The Three F's

I've got the three F's: funky, fat and fed up. I could have probably added in fucked off but y'all didn't need to know what a potty mouth I really have if you don't already.


Funk. I'm in a funk. I wish I could elaborate more than that but that's it. I'm just in a weird funky mood and can't get out of it. If you wanted to label me as depressed that could probably work but as in the past my personal depression/anxiety has manifested much worse I'm not going to call it that.


Fat. Yes I'm fat. Now don't start in on me here because everyone's definition of fat is different but I'm up a jeans size. I've mentioned before how I own jeans in varying sizes from 10-18 and right now that is a good thing because I'm not fitting in the ones I *should* be. I'm not liking how things fit on me and I'm feeling heavy so I need to get off my fat ass and do something about it. The gym is literally a one minute drive away so I just need to do it already.  I also need to stop eating like an idiot and eat healthily. Of course I bought a box of Betty Crocker Angel Food mix at TK Maxx today because I could so I'm obviously not in that big of a rush. I'm going to need to be in a swimsuit in two weeks so I should start sooner than later.


Fed up. I could have also called this bit Friendless. Extreme? Eh not so much. The not so glamorous side of being an expat (what is the glam side again?) is that all your friends are thousands of miles and an ocean away. I desperately miss my friends to the point where I'm a sad sack thinking about it and crying while I type. I love my friends. They are ride or die, amazing friends who love me not despite all my eccentricities but for them. I don't have to explain myself or act a certain way I can just be me. I miss them to the point that I ridiculously and incorrectly begin to resent NotBlondeHusband for having friends that he can go out and do things with regularly. Homesickness is something all expats have to deal with from time to time and I'm some what crushed with it at the moment.


So yea. I've got the F's. I honestly don't really know what to do about it. I've started stripping the pink out of my hair but I'm not really sure how that will affect anything. I've recognized that I need to get healthy but I haven't done anything about it so not much there.  Friends well what can I do; it isn't like I'm some introverted, shy person who doesn't like to meet new people---I'm precisely the opposite. But now I'm just whining and I hate whining.


 So why did I write this? I don't know. Maybe if I get it out of my head it is a step closer to breaking out of it.

Guest Post: Mummy's accent

This guest post is from a fellow expat Adele from Circus Queen. I briefly met the stunning Adele at the MADs and immediately wanted to know her experiences of being an expat mother in the UK. Here she shares her concerns about something I've often wondered myself-- what kind of accent will our dual national children have?


It's recently occurred to me that if we continue to live here, my daughter will grow up with a Bristolian accent. I'm not sure how I feel about that. 


There's a certain edgy charm to it, sure, but I just can't get my head around the idea. To be fair, it's not just the Bristol thing. 


This is just part of the general confusion I feel over raising a child who is British when I am not. 





Growing up in Trinidad, a "farrin" (foreign) accent was something exotic.
It meant experiences outside of mine - contact with a bigger world.


Though six years of living in the UK have confused my own accent, perhaps
irreparably, I can't help but be weirded out by the idea that the baby
whose nappies I'm changing will sound (and be) "farrin".

But what's in an accent? Can it tell a person’s whole story?

I was teased for mine as a child and teen. For one thing, it was
inexplicably affluent. One sentence and people would make assumptions
about the kind of school I’d been to and the kind of family I was from. I
don’t know why the fact that my accent was associated with wealth was such
a point of amusement for others or why it bothered me so much myself.

Secondly, it morphed according to context. As a teenager a lot of my
sounds were hugely influenced by time spent in a mini-marriage to my best
friend who was in fact “farrin”. She was from Texas.

I was self-conscious about my accent the way some girls are about their
boobs (and, of course, I was conscious of those too).

Then I moved to England and apart from mistaking me for Welsh, people kept
getting confused about whether I meant "hair", "here" or "hear". Uh,
context, please.

Little by little, what started as a bid to be better understood became
conformism.

For instance, last week, I was thinking through some political issues and
found that when I referred to the “British public”, I’d included myself in
that entity.

For most of the time I’ve lived here, I’ve viewed myself as separate from
“the British”, a self-identified outsider. It was “them” and “me”.

But I’ve married a British man, I am raising a British child, I benefit
from the National Health Service. I pay taxes. I take an interest in
British politics. I watch XFactor. Religiously.

