The time I met Chuck Bass

We are moving in a couple of weeks. Scott will start a new job in July and if we don’t move, his commute will be a 2 hour drive each way on a good day. I’m fortunate to work in London and be able to commute from pretty much anywhere, so we decided we had to move sooner rather than later.

We found a great house in a highly desirable area a few weeks ago and submitted an offer. We got excited. We started planning where our furniture would go. A few days later, it fell through. Someone else was willing to commit to a much longer period living in the house. We were very disappointed.

We went away for our anniversary and returned home to find a major leak in our building that took out the power. I told myself not getting that house was actually a good thing. We’d struggle to rent out our flat quickly with the leak and the repair work. Being a big believer in signs and fate, I told Scott everything happens for a reason, that house just wasn’t right for us. He replied, “Someone offered a longer commitment. That’s the reason. There’s nothing else to it.”

A couple of weeks later, we found another house. It’s not in a location I’m particularly excited about, but it’s a nice house with plenty of space for all our things and extra rooms for guests. It’s a five minute walk (girl speed) from the train station with fast trains into London. I’m most excited about that. There’s a restaurant down the street that specializes in exotic meats, ranging from zebra to oryx. Scott is most excited about that.

We’ll be happy there. We can be happy anywhere.

I know that. I just wasn’t feeling it.

—

We’ve lived in Stevenage for four years. There’s nothing special about the place. It’s just a regular town outside London, but I’ve grown fond of it. We have our favorite restaurants, bars, and shops. It’s been good to us.

I’ve mentioned before how much I Iove the tv show, Gossip Girl, and the very popular character, “Chuck Bass”. I’ve told you (and pretty much everyone I know) that Ed Westwick, who plays Chuck, is originally from Stevenage.

Over the last four years, I have thought about running into Ed, aka Chuck Bass, around town. At Christmas time, when I’m in Waitrose, I think about how he could be standing next to me, buying a turkey with his mom. Or maybe I’d walk past him in the town centre the next time he’s popping into Superdrug for hair gel. Maybe we’ll run into each other at Nando’s in the Leisure Park, when we both reach for a bottle of peri-peri sauce.

It’s never happened.

But I think about it a lot, because it could happen! I wrote about this same thing two years ago. Sometimes on the last train home, when everyone is jolly and chatty, I’ll get talking to someone from Stevenage. We will discuss the highs and lows of the town and I will say, “But Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl is from here!” and a few people have said they know him/they went to school with him/their cousin went to his house one time.

Ahem…I’ve even been known to do this sort of thing:

—

After a long day at work and a horrific, sweaty commute home, I walked in the door on Wednesday night and was met with our neighbor’s loud music. Scott suggested walking to the old town to grab some dinner so we could sit in a quiet, air-conditioned restaurant for awhile.

We sat by the window and chatted about our upcoming move. I watched a group of guys cross in front of the window. The guy leading the group was wearing sunglasses at 8:45 pm.  I was about to comment on how they looked like complete posers, when it hit me. That amazing bone structure! That hair!

“Oh my god. Oh my god. It’s…it’s…OH MY GOD! It’s…”

I couldn’t get the words out. I thought about reaching for my handbag to dig around for my phone, but my hands were shaking.

“It’s…it’s…oh my god. It’s CHUCK BASS!”

Scott looked over his shoulder. “Huh…yeah, it is. How did you recognize him?”

“Because I know him! That’s him! Oh my god, I finally saw him!”

Scott made some analogy, likening me spotting Chuck Bass to something about new cars.

“Why are we talking about cars?! It’s Chuck Bass! This is amazing!”

Even though I always said I could see him, I never expected to. His family probably moved. He probably only comes back to London. And you see celebrities all the time in London. But Stevenage?! This is huge.

As you can imagine, I couldn’t stop talking about it. I couldn’t finish my dinner I was so excited.

“I’m just so happy. It’s a sign! It’s a sign that we can move!”"

Scott looked up from his pizza, eyebrow raised.

“Well, that’s good because we are moving.”

“I know, but this is a sign. It’s like, ok, here’s what you wanted…you can move now.”

Ignoring my talk of signs, Scott said, “He’s probably going to a pub up the street.”

“Should we go?” I asked.

“Hey, if we need to go to a few pubs and drink beer, I’m fine with that.”

—

As we walked up the street, we I discussed the probability of seeing Chuck again, which bar he would most likely be in.

