cheers

One of my favorite friends from college (who is still one of my favorite friends) is commemorating his tenth anniversary with his husband. They’re celebrating horizontally: room service, white sand, good books, and delicious-looking cocktails.

He posted on Facebook: “Ten. Years. The places we've been, things we've survived, all the beauty and the ache of the last 3,650 days: I'd take nothing in return.”

My baby brother is getting married next weekend. So Nathan’s at 10, and Andrew is about to be at 0… and I have a toast to prepare.

10 years ago, there hadn't been a Katrina yet. We weren't text messaging in the United States. I had only loved one man enough to want to marry him, I had only been a bridesmaid twice, and none of my friends were divorced.

10 years, though. I've watched nearly everyone I know build or unbuild or rebuild families. I've moved to a different time zone, lived with two men I've loved enough to marry, and learned how to say no.

I don't know what I'm going to say in my toast. My rehearsal dinner speeches have always been toasts to “faith, hope, and love,” using clever quips like “hope that one of you learns to cook” and “faith that one day, all of your combined student loans are paid off.”

The amazing woman my brother is marrying is close to what my age was 10 years ago, and I can’t wait to see how their life unfolds. It's going to be full of laughter (her quips are far more clever than mine, probably because she's a redhead) and delicious-looking cocktails. I’m sure there will be grief and struggles: you can’t be happy with yourself 100% of the time, so you can’t expect to be happy with someone else 100% of the time.

I’m sure there will be adventure (and the inevitable woes my brother’s travel luck brings) and disagreements over whose turn it is to take out the yet-unacquired-but-also-inevitable pet dog. I’m sure there will be disappointment and setbacks… the kids call them “opportunities” these days, but that’s a more difficult brand of optimism than you’ll want when you’d rather feel numb. Sometimes, this means having a partner who understands you need quiet, alone, distance; sometimes, it means having a partner who will hold you.

If you chose well, these attributes exist in the same partner.

To faith: may you find it in yourself so that you can have faith in others.

To hope: may it always shine brightly in your heart.

To love: may you always be good at it.

Congratulations to everyone who is on the journey, whether it’s 0 or 10 or 37 (my parents) or 66 (my grandparents) years. May you wish to take nothing in return.

hypotheticals

It's the end of the Junior League year, which means that many of us are scrambling around to get our obligations completed. Last week, I attended a training in order to get a meeting credit. The training was titled "The Secrets of Getting Organized."

I like secrets. And I really like Real Simple (my favorite magazine, because it offers me hope of becoming an organized person without judgment).

I am a clean person. I have never been a neat person. I find the organized people of the world to be the most smug. Bridget Jones talked about the smug marrieds; I'm here to tell you about the smug organizeds. I'll call them SO.

The SO are nearly always women. They seem to have it all together, or they seem to think they have have it all together, because their home looks straight out of a magazine or a movie set. They use labels and filing systems and hanging shoe racks as pantry organizers. They'd have coupon boxes arranged by expiration dates if that didn't mean paper clutter. They all have linen closets (must be nice), and they don't need giant bleach tablets that last for 1,000 flushes because they clean their toilet each time it is used. I wonder sometimes if SO have pets or children or significant others or if their homes only contain things that can go in lidded boxes.

Mostly, I think that the worst part of SO is that they feel so superior to those of us who hire a housekeeper.

I wonder if I (or my partner) didn't work, or didn't have to find work, if our reality would ever be an empty sink/drying rack/dishwasher, clean laundry that immediately goes from the dryer to drawers or hangers, dirty laundry that only exists in hampers (AGAIN WITH THE LIDS), books only on shelves, shoes only in closets, shiny floors and tubs, made beds, effectively utilized and perfectly organized storage space.

Unlikely. I just don't care enough. The pots drying on the stove aren't going to grow any new ecosystems, nor will the stack(s) of mail. All grains that enter this home spend at least one night in the freezer to kill any moth eggs that may be lurking about, and I still end up with moths and the occasional roach because I live in the tropics.