And the more Britishness my life accumulates, the more my accent seems to
transform. Is it disingenuous? Is it self-loathing?

Part of me wants a slap for admitting that I’ve conformed. It's telling me
it's time to buck up, take a swig of rum and start sounding broadly
Caribbean and proud.

But really, I don't see that it is such a big deal. So what if I'm
starting to sound British? Maybe it means I'm becoming more comfortable
with being here. Maybe, just maybe, Britain is becoming home.

And if that's so, perhaps by the time my daughter's old enough to chat
with, I'll not notice that she's "farrin".

Guest Post: A Nordic Savage in France Or the Day Care Question

This post comes from Milja (pronounced Milya) who is a singer-songwriter and Mummy of one. She, like myself, is an expat and is a Finn living in France. Milja discovers what happen when Nordic and French views on Day Care collide.

'Oh? You won't put your daughter to child care?'

'No.'

'Really?'

'Ummm, no.'

'But she's two years old! It's better for her development!'

'Oh. Didn't realize that.'

(Vague tittering.)

'Well, I guess it's because you're so... you know... '

'Because I'm what, exactly?'

' So... Nordic. You know, all that breast-feeding, child raising and all.'

I couldn't believe I was hearing this.

'You know, us French women, we want our freedom! (more vague titters.) We want to work! You Nordics, you don't feel that way.'

'We don't?'

'No! A French woman wants to return to work right after she's given birth! We don't want to stay home like our poor mothers and their mothers were forced to do! Whereas you...'

This is where my friend the Frenchwoman finally gave up. She didn't know what more to say about us strangely maternal Nordic women. Here I was, once again involuntarily drawn into a conversation about my wrongful choices in raising my child. A Finn (and a musician at that) raising my child in France, doing it all wrong. For in France, it seems, it is considered a crime against the feminist movement if your child doesn't go to childcare by the age of two, and God forbid, if she/he doesn't go to school at the age of three, like the other French children. It's so good for the child, I'm told, that way it won't be spoiled! Good for the mother, too, that way she won't have to exhaust herself with unnecessary child-raising. After all, there are professionals for that. I'm not saying all French have advised me thus – but it's happened often enough for me to generalize about it in a flagrant manner such as this.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm one empowered woman, and proud of it. I'm the head of my household, like my mother, her mother, her mother's mother and generations of mother's mother's mothers were before her. In my native Finland, when a man went chasing bear-meat burgers in his loincloth in snow up to his chin, it was more than possible he would never come back. There were always some swedish and russian tribes to fight, bears, wolves and wolverines to kill – and a mighty winter that lasts more than a half of the year, for heaven's sakes. A Finnish woman is the head of her household, whereas a man exhausted by hunting, fighting and snow-plowing lays on the furs drinking hard liquor. So the famous equality of the sexes in the Nordic countries is a necessity. Without it, we would have been extinct since the invention of booze.

This, however, is not the case in western and southern Europe. Historically, it's been the Man of the House who makes the rules. Unless a field slave, the respectable woman's duties would sum up to being a lamb in the living room and a tiger in the bedroom, none of that cave-bear-matronly behavior. I mean, the French woman only got to vote in 1946. She couldn't open a bank account without the permission of her male guardian before the 1960's! I know a women whose banker called her father every time her bank account was on overdraft, and this was the 1990's! No wonder a Frenchwoman will still do anything to get the hell out of the house!

I get this. I feel for you, Mesdames. I also feel for the women who have to work full-time just to put bread on the empty table. But those who don't: come on, don't claim it's anti-feminist to raise my child myself. I agree, the equality of sexes and all that, but hey - I just need to look at the unkempt state of my daughter is in after having spent a week in her loving father's care to know I'm the more instinctive carer for her. And since I'm able and willing to both work and care for her, what's so wrong with that? (Oh, I forgot. It will spoil my child. A smiley here.)

There's a Finnish woman politician, an elected member of the Finnish parliament, who took her newborn child with her to the parliament sessions, breast-feeding him right then and there. For some reason, I'm quite sure I wouldn't see this in the French Assembly. There are too many cultural differences to even compare my land of birth to my adopted homeland. Still, I choose to stay here, to have my cheese and eat it too, and also have my weekly conversation about why I want to raise my child wrong, raising her myself. I love this country dearly. But to be honest... I just sometimes wish I never learned french so wouldn't have to understand the stuff I'm told.

