"Are we having a baby??"

When I was pregnant with Elijah, Chip was working 7p-7a on the weekends at a local hospital. As we got closer to the delivery date, I would call him sometimes during the night. He would say, "Are we having a baby??" and I'd say, "Why, yes, actually, we are. But not right now."

Then on the morning of Monday, August 30, I called him around 5 a.m. "Are we having a baby??" "YES! I think we are!" I told him not to leave work, as the contractions had only just started.

By the time he got home around 7:30, they were getting stronger and a bit closer together. He tried to get a little sleep; I did things like take a hot shower to relax me. Neither worked really - we were both too excited.

Around 9 or so we decided it was time to drive to the hospital. I have to admit, I was a little bummed by the date our son had chosen to make his entrance to the world: After much ado and media coverage, David Letterman was doing his first show for CBS that night. I had kinda wanted to watch it.

They had told us in childbirth classes to check in at the ER, but those nurses did NOT want anyone birthin' no babies in their ER. They put me in a wheelchair & pushed me up to L&D fast enough to make my hair fly back.

Once in a room, hooked up to monitors, I suffered through the contractions without drugs. Having had back problems my entire adult life, the last thing I wanted was someone sticking a needle in my spine. Plus, I heard that an epidural slows down labor.

Chip called his parents and mine. He told them, "Don't come now. They said it will be hours yet."

Nurses kept coming in and "checking" me. Then they'd look at my chart and, without fail, they'd say, "Wow, this is going fast!"

My BFF and former roommate Susan just happened to be in town from San Antonio that day. She came up to the hospital and hung out in the room with us for a while.

The pains got a lot worse. Holy shit it was excruciating. I screamed. A lot. I couldn't help it. Although looking back on it, hindsight tells me I probably could have handled it better. Hindsight might be a fucking liar.

A nurse came in to "check" me. She looked at the chart and chirped, "Wow! This is going really fast!" I screamed at her, "IT'S BEEN FOURT TEEN FUCKING HOURS." Susan laughed, because she knew that outburst was coming. The nurse told Chip perhaps he should call the grandparents and let them know it maybe wouldn't be hours after all.

I pushed for 45 minutes and by 5 p.m. he was here. Elijah Hobbs Hyman. Our lives would never be the same. And thank God, because I couldn't imagine life without him.

And I got to watch David Letterman later that night in my hospital room.

Happy Birthday, Elijah. I know boys don't have Sweet 16s, but it feels pretty sweet to me. You may be 6-foot-2 and shaving, but in my heart you will always be my curly-headed little guy.






(Mom)

"I can write about how it made me feel."

I never really got around to posting about what Katrina did to the coast after my trip back earlier this month. I kind of hesitate to write about Katrina given that I did not experience its wrath or its consequences. It feels a bit presumptuous of me to talk about it given that there are so many people who experienced it first hand.

But, on this four-year anniversary of the storm, I can write about what I saw when I went back recently. And how it made me feel.

First of all, it still annoys the hell out of me that when people talk about Katrina, they talk about New Orleans. As I've said before, what happened in New Orleans was tragic and horrific (and, in my opinion, completely preventable), but HURRICANE KATRINA HIT MISSISSIPPI. A small part of New Orleans was affected; the entire Mississippi Gulf Coast is GONE.


To imagine the extent of the damage, I'd like for you to think for a moment about your hometown. Now imagine that tomorrow, in just one day's time, one-fifth of that town were simply gone...let's say...the entire left side. Whatever was there before is now simply not there anymore. It's not completely barren. There are still trees. And grass. But whatever you knew to be there - houses, restaurants, shops, grocery stores, schools, literally EVERYTHING - is gone.

That's what the coast looks like today, four years later.

For me, it was like being set back in time. Like 100 years back. Before anyone lived here. That's exactly what it felt like.

Now, some things have been rebuilt. There are Waffle Houses.


My friend Tammy Riser (who lives in Ocean Springs now) explained to me that Waffle House, as a company, does not have any debt, so they were fiscally able to come in immediately and rebuild. And rebuild they did - right on the beach road. Tammy said that people on the coast hold a special place in their heart for Waffle House because of their constant presence and their vote of confidence.

But for the most part, the entire beach front is empty. When I left the reunion Friday night at midnight, having not eaten dinner, I mentioned that I would pick something up on my way back to the hotel. Locals informed me that there would be, in fact, no place between the Long Beach Yacht Club and my hotel several miles down the beach in Gulfport. And they were right.

