The Power of Christ Compels the Wedding

You guys?

I love today.

It's Monday. It's Monday coming back from a magical European/Asian vacation. It's Monday coming back from said magical vacation in which I woke up at 4 AM to catch a flight to Boston and waited 18 years for my baggage and was late to my meeting.

But oh, how I do not care.

I am exuberant! I am giddy with joy!

You know what I think? I think I have just gone crazy, but like, in a totally awesome way.

Liken it to alcohol-tolerance. There is but so much alcohol you can consume and consume until inevitably your tolerance (and your liver) just crap out and leave you drunk from one tiny dirty martini these days. Am I right? Well, like alcohol-tolerance, wedding-related stress can only induce panic attacks during Knocked Up for so long. Soon, friends, the debilitating stress is too much for you to shoulder; and you must surrender to it, in all of it's unneccesary and ridiculous glory.

Wedding, I conceded long ago. Now, I will just sit back, prop up my feet, read this new O Magazine, and let you run wild. Go. Do what you must; I will just be over here, drinking pina coladas and ignoring you.

I was going to bare my soul to you, Internet. I was going to lament all of the dirty details of the last travel agent-related debacle that occurred while J and I were smoking hookahs in Turkey. I have been so vague in describing it; I thought you had a right to know. I was going to illustrate all the banal events in excruciating detail for you to peruse right here. But then, when you start blogging like that, the wedding has already won, right?

There is so much ridiculousness to this, y'all. It's, um, retarded. I vowed never to get sucked into it, but the Wedding, she is ferocious and she scoffs at the smug recently-engaged. You don't care about the flowers? Bitch, I will make you care about those fucking flowers! typically in the form of an obnoxious aunt or a boastful newlywed.

And so I have shed tears over package prices, and grossly ignorant travel agents; I have lain awake nights tossing and turning, willing my family and friends not to resent me for my wedding of choice, certain that they will, forever. I have agonized over invitations, and addressing envelopes; I have gotten so sick with frustration over fucking envelopes that my eyes have welled up and I have tossed pens aside, shouting, "I can't do it! It looks terrible! I hate these invitations!" I have poured over the wedding etiquette book, wondering what was alright to do and say and write, because I have never done this before. I have told people no, you cannot invite your first cousins because this is a small affair with conviction; then I have gone to J and agonized over that small decision: perhaps we should invite them? They are my third cousins, twice removed after all?

And for what?

For who? (For who? FOR WHAT? Thank you, Ricky Watters.)

Today I woke up, and I felt lighter. I think my glorious friends laid the foundation for this serenity on Saturday night by encouraging me not to feel guilty. You're not forcing anyone to come, said Di, matter-of-factly.

People have said it to me before; but this time it clicked.

It was in this spirit that I emailed Vanessa today:

And I talked to my aunt when I got home and she told me how mad my uncle was about [the prices going up] and how he went off on her and he wasn't going... And then I thought, then, dude - don't go. Be happy with your decision either way. I'll be fine. J will be fine. Van - how about my mom saying something about the PLANE crashing and killing us all in one fell swoop?!?! Like I don't have enough to worry about; now I lay awake wondering if I have just set into motion events that will kill ALL of my friends and family???

Honestly, is it any wonder I am crazy?

No more! I love my family; I love my friends. J too. We would love for you all to join us if you have the means. If you do not, we understand. That's that. No more guilt trips; no more people added to the guest list. No. More. Drama. (Thanks, Mary J.)

J and I fell in love; and then we got engaged. And then we had a destination wedding, where hopefully everyone remains alive.

No more drama. Only exuberance! This is a good thing; this is a wedding for me, a vacation for you. Christ, there is a swim-up bar! This is a no-brainer.

The end.

Merhaba!

Merhaba (hello), mah people.

As I write, Istanbul muslims are being called to prayer on a loud speaker that echoes throughout the city. Is amazing place. I cannot wait to tell you all about it; sitting in Sultanahmet Park between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, arguably two of the most beautiful structures in the world; Efes beers with new friends at the Cozy Bar and Pub; smoking water pipes with Turkish Scott Baio; visiting the harem at Topkapi Palace... Istanbul is truly other-worldly! (Though the comforts of home exist on late-night NBC, where I totally caught How I Met Your Mother the other night in English!)

We leave tomorrow. Tragic. Until then: gule gule!

Dunder Mifflinity

First things first: Andy Bernard is my new boyfriend.



Secondly, hello! Welcome back to Manayunk is the New Queens is the New Manhattan or whatever, where this charming little blogger has been in 7833890 cities in 3 days, or something. I can't keep track anymore. Last week I was in Charleston, South Carolina, but kept thinking I was in Charlotte, North Carolina.



Today, a homecoming: Back in 'Cuse. Where everybody knows McNabb's name. (Shout out, Real JC!)



