Call your mother

I’m sure we’ve all been there. You’re sitting in your little desk at elementary school and you are so enthralled by the picture you’re coloring or racking your little brains trying to figure out what in the heck 24 + 13 is that when your teacher walks by, you accidentally call out, “Mom?” instead of Mrs. Whatever.

Then there was the time when you ran up to a man in the store and grabbed his hand only to realize this man is not your father and he’s almost as freaked out as you are. You could have sworn your dad was wearing the exact same jeans and loafers. Where is your dad? You knew you shouldn’t have been pretending to work in a jewelry store, rearranging all the nuts and bolts in the hardware aisle.  Cue hyperventilation and tears and ooooh the embarrassment!

You think it’s something you grow out of. For the most part, I’m pretty sure I have. But if I’m deep in thought or not really paying attention, I find myself close to slipping up and calling someone a name that is way too familiar. Or worse. Let me explain.

Sometime last year I was home for a visit and my dad was in the middle of tracking down God knows what, but he was frustrated and furiously opening drawers and digging through piles of paperwork. A family friend called and my mom asked my dad if he could answer it and firm up their plans for the evening.

My dad made pleasant small talk on the phone while he was still searching. He was clearly not completely in the conversation. As he was saying goodbye, I heard him say, “Yep, will do. See you later. Love you.” And then he hung up and cursed under his breath about having to look through 50 million things before finding what he was looking for.

I stood there, horrified.

“Dad, did you just tell her you love her?”

“What?” he asked, annoyed.

“You just told her you loved her!”

“Did I? Oh, whatever. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Call her back! Tell her you weren’t thinking straight! This is so embarrassing. Oh my God, do something!”

He shrugged and said she probably didn’t even notice and he continued on with his search. I was mortified for him and made sure my mom knew the whole story in case it came up that night. It didn’t. The family friend either (A) didn’t hear him say it or (B) knows how my dad is and didn’t take any notice.

Moral of the story? This sort of thing can happen even when you’re middle-aged, people.

I am known as Caitlin at work – not Cait. There is really no issue here except that pretty much everyone outside of work calls me Cait. If I’m in a hurry and not really thinking about it, I have been known to sign my work emails with just Cait. This is not the end of the world but I always wonder if the guy in Computer Services thinks we’re on a nickname basis now. (It’s more likely that he didn’t even read my email to the end to see my name, I know, I know.)

We were talking about this in the office a couple of weeks ago. A coworker said she once told a London bus driver, “Love you” as she got off the bus. She just wasn’t thinking. This is something I am very conscious of at work, especially on the phone, if I’m having a busy day, doing lots of different things. There have been a few times when I caught myself almost saying, “Love you” before hanging up. Now that would be awkward.

But not as awkward as this little gem.

One time we were visiting my parents and we were all standing around the kitchen island, eating and talking. I crossed over to the morning room to grab the papers. As I was walking back, I gave Scott a little smack on the backside.

Except it wasn’t Scott.

It was my dad. MY FATHER!!! Ewww.

I’m cringing just thinking about it.

We sort of just looked at each other. I imagine I had the same look of horror on my face as I did all those years ago when I accidentally took that stranger’s hand.

And while we’re on the subject, after having my parents over for a visit, I mistakenly called Scott “mom”. Twice. Yikes.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Anyone…anyone?

Girl meets boy Part II

American Pie was on TV the other night. We had it on while we were both on our computers in separate rooms. Scott would come in the living room every few minutes to do one of his many American Pie movie lines. At one point he got very serious, looked over at me and said, “This movie was out 10 years ago. 10 years! Where have the last ten years gone?”

Hey, buddy! Yoohoo…remember me? You spent them with me!

I do know where he’s coming from though. It is crazy to think how the years just fly by.

10 years ago – to the day – this girl met this boy.

And this is where all the time has gone:

Girl meets boy

I have always had crushes on celebrities. I think it’s weird if you haven’t ever had one. What?  You only go for real, attainable men? Weirdos.

For me, it started with Timmy from Lassie and Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains and then progressed to Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid. But my biggest celebrity crush was Devon Sawa. I had posters covering my walls and I had even created mock-ups of wedding invites for Devon and me.  I actually wrote a letter to him once, asking if he wanted to be pen pals.

I also wrote our initials on the side of the house. On the cement between two bricks. With a pencil. I was so badass, you guys wouldn’t even believe it.

But when I was 14, I became obsessed with Prince William. I was devastated when Diana died because I actually thought she might be my mother-in-law one day.

We had internet access at home but I never used it. I’m not sure I even knew what it all meant. Then we started having classes at school centered around the World Wide Web and all the neat stuff you could find on there.  I used to go to my friend’s house after school and we would go on British chat rooms on the hunt for Prince William. Because, you know, he was probably at his friend’s house playing on this newfangled internet too.