A girl walks into a bar with her Mom...

Eight years ago today I met NotBlondeHusband. People often ask how we met, how I became and expat so for those who don't already know here, in all it's glory, is how we met. It's much better told in person with my Mom butting in every two seconds to give her version but this will have to suffice.

I was interning in Washington DC at Choice USA in the summer of 2003 when my Mom and sister came to visit for a weekend.  One night my Mom and I went out for a drink and decided to go to Georgetown, but my Mom didn't want to walk far because she had on high heels, so we went to what I thought was the first "acceptable" bar on M Street, Garrett's. Anyone who's lived in NW DC will know what I'm talking about; there are bars before full of old coke heads and after Garrett's M Street begins to incline steeply so not ideal for hoofing it in heels.

When we walked in I noticed a cute guy and two friends sitting at the bar, normally I'd have headed to the upstairs bar, but I sat downstairs instead. I went to sit next to said guy, but my Mom insisted she didn't want to sit on the corner and plopped down next to the hottie in a Barcelona strip.

Not one to be deterred, after striking up conversation about their gold Elvis sunglasses (no matter how much my Mom tries to tell you she picked them up) NotBlondeHusband, the cute guy, and I got to talking and when my Mom went to the bathroom I took her seat next to him. Several Jaeger shots, discussions of hetero-life mates and ditching of my Mom and my friend I'd called in for back up later and I was hooked.


He was over on vacation with his two friends and for the remaining 4 days of his trip we spent every day together hanging out and getting to know each other. That's the good thing about working in a small female only office; when true love snogs you while your Mom's back is turned they let you have a few days off.

We visited back and forth across the Atlantic for 9 months and then NotBlondeHusband moved to live with me in DC for the summer of 2004 and that September I moved over to Glasgow with him.

I remember being really upset when he left and one of the Directors at my office said "you are going to marry him and have beautiful babies one day." Now this was a feminist organization so she wasn't just babbling. That being said I don't think I knew just then just how right she was.

Guest Post: A Blogger's Confession

When you're an expat you can hear an American accent across a room; you hear that twang and immediately know you're not alone and you have to find that person. My last guest post is by the lovely Erin  from an American Mom in England who's originally from Oregon (but went to university in Ohio) and after an initially difficult adjustment loves living in England.   


This might seem a bit odd, but I have to admit that one of my favourite things about living in England is meeting other Americans who live here.  It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is for Americans living abroad to connect.  

There’s something almost magical about the ease with which friendships are formed among expats.  All the differences that might have separated us in the states don’t matter over here.  Instead we bond over the things we miss from home: macaroni & cheese, mountain dew, pop tarts, Mexican food, good sushi.   I think it’s because we share a common cultural literacy with one another that simply makes friendship easy.

Unsurprisingly, my husband disagrees with me.  His theory is that since there are substantially fewer Americans over here we expats substantially lower the level of oddity we’re willing to tolerate accordingly. 

Yet, I know for me that’s not the true.  The expats I keep in touch with are some of the most amazing women I know. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to get to spend a day in Manchester at a BlogCamp with the lovely Melaina and Lindy.

(Please forgive the crazy frizzy hair, it had been pulled up until moments before Lindy took the photo!)

Besides the obligatory expat chat:  Where are you from?  How long have you been here?  How did you meet your husband?  This is followed by shared geographical knowledge (in this instance Dayton & Cincinnati, OH) and then the inevitable mention of Costco. 

I met two strong independent women who have the self-confidence to be themselves and those are the kind of friends I like the best. 

Guest Post: Wrong Bat Babe

The first thing you should know about Kat from 3 Bedroom Bungalow is she is the reason I don't smell. She very kindly brought me Secret deodorant to CyberMummy (don't get me started on why UK deodorant doesn't work); actually she brought half of the commissary with her to dole out to fellow expats with cravings.  She's crazy generous, hilarious and I wish she didn't live on the other side of the UK or I suspect we'd get up to lots of trouble.  Blondie Boy watches baseball on TV and says "ball ball" but I often wonder what it will be like when he's old enough to play sports that don't really exist in Scotland. Here Kat talks about her own daughter's perception of baseball.

