Reality

I used to work for a man who told stories as his primary mode of both leadership and inspiration. And he called them vignettes. He’d take three (always three) seemingly unrelated stories that were unimportant in and of themselves and tie them all together with some fantastic moral about how the stories actually were important and interrelated and *ta-da* magically you felt inspired ( I have no idea what kind of voodoo this is…but it totally worked.)

Because I actually truly loved his story telling, I’ve taken to this whole “sharing of vignettes to make a point” type of speaking/ writing/ leading (interestingly, it turns out he was leading the organization right straight into the crapper because he spent all his time telling his stories, “inspiring” and hugging it out, and not so much time with the balancing of the books and the attention to the details…oops.)(Ooo, and now that I think of it, “vignette” should most assuredly take its place on my list of favorite words. What are we up to now, like 6 million favorite words? That’s a lot of favorites. My father scolds me for the overuse of superlatives. I have no idea why this is.)

And so, in the spirit of describing an overarching theme of my week, relaying a fairly intense emotion, and just telling a good story, darn it…I offer you the following three vignettes. Reality serves as the moral, and my former boss the cautionary tale.

* * * * * * * * * *

As I have mentioned before, I have a friend who owns a bridal shoppe (yes, it is in fact a shoppe, not a shop…which in my head is pronounced shop-y). There’s a long and incredibly cute story about how we met, and an even better story about how we became friends. But needless to say, when I found out I was getting hitched I was *of course* going to buy my dress from her. Now the story about how I found “THE dress” is for another time (though also quite good). But there it is, my dress, hanging in her shoppe waiting for my purchase. Sometimes, when I visit with her, I visit the dress, too. And so, because I am actually a girl (contrary to popular opinion) I do in fact try the dress on pretty much every time I go into the store.

For those of you who’ve played bridal store dress up, or have, you know, actually gotten married, it’s important for you to understand that my dress isn’t one of those dresses you can lace into or that has the massive expandable torture device of a bodice that allows any and all to try said dress. This one…they order one size, and from there you have to either fit into the dress or not.

Needless to say, when I first tried on the dress about three months ago, I fell into the latter category. This was depressing. I knew it was “THE dress”- that much was evident to me, even only half fitting into it. But you couldn’t really tell what it was gonna look like in the end. It felt like playing dress up in your grandma’s closet.

Yesterday while running errands, I needed to drop something off for my friend at the shoppe. I had my friend K with me, and she of course insisted that I put the dress on for her.

And it fit.

And it’s beautiful.

My friend K got teary eyed. My friend who runs the shoppe got teary eyed.

I just stood there in shock. And then the crazy ladies threw a veil on me. And suddenly, staring back at me as I looked into the mirror wasn’t me. It was a bride. And for me, that was the first time I had felt that way. And I had no idea what to do with that…but smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few weeks back, J called me and we had the rare opportunity for the extended phone call. We hit all the life mechanics, bills and work and health and future planning—had some good laughs; told some bad jokes. But as we were getting ready to hang up, the conversation went a little something like this.

“I called your parents today. I talked to your mom for awhile and then she put your dad on the phone and we talked for a bit as well.”

“My dad got on the phone and talked to you? He didn’t just yell hello from across the room?”

“No, we talked for like 5 minutes.”

Long pause.

“Dude, I think my parents think we’re really serious about this marriage thing.”

Longer pause.

“Crap. Does that mean I have to get rid of all my other boyfriends?”

“I think I’m close to telling you yes.”

* * * * * * * * * *

As I have already mentioned, I was in the wedding of two of my best friends this last weekend. Unlike her, I’m having a very small bridal party (just three girls…lest I have 14. It’s a seriously slippery slope for me after 3.) Anyway, the bride from this last weekend is one of my three girls, and so we have sort of been planning our weddings together. And by “planning together” I mean, I listened to her horror stories about high holy wedding drama and I took notes in the background as to what I should and should not do when I get around to mine (in a forthcoming and far more thoughtful post I will talk more about this weekend, which was in my estimation maybe the nicest wedding I’ve ever been to…so clearly, her every-other-day threat of scraping it all and eloping was unnecessary.)

