Lunch with Chuck and Cam

What do you do when you get a call that you are going to wine and dine with the future king of England? It was an un-seasonally warm British sunny afternoon in July. I was wandering the grocery store for some lunch when I got an unexpected call from my husband. Very rarely does he call me in the middle of the afternoon from work, so I thought I better answer. Before I could say hello he asked, “What are you doing next week? Fancy having lunch with Charles and Camilla?” It was at that moment that I yelped and almost had to call for clean up on aile 4, grown woman has just peed her pants!

A couple days later I received the classiest and fanciest letter I have ever seen formally inviting little old Yankee me and my marine husband to join The Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall at their stately country home, High Grove, for a formal tour of the gardens followed with lunch and refreshments with the Prince and Duchess. I could not believe I was holding an invitation to rub elbows with royalty! I had only lived in England for two years and I had already clawed my way to the top of the top of all social ladders. I was to wine and dine with a Prince and Duchess, and fingers crossed, run into Will and Kate where I would form a life long unbreakable friendship.

First things first I needed to find the perfect impressionable dress that screamed “New posh BFF”. I went on a mad hunt at every upscale store Poole had to offer (not too surprising I didn’t have much choice). After running from old department store to even older department store I found the most posh brand Poole has, a British designed Ted Baker royal blue dress. It would have to do and it was, after all, their signature blue.

The morning arrived and I can’t remember being more excited! Maybe it is just because I am looking back, but I could quite possibly have been more excited for this Thursday in the middle of July than the morning of my wedding. When we arrived at their country manor we were escorted around the many gardens by one of Charles’s right hand men. He took us through a typical English garden, through the exotic Moroccan garden, and through a beautiful orchard, which supplies the ingredients for the official royal chutneys and jams. We were told of Charles true passion of gardening and which places in the garden where his favorite to stop and ponder after a hard days work of princely duties and meetings with the Queen.

The time came to meet and greet with Prince Charlie. He came over to me and it was love at first sight. I was totally enthralled with every British word that came out of his royal mouth. It was infatuating listening to him draw his a’s out almost like he was making fun of his own countries silly accent.  And when he turned to me and reached for my hand we locked eyes and that was the end. That is when he fell head over heals for an American girl with big brown eyes and a charming southern twang. He couldn’t get enough of me and me of him. He laughed at my jokes, as he tightly help my hand in his and joking with Andy about re colonizing America turning and winking at my smitten face. Charles and I dominated the conversation flirting with each other as if it were my first high school crush. When his PA came to drag him away he held my shoulder, gave me a grin, and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you”. I just about melted. And to make it even better the lady next to me said in an overly jealous tone, “Well, didn’t he take a liking to you?” What can I say? He has a soft spot for an all American girl.

As we waited to speak with Camilla I was dreaming up all the fun times we would soon be having with the royal family. Fantasies of cricket on the lawn at Buckingham palace, sipping Pimms at the last night of the proms, walking arm and arm with Kate helping pick out her wedding china at Harrods, all came to a crashing halt when the Duchess ever so delicately put out her tiny hand out to me and I grabbed it with my huge American man hand giving my best howdy do grip and just about ripping her noble hand right off her little arm. I could tell by her puckered lips that I may not have made the best first impression. At that moment I knew I probably didn’t meet the “new best friend” criteria and I would probably never be able to mingle with this crowd and their wimpy handshakes. After all, they were all just a bit too posh for this American brawd.  

Publix... Where shopping was always a pleasure

Oh how I miss the days of shopping at my always clean, always welcoming grocery store Publix, “where shopping is a pleasure”. I reminisce on the days when I would pull my big American car into the oversized parking space as I strolled to the entrance of my favorite southern grocery chain. I loved to grab my buggy and make my way through the fragrant deli with pumpkin cookies at Halloween, pecan pies at thanksgiving, and a little girl in pigtails eating her free sugar cookie given to her by the smiley baker. I would then stroll over to the deli sub counter and order my freshly sliced pepper turkey sub with submarine sandwich oil on a fresh baked, that morning, French bread baguette. After I had my delicious sub made, which would be devoured for lunch later, I would go up and down every aisle trying to decide what crackers, chips, soda, and ice cream I wanted from the abundance of choice stacked for what seemed like miles on the shelves in front of me. Once I filled my perfect green buggy to the top, I would go to the check out and have my items scanned through by the always friendly checkout girl as the young bag boy would ask “paper or plastic” as he bagged my tasty groceries and put them back in the buggy for me. When I paid and was ready to go the young gentleman would ask if I needed help taking my bags out to the car. This is southern hospitality at its best. And every trip I made to Publix was a pleasure!

