nastybrilliantblighty.com – Ethnography of a B+ mom, humourist, nasty woman, foodie who is (trying to…) live life to its fullest abroad

Featured

A letter to England

My version of a living in the UK trip adviser review, in letter format to the country herself.

Year one in the UK.

My dearest Blighty:

I’ll be honest – I’ve landed here in your lovely country under duress. I lived with you years ago, and I know full well the thatched rooves and shortbreads lose their charm quickly. Since I saw you last, I have been raising children with modern North American conveniences. I’ve also just given up a real career break in the US, in favour of someone else’s big career break in the UK, so I’m bitter and resentful before we even land at Heathrow.

But my darling, it seems you’ve just not kept up with the times. In month one, my trainers have gone moldy in the leaky sieve you call a garage (or as you prefer, ‘ga-rage‘), my washing machine holds two hand towels and a pair of my (large) knickers. The dryer is here just to taunt me.

Your roads, while charming, seem more equipped for horse and carriage than the 38M vehicles registered on your small island. When I drive the kids to school, I spend half my time trying to avoid the curb and the other half keeping an eye out for Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men popping out of the woods to rob me. I feel like I have stepped back in time.

I know you love your traditions and your people keep telling me “there is a way of doing things”, but the daily grind is a wee bit inconvenient for this Westerner and each annoying thing builds on the one previous.

For example, finding a parking space, wondering if my train will arrive on time, waiting three weeks for internet set-up, bagging my own groceries (while the cashier sits on a chair?!!), timing my hunger with a restaurant’s peculiar hours of actually serving food (which also requires a booking, when it looks mostly empty inside). A breakfast taco or a Starbucks drive-through would really make my day, and would it be so blasphemous for the shops to carry a few wines from new world (a California Cab Sav to be precise).

Just another day catching a train to London

Winchester station, glad I didn’t have a large coffee just now

And I hear your loyal subjects want to leave the EU?

You must have a word.

Year two in the UK.

Dear friend:

I do apologize I was a little hard on you last year. I know you love your traditions and while I find some of them tedious, I’ve come to find some comforting. Take your love of hot drinks. In the world of work, I spend half my day having coffee (or tea), scheduling coffee (or tea) and fetching coffee (or tea) for customer meetings. It is perfectly acceptable not to commence any work until this has ritual been done, a few times over. And since none of us arrived on time due to the motorway traffic, nobody seems too fussed about getting in those eight hours.

Ah. Your old country pubs. Put the inconvenient hours and strange numbered wooden spoons aside and there is nothing lovelier than a roast dinner, next to a roaring fire, with a couple of wet dogs resting on your feet. No washing up! Just a suggestion though, a little salt goes a long way.

I also appreciate your love of alcohol. Not only is alcoholism not frowned upon, it’s encouraged! Having a drink midday is perfectly acceptable, even at my children’s sports day where they set up a Pimm’s tent. If my train is two hours late getting home, it’s quite all right because I can buy a mini bottle of fizz at M&S whilst waiting. Now that our subdivision (aka: housing estate) has curb side glass recycling, we all feel a little less ashamed about the state of our bin because everybody’s looks the same. No judgement here.

And you have the best neighbours. I can put aside my shower’s complete reluctance to drain when I know that old world charm with modern infrastructure is only a quick flight away. With the generous holiday time you provide, I’ve been to France, Germany, Belgium, Austria, Italy and Sweden. All wonderful.

Year 3 in the UK.

Dear old chap:

We are mates now, aren’t we? Believe or not I told a newcomer the other day “to have a stiff upper lip” and explained it’s best to just get on with things versus pointing more efficient alternatives. A G&T in the evening also helps to localize.

I have more than one true English friend now and although they were standoffish at first, two years of my foolishness and I think I’ve grown on them. The school is actually considering trousers for the girl’s uniform – modern times await my friend! Next thing you now the girls might actually play sports with the boys.

There are some things I am going to miss about you – like your fabulous curry, a take away fish and chips; enjoying a lengthy afternoon tea with those adorable little sandwiches. Watercress and egg salad. Coronation chicken. Oh, and Victoria Sponge. The clotted cream here alone makes many of your misgivings forgivable. I also love a savoury pie; scotch eggs make a perfect snack and those pork pies with that delightful layer of congealed pork jelly. Heavenly.

A beautiful raspberry ripple sponge from Hillier’s Garden Centre

These days, I can back my car into a shoe box sized parking spot whilst enthralled in a Radio 4 drama. Will Lexy be coming back for Ian and Adam’s new baby in Ambridge? And thank you for calling menopause, The Menopause, because it deserves it’s grammatical article. Canada, take note here I am bringing that back with me.

There is just this one thing I don’t think you and I will ever come to terms on.

Your weather.

Why do you love the rain so much? There are so many types of rain – – light rain, moderate rain, heavy rain, drizzle, buckets and buckets, deluges of rain, downpours, tipling down, pelting down, raining cats and dogs, chucking it down. And when it rains, why must we all talk as if it has never rained before! I’ve put fashion aside and bought a head to toe waterproof, and whenever I wear it, my husband asks if I off for a ride. We don’t own a horse.

There was a week this past September where it rained every single day. I took a few videos to demonstrate your relentlessness and to ask if you could consider letting up a little next month.

http://nastybrilliantblighty.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/Save-Me-Final-.mp4

Until then, all the best, your friend,

Jamie

Note: Italicized words represent English lingo.

Featured

Rock Bottom Has a Basement

May 4, 2019 – The prelude to rock bottom.