Hi, I'm Kat and I have lived here in the east of England for about 2 and a half years.  My daughters LaLa and KiKi, ages 7 and 5 respectively, have spent most of their cognizant life here in the UK.  They don't really remember much about our life back in the US and most of their memories have been formed here.  They think they are English about ¾ of the time.  Every once in a while, they remember that they are in fact American, and like any typical American will crow about it loudly for couple of days before they revert back to their typically English manerims. 

I live near an American military base (my husband is in the United States Air Force) and they offer typical American sports for the children of the service memembers to sign up to play.  There are basketball leagues in the fall and winter, football teams in the fall (American football, not footy...though they play that too), cheerleading for the girls and in the spring and summer the offer the most American of all sports, Baseball. 

I signed LaLa up to play baseball this year.  When I was discribing the sport to her, I tried my best to sort of tell her the rules and sort of how it was played and the gear that is used.  It was all sort of in a round about way because she really hasn't been exposed to many sports over here in the UK-other than what as an American I would call soccer, but what Brits would call football (it does get rather confusing).  So, eventually I said something along the lines of “you hit the ball with the bat” and her ears immediately perked up.  She got really excited and then yelled “YAY!! I get to play Cricket!”

Wait.  No.  This is baseball.  Don't let your dad, your dad that is obsessed with the great American past time of baseball, hear you call it Cricket!  He would stroke out.  Ok, maybe not stroke out, but he would be highly concerned and feel that he had failed in his very patriotic (he’s big on the patriotic...he's in the military after all) duty, to teach his offspring the ins and outs of baseball.  Thankfully, he's in Korea. 

So guess who gets to teach her about baseball?  Yep, me.  It's going alright.  Well if you don't count the fact that she got so excited when she hit the ball last night that she ran around all the bases with no regard that she was passing her own teammates that were already on base and got called out for it.  Oh well.  We'll get there in the end.  I hope.  

Bon Voyage

Today is Transatlantic Blonde's third anniversary! Thank you all so much for reading all my random ramblings; here is what Blondie Boy has to say:

Yup that's right: Thanks and Bye! We are jetting off to Barcelona today and driving to the South of France tomorrow!  I've got some great guest posts lined up while I'm away so please show them some love!  I've also got Feminist Friday (open theme) scheduled for next Friday so please come by! I'm sure I'll have some interesting posts when I get back including celebrating American Independence Day in France, oooh la la!

We'll not have internet so please be patient if you are trying to reach me via twitter or email since I'll be cut off from the twitterverse and blogosphere. Don't feel too sorry for me though as I'll most likely be sipping a frozen beverage with my feet dipped in the pool :)

(that is the actual pool I will be lounging by!)

Travelling with a Toddler

Tomorrow we are leaving on a proper vacation. What the freak makes it proper you ask? It's a vacation which has the sole purpose of being a vacation. Being an expat means that a lot of your vacations are actually trips to visit friends and family. Don't get me wrong, I love seeing them, but I'm really excited to being going on a proper holiday which for me includes a beach and our very own OUTDOOR pool!


This will be our third trip with Blondie Boy so I thought I'd pull together a list of what I think are must haves for travelling with a toddler. Some of these I haven't tested or tried yet, but like I said it's my opinions, not facts.

Trunki: Unless you've never been in an airport ever you'll have seen a Trunki; I saw at least ten over the past two weeks when I flew to Manchester and London. Not only are they ridiculously cute, but they are functional. Your child can ride on it, you can pull them on it while you use it to schlep their carry-on stuff on the plane. Blondie Boy has been pushing it around the living room all week so I can't wait to see what he does at the airport.


Salter Luggage Scales: I hate packing; I am always overpacking and don't even get me started on how I jam everything into our suitcase when we come home from the US (I may or may not bring an extra bag just for food). On more that one occasion we've had to shuffle items from one bag to another so they were the right weight.  You attach the Salter luggage scales to your bag, lift it by the handle, and wait for the beep to see the total weight. No more embarrassing moments at check-in and no more excess luggage fees!

New toys and books: The tip mentioned to me most often is to bring toys and books your child has never seen before to keep them entertained. I've already broken that by letting Blondie Boy play with his Megasketcher but I love that the pen is attached to the board so he can't drop/throw it away. Luckily my Mother-in-law has gotten him some new books as well.


