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.

On marriage

Go big or go home – that’s how I see this whole blog thing.

I never wanted my blog to just be a collection of vacation photos or a detailed account of what I did each day down to what I had for dinner. Sometimes I want to just share a funny story. Other times I want to write something more serious and I am hopeful that someone somewhere will relate to what I write. I always try to be honest and real.

But every once in awhile I write something that I later decide not to publish. This was one of those pieces before I resurrected it from the “don’t publish for fear of being taken out of context/upsetting your mom” file.

I decided to post it for the following reasons:
1) I think people can relate
2) I just feel like it, plain and simple. That’s the beauty of this whole blog thing
3) I am in a happy, loving marriage with a man who read this and agreed that no husbands were harmed in the making of this post.

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I’m not sure many people would admit to thinking about how life might have been if things didn’t last with their partners. Think about a time when you fought and how it would have been if you never made up. A moment when you thought it was over and what it would have been like had you let it be.

I believe there are times in a relationship when you or your partner, or both of you, have to make a conscious decision to stick it out or throw in the towel. Have you ever thought about what would have happened if you had chosen differently? Do you ever imagine a different life? Do you ever wonder about where you might have ended up?

I met Scott at 16 and we spent many years apart, working towards a time when we could be together. Maintaining a long distance relationship is one of my greatest accomplishments. I’m really proud of how we did.

But let me tell you, it’s extremely difficult to grow up with someone and not grow apart. I felt myself shaping and I wondered what parts of me were because of him and how I might be different if I were with someone else or with no one at all.

Some days I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t understand how I had managed to find a guy like him and to have him love me in return. Other days I questioned whether we were developing into the people we were meant to be or not.

I know we both wondered if the distance – the hardships of doing it for so long – would be too much. I was concerned that one day we’d look at ourselves and who we’d become and we’d be resentful.

We’ve gone on though, completely committed to each other, and we said vows in front of family and friends, promising to be faithful and true to one another.

But after very nearly ten years together, I look at him, looking at me and I can’t help but wonder if he sees me, really sees me. And I look hard at him, searching, wondering, worrying. Has he settled for me? Have we settled along the way?

Usually when I am having one of those days, I pick a fight. I bring up the fact that he never read that book he told me he would. I had asked him to read it so we could talk about it. I want him to ask me about the book, to listen to my thoughts, to share his opinions.

Suddenly we are no longer talking about a book. I want him to get to know me again.

And then he says, Ok, what are you thinking about? What are your thoughts on this book? What do you think about this issue? How do you feel about this event/problem/ TV show?

And before I say anything, I remember that my answers are no different than a year ago, ten years ago. He knows me.

I feel it building up inside me and I want to blurt out, If we were strangers in a bar, would you approach me? Would you pick me out of a crowd?

Maybe he would say yes. Maybe he would say, What does it matter now?

I don’t know.

But I am certain I am not alone in this.

Six months ago, I spent an evening with a dear friend and after half a bottle of red wine, all this came tumbling out. And I saw it. I saw the relief spread across her face. I watched her shoulders relax. Me too, she said. I know exactly what you mean.

We took comfort in each other’s unsettling, niggling feelings. We felt like we could say what we were experiencing without all the judgment, without the looks, without the trouble in paradise comments. We felt normal. We are normal.

Love is the easy part. The hardest is saying I choose you no matter what. I choose you even if you don’t choose me. I choose me with you, me shaped by you.

After ten years, after all the goodbyes, the hellos, the tears and the joy, after moving thousands of miles away, after buying a home together, after leaving family, changing careers, losing loved ones, making friends, after choosing each other over and over again – marriage is hard.

Even if there are no fights, no mean words, no children, no money trouble, no someone else – it’s still something to work at and work for.

You have to be there. For a marriage, for that sort of commitment, you have to be present and aware. You have to just stay in the room.

In all situations, I have a bad habit of thinking the grass is always greener. But the truth is, you’re just as likely to step in a big pile of dog shit whether the grass is green or not.

So I look hard at the grass. And the thing about grass is that it grows and it changes and there’s potential, you know? I try to remember that. I try not to look too hard. I just try to keep looking.

Maybe if we had ended up with other people life wouldn’t have been any less full, any less rich.

But for me, it would have been a life without him. And that…that would just be less.

I know him. He knows me. Sometimes it’s tempting to think about what it could be like meeting someone different, learning new things about them, having them ask your likes and dislikes. Most of the time it seems natural to think about those things. Once in awhile, I worry that it’s not. I worry that it means something more. I worry that he is thinking the same thing. I worry.

But then my hand finds his next to me on the sofa, across the table, under the covers.

He squeezes back.

And my heart settles and I know that’s the very opposite of settling.

