And another thing ...

How is David Beckham SO beautiful? It almost hurts.

Overheard in London

Neighbo(u)r: I just like driving Stephen's car better.
Me: Why is that?
Neighbo(u)r: Well, for one thing, it's safer. It's a Focus ...

Um, excuse me? When did a Ford Focus become a model of vehicle safety? What could you possibly be driving now that is less safe? This is frightening to me. And this is no dig on my neighbo(u)r. This is a dig on a country so tightly packed with people that a Ford Focus is deemed a safe car. I'm astounded. Truly.

Things Brits never say

* "I threw up." (Rather, "I got sick.")
* "What's her name?" (Rather, "What is she called?")
* "Thank you." (Rather, "Thanks," or, "Ta," or, "Cheers.")
* Ultrasound. (Rather, scan.)
* Nurse. (Rather, Sister.)
* "It's been raining for ages."
* Santa Claus. (Rather, Father Christmas.)
* "Merry Christmas." (Rather, "Happy Christmas.")
* Prenatal. (Rather, antenatal.)
* Disoriented. (Rather, disorientated.)
* Sour cream. (Rather, when they do refer to it at all, if ever, soured cream.)
* "I drank too much last night."
* "I don't mind." (Rather, "I'm not bothered.")
* "You can't park there."
* Chicken wings, cheese sticks or potato skins.
* (On that note,) Cheese enchiladas.

Negativity overload

I'm thinking I might have to quit this blog. For my two friends out there who read this, I know you're stunned, mortified and quite possibly in shock, but right now all I can think of to say are bad things. I hate England. I hate not having Taco Bell. I hate the sun's setting at 345pm. I hate not having a car. I hate not having the energy to play with my child. I hate getting fatter and wearing maternity clothes at 12 weeks. I resent everyone who has ever been in this situation and had it easier, and I don't care about anyone who's had it harder. I'm so thirsty but drinking anything makes me feel queasy. I'm starving and yet everything I put down my throat gives me terrible heartburn. I don't even want to go to my sweet next-door neighbo(u)r's for Christmas because the food there is going to be so horrible (Christmas pudding, mince pies, gammon (what IS that?), trifle, mulled wine ... and all in the company of the completely ridiculous Christmas crackers) that I'm afraid my pregnant ass might hurl onto the dinner table. What manners those Americans have!

See what I mean?

My Fat Jeans are tight