tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67017422620582864682024-03-12T18:39:22.090-07:00Morally Responsible"I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do."
-Robert A. HeinleinAniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-88828395463890252812017-06-08T15:54:00.003-07:002017-06-08T16:12:18.203-07:00Wait, where did this closet come from?I imagine* that by the time you’re gay parents in the suburbs, coming out of the closet is sort of a not issue. At least, in regards to other parents and neighbors. At the very least, it seems likely that by the time kids coming over to your house to play with your child, their parents already know that so-and-so has two moms or two dads. The fact that they are bringing their offspring over anyway means that they have decided that’s not a dealbreaker.<br />
<br />
Apparently, despite the complaints of some non-poly Millennial parents that everyone assumes they are sleeping with their roommates, it is possible for someone to reach the point of bringing their kids to our house without having jumped to [all the right] conclusions about our living arrangement. And suddenly I find myself realizing this in the middle of a conversation where I have to decide on the fly just how much to reveal as I answer questions about how we came to all be living together.
On the one hand, we are not closeted in the neighborhood. If I don’t lay it all out on the table now, will this mom feel lied to when she eventually figures it out? On the other hand, her kids are currently in the middle of a game with mine in my house. If her first reaction is horror and she scoops them up and whisks them away how will that affect MY kid (who is already having a difficult time making friends)? With seconds to decide I dodge and redirect and immediately face the regret and anxiety of how and when I’m going to have to actually answer her.<br />
<br />
I understand and acknowledge that we are exceptionally privileged to be able to pass as normal, white monogamous heterosexual couples when we need or want to. And yet, I wonder if life may not be easier in some ways if the closet wasn’t an option and we never had to worry about when or how to come out of it; never be startled to realize that we were in it when we never meant to be and trying to figure out when it’s safe to leave. I wish, sometimes, that people could just look at me and know exactly what kind of freak I am and just decide whether or not they’re willing to be friends before we ever talk.
Maybe that’s why I’m a 32-year-old, middle class, suburban housewife who still dresses like a punk teenager. It’s the flimsy armor of “Hey, you should have realized I was weird when you met me.” But we are a specific flavor of weird that a lot of people still aren’t used to and can still have strange knee jerk reactions to. And it was a lot easier to have an “I don’t give a fuck what you think” attitude before I had a kindergartener who just wants people to play with.
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* I fully acknowledge I could be very wrong about this and I am coming from a place of privilege.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-48202618118731998572017-02-23T14:51:00.002-08:002017-02-23T14:51:50.723-08:00Politics, Parenting, and Scared KindergartenersI want to take a moment to talk about #parenting and #politics.
A few months back, on the day of the election, AL told me that he had heard that if Donald Trump got elected all the "brown people" would have to leave America. He was worried about them. It was a fear he mentioned again after the election. His best friend's mother is here on a Greencard from Kenya. The kids he and Kalem play with the most in the neighborhood have parents from Venezuela and Mexico. Down the street, our cat adopted a family from the Muslim country of Uzbekistan (I think). And it would not surprise me if a huge chunk of the Spanish speaking students at Evansdale have family members who lack valid documentation to be in this country. All this in mind, I couldn't tell him that he shouldn't worry about it; that it wouldn't affect him. What I told him was "We will try to make sure that doesn't happen."
A few months back we were battling with AL about bedtime every night. If he didn't fall asleep before I left the room, he would be up 1000 times complaining about being scared. He wanted to sleep with the light on, with someone in his room. He wasn't willing to lie still and let sleep come. I admit, we were frequently less than sympathetic. Especially since he could never tell us what he was scared of. If he woke up in the middle of the night he would crawl into bed with me. Sometimes he cited bad dreams, sometimes he was "just scared." He could never articulate why.
By the time the President started signing Executive Orders, he was crawling into bed with me every night, and I'd given up on relocating him back to his own room, since he would frequently just wake up a few hours later and crawl back. At bedtime I'd just started trying to stay until he fell asleep, even if it was after our allotted time. He switched nightlights with his older brother for one so bright I just consider it a light. My boy was terrified and needed me, and nothing else I said or did seemed to help except just being there.
And then we went to the airport to protest Trump's immigration ban. AL decided what he wanted his sign to say (America is for Everyone). He held it up proudly to be photographed so it could be shown to Donald Trump. He chanted "Love, not hate, that's what makes America great!" And then we went home. Cold, exhausted, very hungry, and a little overstimulated. That night he understandably crawled into bed with me just like he had every night the weeks prior.
But he's only done it once since then.
Since the protest my son has crawled into my bed in the middle of the night *once.* The baby's new sleep routine frequently means me putting KH to bed right after I finish reading to AL, and he simply lies in bed waiting for me to come back and lie with him (sometimes even falling asleep with out me). He has, *on more than one occasion*, chosen to turn off his nightlight and sleep in the dark.
I can't say for certain that these events are causative and not correlative. But I can tell you that to me there seems to be a very strong Before Protest and After Protest mentality to my son. This little boy still has plenty of behavior problems, but being inexplicably, cripplingly scared all the time, doesn't seem to be one of them anymore. Which isn't to say it won't come back. But regardless of what politics my boy ends up with as an adult, I will never regret teaching him that he has the power to DO something about the things that worry him. He has a voice, he can make it be heard.