When you drive down Highway 90 in Mississippi, there is dark water to one side of you and dark land to the other. There are no landmarks. I drove all the way to Biloxi and never once had any indication of where I was.


I often feel bad for Elijah and his friends. It's tough being 16 in this town. There is no place for them to go. Nothing for them to do! Where I grew up, you got in your car and you went down to Jeff Davis Ave., my small town's Main Street. We knew all our friends would be there too: cruising up & down, hanging out at Sonic or in the A&P parking lot. It sounds silly, perhaps, but it's what Long Beach teenagers have been doing since the 50s, and we once made it in Life magazine for it.

I'm not sure what Long Beach kids are doing these days, though.

And not all the landmarks are gone, I guess, as evidenced by the remnants of this sign, which I believe indicates where the Ramada Inn used to be in Long Beach:

And occasionally, you will see a building still standing on the beach front. Buildings like this:


And this:


And this:
Just to remind you that it is NOT in fact 1909, and people WERE here, and DID create a life, and a community, and a world for themselves.

"It would be an obscene misuse of power."

Hoo boy! Today was an interesting day on the internets, ya'll! You know what I'm talking about: the dooce-Sundry throwdown on Twitter! Oh, snap!

In this corner:
Heather, aka @dooce, of Salt Lake City, Utah.
Twitter followers: +1.1 million
The most popular personal blogger on the internet, Heather has been covered by all the major news outlets, published two books, and was recently named by Forbes magazine as the 26th-most influential woman in media. When she opens comments on her blog posts, she may get anywhere from 300 to more than 1,000 comments.

And in this corner:
Linda, aka @Sundry, of Seattle, Washington
Twitter followers: 2,700
Linda is also a very popular mommyblogger, but let's face it, no one is quite in a class with dooce. She does a lot of freelance writing all over the internet, has a fitness website, and may get 50 or more comments on her posts.

Background (What there is of it)
Dooce started complaining on Twitter a day or two ago that she had a broken washing machine and couldn't get any customer service. Now, given the very nature of Twitter and its 140 character limit, not much other information was provided. But Heather's posts very quickly escalated to her repeatedly posting: "DO NOT BUY MAYTAG." Now this might not be of much concern had it come from someone like me, with my measely 293 followers. But when you have more than 1 million people following your every word, it really translates into a call for boycott. But don't take my word for it — just do a Twitter search and look at the hundreds, maybe thousands of responses Heather's followers sent to Whirlpool on her behalf. Therein lies the power of dooce.

Enter Sundry. And here's how the conversation went this morning:

Sundry: @dooce I hope you post the whole story soon, because from the peanut gallery where I stand, this no-context corporate bashing is harsh.

Sundry: @dooce Sounds like you've got Home Depot AND Whirlpool in a panic to help you, while 1M+ followers are being told to boycott Maytag.

Dooce: Um, @Sundry, hardly a "panic" to help me. I'm still waiting on a phone call, what, 12 hours later. And oh yes, that post is coming.

Sundry: Would now be a bad time to mention this weird noise our dryer is making? I think there might be a sense of entitlement stuck inside it.

Dooce: Right, because paying $1300 for a washing machine and expecting it to work is entitlement. We should ALL demand better customer service.

Sundry: (and this is my favorite!) @dooce This isn't consumer justice via social media. This is an unusually influential person slandering a company with no explanation.

Sundry: @dooce I don't doubt that you've had a shitty experience. But 140-character posts rallying 1M people to NOT BUY MAYTAG? Come on.

Dooce: You tell me SPECIFICALLY how anything I have said is slander, @Sundry.
Sundry: @dooce Bad word, my apologies. It's the blind call to boycott that bothers me. And now the people complaining to Whirlpool on your behalf.

Oh, and then the shitstorm really began! And the word "bully" started getting bandied around. Literally THOUSANDS of comments circulated on Twitter and everyone jumped in with their opinions. From Team Heather came comments like, "They're just jealous of how many followers you have." "Keep fighting for the little people!" "You have every right to voice your opinion on twitter same as anyone else!" Team Linda countered with: "Dooce could've handled this better." "Did the bullying include 'I'm 26, bitches!'?" and whole lots of people quoting Uncle Ben. The Spiderman one, not the rice one.

