Pouring one out for my homies

And by "my homies," I mean myself, my former self, the one I remember as Sara, Sarabeth or SB.

I can no longer drink. The last two times I tried to have more than one British unit (a glass of wine or a beer), I got violently ill. Yes, I get violently ill over just about anything, but considering I used to be able to drink 12 margaritas from Z Tejas, this just isn't flying.

Except that it is because it has to. I am a mere shell of my former self. And I miss that self. I do. I'm tempted to call it a latent allergy that only recently reared its ugly head, only I'm afraid that allergy might be motherhood, and that's no fun to admit or live through.

Ugh, I'm finally feeling old.

Dr Seuss doesn't exactly flow with European social etiquette

As I was reading Green Eggs and Ham to Vaughn at a friend's house last weekend, the hosts interrupted to ask what the hell was going on. Hadn't they seen these characters before? Wasn't there a Mike Myers film about all this?

You see, they're Dutch. So I explained, "No, the Mike Myers movie was Cat in the Hat. Same author; completely different story." Nevermind that Green Eggs and Ham is the book for which I remember Dr Seuss, but whatever.

So I continued reading ...

By about the tenth page, our male host said, "That guy with the ham -- he's very irritating." [laughter] "They really should fix that in the movie."

'Nuff said.

Weird British celebrities

So did you know there's this show called I'm a Celebrity ... Get Me Out of Here!? I'm not kidding. There is. I'm not really sure what the show involves, but I did see the commercials for a season when I was so bored right after we moved here that I actually watched television ... something about how so-called "celebrities" had to take jobs as tour guides on holidays. I'm guessing that somehow a winner would be determined. Mind you, I've watched one episode of Survivor in my life, and that's to what my experience with reality TV amounts.

Anyway, so they're even more obsessed with their celebrities here than we are in the U.S., if one can imagine that. They also have like 17 Paris Hilton types, which I guess is due to the fact that there are too many socialites to go around, inheriting all sorts of fun titles like "Lady" and "Contessa," etc. It's astounding. One trashy Paris Hilton is enough for me, thank you very much.

I bring this all up to share a story about what happened yesterday when I tried to be a with-it mom amongst yummy mummies. I was at a friend's house (and when I say "house," I mean it, which is a building as yet unfamiliar to me), using the loo, when I saw the most recent publication of OK!. Or was it Hello? I don't know. But these unfamiliar British celebs, Cheryl Tweedy and Ashley Cole (a man), were on the cover, posing together for a wedding portrait. I just happen to know who Ashley Cole is because I watched the England World Cup matches and there were two Coles on the team, so I took notice of the "A. Cole" and the "(whatever) Cole" on their jerseys. But who the f*** is Cheryl Tweedy? So when I got back to the reception room, I asked my friend, who went on to tell me about some reality TV show similar to American Idol in which women competed for spots in a girl band. It was like NSync but worse. Or Backstreet Boys, or both, but some completely feigned band who probably don't put out good music. Cheryl Tweedy, it seems, won a coveted spot in the "band" and is still in it, performing or whatever it is they do. Oh god, I just remembered the name of the band: Girls Allowed. Aloud?

For those of you who might come into contact with people who actually like British pop culture at any time in the near future, you must know that apparently this is not an appropriate response: "Oh my god, you're joking. That is sooooo lame."

In retrospect, I'm guessing it was one thing to not know who Cheryl Tweedy was, but it was another thing entirely to make fun of her. For about five seconds I felt like an idiot, and then I remembered where I live and with whom I was currently sharing company.

*sigh*

It makes me miss Jessica Simpson in some ways. At least she's got nice boobs.

NHS dentistry

I can't say much for the maternity perks in this country, but I will go to great lengths to tell the world how nice the dentistry is. I do have the insane luck of having extremely good teeth: I've never even had a cavity (so far, at age 29). I do like brushing my teeth, enjoy getting tartar scraped from my teeth and I don't even mind flossing. I got seals on my teeth when I was around 10 and apparently they've done me some good. My point is that I've never minded the dentist anyway.

