Suburbalicious Living

We know that it's probably magic.

2012-01-31T05:50:00.000-08:00

Hi there, friends. I know, it's been a while. Here is my calendar-list of excuses:

December 8: Get home from Florida. See my husband for the first time in a month. THAT was awesome.
December 10: Go to a holiday party. Jeff doesn't feel too good on the way home.
December 11: Jeff has the flu, that develops into a "bronchial infection" that was diagnosed over the phone. With antibiotics, he starts to feel human again around December 23.
December 24: Drive to see Jeff's family. I don't feel too good on the way home.
December 25: I get the flu, and am prescribed Tamiflu over the phone to lessen the symptoms. I also give the flu to my brother.
January 2: Go to the doctor as my flu symptoms have gotten progressively worse after 9 days. At this point, I do not have enough strength to either stand up in the shower or walk from my bed to the couch, I have a consistent temperature of 102, and I cannot lay down without feeling like I'm drowning so I sleep propped up with pillows on three sides. Turns out, I have pneumonia! Like an 80 year old!
January 7: After a week of antibiotics, Jeff and I go out to eat for the first time in a month. THAT was awesome.

And then I would periodically open a new blog post and stare at the empty box, only to close it and go watch yet another re-run of Grey's Anatomy (I made it through the first five seasons when I was on the couch for two weeks!)

So... forgive me?

In other news, I am working! Kind of. Part part time. I'm traveling to various college campuses as a workshop facilitator for leadership-type programs, and, on two occasions, as a keynote speaker (!!!) which simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. Not the speaking part- I like that. The part where I worry if I'm representing the awesome company that is sending me to do these things as well as I possibly can. The best part- all these engagements are on weekends, so I can continue this awesome work once I find a full-time job. Which I'm working on, since by the end of my time in Florida, I was beginning to feel like a useless, non-contributing member of society. Albeit, one with a GREAT tan. But still.

This weekend, Jeff and I FINALLY went to see the Muppet movie. I thought about going to see it with him the entire time I was in Florida, and then the above calendar happened instead. Nobody wants someone coughing up a lung in the back of their theater. We went at 4:30 on Sunday, three months after the movie opened, and the show was packed with tons of little kids and families and we had to sit in the back row on the side, which Jeff hates (he's a middle-of-the-theater person.) But, this little theater has beers on tap, so as annoyed as we were at the crowds, we made the best of it (I know. And yes, we go there exclusively.) Then the movie started, and it was so campy and fun and full of my very favorite kind of terrible obvious humor that we couldn't stop laughing. When the bad guy gets thrown off a tower, one of the kids yelled "BYE BYE!" which made us laugh more. And then....

Kermit started singing Rainbow Connection. And in this packed theater, there was a full row of at least ten little kids who started singing along. Loudly, and in tune, like a little children's choir. They knew EVERY WORD. It was completely magical, and as I sat there weeping, I thought how grateful I was for the reminder that sometimes an overcrowded theater is a blessing in disguise.

One month.

2011-12-07T20:04:00.000-08:00

Twenty minutes away from Babcha's house is a beach that is consistently ranked as one of the most beautiful in the United States. The white sand is so fine that it squeaks when you walk on it and runs through your fingers like silk. The water is crystal clear, and schools of fish dart around your ankles, while dozens of species of birds run on the sand. The sunsets, since this is the West coast, are what storybooks were written about, and the tourists all clap when the last ray finally dips below the water, leaving only the clouds closest tinged with a pale pink for a few moments longer.

I was there on Monday, and as I watched the sun set, I thought about how much I would miss the warmth and all this tropical beauty when I leave. But I also thought about how, in the many years that I spent growing up in this town, I hardly ever went to the beach. Is it only because I was a body-insecure teenager who burnt easily? Or is it true that you can't fully appreciate something that you have every day?

You know what will make you appreciate something you have every day? A month away from it.

Going home. The words have never sounded so sweet.

No time for a holiday party?

2011-12-06T04:53:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a ton of magazines down here in Florida, and there is a distinct theme throughout all of them that involves finding the PERFECT glittery top or dress to tide you through ALL THOSE HOLIDAY PARTIES.

Hm.

Well, maybe it's just me, but I don't go to ~~many~~ any holiday parties that require a glitter dress. Which is sad, really, and I'd grasp at pretty much any occasion to get myself all dolled up considering I wear ~~gym clothes~~ jeans all day now that I'm unemployed. But I draw the line at throwing a holiday party. Those weekends before December 25 are just unreasonably packed, even if you don't have any fun events. And my friends and I can never manage to get together then, so why should I assume that they'd ALL be free on the same night to come to my house? Until I hit on the perfect solution last year.

The Suburbalicious Holiday Party Solution.

1. Throw your event on January 1. Think about it! First, it's after all the family-in-town-gift-buying-Christmas craziness. Second, nobody ever has anything to do on New Years Day. Third, it's secular, and everyone gets to celebrate! Fourth, a daytime event means that, by the time you wash all the dishes and vacuum, you're still in bed by 9.

2. Make your event a New Years Day Open House. Say, 12-4pm. Or 3-5pm. Whatever works for you and your social circle. Not only does this eliminate the pressure for people to stay a certain amount of time (unlike New Years Eve, which is the WORST since you HAVE to stay until midnight) but it also ensures that you'll be able to spend more quality time with everyone, since they won't all be in your house at once.

3. Take down all your Christmas decorations (if that's your thing) before your party. Maybe it's just me, but I love putting up all those decorations, and I really really love taking them all down. By the end of the month that they've been up, they're dusty, and if you have a tree, it's inevitably taking up valuable living space in your house. Plus, after the 25th, Christmas is over. Take everything down in the week following, clean the SHIT out of your house, and your space will feel sparkling and fresh and ready for the new year and you'll be thrilled to show it off to your friends and family. If you don't celebrate Christmas or don't decorate, clean the shit out of everything anyway for the same results.

4. Plan out a brunch/lunch menu that allows you to make almost everything in advance, full of foods that taste good at room temperature (since they'll be sitting out in the buffet all day.) Last year, I also looked up some foods that were traditional to eat on New Years Day, and wrote little cards explaining their significance.

Here is my menu plan for this year:

Artichoke-Olive Dip

Gorgonzola Dip

White Bean Dip

(crackers, carrots from a bag, and fresh bread cut up for dipping)

Black bean soup (Serve it in a slow cooker to keep it warm!)

Quiche

Chicken wings

Oreos

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Scallion-Cheddar Scones

Chopped salad

I'd recommend making everything on that list the day before, except for the last two items. For the scones, make the dough the day before and bake them the morning of, and for the salad, chop everything and store it separately, then just toss together the day of.

5. The reason you do all the cooking the day before is so that you can spend extra time ~~testing~~ setting up the mimosa bar. Put out a few bottles of cheap champagne and some orange juice, grapefruit juice, and pomegranate juice. Friendly to drinkers and non-drinkers alike. A nice touch would be to include a bowl full of the same fruits you are serving as juices on the table with all of your champagne glasses.

6. You don't really need to decorate, but if you want to, set out a few vases of hot pink tulips or something similar. Get away from "holiday" colors to show off your gleaming clean house.

7. Wear whatever the hell you want (although a glitter dress might be a BIT much for a daytime event!) Did I mention that the final benefit of having this event at your own house is that you don't have to wear shoes?

Now, go send out that email invitation!

PS- Boston ladies- if you want to come over on New Years, email or FB me and I'll send you the details!

Mimosa bar picture from here, Tulips from here.

Letter to the Editor.

2011-12-04T05:46:00.000-08:00

I love reading the Letters to the Editor in the paper in my (former) hometown newspaper here in Florida, because of the very elderly and very conservative population that primarily writes in to complain. They make me laugh. But I saw this one the other day, and feel compelled to share it.

The letter is in response to this article, which describes how an 8-foot-tall Lego man washed up on a beach here in Sarasota, and is now being held at the County Sheriff's office until somebody claims him. Bizarre and wonderful, no?

Here's what Andrew L. Jones from Illinois had to say about the Lego man:

Reading from afar, I write on behalf of "a fallen brother," forced into martyrdom. I speak of the 8-foot Lego man, a character of mythical proportions, who washed up on the shore of one of your beaches. He was greeted with no open hands, no reassuring smiles, but, instead, a slap on the wrists, courtesy of "Johnny Law," and a sentence of 90 days. This behavior is not only antiquated but reeks of injustice and rights infringement. To treat a weary traveler as a scoundrel is reminiscent of times that are long gone for a reason, of when those seeking a better life were looked upon as though they were 8 feet tall, as though their shirt stuck to their torso with sweat, as thought they had a contusion atop their head from the woes of the road.

I shall grieve for the Lego man until he is released and greeted with the nonjudgemental arms of America. The people of Sarasota have not seen the error of their ways.

Pass this letter to the prison guards. Have them look at his capricious smile. Take a second glimpse at his love-clenched hands, not clenched out of resentment for Sarasota, but out of all the love he wishes to hold in his life. And remember: Throughout this momentous moment in his life, he never stopped smiling.

On love and (in)dependance.

2011-11-30T04:33:00.000-08:00

I decided to come to Florida and booked the tickets over three months ago. When I left my job, I knew that one of the things that I wanted to do during my time off was to spend a significant amount time with my grandmother, who is 92, since I won't be able to do this again once I start working. Jeff was fully on board and supportive (as he has been through this whole process) and we both talked about how we thought it could be a really positive thing for our marriage, too, to spend some time apart. When you see someone every day, it's easy to forget all the amazing things about them. Like the time I lost 20 pounds and my roommate, one of my closest friends, didn't notice until months later, when a mutual friend pointed it out. It's sometimes hard to see what's right in front of you.

What I didn't expect is how much I would dread leaving Jeff when the time finally came. A few days before I left, I would spontaneously burst into tears while we were making drinks in the kitchen, or watching Buffy* with Foxxy sleeping over both our laps. And I started to wonder- what does it mean that I'm so weepy about leaving my husband for a measly 3.5 weeks? I've always prided myself on my independence, my ability to function without support from anyone else, to do things for myself, to be adventurous on my own. And if I was so sad over leaving Jeff, does that mean that some of that has gone away?

I needn't have worried, because once I arrived in Florida, I was hit with a different kind of conundrum- I didn't miss him. At all, that first week. The worst part came when we were saying goodnight on the phone one night, and he said "You haven't told me you miss me yet." And I said "I don't miss you! Not yet, I mean- it takes me a little while." The next day, Jeff didn't answer a text or call for a full 18 hours, and by 8pm that night, I was sobbing, positively convinced that he was dead in our house and that there was nothing I could do and that the last words I had said to him were "I DON'T MISS YOU." When he finally called me, his phone hadn't received any of the messages, and he was drunk at a bar with his best friend. As I sobbed into the phone and told him I thought I was dead, the reasonable part of my brain thought "Ahhh, so THIS is why men find women confusing!" But I digress...

I'm now heading into my third week here, and it turns out I miss Jeff. A lot. I miss sleeping next to him, and the ease of our life together. Neither of us are really phone people, and our conversations are incredibly unsatisfying. I honestly don't know how long-distance relationships DO it- it's hard. I miss our city, and our cat, and the stupid voices we use only with each other. I tried to make a joke the other day in a Cartman** voice, and nobody got it. Because they're not my husband- the man I've spent almost seven years cultivating a life with.

And I think, finally, that dependent and independent are too polar to apply. At Babcha's pre-op appointment today, they emphasized over and over again how she needs to ask for pain medication at the very first sign of discomfort. That it's not heroic to decline the drugs because she doesn't HAVE to be in pain. That's what the medication is for. Similarly, I think, I don't HAVE to beat myself up for being independent or dependent. The point is, I am blessed beyond measure to spend every morning and every evening with a man who I just cannot get enough of, and I don't have to punish myself for missing that when I'm away from it. I'm also blessed beyond measure to be able to spend a month (in Florida, no less) with my 92 year old grandmother who I adore. Both of these things are true, and when I leave Florida, I will miss Babcha. The lesson that comes back to me over and over again in my life is to enjoy and really LIVE right here, right now. There's always someone to miss, but, more importantly, there is always your life to be lived while you're missing them. And that, I suppose, should really be the goal.

*Yes, we started watching Buffy on the free Amazon Prime streaming thing, and I kind of love it. Mostly I love the late-90's fashion. I pulled out my senior yearbook for Jeff so he could see that ALL the popular kids in the superlatives pictures were dressed exactly like Buffy and Cordelia. Except the "Most Artistic," who were dressed like Willow.
**http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKdocYeSqTA

Nature vs. Nurture

2011-11-28T13:29:00.000-08:00

Did I tell you that I'm in Florida for a month? I don't think I did. I'm visiting Babcha, who is having knee replacement surgery on Friday. She's 92, and the best thing she's said so far is "I don't know why everyone is making such a big deal about this. It's not like they're cutting open the middle of me." But she's nervous, and her knee hurts, and I'm glad that I'm here.

I was in the hospital for a pre-op check today with her, and picked up an old copy of Real Simple. You might have noticed that the question of motherhood (or not) has been on my mind lately, and I read two separate passages in two different articles that spoke to me, in different ways, about this issue.

Paula McLain, who wrote about discovering how to be a mom after her own mother abandoned her as a young child, wrote this:

In 2004 my daughter, Fiona, was born in the middle of a lightning storm. Outside, branches seesawed and telephone wires swung wildly, but our birthing room was dim and quiet. When she drew her first breath, it was quiet, too. She looked at me with eyes that belonged to a baby owl, and I felt something ancient shift. She seemed to know everything about me already and to be saying, with her gorgeously arched feet and the small shells of her ears, that she would take me as I am.

I'm not sure whether it was the reference to a baby owl, or the innate perfection that is a newborn, or the fact that her daughter happens to be named what Jeff and I would call our baby girl who will probably never exist, but this passage made me ache for the hugeness and life-changing personhood-shift that happens when you become a parent. And I asked myself, yet again, is not having a child worth missing out on such cosmic-level life lessons?

And then I read this, in a collection of short essays about different authors' favorite years of life, where Francine Prose wrote about 64 being her favorite age:

It's what people say, and like so many things people always say, true: My relationship with my grandchild has a poignant sweetness, an intensity, that comes from being fully present, a calming thrill that was an unavailable luxury when I was coping with the distractions and the pressures of parenthood. But the other thing that people always say, jokingly, I suppose- how great it is that you can give the grandchildren back at the end of the day- is beside the point.
Because, as it happens, so many things in my daily life have that same poignant sweetness. The red of the maples in autumn, the daffodils and crocuses that appear, so suddenly and shockingly, on my lawn in spring- both those events seem to have a piercing beauty and a preciousness that they simply didn't have when I was young and immortal and knew that time was endless. Last summer, as I walked back to the house with vegetables just picked from the garden for a meal with friends, I felt joy and gratitude- a sense of having made a long-delayed discovery.

"So many things have that same poignant sweetness." So many things. She included red maples and fresh vegetables and dinner with friends same list of pleasures that includes her grandchild. How awesome is that?

It's reassuring to be reminded that there are so many things in life that make us stop and stare, that smack us over the head with their beauty, that teach us more about who we are and what kind of world we want to live in. Being a mother, having a child, raising a person- these are good things, and hard things, and huge things. But there are other good things out there for me. Not replacements, exactly, just different choices.

Before I came down to Florida, I had this idea that spending so much time with my grandmother and a few aunts and cousins would somehow solve the baby question for me. I thought that there was an answer to why I don't want kids, and another answer to why I still wonder if I should have them. Maybe none of the women in my family had baby lust! Maybe it came late for everyone! There must be a gene, right? As you can imagine, I have found no answers from my family. I've had amazing conversations where I learned even more about these women as people, not just my relatives, but their stories are not my own. Genetics, at least in this case, isn't responsible for why I don't long for a child. But it turns out that not wanting a child, and all the wondering and questioning and deep introspection that comes with that, is one of those huge life lessons where I get to learn more about myself as a person than I ever thought possible.

Turns out, those are everywhere.

Hope your day is just bueno.

2011-11-02T05:22:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to Jeff! All of the "husband" birthday cards I looked at made me vomit a little in my mouth. Fortunately, my mom sent Jeff this one, which has kept us laughing for days. Enjoy!

*Please notice that the alien from Toy Story on the left is still dressed up for Halloween.

On honesty and (not) babies.

2011-11-01T09:40:00.000-07:00

A few weeks after I quit my job, I was joking with Jeff about my backup plan to sell my eggs if we ever got really destitute. This has always been my (mostly-in-jest) solution- I'm blonde and had high SAT scores, so clearly I must be a desirable candidate! As I was making this comment, it occurred to me that this backup plan probably isn't an option anymore. I'm 31 years old. Nobody wants 31-year-old eggs.

And then I thought about the fact that I'm 31, and if my eggs are no longer useful to someone willing to pay for them, eventually they won't be useful to me, either. And that "eventually" is in this decade of my life. And at some point, relatively soon, not having children won't be a choice that I (we) will have to make sometime in the future, but will be a choice that we already made, by not having them.

It all felt very real all of a sudden, in a way that it never has before. I've talked before about mourning the choices we don't make, and I think I'm entering the mourning process for the child we most likely will never have. By choice, but still, it makes me sad sometimes.

The thing about hard choices and sad choices and second guessing is that women don't talk about these things enough, which makes everyone feel isolated and crazy, without a shared experience to comfort and support. So I don't mind talking about our choice, and all my feelings around it. I've never been a closed book (hello, blog) and I love having intelligent discussions with people about personal issues like children. If I want society in general to view my child-free life with respect, I need to be open about it, and I am happy to be that example.

Jeff and I were having dinner with our friends last week (parents of the world's three most beautiful children) and one of the six year old twins asked, out of the blue "Lauren and Jeff, are you going to be parents?" Their moms paused, embarrassed, and Jeff and I laughed, and I said "We'd much rather have more time to spend with you!" The conversation could have ended there, but I chose to provide a more honest answer and said "We probably won't be parents, Grace, but that means we'll be able to hang out with you even more!" She ran out of the room, satisfied, and my comment led to a great discussion with her moms about their choice to have children and how that might have looked different if one of them didn't want kids. These two parents treated me, and my choice, with respect, and I was able to offer not having kids as a valid option for a little girl who might someday remember that. This is why being honest about the difficulties around big life decisions matters.

The society that doesn't see my choice as a valid one was never more evident than on my front porch last night. My neighbor from across the street brought his 2-year-old boy over for trick or treating, and mentioned that one of the other families on our street wanted to have a block party next spring. I already knew this, because I was planning it with them, but he pointed to my downstairs neighbors' door and said "Well now that they have a little one, it's easier to get everyone together." He then pointed out his carved pumpkin, which was apparently a character from the popular kid's show Yo Gabba Gabba. He asked us if we knew what it was, and when we said no, he said "well you will, when you have kids, sooner rather than later."

Jeff and I closed the door and burst out laughing (this guy is crazy, and has said similarly awkward things before) but a few minutes later, my chest filled with rage. How dare this man insinuate that I am a less worthwhile neighbor or community member because I don't have a "little one," while he stood on the porch that my husband and I had decorated, and referred to my rude and unfriendly neighbors who had all their lights off and weren't even passing out candy as the essential missing element of our community gathering? And worse, how dare he stand on my front porch and insist that I would also have a child before too long, since it was clearly the only way to fit in?

It took two glasses of bourbon to shake that rage. Big ones. And I'm still angry typing it all out.

Because here's the thing about making assumptions: it makes you an ass. And making assumptions about a life choice as large and personal as having a child makes you a really, really large ass. When you make a comment like "You'll have a kid soon," you have no idea what that couple is going through. What if we had been trying for a year, or two, or eight, and nothing was happening? What if I had just miscarried? What if we'd just found out we couldn't have kids? What if what his comment triggered was not blinding rage but heartbreaking sorrow?

Sometimes when I drive down the highway, I am flabbergasted by the thought of every single car containing a different person, with different hopes and dreams and fears and thoughts weighing on their minds. Imagine! So many people. So many lives. So many choices. And we will never, ever know the story behind them.

So be honest with each other. Have conversations. Share your hopes and dreams and fears. And instead of judging someone by what you think you see, be gentle, and ask them questions. Because you just never know.

Muchies foy Monsters.

2011-11-01T06:18:00.000-07:00

Oh, hai friends.

It has been awhile, hasn't it?

I hope I can make it up to you by telling you that one morning in the beginning of October, my almost 39-year-old husband woke me up by dramatically sweeping into our room, turning on all the lights, opening the shades, and saying "It's beautiful out. Get up! We're going to Target for Halloween decorations." At 8:00 on a Saturday morning.

