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.

Time for a change

Lately, I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch. Call it what you like – hitting speed bumps, in a rut, down in the dumps. Perhaps a quarter-life crisis?

I don’t normally blog about my job because (1) I’d bore you to tears (it’s more likely that I would end up in tears) and (2) everything you write can be found on the Internet and I didn’t want to get fired. But I no longer have to worry about no. 2 because I have just resigned.

This was quite possibly the hardest decision I have ever made and for fear of no. 1, I won’t go into the details. But it was time to go. The problem was nothing else was in order to actually do that, meaning I didn’t have another job to go onto. So I tried stalling for a couple weeks. And things only got worse.

After some long talks and a lot of tears, we decided handing in my notice was the right thing for me to do. So, as of this past Tuesday, I am working my month’s notice and then I am out of there.

I could go into all the bad things. I could tell you what I didn’t like about the place. Some of you already know it anyway. But what really pushed me into making this decision?

Two things.

1) Two weeks ago, I was almost to the end of my long morning commute. On a good day, it takes just over an hour, door to door. On a bad day, it could take up to 2 hours. It was a bad day. The Victoria line was experiencing severe delays. It was extremely hot and stuffy on the train. It would stop for long periods of time in a tunnel and then when it would pull into a station, people would push onto the train, making it even more hot and stuffy. When we arrived at Kings Cross, two women pushed their way onto the train. They were both dressed in smart business suits. They both looked to be in their 40s. One of them positioned herself so that she could hold onto the pole. The other tried to get past. The other elbowed her. Then a full elbow fight broke out. “Excuse me! But I am getting on this train!” “Well, don’t push me off it!” And back and forth they went…these two professional businesswomen!

I just stood there, smushed in between a group of Italian tourists, trying to move my face every few seconds to get a breath of air. And I watched these two women and I thought to myself, What am I doing? Is this what I have to look forward to? Will this be me in 20 years? Will I be elbowing my way to get on a train, to get somewhere first, to get to the top?

2) When you don’t like your job, it’s very hard to get up in the morning. It’s even harder to do the commute. Last week, I missed my usual train by three minutes. So I had to kill time for 20 minutes and get the later train home. I walked to the last car, hoping it would be almost empty so I could have some peace and quiet for a few minutes before the rush of people got on. I made my way to the last row of seats and sat down. I looked next to me and there was a crumbled Times.

When I turned over the paper, I instantly recognized the columnist. Not because I ever read her or know her. But I was once mistaken for her and it has always stuck with me.

When I was studying in London in 2004, I did an internship with Reader’s Digest magazine. Probably the most exciting thing during my time there was the Christmas party they hosted at a restaurant in Harvey Nichols. The guests were a mix of writers, editors, celebrities, politicians and media contacts. They had prepared name tags for everyone and even me, the nobody-intern, got one.

I like to think I mingled with the best of them. At least I think I did pretty well for an intern. The canapes were delicious. The drinks were flowing. And I was probably the only intern not downing glasses of champagne in the corner.

Late into the evening, I noticed a woman smiling at me from across the room. She said something to the people she was standing next to and they all looked over at me and smiled. Then she rushed over to me.

She introduced herself and said, “I love all your work.”

It was very clear she had had too much to drink and she was sort of swaying back and forth. So I thought she was talking about Reader’s Digest work in general, not my work. I smiled politely and said, ‘Thanks.”

She went on and on. “I just love everything you do.”

Then my editor at Reader’s Digest stepped in and whispered to me, “She thinks you’re Caitlin Moran.“

Now, at the time, I had no clue who that was. But I can see where someone who had too much to drink and only glanced at my name tag could be mistaken. After all, my name tag had my maiden name : Caitlin Marvin.

I don’t know if that woman ever realized that she was talking to an American intern and not her favorite columnist, Caitlin Moran. But I will always remember that night and how I wished one day I could be at one of those parties and someone would see my name, recognize it and tell me they liked something I wrote.