So I show up on Friday morning at the "free" dentist, expecting to have to jump through hoops to get my teeth cleaned and thinking they wouldn't know what they were doing. I just assumed, based on Hugh Grant's and Austin Powers' dental hygiene, that I shouldn't expect too much. I was pleased to find out I was wrong about some things British! Although there was no air conditioning in the shop, there was a huge fan aimed directly at me and for the first time in five days I stopped sweating. Then after a quick look at my x-rays from a year ago and another quick prodding at my teeth with one of those sharp, hooky tools, the dentist said my teeth looked great and that I should floss more. He even took a digital picture of the back of my bottom teeth and showed me in hi def how bad the tartar there was. Like I didn't know. Anyway, then he used some high-powered drill of a cleaner and cleaned my teeth, proceded to do the flavored (flavoured) bit with another drilly thing and I was done. Fewer than 15 minutes. "Come back in a year; x-rays in another two years."

If anything, I'd say they're more efficient than the dentists in the U.S. So that's one more thing this country's got going for it. Which is nice.

Oh, OH, OH ... and it only cost £15.

Back to the eggs

Rebecca, in her brilliance, googled the whole eggs-in-the-fridge thing and found that eggs, like most American groceries, are bought in bulk in the U.S. and then refrigerated to keep their freshness. In Europe, as in other places I'm sure, they buy a few eggs at a time and leave them on their mildewy countertops or in their moldy shelves, leaving them a mere day or so to be consumed. Why no one has bothered to tell them that one of the few things Americans do correctly is buy in bulk and freeze/refrigerate is beyond me. Because it works.

Seriously, it works. I was going Euro and leaving my eggs on the counter before Lou told me how they lose a day of freshness for every hour not kept cold (or some wonderful stat similar to that), and I was wondering why my scrambled eggs were turning out a very pale yellow color, as well as sticking to the pan more than they should with an adequate spraying of generic Tespressco Pam sunflower spray underneath them. I do blame it on the lack of refrigeration.

These Brits is crazy. Someone needs to show them frostless freezers and refrigerated eggs. And air-conditioning. While we're at it, Diet Dr Pepper, iced tea, Mexican food, decent margaritas and cheap public transportation should be added to that list. And dental hygiene, reliable health insurance, coffee that doesn't cost half your week's earnings and a playground that doesn't look like the other 15 I've seen since we got here.

How about a road that actually has two lanes?

Can we talk about LeAnn Rimes for a second?

And I don't mean the way she spells her name. Because apparently I spell my name unusually as well. But I mean why anybody really cares about her. She is darn cute. I'll give her that. And she can sing. But I can't name a single song she sings, so I am beyond understanding why people.com and other celebrity web sites are reporting on her. Who are the huge LeAnn Rimes fans out there who just can't get enough of her pictures? Her back-up dancer (there are back-up dancers in country music?) husband? Where are they hiding out? Niagara Falls, Canada? Because this is where she just cancelled one of her shows, or so I'm told by the media. Who are the Canadians in the world who are obsessed with LeAnn Rimes? Or is that exactly the point: to cancel a show no one cares about? I'm aware that Shania Twain is Canadian. And Jewel might as well be. And Garth Brooks had some enormous show once in Toronto that was like the best ever. And really, I'm not trying to diss Ms Rimes. Like I said, she is cute and dresses well and maybe I'd really like her if I met her. But, like we said in fifth grade before "shit" pervaded our vernacular, who gives a care?

My only thought is that she cares. More than anyone. And she let out this huge press release so that everyone would know she was having surgery on infected tissue in her leg. (What does that mean, by the way? Sounds awfully sketchy, like flesh-eating bacteria caught in San Angelo.) And hence I am led to the saying, "Any pub is good pub." Which I don't really believe but I have no choice but to roll with it here. I was thinking the same thing about Christie Brinkley. She's 52 and used to do Prell commercials. (Nevermind my sister's sixth grade beauty school teacher told her never to put anything green on her hair.) Anyway, she's getting divorced for the fourth time. Why would you want to tell the world this? Let people find out on their own through the public records office. Those people out there who are rabid, 52-year-old-loving Christie Brinkley fans. The same can be said of Brigette Nielsen. I can't even remember anything she was in, except for The Surreal Life, a part of which I managed to catch once and indeed, I saw the blooming friendship that was Ms Nielsen and Flava Flav. So be it. But to announce that she got married (again) to some Italian bozo? Who gives a care?