And now I'm sure you're all just dying to know where I come down on all this.

I believe what Heather did was wrong. If Meredith Viera or Diane Sawyer went on Today or GMA and called for a boycot of a company based solely on their personal experience, they'd probably be fired. Why? Because it would be an obscene misuse of power. When you make Forbes Most Influential Women in Media list solely on your internet presence, then you have a responsibility to use that tool differently than the "little people" do.

As commenter Chan said on Linda's blog: "How ironic that when Heather plays David to Maytag’s Goliath, she gets an avalanche of support, but when you play David to HEATHER’s Goliath, you get an avalanche of hate." Indeed, a large dose of vitriol, 140 characters at a time.

Should Heather use her celebrity to demand customer service from an uncooperative coorporation? Perhaps. I'm not going to deny her that. I mean, what good IS celebrity if you can't use it to get you things? But I whispered "Don't you know who I am??" isn't quite the same as an all-caps "DO NOT BUY MAYTAG" message to more than 1 million people.

I saw kudos to Linda for pointing that out.

"It's crazy how much I want him to succeed."

The other night, about 30 minutes before I was ready to turn in, so...like 9 p.m., Elijah comes down the stairs with his backpack in one hand and what looks like a small square candle, just a bit larger than his fist, in the other. Chip was all, "He's going to ask you for help with his homework."

But he didn't. He sat down in the chair and he started pulling stuff out of his backpack: cardboard, masking tape, scissors, cotton balls, a jar of...pencil shavings?

We're all, "What are you doing?" and, being the surly(ish) teenager that he is, he either mumbles something incoherent or doesn't answer at all. (That's a technique he's especially fond of — the not answering. Then, if you repeat your question a few times, he'll eventually yell something at you, all I've-answered-you-a-hundred-times-what-are-you-a-moron?-like.) Or maybe he said, "I'm working on a project." (That's another popular technique — the non-answer answer.)

"What kind of project?" I went over to inspect what he was doing. You know those little leg-like parts of 1950s rockets? He appeared to be cutting out those out of cardboard, and attaching them to his little square box with lots and lots of masking tape.

"Something to keep my egg alive," he said. And I'm looking at Chip completely baffled because I didn't remember Elijah taking one of those classes where they assign you a fake baby. But Chip understood. He said, "Oh, are you going to drop the egg?" Yes, that was it. Build something to drop an egg in and hopefully build it well enough that the egg doesn't break.

"What class is this for?" Clearly, I still didn't fully understand the project. Oh, physics. Duh, Mom.

Elijah built his box with four cardboard sides and a convex, padded bottom. The rocket legs attached to all four corners would hopefully force the box to land on the padded bottom. "Ohhh...you drop the whole thing? The egg AND the box?" I thought he had to drop the egg into the box. Mama never took physics, honey.

He explained to me that the first drop would be 14 feet. Those whose eggs survived then participated in a second drop from 20 feet. I thought the heights were a bit extreme but, as we have already determined, I'm not exactly Bill Nye The Science Guy.

Once he had the box built, he planned to pad the egg with cotton balls and pencil shavings. And when I tell you that I went upstairs and there were 20 pencils sharpened down to 2-inch stubs laying in his bedroom floor, you know I am not kidding.

E was still working on his egg project downstairs when I went up to bed. I had this gnawing feeling inside that found me praying for a successful egg drop for him. It's crazy how much I want him to succeed. And when I say "crazy," I mean that in the sense of "you might need to up your medication." The thought of him not succeeding just rips my heart out.

Because even though he is 6-foot-2 and shaves, my heart still sees him as my little curly-headed boy. And even though I know that disappointment is part of life, and that becoming a mature adult involves learning how to deal with disappointment, watching your child come face-to-face with it is possibly the most heart-wrenching feeling ever, in the history of feelings.

Parents whose kids have to deal with it on a regular basis - say, from a deadbeat dad who's always promising and never delivering - must go absolutely mad from it.

I've said for years that the hardest part of parenting is letting go, but I'm doing a pretty good job with that these days. Ask me again next Friday when E gets his drivers license and drives off from me. Alone. In a moving vehicle. Which he alone is responsible for operating.

But if he came home from school and told me that everyone's egg survived but his, he might as well be telling me he got picked last for kickball. His disappointment would be my heartache. And I don't know how to let go of that.