He can be brave.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-23759327162343902122012-03-24T20:41:00.002-07:002012-03-24T20:46:15.439-07:00Fate looked down at her loom and contemplated how to continue. She studied the two threads and their current positions in the tapestry.<br /> <br /> “They’re both theatre students,” she thought. “Let’s start with that.” Her shuttle began to fly across the threads. The Boy went to college to pursue acting, but the age gap was too large. He’d be done by the time the Girl went to school. The threads are tugged, tightened, repositioned. The Girl is going to college two years early. They should just overlap. Only an attempt to twine the threads together causes a snarl. They’re still too far apart. The Boy went to college in Middle Georgia, but in order to go when she did the Girl is attending school in West Georgia. Fate looks down at her loom, selects a new thread, and begins to weave again.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> “No, there is nothing subtle about biting into someone’s neck in the middle of the street, even if she is a prostitute!” The debate was good humored as the participants argued about whether or not a player’s feeding had been as blatant as the storyteller thought. No one really gave any consideration to how their dining hall conversation might sound to the people sitting around them until the girl sitting alone at the table next to them turned around.<br /><br /> “Are you talking about Vampire: the Masquerade?” she asked. After a startled pause, they admitted they were. She joined the table and proceeded to regale them with stories of her game. She invited them to come play. There is a natural prejudice ingrained in table top gamers against LARPs (after all, even nerds like to feel superior to someone), but Fate was tugging at their threads. It sounded fun, and she was nice. Then she mentioned that it was in Milledgeville. <br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /> <br /> Fate felt the threads tighten and pop out of her grasp. They were too taut and would never stretch that far across the loom. With a heavy sigh, she went back to the threads that surrounded the Boy and began to weave again.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> “What the hell are we supposed to do? Gabe’s no longer HST and they’re leaving the Org. We’re screwed.” The anger and despair was thick in the air. <br /><br /> “We could just start our own game,” someone suggested.<br /><br /> “But where would we play? Brandon controls the student organization.”<br /><br /> And Fate tugged at the strings that ran across the loom.<br /><br /> “I’m working as a Resident Coordinator at West Georgia now,” the Girl From the Dining Hall said. “We could play there. Just move the game to Carrollton.”<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> Fate smiled as the threads all began to come together, but the smile soon faded. Though the threads were weaving in sections side by side, the thread of the Girl and the thread for the Boy never crossed. Fate managed to pull a couple of the threads that surrounded the Boy across the Girl’s path, but nothing came of it. Finally, a couple of the the threads surrounding the two became closely intertwined. They tugged at the Girl’s thread, trying to pull it over those last few inches to blend into the other section of the tapestry. Finally, with one hard yank, they succeeded. Fate almost cheered until she looked over and realized that, while she had been focussing on the Girl, the Boy had escaped to an entirely different, and largely inaccessible part of the weaving. The narrow margin by which they had missed each other was enough to make Fate bang her head against the loom. However, she only allowed herself a second to mourn before she picked up the threads again. And with a sigh, she sent the shuttle flying. <br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> The threads danced across the loom. Sometimes they grew closer together, sometimes even further apart. Once they even crossed paths, but not long enough to make much of a difference. Only a few threads continued to run between them, but Fate fought hard to keep those threads connected. Their weavings mostly revolved around others, though. Both threads grew a little more frayed. The Boy experienced traumas that reopened old wounds, and created new ones. The Girl discovered how love could lead to loss as well as heartbreak. Fate looked at the threads with concern at first, but as she studied them she saw how the rough edges made them more likely to grip to each other. If she could get them to cross again, it would not be like the last time; there were no longer any smooth sides to glide off of each other and into other parts of the tapestry.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> The Boy had been back from the war, and back in Georgia, for months now. He was feeling at a loss. In his mother’s small town he only really had his family and one friend. Too often he found himself alone with the crushing burden of still being alive. As he stared at his computer screen, longing for a better form of escapism, Fate tugged as hard as she dared. The thread had grown so thin and frayed that every pull risked snapping it. Her gamble paid off, however. On a whim, the Boy decided to go to Atlanta and see if he could find the game he’d started all those years ago.<br /><br /> “Does anyone have a place I could crash?” he asked at the end of the night. Back in Carrollton he would have gotten a half dozen replies. Now, however, there was only one house that could consistently accommodate travelling players. This was actually the way Fate wanted it, only she looked down to find an error in the weaving. The Girl and her husband weren’t there to offer crash space. Fate tugged at their roommate, but the thread was snarled and refused to budge. Finally, awkwardly, someone offered floor space. The situation was so bad that the Boy was convincing himself not to bother to come back. Fate looked at the fraying thread and began to feel desperate.<br /><br /> The threads were close enough now, though, that the errors in the Tapestry were much easier to fix than they used to be. With so many threads running between them, they were naturally drawn together. The Roommate returned to the house and began to tell his housemates about the game.<br /><br /> “... and there was a guy who is apparently an old player who came back. He was looking for a place to crash, but I didn’t want to just offer your house out to a stranger.”<br /><br /> “An old player?” they asked. “Who was he?”<br /><br /> “I think his name was J---- D----.”<br /><br /> “We know J---- D----!” they replied almost in unison. In truth, they’d only ever met him once, but they’d been hearing stories about him for years. The Roommate’s refusal to offer hospitality to a stranger was a point of disagreement in the household. The Girl and her husband always welcomed anyone who needed a place to stay, and felt the Roommate should have extended that courtesy. The Roommate did not, and would never, feel comfortable with this. However, the whole conflict was rendered moot when they realized who the individual was. The Husband sent out an email informing the Boy that he would be more than welcome to crash with them in the future. After his next visit to town put him crashing with friends an hour further out, this offer was the only thing that convinced him to come back one last time. And this time, the Girl was finally there.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> “Really? I thought you said ‘This potato tastes like sand.’ I mean, that’s what I heard anyway.” The Girl realized that she was correcting the story of the person it was actually about and began to feel a little self conscious. Until he replied, <br /><br /> “Huh, yeah, I think I said that, too.” And he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. “By the way, I’m J---- D----.”<br /><br /> “I know who you are,” she said smiling, “We’ve met before. I’m Anie. You’re staying at my house tonight.”<br /><br /> He blinked and focussed again on this pretty girl sitting next to him. He felt certain that he would remember having met her before, if he had. Of course, he didn’t remember the first time he met his wife either. It was a fact they had always found notable. He began to feel a little off balance.<br /><br /> Back at the house, an impromptu party was being held as other out of towners were also crashing there (and many people wanted the opportunity to see and socialize with the Boy again). Conversations flitted from topic to topic and the Girl walked into the dining room just in time to hear the Boy say, “I just don’t believe open marriages can work.”<br /><br /> Fate felt the thread twitch between her fingers and almost laughed with delight. There was nothing the Girl loved more than a challenge. She smiled, a flirtatious, sadistic smile as she replied, “Mine seems to be working just fine.”<br /><br /> The Boy found himself gaping awkwardly under her gaze as he tried to figure out how to reply. Before he could form a response, the girl at the end of the table changed the subject. The Girl was left with an unsatisfied desire to talk to him further. <br /><br /> The Boy continued to visit, and the two continued to talk, until every waking moment was filled with discussion. They texted, used messaging clients, and (when possible) slipped away for private moments of intense conversation. Soon the ache to be with each other grew too strong and they Boy and the Girl were forced to discuss the issue with their spouses.