Jeff loves Halloween, and I love getting caught up in his enthusiasm. We decorated the house fairly extensively, and one afternoon I came home to find that Jeff had painstakingly used an exacto knife and different colors of electrical tape to make some of the ceramic animals in our house more spooky.

Like so:

He inspired us to make a window decoration of the Oogie Boogie Man (from Nightmare Before Christmas) that looked like this in the kitchen:

And this in the window at night:

And he won the pumpkin carving contest this year with his rendition of Jack Skellington. My owl needed a nose job.

Between my feet, you'll see the bucket we use to pass out candy, something I inherited from my aunt after she moved away. It is supposed to say "Munchies for Monsters," but in the sad sweatshop far away where it was no doubt painted, it ended up as "Muchies foy Monsters." Which is Jeff and my most favorite Halloween saying of all time.

Hope you all had a spooktacular holiday!

Speaking of being attractive...

2011-10-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

This morning:

Jeff: Your boobs look huge!
Me: (looking down) Oh, that's probably because I've been exclusively wearing sports bras and now I'm wearing a regular one.
Jeff: (slowly shakes head)

Add to checklist: wear a bra that does not give me a flat uniboob.

Hygiene.

2011-10-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

I have a love-hate relationship with showers. On the one hand, nothing puts me in a worse mood than a cold one (I like them piping hot, even in the height of summer) and nothing makes me feel quite as sexy as clean hair and freshly shaved legs after a good long soak. In college, when the water was free, my friends and I would take what we called "hour power showers" (in separate stalls!) for the blissful, relaxed, puddle-on-the-floor effect it had on our minds and bodies.

On the other hand, they are such a HASSLE sometimes. Because it's not just the shower- you have to moisturize afterwards, fix your hair, squeegie the shower doors... the list goes on. Showering is a process, and it is pretty easy for me to talk myself out of one.

Common excuses might be:
- It's Sunday.
- I'm going to hot yoga tomorrow- why bother?
- I'd rather click on my blog 20 times to see if someone has commented on my post.

You get the idea. Blow-drying my hair is even more of a process (there is a lot of it) and a few years ago, a friend of mine confessed that she only washed hers 2 or 3 times a week. I was immediately sold on this idea. It's better for your hair! Use dry shampoo in-between! Regardless, having a job pretty much required me to shower every day, and at least make my hair look nice, even if it wasn't freshly washed.

Enter unemployment.

For the past month, my days have consisted of me spending a lot of time with myself in my own house. When I leave the house, it is to run or go to yoga. And nobody cares if I look good at yoga! Let's just say that I have skipped, erm, several showers.

At dinner tonight, Jeff said "Are you wearing makeup? It looks great!" which was a guilty reminder that I am in fact not alone in my house, but actually living with someone who I hope finds me attractive for a long time. Someone whose hygiene is immaculate and grooming habits pristine and fashion sense blows mine out of the water. Someone who loves my long clean shiny hair.

So tonight I showered. Which subsequently washed off all my makeup. Hopefully the trade off is worth it.

And there is no way I'm drying my hair. I'm going to yoga at noon tomorrow. What's the point?

*Photo from here.

Train of thought.

2011-09-26T06:46:00.000-07:00

I was out of town for a few days last week- my sorority headquarters flew me to Buffalo to do some work with the chapter there- and my flight home took me through Baltimore. As I was walking through the airport, I passed a little silver jewlery stand, and I realized that I was wearing some silver earrings that my mom had given me, which she had purchased at the Baltimore airport.

I'm a JetBlue girl, but my mom flies Southwest almost exclusively, so she's in the Baltimore airport pretty often. When I made this silver earring connection, I remembered that she went to a certain restaurant for white wine and she-crab soup every time she had a layover there. I had an hour to kill, and picked up the phone to call her and ask her which restaurant she liked, when I realized that she was in Europe, where her cell phone doesn't work, so I couldn't call her.

I thought to myself, "Oh, that really stinks that I can't call my mom." And then I realized that there will come a day, hopefully when I am much older, when I'll want to ask my mom a question, and I won't be able to call her anymore.

And all of a sudden, I was crying in the middle of the Baltimore airport.

I've never minded getting older. This year, I hardly noticed my birthday (unlike my extensive soul-searching last year) and, so far, I've embraced the annual changes. But I am terrified (TERRIFIED!) of living in a world that no longer contains the people I love and that, unfortunately, is one of the side effects of growing up and growing old.

And this time, it just hit me, totally out of the blue.

I wonder.

2011-09-20T08:28:00.000-07:00

I read the comments under yesterday's post on APW with interest, but not necessarily because of the debate over the words "husband" and "wife." Instead, I couldn't help but notice that often, when a commenter had a more "traditional" experience regarding their wedding or marriage, they immediately defended that. A bit like so:

I cook and clean. (But I like to!) (But he does too!)

I took my spouse's name. (But I wanted to!) (But I feel really conflicted and it wasn't easy!)

I have a diamond. (But it's a small one!) (But I inherited it!)

And it made me wonder why we can't just discuss those choices without apologizing for how they might look to someone else, when in truth, nobody can ever fully understand another's relationship? What worries me is that, in our quest to reclaim the assumptions behind marriage and partnership and all the loaded or not-loaded words that come with those things, we might go so far in the other direction that it makes some choices less valid than others.

Why can't we just respect another woman for who she is, whether or not she has a big honkin' diamond or does all the cooking? And even more importantly, why can't we expect that kind of respect from those we engage in these discussions with? I really don't care if you do all the laundry as long as you are in a fair, respectful and loving partnership with a person who treats you as an equal.

Hopefully we can get to a place where defensiveness is unecessary, regardless of how traditional or untraditional your choices might seem. I don't think we're there yet, though.

Yay, New York! (A little late.)

2011-09-15T17:48:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I emailed Meg something like "I just quit my job and have no idea what I'm doing with my life!" And she wrote back and said something like, "Want to come to NYC for a Big Gay Marriage Party?"

Um, yes?

Which is how I found myself, two monts later, just off a bus in the middle of NYC (which I know not at ALL), two hours later than I was supposed to meet Meg at her hotel so we could go over to Katie Jane's roof and take pictures for her personal project. Meg, assuming rationally that, as a 30-something woman who has a blog, I had a phone that allowed me to access my email (I do not) emailed me the directions, and then had limited cell phone reception on the roof. Which resulted in me standing on the corner of 8th and 46th in the middle of rush hour, balancing my bag, phone, pen and paper while I called Jeff with my email login and asked him to pull up the info.

By the time I got to the roof, filled with a bunch of beautiful women who I'd never met, I was sweaty and disheveled from sitting on a bus for 6 hours, hadn't peed since 11:00 AM, and was already convinced that NYC hated me.

After a trip to the bathroom, a quick change, a quick photoshoot, a long gaze at the view from Katie Jane's roof, and a glass of champagne, I felt much better.

Over soul food for dinner, it came up that Meg and Emily's hotel room (where I was planning to sleep) was about 1/10 the size they thought it would be. Zan, who I had met approximately 14 minutes earlier, immediately volunteered to take me home with her (where Ang was already staying.) Upon arrival at her house, it became clear that the spare place to sleep in her apartment was in her bed. Awkwardly, I had brought along inappropriately sexy pyjamas, to which Zan told me "Normally, I would change into something similar as a sign of solidarity, but all my sexytime pj's are at the farm!" Which might have made me fall in love with her just a little.

I will spare you a 20 page post, and skip over most of the details, which no doubt you have read about elsewhere. The work was hard but rewarding (hats off to you, wedding planners!), the weddings were sweet and meaningful and made me teary (which I was embarrassed about until I realized that everyone else was crying), the sangria was tasty (a little too tasty?), and the music was AWESOME. I want to dance like that every weekend.

At the end of the night, Zan took me home again, and she and Rachel and Sarah and I got on the subway in our pretty party dresses lugging all of our crap. It was close to midnight on a Thursday, and the train was packed. I was standing slightly apart from the three of them, when a woman sitting right in front of me started asking me questions about how to make a complaint about a subway employee. I wasn't really sure, but she wasn't shy, and she was PISSED OFF at some guy who, that morning, had ignored her when she asked why the trains were delayed. And she told me so for the next 25 minutes. I was tipsy and exhausted and dehydrated and I found her freaking hysterical, but it is really hard to listen to someone who is so vehemently angry while wanted to laugh the entire time. I think that Zan and Rachel thought I was stuck, when really I was too amused to walk away from this fascinating conversation. Eventually, it was our stop, and we had to wish angry subway lady good luck while we laughed our way back to Zan's apartment, and ate a bowl of mac and cheese plus tuna and peas before bed. Don't knock it until you try it.

And now, a photo essay using other people's photos and some text from Picasa:*

Toasting on the roof deck right before the party started!

This should be obvious.

DDay Porter has the BEST LAUGH. Really.

This amazingly fashionable and sweet woman said she READ my BLOG! I can't remember your name, but I blame the sangria for that. Now you have to comment!! You promised!!!

I may or may not be a photo booth whore.

In addition to this classy photo editing, I also HIGHLY recommend that you check out this page of the APW photobooth. You will not be disappointed.

Remember how much fun it is to meet electronic friends in person? Yay New York was like that, on crack. The moral of the story is: When Meg tells you to do something, just say yes. I promise it will be awesome (and totally worth 12 hours on a bus!)

*Yes, I brought my camera and did not snap a single shot. Why would I when there were no fewer than 7 professional photographers around me at all times?
** Photos by Mark of Leah and Mark, who was super fun.

Two weeks in.

2011-09-15T12:04:00.000-07:00

Today is my two week unemployediversary! Half of me thinks I need to find a job right now, to avoid insanity, and the other half never wants a job again. So that will be an interesting compromise when the time comes.

It hasn't been fun and easy the whole time. Last Wednesday, I cried for approximately 24 hours. It started at midnight (midnight of my 31st birthday which was my first day at home alone) and didn't stop until I went to bed that night. I even cried through yoga, where it is not easy to be inconspicuous when there are only three people in class. Feeling like a non-contributing member of society brought on the kind of weepy tears that left Jeff perplexed and me exhuasted.

I don't think that 24 hours of the weepies is that strange, especially since it was grey and pouring rain for the whole week. As it always does, the sun came out eventually, and this week I have been Leaving The House and Making Plans With Friends, which I highly recommend. I also used a blowdryer on my hair once or twice, which was immesely helpful. I saw my mom on Saturday, and she made me promise to "put on a little fou fou" every day. Which is something only a mom could get away with saying.

And then there have been days like yesterday, when I rolled out of bed to drive Jeff to work in the morning, and mentioned that I thought it was going to be the last warm day of the year and I wanted to go to the beach, but it was supposed to thunderstorm that afternoon so I didn't know if the drive would be worth it. He said "Why don't you just go now?" to which my reply was something like, "Um, I just rolled out of bed and don't have a bathing suit or a towel and I haven't even checked my EMAIL!"

His response? "Lauren, you don't have to check your email anymore."

And he was right. So I drove up to New Hampshire, stopped at the first early-opening store I found to buy sunscreen and a towel, and lay in the sun in the shorts and tank top that I had pulled on when I woke up that morning. Three hours and some funky tan lines later, I was sandy, sweaty, and had made friends with a 70 year old woman who I talked to for over an hour. Not quite done with summer yet, I stopped at our local farmers market on my way home and ate some late season heirloom tomatoes for lunch. Finally, I changed into my bathing suit, and went to Walden Pond for one last long swim. The water was cool, the setting sun bright, and I felt that I had been given a shimmery gift of one last summer day in the middle of September. A summer day that I would have completely missed if I had been working.

All that basically boils down to the simple fact that unemployment rocks when the weather rocks, and sucks when the weather sucks. Which should make for an interesting winter.

*Photo from Pilgrimsteps, via Flickr.

Freedom.

2011-09-03T08:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my first day of unemployment, and honestly, it just felt like a Saturday. I had errands to run, and a friend in town to visit, and Jeff had the day off so I didn't have the house to myself (as I soon will!) No big deal.

This morning, Day 2, I woke up and realized that I had 14 minutes to make it to the 8:00 AM yoga class down the street, so I threw on some clothes and half walked, half jogged to make it with two minutes to spare. The instructor asked us to set an intention for the class, and immediately "freedom" popped into my head. The class felt playful and fun, and I was enjoying falling out of a few poses that I couldn't get just right.

Near the end of class she put us in half-pigeon, which is a pretty extreme hip-opener. Jehara has written extensively about the emotions involved in a yoga practice, and hip openers have always been where I really feel whatever is going on in my head as a physical sensation. And then we lay down for the last pose, and the instructor played Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah.

As I lay there with my eyes closed, I realized that ending my job the day before Labor Day weekend is hugely symbolic for me. For the past four years, I have run sorority recruitment for approximately 18 hours a day from Saturday to Tuesday of this weekend, watching the picture perfect weather pass by outside from the windows of a very ugly 1970s building with no air flow. I was ending a yoga class on a day that I would have been already at work, gearing up for the long days ahead, and suddenly I was flooded with remembering where I was on this day last year, and how much things have changed since that moment. As quiet tears leaked out from behind my closed eyes, I breathed out a sincere thank you for the gift of freedom for the next few months.

Tomorrow I will be a bridesmaid for the eighth time, which means a weekend full of celebration and love and old friends and baby nieces who aren't really babies anymore. I think it is the perfect way to start the rest of my life.

Happy weekend!

Elsewhere.

2011-09-02T06:35:00.001-07:00

I'm excited to be over at Jehara's blog today, and jealous of her fabulous vacation!

Turning in my keys.

2011-09-01T13:39:00.001-07:00

I'm about to. In moments. And my heart feels heavy and light all at the same time. Does that make sense?

I appreciate you all hanging around for this crazy ride- more updates from the other side!

Don't dunk this oreo.

2011-08-30T07:36:00.000-07:00

I have posts started about Yay New York (amazeballs) and about my third-to-last day at work (stomach churning) but can we get domestic for a second?

Last year, Joanne Chang opened the third branch of her incredible bakery, Flour, a mere two blocks from my office. I could wax philosophical about the homemade raspberry seltzer and the vegan tofu sandwich with olive tapenade and the chunky Lola cookie, but I won't. I could also expound on how Joanne Chang's venture into baking started when she left her corporate job to follow her heart and how she might be a good role model for me in my life right now, but that should be obvious.

Instead, I will tell you that my fantastic coworkers gave me the Flour cookbook for my going away present (and each signed their favorite recipe, which makes it so much fun to flip through!) and then they scheduled a tropical storm that required me to stay inside all day on Sunday. What else was there to do except bake?

Last night I baked the homemade oreo cookies from the dough that I'd made on Sunday, and I am not exaggerating when I say that this is the best cookie I have EVER made. The scent is incredible (my house has never smelled so good) and the intensely sweet filling is the perfect foil for cookie combination of bitter chocolate with a hint of salt at the very end of the bite. Plus, they look really pretty and have held up well overnight.

Go make these- now! And report back!

Photo from Keller + Keller.

The Journey.

2011-08-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

I spied the Oprah Magazine's poetry edition in my dentist's office yesterday, so naturally, I stole it. I can't get this one out of my head.

The Journey, by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Thank you (again!)

2011-08-11T14:48:00.000-07:00

Once again, I am completely overwhelmed with your comments on my last post. You all really know how to make a girl feel comforted. So thank you, for being my internet-angels!

More next week- for now, I'm off to Ohio for my great-uncle's 90th birthday party! If that's not a summer vacation for the ages, then I don't know what is. He's my grandmother's brother (whose 90th birthday was last year) and he's an amazing woodworker and artist and I'm excited to finally see his workshop. And Babcha will be there, which is always the best thing in the world.

The dress code for the party is red, white, and blue, to honor his 40+ years in the Army. Adorable. As is he, here at my wedding.

Hope you all have an equally patriotic and celebratory weekend!

Wind and rain.

2011-08-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

Unemployment-by-choice sounded like a great idea back in July, when it was two months away. Two months is forever! Two months stretches out in front of you like a lazy horizon. There's no rush, no urgency, no stress. Everything will be fine.

Except that two months is actually a blink, no time at all. And my last day of work is exactly three weeks from today. And I'm feeling scared, and nostalgic, and weepy for the life I'm choosing to leave.

The fuzzy and uncertain is always scarier than the safe, isn't it?

A song snuck onto my "sad bastard" Pandora station today (a custom recipe but pretty easy to do- start with a little Colbie Callait, add a dash of Amos Lee and a pinch of Joshua Radin, and you've got the perfect soundtrack for a weepy evening alone!) and took my breath away with its timing. It's called Longer I Run by Peter Bradley Adams, and it's off the album... wait for it... Leavetaking. Riiight. Thanks, Pandora.

When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine
I miss the life that I left behind
And when I hear the sound of the blackbird's cry
I know I left in the nick of time

Jeff and I went out to dinner for our anniversary on Wednesday night, and after dinner and cocktails, we walked to the train station in the p-o-u-r-i-n-g rain, clutching each other under my umbrella, me tripping along in my heels, laughing all the way. Somewhere between that train station, the ice cream shop (where we may or may not end every evening out) and our bus home, I lost my umbrella.

We walked in the door soaking wet, and I burst into tears. Over my umbrella. Which was super ugly (grey with my work logo on it) and I'd had for eight years (because I got it through work) and I'd wanted to replace for eight years, but it was the sturdiest thing ever and held up in the worst Boston wind. So I was crying over an umbrella... kind of.

I was crying over my job, which I had for nine years, and I'd wanted to replace for nine years, but it was so sturdy with the pay and the health insurance and the known that I never bothered to give it to Goodwill and go to Target to find one that matched my cute green rain boots. And now that it was gone, now that I'd left it on the train in a moment of drunken delirious happiness next to my husband on our anniversary, now that I was left with only the unknown, I'm scared. What if this umbrella blows inside-out in the first breeze? That's not something you can test inside a store. It's not something you'll know until you're caught in the rainstorm.

Three weeks until the storm hits... it's ok to be scared, right?

Two years.

2011-08-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

Two years married, six and a half years together, and you know what I just cannot stop thinking about? What lesson is hitting me over the head every single day lately?

Laugh together.

When Jeff and I laugh (and he makes me laugh on an hourly basis) all that is happy and delightful and fun about our relationship bubbles to the surface and smacks me in the face. I am continually overwhelmed with how lucky I am to be so happy. I am so incredibly lucky.

So as we celebrate tonight with fancy food at what might be our last dinner out in quite a while, I will toast my husband, who is giving me the best gift I could ever ask for as I prepare to leave my job in three short weeks. As I enter into this time of great uncertainty for me personally, I am comforted by and grateful for the steady certainty that is my marriage. And for the laughter and joy that stretches out into the years ahead of us like some magical yellow brick road.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

Ingrid!

2011-07-29T08:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, I KNOW it must seem like a cop-out that I am posting so much music lately, but this song is beyond awesome. Plus, Ingrid looks like my brother's new girlfriend (cuuuuuute). And he likes to go skydiving! Get it? Parachute? Skydiving?

There are two interesting (to me) parallels between my brother's new relationship and mine:

1. Girlfriend thought bro was a total douche the first time she met him (Jeff thought I was a huge bitch)

and

2. They are going to Vermont this weekend for their first vacation together (that's where we went for our first vacation!)

So obviously they are going to dance to this song at their wedding.

Too soon?

Also?

2011-07-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

This picture made me weep openly on public transportation this morning. Read about this couple of 23 years here. So what if The Metro is my primary news source?

Yay New York, indeed.

Floor lamp.

2011-07-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

Thank you all, a million times over, for your kind and encouraging comments last Friday. It is amazing how many people truly understand the need to just leave, and the need to find yourself. I so appreciate your support!

In other news, my mom sent me this today. I think she's coming around.

*picture from here.

Chrysalis(es).

2011-07-20T18:10:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, Jeff bought one of those little kid butterfly kits, where you send away for caterpillars and watch them grow into butterflies. We put the box away and forgot about it, until I was spring cleaning this year and we finally ordered our caterpillars.

They arrived, four of them crawling all over each other in a little cup, and spent a week or so fattening up until they started to get ready to become a chrysalis. The process is both fascinating and gross, as their furry little bodies literally peeled back and hardened up into a shell. Periodically, the whole thing would shake until finally they all went still.

Today, the first butterfly emerged in an equally involved process, as her wings slowly peeled back and dried out, and she released red ink in a huge spurt. We gave her some sugar water, and once all four have emerged (by tomorrow, probably) we'll release them outside.

I heard a quote by Maya Angelou for the first time the other day: "We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty." I've been feeling a little caterpillar-ish lately, so this quote resonated with me, especially after watching these changes in person. They're not pretty. They're gross and messy and don't really make sense. And yet, in the end, somehow it all works out.

All that to say that a few weeks ago, I quit my job. As of September 1, I will be an unemployed housewife, and I feel both elated and terrified by this reality.