UPDATE: Elijah's egg survived the first drop but broke on the second. Only two eggs broke on the 14-foot drop and only three survived the 20-foot one. So he was right in the middle. Elijah reports that his might would have survived the second drop as well, but he had to take his box apart after the 14-footer to show the teacher that the egg was still intact. Then he had neither the tools nor the time to put his box back together adequately for phase 2.

"It just is."

I've had a couple people - nonbloggers, obviously - comment to me recently about how "open" I am on the internet. People from my generation, who didn't grow up with the internet, tend to be a little uncomfortable sharing their life as an ongoing narrative in a world-wide forum like this. Nearly all the bloggers I've met in real life are some 10 years younger than me.

One person asked me, "Aren't you nervous putting such personal stuff online? I mean, you put really personal stuff on your blog."

Really?

I don't think I do. I don't blog about my relationship with my husband. I never talk about fights, disagreements, problems. Not that I'm trying to pretend to you all that we don't have them. Just that that's personal. Sharing that kind of stuff can't help my marriage. I mean, is he REALLY going to start putting his clothes into the hamper simply because my commenters all AGREE that he should not be dropping them on the floor?

I don't blog about things that are going on in my kid's life. You "mommybloggers" don't know how easy you got it...all that available content at your disposal. You THINK you'll keep blogging about your kids when they're teenagers because they'll be so accustomed to you sharing their lives with the internets. HA! Not if you ever want them to speak to you again. Being a teenager is hard, in case you've forgotten. The last thing a high schooler needs is his mom telling the world about his recent break up.

I don't blog about bodily functions. I don't blog about my extended family. I don't blog about things I don't like about myself.

So I can only guess that she was talking about my alcoholism. But being in recovery isn't anything that I'm ashamed of. (Believe me,the shame was in the way I was BEFORE I quit drinking. And no, I'm not going to blog about that, either.) Being a recovering alcoholic is just part of who I am. I don't think I make a big deal about it, but I don't hide it either. That's because I don't want to be faced with an uncomforable situation where someone pops a champagne cork on my behalf and then I have to politely decline the flute of bubbly in front of everyone. I'd rather people just know, "Oh Kalisa doesn't drink." Kinda like "Bonnie doesn't eat meat" and "Mom can't have sugar."

The fact that I used to drink too much isn't really all that shocking. A lot of people drink too much. You probably even know someone who drinks too much or, at the very least, have been around someone who drinks too much. The fact that I decided to quit drinking merely signifies that I had a problem in my life that I took (am taking) care of. Like an out-of-shape person who took up exercise. A workaholic that took a vacation. An OCD person who stopped washing his hands. It's not exactly medal-worthy. It just is.

"Blogging from the backyard"

Guess where I am? I'm blogging from the backyard.

(Unrelated: I think it's funny that Blogger spellcheck doesn't recognize the word "blogging." Or "Blogger," for that matter.)

I found an amazing end-of-season deal on a patio furniture set, and convinced Chip to buy it. So we'd have more FAMILY TIME. The boxes arrived Friday, and yesterday morning we were out putting that mug together.

And by "we," I mean "Elijah and Chip." Obviously.

I especially love how the patio is right next to the two AC units. That will make for some wonderful evenings outside.

I SAID, 'THAT WILL MAKE FOR SOME WONDERFUL...' Oh, nevermind.

I probably wouldn't have had this much help had it not been a beautiful morning in the 70s. Luckily, the project involved little more than attaching legs to a tabletop, because let's face it: we are not the handiest of families.For my part, I sat in this chair, reading out the instructions.

Because somebody has to be in charge. And I'm the best reader.

Also snapping photos.

I prefer to call it "historical documentation."

And harassing Chip about cutting the packaging with a boning knife instead of utility scissors.

Damn, I can't believe I missed this opportunity to say, "Ken ewe bun a deck?"*

For his part, Smokey laid in the grass, chewing on a dental bone.

I love him like my furry child, but I'm not paying $500 to have his teeth cleaned.

Also pacing around nervously and nudging me with his nose.

What u humanz doing in ma yard?

When Elijah applies for Engineering school, I'm totally just attaching these photos to his application.

Essay schmessay. I can build a table, yo.

Attention childless couples: This is totally why you have children. So they can do all the bendy work and you can stand around and watch them. And snap photos. For historical documentation.

