2.5 Years Later

Last week marked two and a half years of living in New York. (Some may deem counting “half years” child-like: They’ve clearly never lived in Manhattan.) Despite my gag reflex’s sensitivity to metrics, here’s the Google Analytics version of the last 2.5 years of my life… It doesn’t do my journey justice, but I digress:

• 3 internships
• 8 bar gigs
• 3 apartments in 2 boroughs
• 4 Con-Edison disconnect notices
• 1 million ramen noodle packets (probably)
• 1 blizzard, 1 heat wave, 2 hurricanes, and 1 earthquake
• 1 broken heart
• 1 cancer diagnosis
• 2 profanity-filled, gut-wrenching screaming matches with God
• Countless new friends, setbacks, successes, first dates and stories of Earth-shattering embarrassment, self-awareness and inspiration

Taking an honest personal inventory is an essential component of growth. So I’ve spent the past week thinking back on these two and a half years, really chewing on them and letting what they’ve meant and revealed resonate within me.

Here’s the big picture: gratitude on gratitude on gratitude. Very little of what I “want” out of life I currently possess, yet I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. (Seriously: I really am a single, career-less bartender with a rent higher than most people’s mortgages. And I still mean what I just publicly declared on the internet.) Despite the ups and downs (I think I cried four out of seven days last week?), my life contains a degree of joy today that’s simply overwhelming.

I remember a time when I was soaked to the bone in pure, unadulterated sadness – it weighed on me so heavily I thought I’d suffocate beneath it. It had my back on the ground, wrists pinned to the floor, choking with fear that I’d remain trapped there forever. And I’m grateful for that time. I don’t ever want to forget what it feels like to be empty in order to appreciate how full I am now. Sure I still get upset, my heart still breaks – but it’s circumstantial, not conditional.

We take happiness for granted, similar to the way we suddenly appreciate being healthy only when we start to feel sick. And I was sick: emotionally, spiritually, and oftentimes physically as a result. I feel healthier than I ever have and I want nothing more than to preserve it. And the first step is through gratitude, the second through intentional reflection. So what have I learned? What needs to change? In a nutshell: A lot. But here are a few things worth noting:

• To settle is the gravest of injustices I can commit against myself. My potential, friendships, the men I date, jobs: It’s not a question of what I want in life existing, but of acquiring the patience needed to encounter and acquire it. I’m working towards investing my heart, time and emotions in truly worthwhile people and endeavors instead of accepting the mundane out of convenience or fear of lacking options. I’m also finding that the wait makes the discovery all the more meaningful.

• With that being said, I need to spend more time embodying within myself the qualities I seek externally. A life filled to the brim with passion, meaning and inspiration won’t just miraculously fall into my lap – I need to cultivate those things within myself. Water seeks its own level, and I’m working to become the kind of person that I’d like to be around.

• The relationship I have with myself belongs at the forefront of my priorities, not on the back burner. I’m realizing that the way I regard myself infiltrates every aspect of my life and casting a shadow or shining a light upon it is largely up to me. Sure, I have a self-deprecating sense of humor, but there’s a fine line between laughing at myself and beating myself up. I decided a long time ago I’d never again be a victim, but I often forget that “Whitney” isn’t excluded from that list of abusers.

• I’m learning the value of simplicity (emphasis on learning). I’m ashamed of the amount of time I’ve spent over-thinking and worrying myself into a state of self-imposed paralysis. I’ve been intentionally stepping back, observing the bigger picture. Genuinely getting my point across is more important than editing and re-wording things into oblivion to achieve something eloquent: “Flowery” is pretty, but it can also mask authenticity and dilute meaning. Allowing grace to enter into my own life and working to display it towards others is more important than debating theology. Sometimes the simplicity of something adds to its beauty.

• My personal best isn’t always enough and doesn’t necessarily equate to getting what I want. Working harder, sleeping less, loving and giving more of myself doesn’t mean I’ll get the job, be fully appreciated, or salvage a broken relationship despite my desperation to repair it. And yes, it’s utterly devastating. It’s perhaps one of the lessons that’s defined my New York experience – I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in Manhattan crying over dead ends, doors slammed in my face, and being told that I’m not enough – both personally and professionally. It preys upon what strikes the loudest of chords within me, what I’m incapable of overlooking or ignoring: Injustice. But it’s a lesson in reality that, despite the pain, remains worth learning.