We began chatting to someone named Joey. Turns out he was actually three 18 year old guys who had just moved in together and pooled their money  for a computer. We spent many hours talking to them – we were clearly charmed by their British wit – but one of the guys stood out in particular.

He explained how there were these free email services and how we could write each other messages for free and you could check your email anywhere. I got my first hotmail account and got myself on ICQ too. We talked about growing up in different countries, we told each other about school and our familes, we shared favorite books and songs and films.

In the beginning, it was something to kill the time. It was also a novelty. It was just meant to be a bit of fun, nothing serious. My mom knew it was more than just something to kill time when I started spending a lot more time on the computer. (And these were the days when you waited for five minutes while you listened to the dial up modem whizzing and buzzing away, certain aliens would arrive at any moment. These were the days when we paid by the minute.These were the days when there was no way you could sneak onto the Internet. Kids have it so easy these days.)

I told my mom I was speaking to someone on the web and she responded as any mother would. She was concerned. After all, back then all you heard about were the girls who went missing after meeting their supposedly 17 year old suitors they met on America Online.

Naturally, she was worried and didn’t want me giving out our phone number or address. She asked lots of questions about him and what we talked about for so long. She was just being a mom. (I admit, at the time, I was all,”You just don’t understand me! No one understands what it’s like. My life is so hard!” I’m sorry, Mom.)

We had been chatting for months when he asked if he could send me a mixed tape of songs that he had recorded off the radio. I asked my mom and at first she said no but after I argued my case we agreed that if he was a 50 year old serial killer, he probably would have found me by now. So, yes, he could send the tape but my mom needed to listen to it.

And she did and she was satisfied that there were no sinister messages laced throughout the Sunday night Top 10 singles. She also read some of the letters. I was okay with it too. I knew that if I didn’t include her it would all be over.

We continued chatting and sending tapes and letters. We finally exchanged photos – through snail mail since I probably had never even seen a scanner, never mind a digital camera. It was so strange to see the person I had spent all those months talking to. He was and wasn’t how I imagined him but I was pleasantly surprised.

Then one day he asked if he could call me. I was a nervous wreck. I had talked to boys on the phone. A few of them I even liked but no one like this. I’d like to say the conversation was amazing but it wasn’t. I struggled to understand his broad northern accent. I said “sorry, what was that?” about fifty times and laughed at his jokes 20 seconds after the punch line. He could understand me better because he watched Friends and The Simpsons.

I was falling for a guy I had never even met. I was 16 and wasn’t even allowed to properly date anyone in real life. This guy lived in England. He had just started university. He wasn’t real.

Neither of us really knew what to make of it. We certainly liked each other. We missed each other when we didn’t speak. But we didn’t really know each other and yet you could argue that we knew each other better than anyone.

We talked about meeting up one day. Maybe some day after I graduated college. We could meet up and see where things went from there. I don’t think either of us really believed that would happen.

As the months went on, we talked more and more about how we could meet. I think he was more serious about it than me at first. When I thought about meeting him, I felt sick. I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. I still had Devon Sawa wedding invitations tucked away in my bedroom. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the risk and spoil things. I liked having him in my computer, listening to me, asking me questions, caring about me.

And then there was the whole issue of my parents. My dad was stationed in Korea and during his weekly calls, my mom would tell him how serious we were getting and what would she do if I really tried to meet up with this…this man! My dad told her not to worry about it, he was sure it would just wither away. It was a stage. It was a fad. It would never really happen. Then he probably hung up the phone, cursing God for giving him three daughters who had all these icky emotions and trivial problems when he had bigger issues on his mind. Like North Korea.

But it didn’t seem to be a fad. It certainly didn’t feel like I was going through some stage either. One day when I was chatting to this funny and smart Englishman, he suggested that he and a friend come to the US in the summer. They would fly to DC and meet me and my friend and if it was weird and didn’t work out, that would be ok. They would continue on with their vacation in America. No pressure. But what if we never got another chance? What if it was fate? What if we were meant to be together?

And because I was am a hopeless romantic and watched way too many Nora Ephron movies, I said yes. Er, I mean…I said, let me ask my mom. (By this point we had been talking for a year and he still had not abducted me so my mom said ok.)

The lead up to that day in June 1999 was a whole mix of emotions. I was nervous. I was in denial. I was excited. I was, in the only way I knew how, in love. I was terrified.

It was a horrendously hot day in Virginia. I put my hair in velcro curlers the night before and wore a blue shirt. My friend wore a cream skirt. My mom (yep, she had to come) sat on the other side of International Arrivals, reading a magazine. These are the things I remember.