Anyone who's ever read Tom Sawyer knows it's surprisingly easy to get someone else to do your manual labor for you.

Alas, the umbrella came with no instructions. Elijah said, "I think umbrellas are pretty self-explanatory." How quickly the boy does forget into what family he has been borne. I believe in this photo, a discussion was underway as to whether or not the little stopper thing should be removed before inserting said umbrella.

Then Elijah broke the stopper in two, so that solved that.

After much turning of the crank, the umbrella-ella-ella began to open.

A crank? Seriously? Do they not make electric umbrellas yet?

Aaaand...we're in business.

And ready for action

Now all I need is a pool.

*- translation: "Can you bone a duck?" with a very thick French accent. From the movie Julie & Julia. Funny to hear and very fun to say.

"Tim Gunn wants you to succeed."

Tim Gunn wants you to succeed.

He said so, on the premiere of Project Runway.

Okay, it was actually the recovering-meth-addict designer to whom he said "I want you to succeed." But I'm sure if Tim Gunn knew you, he would want you to succeed too. He just seems like that kind of guy.

Sometimes, the tough part for me is figuring out what the goals should be.

Knowing I can accomplish anything I put my mind to is irrelevant if I can't decide what it is I want. It sucks to work hard for something only to realize when you get there that it wasn't at all what you wanted. Neither me nor Tim Gunn has time for that.

For the longest time, my goal was to get my college degree. For some 12 years, actually. When I finally attained that one, I had a goal to get a good job, which I also achieved. I aimed at certain promotions, and got them. But then I kind of got sidetracked, and my goal became to pour as much alcohol down my throat as humanly possible. And I was very successful at that.

In January 2006, my goal became to stay sober. That one took a bit of work, but by the grace of God, I've been successful there as well. And while that continues to be a goal, I'm lucky that it's not something that consumes me every day, allowing me to focus on repairing relationships and fixing the things that I fucked up in my drinking years.

But what comes next? What do I want for myself now? It can be so hard to figure out. Because it's pretty simple really: I just want to be happy. But I'm not always sure what can bring me that.

"You know what John and Paul said."
"The Apostles?"
"No, the Beatles. 'All you need is love.'"

-Michael

Which isn't to say that material items can't bring happiness. Because I'm here to tell you that I've experienced some pretty euphoric joys riding around on beautiful spring and fall days with the top down on the Mercedes.

You know what makes me happy? Golden Girl reruns. A new Sarah Vowell book. When my dog, Smokey, winks at me. Meryl Streep as Julia Child. Fresh guacamole from Las Tortugas Mexican deli. Settling in with Big Daddy to watch Friday Night Lights. Comments on my blog. Riding with the top down.

I may not get my retirement beach cottage with a tiny pet turtle named Theodore sunning himself on the windowsill. But I will be happy. Tim Gunn really wants me to.

"This blog was about shallow things like SHOES."

Not a lot of feedback here on that last post, but lots of comments in my inbox. Some of them literally brought a tear to my eye. I realized that it truly IS about love...about relationships...and my love of writing can affect other people's relationships and that is what it's all about! Not getting a book deal! MAKING A DIFFERENCE.

And now...guess what? I HAVE A FAN GROUP ON FACEBOOK!! And I didn't even have to start it myself. Here's the link if you're on facebook and want to join in the discussion: Of Course I'll Wear Heels to Read I'll Be the One in Heels

So geez, now I feel all this pressure. To write something. Something substantial and thought-provoking. But the truth is, all I can think about today is PROJECT RUNWAY. Because let's face it, before I started getting all life-affirming and shit, this was a blog about shallow things like SHOES. And make-up. And hair and clothes and fashion and style. You know, the other important things in life.

[Tim Gunn had this GREAT quote on Live! with Regis & Kelly Lee the other morning about why style is important...which I would totally insert here...if I could find the fucker. Thanks for nothing, google.]

For a couple years now, people have said to me, "I can't BELIEVE you don't watch Project Runway!" And I would wrinkle up my nose in my self-important way and sniff, "I don't watch reality tv." Which is totally A LIE because I love Amazing Race in a way that is not completely normal. And I've been known to tune in to Biggest Loser a time or two although mon dieu! There is a lot of crying on that show.

And the people said, "But it's about FASHION! You would LOVE it!!" But then I realized that I don't get Bravo. C'est la vie. I figured I could live without it.

