From London, England

Dearest Clara,

All the festivities for the Queen’s Jubilee this week have me thinking of London lately, and for as often as I have to go there, I can’t believe this week didn’t coincide with a trip! How grand everything must have been---but then again, sometimes these things are best viewed on TV where you can appreciate all of the details from a distance.

I always delight in a work trip to London---there seems to always be something to discover while preserving the very best of the classics.  It’s a nice mix of being exposed to the newest delights the world as a whole has to offer---I think there is no more global city right now---and being comforted by the tried and true.  Here’s what I’ve picked up over my trips there:

• Look twice before crossing – some might call it driving on the wrong side of the road, but cars and bicycles and busses and who knows what else come at me from any direction in London.  There’s a reason why “Look Left/Look Right” are printed on the road as a reminder.  And always look twice.
• Invest in a really good trench coat – it’s one of the most iconic pieces that is both functional and stylish and you’ll need both in London . . . and Paris . . . and New York . . . and almost everywhere else.  Assuming you don’t leave yours in the airport like your mother does, then a good trench coat will last you for years through jeans and dresses and suits.
• Mind the gap – it’s a little bit like looking twice before crossing in London.  These small perils of surprise always hit you when you’re least expecting it---take care to notice situations in life that need a little extra caution in your step. 
• Make time for the grandest hotels – My grandmother always had a passion for visiting grand hotels.  She would get dressed up and visit the lobby just to soak it all in.  When we were younger, staying in them was out of the question but she still wanted to be part of the experience.  Now that I’m older, I understand why she did that, and I do it too.  Sometimes we splurge and stay at nice hotels around the world, but in London, the grandest hotels offer the grandest settings for a glass of champagne.  Bubbles fit best here.  Take the time to appreciate the institutions that put care into the details that have survived nearly hundreds of years---hopefully you’ll come with me sometimes, and one day, hopefully you’ll come with your own children.  Those hotels will still be there.
• Everyone can use a little pomp and circumstance – If there is a gala or a jubilee or a wedding, no one stands on ceremony quite like the United Kingdom.  There is something to be said for the ability to motivate that many people with unifying occasions.  Sometimes, adding some ceremony and grandeur to an occasion really do make them more memorable---when something is really important, at least to you, it’s okay to enjoy the celebrations around it.

All my love,

Mom

Wherever you go, there you are.

Wherever you go, there you are. I’ll just go ahead and say it: I live in New York, but I am not entirely at home here.  When the question of where I am from comes up, my answer tends toward the knee-jerk and almost always mildly defensive: “CALIFORNIA, I am from California.”  This is said as if to distinguish myself somehow, as if to say ‘I really belong somewhere else.’  To wit, it seems the question of where you are from is most often posed when you are experiencing some particularly regional inconvenience, hazard, catastrophe or maltreatment and you find yourself having to explain to either your perpetrator or the person with whom you are being victimized that this sort of thing is not tolerated elsewhere.

Cliché but true---there is something about this place that not only draws you here, but keeps you here and pulls you back.  I managed to get out once, a few years ago, but somehow I am right back here in an apartment that I swear is “totally huge for New York.”  Like so many people who have come before me, when I left the first time, I lifted off at JFK and thought, ‘Well, I survived THAT and it sure was zany, but Hello Civilization!’  I dreamed of my triumphant return to parking lots, customer service, clean public bathrooms, a revitalized regard for my fellow humanity and a host of other benefits associated with escaping the concrete jungle.

Inside, I feel immutably “Californian.”  I prefer a slower pace of life.  The beach is my favorite place in the world.  I am always cold.  I eat avocado in some form almost every day.  I like living in a lot of space.  I actually enjoy chatting up a stranger, sometimes.  I refer to every highway as a “freeway” and will always describe it as “the” 95, instead of 95.   I might never have a totally appropriate jacket for any of the seasons.

Still, I lie to people all the time when they ask how I ended up moving back.  I tell them I came back exclusively for love.  I tell them my husband was living here and there was no other option.  While this is all technically true, when it became clear that a return to New York was in the offing . . . I felt a little dazzle.  There is some part of me (possibly a self-loathing part) that feels vaunted by surmounting the daily challenges involved in making a life in this punishing place.  I feel smarter here and weirder here.  If I had more time or energy (maybe I’ll get to it this weekend) I would be able to avail myself of quite literally any variety of artistic, cultural or intellectual happening.  Plus, the food, THE FOOD!  New York won’t ever let me out of her dirty grasp but I know I will never feel like I am of this place.

The question of identity as it relates to where you happen to be born or raised is truly fascinating to me.  I obviously didn’t choose California, my parents did.  But I feel like a Californian through-and-through.   Meanwhile, my parents are New Yorkers who described feeling out of place in California much of their adult lives.  Then they watched three of their adult children eagerly move to New York at various points.

Most of the people I know are thrilled to slough off whatever city or town shaped them and adopt the personage of the place they actually had the good sense to choose.  I’m not sure whether it is because I am nostalgic or loyal that California stays with me. I have never quite understood how to integrate the part of me that wants to remain unaffected and the part of me that seriously considers a dinner reservation at 10:45 PM.  Aside from all the garden variety letting go of childhood, end of innocence themes to explore on the couch, I am also reluctant to succumb to a place where people disappear into their own perceived uniqueness.

Some time last year, I was leaving on a trip to California with my husband and I said, “I can’t wait to go home!”  Immediately, he looked crestfallen, “But, New York is your home.  That is where your husband and dog (and now baby daughter) live.”  This is when I started thinking more genuinely about reconciling my bicoastal identity.  For now, I rack up JetBlue mileage points, burn through my iPhone battery chatting obsessively with friends and sprinkle a little California Love around the five boroughs whenever I can.  Eventually, I hope to toggle seamlessly between welling up with tears over the Manhattan skyline at sunset and flipping my very best bird at the guy behind me honking his ass off because the light turned green and he can’t wait another nanosecond.

(images: dbaron & rakkhi on flickr)  

The F Words: Nicole Cliffe

For our first non-navel-gazing edition of the F Words, I knew I needed to give you guys something really, truly, spectacularly great. To that end, I strong-armed my incredibly talented friend Nicole Cliffe into sharing her (always ridiculously entertaining) thoughts about cooking, gender roles, and parenthood. Nicole is one of the smartest, sanest, funniest and most wonderful women I know - and not only because we first bonded over our shared love of Sondheim. Some of you likely know Nicole from her work as the newly-minted Books Editor for The Hairpin---and if you haven't been reading along with her incredible Classic Trash series, posted over at The Awl, you should start catching up immediately. (Her take on Valley Of The Dolls is a personal favorite of mine.) But, before you dig out your copies of Peyton Place and Gone With The Wind - and your mom's copy of Clan Of The Cave Bear (Dirty!), let's hear what Nicole has to say about feminism and food - peach pie, in particular.

Tell us a bit about your day job. I'm the Books Editor for The Hairpin, which is so little effort and so much fun as to be almost embarrassing. I also write a biweekly/monthly column for The Awl, Classic Trash, in which I discuss noted works of gooey literature.

