to nap. We had a pub lunch after he woke up. It was very nice.

Our very mild winter is quickly turning to an early spring. It’s been in the 50’s for the past two weeks so I’ve tried to get myself and the Henbot out in the sun as much as possible. Again, because we are trying to save money this mostly involves going to the park to feed the ducks and have a go on the swings. It’s been very pleasant but not exactly blog material.

I did have this whole post planned called “Why you CAN complain about California’s weather” which involved a lot of rambling. The whole gist of the post was that because California is sunny and lovely all the time you rarely appreciate it; whilst in England (and most of the world really) because the weather is so miserable all winter, once the sun comes out you really make an effort to enjoy it for all it’s worth. Yes, I was going to make a whole post about that. I’m struggling people.

I could tell you that I made a batch of Toll House chocolate chip cookies last week using a precious bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips that I brought back from the States only to fuck them up by not having quite enough flour and just forging through with the recipe anyhow. Are you bored yet?

Oh, the children’s center that I protested to stay open? They’re staying open. Yay.

I need new sandals. I have a pair of Doc’s in sandal form but I can’t walk for very long in them. I was thinking about getting a pair of Clark’s - maybe for my birthday.

When I was back in WI, the lovely Cat at Champion’s taught me how to purl stitch. I did a whole row of purl before Henry lost his grab on the drawer he was pulling out and thwacked his head on the table leg. Much crying ensued. Knitting was hence forgotten.

So yeah, how about those summer Olympics? London…woo.

OK, fuck this shit. Cost be damned, I’ll send one of you one of those gigantic chocolate Easter eggs I’ve been seeing in Tesco since January; all you have to do is leave me a comment and tell me who would win the battle in a poisonous frog vs. Oompa Loompa fight. I’ll put all your names* in a hat and let Henry draw the winner – that is, if I can read it before he put the paper in his mouth and eats it. Comment by March 8, 2012 to enter.

Your egg won't be this big.  Sorry.  I might be able to send a pair of severed hands though if that's what you're into.

In the meantime, I’m going to do some research online to find some shit to do so I never have to give you another post like this one.

*Unless no one else comments, if I am related to you or have known you in real life before this blog existed, I'm going to have to exclude you from the drawing.  However, that is not to say I won't send you a giant chocolate egg in exchange for Trident White gum, Q-tips and Kraft Mac & Cheese.

The sunshine took this post

There is no post this week because all I could think of writing was about the weather...which happened to be lovely for about 10 hours over the course of two days this week.   Henry and I went to the park during that time - which is to say that I walked to the park two days on the trot and had to clean the house today due to all the mud we collected.   That reminds me - it doesn't matter how much Shout you use, sometimes mud just won't come out of jeans.   Anyhow, here's a cute picture of my kid who fell asleep moments before we were due to feed the ducks.

I can't wait for summer.

The Official One Year Post

So welcome to my official One Year of Expatism! According to Microsoft Office, ‘expatism’ is not an actual word. Right-click MS Word - Add to Dictionary. There, it’s a word. I find it hard to believe that I’ve been here a year already… it feels like two or three. Oh, ha.

Because I’m lacking in inspiration to come up with my own fantastical, thought inspiring, informative expat anniversary post, I’ve decided to answer in essay form Beth’s fantastical, thought inspiring and informative questions regarding being an expat.

BETH’S FIRST FANTASTICAL, THOUGHT-INSPIRING, INFORMATIVE QUESTION ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT: How have you assimilated into the culture?

The thing about assimilation is that unless you are held captive by war mongering aliens who inject you with a special alien serum via a skull cap with 2,565 pointy needles, assimilation happens very slowly and usually without you actually noticing it happening until someone points it out to you. As I’m currently the alien in this scenario and not of the war mongering type, I can confirm that quite a great deal of assimilation has occurred but I don’t really notice it. I’ll run through a few highlights as an example.

In the morning I wash the dishes by hand. I no longer think about dishwashers unless I’m in a pissy mood. I also load my laundry in the kitchen, which no longer seems strange to me. If it was warm out, I’d hang said laundry out on the line even though I currently have a tumble dryer. It really isn’t as much as a pain in the ass as it might sound like. Also, I use the word ‘tumble dryer’ instead of ‘clothes dryer’ or just ‘dryer’.