Tomorrow Oswego, New York. Thursday, the WORLD. Or, more specifically, Istanbul.



You may have noticed Turkey in the news last week. Briefly, Congress is trying to pass a resolution to declare the Ottoman Turks' killing of the Armenians during World War I a genocide; in fact, they want to declare the killings the first official genocide of the twentieth century. The Turks, as you can imagine, are charmed; or rather, protesting. They have argued that the death toll is over-inflated, and they have warned the United States not to pass this resolution. J and I aren't sure what this means for us, or any American travelers in the country for that matter. We are monitoring the situation closely (along with the U.S. Government Travel Site); and plan on laying very low, and possibly playing Canadian, as you do. Ultimately, we still plan to have an amazing adventure! And I will totally blog from Turkey, my people. Recognize.

We're also hoping that our "W" invitations will go out this week. Pray God.

DC: The Ultimate Photo Essay

* Please note: the following was started some time ago, and not finished properly, due to extreme time constraints by author. She is deeply sorry she keeps using her insane schedule as an excuse for not blogging. Unacceptable! Must change. Read on.


Oh, hello there. Welcome to DC, land of fucking quadrants. When you are intimately familiar with the New York City grid system, quadrants will blow your goddamn mind. But try to stay positive, like me. Here I am playing the role of happy-go-lucky woman whose head is not about to explode. Nope.

J, I told you, he said 7th and F! The Spy Museum is on 7th and F! I don't see any Spy Museum. God, I am hungry. And I have to pee. (Nefarious "SW" on sign overhears, and cackles. Another frustrated tourist! All in a day's work.)

Look, J! The Capitol Building. It's a magical place where bills become laws. Remember *sings* I'm just a bill, sitting up on Capitol Hill? Oh, right. *Rolls eyes* I can't believe you never saw School House Rock, J. Honestly.

Now take a picture of me, holding the Washington Monument like a sword, k? Oh man, J, this is clever. I bet no one has tried this before! Awesome.

Here we are trying to redeem ourselves, after the incredible photo a French man took of us once:

Wow, this is quite an abrupt ending to this less than stellar post! Rosie the Riveter, take us home:

Premature Ugg-Wearing, And Other Things

As luck would have it, my Providence meeting was canceled for today! So I flew in last night from TF Green, having traded my favorite Guess pumps (newly re-heeled and re-soled, thank you, as I destroy shoes) for my favorite sheepskin Uggs. You see, I erroneously assumed it would be cool in New England. It's fall, goddamnit! Not so. Also, it was 80 degrees in Philadelphia. Bastards. When will the air be crisp and cold, so that I can wear my glorious comfortable shoes every day? When?

Other things.

Last night I sat next to the chattiest man evah on my Southwest flight. By the time we landed (one-hour flight, y'all), I'd learned all about his boat in New England; his work at the Franklin Mint; his current job; his current girlfriend; that time his ex moved all of her things out of their Indiana home one day with her brother, and he took off to Club Med in Punta Cana the next day and played Caesar in an improv skit (and when they asked him what Caesar wanted, he proclaimed: "VIRGINS!"); and then some dude there told him that now he could have any woman he wanted; but then he didn't; he only had one. Then there was the time he saw his ex at a wedding a few years later, where she ignored him; then he convinced the best-looking woman in the room to dance with him, to make his ex jealous; then they spent one night together and he sent her flowers the next day, but they never spoke again.

"So how old are you?" He asked between these charming anecdotes.

"Twenty-seven," I replied, burying my nose in Vanity Fair, the universal travelers' sign for polite conversation over, man: I've got never-before-seen pics of the Kennedys by Richard Avedon to pour over.

"Man, I could use a 27 year-old."

I shift uncomfortably.

"But not you! Obviously, because you're engaged. I could have a daughter your age! I just turned 50."

I sensed a sadness in his voice when he said the words. For a moment, I felt pity.

"So," I began, "No children then?"

"Nah. Never been married. That's why I need a woman of child-bearing age."

(I really couldn't make this stuff up, these revelatory travel tales.)

"Then your girlfriend is older?" I ask.

"Yeah. Older than me, actually. 51. In L.A. right now. But she works a lot. Man, I told her: you keep working your ass off like that. I'm just gonna play."

I may be projecting, or reading too much Faludi these days, but his words are joyless. I imagine he is very lonely.

"But who's going to marry me?" He asks.

"Someone will marry you!" I assure him.

"Of child-bearing age?" He asks me. I say nothing for a moment. Then, "You could adopt."

He shakes his head dismissively, then picks his small blue tote off the floor. "Scallops," he smiles. "Caught'em myself. I can't wait to get home and eat these."

Then I pretend to be incredibly interested in his live scallops, as he pries open a shell to show off his treasure.