How did you learn to cook? Post-college, definitely. I went the "buy complicated cookbook, treat like a logic puzzle" route. Then, like most people, I relaxed into a little stable of reliable dishes and went from there. If you're not a cook, I recommend throwing a little dinner party for two friends, and cooking Thomas Keller's roast chicken recipe (it's on Epicurious) and making a green salad with a bit of goat cheese and sliced beets from a jar, plus this pie for dessert. When you're just starting out, the perfect formula is a) your main, b) a starter or side that need only be assembled, and c) a make-ahead dessert that can sit on your counter taunting your guests. And, obviously, a fancy vanilla-bean ice cream to serve with it. Keller's chicken is perfect, but deactivate your smoke alarm first.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE. Get the hell out of the kitchen. I have tremendous amounts of performance anxiety. My father-in-law kept hovering over me when I was making my first Thanksgiving dinner, and once he finally got to "you know you're using that cutting board upside down?" I had to bounce him formally. Of course, that was also the year I made the goose, and was using one of those awful single-use foil roasting pans. It snagged invisibly on the element coil, and about three cups of goose fat settled into the top of the stove. The goose, of course, was delicious, the experience of using a putty knife the day after to scrape congealed goose fat out of the stove, less so.

As long as you don't watch what I'm doing, you're welcome to stay and make me a gin and tonic and talk to me about Mad Men.

What’s your favorite thing to make? I do a two-day plan about once a week, where I bake too much mustard-y salmon for dinner with sauteed peppers and mushrooms or zucchini, then for dinner the next night I nestle my leftover fillets and vegetables in a frittata and liberally coat the whole thing in goat or feta cheese and a dash of cream. It's a little different every time, goofproof, and the frittata makes you look like a pro.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Indian. There's nothing so soothing to me as rice-and-sauce. A jar of ghee survives in my house for about two weeks.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Mandolines. Mandolines. Mandolines. And anything that has to be flipped, poached, or, God-forbid, only gels correctly 80% of the time.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? We're all eaters, and we all start thinking about what we'll have for lunch halfway through breakfast.  We never socialize in the living room, we're always in the kitchen.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? I was extremely lucky, I think, to grow up with a male homemaker and a working mother. My mother is a great cook (the recipe I'm sharing is one of hers), but my father is a genius. He makes his own samosas, he has a clay baker, he makes his own pasta, he's never bought salad dressing. In my marriage, however, I'm the cook, and now I have a baby, so I'm a cook-balancing-a-baby, which is a visual I hadn't really internalized for myself. My husband is older than I am by over ten years, and I do notice a bit of a gender AND generational divide in domestic duties. Which doesn't bother me, mostly, as we have great communication around it, but I think that most women I know have husbands that are far more hands-on than their own fathers were, and, having had a male primary caregiver in my childhood, I'm having the opposite experience.

I think a larger factor is that my husband is fundamentally dis-interested in food, other than as fuel, which, for me, is like being an anthropologist every day. I stand there, making notes, watching him not obsess about food. When they eventually develop a pill you can take with a glass of water thrice daily to provide all of your nutritional needs, he'll be the first one in line.

I'm very ughhhhh about choice feminism, generally, but, like most of us, there are things I get really incensed by (name-changing, Brazilian waxing) and things I just merrily roll along with (doing 100% of the laundry and dishes and cooking). That being said, I think the fact that I choose to shoulder the domestic stuff is not a feminist choice, and doesn't occur in a vacuum. I would say I'm a feminist who, for various reasons, has made some choices I would consider un-feminist. I can make my peace with that, but I don't try to do a juggling game to justify it as furthering the course of equality: it doesn't.  As the mother of a baby daughter, I think I'll have to do more work than my mother did to raise a daughter who doesn't have static notions of gender. My family never looked like the breadwinner-dad, apron-mom pictures, so I never bought into them.

Like a lot of women with kids, I've been reading all the interminable pieces on Badinter and the attachment parenting backlash. There's something real there, of course. I planned to be an Attachment Parent, but gave birth, as some of us do, to a daughter who didn't want to sleep with us, lost weight constantly despite 24/7 nursing until she happily switched to Enfamil, and vastly prefers to sit and observe and play with her toys to being worn in a sling. You have to roll with it. And, of course, it makes you question other parts of the intense-parenting lifestyle. I thought I'd make my own baby food, because I had a "natural" birth (just because I skipped the epidural doesn't mean I like the way we create birthing hierarchies) and am generally an organic-seasonal food person, but I was at the supermarket one day and picked up a thirty-cent jar of Gerber's to glance at the ingredients: peas and water. Or, carrots and water. Who gives a shit, then? I bought about eighty jars. She likes them, and I'm not cleaning orange crud out of my food mill.  And now we give her bits of what we eat, and she loves it. You have to do what works for you, and I think you have to rigorously protect yourself from doing unnecessary things in order to compete with other women. Ask yourself every day: would I still do this if no one besides my baby and I ever knew? Sometimes the answer is yes: I cloth diaper, and I love it. Sometimes the answer is no: hence the little jars.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I will eat anything with peaches. If there was a peach-flavored anthrax, I'd be dead now. This is the pie my mother brings to church suppers, to family reunions, etc. I rarely bake, because I find it more stressful than cooking (it's a formula, not a painting) and because I tend towards a more cult-like primal/paleo diet. Because of that, I subscribe to a go-big-or-go-home attitude towards desserts and starches. 98% of the time, I eat meats and fish and eggs and cream and butter and vegetables and berries. But when I make a dessert, I make a DESSERT. Or, of course, I make mashed potatoes with cream cheese. Don't eat it, or do it right. Sometimes, when I make this pie, I think, oh, I could cut the sugar in half. And I've done it, but then the texture isn't quite right. Don't lie to your baking. Embrace it. On a related note, there's nothing I loathe more than those women's magazine articles on making healthier choices at Thanksgiving. It's one meal. Eat whatever you want. It will make zero different in your life or health to eat a single slice (or two, or three) of a wonderful pecan pie. I'm completely neurotic about maintaining a (for me) artificially low weight (which, again, is an active detriment to my feminism), but I will not go to Eleven Madison Park and ask if they can steam some fish for me. I'm going to eat the foie-gras-chocolate torte. And it's going to be delicious. As an atheist, I feel very strongly about the iniquity of attaching shame to our food desires and our sexual appetites. There are only two things that we actually KNOW we're on this planet to do: eat and fuck. Go forth and be glad.

Creamy Dreamy Peach Pie Nicole Cliffe

For the crust: 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 cup butter

For the filling: 4 cups sliced fresh peaches, if in season. Canned work "just" as well. 1 cup sugar 2 1/2 tbsp flour 1 egg 1/4 tsp salt 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup sour cream (full-fat, please)

For the topping: 1/3 cup sugar 1/3 cup flour 1/4 cup butter

Prepare the crust: Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Combine flour and salt, cut in butter. Press into a nine-inch pie plate (deep dish is best). Set aside.

Prepare the filling: Place peaches in bowl, sprinkle with 1/4 cup of the sugar, set aside. In another bowl, combine remaining sugar, flour, egg, salt, and vanilla. Fold in the sour cream. Stir the mixture into the peaches.

Prepare the topping: Combine all three ingredients until crumbly.