Change of clothes in your carry-on: I'm not just talking about for your toddler here; pack an extra top for you, too. Do you want to sit in a puked on, peed on or food smeared shirt for an extended period of time? I didn't think so.


Snacks: I don't like airplane food and chances are your toddler won't either. Pack snacks you know they like and are easy to eat. Things like snack bars or fruit pouches which your toddler can slurp. If the pouches are more than 100ml you'll have to taste them but 100ml or smaller and you are good to go.


A baby carrier: If your child is still light enough use a baby carrier. We used one when we flew with Blondie Boy at 5 months and it was amazing. He fell asleep in it and I could carry him while eating a Sausage McMuffin; I call that a win-win situation.

A compact stroller: We are taking our Nuna PEPP with us on the flight. It folds up easily and compactly, but doesn't slack on style or function. I've been happy with how it's worked for travelling around Glasgow and I'm interested to see how it does travelling abroad.


Travel Cot: Blondie Boy still sleeps in his crib so trying to put him to sleep in a regular bed is just not going to work. We're taking a Mamas and Papas Sleep Travel Cot. It is compact and portable, but still very spacious, sturdy and stylish. Hopefully Blondie Boy will like sleeping in it!

Pourty: I've talked about the Pourty before and since we know Blondie Boy likes using it as a potty and it is portable we are taking it with us on our trip. No reason for potty training to stop just because we are going on holiday. It also means we can dispose of everything in the potty easily and without mess.




What are your *must* haves for travelling with a toddler? Am I forgetting anything?


Some, but not all, of these products were provided to Transatlantic Blonde to review but all opinions are my own.

Tots 100 Guest Post

Today I've got a guest post over on the Tots 100!

The easiest way to explain why I’m not your average Mummy blogger is the fact that – whisper it –  I’m not actually a Mummy.

You see I’m a Mommy.

Not only am I a Mommy, but I am a Mommy who lives in Glasgow, Scotland: more than eight hours and 400 miles from London, where most blogging events seem to take place....

Read the rest here!

Birthdays a go go

My family is over run with April birthdays and today alone is the birthday of 2 different cousins, my step-sister and my Dad!

I hate being so far away from family on days like today but hopefully we'll be able to Skype later on today. Blondie Boy and I are going to play outside in the fabulous weather in their honour to celebrate!

Happy Birthday Grandpa! 

Happy Birthday Aunt Gin!

Handle with Care

I love a good care package, especially one with American treats in it and I was lucky enough to get two recently! Blondie Boy and I got an awesome package from his Mimi Linda with a microphone, Little People Plane and Paul Frank monkey tshirt for him and Girl Scout Cookies and Peeps for NotBlondeHusband and I! If you don't know what Girl Scout Cookies are you are seriously missing out. I'll be calculating the Weight Watchers Pro-Points for these tonight that is for sure :)

Before I left for London last Friday I got an awesome package of Sugar-Free Goodies from the Appliances Online, who sell cookers and other appliances, Fairy HobMother! They wanted to send me a wee treat, but knew I was doing well on Weight Watchers and didn't want to mess that up so they got me a selection of treats from the Sugar Free Megastore! Most of the snacks are American so I was super excited! I got creme filled cupcakes, snack bars, licorice, chocolate mints--YUM!

If you are in need of a treat yourself you might just want to comment on this post as I've heard the Fairy HobMother's ears prick up when they hear of a blogger in need of a little sweetness in their life :)

Guest Post: Better in Britain

Meg, like me, is an American married, raising a family, working and living in the UK. She is  also, like me, in the expat minority and isn't in or around London and lives in the north of Wales with her husband and adorable little boy Iwan.  She's currently expecting baby number two and I'm hoping that my all you UK Mummy bloggers will welcome her into the fold as you did me :)  Meg blogs over at The Rare Bit (click and show her some love!) and was inspired by my expat post and decided to put her own spin on it!