When we land, the conversation ends as it always ends on planes: the take care, good luck.

"Well, nice talking to you. Take care."

"You too. Good luck with everything."

I'm not sure it's relevant, but this is one of those enlightening experiences that wakes me up for a brief moment; that teaches me what it is to be human. We're all searching. The tide is always changing. We long to connect. And sometimes, the best thing we can do is put aside the Graydon Carter editorial for a second, and look at the scallops. Because it is kind.

Another Monday, Another Airport

Afternoon at the Philadelphia Airport. I have been so busy lately with travel, I haven't even had time to upload my super cool pictures from DC! Man, when it rains, it pours. Have been in Washington; Arlington, Virginia; Danvers, Peabody, Salem, and Newton, Massachusetts; Randolph, New Jersey; Manhattan; and Hoboken in last eight days. Now heading to Providence, Rhode Island; New London, Connecticut; and Worcester, Mass.

God - I am bored reading that. My apologies for this lame post.

Upcoming post spoiler alert:

Which happy-go-lucky bride-to-be found out her Dominican resort was changing ownership, name, and going though multi-million dollar renovations in the next few months?

Claire, Elise, and Maggie Malone Seaver

So I am reading an absolutely fascinating book right now. J lovingly calls it a man-hating treatise and keeps urging me to put it down, but I can't. I am typically a poor nonfiction reader; I have tried to read Blink more times than I can count, but within a few chapters I lose interest and revert to a good old-fashioned fiction story.

This is not the case here, y'all. This piece is truly riveting.

Now, men, I know the title (Backlash: The Undeclared War on American Women) is a bit, er, inflammatory? As it should be. I assure you this book is a well-reasoned, well-researched account of a palpable backlash against women's progress throughout United States history. Faludi wrote it in 1991, so most of it details (incredible detail) the attacks (however seemingly benign) against women in the 1980s.

She begins by describing the backlash in the media. She recalls the alarming marriage "study" (beware, college-educated women: your chances of marriage after 30 are so very, very grim) and it's proliferation in popular news magazines (Newsweek seems to be one of the most ubiquitous offenders), newspapers, talk shows, and self-help books. The overwhelming message in the 1980s: marry, and marry quick, lest your eggs dry up and you be left with no mans. I am oversimplifying here, but that's the gist.

An entire chapter centers around the backlash on television, which is certainly one of the most intriguing sections for this pop culture junkie. But before I began reading, I thought about 80s TV; more specifically, 80s moms.

Now, I grew up watching Mary Tyler Moore on Nick at Nite with my own mother. Mary was a single career woman in the 70s, and seemed quite happy at that, thankyouverymuch. To that end, in my own home, I was always, always told that I, HomeValley P. Keaton, could be whatever I goddamn pleased. The world was full of endless possibilities; all I needed to do was choose my path. Success was mine for the taking (though my mother preferred I become a scientist and cure cancer, at least she encouraged me to think BIG).

Let's examine, then, the 80s television woman. In the shows I viewed, most of these women were working moms. There was Elise Keaton, whom Faludi admits has a career, but says you'd be hard-pressed to name it. To which I reply - not so! Elise was an architect, and a liberal, liberated woman at that. (The entire premise of the show was the philosophical difference between left-wing parents and an extremely conservative son, no?)

Then there is the lovely Clair Huxtable, an attorney. Faludi asserts that you never saw Clair at work (I concur, though I am sure I have not seen every episode); and that the only time her law degree was used was upon settling family disputes in the living room (to that I giggled, and then reluctantly agreed). At least Clair is gainfully employed, however, and is also an equal, a force, in the happy Huxtable home.

Then there's Growing Pains Maggie Malone Seaver, who's maiden name I know (Jesus Christ, I watched too much TV). Maggie was a television news reporter, another reputable career. From what I recall, she was a strong, successful woman who was balancing it all: work and family.

As Faludi illustrates, single women in the 1980s were repeatedly maligned on television: they were shown as unhappy, weak, neurotic, and often desperately seeking a husband and/or baby. Most of her examples stem from thirtysomething, a show that I never would have tuned into at eight years old, and thus know very little about. (My mind races at these depictions however, and I ask you: how many single women do you know who are unhappy about their plight? How many long for relationships to the point of extreme unhappiness, sometimes even depression, in spite of successful careers or otherwise fulfilling lives? Why is that?)

She also depicts the "dead mom" phenomenon on popular 80s sitcoms. Gah! Does she have a point? One need look no further than Full House, but note also The Hogan Family (Valerie's Family first, remember?) and Blossom, where Mayim's mom was not dead but may as well have been, because she was a selfish musician on tour or something, right? Whoa!

