Wordless Wednesday: Adulthood is Never Being Able to Avoid "6th Grade Soccer Hair"

No matter how old you are, you still have those days where it looks like you played an entire soccer game and scored the winning goal with a header.

Family Dinners

I moved in with my husband a little over two years ago when we came to San Diego. One of my favorite things about living together has always been... dinner.

Cooking dinner was special in the very beginning because we lived with his sister-in-law and we rarely had the chance (or more likely a reason) to cook for just the two of us. When we did, everything from grocery shopping to cleaning up after eating was like part of a date and we made it fun.

We moved into our own place after a few months and grocery shopping and washing dishes became less and less exciting but we still love cooking and eating. My favorite thing though, is something we started doing last December after he came home from deployment: Sunday night dinners at the local German restaurant.

That's right. Every Sunday. German food and dark beer. Best thing ever.

It's been 9 months now so the waitresses know us by name and because I am so boring they know what I am going to order. It's the best two hours of the week. We catch up on anything we haven't gotten to talk about and just have a big relaxing meal that we don't have to clean up. We have a tradition.

One day, our little family will be a party of three or four instead of just the two of us so I'm really enjoying these miniature family dinners and all this German food.

What about you? What family traditions have you started around dinner and food?

-Morgan

Photo by avlxyz via flikr

The Secret is in the Telling

“Do you promise not to tell?” she asked me.

“Yes. I promise,” I said.

As a child, a secret was something innocent. A crush on a boy, a hidden treasure spot, or stealing a candy bar. But as I grew older, secrets became more serious. My friends stopped whispering in my ear about how they’d talked to their crush that day, or how they had broken their mom’s favorite lamp and blamed it on the dog. Instead, they whispered about other things: sexual encounters, pregnancy scares, depression, drinking and drugs.

And then there were the secrets that they didn’t tell. The ones I always knew but was too afraid to talk to them about. The secrets that left rippled seams, tiny as a stitch--but not invisible.

These were the kind of secrets that involved excusing oneself right after eating an extra large container of ice cream, and then returning with pink vomit on your collar. Like a magnet, my eyes would stare at the vomit: that imperfect stitch that unravels it all. But I dare not look at it for too long, so she doesn’t think I know. It’s a secret I have known for many years, but one that she glosses over with jokes about indigestion. A secret known but never told.

These were the kind of secrets involving a sadness so deep that you can’t speak it because you think no one could understand. “Please just come out and meet me for coffee?” I would ask. “I’m so sorry,” she would say through muffled tears. “Not tonight. I’m not feeling well.” And the next night would be the same. And the night after that too. Until every day and night she was trapped in sadness, and the sadness gripped her so tightly that no one could get their arms in anywhere, even to hug her.

They were the kind of secrets that are held for so many years, buried and confused with guilt and childhood. The ones she can barely tell you because what he did to her over and over again was so horrible. The secret she held on to, through childhood, and into adulthood, until she was out of the house. Away from him.

They were also the kind of secrets about a relationship filled with mean words, name calling, belittling, constant hurt, and the sad realization that she doesn’t want to leave. "I know I deserve better," she told me, carefully balancing the secrets above her head like the heaviest ceiling tiles. "But I love him."

The kind of secrets that were strategically hidden above her skirt on her upper leg and were only revealed on accident when the blood soaked through her gray leggings. “I don’t do it all the time,” she said casually. “Just sometimes, when life gets to be too much and I need to feel something real. They really aren’t even that deep.”

Some of these secrets resolve themselves. A step-father was imprisoned thanks to brave girls. A girl realized she needed support to overcome her anxiety and agoraphobia. And, after a cut a little too deep, a smart doctor intervened.

But some secrets remained.

As a friend, how do you respond to secrets when you do find them out (however they are revealed to you )? How do you help a friend who is too deeply entrenched in their secret to realize that they are loved, they are strong, they are brave, and they deserve happiness? How do you help them realize that unless they are willing to become accountable for their own life, and unless they are willing to face their darkest secret and leave that secret behind, the secret will win?

And letting the secret win means trading your life for a life of pain.

“Promise you won’t tell?” she asked again.

“This isn't an innocent secret anymore. You are an adult now, you choose your path. If you won't change your situation, no one will do it for you. But if you choose to let the secret win, the secret will escalate and the ceiling will fall in. It always does. You will have chosen pain as you wait for that inevitable moment when the ceiling falls in, and even worse pain when the moment arrives. All I can do for you is be here to hold your hand.

The secret is in the telling, but this life is yours to choose.”

Guest Blog: When I Was Your Age...

I am so proud and excited to publish an essay by my dear friend Lukus. Lukus's other essay is featured on the Best of Adulthood, and for good reason. He is thoughtful and candid about his ruminations on adulthood, he is a great writer, and I am very excited for you to read his next contribution. Enjoy this one everyone! Let us know in the comments, do you feel this same pressure from your parents? Any and all ideas are welcome and valued here and I look forward to your thoughts!

When I Was Your Age...
by Lukus Williams

With all the poking and prodding from Mara to get another entry out of me, I was tempted to make this guest post about the virtues of patience. Unfortunately, neither virtue nor patience are topics with which I am familiar. What I do excel at is an argument, and that’s where the inspiration for this entry comes.

During what I lovingly to refer to as a parental bitchfest, my father was comparing the course of his life to mine in order to point out my shortcomings. His list of accomplishments is framed in that stereotypical formula used by parents against their transitioning children:

“When I was your age, I was married, had a full time job. We owned a house. There’s no way you could even have a family by the time you’re 28.”(I’m 25, by the way.)

Normally, my standard response is to roll my eyes and walk off. If I’m in a poor mood I may say something colorful in French, since he won’t understand (va te faire foutre!!!), but that can garner the wrath of other multilingual relatives who happen to be afoot. But this time, I tried a different tactic:

“How old were you when you moved to a city that was 250 times larger than where you had grown up, with no friends or family and hardly any money, because your parents decided to set-up shop in the backwater boonies with next to no opportunity? And how long did it take you to build a new foundation of friends and contacts, learn to live on your own, and work multiple jobs while going to school full time?”