My next thought is of all the washed-up celebs who are just looking to be relevant. Thus the availability of The Surreal Life. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it. But marveling at the thought of people all over the world who might be obsessed with, say, Gilbert Godfried or something, or David Hasslehoff (and don't we know they exist, ugh), takes up many hours of my day.

But who gives a care?

The blame game, part II

So it turns out the landlord thinks all the things' breaking in our flat is our fault! As if we'd willingly go days without heat or hot water in the middle of winter, break our kitchen sink so that we can't get hot water (newest development) or take apart the sink in the bathroom just to annoy him. What the f***? He has threatened to "give notice" on us if one more thing breaks, and let me just say that as soon as he said that, two more things broke. It is infuriating and depressing to live in a place such as this, especially with a landlord such as he. We are determined to move but don't know if we can afford it.

As an aside, it turns out the fridge works much better now after being defrosted, but how was I supposed to know to do that? I have lived in one place in my entire life with a fridge that needed to be defrosted. I was there four months and it was defrosted right before I moved in so I never did it. Great advice from the man across the hall here to advise us to do that, but the landlord said, "How can you have lived this long and not know these things?"

So sorry that in our country we are more advanced and less cheap! And kinder and more understanding, helpful when things go wrong, to boot.

IHTFC.

PS -- Americans are the only ones who refrigerate their eggs

The blame game

I have six minutes until CSI: Miami, my favorite show to hate, starts. How bad can David Carusoe get? Do people really watch this show and think it's interesting?

Anyway, in that time I can sum up the laundry list (literally) of things that have gone wrong with this flat:
* boiler (hot water and central heat) has broken at least five times
* hob (stove) went crack, sizzle, pop
* washing machine was leaking into apartment below
* microwave just broke
* sink in loo is leaking due to improper installation
* mold in bathroom out of control
(* in winter, mold in flat in general out of control)
* windows won't stay open to let in fresh air and there's no A/C
[the clencher:] * the fridge is broken

I've been noticing lately that my cheese is sweaty, my yogurt is runny, my Pepsi Max isn't really cold. But since the fridge was actually freezing beer and milk on the lowest setting during winter, I figured maybe during summer it had a hard time keeping things cold. The clotted milk, 9 days from its expiration date, told me otherwise.

And I wonder why Vaughn has been so sick lately, why she vomited three times, including some bile, the last time I gave her milk. Sheesh.

I know I shouldn't blame London or Britain but I do. It's easy. Almost as easy as blaming George Bush for everything wrong with America, and believe me, I'd blame him for this, too, if I could. I'm sure I could find a way. But in the meantime, this is London's fault and I couldn't hate this place more than I do in this particular instant ... except for the next ...

Colonial guilt

Isn't it ironic that my favorite holiday is the Fourth of July and I'm stuck in this place (*nudge nudge* "England," from whose grasp we celebrate our independence) on that date this year? AND NEXT YEAR? Vaughn has two red-white-and-blue outfits to celebrate this holiday, and I have even acquired face paints so that I can decorate her face with stars and fireworks and thus pretend she was in a parade earlier in the day. I am also making red-white-and-blue cupcakes, I'm hoping to grill sausages and I will probably throw together some green bean casserole. Mark's taken the afternoon off (at my request). Everything's all American.

But the catch is that Vaughn has the flu for the seventh time since we moved here. Last night when we put her to bed, I said to Mark, "Should we sleep with the door open so we can hear her cry [over the white noise of the fans (no A/C here)], in case she vomits on herself in the night or something?" Mark said we'd hear her even with the door shut and I concurred.

We were so wrong. We woke up this morning to find our beautiful baby girl writhing in the crust of her own dried-up vomit. If I'd been half as worried about her illness as I had been about the freaking Fourth of July ... well, I can't even finish that thought. I just feel terribly guilty. Maybe I deserve to be in this godforsaken place on July 4 this year. But Vaughn doesn't!