Bad Teeth And Big Hair

Do you think British people just have a certain ‘look’? You know, pointier noses, thinner lips, more angular faces, bad teeth? Yeah, I thought so. Me too.

I’m not saying they’re more unattractive by any means — some of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever seen have been in the UK — but there’s just something fundamentally different about their looks as compared to us Yanks. Americans tend to smile often and widely (wide-enough- to-eat-a-Whopper-and-a-glazed-donut-at-the-same-time kind of wide) whereas the British are more reserved with their smiles and keep it to a few teeth in the front maximum when asked to smile for the camera.

Some of this comes from the desire to hide neglected gums and rotting teeth, true, but the Brits are really coming around to the idea of dental hygiene these days and it’s mostly the older generation and poorer classes who have the astonishingly bad teeth and don’t care. I can go days without seeing a set of real gnarly gnashers and then BAM!, a man on the bus smiles at his friend and a whole spectre of colours, jagged shapes, black shadows and empty space come bursting out unexpectedly, leaving me reeling as I dumbly stare and furiously press the Stop button at the same time, desperately wanting to look away but not being able to. Sort of like driving by the aftermath of a particularly gruesome car wreck where body parts are still scattered on the charred asphalt.

Another clue that may lead you to detect differences in this game is hair. Here’s the lowdown — older American women tend to have bigger, poofier hair, namely perms, and younger gals tend to distinguish themselves purely by being bloody annoying and shrill as hell. No difference whatsoever with the hair, they just say like and whatever and oh my God! a lot. Actually, it’s a surprise more of them aren’t bald as I would gladly rip the hair out of their airy little heads as I shove them out of the way when they block the left side of the escalator at rush hour, standing with their shopping bags and boxes of Krispy Kremes. Hmm, anyone got a number for an aggression management therapist?

Now that I’ve gotten ahead of myself and have lost the point, decide for yourself if you can tell the difference. Take this nifty quiz and test your intuitiveness. I only got 12/20 — some of those pesky Brits were pertier than usual!

http://www.jamiefrost.co.uk/whosthebrit2/index.php

The Spawn of Noble Savage

So I’ve been thinking. This baby I’m having will be the direct descendant of an Englishman and a Noble Savage. Whose genes will prevail? Will it say “wha-ter” in a snooty English accent or “wahder” in a flat Yankie one? Will it have good teeth? Will it love both football (soccer) and football (American)? Will it be a coffee or a tea drinker? Will it say ‘biscuit’ or ‘cookie’? God I hope it doesn’t say biscuit.

I realized the other day that my child will have an English accent and, because of my husband’s height, most likely be rather large. I began having visions of giving birth to a giant British baby who, upon entering this world, lights up a cigar, tips his top hat, and says “Why, hello mother. That was rather traumatic, wasn’t it? Now somebody smack my ass and get me a drink” in a voice that can only be described as Camp Royal (clipped and posh like the royals but with an overtly gay-as-Christmas tone and wrist flick). I imagine it would be something like the love child of Winston Churchill and Jack McFarland from Will & Grace .

Seeing as calling my baby Spawn probably doesn’t do my mom-to-be rep any good in the hood, I’ve taken to calling he/she Chickpea. Though admittedly, at 13 weeks, it is considerably larger than said legume. My dear husband has suggested Pickle as the next term of endearment for our precious little package, but since I’m craving these intensely at the moment, I think it’s better if we don’t. I don’t need dreams about eating my baby because it looks like a tasty dill pickle in addition to the giant British baby complex.

I think a letter-writing campaign to Claussen could be in order — surely they’ll send me some if I tell them about my intense desire for their perfectly crunchy product. That or I’ll finally get the restraining order they’ve been threatening.

Being an Expat Means

• Always having to say you’re sorry (for the government)
• You’ll always be the one with an accent
• Explaining when Thanksgiving Day is and what it means every year
• Trying not to roll your eyes when people mispronounce Michigan, Los Angeles and other American places/words. God forbid you correct those who supposedly speak “proper English”
• Never being able to find dill pickles, buffalo wings, or a decent burrito
• Taking the blame for things that happened before you were born (By god, you’re right. Vietnam was such a PALTRY idea. I don’t know what I was thinking when I was in the war room advising LBJ. My sincerest apologies)
• Getting a ribbing every time you use an American saying/slang word. Yes please, let me completely assimilate myself to your culture and not keep anything of my own. I obviously will need to go through British Culture 101: Erasing Your Past again
• Never having to watch American commercials again
• Not having Fried Stuff With Cheese for dinner every night
• Being able to walk to town without being honked at and harrassed. Here, it’s not considered social suicide to use your feet to get somewhere
• Not being able to give your dad a hug
• Missing birthdays, funerals, weddings, holidays and family get togethers
• Having the perfect excuse for missing that 10 year high school reunion. To make it more interesting, RSVP yes but then fax a memo over at the last minute saying you simply cannot get a flight out of Paris in first class and besides, you have to sign the paperwork on your newly-acquired English manor. The hicks in Sticksville will hate you and never invite you to anything ever again. Problem solved.
• Having a backbone and telling a queue jumper or rude person to sod off instead of being passive-aggressive about it with all the tutting, sighing and eye-rolling
• Never EVER letting anyone talk shit about Mac & Cheese. Some things are sacred