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /> <br /> Fate had the tapestry well in hand now, however. All the threads were in the right places and she could see clearly how to weave them into the picture they were meant to form. Oh sometimes there were snarls that had to be worked out, but these were minor setbacks, easily overcome with a little patience. The two frayed threads grew stronger as they twined more tightly together. The threads danced as the shuttle pressed the weaving into place.<br /><br /> ----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /> Almost three years later, the Boy and the Girl are driving to a party in Carrollton. Their spouses are driving up in a separate car. It’s a trip almost guaranteed to make them nostalgic. They both have history with this city and this trip and it seems strange to them that this history doesn’t overlap. They’re comparing stories and memories, and discussing the early days of their relationship. The Boy grows melancholy.<br /> “I just realized how fragile it all was,” he says, as he begins to choke up. “If one little thing had been different, we never would have met. We never would have gotten together.”<br /> In a different part of reality, Fate rests her head against her loom and laughs until her sides ache.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-1146437186432468512011-05-20T13:00:00.000-07:002011-05-20T13:05:53.565-07:00The B Horror Movie that Just Hasn't Been Made YetBattling kudzu is, to me, the ultimate futile fight of mankind against the inevitable. Finding a wayward patch, you grab it and pull. Yards upon yards of leaves and vines file through your hands as you tug roots up from the ground or pull the curled vines free from trunks and branches. But the branching, ever multiplying plant has no true end. Ultimately, you have to choose the point at which you declare “enough.” Even as the plant comes free in sweet release, your relief can only be physical. You have not won the war. In truth, you have not even won the battle. With a snip of your shears you have merely determined the location from which the fight will next resume.<br /><br />You would think, with all the money we invest into biological warfare and gene tech, that someone out there would be able to develop a poison I could spray over my entire lawn that would only target the specific genetic structure of kudzu (Though I would be willing to sacrifice a few other ivies along the way if necessary). Yet, if such a product exists, people are completely failing to market it because I have yet to find it. When faced with a yard rung with kudzu, the most you can hope for is to declare your battle lines and to try to keep the enemy from crossing them. I pull vines free from the trunk of the one tree in my backyard which has not already had them intertwined into branches too high for me to reach. I monitor the fence that separates my back yard from my neighbors to ensure that the kudzu that covers it has not begun to creep along the ground. And I patrol the edge of my house while keeping a sharp eye out for any vines that have sought to cross over the thin strip of lawn in order to attack my foundation.<br /><br />Should the vines ever reach the house, we’re done for. In a matter of months, kudzu can demolish a home. It twines through the foundation, busts through windows and tears down rafters. We bought our house in November, when the bare vines are barely distinguishable from all the other grey foliage, and we gave them no notice. At the closing the previous owners mentioned that the yard had “a bit of a kudzu problem” that we should keep an eye on. Of course, at that point it would have been too late for us to back out, even if we had realized the true implications of that innocuous comment.<br /><br />The truth is, I love my house. At the most, the kudzu problem may have made me argue for a lower purchase price, but I doubt it would have been a deal breaker. I keep the pit of vines mowed back and monitor the lines I have declared. One day I hope to have the money to call in a landscaper and ask them how many thousands of dollars it will cost to have some professionals come in and clear out all the kudzu on my land (and that of my immediate neighbors, because otherwise there is little point). Hopefully, it will be a price I can afford. Perhaps it might be best to save this for closer to when we’re thinking of selling. While such an investment may definitely count as a battle won, it is still just buying time against the inevitable, unending war. After all, even a professional will ultimately have to pick the point at which they simply declare “enough” and and give the snip that merely redraws the battle lines anew.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-69941959619165806162011-02-28T18:40:00.001-08:002011-02-28T18:40:37.889-08:00Settling Down in My Home TownThese days it seems like the everyone is moving across country (or to another country entirely) from where they grew up. I can understand the desire to go someplace where no one knows you and you can get a fresh start. And sometimes, it’s just the best decision based on where the availabilities in your field can be found. However, I feel there are some definite advantages to growing older in the same town where you grew up.<br /><br />I was born in Atlanta and grew up deep in the heart of Midtown. Growing up I was walking distance from my middle and high schools, from a movie theatre, a (small) grocery store, numerous restaurants, a couple of laundry mats, a hair salon we never used, the biggest park in the city and a neighborhood convenience store that probably had a name, but was always just called Richard’s Store. My husband grew up in a nearby suburb, and taught me that sometimes it’s okay to go someplace for an evening that’s more than ten minutes away.<br /><br />I love Atlanta and, despite her mass transit problems, I have no desire to leave her. Other cities just don’t have enough trees, for one thing. But more than that, I know this town and she knows me.<br /><br />I have never had to look for a mechanic. It seems like a taxing process. I have friends who have had their cars totaled by incompetent mechanics, and heard tons of horror stories of people being tricked and defrauded by those who are less than scrupulous. This has never been an issue for me. When I was little my parents used Bob Todd as their mechanic. When he retired, he passed the business, and their custom, on to his son, John. One of my first memories of being back in Atlanta after graduating college was taking my car in to get my blinker repaired. It was just a matter of replacing the casing and it only took a minute. When Mr. Todd (as I still call him much to his great annoyance) was done, I asked him how much it cost. He looked at me like I was crazy and told me “I’m not gonna charge Robert’s daughter for that.” It felt really good to be home.<br /><br />Of course, living in the town you grew up in isn’t always discounts and name dropping. Sometimes it’s realizing the consequences of your favorite neighborhood bar also being your father’s favorite. There I am, sitting at a table full of my friends, my Guinness has just arrived and I am reaching to get a cigarette to accompany it when my father spots us and joins our table. Now, I am not a smoker. I just feel that beer, specifically Guinness, tastes better with tobacco. But after the years I spent giving my father grief about his cigarette addiction, the times I watched him try to quit, and the general “don’t ever start smoking or it will haunt your life for all time” sentiment in my house growing up, there is no way I can smoke in front of my dad - even as he bums a cigarette off my roommate and starts puffing away. Now, my dad is generally accepted amongst my friends to be pretty awesome, so there is no lack of engagement to drive him from the table. Meanwhile, my beer is growing warm and I really wish he’d go find his friends so that I can indulge my vices with out parental supervision.<br /><br />Still, if my dad randomly showing up to curb my bad habits is the worst of my complaints, then life in my home town is treating me pretty well. And truly, his proximity is far more of a blessing than a burden. My husband and I only have one car between us, and MARTA doesn’t run to his office (did I mention that Atlanta’s mass transit sucks). Tomorrow I have an invited dress rehearsal for a show I’m doing costume design for at 8:30 in the morning in another part of town with out MARTA access in the opposite direction of my husband’s office. This would be an impossible situation if it weren’t for my dad who is graciously willing to pick me up at 7:45 and drop me off at the show. Because he loves me and is, as is generally accepted, awesome.<br /><br />And this is with out even getting into the perks of having the in-laws nearby. Whether it’s help moving, help mounting shelves, or help getting around town, it is definitely nice to have the built in support structure of family. And when looking for reliable businesses, it’s a lot easier to spot them if you’ve been using them for over a decade, and possibly went to school with the owner’s children. I can understand the appeal of a fresh slate, but as for me? I really like being home.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-15419820595931657432011-01-24T15:51:00.000-08:002011-01-24T16:04:43.071-08:00The Day the Dishes Fell<span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>I originally wrote this as a comment in response to http://offbeatbride.com/2011/01/wedding-disaster, but decided it was a little tangential to post over there. Still, it is a good story, so I figured I'd just copy it over here.