“…”

“That’s what I thought.”

I share this story, not just as a rant about how my parents don’t understaaaaaaaaaand me (though they don’t!), but as way to illustrate how the definition of adulthood is a fluid thing, and the skills needed to function are always changing.

I grew up in a really small and hot Mayberry RFD town filled with insular, and just all-around weird people, and when I made the move to San Diego back in early 2006, I did it entirely on my own. It’s not that my parents didn’t want to help, it’s that they couldn’t.

My parents never lived on their own. They never kicked the tires on an apartment, deciphered a light rail or bus schedule, or pondered what life might be like when you can choose between more than one grocery store. My mom was 19 and my dad 23 when they got married. They moved straight from their parents’ homes into a two-bedroom house that they bought for $35,000. We’re still eating off of the plates and utensil they got as wedding gifts and the jury is out on whether or not I’m older than the electric can opener they have.

My mom learned her cooking, cleaning, and house budgeting skills in high school because that’s what girls in the Midwest did back in the 70s. My dad got his university education for a whopping $8,500. So let’s just say that asking my mom how to pay bills online and trying to explain to my dad why my student loans needed to be several times the size of that first home loan were very…frustrating conversations.

It isn’t necessarily that they lived with their heads buried in the sand and didn’t realize the world kept moving while we lived in the middle of nowhere. It was more that they were having trouble reconciling the outside world with what was going to in everyday life.

For my peers who grew up in SoCal, getting married at 19 then moving into a starter home are not the markers of a successful and normal start into adulthood. Instead, moving hundreds of miles from home, learning the dynamics of living with strangers as roommates, or even * gasp * living alone, have become the markers of adulthood.

“Thirty years old for us is twenty years old for them” says one of my close friends and I agree. None of us can fathom having kids before 30, and only two in our large group have gotten married (to each other). But if our Baby Boomer parents still insist that the standard for growing up is being a parent, or being married, then all of my cohorts from my dorm days are looking to stay Toys R Us Kids. And why shouldn’t we? With a ton of debt and jobs scarce, I know “settling down” is the last thing on my mind.

I hate to end this with an “us versus them” undertone, but when I get told to “grow up” by my father, it’s hard not to start seeing lines in the sand. The skills my parents needed to be successful young adults are obsolete. Society doesn’t exist in stasis. And for us 20-something, working-class, collegiate-types, adulthood means hanging on in an uncertain world and worrying that it may never calm down long enough for us to grow up to the standards of my father.



***

Cheap Chic: Being Beautiful on a Budget

This entry will begin my series of entries in a topic of adulthood that we all know too well: BUDGETING.

In the midst of the shiny covers of bridal store magazines, with beautiful air-brushed brides in $8,000 Vera Wang wedding dresses, we must strive to find something real. For most of us, spending lavishly on a wedding isn't an option, and thus, we must make due to make our day beautiful and special on a budget.

Granted, I am not married, so I haven't had to tackle these kinds of issues yet. But certainly, as an adult, budgeting becomes really important. I budget carefully every month, so that my bills can get paid, my rent can get paid, my lights can stay on, my school can get paid, and maybe I might have a little money left over for a date with my boyfriend, or a trip once in a while to visit my one of my friends who live far away.

I understand the constraints of having to make hard decisions on what to spend money on, but I can't imagine what it must be like after paying your bills (the bills that make it possible to continue to live) to have to then make decisions on planning a thrify wedding. You want it beautiful like the magazines, but you don't have funds, is there any way to still get what you want?

I think the way it would go for me would be: eat or buy a few extra flowers for the wedding? I would be tempted to pick the latter because I love flowers. (I could live on Raman Noodles, if need be...)

Well, I now know it is possible to eat AND have pretty flowers. My friends Adam and Kim recently got married. They had a small wedding in La Jolla, California, at a park overlooking the Pacific. And guess what? They had tons of flowers. And guess what else? The flowers cost less than $200! And guess what else? They got most of them at Costco!

You don't believe me? Check it out!






Kim and her two friends (one of which was yours truly) and her mom put these flower arrangements together the night before the wedding. They were easy and fun! Let me show you how the process went.

Kim and I ventured to the wholesale flower shop in San Diego. They have buckets and buckets of flowers! We picked some that we liked, and got some tools: styrophome green blocks that absorb water, some wire, and some green tape to wrap the stems. That's it! The rest of the flowers she got from four spring bouquets at Costco.

















So, this is all to say that budgeting can fuel creativity, and can actually be pretty bonding! We had a lot of fun putting those bouquets and arrangements together. Sometimes it can be a challenge in deciding whether to buy something we want or to buy something we need. And sometimes, we settle for buying something we need, and find out that we actually got more out of it than we expected.

Because, as I see it, that is what a wedding is all about anyway, whether you spend $500 for your wedding or $5 million dollars: it is about two people sharing their love with the friends and family and community who have loved and supported them along the way. It's not the amount you spend, but the amount of love that you give and receive to your partner, your friends, and family.

Paying a professional florist to do your wedding flowers, $972. Buying your own flowers wholesale and at Costco, $200. Having wine and spaghetti and good music and friends together while arranging said wholesale and Costco flowers, PRICELESS.

More to come on our budgeting series. I will point you to some of the best blogs out there for spotting deals(@SuperSavingSara, that is you!) that WILL save you money at your favorite store. AND we will also tackle some tougher issues like what do when your friends expect you to spend money you don't have, difficult decisions to make when unemployed, and more! Stay tuned...

April Showers Bring: Muffins, Baking, Brunch, Tulips and Family

Well, I moved to a new apartment -- it is so much bigger and for the first time we can accommodate a number of people at our house. We also have a patio, for the first time in years, and are really excited to finally give our large patio table a nice place to live. We have had dinner on the patio every day that it has been warm enough, and boy has it been great. Until you are couped up in a 500 square foot apartment with no outdoor space for a few years, you might not realize how great it is to be able to eat outside on a patio at your own house. Oh, how I will never take the outdoors for granted again!