I never read The Times and although I have never forgotten that Christmas party incident, I hadn’t thought about it much. Until I saw that paper. It got me thinking all over again and wondering what is next for me and what’s out there for me.

I have to believe that there is something better out there. I have to believe that even if I have to travel in cramped trains and spend time and money doing it, where I’m going is worth it.

And I realized I couldn’t say that about my current job.

These two incidents reminded me of what I really wanted to do and what I would be happy doing. Now, do I think I am going to get a job as a columnist? No. But maybe I could get a job where I had more time to write. Or a job where I felt I was able to build on my skills. Maybe I could get a job where I actually felt good about myself and what I was doing.

So, that’s my news. Now it’s time for me to go elbow my way onto a train…

International goods: Something to Declare

Moving abroad has been a really difficult transition, mostly because I am so far from my family and my friends. And by living here, being so far away, I have discovered who my real friends are and what it takes to be a long-distance friend. It isn’t easy and I appreciate each and every one of my family and friends’ emails, letters, cards, and phone calls. I really miss them.

But part of dealing with the transition is finding new friends. And that can be the hard part. While I have made great friends through Scott, I want my own friends. I don’t want to be just an extension of Scott. I also sometimes just really need the girl talk. I have been fortunate to meet people through my job as well and some of those friends have crossed over into friends outside of work.

This past weekend I didn’t make any new friends. We were already good friends. Just some of us were meeting for the first time.

This may sound odd to some of you. And when I say I have met friends on the Internet, some of you will roll your eyes or think I’m a big weirdo. I mean, hello, I also met my husband this way. So let’s face it, I’m no stranger to relationships blossoming over the net. Although even just writing that sentence made me feel weird and super cheesy!

Anyway, I belong to this site that is meant for life after the wedding and then divided into forums for different topics and locations. Soon after moving here, I discovered a place on the site to talk to other girls in the same boat as me – married women who live abroad.

Because of the strong relationships formed online, it’s only natural that you would grow curious of these people in real life. We have shared wedding photos and pictures of pets and sometimes houses. For some, we know a lot. Others, just a bit. Some of us have even made connections and know each other through a friend of a friend of a friend.

I am fortunate to live in an area where there are quite a few of these girls. We have had a couple of get-togethers over this past year that I have attended. But for the other girls, the ones that live farther away and not close to any others, it’s harder for them to be involved. And so, a big get-together was planned and the get-together would be a baby shower for two of the girls in London. It took a lot of planning and not everyone could make it.

But this past Saturday, we had people from the UK, US, Sweden, Germany, and Italy. That’s a pretty good turn-out! And while it was a baby shower and that was fun in itself (this is not a tradition in the UK) and babies are enough of a celebration, we were celebrating something deeper. The idea that we could come together over the Internet is one thing. But strangers coming together over red velvet cake, baby shower games and pack n plays, and actually feeling like you are surrounded by great friends, is another.

We are all different. We come from all over the US. Some of us are married to Americans, some of us are married to “foreigners.” Some of us live in Europe. Some of us live in Asia and Australia. Some of us are back in the US. Some of us are abroad due to our jobs. Some of us are pregnant. Some of us have children already. We range from accountants to journalists to teachers. Some of us aren’t working at the moment. Some of us are studying. Some of us move every year due to professional hockey league requirements or military assignments. Some of us fly back “home” often. Some of us don’t know if they’ll ever move back “home.” Some of us have a new home. Some of us don’t know where “home” is anymore. Or where it will be in the future.