I also remember waiting three hours because their flight was delayed. I remember my friend sitting on an empty luggage carousel and standing up to find black grease across the back of her skirt. I remember my mom telling us she was heading to Starbucks – there was only so much waiting one could do. I remember watching his flight disappear off the board and thinking, he’s not coming. What was I thinking?

And then there they were. The two guys from the photos. Only they looked much younger and much more scared. The look on his face in particular was a look of pure shock, as if he couldn’t believe he just spent all his part-time job earnings on a flight across the ocean to see a girl he had never met before. A girl who wore braces and loved Third Eye Blind and hadn’t yet been allowed to drive with friends in the car. He was as white as a ghost.

I wanted to turn and run away. That sounds horrible but you have to remember I was 16 and terribly self conscious and suddenly faced with what was essentially a blind date. But with so much riding on it.

I didn’t run though. My friend pushed me forward. He saw me. I think a bit of color returned to his face. I actually don’t remember much from those few seconds where he walked out from the big crowd of people. I remember we hugged. I remember he was wearing a grey t-shirt. I remember saying, “You came” in a surprised and totally relieved voice.  I remember looking at him, thinking… is this really you? Is this who I tell my secrets to? Who are you? I hope I know.

The guys checked in to a hotel but came to my house for a BBQ on the first night. We played Scrabble and took my dog for a walk. They charmed my mom with their polite manners and English accents. She let them sleep in the guest room in the basement for the rest of the week. (With a chair under the doorknob, just in case.)

If I were a country singer/songwriter, I could make a killing with a song about that week. It was a week I will remember for the rest of my life. For a week that summer, I felt pretty good. And that’s no small feat for a teenage girl just starting out in the world. I am eternally grateful for those seven days. I am grateful to my mom for listening and acknowledging. I am grateful to my friend who wouldn’t let me run from the baggage claim at Dulles Airport. I am grateful to “Joey”.

In the end, it really did happen. It didn’t wither away. So what if he wasn’t Prince William? Turns out he was something better. He was my first love. He was my future husband.

Devon Sawa, if you are reading this – I’m grateful to you too. Thank you for never writing me back.

Just go with it

At my brother-in-law’s wedding this weekend, I was seated next to the bride’s grandparents, Jack and Mollie. They are the sweetest couple and Mollie told me numerous times over the course of the meal that they would be celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this summer. I found this so endearing.

Mollie also referred to me as “Francesca” numerous times. I told her I was Scott’s wife. I repeated my name several times. I pointed to Scott at the top table and she nodded and talked about the last time I saw her, which she had exactly right. I thought we were on track. Then she called me Francesca again.

I looked at Jack and he tried explaining. Mollie laughed and said, “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I can’t see you very well but I’m sure you look lovely. How is Isabelle doing?”

I looked at Jack again and then laughed. It reminded me so much of my days volunteering at an assisted living retirement community. I was 15 and I can’t remember what class it was for but we got extra credit if we volunteered in the community.

It was a pretty easy gig. I mostly worked Happy Hour in the common room. This involved serving beer (in dixie cups) and cheese curls to those who could have alcohol and fake cheese snacks and grape juice and crackers to those who couldn’t.

In training, we were told that sometimes we might find ourselves with a resident who is a bit confused and they might think we’re a family member. We were told that if they don’t seem to understand who we are, sometimes the best thing to do is just “go with it.”

Luckily most of the residents at Happy Hour were lucid and seemingly happy and the extent of their confusion was best represented by a woman asking me if I was in the navy because I was wearing an Old Navy t-shirt.

Then one day I was put on room duty which meant I had to go in each room and fill water pitchers for the residents. I didn’t like that so much. If the residents came to Happy Hour at least I knew they wanted to be there. Room duty meant I was encroaching on their space and always at the wrong time.

At Happy Hour I might get an annoyed resident who thinks he should have a bigger cup of beer or a resident with high blood pressure who is adamant they should be allowed to eat more cheese curls.

On room duty, I got angry residents yelling at me to get out. I got a plastic jug thrown at me. I got residents barking at me to call their son/daughter and get them the hell out of there.

On that particular day, I was just finishing up on room duty when I saw a woman in a wheelchair. She was outside a resident’s room, crying. She waved me over and through tears, she asked, “Is that the 12:15 train to Butler?”

She was pointing at the room number 1215. I crouched down next to her and said, “No, we’re outside someone’s room. That says room number 1215.”

The woman, getting more panicked, said, “I need to get to Butler, Pennsylvania. I need to get the 12:15 train. Can you help me get to the train?”