This Easter, we are hosting our first holiday! We aren't religious, so Easter is more of a time to get friends and family together and be grateful for the time you have together. It is also an excuse to bake! My mom, our long-time family friend, Phil, and Brian and I will be indulging in a delicious brunch!

I am in charge of the sweet dishes, and Brian is in charge of the savory. So our menu will consist of the following:
- Made to order omelets or egg scrambles with choice of veggies, cheeses, and meats. (I think I will go for a spinach, tomato, goat cheese, and avocado omelet!)
- Bacon and sausage
- Homemade zucchini bread
- Homemade raspberry, blueberry, orange muffins. (Maybe served warm with lemon curd?)
- Healthy, homemade raspberry cream cheese french toast
- Bagels with lox and cream cheese, lemon and capers
- Bloody Mary's
- Mimosas
- Lemon bars
- Homemade low-carb key lime cheesecake (my mom is on Atkins at the moment, though she is a skinny little mini already)

Sounds like a great meal!

I haven't taken pictures of all my homemade goodies, but here is the recipe for the muffins to get you started.

Mmmm. Can't wait to eat all my sweets! Did I mention my mom is on Atkins, or yeah and BF doesn't like "sweets for breakfast"? Soooo, I guess more for me!

Raspberry/Blueberry/Orange Muffins



Ingredients:
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon grated orange peel
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup orange juice
1/2 cup melter butter
1 large egg
3/4 cup frozen raspberries (do not thaw)
3/4 cup frozen blueberries (do not thaw)

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line 12 muffin cups with paper baking cups.
2. In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and orange peel. Mix well.
3. In another bowl, combine OJ and eggs. Add melted butter by tempering egg mix. If you temper correctly, you don't have to worry about scrambling BUT the butter, OJ, egg mixture does look a bit chunky. Not to worry, this is the butter trying to re-form. Blend well.
4. Add flour mixture until just combined. (Batter will be very thick!)
5. Gently stir in berries.
6. Divide thick batter into 12 muffin cups. Don't worry if you fill them all the way to the top on these guys. I did and they worked out fine.
7. Bake at 400 for 18-25 minutes (mine went for 23 minutes) or until baking pin thingy comes out clean. Cool in tins for 1 minute. Remove from pan, serve warm.



* These are a bit sour, so I might suggest serving with whipped honey butter or lemon curd. You can buy lemon curd at Trader Joe's if you don't feel like making your own.

Another great thing about spring time at Trader Joe's: You can buy a little posy of cut tulips. They come all closed up, and in different colors. You just snip the bottoms, place them in water and they beautify any room or Easter table!



More recipes to come! Happy Easter!

What's In a Name?

***

I can't get used to my friend Nicole's new married name. I have known the girl for over 20 years as Oldewurtel. (Pronounce it however you like, you still probably won't pronounce it right.) Now, suddenly, with a few words from a priest, the Social Security Administration, and the State of Arizona, she is a Carpenter.

As a person who has lived with a very strange last name her whole life also, I feel really more jealous that she doesn't have to struggle anymore with helping people understand. This is how the conversation usually goes for me:


ME: My last name is Stringfield.

THEM: Oh, yes. Springfield.

ME: No, STringfield. With a "T."

THEM: Oh, we don't have a Strongfield on the list.

ME: No. STRING, Like string cheese. FIELD, like a field of grass.

THEM: (sounding even more confused than ever and speaking hesitantly) Is that right? Stringfield?

ME: Yep. String and field, put together. Compound word.

THEM: Is it F-I-E-L-D or F-E-I-L-D?

ME: (silently)How do you think you spell "field"? (aloud) F-I-E-L-D.

THEM: Okay, you are on the list!


Nicole was always the friend who understood the struggles of having a difficult name. I could always count on someone understanding the annoyance. Now, she goes to the bank or a restaurant and says "Carpenter." That's it. Carpenter.

I don't have the heart to change her name yet. My phone still rings Nicole Oldewurtel when she calls. I don't think I have accepted that adulthood comes with many changes -- friends get married, and change their names. I need to reconcile myself with the fact that it is not identity theft.

I asked Nicole today how she felt about her new name. "I love it. I like the name and I like that it represents our family -- and so in that way it does really feel like my name. Oh, and it is easier."

I remember as a younger girl, I would practice my new signature over and over (as many younger girls do). I would write and rewrite the last name of the boy I liked in different styles. I would try to perfect it because, in my fantasy, the boy I liked and I would end up getting married and I would have to sign all my letters with the new last name.

Then, I ask, why do I feel so startled by Nicole's lucky new name?

Nicole's answer today made me realize that changing your name is not identity theft. That both her and I, the quirky girls with the strange names, would be just as unique whether our names be Carpenter or anything else.

And I had to just practice thinking about it this way. So, I literally did practice -- just like the younger-girl-Mara would have. Just to see what it would feel like when signing a new name was less fantasy and more probability. And my boyfriend's last name is Jones, and writing it as my signature suuurreee is easier -- and so much shorter at 5 letters!
I guess it wouldn't be half bad to change my name after all.

Cheers to friends who change their names and help you grow, my little Fickle Nickle.

Until then, this is Mara Stringfield, signing off.

P.S. Dearest BF, though I know you don't read my blog, just in case on this rare occasion you do, please don't be wierded out with the fact that I may or may not have been practicing writing your surname (and may or may not have published my practice on my blog). Trust me, girls do this. I think at all ages, girls do this. It just means I have a crush on you. :)

Guest Blog: Mastering the Art of Laundry and Other Lessons on "Growing Up"

Today I am so excited and proud to present Emily Lieber as our guest blogger. Emily is really a phenomenal writer (she is also a writer-by-profession) and I have been hinting to her for the past few months how honored I would be to have her as a guest blogger. Well, Merry Christmas to me, because this morning, in my inbox was this little jewel of a piece. It is so spot on our theme of adulthood, and so insightful, funny, and poignant, especially during this holiday season when many of us will be going back to our parents house for celebrations. I hope you will enjoy this one as much as I did. The best part is, Emily promises it as part of a series, so we will have more to come from this talented lady.