Finish the pie: Pour the filling into the crust and bake for twenty minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for 30-35 minutes more.Remove the pie from the oven and sprinkle the topping evenly over the filling. Set the oven back to 400 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for ten more minutes.

Allow pie to cool before slicing. Eat!

Makes one nine-inch pie.

The Best Marriage Advice I've Ever Gotten (From my Mother-in-Law)

I remember, early on in my relationship with Jordy, my husband, when we were still in the throes of courtship and absolutely batshit for each other, drawing a picture explaining my feelings for him. Earlier that day, we had been walking along the beach in San Diego on a road trip to Mexico, as cheesy as it sounds, talking about what it was like to be together. For him, being with me was like having his watch. Whenever he wasn't wearing his watch, he said, he was half-looking for it until it was safely back on his wrist. For me, being with him was like having lived my life with one thumb, and now having two. I imagine that if you had only one thumb, you could do most of the things that a two-thumbed person could, and wouldn't notice the difference unless you then magically grew another thumb, in which case it might feel like a huge relief to finally be able to give two thumbs up, and break yourself out of the world of mild enthusiasm.

It turns out that when you equate being with your boyfriend to having two thumbs instead of one, people dole out lots of advice, since they don't want to be the ones on the other end of the phone when you go back to one-thumbedness. Take it slowly; be on your guard; he's too nice to be for real. I think that the phrase "In one ear and out the other" was invented specifically for advice. In my lifetime, I've heard mountains of it, yet can remember very little of what people have told me. There is one salient piece of advice, though, that has stuck through the years, and has taken on new meaning as time has worn on. You might not believe me when I say this (though you would if you knew her), but the best marriage advice that I've ever gotten was from my mother-in-law, Jeanie, who is an exquisite example of a human being.

I can't remember when in my relationship with Jordy this came up, and whether Jeanie told it directly to me or if it was hearsay, but Jordy and I have referred back to it as I changed careers, he went from medical school to a grueling residency program, we welcomed our daughter and faced the challenges of fitting parenthood into our relationship, and as we watched our friends face life's inevitable hardships. The advice is this: It never gets easier.

Funny that the best piece of marriage advice isn't about marriage itself, but about who you choose to marry. In the end, life can be pretty shitty and hard, so you better marry someone who feels like your second thumb. This little gem is also not as grim as it seems when you first hear it. It doesn't mean that your life together doesn't get better, doesn't get happier, doesn't get more fun and more fulfilling. On the contrary, equating ease with happiness, fun, and fulfillment almost sets us up for failure. As much as we want things to be easy, the world has different plans for us. However, if we want things to be happy, fun, and fulfilling . . . Well, a lot of that comes down to our choices. It's easy to weather fun times together no matter who you're with; the hard times, not so much. Given that hurdles in life are inevitable, choosing the right person to face them with is phenomenally important. The most difficult part about this is that (in my experience at least) you don't know whether the person you're with is the perfectly right person until . . . until you just know. If I had it all to do over again, I would keep Jeanie's advice in my head. I don't think I would have done anything any differently (after all, every relationship serves its purpose and imparts its lessons), but it would have made letting go of some people WAY easier, because I would know that if we couldn't face the world together at 20, the world at 30 would crush us.

It never gets easier, but it gets better, for sure. On every count, I feel closer to my husband than I ever have, and I love him more deeply each day than I did the day before. Our life is, in many ways, better than it was when we got married. We're a bit more settled, happier in our daily careers, and have ironed out (for the most part) the details of living together. But as we're getting older, the challenges that life has thrown our way, and the sacrifices that we're having to make for each other and for our family are only getting larger, harder, more seemingly insurmountable. Our relationship has been challenged more in the last four years than it ever was before that. And if those years are any indication, that's not the end of it.

Who would have known that day on the beach what we would face in the years ahead. A year of long-distance making-it-work, cross-country moves, illnesses, loss, mountains of change. It was easier then, just me and him, but it's better now, with me and him and the life we're building together. Because luckily, I married my second thumb. And I can thank his mother for giving me that perspective.

I Never Wanted To Be A Mother

By Chris Babinec Oh, Hell no! Not me. I didn’t think it was a bad choice, of course. As a feminist, I believed a woman should be able to do and be whatever she wanted to be. So, if a woman wanted to become a mother, good for her. Not good for me.

I just never got excited about babies. I never wanted to hold them, rock them, and take care of them. I never smelled that “baby smell” others would swoon over. I didn’t dream of staying home, cooking nutritious meals, wiping butts, listening to crying and whining. I didn’t need someone to look up to me, tell me they love me or call me Mommy. And, I never wanted all the trappings I thought being a mother would bring: a long-term partner, a permanent abode, and an interruption in my timeline of conquering the world.

Nope, for me, there would be adventure! Travel! Exotic foods, exotic lands, exotic jobs! And, of course, I would be a champion for women and children across the world. I would become a feminist icon. I would start my own non-profit. I would devote my life to helping others in need. I would try to live like my hero: Wonder Woman. Maybe I would run for office someday.

Above all, I would do what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted and nobody would get to tell me any different, especially not a man and certainly not children. I would be my own woman. Independent, free, yet devoted to our common humanity. I would, with effort, figure out how to balance my interests in, and devote my time to: women’s rights, civil rights, human rights, environmental concerns, animal rights, children’s rights, alleviation of poverty, cessation of war, and the list goes on and on. I would do everything, be everything I wanted to be. Maybe I would learn some humility along the way, but if not, so what, men get to think big, dream big, act big---why shouldn’t I?

To a large degree, I have already accomplished many of my goals. I have traveled and I have adventured. I have eaten exotic foods and been to new and interesting places. I’ve met incredibly interesting people and had many partners. I’ve tested my limits. I’ve tossed off the shackles of fear more times than I can remember. And, to a large degree, I have devoted my life and career to helping others.

Of course, the strangest thing happened. When I was about 30, I realized nearly all my life, I had been working with children.  Even as a youth, I was a peer leader, a voracious volunteer for many causes that helped other youth.  As I grew older, I found my niche working with teens, and not the Up With People, kind. The gang banging kind. The rough and tumble kids, the homeless youth, the sexually exploited minors/child prostitutes, the disenfranchised, angry, conduct-disordered kid who would just as soon spit on you and rob you, as give you the time of day. I love these kids. Since I was about 21, helping these kids has been my passion and my work.

These kids, as it turned out, were as outraged as I was at the state of the world. They were justifiably angry at the lives they had been handed. While they couldn’t acknowledge it or express it in appropriate ways, the anger seemed to drive their behavior. And, I get anger. I mean I really get it. It’s another reason I never thought I’d be a mother. I thought the outrage I possessed, the unbridled passion, the “you can kiss my ass” attitude might not be good for children.

These kids I worked with often didn’t have mothers. Or, sometimes their mothers were doing the best they could, but due to oppression, patriarchy, institutionalized discrimination, or due to substance abuse, mental health disorders and other complicating factors of our lives and culture, the mothers just couldn’t give these kids what they needed or wanted. Without knowing what was happening, without planning it, wanting it, thinking about it, or feeling any particular way about it, I began mothering.