I looked around for a nurse but couldn’t find anyone. As the woman got more hysterical, I started to get more uncomfortable. Not knowing what else to do, I took hold of the handles of her wheelchair and said, “I’ll take you to the train station.”

The woman stopped crying and started thanking me, over and over again. She kept reaching up to pat my hand. As we turned the corner and headed down the long hallway to the main entrance, she rattled off a list of people she would be seeing in Butler.

When we got to the lobby, I let go of the handles, pushed her into the room and announced we had arrived at the station. She waved wildly at me, obviously excited to be getting on a train and going home. I suddenly felt very ashamed and guilty. I didn’t know what to do so I left her there and ran down the other hallway.

That was my last day at the retirement community. I have no idea if that woman ever got to see those people in Butler, Pennsylvania again. I’m not sure if what I did was right or wrong. I was just going with it. I didn’t know what else to do.

I was thinking about this on Saturday as the wedding meal was coming to an end. Scott had just finished his Best Man speech. Everyone was clapping. Mollie, smiling brightly, turned towards me and said, “Your husband did such a good job. How is John these days?”

I smiled back, nodded at Scott and said, “John is just fine.”

I’ve got a mortgage to think about

Gone are the days when the most expensive thing I’d ever purchased was a plane ticket, followed by a handbag.

Tomorrow we become homeowners. I can now officially be one of those people who says things like “when the foundation settles” and “I’ve got a mortgage to think about”. I’m not saying I’m not scared to be one of those people who has to think about a mortgage, because I seriously am. But right now, because Scott has been handling the money part of this so far, I am thinking about accent pillows and how to convince Scott that grey is in.

I’m allowed to think about these things because last week I was thinking about more practical things. Like how in the world do you fix a running toilet if you can’t get to the tank?

This was my burning question at the walk-through. The builder said, “Oh, that’s no problem. You just remove the tile panel.”

Ok, so if my toilet is running, there’s no option to do any DIY plumbing. I have to actually get a plumber in to first remove the tiling, then look at the tank. Just another expense for homeowners.

Let’s not dwell on the negatives though.

I’ll tell you something that is really exciting. I may not have a yard or separate laundry room but I do have mixer taps. Gone are the days of running my hands underneath both hot and cold taps (“Too cold! Too hot!”) and trying to find a warm balance to wash my face in the morning.

And please don’t tell me that mixer taps don’t exist in England because everything is old here. We currently rent a new apartment and it has separate taps. That’s not a good enough excuse. Even Iraqi Kurdistan has mixer taps.

In a few weeks, when we’re exhausted from painting/packing/moving and we can’t afford to eat because we’re paying both our mortgage and rent, I don’t know if I’ll be able to muster up a post on the joys of flat-buying. And because there’s nothing more boring then seeing photos of completely empty rooms, you may be waiting awhile for some photos.

Instead I have included photos of us taken in the model flat because Scott got us roped into some fluffy PR piece about how good the builders are.

I’d like to say we look nothing like this in real life. After all, it was two hours of fake smiling.

But what I can say with certainty is that our flat looks nothing like this.

10 things my dad taught me

The older I get, the more understanding I get about my parents. The more I realize they are just human. The closer I get to the age when I might want to have kids of my own, I realize how much you can screw up a kid and I have to look at my parents and think, wow, you did pretty well.

Today is Father’s Day and not surprisingly, it got me thinking of my dad.

My dad has been living in a house full of women. Every male pet we had died. What does that say about it?

My dad has been in the military most of his life and grew up in a military family. He liked order and rules and many, many times, my mom would say, “They’re just little girls. They’re not soldiers.”

My dad got stationed overseas for a large part of our teenage years and thanks to my mom, my sisters and I managed to emerge child-less and drug-free. While he was gone, I met Scott and my mom would tell my dad, “They are getting serious.” And my dad would say, “Don’t worry about it. It will wither away.”

And then it didn’t wither away and my dad returned to find that a lot had changed. But my dad had also changed. He was a lot more chilled out and I was old enough to realize that he’s just a person. He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t always say the right things. But he is here and he is trying and that’s enough. I have learned a lot from him and I know there are many more things he’s taught me, but here are ten that come to mind:

1. Value of a dollar

We used to do chores on Saturday mornings. When we were finished, my dad would do inspections and if all was up to standard, we got a $1. I think Lisa actually got 50 cents. But then if we left a light on, we lost a quarter. I left a lot of lights on. Which led to me raiding Lisa’s Peter Rabbit bank full of quarters, but that’s a story for another time.