But somewhere in my head, the phrase “I don’t need to plan my wedding yet. C’s wedding isn’t even here yet. I’ve got TONS of time!” just kept repeating over and over again. No worries! I’ve got FOREVER.

It was about halfway through the evening when the text-message-exchange-of-reality was sent.

J: Hi baybay. How’s the wedding going?

ME: Amazing. I miss you and wish you were here with me.

J: I miss you too. Just think, the next one of these we’ll be at will be our own.

Annnnnnd…I felt like throwing up. Heart suddenly racing, I seriously grabbed the wall to hold me steady. If there could have been a cartoon bubble over my head, it would have been filled with asterisks and pound signs and jumbled characters covering my not-appropriate-for-cartoon- sentiments. Right there in the middle of the reception. Our wedding is up next. The next time I see many of the people who were at the wedding this weekend will be at my wedding.

My wedding.

* * * * * * * * * *

So what’s the moral of the story? (What have you learned?) Well friends. It’s like this. It seems that I’m actually getting married. And that while long engagements are good, at some point, you gotta put on your planning hat and get to work (lest you drive your organization down the crapper with all stories and no details. See what I did there? I tied it all back to the original story.) This thing is real. And while I have been comfortable (and excited!) for awhile about marrying J and living happily ever after and all the rest of it, come to find out, this wedding business is gonna take a bit of planning and work (who knew?)

And so, while I swore it would not happen, that I wasn’t going to be *that* bride, I’m officially declaring that I *think* it’s time for a binder. Those who know me know what this means- it’s gonna get ugly (and by ugly, I mean alphabetized and color coded.) (An aside- Least favorable nickname ever bestowed upon me? The Binder Bitch. I suppose it was the most accurate though…) I’ll have to work at finding the sweet spot- somewhere just a notch or two down from Bridezilla must lay “organized and prepared.” And that, my friends, I shall be. Like a Boy Scout. Because surprisingly, without me realizing it was happening, this wedding business is on

Lame excuse post

40 weeks left
? pounds lost
15 months until the wedding

This will forever be known as the lame excuse post. In the future, sometime in the next 9 months (only 9 months left!!) in one of my posts, I’m certain there will be a footnote, and the footnote will read * See Lame Excuse post. This, my friends, is that very post. Keep ‘er bookmarked.

For those of you who read this blog for humor, you can skip it today. For those of you who read this for wedding updates or updates on how J is doing, you can also skip. For those of you who read for wit, wisdom, or insights…big skip. The only thing this post is going to do is offer some fabulous restaurant tips, and some less-than-fabulous excuses for yet ANOTHER week of not posting anything in the ol’ “L-B-S lost” category. That, and provide you future reference when I say things like *See Lame Excuse post.

So, I feel sorta bad about the fact that I have fallen off the diet wagon. Actually, let me clarify. I haven’t really fallen off the wagon per se. (Excuse 1) It’s not like I’ve been “Oooo, I’m so good with my diet except today when I have the overwhelming urge to eat this entire pizza.” That’s a fallen off the wagon moment. It’s more like, I have decided to park the diet wagon in the barn for a few weeks and find alternate (incredibly indulgent) modes of diet transportation (like say, a Hummer.) When the diet began, I gave myself permission to park said diet wagon for a few special events. It just so happens that all those special events are taking place back to back to back (to back, to back…) But I fear, the wagon, she is getting rusty.