I'm clean. I'm not neat.

But I needed a meeting credit, and if I could learn any new techniques that Real Simple hadn't already tried to teach me, I figured it was a win. And maybe I'd make a new friend or see an old one (correct). And I was pretty sure there would be refreshments (correct).

The woman giving the talk owns a local business that helps people move, pack, organize, declutter, etc. She said that every morning before she leaves the house, she straightens every room.

Blink. Blink.

Dismissing her as having some kind of mental disorder, I tried to think of something I do every day. Besides basic human functions (sleep, breath, pee), I could not think of a single thing. I can't remember to brush my teeth every day. I don't put on underwear every day. I don't need to shower or shave every day. I try to drink coffee most mornings and to drink four liters of water a day and to not drink alcohol every night. But let's not make a list of the things I try to do.

We took a "quiz" to help us understand how "bad" we all are on the spectrum from SO to hoarder, and all of us fell somewhere in the middle. We were told to ask questions, and everyone who asked a question would receive a gift for being brave. Since speaking and receiving gifts are two of my most favorite things, it wasn't hard for me to jump in.

Me: Hypothetically, this boy I like moved in in January. And, hypothetically, it's April, and we still have stuff everywhere, including furniture that, at this point, just needs to be moved to the attic.

SO: Is there a hypothetical ring involved in this equation?

Thank you, SO. Thank you for your judgment.

And thank you for the gift. I know it will come in handy sometime soon, as I navigate a new job, my beau's daughter's 5th birthday party, my brother's wedding, summer camps.

I'll be hiring some of your moving men soon to get the extraneous stuff into the attic. And then I'll be hiring a housekeeper on a regular schedule.

Whig; Columbia, SC

Of course: the places we went to that weekend in 2002 aren't places anymore.
And I don't miss you,
But I wish I knew those places now.

dove

Let's talk about curly hair.

I had white blonde Shirley Temple ringlets as a child. It was wavy in a terrible way throughout my adolescence (one more thing that hormones changed, one more thing that was terrible about adolescence), but I cut it short in tenth grade and started using mousse to hold curls. Thus began my (and every other curly girl's) struggle to find that delicate line between crunchy hair, well-defined curls, and frizz. My curls were mostly crunchy for the next decade. Or frizzy.

In 2007, I was working at the Texas State Capitol, and one of the lobbyists we worked with closely lent me her copy of Lorraine Massey's book, and I finally started to accept my curls. (Embracing my hair has taken longer, the way women embrace their thighs or their noses or their height.) I stopped believing that I needed to blow out my hair to look professional. I stopped washing my hair every day; in fact, I went four months without using any suds in my hair at all. I stopped using brushes and combs. I started going to hairstylists who accepted my curls. And, slowly, I embraced my endowment.

Now, I've chosen the adjective "curly" for my blog... and my LinkedIn profile picture is a curly one. I feel like my curls reflect the whimsy of my personality, my ability to accept what happens, my intention to live by my own rules.

Yesterday morning, my beau sent me this link to a new Dove Beauty Campaign, where little girls with curly hair are encouraged to stop their self-loathing. "They’re doing what women rarely feel they deserve to do – celebrate what they see in the mirror."

I, like every other person, doubt myself when it comes to parenting. There was a time when I struggled with beau's daughter every time she got dressed, because I vetoed the combinations of colors/fabrics/patterns she chose. And then one of my wisest girlfriends said, "Does she feel pretty?"

And that's when it clicked for me, and I stopped exercising my veto power.

Yes, she feels pretty. She looks *ridiculous* to me, but she felt pretty. And as long as she feels pretty, she will feel loved. And all I want in this world for her is to feel loved and to feel safe.

So try to put aside your own beauty standards when projecting onto others. Care less about the crunchy hair and more about your attitude. Help others to be pretty, to know they are loved, to allow them to shine.