Enjoy it! Show her some comment love! What kinds of social norms exist when you go back home? Do you still live by the "house rules"? How has your relationship with your parents changed/grown/evolved (pick any, or others, that apply) since adulthood? We will all be expecting riveting stories in the comments after the holidays are over (because we know we will all have lots to share after 4 days of family bonding.) I look forward to our discussion! And, of course, may your yuletide days be merry and bright!

So, ::drumroll:: without further ado:



Part I: Mastering the Art of Laundry and Other Lessons on "Growing Up"
By Emily Lieber


My husband and I are in the process of buying and renovating our first home. With escrow, permitting delays, cracked slab fixes, and other hidden problems, the process has taken more than twice as long as we thought it would. In the meantime, the house we were renting sold and escrow closed. We would have been searching for a month-to-month rental had it not been for my generous parents, who have opened their home to us and our two dogs until our new house is move-in ready.


We moved out of our old house and into my parents home, the one I grew up in, in one, long day. It has been good thing for all of us that my parents have a granny flat of sorts, complete with a restroom, bedroom, and living area separated by a door from the main house. We do have privacy and space so that we are not underfoot, but we still must venture into my parents’ space for meals, shows recorded on the DVR, and laundry. We spend most of the evenings eating dinner and sitting by the fire in the main house, so there is plenty of time to discuss healthcare reform, watch shows like the Sing-Off, and play board games.

There have been primarily positive things about our temporary living arrangement. For example, I no longer have to worry about making dinner. My mom works part-time and is a great cook, so she is fairly content handling that area. My mom has also taken over the daily task of walking our dogs at lunch, something I used to run home from work to do every day, making my life fairly harried and rushed. More importantly, I think my husband and I get along pretty well with my parents. We enjoy spending time with them and get to do a lot of that right now.

But this is real life, and with the good comes the “less-than-pleasant” things that come with sharing living spaces (in my life that has included parents and siblings, roommates, and my spouse, and all have come with very different, but still “less-than-pleasant” things). In my current living situation, the main issue that has arisen is the laundry situation. My mom has a knack for cleaning, sanitizing, and organizing, and laundry is one of her favorite things to do. Seriously. Not favorite cleaning task to do, favorite thing to do. I, on the other hand, absolutely despise doing laundry. When I had the luxury of my own washer and dryer, I would stuff them as full as I possibly could to get the as much laundry washed and dried as quickly as possible. I don’t like the process of moving wet things from the washer to the dryer, the process of folding piles of clothes and towels, or the process of hanging damp clothes to dry on hangers. Somehow, I have still managed to do this task weekly for the 9 years I have lived on my own since I left for college at age 18.

Despite my many years of experience in this area, I failed to realize when I put in my first load in at my parents’ house that my process was quite deficient. I stuffed a couple of blankets in the load (and maybe some towels) and went out to run a quick errand. When I returned, my mom and a little girl she watches from time to time were waiting triumphantly to tell me how my too-full load had caused the washing machine to jiggle out of its place all the way across the laundry room floor (or so they say). The washing machine had already been returned to its rightful place, and my load had been pulled out, divided into thirds, and restarted by the time I had returned with plans to transfer it all to the dryer. I really do think that part of the issue is that my mom has super high-tech machines that require more delicate handling. I will admit that another part is that I definitely push the limits of how much can fit in one load. I accepted their joking at my expense and promised to run smaller loads in the future.

I tried to continue doing laundry as the weeks progressed, but I soon realized that it was best for all of us if I simply dumped our dirty clothes, the doggie beds, our towels, bedding, and blankets onto the laundry room floor for my mother to sort, wash, dry, hang, and fold as she sees fit. I simply am not capable of doing laundry to the standard that my mom does it. I wash blacks and navy blues with light blues and reds. I throw all whites, regardless of fabric type, into the wash at once and douse the whole load with bleach. I throw in tennis shoes to dry on air dry instead of using the special drying rack. I pretty much always use the normal cycle, failing to use the special options like “sanitize,” “wrinkle care,” and “delicate.” Based on all of this, you might think my husband and I look like ragamuffins. Maybe we do, but if you ask me, our clothes always come out clean and seem to last as long as ordinary clothes should. Yet, I am confident that my mom still has a mental checklist of things that I do “wrong” in the laundry room.

Sometimes when you grow up and move out you think you have accomplished something. You think, okay, I’ve learned to do my own laundry, make my own meals, and plan my own day-to-day activities. Well, if your head is getting a little bit big regarding the accomplishments you have achieved in adulthood by living on your own, you might want to spend a weekend at my parent’s house. My mom will reeducate you on what temperature to cook things at and how long to microwave them, how to properly wash dishes, when you should bake cookies (not at 9:30 p.m.) and for how long, and when you should go on runs (not after dark). You will quickly learn two things: (1) what you thought you knew about the domestic realm is not enough; and (2) while you toyed with a false sense of independence for a time, you likely need to be retrained in the art of running your own life.

(Photo by Anne Taintor)

Fair-weathered friends

There were a few terms my parents taught me at a very young age (I would say by the age of 6.) Those terms were: "attention seeking behavior" and "fair-weathered friends." While neither of those terms are necessarily related, they certainly imprinted on my psyche pretty indelibly.

For some reason, in about 5th grade, my group of girl friends -- a small group of social outcasts who spent most days in the library at lunch -- decided to start calling me a "lesbian." "Mara's a lesbian!" they would yell, and I would spend the duration of lunch chasing them around the school. I didn't really understand the term fully at the time. All I did know was that they would scream "Mara's a lesbian" and then leave me, alone, in the library. I had never felt self-conscious about lunching in the library previously, but when I found myself lunching in the library ALONE, I started to feel pretty low. So, I would chase them around the school, hoping to catch up with them so that I didn't have to be the loser-in-the-library. My chasing them, however, would just egg them on. "Ohhhh, she's following us! She must love us! She's a lesbian," they would shriek and giggle, always out-running me.

