Barking Mad

The One Where My British Husband Has His First American "At Bat"

We are not a very athletically inclined family.  No, really, we aren't.  I think it's safe to say that the cats are more athletic than Gareth and me.  And then there's Gaby.  She can run circles around anyone else.  Anyone.  And that's without the addition of any sugar at all!   But this isn't really about my 4 year old who is naturally hopped up on life (Oh my goodness, never ever ever give this kid ANYTHING with caffeine in it.  Just take my word, it's bad. REAL BAD!), what this is about, is my darling British hubby and his first time playing American softball.

That's right, he actually engaged in a sport other than that odd combination of baseball and golf that uses a spanking paddle...I think they call it "Cricket" over on the other side of the pond.  Or  that game, as he says, "Proper FOOTBALL" which we Yankees commonly refer to as soccer, or Rugby - which I can't watch because I'm pretty sure I hear bones crunch every time I do. But he hasn't participated in any of these sports this side of the pond. Namely because, did I mention, we aren't athletic? At all.

Gareth comes home from the office last week and says, "Hello luv, next Wednesday evening I'll be playing softball with the blokes from work!"  I'm pretty sure I dropped whatever I had in my hands and went over and felt his forehead to see if he was feeling well.  I asked him, "The folks at your office do know you're British, right? And maybe you ought to clue them in that as close as we get to playing any kind of sports at home are tossing wadded up socks at one another when I'm sorting the laundry!"  Gareth just laughed at me and walked away while I stood there imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios.  I pictured him with two black eyes from where the softball hit him repeatedly in the face, or being called in the middle of giving Gaby a bath to rush to urgent care where they were sewing him back together after some sort of freak softball accident, or worse yet, I pictured him coming home, baseball cap on backwards and spitting chewing tobacco into a little cup and taking the remote control out of my hands and switching it to ESPN so he could watch the Red Sox clobber the Yankees.

Despite my gruesome scenarios, pretty much nothing could dissuade Gareth from playing softball.  There was only one thing left to do...go to the game and be there to document the carnage.

I arrived 4 innings in and my husband proudly walked up to me and with a look of glee in his eyes not unlike a kid who'd just scored a home run!  He lifted the leg of his shorts and showed me his knee - like it was some gross prize he'd won in a morbid box of Cracker Jacks!

Before I could say anything, I noticed he was limping and then he told me, "Oh and one of the blokes was wearing cleats and crushed my toes!"   I thought he was exagerating when he said, "...crushed my toes!"  Turns out he wasn't!

I'm pretty sure that toenail is going to be history in the next several days.

Despite the obvious battle wounds, I was able to get some shots for the scrapbook I've lovingly titled, "Milestones of a Brit Living with the Yankees." Oh how I'll cherish showing our grandkids these pictures and we can all have a laugh at Grandpops expense athletic endeavors!

Gareth got to play 2nd base.

I have no clue what he's doing in this next shot.  I think he's fraternizing with a runner from the other team...who actually happened to be someone from his office, but for some strange reason I thought they were playing against some of the sub-contractors and contractors from his job site.  Anyhow, I didn't think you were supposed to get too chummy with the base runners because wouldn't that sort of put a kink in your desire to clobber them when they come running at you in order to score a base?  And did I mention that we are not athletic....AT ALL?  My comprehension of sports is limited at best.  Well unless it has to do with a snowboard.  But we aren't talking about snowboarding now, are we?

Here he is getting ready to take the plate...

...and he SWINGS!!!

I think it was a pop fly...or something like that.  I was distracted from my husband trying to hit what looked like an overinflated tennis ball (why are some softballs green?), by such amazing cuteness and sweetness that my teeth actually hurt!

While her daddy was having the time of his life getting battered and beaten and aiming at flying green balls, Gaby was making a friend!

Harley is a Shiba Inu mix that belongs to a really nice man that Gareth works with whose name I have completely forgotten.  Sometimes it's hard for me to remember silly little things like names when my husband is running around like a loon, excited about a scraped knee and some busted toes.

Gaby was oblivious to all things softball related.  She and Harley became fast friends!

And this next picture is just about the sweetest thing this side of a huge cotton candy factory, except maybe even sweeter.  I am totally crushing on this photo and want to run out and get a puppy for my little girl despite having three cats that are still recovering from our Goldendoodle puppy who now lives with our contractor and his three rambunctious boys, on 52 acres back in Maine.   For a few minutes I managed to forget, after staring at this photo, that I um...well, errrr...I kinda hate puppies.   Give me an adult dog any day of the week, but puppies?  Yeah, they're cute for all of 5 minutes, tops!

Harley, the sweetest two year old you will ever meet...try and not melt after looking at this photo.  Come on, I dare you!

So now I've got a 4 year old who wants to know when Harley can come over for a play date and husband, who, whilst pretty banged up, is looking forward to playing softball...again.  That's all well and good Gareth, but if I so much see you spit, you're benched for the rest of the season!  Oh and give me that damned remote back!  I hear they lynch people 'round these parts (NY...where we live!) for admitting they like the Red Sox!