I am in Derbyshire for work staying at a luxurious Holiday Inn Express for a meeting the next day. There is a cigarette burn on my bed side table and a cum stain on the dark blue sofa in the corner of my room. On my way out to dinner, I notice the police handing out a missing persons poster to reception. This is possibly the pinnacle of my amazing UK career to date.

May 25, 2019

After lots of moaning and three different bosses in 18 months, a type written pro/con list shared amongst my closest friends, I resigned over the phone with my latest boss, effective July 25, 2019, as per a very long UK notice period. She seems relieved to not have to deal with me.

May 26 – July 22, 2019

I am pretty close to being a leper in the work world. A friend who resigned shortly after me is my deputy leper. Emails stops, the work phone does not ring. I email my boss about this and that – radio silence. So I embrace the time and take it is a welcome transition period from working to non-working life. I book a three week trip home with the kids for August to re-group. I still have my laptop, the odd email and my car. I have purpose. I hide away in my office for hours. Mostly car shopping.

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

I have written a three page transition plan with all of my projects, links to files on a shared drive, and a handover list to the folks I have coordinated to take on my files. Before I hit send, I add the passive aggressive “read receipt” to the email, because non of these people are going to read it I know this. Because none of it really matters – the main driver for leaving.

Ping. To my surprise, a read receipt comes in straight away, from the boss.

I re-read it again. Did I read that right? Put my glasses on. Deleted without being read. Well this is turning out funnier than I expected, I think. But then my fingers take over the keyboard and lunge for “Reply”. Mad click clacking of the keyboard. Delete, delete, delete. Finally this response: Hi – did you really mean to delete my transition plan without reading it? I worked really hard on that. Jamie

To which she responded: I filed it into a special folder (read: the bin). I promise I am going to get to it later this week.

So there you have it. Exactly what I expected. I have wasted two years of life working on things that mean very little, to few people. Validation for a good decision. It is time to move on.

So I handed in all of my kit with no regrets and no tears, except for LadyBalls, who I will miss. The boss was not in on my last day but did send me a LinkedIn PM that afternoon, while I was two wines in, on a very sweaty train back to Winchester.

For the love of God. This woman did not answer any emails for months and then thanks me for my passion. My fingers hit the keyboard (again!) for a clever response. She was nice and professional, I will be nice and professional.

So I blocked her. The equivalent of not talking to somebody on the school ground in the digital age.

Wednesday, July 24, 2019

I got up at the crack of dawn to see my therapist to beat the heat of a 40 degree heat wave in the UK (because AC is luxury here, and yes, I have a therapist – if you do not have a therapist at my age you must have a very boring life). After that, I thought I would collect my thoughts at the nearest beach (where I am always happy).

Turns out, half of the blasted country had the same idea and I could not even get into the car park. I resort to lunch at an old seaside hotel, where when I asked for water, the waitress said it was is in a pitcher by the bar (for a £26 lunch!!). Nearly every family in the restaurant are driving me insane with their holiday chitter chatter so I drove home, past the beach and went to bed in complete and utter despair.

This is when mom chimes in with her epic words of wisdom.

August 21, 2019.

And she was right. On my three week trip home to “fill my cup” with my friends, mom, parties, moms gone mild 2019, summer BBQs…….my dear step-dad Garth died on Wednesday, August 21, 2019, after many years with Alzheimer’s. The basement. It all made my career fumbles seem rather trivial.

The first weeks home we did the death watch. Mom did the heavy lifting; she was an amazing advocate for him. This was my first experience watching someone die; it was rough and I found very little comfort in it. I can not get the image of his last few days out of my mind. He was thin, greying, weak but his body was working so hard at living.

When we get the call from the nursing home that he had died, I am so happy. Mom and I have tears of joy. No more suffering. Then, as the days pass I can not believe he is not here to go visit. I feel so god damn sad – for him, for mom, for all the things that weren’t. I drink a lot. I said good bye to Garth years ago before he forgot me so I am surprised that this sadness is so raw, all over again. I think mom feels similar. I thought after all of this, I would be more at peace.

I am trying to remember him as he is below, telling a yarn to another fisherman in Bay Du Vin, New Brunswick about nine years ago. That black bucket just emptied of lobsters for dinner.

Link to Garth’s Obituary, may he rest in peace:

http://obituaries.tj.news/book-of-memories/3956748/garth-williston/obituary.php

September 21, 2019

So now I am crawling out of the basement and having a looking around, thinking about what is next. Get a job. Write a book. Maybe a cookbook. Take a “sabbatical”. Embrace the expat wife life. Blog. Travel. Exercise. All very good options.

Unofficially we are on twelve month countdown of our time in the UK. Time will tell. I have not felt like writing at all (despite lots of encouragement from my friends – thank you!) and it was a struggle to get this online.

I have several half written pieces I am going to post soon, self-doubt strong on all of this, but nevertheless I will post them for what they are. I also started a creative writing class so perhaps that will provide a push. Although the first class one lady was sleeping and another writing with ink and quill, so I may only be writing more obituaries.

PS. Do not have a panic after reading and call social services on me. I am actually quite good, not having a total mid-life crises or shagging the gardener. I am writing this post from inside a petite apartment in Vieux Nice, France, listening to St Germain and the banging of dishes from the restaurants outside, and having a lovely, lovey time. I am about to go swim in the blue waters of the Côte d’Azure.

PPS. Thanks for all of the condolences last month. I read every one over and over and loved every message, they felt good.