Yes, kids are cruel. But that is for another entry.

My mom would ask me every day when she picked me up from school how my day was and if I learned anything new. I was always too embarrassed to ask her what my friends meant when they called me a lesbian, and why they made me chase them around the school. I knew that whatever they meant it was something shameful and I couldn't tell my mom. (For the record, I don't think a person who is gay is shameful, and neither did/does my mom, but as a young girl in a Catholic school, messages about homosexuality are often pejorative, to say the least.)

So, I would sob, "Mmmy...mmmyy...friends were really meaaannnn to me today." And my mom would wipe away my tears, draw me in close, hug me, and say, "Mara, those are what we call fair-weathered friends.[*]"

[*]Interestingly, it turned out those girls were NOT fair-weathered friends after all. Most of them are still some of my best friends today. But the term really resonated with me. But I digress...

I remember when my next door neighbors (two boys I had grown up playing with) stopped hanging out with me at the age of about 12, and I said I didn't care because they were 'fair-weathered friends'. And when I first felt heart break from a boy I just told myself to move on, get over it, because he was a fair-weathered friend anyway. I remember when my dad left my mom and moved to Cambodia (weird), I said I was fine with it because, apparently my own father was a fair-weathered friend and I didn't need any more of those. When one of my closest friends from adult-ish life (I probably met her when I was about 20), told me she no longer wanted to be my friend, and gave no reason at all, I wrote her off -- a fair-weathered friend if I had ever known one.

I don't think I really understood everything when I wrote off as fair-weathered friends the school-yard girls, my neighborhood playmates, my first heart break, or my dad. After all, people grow up and grow apart, and as much as I wish I could, I couldn't have understood the complexities of my parents divorce. And as for the girls on the playground, they probably had no more clue what a "lesbian" was than I did.

But, I am grateful for my mom teaching me this phrase. It was a logical coping mechanism that gave me a way to understand rejection when I couldn't always explain it (as was the case with the girls at school, or my next door neighbor friends), or when I couldn't always understand it (my first heartache and my parents divorce.)

Now that I am an adult, this phrase makes more sense to me and bears more relevance. I have a friend or two -- ones who I was deeply connected with for years and years-- who are just that: fair-weathered. One of my dearest friends from high school (who actually lived with me for a while in college and still lives in California) will never return my phone calls, texts, or emails, no matter how hard I try or how persistent I am. (And this is not the case of just being busy. I have many friends who I only talk to about once a year, but I still feel I am close to them in spirit.) Today, I was thinking about this particular girl, my former bosom-buddy. I felt a profound sadness and loss for her, as if she had died. So, I called her again. Voicemail.

When is enough, enough? When do I give up trying to contact her? Why is it so hard now, when I actually understand my mom's wisdom, to just write people off as a fair-weathered friend?

Maybe I thought the Fair-Weathered Friend was just a myth that my mom told me to make me feel better. Maybe I thought that you could only be fair-weathered if you were young and immature. Here we are, this girl and I, 28 years old -- shouldn't we be over this fair-weatheredness?

I think the older I get, the more I realize how incredibly valuable good friends are. Of all the people I have met in my life, of all my myriad of friends, only a few are left standing. Those are the ones I know I can always count on. But what happens when one of those core friends becomes fair-weathered? Do you just write them off and let them go as another childhood playmate lost? I don't think I will ever understand it...But one thing I have learned from my mom's advice is that, in sunny weather and in stormy weather, I must try my best to be a compassionate, reliable, caring, and enduring friend. I hope I achieve that.

Leave ruminations in the comments, please.

Meghan and Reid: Now This is a Party.

This is one happy bride!

***

I’m sorry to everyone who has been waiting for my wedding post on Meghan and Reid’s wedding. With all the wedding blog sites out there, I didn’t realize that people were actually interested in my wedding entries on this little-blog-that-could. But, it sure is humbling and nice to get emails from everyone, even if those emails are saying “More wedding! Don’t tease us!” So, thank you so much for giving me a swift kick in the butt, and I know these pictures and this couple's crazy fun wedding weekend details will not disappoint!

What I love about this wedding is the real love story behind it-- with all of the improbabilities that people only see in movies-- that is climaxed in union with what looks to be the best party ever! While I love weddings, and I enjoy looking at pretty pictures (who doesn't love pretty pictures?), what I am interested here at WelcometoAdulthood is the ritual and the reason behind all the pretty dresses and the pretty flowers. I want to hear about the laughter and the tears, not the day-of-wedding planner or the wedding favors given to the guests.

I don’t want to be another “wedding blog.” Nor am I here to impress cyberspace with my super-hipster wedding recaps.

I am here to have a candid discussion about something that is so awesomely inevitable to all of us (even those of us who want to live in Neverland forever...): adulthood. In all of its glory.

I recently attended the wedding of my dear friend, Janelle. She said something in her vows that really resonated with me, and really embodied the vibe I want for wedding entries in my blog. She said to her partner something like this: I promise to love you. And while it may be easy enough to say here, because I am wearing this dress and everything is so beautiful and our family and friends are here, I really want this moment, and all its beauty, to be a reminder. In our darkest hours, when the beauty has faded, I want to remember this moment and my promise to love you, always.

With adulthood comes enormous responsibility – the responsibility to own our lives, to make choices, to form life-long partnerships. Certainly then, getting married cannot be overlooked in the series of small yet incredibly significant moments that make us Adult. So, I will continue to chronicle weddings as a chapter in our collective history. But, I will not dwell on the details: the fancy cupcakes, the pashminas that were passed out at the wedding, the expensive venue, the coordinated flowers. Really, as Janelle’s vows remind us, those things are not important. We have enough pressure to “keep up with the wedding Jones’” already from the plush bridal magazines and websites. Those are the places that you should go to for the aesthetic, for the checklists, for the duties of each of your wedding party, for referrals to fantastic and expensive bakeries.