Whenever I get into a discussion with a stranger over here (and it happens a lot- friendly American that I am) there’s almost always a moment, about 45 seconds into the conversation, where they realize that I’m not a wayward tourist, but that I’m actually choosing to live in Britain. In Wales for that matter. Why? They’ll ask, why in the name of Tom Jones and all that is holy would we live here when we could live there? I get it, or at least I think I do, if all you know of a place is what you’ve seen on holiday or in the movies, it’s bound to look more fun/ glamorous/exciting. I mean, if someone I knew married Mickey Mouse I’d be shocked if they didn’t choose to live at Disney World. But, while there would certainly be some advantages to upping sticks for America, there are a few things that I think are much better in Britain and that I would definitely miss should we ever move. Here they are, in no particular order:

Public toilets- I didn’t realize how much better public bathrooms are in Britain until the first time I went back to America for a visit. Generally in Britain, each little toilet cubicle is its own little snug private world. Not so in the U.S. Stateside, even in rather nice restaurants, you’re bound to have a gap about an inch wide at the place where the door hinges onto the wall of the cubicle. Add that to the foot or so gap at the bottom of each stall and you’re in for a real treat.  Peeing in American toilets is often an adventure in contorting yourself so as not to be caught en dishabille by children crawling underneath the walls, vagrants trying to steal your purse, and nice old ladies checking whether or not the stall is occupied. That’s right- there’s no ingenious little window on the outside of the door telling you if the cubicle is vacant or occupied, so people are often reduced to stooping over to check for dangling feet, or, more rudely, peeking through the crack.

Snacking- Snacking in America is basically an all or nothing type thing. Either you’re guiltily indulging in a calorie ridden feast (umm, KFC “snack wrap” anyone?), or you’re snacking as part of diet, dutifully counting out the nine grapes you’re allowed to have. In my humble

opinion, they do it better in Britain. The whole concept of “Elevenses” is something I can definitely get on board with. When I was working in America I was never able to make it between breakfast and lunch, and so I usually had eaten half of my midday meal by 10:30. But a designated time when the entire working nation stops and has a couple of biscuits and an apple? Brilliant!

Radio - I love that I can switch on my radio and hear top 40 hits, show tunes, classic rock, and up-and-coming new bands. And that’s just on Radio 2! As much as I grumble about having to pay a TV licence fee every month, I must admit that I love the things it funds. There’s a bit of a stigma attached to public radio in America, and I think that’s too bad. Americans who listen

to NPR (National Public Radio) are often stereotyped as crunchy, middle class, yuppy, liberals. NPR doesn’t seem to do a heck of a lot to change their listener demographic, but you can’t really blame them. A great deal of the funding for NPR comes from listener donations, so they’re stuck having to keep their supporters happy. BBC Radio, on the other hand, is funded by any British resident owning a television, which not only gives them a larger budget, but the freedom to mix things up here and there. Of course, “mix things up” is a relative term here- compared to a lot of independent radio stations, the BBC can often seem quite stodgy, but when you’re used to having to slog through a cacophony of “zany” radio DJ’s, a commercial after every song, and the same pop hit overandoverandover again, BBC Radio is a breath of fresh air.

Jacket Potatoes- Oh the humble baked potato. When I first moved to Britain I was shocked (and a little horrified) by the concept of jacket potatoes. Why oh why, would you want to put baked beans on a baked potato? I turned up my nose. I would try coronation chicken, I would

even taste black pudding. But toppings on a potato other than butter or sour cream just seemed obscene. Seriously? Coleslaw, on a potato?! There just aren’t enough italics in the world to express my shock and dismay over the molestation of this noble tuber. Then one day in a Cardiff café, my husband ordered a jacket potato with beans and cheese. I wrinkled my nose. Our food was brought out. The cheese on the potato had gone quite melty, and it smelled kind of good.I tentatively asked to try a bite, and hoisted the fork to my mouth with the same hesitation of an eight-year-old eating a worm on a dare. I chewed it thoughtfully for a few seconds. The clouds parted. It wasn’t good. It was divine. I realized that I had been culturally blinded in my bias toward acceptable potato toppings. In retrospect, I don’t really know what I was thinking.

What’s not to like? Baked potato? Good. Beans? Good. Cheese? Good! This is now one of my favorite comfort foods, and it was actually the first thing I ate after giving birth to my son. If we were to ever move back to America I’d miss jacket potatoes the same way I now miss Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or Jello Instant Pudding.

Food products aside, there are lots of things I do miss about America, and lots of other things I’ve come to love about Britain, and, more specifically, Wales. It can be hard to have two places that feel like home, and I think we’ll always feel torn between the two no matter where we live. So, although it might shock those strangers I meet, I’m actually quite happy here. If I could just get an electrical socket in my bathroom, my world would be complete.