Especially children.

election

Today at lunch, I attended a lecture at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, a beautiful cathedral in downtown New Orleans. I discovered "First Tuesdays" a couple of years ago; on the first Tuesday of the month, the church hosts "Spirituality in the City," which is a lecture given by different religious leaders and local lay celebrities (Leah Chase was my favorite). The lecture is accompanied by a simple, free meal. Usually, I attend noon Mass beforehand, even though I am not Catholic, because the inside of the church feels holy in ways I rarely sense.

Today's lecture was given by David Crosby, a Baptist pastor whose monologue centered on the Good Samaritan, easily my favorite story in the Bible. (When it was the Gospel reading in church in the summer of 2008, I cut it out of the bulletin and taped it on my bathroom mirror so that I would be reminded, daily, to show others mercy.)

Jesus finishes his parable by telling his disciples to "go and do likewise." It's my favorite message, partly because it's such an easy one to understand.... and partly because it's so applicable to all of humanity, regardless of religion: love the people around you, even if they are strangers or hurting or want to hurt you.

Pastor Crosby said, "Strangers are always at risk in a human community."

It's natural to not trust new people. It's natural to flock with birds of your same feather. I think it's become natural for us to shame, to "other," to judge... although "they" were certainly around in Christ's time.

Another message today was "the love of neighbor is the foundation to all of Christ's others teachings." I couldn't agree more.

It is difficult to love strangers, but it's more difficult for me not to. I have been known to buy the groceries of the person in front of or behind me in line. I sometimes buy a bottle of water or a jar of peanut butter for someone who asks for my spare change. I smile at people disabled in body and/or mind, knowing that, sometimes, all people need to feel validated is to feel noticed.

The pastor admitted that it is very difficult to love our neighbors: "loving a stranger takes our blinders off." It's true that we all create cultural structures that give us security and comfort, mostly so we know who "we" is and who "they" is.

Rarely are we Americans as divided as a people as we are on Election Day. It's one of the perils of a two-party system. No other day do we shame or "other" or blame or disrespect our neighbors so much. It is rarely a day of love or unity... because it is impossible for one person to represent all of the views of the people who elected him/her. And with so many issues that people see as having only two sides ("we" are for something, and "they" are against it), it makes loving one's neighbor awfully hard.

Especially because, in America, voting and political ideology comes down to a lot of people's interpretation of certain pieces of the Bible... hardly of any of which I would argue is "love your neighbor." That's a pretty difficult thing to interpret incorrectly.

So let's try. Let's show each other, and ourselves, mercy as the results roll in and we, "they," and the pundits forecast what the next two, four, six years mean for us and for our neighbors, despite whether they vote red, blue, purple, or green.

Let's elect to love.

goals

World Cup: I can't quit you.

Maybe it's because we've been watching games at the Irish House, where all pints are $3 during games.

Maybe it's because male soccer players are, wholistically, beautiful.

Maybe it's because I have girlfriends who love watching the games, so it's an opportunity to catch up with them.

Yesterday, during the Iran game, I was surprised by how many female Iran fans were dressed in tiny tshirts and shorts.

I said so, today.
My beau: Well, Iran was incredibly progressive before the ayatollah.
Me: Really? Are there any progressive Muslim countries now?
Him: ... Turkey?
Me: But my Turkish roommate couldn't be gay there.

Which started a whole conversation about which countries are progressive enough for people to be what I believe is a genetic predisposition. But, hell, for the sake of argument, let's just say "countries progressive enough that people are allowed to have choices about who they love."

And it came back to America, where the three of us recognized that one couldn't be gay in most of America.

We sipped our $3 pints.

Then a coed baby shower walked in. A very pregnant, beautiful black woman is wearing "Baby Mama" sash; a very beautiful Latina is wearing "Baby Daddy" sash.

New Orleans: I can't quit you.

August and Everything After.

I just had no intention of living this way
I need a phone call
I need a plane ride
I need a sunburn
I need a raincoat
And I get no answers
And I don't get no change
It's raining in Baltimore, baby
But everything else is the same.