</i></span><div><br /></div><div><div>The other day one of the shelves in my kitchen collapsed. I thought I caught it in time only to have the other half give way. I couldn't catch it with out letting go of the side I was already holding. I watched helplessly as the shelf full of discontinued brown glasses which I had so painstakingly matched to my brown plates (all of which were wedding presents) went sliding to the floor. </div><div><br /></div><div>At my cries for help and the subsequent crashing sounds, my boys rushed into the kitchen. Upon their arrival I simply burst into tears. "I've lost everything." I was convinced that I had lost not only the contents of the shelf, but that the crashing had no doubt broken everything on the shelf below as well. "I know they're just dishes, but I like having nice things ..." "I know," was all my husband said as he put his arm around me and steered me from the room.</div><div><br /></div><div>While I sobbed into his arms in the bedroom, my boyrfriend cleaned up all the broken pieces and tallied up the damage (a task I don't think I could have born). After I had calmed down he came into report that I hadn't lost nearly as much as I thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>Neither one of them, even once, made it seem like I was in any way unjustified in my sobs and desolation - even though<i> I</i> thought I was being ridiculous. I was given love, comfort, support and practical help. And I've been rarely been so glad to have two men to provide me with these things, as neither had to choose between giving me the comfort I needed and the natural male urge to fix the problem (which was also needed). They each just swooped in and took care of what had to be done. In that moment of pure emotional ridiculousness I felt completely loved and cared for.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, it's not just about plates.</div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-14738272617008520352010-11-23T08:29:00.000-08:002010-11-23T08:30:35.164-08:00My Battle With Insanity<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span id="internal-source-marker_0.298372614197433" style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I am not battling infertility. After only a few months of “trying” I can’t make that claim. What I’m battling is insanity.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I want a baby. Now. More accurately, I wanted one a year ago, but when my husband switched to a new job (with it’s corresponding pay cut) we decided to put it off until we knew we could live on our new budget. However, I waited as long as I felt I could and once the budget was stable for a few months, I pushed the issue. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">How did I know the time was right? I mean, our finances were balanced, but there isn’t exactly an excess of funds. We own a house, but it seems constantly on the verge of major calamity. We have a great family support network in our paramours, but they currently live far away and will soon be going through a massive move/job hunt/general transition as they relocate closer. So why not wait until after we found out for certain about the husband’s raise, or the foundation was repaired, or the rest of the family was settled in town? Because every time I saw a Facebook update from a friend announcing their good news I couldn’t bring myself to say congratulations; usually, the only thing I could think was “I hate you. IhateyouIhateyouaIhateyou.” and it took all the willpower I had to just not say anything. And every time a parent, cousin, or grandparent made an offhand comment about when we would be expanding the family I wanted to yell at them and burst into tears.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Like I said, I’m going a little insane. Because once we “stopped trying not to” it just got worse. I no longer had the vaguely comforting answer of “we’re tracking our budget and waiting to see if it works out.” Instead I would just stare at those well meaning family members in silence for a second and hope that they would move the conversation along before noticing my awkwardness. You see, I don’t want to tell anyone that we’re trying. Perhaps out of a superstitious fear of jinxing it. Or perhaps out of a much deeper fear of being embarrassed if they know we’re trying and it keeps not happening. Regardless of my motivations, I don’t want to talk about it. And so, I have no reply except anguish.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I remember when I used to greet my period with joy. I heard other girls my age gripe about being on their period, wishing them away, and I was confused becauseI knew these girls were also sexually active. For me, getting my period was something to celebrate. Sixteen and NOT pregnant. Unwed and NOT a mother. Of course that feeling ceased almost the moment we were married. I’m hardwired for maternity. The only thing that kept me from wanting a baby was thinking of the expressions on my Orthodox cousin’s faces. Sure, once we were married we still couldn’t afford a child, it still wasn’t a good idea. But, no longer fearing judgment and social scorn, my period post wedding was met with a mild mixture of apathy and ambivalence and nothing more. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Now, however, things have changed again. My response is perhaps even more emotional than before. My period is met with the many stages of mourning. First comes denial, “Maybe it’s not really starting. Maybe it’s just light spotting. You can get some spotting and still be pregnant.” Then there’s the anger, as things progress and become irrefutable. I want to punch the bathroom walls and kick the toilet and call all my pregnant acquaintances and easily made mothers and tell them how much I despise them. Of course the anger drains out quickly and the grief comes pouring in to fill the void. Tears spring to my eyes and and I just want to collapse onto something and sob (what a terrible idea to design female biology such that the revelation of such disappointment will always coincide with the time when we are most susceptible to emotional outbursts). Finally, of course, there is acceptance. “Obviously, this ‘not trying not to’ strategy is not good enough. Next month I’ll actually chart my cycle.” “Okay, this was the first time we tried the cycle timing. Let’s look into what else we can do, like figuring out what the temperature thing is all about.”</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The acceptance phase gets me out of the tears, but it doesn’t help with the desperation. I constantly feel like I’m running out of time. I always expected to have a child by the time I was twenty five. The thought of not even being pregnant by the time I turn twenty six is heartbreaking. My mother reminds me that she was much older when she started having kids. My rebuttal is that I am well aware of that, as looking at her worrying about college funds and retirement at the same time is the very reason I wanted to make sure I started before entering my late twenties. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Of course, the major contribution to my desperate feeling is my boyfriend’s sons. There is about two and a half years between them and I watch them play together and entertain each other. I want my child to be able to play with them, too. Or at least to have a similar relationship to the younger one that he has to the older one. But if I got pregnant RIGHT NOW, he would be three by the time the baby was born. Every day I watch him grow older. Every day he speaks more clearly, masters a new skill and becomes more independent. With every clearly stated sentence I feel my window of opportunity slamming shut. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I want to get fertility tests done now. If something is wrong I don’t want to spend a year “trying” before we do something to fix it. Because the truth is, my husband and I haven’t used tangible birth control for years, but have never had an accident or “scare.” If you combine that with not getting pregnant promptly, I feel justified in worrying there’s a problem. And if there is, I want to know and deal with it </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">now</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">. Actually, I want to have known 8 years ago when my husband and I first started fooling around. Because the only thing that could have almost make this craziness worth it, is if I hadn’t spent so much of my youth terrified. How much less stress would we have had if we just hadn’t had to worry about it, ya know? </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And that’s my tether to sanity. That annoying frustration of “if this is the case, I wish I’d know it </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">then</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">, damn it.” I keep bringing it up with sardonic amusement. Because with out it, there’s nothing to mitigate the despair. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">And it’s only been three months.