Remember three weeks ago when I gained three pounds over a four day weekend because I was in DC at birthday parties and weddings all weekend? Yeah, clearly I wasn’t going to go into my friends’ parties and say “Excuse me, but those million dollar catering jobs and fabulous cakes you’ve got there that you’re offering me as part of your glorious (assorted) celebration feasts? Yeah, those look really nice. Any chance you’ve got some string cheese in the back?” I’m thinking that’d be considered rude. (Excuse 2)

And the *next* (four day) weekend when I was both truthfully on the road and didn’t have access to a scale but ALSO truthfully went to New York City for the weekend and ate my weight in South American food? (I have a serious weakness for South American food on which I blame my time living in DC, both NEXT TO some of the best South American food ever [Café Salsa in Old Towne Alexandria and the Banana Café in Eastern Market] but also because I lived with my dear Colombian roommates who cooked all the time and treated me to their goodness on the regular.) And since the small, in-the-mountains town in which I currently reside offers no such goodness and because while I was in NYC there was an arepa bar *literally* around the corner from where I was staying, (Excuse 3) I gotta be honest. The diet was not, at that point, on the brain. (If ever in the greater NYC area, please find yourself immediately at Caracus and order the De Pabellon arepa and the Yoyos. It’s possible that the yoyos changed my life in a small way, yet not insignificant way. My dear friend who was with me that day actually proposed marriage to them. And somehow, in the moment, marrying a fried plantain ball filled with cheese didn’t even seem weird.)

So I know what you’re thinking. “What’s the no weigh-in excuse THIS week?!” I’ve got another solid one. (Excuse 4) If you can even believe it, this weekend, I was away, again (again…I’ve mentioned that I travel, yes?) at the wedding of two of my best friends in the world (P.S. how cool is it that two of my best friends actually married each other? Amazing. There’s another post coming soon about the wedding. Stay tuned.) And being in a wedding like this means three days full of rehearsal dinners, drinking too much champagne, having fabulous wedding food and cake, going to lunches and brunches and tastings (oh my!) with the wedding party. All of it. And I wouldn’t have traded a single bite of any of it all weekend long. But when I dragged my tired backside home last night, full of wedding bloat and fried seafood, getting on the scale just really didn’t seem a priority, or you know, a good idea for my mental health. I mean, come on! Yet again…I was in a great food city. I was in Baltimore! How am I not going to eat delicious fresh seafood when I’m in the Salty Balty? (Excuse 5) True, I probably could have gone steamed or grilled instead of beer battered and deep fried, but seriously, the place made their own potato chips seasoned with Old Bay *just* like J makes for me! (Excuse 6) (Was that totally shameless right there? Justifying eating the crazy fried goodness because I miss J? Wow. Totally going to relationship hell for that one. But as an aside, the chips, not as good as J makes.)

So now here’s the problem. I leave *again* on Thursday for ten days on the road. The first week, I will be at the beach on a bit of a “family” vacay. I’ll for sure have the option of grilled veggies and fresh fruit while I’m there. (I’ve got money on me hitting the creperie and Grotto Pizza.) I drive straight from the beach to Philly to J’s big family reunion Pig Roast in which half the city turns out for a block party to share the best.bbq.food.ever in portions bigger than your head (I’m unreasonably excited about this…) And come on! How can I say no to the in-laws and their delicious food? (Excuse 7) (P.S. Someone please bring the red pie. Please? Seriously. I’ll pick it up myself. Just tell me where.)

I should probably just man up, step on the scale now, and see what kind of damage I’ve actually done. Truth of the matter is, my goal originally was a pound a week. J’s been gone for 13 weeks. And I’m fairly sure that I haven’t gained SOO much back that I’m off that mark. Granted 4 weeks ago I was at 22 pounds down. (But that’s why this is an average over a long period of time, right.?) Because, for example, the ten days J has his leave…and then Thanksgiving…and Christmas…yeah, they are gonna be big eats days as well. And that’s gonna have to be ok. (No excuse.)

But perhaps, metaphorically speaking, I need to trade in the Hummer, and buy, say, a dieting Smartcar to get me from place to place while I polish the rust off the ol’ diet wagon. I’ll get back on it hard-core in time, but for now, I’m going to try to enjoy my summer travels, and indulge just a little bit, relaxing all my routines for a few moments of complete downtime. Lame excuse or not, it’s one I’m sticking to.