Here, we will be grounded. And while things will still look pretty, we will be focusing on the ritual, the fun, the love, and what made that wedding really important/memorable/awesome/hysterical and special to the bride, groom, and their guests.

With that, I give you: Meghan and Reid

Meghan and Reid met on spring break in Lake Havasu, California. They instantly connected, but Reid was from Montana and Meghan lived in San Francisco. Their spring break romance ended as quickly as it came, and the two parted ways to go back to reality. This was an improbable romance, at best.

Meghan and Reid kept in touch throughout the spring, and in the summer Meghan did something bold. She moved to Montana. Well, initially she went for just a visit, but ended up staying almost a year in Montana. Some things are just too good to give up on…

After 11 months of living together in Montana, Meghan and Reid both moved back to Meghan’s hometown in California. Reid proposed to Meghan on Valentine’s Day, 2008 with Meghan’s great-great grandmother’s engagement ring.

Here Meghan recounts why the wedding was so special and so F.U.N. (Trust me, you will want your wedding to be this fun, too. This girl’s got the right idea!) :

Many of Reid's family and friends (being from Minnesota, South Dakota, and Montana) had never been to California. So, we wanted to make the wedding really special, not only for us, but for them as well. Our wedding was kind of like a week-long celebration. Most all our out-of- town friends and family came into town the weekend before the wedding, and the festivities started early.

Sunday I had a lingerie-themed bridal shower while all the guys went golfing. Later, we all met at my Dad's house for a barbeque and drunken dance party. The next night, we hung out, visited and then had another barbeque and another drunken dance party at our house!



On Tuesday, we took everyone to Napa for wine tasting, which was a first for many of our visitors. On Wednesday, thirty (that’s right 30) of us went to a Giants baseball game, which was immediately followed by the bachelor party and the bachelorette party. They were separate, but we all met up at the end of the night because the boys and the girls were staying at the same hotel (which, I'm pretty sure we will never be allowed back to again!)



Thursday was a much needed recovery day, and Friday was the rehearsal dinner, which was so wonderful! One of our really good friends from Montana, Josh Dierman, played guitar and sang us the song, "Wrapped Up In You" by Garth Brooks. It was beautiful and touching... I cried!



THE WEDDING:
We both always pictured having an outdoor ceremony, and we wanted an indoor/outdoor reception. We found our perfect spot: the ceremony was held at the San Francisco Theological Seminary on the Geneva Terrace, located in San Anselmo. It had beautiful views of Mount Tamalpais.





Reid made the arch for the ceremony, and we draped fabric over it and hung flowers from it. We wanted our ceremony to be very personal, so we added our personal touches wherever we could. We asked our friend, Vince (my long-time college friend) to officiate the ceremony, and he did a fantastic job! The ceremony was so moving that it even made Reid's Montana buddies tear up. :)







We wanted to provide our guests with a different sort of scenery for the reception, so the reception was held at the intimate Spinnaker Restaurant in Sausalito. It is located right on the water with beautiful views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. The reception was mostly inside, but facing the water were all open sliding glass doors led onto a deck with solid glass railings so that the view was completely unobstructed. The bar was also set up outside on the deck.



In order to save some money, I (with the help of Mom H., Aunt Renee, and Cousin
Rachel) did the flower arrangements for the reception.

Our first dance was to Big & Rich's "Lost in This Moment.” There was a ton of dancing to 80's music, country music, and even a little Britney.





Usually, I don't really like dancing because I am not the best dancer and am too self-conscious, but I don't know what happened... I rocked the dance floor! I pretty much danced the whole night... sometimes even by myself, in front of everyone. I think it might have been the wedding dress! (My dress was a Reem Acra A-line gown. I picked it out at the first store I went to and it fit perfectly after some alterations. It was soooooooo comfortable I really didn't ever want to take it off!)





The reception officially ended at around 11p.m., but it didn't end there for most of us. We headed out with all of our friends, still in our wedding clothes, to San Francisco and went to our favorite old college dive bar, Abbey Tavern. It was a great time! People were cheering for us and buying us shots! After we closed the bar down, Reid and I spent our wedding night at the Clift Hotel. It was really nice, except for the $11 dollar bottle of water that was in our room. But, after the night I had had, I was so thirsty I just had to buy it. And it was all worth it.

***

I love it! I love the fact that you had a whole week of wedding festivities to bond with visiting friends and family. Barbeques, wine tasting, a Giants game, and a wedding! Now that is a way to celebrate! And I love, love, love the visual picture of you in your “magical” wedding dress, rocking out alone on the dance floor!

It seems fitting that an improbable romance that turns into a long-lasting love affair should be marked with such pomp and circumstance. Somehow, the fates brought you and Reid together, and that calls for a party! I wish you a lifetime more of love and laughter. Thanks for sharing, Meghan!

And We're Back: Good Friends and 24 Hour Taco

The great thing about adulthood is making great friends who inspire you (particularly in times of woe) to pull yourself up from your bootstraps and keep on livin'.

As is the case with my dear friend Morgan and this very blog. "Let's resurrect your blog!" she wrote to me in an email yesterday. Attached to the email was this guest blog post, and a bunch of pictures. Now that is a friend.

So, this morning, for the first time in many days, I logged in to my blog and I felt happy. I did not feel too overwhelmed by my recent heaviness of adulthood, even though nothing had really changed -- my grandma was still sick, my life was still stressful, my family's grocery store had still gone under. But now, finally, I had someone who offered to carry a bit of a load that is very important to me (my blog!) And now, finally, I accepted the help.

A few words of introduction to Morgan's fabulous post...

One thing that I love about Morgan's entry is that it forces the reader to really work to contextualize place and time. Her descriptions of a local taco stand (we in Southern California know there is one on every corner, a favorite in every neighborhood) and the vast Texas landscape are incredibly rich.

Morgan's fiance, Brant, is in the Navy and is currently deployed (as we will find out from her post). For Morgan, half a world away, the comfort of Brant's company (and the memory of one of their happiest times) is recalled again and again with a visit to her local taco shop. There is a kind of quiet tone to this entry, and all the details count to expertly lay out a real feeling of love, happiness, longing, and comfort.