It started in little ways. I would go to work, ask the kids about home, school and homework. I’d try to get the homeless kids and their families’ food, school, shelter. I would help the kids develop internal and external resources. I’d ask about friends, life goals, and try and inspire and motivate the kids to achieve their dreams, no matter what the obstacles seemed to be.

Then my mothering instinct became stronger. I started to realize how few children have the supports they need to achieve even basic goals. I noticed the threats to these children’s lives---not the boogeyman kinds of threats---the kids already knew how to defend against those. I mean, the threat of indifference, the threat of being objectified and commodified. The threat of being powerless, invisible, of having no voice and no means to advocate for themselves.

Then I really became a mother. A full-on, I will kick you ass if you hurt my babies kind of mother. I became a clinical therapist and trauma specialist so I could help those children who have suffered the worst humanity has to offer. I remain strong to bear witness to the pain and suffering these children can barely express. I talk about my work so others know how dreadfully children are treated in this world; not all children of course, but so, so many.

When people ask me, “How can you do that work?  It sounds so depressing!” Like a mother, I ask them, how could I not? If not me, who? That outrage inside me, that anger I thought might not be great for kids, is the fire that fuels my service, my advocacy and my ability to stand up for those in need. It’s exactly what kids need.

Now, at 39, I have a 3-year-old girl of my own and a baby boy on the way. My daughter’s smile, laugh, story-telling, empathy and grace give me an overwhelming, intoxicating sense of joy, peace and balance I never knew I missed. I have known the pleasure of pregnancy, birthing, and breastfeeding. I have learned some balance in parenting different ages and stages of development. I still do not need my children to look up to me, tell me they love me or call me mommy, but it’s delightful when it happens.

And, of course, the only way I am able to sustain my strength to do the work that I do is because I have a devoted, feminist husband who equally shares the load, a long-term partner I can’t imagine ever living without. A man who inspires me. A man who teaches our daughter every day that men are not always oppressors, that sometimes a man is just the person you need to do the critical work of your calling. And, that fathers are equally important as mothers.

So, while I may not be conquering the world in quite the fashion I imagined I would, and there are still so many places I want to go, things I want to see, fears I want to face, I wouldn’t trade my life or my experiences for anything. I love my life and I cherish motherhood. I never wanted to be a “mother”, but it’s because I alone limited the meaning of that word.

New Glasses

By Michelle Bunt I bought a black T-shirt at a second hand clothing shop a few years ago, that had this phrase on it: “Love yourself.” Something about this statement resonated with me: it was a beautiful, short, simple, yet profound commandment for how to live life. Even so, if you had met me then I would have been the first to admit that I had no idea how to do that in reality. Given my background, it is hardly surprising though. Growing up with two Schizophrenic parents, who also had mild intellectual disabilities, meant that I didn’t receive much in the way of guidance or support. Added to that, my home was at times very violent, and I was never fully certain of my safety. While others kids wished for things likes bikes and barbies, I just remember wanting to be loved. It wasn’t until recently that I realized the only person who could really fulfill that desire was me. Everyone who knows me even a little, knows that I love to read: stacks and stacks of books all year-round. I often think that books saved my life. As well as being my only friends and the only consistent, dependable things in my turbulent childhood, they taught me how to love myself. I had been in counseling for quite some time since leaving home, and I had made lots of progress in many areas, but one thing that I couldn’t seem to turn around was my harsh inner critic. I blamed myself for my past, and I couldn’t see all the amazing qualities residing in me that God had blessed me with from birth. Forget loving myself---I didn’t even like myself! Then something wonderful happened. I found a new counselor about three years ago, who had a profound influence on my life. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow in one of our sessions early on in the process we ended up discussing my favorite series of books as a child (The “Alex” quartet by New Zealand author Tessa Duder). We talked about how I loved the main character, Alex’s, resiliency. This was something we kept coming back to again and again. One day my counselor invited me to consider the possibility that the reason this was my favorite story as a child, and the reason it has remained close to me all these years, was because it was my story. The quality of resiliency that I so admired in Alex described me too. Once I realized this, a subtle shift occurred in me. I didn’t all of a sudden love myself, but finally I could see and appreciate one quality in me as being something to be proud of, something to guard and protect, and keep fighting for. Still I had to figure out how to love myself practically. Recently, I received an invitation to my friend Angela’s wedding. Now don’t get me wrong, I love weddings. There is something incredibly magical and sacred about two people committing themselves to each other. However the majority of times I have been at weddings, I've felt incredibly sombre. Around couples and families who are openly demonstrating their love and support of each other, and celebrating each other’s achievements and happiness, I am reminded of the lack of support and love from my childhood. It is not a conscious, self-pitying thought, but rather a deep ache that arises from within: a wound that has been patched up many times but never completely healed. Which is why when I received Angela’s wedding invitation, I felt a dichotomy within me. I was delighted to go and share her special day with her, but also dreading the painful emotions it would likely bring up for me. The wedding day came, and the weather was glorious---uncharacteristically hot for our city. Angela had a traditional Catholic ceremony, and I loved both the tradition and modesty of it. After the ceremony, there was an amazing reception with the most sumptuous food and a great live band. I was feeling comfortable, relaxed and joyful, yet I kept looking deep within, expecting to find this oh-so-familiar well of sadness, but it was there no longer. In its place was a sense of ease---how easy it was to be present and fully happy for Angela, as opposed to being envious, or feeling neglected. The absence of this deep ache of sadness within was so unexpected. If I’m being truly honest, I don’t think I ever believed, back when this whole journey started, that I would ever arrive in this place: free and liberated to live my life, not just survive. This was the first moment when I realized that my decision to love myself---to start transferring the energy and attention I used to put into other people into me---had paid off. One of my favorite teachers at the school I attend, often uses the analogy of how people live their lives in different ways depending on the glasses they are wearing. Through one set of lenses things look a certain way, but if you take off those glasses and replace them with a new pair, things will look completely different, and each individual has a lens prescription unique to them. Since my friend’s wedding, when I discovered such a fullness of joy in a part of me that had only ever known pain, it feels like I, too, have traded glasses. My new glasses are not perfect, but they are not fogged up like my old ones were. Whereas before I could vaguely detect objects, now I am able to see and recognize things in detail, color, and clarity. Now that I have seen through these new glasses, I can finally take off my old glasses and let them rest, in a case that is firmly shut.

Inheritance

I’ve always bristled at comments made about women turning into their mothers. They strike me as belittling---as though our lives aren't our own to shape. Still, there are moments when I find myself doing something and I swear it’s as though I’m watching my mother instead of myself. I'm reminded of her when I'm brushing my wet hair in front of the mirror, or tucking a checked shirt into a pair of jeans, or pushing my long sleeves up to the spot on my forearms where they’ll stay put. The movements themselves are inherited. There are other things, too. The Brooklyn Bridge Park offers monthly horticulture walks and last week I made plans to attend one. At 5:30 pm, just at the moment when the late afternoon sun is glinting most dramatically off the East River, I trekked down to the park. I had my notebook and camera stuffed in a bag and in that earnest pursuit of knowledge gathering, I was reminded again of my inherited traits.