By September 1, I will have been working in student life at the same university for nine years and one month. This means that I started there when I was 21. I earned my masters part-time during the first few years (which was largely paid for thanks to tuition remission.) I lived on campus in two different student dorms as part of my third job there. I became a self-defense instructor, helped write policies from scratch, and advised one of the most amazing student populations that I will ever encounter. I made life-long friends with some of the people I've worked with. I was set up on a blind date by a coworker over six years ago, which eventually led to my wedding in the chapel on campus. It was a job in a community that became part of my life, and the two intertwined in a way that made them hard to separate.

But this community is not my life, and I am so much more than my job. And when it became clear that it was time to move on, that next position was elusive. I found a job that I loved that we weren't ready to move across the country for. I was a runner-up for another one because I lacked two more years of experience. And the list goes on.

And what became crystal clear as I envisioned starting yet another year in a position that no longer pushed me to be a better professional is that it no longer mattered what was practical, or sensible, or safe. What mattered was my soul, which wants to sing but doesn't know the words yet, and my brain, which felt like it turned to mush when I walked into my office every morning.

And that's why, when Jeff said "Why don't you just leave?" for the 50th time, I finally had the courage to say "ok."

A few days ago, we took a test at work to define our strengths, and were assigned our top five out of 34 different areas. My top descriptors said that I had a craving to know more and collect all kinds of information, I am introspective and crave intellectual activity and discussions, I am impatient when thoughts are not turned into action, I enjoy adapting to constantly changing schedules and plans, and I find deep satisfaction in working hard with friends to achieve a goal. Far from being surprising, I felt that this test described me accurately. What did give me pause, as I looked at these words on paper, was the realization that I haven't been able to do any of these things in my job for at least a year. There is a reason that my brain turns to mush when I'm there, and that's because it isn't being used. It was just one more thing in a chain of such events since I gave my notice that was a reminder that I'm doing the right thing.

Which is not to say that I'm being flippant about this choice. While we will be able to pay the mortgage on Jeff's salary, we certainly won't be shopping at Whole Foods or going out to dinner anymore. We will probably have to buy cheap alcohol. I'm afraid of feeling bored and useless. I'm afraid of hating that we can't take a vacation. I'm afraid that I haven't figured out what I want to do with my life because I'm too lazy to put in the effort. I get the distinct feeling that my mother isn't thrilled about her oldest child being unemployed five days before her 31st birthday. It is difficult to soothe my ego when I tell people I'm leaving my job for.... nothing. I can hear the questions they're asking in their head but not saying out loud. Maybe I'll put together a Q&A sheet for them. (Q: Are you pregnant? A: No, but now I'll never wear this skirt again, so thanks for that!) I'm afraid the floors will never be clean enough to adequately express to Jeff just how incredibly grateful I am to him for providing for our family while I take this time for myself.

Because when I think of the time, those fears are slowly replaced by a sense of resolve, a feeling of elation, and mostly a steadiness. Right now, the only thing on my horizon is sky and sea, and all the time in the world to figure out the next destination. And that feels like a gift that is too great to put into words.

Filler.

2011-07-20T11:36:00.000-07:00

I have a post for you. It is proving hard to write. Hence the radio silence.

But! Have you heard "The Head and The Heart?" Jeff introduced me to these two songs, and they make my heart ache with their melody. I hope they help you forgive me for my absence.

xo

Perspective.

2011-07-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

From a conversation with my brother this weekend, after I described a particular cocktail that Jeff is getting really good at making.

Me: He combines gin, St. Germain, fresh grapefruit juice, bitters, and either club soda or tonic water depending on how sweet we want it.
Brother: Did you use Bombay Sapphire?
Me: (wrinkling up my nose) We had to, because we ran out of Hendrick's.
Brother: I'm sorry- are you implying that Sapphire is slumming it for you?

Touche. I do sometimes wonder exactly what percentage of our monthly income is spent on high-end liquor. I think that is something I might be better off not knowing.

Mixed signals.

2011-07-01T07:25:00.000-07:00

When I introduced Foxxy to all of you, I mentioned that she has some lingering PTSD from her traumatic childhood, and that she doesn't really like strangers. Specifically, she's afraid of men (including Jeff for the first year that she lived with us)* and usually hides under the bed when someone she doesn't know is in the house.

Recently, we had a few packages stolen off of our front porch, so I called the local police to submit a report. They sent an officer over to my house, and since it was 90 degrees outside, I invited him in to enjoy our central air conditioning. He was a pretty big guy, wearing really loud heavy boots and an imposing uniform that jingled when he walked because of all his police supplies.

In the middle of writing up the report, he looked up and said "what's your cat's name?"

Foxxy was on the ground, about three feet in front of him, purring and showing him her belly. She looked like this:

Which makes sense, right? Obviously, she's afraid of men, except for the ones with GUNS.

Have a great weekend!

*Which made it hard to convince Jeff that having a cat was a good idea. I recently unearthed this email from him from early in our Foxxy days: "If you like our peeing, hissing, running, scratching love muffin - she stays."

Finally home.

2011-06-30T06:24:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you'd like to know why the posting has been light this month? Here is what I have been up to since the middle of May.

First, Jeff and I went to Colorado for a week on a last minute trip. Purpose: to see if it was our perfect place to live. Verdict: It wasn't, at least not for right now. But it was awesome. Picture proof follows:

When we got back, it was Memorial Day weekend, and I spent some quality time with my baby niece who was visiting from Arizona.

We hung out in a house on the ocean on a day that looked like this:

Five days after we returned, I went to Portland, Oregon for the World Domination Summit and to hang out with my friend Megan for a week. She moved to Alaska last year, so we met in the middle. Portland MIGHT be the perfect place to live, if it weren't so damn grey and rainy for half the year. Despite that fact, it is perhaps the coolest city in America. Oregon is also home to the coast where The Goonies was filmed, which I shouldn't have been quite so excited about, but I was anyway. We had an amazing time visiting vineyards...

putting my feet in the Pacific ocean for the first time...

and hiking through fields of wildflowers.

Four hours before our flights took off to go home, Megan and I got to meet another blog-friend, Married With Kittens, for dinner. She suggested the most amazing Lebanese restaurant with the most amazing vegetarian food (half of which her husband got to have for dinner at home since we couldn't finish it- score!) and put up with our combination of loving up on Portland and totally making fun of it. As I now expect from my blog-friends-met-in-person, MWK was funny, honest, and pretty much awesome. Megan, who was pretty skeptical of the whole "meeting someone I met online" thing, was totally convinced by the end of dinner ("She was so cool! And so pretty! And so NICE!") A huge thank you to MKW for helping to end our trip to Portland on such a great note!

Since we had a juice-box-liter-of-wine that we couldn't take through security, Megan and I finished our trip with illicit wine in paper cups in the airport lounge. Is there anything better?

Five days after I got home from Portland on the red-eye, I flew to Ohio to facilitate a fraternity leadership conference for a week. I don't have any pictures of that, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Since I was with just four other women and 92 men between the ages of 18-24, just imagine lots of nose picking, crotch adjustments, and every room we were in smelling like teenage man. Needless to say, another open letter to college students will be coming up soon. Also, the week made me so grateful that I work with college women.

Needless to say, I am more than thrilled to be home in my own bed. And pretty happy about hanging out with my husband and my cat, too.

Being a good sport.

2011-06-29T07:22:00.000-07:00

Three things:

1. The word "obsessed" does not even come close to describing most Boston residents' approach to local sports teams. Sometimes I wonder if anyone in this city owns clothes that are not imprinted with some kind of logo. These people watch every single game, and I've been to multiple weddings where every man at the reception would be crowded around the tiny TV behind the bar because the event was inconveniently scheduled on the same day as a Red Sox game.

2. I am the least athletic person ever born. This is not something I am proud of, it is just a fact. I have never played on a team of any kind involving physical activity. Nor can I summon any amount of interest or respect for 99% of professional athletes. Oh, I'm sorry, you have a multi-million dollar salary that requires you to be in good physical shape, and you CHEW TOBACCO ON THE FIELD? I also find the idea of grown men dropping everything to watch OTHER grown men all wearing the same outfit run around on a tiny screen hysterical. Sports just are not my thing.

3. Early on in our relationship, Jeff told me four sweet words that made me fall deeply in love with him: "I don't watch sports." And we have lived blissfully TV-free ever since.

So on two weeks ago, when we were making dinner and he asked me if I knew what was going on with the Bruins, I was confused. Um, no? Obviously? He went on to explain that they hadn't won the Stanley Cup since 1972, the year he was born, and that the final game was the next night, and he wanted to go to a bar and watch it. And since it was the first time in our 6+ years relationship that he asked me to watch a game of sports, I could not say no.

And you know what? It. Was. Awesome.

Maybe it's because we found a place to sit in the crowded bar. Maybe it was because said bar was juuuuust upscale enough to keep out the scary rabid fans but still have plenty of TVs and plenty of people. Maybe it was because the Bruins won, and maybe it was because I love cheering people on in a crowd. But it was one of those Boston moments that I'm glad I was present for.

And when it was over, we got ice cream and walked the 25 minutes home serenaded by car horns blaring and people screaming, and a few overheard rounds of "Dirty Water."

Turns out, Boston IS my home.

Put a bird on it.

2011-06-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name is Lauren, and I have a bird problem.

I just can't resist them. They make me happy, and they make me think of spring. Which might be why I themed my homemade valentines around a happy little red bird this February:

What is harder to explain is why I can't walk by a bird statue, especially an artistically rendered graphic-designy looking thing, without taking it home. I found these two beauties in a thrift store on my way home yesterday. I tried on a bunch of skirts that didn't fit and was literally walking out the door when they caught my eye, and all was lost.

I carefully carried them home on the train (the little one's neck had snapped already at some point in his life) and showed them to Jeff, who loved the big one and felt "meh" about the little one (I, of course, had thought the opposite.) Far more detail oriented than I am, he looked at them closely and found the word "DENMARK" stamped on their bellies. Which made me even happier, since I spent a semester in Copenhagen in college, and a return trip a few years later led to my first bird statue purchase, a birthday gift for Jeff.*

Now I just have to find the right spot for my new art deco European friends.

Maybe Portland rubbed off on me last week.**

*Just for the record, the rest of the bird things I own were $12 or less.

** More on that soon!

Hello, sunshine.

2011-05-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

I have hesitated to use the word "spring" to describe the season this month. It was a long-ass winter, with snowdrifts that froze in five foot tall dirty piles on the side of the road week after week, and everyone in Massachusetts was cranky for better weather. Then the pollen got really bad, and nobody could stop sneezing, and then the rain came. For seventeen days in a row. Jeff and I even took a brief trip out to Colorado during this time period, and it rained there (300 days of sunshine, my foot.) May was getting pretty freaking depressing.

But then, yesterday, I woke up to glorious sunshine streaming through all 19 windows in my tiny house. The cold and depressing rain was great for the plants, and I walked outside to full green leaves and bountiful gardens. TWO SEPARATE PEOPLE spoke to me on the train (one asked directions and one told me "bless you" after a sneeze!) and Boston came alive.

After work, I walked over the bridge into the city to get a manicure and pedicure with one of my girlfriends. The place was packed with so many winter feet (finally set free in sandals) seeking a bath and some hot pink polish. Spring was, finally, in the air.

The sun is shining again today, and I can't stop staring at my pretty fingers and toes. For some reason, I've had this line from the Willy Wonka song stuck in my head for the past few days: "If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it."

So true, right?

*Boston last spring, by me.

Seven years ago, today.

2011-05-17T06:49:00.000-07:00

If I have one regret about the time that I have lived in Boston, it would be not going to Cambridge City Hall at midnight seven years ago to witness the first same-sex couples apply for marriage licenses. I get chills just thinking about what it would be like to be in that crowd.

Here's to seven years of equality, Massachusetts!

First image from here, second image from here.

On therapy.

2011-05-16T09:36:00.000-07:00

Today was the third time that I've met with the therapist that I randomly selected from a list provided by the human resources department at my company.

I've tried to be fairly open about this new venture in my life, in the hopes of further normalizing therapy for anyone who is considering it themselves. For example, this morning, when I ran into two coworkers getting coffee and they teased me for rolling in at 9:30, I told them I saw my counselor on Mondays at 8:00AM, and then when they looked concerned, I followed it up with "And I am wondering why I didn't start this years ago, because it turns out that paying someone to listen to all of your problems is the BEST THING EVER!"

Which is actually a true statement (someone whose sole responsibility is to LISTEN to you? Awesome!) but so far, therapy has been much more than that.

On my first appointment, we talked about three or four key issues that I wanted to focus on. On my way to my second appointment, I found myself mentally filtering the things that I was NOT going to tell this guy because they were embarrassing.* And then had to laugh at myself for finally deciding to pay someone to help me solve my problems and then deciding which problems I was not going to tell him about because they might cast me in a less-than-flattering light. This led to two helpful realizations.

First, I had always wondered how therapy worked. How would it fix me? I think the answer is that it won't fix me, but it will give me tools to fix myself. But I can only fix things that I admit to. This wasn't about being honest with my therapist (who would never know if I told him or didn't tell him certain things.) This was about being honest with myself. Which... is tough. But has actually been one of the most useful parts of the whole thing. When you bury something, you can pretend it isn't there, but then it pops up at the most inconvenient time possible, like during a major life transition, or maybe wedding planning! If I dig up what I've been burying, I think I'll be able to learn how to deal with those issues on MY time, not just whenever they show up.

Second, I find it helpful to remind myself that I am not the best case nor the worst case that he has ever seen. I am not the most screwed-up, and I am not the least screwed-up. I am somewhere in the middle, and since he has both seen everything and does this for a living, he's not going to judge me for anything that I throw at him. It's like getting a bikini wax, right? You are totally vulnerable and awkward, but the professional who you are paying to help you out has seen people who are far more hairy and far less hairy, so you are just one more customer. So embrace that it's embarrassing, but also realize that there is nothing to be embarrassed about.

In fact, embracing the awkwardness of the whole thing is important to moving past the awkwardness. The place I go has a bunch of offices in an old three-story house, and you have to leave your shoes at the door. The fact that I am curled up on a couch barefoot with a man I've never met in a space that looks like his living room is a little weird, and that's ok. Pretending it wasn't weird probably would have made me feel even more self-conscious than I already was.

So. Three Mondays down, and I'm already looking forward to next week. I think that's a good sign.

*You know what's really embarrassing? How long it just took me to figure out how to spell that word. Who knew that there were two r's AND two s's?!

White and shiny.

2011-05-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

I'm totally psyched for my white kitchen cabinets- they turned out even better than I thought they would, and I smile every time I walk in there. Would I do it again? Maybe. If I had a large garage or basement where I could let the doors dry, instead of covering my living room floor with drop cloths, then maybe. Although the thought makes me want to go back to bed for a month.

Here are pictures from 1/2 of the kitchen- all the cabinets are done, but I'll be painting the countertops in a few weeks, which will hopefully help divide up the space. The shiny white cabinets make the late 1990's countertops look even beige-er than they already were.

Cabinets before:

Yes, I know how jealous you are of that stove. I was really sad to see it go.

Cabinets during:

Hello, lovely new stove.

Cabinets after:

We also replaced a 1990's nipple lamp with that cool light fixture, and replaced a 1990's can light over the sink with a can light conversion kit from Home Depot.

What do you think? Will dark grey countertops help complete the look?

That sums it up.

2011-04-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, man, have I been a bad blogger. I almost wrote blooger. Which is maybe what you call someone when they haven't posted for over two weeks?

Things have been good. Kind of hard-good, in the pins-and-needles way it feels to stretch your legs after sitting on the couch for a long time. Jeff put it pretty well the other night when he said something to the effect of "I don't know who you are or what you need right now, but I fully support whatever that is."

I owe a shout out to my girl Jehara, who turns 30 today (whee!) and in doing so, reminded me that 30-year changes don't happen overnight, but sometimes take a long time, and some well-deserved pins and needles. I owe a second shout out to MWK (who, with any luck, I will meet in person in June!) whose honesty and bravery prompted me, after five years of thinking about it, to randomly choose a therapist from my HR website. My first appointment is Monday, and he sounds awesome. Fingers crossed. A third shout out goes to Clarissa, whose book, which recently earned another piece of scotch tape to hold the cover on and which has been glued to my hand for the past few weeks, randomly opened to this one day:

"A new self is on the way. Our inner lives, as we have known them, are about to change. For a time we shall be restless and unsatisfied, for the satisfaction, the fulfillment, is in the process of being born in the inner reality." (p. 468.)

A final shout out goes to my job, which redeemed itself yesterday by inspiring me to write this poem after a weekly Monday morning meeting. Writing your own wake up call is really inspiring- I highly recommend it.

I owe you pictures of my kitchen cabinets (which are beautifully, cleanly, gloriously white) and promise them by Monday. xo

Do you ever wonder

when sitting in a room full of people slowly dying

what was the exact moment

that they gave up?

Her milky eyes must have once burned

with passion, with fire, with

something

...right?

Must have met other eyes with force

or hope

instead of staring at the table

avoiding?

Pale hands perhaps once formed fists

to make a

POINT

(a real one)

not to check his blackberry for the time.

And the words!

Didn't he ever speak about real problems?

Didn't she ever want to change the world?

(The real one, not the one in her head.)

Do they think of these dreams

when they are mumbling about organizational charts?

And do you ever wonder

if you'll escape in time

or if you'll stay

(because it is safe/secure/sensible)

And will you

or the shell of you that remains

remember the exact moment

that you chose to stay

and be one of those people

slowly

dying?

New tab.

2011-04-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

Seeing so many life lists on so many blogs made me inspired to post my own (minus one or two more personal items). So yeah, there it is.

I'm currently working on convincing my grandmother to let me take her to Scotland (where she's always wanted to visit) so we'll see.

Artistic license.

2011-04-05T11:32:00.000-07:00

I painted this on my wall last week. I have been wanting to do it for two years, and something Clarissa wrote triggered it for me last week (and yes, I'll try to have that post up soon!) So I pulled my (fabulous) chaise lounge away from the wall, put down some newspaper, sketched something out on the wall, and started filling it in with leftover green paint from my little desk.

And then Jeff came down the stairs asking me what I was doing.

Um.....

Luckily, he thought it was awesome that I was painting a tree on my wall. Phew.

He came to check on my progress a while later, when I was almost done, and this happened:

Jeff: "That branch that gets bigger is bothering me."

Me: "What?"

Jeff: "Branches get smaller the further out they go, not bigger."

Me: "That is seriously the ONLY thing you could think of to say?"

Jeff: "I'm just telling you the truth."

Then he left the room. Which was probably a good thing.

When I was in fifth grade, I painted a picture in art class based on a photo I'd seen in a magazine. A bunch of trees were growing right out of the water (I'm not sure if they had been flooded or were in a bog) and so that's what I painted. My teacher came over to me, told me that trees don't grow out of water, took the paintbrush out of my hand and painted grass over the water. On my painting! The injustice of that moment still burns me, and when I was working my way through The Artist's Way, I wrote about this moment with glee, and I cannot pass by a tree growing out of water to this day without shouting "SEE?!"

So when Jeff said that, my first instinct was to put some duct tape over his mouth, put him in the car, and drive around town until we found a tree with a branch that got bigger before it got smaller, and shout "SEE???? SEE!?!?!?" until I was hoarse.

Instead, I kept my mouth shut while I finished my mural. And then kept my mouth shut while I cleaned up. And then started cooking dinner. And when Jeff came into the kitchen, he sincerely exclaimed "It looks amazing!" and gave me a huge hug, which made me smile, and put me in a much better position for this to happen:

Me: "This is going to sound silly to you, but just hear me out, ok? One of the reasons that I've never used my easel and my acrylic paints, or that I wait two years to paint a tree on the wall, or that I don't write is that I'm afraid that what I do won't be good. I'm afraid it will suck, and it's scary for me to do those things because what if it DOES suck? Being creative is hard for me, because I'm fighting a lot of type-A voices in my head that tell me not to bother if it won't come out perfectly."

Jeff: "Ok..."

Me: "And I trust you more than anyone, and I appreciate your love and your encouragement and your desire for me to be creative that is stronger than mine in some ways. So next time I paint something or write something, please don't point out the thing that is wrong with it right away. I promise I'll ask for your input if I want it."

Jeff: "I was just pointing out that it didn't look right..."

Me: "I know that, but when you point it out AFTER the paint is on the wall and I don't have any wall paint leftover, there's not a whole lot I can do about it, is there? It's kind of like when your friend shows you a picture of her wedding dress. If she's already bought it, it's perfect. If she hasn't, you can tell her that the sweetheart neckline isn't the best on her. Does that make sense?"