But we can all relate to each other. All of us have had to make the international move. All of us have had to give up something in their lives to be where we are. All of us feel the pressure of balancing visits to both families and friends, on both sides of the ocean. All of us know what it’s like to receive a care package from a parent, a long distance phone call from a friend, a letter from a grandparent. All of us have dealt with the stresses of jobs and visas and housing. All of us know what it is like to feel left out of life back in the US. All of us have missed a wedding, funeral, graduation or other event back home because of the distance. All of us can imagine what it will be like if something happens back “home” and how much farther away we will seem. All of us can relate to missing people, pets, cars, cities, neighborhoods, weather, stores, and restaurants. All of us share our frustrations, worries, joys, triumphs and disappointments with each other. And all of us totally get it.

They are not new friends. They’re not really old friends either. But they are good friends. And that’s all I need right now.

Back (L to R): Jessica, Andrea, Caitlin, Liane, Lauren, Joanna, Christina
Middle (L to R): Jackie, Monique, Lane, Abby, Teresa
Front: Jeanne and Libby

Libby, Jeanne and Monique

Teresa, Jackie, Heather and Jessica

Abby, Lane and Lauren

Christina, Teresa, and Jeanne

Andrea’s mom flew over from the US and surprised Andrea!

Signed, sealed and maybe delivered!

Now that I have you all thinking of sending me wonderful care packages, I should probably tell you a little story I like to call Postal Service Hell: A True Tale of Overseas Shipping.

Back in April when I was in the US, I packed a big box full of goodies to send to myself in the UK. I had already stuffed my bags with as much as possible and thought whatever the cost, it was worth it to get this box to me back in England. I went to the US Post Office with my dad and he waited in line while I gathered the customs forms and quickly wrote descriptions of the items. Candy, Non-Perishable Food Items, OTC medication, Cosmetics.

I joined my dad in the line and he looked at the customs form. He let out a big sigh, grabbed the customs form and said, “You don’t want to write that on there.”

Bewildered, I said, “What should I write then?”

He gave me a new customs form and said, “Write small children’s clothing and small children’s toys.”

Duh! Why didn’t I think of that? Those postal workers won’t suspect a thing when they lift this heavy box or shake it and hear all the medicine bottles and cans of frosting sliding around. They’ll just throw it to another worker and say, “It’s just a onesie and a baby rattle! Send it on to England!”

But even when you’re in your 20s and married and no longer living at home, when your dad gets annoyed and tells you to do something, you do. So I scribbled down the new description and paid $50 and when the postal worker asked if I wanted to insure the baby gifts, I shook my head and listened to her tell me the box would arrive in 7-10 days.

Ten days came and went. So did a month. I started to get nervous that I would come home to find a letter from the Home Office informing me that I had commited a crime and all my Clinique cosmetics, boxes of NyQuil and Tylenol PM, and packages of brownie mix had been confiscated and I was now going to be deported. All because my dad made me lie on the customs form!

When I still didn’t receive the box after two months, I decided that it had been “lost” and some English postal workers in Coventry were enjoying my face wash and eating my Stove Top stuffing. I was too scared to inquire about it in case Scotland Yard was looking for me.

So in late June, I received a card through the door with the Royal Mail’s usual message, “Sorry, you were out” and details on how to pick up my package. Of course I had to call the mail depot because they will re-deliver but only during working hours which doesn’t help when I will be working at the same time! I called and after about 30 minutes on hold, I finally spoke to a real life person who informed me that I had, in fact, TWO packages from America waiting for me at the depot. It was like Christmas in June!

That is, until he said:
“Oh, hold on. You did have two packages. But the first one was sent back to the sender yesterday. It had been here for two months and you never came to pick it up.”

Yesterday? Are you kidding me?? No, he was not. He claims the postman dropped a “Sorry, you were out” card through my door but I never claimed the package. I asked why they never tried to contact me again if they were holding on to it for so long. He didn’t have an answer. He just said my original package was on the way back to the sender. Which, by the way, is me!

At any rate, I had to arrange to leave work early so I could go pick up my package at the depot which is neither convenient in distance nor office hours. I asked again about my other package in case it really was just tucked back in their office. No such luck.