Summer Hiatus

Nastybrilliantblighty has been on long summer hiatus! It’s been ages since I had anything clever to write about. Even as I read this for the 25th time, I am thinking of binning the whole lot as it is incredibly boring!! Bare with me as I try to get back into writing something worth reading.

The past few months have been without any drama, generally speaking. In August, we had our one year UK anniversary without filing for divorce or booking flights home (wherever home is!). I hear the husband saying he’s ‘comfortable’ here now, and I agree it even feels like ‘home’, but I dare not say it too loud for fear the moving gods might overhear.

The children had six weeks of summer holiday and we tackled our first official UK road trips (queue National Lampoon’s European Vacation Holiday Road theme here): a weekend at Warwick Castle Knight’s Village (pronounced War-ick, not war-Wick), visiting Shakespeare’s home town Stratford-Upon-Avon, and across the Solent to the Isle of Wight (also known locally, but not in the tourist brochures, as Pile of Shite). Our neighbours Posh & Becks say we see more of the country then most English do.

Becks (Matt) swam across the Solent for charity the weekend we were on the island, so we were there to greet his James Bond moment crawling out of the ocean and ripping of his wet suit (alas, we were a bit confused as exactly where this was happening and were a bit lat, but I got this great photo of the lovely couple reuniting). We had a get together at our airB&B enjoying the seaside; we are getting quite close with this family and Posh (Emily) is already dreading us moving away even though it’s far off. Our kids went back and forth between homes all summer and we’ve taken to to drinking in the driveway on Friday night and letting the children run wild, generally bringing down the estate (aka: neighborhood).

My highlight of the summer was our week in Torquay, Devon with our extended family The Clyburn Wadden’s: Billy, Jenn, Nora & Sadie, Sadie who met for the first time. Back in Edmonton, we had a thriving supper club with Billy and Jenn and Ian & Meg, before we all starting breeding and messing up our social lives.

One time our Supper Club went on vacation to Maui with then two year old Aiden, who woke up at before sunrise our first night there. Billy said it sounded like we were “trying to kill a chicken” as husband and I hissed about who was getting up with him while trying not to wake up our childless friends (we failed!).

The tables have now turned and Billy and Jenn are up killing chickens in the night and our precious moppets can turn on their own iPads in the morning while we snore away.

We did not help our tired selves by staying up every night until the early hours of the morning – drinking, talking, laughing, crying, and contemplating the meaning of life. I loved every single minute. Billy and I even got in the kitchen and did some cooking just like old times.

We arranged a date night swap in Torquay (not the swinging variety) where we took turns going out for dinner / watching the children. Both nights we ate at The Elephant, https://www.elephantrestaurant.co.uk. I’m not sure it was the food or that we were not panicked searching the menu for chicken nuggets and cheese pizza, while watching the clock, but the meal was one of the best we had in the UK. The Elephant has had a Michelen star for over 10 years and source the produce from their own 30 acre farm – they have earned that star.

Scotch egg, black pudding, on relish aioli

I got a bit cocky on my child watch night and was taking selfies with various hashtags – #igotthis, #pieceofcake – when I found this little angel Sadie with wet clothes, from crawling through a puddle of pee on the floor. Allie struck a fever shortly after this and things went quickly downhill from there. But we all lived to tell.

The kids went back to school a few weeks ago and so far, so good. Aiden has this sweet, soft and funny teacher who reminds me a little of Gene Wilder. Aiden loves his school and his friends. He is playing Quidditch as an after school club, and is now rocking a retainer to sort out a pretty severe over/under bite. He is still a sweet, silly boy and we are very proud of him – he has done so well with this move.

Allie was less enthusiastic about her return to school but is slowly coming around. She is coming home with all sorts of stories. Last week she told me she likes to do things independently. Her favorite part so far is “Forest School”, one afternoon a week where they basically tromp around the forest to learn – picking apples, finding fairies, and get really dirty. All the kids love it.

I found the end of summer, back to school routine and the complicated scheduling a real mental struggle and was feeling a bit glum at the end of September. I put that all aside for an amazing visit from my birthday twin Danielle and I feel totally on the mend now. What a week we had! I could blog about it, but it’s not for public consumption. We had so much fun, I gained about 8 lbs!!

Looking forward this fall – we have trips planned for Sweden, Edinburgh, a week in Italy with my BFF Naomi, and maybe someplace warmer in April. We have Aunt Peggy coming for the first half of December & Gramma Susan for Christmas. Stay tuned for some (hopefully) more interesting reads this fall.

Italics: English lingo; moppets –moppet (plural moppets) – (colloquial) A child. Often used lovingly or in an affectionate way

Some other pictures from summer 2018 -the weather was unseasonably warm and dry, thanks to global warming.

Spa Day with Jennifer, The Carey Arms & Spa, Babbacombe Beach, Devon

The best thing about Devon – Cream Tea, The Guardhouse Cafe

Milkshake appetizer, The Guardhouse Cafe

My thoughts on English school sports

My mother has this expression – Bozo’s on the Bus– something she says when you just follow along with the what the majority do. “They are just Bozo’s on the bus getting Hormone Replacement Therapy because some doctor prescribed it”. Eating margarine. Circumcision. Statins. Flu jabs. Taking your son to a rugby fixture in the pissing January rain in England.

Yes, we did this. And yes, she called us Bozo’s.

Prologue.