This says Eye love you

I am allergic to several different types of raw vegetables and fruit. I can eat them once they have been cooked but when I chop them or eat them raw, I am guaranteed to have some discomfort. It’s never really, really bad. I might have an itchy mouth. My lips might swell a bit. I might get a rash on my cheeks. But sometimes I just really want to eat an apple and the slight discomfort is worth it.

I decided to go all Delia Smith for Valentine’s Day and make a traditional English meal for Scott. He wanted a pork roast with all the trimmings. I spent the afternoon making trifle – which is actually really difficult without a mixer. (I am shocked too that I don’t even have a hand mixer. And I call myself a baker!)

It was all going well and I had only set the smoke alarm off once when I started chopping parsnips. Then some time shortly after that I must have touched my face. It went horribly wrong from there.

I have never cooked parsnips before and have only really eaten them a few times. I didn’t think about parsnips being related to the carrot (which I know I am allergic to). I was busy thinking, don’t let the sauce burn, is that what it’s supposed to look like, where did I put the salt, how small should I chop these things, what exactly does Heidi see in Spencer? And poor Rihanna!

Internet, I am allergic to raw parsnips.

“Some people can have an allergic reaction to parsnip, and parsnip leaves may irritate the skin.” No shit, Wikipedia.

(I am fully aware that these photos look like they belong on Cops, America’s Most Wanted and/or Crime Watch. Feel sorry for me.)

These were taken just before my eye completely shut due to swelling and hives went down my face. I spent much of the night saying, “It hurts! It burns! It itches!” and talking Scott through making the rest of the meal, while trying to resist scratching my face off.  Then the Benadryl kicked in and I passed out. It was a wild and crazy night of love for us.

Needless to say, this is not how I thought last night would go. I went all Hitch, rather than Delia. But at least I can say Scott sort of made me dinner.

(I am feeling a bit better now. Scott says I just look like an alien with one really small eye. )

On tenterhooks

I know you’ve all been wondering if Scott came through in the end. Many of you even offered to contact him, to save him.

So many people told me that men cannot be relied on and that you have to spell it out for them. If we all just assume men can’t think of these things on their own, why would they even bother trying? I want to give them the credit they sometimes deserve.

I wasn’t that worried about Scott. I knew he could do it. And he did.

Though I did remember that I once mentioned I wanted a scanner so it was a bit worrying there for awhile. 

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I had a really nice birthday and was even ID’ed at the concert we went to. (The Fray at Scala in London. Very good.)

I was thrilled.

The woman asked if I was over 18 and I told her I was. Then she asked if I had any ID.

As I pulled out my ID, I exclaimed, “It’s my birthday!”

She replied, “And? Are you over 18?”

I loved it.

Cheer up a British soldier

I have talked a lot about how much I enjoy receiving mail. I think there is nothing better than receiving a care package from back home filled with all the things I love and miss.

When we were in the US last month, we packed a box for my dad which included his favorite snacks, magazines and dvds. This package, which took a little bit of thought and a couple hours out of my day to pack and send, really cheered my dad up.

Filling the box with beef jerky and past copies of The Economist reminded me of the first Gulf War, when we used to pack care packages and write letters to soldiers when I was in elementary school. I remember telling my teacher that I didn’t know what to write to them. Mrs. Hickman told me to talk about what I was learning in school and how grateful I was to be going to school, because of course the soldiers were to thank for that.

I wasn’t so grateful and instead wrote letters to my dad (who was also serving in the Gulf War). I told him all about what was going on with the family and what tv shows I was currently watching. Most of my letters ended with, “Ok, gotta go. Math class is almost over.”

I was thinking about this last Monday on my way to work. It is almost Veterans Day (or Remembrance Day as it is known in England) and the red poppies have started appearing on coats, hats, posters; white-haired men with sloping shoulders stand outside my station, holding little red buckets, asking for donations in exchange for a red poppy of my own.

I thought about the Christmas presents I need to buy and whether or not we’d put up a real tree this year. I made a mental note to mail my cards by December 10th since I missed the deadline last year. And then I thought about the soldiers, how so many will be deployed over the holidays and just how easy it is to forget about them.

Last year I contacted the one charity I could find in the UK that sent care packages to British soldiers overseas. After receiving a less than helpful response asking for a monetary donation instead of my time, I gave up.

So last week I decided to really do something this year. I asked friends and coworkers if they knew of any British soldiers currently deployed. I researched organizations and groups on facebook. I randomly sent out messages to soldiers. And one by one, they responded. Some are overseas but are returning before Christmas. Some are back home and won’t be going back until the new year. All of them are grateful and touched and willing to help in any way they can.

Just reading their appreciative emails made me tear up. Many wrote about their American counterparts receiving care packages from their hometowns, youth groups, churches, etc and how the British soldiers mostly just get mail from their loved ones.