Music and Lyrics

41 Weeks left (12 weeks down...or three months...or one QUARTER of the deployment.)
? pounds lost (I'm traveling and on the road and don't have access to a scale. This is a good thing.)
15 months until the wedding

As we have previously discussed, I was trained in my youth as a musician (more specifically, a singer...which some instrumentalists might argue means I’m not *actually* a musician…ah, music geek jokes. Never get old.) So yes, I’m a singer and a lover of words, and therefore my head is jumbled mess of song lyrics mostly all the time. In fact, for awhile I maintained that if truly pressed I could likely communicate very effectively using only song lyrics (though as I’ve grown up and developed some intellect and a sense of humor, I would require that to truly communicate fully I also be allowed to use quotes and phrases from “Saturday Night Live” sketches and basically anything from seasons 1-4 of “The West Wing.”) Yes, so... Saturday Night Live, West Wing, and my encyclopedic, freakish ability to remember obscure song lyrics and to produce them in even more obscure situations would be all the language skill necessary to cover all manner of conversation and range of emotion for me. (I’ve often said that I could probably cure all diseases known to man if I could take the brain space that is currently holding on to 1980’s pop lyrics and fill it with useful information instead.)

But here is the question that I pose this evening: Can you ever really divorce a song from its context of first hearing? Are there songs whose words are so powerful that you can forget how and where you learned them? For example…A really good love song that you associate with, say, your first junior high boyfriend…can it ever be a song for another person? Can the emotion conjured by those words and music transcend situation or particular person? Or (true story), the song you performed in your grade school glee club that you didn’t realize was actually a G rated re-write of an R-rated song (e.g. I sang “joy to the world” by Three Dog Night in 2^nd grade. I remember it clearly. When as an adult I realized that the song was actually about drinking and sex, I was aghast. Turns out it’s not just a cute children’s song about a bullfrog named Jeremiah. Seriously, though. Listen to it sometime and try to imagine what the 8 year old version of that sounded like. Amazing.)

I offer this question up tonight for discussion because I would have probably said, before my very random listening experience this evening, that I did not believe this contextual divorce to be possible: First impressions, especially when it comes to music, sorta have a tendency to stick. But as I sit here and listen to the “Songs that make me think of you” mix I made for J for Valentine’s Day this year I think I’m going to have to officially change my opinion on the matter (don’t worry…for those of you just joining us here, I have already acknowledged how cheesy and awful such a CD production was in the first place. And I’m over the heaving bawling that accompanied listening to it directly post- J’s deployment, so, you know, progress.) Tonight, as I take a bus to New York City for the weekend (the Simon and Garfunkel lyrics to “America” coming and going sporadically) and listen to the “J” mix, I’m finally over the initial emotion of the songs and am just listening to the music. And this is what has brought about my change of heart.

I have on occasion in the past divorced music from lyrics. For example, if a song has *great* lyrics and mediocre musical production, I can still love the song (take, much of the Indigo Girls catalog for example- every song is sheer lyrical poetry- but musically, eh, most are great, some are fine, many are just ok.) Or, if a song is beautifully written and the music is to die for, I can let go some strange lyrics (see for example, 65% of Ben Folds’ work. I still love him more than what is reasonable.) So, I have known for awhile that I am able to divorce music and lyrics from one another on occasion. And I think that most of us do that without thinking about it, because it’s rare that the music and the lyrics of a song are both perfect (take a minute and think about your favorite songs.) But man, when it happens…and usually you can’t put your finger on the why, but somehow you just *know* and are transported to a place of beauty that words or music alone cannot express. This friends, is what they call art. It is mystical and it is perfect. And it’s why those of us who produce art do so: to create that feeling (or at least have access to it) as often as possible.