2. Tough love

When we were younger, Lisa and I used to get into terrible fights. We would hit and punch and kick and Lisa would pinch. She would pinch so hard I’d bleed. One night at the dinner table, I must have done something because Lisa reached over and pinched me until I started bleeding. I screamed and cried. I didn’t have the nails to pinch her back. My dad, tired and annoyed, gave me a fork.

He said, “Take this fork and stab her if you want.” And I blinked back the tears, looking at the fork and then at my little sister. Lisa looked so scared. I told my dad I didn’t want to and he made us hug and make up.

I know this may sound extreme because what if I really did grab the fork and stab my little sister? I can assure you my dad wouldn’t have let that happen. But he knew I wouldn’t do it. He knew we didn’t really want to hurt each other. And that was the lesson. (I’m pretty sure I stole some more quarters from her to make up for it anyway.)

3. I’m fine the way I am

In most of our home videos, you can find my dad stuggling to put dresses on our Barbies or being forced to be Prince Charming in our plays. Once he got past the stage of finding Barbie shoes everywhere, my sisters and I were involved in sports. And not just dance classes. I think, to my dad, I was the closest to a son that he was ever going to get. I was a bit of a tomboy and wanted to wear jeans under all my dresses and I played soccer and baseball.

My dad felt a lot more comfortable with sports. He would stand on the sidelines, yelling “attack” or “defense.” And for a few years, I didn’t mind it. Then I entered into the pre-teen years and I was suddenly so self-aware and sensitive. I just couldn’t take it and asked him to stand up on a hill where if he shouted, I could barely hear. He never stood on the sidelines again and I quit playing soccer.

I became less and less of a tomboy and just as I was entering high school I was told I had to get braces. I cried and cried. Everyone else had their braces at 11-12 years old. I remember thinking I would be the only person wearing braces in high school. I felt like no one understood me. I hated the orthodontist and hated his receptionist everytime she would tell me I was going to look so pretty once they were off. That’s what everyone said – just think what you’ll look like when you get them off! I wanted to scream, what about now? what about me now?

I didn’t want my dad to think I was being a baby or that I cared so much about the way I looked. I wanted him to still think I was tough. I was torn between wanting to be the son he never had and the daughter that I really was. My mom must have filled my dad (who was in Korea) in on what was going on because I got an email from him shortly after and in the email, he said, “You already have a knockout smile” and at the time, it meant the world to me.

4. How to drive a manual car (the first time)

My dad loves driving manual. He bought Amanda a red Volkswagon rabbit convertible for her first car. The problem was she didn’t know how to drive manual. It became clear very fast that he bought it for himself. When it was my turn to learn to drive, he tried teaching me manual. We drove onto an army base and found some quiet roads. Lisa sat in the backseat, listening to her discman. I was horrible at it. And he really did try to stay patient. I drove us up to a 4-way stop and stalled just as it was my turn. I was in the middle of the intersection. Suddenly cars were coming at every direction. I pleaded with my dad to tell me how to restart. He told me to sit tight. He got out of the car and started directing traffic. I was so embarrassed as cars passed by looking at me and wondering what was going on. Lisa had ducked down in the backseat.

He must have stood there directing traffic around me for 15 minutes. By the time he got back in the car, I was crying and vowed never to drive again.

When I was learning to drive manual ten years later and on the other side of the road in a different country, I thought of this incident and after I stalled in an intersection again, I laughed. And laughed. Mostly because of nerves. But I didn’t cry and I think my instructor is forever grateful that I didn’t. I told my instructor the story later. He laughed too.

5. Wear sensible shoes (when driving)

One summer I was driving in flip flops and I got the flip flop caught under the accelerator. I crashed into the back of the neighbor’s car. Not only did I have to pay for all the damages, I also was forbidden to wear flip flops/sandals/heels while driving. Every once in awhile, my dad would walk out to the car just as I was pulling away and ask for me to show him my shoes. I started wearing sneakers on just my right foot so that I never got in trouble. My car was always filled with right shoes.

6. On boys

When I was 12, I had a big crush on one of the neighborhood boys. At school, he had asked if I was going to see the movie “Tommy Boy” and I desperately wanted to go. I asked my mom but she said no. I sat outside in the frontyard, crying. When my dad got home from work, he asked me what was wrong. I explained about the boy and the movie and how everyone would be there except me and how I would just die if I couldn’t go. My dad gave me $5 and told me to go. My crush sat next to me in the theater and he held my hand for almost the whole movie.

A few years later, my dad picked my friend and me up from school and we asked if he would drive us past my friend’s crush’s house just to see if he was home. And right as we were in front of his house, my dad laid on the horn and laughed hysterically as my friend and I screamed and hid under the seats. I didn’t tell him about my crushes after that.