Now I shop in the UK. On my day off I got into my car and made my way to the “shop” to do our weekly grocery shopping. As I got to the store in the pouring rain, I pulled into a very, very small and very, very tight parking space. I weaseled my way out of the car and made my way to the pay and display ticket machine to pay for parking. As I went to pay my 1-pound and 50 pence, a huge sign was taped to the front saying “no new coins” (new meaning they have been in circulation for longer than I have lived in the UK). I rummaged through my wallet and what did I have… only new coins. So back to my car I went where I proceeded to go to another store. When I got the next store,a different chain than the other, and paid 1-pound 60 pence of new coins in their machine, I walked into the entrance, turned to grab a buggy, only to find I needed a 1-pound coin to use it! Since all my money went to paying for parking, I was SOL (shit out of luck). There was no way I would be able to carry a weeks worth of groceries in my arms. I was back on the road, wet, irritated and having to drive miles and miles out of my way to the one store I know you do not have to pay to park your car.

When I finally got to yet another grocer, I park my car and stomp to the entrance like a PMS-ing 16 year old girl cursing the UK and longing for the days when “shopping is a pleasure”. As soon as I think I can’t take any more I reach for a shopping cart only to find that even at this store, princess Kate’s favorite grocery shop, a store in the middle of nowhere, with no threat of bums stealing carts, I have to put in a 1-pound coin and pay for a shopping “trolley”! I was on the verge of having a grocery shopping nervous breakdown. Instead, I pulled it together, grabbed a tiny rusting basket, and attempted to cram it with my week’s worth of shopping. Just as I was finishing filling my little basket, already over flowing with eggs, bead, milk and chicken, I reached toward a shelf for an already made pizza, knocked into a nearby garlic bread display, sending pizza and bread flying into the air and falling onto the floor taking half my basket contents with it. On the brink of tears I get down to pick up all the things scattered on the floor when a middle aged woman pushes her cart right up to my bent down body, steps over me, my basket and all the bread I am attempting to pick up, grabs a pizza off the shelf, rolls her eyes at me, takes her cart, and rolls away. All I wanted to do was run after her, steal her buggy and throw her groceries all over the store, at her, and all the unhelpful staff like crazed mad women. But instead I just longed for Publix and good ole southern hospitality, my teenage pimply face gentleman bag boy, and their thanksgiving commercials that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes.  This Floridian ain’t in the south anymore and she must remember to keep a handful of loose change in her car or she will have to face UK grocery stores, where shopping it is not a pleasure.

The Bimmer

It can be hard to sit in cloudy, foggy England while your husband is away weeks at a time in smouldering hot weather. Images swirl endlessly of him sipping strawberry daiquiris on white sand beaches with turquoise water glistening behind all the swaying palm trees after a hard days work swimming with Flipper and all his friends. The more I think about him in paradise the more bored I get with England, rain and its dark endless days. The more bored I get the more I think I need something to do and this usually never leads to a good thing…

It was November and Andy was in Cyprus "working" and I was at home in not so sunny England selling glossy lipstick and shinny bronzers making the UK more tan and beautiful one person at a time. Andy had been gone for about three weeks and I was getting on with my everyday life driving to and from work, coming home, walking Alfie and then talking on Skype for the remaining hours of the day with my mom and dad. It was during a Skype date with my mom and dad on my dads 61st birthday that the trouble began. 