• But here’s the silver lining: it’s still worth it. Every. Damn. Bit. There’s a bittersweet satisfaction in knowing that, despite the disappointment, it meant something that I tried at all… That I put myself on the line openly and without restraint, knowing beforehand I risked falling harder and hurting more. This is vastly different than the scared little girl who once refused to allow people in out of fear they’d hurt me, who was content in not trying if it meant never failing or being let down. Sometimes, outcome aside, learning what you’re capable of is reward enough.

• Cliché, but true: Show people you love them. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m perfectly content being that overwhelmingly-emotional, overtly touchy-feely, “pump the breaks already we get it” type of girl if it means the people I care about never doubt that I actually do. I used to withhold showing affection and voicing appreciation for others because I was terrified it wouldn’t be reciprocated. You know what scares me more than rejection today? The ones I love feeling alone.

• My mother. I’ve seen her display a love so unconditional and sacrificial it is the closest embodiment of God I’ll ever witness on this Earth. Her choice to walk through trial with grace, dignity and with a spirit of gratitude is the most inspirational thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I’m not even talking about her cancer diagnosis. Enough said.

Lastly, what I’ve always known, yet I’m trying to be more accepting of as I grow older: The only consistency in life is the very inconsistency of its nature. So much has changed and will continually do so… But for now, I know the past two and a half years have made me better. And when I think about it in that context, I really couldn’t ask for more.

Robert Cushing once said “The fact is, to do anything in the world worth doing, we must not stand back shivering and thinking of the cold and danger, but jump in and scramble through as well as we can.”

I want to keep learning and growing. I want to continue fighting in defense of my own happiness: To go to blows for it, to protect it at all costs. I’d rather scramble than shiver, so long as it leads to having lived a life overflowing with experiences and stories worth telling.

The Best Part About High School

I just returned from Atlanta to attend my little sister’s High School graduation. (Hello, nostalgia… nice to see you again.) Aside from feeling ancient and internally questioning what the acceptable age to get Botox is, it brought back a lot of memories. The insecurity and uneasiness was palpable in that stadium, pettiness and judgment thick in the air. Sitting there listening to my sister’s classmates give speeches about how “epic” the past four years of their lives had been and how they should treasure those memories forever evoked a weird and unexpected set of emotions within me.

As much as I understood their intentions and perspective, an overwhelming part of me wanted to walk on that stage, snatch the mic from that soon-to-be MIT student and say: “Listen up, kids: You know what the best part about High School is? It ends. The best parts of your life are yet to come. Congrats. Class dismissed.” (Throws mic down, exits stage left)

Because let’s face it, High School is hard. In retrospect, I can comfortably admit that I was relatively popular. I certainly wasn’t the girl who sat alone in the cafeteria. And yet I was still painfully awkward and lacking in the confidence department. And, in theory, it’s kind of inevitable: You throw a bunch of kids in a building together for four years struggling to figure out who the hell they are, while they’re simultaneously genetically wired with an overwhelming desire to fit in and be accepted and it’s going to get messy. Being uncomfortable in our own skin makes us do irrational, mean, and regrettable things.

And here I am at 26-years-old, and I still have a long way to go. I’m nowhere near where I want to be in life, but I’m at least in a place where I can look in the mirror and be proud of my reflection – and find comfort in knowing I have a firm grip on who and what I am. That much I didn’t have eight years ago. I don’t know a whole lot, but I do know this: Don’t be that girl whose bridal party consists only of friends from High School. Don’t be that guy that reminisces on how “High School was the best time of my life.” Don’t be that person that stays in their hometown forever. That, my friends, is not having lived an interesting life…

Instead, change your hair color so many times you don’t remember your natural one anymore. (And when your boyfriend loves your hair long, and then dumps you, chop it all off.) Travel the world and see things that make you question the limits of human perseverance and learn what gratitude really means. Go through a period of rebellion (granted I took it too far, but I recovered). It will teach you more about yourself and more importantly, force you to be courageous enough to fight your shame and walk into a room with your head held high. Go to a foreign country, walk up to a complete stranger and kiss him simply to experience the rush of knowing you’ll never see him again. When that pitiful looking stray puppy tugs on your heartstrings – adopt her. She’ll be there when you need a friend. Pack your bags on a whim and move to a city where you don’t know a soul and embrace the beauty that lies in the unknown. Allow yourself to get so angry with God that you scream and curse at Him aloud on a beach and let Him reveal Himself in an entirely unexpected, miraculous way.