The kid watches CBeebies in the mornings. I can distinguish between the English, Scottish, Welsh and Australians accents the different cartoon characters have. The kid eats porridge instead of oatmeal. He gets his nappy changed, rides in a pram, and sleeps in a cot. I hate saying ‘nappy’ but I use the word so I don’t mess up when talking to other people. I personally think ‘cot’ is better than ‘crib’.

Don't get me started on Captain Barnacle.

Later in the day I’ll walk to the store, or the Children’s Centre, or the high street, or to the park. I don’t yearn to drive as what little I’ve done here is nerve racking with the tiny streets. I still miss the driving in the States though. My legs are used to walking and I only curse a little bit if I have to walk across cobblestones. I still think spelling ‘center’ as ‘centre’ looks weird.

I spend a lot of time in charity shops. Money is tight here and there is no point in buying new when you can buy used at a faction of the cost. I can’t remember the last time I bought something online that wasn’t food. I can’t remember when I last had a haircut. I need new shoes but I’ll wait until they’re falling apart. I’ll spend over an hour doing the online grocery shop comparing prices at three different stores and will get excited if I save 35p on tomatoes. Unless you work for the BBC, there is no such thing as disposal income. Not like there is in the States anyways. Thank fuck beer is cheap.

Later in the evening when the baby has been put to bed, I peruse the Radio Times to see what’s on. I’m very used to the fact that a television series could be only 2 episodes worth (sometimes more) but usually less than 8. That’s quality television – not 23 episodes per season with each episode containing 4 minutes of actual plot. If you don’t read the Radio Times, you might miss a great 3 episode show. Anyone see ‘Call the Midwife’ yet? If you have a vagina, this is a must-see.


BETH’S SECOND FANTASTICAL, THOUGHT-INSPIRING, INFORMATIVE QUESTION ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT: Do you take anything for granted yet?

I actually had to go outside for a cigarette to give this one a good think. The thing about taking something for granted is that you never actually think about it. After careful consideration (and I’m embarrassed to admit this) that the one thing I take for granted is the NHS. The NHS has its faults. My god, does it have its faults. But at the end of the day never have I given it a thought on what would happen if one of us got sick, or in an accident, or were returned by war mongering aliens with 2,565 holes in our head. In the past year I haven’t received one single medical bill. In the past year I never had to worry about deductibles or hit the ATM to grab some cash for a co-pay. I never had to ask the pharmacist for the cheaper generic brand. Like I said, the NHS isn’t perfect, far from it, but as a stay at home mother with a little child, it really great not having to worry about it.

BETH’S THIRD FANTASTICAL, THOUGHT-INSPIRING, INFORMATIVE QUESTION ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT: Do you find yourself with an accent sometimes?

No, I don’t have any hint of a British accent. Beth can actually attest to this as she saw me two weeks ago. I’m too old and set in my way of speech that my accent doesn’t morph like that anymore. Sadly, this is so true that even though I haven’t lived in Wisconsin for over 8 years, I still carry the long ‘O’ that is so prevalent for that area (“you knooow”).

What’s funny is that I hung around an old friend of mine when I was back home – he took me to a bar (of course) and both him and the bartender claimed that I had an accent. What Andy explained to me is that because so much British vernacular has slipped into my normal speech, it can appear that I have an accent when really I’m just saying British phrases in a regular American accent.

Beth actually caught me out on using ‘faffing’. It’s probably one of my favorite British words at the moment, meaning to intentionally or unintentionally waste time. I used to say “dilly-dallying” but that’s way too fucking long. By the way, you can also ‘faff about’ if you so choice.

This is one of the first images that came up when I did a Google image search for 'faffing'.  You can draw your own conclusions.

BETH’S FOURTH FANTASTICAL, THOUGHT-INSPIRING, INFORMATIVE QUESTION ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT: Do you still consider yourself hooked on American things?

If my bulging suitcase last week is any sign to whether or not I’m hooked on American things, then yes, yes I am. This actually can fall into two categories – American things that I can’t get in England and American things that you can get a version of in England but they aren’t nearly as good.