 

A House Divided

 

I knew the day would come when I would have to take sides.  Married to a Brit as I am, there's always been the shadow of my country or his country, looming in the background.

I was completely oblivious though to how soon that day would actually arrive.  As we sat around the dinner table tonight,  regaling one another with how our days went (Gaby's was "playish", I just thought you'd like to know that.), Gareth tapped his plate lightly with the tines of his fork, leaned back in his chair and looked me straight in the eyes and asked me if I knew what tomorrow was?

"Saturday?" I replied.

"Right, luv.  What I meant was, do you know what tomorrow is?"

I set my fork down and raised an eyebrow and looked around, perhaps expecting an answer to drop from the ceiling.  I looked back at Gareth and said, "Well, I 'spose it's probably one of your brothers birthdays and I've gone and forgotten again.  Is that it?"

Gareth rolled his eyes and asked me, "Don't you watch any television at all during the day?  Only everyone is talking about it.  We even have it on, on the big screen in the conference room at work! It's the footie World Cup, woman!"

I gave Gareth a withering glance and shot back, "Well sure, in between Max and Ruby and Dora the Annoying Explorer and after I gouge my eyes out, sure, they talk about it being World Cup.  Oh yeah, that's really big with kids who think Ruby is the bomb but have no clue that Max is pussywhipped!"

I knew I'd said the wrong thing when Gaby piped up, "Silly mommy, Max can't be pussywhipped because he's a bunny rabbit.  'Sides, Ruby loves her little brother."

Afterward, Gareth gave me one of those looks, the kind that says, "Great, I can't wait to hear where she brings that one up!"

Avoiding a whole withering glance-off I asked Gareth, "OK so what's the big deal about tomorrow other than a big soccer game?"

Gareth replied, with a fair amount of frustration, "Football, woman!  It's FOOTBALL!  Do you have any idea just exactly who is playing tomorrow?" 

I put my fork back down knowing that I wasn't going to get another bite in until I'd played along, so I replied, "Max and Ruby?"

Gareth very calmly smiled at me and then pointed at himself and back at me.   Just then, the light went off over my head and I exclaimed, "Ohhhhhhh!  It's the US vs. the UK, is it?  Interesting." 

With a grin that expressed a certainty that the cat would get the mouse and the cream he asked me, "And who might you be rooting for?" 

I stopped for a brief second to think about it (I happen to think that soccer is the most boring sport in the entire world!), and said, "Ummmm, well I haven't really given it much consideration. Hey, I know, lets ask Gaby!  Gaby; England, where daddy is from, and America, where mommy is from, are playing a big soc...I mean football game tomorrow.  Who do you want to win?

Gaby chomped on her carrot for a moment and then a huge smile crossed her face and she threw her arms up and exclaimed...

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"AMERICA!"

And there you have it.  The daughter who is a dual citizen of both the United States and Great Britain has cast her vote for her mother's land.  As for me, I suppose I'll throw my lot in with the Yankees.  Only seems like I should seeing as how I know that the Brit in residence will be cheering on England enthusiastically enough for all of the British ex-pats over on this side of the pond.

For all intents and purposes, during World Cup season, we are a house divided. 

 

Marmite Bites and Curry Cusses

Last week, right before the new year, the hubby and I hosted a "British Night" at our home and Megawatt invited some of her friends over...well, who am I kidding?  These kids are here all the time and at this point, I could probably declare them as dependents on our tax return.  Anyhow Megawatt had been asking me to make curry again and I decided I'd plan an entire menu around common food you'd find around the table in England.

And yes, I planned on making a fairly HOT curry.  A Vindaloo.  I also had the hubby go down to the local British shoppe and get some other little odds and ends to complete the evening...like British candies, biscuits (cookies) and some Ribena which I promptly forgot about.  Oh well.  At least the little packages of Minstrels made it to the table.

I made little place cards for each setting and even put something else on the table which I thought was kind of funny!

Yes m'dears, that is a fire extinguisher in the background.

The evening wouldn't have been complete without appetizers consisting of this stuff on toast points...

I made sure we had plenty of this stuff as well!

In the interest of full disclosure I think I should mention that I abhor both curries and marmite.  But far be it from me to enjoy watching others eat it.  And enjoy it I did!

Here's the video of the kids trying the Marmite.  Please excuse the shakiness of the video.  I was laughing so hard that it made it damn near impossible to keep my hands still.  And the laughing...good Lord I had no idea what a horrible sound that is...COMING FROM ME!   Just the same, it's pretty hilarious!

Zack post-marmite

Abby - trying to be brave post-marmite

Megawatt about to barf, post-marmite

Paul was trying to man-up after eating the toast point! Yeah, I know what you REALLY thought!

Sadly, all I have as far as the curry goes is this lovely picture of it bubbling away on the stove.  I don't know what I did to the video I uploaded, but I managed to screw it up.  You're not surpised are you?