Sing on stage in front of a crowded room despite your stage fright. Go ahead and date that utterly beautiful man that you know is a terrible idea: He won’t intend to, but in breaking your heart he’ll teach you the importance of loving yourself. Meet people drastically different than yourself and spend time cultivating inspiring, interesting relationships because life is too short to settle for mundane ones. Get that tattoo you’ve always wanted despite your mother’s disapproval…Or two. Say yes to things just for the story: Skinny dip in the Indian Ocean, swim with sharks, bungee jump, and drunkenly sing karaoke with a celebrity. Have more than your fair share of “what was I thinking?” reckless, stupid moments. Refuse to be afraid to learn the hard way, as long as you learn.

These are a few experiences life has given me since High School. And they only happened because I learned not to fear going against the grain or taking the road less traveled. They’ve made me who I am. And for that I’m grateful… grateful that it gets better, that we can grow into ourselves, that High School ends.

On Defining Moments, The C-Word and Faith

“Well I’m scared of what’s behind and what’s before…
And there will come a time you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”

-Mumford & Sons “After The Storm”

Certain things in life I’ll never forget… Holding my little sister the day she was born. My first kiss at summer camp. Watching the second plane fly into the Twin Towers. Being in love for the first time and being told that he no longer loved me. Hearing John Mayer for the first time. Watching my country swear in it’s first black President. The night my dad left, and never moved back in. Walking through a township in South Africa. When Princess Dianna, Michael Jackson and other icons from childhood died. The day I moved to New York…

We all have moments in our lives that stand out above the others – that we’ll always remember. Points in time that, regardless of their distance from the present, will always feel like yesterday – their vividness and clarity perfectly preserved. We remember exactly where we were, who we were with, what happened and (more importantly) how it made us feel. They serve as milestones, stories to relay to our children and future generations. Some of them are shared with the world at large, some are unique to our own personal journeys. Some of them we hold on to with fondness, longing to return to them, and some we wish we could rid from our memories altogether, extinguishing their existence entirely. They change us, our perceptions and reality: These are our defining moments.

This Valentine’s Day was another one of those instances: The day my mom was diagnosed with cancer. No amount of preparation could have shielded me from the sheer terror, disbelief and outrage that flooded my mind. Without knowing it I was crouched on the ground against the wall in my kitchen. It was like I was in a bubble – everything outside of me was dark and spinning and blurry as I opened my eyes. I looked back down to see my free hand shaking like a leaf and I struggled to still it by tucking it between my knees. That word – that god-forsaken word – was taunting me, bouncing back and forth within my mind like a pinball machine, jarring me all over again with each bump. It mercilessly echoed in my ears as I rocked back and forth and tried to stop choking and remember how to breathe.

I’ll never forget my mother’s words to me and how adamant their tone: Whitney, listen to me. Do not bury me. Are you listening? Do not bury me yet in your mind. Don’t go there. 

Too late – I’d not just gone there, I was stuck there. I listened as she told me there were only two things in this world that she cared about and as long as they were alright she would be too – her daughters. And the scared, selfish little girl in me could only sob but I’m not ok without you. Because I’m not. I cannot fathom something happening to her or not having her in my life. She’s too important and vital to my own well-being. Let me get one thing straight – if there’s any person on the face of this Earth that is least-deserving of such a diagnosis it’s my mother. She’s too good and she’s already been through too much.

The next hour consisted of medical terms that only Google could later help me understand, future courses of action, tears, and me eventually saying that I had to hang up because I needed the night to let the news sink in. In reality, I needed to throw up and the time to sob out the grief in my chest. I knew in the back of my mind that she was scared too and that she was trying to put on her best “Mom voice” to calm my fears. But I couldn’t bring myself to do the right thing yet – to focus my efforts on being comforting and supportive and re-assuring her that she was going to be just fine. I’m ashamed of my selfishness in that instant and probably always will be. But the weight of that news was still coming down on me too hard.