American things that I can’t get in England (NOTE: You can get some AMERICAN products here in overpriced AMERICAN shops, but you can’t find them at Tesco): Kraft Mac & Cheese, Ibuprofen in 500 count bottles (pain killers are typically sold in packs of 24, no more), Toll House semi-sweet chocolate chips, Lucky Charms, lemonade mix, Nutter Butters, Cheetos, Bisquick, sloppy joe mix, sleeping pills containing doxylamine and Trident White gum.

American things that you can get a version of in England but they aren’t nearly as good: The big one – Q-tips. If I stick one more British ‘cotton swab’ in my ear thinking it will be anything more than a sickly piece of string wrapped around some flimsy plastic, it will be too soon. Q-tips are like fluffy clouds gently massaging the yellow wax away from your inner ear. Pure Ear-gasam.

My ears sing for you.   Hard work considering they only know how to play the drums.  Pa-dum-dum.

BETH’S FIFTH AND LAST FANTASTICAL, THOUGHT-INSPIRING, INFORMATIVE QUESTION ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT: If you could do it again, would you?

Hell yeah. Living abroad has always been a dream of mine. If I hadn’t done it I would have always wondered about it. I can’t say it was everything I thought it would be, but I don’t regret for a moment doing it.

Bittersweet

So when I was in my twenties and back living in Wisconsin, I would go to the family functions as expected. At the Christmas family functions, my grandparents would – not knowing what in the world a 24 year old could possibly want (besides sinful sex and hedonistic rock-n-roll) – give me a card with some cash in it. One set of grandparents always gave me a check. This of course means that I couldn’t spend this money until the banks opened two days after Christmas. My granny though would always put in hard cold cash in the form of a ten or twenty. I always gave her a big hug and kiss and promised that I would spend her gift on something I’d been wanting like a new CD or some shoes.

Truth of the matter is, after the family function dispersed and I was left to my own devices, I typically found myself at my local pub with nothing in my wallet except that twenty from granny. As I ordered my first pint, I turned to my friend and said, “Nothing says booze like Grandma.”

Last week my granny passed away. It was a bit of a shock that no one really expected. I was (and am) heartbroken. Granny was by far one of my favorite people in the whole wide world. When I learned that she had died, I turned to Andy and told him that it didn’t matter if we couldn’t afford it, I was going to Wisconsin to be with the family and to say good-bye to her in person. Two days later I was on a plane back home.

In the 9 days I have been back, I have spent more time with my family that I thought was humanly possible. We laughed a lot, we’ve cried a lot, we’ve made jokes at each other’s expense, we’ve fought a bit, we’ve drunk a bit, and we sure as hell have eaten our weight in fatty Wisconsin food.

After granny’s memorial service, the whole lot of us went to a Polish restaurant for a buffet dinner. Yes, there was sauerkraut on the menu. My brother and I as well as a couple of our cousins went up to the bar for a round of drinks. It occurred to me that I had absolutely zero cash in my wallet – except for a $50 bill that I had just received that morning – a Christmas gift from granny that my parents had forgotten to send. I turned to my brother and cousins and told them, “I’ve got this round! Well, granny has this round because nothing says booze like Grandma.” I can’t believe that’s the last time I’ll be able to say that.

********

Very sad things aside, it’s been an interesting trip back. It’s a huge coincidence that I happen to be here exactly a year after I moved to England. I ended up watching the Superbowl in the exact same bar I watched it last year (though with less excitement). I’ll be landing back in England on the exact same date I landed there last year. At least when I land this time I’ll know what the hell I’m getting into.

By the way, after moaning about kosher dill pickles for over 8 months I can proudly say that I have had some. Some? That’s probably an understatement. I’ve pretty much bathed in them for 9 days. As it turned out, my father picked me up from the airport. On the drive back home he said he needed to pick up some things at Sam’s Club and would I possibly want anything. “Kosher dill pickles,” I replied. As anyone who has been to Sam’s Club knows, there is no such thing as a reasonable portion size there. While I could have waited and just gone to a normal grocery store at some point, I saw this jar and my eyes glazed over. I was in pickle euphoria. I made my sister model this mongo jar of pickles with a normal sized jar of pickles for comparison.