“Well, he smokes so probably one that has outdoor seating and—”

There he was, sitting right by the door of a chinese restaurant. I froze in my tracks and then quickly turned around. Scott kept walking.

“Psssst!” I whispered after Scott. He spun around. I pointed to the open door and we both flattened ourselves against the outside of the restaurant. (I’d love to see the CCTV footage of this.)

I mouthed, “It’s Chuck Bass” and pointed at the door again.

Then I pointed to a tree about 10 feet in front of the restaurant. We walked casually to the tree and I pretended to be looking for something on my phone.

“What exactly are we doing?” Scott asked.

“We’re pretending to look for something. Just stand there and talk to me. How can we take the photo? What should we do?”

He muttered, “This is so obvious.”

“No, it’s not. They aren’t looking at us. I don’t think my phone will take a good picture. Why didn’t you bring your phone? You always have your phone!”

Scott looked back at the restaurant. “Hmm, we always wondered about that restaurant. If it’s good enough for Chuck Bass, it’s good enough for us, eh? It must be ok. We should try it before we move.”

“FOCUS! Help me! Please!”

I snapped a few photos over Scott’s shoulder.

“You can’t see him in these photos. My phone is crap! Ugh, why don’t I have a better phone?!”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to change price plans. If you want to upgrade–”

I interrupted him, “Help me! Please!”

“People are going to think we’re having a fight out here.”

“Ok, just smile and laugh,” I said, and then my fake laughter turned to hysterical giggles. The kind you get in church and the whole pew shakes.

Scott grabbed the phone and told me to walk away before anyone saw us.

I suggested Scott goes up to the door and pretended to be reading the menu. He could sneakily snap a pic and this could all be over. Scott refused. I begged. I told him he’s my only hope. He sighed, said he better not get beat up by Chuck Bass’ mates, and relegated me to the “look out” point down the street.

I watched Scott pretending to talk on my phone. Every now and then, he’d turn around and face the restaurant. He couldn’t bring himself to go over to the menu by the front door. Instead he took pics through the frosted windows, all spy-like. (That’s not more suspicious. Nope, not at all.)

Scott gave up. By this point, we both desperately needed a drink. Over beers, we I discussed what I’d do when I see Chuck. I’ve seen celebrities before but I’ve never approached any. This is different. This is Stevenage and this is Chuck Bass. This obsession with one day seeing him has become a Thing now. I can’t not say something.

“What if he’s a jerk to me?” I ask.

“If he is, just say, ‘Wow, I didn’t realize you were a cock in real life. I thought you just played one on TV.’”

So, we had a plan B.

—

But Chuck Bass didn’t show up.

I suggested we go home. I got more than I wanted. Even though the pictures weren’t great quality, I did see him and that’s all that matters. That’s enough.

I told myself this as we walking back down the high street. Clearly tired of hearing me wonder aloud about the possibility of ever seeing him again, Scott said, “Just go see if he’s still sitting in the restaurant. I’m sure he’d love to be approached by a fan so he can show off in front of all his mates.”

Chuck Bass wasn’t in the restaurant anymore, but I felt a surge of oh-what-the-hell. I saw a group of people sitting outside the pub next door and pulled Scott towards it as he protested, “Really? This is happening? We can’t check every pub and restaurant for him.”

Chuck’s friends were sitting out front in the beer garden. There were more of them than before, but there was no Chuck.

“Oh well, ” Scott said, reading my mind. “Let’s get a drink since we’re here.”

—

There he was, standing at the bar. I stopped moving, possibly even stopped breathing.

Scott whispered behind me, “Ok, here we go. This is it.”

I was right behind Chuck, so close I’m not even sure it was really him. I opened my mouth to greet him, but instead, I said, “What do you want to drink, Scott?” as if we’re there for drinks and nothing else, as if I have not been stalking Chuck Bass all night.

Oh god, this is getting crazy, I told myself. It’s nearly 11 pm on a school night. You have an early morning meeting. You are not a celebrity who can drink until the wee hours of the morning. Just get what you came for and leave.

I tapped his arm. “Excuse me? Can I get a picture with you? Do you mind?”

He looked at me for a couple of seconds, as if he was trying to recall who I was. Or maybe he was about to tell me to piss off. I was trying to remember the comeback Scott had given me.

Then Chuck said, “‘Course you can, darling.” Only in his English accent, it was more like dahlin’.

I now know the true meaning of going weak in the knees.