</span></div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-81688191654153403792010-08-17T15:58:00.000-07:002010-08-19T11:28:01.109-07:00Our imperceptibly BDSM, very nerdy, laidback, traditional Jewish wedding (with a cookie cake)<div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>So I admit it, I was a little disappointed that I was never featured on Offbeat Bride. But ya know what? Who needs other people for validation? I have my own blog now, and I can fill out my profile myself! So here it is, in honor of my two year wedding (9 year together) anniversary, my Offbeat Bride Profile (the slideshow is to the right - I couldn't figure out a way to put it in the post itself):</i></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>The offbeat bride:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Anie</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>Her offbeat partner:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Lorien</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>Location & date of wedding: </b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">The Temple in Atlanta, Ga on August 17, 2008</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>What made our wedding offbeat:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I actually thought of our wedding as pretty traditional. And the more I researched Jewish weddings, the more traditional it seemed. Turns out, a lot of my original “offbeat” ideas, like having both my parents escort me down the aisle and having the groom come down the aisle, are actually just the way it’s done in a Jewish wedding. However, despite how traditional I thought I was being, apparently there was enough quirkiness that we got lots of comments on how unusual and unique it was.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">The bouquets were all made of clay and purchased off Etsy. I built the chuppah myself (with some help decorating the poles at the picnic the day before) out of my grandmother’s old table cloth. I also made my veil. We came down the aisle to the theme music from the Legend of Zelda. At the end of the ceremony, we bolted out the back while our bridal party receded to the victory music from Final Fantasy (can you think of a more appropriate time for victory music?). Our rabbi was super light hearted and had everyone smiling and laughing. At the (vegetarian!) reception we had a giant tiered cookie cake instead of a traditional wedding cake, and after about an hour or so of traditional dancing we broke out the DDR! We managed to get young and old(er) together to dance the Time Warp and then we were Rick Rolled! Oh, and somewhere in there we roasted marshmallows over a candle centerpiece in honor of a friend of ours. </span></span></span></span></span></span> </p> <table width="300" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"> <col width="296"> <tbody><tr> <td width="296"> <p><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Cqe1Ze314oVoTnRObyN0JA?feat=embedwebsite"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/SNK0_qpbVoI/AAAAAAAADrQ/2Lq0O-NWEpM/s288/0474.jpg" name="graphics1" height="193" width="288" align="BOTTOM" border="1" /></span></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="296"> <p align="RIGHT"><span style="font-family:arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:78%;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/stephanie.witcher/WeddingReception?feat=embedwebsite">Wedding - Reception</a></span></span></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Our biggest challenge: Getting people to show up. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true. A few close friends who I was hoping would come didn’t make it the priority I expected and had trips planned (and one apparently just forgot the day of) and my Uncle and Aunt both had work commitments they couldn’t escape. I told my mother that if I’d known earlier I could have changed the date, but she insisted that the date I had was important to me and my hubby and that in five years we’d still be celebrating on that date - and probably not thinking about who was or wasn’t there. Two years later, I realize she’s right. I remember my Aunt’s art on the shirts we wear to our anniversary parties (which also hung over the guest book), and I remember my uncle at the rehearsal dinner, and I don’t really remember who did or didn’t make it to the reception. </span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>Tell us about your ceremony:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">We had a traditional Jewish ceremony - remixed. My rabbi, bless his heart, is an incredibly liberal, feminist, equal-rights-all-the-way kinda guy. Me? I’m a submissive housewife. And that’s submissive with an intentionally lower case s. The traditional Jewish wedding ceremony has the man essentially buying the wife by giving her the ring (it’s not a ring exchange so much as a ring granting). It’s actually based on the old testament laws for acquiring a slave. I really liked the idea of me being acquired by my husband, but I didn’t really want to explain my BDSM preferences to my rabbi. Instead I explained how I had “my moment” when I circled my husband seven times creating the sacred space for the wedding (a moment the man has no equivalent for) and I wanted the ring granting to be my husband’s moment. He kept harping on how the ceremony wasn’t equal since “my moment” had me silent and technically took place before the first blessing and thus the start of the ceremony, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him that I WANTED a ceremony that represents a relationship dynamic in which I am the silent homemaker and my husband is the vocal provider of things-of-monetary-value and that I didn’t care if the whole ceremony created an unbalanced power dynamic shifted in my husband’s favor.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <table width="412" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"> <col width="408"> <tbody><tr> <td width="408"> <p><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/g88hc0AjRIjVHejSSm632Q?feat=embedwebsite"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/SNFzJH3xGQI/AAAAAAAACGs/Uf-VOWxnUHY/s400/IMG_9720.jpg" name="graphics2" height="267" width="400" align="BOTTOM" border="1" /></span></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="408"> <p align="RIGHT"><span style="font-family:arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:78%;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/stephanie.witcher/WeddingCeremonyAndFormals?feat=embedwebsite">Wedding - Ceremony and Formals</a></span></span></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">After a couple of sessions of arguing, we came to a compromise. We did the first part of the ceremony (the betrothal blessing/</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>kiddushin</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">) </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>before</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">going up to the </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>chuppah</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">. My rabbi said this is halachalically sound since originally these were two separate ceremonies, but we (as a people) haven’t done it this way since the 12th Century or so. Then, after the </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>kiddushin</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">, I circled Lorien and, when I was done, I gave him his ring while saying </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>Ani L'Dodi V'Dodi Li</i></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">(I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine). Because I gave him his ring then, and not during the </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>kinyan</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> portion, I believe that it did not counter his claim of ownership over me (though my rabbi is still free to believe it did). The rest of the ceremony proceeded in the traditional manner. Our rabbi chanted the 12 Wedding Blessings (with his beautiful voice) and our family members came up to read the translations. To add an “I do” moment for all the gentiles in the crowd (almost all of Lorien’s family, my paternal family, and almost all of our friends) our rabbi read us the text of our </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>ketubah</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> which we had signed in a private family and attendants only ceremony earlier and asked if we still agreed to it. (The traditional Jewish ceremony has no vows or “I do” moment - there is nothing binding in the main ceremony other than the ring exchange because the wedding contract/</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><i>ketubah</i></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> was already signed before the ceremony started).</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>My favorite moment:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Wow, this question would probably have been a lot easier to answer two years ago! But I think it would have to be when the DDR screen came down. My husband and I had joked (or so he thought) about having DDR at the wedding as the only way to get him to dance. Little did he know that I had made arrangements with the building supervisor and one of our posse members to use the giant drop down screen that they used when broadcasting services into the reception room when there’s overflow on High Holidays. Groomsmen wrangled him until it was all set up, so he came in to the giant screen coming down with the dance pads out. His face lit up and he burst out laughing.