While on Skype to my mom and my half cut dad, drinking his third birthday manhattan,  I began to tell them how my car had a flat tire. I told them on my way to work a truck pulled up next to me at a stop light, rolled down his window and had his 12 year old son hanging out the window waving his arms at me. I naturally ignored this and pretended they were not waving and pointing at me as my face grew red and flushed with embarrassment as I wondered and worried about why they kept pointing and shouting at me. Then, when the man began honking his horn, I decided I could no longer ignore his obnoxious attention getting and I rolled down my window only to be told my tire was flat. For the rest of my ride to work I was terrified my tire was going to completely fun out of air and my car would go flying off the road, flipping multiple times on the way possibly killing me. I could hardly drive I was panicking so much. I grew even more nervous when I started thinking of how I would fix this problem. I had no idea how to fill up a tire with air, or how much air to fill it with, or even where to do this. Isn't this what dads and husbands are for? 

So after telling my compulsive, buy a new are every 4 months parents,  my car dilemma there was only one solution… to buy a new car…tomorrow!

After hours of talking, looking at cars, finding the perfect one and deciding this was definitely the best thing for my own safety, ti was decided that in the morning I was going to go get my new car. I tried to get in touch with Andy sending him what seemed like a thousand messages to see if he was OK with this new purchase using a pretty big chunk of his, I mean our, savings and more importantly, did he like the car. However, I never got a response so I took this as a yes to buying the car. 

The next morning I got up called my mom to make sure I was doing the right thing and sent Andy a message saying, "I'm on my way to the BMW dealership. YAY! I going to buy a car. Let me know if you don't think I should." I arrived at the dealership with my parents seal of approval and not a single message from my husband telling not to buy that beautiful black BMW. 

I marched into the dealership and stood there looking around, feeling a little anxious, waiting for a salesman to show me my dream car. After a few minutes, when I think they relized I was on my own, one approached me and asked if he could help me. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Yes, I want the black BMW with a hatchback I saw online." He asked if I knew the model, to which I responded I had no idea. He seemed a little confused but took me around the car lot until we saw the one I wanted. As we looked at it he kept asking me questions like, "How do you like it? Is this the type of thing you wanted?" I fumbled nervously nodding my head yes saying it was perfect for mine and my husband's border collie. The he asked the question I was fearing the most, "Did I want to test drive the car?" Yikes! He wanted me to get in and drive a car that was not yet mine? He obviously didn't know my track record or that I had no idea what I was feeling for, looking for, or hearing for when I test drove this thing. But, as the saying goes, you never buy the car without taking it for a spin. I sucked it up and test drove the car around the block, after making him back it out of the parking space and driving it off the lot first! 

I survived the five minute test drive and said it felt and sounded great, pretending I knew exactly what I was looking and listening for.  As we sat down he started with the questions again asking me if I wanted to call my husband and have him come look at the car before I bought it. I simply said, "No. He is out of the country and doesn't know I am here." The salesman's jaw dropped and his eyes got huge as he said, "OK…. Don't hear that everyday." To which I just smiled and replied, "But will you excuse me while I Skype my Dad in Florida so he can make sure the car looks alight." I think he thought I was some crazy american because he stared at me for a few minutes before he said yes. I stood in the car lot, skyped my parents, got the thumbs up and went back in and signed the papers. 

I felt really excited and good about my purchase, especially after the salesman handed me a big bouquet of flowers saying, "Congratulations on your new car." He then shook my hand, and handed over the keys. I drove that car off the lot like I was the coolest person in school. I drove away thinking I was hot shit as I rode home in my fancy new car. This "Im too cool for school" attitude lasted all the way home. It wasn't until I spoke with my brother in law that his lack of words, ghost white face  and his need to sit down or else he might faint, was a small indication that maybe this isn't a normal spousal thing to do. It was made pretty clear that maybe Andy won't be over joyed with my purchase and use of spending our savings when my sister, Samantha, had to keep reassuring her husband  she was  not going to go buy a car, or a house, or anything for that matter without telling him. Hmmmmmmmmm I began to think I'm not so sure how Andy will take the news of a new car and a very significant dent in our savings… Even if it was perfect to toting our dog around!