She told me she had faith that God would get her through it – that I needed to believe and trust that. To which, yet again, the little girl replied No, I need you. Because I do.

Everyone believes in something. We have to – it’s what keeps us moving forward, keeps us believing that things will be alright and what keeps us from completely losing our sanity amidst that which we can’t explain or understand. Whether we want to admit it or categorize it as such, we all have faith in something: A Higher Power, modern medicine, Karma, the inherent goodness of the world, Divine Intervention or perhaps just in one another. But here’s what I think – I think that faith is an action, not a belief. It’s less of a noun and more of a verb. Faith is a decision. It’s about how you choose to move forward after that initial moment of impact. It’s remaining positive, forbiding something from debilitating you. Faith is getting up off your ass from that cold kitchen floor and telling yourself that you will do everything in your power to better the situation no matter how helpless you may feel – and trusting that it won’t be in vain.  It’s the refusal to allow tragedy to ruin you – to consume your life, to offer up what good you still have in it by getting distracted by what you don’t have. Faith is honoring the blessings that remain. Faith is grit and determination. Faith is being courageous, even if you don’t feel it.

That’s really what makes defining moments so… defining: Not what happens in that instant, but how you react to it. How you enable it to change you and mold you into who you are – picking for better over worse. It’s not that the walls caved in, it’s that you put your arms up, locked your elbows and refused to be crushed. It’s not that you went down, it’s that you got back up and kept going despite your wobbly knees. It’s how you took that first deep breath after you got the wind knocked out of you, even though it hurt like hell. It’s not that you were wronged, it’s that you didn’t allow yourself to retaliate despite the temptation. It’s not that you met Adversity, it’s that you looked him in the eye and gave him the finger. It’s when you remained certain that you’d do your best amidst the uncertainty. It’s when you clung tightly to what you knew to be true when your fears told you otherwise.

And here’s what I know to be true: That I love my mother and, more importantly, she loves me. That I would walk through fire with a smile on my face if it was for her. That she is the fiercest, strongest, and most courageous person I’ve ever encountered. That my mother is not the first or the last to be diagnosed with cancer. That it is not a death sentence. That I’ll be dammed if I let this or anything else steal any bit of joy in mine or my mother’s life that we’ve fought tooth and nail to obtain.

Lastly, I hold tightly to this truth: That if there is anything or anyone I know to believe in – to trust in, to have faith in, to keep moving forward for – it’s her.

The Gratuity Gods Are Watching: How to Piss Off The Waitress/Bartender

As many of you already know, despite possessing a BA from a Top 25 public school, I’m doing really big things career-wise in NYC: I’m a cocktail waitress at a bar on the Upper West Side. While you’re wearing your Banana Republic pant suit at your Fortune 500 company, I’m rocking a push up bra and cut-offs, hearing how beautiful my eyes are from ultra masculine men chugging their well vodka cranberries. (I just threw up in my mouth a little.) With that being said, my co-workers are some of the most talented, intelligent, and ambitious people I’ve ever encountered. Nonetheless, I’ve observed a host of behaviors to avoid that you, as a person who may appear in public from time to time, may find useful as to not inadvertently present yourself as an asshole that thinks otherwise. (To those who work in the industry, this is my preemptive “you’re welcome.”) Here are my top ten ways to piss off the waitress/bartender:

1. Get my attention using anything but “excuse me.” Bad news: I’m neither a dog nor am I a cab; Therefore, you’re decision to whistle at me from across the bar is downright degrading. Also, my name is not Baby, Sweetheart, Honey or the title of any other Mariah Carey song. Don’t be a douchebag, douchebag.
2. Ask me detailed questions about everything. So, like, what do you have? (Well we’re a bar, so take your best shot); Yo, what’s the strongest drink you can make? (Now I instantly know you’re cheap and won’t be tipping me well); Well what’s your favorite drink? (You don’t strike me as the kind of chick that will appreciate Jameson). We’d really rather not be forced to attempt to read your mind, teach you how to properly read a draft list, or educate you on the difference between “on the rocks” or “neat.” This is Happy Hour, not Amateur Hour, kids… come prepared.
3. You should complain about your drink not being strong enough and/or ask for free drinks. Why do you think practically every bartender/waitress in New York is an aspiring actress (but me)? Because our job requires us to act and the fact that I’ve managed to convince you that I like you when I think you’re deplorably disrespectful only proves that I deserve an Oscar. So that’s great that you think we’re besties and you’re comfortable asking for free shots… But you’re not going to get them. Also, complaining that your $3 drink  isn’t strong enough isn’t the greatest strategy for forming alliances either. Think of it this way: “Ask and you shall not receive.”
4. Act especially pretentious and exude an attitude of undeserved entitlement. There’s nothing better than an overly demanding customer intent on taking full advantage of the whole “the customer is always right” concept. But seriously – who do you think you are, sauntering in, moving a million tables and chairs around, hoarding an entire section for yourself and your friends that inevitably won’t show up, demanding I change all the TVs so you can watch your game from twelve angles… You’re not the only person at this bar, and it’s not The Plaza. So dismount that high horse of yours, because it’s reserved for Ryan Gosling.
5. Refuse to ask for everything at once. No seriously, it’s the New Year and I’ve still got some turkey to work off. So I really appreciate it when I walk across the bar, take your order, bring it back, and then you want a napkin, and I go back and get you a napkin, bring it to you, and then you want an extra lime for your stupid vodka soda, and I go back… and the dance continues and I’m now covered in blisters. This falls under the category of “blatant inconsideration.” No really, I’ve got all day just for you.
6. Whatever happens – use as little English as possible. When I’m clearly being nice to you and asking you what you need, the polite thing to do is surely to point, nod your head, grunt, wave your hand, or make as little eye contact as possible to ensure I feel less-than. I’m not asking you to curtsy and kiss my hand, just exhibit some behavior that implies you weren’t raised by wolves. I know it’s hard, but technically you’re a legal adult – time to start using your big kid words.
7. Get wasted and expect me to fix your problems. So you put your tacky Juicy Couture clutch underneath your seat, left it unattended while you were puking in the bathroom, and (shocker) it’s no longer there? And now you expect me to drop what I’m doing, go all Dog The Bounty Hunter and track it down for you? Or you can’t remember where you left your drink, but you’re sure it was like, full and you just like, know that a busboy cleared it away and now you expect me to replace it for free? You’re hilarious. No, really, where is Ashton Kutcher because I must be getting Punk’d right this instant. No? Someone put me out of my misery.
8. You should probably get really beligerant over something ridiculous. Apparently you’re livid that we don’t serve champagne, frozen drinks, or that your beloved Grey Goose martini isn’t part of the special today. I’m definitely the person you should yell at about it since I clearly made that decision…? What would possess you to sit there and chew me out over something I have zero control over? There’s a plethora of bars in Manhattan, find one that has what you want and take your nasty attitude there.
9. Get very drunk and handsy. Hold my earrings because I’m about to get serious here. Just because there’s a foot and a half worth of bar space separating you from one of our hot bartenders doesn’t give you the right to touch me. Anywhere. Ever. It’s sad that I even have to include this, but due to the fact that bouncers I work with have had to escort men out because they thought it was acceptable to grope me, I’m forced to. Let’s keep it simple: Look. Tip. Don’t touch.
10. Be a shitty tipper – or better yet – don’t tip at all! What do you do for a living? Whatever it is, I’m sure you get PAID to do it. I don’t work for free either, jerkoff. I may live on the Upper East Side, but my life isn’t an episode of Gossip Girl and I actually have to pay my rent. There’s nothing more degrading than someone not tipping. Also, in case you’re wondering, 10% doesn’t cut it either. If you refuse to tip 18 – 20% or more, especially during Happy Hour, I have bad news for you: the Gratuity Gods are watching.