Now it goes without saying that I love all the songs on J’s mix (or they wouldn’t be there.) They are songs we both love. Songs we have listened to together. Secret favorites that we would never admit to anyone else that we have even heard of, let alone acknowledge that we can sing along to every.single.word. But of the 28 songs (yes, there are 28) on this mix, I had never considered any to be art.

Not anymore, friends. After tonight, there is one. One that I now consider to be pure art: the perfect combination of music and poetry, arrangement and performance. And I hadn’t much thought about it before now, but wow. I was really struck speechless this evening by its simple beauty. And those who know me know that this is no small feat.

(Maybe that’s the trick to all this—that when it is “art” it can transcend situation and context. But why was this tune just now seeming so to me?)

It occurred to me that maybe the reason I was able to feel this way, finally, after having known and loved this song for literally the last 25 years was because this evening was the first time I was just *listening* to the song. I wasn’t listening to the song in the incredibly sad context of the Broadway musical from whence it comes, fully produced in Broadway fashion, at the very end of a three-and-a-half-hour epic, tragic, love story. Tonight, sandwiched in between pop tunes, love songs, rock anthems, and jazz standards, it stood alone solely on the merits of its musicality, its simple lyrics, and its stunning performance. Or maybe I was just listening tonight with different ears.

For the first time, ever, I heard the song not as the heartbreaking ballad of lovers separated by family feuds, death, and impossible circumstances, but rather as a simple love song of hope and tenderness. In the context of this Broadway play, I do in fact, cry every time I hear this song…and I’ve probably seen the play upwards of 20 times. But tonight, when I really listened to the music and lyrics free of context, sung by an a cappella quartet that made it all sound so easy; so clean; so flawless, it took on an entirely new meaning. Tonight’s tears (yup, still cried) were tears of inspiration, hope and patience. Patience as a woman-in-love dreams of a day when she and her star-crossed lover can finally just *be*. Sing it sister. I’m with ya.

But I think more importantly than discovering art and potentially my new anthem, I realized how important it is to take time on occasion to put on different ears. As I teach in my classes, context is everything. Challenge your assumptions. Reframe situations. The stuff you think you know by heart, reread again for the first time. The music that has stuck with you for lo these many years, listen again. Find a new message. Draw new inspiration. Put on a different set of ears.

In that spirit this evening I offer you new ears. Not in sadness or in tragedy how I had always heard this song before, but rather with a hopeful eye to the future, I offer you “Somewhere” from the Broadway musical West Side Story. If you don’t know the context, please, don’t look it up. Appreciate it as it is, sung here by Celtic Women, as a piece of art, in *this* context, for the first time ever.

Somewhere

There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air, wait for us…somewhere.
There’s a time for us, someday a time for us.
Time together with time to spare.
Time to learn, time to care.

Somehow, some day, We’ll find a new way of living.
We’ll find a way of forgiving. Somewhere…

There’s a place for us, a time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we’re halfway there.
Hold my hand and I’ll take you there
Somehow…someday! Somewhere…

Celtic Women sing “Somewhere”

Memorial Day

42 weeks left
3 pounds gained

(oops- but let’s be honest, I’m surprised it’s not more. Since last I wrote…I have attended an engagement party, two birthday parties, a wedding and a day at the amusement park. These will add three pounds to any gal. I gave myself permission for reckless dietary abandon to include chocolate dipped strawberries, two different kinds of ice cream, three different kinds of cake at several catered affairs, amusement park “meals” and more champagne and wine than I care to comment on at this point. So, yeah, Note to self- complete dietary debauchery, totally worth it…and will cause me to gain 3 pounds in a 4 day time span. Got it. Back on the wagon.)

19 pounds total
15 months (almost exactly!) until the wedding

The thing that makes J the most uncomfortable in all the world is when people thank him for his service in the military. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it—he definitely, truly does. He just never really knows what to say…how to respond. And ever humble, I think he has a hard time with people who think he’s in any way special. He considers his service his duty and his occupation-- a job like anyone else’s; it’s just what he does all day. “Do other people get stopped in the airport to be told thanks for being a teacher or a doctor?” (He asks this with complete seriousness, like that the jobs are truly comparable.)