And I saw in his face that suddenly it DID make sense, and he apologized profusely, and he really understood. And I was so freaking proud of myself for waiting until I could present my side in a way that would make sense to him, instead of immediately screaming at him for being a f*cking asshole. Not that this ever happens in my house.

Who am I kidding. It might be years before the ratio of screaming vs. rational tips towards the rational, but this seemed like a good first step.

Live, live, live.

2011-04-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

Last week was a rough one for my college sorority. A woman two years younger than me drowned when a boat to Iguazu Falls in Argentina capsized, killing her and one other man. She was 28. And had just returned from a year in Afghanistan in the military. And was on her honeymoon. I am not sure if it gets more tragic than that.

A few days later, a woman who graduated two years before me was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is 33. With a devoted husband and two gorgeous children. She is going to fight like hell, but seriously?

This led to a deeply introspective weekend for me, and I took advantage of two yoga classes and a few hours alone in a car to do some heavy thinking. And I came up with two things.

Thing one:
My longing for a career I love, the perfect place to live, and the true meaning of my life is manifesting itself in a slightly disturbing way- I am trying to rush through this stage to get to the next one. And this weekend I reminded myself that this is a pretty great stage. Like, really really great. I could list the reasons why I feel especially blessed right now, but suffice it to say at this stage in my life, things are gently, peacefully, sweetly right with the world. I believe that in stages that are not so peaceful, I will look back at this time and wish it could have lasted longer.

Being in the moment is not a strength of mine, but I would like it to be. Realizing that the phrase "this too shall pass" is true for both good and bad times was an excellent reminder to fully immerse myself in what are currently excellent times, so that I can absorb them, and so that when they are gone, I can remember them fully and deliciously.

Thing two:

Live the fuck out of your fucking life. Live, live, live.

Love,
Lauren

Elsewhere: 2000 Dollar Wedding.

2011-04-04T06:21:00.000-07:00

I'm over there today, talking about something that the rest of you have already read over here!

Happy Monday!

Where do babies come from?

2011-03-21T10:55:00.000-07:00

My grandmother told me this weekend that she (who was born in 1920 and grew up on Mission Hill in Boston) used to walk to Harvard Medical School with her siblings to sit on these steps and watch for storks to deliver the babies.

There just isn't anything cuter than that.

Photo from here.

To buy or not to buy.

2011-03-18T07:55:00.000-07:00

This little piece that I did in a writing class last summer is for Vee, who said in the comments that she was searching for a house, and for A, who is being kicked out of her equally perfect first home apartment. And because it is springtime, and therefore the time of year when normal people become insane and think they should buy a home. I have mixed feelings about this idea, but wish you the best of luck.

A Young Couple’s Guide To Buying Your First Home
or
How To Make A Huge Financial Investment Despite Low Emotional Investment

First, become unreasonably attached to the first apartment you and your boyfriend have lived in together. The place where you set up your first Christmas tree, brought home your first cat and patiently waited for her to come out from under the couch where she lived for months, and learned about each others annoying bathroom habits, like leaving little pieces of food from a good floss job on the mirror.

Expect a call from your landlords one day. They will tell you that they they are moving back to town and you’ll have to vacate the perfect, two-bedroom, one-and-a-half baths, three-story, 1920’s row house with the washer and dryer in the basement, the original wide-plank hardwood floors in the kitchen with the sliding glass doors that open on to the private fenced-in garden, five minutes from two subway stops, for $1700 a month that you are unreasonably attached to.

Cry for two weeks. Maybe three. Every time your boyfriend suggests looking for a new place to live, cry again. At this level of unreasonable attachment, this is normal. Although it may grow grating on your relationship after some time. But you won’t care.

Finally, with red puffy eyes, begin trolling Craigslist obsessively for a new apartment. Make sure to compare every listing with the piece of paradise you are currently renting (for only $1700 a month). This is important. This comparison will ensure that you will never find as perfect an apartment, and will cause you to start crying again. Keep trolling Craigslist through your tears.

Become desperate or just exhausted from all the crying and call a realtor. When he introduces himself as “Romeo,” don’t show up for the appointment.

On a Sunday afternoon, you’ll see an ad for an apartment on Craigslist that you are convinced is just what you are looking for. (It won’t be nearly as nice as your current home, but it will be Fine. Wipe away a tear.) Leave a message for the listing agent, and follow up with an email. And another message. Just for good measure. After all, great apartments go like crazy in this area. Finally, he will call you back. Insist on seeing the place as soon as possible. Show up with your boyfriend and spend some time petting the fabulous orange cat that lives there while you quietly agree that it is Fine, but not as Nice As It Was In the Pictures Online. Write a check for the deposit anyway.

On your way to sign the lease, keep thinking about the closet doors that were solid mirrors. Really think about it-- is that what you want to be looking at in your bedroom every day? Let those mirrors get uglier and more 1970’s at every bus stop, and when you finally get to the listing agent’s office, tell him that you won’t sign the lease and you want your deposit back.

Try to feel some sympathy for your boyfriend as you cry the whole bus ride home about how you will have nowhere to live in two months. Try to remember that not only will he also be homeless, but he has been watching you cry for a month now. When you feel good and sorry for him, agree when he suggests you both “just go look” at some places to buy instead of rent, but demand that said places are within a ten minute walk of Davis Square.

Set a strict budget.

Spend three Saturdays looking at options within your budget and within your newly expanded criteria of a twenty-five minute walk to Davis Square with a realtor who luckily possesses both the most annoying voice and the worst driving skills in the whole world. Resist throwing up your banana from lunch as she slams on the brakes looking for the house you are supposed to see. Realize that her third special skill is that she has absolutely no idea how to get around the cities of Cambridge or Somerville or Arlington. Even though she specializes in their housing markets. And has worked there for five years. She will show you some really disgusting options. But they will be within your budget! (Side note: It might be 90+ degrees on all three of these days, which will make you feel like dying in every un-airconditioned home you enter, and will also make you feel like a loser for looking at houses on Saturdays in the 90’s while all your friends are at the beach. Just remember that your friends are not homeless, and you are about to be.)

Go home. Cry a little.

Break up with your realtor. Cite reasons like “We were looking for someone with better knowledge of the Arlington market” while internally screaming “HOW CAN YOU BE SUCH A BAD DRIVER.” Don’t worry-- she won’t hear the internal part.

Realize that you have exactly five and a half weeks to find a home, close on the property, and move out of the paradise that you love that is now full of boxes with no planned destination since you have been unable to find a place to live. Now would be the appropriate time to cry, but since you have run out of tears at this point, put your energy into trolling Craigslist for overpriced rentals while your boyfriend finds a new realtor.

Raise your budget by $50,000.

Aggressively narrow down your choices for places to buy based on the knowledge of tricky realty words that you have learned over the past three Saturdays. See all of them in one day, and over a nervous beer or three at lunch next door to your realtor’s office, agree with your boyfriend about which one to put an offer on. Do this the next day.*

The offer will get accepted. You will feel excited and also like vomiting. This is normal. Set the closing date for three weeks away.

Say yes when your boyfriend suggests going out of town the next weekend. Fall down to both your knees in shock in front of your boyfriend, who has been saying for three and a half years that he never wanted to get married, when he gets down on one knee and proposes at the exact spot where you first said that you loved him. Say yes again.

Two weeks later, walk two blocks from your fully-packed perfect apartment to City Hall with your fiance and do your best to ignore the incredibly uncomfortable divorce happening at the table next to you as you sign your name 800 times and agree to spend more money than you will ever have in your life. Instead of feeling elation as you are handed the keys to your new home, you might only be able to wonder why they are covered with an incredibly ugly American Flag motif. This is normal. You have other things on your mind anyway.

For further instructions, please see “The Reluctant Homeowner’s Guide To Liking Their First Home As Much As They Liked Their Perfect Apartment In East Cambridge” or “The Anti-DIY Guide to Making Repairs on Your Own House, or, How to Call a Contractor.”

*This story actually omits the fact that we saw almost 100 houses and put offers on three of them before finding our home. Don't despair- it will happen!

Patience.

2011-03-16T16:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I try too hard to find analogies in seemingly unimportant events, but since you have put up with me this long and are still reading, I hope you will continue to give me a pass on this possibly annoying habit.
After two years of living in it, I finally felt like my house was my home (I might have been grieving our perfect apartment in the city for that amount of time, but that's another post) and started working on it in earnest. One of the things I really wanted to do was to separate our one big rectangle room into a "living room space" and a "dining room space." One of the pieces to this was to find two chairs that I could put opposite the couch, to create a barrier that would define the space.

I decided in November that I needed two chairs for the living room. I also decided that I did not want to pay full price for them, and would really rather find them used and maybe reupholster them to what I wanted. So the Craigslist stalking began. I found a few over the months, but they either ended up not being what I wanted, or someone else showed up to claim them before I could. So I let them go, and just kept looking.

On Thursday, I found the perfect chairs. $80 for both, good bones, and an easy-to-reupholster seat and back. I told the woman who was selling them that I would pick them up on Saturday after work if she hadn't sold them by then. On Friday, I found even more perfect chairs- armless, sleek, and new-looking, for $50 for both, with no re-upholstering needed. It was the first day in months that I had driven to work, because I was heading to run a student retreat about 20 miles south. The chairs were located three miles from the retreat center. I swung by on my way down, and they were mine. Perfect.

Then today, I found these. They are fun and bright and way less boring then the khaki chairs I just bought, and they're on clearance with free shipping. So I bought them. They can be returned to any Target store, and I could easily re-sell the Craigslist chairs for what I paid for them.

My point is, I patiently waited for months to find exactly what I wanted at a price that I was willing to pay, instead of just going to a furniture store and paying a premium on whatever they had in stock. I didn't stress over it, and eventually, three options appeared all at once. Which makes me wonder... what if I were able to be this patient in every area of my life?

It is really easy for me to feel (and I often do) that since I haven't yet discovered my passion in life, I must not have one. Or since I haven't found the ideal career, I need to be content to just make a paycheck forever. It must be too late. I must have missed that boat ten years ago. Logically, I realize that this is ridiculous, but emotionally, that is how it feels. I am chomping at the bit for things to "start," when I'm not really sure what those things are. But I want them to start anyway. Right now!

It is almost as though I'm willing to walk into the first furniture store I pass, and choose from whatever they have in stock that day. And I think that my life choices deserve a bit more than that.

Before I found the chairs, I had our couch that we bought four years ago, which we both fit on perfectly. I found a rug from IKEA for $20 (!!) that I really liked. I sold our cumbersome and too-large coffee table to buy a cheap glass one that shows more of the rug, and makes the room feel bigger. I hung one set of curtains, and then replaced them. My living room, in other words, came together piece by piece until it was only missing one thing. And I lived with it like that for a long time, and enjoyed it.

Life is (hopefully) long and (hopefully) happy is most areas. I could spend hours listing my blessings, but just for the sake of time, let's go with this: I am madly in love with a man that I am happily married to, I own a home that I am able to beautify, I live near most of my family and am able to fly to Florida* to visit my grandmother on a regular basis, I have an incredible group of friends and an amazing support system, and 8 months out of the year, I really love my city. The couch, the rug, the curtains- they're all there. It seems like a good idea to spend my energy enjoying them, and put my patience to work on the more elusives that haven't arrived yet. And trust that not only will they arrive, but when they do, I'll have practiced patience to such an extent that I am able to weigh and evaluate them, and maybe even change my mind a few times, until I have settled on what is just right for me.

Acknowladging that the process and the journey is actually really fun is so freeing, and helps with the patience.

*Where I am going tomorrow, and where it is forcasted to be 78 and sunny every. single. day. Suck it, winter.
**Photo of the living room with the current chairs, which are so light that Foxxy managed to knock one over today. I think we might be switching them out.

Rolling in the Deep.

2011-03-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

While I am wrapping my brain around an actual post, I leave you with Adele's "Rolling in the Deep." For three reasons:
1. The song rocks. Duh.
2. The video rocks. Those water glasses and ninja in powder just kill me.
3. Adele is freaking gorgeous. How does anyone over the age of 10 have skin that perfect?

Falsies for everyone!

2011-03-10T07:45:00.000-08:00

Here is the site for cheap glasses. Enjoy, and send me pictures of your new frames!!

Also, do not be afraid of being made fun of for wearing fake glasses. It is no big deal as long as you own it. My students just thought I had always worn contacts before, and to my coworkers (who know better), I said "They're fake! Aren't they awesome?!"

Just consider it a statement necklace for your face.

* Picture of the Jerry Macguire kid, who totally proves that kids are cuter in glasses.

Wearing falsies.

2011-03-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

But not like that!

When I was in first grade, all the cool kids had glasses. I was not (nor have I since been) a cool kid, which is perhaps fairly obvious? But I decided that I wanted glasses, so, after one of the many public service announcements about telling your teacher if you couldn't see the board, I did just that. I told my mom that everything was fuzzy and that it was hard to see.

She took me to an eye doctor, who I wasn't smart or savvy enough to lie to. I like to think of how happy I was when I got things right (insert image of eager seven year old with her hand as high in the air as possible. Not a cool kid.) So I imagine when he said, "Read me the row of letters," I brightly told him all the letters exactly as they appeared, puffing up my chest in pride in the process. Nevertheless, I was disappointed when he told my mom that I did not, in fact, need glasses.

Fast forward ten or so years, when my mom commented on that visit to the eye doctor, and I casually told her that I hadn't really needed to go, but that I just wanted glasses. To which she responded something to the effect of, "I HAD NO JOB! I HAD NO HEALTH INSURANCE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT VISIT TO THE EYE DOCTOR COST ME?!?!?!"

Whoops.

So I have been "cursed" with 20-20 vision ever since. Until a friend told me about an amazing website where glasses start at $6.95 a pair. And you could upload a photo of your face to try them all on. Friends, I just could not resist.

I bought two pairs. And now I am wearing falsies at work.

Please tell me you all hold on to some of your childhood fantasies.... anyone?

New York, New York.

2011-03-02T09:49:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, I got a call from my oldest friend. We met when we were 14 and became friends when we both expressed a shared dislike for someone else in our freshman class. Oh, high school. We aren't great at keeping in touch, and hadn't seen each other in six years or so.

She was going to be in NYC for Fashion Week for work, she said, and since we have two other high school friends in NYC (both of whom I hadn't seen for six years or so) how awesome would it be if I came down for a mini-reunion?

I have lived in Boston for almost a decade, and have never gone to NYC for the weekend. I've only been there twice, and hated it both times. And I had a birthday party to go to on Saturday night, so I would be taking the bus for five hours each way to be in the city for approximately 20 hours.

So obviously I said yes!

And then proceeded to Freak. Out. about what I was going to wear. I was meeting a friend who was attending Fashion Week, and a friend whose parents own a multi-million dollar home are are presumably neighbors with Puff Daddy. This fact apparently rendered me helpless when it came to choosing my own clothes. I posted it on Facebook, I tried on every dress in my closet, I emailed Meg and was all "You lived in NYC- what do I wear to go out dancing?" and she was all "Shit, I don't know- dressy?"

And then I got there, and learned four things, one of which was very important.

1. I know how to dress myself. I am definitely not "fashionable," I am not skinny, and I really do prefer sensible shoes, but I have lived in this body for 30 years and I know what to put on it to make myself feel pretty. I was not more or less well-dressed than my fashionable friends, and it was not because I stressed over what to wear, it was because I own clothes that look good on me. Turns out that one of the benefits of being a grown-up is you can begin to realize that you are more capable of certain things that you originally thought, including putting on clothes. I cannot even tell you how many hours of agonizing over my closet this will save me in the future!

2. New York is awesome! It is huge, and sprawling, and full of concrete, and more people than should ever live in that many square feet, and there is zero wasted space. Which means that the tiny little bar we went dancing in was surrounded by a hundred other tiny little bars and tiny little restaurants that you wouldn't even realize existed until you walked right up to them, and they were all FULL. OF. PEOPLE. People everywhere. Eating, drinking, dancing, walking, and just living. All night and all day. The first two times I went there, this terrified me, and this time I thought it was amazing.

3. New York is dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty. I realize I was there on a grey, cold day at the end (I hope) of a VERY long and snowy winter involving more sand on the roads than normal, but I cannot imagine living in the middle of that much trash all the time. The hour I spent standing on the side of the road waiting for the bus was one of the grossest of my life. The wind pinned multiple forms of plastic and cardboard to my body, and I was picking sand out of my eyebrows and hair for days.

4. Seeing old friends is really, really fun. I missed my ten year high school reunion for work, and this day totally made up for that. We did a tiny bit of reminiscing, a tiny bit of "this is what has happened since," and then just had normal conversations. My third friend showed up wearing a giant air cast on his leg, which he clumped down the street in, all the while complaining that his no-longer-fashionable wide-leg jeans would have fit over it, but his (teeny tiny) skinny jeans would not, so he had rolled them up to his knee. My girlfriend who lives in NYC showed up with her shoes in a Forever 21 bag, because she wore flats to walk to the train. And my oldest friend brought a huge suitcase to Fashion Week, and had worn the same dress every single night. So apparently I wasn't the only one concerned about what to wear.

We took a bunch of great pictures, and then my friend left the camera in the cab at the end of the night. So I have only this one, which sadly only features two of us, and doesn't show the air cast or the heels that I insisted on wearing, and seriously regretted by the end of the night. Next time I know- carry flats in a plastic bag. Next time.

A tale of two rings.

2011-03-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

I hesitated a ~~bit~~ lot to publish this post, I think because telling the story of my rings involves exploring some deeply personal values, and the differences between my partner's values. But this blog is all about honestly, and this story certainly is that.

When I say that Jeff proposed completely out of the blue, I am both exaggerating and not exaggerating at all. He had told me for years that he would never want to get married. I thought he was bluffing a little, but not much, in that I assumed that someday we would walk to City Hall hand-in-hand and sign a piece of paper, but not for a very long time. The story of our proposal is for another post, but the point is that when he got down on one knee in the exact spot where we first said "I love you," we had never, not once, discussed anything remotely related to engagement or a wedding. The future, our lives together, decisions about family and children, the house we were about to close on- we had covered all that, but had completely avoided any exploration of our opinions about those traditional details.... like a ring. For more reasons than one, I wouldn't necessarily recommend this, but there we were.

A bit more background: Jeff had given me three pieces of jewelry before he proposed. He spent hours searching for each one, and each is incredibly different from any jewelry that I've ever seen. They are almost masculine in nature- thick, chunky, striking, and totally original. So I thought, if someday he ever DID decide he wanted to get married, and if he decided to propose with a ring, that the ring would resemble the jewelry he had given me. Funky and unique.

After I fell down on both of my knees next to him, Jeff pulled out of his pocket a very traditional platinum solitaire ring with, for lack of a more delicate term, a Big. Honkin. Diamond.

And with that, all of our values around a hundred life issues were thrown into stark relief, right there on my finger.

Longevity. Permanence. Tradition. Assumptions. Money. Spending. Saving. Future.

When we got home that weekend, he said I could trade it in if I wanted something else. Part of me wanted to, for various reasons- it looked like every engagement ring I'd ever seen, for a superficial one, and I'd rather take a vacation to New Zealand, for a more practical one. But as Jeff told me the story of searching for this ring- the shopping during his lunch hour, the months looking online, and the stone he had fallen for purely because he found it beautiful, his opinion that this was the most important (physical) gift he'd ever give me, I couldn't do it.

Two weeks before he proposed, I went out of town for work for about six days. When I came home and walked in the apartment, I was instantly embraced in one of the most emotional hugs Jeff has ever given me. When I realized that he had picked up the ring while I was gone, and all those feelings about our future together that he had been alone with for a week rushed out when I walked in the door, I thought of all those feelings going into the circle of metal on my finger. And you can't just trade that kind of emotion in. Even if the thought of how much it cost makes you want to throw up a little.

So I wore the ring. And we planned a wedding. And we bought Jeff a wedding band, but we didn't buy me one. I couldn't decide, for one thing (which was another good reason not to trade in the ring- I still wouldn't have one if left to my own decision-making!) I didn't want any more diamonds, and none of the metal bands looked right, and nothing vintage looked right next to my engagement ring, and besides, I had other things to think about. And I struggled with spending any more money on jewelry for my finger. So when we passed around our rings for our family and friends to bless while Jeff's uncle sang "You're My Home," my engagement ring went around the room. And that's what I've worn since. My argument being, I already have one nice ring, so why would I need two?

Until the day that Meg ran a sponsored post for Turtle Love, Co. I clicked on the link for fun, and there it was in the sale section- a tiny, 3mm women's flat band in sterling silver. For 50% off. Which made it $15. No joke. When I emailed Turtle Love to ask a question, they wrote me back and said I was getting the last one. And when it arrived, beautifully wrapped as only amazing small businesses can do, it fit perfectly. And I am completely enamored with this little band, that actually looks incredible next to the ring that my husband poured so much love into.