I returned home with just the one package (a care package from my mom) and the hope that my other package would one day come back to me.

This story I have to tell you doesn’t stop there. Royal Mail has decided to go on strike. This time it’s been a two week strike. And just in time for me to receive a very important piece of mail – my bridesmaid dress for my friend’s wedding next month. It needs quite a bit of alterations so time is of the essence. So, my choices were:

1) Risk the Royal Mail but maybe never see this bridesmaid dress again and subsequently be demoted from bridesmaid to merely a wedding guest.

2) Pay the big bucks and have it shipped by DHL.

I chose option 2 and my bridesmaid dress arrived in 2 days. Unfortunately, a piece of the dress was missing and after speaking to the bridal company, I realized even if they could make another (which they couldn’t), I would never get it in time. It’s unfortunate but not the end of the world.

A week later, I get a notice from DHL stating that I owe them $100 in customs taxes. I just about croaked! They want more money from me??? Did my bridesmaid dress sit in First Class on the flight over? I hope they offered it a glass of champagne and a neck massage!

I found out I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of the customs charges because they state on their site that if I am mailing something more than $60, I will be charged customs tax.

Lesson learned? I should have told my mom to say the “garment” was only worth $60.

As you can see, I am not having good luck with the postal services here. But because I don’t want to discourage any of you nice people from sending mail to me or any of your other friends and family overseas, here are some tips to remember:

1) When sending a package to your friend by regular U.S. Mail, please tick “gift” on the customs forms. If you don’t, I will be charged more to receive the package than you spent on buying and shipping the stuff. I will then refuse to accept the package and you will have wasted all your money.

2) A handy tip my mom discovered is that you can get a Priority Mail International flat-rate envelope from U.S. post offices. Rules are that the contents cannot weight more than 4 lbs and you cannot use more than one piece of tape to close the envelope. In these envelopes, you can successfully fit several magazines, lots of seasoning packets and even a pair of flats. The combinations are endless! She even fit a small block of Velveeta cheese in there although we are not sure if that’s legal? (see below) It only costs $11 to any country and I receive these pretty quickly. They also fit through the mail slot in my door so I don’t have to worry about receiving “Sorry, you were out” notices.

3)When sending gifts by DHL, Fedex, or UPS, check the site for details on duty/VAT. Don’t just guess how much you spent, because if you overestimate, your friend/relative will be charged a hefty amount for receiving the package. Even if the postal worker in the US tells you they won’t…don’t believe them. They don’t know all the rules for all the destination countries. I’m not going to tell you on my public blog that you should lie but…I’m just saying! Who really cares if the “garment” cost you $60 or $100?

4) You might be lucky enough to work for a company that has shipping deals with one of the aforementioned mail services. You may be able to send something through your office for half price. But make sure you clear this with your boss and pay them back!

5) If you have ever thought about sending a card and then you got stumped with postage, let me help you. Write the card and address it like you would any other card, but make sure you list the destination country. Go to your local post office and stand in line. When it’s your turn, show the postal worker the card. They will tell you how much it will cost, stamp it and even put it in the mail for you!

6) If you find yourself wanting to send a card or a letter to someone overseas and it’s Sunday and the post office is closed, you can still get it in the mail. Simply write the card, address it, and then stick on 3 US First-Class postage stamps. I would also write: AIR MAIL in the bottom right corner of your envelope. Put it in the mail box.

7) If you can’t figure out which custom form to use, ask the postal worker. They are paid to help you. There are two forms. One is smaller and green. It’s for smaller boxes and padded envelopes. The large white one is for, you got it, large boxes. In both photos, I have marked “gift” so you can see what it looks like.

The heavier and bigger the box, the more it will cost to ship. Shipping is expensive. When you go to the post office, you will be given several shipping options at varying costs. They used to do economy mail which went by boat and took at least 8-10 weeks but I heard they don’t do that anymore? You will have to check about that. It is obviously cheaper than air mail. I hear they now have two options for air mail. (Senders- you may want to put back the grape jelly in a glass container and grab the smaller squeeze bottle. Or maybe give up and not bother sending anything. It’s up to you.)