You, bar patron and reader of this blog, may be thinking that I’m just a disgruntled minimum-wage server taking a moment to vent my frustration… Well, you’re absolutely correct. (Shots on me!) But I’m also writing this for your own benefit. Consider this a public service announcement, bar-goers: If you take heed to avoid committing the above-stated egregious sins, waitresses and bartenders alike will generally love you. It’s surprisingly simple. All of us that work together talk and if you’re a great customer, everyone that I work with will be told you’re great, just like they tell me when their customers are great. And then you will be showed privilege, earn extra attention, and receive those coveted free drinks. You’ll walk into the bar and I’ll remember your order and have your drink made before you even order it. I assure you that I will take care of you all night long, Lionel Richie style (Now get your mind out of the gutter, perv).

Hell, I may even give you my real number when you ask for it… (That last part is a lie. Sorry, a girl can only take so much.)

 

Coming Home

Let’s get something straight, kids: I am NOT a New Yorker. Granted the word on the street is that it takes living in the City for over a decade for the conversion process to complete, but regardless of how long I live here, I’ll always be a Southerner. And I have no qualms with that. Despite the myriad of reasons for my departure from the Homeland, the South will always have a special place in my heart. It’s where I come from. It’s played a vital role in shaping who I am.

Like the little bird I am, I’ll be flying South for the winter in two days. Here’s what I’m looking forward to:

• My mother awaiting me a Hartsfield International Airport with a large Chick-Fil-A sweet tea and chicken biscuit. Hallelujah.
• Oh yeah, seeing my mother and sister.
• Many a Starbucks catch up coffee date with friends I haven’t seen in months – people that I love, trust and admire
• Meeting my family’s new addition: Roman, the dog
• Taco Mac
• My Pathfinder and the ability to drive. I cannot WAIT to get into my banged up black SUV, crank the heat on high, and drive for hours with the windows down… sans incessant honking.
• A day trip to Athens, Georgia and being re-acquainted with my beloved college town
• Peacoats instead of black, calf-length North Face puffer jackets
• Wrap-around front porches
• GA-400 traffic (Odd, I know…)
• The smell of my mother’s house, the one in which I lived since I was three years old
• $4 packs of Marlboro 27s
• Some damn Southern Hospitality
• Food that isn’t take-out
• Re-visiting the stars in the night sky, open space and silence on my grandparents farm in North Carolina

thought for the day

“We’ve been through so much with previous relationships that we start a new one with a cocktail of warnings for the other person. “You should know that I have abandonment issues, and trust issues, and I’ve been cheated on before, and I’m sensitive about my time being spoken for, and I don’t like public affection…” The relationship is consumed with navigating all the mistakes that people have made before. And we don’t know how to separate an innocent intention from a hostile one. What if we could just reset with each new person? We wouldn’t anticipate the fall. But that’s not possible. I think the trick is to give someone the benefit of the doubt and check yourself before you react to something. Most people have good intentions, and want to make you happy. Most people who hurt us in the past regret it and wish they could have done better. I know I wish I had done better. I went to a wedding where the reverend said, “Marriage is about being a professional forgiver.” If we don’t forgive people in the past, there wont be any room for someone new to make any mistakes. And while I’m definitely perfect and not capable of any, I’ve heard that there are people out there who make lots of mistakes, like, all the time.”

– Erin Foster

An Ode To Deb

The other night I was on a first date. As is customary, you’re initially asked about the basics: Where you’re from, where you went to college, what’s your family like. (This makes it sound as if it was a boring first date – quite the contrary.) Naturally I spoke of my mother and sister and (as I feared) was subsequently asked about my father. Now look, I get that a vague “he’s not in my life” is relatively ominous and lends itself to further questions. He inquired further. Shit. I was scared. My loud-mouthed self actually stuttered. I don’t want to be dishonest, but I don’t want to be too open as to appear to be spilling my Daddy Issues all across the bar. I’ve been told that makes men run…? (Can’t imagine why.)

But here’s what became blatantly apparent in my mind in that moment – I didn’t want to talk about my father. Years back, if given the opportunity, I instinctively vented my frustration and pain from having had an utter failure of a father. It was as though some sort of switch was involuntarily flipped. I made sure that you knew how justified I was in despising him while simultaneously attempting to convey that I couldn’t help but love him. I clung to my brokenness, unable to fathom that I would one day view myself as more valuable than “damaged goods.” But lately, it’s as if I’ve regained control of that switch. Now when my father is mentioned, my mind steers towards thoughts of my mother.