And then it moved to Lifetime. !!!!!!

And then it got mired down in law suits. *#@%*#!!!!

And now, finally, the time has come: Project Runway airs tonight on basic cable at 9 p.m. CT. I've had the date stamped into my brain for at least a month now. Don't let me down, Tim, I'm counting on you.

"So this is what I will do with my life"

“The trouble with my generation is that we all think we’re fucking geniuses. Making something isn’t good enough for us, and neither is selling something, or teaching something, or even just doing something: we have to be something. It’s our inalienable right, as citizens of the twenty-first century. If Christina Aguilera or Britney or some American Idol jerk can be something, then why can’t I? Where’s mine, huh?”

— Nick Hornby, A Long Way Down

When my friend Gina told me a couple years ago that the Food Network had picked up their TV show, my reaction was "Didn't you always know this would happen?? Didn't you always KNOW you'd be a star???" (Her response was, "Uhh...no." Because she had never in a million years expected this to happen.)

As someone who was born with the Where's-Mine gene, I did always expect some excellence from my life. I just assumed it was only a matter of time before my greatness was discovered and revealed to the world. Some way, I would make my mark.

And then the Julie Powell book and subsequent post got me thinking about finding "my thing." And how, in the movie, when the publishers started calling, she said, "I'm going to be a WRITER." and her husband said, "You ARE a writer." Why should a book deal determine whether or not one is a writer? A writer, by definition, is, I believe: "one who writes." That would make even me a writer. In fact, I'm writing right now.

Why do we focus so much of our lives on what we DO or what we ACCOMPLISH? What if our sole purpose in life is just to love (and be loved in return)? What if, when we met someone at a cocktail party, and they asked, by way of making small talk, "What do you do?" we answered, "I love."

I know that the American society (and economy) dictates that we have to spend the majority of our days — even of our weeks — at work, but what if I were to put as much effort into developing a lifetime partnership with one person as I put into developing a life-long career? I once had a boss who said very little that I ever agreed with, but he did say this: Work to live; don't live to work. What if, instead of every day being firstly about getting up and going to work and working all day, with our evenings merely an afterthought, something to get through until we start it all again tomorrow, what if we went to work and put in our time and then came home and devoted our real efforts to our families, our friends, our relationships?

And when we become emptynesters, what if, instead of getting a high-end warehouse condo downtown, we get a tiny little shotgun house somewhere, and we downsize. Just have one car. One television. Eat at home. Live simply. And love fully.

What would the world be like if every day we lived our life in service to others? Then selfishness and greed would instantly be stemmed, along with the problems they cause at the corporate and political levels. And people wouldn't go hungry. Or be lonely.

So this is what I will do with my life: I WILL LOVE. Simply and fully. And that will be my mark.

"It's a story of hope."

The past two weekends I have been on the road - 3 hours (one way) to Nashville and 6 to the coast. I spent those 18 hours listening to audio books, which I downloaded on iTunes and played on my iPod.

I selected Julie Powell's book Jule & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen because I had started seeing the commercials for the movie and it had me completely enchanted. (Oh wow. I totally just went there, didn't I? I'm sorry Amy.) Chip said to me, "Well of course you'd like that: it's about food." But let's get something straight here: Just because I work for professional foodies does not make me one. At all. In case you're new here, let me catch you up: I don't cook; I don't particularly even enjoy food. So clearly that was not what enticed me.

Julie Powell is one of those lucky bloggers who became so popular that CBS News and the New York Times did stories on her, and the next thing you know she scores a book deal. Now, I never read Julie's blog. I'd never even heard of Julie Powell until I went to iTunes and saw that hers was one of the top downloaded audiobooks. I have read a couple of bloggers who got book deals though - Jen Lancaster, Heather Armstrong - and their writing is good. Really good. They're not handing out these book deals to just anyone, yo.

And Julie's book did not disappoint. She is funny and talented and her story is good. It's a story of hope. It's about setting a goal and achieving it, but more than that, it's about knowing there's something better for you out there, and making it happen for yourself. And that's the ultimate "feel-good" story as far as I'm concerned.

And, at the risk of sounding a bit presumptuous, she writes like me. I mean - I like to think that my writing style might be similar to someone like Ms. Lancaster's, someone I admire, someone whose writing I admire. But seriously, as I was listening to Julie & Julia in the car, through the stereo speakers, as I roadtripped alone, I can't tell you how many times I finished her sentences. So that totally means we write like each other, don't you think??