I also believe that he thinks about his job in the Army in comparison to those who have come before him, the intrepid soldiers of WWI and WWII and Vietnam and Korea and just doesn’t consider what he does to be on the same level of difficulty or of sacrifice as those men and women. Now, I know that I’m biased and all… and not that I really get to know a whole lot about what he does all day, but I have a hard time believing this to be true. It may be different work than those in the past, but I find it impossible to compare the two, and in no way less difficult or less noble.

This is the first year that I have been intimately involved enough with J to have people begin to recognize J by proxy of me on Memorial Day. And I have to be honest, I was a little taken aback (and maybe a little off-put?) by all the thank yous and blessings. Not because I didn’t appreciate it (I so, so did!) but because, much like J, I just didn’t know how to respond. My first issue? In my mind, people were confounding Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day. Veteran’s Day is a day in which we acknowledge all the men and woman who have served or are serving our nation in the Armed Forces. This is a day I can get behind. Here, Here! And thank you. I got my share of “thanks” last November (though for what I cannot truly say, as I do not personally fall into the category of having served/ are serving.) I’ve come to accept and understand (and possibly even appreciate) the well wishes on Veteran’s Day, though. Because, for better or worse, I am marrying a veteran and there are challenges in that.

But Memorial Day has always been, to me, the day we reserve to acknowledge our fallen soldiers (or heroes of any kind, really. For example, I take time out on Memorial Day to remember Mom.) It is the day to honor those who have served well, lived nobly, and passed on, especially if their passing was due to their service.

I did not expect to be thought about or thanked on Memorial Day. Frankly, I did not, in fact, enjoy being associated with Memorial Day at all, as I spend every single day hoping and praying that (at least in the definition I have cobbled together in my noggin) Memorial Day does not apply to me.

This year, for the first year maybe ever, I spent Memorial Day quietly, somberly. No beaches or barbeques; no picnics or parades. Just the very sudden realization that someday, Memorial Day might be a day on which I too was remembered and thanked. And that, my friends, was a scary, scary realization.

I never really think about marrying into the military as being the sacrifice that everyone thanks me for making. I can’t help that the man I have fallen in love with has a passion for service (interestingly enough, I share that passion…just in a different venue.) And when people ask me about how nice it would be for he and I to be in the same place... what it might be like if he was never in the military at all, I just shake my head and smile and say no thank you. If he wasn’t in the military, we wouldn’t be together. Beyond just the logistics of our paths never having crossed otherwise, his military service has made him the man he is today, the man I love (not just *his* military service, but indeed the service of his grandfather and father and brother. They are a family who lives honorably, serves proudly, and instills in themselves and all of those around them the value of what it means to live a good and selfless life.) Just like everyone else in the world, J is a byproduct of his experiences and upbringing. And I wouldn’t change a thing about that, even if it made our todays easier.

I guess in that same way that J gets uncomfortable with the thank yous I do too. I’m not doing anything special. I’m just trying to support my fiancée, live an honorable life, be good to the ones that I love and do what I know in my heart to be right. And I think that anybody brave enough to try and live that way deserves thanks, not just those of us married to the military.

I always tell J when he gets flustered by the thank yous to just smile and say “you’re welcome, that means a lot.” Because it does mean a lot. Sometimes, when people have been touched by someone in the Service or have lost someone in uniform, saying thanks to someone they see in an airport or a restaurant is the only way to get the emotion out; that they are really saying so much more than just a thanks. I think I need to take my own advice in this regard. When people say to me “thanks for your sacrifices” what they are likely really saying is “We’re thinking of you both. We’re praying for you both. And we love you.”

And friends, I will take all of *those* thanks I can get my hands on.