To answer your question, no, I didn’t manage to eat the entire jar. I tried. I think at one point I challenged myself to do it. In the end I got through 5 gigantic pickles – each gigantic pickle being equal to that of 4 regular sized pickles. The remaining pickles in the gigantic jar now reside at my brother’s house where they will probably remain until 2018 when one of my brother’s drunken friends eats the rest as a bet. As for me, it is best that I don’t retain salt or my ankles would look like Goodyear tires by now.

Anyhow, I head back to England tomorrow. I’m ready to see my husband and my little Henbot. No, I’m so desperately anxious to see them I feel like climbing in my dad’s car right now and tapping my fingers in anticipation until I get driven to the airport. It’s been a bittersweet trip home and all my boozin’ grandma cash is spent.

*********

Unless I die in a fiery plane crash, I’ll be back next week with my very special One Year in England Anniversary post.

SRD

So because I didn’t do much of consequence this past week besides getting the flu (damn you English weather!), I thought I’d give you a Beth post. If you’ve been reading for any length of time you know a Beth post is one in which I describe a something that is particularly British. These posts are to make her feel both guilty and grateful that she hasn’t come to visit me yet. They might also be my little way of swinging some knowledge around because heaven knows I have precious little of that to swing. Unless of course you want to know how to knit a scarf using the knit stitch; I’m a goddamn expert on that. I can’t purl stitch and I can’t knit anything but scarves but seriously…I’m really really good at it.

I could make you one of these in my sleep.

So yes! Today’s Beth post is about the very traditional British Sunday Roast Dinner. I’m only remembering to post something about this as I was just at one this past Sunday. Because I don’t have enough knowledge to swing about to tell you about the history of the Sunday Roast Dinner (SRD henceforth), I can only tell you what I know about it now.

As the name suggests, SRD is held on Thursday. Oh, ha ha. Yes, it’s on SUNDAY. From my experience, SRD occur after church, are attended by as many family members that are available, are usually held in a pub, and are reserved for special occasions such as birthdays, Easter, birth of a child, a new hair transplant, or because Jamie is going to Chester for 3 days and we don’t know if we’ll ever see him again. I’m sure that SRD happen weekly in some families and that some families cook their SRD at home. I’ve yet to see this though so I can’t tell you for sure.

SRD...not usually served with entertainment, or with blood in your gravy.

Almost every pub that serves food and is considered a family pub (ie: children are allowed in until 7 PM) will serve SRD on Sunday. The menu rarely varies. You get your choice of chicken, ham or beef served with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas\broccoli\beans, carrots and cabbage. The whole lot is covered in gravy. It sounds filling (which it is) but it’s amazing how much of it you can put down if you don’t eat the vile cabbage.

Just push the cabbage onto a separate plate.  Might as well do the carrots too.

The first time I was invited out for SRD was about three weeks after we first moved here. It wasn’t described to me as SRD; it was simply, “we’re meeting the family for lunch”. Now, I don’t know how your family goes out to eat in restaurant – especially in regards to lunch. I know my family is pretty impatient and will quickly run out of things to talk about so we tend to be in and out of places within an hour. My first SRD though…shit, it took us an hour to order. It then took at least 40 minutes for the food to arrive, 20 minutes to eat it all and another hour to order dessert and coffee and finally decide to leave. I’ve noticed that SRD on average will run you 3 to 3 ½ hours. What’s funny though, it never SEEMS like it’s that long as the conversation (at least with Andy’s family) flows really well.

What the best thing about a British SRD? Nobody gives you the stink eye when you order dessert. Nobody feels the urge to tell you how many calories you are consuming with that dessert. Best of all, you won’t be the only one ordering dessert and you certainly won’t be the person to suggest having dessert. (For Beth: In the north of England, dessert is called ‘pudding’. It doesn’t matter if you are having pudding or not (pudding as we know it is called custard anyhow) – it could be cake or a lemon tart – it’s all called ‘pudding’. So at the end of the meal someone will say, “Well I’m having a ‘pud’ – anyone else?”). Also, no matter what dessert you order you will always be offered either a scoop of ice cream or custard with it. I highly suggest the custard, unless it’s the chocolate fudge cake, then the ice cream is much preferable. I KNOW WAY TOO MUCH ABOUT THE DESSERTS HERE.

Never underestimate the deliciousness of custard.

For the record, if you are ever at Sunday Roast Dinner, don’t feel obligated to actually have the traditional Sunday Roast. Have the lasagna. Have the All Day Full English Breakfast. Have a sandwich. It doesn’t matter. You just have to eat.