This past January, wishing to go along with the school sports curriculum, to be a team player and for our child NOT to be warped by watching Youtube videos on his iPad, we took Aiden to the school Rugby fixture. The temperature was about 10°C and it was pouring rain. English parents were sporting their Hunter wellies, umbrellas the size of small cars and various other waterproof gear. The North Americans hid out under a sparse patch of trees for shelters and shivered. We were the bozo’s on the bus.

When I commented on the ridiculousness of this situation to the crowd I got a common, “Ahhh…..It’s the English way!” and a laughed off “Welcome to Rugby in January – a tradition!”. Well I’m sorry, but I am giving the middle finger to the English way this time. The kids were soaked. We were cold. It was not fun. The siblings were pissy and (some of) the parents could think of a much better way to spend their Saturday.

(Admittedly, the English might think the same of getting up at 0600 to drive to a cold hockey rink, and they might be right).

The game was played. Some fun was had dancing on the sidelines with his mates (he was not in the starting line up…). But take a look at Aiden’s picture. It makes me cringe. It’s pitiful. It’s a snapshot of a parenting fail. He doesn’t love Rugby. He especially doesn’t like it in the rain. He is a sweet and silly boy without an aggressive bone in his body. He likes fart jokes and all things poo.

IMG_0017

Aiden and I made a deal after this game. He will do his best at games whilst at school, but we can skip the weekend fixtures if we so choose. So this Saturday a few months later, I am being spared the 2.5 hour cricket match (still only 12°C) and the kids are being warped by their iPads. I hope this doesn’t mean they will live in our basement forever lacking life goals and drive, but I’m taking the risk.

Sports are akin to religion in this country, probably more popular. Everybody has a team they follow – football, rugby, cricket. BBC Radio 4 gives equal airtime to Brexit negotiations as they do to which football coach was just sacked. There is a petition in parliament right now to allow Premier League and Championship football clubs to introduce safe standing (rail seating), so fans can have the choice between sitting and standing at football matches. For real.

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/207040

It is not all bad though. Some things are done very well like the tradition of tea after the game with the opposing team. I am not talking about a Bear Paws some poor mother had to drag to soccer pitch. I am talking about tea as in a full hot lunch for the kids, and sometimes for the parents. Sandwiches, cakes, sausage rolls, biscuits, coffee and tea. Look at us mums dig in.

…who let this hobo in for tea? (My good friend! We have a habit of taking pictures in which we look like hobos).

Cheese & grated cucumber; egg salad on baguette.

Allie was not a fan of the game in the rain one bit. Post game waterlogged selfie.

Fam jam update: The blog has been dead this long, cold, wet winter. It has taken us a full six months to acclimatize and settle in here. And it is still a process. Some good days, some shit ones. I started a few blogs that were all negative so I binned them, and I am finally getting back to it.

The dew is off the roses at my job and the best thing about it these days is the car. Some of the people I care for and were learning from have left the business, some not by choice. It sucks.

We did a very English thing and went to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands for a week during the kids (long) three week Spring break and it was fantastic. We finally felt up for a bigger trip. Kids had a great time. Only one episode of vomiting and no emergency department visits, which I am calling a win for us. Some other trips are in the works.

Note: Italics for my new English lingo.

Coming soon: 101 definitions of what tea entails here.

Ladyballs

In December, we welcomed a new member to the family, a sparkly navy, souped-up, new to me BMW 4 series named Lady Balls (or LB to the children). The story of how this car came to be started over a year ago when we had just moved to Houston. It was 100 degrees in the shade and I was outside in my pyjamas, braless, and struggling to get the godforsaken car seats into my new Mini Cooper.

The neighbourhood welcoming committee slowed down her mini-van, loaded with children, in front of my driveway to introduce herself and welcome us to the Havergate subdivision.

Keri, “Hi! I’m Keri. I live down the street. I think our husbands work for the same company”.

Me, “I’m not wearing a bra and I look like death warmed over.” This woman will never want to be friend, ever, look at me.

Keri, “I thought someone threw up in there and you were cleaning them up.”

Me, “Seriously, I’m wearing my pyjamas. I have sweat in places that I didn’t know sweat”.

Keri, “How old are your kids?”…..

And that was the start of a beautiful friendship.

A few months later, filling our bellies at an all-you-can-eat sushi bar, she got sick and tired of me complaining about being a SAHM.

Me, “How on earth do I get into the big pharma company in Woodlands Town Centre? I’m losing my head at home”.

Keri, “My old boss used to work there. I’ll PM her and introduce you on LinkedIn”.

Me, “How on earth does this restaurant make money with the amount of sushi we just ate?”.

Her friend introduced me to a gentleman with a long French name. I smelled a Canadian. I met him the day after Trump won the election. We shared our shock, our love of Adele, and despite my lack of private sector and big pharma experience, he hired me. It took me six months and the power of personal connections, but I got a job at one of the oldest health care Fortune 500 companies in the US. And my friends back home called me Ladyballs.

When I got the news after only six months on the job that I had to resign, I was gutted (as they say here). Actually, I was sick – high blood pressure, herpes simplex like rash on my face, stress induced sick. I worked at my job until the Friday before our Sunday transatlantic flight to London. I made connections, I finished projects, I kissed ass. A group of women at work encouraged me to approach our President for overseas connections. I did and he was happy to help me out. I had two interviews booked in the UK before our plane left the tarmac.

My new job is service design manager, designing home care services that take pressure of the public system and/or services that help advance the sales of new drugs in the marketplace. It is probably not my dream job, and not where I thought my career would be at 40, but I am happy to have it. I am using skills I have mastered a few years back. Each time we move, my salary takes a little hit.