—

He introduced himself (“Ed”, not “Chuck”), asked us our names, shook our hands. He asked me what I was doing in Stevenage, where I was from. He said he really liked DC; he “f-ing loves Georgetown”.

He was very cool. Ridiculously good looking in person. Taller than I expected. Smelled great. His jacket was so soft.

I only remembered we were meant to take a picture when he put his arm around me and pulled me close.

I think this photo shows you how I felt. This is pretty much how I looked for the following 48 hours too. Just a huge cheesy grin on my face.

I thanked him for taking the picture with me. He was very kind. Then he picked up his beer, nodded at Scott, and touched my arm as he said, “Great to meet you. I’ll see you out there.”

We sat as far away from him as we could. I was most definitely playing it cool. Scott and I talked about all the things we need to do before our move. I only interrupted twice to quietly squeal, “This is amazing! Can you believe it?”

—

Yeah, we can move now. I don’t think signs come bigger than this.

Well, I guess this is growing up

When I think of what men talk about with their friends, I know the answer already. 90% of the conversation must be movie lines. A good proportion of those lines for Scott and his friends is from American Pie. So in honor of the release of American Reunion, we celebrated with friends who enjoy the movie just as much as Scott does we do.

Just like the first one, American Reunion was funny and raunchy and a bit gross.

But unlike the first one, it was kind of sad.

It’s been 13 years?! Everyone is so old. Do we look that old? We’re having pie-themed dinner parties with other couples now! What happened?

People love free stuff (even books)

This time last week I was doing my best to celebrate World Book Night by giving away free novels.

For those who have never heard of World Book Night–and trust me, that’s most of you–it’s a celebration of reading on 23 April, where thousands of people are selected to give books out in their communities. The organization selects 25 books and when you apply to be a “giver”, you select three books you would like to give and how/where you’d give the books. I thought really hard about which books would be best and who I’d give them to.

I was delighted to be selected to be a giver. I was dismayed to not be given any of the three books I chose. Instead, I was given a young adult book. And it wasn’t Twilight.

The novel they gave me was entitled How I Live Now. Paired with the World Book Night poster showing a massive question mark that they recommended givers display, I was guaranteed to be mistaken for a Scientologist.

The idea of the celebration is to pass out 24 copies of the novel on, or the week following, World Book Night. I worked late on World Book Night so did not get out into the world until after 9 pm. There were no young adults around at that time. They were all at home watching Gossip Girl, which is exactly where I wanted to be.

I hung around the station for a bit and then scribbled a note on one of the books.  I left it on the bench and got on the train. From the window, I watched people pass the book. A few looked down at it. No one picked it up. And then a man stopped, cocked his head as he read the message, and started walking again.

It’s a free book! What is wrong with people!?

Then he turned around and swooped the book up.

Thankfully no one was nearby when I let out an enthusiastic, “Yessss!”

I got out a stack of books and wrote more notes. I left a book in a public bathroom. I slipped one onto a custodian’s cart full of cleaning supplies. I dropped a book onto a seat just before a woman sat down.

I approached a girl on the Tube. She looked confused at first and said, “Sorry, what?”

I tried again. “Would you like a free novel? We’re giving them out in honor of World Book Night. It’s free. It’s fiction. It’s pretty good.”

“Oh,” she said, taking the book.

I moved away and watched out of the corner of my eye. She read the back of the book, which had a special cover explaining World Book Night, and as I stepped off the Tube, she said, “Thank you!”

On my train home, I pushed a copy of the book under the seat in front of me and I settled back into the chair, headphones on. Three women came down the aisle, arms full of yellow shopping bags. They dropped their bags and collapsed into the seats. Ten minutes later, I watch one woman lean over and reach for the book.

“What’s this?”

And then, “There’s a note.”

The woman read my note aloud. Her friends aww-ed.

Just before I turned the volume back up, I heard the woman say, “Oh my god, that’s so cool! I never find anything good! This is so exciting!” before she put the book in her handbag.

I saved half of my books so I could go with a friend (who was also chosen to be a giver) to a local school in London. We waited outside the school in the afternoon and even though I was looking for young adults all along, I was intimidated by them more than the adults. I guess because it seems weird to be hanging outside of a school, trying to give out things to children, even if it’s for a good cause.