What is the crux here? Though I have not yet finished the book, and though my perspective is likely skewed at this point as I am no longer a single woman, the heart of the matter for me is the ubiquitous question: can women have it all?

My answer: still a resounding yes. But in speaking with the women I know, there is little agreement here.

This week, I emailed a dear friend/wife/mother of two/career woman/graduate student, and I marveled at her ability and shared my belief, that yes, you can do it all and that she is living proof. (This from a very optimistic blogger who has no children yet.)

"I agree," she responded. "We are having our evaluations here at work, seven being the highest. I overheard a woman say to her husband, 'Well, I'd rather be a seven at home and a four at work, right?' Wrong, I thought. What's the point of being here if I can't do it all?"

I have heard women say that they'd never quit work; I have heard women say of course they will quit work. I have heard women say that you need to stay home until your kids go to school. The implication always, if you can afford to stay home, then you should. (My inner voice always hears, you selfish whore. You do not love your babies!)

This is a sensitive topic, and I try to approach it delicately. But my heart starts hammering in my chest when I think about having kids (which I want with all of my being) and making an impact in this world through a successful career (which I want with all of my being). I know some of you will judge me when I tell you I am putting my child in daycare. I know I will feel guilty about putting my child in daycare. And through reading this book, I think I am starting to understand why.

And I'm not so sure I like what I see.

How about a related story, kids?

Yesterday I attended an industry conference, where the key note speaker was an ex Bill Clinton advisor turned political correspondent. I believe he has a column in the New York Post.

"Let me start off by saying," he smarmed, "that I believe Hillary Clinton will win the next presidential election."

Pause for emphasis.

"Let me also say, that I believe she will be a horrible, horrible president."

Laughter.

As his agenda-pushing diatribe continued, I began to see this not as an attack on Hillary politically, but an attack on her personally.

"Hilary's got a list of enemies 500 people long. They're not in alphabetical order: they start with 'M'."

He also asserted that because Hillary was a woman, all of the single women in all of America would vote for her. All of us. I couldn't tell if he really believed this, or if he was merely spewing some sort of reverse psychology: You're so simple, you'll vote for Hill. Show us you're smart, lady! Do not vote for Hillary in '08!

He did assure us that Bill Clinton had a an overwhelming need for affirmation; he just wants to be loved. Hillary, he said, does not need our affirmation; she thinks very highly of herself already. "In fact, Hilary thinks she is the last good person on earth." If you don't agree with Hillary, she thinks you are "evil". I had no idea this former first lady and New York senator was such a simpleton!

She also will NOT pull out of Iraq, so don't you vote for her thinking she will. "She won't want to appear weak."

He ended his self-important tirade with this anecdote: when gay protestors crashed a Bill birthday celebration at Rockefeller Center years ago, Hill smelled a conspiracy.

"It's the Republicans! They planted them there! Right up front! The press will pick up on it, and that's all anyone will hear about! I want background checks and social security numbers on everyone next time!"

Our presenter nodded soothingly to calm our hot-headed, emotional imminent commander-in-chief. Then he went to see Bill.

"Was Hillary talking all of that shit to you about background checks?" Bill asked. "Yeah, we're not going to do any of that." Then the boys had a good chuckle and patted themselves on the back. Crazy Hillary!

God Hates Indonesia.

Just checking in to say a quick "hello" before leaving Cherry Hill to have dinner with the J Family. I have so much to say; but alas, so little time. Coming soon:

• We had a "family" engagement party two weekends ago. You should hear about it.
• My hair. Super blonde. Technically, I've gone back to my natural color. From when I was 4. You should see pictures of it.
• Hmm... My fall reading? You should hear my thoughts on this book. Because it is my blog, and I reserve the right to go political on your asses.
• Vera Wang for Kohl's. (Why thank you, Ms. Wang, for the overpriced, bedazzled potato sacks you have unleashed upon the po' masses.)

Until tomorrow, my friends.

It's HomeValley, Bitch

Officially joining Team Britney today, as last night I lay awake obsessing over the cruelty of people. It is unfathomable to me that Britney's been attacked for being fat. I am frequently appalled by the savagery our society has the propensity to exhibit; the delight we take in the mighty's fall.

Get well soon, Brit. *Hugs.*

In case you were wondering about me, Brit-Brit's VMA performance and its aftermath weren't the only things I was obsessing about late yesterday.

J wrote me a beautiful letter and taped it to the bathroom mirror today, on this sixth anniversary. The gist was about moving forward, living a good life, and giving back. Once again, I feel overwhelmed by all that I have. How lucky I am.

So thanks to you all. Thanks for calling or emailing me today. I am fine. I am better than fine. I am thriving. And I am so very grateful for you all, my friends and family and blog readers, for helping me get here.

I hope this post finds you happy and well, and living the good life.