It is field based position and I work from home most days. (And I don’t have to take part in a multi-level marketing scheme selling makeup or workout videos). I take the kids to the bus stop. I am home when they get home. My job has lots of potential and I really like my colleagues. I’m gaining new experiences, learning a new health system and the silver lining of it all is driving around the English countryside in my new wheels Ladyballs.

Epilogue:

I know it’s just a car and this could all be gone in an instance, but I have always wanted a BMW. It has never been the sensible choice for a family / mom care, value for money, good in the snow, blah, blah, blah. The fact that I got one with my brain, without a car loan or any approval from anyone, well it feels good. It turns out company vehicles are a common part of compensation packages in the UK and from an economic perspective cheaper than offering higher salaries. BMWs are actually pretty cheap here and there are tonnes on the road. It’s a lovely car nonetheless.

When I was interviewing for my job in Houston, I picked up this lipstick from Too Faced, it is one of those awesome reds with an awesome name. It gives you a powerful feeling when you put in on. I think I am wearing it with my dear friend Keri in this picture below. Miss you lady and see you soon.

https://www.toofaced.com/lip-makeup/lipstick/melted/melted-matte-lady-balls/50224.html

More blogs on English life coming soon and I am trying to do a VLOG about some of the joys of our house.

Sandwhiched

“This country is obsessed with bread, I swear to God”, said my new colleague, a stylish, 20 something, petite Indian man, as we perused the lunch buffet of sandwiches, “and I don’t do carbs.”

He’s right. The country is obsessed with bread, the gluten frees would shrivel up and die over here. But more specifically, they are obsessed with the sandwich. The sandwich – bread, meat, sauce, bread. Humble in origin, or so I thought. “Sandwich” originated from a story about John Montagu, the 4^th Earl of Sandwich, who ordered some meat between two slices of bread for convenience during a long gambling game in 1762. Google it, you’ll see all good things come from Britain.

The peanut butter and jam sandwich has saved many a mother’s ass from actually cooking, but it doesn’t exist here. Sandwiches are at a whole different level here. To start, they are everywhere. Beautifully packaged in every off-license, grocery shop, and made to order in every café, lunch counter and pub. They are not the triangular sandwich boxes of stale white bread, processed cheese and meat you have had the (displeasure) of picking up at the 7/11 in North America. They are not just quick lunches long for haul truck drivers and summer road crews; sandwiches are universal language here in the UK.

And well, carbs are my friends and I love these sandwiches. They are (usually) deliciously fresh, cheap, with modern flavourings and foodie pairings – egg, mayonnaise and watercress, cheese and pickle, tuna salad and sweetcorn, prawn and cucumber, bacon, egg and avocado. Marks and Spencer’s makes a Hoisin Duck Wrap with julienned carrots, cucumber and fresh cilantro. Christmas themed sammies are popping up now too, e.g. turkey, cranberry and shredded brussel sprouts.

There is warm sandwich called the “cheese toastie” (pictured below) which is sort of like a grilled cheese but somehow, they have managed to get the cheese on the inside and outside of the bread and in posher places they are stuffed with caramelized onions, fancy mushrooms and gruyere. Yum.

The bacon bap or bacon roll (English bacon on a roll) and the Chip Butty (chips on a bun!) are other cultural favourites so strange they deserve a blog post of their own blog post. A great article here about the latter: http://www.foodnetwork.co.uk/article/11-reasons-why-chip-butty-deserves-your-love-and-respect.html

So we have been stuffing ourselves with these gems whilst here. Emotional eating has been a theme since we moved. It has been very hard to get our healthy eating regimes on solid ground – the stress of moving, want to try to the local foods, new treats at the grocery store.

Our emotional eating went to a whole new level a few weeks ago as I started my job, orientating the nanny and children, starting a new routine and we got the worst call you can get when you are far away from home – “Mom’s in the hospital”. My mother in law had a heart attack and had bypass surgery within six days of that first call.

My mother in law, god love her, does have a general sense of urgency to her. She operates at a ten out of ten in terms of stress sometimes. I now remember speaking to her and knowing she did not feel well and I never said, “You better get to the doctor”. I feel bad about that. I never thought she would get really sick is the thing. Her own doctor brushed off some classic heart attack symptoms and begrudgingly ordered an EKG. Thankfully she is fine now and on the road to recovery. She is a trooper and taking much of this ordeal in her stride.

(Note to my American friends – two-week hospital stay, transfer to a tertiary centre, by-pass surgery within a week and the only out of pocket fee paid was for private hospital room fees).

Husband made the trip across the pond and stayed for nine days. He was torn between wanting to stay longer, wanting to back to us, thinking about his work. Even though Halifax is only a six hour flight form London, his travel karma dealt a few cards and made it a 24 hour journey door to door, both ways. He spent less than 12 hours in Cape Breton and even managed an Acadian lines bus trip to Halifax (which is longer than going by dogsled by the way). I felt terrible for him, I felt worse for his mom. So I ate some more sandwiches. And wine. And Hob Nobs.

Shortly after we arrived here I got a text from my Aunt Peg a few days after some Emergency Department visits. A serious enough issue to make my heart sink and think what if. Aunt Peg reassured me, “If I die while you’re over there, you don’t have to come home, you know I don’t want to add more stress to you both.” I told her she would not be much of an inconvenience if she were dead and that I might want to attend her funeral and get some of her antiques. She called me a smart ass, and she is thankfully back to normal.