7. How to efficiently pack a bag

As mentioned before in this blog, we travelled and moved around a lot. We each had our own carry-ons and we learned early on that “you pack it, you carry it.” I can (that doesn’t mean I always do) pack like the best of them. I roll my clothes. I stuff things in my shoes. I layer. Thanks to my dad, I can pack a car like I’m playing a game of Tetris.

8. About sex

People who know my dad are choking on their morning coffee right about now. The truth is, my dad did not give me the birds and the bees talk. My mom did (as did the TV, books, friends, etc). But when I was 18 and going to visit Scott for the first time by myself, my dad came into my room and sat awkwardly on my bed. He stared at his hands for a long time and then slapped his hands against his knees as if he had just come up with a great idea. He said, “Look, don’t f@#k up your life. And I mean that in every sense of the word.” And then he patted my shoulder and walked out.

9. Dream big

Both my parents encouraged my sisters and me to be whatever we wanted to be. When it came to applying for university, my dad told us, “You get in and I’ll find a way to get you there.” While most of my friends were tied to applying to state schools, I had my heart set on getting away. Boston, New York, Chicago, London. All the while, my parents said, “Keep your grades up. If you get in, we’ll talk about it.” And I got in and my dad took out a loan and moved me in.

Then he said, “Keep your grades up. If you make Dean’s list, you won’t have to pay me back.” And so I did (except one quarter…damn economics!) and then I told my parents I wanted to study abroad. And my dad said, “You get accepted and we’ll get you there.” And I did and I spent four amazing months in London.

Two years later, Scott asked my dad for his permission to marry me. And my dad said, “If you treat her as well in marriage as you have in courtship, you’ve got my blessing.” And Scott does.

10. Don’t grow up so fast

There is one thing I think about every once and awhile and when I do, I feel this guilt and sadness that I have a hard time even putting into words. Years ago – I think I was 15 – my dad was preparing to move to Korea for two years. It was a difficult time for everyone in the family. I was at that age when I wouldn’t be caught dead with my dad at the mall.

And there we were, at the mall. I can’t remember what we were doing there but my dad parked the car and was trying to talk to me about stuff, and I was so focused on getting in and out before someone saw me with my dad. As we were walking towards the doors, my dad reached for my hand and he held my hand for a second before I pulled away. I remember thinking, ohmygod, what if someone thinks we’re together? Gross!

I was too old to hold hands with my dad but now I know I was also too young to realize that moments like this – moments with my dad – would become more and more rare. I now know I should have given his hand a squeeze before letting go.

Wishing you a lifetime full of happiness and chili cheese dogs

As a freshman at Ohio University, I was lucky to meet some of my very best friends in the first week of school. I have my first roommate to thank for that. She introduced me to her friends from high school and then they introduced us to their friends and their neighbors in the dorms and so on. Within the first week I already had a group of girls to sit with at the dining halls, to watch (and cry over) Felicity together, and cram for economics exams.

Just a month into our freshman year we went on a trip to the Circleville Pumpkin Show. I can’t remember why it only ended up being me, Alli and Carla who wanted to go. Maybe because it was a pumpkin show. But anyway, Carla’s high school boyfriend, Adam, was visiting and she brought him along too.

It was still early days in our friendship. We were still learning about each other and figuring out who liked what and when who dated who and how who met who when. We roamed the stalls at the festival. We ate funnel cakes and caramel apples. We posed in front of the winning pumpkins (and the world’s biggest pumpkin pie). We watched the Little Miss Pumpkin Parade. We somehow missed the hog-calling contest.

Adam was quiet and walked with us as we prattled away about celebrities, shoes, female issues, etc. Carla was talkative and loud and funny. Adam was patient and easy-going. He never seemed to get annoyed at all the aimless walking or the ridiculous conversation. He was quickly moving up in my books.

Several different kinds of fair food later, Carla spotted a hot dog stand. She shrieked with delight and ordered a large sausage with the works. Onions, cheese, mustard, ketchup, etc. She ate as she walked and talked.

We stopped to look at something – I can’t remember what- but Alli and I both stared at Carla instead. The onions were dropping out the bottom of the bun. Ketchup and cheese were squirting down the front of her top. We whispered, “There’s stuff all over your face, Car!”

Alli grabbed a stack of napkins and started wiping Carla’s face before Adam turned around.

Carla held up both hands, sausage in one hand and said, loudly, “Who cares? I don’t care! Adam doesn’t care!”

And then we looked at Adam. I will never forget the look on his face. He was looking at Carla like she was the most beautiful girl in the world, cheese sauce and all.