*Hugs.*

Melodrama, Thy Name is HomeValley

So I suppose I am technically out of hiding (I am traveling tonight, in Columbia, MD); though I dare say I am sorely tempted to retreat back to a place where it's just me, J, and that gorgeous DVR (Bless you, America's Next Top Model).

"I read your blog today... Funny. Bit melodramatic," sayeth J.

"Well, yes, I am melodramatic in my writing, for effect," I respond.

"No, I was talking about in life."

Quite.

So forgive me for this nugget: Am naive. Dreadfully naive. WEDDING! Please: you have won. I concede! Please. *Whimpers softly.* Just... just let us book the travel. At a decent price. I will give you whatever you want, you maniacal, overblown, social event overlord.

Please.

In other news, totally stressful eye exam yesterday. Uttered, "Are you SURE I am not going blind, for JC's sake??" numerous times. My prescription has doubled. DOUBLED! And it is all my fault, as in high school I used to wear "fake" glasses around for the look, like some sort of incredibly toolish tool. And lo! My actual glasses will now be as thick as a certain travel agent who shall remain nameless but whom is ruining. My. Life.

Wait - what?

It's all out of my system now. Ordered room service. Am calm. Serene. Have just gone to my happy place:

In Hiding

I am officially in hiding.

It started on Sunday, when a seemingly innocuous family picnic became too overwhelming for me. Sans J, I weathered some wedding-related dramatics alone. Once, I had to say firmly, "I am not getting involved." And then I commented to my mother that I was sorry that my wedding was causing so much strife, but she dismissed that and said, "Oh please! Don't be." And then I sighed tiredly and shrugged. And ate another hot dog, and some potato salad. And then I escaped to my wonderful, quiet home, where I drank wine and watched many episodes of How I Met Your Mother on DVD before falling asleep at ten o'clock.

I need time to think. Am diving into work. I've also got an eye exam today at 2:30 and Pilates at 5:45. I answer the phone for no one but J. And my mom. And that is all. Because, dudes: I can't deal right now. My senses were overloaded this weekend and Shut. Down. I spent last night making J hug me a lot during many episodes of Cops.

Cops is a great show. But still.

Dead in the Water

Shortly after I posted this morning, I was informed that my 5:15 AM train to New Haven was, in fact, "dead in the water."

Was remarkably Zen-like about this development. I reasoned that a mechanical failure on land and track - even if it was the dreaded Trenton station - was far better than say, mechanical failure on air, in sky (and fuck you, US Air, again, irrationally).

So, I packed up my belongings and made travel magic, canceling my trains to Hartford and opting instead to rent a car in New Haven, which would get me to my meeting exactly on time, if the 7:20 AM from Trenton was exactly on time (yeah: it wasn't).

I maintained my sunny outlook through-out the morning; I was goddamn chipper. Positive energy obviously exuded from me, as strangers commenced chatting me up incessantly. First, the Indian man who works at the popcorn stand:

"Ooooooooooooh! You smell incredible! Give me your boyfriend number! I call him!"

Wha?

Indian Popcorn Man spots ring on left finger. "Ah, he love you!"

Next, the tiny old woman knitting beside me on the platform bench.

"I was just looking at your shoes," she began cheerfully. "When I was much younger, I had an uncle who sent me those pointy shoes from Rome. No one had them here; but I couldn't wear them because all of my lady friends thought they were crazy!" Looks into distance, whimsically.

(This inspires me to tell the Tale of How HV and Fashion-Forward Friends Brought Capris to the States After Senior Trip to Rome. I tell that one a lot. But we totally rocked them first! Recognize.)

Where was I?

Ah, yes: Damien. I made a new friend today! He restructures companies for a living, and I deduced he was "The Bobs". (see: Office Space) He actually admitted he was Peter, and loathed his job but alas, had a young family to support and felt stuck.

I told him the secret (as am serene, Zen-Master) ; and assured him that as soon as he turned away from that negative self-talk, things would turn around for him. Hey - buck up, camper! (Who the hell do I think I am? But was in extraordinary, life-is-goddamn-beautiful mood.)

Damien very much appreciated my advice, and then told me he had a "prophecy" for me: I will marry J, move to the South, and have a brood of little boys with Southern drawls. (Me: Please - will they have blonde hair?!? Him: Yes. Yes they will.)

So, my day was weird and fruitful. On Acela bound for home. Must retire to the cafe bar now, where wine-drinking will commence.

Cheers.

The Irony

When I made plans to go to Hartford for an 11 AM meeting today, I opted to take the train. Less delays, I thought. Won't have to deal with nefarious US Air, I told myself. Will get loads of work done. Have not taken Amtrak since leaving New York, I reasoned.

Fuck. Me.

Is 5:58 AM. Have been up since 4:15 AM.

Am sitting in powerless Amtrak train in Trenton.