So, overnight shit got real over here. We are now officially part of the “sandwich generation” – young kids, old parents. It makes us think more about living so far away from home, the pros and cons of ex-pat life, selling it all and buying a cottage on the beach. There are no easy answers. For now, we try to live in the moment, count our blessings and call our recovering loved ones a bit more often.

Next we try to survive Christmas, which is throwing up all over the place here. I’ve three weeks to fit into a cocktail dress that fit two sandwiches ago.

“Oh dear, I’ve lost my hand bag….”

About a month ago, Allie and I went for lunch in Romsey after “nursery” pick up. Allie was, and still is, incredibly cute in her school uniform and spectacles charming people everywhere we go. Whilst we were eating, three older ladies joined us in the back of a small café. They had just come from Cameo Club, a ladies’ monthly social group and one of the ladies arrived without her handbang, which caused a literal three alarm fire calamity I bore witness too.

The lady shop owners took action and rang the local hall (and to my surprise offered to run up and get it for this lady, but no answer…). Meanwhile, the three elderlies dug out their mobile phones, sorted out how to use them and slowly left messages here and there (quite possibly one of those messages was left with MI5). Many ‘oh dears’ were uttered by this lady and her pals…..she had no money to buy her tea, no bus pass to get home, and on and on. I piped up, trying to be kind and reassuring, and told her “we’ve all done it” and “it will turn up”. I told her about the time I invited my friend Sarah out for lunch at a New Mexican restaurant in Edmonton, and showed up penniless.

The ladies ended up asking where we were from as I have very distinct accent here. I am often mistaken for Americans and not to brag, but people really perk up when they here we are Canadians. Many people here have connections to Canada and they seem to love our country. Purse lady had a brother who moved to Canada, married and worked in Toronto for years, and retired to Elliott Lake, Ontario.

Purse Lady and friends looking for who to call…..

Shortly thereafter, I ran into purse lady in the town centre – with her purse! She had already been to the bank and paid her friend back for lunch (the horror of owing a friend money seemed unconscionable) and was happily trotting around doing her shopping before she got on the bus home.

Now had this scenario played out at home in Canada at Tim Horton’s (or in the USA) the cashier most likely would have been Filipino (in the USA, Mexican), had English as a second language, and quite frankly given two fucks about some o ladies missing purse. Not because they do not care, but mostly because of the 20 people queued up behind them looking for donuts.

Despite the hordes of people living on this small island there is still a strong sense of community in these parts, people know each other and help each other out. Somebody at Ikea helped me to my car last week because I was alone! Reminds me of the Maritimes thirty years ago. In many, MANY other ways, I think the world has passed England by, but not in this way. Maybe the rest of us have it wrong.

I wanted to write about this story because it is light and all my attempts at blogging that past few weeks have been a dump of negative energy, which I mostly deleted in a fit of “this blog is stupid; nobody is going to read this”, followed by classic self-loathing “I can’t write; I am stupid, old, and fat”.

Moving internationally is really hard. Learning a new way of life is tiring. Unpacking, organizing, replacing every wretched curtain and light shade in this house, getting a near concussion pulling coats out of the crawl space, I mean, hall closet, a disappointing 40^th birthday, tired kids, tired husband, missing my tribe and old routines, trying not to eat my feelings, death of Tom Petty, and this week Gord Downie….….you get the picture.

One thoughtful gift my husband got me for my birthday was a book, which I heard about on BBC Radio 4, while living at the cottage. It is total chick lit about an Irish couple who go “on a break” for six months. Everybody is getting it for Christmas – it has laugh out loud humour, mid-life crises, great sex and also touches on a real issues like women’s access to abortion (which but the way in Ireland is still completely illegal, including in cases of rape, incest or fatal fetal abnormalities, women travel to England or take illegal online pills).

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/273732/the-break/

I am pushing through and looking forward to officially starting my job next week. The thought of trying to make some friends here still seems like too much work. I am thankful for some lovely American ExPat wives who have pulled me under their wing and showing me the important things, e.g. where to find good mac and cheese, condensing dryer moral support, and how to how travel to Geneva for £50 from Southampton. THANK YOU ladies.

I am holding out on my English neighbour who could be a friend. She has 3 kids, looks like Posh Spice and stepped out of Vogue, is partner in a law firm and already slipped a Christmas party invitation under our door. Of course she is skinny too. I want to hate her for all these things but she’s too lovely. Her husband, equally cute, runs a ½ marathon about every other weekend and makes all of my attempts at fitness, well, laughable!

For a last bit of fun, I have to share this. I booked a cleaning service online, mostly because of the business name, and like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious they magically appeared on my doorstep last Monday morning. Just like Mary Poppins, except, well Latvian and Polish, but I digress they could clean like nobody’s business and a house cleaned by somebody other than yourself, even if only clean for 5 minutes, does a woman good.

Italics – some of my favorite English words used here.

A few photos of 40th birthday tea, it was lovely but not Big Bang 40. That’s to come in 2017/18.

Last time I wore this fascinator was a crazy wedding in Halifax, Jeff & Sarah, half the wedding party wore it as some point.

Five things you may not see on your school run.

The highlight of this month has been leaving the 19^thCentury cottage and moving into our ultra modern, state of the art home in Otterbourne, a village outside of Winchester.

No, just kidding! No such thing exists here folks! There is a blog post ruminating in my head dedicated solely to the joys of modern English living. Tentative titles: “Life Without Closets”, “The House of a Hundred Ugly Light Fixtures” or “WTF do you mean I have to empty water out of the dryer?”. But I digress….

