Radio Ramadan

As I disembarked the long train journey from Truro, Cornwall to civilization  (otherwise known as Bristol, population 500,000) I admired the european architecture of the train station and the Harry Potterisk ambiance. For some strange reason as I exited the station onto the street with my bags in tow, I half expected there to be a mob of people, dressed in dish dashes and aggressively saying "taxi madame" in my face while ignoring my personal space.

To my disappointment what I found was a dark, wet, quiet street where taxi cabs were lined up in an orderly fashion, waiting for their next fare.

As I approached the passenger side window the driver rolled the window down. Startled by the dark man in the drivers seat, I briefly hesitated. When was the last time I saw a non-white person? August 15th, at JFK airport in New York, before moving to Cornwall, that's when.

"The Clifton Hotel?" I said, hesitatingly. 

The driver obviously sensed my hesitation. "yes" he replied.

As I walked to the back of the cab to give the driver my bags, I thought, "what's happening to me? Since when I am startled by non-white people?"

As we left the station the driver turned the radio on. "Radio Ramadan" read on the digital screen. A familiar Arabic tune blared through the car. 

"music to my ears" I thought. It felt so comfortable to hear the music I used to hear almost daily in Oman yet never thought twice about. It's been months since I've heard it, and in a way it made me homesick. I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like I was home.

Beef Party

Last night I attended a Royal Navy beef party. It was really called, "Trafalgar Night" and was a dinner to commemorate a famous battle against the french and Sir Nelson Somebody or Other. 

It will always go down in history to me as "The Beef Party"  though.

The Beef party was a fancy dress event which meant women had to wear dresses below their knees and navy personnel were in white uniform. The evening consisted of all you can drink  and a full, sit down dinner which lasted about three to three and one half hours. Forty five minutes of those three hours consisted of speeches.

After we bullshat and drank champagne (or orange juice if you were like me and were not drinking)(oh wait, i was the only person not drinking) we were ushered down to the "mess". All of the ladies made a mad dash for the bathroom since you were not allowed to get up during the meal for any reason whatsoever.  This was an extremely difficult concept for me to swallow.

Anyway, down in the mess there where four, long tables  set up. One was horizontally positioned where all of the VIP's sat and faced the rest of us peons. The remaining three tables came out of the VIP table vertically and were parallel to each other. Almost like a big E shape, yet the three tables were bigger than the backbone of the E, if that makes any sense.

Each table seated people on either side and theoretically you were supposed ot be seated with people you worked with, except for us. To our left were two very young officers from Scotland doning very stylish kilts. In front of us was a couple. The female in the couple, obviously a civilian like myself, was taking full advantage of the all you can drink and was drunk before the beef arrived. And to my right was a very nice couple only one month from delivering their second baby. In total, one hundred and eighty people.

anyway, after we had our starter (also known as "appetizer" to us Americans), four very young people entered the room carrying a big piece of beef on their shoulders. they supported the beef on a huge tray and carried it together. 

As they entered the room fell silent. In front of the "beef party" was a very serious woman walking very stiff, much like the nutrcracker. After she painfully marched up to the VIP table she shouted very sternly, "Permission granted for beef party to serve sir?"

That's when I about lost it. BEEF PARTY???? I've had beef, and i've been to many parties, but never in my 33 years have I EVER heard of a BEEF PARTY.

Thankfully, the commander granted permission to the beef party to serve beef and they marched out like 5 stiff nutcrackers from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker.

Five minutes later identical looking waiters and waitresses scurried around the room strategically placing plates of beef (what else?) in front of us. Than we had to wait for them to individually serve us our veg (otherwise known as vegetables to Americans) AND THAN the gravy.

AT this point it's 8:15, almost 8:30 and I'm about to eat my hand. How long does a pregnant lady have to wait to eat around here??

Of course we had to wait until all 180 people were served their beef, their veg and their gravy before we could eat.

The beef smelled delicious. I could hardly wait. 

Until the gravy was served. As soon as i put the gravy spoon back in the gravy boat a yeast-like odor hit me like a ton of bricks. This of course made my stomach churn. 

"It smells like yeast" I said to my husband.

"Yeah" he replied, as if to say "duh". "It's marmite gravy".