Need to connect in New Haven to get to Hartford.

Will miss connection.

Also: laptop battery? Dying.

Am tired. So, so tired.

I know it's illogical, but somehow, I blame US Air.

Mother's Helper

I spent the better part of this afternoon helping my mother prepare her room for her newest second grade class, starting next week. And man, if you have ever wondered why so many kids today have acute ADD, look no further than their elementary school classrooms. There is shit everywhere. I had trouble focusing; I can't imagine how the eight year-old set processes all the colors! And themes! And decorations! And books! And projects!

Is wonderful though. My mama is in her glory in that room, running around searching frantically for those tee-shirts, Melissa, where are those tee-shirts I made last year? I was sure I put them in this closet! I guess I will just have to make them again. Here, use these scissors to remove these rulers from the packaging, then put them in this basket. Oh, here are the tee-shirts! Now, assemble this box, see, I will put all of my posters in it...

She is high energy, my mama.

I reveled putting labels in the books, and sorting them into easy reads (Dr. Suess) and more challenging (Ramona Quimby!!!) novels. I can't wait to escape to this place again sometime soon to read these kids a story. The last time I visited, the children were so damn adorable. My mom proudly introduced me to them as her eldest child, then asked, "What are some of the differences you see in us?"

"She is tall!" They shouted. "You are short!"

"She has straight hair!" One mentioned. "You have poofy hair!"

"Now," my mother began, "Melissa lives in New York. Do you have any questions for her?"

Little girl raises hand in back.

"You're pretty," she gushed.

Seriously, how can you not love these goddamn kids?

And I am sure all the faculty at the school loved my mother today as - while they dutifully worked to prepare their classrooms - she popped in and introduced me to each and every person she knew.

"Hi Mr. Jennings! This is my daughter!" And on, and on. And each person shook my hand warmly and said, "Nice to meet you; your mother brags about you all the time."

Mom. But what twenty-seven year old doesn't need to hear that once in awhile?

Did I tell you that my mother went to college at the same time I did, while working full time? Did I tell you she finished just a year and a half after I did? Did I tell you that the entire family went to her graduation and screamed and cheered for her? (Brother Mike also sporadically belted "SHE'S A LADY!" Which just killed us every time.) Did I tell you that she was offered the first coveted position she applied for at our local elementary school? Did I tell you she cried in the lobby of the bank when she got the call, because she had, at age 49, finally realized a lifelong dream?

Yes. Am very proud of her too.

The Mean Reds

Somebody's gotta case of the Mondays, and it's Tuesday evening.

I can't seem to shake the "mean reds" today, and thus I can't decide if my 5:45 Pilates class will elevate my mood, or further enrage me. That class is serious, y'all. It's all about working your "core" and that means abs, and then abs, and then sit down and lift your legs and hold them still in mid-air and squeeze those abs, and then mermaid pose! On most days I can smile as my abdominal muscles atrophy and I pant and grunt and groan during the most severe crunching. Today, I may kill the instructor (and I love her) when she inevitably shouts: "Come on! This is NOT yoga!"

Fuck, I am cranky.

And I shouldn't be, because lo! Finally, the wedding event gods have smiled upon us. We have an official date, all official-like: July 11, 2008.

'Tis awesome, as that will be the third (!) anniversary of the first time J and I just knew we were destined for coupledom (or, as J tells it, the day I "molested" him in his living room.). (So did not happen, for the record.) (But wouldn't that be a nice tidbit of information for the program?)

And the place? Is fabulous, in lovely Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. I wonder how that works with the wedding being in Spanish?

Meh. At this point, does anything really matter past "swim-up bar?"

I thought not.

Overheard in Philadelphia, Part II

Late last week I was hurrying from the Starbucks on Main Street in Manayunk to the Christie's Nails, in pursuit of an eyebrow waxing. My tunnel vision is so severe that I rarely see what's going on around me (excellent trait for a writer, in case you were wondering), but suddenly a young man clad in large jean shorts and a baseball cap caught my eye. He smiled at me for a moment.

Then he beckoned across the street. "Now that's something you don't want to see here," he said, shaking his head.

On a bench on the opposite side of the road, an Indian man sat with a turban on his head; arms crossed. He was dark-skinned and could very well have been Arabic.

Oversized Jeans looked expectantly at me, waiting for my reply. Oh, the things I should have said, had my brain been functioning! Had I not been caught off guard, making a beeline for a waxing!

Instead, I just smiled wanly and shook my head disapprovingly.

"What?" He asked, a bit defensively. "I'm an American!"

He said it. I didn't.

HomeValley's Pop Culture Picks!