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BTW, its two weeks until my anniversary post and I’ve yet to get any suggestions on what you’d like to read. I was thinking about doing a daily sausage taste test but then I made myself sick thinking about eating all those sausages (dirty!). Seriously, if you don’t come up with anything, I’m just going to post a picture of my butt and trust me, NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT.

Snapshots from a post that never was

So Andy won’t let me go to Lithuania. We were talking about our trip to Spain and how great it was that we got cigarettes at a fraction of the cost. He then mentioned that he was trying to work out if it was worth it to go to Spain again to get more cigarettes at some point. I said surely Poland would have cheaper cigarettes and that I was more than willing to go for a night to get some. Andy laughed at me. After researching it a bit, I found that not only does Lithuania have even cheaper cigarettes than Poland, there’s a round trip flight from Liverpool for only £40. A night in a hostel is only £10! If I bought six cartons of cigarettes, that’s still a savings of £100.

I turn to Andy and say, “So, shall I book it?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Waaa, why not?”

“Do you even know the capital of Lithuania?”

“Do you?”

….

“So, shall I book it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t get to go.”

“So? Do you even want to go to Lithuania?”

“Do you?”

“YES!”

“Well, so do I.”

Grr.

Lithuania: You and I shall never meet.

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I’ve been thinking about kosher dill pickles a lot. Of all the things I miss about America, kosher dill pickles are one of the biggest miss. This is simply because unlike most other things I miss, I can’t pimp my family and friends out from the States to send me some. They are considered produce and are forbidden by Customs. Such is my yearning for kosher dill pickles I have even considered spending the £3.37 (plus additional shipping) to have some. I know it’s insane. But so is having a turkey sandwich or a grilled cheeseburger without pickles.

Before you chastise me and say that I can in fact get kosher dill pickles in the UK at any major grocery food chain, let me correct you and tell you I cannot. While you can purchase many a jar (or can) of pickles that say “kosher dill” on them here (which I have), there is not a one of them that doesn’t contain sugar. Not that I’m against sugar. I love sugar. I just don’t like them in my pickles. Seriously, sweet pickles are just gross. I’ve actually made myself sick before from having a (proper) kosher dill pickle and following it up with a sweet grape.

I have dreams about you.

*****************************************************

As you may remember from my ‘X’ post awhile back, I have vehemently refused to sign anything with an ‘X’ for the entire time that I have been in England. For the sake of being honest, I must admit that I have finally broken down and sent not one, but two texts to a friend and signed them with an ‘X’. It felt weird, and no I didn’t want to make out with her. I simply did it because this particular woman is one of those horribly sweet and kind ladies that you wonder why in the world they’d want to hang out with a cold-hearted bitch like myself. What mystifies me even further is how well I get along with this wonderfully sweet and kind woman, even as I’m holding myself back from releasing the f-bomb during our conversations and asking if she’d like to do shots.

Anyhow, this particular friend is moving away from the area (Is it me? Don’t answer that) and we were texting back and forth last night with general chit chat. As she signs every single one of her texts with an ‘X’, the guilt of it all finally got to me. Like I said, I felt weird doing it – I felt like a phony really – but I did it. But don’t any of you fuckers think I’m going to pull that shit again.

Want to do some shots?

No?  More for me then.

*****************************************************

So my one year anniversary of living in England is coming up in the next couple of weeks. I’m taking suggestions on what kind of anniversary post you’d like to read. Would you like more cultural differences? British products? A general reflection? Pros and Cons? “If I was a real Brit I’d…”? Leave me a comment and let me know. I’m open to other suggestions as well. Sadly, there is no way to have fireworks shoot out when you open that post. Well, I’m sure there is, but seriously, have you seen the price of fireworks recently?

MISSING: The Toilet Seats in Malaga

So as Liz correctly guessed, Andy and I went to Malaga, Spain this past week. It was our two year anniversary so by my math, the one year anniversary is Get Too Caught Up In Moving Abroad That You Completely Forget That It’s Your Anniversary (to replace Paper) and the 2nd year anniversary is Find The Cheapest Flight To Anywhere Warm Just To Get Away From Your Non-Sleeping Kid Even Though You Still Can’t Actually Afford The Expense (to replace Cotton).