Carla and I lived together our sophomore year and those are some great memories. But I am most grateful for the memories I don’t have. She never booted me out when Adam came to visit. I did, of course, respect their alone time but I will forever be grateful for them respecting me as well. (Sadly I can’t say the same for my freshman roommate but that’s another blog entry.)

I’ll never forget the phonecall I got just weeks before we were due back to school that September. It was Carla and she was calling to tell me she was switching majors and transferring to Adam’s school. I had seen it coming but I didn’t want to think about it. I knew I’d have my other friends (and they are fabulous friends) but I was sorry to see her go, though I couldn’t blame her for wanting to be closer to Adam.

If you find a man who loves you with onion breath and liquid cheese stains, you don’t let him go.

You marry him.

And that’s what Carla did today.

These are the very times when I wish I could jump in my car and drive all night to be there. The times when I curse the fact that I have to have my passport to leave this island. The times that I am reminded of this huge ocean between us and that there will be many more things I won’t be around for. But most of all, these are the times when I feel like I’m missing out on the things I miss most – my friends.

I’m so happy for you guys. You made it.

Kiss me, I’m Irish-American

I have found that a lot of English people laugh about Americans who associate themselves as Irish, Italian, Polish, fill-in-the-blank – Americans. They often say, “You’re American! That’s it!” But we really do associate ourselves as Irish-American. My grandparents went to the Irish-American club every week and were very proud of where their parents came from and the traditions they grew up with. The pride and those traditions have been passed on. There isn’t anything wrong with that.

Because of the strong sense of pride, St. Patrick’s Day is a big celebration in many places in the US. There is a big St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New York City every year. The second biggest is in Savannah, Georgia.

St. Patrick’s Day, when I was a kid, used to be associated with wearing all green and eating green pancakes, drinking green milk, and making Irish soda bread. Then in high school, it shifted to wearing something subtle like green socks and driving through McDonald’s for a Shamrock Shake. In college, it was all about the green beer, knocking back Irish Car Bombs and wearing “Kiss me, I’m Irish” t-shirts, pins, flip flops, etc.

But for my last St. Patrick’s Day at college, I had to take a final exam from 7pm-9pm. It was the last exam before Spring Break for most everyone in my class. But it was my last exam ever as I was graduating early. Everyone would be heading to the bars the minute the exam was over.

Scott was visiting that week and I had mentioned going to to the bars for a green beer one last time after my exam. He was acting sort of funny and I figured it was just because he never understood the St. Patrick’s Day craze in America. But before I left for my exam, he handed me an envelope and told me not to open it until after my exam, but before I came back to my apartment.

As I drove to class, I wondered what was in the envelope but had too many facts and figures going around in my mind in preparation for the exam. I left the envelope in the car and headed in to take my last ever exam.

Once the exam was over, I sat in my car and opened the envelope. It was the “Story of Us” which Scott had written. I read the story as students piled down Court Street, some dressed as leprechauns, others wearing shamrock hats, all looking for green beer.

He had written a story about the previous seven years together and included photos of us over those years. At the end of the story, he had written, “You’ve just finished your last exam of your college career. I’m waiting for you at your apartment. Come back for the next chapter of our story.”

And then, I freaked out. Was this it? What if it isn’t? What if I am over-thinking this? But if it isn’t it, what could it be? I hope this is it!

I drove back to my apartment, dodging leprechauns, and waited outside the elevator as a group of girls dressed in green wigs and shamrock stockings tumbled out into the hallway. I rode up the elevator with a guy whose shirt read, “Kiss me. I’m not Irish but I’m trying real hard.”

On the fourth floor, I waited outside my door for what felt like minutes but was probably only five seconds. I was trying to prepare myself. For what, I wasn’t sure.

When I pushed open the door, I saw that the living room was filled with balloons and there was music playing. Scott, dressed in a tux, was standing in the middle of the room.

This is it.

He started talking but I couldn’t hear him. It was like the sound all the adults make in Charlie Brown cartoons. I was trying so hard to hear him but my heart was pounding. I remember thinking, this is it and you’re going to miss it! So I stopped him and asked him to wait a minute. And then I asked him to start again. I was ready.

He got down on one knee. I said yes and then asked if he had asked my dad. He had. (In fact, he had flown from London to Washington DC and spent the day with my family. After my dad – being the dad he is – gave Scott a hard time, Scott was finally able to ask for permission. Once he got the “go ahead,” he flew up to Ohio to see me and I had no idea.)

Then my phone rang and it was my friend, Jack, calling from the bars. He shouted down the phone, “You have to come. It’s your last night. Don’t be boring, get down here!”

I excitedly told him my news and he said, “All the more reason to drink.”

Which was true. So we opened up a bottle of champagne.

I never got that last green beer. But I think I got something much better that St. Patrick’s Day.

