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.

Up and away

I know it’s selfish, but I want my family to stay as they are, where they are. When I go back to the DC area, I can see my parents and sisters easily. They don’t even have to take time off to squeeze me in. It works. It helps me. It’s easier for me. The world revolves around me.

But then my younger sister, Lisa, decides to move away. There are already 4,000 miles between us so unless she is moving to Iceland, I didn’t want to hear it. Instead, she told me she is moving 3,000 miles in the other direction: California.

When she was offered the amazing job opportunity out there, I cried. I told her I was happy for her, but I made no effort to hide my feelings. California is not within the acceptable residential radius I have imposed on my family.

And I would be lying if I didn’t say a part of me was a little jealous that she was heading out there just for her, no commitments to anyone else, no expectations but her own. Ok, massively jealous.

Lisa has always one-upped me and our older sister, albeit never in a malicious way. But still it’s never great to have your little sister trump you every damn time. She is just that good. She works hard and good things come to her. She is the Pippa to my Kate.

While we are incredibly close, I have always felt her there behind me, gaining speed, sure to pass me by at any moment.

Lisa got accepted, seemingly effortlessly, to the same specialized degree program I worked so hard to get into (and then chose a different university altogether. Phew!) She moved to London after graduation and lived with us for six months while she interned with a fantastic agency. The company was so impressed with her, they offered her sponsorship to stay and work in London. She chose to go back to the US, but after years of trying to get to the UK, I was envious of her luck. Her luck, and hard work, continued into a career path I had once seen myself on. So, this opportunity and move to California, was just another thing to add to the list.

She’s gone and Pippa-ed me again!

—

We are eight and six. Lisa’s bag, the one with her initials stitched into the canvas, is open on the bottom bunk bed. She packs her pastel-colored Walkman and a tape or two. Probably a stuffed animal as well and definitely her ceramic Peter Rabbit bank. Her small arms plunge into the drawers. She grabs a T-shirt, polka dot leggings and her favorite twirly skirt–you know the kind that’s just perfect for endless pirouettes on the kitchen floor. Wherever she’s going, there will be dancing.

She’s running away.

Of course as adults we know she was never going to get anywhere. I had done it before. You hang out at the playground as long as you can and when the other kids get called home for supper, you wonder what mom is making tonight. And then the street lights come on and you’re thirsty and Full House is on tonight. You tell yourself you can still run away tomorrow if you want.

You come home expecting to see your mom wailing and your dad pacing. But you don’t see or hear anyone. Hmm, you did announce that you were running away and you slammed the door on your way out. Where is everyone? I’m back!

You hear noises from the kitchen. You smell chicken in the oven and even though it’s on the bone, you are glad you came back. Your mom watches as you drag the bag of your worldly posessions back up the stairs.

As you plop on your bed, you hear your preteen sister yell from down the hall, “Did you steal my lip gloss again?”

Things are just as you left them.

With quite a few running away attempts under my belt, I had been there before. So I sat on the bed next to her bag, reassuring her that she didn’t have to go, reminding her how much we would miss her, telling her everything I wanted someone to tell me.

She was determined to go.

I’ve always been able to convince her of something, from combining our Halloween candy (so we had more; it made sense) to watching a scary movie from underneath an Afghan blanket. (Note: werewolves are not soft, cuddly animals. Also Afghan blankets don’t really cover your eyes.)

I tried my hardest. I reminded her that she’d be in trouble if she ran away. I asked her what she’d do for food. (She probably suggested taking her share of the Halloween candy. Ha, not so fast.) I told her it was scary out there, especially when it got dark. I was older and I still couldn’t go through with it. How would she handle it?

Then I hit her with the big stuff. What about me? Who would I play Barbies with? What about all our toys? What about that uneaten Halloween candy? Full House is on tonight.

She decided to stay.

—

Twenty years later and of course this time is different. She’s determined to go. She’s not going to stay. She leaves this weekend. I can’t play the what about me? card anymore.

It’s not about me.

—

What can I say when I moved away first?

We will miss you, but you should go. It’s not as scary out there as you think. The important things will be just as you left them. Be sure to give our big sister a big hug.

Don’t forget to pack your best twirly skirt. I see lots of dancing where you’re going.

—

And just like that, I felt my little sister at my heels and then at my side. And now way off in the distance.

A small part of me died today

With the news of Kate Middleton and Prince William’s engagement plastered all over the papers, social networks, television, etc, I can say with almost 100% certainty* that my dream of marrying Wills is over. I have already received several emails from friends and family who remember my teenage crush and wanted to pass on their condolences.