This past weekend was filled with much hosting, driving, movie-watching, cleaning, and reading. And also - much tambourine playing. Behold! HV's Pop Culture Picks of the Moment:

Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle

OK, I realize this movie is about three years old; I didn't realize I owned it (read: borrowed from someone years ago and never returned) until Ry, my sixteen year-old brother, came to stay with J and me for a few days. I rented 300 for the occasion, but no one was in a particularly Spartan-esque kind of mood on Friday after returning from the Brew Pub, where we feasted on cocktails, sushi, and chicken parm. (Why don't teens understand the joy of raw fish and avocado? Kids these days.)

We wanted funny, so I charged Ry with going through my DVD collection and choosing a film. And sadly, Harold and Kumar was the best he could do.

Admittedly, the dirty martini made me a bit sleepy, and I dozed off during some of the movie. I was awake for a hilarious dream sequence in which Kumar courts a gigantic bag of weed; and also, a scene in which a young woman shows her boobies, which is always v. comfortable when viewing with younger male siblings. *Shudders.*

The verdict: Meh. Definitely had its moments, and no doubt would have been fucking gut-busting when I was sixteen, a time when I most certainly did not engage in any illegal activity. No sir. Overall, a worthy film for having just arrived home from a night of drinking, though certainly not any other illegal activity. (P.S. Ry? Don't do drugs. Please? Thank you.)

(And also, I think Kumar is pretty hot. No?)

Hairspray

Continuing HomeValley Family Fun Weekend, I trekked to Jersey on Saturday to pick up l'il sisters Cat and Meg for a girls' lunch and an afternoon showing of Hairspray. My adorable sisters where characteristically underwhelmed, but I - having seen the musical twice now - found more reasons to adore it. It's delightful; complete with a deliciously evil Michelle Pfeiffer looking gorgeous as ever and a terrifying yet lovable John Travolta prancing about in drag. And, it's fucking funny. So funny that thirteen year-old Cat gaped incredulously at me several times during the film when I guffawed.

The verdict: Two words: Christopher. Walken. Go.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Housseini

There are certain books that have left an indelible mark on my soul; books that have remained with me for years, that have quite possibly concocted the person I am today. Judy Blume's Just As Long As We're Together tops my list, as does Go Ask Alice. As a young girl, I read and re-read these books countless times. I sought solace in them; they brought comfort when my adolescent world seemed out of control.

But in all my years, of all the books I've read, I can't now recount having been so moved by any one work of fiction. A Thousand Splendid Suns is Housseini's follow-up to The Kite Runner, a similarly harrowing tale set in modern day Afghanistan. The novel follows the lives of two women, Mariam and Laila, through the Soviet invasion until the devastating rise of the Taliban.

I can't do the prose justice here, nor the story of these two women who endure the incomprehensible. What I know is this: in my own life, I hadn't heard the world "Taliban" until Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I knew nothing about Afghanistan, and I suppose after the devastating attacks here, I assumed that the Taliban were Afghanistan. I knew nothing. The depiction of modern Afghani history through the fictional lives of Mariam and Laila was startling; I was stunned and overwhelmed by our shared humanity. Reading in bed each night, I felt outrage for what was happening there; and incredibly thankful for the privileged lives we enjoy here, the basic freedoms we take for granted each and every day (like traveling alone outside of our homes, without a male escort, or our entitlement to education).

I wept when I finished the book this weekend, and then I wiped my tears and asked J if we could have twin girls and name them Mariam and Laila? ("That would be a little weird.") And also, could we join the Peace Corps? ("Sure.") Help UN Refugees? ("Of course.")

The verdict: Please. Read.

Chabaa Thai Bistro, Manayunk

At our tenth? Eleventh? trip here, the Panang Curry only gets better. This BYO is quaint and lovely and makes the best Thai food this side of the Schuylkill.

The verdict: Try it; you'll see.

And, finally:

Flat Rock Saloon, Manayunk

J and I hadn't been to Flat Rock in years, so it was nice choice after dinner with friends Lauren and Eric. One martini into the evening, I suggested Jaegar bombs, which, I confirmed, are nasty.

The verdict: But then, a little cover band called Love Junk happened, and they handed yours truly a tambourine:

Which I played.

And played.

And also sang a little, through my playing.

I don't want to boast, but J called me the "best tambourine player ever."

I concurred.

Babies, Babies Everywhere

Congratulations are in order to friend and blog-reader P, who just yesterday was blessed with a baby girl, albeit a few weeks early. Hooray, P! Wishing you and your baby girl all the best.


Did you know that everyone is pregnant? At least most of the people I know, anyway. Except myself, and Grace. This morning, we attempt to name our future offspring via email:

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

I will have Helen and Grace.

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Did you know that my new favorite boy's name is Henry? How cute will our little regal children be running around?? Henry, Helen, and Grace! Now that is classy.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

I like Henry. Can I call him Hank after a few glasses of wine?