"WHAT?" I yelled, while simultaneously gagging. "Who the hell puts marmite in gravy?"

For those of you who don't know what marmite is, consider yourselves lucky. But I'll tell you anwyay; it's a spread that is made out of yeast extract and you either love it or hate it. If you have ever smelled yeast you know the stench I am speaking of here.

Logically, I CAN'T STAND IT.

"When in Rome" I thought to myself and scarfed down my beef, considering implementing my nine year old daughters method of holding my nose in order to avoid tasting anything yeast-like.

Before we started eating  the chaplain of course stood up and said a prayer that went something like this: 

"God Save the Queen, something something Amen."

Very touching. NOT.

I've done a lot of prayin' in my day but that was the first time I ever prayed for a queen. 

In the end I did decide not to hold my nose and tasted marmite in every. single. chew.

After I mopped the plate clean the reality of the crime i had committed hit me and my stomach started churning again.

I washed down my marmite beef with two desserts and felt a lot better though. (I made my husband give me his)

After the dessert, and the port, and the coffee, and the speeches (yawn) the night ended with songs that contained lyrics such as, "What will we do with a drunken sailor?" and "Jolly tars are our men" and my personal favorite,

 "Rule, Britannia! Britannia Rule the waves: Britons never never never never never never never never never never will be slaves."

As these lyrics were belted out by all kinds of drunks around the room, many of them banged their fists on the tables, causing whatever remaining port in their glasses to fly onto their shirts. Or, onto their dresses. 

Rule Britannia!

Health Care is a NIGHTMARE

The National Healthcare System in this country, termed "NHS" is a nightmare. Before I begin my rant if you are British, and have been subjected to this archaic, backward system you should probably either: 1) stop reading this or 2)stop reading this, seriously.

Monday morning I called the "surgery" (that's what doctor's offices are called here) to make an appointment. They couldn't get me in until Wednesday morning. Fine. Not unheard of to wait two days to see the doctor.

A very simple procedure, one would think, confirmation of pregnancy, turned into a HUGE, two-day nightmare.

Wednesday morning at 8:45am I check into reception and wait for the doctor. There are several doctors at this surgery. A short, dark haired woman who looked like she just got out of university (clue number one) came through the double doors, into the waiting room and said "Theresa Warren". She barely said hello nor introduced herself when I stood up and walked toward her (clue number two).

I followed this young, emotionless doctor all the way down the hallway to the last office on the right. 

"Hmm. not a good sign." I thought to myself. Why is her office the last one in the hallway? Fifteen minutes later it became quite clear.

Dr. young-face asked me what I came in for and I explained to her that I had taken two pregnancy tests which were positive and was here for confirmation. I was also weaning myself off of my anti-depressants and now that I'm pregnant wanted some guidance.

"Before we discuss getting off the drugs let's confirm the pregnancy" she said. 

She than handed me a little, clear jar and sent me to the lu (bathroom).

Upon exiting the lu and walking all the way down the hallway back to Dr. What's-Her-Face's  office I hand her the jar.

Dr. no name stands at the sink, with her back to me, for what seems like an eternity, dipping that silly little stick into the jar containing my urine.

I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Silence.

She breaks the silence with, "It's showing that you are negative". 

My heart starts pounding uncontrollably. 

"What?" I respond, confused. "Are you sure?"

"This test we use here is not 100% but we depend on it for results." 

Let's examine this statement: "this test is not 100%." So...WHY ARE YOU USING IT HERE?

"but we depend on it". OK. But why not use a test that is accurate? Correct me if I'm wrong but usually us common folk seek the help of doctors and depend on the tools they use to diagnose our symptoms. So the point of using a test that isn't always accurate is for I'm sorry, what purpose? Or perhaps Dr. No Name is not reading the test correctly?

"Can you do a blood test, like they do in the states?" I ask, almost pleading, at this point desperate.

"We don't do those here. I can give you a jar though and you can fill it in the morning when you wake. That may be more accurate. Bring it in and i'll send it to a lab and we should have the results by the end of the day."

"Ok" was my response but i was really thinking, "Where the hell am I? This is supposed to be a first world country?"