I am comforted by a few things.

1. He chose a brunette.

2. He clearly likes saying the name, “Kate”. (Cait/Kate…same thing.)

3. Kate’s from a fairly normal background (before her parents became millionaires from their party business. I like parties too.)

4. Without Prince William, I would have never met Scott.

Number four really is the most important (followed closely by his love for brunettes obviously) and so tonight, I’m going to suggest opening up a bottle of champagne in honor of Kate and William.

I was going to write something like, “without Wills, I would be single and living in my parents’ basement”, but the truth is, I don’t think that. I probably would have had a great life but it wouldn’t have been this great life. And that is something worth celebrating.

Cheers to Wills & Kate. May you have a long & happy life together…and please get married on a weekday so we can have an extra day off.

 

*You never can be too sure about these things.

Taylor Swift is my guilty pleasure

I was taking photos of an eighth grade art class today and as the students molded clay pots, Taylor Swift’s new song came on the radio. The girls giggled and squealed and pleaded with the teacher to turn the volume up.

As I was snapping pics, I heard a girl say, “Her songs are, like, about my life. Seriously. They just speak to me.” And the other girls at the table nodded in agreement. (The only boy at the table was busy walloping the mountain of clay with what looked like a ginormous rolling pin.)

I stifled a laugh behind the camera. If only life were a Taylor Swift song!

But secretly I was thinking, ok, now that you mention it, life is a liiiiittle bit like a Taylor Swift song.

That Taylor…she really hit the nail on the head with that “she’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers” song. And what about when she said she wasn’t going to wait for your white horse to come around. This ain’t Hollywood, this is a small town. T-Swizzle was a dreamer before you went and let her down. She knows she’s not a princess, this ain’t a fairy tale. You absolute shithead. It’s too late now.

And do I need to remind you of Taylor’s advice, “In your life you’ll do things greater than dating the boy on the football team.” Just let that marinade for a minute. She’s a genius. Football players weren’t even that hot in my day, but I totally get it. You are so wise, Swifty. Life is much better than that.

“Wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now. Back then I swore I was gonna marry him someday but I realized some bigger dreams of mine. And Abigail gave everything she had to a boy who changed his mind. And we both cried.”

Poor Abi. I’m doing the ugly cry over here for you.

However, if I were Abigail, I’d be pissed at Taylor. A true BFF would not imply you are a floozy in her songs. The songs people ALL OVER THE WORLD listen to and sing along to and work out to and commute to work to. *

(But if you have to sing about me giving “everything” to some boy, please let me have sloppy seconds with Taylor Lautner. It’s only fair.)

* Who, me? Nope, I’m definitely not making a Taylor Swift playlist on Spotify right now. You’ve got the wrong girl. Look away, nothing to see here.

Does this count as music therapy?

Summer always makes me feel homesick. I want to be at my parents’ house, laying out on the deck, seeking sweet, cool relief in the air conditioned house when needed, eating my mom’s macaroni salad, buying too many pairs of Old Navy flip flops. I want to roll down the windows and blast Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” just like the Summer of ’99.

The thing is, I’ve never spent a summer in the US while I’ve been in the “real world” so my memory of summers are those filled with internships and odd jobs, knowing that come September I’d be back to being a student. Those days are long gone so I try to remind myself that my visions are not realistic today.

But I can’t help myself.  Tomorrow is the Fourth of July and I am homesick for parades and block parties and I couldn’t even tell you the last time I ever went to one of those things. Most Independence Days were spent lugging coolers and camping chairs around the Pentagon in 100 degree heat looking for the best spot to watch the fireworks.

Homesickness isn’t rational though and so my mind gets caught up with all the patriotic schmaltz.  (It probably doesn’t help that I now work with way more Americans than ever before in London.)

It probably also doesn’t help that I’ve given up diet soda and it really goes to show you that WTF is in those drinks! because man, I have never wanted a diet Pepsi like I do right now. I’m two weeks into my soda ban and significant caffeine cut-back and only tripped up last weekend.  I had two vodka and diet Cokes late Saturday night. You know what they say about your judgment on nights out. Oh, and I had one or two diet Cokes too last night. Ok, this isn’t going that well. Where was I even going with this?

Oh yes! I was trying to blame my recent melancholy on the lack of artificial sweeteners in my body.

Hmm, I don’t think that’s going to work.

I guess I can only own up to it. I am a teensy bit homesick this summer. There, I said it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go download some Aguilera and give my neighbor a run for his money.

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.