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <table width="279" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"> <col width="275"> <tbody><tr> <td width="275"> <p><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-aC1pAS0yk9SDqsrJ5mQGg?feat=embedwebsite"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/SNFHrECDZHI/AAAAAAAAB80/v70Ish6RRBI/s400/IMG_6980.jpg" name="graphics3" height="400" width="267" align="BOTTOM" border="1" /></span></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="275"> <p align="RIGHT"><span style="font-family:arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:78%;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/stephanie.witcher/WeddingReception?feat=embedwebsite">Wedding - Reception</a></span></span></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Of course, there was also when we were going to leave and someone said “Oh no, it's raining!” I looked at Lorien and he just smiled and shook his head with resignation. Months before I had made him promise that, if it were possible, he would dance with me in the rain on our wedding day. The weather was perfect in every possible way. It was bright and sunny during and after the ceremony so we could take all our formal pictures outside. And then, just as we were leaving, that brief downpour so I could have my moment with my husband.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/lki5Eg2sAkbHkwQfPmudDA?feat=embedwebsite"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/SNLeHVQFqWI/AAAAAAAAEyQ/F2te_MCMIE0/s400/0771.jpg" name="graphics6" height="268" width="400" align="BOTTOM" border="1" /></span></a><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/stephanie.witcher/WeddingReception?feat=embedwebsite">Wedding - Reception</a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b>My funniest moment:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">The funniest moment during the ceremony would have to be when Lorien’s little sister messed up during the blessings. For the Seven Wedding Blessings we had seven family members stand on the stairs leading up to the bima to read the translations. The rabbi hadn’t been at the rehearsal so we hadn’t practiced with the chanting. The rabbi chanted the first blessing and Lorien’s Grandmother read the translation. Then, as soon as she was done, Lorien’s sister started reading her translation to the next blessing. She only got a few words out, however, before her father (standing behind her to read the next blessing) clapped his hand over her mouth. That was really the ice breaker moment when everyone realized it was okay to laugh and have fun.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <table width="300" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"> <col width="296"> <tbody><tr> <td width="296"> <p><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/3-0fkVKGTc6L3OC6MetQgQ?feat=embedwebsite"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/SNG1xxK6YkI/AAAAAAAAC0g/Pgl_fLiOV-Q/s288/0215.jpg" name="graphics4" height="193" width="288" align="BOTTOM" border="1" /></span></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="296"> <p align="RIGHT"><span style="font-family:arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:78%;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/stephanie.witcher/WeddingCeremonyAndFormals?feat=embedwebsite">Wedding - Ceremony and Formals</a></span></span></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>My advice for offbeat brides:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Don’t be afraid to stand your ground, but don’t waste time mourning ideas you can’t follow through on. I really wanted my bridesmaids in polka dot dresses, but I just couldn’t find ones that would work in time - so I made up for it with accessories and let it go. Also, if people challenging your crazy ideas and second guessing you is hampering your ability to enjoy your day - tell them! They are (probably) genuinely trying to make sure everything is perfect for you and if you tell them that they’re actually being the problem, chances are good they’ll stop. My mom is super amazing, but we did have a moment. When my sister dyed her hair purple before the wedding I was SO happy! She was going to look awesome! But then my mom started questioning if it was a good idea, if we should let it stay that way, how we’d feel about the pictures - and I just cut her off and told her that I had been super excited when I heard and now she was raining on my parade and I needed her to stop. After that, no more second guessing unless I specifically asked for feedback. She even helped talk the rabbi into letting me go down the aisle barefoot!</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Care to share a few vendor/shopping links?</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">*</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> Venue:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> The Temple </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://the-temple.org/"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://the-temple.org/</span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Bouquets and flowers for chuppah base:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Midori Designs </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/midoridesigns"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://www.etsy.com/shop/midoridesigns</span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Crown:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Thyme 2 Dream </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/Thyme2dream"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://www.etsy.com/shop/Thyme2dream</span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Necklace:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Archeress Arts </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/archeress"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://www.etsy.com/shop/archeress</span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">*</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> Dress:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(35, 38, 26);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Bettina Foster (local Atlanta seamstress) </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Photographer:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Jody Burnett </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://burnettphoto.com/"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://burnettphoto.com/</span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Centerpieces: </b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Faerie Dust Dreams </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/FaerieDustDreams"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://www.etsy.com/shop/FaerieDustDreams </span></u></span></span></span></span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">(for the crowns, my mom made the pillows)</span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="widows: 2; orphans: 2;" align="LEFT"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>The Cookie Cake:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">Ali's Cookies </span><a href="http://www.shipacookie.com/">http://www.shipacookie.com/</a></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Georgia,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="">* </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>Caterer:</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> Chef Cary’s Cuisine </span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.chefcaryscuisine.com/"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="">http://www.chefcaryscuisine.com/</span></u></span></span></span></span></a></p> </span></div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-57858182294767709612010-07-15T16:40:00.000-07:002010-07-15T17:05:18.105-07:00Letter to the Extended Family<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My family, on my mother's side, consists of all the descendants of my great grandmother. Shortly after she passed away my mother and aunt put together a family cookbook. While the primary goal was to preserve my great grandmother's recipes, they also accepted submissions from other family members. Many of the recipes from that cookbook have become staples and my parties and social functions. This book, and other projects like it, are a big part of what holds my (very) extended family together. So now the time has come to try to put together a second edition, and I've decided to head up the project. This is the letter that I sent out to my family to explain the project, which I hope to also use as the introduction to the second edition. <br /><br />Names have been removed. For the most part they've simply been replaced with the relative's relationship descriptor.</span></span><br /><br /><br />To the Members of the Family _________,<div><br /></div><div>The scions of our branch of the family met at the beach house last summer for a weekend. While there we discussed the need to create a second edition of our beloved family cookbook. "Why?" you may be wondering. "What is wrong with the cookbook we have?" Nothing is wrong with it! Well, except for the typos, outdated graphics and the occasional recipe that is simply wrong (as an example, my great Aunt's pickled mushrooms do not use pepper). But overall there is nothing wrong with it! It is certainly a better record of family culinary history than most extended families have. My personal copy has been a constant kitchen companion for as long as I've had a kitchen to use it in. Recipes from that book have fed friends and parties and have always met with raving success. </div> <div><br /></div><div>And yet, it is still woefully incomplete. Many of the recipes I grew up most directly associating with family trips and holidays weren't included in the original cookbook. Where is our Great Aunt's delicious carrot soufflé? Or our cousin's totally amazing challah? Or my Aunt's "famous" cheese tarts? These are the family recipes I long for and cherish and I would like to see them all in one place rather than scattered on recipe cards or still lacking from my recipe collection.