My mom is a woman who calls things by their proper names. A stand of magenta flowers by the side of the road are not just pink flowers, they’re Sweet William. A small grey bird at the feeder is a Tufted Titmouse. A neighbor’s tree is a Black Locust. As a child this knowledge was impressive and as a teenager it was mortifying. Now, the pattern seems to have cycled around again and I realize that I am the kind of woman who wants to call things by their proper names. Like my mother before me, I'll trek to the local park for a nature walk in order to do it. Lucky for me, living in a city doesn’t preclude my learning. As the weather has warmed up, I’ve spent most of my evenings walking through the park. It’s an incredibly impressive spot. Pier 1 is filled to brimming with native and ornamental species where only three years ago it was an empty concrete lot. If you’re nearby, it’s worth every minute of a visit and if you go soon, you'll see it teeming with juneberries and elderflowers and blueberries that are just starting to ripen. The rosa rugosa are as beautiful as the sea roses near my childhood home and a deep enough whiff of them could transport me right out of the city. If I had any intention of leaving.[gallery link="file" orderby="rand"]

Looking Forward: Be It Resolved.

Here's a confession: prior to this year, I don't think I've once kept a New Year's resolution. The problem? I'm a list maker by habit, and have a history  of making dozens of resolutions at a time. Inevitably, as months pass, they fall by the wayside, one by one. I forget about them. Or I change my mind---walking to the subway in the mornings is more than enough exercise for one day, right? Is it really necessary to add running to the mix, too? Another hitch? Getting too specific. Turns out, sometimes I'm just not in the mood to read the one book I found most interesting at the beginning of the year. Sometimes the destination I daydream about in January sounds downright dreary in July.

This year, while I couldn't break the list-making habit (I think I'm stuck with that for life), I made a conscious effort to set broader, more flexible goals. In January, I posted on my blog that I wanted to prioritize health and happiness. This meant meditating, (or trying to). Taking classes, but allowing my intuition to choose which. Embracing quirkiness. Eating well, but indulging every now and then. Not surprisingly, I've been much more successful with these. They're more like reminders than concrete goals, and I like that.

Last week, when June 1st rolled around, it occurred to me that six months had passed since New Year's, and I wondered, do people ever make mid-year resolutions? In a way, isn't this an ideal time to assess what the year's been like thus far? To have a resolution refresher? To make amendments?

It seems that way to me, and in the spirit of kicking off the second half of 2012 on a positive note, I'm going to add one more goal to my original list. In the next six months---and over the summer, especially---I'd like to push myself to engage more with the city I live in. In terms of music, art, and culture, New York has so much to offer. And yet, I see maybe two or three concerts per year. I can't remember the last time I visited Lincoln Center. I've never been to the Met. It's shameful, really. As I've mentioned before, I don't know how long I'll call this city home---I may as well enjoy it as much as I can while I'm here.

I'm reasonably confident this is a goal I can stick to, and one that I'll have fun with. The fact that it's not one of twenty on a long list of resolutions helps, too. (Though it's hard to resist---I'd also love to do more yoga, take a trip upstate, read more of the classics, and learn to ride a bike.)

But, I digress. What do you think? What, if any, mid-year resolutions would you make?

My Happy Place

Over the weekend I took Charley with my Mom, Aunt and Grandma to Jekyll Island, Georgia. Four generations of the same family under one roof, but that’s another story. Jekyll Island exists much the same as it always has, even despite an expensive, large convention center and new entrance with a roundabout. The trees remain littered with Spanish moss, the air is sticky and warm, and the people and attitudes are the same. People don’t vacation there because of the amenities, they go because they have been vacationing in the same place for as far back as they can remember. That’s why we still go. My grandmother has owned a condo there for at least twenty years, and we would vacation there when I was a child. You aren’t getting anywhere quickly on the island; vacationers seem to go at their own pace. Food will come when it arrives, the bartender will show up when she feels like it, but always, always, there is that Southern charm. You might be annoyed until you hear that syrupy sweet accent, “And how are you doing today sweetheart? What can I get for you?” It struck me that it wasn’t just the landscape that hadn’t changed, our family hadn’t really changed that much either. When I was Charley’s age, my Grandma had an older shih tzu named Maggie, and we hated her. She nipped at every kid that came past her path. I distinctly remember her huddling under the Christmas tree one year with crazy, half-blind eyes, guarding the presents. Now my Grandma has another shih tzu named Mickey. They look the same, but Mickey is friendly and doesn’t nip. But if you saw a picture of me as a little kid with Maggie, and Charley with Mickey, you would think no time had passed at all.

Since we had vacationed there when I was a child, my Mom kept pointing out things that were different, or the same, and activities we had done back then. And I had trouble remembering any of them. I have few early childhood memories. My earliest memory is probably the day my brother was born. I was five. They lay him down on the ottoman in our living room and neighbors came by and oohed and ahhed over him. I stood from afar and contemplated what I should be doing. No one was paying any attention to me. Then I remember things sporadically until high school. My third grade teacher? Couldn’t tell you her name. The year we got our minivan? No idea. I seem to remember the stressful, bad moments, or the really good moments, and everything in between falls through the cracks. There is one place though I remember quite strongly, and that’s the beach.

My brother and I would spend hours at the beach, especially the summer my father owned a bakery and worked nights. We would walk the three blocks up the hill to Lake Michigan and swim all day long. My brother would dig, and dig, and dig in a wild frenzy of flailing arms, sand slinging across the way. I would act out elaborate scenes in my own little play. In some I was a star gymnast (it was the year of the 1996 Olympic games). I would throw my arms upward dramatically, my toe pointed forward, and the water would be my balance beam. I flipped and twirled, both things I couldn’t do on the sand, or in real life. But there, in the water, I could be anyone. The sun would be setting, glistening off the lake, and you could see Chicago in the distance, and I would still be practicing, dancing until it dipped below the water. The beach was my happy place.

Now, in Florida, I take Charley to the beach at least once a week. It’s where we relax and bond and just play. I have a theory in parenting that everyone has a happy place: it’s the location or activity you remember so fondly as a kid that when you have your own child, it reconnects you to your younger self. It’s much harder as an adult to get to the happy place. It involves a level of mental distance from the things adults think matter so much: money, cleanliness, work, laundry, dinner. It takes forgetting everything you should be doing, and just letting go. It’s a challenge, and the beach seems to be the only place that I don’t feel the need to check my phone or the laptop, or do the dishes or laundry. My husband’s happy place with Charley is playing Legos. I see how he lets go any stress he has, and just plays with him. And he actually gets into creating elaborate staircases, castles, and barns all out of those multi-colored plastic pieces. He lets his imagination take over. What is it about being an adult that makes imagination so difficult?

The longer we stayed in Jekyll, the more memories came pouring back to me. We spent all day at the pool, and at one point I turned to my mom and asked, “Wasn’t that bar a hot tub before?” And she laughed and said yes, it had been. I would notice little things like that, small flashes of memory. We rode horses on the beach and through the woods. It was hot and buggy and I was scared. My horse bucked going over a fallen tree. I had a crush on another boy vacationing named Tai. He walked down to the beach with me on the boardwalk stairs. I think we talked about music. My skin was cold and prickly when we came in from the pool into the air conditioning. There was no worrying, only being.