There were three life events that brought Julie Powell to create the Julie/Julia Project. First, she was about to turn 30, and she was pretty freaked out by that. Probably because, secondly, she had been diagnosed with some sort of female syndrome that meant that she may not be able to have children. Thirdly, she was working in a horrible bureaucratic job as a secretary, a temp job that she had reluctantly let become a full-time position.

And who of us hasn't been there? Birthdays don't really upset me, at least they haven't so far. We'll see what happens when I hit 50. But I've experienced that feeling of "Is this all there is?" I've had the torturous job that I was forced to take for the money or the benefits. I've shared that sense that my life's path had wandered into a dead end. And then I stood there and turned around in circles trying to find my way out until I eventually fell over, disoriented and confused. And then when my husband tried to to help me up I insisted, "No. Just leave me here to die."

But that would be a slow, painful death, so eventually we have to find our way out. For Julie, it was the Julie/Julia Project. It was cooking her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I'm not sure I've found the project to save my life yet. Sometimes I think I'm still wandering. But Julie's story of hope inspires me. Her ultimate goal was to be a writer. She didn't take on the Project as a means to that end, but that's what it ended up being for her. The lesson here? Take the small steps and see where they lead you. It may be the destination you were looking for all along.

"Who will you be?"

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

--Alphonse Karr

You can't go home again.

--Thomas Wolfe

I went home. It had changed. A lot.

People had changed. And not just the way they looked. I tended to think of them as they were in high school. Which is silly, since I'm not at all like the person I was in high school.

I was a follower. I was always in the shadow of some other friend. Friends I admired. Friends who were leaders. Friends who were far more outgoing, funny, talented. I'm surprised anyone from high school even remembers that I went to school with them.

"I'm much funnier now than I was in high school," I explained to my friends this weekend. I'm not as humble as I used to be either.

My life experiences aren't like anyone else's. They have made me who I am today. When you lose touch with people for 20 years, you have no idea what their life experiences have been. Not everyone is so self-obsessed as to put it all out there on the interwebs so you can do advance research.

So when I talk to you, who will you be? I do not know. Will you be someone that I can relate to? Someone I could count as a friend, if our real lives weren't separated by so many miles? Or will you be desperately struggling to force yourself into the mold of your high school personality? Were those truly the best years of your life, years that you would pay anything to have back again? Because we can tell. And we find that to be quite sad.

If John Hughes hadn't died, maybe he could've made a movie to show what the brain, the jock, the prom queen, the stoner and the basket case turned into 25 years later.

Only he couldn't. Because, while stereotypes are easy enough to fit into in high school, our vastly different life experiences make us far too unique as adults to be categorized.

All I know is, without fail, our hair sure has gotten flatter.

Kathy, 1984

Kathy today

Oh wait. Did I say there was no exception? I totally lied.

That was then.

This is now.

"The Short List"

Things My High School Has in 2009 That It Did Not Have in 1984: The Short List

1. Air Conditioning

And let's not forget that we weren't even allowed to wear shorts!! And I've already mentioned about the ungodly heat and humid humidity. Ya'll, it was so bad that for the first and last months of school, we attended on a condensed schedule: 30 minute classes and release before 1 p.m. (And get off my lawn, you fucking kids.)

2. This hideous aluminum siding

Where the hell did all the windows go? This building (Junior Hall) was a wall of windows. Were we really that distracted that they had to cover them all up? Did the air conditioning require covering all the windows? Were the dangerous bands of Long Beach thugs breaking the windows and vandalizing the school every weekend? Why? Why would you do this??

3. Tobacco-free campus

That's right, kids. There was a time when not only were there two teacher's lounges - one for smokers and one for non-smokers - but there was actually A STUDENT SMOKING AREA. Yes, if your parents signed a permission slip for you, you were allowed to SMOKE AT SCHOOL. Nevermind that the smoking age in the state of Mississippi was 18 at the time. Students were allowed to SMOKE AT SCHOOL. It was like the Dark Ages.

4. Visitor bleachers

Seriously. Ya'll should have seen those broken-down benches the visiting teams' fans used to have to sit on.