(Just for the record we are still married, he does still love me, and I think he has opened his own private saving account :-))

Fanny

While living in England I have learned that just because they speak English doesn’t mean it is the same English I grew up speaking in the good ol’ American south. For instance, when a person asked you for the loo, they are not in search of a boy named Louie, but simply the porcelain throne. While other Brits will not be so polite and bluntly tell us all exactly what they need, the toilet. Could you imagine being at a fancy restaurant, or better yet, a southern belle debutant ball exclaiming, “where’s the toilet”? Then there is fag for cigarette, pram for stroller, trolley for buggy, and lorie for semi truck. They pronounce basil and oregano funny and no one working in the grocery store has never even heard of cilantro, much less what aisle it is on. With all these different words to learn, and many words having totally different meanings, it is almost as if I have had to learn a new language. And as we all know, learning a new language takes time and sometimes the things you say have a completely different meaning.

When I first met Andy’s friends we all went to the local (pub) for a pint (beer). We stood around chatting, me listening not understanding while I laughed on queue with everyone else at something I was not sure was really funny. As conversations go, and one topic leading to another, I chimed in on the parenting topic and said, “If I had behaved like that my Dad would have spanked my fanny!” As soon as the word fanny left my mouth I had ten horrified faces staring at me with wide-open mouths in shock and disbelief as Andy leaned over and whispered in my ear the British meaning of fanny. I quickly learned in England fanny is not a schoolgirl, innocent, nice way to say butt, behind, or ass, but rather a girls “front bum” (in America we simply call it a vagina). Naturally this perverted, vulgar comment is not the first thing you want you boyfriend's friends to hear roll out of your mouth. This is definitely not the way you want your already redneck, tobacco spitting, Honey Boo Boo Child watching country portrayed, especially to the posh, horseback riding, Pimms sipping, proper folk your were just introduced. So if I don’t want bizarre stares and gawking faces, or better yet, child services or the police coming after me, I better refrain from using fanny and just stick to bum! 

The Murdoch totem pole

Dogs are said to be man’s best friend… as in humans. However, I have found this to be completely untrue. Male dogs are best friends with men and men alone! Our border collie, Alfie, is totally and utterly in love with my husband. He lives on the heals of his feet, bats his long puppy eyelashes at him every chance he gets, and dotes and loves on him every morning and every evening, actually every chance he gets. And when it comes to me he treats me like I am the two week old chopped liver we just threw in his bowl.

In Alfie’s eyes I am third in the Murdoch household totem pole. The order in which he sees it is, first, master of the house, king of the castle, God of #9 Fort Cumberland, my husband, Andrew. Next in his hierarchy is the Prince himself, Alfie. And last comes me… peasant, scum, servant, cleaner of dirty paws, Elyse. To Sir Alfred I am that long haired woman creature who keeps lurking and hanging around when the men of the house are trying to have their daily special bonding time. I am that stinky girl who won’t leave his best friend alone. I am that thing in the corner who he worries if he comes too close he might catch my cooties.

All of these feelings were made obvious to me when Andy recently was out of town on another four week “lets shoot guns and play cops and robbers” training course with work. This is when I noticed Alfred’s true feelings toward me. It usually begins when Alfie notices Andy will not be coming home. This typically takes him a few days of searching the house, the yard, and jumping up to look out the window with every rustle of leaves to see if it is his master coming through the gate. When he realizes the king of the house is not returning, he then lets me know that he is now in charge. He stops greeting me at the door to instead stay sprawled out on this throne, my couch, where he barely lifts his head off the pillow when I walk in and instead gives me a look as if to say, “Put some kibbles in my bowl slave, I’m hungry.”

He really didn’t hold back with his feelings toward me the other morning. As I woke up on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, I stretched and rolled over to be faced with his royal highnesses legs in the air, tongue out, dreaming of chasing sheep while his head rested on his newly claimed $50 tempurpedic pillow. It was when I dared to move and disturb his beauty sleep that he jumped up and hopped over me, landing his front two paws on the floor and his back legs on the edge of the bed, dog butt in my face. He then lifted his tail and farted the absolute loudest, smelliest, and longest dog fart I have ever seen, heard, or smelt! It was this moment that I came to terms with my place on the Sir Alfie totem pole. 