</div> <div><br /></div><div>Of course, there would be more to a second addition than simply adding recipes that I personally feel are lacking from the first. I'm not sure when the original book was published, but I think I'm safe in saying that it was over 20 years ago. In those 20 years children have grown up, gotten married and had children of their own. They have developed and discovered their own recipes as well as married into families with their own culinary traditions. They have lived in foreign lands, and settled in distant states. And they have no doubt acquired prized dishes, college culinary experiments, and the occasional in law oddity that all deserve to be represented. When I look through my family cookbook I see very little representing my own small family, or the families of the cousins I grew up with. As our extended family extends ever farther, I feel that we need the binding element that this book provides more than ever.</div> <div><br /></div><div>When talking about community building, so much of it always comes back to food. When we talk about having friends in our neighborhood we mention about how we'll be able to "borrow a cup of sugar" from them. When planning weddings and bar mitzvahs so much of the party planning is focussed on what will be served. We understand that when we are melancholy there are certain "comfort foods" we can turn to. And almost every major Jewish holiday revolves around a festive meal (except when they specifically have us NOT eating). What we eat, and who we eat it with, are a large part of what help us create a sense of commonality. At this point, our family has spread so far and grown so large that it's unlikely we're ever going to get everyone together at one big passover seder, but just because we aren't sitting down at the same table doesn't mean that we can't be sitting down to the same foods.</div> <div><br /></div><div>And that's the goal. To create a cookbook that represents the family in it's current incarnation and allows us to all have something in common, no matter how far apart we might be or how long it's been since we last saw each other. So send us your new recipes developed or discovered as you've grown up and moved out on your own. Send us your variations on recipes from the original cookbook. Send us the staples from your in-laws' family or that crazy innovation by your spouse. And send us your old classics that some how escaped publication and all the minor corrections that have been lingering unfixed for over 20 years. </div> <div><br /></div><div>I can't wait to see them all! </div><div>anie</div><span style="color: rgb(136, 136, 136);"><div> </div></span>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-59412446740909403532010-07-14T22:14:00.000-07:002010-07-15T10:54:54.836-07:00FillerSo to acknowledge all the people who are now following my blog ("Hi followers!") I figured I should post something. Unfortunately, I don't really have anything new to say at the moment. There are a couple entries in draft form, but they're really not ready for publication. Luckily, however, I have at least one more old entry that hasn't been transitioned over yet. So I figure I'll go ahead and post it here so you all have "new" material to read and then relocate it to it's appropriate, backdated location at a later time.<div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;">=============================================</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">13 May 2009</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(253, 253, 253); font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><div class="entry_text"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He always comments on the normal people moments. Sitting in a coffee shop laughing at the pretentious conversations. Driving around town listening to a newly purchased cd. Lying in bed watching me get ready for work in the morning. But these aren't the moments that stand out for me. The moments I love, the ones that sear themselves into my memory and bring tears to my eyes, are those sweet, passionate, and intimate moments that normal people not only will never have, but will never even understand.<br /><br />I made him a collar. I bought a silver colored pendant tray into which I placed a picture of the name I have given him and I glued the glass down over it. I strung the pendant on a braided leather cord which I capped with silver crimp beads. To those I attached a bar and loop closure. My thought was that this closure style, as opposed to a clasp of some sort, would allow me to pull the necklace tight and be able to choke him with it at times. While this effect worked as planned, there were some drawbacks to the style that I hadn't considered.<br /><br />"I made you a present," I told him as he kneeled before me, "and it will belong to you like you belong to me. But just like how you belong to me, there are some rules. Only I can put it on you. And no one but me can take it off you. It is </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">yours</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">but you can't put it on or take it off yourself. Do you accept?"<br /><br />He did, and I placed it around his neck. He wore it the rest of the evening, even as we went to dinner with my husbands family. It was such a bizarre and pleasant sensation to look over and see it hanging around his neck and to know what that meant. He was mine. This strong, forceful man not only belonged to me, but wanted it acknowledged.<br /><br />Later in the evening we discovered the flaw in its design. At some point while rolling around in bed the bar slipped the ring and it fell off. I noticed almost immediately and resolved to put it back on at the first opportune moment. However, when that moment came I rolled over to pick it up and found it no longer sitting on the pillow next to me. I looked up to see it back around his neck and I grew cold with anger.<br /><br />"I only gave you two rules. You can't even get through a night with out breaking them?"<br /><br />His eyes widened and his speech was rapid and scared. "I didn't take it off. It fell off. No one else took it off." He sounded like a child who has just realized he's in trouble but isn't quite sure why.<br /><br />"You aren't supposed to put it on yourself, either." I have stopped moving and am simply stradling him, staring down at him reproachfully. "I only gave you two rules."<br /><br />"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." In the face of his fear and contrition my anger has faded to a sort of menacing joy. It's not an emotion I have felt before and I allow myself to slip further into it before giving in to my need to comfort him. As angry as I was at him for breaking such simple rules, the truth is that these rules are new to him. They are not something he has ever had to deal with before and . . .<br /><br />"Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. It's alright." But I know my words of comfort are not enough. They do not satisfy my earlier anger, nor my current menace. More importantly, they do not satisfy his sense of guilt. With an open palm I hit him hard enough to turn his head sharply to the side. "But don't do it again."<br /><br />The evening continues. Eventually we grow tired and things wind down. We're lying in bed with him curled up in my arms. As even the conversation begins to die down into tired murmurs, I decide that, given the item's apparent tendency to fall off, I should probably remove it before we fall asleep. I reach up and undo the clasp and begin pulling it off when I hear the whimper from the body in front of me.<br /><br />"I don't want you to lose it while you're sleeping," I said by way of explanation, hoping to calm the despair from his body.<br /><br />"I don't want to lose it," he said. His voice sounded so young. Is it odd that, in these moments, I continually compare him to a child? And yet there is no other explanation for his tone other than that used by a child who is trying to be convinced to leave behind a prized possession against his better, emotional judgment. I held it for a moment, draped over his shoulder before coming to a decision. Afterall, even if it fell off during the night, it would only fall into the bed. We'd be able to find it in the morning. Coming to that realization I quietly placed it back around his neck. All his tension escaped out of him in a rasping sigh and I felt his body relax, content, against mine.<br /><br />Can I possibly describe how that moment pulled at my heart? He'd told me he loved me before, but I don't think I ever felt it as powerfully as just then. When he whimpered at its removal I think it was the first moment I believed he liked it as much as he said he did. On the one hand there was the simple gratitude of having a gift that I had put so much time and effort into designing and crafted being liked and appreciated. It was a normal person's motivation. But there was also all the meaning and symbolism invested in the object; to know that it all was important enough that, even sleeping, he wished to remain in my possession was - powerful. And perhaps inexplicable. I don't think "normal people" would ever understand why that small whimper could move me to tears. And those who </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">can</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> understand - well, they don't need the explanation.