5. A soccer field house
Hell, did we even have a soccer TEAM?

6. A baseball stadium

Although in all fairness, we did have the baseball field. Ever see that movie "The Sandlot?" Yeah. Like that.

7. A Career Center

If we wanted a career after high school, our asses were expected to go to college.

8. Satellite TV

We didn't even have any classes that we would've needed or made use of satellite television. We had drama in a portable. And we liked it.

9. A hospital-sponsored on-campus clinic

Did we even have any kind of clinic or sick room? I don't think we did. I don't think we were allowed to get sick. Kids today have no idea how easy they got it. And I thought I told you to STAY OFF MY LAWN.

"Did I graduate in 84 or 85?"

Friday night was the Mass Class Reunion Alumni Meet and Greet at the Long Beach Yacht Club. This is the same place that my class held its 20th reunion, the summer before Katrina swept in and washed everything away. The new & improved LBYC is basically the same layout as the old one, only higher.

I snicker a little bit every time someone says "Long Beach Yacht Club" because really? We have YACHTS??

Apparently, everything is a lot higher down there these days due to the fact that the flood plane has been raised. Or something.

I spent two hours straightening my hair before the event. IDK WHAT IN THE HELL I WAS THINKING. Memphis is soooo humid and I seriously had forgotten that the coast is that much more humid. Not to mention that the event was outside. On the beach. With the wind. And all that humid humidity. So half an hour after I arrived my hair was already a giant puffball.

Whoa. But look at that tanline. Go me.

And a half an hour after that, I was just a hot mess. So I surrendered and twisted my hair up in a ponytail holder.

My official The-hell-with-it Look.

Kathy & I worked the sign-in table for about two hours. Which was a lot of fun because we got to see pretty much everyone who came in. I saw people sign in from as far back as the Class of 1955. Kathy was my awesome roomie for the weekend. She was a beauty in high school. I know what you're thinking - you're thinking that she's a beauty now. But I mean like an OFFICIAL beauty. With her picture in the yearbook and everything.

I was under the impression that the night's entertainment would be provided by a DJ. Turns out he was actually a karaoke guy. Which is a very different thing. (He is also a local elected official, but I'm pretty sure the karaoke gig was not undertaken within his official capacity as Long Beach Alderman. If anything, it was in his official capacity as a member of the Class of 1982.) But then I guess no one wanted to sing, so the night's entertainment ended up being us listening to DJ/ Karaoke/ Alderman Ronnie singing to us all night.

His voice wasn't bad, but you have to question how successful your karoke business can be if you never give up the mic.

The biggest surprise of the night came while I was working the front table. Kathy & I were simultaneously trying to get people to fill out a name tag (Don't forget to put your class year!), add their email to the mailing list (It's for next year's event. We promise not to sell it.) and make a donation (We know we said it's free. We're just asking for donations to offset the cost of tonight's event.) (Karaoke is not FREE.) while keeping the line moving and not letting it back up too far out the door. And this guy is filling out the mailing list in front of me, with his face turned down to the table, and he says, "Did I graduate in 84 or 85?" And I was all, "Huh?" because it took me a minute to register what he said, and even then I'm thinking "How the hell do I know, dude?" and he turns his face toward me and it was Mitch! (Mitch was introduced yesterday so if you didn't read that post you should probably go back. Try to keep up, okay?)

Mitch lives in NYC (on a boat, ya'll) and is some kind a hotshot designer who's had multiple spreads in Archetectural Digest. I couldn't believe he was there! But he told me that he's been on the coast rebuilding his mom's house.

Mitch grew up just one home lot off the beach, so naturally it is safe to assume that his childhood home did not survive the wrath of K. I later went by the new house to take some photos, but I can't really show any of them to you.



No one ever asks Vera Wang if they can put photos of her latest wedding dress on their blog prior to publication in Vogue.


That brilliant thought occurred to me AFTER I had ever-so-politely asked Mitch, "Do you mind if I take photos of your house?" And after he'd assented, I followed up with, "Can I put them on my blog?" Doh!

So I'm only going to show you bits and pieces of what is truly one hell of an amazing house. To see the rest, you'll have to wait for the inevitable spread in Architectural Digest.


I can show you these photos though:

Hudson. (Yes, like the river)

Violet, demonstrating her mad snapping skillz for me.

And if you've never had a not-quite-3-year-old sing Billie Holiday's "Trav'lin' Light" to you, then you, my friend, have not lived.