I think back to when I was a little girl and the way I perceived my parents. Through the optimistic and innocent eyes of a child, parents are  superheros, genetically equipped with capes that flap about in the wind: they’re omnipresent, omnipotent. Parents have it all together. They’re the ones that give you spoonfulls of pink amoxicilin when you’ve got strep throat, diagnose a fever sans thermometer, and blow on your skinned kneecaps after they drench them in hydrogen peroxide. But then you start to grow up and that once seemingly impermeable image begins to crack. You begin to realize that they too are human beings chalk full of character flaws and obnoxious habits. I certainly went through this phase with my mother – I think it’s called High School. As a woman frantically struggling to repair her failing marriage, she wasn’t at her best. She made a lot of mistakes. Despite the purest of intentions, she failed to take the proper measures to take care of herself, her children, and set an example as to how to respect oneself. Cut to post High School. Cut to the end of college. Forgiveness. Life experience and maturity ultimately unveiled this truth: My mother is still growing up, too. Looking back at that period of our lives together, she didn’t know what the hell to do any more than I did. We were both just trying to get through another day together. And now, at 56 years old, she’s still trying to find herself.

My early twenties revealed my mother as less of a mother and more of a person – a friend. I’ve come to respect the hell out of this woman who has overcome more than her fair share of loss and mistreatment. I admire her tenacity, humility, and undeniable dedication to her daughters. This is a woman who leads a divorce support group at her local church weekly, discreetly gives money to various charities, mows her own lawn… This is a woman who, born and raised on a farm in rural North Carolina, spent her childhood summers picking tobacco. My mother has grit, determination, and is the single most fiercely loyal person I’ve ever encountered. She hasn’t the slightest clue how beautiful she is, how when she compliments my eyes fails to realize that I got them from her. She’s the one that gently sang “Amazing Grace” to me every night as a little girl when she tucked me into bed. This is a woman who’s humility is apparent when you overhear her playing piano by ear when she thinks no one is home. Despite being an exquisite and eloquent writer, she rarely shares it because she prefers her privacy. Her selflessness knows no bounds: Although divorced, she has driven four hours on multiple occasions to assist her ex-father in law in cleaning my grandmother’s room after she died. She’s the one who recently drove 14 hours from Atlanta to New York, turkey in cooler, because she couldn’t bear the thought of me spending Thanksgiving alone. This is the woman that, despite my glaring hatred for her at the time, obstinately refused to give up on me during the darkest hour of my life – who literally stopped at nothing to ensure that I would be ok, regardless of whether or not I wanted it. My mother gave me life, then turned around 19 years later and saved it. My mother, who’s made it crystal clear that my future husband is required to ask her for my hand in marriage, will be the one to put on my veil and walk me down the aisle.

Words alone fail to do my mother justice. I can’t begin to accurately describe the depth of my love and admiration for her… just how proud of her I truly am. All I can say is that, as we both continue to explore life together, my only hope is that I’m able to be a little bit like her when I grow up.

thought for the day

“If you want to be truly intimidating, if you want to make an impact, if you want to have a strong connection with others, just be sincere. Sarcasm is not an attitude, and it’s not a personality trait. It’s a style of rhetoric meant to be used occasionally to highlight a larger point… Saying you’re a sarcastic person is like saying your favourite cuisine is salt. Sarcasm is easy because you never have to take a stance. And that’s just the problem; It’s so noncommittal. Be yourself, even if that means being unsure or uneasy. Let someone else put you at ease. Meet them in the middle. Be sincere.”

– John Mayer

I Love You, (Wo)Man

If you’re reading this, chances are I may have never met you. I probably don’t know your favorite Kardashian, your middle name, what age you had the chickenpox, or other really vital tid-bits of information about you. But do you know what I do know about you? You’re loved.

If you’re anything like myself (a.k.a. you possess a vagina, have ever been dumped, live in America, etc.) you’ve had your bouts with doubting yourself. You’ve looked in the mirror and mentally screamed at that one eyebrow that goes a little higher than the other when you smile. You’ve questioned whether or not wearing Spanx on a first date is considered “false advertising.” You’ve eyeballed that average-looking chick being hit on by that really hot guy at the bar and wondered what she has that you don’t. You’re probably not happy for Eva Mendes because you know you’d be a better girlfriend to Ryan Gosling. See, I’ve never met you, but I know you, honey.