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

NO WAY. Well, as long as no one else hears and picks up on it. It will be like my mother forever protecting me from "Missy". I owe her a lot for that.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

well then you cant call my daughter Nan.

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Yeah right! I am totally calling her that.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

Hank and Nan. Sounds like the Boxcar Children...

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Like the Little Rascals. All we need is for you to have a Spanky.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

too many jokes in my head right now

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Today's life lesson:

"If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is "God is Crying." And if he asks why God is crying, I think another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did." - Jack Handey

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

as I was raised on the motto that "Children should be seen and not heard." -Diz (father of Grace)

From: Grace

To HomeValley

We are going to be great mothers.

Popping In

The Internet has turned against me. I have been absent from this beloved forum for so long, it won't let me in anymore. I am writing this to myself via email. It has gotten that bad!

Am also trying to figure out why, since J and I cleaned out our closets on Sunday afternoon in The Great Bedroom Redecoration of '07, our second floor smells of dirty laundry, and our closet reeks of cat piss. Seriously: why?

And speaking of TGBRO07, yes, we did spruce up our sanctuary just a bit, thank you for asking. We've really taken it to the next level. I wanted serene, and oh, we went there. The room once had a dim orange glow to it; it's now been transformed into a blue and white halcyon oasis. And it is glorious, right down to the fake orchid that now adorns our night stand. And it only cost us considerably more than we planned on spending. Still. Glorious.

It was also the perfect time to survey everything in our drawers and closets, and determine which items were Salvation Army-bound. (Didn't I just do this?) Ladies: a moment of silence for the two errant canvas Coach totes that were chucked into the big black trash bag unceremoniously. Yes, they were both nearly 4 years old, and neither had aged well. If only I could have done something, anything, to save them from this fate! But alas, a spot treatment stain remover did not work; and of course there was no way to patch the leather that had been scraped away through years of abuse. Still. It hurt. Take care of your Coach, will you?

In travel news, I wrote a long, eloquent post on paper (!!) last week upon my arrival at the Columbia airport in South Carolina. It was quite clever actually; I discussed how trying it is to travel most of the time, until you realize how many wonderfully beautiful and quirky people you can meet in an airport bar, like a chemist who recently discovered the reason why there is so much nitrogen in the soil, y'all! A scientific breakthrough that warranted me giving him my last quesadilla, because hey! It may seem banal, but I have discovered nothing lately. (Well, unless you count unearthing this wretched cat piss odor out of our perfectly-arranged wardrobe?) So, I wrote until my hand cramped and then it was 197 degrees in Columbia; and I decided it was much easier to drink pinot noir to combat the heat, and not post; and then I was so busy the rest of the week that I had no time to write; am lazy, procrastinating simpleton, etc.

In Big Party news, there may be a destination for the Event J and I will be hosting next July. More to come on that when the details have been sorted.

In I Didn't Realize HomeValley Was That Nerdy news, not only do I have a "Currently Reading" document in my files here (which lists all the books that I have read since 2004), but I also just discovered a list entitled: "Books I Must Read". Heh. Am lovable, and also well-read.

Finally, please, see the film Once. For your own good.

More to come, friends.

I Still Miss Someone (or City)

Spent lovely day in Manhattan yesterday, mostly working from my hotel room on 92nd and 1st, instead of trekking to our Manhattan office, way downtown at Broadway and Wall. Had dinner plans with Vanessa, but asked her to kindly meet me at Coach in Rockefeller first, because I was a woman with a bonus who wasn't afraid to spend it!

Alas, I was afraid to spend it. Damn you, J! Now I am acting all kinds of sensible. Behold, the bag I did not purchase:

Yet.

Over the most expensive glasses of Pinot Noir evah, Vanessa and I chatted the night away. In celebrity sighting news, V recently dined next to Tom Brady and Gisele at a quaint West Village Italian eatery. The word? They are the tallest people she has seen ("like giants!"); Tommy wore a leather jacket that he never removed, despite the oppressive heat; and Gisele is positively gorgeous sans make-up. Oh, and they made out the entire time. Fabulous.

I took the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan yesterday, something I haven't done in years; and impossibly, the views are even more stunning than I remember them. My alma mater, Pace U, lies at the base of the bridge downtown, and even that looked positively gorgeous yesterday in the bright sun. Immediately emailed J upon arriving at the Courtyard Marriott and told him that not only should we move back to New York, but we should probably just live underneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

Of course, during my hellacious commute this morning (10 blocks in sweltering heat to 86th and Lex, approximately 1 billion people clamoring to get on the 6 train, transfering to the 4 train at Union Square, all while lugging a giant computer bag and sweating profusely), I marveled that there was nothing quite like having a home office.

Unless perhaps my office was on the Brooklyn Bridge?