The real highlight is the new school run. The “school run” is the bane of the modern mothers’ existence. Okay, perhaps two dads, but this is clearly a gendered role. It is the 15-30 minutes of the day in which we drive children to and from school/bus stop. The drive is actually the easy part; the challenge of the school run is getting said children out of bed, clean(ish), dressed, fed and in the car without losing your god damn mind. Getting yourself dressed and presentable is completely optional. Every day it is a race against time and sanity. Every. Single. Day. A few minutes past the magic time you know you can leave by and still make it before the bell rings can turn even the most modest mum into a Formula One driver.

From the cottage, the school run was 45 minutes in one direction, 400 roundabouts and generally speaking – misery. From our new home, the school is only 14 minutes in one direction (7.7 miles). But is a school run like I have never seen because we are living in the English countryside. Hampshire county is made up of loads of small interconnected villages and towns, loads of green countryside and narrow roads.

There are a few different routes to get to the school but the one I love the most includes a very old single lane for last 2 miles. Most of these finds are from that road.

Thatched Roof Cottage

These gems are hidden throughout Hampshire. Google tells me that thatch (tightly packed straw, heather, water reed) was the only roofing material available in the countryside until the late 1800s. And just like taking a lobster sandwich in your school lunch in Nova Scotia back in the day, a thatched roof house became a sign of poverty, but today are highly sought after and a symbol of wealth (rich people took bologna sandwiches by the way).

Covered Bridges

These are all over the place and many of them have train lines above them. This covered bridge fits one car with sharp turns on either side of it. The whole road is single car capacity with many “laybys” you pull into for two cars to pass safely. There are some rules of the English road I have learned, e.g. a flash of high beams from an oncoming car means “you go first”. Drivers here are incredibly courteous and when you let a car go ahead of you there is a mandatory “thank you” wave of the hand. I love it, reminds me of the east coast.

Sheep

Yes sheep, there are lots of them, it’s England. The kids and I often roll down the windows and listen to them bleat when we drive by and give them a holla (when we are not in a hurry…as in only after school). This one sheep is looking right at us. Other animals we see not pictured: horses, cows, deer, partridges.

Pleasantry

This truck below is trimming down the hedge. The man driving it is about 80 years old. He puts a sign out ahead of him saying “Tree Trimming Ahead” and then this homemade sign on the back “Sorry for Delay”. Even in Canada where we apologize for everything I have never seen an apology sign on road equipment before. It’s so English. Polite. Lovely. Kind. Proper.

The Hot Mess Mom

This one is common sight in North America but less so over here. I go for the unwashed and unkept look. I also sport bright colors which is not part of the mum uniform over here. My one friend pointed this out to me as the three North American mums where wearing hot pink and orange at school pick up, the rest in a sea of greys, browns, navy and black.

Allie and Aiden are also now taking the mini bus to school (except on Tuesday because the bus is full??), but I still pick Allie up at 11:40 and Aiden at 4:30. Yes, I put my three year old little girl on the school bus. She loves it. The school bus driver Mr. H is about 70, wears a sports jacket, tie and sweater vest and he personally walks her to the nursery and she loves him. And I love him a little bit as well.

Feeling like a Dowager, Acting like a Lady

I was a late arrival to the Downton Abby club. My mother was the first to mention it, then my own Dowager Aunt Peggy had a Sunday night ladies group watching it. When I finally caught on I was kicking myself for being late to the party. The series sucked me in like no other show has done in a long time and maybe since. I got totally engulfed into the characters’ lives and time period. I binged on it like a fat kid on cake.

When I figured out our new home was only one hour from Highclere Castle and that there was a garden party in September, I went digging for my credit card. Costumes from the 1920s were encouraged; however, I went for traditional garden party dress and hat, which I made Andrew pick up at John Lewis Department Store last minute. Go figure this is England, you can hire a hat for your event, but I was a bit late getting that sorted.

I drove to the town of Newbury last Sunday morning in the rain (in my now manual transmission VW Gulf rental, turns out a manual is £25/day versus £45/day automatic). There is quite real crescendo leading up to the castle, slowly criss-crossing up hills, fields of sheep until you make a turn and like magic the castle can be seen in the distance. I cried when I saw it – tears of pure joy! It speaks to me about what an effect the show had on me, I was so freaking excited, the British might say it was blinding.

For your £120, you got a tour of the castle, a picnic lunch, access to all the grounds, a little group social with 1920s dance lessons and a word from current castle owners, The Earl and Countess of Carnarvon. Inside the castle is identical to the set – the red velvet couch in the sitting room, the desk his Lordship used, the dining room, the staircase, the smoking room for after dinner, the servants’ staircase but sadly, no photography inside the castle. When I walked into Lady Cybil’s bedroom, it was totally raw and emotional. Lady Mary’s bedroom, the one with all the action, was filmed in the studio.

On travelling alone, I am really lucky that I am pretty comfortable travelling alone. Actually, more than comfortable I actually like it. Perhaps from being on only child or from being a mom now and just craving a few moments all to myself, when nobody needs me. It’s liberating and I really try not to feel guilty about it. Now that said, this castle would have been a blast to walk through with mom or Aunt Peg, or my kinder mom friend Katie, and many others. So lucky I got to go.

Amongst a slew of Downton groupies, it was easy to make friends. I met two American couples who readily admitted to posing as Canadians on their trip (for obvious reasons…). You can tell by their photograph they were fun (spelling out OHIO, for Ohio State University where they met). They have the blog name I hope they read this! Nan, Brian, Geoff (?) and (I forget….see next paragraph re: my age!) it was great fun meeting you.