Incase of an emergency call 911

For dinner one night I attempted to use our fancy wedding present cast iron grill pan to make healthy grilled chicken for my on going “today the diet starts” diet I seem to always be on. And as the chicken began to char, smoke, and set off every single fire alarm in my house it brought back flash backs of Thanksgiving 2008….

It started as every other Kaparos Thanksgiving did with Christmas music, marshmallow salad, and too much wine, rum and diet, and Manhattans, basically all the things only expectable on that special Thursday in November. Our house smelled of turkey and cinnamon. The dinning room was laid out ready for everyone to stuff their face. The living room ambience was set with a lit candelabra in the fireplace with beautiful yellow, orange and red silk leaves lacing around the candle sticks as two cinnamon scented twig brooms laid on the edge. The perfect place to wash down the pie and stuffing with more wine as “It’s A Wonderful Life” plays in the background. Our house smelled, looked and sounded like the perfect autumn Thanksgiving night. And it was, as all the years before it, the perfect family and friends Floridian Thanksgiving night.

 As the night came to an end and people found their way home to fall into their well deserved turkey coma, my Mom and I began cleaning the plates our border collie Toby had not already licked clean. We wiped down all the tables and counter tops, put away all the extra chairs and poured out the half drunk wine glasses as we laughed and talked about all the usual gossip. By now it was about midnight and most things had been picked up and cleaned so I left my mom, the night owl, and followed in my dads foot steps, heading upstairs to curl up in bed.

As I was in the middle of washing my face I heard this slightly panicked voice desperately wisper shouting “Elyse. Elyse, Come here… Quick....Quick!” So I dried my face and ran down stairs. As I started to ask, “Mom are you OK” I stopped mid sentence when my eyes saw our beautiful fall candle fireplace display slightly on fire and my mom in front of it looking around for something to help put it out before more silk maple leaves caught on fire. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do and my mom was running through different ways to put out fires. We didn’t have any fire blankets, or any blankets without big crochets holes in them, which if thrown on the fire would cause it to grow bigger, rather than the desired putting it out. As my mom ran around asking me to help and to help her think of something I just ran back in fourth from the kitchen to the living room unsure what to do or say. I was, at this point, of little help.

This is when, as the fire with every quick second grew bigger and bigger, my mom ran to the kitchen and grabbed a big dish from the sink full of dirty turkey day food, filled it with water, and ran into the living room and threw it onto the growing flame.  To my shock and my moms horror, the greasy water made the fire explode in front of our eyes and triple in height taking the cinnamon twig brooms with it as it crawled up the fireplace making the 20 foot ceiling seem all of a sudden very short. It was at about this point when the greasy, oil ridden turkey water, was thrust into the flames setting the fire alarms off that we heard my fathers groggy, sleepy voice, coming thought the kitchen saying, “What the hell is going on?”. It didn’t take but a few more steps for him to enter the living room and that voice turn to a very awake “God damn it! What the hell?”  Before we could answer he turns to me and says, “Elyse, call the fire department, NOW.”

This was my moment to show I am not the ditzy flighty girl many think. This was my moment to show I can be counted on in an emergency and I can help save the day. However, the only thought in my mind was, “What is the number?” I was desperately trying to think if I learned this number in kindergarten when I first learned about safety. And nothing came to mind. It was blank. Nada. Nothing. Did the fire department have a separate number like the police department and if so what on earth was it?  So I ran to the phone book and began flipping through the pages when my Dad shouted, “What the hell are you doing!?” and I responded, “looking up the fire department’s number”.  At this point my mom took over and came running over, grabbed the phone out of my hand as she shouted “911” and my dad rolled his eyes as he ran out the living room French doors to the patio and pulled in the hose and attempted to put out what was now the biggest fire I had ever seen. The only thing I could do was stand and stare with my mouth and eyes wide open in shock. I was gawking as my mother spoke to the fire department and my dad began to put the fire out. Dialing 911 just never crossed my mind.

A few minutes later the fire department came and finished cooling the fire and getting the smoke out of the house. Our house was fine. There was no major damage, thank god for the huge ceilings and granite fireplace. But by the next morning I was already being quizzed and tortured about who to call in an emergency, including a fire! And just in case you are wondering it is 911… hmmmm is it 911 in England??