24 Hour Taco
By Morgan Leahy



At 5:58 am, my alarm clock radio whines on and I get an earful of traffic, and an update on the border waits at Calexico and San Ysidro. I wrestle with the sheets and get out of bed to another perfect morning in San Diego.

I spend the day at work, quietly typing at my computer and performing many and varied administrative tasks of great and small importance. At 11:00 I can’t contain a grin as my cell phone starts to vibrate. I carry it out to the parking lot where I talk privately for the fastest half hour of my day. I hear about Brant’s day in Kuwait, how hot it is, how well his dive went, what he had for dinner. Normal things make the distance between us feel less apparent. I hear about a funny practical joke involving a Red Sox fan and a Yankees license plate holder. I tell him how I had trouble sleeping, and I return to the office to finish my day.

After work, I have to feed a friend’s fish. It is as uneventful as you would think and I lock up her house and start to walk home just before dark. The sun sinks slowly into the Pacific behind me, and I walk up the hill towards home.

I cross three blocks and see Roberto's 24 hour Taco Shop across the street, my favorite guilty pleasure since moving here a year ago. It's too bad I won't be able to tell Brant about this. When he left for his deployment four months ago, he made me promise that I would not, under any circumstance, tell him about any stop at Roberto’s. Before the road West, I hadn’t known the least thing about Mexican food. I guess it really started a little north of the Rio Grande.

"Thank you," the man at the convenience store had said when we finished paying for our assorted snacks and walked out into the hot Texas sun on the third afternoon of our drive, in May of last year. We climbed into the car. Somehow he had convinced me to drive, and we sped off fast enough to get pulled over right away, but not fast enough to get a ticket. I cried. He took the wheel. And we tried again.



We drove out of a Texas afternoon, through a Texas evening, and into a Texas night. I said I could see for miles and I thought I was the first person to ever feel that way. We had the only car on the road, and gas stations, not to mention any traces of communities, spread further and further apart. We held hands in the car and stayed about as quiet as we had been the whole trip. We had no plans or expectations of where we would sleep that night, or how far we would drive.

"Gracias," The cashier at Roberto's said to me as I gave him a handful of coins, "Hot Sauce?"

"Si, roja por favor."

"Tienes un novio?"

"Si. You ask me every time"

"Do you like him?"

"Yes. Still do."

I grab the sweating plastic to-go bag with my heavy burrito inside and turn again towards home. It's almost dark.

Somewhere in the West Texas desert, we had turned at an exit that had signs for food and gas when it started to feel like we were playing chicken with the gas gauge. Driving up to a stop sign at the first intersection, we looked around and saw nothing, only the hills covered with a darkness so soft I wanted to wrap it around me. Ahead, a gas station sat on a small hill. It was the only light for miles.

We pulled into the parking lot, filled the tank, and walked inside the convenience store. An older man stood behind the main cash register and a young girl stood behind another counter that had hot food for sale. It was late, maybe 3am, so there wasn't much food left and I didn't recognize anything in the case. This was perhaps the third time I had eaten Mexican food before then, so I pointed to what turned out to be a chili relleno and hoped I would like it.

Stretching out on the grass near the curb with our dinner, I laughed as I looked at Brant. We had been on the road for three days, and the scenery, the food, and the company filled me with excitement. I felt like we were just starting out, and we were.



I arrive at my gate just as the last bit of sun is dipping below the Ocean. I take a seat on the front porch and eat part of the burrito, still reminiscing about our cross county drive. Then I step inside to email Brant.

***

And, for all those who have been asking, I will still put up the entry from Meghan's wedding, as I teased you with about a month ago.

In the mean time, please show our first Guest Blogger some love! What did you take from her entry? What was striking? Do you have a favorite food that transports you somewhere great? For me, it's hot jamon y queso sandwiches (con huevos). When I studied abroad in Madrid (on a budget so we had to stick with cheap, simple food), my dear roommate would make us these sandwiches for dinner at least 3 times a week. At the time, in our little apartment off of the purple metro line, nothing ever tasted so good...

Thanks Morgan!


We can't wait to hear more from you!

Coming Up Next: Meghan and Reid's Northern California Wedding

Who would have thought that in 2007 Meghan would meet the love of her life on a wild spring break in Lake Havasu? THEN, who would have thought that said love of her life would live in Montana (while she lived in California)? Who would have thought that these two star-crossed lovers would end up spending the rest of their lives together?

I can't wait to show you more pictures from their AMAZING wedding, coming up next. This is one real life fairy tale that you just can't miss! Stay tuned.

A Mark of Adulthood

Welcome to my life, tattoo
I'm a man now, thanks to you
I expect I'll regret you
But the skin graft man won't get you
You'll be there when I die,
Tattoo.
- The Who

My good friend Emily's very conservative 52-year-old mom hates tattoos. Emily tells me that whenever her mom sees someone with a tattoo she makes some kind of comment about how much she dislikes them. "Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?" she says, in a tone of disgust. (Mind you, she is a very nice woman, she just has a strong aversion to tattoos.)

I am assuming the generation gap contributes to her hate of tattoos. I feel like (and I could be way off on this -- let me know if you think otherwise) that 30-50+ years ago tattoos were generally associated with ruffians, military men, and jailbirds. Certainly, they were not associated with "civilized" young ladies, or "refined" business people.

In 2009, tattoos have become accepted as a form of artistic expression. In fact, some tattoo artists complete years of study to perfect their craft. But aside from tattoos being "more accepted" as a form of expression, let's go back to Emily's mom's question and ask, Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?

It is too simple to merely answer this question with: "It is a form of expression." Really, everything is "a form of expression" -- speaking, moving, laughing, drawing, writing, singing, hairstyles, fashion, etc.

What is it that compels us to alter our body so permanently? To endure pain, often for hours, to yield an immutable image?

I think we need some pictures to really try to probe this question -- analysis follows.