We got a few polite “no, thank yous”. We got a couple of snubs. We got a lot of yes, pleases and thank yous. One mother first declined and then looked at the books more closely. She didn’t speak English well so it didn’t matter how many times we said, “They’re free! They’re novels! Fiction!” but we kept saying it anyway. Finally, she smiled and accepted the book. Then she must have thought better of it, or got a closer look at the title of my book, and said,”Religion? No religion?”

“No religion!” my friend and I said in unison.

I kept two books back so I could leave them in random places in London. While it was nice to put a book into someone’s hands directly, I really enjoyed writing the notes and thinking of good places to leave the books. It was really fun to watch people discover the books and to see the reactions they wouldn’t have showed me if I was conversing with them.

It was cool to think about who might find the books and where they would end up. I hoped it would be somewhere good.

This doing-nice-things-for-others lark is pretty awesome.

 

The secret’s in the sauce

I make the majority of the meals in our household and I’m fine with that. I enjoy cooking and I’m lucky to have a husband who actually cleans more than I do, so I feel like we’re even in the chores department.

He has very specific ideas about food though. He has strict sweet and savory rules. Nuts in a dish? The horror! He hates tomatoes, spinach and corn. He thinks peanut butter and sprouts are the devil’s food. He likes chocolate, but doesn’t like chocolate-flavored food products.

Over the years, I’ve tried to sneak certain foods into his dishes. I bought Jessica Seinfeld’s Deceptively Delicious cookbook, even though it’s geared towards getting your children–not your husband–to eat more veggies.

They say your taste buds can change every seven years. So, c’mon, it must be time for him to start liking peanut butter!

I’ve only been dabbling in this sort of trickery. A bit of pureed veggies in this. Throwing the packaging away before he can see that the tiniest bit of coconut milk was used in the preparation of that.  You know, this sort of innocent culinary trickery. I never get caught. (Except the time I substituted Quorn in place of beef in chili. He called me on that immediately and we had to work on his trust issues for the next few months. You just don’t mess with that man’s meat.)

So, really, I should have known he would not fully embrace this meal idea.

I ended up pureeing the cauliflower and some carrots, and shoved them in the deepest, darkest depths of the freezer. Just you wait. Their time will come.

—

At my suggestion of eating whatever’s in the freezer, Scott offered to make dinner tonight.

I was dozing in the living room, with “Nothing to Declare” on the TV. As a woman was being arrested for smuggling in cocaine by hiding it behind her laptop screen, I started thinking about what Scott could be smuggling in my dinner.

He bought a ready-made lasagne. I shouldn’t be worried. But I went into the kitchen just to check.

Looks like he’s got his hands full just trying to cook it. I don’t think I need to worry about any extra work on his part.

Flying high

For the past year, Scott has been taking flying lessons at a local airfield. It was always his dream to be a commercial airline pilot and those who know him know how much he loves anything aviation-related. For various reasons, becoming a commercial airline pilot is out of the question now, unless we win the lottery and he buys his own Boeing 707 like John Travolta did.

Until then, he has settled for getting his private pilot’s license. It’s not cheap. It takes dedication and time–not only with hours in the air, but also hours spent studying to pass the exams. It’s taking longer than expected due to the unpredictable British weather. Flying is his passion and it makes him very happy.

I don’t enjoy flying like he does. I’ve never been up in a plane with him at the controls. But I am a fan of this hobby of his. I am proud of him for pursuing this adapted dream of his.

In the warmer months, I go to the airfield with him. I sit outside and watch the planes for a bit. I paint my nails, flip through magazines, write emails.

At the end of his lesson, he is bright-eyed and excited like a little kid.

“Did you see me fly?!”

“Yes,” I say, and then I settle in for a play-by-play recap of his lesson. This is the only time Scott out-talks me. I kind of like it.

—

Yesterday, I joined Scott at the airfield for the first time this season. It was sunny but chilly. I had a cup of tea in the cafe and wrote a few lists. Then I figured I better go out and watch for a bit. He’ll ask me if I saw him fly. He always does.

I knew he was flying circuits so he would be taking off and landing several times during the lesson. I got my camera out, ready to snap him in the air. He’d love that.

As the plane passed me, I snapped away. Then I stopped to watch his plane fly over my shoulder, heading over trees behind me. And then I saw the plane nose dive.

Now, I don’t always listen to Scott’s plane commentary but I know planes don’t go down like that right after take off. The plane was too low. It disappeared behind the woods.

For a minute, it was quiet. There was no buzzing of aircraft above. My eyes were glued to the woods. Where is the plane? If it crashed, there’d be smoke. But if it crashed, wouldn’t people be rushing out of the airfield office? I looked over to the office and cafe. No movement. No panic.