By all accounts, I wanted to not like Spain very much. This is solely due to some repressed teenage angst I have against my mother who thinks Spain is the best country in the world (besides the US of course - she’s very patriotic) and who has a fetish for speaking Spanish at any opportunity. I was going to call this post “If my mother calls it ‘Espana’ one more time…”. But I’ve been there now and I found the current post title a bit more apt and dammit, I loved Spain very very much. Grrrr….mother.

One thing my mother asked, as well as Vegemite Wife, was why we only went to Spain for two days. The very simple answer is that we have a very small child. Even the greatest of nanas can only tolerate watching very small children for a short amount of time. Would I have liked to stay a week? You betcha. Could we have stayed a week without worry that Henry would be dropped at the nearest charity shop after Day 3? Not so much. Until the Henbot is able to be reasonable (I’m thinking this will occur around 300 months), we will have to continue to do short trips. Grrr….babies.

So yes! Spain! I could go through our entire itinerary but that would bore both you and me to death, so instead I will just do sections. For example:

THE FOOD

Andy and I actually both had a bit of a tough time dining in Spain. Andy is a vegetarian and I don’t eat fish. Being on the sea, most of Spain is known for their seafood which was completely lost on us. We were also trying to keep our costs down so we never went anywhere upscale that might have had more options for us. The long and short of it is, we ate A LOT of cheese sandwiches. Well Andy did. I also had some meat based tapas, roasted almonds, chocolate and churros, spaghetti, chicken baguettes, pancetta, and some tacos from Taco Bell because it’s been so damn long since I had Taco Bell.

Andy had potatoes.  Because he had to.

Quick note about Taco Bell – I might have been drinking a bit when I went in (which I think is the only true reason why Taco Bell stays in business) and I had it in my head that because it was Taco Bell and Taco Bell was American, surely I could walk in and say, “Two crunchy tacos please” and the cashier would know exactly what I was saying. As it was, there was a lot of pointing and “que?” and I don’t know the Spanish phrase for “to go” (or “take away”) and I got soft tacos instead of crunchy ones and they weren’t ANYTHING like the tacos in the States but I ate them and liked them because I may have been drinking. Also, a burrito is going to run you 5 Euros ($6.33) but a taco is only a single Euro ($1.26).

I do want it known that I desperately wanted to try paella. They have meat based paella and vegetarian paella at some places. Of course when the opportunity arose itself and I ordered it, I was told “finito” (all gone). Damn it!

Churros con chocolate

My final thoughts on the food:

The Spanish make the best coffee I’ve ever had.

And the sugar packets were huge!

If you go hungry while you are drinking, you are doing something wrong as they give you snacks with every drink.

If you are in Malaga and you want a cheap and fresh and absolutely tasty food option, hit the Ataranzas Market before 1 PM. They have meat, cheese, bread, fresh produce, fish (ew) and snacks.

What great bananas you have!

Pick a cheese, any cheese

Dirty!

THE TOURIST STUFF

I can’t say I did much research before we got to Malaga. What little searching I did, I came up with 4 things that I thought might be interesting to see. The first was the Ataranzas Market as mentioned above. The others were the Picasso museum, the old Roman Theater, and the beach. I don’t have any interesting stories to tell about these places (its tourist shit after all) but here are the pictures to prove we did it.

Picasso Museum.  You couldn't take photos of the art itself, so just pretend my nose is hanging out of my ear

Roman Theater.  Something with Jim Carey was on so we decided to skip it.

Andy fucking around on the tire swing on the beach.  It was awesome.

El Dorkus Malokus en la playa

No idea what this is, but it's pretty.

Still no idea.

THE DRINKING

Another reason why we chose Malaga besides the cheap plane tickets is because we knew that the prices on drinks were also relatively inexpensive. On average, a large San Miguel ran about 2.50-3 Euros. Sangria was also the same price. A heavy handed pour cocktail of any kind was 4-5 Euros.

Mmm...Sangria

You know in all movies and TV shows, when someone goes into a bar and orders a beer, the bartender never asks what type of beer they want? That totally happens in Spain. The first place we went into we said, “cerveza?” The waiter said, “beer? OK.” That was it. At many places we went to, if you order beer, you get San Miguel.