Culture Shock

I got an email from a friend last night saying she might be moving and how did I deal with the culture shock when I moved to Scotland. Obviously the UK isn't that different from the US. We speak the same language (supposedly), have a lot of the same foods and same TV shows. Here are some of the things that I still don't get as an American abroad.

-Tea. To me tea is something you drink with honey and lemon when you are sick. When I worked in bars employees were allowed as much free tea as they wanted, but not pop. When I got my first office job in the UK I probably got asked 6 times a day if I wanted a cup of tea. After two weeks they finally realized to stop asking me. I was also shocked at the number of people who took tea breaks. Really? A break? You can drink tea at your desk and work at the same time. It reminded me of how much I hated smokers who's tables I had to cover while they got a smoke break; I never got a fresh air break.

-Butter on sandwiches. To me mustard and mayonnaise are the appropriate condiments for a sandwich. I hate that butter is on everything; sure sometimes it's nice but when you can leave teeth marks in the butter it's too much.

-Road signs or lack there of. I really feel that American road signs are far more helpful. There's a Taco Bell, BP, Dunkin Donuts and a Holiday Inn at the next exit? Thanks Mr Sign that is really helpful! I hate that you don't have signs like that here. I seriously had to map out various McDonald's throughout Scotland before I put on forums for work. If I'm up early I like a McDonald's breakfast and I like it even better if a sign on the side of the road will tell me how to get it.

-Night time soaps: Coronation Street, Emmerdale, East Enders, Hollyoaks. I don't get them. I've never watched them but almost everyone else seems to do so. Sure I watched Days of Our Lives religiously back in the day, but it was in the afternoon. Don't ask me why a daytime soap is better than a nighttime soap, I don't know. I do know that a storyline involving identical triplets (one of whom is a nun) and a baby swap involving a baby named Elvis is FAR superior to the baby swap story line that caused drama over here.

-Variety of products. When you go to the American grocery store you have loads of brands and varieties to choose from; in the UK not so much. If I want to buy cake mix there are maybe three flavours. Variety is the spice of life! If I can get all sorts of random Polish foods in my store, why can't I get lovely, delicious American products?

Those are some of my WTF UK rants. There are plenty more but I think I've gone on long enough.

Infertility is Universal

Sandy from how beautiful are the feet and her husband are currently working in Namibia in Africa as teachers at a school for AIDS orphans. Sandy's story is of Watjantja a woman she first met almost ten years ago in remote Namibia, but it's also the story of millions of women around the world as infertility affects roughly 1 in 7 women worldwide. As expats we often talk about what is different from home, but some things, unfortunately, are universal.


I usually write about life in Namibia and what is going on in the lives of the students that my husband and I work with. Not many people know about our struggle to get pregnant, and it is not something I have discussed on my blog. When Blondie presented the opportunity to write a guest spot for her I thought it would be a great way to share some of the things I have noticed in dealing with IF in a foreign country.

In 2002, when I lived in Namibia, I met a lady who could not have children. Her name is Watjantja, she lives in Swartbooisdrif, one of the most remote villages in Namibia. There are no medical doctors there; in fact, there are no fertility specialists in the entire country of Namibia. In the Himba culture (recently showed in the movie “Babies”) children are life. Without children you are doomed to be forgotten. Her husband did what almost any Himba husband in that situation would do, he took a second wife who bore him many children without any problem. At the time I was sad for her, but I could never grasp the full force of the devastation behind her expression as she told us all of this.


Fast forward to 2009, my husband and I are about to finish college and we are finally ready to begin our family. I remember that day like it was yesterday, we sat in a restaurant and decided that it was finally time to start trying. The absolute possibilities of what that decision meant for our future made both of us cry. Now here I sit at the beginning of 2011, it has been almost two years and we are no closer to having our family than we were that day in the restaurant. In the last two years I have had several diagnoses thrown at me from doctors thousands of miles apart. (Including PCOS, Endometriosis and Anovulation “here have some Clomid!!!”) Who knew that trying to have a baby included so many needles and an absolute stripping down of one’s dignity?