I stood on the bench, as if being a foot off the ground would help me see better. No smoke. No flames. No noise. No plane.

Two pilots walked out of the office and I watched them closely. Their faces were serious, but they were just standing there.

I’m overreacting. Maybe that wasn’t even Scott’s plane. Maybe his instructor took a different plane. This isn’t happening. This is the worst hobby ever! This is so dangerous! This isn’t happening, right? Everything has to be ok. 

And then one of the pilots sprinted over to the cafe and the other shouted after him, “Get me a bacon sandwich!”

Yes, I’m definitely overreacting. But this is still a terrible choice of hobbies. Why can’t Scott play golf like everyone else?

He obviously somehow recovered because ten minutes later, I watched his plane take off again and this time it stayed above the trees. I watched it as long as I could before it became so small I was confusing it with birds.

I couldn’t watch anymore. I went back to the car, put my headphones in, and read an article about Snooki’s pregnancy and her uncertain future on the Shore.

—

Scott pulled open the car door and said, “Did you see me fly?!”

“You almost crashed!”

“No, I was just practicing engine failure.”

“OH MY GOD TELL ME NEXT TIME! YOU ALMOST GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK!”

“Ok, but did you see me fly?!”

Yes. Got a pic this time too.

Also, I need a hobby.

Who’s counting anyway?

I’d like to say my unannounced and unexpected hiatus was due to me being so busy doing wonderfully nice things, but that would be a lie. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about doing wonderfully nice things, but mostly I’ve been just going about my life just as I did pre-29th birthday.

Because doing nice things is harder than you think.

I’m a real nice person as it is (and very modest) and I didn’t want to count anything in my 30 for 30 list that I would do normally. But then I was constantly second-guessing myself. If I offer to help this person, does it count? I’d help them anyway so no. Right? Or maybe it does count…hey! Where did that person go? Shit. Ok, definitely help the next person you see.

I saw a woman lugging a large suitcase up a steep flight of stairs. People were rushing past her, ignoring her struggle. I caught her eye and said, “You look like you could use some help.”

I was on the other side of the banister so I had to run up the stairs and back down on her side.  Just before I got to her, a lanky teenage boy wearing red skinny jeans appeared. He took off his gold headphones and said, “I was just about to offer to help her. Here, let me.”

I let him. I walked away feeling all smug because I spurred him into action! I motivated a teenage boy in skinny jeans! I’m on top of the world!

But that doesn’t count.

—

The next morning, I noticed a commotion on the Jubilee platform. A woman was on her knees and a few people crowded around her. I moved closer as others stood back.

Yeah, that’s right. Everyone just get back. I’ve got this one.

And then I looked down and saw the woman’s BlackBerry on the track. She was crying and motioning to her phone. “Somebody get my phone! My phone!”

Uh, nevermind. Go ahead, you guys. You take this one. Looks like you have it covered. I’m just going to get the bus. I didn’t want to take the Tube anyway.

And I backed away quickly.

(As I rushed out of the station, I heard a TFL worker looking very FML-ish as he told his colleague someone dropped something on the track. Again.)

Definitely does not count.

—

We went to a wedding last weekend and at breakfast the next morning, we noticed the hotel was hosting a blood drive in the next room. This is a sign! I’ve been told I have great veins. Look at these veins! What’s more kind than giving blood and saving a life?

Turns out you can’t give blood after a night of vodka and diet Coke.

So, that doesn’t even come close to counting, but I have added it to the list.

—

As I mentioned, I have been ever so excited to try out all the shops at the new King’s Cross. I had the Oliver Bonas vouchers in my handbag and it’s a wonder I waited this long to use them.

I spent ages in front of the jewelry display, debating over which pair of earrings to buy. I looked at the scarves and the bag I had my eye on last month. The voucher expired that day. I just had to pick what I wanted.

Instead, I stopped looking for myself. I stood in the shop, watching others. I watched the girl next to me holding up a dress and then looking at the price tag then back at the dress. She put the dress back on the rack and moved to the next rack. She came back to the first dress and looked at the tag again.

I handed her the voucher. “Would you like this? You have to use it today.”

“Oh, ok,” she said, hesitantly. Then she looked at the voucher and her eyes lit up. “Thank you!”

That counts, right?

The new concourse at King’s Cross

…better known as the most exciting thing to happen to me in awhile.