My 40^th birthday is coming soon on September 23, but this is the last I am going to speak of it because head’s up, I am skipping it. I really want to be with my tribe back in Edmonton. My friend Danielle shares my birthday and we should be having a huge party and wrestling Mike Tyson’s Tiger in true The Hangover style, but it is not happening this year. The timing is not right.

My main job right now, like millions of women before me, is making sure the children are okay, setting up house and supporting my husband in his new job. I can’t really take off to Vegas or walking tour of Italy and feel great about it. The traditional roles of men and women have not really evolved that much from Downton Abby times, have they? Oh, except I do not have a ladies made, I rarely get dressed for breakfast and I am currently the nanny, cook, and chauffeur. 40 is a big one and I intend on celebrating at a later date. Stay tuned, you may get an invite.

Note: Turns out writing something thoughtful for the blog takes time but is challenging me. I did make a video though quickly on my iphone for fun. We are moving out of the cottage tomorrow and into our rental home near Winchester, hallelujah! I wanted to get this post up tonight as I am not sure when we will have wifi again.

How to spend £1300 on British Prep School Uniforms?

It has been six weeks since my family and I moved to the UK. I am finally sitting down to start my blog. I am not sure it will be good, funny or even long lasting, only time will tell. It certainly will not be perfect and I will learn as a go (setting up was a trickier than I planned!). Aiden started school this week and we are still living in our temporary accommodation at Seaview Cottage, Fawley, UK and really anxious to get settled in our permanent accommodation. Things seem to move slowly here…..husband says it is a bit like Glace Bay, Cape Breton.

We have the privilege of sending the children to a private school whilst here in the UK. I wanted to tell the world about getting the school uniforms together, which is less about school uniforms and more about some of the madness in moving overseas.

We settled on Stroud School as it seemed to be the warmest and less formal of the schools we visited. Nonetheless it has a uniform for both kids: Aiden in Year 3 and Allie in the Nursery. The uniform lists for both kids included no less than 85 items, I kid you not. There are the everyday uniforms and the sports uniforms or sports kit, which for Aiden will be football (aka: soccer), swimming and rugby. Cricket and field hockey uniforms are later. The number of items I cannot even identify is close to fifty percent and I basically ignored it for a few weeks: legionnaire sun hat, velco plimsolls, swimming costume, pinafore, wellie socks, Mistral jacket, gum shield, rucksack, trainers and scrum hat (which thankfully is optional, because I still have no idea what that hat is). Take a look for yourself: https://www.stroud-kes.org.uk/admissions/uniform

Thinking that it would be easier to go in person to the uniform shop was the driver for going to the seaside town of Bournemouth for a few nights with the kids. You know – try on the clothes, figure out the UK sizing, purchase all 85 items in one fell swoop versus going to fifty shops. However, that would assume that the uniform shop actually had a clue and inventory, which were big assumptions on my part.

When we turned up I am still optimistic as we are assigned our very own lovely teenage salesgirl named Beth who grabs a binder, basket and looks keen. I explain that we are new here, need everything and essentially want five of each of the day to day uniform. Beth comes back to the dressing room with one shirt for Aiden, which is too small. I reiterate in my nice Canadian way that we are new to the school, have nothing on the list and we need everything on the list, and suggest maybe she could bring two sizes of the items at one time, for both kids. She comes back with one more shirt for Aiden. It fits and I say, “Great, I’ll take five!”. It is at this point Beth goes to the stockroom, which seems to be located possibly on a different planet and tells me that is: “Out of stock”.

This goes on for about another hour with the stockroom trips getting longer and longer while the kids slowly turn into Children of the Corn and I am in a hot puddle of sweat and rage, until I grab the basket as is and beeline to the cash. Another name I considered for my inaugural blog post was: How I nearly went to jail for killing Beth. For £300, we came home with one pair of trousers, two different sized PE shorts (for the same kid), one dress, one pinafore, two blouses, four different kinds of jackets, a kit bag, and a water bottle and in the end – I ORDERED THE REST OF THE SHIT ONLINE. £1000 later, we still have a few items to purchase.

Like the uniforms, many other things required to get settled are just as complicated. Some days it feels like nothing is easy, e.g.:

I need a physical card reader machine sent from the bank to do any electronic transfer online- for security reasons.
You need the seller’s and buyer’s real estate agents to view a property, there are no key boxes (possible employment strategy).
Paying to park at the grocery store or mall, paying for shopping trolleys, paying to pee at the train station.
Four trips to the Post Office, three sets of passport photos and still no ID card for miss Allie Bear.
Possible 45 roundabouts on the current school run from Fawley to Romsey, four times a day (this will be much better when we get our house..).
A disturbing lack of Starbucks drive throughs and Vietnamese nail salons.

But I digress. We are learning to laugh about it and coming to expect things to be bit a bit more complicated. Aiden survived his first day of school and on day two I forgot the track suit and water bottle, of course, and was late. On his first day, he was up before 7:00AM asking for his uniform and tied his own shoes. I was so proud of him – this is his third new school in three years so lots of mom guilt here. Allie starts the nursery next week after her mandatory transitioning sessions (see, nothing is straightforward).

Note: I tried to italicize some of my new English language. Please do not think I’m a poser for using it so soon but really you must if you want to communicate with people here. If you ask someone for a bathroom you will get the raised eyebrow or strange look. It’s a toilet here, possibly a loo, with toilet roll not toilet paper and you may have to pay 25p to use it.