Here’s how I know you’re loved:

• You’re unique. No matter how bland or unoriginal you may deem yourself at times, it’s an actual Bill Nye The Science Guy-Approved-Fact that you are the only you out there. Maybe the freckles on your right arm make the shape of the Big Dipper (Ok, that’s me… Try not to be too jealous). We all have a myriad of quirky, weird things that make us us. And someone (more likely an abundance of someone’s) is bound to appreciate that.
• You’re smart. Maybe you can do long-division and still know all your multiplication tables (something I still can’t do). Maybe you know all the correct words to Eiffel 65’s “Blue” (daba de daba di?). Maybe you’ve read all the works of Shakespeare. Maybe you’re really good at celebrity trivia and can actually name all of Brangalina’s twenty-seven children. Perhaps you watch The Big Bang Theory and know what the hell they’re actually talking about. People love smart people because, let’s face it, we’re gonna need you when we make it into the Cash Cab.
• You’re talented. Maybe you can tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue (damn, you). Maybe you have the voice of Adele and you’re just waiting for the courage to sing outside of the confines of your shower. Maybe you’re the next Oprah. Maybe you can make really authentic sounding bird call noises. Whatever it is, you’re good at something. And people eat that shit up.
• You’re funny. How do I know this? Because everyone is funny in some way. Maybe you’re super witty and a modern-day Come Back Queen. Maybe you’re really sarcastic and dry. Some people are funny on accident because ridiculous things happen to them without them intending to that just happen to be hilarious. Maybe you’re Class Clown, slapstick funny. Maybe you can burp your ABCs like a real lady. Either way, everyone has a sense of humor and everyone loves funny people. (How else do you think Will Ferrell was allowed to pro-create?)
• You’re beautiful. Spare me the “I really hate this gap in my teeth” or the “I think this ten pounds is from two Thanksgivings ago” schpeel. Everyone is beautiful in their own way, shape and form. Maybe you have natural Taylor Swift-esque curls while the rest of us are left licking our curling iron wounds. Perhaps you have crazy long eyelashes like Claire Danes in that Latisse commercial while I’m stuck poking my eyes out with my eyelash curler. Maybe you’re one of those freaks of nature that can eat Krispy Kreme for dinner and not gain a pound (now you’re beautiful and annoying, congrats). Whatever that quality/ies is/are… work it, girrrl.
• You have a family. Now hold up – before you start making excuses – hear me out. Maybe you were adopted, had a horrible childhood, have an older brother in jail, or something else that you deem dysfunctional or abnormal. I.Get.It. But someone in your family loves you. It might be your little sister that thinks you hung the moon, your Nana that thinks you’re the apple of her eye, or maybe you’re your Daddy’s Little Girl. Somewhere in that gene pool, you may not be liked all the time – but you are loved… because that’s what families are for.
• You have a past. I know, I know… you’re starting to question if I can read minds. (Answer: Probably) You’ve been through and experienced painful things that have made you who you are – the good, the bad, and the ugly. This makes you well-rounded and more importantly, relatable. Your lessons-learned have enabled you to help someone else going through the same thing you went through; therefore, I know that someone you’ve helped loves you for being there.
• You’re passionate. You have something in your life that you truly care about. It makes you want to get out of bed in the morning, it drives you to make a difference or become a little bit better. Maybe it’s the people in your life. Maybe it’s your dream job that’s the reason you’re busting your ass at that unpaid internship to get a step closer towards. Maybe it’s a political or social cause that you’re willing to stand in the rain holding up a sign for. Whatever it is, people love passionate people because they inspire and motivate us to do something worthwhile with our own lives.

Most importantly? You just read my blog. And for that, I love you. Happy Holidays, kiddos.

I like, NEED this.

I mean, I don’t really bake or anything… but I need this $88 Anthropologie cookie jar. I’m also glad that I’ve perfected the art of distinguishing between “needs” and “wants.”