One soldier wrote me a long message about how he’s been in Afghanistan three times and will be going for a fourth tour next year. Luckily he’ll be home this Christmas but his friend won’t and could I contact his friend?

I have spent the past week compiling a mailing list for British soldiers and I’m not really sure how big this project will get. I am in the process of writing up a list of all the things I think they might like. I know I can’t send a care package to every soldier but I intend to send a few care packages to each platoon with snacks, magazines, dvds, and PG tips tea, to name a few. And maybe I’ll throw in some Santa hats for good measure.

But I want every soldier to receive a card and this is where I hope you will come in. I’ve told a few friends about this and I have gotten the following questions/comments:

If you don’t know of any British soldiers, why not just send cards to American soldiers?
Because I know there are many, many organizations doing this very thing in the US – from book clubs to boy scout troops. And while I am American, I live in England and I want to do something to help a bit closer to home, my home for now.

I don’t agree with the war.
And I’m pretty sure lots of these soldiers don’t either. But these soldiers are just doing their jobs and sending a Christmas card to a soldier doesn’t mean you are supporting the war. You’re offering a little bit of holiday cheer to a soldier who has made sacrifices for you and me, no matter what you might think.

With the recent financial situation, I can’t really afford to get involved.
I really hate asking people to get involved in things. I have been dragged along to Mary Kay/Avon parties and asked to support friends and family in charity events. I know that it is awkward to ask for help. If you can’t help this year, I totally understand.  But if you’re planning on sending me a card this year, please take that card, write a message to a soldier and pass it on to me for this project. I will be more touched about that than I would be if I received the card personally.

What would I write in this card?
It’s entirely up to you. My message will go something like this – thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’ll probably leave off the bit about math class being almost over.

If you’d like to write a Christmas card, please email me for more information at cheerupasoldier@gmail.com

Planespotting

When Scott and I fly on airplanes with seat configurations of 3-3 or 3-3-3 or 3-4-3, we usually sit apart. I like the aisle and he likes the window. And if we’re unfortunate enough to actually have someone sit between us, we act like we don’t even know each other so it’s not like we’re leaning over the stranger to talk or passing books/ipods/snacks over. People find this really strange, but it’s just something we’ve always done.

Not only do I get my seat of choice, but I also don’t have to listen to Scott’s running commentary about planes. His fascination with aviation is endearing but when I’m in a 250 ton piece of aluminum hurling across an ocean, I don’t want to know about the statistics of it crashing and what that noise means or why they turn off the lights during take-off and landing.

Scott spends a lot of time reading about aviation news and watching programs such as Air Crash Investigation (which I don’t recommend before a flight.) Whenever I see him on the computer, looking at airplanes, I just thank my lucky stars it isn’t porn.

When booking our flights to the US this time, we had to have a layover in Detroit. It wasn’t ideal and I was struggling to stay awake while we waited for the connecting flight. Scott was excited. We would be flying on a DC-9 which meant nothing to me. Then Scott said it was 40 years old and probably the last time we would get the opportunity to fly on one. He used the word vintage, but it doesn’t have the same effect on me when you’re not describing fashion. I didn’t want to fly in an antique plane!

We made it to DC with only about 35 minutes of the 50 minute flight spent talking about the vintage aircraft.

My parents live close to Washington-Dulles International Airport so just sitting out on their deck, watching planes, is entertaining enough for Scott. But we do try to get in something he wants to do when we come back for visits and usually it’s a trip to the Air & Space Museum.

One year I planned to take him to Gravelly Point next to National Airport which I had heard was great for plane-spotting. I made chocolate chip cookies and packed a thermos of milk. It was after 10 pm by the time we found the spot and just as we were settling down on our blanket under the stars, Scott said that there would only be a few more planes before they stopped for the evening. It was even more disappointing when we realized I had taken us to the wrong spot entirely.

So this time we ventured out again – with directions and in broad daylight. We sat on a picnic table and watched the planes pass over us, as Scott rambled off facts and figures about the planes and their assumed destinations.

I think it was a pretty fair trade-off for a couple more trips to Target, DSW and Ulta. Marriage is full of compromises.

Arrivals and departures

Over the last nine years, Scott and I have had to say goodbye many, many times. All of our goodbyes took place in a crowded airport terminal. All of our hellos took place in a crowded airport arrivals hall.

We always said we couldn’t wait until the day when we were done with goodbyes and when our hellos would be exchanged in cars, restaurants, our home – anywhere but the airport.

It seems like I spend the same amount of time now saying goodbye to family and friends. And that is always hard.

But it’s especially hard seeing your parents say goodbye to each other and that’s something I didn’t think I would see very often. Last night we took my dad to Heathrow to catch his flight back to the Middle East where he would be for another nine months.