So now I wear my big honkin' diamond next to my sweet sterling silver band. Or just the band (which is a little bigger than my engagement ring, which is perfect for those nights that I accidentally finish a bottle of red by myself and my fingers get fat. Ahh, practicality.) And I feel peace about the two symbols of my relationship, which, when I put them on, Jeff laughed and said "They're like you and me!" What he meant was, they represent his high-end jeans and my clearance rack dresses. Hugo Boss and Target. Splurging and saving. They are a balance, which is what we are. Some days we will tip too far in one direction, and the other person will always be there to pull us back to the middle. And if that is what I think of every time I look at my hand, I couldn't ask for more.

Also.

2011-02-14T11:10:00.000-08:00

Six years ago today, I received a dozen red roses (in a box, thank GOD) in my office. Jeff and I had met almost exactly a month earlier, and we were both uncommitted (read: seeing other people). When my coworker saw that box of roses, she squealed at the top of her lungs "Which one are they FROM?"

The fact that I actually was not sure which date from the weeks before had sent me flowers was not exactly a fact that I wanted to be broadcast throughout my office.

The card simply said: Happy Valentine's Day. -J

Jeff said once that he would add a letter every time he sent me flowers. I think he made it to "Jef" before he forgot. I love Valentine's Day as an excuse to make pretty cards and wear pink tights and tell my friends I love them, but I've never liked it as a couple's holiday. Even still, I can't help but smile remembering the 24 year old girl who opened that card and got smacked in the face realizing that this one might be around for a while.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-02-14T08:45:00.000-08:00

In honor of the date, my adorable brother just started a blog, First One's On Me, about his adventures in online dating.*

Enjoy.

*Feel free to also send this to any single ladies in the Boston area!

Elsewhere.

2011-01-27T05:27:00.001-08:00

I'm over at A Practical Wedding today, with my very own Lazy Girl's Guide to Making Shit.

Enjoy!

Worth a shot!

2011-01-25T07:59:00.000-08:00

Are any of you lovely blog-ladies located in St. Louis? I'll be taking 15 undergraduate students there from February 10-13, and it would be great to spend some time with actual adults, and make some more friends. Not that I don't love my students. But you understand.

In other news, it was -7 degrees here in Boston yesterday morning. Do you know what this means? Among other things, it means that your snot actually freezes inside your nose while you are waiting for the bus. Just FYI. Today is a heat wave with a high of 33 degrees. And tomorrow 12 more inches of snow. Which I will simply shovel on top of the 5 foot drifts on either side of my driveway, obviously. I think that seeing around corners when walking or driving is completely overrated.

While shoveling, I will be plotting a move to some of the warmer locations you suggested.

Finally, remember a long time ago when I asked for advice on my kitchen? I have finally kicked my lazy ass into gear. I spent all day Saturday painting the formerly yellow walls Moonshine (I didn't even test the color- that's how much I trust John and Sherry) and then Jeff and I hung two new light fixtures. I am (deep breath) going to start painting the cabinets white... tonight. There. I said it. Now I have to do it. So, within a month or so, I'll be able to reveal how we brought a 1980's kitchen into the new millennium. Hint: it involved getting rid of any appliances in Harvest Gold.*

*Ok, the washer and dryer are still Harvest Gold, but they are in the basement. Not at the top of my priority list.

How timely.

2011-01-20T11:35:00.001-08:00

Boston was named the 6th rudest city in America by Travel and Leisure this week.

How timely.

An open letter to college women.

2011-01-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

Dear traditionally-aged college women,

I was once a traditionally-aged college woman. My masters degree is specifically focused on working with college students. For the past nine years, I have worked in jobs advising college women. I have spent more nights and weekends with you than I care to recount. All that to say that I genuinely like you. I think you are funny, hopeful, and full of so much potential to make the world a better place. But there are a few things that need to be said.

First, there is a rumor that women gain weight when they go to college. This is true for some, but more importantly, your bodies are still growing up, and in the four years that you are in school, they will start to become more "woman" and less "girl." You know what that brings? Boobs. And hips. And a butt. All these body parts are pretty fabulous, and they will assist you in attracting attention from potential romantic partners, and will assist you in bearing children someday, should you choose to do that. What they will not do is fit in the clothes that you owned before your body grew up. When I see you wearing a dress that you bought during your sophomore year in high school, it is immediately obvious that you didn't have those boobs back then, and you're not really sure what to do with them now that they are here. They are here for good, so embrace them! And while you're at it, buy them some nice things to wear. You'll feel more comfortable, and your professors will feel more comfortable when you show up to class. Trust me.

Second, we need to talk about your feet. I know that your Uggs are warm and comfortable, and that flip flops are the easiest thing to throw on in the summer when your toes are dying to be free. Despite the warnings from every fashion publication and podiatrist in the world, I also live in flip flops all summer, so I get it. You can wear whatever shoes you want if you just please, for the love of all that is holy, Pick. Up. Your. Feet. I can hear you coming from a mile away, and it's not pretty. When I hear someone scuffing her feet when she walks, I immediately assume that she is lazy and clueless. I realize that this makes me judgy, which I own, and is an unfair assessment, which I own, but I think it anyway. I'm willing to bet that I am not the only person in the world who makes these unfair assumptions, so maybe just stop scuffing? Try it with me. Pick up one foot (all the way off the ground!) and then put it down. Now pick up the other one, move it in front of you, and put it down. Keep practicing. Your newly-minted hips will appreciate this as much as I do, especially when you are 90.

My third and final point is about how intelligent I know you are. You are more educated than 95% of the global population. You are currently taking classes, writing papers, having debates, and thinking critically as your ethical and moral reasoning abilities take a giant leap to the next stage of development. You are forming yourself as an adult, and growing tremendously in the process. So, do me a favor, and record yourself talking one day. Then transcribe it, and see what it looks like on paper. Because when I record you during focus groups? And transcribe it later? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO SAY. The word "like" is grossly overused, and you KNOW this, so stop using it. Or just use it a little. Form the sentences in your head before you open your mouth to speak. Because if you use a few words to speak concisely, people listen. When you use asmanywordsaspossibleandtripoverthem, then people tune out immediately. And assume that you are not intelligent. Which I KNOW that you are. Make your words count, and they will mean more.

In summary:
1. Buy clothes that fit you NOW so you feel great.
2. Pick up your feet and walk with your head held high.
3. Really listen to what you are saying when you speak, and make it count.

The world deserves to know what you have to contribute without having to dig through distractions. And you are driving me a little crazy. I still adore you, though. I can't help it.

Love,
Lauren

Feeling the love. Or not.

2011-01-19T07:30:00.000-08:00

I spent my weekend facilitating a fraternity leadership conference hosted in an Archabbey in the middle of nowhere. It was... peaceful. And far enough from an airport without direct flights to make for really long travel days. My favorite part was that the fraternity presidents came from 120+ chapters all over the country, so they were all completely different from each other, leading to some interesting conversations and some hilarious looks from the men who must have been thinking (to be read aloud in your best "dumb boy" voice) "There is NO WAY that this guy is my fraternity brother."

But the best part about flying through and staying in the midwest were the incredibly friendly and genuine people. For a full weekend, I had doors held for me, was wished "good morning" and "good evening" a hundred times, smiles were given and returned, and I felt welcomed and comfortable. Even in the airport.

I flew into Boston last night, and it snowed this morning. It took me 90 minutes to commute 5 miles, and every inch of that commute was full of unfriendly people. When I finally pushed my way off the bus and walked up the steps to work, the person four feet in front of me let the door slam in my face.

In many ways, I have an inappropriate love affair with Boston. I love that you can walk everywhere. I love the river running through the city. I love the gardens downtown, and the wide city sidewalks, and the bustle. I love the local restaurants, I love the cultural enclaves, and even the most touristy part of town is one of my favorite places to be. I have lived here for nine years, and if it weren't for the winter (especially THIS winter) I would consider settling here for the long haul.

But.

Sometimes I just think that these are not my people.

I told Jeff once that I feel like I have to squelch my true personality when I take public transportation, because if you smile or say hello to people here you are a freak show. Who other freak shows might start to follow if they sense you are open to communicating. When walking down the street, everyone looks at the ground. Or straight in front of them. People avoid eye contact so much that I often have to get out of the way of someone who is going to bump into me because they refused to admit that I was there. And if you do happen to make eye contact with a stranger, there is usually a hard stare that follows. Or an immediate averting of the eyes.

I am aware that by being friendly, I can change this a bit, and it does work. I smile at people. I try to chat with cashiers and waitstaff and the person next to me on the bus (sometimes). Jeff's mom gave me a pair of adorable grey earmuffs for Christmas, which seem to make people nicer to me (I think they are mistaking me for a five year old), so I wear those. But I wonder- is it worth living in a city that requires you to work quite so hard for a bit of friendly human interaction? I don't know if it is.

So, Bostonians, what do you do? And for those who live elsewhere, is my perfect community out there? If our home value ever goes up, I think that Jeff and I would like to live in a small city or town where we could bike most places, walk to grocery stores and coffee shops, where outdoor activities were valued, dogs were welcome, and with more sun and less snow than Boston. Where is it? Denver? Portland? Fort Collins? San Luis Obispo? Somewhere in between?

Advice is welcome. Or maybe we should just start a mini-relvolution and say hello to everyone we pass. Then I could live ANYWHERE!

Conversations.

2011-01-18T11:52:00.000-08:00

New coworker: Wait, have you really been working here for nine years?
Me: Well, not in this job, but yes, at the university.
Her: But are you even old enough to have been working here for nine years?
Me: I'm 30, so... yes?
Her: OMG! I thought you were MY AGE!
Me: How old are you?
Her: 27.

Ok. I know I made a really big deal about turning 30, but I swear that I never thought that it was "older than me" before it happened. It was a big deal because it was a milestone, but I pretty much consider anyone between 26 and 40 to be "my age." This might be partly because my husband is 38, but still.

That said, I do love that people are shocked by my age. My favorite are the parents of my students who ask (as patronizingly as possible) "Are you a freshman?" when they are on campus for Orientation. Um, not really? But thanks, because I know when I'm 50 I'll really appreciate looking 12 years younger!

I have Babcha to thank for those good genes. When I went to visit her in Florida last month, we were both complaining that we have weak fingernails- they chip and break all the time. Finally she said "You know what, Lauren? I have all my hair and all my teeth. All that protein has to go somewhere, so I'll take those things over good nails."

All my hair and all my teeth when I'm 91? Plus an attitude like that? Yes, please!

Did I mention that marriage is awesome?

2011-01-11T05:54:00.000-08:00

Jeff has taken to calling me "mon cherie." Not on a regular basis, but when we are in those joking, giggly moods and it seems appropriate. For example, "You are correct, mon cherie." You may have noticed by my photos, but Jeff is not French. Not even close. Nor does he have even a slight approximation of a French accent. He has a Connecticut accent, if that is even a thing. Which makes the whole thing kind of hilarious.

Except that every time he says it, I can't fight the big stupid grin that shows up immediately.

Yeah, marriage is awesome.

Meet Foxxy.

2011-01-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

Ever since MWK introduced her kitties, I've been thinking that maybe my little orange girl deserves her own post. Best to move along if you don't like cats (who ARE you?) The rest of you, meet Foxxy.

Yeah, I know she's gorgeous. So does she.

To fully understand Foxxy, you have to hear her backstory. Almost four years ago, her foster family found her wandering the mean streets of Dorchester in the middle of March, which is a cold and slushy time to be homeless in Boston. She was about six months old and was literally starving to death, weighing only 3.7 pounds. She was pregnant, had an eye infection, a urinary tract infection, and had to have a little kitty abortion because she was too malnourished to carry the kittens. Here is a photo, courtesy of her foster family, from those early days.

In short, Foxxy was a homeless teenage prostitute whose pimp had let her get pregnant and then abandoned her. So you can forgive her if she has some lingering post-traumatic stress disorder, yes?

Her foster family named her Foxy because her little face looked like a triangle fox face. Jeff and I promptly added an "x" in honor of Foxxy Cleopatra (Beyonce in Austin Powers: Goldmember. You know: "I'm Foxxy Cleopatra and I'm a whole lotta woman!") If I had a good picture of Foxxy's ass you would be able to see how this applies in multiple ways. She's got thighs and a butt, and she works them.

Anyway. For the first, oh, YEAR, she was terrified of Jeff. Which in turn made him yell things like "Why do we clean her damn litter box every day if all she does is hide under the couch?!" Which would make her run faster. With many dried chicken treats and lots of love, she is now the world's best lap cat. Until there is another person in the house. But I think baby steps are ok.

And she and Jeff are the best of friends. As evidenced by her preference of his lap. I think it's because he sits still more often. But she meets me at the door every single day when I come home, which she does not do for him. So maybe she does love me more.

Thanks for indulging me!

Blogging is so freaking cool.

2011-01-07T06:28:00.000-08:00

You all might have noticed that there is a pretty amazing community of smart and interesting women online. Yeah, I thought you had noticed. So many people who post things that they stole directly from my own head, I am certain of it. Someone whose blog you read might be the same person behind you in line at the grocery store, but you're not telling her about your brilliant epiphanies about marriage. That would be weird.

Anyway, I was incredibly lucky this past month to meet not one but TWO of the incredible women whose blogs I read every day. I know. It was as awesome as it sounds.

I was in Phoenix for a conference in early December, and I remembered that Jehara lived in Arizona, so I emailed her to see where. The answer? A 20 minute walk from my hotel. I skipped out on the incredibly boring business meeting to have a two and a half hour lunch with this fantastic person and bond over Mexican food. Jehara is a vegetarian who eats mostly vegan, but she insisted that we get the fried ice cream for dessert. Which makes her my kind of girl. (It was delicious.)

Then two days ago I noticed that A. from Accordions and Lace was going to be in Boston, so I emailed her to see if she wanted to meet up. And she did! We went to dinner and a great little place in the South End and shared a carafe of red wine and some incredible meatballs and these teeny tiny little brussels sprouts. We learned that, together with our partners, we both had back-and-forth conversations with our cats, with the cats' voices being loosely based on the way they meow. That made me breathe a HUGE sigh of relief. I'm not the only one!

The best part of all this was that there was zero awkwardness in sharing a meal with someone I'd never actually met. The conversations never lagged, and in both cases we could have talked for hours longer had I not had a conference to go to or an hour commute home on a school night. We talked about families and partners and hopes and dreams and future careers and academia and birth control and politics (both American and Canadian) and children and not children and kittens and winter and moving to a new place and health and food and I could go on and on. In other words, we talked about everything that our blogs are about. But in real life. With great food.

One of the dreams on my Mondo Beyondo list was "Create or find a circle of like-minded, challenging, and soul-fulfilling friendships." How fascinating that the interwebz could be the possible provider of such a wish. A thousand thanks to both Jehara and A. for helping me realize that!

Lesson: Email people that you think are fabulous if you'd like to meet them in person. If they don't want to, they will make up an excuse, so you don't have to worry. But probably they will want to. And I guarantee it will be great.

On an unrelated note, how freaking cool is marriage?! Last night I got home from dinner around 11PM. I walked into the bedroom where Jeff was under the covers reading a collection of Nabokov stories, wearing his glasses (which he only wears at night), and Foxxy was jumping all over him, attacking the ribbon bookmark that was attached to the book. It made me wonder what I could have possibly done in a past life to deserve such perfection in this one.

Really and truly a grown-up.

2011-01-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

Every time I get a Christmas present in the mail from my step-grandmother, I am jolted back to two particular moments in my life when I realized what it really meant to be an adult.

The first was during my first year out of college. I was living with one of my sorority sisters in a crappy apartment in Boston, literally ten feet from an above-ground subway that would screeeeeecchhh around the corner every five minutes. Unless the tracks were wet, which left me uncharacteristically hoping for rain all the time. I woke up one morning, and stole a few extra minutes in bed after my alarm, when my eyes popped open to the strangest revelation. Nobody was going to make me get out of bed.

Nobody was going to knock on my door and make sure I put on work-appropriate clothes and went into the office. Nobody would force me to show up, or be responsible, or pay my bills. All those choices, and consequences, were mine to make. I had been in college on the other side of the country from my family for four years, and working in Boston for at least six months, but for some reason, this was the first time that I felt, deep in my bones, that my life was really up to me.

You know how when cartoon characters are nervous, they make a big "GULP" sound? That is totally how I felt.

A year later, living in my second apartment in the city, all my roommates had left for work and I was on the way out, when the doorbell rang and UPS delivered a big box for me (from the aforementioned step-grandmother.) It was two weeks before Christmas, and I needed to catch the bus and go to work. I was just going to throw it inside the door, but as I held it to my chest, I was strangely giddy with the idea that I could open this present BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Nobody was going to tell me to wait!! Nobody could make me put it under the tree!

I slammed the front door and ran upstairs in my coat with this giant box and opened it up. It was a care package-themed gift, with things like boxes of tea, a mug from Williamsburg, little hard candies. I opened every single thing that she had so lovingly wrapped with tissue paper, and I gleefully exclaimed over everything. Two weeks before Christmas. Alone. In my apartment. Late for work.

Every time I use that Williamsburg mug I think of that morning. And I every time I get her gift, I open it immediately, if nothing else, to honor that funny 23-year-old girl who finally realized that growing up wasn't going to be so bad.

Flash Mob Wedding.

2011-01-06T11:18:00.000-08:00

So, for the record, I find the idea of getting married in a mall in the middle of a flash mob totally bizarre. I didn't expect to be moved at all by this, but just LOOK at this couple and their faces. They are so happy, and overwhelmed, and emotional- it's beautiful.

So screw convention, and what's tacky or right or wrong. If there are two people in love, weddings are beautiful. No matter where they happen.

Sustainable Love.

2011-01-03T13:27:00.000-08:00

When Jeff and I first met, we had a conversation one night in which he told me that he was the most important person in the relationship (to him.) This totally pissed me off, but over time, I found that he could not have been more spot-on. Of course there will be times in our lives when one or the other person needs more than usual, but if in the long-term I do not take care of myself first, I'll never be a good partner.

The New York Times confirmed my husband's theory this past weekend. Lucky him. He loves being right.

Happy new year!!

Oh, hello, Christmas.

2010-12-22T08:54:00.000-08:00

Those of you who spend time on public transportation in pretty much any city in the world will be familiar with The Metro, a free newspaper full of dubious reporting and way too many articles about Lindsay Lohan. This morning as I stopped to chat with the man who hands out this paper, he said that he had something for me, and gave me a Christmas card. He signed it "Dave (The Metro Man.)"

I wrote this little story in one of my writing classes this summer, and his card made me think that now was the perfect time to share it. Here's to anyone who shows that elusive holiday spirit every single day of the year. I hope that the next few days are peaceful and enjoyable for all of you, and to those who celebrate... Merry Christmas.

The Client

Because you are the kind of person who says hello to people, you say hello to him too. You do see him every day, after all, in the crush of people running to catch the morning train as if their lives depend on it, even though another one will come right behind it. He stands calmly in the middle, right past the escalator, and greets you when you go by as he hands you a newspaper. So of course you say hello. And you start to remember his face more clearly.

One day, you board the bus you ride all week on a Saturday instead of a weekday, and you automatically say hello to the man sitting at the front whose face you recognize, because you recognize it. It isn’t until you’ve said hello (extra enthusiastically and with a wave, no less) that you realize you’re not sure how you recognize him. But then the hello is half a second too long to NOT sit down next to him, but you still can’t place where you know him, and your internal dialogue is going something like “crapidy crap crap, how the hell do I get myself into situations where I sit next to a complete stranger who I now have to make conversations with because I actually said hello to them? Why can’t I be stiff and unfriendly like everyone else in this goddamn town? What the hell did I just do?” while all along your memory is jumping up and down yelling “I know! I know!” and trying desperately to get you to notice that some part of you DOES remember how you know him

So you sit down, and then you realize. He’s the person who hands out the free newspaper. He wears an orange vest, and he hands out the Metro, and if you look especially nice he sometimes says, “You look fantastic today!” and if you are pulling a suitcase he says, “I hope you have a wonderful vacation!” You’ve said good morning to him a hundred times or more, but you don’t know his name. And now you are sitting next to him on the bus on a Saturday, because of an overly enthusiastic “Hello” that was really a reflex born of some vague recognition his face.

So you ask him if he lives in your town (since that’s where the bus is coming from,) and he says no, that he was just meeting friends for coffee there. And then he says that he’ll probably meet friends for coffee at different stops on the same bus route all morning, and by the time he’s done, he’ll have had so much coffee that he’ll feel like he’s been swimming in it.