Three years later, and here we are. No special St. Paddy’s celebrations. No green pancakes or Shamrock Shakes. I’m watching Louis Walsh’s Top 50 Irish Crackers on some music channel. And I am wearing green socks. That’s about it as far as today’s festivities will go.

But next year I’ll be able to say I’m Irish-British-American. If that doesn’t call for a celebratory drink- green beer, champagne, whatever – I don’t know what does.

I said 4-eva and I mean 4-eva

And now the rumours are being stomped out.

By Danny Wood, or Dwood to his friends. It seems Dwood wants everyone to know that there aren’t any plans for a NKOTB reunion. But his album is coming out in Australia. Hint, hint.

I don’t see this as horrible news. This sort of desperation is what leads to all future band reunions. I think it’s only a matter of time until all of the NKOTB members start coming out of the woodwork and after miserable album sales on their own, they’ll get together and decide it’s time. Look at Take That and Spice Girls. It’s a classic pattern.

In the meantime, I’ll keep looking for my Jonathan Knight t-shirt.

Hair’s to me!

Lookie here:

Thanks to Suze for giving me the “You Rock the Crib” award and telling me she laughs when she reads my blog…and then insinuating I don’t post enough.

I’d like to be the type of person who can write something witty/inspirational/entertaining every single day but that’s just not me. What’s that you say? Really? You think so? Oh stop it.

There just isn’t enough going on in my life to warrant a post. Although I am hosting Thanksgiving (a week early) this weekend so I may have some disasters to share on Monday. But today…today I am trying to figure out what in the world to do with my hair.

Oh, you thought I’d say something deeper…like what in the world to do with my life? No, that’s too heavy for me to think about right now.

Today it’s all about the hair. There’s nothing better than a great hair cut, and equally, nothing worse than a bad hair cut. And I’ve had some bad ones in my time. Like the one where I got my bangs permed. Nothing else…just the bangs. So I walked around elementary school looking like I had a poodle sitting on my head.

My hair problems started in the first grade. My mom curled my hair for school pictures and a boy in my class told me I looked like George Washington. So off to the hair salon we went and I got it all cut off. So I didn’t look like George Washington anymore but I did certainly look like a George.

This led to me being felt up by a bunch of old Korean women one day because they couldn’t tell if I was a boy or a girl…and they are allowed to do that there. Hello, see these barrettes? I put them in for a reason!

Needless to say, I started to grow my hair out again. Then I had the unfortunate poodle incident. Then the “mom bob” for about 5 years. And the whole time I had bangs, or a fringe to UK readers. I tried the no bangs thing when the center part was really in (around the same time flannel was in) and it was all wrong for me. According to my sisters, I have a Jay Leno chin…so I really need the bangs to even out my face. So I’ve had bangs when they were in and when they were out.

The problem with having bangs is that you have to have a hair stylist who understands them. Who knows they will get greasy with too much product. Who knows they can’t use curlers on them (I’ve also had the misfortune of looking like one of the sisters straight out of Little Women with the sausage uni-curl.) Who knows you need them at a certain length so they don’t drive you absolutely crazy and cause you to hack away at them yourself. These stylists are hard to come by.

The best bang cutter in the world is in DC and even when I lived right outside DC, it was a pain in the butt to get to her. But if you read my blog and live around there and you’d like to have side-swept bangs, her name is Angela and she works at Bang Salon & Spa (very fitting name!)

The best over-all hair cutter is in Springfield, Virginia. Her name is Judy and she’s been cutting my hair since I was in the 8th grade. She did my hair for my senior prom and my wedding. She’s awesome and she knows not to spray crap on my bangs.

I really miss these two woman today because I could really use an hour with either one of them. But instead I’ll have to call my stylist here who does an okay job and tell her again, no, I do not want that product and no, I don’t want wispy bangs. I can’t do wispy. I have Jay Leno’s profile for God’s sake.

So, I give you… my life in bangs:

The Dorothy Hamill:

The helmut head look which I kept for a couple of years:

The borderline mullet:

This is hard to see but in the lower right hand corner, that’s the photo where I supposedly look like George Washington. Then in the lower left corner, that’s me when I just looked like a George. And in the upper right hand corner, that’s me post-perm just as it was finally falling out. Click to enlarge and see my awesome NKOTB t-shirt.

The “mom bob”:

I even had bangs when I met Scott. I even had braces. The horror! But it’s ok because he had a tank top. And really pale skin.

And just for fun…Scott was rockin’ the side swept bangs at a young age:

I’m passing the Rock the Crib award on to Liz, who used Photoshop to put her face on mine to see if bangs would look good on her. Some might call it creepy but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do when it comes to hair.