Notes on (Not) Unplugging

Until recently, my relationship had been a long distance one. When my boyfriend arrived in California, my Internet suddenly shrunk. A dimension of it disappeared, and so did my longing. I no longer had to sift through a sea of status updates and tweets and ceaseless chatter to reach him, or send a WhatsApp message to greet him when I woke up. And, since my day was his night—as San Francisco and Cairo are nine hours apart—we no longer had to schedule Skype chats in our overlapping waking hours. And so, it has been one month of being together in the same city. Amid all of this change, and being able to talk face-to-face each day, I wonder: are my online habits changing?

* * *

To unplug. To log off. To take a break from technology, to reimmerse ourselves in the real world, to put our phones down and talk to the person sitting in front of us, to connect and experience a moment the old-fashioned way. I read variations of this discussion everywhere, from Pico Iyer's "The Joy of Quiet" " to Sherry Turkle's "The Flight From Conversation" to comments on a recent post on my blog on information overload and my inability to write.

But these actions of "unplugging" and "logging off" just don't mean much anymore.

At the beginning of last year, when I began writing about my online friendships, my Internet worlds, and place and space in a digital world, I lived in two separate spheres, online and off. I felt my way through both worlds, navigating from one to the other and maintaining two selves, real and virtual.

But these worlds have since merged, and these words—real, virtual, online, offline, plugged, unplugged—have lost their meaning. The distinction between physical and digital has blurred, and I don't think there is a plug to pull to maneuver from one sphere to the other. Now, when I follow discussions on digital dualism—the perspective that our online and offline worlds are separate—I identify instead with views in favor of an augmented reality, where the physical and the digital, and atoms and bits, are enmeshed.

I think about this shift in me—how I confidently wrote last year about living in two distinct spheres, switching my virtual persona on as if putting on a hat, yet today operate freely and fearlessly in an ever-changing space with no such boundaries. And I sense that my relationship, which blossomed over the Internet and was nurtured by GMail and Twitter and WhatsApp and Skype for a year, forced me to acclimate to this fused world.

In our long distance spell, we created a space just for us online, where emailing and @replying felt just as special as holding hands and kissing. Maybe this is an exaggeration, but when we relied solely on the Internet to maintain our relationship, all of our actions, gestures, and conversations—whether by typing or touching, on screen or in the flesh—weighed the same.

Now that the main person with whom I communicated online shares my physical space, my Internet continues to morph. It has become something more than what it has been—more than a portal through which we have connected when geography has divided us, more than an online space of information and ideas and networks to which I connect with various devices. Because now that he is on this side of the world, sitting in the same room as me, I haven't abandoned, nor do I devalue, this online mode we've gotten so used to—I don't treat his texts or emails as less important than our face-to-face conversations.

It seems the Internet has become part of us—a layer that floats in our home. I thought it had disappeared—that I didn't need it anymore—but I sense this dimension of communication and interaction will always be there, whether or not we share the same time zone.

Feminism: A tragedy in 3 acts

By Whitney Ruef Modern feminism has been a point of contention for decades. Some say it’s the reason why women aren’t where we should be: barefoot and pregnant cleaning the homes of our hard-working husbands. Some say it’s helping to break the glass ceiling of women in the workplace. And some say "feminism is something that men invented so women would burn their bras and sleep around." It could be a combination, but who really knows what the hell women are thinking anyway?

Chivalry isn’t dead. It’s brutally maimed and writhing, taking its last, rattling breaths. What we don’t talk about though, is that women are killing it. We decided (or maybe men decided while they were in line at the gas station buying lighters for the bra burning ceremony) that we wanted to be treated as equals in all aspects of life. It was an all-or-nothing declaration of independence and self-sufficiency, and it was glorious. Then, a strange thing happened: for the first and only time in the history of the modern world, men listened to us.

All of the sudden we were working jobs and taking care of children. We were super women. We were making our own money and showing the world that we are just as capable as men in the workplace, kicking ass and taking names if you will. The Nike commercial “Anything you can do, I can do better” came on television and women across the country sat on the couch feeding their newborns, typing emails with their toes and laughing knowingly that we had finally gotten what we wanted, because we’re wily and women always get what we want.

Sure, we were still being objectified, but we were going to put a stop to that. Enter: the pantsuit. The perfect corporate wear to make it absolutely impossible for any male to be attracted to you. We wore the pantsuit like it was the ticket to our next promotion, because if we looked like a man, no doubt we would get treated like one.

Then one day, we had a realization: we weren’t getting asked on dates anymore---we were hooking up. We actually didn’t like juggling a job and taking care of our latchkey kids who hated us. Maybe all of our bra burning and declarations of equality weren’t getting us what we wanted after all. And we were finally able to admit to ourselves that taking it easy every once in awhile is actually kind of fun.

We like having the door opened for us. Dinner dates are enjoyable. And we like being taken care of when we’re sick or hurt. While we were kicking and screaming to get what we thought we wanted, somewhere along the way we mixed up the meaning of equality and respect. Women don’t want to be treated like men - we aren’t men. It’s time to reevaluate the goals of feminism in the world today. But we’re women---the only thing that’s certain is that this opinion might change tomorrow.

Whitney Ruef recently graduated from VCU Brandcenter where she studied advertising copywriting. She is currently living in Richmond, VA and looking for "the job a million girls would kill for" in advertising. She is a third degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and thinks some of the best food comes from taquerias located in gas stations. Her portfolio can be found at www.whitneyruef.com.

Blue Door in Lisbon

Wandering in Lisbon's oldest district, the Alfama, is a serendipitous journey. It's a labyrinth of sloped streets, miradouros (viewpoints), and historical white facades, and I never knew what I would find. I got lost one afternoon, and as I strolled down a narrow alleyway, I came upon this vibrant blue door.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind.Shayna Kulik, Pattern Pulp Outliers: the story of success by Malcom Gladwell I just finished Outliers---after putting it down last year. I really enjoyed the second half more than the first and, it coincidently was the perfect lay-up for Tokyo Vice, the book I'm reading now. It's fantastic, and offers a realistic window of Japanese culture through the eyes of an assimilated American journalist. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it's true. The storytelling is phenomenal and if you have even the mildest interest in Japan you'll find it entertaining and informative.

When I'm tight on time, I stick to magazines, for editorial and design inspiration. It's an ever-changing list, but off the top of my head . . . The New Yorker, The New York Times, Vanity Fair, Dazed & Confused, Art Forum, Another Mag, 032, LOVE and The Economist.

Amy Connoly, Creative Soul Spectrum I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb I know I'm well over a decade behind here considering this book made it's debut in Oprah's Book Club in 1998, but the great thing about a good book is it's ability to be timeless. Between my job as a graphic designer and the time I spend working on my own blog and viewing other blogs, the majority of my day is spent in front of a computer. I love being able to come home to a book that I find as captivating as the things I see on my screen. Wally Lamb has certainly captured my attention with this novel about the life and struggles of a man whose identical twin suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.

Miranda Ward, A Literal Girl Marshall McLuhan: You Know Nothing of My Work! by Douglas Coupland I've actually just finished this book, but I'm still thinking about it, so I don't think listing it is quite cheating. Coupland's short and unconventional biography of McLuhan, first published a few years ago, feels very timely. "You can't slow down, even once, ever, without becoming irrelevant", Coupland writes of contemporary life, capturing the strange sense of urgency that seems to characterize our era. And the book is peppered with seemingly prophetic quotes from McLuhan. "We look at the present through a rearview mirror. We march backwards into the future" is a favorite of mine.

Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You by Alice Munro I was initially resistant to this book. My mother gave it to me years ago, and said I should read it, that maybe everybody should read it. That kind of urgency about books is good but it always makes me reticent: what if I can't feel what you felt? And anyway I struggle with short stories. But it is good. It feels like a book that's okay to read at a slow pace.

Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer I've been re-reading this. It's ostensibly a book about not writing a book about D.H. Lawrence (whilst also being, of course, a book about D.H. Lawrence). Dyer is brilliant (and often laugh-out-loud funny) on subjects like indecision, procrastination, and depression, and this, in my view, is his finest work. I'm trying to learn or absorb something from it.

Flaubert in Egypt by Gustave Flaubert Letters and notes from Flaubert's 1849 visit to Egypt. I've been dipping in and out of this book for a long time now; you feel as if you're going on a journey every time you read a paragraph.

The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt A sprawling novel---maybe too big, in a way. But the completeness of the world that Byatt has created is extraordinary. One of those novels you eventually fall into and swim joyfully around in, though it took me awhile to commit to it.

Finding Kindness in a Simple Salad

It's easy to forget to be kind to ourselves on an average day.  How many of us get sucked into the incredible whirlwind of life and all it throws at us---job demands, family stress, relationship ups and downs, self-criticism, daily schedules jam-packed down to the minute?  We're guessing some or all of this sounds familiar.  Who doesn't want to do it all and then some?  Sure, often times we pull it off, but at some point, hitting that wall of complete emotional and physical exhaustion is inevitable.

And that's when it's nice to remember that kindness can come in very small packages. It can refresh, relax, and recharge us in a matter of seconds. Fill yourself with negative or stressful thoughts (or from this column's angle, non-nourishing, energy-zapping food), and you won't get very much kindness in return.  From our respective corners, Jen and I are both coming off of a few draining weeks---draining for various reasons, but we tend to be on the same wavelength about 99% of the time.  So I went about the task of coming up for air and creating kindness, energy, and nourishment for the both of us through a simple salad so delish it might just become one of your summer staples. Jen then tag-teamed by shooting and styling the lovely photos you see here.

You can't really  go wrong with quinoa.  Gluten-free, nutty, and nutritionally-dense with protein and antioxidants, it's an edible force to reckoned with and makes a rock-solid, satisfying lunch or side dish at dinner.  To boot, this recipe takes about 20 minutes or less to crank out---so you can return to your hectic daily routine, but with a bit more "kindness" in tow this go-round.

Quinoa Salad with Spring Peas, Fava Beans, Mixed Herbs and Feta Serves 4 as a side, 2 as a main

1 cup quinoa 2 cups water 1/2 cup fava beans 1/2 cup spring peas 2 to 3 cups arugula 1/3 cup cilantro, chopped 1/3 cup mint, chopped 1/3 to 1/2 cup scallions, chopped 1/2 to 1 small hot red chili, thinly sliced (if desired) 3 ounces of feta cheese, crumbled 2 tablespoons olive oil (add a little extra if needed) juice of 1 lemon 2 teaspoons red wine vinegar salt and cracked black pepper to taste

Bring quinoa and water to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 8 to 12 minutes.  If there’s a little liquid remaining, strain quinoa and place in a mixing bowl. Remove fava beans from pods and blanch for 4 to 5 minutes.  Plunge into ice bath, cool and remove skins. Blanch peas for 6 to 7 minutes until tender.  Plunge into ice bath. Add fava beans, peas, and remaining ingredients arugula through feta cheese.  Drizzle olive oil, lemon juice, vinegar and season with salt and pepper.  Toss lightly to coat.

xo,

J+M

From Orlando, Florida...

Dearest Clara,

Normally my work takes me to big cities for small amounts of time, and it's always so hard to leave you behind.  So when the opportunity came to speak at a work conference in Florida, I thought it would be a nice change of pace.  In fact, I even thought I would run a little experiment this time around and bring you on the trip, along with our nanny so that we could get a chance to do something new together.  The work hours were still there of course, but being able to take you to the pool in the evenings, and on long strolls around the Magic Kingdom property are something I'll never forget.  I know we won't have the opportunity to travel this way very often, so I enjoyed every minute.

Sometimes when I travel for work, the destinations seems elusive---how much can you really learn about a place between the airport, the hotel and your work site?  But with you, we did go out and about at least a little bit, and you made me see things that I probably wouldn't have otherwise noticed at all.  When your father asked how Disney was, I said it was funny to me. Everyone is happy, everything is clean, and everything almost struck me as artificial, like a utopia.  And he astutely asked me, "isn't that why people go there?".  And he's right. People come to Disney for the magical experience and for a chance to have a glimpse of life where everything is in its most perfect form.  The street isn't dirty . . . the waitress isn't rude . . . the Boardwalk is just as you remember it from the pictures.  All the characters that you know and love from your imagination could actually pop up at any moment, and everything in your imagination suddenly becomes real.  When I thought about it that way, I realized it was a gift to have a bit of that magic, especially with you.  So with that in mind, here are a few of the things that I learned from our trip that I hope you remember:

• Wear sunscreen . . . lots of it.  You probably don't need me to tell you that you have your mother's skin.  And that means sunburns and that Florida sun stops for no one! Wear it, put on more than you think you need, and put it on more often than you think you need.  You'll thank me one day.
• And wear a hat too . . . See above.  I know you don't like it, please just wear it.  I promise one day you will think hats are cool.
• You can never have too many swimsuits. Specifically, swimsuit bottoms.  If there's one thing that drives me crazy during vacation days, it's having a wet swimsuit on or having to put a wet swimsuit back on a different day. One of the best luxuries of vacation is having a nice dry suit to put on every time you need it, even if you're just about to jump into the water.  Keep an eye out for end of season sales and stock up---you'll be glad you have extra.
• It's nice to believe in magic. Part of being a child is believing in magic and in the power of your imagination.  Part of being an adult is appreciating those that still do.  Real life gives us plenty of opportunities to see just how real it can be, so protect that part of your world that is full of wonder, happiness, awe and possibility.

All my love,

Mom

The Wisdom of 105 years

What She Taught Me: If you happen to be born under a Czar in Russia, it is best to die under the first black President of the United States.

The most memorable path from Odessa to New York is via Ellis Island.

If you marry young and wrong, fix it.  Then marry again, older, and get it right.

Go to summer camp, work at summer camp, send your kids to summer camp.

Work very hard in noble, middle-class professions, but have manners like you are from Old Money.

Speak your mind early, often and even, maybe especially, when your speech fails you.

No excuses---maintain your hair, makeup and nails.  In a pinch, lipstick in a bright hue and clip on earrings will suffice.

Read voraciously, talk about books constantly, engage politically and do the New York Times Crossword Puzzle as far into the week as you can manage.  Obviously Sunday is the pinnacle.

Be unabashed in your pride and boasting when it comes to your family and your own significant accomplishments.

Make your marriage a true love affair, canonize your husband and keep his memory alive during all the years he misses.