You are surprised by his humor and his candor, although you really shouldn’t be, since you don’t actually know him at all. You ask him how long he has been handing out the Metro. Six years, he’ll answer, and he’s had some of the same clients for the whole time. He calls them clients, even though he hands out a free newspaper and no money is ever exchanged. It is that simple declaration that indicates how seriously he takes his job handing out the free newspaper that cracks your heart open, and you smile in a way that makes him feel like you have really, really enjoyed this short bus ride with him. He smiles back in a way that makes you feel like you really connected to another person, in this city full of people who would rather stare at cement than another person’s eyes and who would rather listen to their headphones than a human voice.

All of a sudden it’s your stop (at the train station where he hands out the Metro every weekday) so you tell him your name. He tells you his (it’s Dave) and then warns you apologetically that he sees a lot of people and probably won’t remember your name. And you tell him it’s ok, and you say how glad you are that you met him. And you mean it.

And on Monday morning when you say “Hi, Dave!” he does remember your name, and now when he tells you that you look fantastic or to have a nice vacation, he says it with your name on the end. And sometimes he asks you how your garden is handling the lack of rain, because you told him you have a garden. And sometimes you miss the train coming in on purpose, just to chat with him for a minute or two. Because talking for a minute or two with someone who remembers your name, someone who thinks of you as his client, even though half the time you don’t even take the free newspaper if you brought a book and don’t want to get your hands covered with newsprint, makes the whole day seem a little bit less like the brain-dead stretch of desert that your job has turned it into.

After all, there’s always another train right behind it.

The Auntie Brigade: Part 1.

2010-12-13T16:02:00.000-08:00

I've told you all before that I am almost pretty certain that I don't want children. I didn't even like them for a long time. And then, unbidden, gorgeous, funny, amazing little kids started sneaking into my life from all sides. Children of coworkers, friends, and cousins made my stone cold heart melt in different ways, and I fell in love with each of them a little bit. But I never felt like they were a part of me. Until last week.

My whirlwind trip through Arizona started with I flew to Phoenix a day early for my conference and drove almost two hours south to visit a girlfriend from college and meet her five-month-old daughter. Just a quick one night trip, no big deal.

Um, WRONG. I walked into the living room where baby Adele (the most adorable old lady name I have ever heard) was just waking up from a nap. She opened her big blue eyes to my giant head leaning over her, and smiled. A huge, gummy, "so excited to see you" smile. No fear in this one. Over the next 24 hours, I held her, distracted her from how much she hated her car seat, pushed her in her stroller, let her tiny little hands grip my finger, smelled her perfect baby smell, gushed over her delectable chubby baby thighs, and I was completely smitten. My Aunt Lauren instinct kicked in, hardcore.

For the first time in my life, I felt responsible for a child. I felt like I needed to see her as much as possible so she would know who I was. I felt an inexplicable urge to buy every overpriced baby dress on Etsy. I wanted to watch her grow teeth, grow hair, grow up. I felt like she was partly mine, and let me tell you, it was amazing. It came out of nowhere and knocked the wind out of me.

A few days later, I was describing this to a wonderful woman at the conference, who is in her late 50's, works for her sorority, and lives in Texas. She asked me if it made me want one, and I thought "Here we go- this southern woman is going to start telling me how I need to have a baby soon." I said no, and she told me that she and her husband decided not to have children either. I was, again, totally shocked, and we proceeded to have an amazingly candid conversation about her choice. She told me how much she loves spending time with her husband, how grateful she is for the experiences they've been able to have, and how she got her friends back when they were in their 40's and their children started leaving for college. And then she said how much she loves spoiling all the young women she's been able to meet through friends or through her work, and how she wouldn't be able to mentor and give so much to them if she had decided to have her own. Which made me want to shout "Yes! That is what I want, too!"

When I was reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed, I really resonated with the Auntie Brigade chapter. When she writes "It's as though, as a species, we need an abundance of responsible, compassionate, childless women on hand to support the wider community in various ways," I cheered. But the part that really got me was this:

"And have you ever wondered what Peter Pan really looked like? His creator, J.M. Barrie, answered that question for us back in 1911. For Barrie, Peter Pan's image and his essence and his marvelous spirit of felicity can be found all over the world, hazily reflected 'in the faces of many women who have no children.'"

I always wanted to be surrounded by nieces and nephews, but I never really knew what it would be like. Adele cleared that up for me. It is completely breathtaking and amazing to want to really be part of someones life when they are only 15 pounds. I can't wait to see where she goes.

Running with the wolves: Choosing what you really want

2010-11-29T13:34:00.000-08:00

Something that has been rolling around in my brain for a few weeks was really brought to the forefront when sitting at the gorgeous Thanksgiving table. If the following does not describe you, you have my admiration, but this is pretty much how Thanksgiving goes for me:

1. Spend several days cooking things and sampling them to make sure they are good.
2. Get to my mom's house on Thanksgiving morning and eat some of her quiche for breakfast.
3. Help with all the cooking and warming of things that have already been cooked.
4. Taste a little of this and that to make sure it is hot enough, or that the mashed potatoes have enough butter (never!!)
5. Sit down at a table FULL of food without feeling hungry since I have been snacking all day.
6. Eat anyway.

Right? Thanksgiving made the following reminder so much more clear.

A while back, a small story in Geneen Roth's Breaking Free From Emotional Eating (yes, you should read it) really resonated with me. Geneen's books focus on giving your body the food that it wants when it wants it. She talks at length about how years of being told to clean our plates, eat three meals a day, eat five small meals a day, don't snack, make sure to snack, don't diet, diet more, weigh less, weigh less than that, weigh more, and on and on and on have ruined our body's own ability to tell us what it needs. That it might take months or years, but that we can get back to that point, and that when we eat what we want when we want it, we don't need to stuff ourselves or starve, because we'll have had just enough.

Geneen tells a story of a woman in one of her workshops who realizes after dinner one night that she wants a piece of cake from a specific restaurant that is 15 miles away in the rain. Her husband goes along with it, and they drive out to get the cake. She eats a couple of bites, is satisfied, her husband finishes it, and they drive home in the rain, singing. Geneen points out that this food "hummed" to the woman, instead of "beckoning" (like when we see something in front of us that we didn't want before, and eat it because it's there) so it fulfilled her.

So when I read the following words in Women Who Run With The Wolves, I was immediately struck by how the way we treat our bodies is similar to the way we treat our souls.

This is how it works: Imagine a smorgasbord laid out with whipped cream and salmon and bagels and roast beef, and fruit salad, and green enchiladas and rice and curry and yogurt and many, many things for table after table after table. Imagine that you survey it all and that you see certain things that appeal to you. You remark to yourself, "Oh! I would really like to have one of those, and one of that, and some of this other thing."

Some women and men make all their life decisions in this way. There is around and about us a constant beckoning world, one which insinuates itself into our lives, arousing and creating appetite where there was little or none before. In this sort of choice, we choose a thing because it just happened to be beneath our noses at that moment in time. It is not necessarily what we want, but it is interesting, and the longer we gaze at it, the more compelling it becomes.

When we are connected to the instinctual self, to the soul of the feminine which is natural and wild, then instead of looking over whatever happens to be on display, we say to ourselves, "What am I hungry for?" Without looking at anything outwardly, we venture inward and ask, "What do I long for? What do I wish for now? What do I crave? What do I desire? For what do I yearn?" And the answer usually arrives rapidly. (p. 117)

There are so many options in life! I could go back to school to be absolutely anything. I could get a different job that would probably pay more money and retire sooner. I could get a different job that paid way less but might be very meaningful. I could have a child. I could not have a child and travel extensively. I could travel once every two years and take painting classes instead. And then when you insert the idea of "success," things become even more overwhelming. What will ensure me a good career? What will make me look good to my high school classmates on Facebook? (Ha!)

So it might be a good idea, as we head into the holiday season of love but also excess, to take a few minutes every day to decide what you want. Clarissa continues:

The decisions do not have to be so large. Sometimes the matter to be weighed is taking a walk versus making a poem. Momentous or mundane, the idea is to have consulted the instinctual self through one or several aspects available to you. (p. 117)

As for me, I cashed in my airline points on a plane ticket to visit my amazing grandmother the weekend before Christmas. Because I miss her, and I am tired of spending so many holiday seasons away from her. But this came after a whole lot of mind-chatter (too expensive, too close to the holidays, blah blah blah.) And I feel so, so good about it.

*Sidenote: I'll be gone for a few weeks at a professional conference and then hiking for a week (you try putting all that in one suitcase- it's not easy!) See you later this month!

60% of the time it works every time.

2010-11-17T13:32:00.000-08:00

So, I was sitting in my office this afternoon, and the air started to smell like a really bad old-lady perfume. I thought that was kind of weird, but the air flow system in the building is all messed up, so sometimes we get weird smells through the vents. Then I started to get a headache, so of course I walked out of my office and asked two other women if they smelled something. They both said yes, and I started kind of sniffing the air. Then a suavely-dressed grad student sitting in the waiting area looked up, and this happened:

Him: It must be me.
Me: No, it can't be you.
Him: I think it is.
Me (stepping closer to sniff): Yep, it's you.
Him: I didn't know it would be so strong.
Me (trying desperately and in vain to dig myself out of this hole): Well now that I know it's a cologne it makes sense.
Him: Does it smell that bad?
Me: It's not BAD, it's just strong.
Him: I didn't know it would be so strong. It's a concentrated musk.

And when he said the word musk, all I could think of was Ron Burgundy.

I profusely apologized, and went back to my office, and five minutes later he left and one of the women who works out front came in, crying from laughter. Apparently, when he left, he told her "I'm really sorry about that. I didn't know it would smell like that. It's supposed to turn women on."

Must have been that other 40% of the time?

Running with the wolves: Buck up.

2010-11-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

I love the phrase "Buck up!" It's not swearing, but sounds vaguely unacceptable, and it comes out like a loving smack upside the head. It's a way of saying "I love you and I'll accept anything you throw at me, and I feel for you that you're going through whatever kind of shit you're going through, but you're wallowing in it right now and I know YOU know it so I don't even have to point it out, so get over yourself and let's go do something fun and/or productive."

Buck up! That's me yelling it at myself. Lovingly. Of course.

In chapter 6, Clarissa tells the story of the Ugly Duckling to illustrate what it is like to feel like an "other," whether in your family of origin or the family you find yourself in the middle of right now. This is one of my favorite chapters in the book, because she so perfectly describes how much it can hurt to be the only one like you. The only one who wants to dance, to paint, to be creative, to break out of the box, to LIVE. And how exhausting it can be to constantly fight against everyone who says, "Just be normal. Just be like us. Everything is fine. Why would you want more?"

And I am. Exhausted. And sometimes I feel like my brain really has turned to mush. And that I used to think I was smart and creative but all that must be gone because it only comes in bursts. And I go home and stare at my unused easel and colored pencils and my unwritten blog posts and think that I just caaaannn't. There's no way I can produce something interesting or beautiful, because *I* don't feel interesting or beautiful.

And then I read this.

"So what is the solution? Do as the duckling does. Go ahead, struggle through it. Pick up the pen already and put it to the page and stop whining. Write. Pick up the brush and be mean to yourself for a change, paint. Dancers, put on the loose chemise, tie the ribbons in your hair, at your wrist, or on your ankles and tell the body to take it from there. Dance. Actress, playwright, poet, musician, or any other. Generally, just stop talking. Don't say one more word unless you're a singer. Shut yourself in a room with a ceiling or in a clearing under the sky. Do your art. Generally, a thing cannot freeze if it is moving. So move. Keep moving."

Stop whining. Be mean to yourself. Stop talking. Just do.

Buck up!

Lessons from the chocolate factory.

2010-11-05T07:46:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I got an email about a sale on Jet Blue flights to Washington, D.C., for $7 each way. Yes, you read that right. So this week, I took Jeff for a whirlwind trip to celebrate his birthday, which was really fun. I realized by the end, however, that it is the exact same hassle to get to and from airports no matter how long your flight is. So next time we're going to California.

Anyway, last night found us both on the couch flipping through available movies on Roku, from which I inexplicably selected the old Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Jeff loves this movie, but I have always found it pretty creepy. I can't stand Charlie. In fact, I pretty much can't stand any of the characters. Except for Violet, who is supposedly from Montana but who really should be from New Jersey circa 1992. I love her blue pantsuit that magically swells in size to accommodate her new blueberry body.

I haven't seen this movie in at least ten years, and my favorite new discovery is the exact nature of the life lessons we are supposed to learn from the four bad children. Which are:

1. Don't eat too much candy.
I have no self control around candy, which was further evidenced over the Halloween weekend. The Oompa Loompas say "What do you get when you guzzle down sweets? What are you at getting terribly fat? What do you think will come of that? I don't like the look of it." Neither do I, my orange friends, especially now that I have to fit into my winter clothes. Neither do I.

2. Don't chew gum like a cow.
This is my favorite, because audible/visible gum chewing gets under my skin and makes me insane. I cannot comprehend how people were raised to think this is ok. "Gum chewing's fine when it's once in a while. It stops you from smoking [really?] and brightens your smile. But it's repulsive, revolting, and wrong, chewing and chewing all day long, the way that a cow does." Repulsive, revolting and wrong? I couldn't have said it better myself!

3. If your child is a brat, it's your fault.
"Who do you blame when your kid is a brat. Pampered a spoiled like a Siamese cat? Blaming the kids is a lion of shame. You know exactly who is to blame: the mother and the father." Yes, just yes.

4. Don't watch TV.
Admittedly, I have a bias here, since Jeff and I have a giant flat screen in our living room that isn't even plugged into the wall. The only thing we can watch on it is movies on DVD or Roku (through Netflix). The only TV I had for about five years before I met Jeff was a 13" with an attached VHS player. Flying to DC on Jet Blue only reinforced how glad we are not to have access to television, because most of it is complete crap. Full disclosure- I am a die hard Grey's Anatomy fan and watch it on Hulu. My students tell me all the time (insert valley girl voice and hair toss here) "Lauren, NOBODY watches Grey's Anatomy anymore." But I do! Anyway, this song was the best: "What do you get from a glut of TV? A pain in the neck and an IQ of three. Why don't you try simply reading a book? You'll get no commercials."

The Oompa Loompas covered most of my bizarre pet peeves in one movie, and how awesome is that?!

Running with the wolves: Sisterhood.

2010-10-22T13:09:00.000-07:00

This week got away from me without a Women Who Run With the Wolves post, but I've been re-reading the book, and have one in the works for Monday.

For now, though, I came across this passage this week about male vs. female energy, and loved it. I am spending my weekend with three of my girlfriends/sorority sisters from college, and our grand plan is to go apple picking (if there are any left!), drink wine, eat salted chocolate on the couch, and have a sleepover. I am beyond excited.

I have always thought the kaffeeklatsch was a remnant of ancient women's ritual of being together, a ritual, like the old one, of belly talk, women talking from the guts, telling the truth, laughing themselves silly, feeling enlivened, going home again, everything better.

Sometimes it is hard to get men to go away so women can be alone with each other. I just know that in ancient times women encouraged men to go away on "the fishing trip." This is a ruse used by women since time immemorial to make men leave for a while so a woman can either be by herself or be with other women. Women desire to live in a solely female atmosphere from time to time, whether in solitude by themselves or with others. This is a natural feminine cycle.

Male energy is nice. It is more than nice; it is sumptuous, it is grand. But sometimes it is like too much Godiva chocolates. We yearn for some clean cold rice for a few days and a clear hot broth to clear the palate. We must do this from time to time. (p. 367)

Wishing all of you enough belly-laughter this weekend to make everything better.

Fat Talk Free Week.

2010-10-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

I'm a little late for the official week, but I thought this video (produce by Delta Delta Delta sorority) was excellent and I wanted to share.

During a class I took with a Lakota medicine man in college, he told us that for the length of the class, we needed to cease all self-depreciating comments. He told us that it was really different to look in the mirror and say "I need to lose a few pounds" than to say "I'm so fat." Looking at and thinking about yourself critically is healthy, but criticizing yourself is not.

It's fine line, but that has always stuck in the back of my head. I work with college women every day, and am amazed at their youth, beauty, and aliveness, and even more amazed that they often don't see it. I wonder how different their lives (and mine) would be if we could actually stop talking to ourselves and each other like this.

Married life.

2010-10-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

(Jeff working with a bunch of tiny tools.)

Lauren: What are you doing?

Jeff: Your necklace is broken.

Lauren: Oh. Wait, what? How did it break?

Jeff: I tried to put it on The Cheat.

Lauren: (shakes head)

Poetry in motion.

2010-10-15T12:13:00.000-07:00

Jeff and I are taking a writing class together through our local community education program. It is held at the local high school, in the "media center" (which is apparently what libraries are called now.) You know you live in a liberal town when, on your way to the library of the public high school, you pass a giant bulletin board for the gay-straight alliance, and the reference room contains encyclopedias of witchcraft, sexuality, women's rights, and rock n'roll. It's pretty awesome.

Last night, we read haikus (did you know they actually do NOT have to be 5-7-5?) and were given the assignment to write 10 this week. We cranked way more than that out over dinner and a pitcher of beer right after class. They ranged from funny...

(mine)

Can't stop watching
Blood everywhere, hot actors
Grey's Anatomy

Christmas Eve is here
All he wants is a flashlight
Love is a cheap date

(Jeff's)

R2-D2 was Jesus
Blips and squeaks replace scripture
Good motivator*

Ears deafened by prejudice
Hear nobody waxing philosophical
What good are Q-tips

...to thoughtful:

(mine)

laughing puppy eyes

gold fur shining in the sun

retrieves my childhood

(Jeff's)

I want to grow wings

Catch up with time

Ask it why it flies

Our instructor said that even if you hate haiku, it is a great way to train yourself to describe an important moment using fewer words, so you only pick the ones that really make you feel something.

Give it a try this weekend!

*MWK- maybe D$ could catch whatever Star Wars joke is hidden in this one? You know, since I think we married the same man. Jeff fell over laughing when I told him the "judge me for being awesome" story.

Jealousy as therapy?

2010-10-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

One of the assignments for the Mondo Beyondo course I took this past summer was to write a letter to someone who had inspired me. The first person I thought of, and subsequently couldn't get out of my head, was a woman I went to high school with. My ten-year reunion was last year, and there was a flurry of friending each other on Facebook, which resulted in weirdly private insights into the lives of people I hadn't spoken to in years.

I was friended by this woman. She was a total jerk to me in high school (although in retrospect possibly less on purpose and more because she was popular and I was not and so she didn't need to be exceptionally nice, if that makes sense) and I couldn't stand her. We are exactly the same age, and I discovered through Facebook that she owns her own creative business, and spends her days helping other people be creative and going to artists retreats. She is redefining what it means to be a young married mother of two girls and is (again, this is only her profile, I realize) refreshingly free and happy. And did I mention she spends her days nurturing her creative energy instead of ignoring it in a cubicle job?

I re-discovered a lot of people from high school last year-- doctors, lawyers, highly successful financial analysts in NYC-- and I wished them all well, but this girl? I was instantly, painfully, INSANELY JEALOUS. And so, like any normal healthy mature person would do, I started obsessively checking her profile every day, all the while growing more and more insanely jealous.

When that Mondo Beyondo assignment came through asking me to thank someone who led an inspiring life, she was not the only person I could think of, but I couldn't get her out of my head. But I obviously couldn't send her a letter, because she was such a jerk in high school. Duh.

Recently, I sent Andrea an email thanking her for the course and telling her that only now were the lessons really sinking in. I described the above scenario to her, and her response included the thoughtful point about how isn't it funny how jealousy can show you what you really want in life?

And I realized that I had never thought about it that way. I was beating myself up about being jealous of this woman who I barely knew and didn't even LIKE ten years ago, instead of taking the time to do some self-reflection about what exactly I was jealous of, and how those feelings could actually just be one way that my deepest desires were screaming to make themselves known. Creativity every day? Owning my own business? Spending my work hours bringing out the best in others? Redefining the many roles in my life? It came out as jealousy, but after digging deeper, it became more clear that these were all things that I admired, but had never imagined myself actually being able to do.

So now I am imagining. And being intentional. And wondering what else I can stop being jealous of, and just DO already.

*My fabulous Babcha, doing a pretty great jealous face, don't you think?

Running with the wolves: A how-to guide.

2010-10-13T00:15:00.000-07:00

I was asked in the comments on my previous post to have a little how-to discussion about reading Women Who Run with the Wolves. So, when I couldn't sleep at 2:00 AM (why do I keep waking up in the middle of the night?) I pulled the book out and turned on the computer fully intending to do just that.

But here's the thing. I feel totally inadequate for this task. I am not a Jungian scholar, a historical scholar, or a women's history scholar. I am not a professor or a teacher of anything, nor do I even have that much life experience under my belt.