Wish you were here.  Hell, which I was still here.

If you are in Malaga, I recommend going to the Antiguo Casa de Guardia which is the oldest bar in Malaga (1840). They have a long line of wooden casks of different type of sweet wines and sherries (which Malaga is known for) and you can get a taste of any of them for around 2-3 Euros.

Note: You may not want to show up here half in the bag at closing time.  Just so you know.

THE ODDS AND ENDS

I wrote on Facebook while I was there that “High School Spanish is failing me.” I took Spanish for approximately two years in school and never achieved more than a C grade at it. While we got by OK while we were there, there were some definite frustrations and humor trying to communicate.

On the second night my guts revolted on me. It might have been all the booze or rich food or whatever but my guts expanded to that of a Goodyear blimp. We went into a pharmacy where I gently asked, “hablo ingles?” The lady behind the counter shook her head no and I looked at Andy with desperate eyes. I looked back at the lady and did this impression of a dead person holding their stomach with their tongue hanging out. She responded with an impression of someone rubbing their belly while eating something sour. I nodded eagerly. She went and got a packet of some pills then did an impression of an Oompa-Loompa – cheeks puffed out while waving her arms around to signal a huge gut. Yes! Thank you pharmacy lady, I have too much gas! I could have kissed her.

When you want to wash your fine linens with your ass.

During that same bad gut episode, we were walking around searching for a toilet in which I could…well, I don’t have give you details now do I? Every place we went into, the toilet seat in the ladies room was missing. We went into 5 different places before finding one that was so posh it had a seat on the toilet. It hadn’t occurred to me previously because I hadn’t the absolute need to sit down before, but many of the toilet seats in the ladies rooms were missing in Malaga. Many times, the men’s toilet had one, but the ladies did not. Andy and I were convinced that there was a Ladies Toilet Seat thief on the loose in the area. It was probably in the papers but my Spanish is so bad (muy mal!) that I wouldn’t be able to read it.

 No, YOU'RE El Pimpi.

 Andy and the missing tambourine.

"What do you mean we have to go home?  What is this small child that you speak of?"

Getting away

There's no proper post this week as we're finally taking a well deserved break from the man child.  We're going here: 

I'll give you a buck if you can name the city and country this is.   OK, that's a total lie.  After this vacation, we won't have any bucks leftover to give.  Plus, I work in pounds now bitches.   But hey, it's still fun to guess.  No cheating Facebook friends.

The Tale of Two Intoxications

So due to Beth’s most recent comment on my last post, I felt a bit obliged to tell the tale of my Boxing Day shenanigans. This also inspired me to tell you about my New Years where I also got horrifically intoxicated. Having said that, I have to tell the stories in chronological order and the Boxing Day explanation is a slightly more interesting read than New Years so you’ll have to read this with the knowing that I’m giving you your dessert before your kidney beans so to speak.

But before I do that, I have to address the other question that Beth posed which is to explain what this whole business with the paper hats at Christmas is. This might bore people who are very familiar with paper hats at Christmas but because Beth is my very best friend who is learning all about British culture from the worst possible source (read: me) I feel I owe it to her. Was that a run-on sentence? I think it was.

So yes! The Brits wear paper hats at Christmas. I’ve heard from many sources that they also wear paper hats at other festive occasions (birthdays, anniversaries, etc.) but I have yet to witness this first hand so I assume it is mostly a Christmas thing. I did a bit of research on the subject (ha ha! I did a Google search when I was half in the bag on New Years and clicked the first link) and the source of the hat thing apparently goes back to Roman Saturnalia where they wore hats or it could be because of the Twelfth Night thing when the king and queen overlooked the whole proceedings – basically no one really knows, they’ve just been doing it for forever. You can’t blame them though. We Americans have many nonsense traditions that we blindly follow year after year without questioning. I mean, we expect candy to be thrown from parade floats, we don’t question why. Anyhow, paper hats are always contained in the famous Christmas cracker.

A Christmas Cracker: You can put cheese on it but I can't verify how good it would taste.