Venerate the country you live in and be passionate about preserving its loftiest ideals.

Women can and should be controversial, if at all possible.

Be grateful about the opportunities in your life, whether they came to you by chance or by your own toiling.

Listen to music, play music, make your children play music.

It is totally acceptable to embellish when you are singing the praises of your family, even if a few of your grandchildren somehow end up with promotions along the way.

The Sweet and Low and all the other accouterments on the table at a restaurant are there for the taking.  Fill up your purse, sister.  Fill it up.

Rhea Sapodin Tauber July 17, 1907 – May 26, 2012

The Iced Coffee Dilemma: To Stay or To Go

Iced coffee is one of my favorite warm weather pleasures. Truth be told, I’m not too picky when it comes to icy drinks.  When I lived in the South I guzzled more sweet tea than should ever be admitted and I’ve never said no to a tangy glass of lemonade. If I don’t do something about my fondness for cocktails soon, I’ll find myself without a roof over my head. My relationship to iced coffee is a whole different animal. For me, an iced coffee isn’t something that I make a plan for. On an August morning, I might plan to make a pitcher of sun tea to enjoy in the afternoon. If I have a hankering for the latest elderflower-infused cocktail, I’ll make plans with friends to enjoy it with. Iced coffee? It just happens. The mood strikes and I need one. This usually happens when I’m not at home. When my energy is languishing after a morning’s trip around the town, I’ll get a little rumbly in my tumbly for an iced coffee (with cream and sugar, please). These sudden cravings are mostly manageable. A girl can get a cup of iced coffee approximately every 4 paces in this city. But at most of these places, the coffee is to-go and it's served in plastic. Enter my dilemma.

Take a walk around New York City on a warm day and you’ll notice green trash barrels filled, mostly, with clear plastic to-go cups. On average, it takes me about five city blocks to guzzle down an iced coffee.  After such a short walk the indignity of trying to discretely balance my garbage on an already overflowing pile is almost too much to bear. I know I should really just bring my own reusable cup, but the likelihood of me having one at the ready the moment an urge for iced coffee strikes is slim to none.

And so, I've chosen abstinence. This summer I'm making a pact not to enjoy coffee on the go. That's right. Either I’ll make my own cold brew to enjoy at home, or I’ll take a minute to sit in a cafe and enjoy an icy cuppa. The trouble of course is finding a cafe that actually serves their iced coffee in glasses, even if I'm planning to stay. Lucky for me, there’s an little spot in the neighborhood that I can duck into if the mood strikes and the cold brew isn’t ready. Still, it might be a very long summer, indeed.

family is universal...

A portrait series on the families of the Omo River Valley in Ethiopia by Brookelyn Photography.

When I Was 19 and Made a 10 Year Life Plan

By Mariana Oliveira

In 10 years I will be 29 years old.

If I know myself, this will most likely mean that five years from now I will be going through an intricate life crisis regarding my imminent disgorgement from the 20something bracket, the decline of my once youthful looks and the slowing down of my biological clock, all whilst questioning my contributions to the world and my value to the human race (I know this because I went through a very similar ordeal when I turned fifteen).

However, in the mist of said crisis, I will be living in a big city, probably New York, where I will own a French bulldog named Cat Stevens. Every Sunday, Cat Stevens and I will go to Central Park with a cheese plate and a bottle of lemon-flavored sparkling water, and we will proceed to frolic in the grass and judge girls that lay out in the sun wearing their swimsuits.

I will be speaking fluent French, and I will often go to museums and have fake conversations on my cell phone (in French) so that people around me know how well I speak the language.

I will wear more hats, and they will look better on me then than they do now. I will also have a very expensive trench coat to go with my hats, and together, they will showcase what a refined woman I turned out to be.

I will be able to afford cabs, and I will spend months without going down the stairs of a subway station. Although, I will take the subway every now and then in order to remind myself of the times when I was just a girl and had to take the D train to the Bronx at 3 in the morning; but once I do it, I will regret it immediately.

I will be eating healthier and exercising, and I will be making more eye contact with strangers. People will often start conversations with me in bookstores and coffee shops, and leave wondering if I could had been the love of their lives, but they will never see me again because I will always refuse to give away my phone number.

I will have no idea what is going on in the advertising industry, due to the fact that I will quit my job at 27 and open my own book store (I will do this hoping that someday my life could mimic that of Hugh Grant’s character in “Notting Hill,” except Julia Roberts would have a beard and not be a bitch).

I will be very happy even though it does not sound like it.

Besides writing ads, Mariana can be found making naive assumptions, wearing shorts in the winter, navigating the hard places and making odic proclamations about cheese plates and bearded men. You can see more of her work here. 

The Sock Animals That Saved My Life

When my first husband very resolutely told me that he no longer loved me & started voicing his more-determined-than-ever desire to end our marriage, it was a very strange time in our household!  I knew this time it was different than I'd ever seen before.  I knew it really, really was coming to an end this time and at that point, there really was nothing I could possibly do to stop it.  But in those last few months when he was figuring out how and when to end it, somehow our previous lifestyle pretty much continued.  He'd meet me at the train after work and we'd go for burgers, we'd explore our neighborhood, spend time with friends, spend time together at home, laugh, and enjoy conversation and music, etc.  So much of these last few months appeared very much normal.  I think it was due to his sense of relief at knowing he was freeing himself of a situation he didn't want to be in, and also due to my desire to no longer react to his behavior (I had just learned that tidbit in the year prior).  And, we were still best friends.  But, despite all that, it was still a very sad time because we were no longer meeting up for dinner as husband and wife, but as two people whose lives were on the brink of parting ways. And so . . . I started making sock animals---tons & tons of them.  Every night after work I'd come home and he'd be on the computer and I'd start sewing my little heart out on the couch, so my mind could be focused on something other than this man who was about to leave me.  Those sock animals saved my life during that time.  You can't be upset about anything when you're making a sock animal by hand.  Well, the knots and threads and broken needles and raw finger tips might make you want to cuss; but you really can't be moping about anything else while you're trying to figure out what the cute little bugger's face is going to look like.  So I made 'em.  And I put a lot of heart and soul into them.  And they got me through nearly an entire summer of living under the same roof with my husband who was making plans to leave.  At the end of the summer, I had already given away plenty of animals, but also had a bundle of 10 of them for my sweet nieces and nephews who I was going to see at my parents' 40th Wedding Anniversary out west.  My husband was supposed to be on that plane with me.  But instead, I was on a plane with 10 little animals sobbing---with tears and snot just pouring out of my face---as I had just said goodbye to him at the curb for the very last time.  He soon was on a plane to Australia, never to return to New York.  Without a doubt, giving those animals to my nieces and nephews and feeling some joy by doing so, was one of the greatest blessings of my life.

If I can pass on any advice to you today, it is to find a little hobby, especially if your life is difficult right now for any reason.  I am telling you, a hobby will ease the burden and give your heart and mind a rest.  And, it will be fun.  (Yes, even if there isn't much good going on your life, you can still feel some enjoyment.)

Do you have any hobbies that you love that help to ease your burdens or stress?  I'd love to hear.  And I'm sure I'll be adding them to my fantasy list of hobbies  :)