I was reminded of all the times my mom drove me and Scott to the airport years ago so that I didn’t have to worry about driving home afterwards. She knew how sad I would be. She would tell me to take all the time I needed and she would circle the airport or park on the side of the road and just wait.

Scott and I would stand outside the security checks and I would cry and he would tell me the time would pass quickly. And as he went through the gates, I would wait for him to turn around one last time and wave before disappearing into the crowd. And probably like everyone else who has ever said goodbye, I wished he would turn around and walk right back to me. But that only happens in the movies.

When I didn’t live at home anymore and I had no choice but to drive myself, I would sit in my car until the tears stopped and sometimes it took a long time to feel like I could drive back home. I was always grateful to my mom for caring enough to let me cry it out.

Last night I said goodbye to my dad and let my mom walk with him to departures. I waited in a bookstore, flipping through magazines and browsing the books. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my parents hugging and my mom crying and I stood there just thinking how the roles had reversed.

I watched my dad walk through security and my mom waited to see him turn back. They waved. He blew a kiss and he was gone. And she waited a bit more.

Scott asked if we were ready to go and I told him to just wait. I knew exactly what she was waiting for. We could wait too.

My mom left this morning. It was a wonderful visit and I know my parents were probably more excited to see each other than me and that’s ok. It’s not often that England ends up being the most convenient place to meet up. I got lucky this time.

Plus It was my turn to drive home from the airport.

P.S. Thank you for the weather vibes. It was perfect.

Irreconcilable paint differences

This is what our divorce papers will say.

Initially I had wanted to paint the master bedroom and the living room. With a moving date of 26 July approaching quickly, we abandoned the idea of painting the living room and focused on the bedroom. Now, I will say Scott wanted to leave everything white and I persuaded him that adding colour would do wonders.

Because we were short on time, we foolishly skipped the tester pot and bought a can of paint in Celestial Cloud. I originally wanted Pebble Drift but I followed Scott’s insistence that Celestial Cloud would look better. I was worried it would be too light. I was worried it wouldn’t match the accent pillows.

After taping off the room, we started painting. I certainly didn’t have to worry about it being too light. It was actually too dark. Too blue to be exact. It looked like we should follow it up with painting fluffy clouds on top of it.

I wanted to stop painting immediately. I wanted to just quit and repaint it white and pretend it never happened. Scott, with his oh-no-you-don’t attitude, started painting more furiously. I urged him to be careful around the ceiling, which he proceeded to tell me didn’t matter because he’s painted loads of rooms without ever wasting time taping off the walls. And just like that, his brush hit the ceiling.

Cue dramatic, sulky temper tantrum laden with curse words and me saying, “See, I knew we should have picked Pebble Drift.”

In retrospect I know, because I am reading Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, that Scott heard this as, You’re to blame. It’s all your fault. You are a failure.

He replied, “We are going to finish this. We are not repainting. You will live with it.”

Which I heard as, Your feelings on this don’t matter. I’m tired of listening to you whine. You’re being irrational.

So we both painted in silence until we realized we didn’t buy enough paint and we would not even finish half the room. But because this is England and convenience is not something stores are concerned about, we could not buy more paint because the stores were all closed early on a Sunday.

The next day Scott set off to buy paint and boxes. He bought the paint but returned to the new flat only to realize I was right and we would have to do a second coat after all. He still had not purchased enough paint.

So then he sat down on an old deck chair in the empty living room and – I imagine – he was cursing me and my desire to paint. And then God bellowed from up above, “Thou shalt not blame wife for one’s own mistakes” and then threw a lighting bolt at the deck chair. The arm of the chair snapped off and caught Scott’s finger in the twisted metal.

He returned home with a bandaged finger and no boxes. He proposed changing the moving date to two weeks from now so that we have time to paint and pack properly and most certainly not because he has nights out planned and can’t be bothered to get up for the movers on Saturday morning. Oh, and because his thumb hurts.

While I resisted saying “I told you that chair should be thrown out,” I couldn’t help but say, “Looks like I’ll be painting and packing all by myself then. Hmmpf.” And then I proceeded to throw things in the few boxes I did have and I made sure to sigh loudly so he could hear me as he got ready for bed.

Knowing I would never get it all done by myself so I might as well stop trying, I closed up the last box and went to bed. I told him to call the movers in the morning and push back the date.

Scott turned over to face me and said, “It’s for the best really. It will give us time to get everything done. We won’t have to rush.”

I thought about it for a minute and replied, “I guess this means we have time to paint the living room now too.”

Scott didn’t reply. He just turned away from me. I imagine he was mentally shaking his bandaged finger up at the ceiling and crying, “Why me, God, why me?!”

Or maybe he was just imagining smothering me with an accent pillow.

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.”