Move aside shiny, pretty St. Pancras. (Ok, King’s Cross is never going to outshine that beaut, but let it have its moment!)

On Monday, 19 March, the new concourse at King’s Cross opens after years of construction. For a train station that has only had a few small shops, take away food stalls and an old man pub, this is huge. In a week’s time, the station will have several restaurants including Leon, Giraffe, and Benito’s Hat, as well as shops like American Apparel and Kiehl’s. Yes, Kiehl’s! I squealed when I read about that one.

Before I read about all the station would have to offer, I was most excited for the Cornish pasty shop to reopen so the station would be permeated with the smell of shortcrust pastry once again! Really, it doesn’t take a lot to please me.

We haven’t even discussed how much easier this new concourse should be to get around. Platforms 9-11 will actually be part of the station, not some shady annex out back. I don’t have to wait in front of the departures board, hoping my train isn’t on those platforms. Please be platform 8, please be platform 8. Damn! Platform 10?! If anyone tells you it’s not that far, I guarantee it’s a man who has never had to run in heels.

Finally, for all the Harry Potter fans, platform 9 ^3/4 will actually have a permanent home and be featured on the station map. No more directing tourists in the wrong direction and then dodging them when they circle back, still in pursuit of the magical sight, and cursing the idiot who steered them wrong.

—

Over the last week, young, energetic workers have been wearing giant foam fingers pointing to the soon-to-be new entrance to King’s Cross. They pass out maps and brochures and generally try to drum up excitement for the new concourse. Commuters are ushered over to view the designs and marvel at the plans to construct a beautiful plaza out front where the hideous green awning has been sticking out of the Victorian frontage for the last three decades or so. (The plaza is due to be completed in 2013.)

I’ve talked my coworkers’ and friends’ ears off about the lead-up to the unveiling of the concourse. Every day I tell them about the freebies I’ve got from the various promotions going on.  So far, passers-by have been given baklava from Yalla Yalla, chocolates from Hotel Chocolat, and vouchers for Oliver Bonas. I’ve got my fingers crossed for blue herbal spot treatment gel samples from Kiehl’s. That’ll beat the time Hovis gave out full loaves of bread.

I’ve never been someone who is fascinated by transport, but I just spend a great deal of time using it. I spend at least 4 hours a week at this station, just killing time. It will be so nice to actually have somewhere to sit, since the station has now tripled its seating areas, not including the restaurants and bars.

But let’s be real here. I’ll probably now spend all that time in Paperchase buying greeting cards for no one in particular.

I can’t wait!

If you’re unlucky enough not to be able to see King’s Cross for yourself, view the fancy-schmancy CGI images.

30 for 30

There seems to be a movement to make a list of 30 haven’t-done-yet activities to complete before you leave your 20s.

I had a similar list once: Things to Do Before Turning 28.

I must have been about 13 years old when I wrote it and 28 sounded so old it gave me plenty of time to do x-amount of things. I can’t remember how many things were on the list, but when I came across it as I was going through notebooks at my parents’ house, I did have to chuckle at my naivety. Quite a number of the items on my list must have been inspired by chick flicks. Move to Italy to learn Italian. Become a blonde. Go skinny dipping. Publish a novel. Live in a cool loft apartment in NYC. Get a tattoo. Date two guys at once.

All really wonderful, positive, intelligent life goals, don’t you think?

I do recall being able to cross off at least two items:

Buy a real piece of furniture. (Dream big!)

Have a fling with a man with a sexy accent. (Standards, girls. Standards. I pretty much smashed that goal. “Fling” turned to marriage. Go me!)

I could write a more meaningful list of things to do before turning 30 and I know I’d have fun trying to check them all off. But I am not fussed about turning 30. I don’t feel like I need to do anything in particular before 30. Life doesn’t end at 30! I am very fortunate to be where I am, doing what I’m doing, with the people I love. If anything, I shouldn’t push my luck and get all greedy before my next birthday.

I have enjoyed my 20s so much and I’ll be the first to admit that it’s probably because I’ve been very selfish. So, why not celebrate my last year of my 20s by making a concerted effort to be less selfish?

That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to set out to do 30 acts of kindness by my 30th birthday. 30 for 30.

Now, what can those things be? I have a few ideas and have already organized a couple of activities I’m excited about. I don’t want my kindness to be restricted to a date in the diary or to a particular event, so I hope to get in some random acts of kindness too.