The cracker will usually include a groaner joke, the paper hat, and some little trinket toy (like a mini magnifying glass or a tiny pad of paper) which you will marvel at for approximately 5 seconds before you try to sneak away and throw it in the trash before the person who bought said cracker sees you. I personally love the paper hats. Ever since I heard of their existence 8 years ago I have added them to my Christmas holiday and enforce those around me to do the same. Here’s Christmas 2007 as proof:

A California Christmas with the folks.

OK then, the debauchery stories. The first one is Boxing Day. For Beth again, Boxing Day is the day after Christmas and is also a legal holiday that everyone gets off. I guess back in the day, it was the day when people would box up gifts to give to their servants. Since nobody has servants anymore besides the queen, it is now simply an extra day to do the things that you wanted to do on Christmas but couldn’t because you were obligated to spend the day with family. Ha ha.

Because my mother-in-law is incredibly awesome, she had offered to take Henry for the night on Boxing Day. She does this, in her words, so that we can get some rest. In our defense, we really did want to rest on Boxing Day. The plan was to watch a bit of television, order some Chinese delivery, go out for a couple drinks, then be back home in bed by 10 PM. Everything was going swimmingly until the Chinese delivery portion came up.

I had placed an order on Just Eat for the Chinese place that we always go to. They accepted our order and stated that it would be 45 minutes until the food arrived. An hour and a half later, the food still hadn’t come. We called the place up but they weren’t answering their phone. I went back on Just Eat only to discover that the Chinese place had now declared their restaurant closed for the night and weren’t accepting orders. Basically, we were not at any point going to get our food.

With nothing in the house, we decided to go out to the Penny Lane Wine Bar which usually serves food. Of course, upon arrival, they weren’t serving any food but we decided to have a drink there before we continued our search. I suppose I should clarify to say ‘my search’ as Andy had already given up that we were going to be eating anytime in the near future.

The night wore on. We continued to walk pub to pub having a drink in each. I will admit that there finally came that magical time in a drinking session where food just didn’t seem important anymore and I announced that the little bag of peanuts would be quite enough to “fill me up”.

At the last pub we ventured into it was incredibly packed so we asked these too older women in their 70’s if we could possibly share their table. They agreed and we soon struck up a conversation. The two women seemed to know quite a few people in the pub and I was amazed that every 20 minutes or so, a younger man would come over with a fresh rounds of drinks for them – including shots. The women had mentioned that although the shots brought were nice, Slippery Nipples were ‘lush’ which of course prompted me to buy a round of them for the table. One mere Slippery Nipple later and I’m drunk texting the world. If tequila makes me dance, and whiskey makes me both chatty and tearful, then Sambuca makes me want to tell the world how precisely hammered I am.

It was shortly after said shot that we thought it best that we head home. I did end up making a box of macaroni and cheese despite stern Welsh warnings that you should never drink and cook.

Now on to New Years… We had decided to stay over at Andy’s mum’s house on New Years so that she could watch Henry while he slept and we went out. We had no intentions of going into Liverpool and planned just to stay and drink in the New Year at a little pub in Crosby.

I had told Andy that I wanted to get to the pub by 8 PM so that we could get a table. Andy laughed at me and said that would never happen- that it would be too packed by that time. When we arrived there at 7:30 PM the place was practically dead. We found a table in the corner and quite peacefully drank there until midnight having a lovely conversation and a bit of a debate about religion. The pub never got properly busy and I was really disappointed that when midnight struck, nobody was at all bothered. There were no streamers, or hats, or horns and definitely no champagne. I, having had quite a few double vodkas at this point, did a very obnoxious American thing by yelling “5! 4! 3! 2! 1!” with the countdown which only produced a few annoyed looks by the locals. We decided to move on.

In all fairness, there was quite a bit of commotion going on outside in the village center and I saw a bit of streamer debris on the sidewalk. Basically, we missed the party in our quest for a quieter pub. We popped into a more lively bar for one last drink and I again made an ass out of myself by trying to request dance-y songs to the DJ.

“Can you play Blue Monday?” (which probably came out, “canna you plaaaay boo monda?”

“I already played that 3 times tonight.”

“How about Dee-Lite?”

“Played 2 times already.”

“uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh, Wombats! Play Wombats! Dance Joy Division!” (It’s ‘Let’s Dance to Joy Division’ but I was hammered)

“Yeah, OK.”

So we danced to our Wombats song, downed our drink and got some food at the chippy to end our evening. Hello 2012!