In addition, it took me years to read this book. Years! I didn't finish it on a plane flight. I would pick it up, read until I was confused or overwhelmed, and then put it down for days/weeks/months. I'd pick it up again and find something that was inspiring and relevant to me right now, and I'd keep reading until it got overwhelming again.

So maybe that's the first piece of advice. Don't get discouraged by the introduction. By the end of the book, you won't be thrown off when Clarissa (I've been on a first-name basis with this woman for years in my head, so I'm just going to own it- ha!) starts throwing out terms like "wild woman archetype" or "La Loba." You'll just roll with it. The introduction, however, is one big soup pot of what she had been studying intensely for over 25 years when she wrote the book. You wouldn't expect to understand someone's dissertation upon first read, so I suggest you similarly cut yourself some slack with this.

Here's what you need to know from the intro:

Clarissa writes this book so that women may regain their wild and knowing natures, which she argues have been crushed out of us by years of societal influence requiring women to be demure, clean, and safe. On page 10 (I have the tiny paperback version), she writes a very long list of the symptoms of having "partially severed or lost entirely the relationship with the deep instinctual psyche. Using women's language exclusively, these are: feeling extraordinarily dry, fatigued, frail depressed, confused, gagged, muzzled, unaroused. Feeling frightened, halt or weak, without inspiration, without animation, without soul-fulness, without meaning, shame-bearing, chronically fuming, volatile, stuck, uncreative, compressed, crazed." She goes on for several more paragraphs of symptoms.

In other words, to use some of the language that the APW Boston meetup group used last night (when we got together for the second time just for fun, which rocked, btw), feeling like your brain has been completely turned to mush from lack of creative challenges, and that someone might catch you drooling out of the side of your mouth at any point during the day, and you wouldn't even realize it.

We've all been there. Or maybe not, and for those who have not, you are the luckiest people alive. For the rest of us, this book is to help us regain the ancient lessons about what it means to be a woman- a real woman, not the lady-in-the-streets-but-a-freak-in-the-bed that the world tells us we need to be.

The other thing you need to know is that every chapter will begin with a story. These stories: "are in some cases, original stories, and in other cases, are distinct literary renderings that I have written based on those peculiar ones given into my keeping by my tias y tios, abuelitas y abuelos, omahs and opahs, the old ones of my families-- those whose oral traditions have been unbroken for as far back as we can remember... They are presented in all faithful detail and archetypal integrity. The stories on the following pages are the ones, out of hundreds that I've worked with and pored over for decades, and that I believe most clearly express the bounty of the Wild Woman archetype." (p. 14-15)

In other words, these are fairy tales the way they were meant to be written-- bloody, sexual, full of creatures and hags and evil men and women, and full of meaning and lessons for what it means to grow up. It's perfectly acceptable not to read this book cover-to-cover. Just look at the table of contents, pick the chapter that resonates most with your life right now, and dive in.

Women Who Run With the Wolves.

2010-10-08T08:17:00.000-07:00

Hearing the response to this amazing book over in the comments at APW is incredible, and it made me realize that there aren't a lot of women in their 20's-30's who have heard of this book. It was published in 1992, and since Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes has gone slightly underground, probably not very well publicized since then.

The funny thing about this book is that one of my mother's friends gave her a hardcover copy after the second publication in 1995. I remember it very clearly sitting on a table in our front hallway for a long time. I don't think my mom ever read it, but I remember at 15 being completely intrigued by the cover and the title, but being hesitant to crack it open. This was totally not my personality (I'd read everything, constantly, from cereal boxes to the dictionary) so I'm not sure what the block was.

I picked up a tiny paperback copy in an airport on a flight home from college one year, and now it is covered with notes and pen markings, the binding is completely broken, and an entire middle section of pages is falling out. I've learned so much from reading it, and there are some parts where I feel that years of my life have been summed up in entire paragraphs.

I really enjoyed sharing this little tidbit, and I think there is a lot more to relate to newly married life, or just life in general. Would you all like it if I did a weekly blog post and discussion on Suburbalicious Living about Women Who Run With the Wolves? Or is that just me?

Either way, I hope those of you who read it enjoy it as much as I do!

Elsewhere!

2010-10-08T05:42:00.000-07:00

I'm super excited to be over at A Practical Wedding today talking about a subject near and dear to my heart. Enjoy!

Fan-freaking-tastic.

2010-10-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

I'm so glad I have friends who send me things like Kate Harding's blog post yesterday. I do a lot of work around sexual assault awareness, and have found that the "but they're a good kid" argument is often used to defend rapists in addition to bullies and abusers. Enough is enough.

Marriage and family.

2010-10-05T11:43:00.001-07:00

My mom's birthday party provided yet another occasion to reflect on the effect that marriage has had on my relationship with my family.

There were many little things that caused me to fall for Jeff in the early stages of our relationship*, and I can think of three really specific instances involving my family during the first summer that we were together:

When going to meet my mom for the first time, I warned him that she was protective, that as my only parent she acted like two parents, that she was naturally suspicious of guys that I brought home. Not only did he shrug this off, and not only did he pass all my mom's tests, but when we drove away, he said "Your mom is cool. I don't see what the big deal is."

My cousin got married that summer, and had a morning wedding reception followed by an afternoon of hanging out in her parents backyard. It was easily 100 degrees out, and Jeff, who had never met most of my family, was the only adult playing soccer with the little kids. He had a beer in one hand, was wearing designer jeans and dress shoes, and they totally creamed him while the rest of us sat in the shade laughing at the spectacle.

That July, my mom's youngest brother died of a very rare cancer, leaving behind his wife and two sons, ages 9 and 13. A month after he died, Jeff and I were going to a wedding in upstate New York near their home, and I asked him if we could visit my aunt and the boys. We took them hiking, during which time both boys immediately fell completely in love with my then-boyfriend, and the younger one, Robert, made the heartbreaking comment (while nonchalantly skipping some rocks) "I wonder if I would have met Jeff if my dad hadn't died." Jeff's casual outfit of choice is jeans and a white t-shirt, and last Thanksgiving, the older of the two sons (now 18) showed up wearing a stretched-out white undershirt, which his mom quietly informed me was the only white shirt he owned, and she suspected he was dressing like Jeff.

In other words, he became not just my family, but our family.

My brother brought a girl he is seeing (they refuse to use any labels yet) this weekend, and the buzzing tension around being the new girlfriend further showcased the ease with which Jeff moves within my extended family. He was the first person my mom hugged when she walked in the door, he spent time admiring my stepfather's new shotgun (they live in New Hampshire, what can I say?), shcmoozed with my mom's high school friends, and then spent most of the afternoon playing hacky sack in the middle of the street with Robert (who is now 15- woah), my brother, and the girl.

He just fits, and because he fits, and because it is easy for him to be around my family, it makes it easy for me to be around my family. Having a partner who not only accepts my crazy Polish relatives but is amused by and gets along with them has been one of the biggest blessings of my life, and the quiet settled feeling that comes with being married to that person has translated to feeling comfortable and settled in a variety of other settings. Just one side effect of a good marriage, it is nonetheless something I am extremely grateful for.

*The first time he cooked me dinner at his house, he left me alone to peruse his 8'x6' bookcase because he had "run out of tomatoes." I was head over heels by the second shelf. Smart man.

Another year.

2010-10-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my mom turned 65, and my brother and I threw her a surprise party. This is how things went down:

June:

My mom's sister, Maribeth, suggests we have a party for her 65th.

July:

Maribeth offers any help we'd like from her if we're going to throw the party.

August:

Maribeth asks what's going on with the party.

September:

My brother and I pull our heads out of our butts and realize that my mom's birthday is now three weeks away.

My mom is traveling in Europe at this point with my stepfather (he's retired Army, so they fly free and stay in officer's quarters for like $8 a night. Jerks.) so we use her travel update emails to get in contact with all her friends. My mom has also conveniently made plans to be away for the night of October 2, leaving us a full night and morning to set up for a surprise party on her actual birthday on the 3rd. What could be more perfect?

I send my stepfather an email telling him when my mom needs to be home on the 3rd (AT 1:00pm, not before), and I include that he should drop hints that we are taking her to the 2:00 seating at this cool restaurant on top of a mountain near where she lives, and that she should come dressed and ready for a nice lunch. Because if someone invited all my friends over to my house and I showed up looking the way I normally do after a sleepover, I'd be pissed. So this was my way of hinting to my mom to put on makeup and do her hair.

My stepfather sends me this email back:

she's just across the table from me now, so this will be quick. Plan to be back in Ramstein early, perhaps friday. then as so as a flight is available we'll go. hope to be home by Teus. 28th or so.

I'll expect to see you sat. PM (2nd.) will work the ruse. Nick. Destroying Msg.

And I'm all, how hysterical is that?! Destroying msg? Work the ruse? I think we've planned things pretty well at this point.

October:

On October 1, I get this email from my mom:

Why don't we just meet for a very casual lunch this sunday and kick back and relax? Weather's supposed to be good, so??????? nothing fancy...don't like celebrating this particular year...really don't...let me know..somewhere by the ocean, maybe??? easy for all...

As a side note, my mother wouldn't even allow my family to mention her 50th birthday when it happened 15 years ago. We were sitting at the dinner table and were not allowed to say a word. Silly me, thinking that her not liking getting older would have changed over the years. So with gritted teeth, I type back a perky "don't worry about it, we'll take care of it, just show up at 1." And she writes back:

am confused...you want me to be at my house at 1? I thought Nick said we had to go into Boston?

It is all I can do to stop my head from exploding. Nick, what the hell were you doing when you worked the ruse?! I clear things up, tell her to be at her own house and we'll drive her where she needs to go next, and all she has to do is show up.

On October 2, I get a text from my mom's sister Janina, an amazing cook and former caterer, (who until now, has only told me that she's coming) that says:

Am making an Asian fusion menu with little Mai Tais, Dumplings, skewered beef, asian meatballs with snow peas, summer rolls, and won tons. Is that ok? Am excited. Will be there by noon.

Is that ok? I text back "yes" as fast as possible while simultaneously crossing off 90% of my grocery list that included things like "frozen chicken fingers" and "pita chips."

That afternoon, my brother and I head up to my mom's house to go grocery shopping and clean up the house which is inconveniently under construction since the bathroom I thought they had finished renovating was only nearing completion. I have just finished telling my brother and stepfather about Janina's incredible menu when Nick tells us that he told my mom to be home by noon.

So I tell him that the GUESTS will be coming at noon, and she can't come until 1. He tells us to take her out to lunch to distract her, and I point out that we'll come home and there will be all this nice food set out. And he says "Wait, we're not taking her to lunch?!"

Lesson learned: never trust an Army engineer with a highly classified secret mission. Wait a second...

As you can guess, all ended well. All the guests came early, the food was amazing, and my mom cried for about 5 minutes before she was completely in her element, regaling her friends with stories about the photos we put out of her in Hawaii in 1970. Janina framed a letter that my grandfather wrote my mom when she was a freshman in college, which of course had all the women in my family in tears.

Later, I confessed to my mom that I had been really worried that she would be angry about the party, since she doesn't like celebrating birthdays. She said that she was having a pity party for herself a few days earlier about getting older, and emailed her next door neighbor about it. Which turned out to be perfect, since her next door neighbor is a recent breast cancer survivor and got to say something along the lines of "I used to worry about getting older, too, until I realized that it is BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE."

Next year, we're taking her to lunch.

*Photo: my mom is on the left, Maribeth is in the middle, and I am on the right. Sadly, this is the only photo of me with my mom that we took the whole day. Which may or may be at least partially due to the number of mai tais I consumed once I realized the party was a success. Oops.

Comfort.

2010-10-01T08:28:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I went to bed at 10:00 pm, and woke up at 2:00 am. I was wide. awake. There was absolutely no way I was falling back to sleep (and there was no moon, so I'm not sure what was going on.) I sent a few emails, caught up on Grey's Anatomy on Hulu, went to a 6:00AM yoga class, and then went to work.

Of course, by the time I headed out for the day I was finally tired, in that fuzzy, puffy-faced way you are when you really haven't gotten any sleep. Traffic patterns near my house seem to have shifted this fall, and my bus is perpetually late, so I walked the 25 minutes to the train pretty dazed. When the train pulled up, there was one seat left, next to a very tall, very broad man wearing a suit. He was taking up some of that empty seat, but I didn't care, so I sat next to him. At the next stop, the person on my other side got out, and another very tall, very broad man wearing a suit sat down in her place. I caught a glimpse at my reflection in the opposite window before the train filled up and it was difficult not to laugh at my blonde head that came only up to the shoulders of the two giants beside me.

So, I think I can speak for most people who take public transportation when I say that you generally try very hard not to touch people on the train. It's just weird. And here I was, sandwiched between two giant men. Maybe it was their suits that made the touching less weird (no skin touching, just cloth), or maybe it was my sleepy fuzzy-headed state, or maybe it was the way that their shoulders pinned me in one spot so that I didn't jostle at all with the movement of the train, but I was so incredibly comfortable in my seat between those two warm bodies that I contemplated taking the train an extra stop or two. When I did force myself to get up, I really wanted to thank them for the extra support when I needed it. It was hard to keep my eyes open, and they kept me propped up.

Wishing you some surprise comfort this weekend.

Abundance.

2010-09-30T06:52:00.001-07:00

There are two giant oak trees next to a broad patch of sidewalk near my office. Fall is quickly approaching, and the acorns have started falling off these trees at a rapid rate. I got hit in the head with one yesterday.

As I was walking to work this morning under these oak trees, there was a squirrel in the middle of the sidewalk. All of a sudden, an acorn fell right next to him, and he jerked back, totally terrified. Then another acorn fell, and then another, and then another. He was completely paralyzed, looking very much like my cat does when she has been spooked by multiple things at once, with all four of his little feet just gripping the ground and looking around wildly.

I felt bad for him, but at the same time, couldn't help but be struck by the irony of the situation. Acorns, which he will need to store away for the winter to survive, were falling from the sky and landing right next to him, and instead of laughing and rolling around in his good fortune, he was paralyzed with fear, frozen to the very spot where abundance was quite literally landing on his head.

And how many of us can say that we have never been in the exact. same. situation?

Abundance is everywhere. We just have to remember to embrace it, welcome it, and appreciate it.

Thanks, random squirrel.*

*My sorority mascot was a squirrel, and so I have a soft spot for them, and and even bigger soft spot for "crazy squirrel" news stories, which my friends and I send each other on a regular basis.

Moonstruck.

2010-09-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

Last night, I woke up at close to 4:00 AM and could not get back to sleep. After a frustrating half hour of tossing and turning, I realized that my blinds were letting in a lot of light, and when I reached over to peek behind them, I actually had to squint into the full moon that was beaming right into my window.

I love moonlight. I actually love falling asleep directly facing any natural light (bright sunlight is the best, on a cold afternoon when it is streaming in the window) but I digress. Moonlight, when it is bright enough to shine into the house like that, is one of the most comforting things. It feels like magic, like someone is watching over me, bathing me in hope and comfort and the kind of peace that can only be realized when you are the only person awake in your entire town.

Jeff doesn't share my love of bright light at night (who does?) so when I realized that going back to sleep was hopeless, I crept out of bed and shut the door behind me. Stealing a scene from Moonstruck,* I wrapped myself in a blanket and opened the door to our front porch (we are on the second floor), to which Jeff had recently attached a full-length screen to let in the breeze. I curled up on the floor and let myself be completely covered in moonlight from head to toe.

There are two trees right outside that are taller than our three story house, and the full moon hovered right above them. When the wind picked up, the leaves rustled just enough to make the only noise on the street. I sat there long enough for the moon to start descending into those trees, which caused it to sparkle as the leaves played around it. I sat there until sleep finally came, when I crept back into bed, still feeling the cool light on my face.

Sitting under that luminosity made me think about all the cultures who believed that the moon influenced so much-- crops, shapeshifters, harvests, the menstrual cycle. It is impossible, I think, to have read books like The Red Tent and The Mists of Avalon and not at least wonder about what the cycles of the moon have to say, especially as a woman. And then I remembered that yesterday was the first day of Autumn, and a quick internet search revealed that even NASA thought that the moon last night was a big deal.

Sometimes, sleeping through a change of seasons isn't acceptable, and last night, the moon reminded me of that.

*If you haven't seen this hysterical 1987 movie about love and large families, you really, really should. You'll be quoting it for years (or maybe that's just my family?)

Swim, bike, run.

2010-09-13T12:31:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was my first triathlon. It will0 not be my last one, because I actually loved every minute of it. Which was bizarre for me, a consummate non-athlete, but it was true. I am smiling in almost every picture, and in the ones that I am not, I'm just catching my breath. I was never nervous, or stressed out, and it was incredibly fun. Who knew?

It was also more inspiring than I could have guessed. For some reason (I have yet to figure out why), the people marking your body with your race number also write your age on the back of one leg. It struck me as incredibly funny that at an all-women's event where everyone is wearing spandex, we were all walking around with our ages written on our legs in black permanent marker.* The biggest age group there was between 40 and 50, and I felt so lucky to be surrounded by so many badass athletes of all different ages and shapes and sizes.

What I needed from this event this summer were the endorphins that kept me from feeling sad and depressed and lost about work. What I needed from this event yesterday was a smack upside the head reminding me that I am strong and capable and I can finish something that I set out to do.

I am not an athlete-- far from it!-- but I followed a training schedule and not only did I finish this race, but I finished solidly in the middle, without stopping or walking. I am really proud of myself, and more importantly, am reminded that I can do even more. Much more.

So, what's next?!

*My age should have been written on my calf, but for some reason my guy wrote it on the back of my thigh, right under the requisite sausage-spandex shorts. If I felt better about the back of my thighs, you would totally get a picture of the "30" in permanent marker!

Missing you.

2010-09-03T12:30:00.000-07:00

Seriously. Is it weird that I can miss people that I know only electronically?

The students are back on campus, and summer is officially over for me. Really, really over, since I will be managing sorority recruitment from Saturday to Tuesday for 18 hours a day or so. Including my 30th birthday on Monday.

It has been a rough summer, professionally, for me, and I find myself slinking into the fall licking my wounded ego and wondering how one decides on a Career or a Life Path or a Passion. And wanting to find mine, and not really sure where to go.

It is a hard place to start my 30th year, but also a good one, since it means introspection and wondering and searching and seeking and all that requires action. A wise lady told me recently to let 30 light a fire under my ass, if that was what I needed, instead of letting recent events get me depressed, since nothing gets accomplished that way. She's right, and though I need to postpone the fire-lighting for another week because of insane job responsibilities, the matches are ready. I hope.

Speaking of depression, I have realized at least one thing this summer. During the winter, similar professional events had me in a very dark place, and judging by those, I should really be in a deep depression right now. And I'm not. And I have been training for a triathlon and running, biking, or swimming almost daily. And I truly believe that these daily endorphins (and the bright, warm summer sun) have been the only thing keeping me from that dark place. I'm not entirely optimistic-- that would be a bit much to ask-- but I'm not broken. And if I spend every year learning something more about myself, I am entering this new year of my life with a very real awareness of how intentional I need to be about caring for my physical body in addition to my soul. It is more than just important, it is essential. And I'm grateful that I figured that out.

I hope you all have long weekends full of late-summer sun and a bit of early fall in the air late at night. Think of me in a 1970's cement building with 500 screaming women, and send out a positive vibe or two if you don't mind. :)

Looking down the path.

2010-08-19T10:38:00.001-07:00

After the surprise hot air balloon ride, we did pretty much the only thing there was to do- went out for a giant New Hampshire breakfast (since it was only 8:30AM!) and then hiked Mt. Monadnock. It was fairly empty, since it was the middle of the week, and the sweat and pine needle scent and the expansive view at the summit (which is way higher than our balloon went) were the perfect way to end the day.

Jeff, who has been on a Warren Zevon kick lately, sent me these song lyrics to describe how he felt about yesterday.

I was caught between the years

Nearly cost me all my tears

With my back turned, looking down the path

Hit me like a ton of bricks

Had to have my outlook fixed

With my back turned, looking down the path

People always ask me why

What's the matter with me?

Nothing matters when I'm with my baby

With my back turned, looking down the path

We'll go walkin' hand in hand

Laughin' fit to beat the band

With our backs turned, looking down the path

People always ask me why

What's the matter with me?

Nothing matters when I'm with my baby

With my back turned, looking down the path

Some may have, and some may not

God, I'm thankful for what I got

With my back turned, looking down the path

Up.

2010-08-19T08:19:00.000-07:00

Last week was our first anniversary. We celebrated sufficiently by going to Cirque du Soleil, having a drink at the restaurant where our reception was held, and having dinner at Oleana, which I've been wanting to try for years. So sufficiently, in fact, that by Monday (our actual anniversary) which we took off to spend together, we needed some time alone more than we needed more time hanging out.