In 2010 we returned to Swartbooisdrif, Watjantja’s village. She was still there, as barren as ever. When she saw me her eyes lit up, then she looked down at my arms searching for a child. When our eyes met again she read me like a book, her expression said : “You are like me aren’t you?” In an instant she recognized the pain, the emptiness, the hopelessness, and the loneliness in my eyes and in my empty arms. Watjantja can speak no English and through a translator she said “Don’t be like me!” To this day it is one of the hardest and most comforting things I have experienced on this road of infertility.

The one lesson I have learned in dealing with IF and travelling across the world is that women of every culture language color and economic standing share the same feeling of emptiness and heartache when it comes to IF. Anywhere on earth you will be able to find someone who has been touched by this relentless pain and someone who , without having to say anything, can understand the hurt that you are feeling.

Liane, The Lifer

My second guest poster Liane from Movement, like me, is an American expat in the UK and we both moved 6 1/2 years ago. The American expat community can be a transient one and I know the majority of American women I've met have since moved back to America. Personally I don't want to say I'm here forever, it's too permanent for me, but Liane is a lifer.



Hi. My name is Liane and I’m an expat from the States. I’m not just an expat…I’m a lifer.

I arrived the summer of 2004. One of the hottest summers on record for London. And ya know what? They don’t have air conditioning there, nor do they even have air conditioners as we know them. You know what I mean, the ones you put in a window. Even though I didn’t have central air in Boston, I still had air conditioning in my bedroom. What the heck had I gotten myself into? But, yeah, it was 6-1/2 years ago, so clearly a few things went well.

I had moved over for a job working in an international school. I was excited to be overseas as many of my relatives, including my parents, had done a stint. Here I was, 35 years old, single (to my mom’s regret), owning no property (to my regret) and so it was perfect timing. I had a two year visa and job contract, with the ability to leave after one year if I so chose. Well, after discovering that I loved my job, loved London and came to love a guy who was from London, I decided to stay, and now I’m here for what may be life in my own home with husband and dog.



Being a long-timer is interesting. Working in an international school and living in such a transitional city such as London means that I meet a lot of people who then leave a year or a few later. The thing about being a long-timer is that the short-timers see their time here in London differently than I do. It’s almost a long visit in a way. They have to go travel everywhere and do everything RIGHT NOW. They may never actually get to know London or any true Londoners, because they spend any time here with other Americans and living in big expat areas. Not a bad thing, mind you, but a different life to that of a lifer.

As a lifer, you may chose to live a bit further out from central London because you can buy a bigger property. The potential of having children there means you want to find a place with a decent neighbourhood, parks, and more interior and exterior space.

As a short-timer, you may want to live in the thick of it or the ‘nicer’ areas where other expats live (close to that big American style store).

As a lifer, you focus on the long-term. You don’t have to get it all done immediately and so you may not travel as much as you originally had A short-timer doesn’t necessarily worry about saving their pounds because travel may more important to them. Sometimes I’m very, very jealous that they see so many places; many more than I have in my 6-1/2 years here.

A short-timer may not get to know so many locals. It’s not entirely their fault. They may only get to socialize with a lot of Americans. It is easier to do that cause we understand each other’s stories. We get that peanut butter and chocolate is really a wonderful thing. We don’t blink when they spend £5 on a bag of marshmallows from the States (they kinda suck here). They know our school system, our government, etc, etc. And it’s tough getting to know the locals. They have their own friends a lot of times or, if not, there are people around who may understand THEIR story, education, life in ways that we might not. It takes effort and time to get to know a local, something that a short-timer just may not have or want to spend.

So is it easier to be a long-timer or lifer? Not always. You may begin to lose your friends from the States, one by one. They may not come to visit and or they may move away from your hometown and so you don’t see them. It takes a lot of work to maintain your friendships and it takes two. Even worse is that you aren’t nearby when things go wrong in your family, such as a grandparent dying or a parent falling ill. You miss out on the good things too, including your nephew’s birthday party and the family gathering for the 4th of July.

Being a lifer means you get to know another culture intimately. You are no longer just an American, but something else. You may end up with two or more citizenships. And you have experiences that change you to the very core. It’s not a life for everyone. But it’s something that I treasure. I love my life here in London. And I can’t wait to see what comes next.

Thanks for letting me visit and write a bit of my story. If you want to learn more about me and my thoughts, feel free to visit me at my blog: http://mrsukyankee.wordpress.com.