And let me say it here–just so I can’t chicken out–one of the things on my list will be donating my hair to a worthy charity. But that will be #28 or around there on the list. Baby steps.

A penny for your thoughts

One of my new year’s resolutions is to be more fiscally responsible. We are fortunate not to have to worry about how we’re going to put food on the table or how we’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month, knock on wood. But every newspaper article and every news flash on the television reminds me that it can all change in a second.

As a couple, we have made financial decisions together and our joint finances are in order, but I’ve been thinking about what I could be doing differently with my personal account. More specifically, I’ve been thinking hard about savings.

I always came into money when I needed it. Never large amounts due to an inheritance or a lottery win. Just small windfalls that always managed to come when I needed them. Sometimes it was an unexpected tax return or a generous Christmas present. When I’d feel the tightening of the ol’ belt as they say, I’d race to enter any open writing contests. I wouldn’t win every competition, but I entered enough that I usually would win a cash prize at some point. And with whatever winnings and the money I made at various jobs throughout high school and university, I did ok.

As I’ve got older, those cash prizes are harder to get, mainly because so many of those competitions are only open to students. The small amounts of money I’d come into in my younger years wouldn’t have as great an impact now as they did back then, back when I just needed beer money until I could sell my textbooks at the end of term.

I need to remember that just because I can afford to spend the money I do have, I don’t have to. I should save more. If I’ve learned anything in my 29 years on God’s green earth, it’s that money makes money. (I’ve also watched my fair share of financial sage Suze Orman. “People first, then money, then things.” Got it.)

Between Groupon and LivingSocial and voucher codes galore, I don’t buy anything without searching for a better deal first. But getting a good deal has never been a problem. My dad always said, “You’ll go broke saving money.”

So, how about not buying it in the first place and just saving the money?

My sister used a ceramic Peter Rabbit bank for cash well after she got a bank account. The woman in the Shopaholic series froze credit cards in a block of ice in the freezer. During a particularly skint month, my friend gives a chunk of money to her mom and has her ration it out to her throughout the month. Another friend saves every £2 coin he comes across and deposits the lot in his account once a year.

What do you do?

Settled

By the end of spring, I will have watched three close friends move back to the US in just seven months. That’s too many too soon.

I had to say goodbye to one of them this weekend. The one that I lived with all those years ago when we were both study abroad students in London. The one who stood by me on my wedding day, the one who I felt really knew Scott and me. The one who returned to London when I was lonely and unsettled. The one who helped me form a family of friends here for Thanksgivings and Easters and long weekends in between. The one who was just always here for me. When I think about it, she was the one who really helped me settle down, to love it here.

She dated an Englishman for a long time and I took comfort in thinking she’d end up like me. I wanted her to be like me. It bought us time together. Then when that relationship didn’t work out, I remained hopeful. She was still here.

And when she fell in love with an American, I grumbled a bit in the beginning, because I knew. I just knew. Even if she stayed a bit longer, it wouldn’t be long enough.

As Foster the People pumped out of the speakers and friends danced together in the dark living room, I sat there, finally acknowledging that no amount of drink would make it easier. It was late and I wanted to stay later, but as Scott reached over to touch my shoulder, I knew. I just knew. I didn’t make it out of the room in time. The tears started before I even got to her.

We hugged and cried and hugged again. I left quickly, only to make it down one level before the shoulder-shaking, skin-blotching, nose-running crying started. I leaned against the door of Flat B and cried some more, thankful that the resident was upstairs at the party we’d just left.

I woke up on Sunday with a Champagne headache and swollen eyes. After a few moments of blinking against the sunlight streaming through the curtains, I remembered the night before and added a heavy heart to my list of ailments.

When will the number of friends over there outweigh the number here? When I first moved here, it certainly did but after awhile, I stopped counting because it all seemed to be balancing out. So it will go in waves, I’ll tell myself. How many more people am I going to miss? As many as I need to, I’ll tell myself. (But my quota for “people to miss” is well and truly filled so please stop leaving me.)

I don’t want to sound ungrateful or unappreciative of my friends over here. I am so very grateful. I appreciate you more than you know.

For the first time, I’m going to have to do this without her. I’ll remind myself that anything can happen and who knows where she’ll end up. I’ll be happy for her. I’ll see her again. We’ll keep in touch. Of course I will. Of course we will.

It’s the end of an era, for sure.

I am settled here.

Now it’s her turn.