So I was surprised when Jeff said that he was trying to plan something that hadn't worked out in time for the actual date, and asked me if I could call in sick yesterday.* Of course I said yes, and he said that we were leaving the house at 4:20 AM to go for a hike to watch the sunrise. Sunrise hikes are something that we've done periodically throughout our relationship and always with great results, so while I balked a bit at the 3:50 AM wakeup time, I totally bought it. We got up and drove an hour through the dark morning to Salem, New Hampshire, which is really only known for its mall, but Jeff said it was the best outlook for the sunrise in New England, so whatever, I was game.

We pulled into an empty parking lot and sat there for a few minutes, and I tried not to ask too many questions but the sky was turning orange and I REALLY didn't want to miss it, when I giant SUV pulling a trailer with a huge picture of a hot air balloon on the side pulled up right next to us.

My friends, it was awesome. We went to a field behind a big box store and helped hold the mouth of this giant balloon open while the biggest fan I've ever seen filled it up, and then we hung on to the sides of the basket with all of our weight so it wouldn't fly away without us when the pilot turned on the propane. I've always heard that hot air ballooning was so quiet, but I would have to disagree and say that it was incredibly noisy- the fan, the instructions, the giant flame pointed up right next to my head- and that propane is LOUD! And then all of a sudden, seven people in a little basket were floating up, ever so gently, the handlers waving and the ground getting further away almost without us realizing it.

The ocean where I spent summers with my family as a kid was 30 miles away, but we could see the glistening water with the sun rising over it from the air. We could see the Boston skyline on the horizon, and the sunrise, and lakes, and rivers, and right below us, a huge residential area. We floated over people's houses (I never realized there were so many pools in New Hampshire) and had an oddly voyeuristic view into their backyards. Cars slowed to stare, and early morning joggers waved from the roads.

Towards the end of the flight, we looked down to see a woman holding her maybe 2-3 year old daughter on her back porch and waving. Her little girl wasn't so interested, but the mother stared and stared, her head thrown back for the whole time we were over her house. They were the only people awake on their street, and as I leaned over the basked to wave at them, I was completely overwhelmed with what we were doing, and had to wipe away the quick tears that resulted.

She was down there, holding a little girl, looking up at me, doing something that I've wanted to do since I was a little girl**, that I was doing because my husband thought of it and planned it completely without my knowledge to celebrate the first year of our marriage. And then I thought, that is what marriage is all about-- it's about helping your partner complete every last Mondo Beyondo dream on their list, and it's about helping them discover new ones when they cross off the old ones. And even if you are personally terrified of heights and wouldn't ever think to plan a hot air balloon ride for yourself, you do it for your wife, and you can't stop smiling when you look at her face, even when you are clutching the side of the basket for dear life. And the moments like this, when you help someone you love more than anything do more or be more than they ever thought possible, are what makes the everydayness so magical, because you never know when one of those moments might be right around the corner.

And I cried again when the pilot recited this prayer as we toasted our flight. And told Jeff that he couldn't have picked a more perfect metaphor for our first year of marriage.

The winds have welcomed you with softness.

The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.

You have flown so high and so well,

That the gods have joined you in your laughter

and set you back again into the

loving arms of Mother Earth.

*Don't worry- my coworkers who read this are also close friends!

**I can't decide if it is funny or sad how many of my childhood dreams came from the France movie in Epcot Center.

One year.

2010-08-09T12:32:00.000-07:00

It feels both huge and insignificant, like the biggest thing in our lives, and a drop in the bucket at the same time.

Jeff and I took the day off to hang out, but hilariously, after spending the whole weekend together, we are both craving some alone time. So we are spending time in separate air-conditioned spaces: Jeff at home on the computer (yes, we have central A/C which is rare in New England and I normally loathe it, but with the extreme heat this summer it has been amazing) and me at Marshalls.

It has been a good year, and a hard year, and an easy year, and a how-did-we-get-so-lucky year, and a what-are-we-going-to-do-with-our-lives year, but mostly it has been a we'll-figure-it-out year. And we will. Figure it out.

Our anniversary will start and end the way almost every day does-- with my back curled against the one warm body that I cannot imagine my life without. And that is what takes my breath away when I think about our marriage. The everydayness of it makes it astonishing.

Here is to many, many more years of the astonishing everyday.

On children.

2010-08-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, Jeff and I took a fabulous mini vacation to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. My aunt lives there in the most well-decorated 400 square foot apartment on earth, and she offered us her place for the weekend since she was going to be out of town. It is walking distance to the cute downtown area, so without a need for a car, our night resembled many of our nights out in Boston: a drink and an appetizer at every restaurant we wanted to check out. We usually give up on the appetizers after a while, which means a few too many drinks. But whatever.

We were sitting in the last bar of the evening, in a very dark corner sharing a pizza, when Jeff used the phrase (as he does often) "since we aren't going to have kids." To his surprise and my complete shock, I burst into tears. Serious tears. The waiter wasn't coming anywhere near us (I seem to have that effect on waiters). After a few questions from him and some blubbering non-senseical answers from me, he said, very seriously and also very kindly, "Lauren, do you want to have kids?"

And the answer was that I'm just not sure. And over the past month or more, the question has been heavy on my mind. After five and a half years of being 99% sure that Jeff and I weren't going to have children, I suddenly found myself wavering.

The week before, I had lunch with one of my favorite friends, a woman who I never would have met in college had we not both been tapped into this weird honor society at the end of our junior year. I was a bridesmaid in her wedding, she went to school on the campus where I work, so we saw each other all the time and talked about the Really Important Things (I told her it was ok to leave her Ph.D. program with her masters if she was truly miserable, and she told me that I didn't have to sleep with a friend with benefits if I didn't want to, but that I could if I wanted to. You know, the Really Important Things), and now she has a gorgeous curly-haired blond boy who is a year and a half old. In the spring, she quit her job (she spent five really rough years earning a Ph.D. from a crazy prestigious school) and has been at home with her son. The day we met for lunch, she told me that she was having her second baby in October.

So, this VERY smart, emotionally aware person who I have always hashed out life's tough questions with asked me if I wanted kids. I said my usual answer: "If we had to choose now, we'd say no, but I'm only 29 and I'm willing to admit that I could wake up one day and really want them. But I don't feel anything at all, and having to attend to a child all the time for 18 years feels more like a prison sentence than anything else right now, so I figure I should wait until that's more appealing." She answered that she thought that was a pretty good idea, and told me that she never felt anything either, until one summer, she and her husband were planning a vacation to Napa with her sister and her husband, and she realized that she'd rather get pregnant than go on a wine vacation. And then she said "But I've always known I wanted to have kids, so that's a little bit different."

And then a week later, I was crying in a bar with no idea why.

Jeff and I spent this Friday night babysitting the three most amazing children on earth. Impossibly sweet and funny and just beautiful, there is nothing about them that I dislike. And still, two hours in, I found myself thinking "can you just entertain yourselves for a while?" Our downstairs neighbors had their baby this weekend, and will be bringing him home at the end of the week, and their lives will never be the same.

And by Sunday night, I knew, deep in my bones knew, that this is not what I want right now. Maybe not ever. I'm glad for the tears in the bar, though, because the tears put that possibility out there. They said to Jeff in a way that I hadn't found the words for that I wasn't ready to write this off yet. That there could be a day when I can't think of anything else except a baby girl.* But this isn't that time. And the other thing that the tears said was that it's ok to grieve for the other life you'd have if you had made a different choice.

Because life is not a choose-your-own-adventure book, where if you end up in the quicksand, you can flip back to the previous page and choose the other option. The trick is to embrace your choices, but I finally realized the importance of mourning the ones you didn't pick. And that felt incredibly liberating, and very real.

*The other problem is that if we had kids, we'd both only want one, and we both want a girl. Kind of a lot to ask, right?

Jogging my memory.

2010-08-02T14:10:00.000-07:00

I am one day past the two-year mark of getting engaged, and seven days away from one year of being married (head ASPLODE) which I will of course spend more time on here, but for now... A true procrastinator, I spent about eight solid hours creating our wedding album last week and paid the $25 rush shipping fee so I could have something meaningful made of paper to give Jeff for our one year wedding anniversary. Going through the pictures was the best gift for me, however, as it brought back so many smiley memories.

At about 10pm on the night of our wedding (which was supposed to go until 11) I looked around, realized that people were getting tired, a few had left, and many had to go to work the next day, since I got married on a Sunday. Then I realized I was tired, and thought that maybe we should end this thing on a high note. After a quick conference with Jeff, we told the DJ "last song," and shut it down, Liz Lemon-style. Although I do not regret that at all, it did make me wonder if people were having a good time. A year later, I found the solution-- just look at the damn pictures. These people are having serious fun!

I hope that every year I notice or remember something new about my wedding, because that feeling rocks.

*Regarding the third picture: One of my dearest friends once told me about this tacky wedding she went to that "even had a congo line." I remember thinking that my wedding was DEFINITELY going to have a congo line. Sure enough!

Weddings, after.

2010-06-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

One of my dearest friends got married this weekend in a fun-as-hell bash on top of a hotel in downtown Boston, and Jeff and I were lucky enough to attend. This wedding was a big deal not only because I adore the bride, but because it was the first wedding we've gone to since we got married.*

This was a bigger deal than I thought it would be. I remember in high school when my biology teacher was telling us about sympathetic pain (like, your shoulder will ache if you see someone dislocate theirs), and I feel like I had sympathetic wedding butterflies the whole weekend. I hardly slept on Friday, and on Saturday morning I woke up thinking "It's M's wedding day!! I wonder if SHE slept! I wonder how she's feeling! I remember how I felt this morning LAST year! I hope it doesn't rain! The weather looks perfect!" When I met her for lunch (with all her non-bridesmaids- it's becoming a trend, people!) after she had her hair and makeup done, she was shaky-happy-nervous-excited, and I remembered how I felt with all my friends in the room and a bunch of food that I could only nibble on. And when she walked down the aisle alone, I cried thinking of that moment at my own wedding. And kept crying when her mom cried her way through her reading.

Through all of this, Jeff and I spent much of the weekend reflecting on our wedding in a way that we haven't for months. The elation, the love in the room, the crazy family members, the choices we made and didn't make, how we felt at certain moments throughout the day, how overwhelming it all was, how we didn't let go of each other's hands for our entire ceremony-- it all came flooding back in a really lovely way that I think could only be triggered by living it vicariously through someone else.

By the end of the weekend, exhausted and happy and alone on my couch, dozing with my cat, what I most love about weddings became really clear. One thing that I've known for years, and another thing that I figured out on Sunday.

1. I have been a bridesmaid six times, a non-bridesmaid once in name and many more times in spirit, and will be a bridesmaid again next year. At every single one of those weddings, regardless of how I felt about the bride or groom (and sometimes it wasn't good, for whatever reason or another) and regardless of my role, I have been adopted as a member of their family for a weekend, sometimes longer, and each one of those adoptions has been one of the happiest times in my life. For a window of time, a few days, maybe a few months if there are other celebrations involved, I have been enveloped into the crazy, heartwarming, stressed-out, incredibly loving, funny, endearing families of my friends. To be a member of someone's family, however briefly, is a gift that I cherish dearly, and this weekend was not exception. Jeff pointed out that M's mom (who we called Mama M) was especially adorable because "she just wanted to touch everyone." I would feel a hand around my waist and it would be her, out of the blue. Watching families love their children and their siblings and their grandchildren and their cousins with all their might makes my heart full, and that is what weddings are all about-- love, in all its forms.

2. Weddings, in addition to and probably because of their extreme happiness, are incredibly bittersweet. They are blindingly happy, incredibly magical, they boil down life to the absolute essence, and then they are over, and no matter how long you stretch it out, it still ends too quickly. I caught up with M at the end of her ceremony to bustle her dress, and she hugged me tight and whispered, "It all goes so fast, Lauren. It goes so fast." and my eyes welled up remembering the moment when I realized that at my own wedding, towards the end of the night, when I stood in the middle of the room alone with Jeff for a brief second and my chest tightened and a lump in my throat formed as I realized I would never have enough time with everyone I loved in the room, and there was no way to fix that. This, of course, is a beautiful metaphor for life, and while it doesn't make it easier, it is a really poignant reminder to cherish every single moment, whether it is a day you've planned for a year or a boring afternoon on the couch, because in the next moment, it will be gone. The bittersweetness was something I hadn't thought about until I got married, and now it is something that will stand out for me at every wedding from now on.

It was a beautiful weekend, with a beautiful bride and one last fabulous night with my two work wives. We started the night out like this...**

...and ended it like this. Now THAT'S a wedding.

*Yes, I know that we've been married almost a year. Most of my friends from college got married within a year or two of graduating, and Jeff is 37, so his friends were all married a loooong time ago. So sadly, we don't have many weddings to go to anymore. Now they're all having babies instead. And I STILL feel way too young to have friends who are PARENTS. But that's another post.

**All the non-bridesmaids wore metallic colors, which actually looked really awesome!

Building a family.

2010-06-24T12:17:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, Jeff called me from work to say that he had been invited to his coworker's baby shower and were we free. Jeff works at a place where nobody said hello to him for the first month that he worked there, so I jumped at the chance for him to socialize with colleagues. The invitation said "baby boy," but then his coworker mentioned something about his daughter, and Jeff said that on second thought he seemed a little old to be having a baby, so we weren't really sure what to expect.

It slowly became clear when we arrived. Jeff's coworker, Cris, was throwing a baby shower for his stepdaughter, or rather, the daughter of the woman he called his wife but wasn't technically married to (as he told it), who was maybe 20 years old. When I met her, she said that she was having the baby "tomorrow." She looked gorgeous, and barely pregnant, so I have no idea where she was hiding a fully grown baby (maybe in her thighs the way I suspect Padme was when she was supposedly pregnant enough to give birth to twins in Star Wars III. Anyone? Just me?) She was also completely unfazed by her impending induction.

More people, and kids, and babies kept arriving, and I met people from Puerto Rico, Haiti, and Jamaica. Any kid old enough to run around immediately joined the pack on the lawn, and the parents largely ignored them. I asked three men how many kids they have, and all three times, I got stories about past relationships, step-children, and grandchildren (i.e. "Well when I first moved here, I met my first wife, and we had two kids, and then she left and I have four kids with my girlfriend, and we're still really good friends, and then there's my step-daughter, and now I'm single! How many kids is that?") They, in turn, quizzed me on why I didn't have a baby yet ("I like other people's babies.")

By the time I left, I was still unclear about who was actually related to Cris, but I was crystal clear about the fact that it didn't matter. Every single person there took care of everyone else's kid. Every single person was vying for the chance to hold one of the babies that was being passed around, including ALL of the men, even the teenagers. Everyone there patted Chris's daughter's belly, and asked how she was feeling, and pointed out the table full of gifts.

What stood out for me the most was the baby thing. Upper-middle-class white people make SUCH A BIG DEAL about pregnancy and babies. They have to read a million books about how to get pregnant, and then they have to make so many decisions about how to have the baby, and what food they should eat, and then after the baby comes they have to buy organic, and they have to plan out care options, and they have to make sure that the child is being stimulated intellectually, and they need to hover around it on the playground to make sure it doesn't fall down or to point out interesting things that it should look at and learn the word for. It's easy to forget that in other cultures people just have babies because that's what happens when you have sex. And they just give birth because it turns out our bodies were made to just give birth already. And then they just raise the baby. And everyone around them helps them raise the baby, because it is just one more member of the community. And how amazing would it be to have a gigantic extended family where everyone just pitched in and took care of each other and made fun of each other and asked too-initmate questions and that's just the way it was?

My co-worker, originally from Trinidad and Tobago, was telling me the other day how lonely she is in her town, and how much she wished she had family around. She said "At home, you don't have to call when you go over, you just stand in the doorway and yell."

I am clearly not advocating for teen pregnancy or being careless about having a baby. What I am advocating for, or kind of desperate for, is the kind of extended family where people just take care of each other, no questions asked, whether they are related or not. I would like to start building my own family, not by having kids, but by acquiring the aunties and uncles and grandmas and cousins and babies who will make me laugh and tease me and just take care of me, and where I can do the same for them. And wouldn't it be nice, in a world where we tend to live so far away from our blood families, if we could all find a community of people who wouldn't care if we just stood in their doorway and yelled?

Big dreaming.

2010-06-21T09:23:00.000-07:00

A brief Mondo Beyondo review: I loved it. I loved every single second. In fact, I was so unprepared to stop receiving an inspiring message every day that I signed up for their summer course. I think it is appropriate for anyone at any age with dreams that are at any stage of being defined. I went into it without any particular specific goals in mind, and I came out with a really clear picture of not only what I want out of life, but with a sense of calm that it will all happen someday, if it is meant to happen.

I tend to stress about, um, everything in my life. Like, a lot. And one of my biggest stressors is about feeling that I'm not living up to my own potential, and fearing that I'll never figure out what I really want to do with my life, and therefore I will never do it. The Mondo Beyondo course helped me calm down about all that. Just giving myself the right to believe that someday this could all come true was incredibly freeing.

Anyway, I loved it. Go sign up. Seriously.

But, I do feel that I've been so wrapped up in my own head and figuring things out that I couldn't figure out what I wanted to share here, because it was all so personal, and I was so "in it," as Meg likes to say. But I am itching to write again. And so you can look forward (?) to upcoming posts about dog poop, conflict, Puerto Rican baby showers, summer, and life goals, not necessarily in that order.

My supervisor's last day was last Friday, so my colleague and I took her out to one last dinner to celebrate/grieve. (Side note- I am using professional verbiage to describe two of my favorite women in the world and two of the best friends I will ever have. The fact that one of them is leaving is really, really hard. Maybe another reason why I haven't been writing). Anyway, we went to an incredibly fabulous restaurant and ordered The. Ten. Course. Tasting. Menu. Oh yes we did. And apparently we flirted enough with the waiter and the chef (who apparently visits your table if you order the Ten. Course. Tasting. Menu.) that they sent over the bone marrow appetizer as a little gift in the form of the leg of a cow.

Vegetarians, maybe stop reading here?

I've read Julie & Julia. I was not interested in trying the grey matter in the split bone in front of me. But after a cocktail, 1/3 bottle of white wine, 1/3 bottle of red wine, and with a glass of dessert wine on the way, I decided to throw caution to the wind and spread a little on some perfectly toasty bread and sprinkle some sea salt on the top.

Oh. My. God.

If you had told me before all those glasses of wine that this slimy grey stuff would be the best thing I had ever eaten in my whole life, I would have laughed at you. I've had Nutella already, thankyouverymuch. But if you had told me that, you would have been right. I promptly abandoned the tasting menu for the crusty bread and the bone marrow. Which was the best thing I have ever eaten.

Who knew?

Dreams and reality.

2010-06-03T07:10:00.000-07:00

Last week, I bought a ticket to Florida to visit my amazing grandmother. I selected what I thought was a Monday-Saturday trip on Jet Blue, but when I got the confirmation, I realized that I must have clicked the wrong departure date, because I had booked a Tuesday-Saturday trip. I was a little disappointed at losing the extra day, but didn't want to pay the $50 change fee, so I left it.

Last night, I had a dream where a skinny red-headed woman (i.e. NOT me, but maybe supposed to be me?) was on the street yelling at her boyfriend. She had apparently been trying to fix her washing machine, and she yelled "You know how to fix this?? You knew how to fix this and never told me? I've spent hours on this and you knew what to do?" and he responded "You never asked!!" I woke up with this heavy on my brain.

This morning, I checked out Grub Street, a writing center in Boston, to see what classes they had to offer, because I've been meaning to take a writing class for a while. The one I have been wanting to take, which is always sold out, had open spots, and the first class day was the Monday I was supposed to be in Florida.

I signed up immediately.

Mondo Beyondo.

2010-05-19T13:47:00.000-07:00

I signed up for the online course, which started on Monday. I'll give a full review after it's over, but so far I've really enjoyed the blog posts and am looking forward to having a solid chunk of time this weekend to sit down and journal the exercises. I don't think there can ever be too much big dreaming, and lord knows I could certainly use the help in that area lately. I'm really hoping that this provides me with some direction as I head into my 30th year.

Am I beating the turning 30 thing to death yet? Because it isn't even happening until September. Ha!

Also, I signed up for a first triathlon. Six days after I (wait for it) turn 30. I've been riding my bike to work, and thought that instead of signing up for a 5K, I'd just do a triathlon instead. This could be simultaneously the dumbest and most fun thing I've ever done.

It's finals week here at work, which really signifies the end of the spring and the beginning of long, hot, lazy summer days. What exciting things are you planning for the summer?