9) Tell the truth on the customs forms. But you can be vague. They don’t need to know you are sending Reese’s Pieces, Smuckers Jelly Beans, and Laffy Taffy. There isn’t even enough room on the form! Just write “candy.” The last thing you want is to have your package be stamped “undeliverable” because you claimed you were sending books when you were really shipping baked goods. You’re allowed to send baked goods so just say it.

That said, please remember this:

10) Don’t send meat, cheese, plants, weapons or explosives. Not even under the guise of “small children’s toys.” (The jury is still out on whether Velveeta constitutes as real cheese. Mac n Cheese is okay.)

Disclaimer: I am an equal opportunity venter so I wouldn’t normally bash the Royal Mail more than the U.S. Mail. They both have their faults. But I am in the UK and mostly deal with the Royal Mail so it may seem like in this particular post, I am blaming them. However, if they would like to deliver my missing packages sometime this year, I will praise them in my blog.

A lesson in city living

I don’t normally mind my commute. I get to read or listen to music. I read the free newspapers. Sometimes I do my makeup.

No one talks on the train in the morning. It’s just what’s done here. It’s perfectly quiet except for the odd sneeze and the whizzing of passing trains. Nobody looks at you. Some people sleep. Most people read or listen to their iPods. Taking the train can be really relaxing.

And no one really talks on the tube either. But it’s not as relaxing because you’re usually crammed on there with tons of people and you can’t even find a space on the pole to hold on to. And it’s not necessarily as quiet because there’s a lot more sneezes, coughs, too loud head phones and now, the most annoying thing, mobile phones that play music on speaker.

Although you may be pushed up against someone, there is no real human interaction. When someone sneezes, there’s no “Bless you.” When everyone can hear (and is visibly annoyed by) the loud music coming from a mobile phone, no one says anything. When a group of teenage boys take up a row of seats and throw their rubbish on the ground, people just look away.

This was something I had to get used to. I ride in the same train car every day with the same people and I have never said one word to any of them. Most days I sit across from the same man (it was my spot first!). When someone sneezes, I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at them.

Most days I just feel like a robot. I can’t even remember getting off the train and getting onto the tube. I know my stop by just looking at the clock. I very rarely notice that they’ve changed the ads in the station.

The sad thing about this is that people forget that is what we are…people. Last week, a girl passed out at the bottom of the escalators at Warren Street station…we all just moved around her as the TFL workers attended to her. Several people sighed and grunted as they passed, annoyed that they had to filter into a different escalator line.

And today…as I was rushing back to the office after lunch, my arm and another person’s arm hit as we passed each other on a very busy street. It hurt. It may have even been her big handbag. I apologize…a quick apology. The kind everyone seems to do here. The one that hardly means anything. The one you say when it isn’t even your fault…like this moment.

Suddenly I hear someone say very loudly, “Sorry!” It takes a second for it to register. I turn around and the woman is standing there, looking at me like I am a murderer. She is waiting for a proper apology. I say sorry again and turn away. As I turn into my office, I am stunned. And a little embarrassed because I don’t want anyone to think I am rude. And I do feel bad but I’m not sure why. I did say sorry. She hit me as much as I hit her.

On my way to Kings Cross to catch my train tonight, I was thinking of this. Why is it that no one can be nice when it matters? Why can’t someone offer a sympathetic smile when someone sneezes two times in a row? Why did this woman care so much that she stopped me and forced me to apologize again?

And then it hit me. Maybe she is just feeling how I am feeling! Tired of being invisible. Tired of the hustle & bustle… which always sounds great when you talk about it at Christmas time or read about it in tour books…but really, “hustle & bustle of the city” is overrated. Maybe she is tired of people bumping into each other and not making a sincere apology.