The first picture (below) is of my friend Danna. She recently got a tattoo (still not complete -- it will take a total of three sittings) of a vine of morning glories on her back. I won't go into the reasons why she chose it (she promises to blog that story for you later), but what I will tell you is she is 28, well educated, articulate, and works at a good corporate job. She is hardly a ruffian.

Here are a few more pictures of Danna at her second sitting as she is getting some color added.





Here is a really good shot of the detail.



What an awesome tattoo! I can't wait to post the completed work of art once she goes for her final sitting in two weeks.

The second tattoo I want us to look at is from my friend Michael, an M.D. at Stanford. Next time you visit your doctor, imagine what might be under his/or her clothes. This might be the last image you would picture on the back of your straight-laced doc.



Isn't that tattoo incredible? I love the detail in the Buddha and the demon, contrasted with the simple, clean lines of the wheel.

So, what can we make of these kinds of "expressions"?

In our search for the elusive adulthood, I think we can view tattoos as a metaphor. Sometimes "adulthood" means breaking out of our suit and ties, our doctor's coats, our high heel work pumps, and making this beautiful, indelible mark on our own existence -- literally.

Perhaps our generation is on to something really important.

We are unafraid of the moment. We embrace the permanence of tattoos, perhaps because we are wiser than we know. For, after all, life is short -- and we must savor every moment. We must feel it all, pleasure and pain. And ultimately, we know too, the tattoo is not permanent at all: our body is only a vessel. Our ashes will one day blow away, our body will one day fully decay.

But the life we lived, wasn't it grand? And maybe the tattoo is just a reminder to live in the moment, to cherish the past, to feel pain, scar, and heal. And when we are old and grey, and our tattoos are wrinkled, faded, or stretched, they will serve to remind us that we were once brave, bold, and uninhibited, and we lived every moment as our last.

What do you think? Do you love or hate tattoos? Do you have any tattoos - why or why not? Can you answer Emily's mom's question? Let's discuss in the comments.

Wordless Wednesday: Three Babies and a Mom

I am instituting a new feature for the blog: Wordless Wednesdays.
Let's celebrate and commiserate adulthood in a narrative of photo memories.

Still need some inspiration? Our first photo comes to us from my dear friend Jenn. Jenn is mom to an adorable but extremely hyper-active 18 month old, and two precious 8 week old twins.

I give you, My Day: Three Babies and a Mom -- proving that a picture truly does say a thousand words.




Here is your challenge, my glorious readers: dig through old photo albums, old computer hard drives, old social networking site profile pictures and tell us a meaninful story in just one photo. Give it a name, or don't name it at all, and send it along to me at mara@welcometoadulthood.com.

Now looking at My Day, what kinds of things from this narrative speak to you? How amazing is this woman in the image?

To me this narrative reads as a woman who is strong, fecund, resourceful, and resilient. To me, this photo seems to celebrate the power of Mother, and also remind us that motherhood means being present for your children in every way: sacrificing your chin to feed your baby if need be, and sacrificing your sanity to make sure your children are happy, healthy, and loved. This picture, my friends, oozes love in a real, tangible, way. And I know, if I grew up and found a picture just like this of my mom, with me and my brother, I would feel something very powerful. I would think, wow, my mom gave me everything she had, and she was really somethin' special.

Let's talk about it! Send me any thoughts in the comments. All you mothers out there, does this inspire you? Or does it remind you how hard it can be sometimes to be a mommy? All you readers with no children, how does this make you feel? Does this scare you? All views are welcome here. Leave your thoughts in the comments.

(Photo courtesy of J.G.J.)

Vows Under the Rotunda

Today I am so excited to feature some pictures on the blog for our first official wedding post!

Elizabeth and Shaik (who live in San Francisco's NOPA area, those lucky ducks) couldn't reconcile between having a small, intimate ceremony in the beautiful "Beaux-Arts"-style City Hall Building that they had always admired, or whether to have a large wedding with all the pomp and circumstance. After much thought, Elizabeth and Shaik realized, "Hey, why are we anguishing over this when we can do it all?"

Shaik wanted a traditional wedding in his hometown in Malaysia to celebrate with his 500 close family and friends (he actually has 500 family and friends -- that is not an exaggeration!) Elizabeth wanted a classic and elegant wedding in California with her closest family and friends. Travel costs for all family and friends prohibited them from doing one big wedding, so they initially decided on two, big, separate weddings. Through all their planning of the two big weddings they realized something else they wanted: to share their vows of love and partnership in a quiet setting, in the city they adored, surrounded by only a handful of family and friends, Elizabeth wearing a little white dress and her favorite yellow peep-toe pumps, and Shaik wearing his sharpest Navy suit. Why compromise?

On July 3, 2009 they made their first dream come true. They were married in the rotunda of City Hall, under the fifth largest dome in the world.

In case you have never visited the building, here is a picture. It is really stunning!


Here is the couple walking to the City Hall (and there was no fog!)


And in front of the City Hall before the ceremony.




Here is the homemade bouquet that I made for Elizabeth. I wrapped the stems in Elizabeth's favorite old yellow silky shirt. Though the shirt hasn't fit for years, Elizabeth couldn't part with it because she loved the pretty material so much. She knew she would use the material for something special -- and did she ever! If you look closely, you might even see the buttons!





Here they are signing the marriage lisence.


The beautiful bride!




I love this sweet candid shot, stealing a glance before the big moment.


On the famous staircase.


And the dip!



So, I guess it is true that for your wedding you really can have your cake and eat it too! Elizabeth + Shaik + a simple, intimate ceremony + an elegant U.S. wedding + a traditional Malaysian destination wedding = total awesomeness. Thank you so much Elizabeth and Shaik for sharing your beautiful and sweet day with us. We can't wait to see more pictures from your U.S. wedding and your Malaysian wedding!

How did you celebrate your special day? Send me your story and any pictures to be featured on the blog to mara@welcometoadulthood.com

(City Hall building picture credit to Nicholas Shanks.)