Surpisingly, the kids loved it.  I broke out some chocolate milk and pineapple to cool off burning tongues but whether they were being nice or not, they all said they'd come over and eat if I made it again. 

Desert consisted of a fresh raspberry crumble that I threw together at the last minute, served with hot English custard (another British shoppe fav of ours that we always have tons of, in the house!) that the kids devoured!

For the most part, I pulled this recipe out of my ass and it turned out awesome!  Nothing more to it than three bags of frozen raspberries covered in 4 tablespoons of sugar with 2 teaspoons of cornstarch.  The topping is 1 cup flour, 2 cups oatmeal, 1 cup brown sugar, 2 sticks of butter and 1 tablespoon white sugar.  Bake at 400 for 45 minutes.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy!

A Common Language Seperated by an Ocean

When I'm asked what it's like to be married to someone from another country, I usually wrinkle up my nose and say; "I dunno, rather like being married to someone from the U.S."   I mean, seriously, how different can we be?  We spell words the same, except for that annoying "u" they insist on adding to words like colour, flavour, favour and tumour.  I jest...yes, I do know that it was President Theodore Roosevelt that removed the "u" from words in an attempt to phonetisize the words to facilitate easier spelling.  Hey, we're Americans after all, if we can make something easier, we'll generally do it.  My point is, it's not too terribly different being married to someone from a predominantly English speaking country.   Of course, they do drive those bloody small cars on the wrong side of the road, and all the roundabouts over there are enough to drive anyone mad, and have you seen the size of their refridgerators?  They're the size of a small television!

Both the US and UK have McDonalds (and a host of other shared fast food chains in common), sports fanatics (I will concede that the Italians sometimes put both countries to shame when it comes to how fanatical they get at sporting events!), and we both speak English...except, we don't.  Speak English that is, a fact my husband reminds me of on an all too frequent basis.  OK, so I poke fun at him from time to time, especially the way he and other Brits pronounce "schedule."  It comes out sounding like "SHedjoole" and it's like nails on a chalkboard when I hear it.  When the hubby says it, my eyes roll back in my head, I start to twitch, foam at the mouth, and have a seizure. 

Does the hubby call 911 when he sees this happen?  No!  He just looks down at my writhing body and tells me that he's sorry I speak some bastardized version of the English language and can't understand the Queen's English when I hear it and then asks if I'd like a cup of tea.

If you think that's bad, the Little Imp is now pronouncing words just like her daddy!  Oh yes she is!  For instance; you and I saw dance, she says "daunce", you and I say class, she says "claus", you and I say banana, she says' "banauna", you and I say glass, she says "glaus." Can you see where I'm going with this?  Of course, she also calls me "mummy" but it sounds so adorable coming out of her not quite 3 year old mouth that I can't help but beam when she says it. 

The difference in how the hubby and I communicate became all too apparent the other day as we were driving along the freeway and came upon a horrible car crash site.  The hubby remarked; "Right, looks like the the car span into the guardrail."

Pale British guy say what?

I looked at him and said, "What did you just say?"  I seriously didn't understand him.  So he repeated himself and I vollied back a, "Huh?"  The hubby lobbed back an increasingly frustrated, "I said he span into the guardrail!"  I turned around and dug my nails into the steering wheel and said; "It's spun, 'he spun into the guardrail! Span is something that extends across something."  The hubby straightened up in his seat and replied, "It's the same thing, luv."

From that point on the conversation disintegrated.

Me:  Is not.
Him:  Is too!
Me:  IT IS NOT!  Look it up in the freaking dictionary!
Him: IS TOO! And your dictionary was written by a bunch of flaming Yanks!
Me: Well, those "flaming Yanks" kicked your Red Coats back across the Atlantic Ocean thankyouverymuch!
Him: If it wasn't for the English you'd all be speaking either Dutch or some Native American language and you'd be stuck with even more silly city names like Intercourse (PA), Odd (WV), or even Monkey's Eyebrow (AZ)!
Me: Oh you are really one to talk Mr. Great Snoring (Norfolk) , Killiecrankie (Scotland), Felldownhead (Devon), oh and you can't forget North Piddle (Worcester)! Oh yeah, you Brits have really cornered the market on town names that just roll off the tongue!
Him: Right! Don't be a prat, after all if it wasn't for the great Enlgishman Luke Howard, you'd all probably have named clouds something ridiculous like Fluffy, Chubmonster, or something equally inane! And if it wasn't for Sir Frank Whittle you Yanks would probably still be back in the days of the Wright Brothers or worse yet, trying to harness geese-power to get from one county to the next!
Me: Yeah well, if it wasn't for that wonderful American great, Richard James, countless little British boys and girls wouldn't know the joy of waking up on Christmas morning to find a slinky under the tree!
Him: Is that all you've got?
Me: The car spun into the guardrail!

And so it goes, the story of our great love that spanned more than two decades and the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, and the one thing that still seperates us to this day is the English language.