But then I thought…we may be feeling the same way but the next time I sneeze, I am not going to turn to the man next to me and demand he says, “Bless you.” She went about it all wrong.

And this just got me all upset again. And I only got more upset as I entered Kings Cross and saw the crowds of people. More pushing, shoving, more “excuse me’s” and “sorry’s” even when no one is listening. I finally make it to the small grocery store in the station. I needed to pick something up for dinner. Of course, the store is packed and people are grabbing food off the shelves like they are stocking up for war time and the line is wrapped around the fresh vegetable section.

While I’m debating over mild or medium cheddar, I hear the woman next to me say, “Don’t steal that.”

And when you hear something like that, you just have to look. There was the young, spotty teenage boy looking sheepish by the boxed sandwiches. He takes the sandwich out of his bag and goes to put it back on the shelf but the security guard has already seen him. Too late.

A look of panic spreads across the boy’s face. The security guard calls out to another security guard. The boy looks from the security guard to the woman to the door. And then the boy starts to cry.

The woman takes the sandwich off the shelf and grabs a bag of crisps. “Do you want a drink too?”

The boy and the security guard look at her as if she’s crazy. We all do. I am surprised she hasn’t already left the scene to continue shopping. And then she turns to the security guard.

“It’s not stealing if I buy it for this young man.”

The security guard shrugs and steps back. The woman passes the food to the boy and places £10 in his hand.

He wipes the tears away and says he’s just so hungry. He thanks her as the guard takes him to the cash registers.

A few minutes later, the boy runs back over to the woman. He hands her the change and thanks her over and over again. He thanks the security guard and the guard shows him out.

The woman looks at me and we smile. And then she shrugs and says, “We’re all hungry sometimes.”

And it made me smile all the way home. Every once in awhile, in this big city, among the hustle & bustle, you get a glimpse of life…and it is meaningful and purposeful and most of all, very real.

What I’ve learned so far

As Scott and I are closely approaching the big ONE year anniversary, I decided to blog about what I have learned about marriage so far.

1. As much as you try not to do tit for tat…there is a marriage bank. You make deposits…you make withdrawals. You can try to stay in the black… but sometimes you end up in your overdraft.

2. When you’re overdrawn, you admit it and apologize. And you quickly start depositing again.

3. For the first few months, the wedding seemed like it was just yesterday. That memory, although still fabulous, fades to the back. You forget about the dress and how much you spent on the photographer and whether or not so-and-so liked who they were sitting next to. You stop thinking about the horrible limo with the broken AC and the fact that the bride had to sit with her arms in the air the whole drive to the church for fear of sweat marks! (Honestly, I have stopped thinking about that…)

You think about all the fun you had. You just remember the friends and family who came and cheered for you. And you remember everyone you loved was in the same place for one night (or for the long weekend, in our case.)

4. Every once in awhile you have to order (and eat and try to enjoy) spicy Indian food because your husband loves it. And you try not to complain too much later in the night when you can smell that spicy food once again…

5. Although you gain a full-time, live-in best friend, you can’t forget about your other best friends. No matter how far away they may be.

6. Moving is one of the most stressful events a person experiences. Moving to another country takes the stress up a couple notches. You never know what the future holds or how many other moves you’ll make. So be patient with the spouse who is stuggling to assimilate and be open to the spouse who is trying to share their life with you…even if that life may be completely different and overwhelming.

7. Come to terms with that fact that yes, your wife’s hair is going to be all over the place, if you want her to have anything longer than a buzz cut.

8. Money (and figuring out a way to combine it) really is an awkward topic. Start talking about it now. And then keep talking about it.