"I'm sorry what was your name?" I asked as I was leaving.

"Dr. Slim" she said with the same emotionless tone she had been using the entire time I was in the office, despite the fact that she could see I was VERY upset and in tears.

Feeling VERY annoyed, frustrated and wishing I never moved here I left the surgery, in tears, and called my husband.

After our conversation I walked down to the pharmacy and bought another digital pregnancy test, which of course said "positive" when I tested myself.

The next morning I bring in my jar and tell the receptionist, "This is for Dr. Slim".

"Dr. Slim is not in today" the receptionist says. "But I can send this to the lab. Is it for an infection?"

"WHAT???" I snapped. 

"No it's a pregnancy test and Dr. Slim told me to bring it in, and ask for her this morning."

On the verge of tears I demanded to see another doctor. The receptionist tells me there are no appointments available today. I reached for the ziploc bag my jar of urine was in, this time in tears, so i could haul ass out of this hell that is called a "surgery".

"Wait a minute" the receptionist calmly said. At this point we are playing tug-o-war with my urine.

"No. Give me my urine I"m leaving" I somehow managed to say through tears.

"You can see the nurse practitioner at 9:30".

"Ok" I sobbed. "I'll be back in 30 mins".

I waited until I actually exited the building before breaking down uncontrollably and calling my husband, who of course left work and came right over.

After i regained control I 1) cursed the heatlhcare system in this country and 2) cursed Dr. Slim-to-none for her lack of professionalism (in that order).

The Nurse practitioner was much more experienced and much more enjoyable to deal with. She showed me the stick after dipping it into the jar, and said it was positive but the second line was very faint, which was what probably caused Dr. Slim-to-none's confusion.

My husband and I were of course overwhelmed with joy by the news! (even though we knew but now we really know)

One scary, disturbing thought occurred to me though: If I had to go through all of this just to find out i was pregnant, what am I actually going to have to do to deliver this baby??

Stay tuned...

Red Lines

As I looked down at the little white stick on the bathroom floor I saw one red line appear. First it was a faint red line.  As each second passed though, it became redder and redder, the result becoming more and more obvious. I continued to stare at it, hoping my staring would will two red lines to appear, rather than one.

Ten and half years ago I was staring at the same type of stick, watching two red lines appear quicker than I could blink.  Ten and half years ago I was hoping for one red line, but got two. Now I'm hoping for two and got one. Life seems to have a way of playing itself out regardless of who you are or what you want.

American vs. British

Below I have listed the many British terms that I come across almost daily. Next to them, in bold, their American translations.*

BRITISH American

hoover (Did you hoover the house today?)-vacuum (Did you vacuum the house today?)

PMT (pre-menstrual tension) -PMS (pre-menstrual syndrome)

top up (I need to top-up my drink)-refill (I need a drink refill)

sette-couch

you alright?-how are you?

bollocks-shit or the f-bomb

bloody hell- bloody hell

pants-underwear

trousers-pants

buggy/pram- stroller

dear- expensive

dinner- lunch

lu-bathroom

nappies-diapers

*This is a work in progress

The Dilema of Staying Home

 What is the protocol for getting ready for the day as a stay at home mom, (I prefer the term "house manager" but HATE the term "homemaker")? 

My dilemna is this: if I know I'm going to the gym late morning, do I shower when I wake at 7am, get dressed and put make up at that time? OR, do I throw anything on, brush my teeth and wait to shower until after the gym, which is generally anywhere between noon and 1pm?

Keep in mind, every morning at 8 I must walk my little one to the bus stop, where all of the other moms seem to be well put groomed. My  neighbor always looks put togehter when I see her around 8:45 getting into the car with her boys every morning.

Am I embarrassing myself (and my daughter) but walking out of the house every morning looking like I just got hit by a truck? Am I putting the homemaker lifestyle to shame by not taking more care in my appearance?

If I were to shower at 7am AND after my workout, wouldn't that technically be a waste of water and bad for the environment? And if I put make up on at 7am, than sweat at the gym at 11, wouldn't my pores be clogged, thereby risking a greater chance of a break out? It's also not good for your skin to wash it three times per day (i'm talking face here). 

Who would have thought my biggest concern would be when to shower!!