9. Give a little, take a little. Scott is a neat freak. I am…well, a little messy. Sometimes it seems Scott is following me around, cleaning up after me. He just cannot stand the build up of clutter. I, on the other hand, see it as totally organized chaos. But I understand he can’t relax if the place is a mess. * I try really hard to clean up after myself and put things away when I’m done with them. In return, Scott puts up with the pile of clothes, hand bags, and hair products I keep on my side of the bed. I need that pile to feel comfortable.

* Yes, this could be a small case of OCD.

10. You are not your parents’ marriages. You are not your friends’. Stop comparing. It makes things so much easier if you just stop doing that.

11. Marriage counseling was the best thing we could have done for ourselves. We went through pre-marital counseling six months before the wedding. We had books to read and workbooks to fill out. Just having this assignment showed each other how committed we were. On one particular day, we went to the beach and Scott brought the book with him. I felt awful reading the Shopaholic series while he was trudging through “How to save your marriage before it starts.” So when we got the workbooks I made sure to show him how committed I was by insisting we stay up late, completing all the tasks.

Counseling….or any kind of therapy…gets a bad rep. Even if you’re not into the idea of doing workbook exercises, actually going to see someone who is completely removed from the situation is a really powerful experience. If only to sit there and bask in your future husband’s admiration when he answers the question, “Why do you love this woman?”

I promise you…if he’s worth marrying…his answer will blow you away.

And then the therapist will turn to you and you’ll panic because during your fiance’s answer, you were sitting there, getting all weepy and overwhelmed instead of thinking up a good answer in return.

12. Living with a boy is weird. Leaving the toilet seat up is just one strange occurence. Stripping down, letting out a horrendous belch (which sounds more like a bark) and then pretending to do a dive into the bed is another.

13. Give your spouse’s choice in television a chance. You may actually find Air Crash Investigation to be quite fascinating. The same may or may not be said about Laguna Beach and America’s Next Top Model. But I’ll keep trying!

14. Almost as soon as that marriage certificate is issued, people will start asking inappropriate questions like, “So, when are you going to get pregnant?”

15. The differences between women and men don’t necessarily get any clearer after marriage. You just see it more and more. A woman needs more shoes. She needs a pair to wear to work, a pair to put on once she’s at work, and a pair to keep under her desk for special occasions. She also needs plenty of back up pairs at home in case she forgets a pair under her desk at work. They are most likely uncomfortable shoes…which is why she brings a back up pair in her bag. Women don’t get this option on a night out. So she chooses which shoe looks best and she goes with it. When the women complain about the foot pain, they don’t like to hear men say, “Why don’t you get shoes that fit you?” It has nothing to do with the size of the shoe and everything to do with the fact that you said the restaurant was just 5 minutes away and we’ve now been walking for 20.

16. Learn how to fight. Even if you’ve been together for years, you may not be fighting fair. Maybe you need to get it all out and he needs time to let it all sink in. Don’t let him stop you from expunging it all…but just don’t expect him to have a retort right away.

17. Learn how to accept an apology. This has been a hard one for me personally. When Scott apologizes, I like to say, “Ok, but do you know why I am upset? Do you get what happened?” and then, me being the talker that I am, I go over the fight in detail again. He gets it, he gets it. Enough already. (Easier said than done…I know!)

18. Everything everyone said to you about marriage is true. It is hard and challenging. You’ll argue and sometimes you might say things you don’t mean and maybe sometimes you’ll wonder if you did the right thing. But marriage can also be a lot of fun. And I think people forget to tell you that. Or maybe, just maybe, they have forgotten that themselves.

19. The golden rules of kindergarten are the golden rules of marriage.

a) Honesty is the best policy
b) Treat others how you would like to be treated.
c) If you use it, put it back.
d) Be a good listener.
e) Be helpers, not hurters.
f) We are talkers, not shouters.
g) Girls rule and boys drool.

I’m sure I’ve learned more than these 19 points …and I KNOW we have so much to still learn…but I have to go tidy my little pile of clothes now before Scott gets home. And maybe leave my shoes in the middle of the hallway…just to keep things interesting!

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