</span></span><div class="ljtags"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div class="clear" style="height: 15px; "> </div></span></div></div></div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-30094144824644572272010-06-29T11:36:00.000-07:002010-06-29T13:41:08.066-07:00Nitty GrittyReal Housewife of Atlanta is, as you can probably tell from reading it, my introduction entry. However, as you poke around you'll notice that there are a lot of entries that are dated before it. I wanted to give this blog some content right off the bat, so I imported entries from other sources that I felt fit my themes. These entries are either from my Livejournal, my wedding blog, or were something I wrote as a submission somewhere. While these entries weren't written for this blog, they were what inspired me to start it. I wanted a place to showcase some of my better written work that wasn't targeted specifically to people who already knew me.<div><br /></div><div>Live Journal is great for keeping in touch and sharing ideas, but for me it's a journal and a messaging board, not a place for columns and articles. Posting an entry on LJ about how and why I designed a kids room in my house seems kind of silly. Because most of the people reading either a) were here when I put it together, or b) don't see that as a part of my life that's relevant to them. I'm hoping that, by having a separate blog that's dedicated to writing as much as it is to informing, I will be more motivated to craft entries rather than simply post brief (or boring) updates.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus there's the issue of recognition. My mother reads my livejournal and who knows what other family members. Now, she can only see a very few entries, because of LJ's great filtering features, but that means that most of my "best work" can't be shared beyond Friend's Only. I'm pretty open about my life and my lifestyle, but I still believe it would be best for everyone involved if my Orthodox cousins never quite figured out some of the details. As a result, you'll notice some odd choices about anonymity. I only use my nickname here and use pseudonyms for my significant others, but I do post pictures of myself. The thing is, I don't mind if you recognize me on the street and say "Hey Anie! I love your blog! Can I come play in your vampire game?" In fact, that would be awesome, because we need new players. But I don't want the aforementioned cousins to do a google search trying to find our old wedding website and stumble across this instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>So my husband is Lorien. My boyfriend is Karma. My husband's girlfriend/boyfriend's wife will probably appear as the GFIL (girlfriend in law). Of course, depending on the entry, the [gender]friends may just appear as Mommy and Daddy, because if we're talking about their kids, that's who they are. Due to income restraints, it will probably be a while before that one will become confusing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, check out the old entries. If you like what you see, I look forward to having you around!</div><div><br /></div><div>-anie</div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-38027842121414277462010-06-29T10:40:00.000-07:002010-06-29T11:33:14.328-07:00Real Housewife of AtlantaHi, I'm Anie. I've decided to start a blog about my life. I'm not sure if anyone will want to read it, though. I mean, my life is pretty normal and straight forward. I got married at 23 to my highschool sweetheart. We bought a house in the city three months later. He has a salaried job and I work super part time (about 15 hours a week) just to give us a little extra grocery money. He pays the bills, I wash the underwear.<br /><br />On Friday night we light Shabbat candles and have a nice dinner. About every other weekend we're joined by our boyfriend and girlfriend and their boys. We spend dinner trying to keep the kids from blowing out the candles and then we head out to our local vampire LARP (Live Action Role Playing game). Usually mom and the boys will hang out for half an hour to an hour. Then they go home and go to bed while the rest of us play until two in the morning. After game, a handful of friends (somewhere between two and five) come back to our place to spend the weekend.<br /><br />Saturdays are spent with the kids going to the park, friends hanging out on the porch, and lots of computer games. Until nightfall, when it's time for another LARP. Sundays are for walking around the neighborhood and sad goodbyes. Then it's back to the grind of another work week in which my darling husband will leave me with a To Do list that I will never quite finish.<br /><br />Weekends with out games are usually more low key. Most of the time there's some party or club event scheduled, which will give my boyfriend a reason to come to town. I'll put on my party clothes and he'll put on his nice collar and we'll go out to have some fun. Often the husband comes along as well. Living in the city, we can usually come up with a few different options for entertainment, though Sunday nights still usually find us at home watching television shows on Netflix.<br /><br />Passover is spent with my mother's extended family here in Atlanta. Easter is the big holiday for my husbands family, but it's pretty open invite so this year we brought our boyfriend and girlfriend along, too. Thanksgiving we usually travel to South Carolina to stay with my parents and go see my Dad's family. We don't tend to stay long, however, because a friend here in Atlanta hosts a big Friends and Family feast the Saturday following that we like to be back for (if only to recreate the holiday with the [gender]<gender><gender>friends and their kids). Christmas is complicated, but seems to have settled into a compromise with my family coming to Atlanta and us doing Christmas Eve for my dad. Then we all head out for the in-law's big todo on Christmas Day. Unfortunately, it happens at the same time as the girlfriend's family's todo, but we all managed to get together afterward for some quality family time. Maybe this year we'll see if people can shuffle their schedules around a little, but probably not. <br /><br />Of course there are other key events in the year. Our LARP is part of an international organization, and we host an event every March. Then there's always Dragon*Con in September (which served as our honeymoon one year). Somewhere around January or February we tend to travel to Milwaukee for their event game. And this year we're talking about both New Orleans and Israel. It seems like there's always something coming up that we need to save our pennies for. Luckily, we all seem to get along well on long car trips and in cramped hotel rooms.<br /><br />Really, I guess that's my life. I admit, the house isn't nearly as clean as it should be for someone with nothing else to do with her time. And the laundry always tends to get done minutes before we run out of clothes. And juggling all the various families and faiths can get complicated, not to mention budgeting in the trips and cons. But my home is full of love and happiness and parties and people and even a few whips and chains just to keep everything in line. All in all, it's just a normal, boring life. But maybe you'll enjoy reading about it anyway. I hope you do!</gender></gender>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-65336927561852726072010-06-24T22:17:00.000-07:002010-06-28T22:24:52.763-07:00Opening the DoorI'm thinking that it's time I came out to my mother. She lives in Charleston. I live in Atlanta. My father also lives in Atlanta for work, but commutes out to Charleston every weekend. And mother often drops rather pointed reminders that catching a ride with him would let me visit and not cost our strained budget a time. It's been well established that my husband won't travel with out a car of his own, but then she's not really asking to see my husband, though of course that would be nice. She's asking to see me.<br /> <br />The thing is, I have my own long distance love who drives many hours to see me every weekend, often with his wife and kids. You see, we're monogamous polyamorists. Only one man will ever be my husband (G-d forbid something happen to him), but this doesn't mean he's the only love of my love. I love Karma, I like his wife, and I adore his kids. My husband loves his wife, likes him, and seems to be growing fonder of the kids by the day. However, they live in the middle of nowhere Georgia, so until Karma graduates from nursing school, we only get to see them on the weekends. <br /><br />Which brings us to the conflict with my mother. My mother knows that there are things about my life I don't tell her about. The conversation went something along the lines of "There are things in my life I don't tell you about. I assume you don't want to know. But if you ask, I will tell you." She hasn't asked, so I haven't told her. This whole visiting thing has made things complicated though. She'll invite me and I'll talk about how we have friends in town that weekend, or some established social engagment. And it's clear that she's hurt to be constantly blown off for friends. After all, she's my mother. Shouldn't that mean that I can find at least one weekend where seeing her is a higher priority than seeing my friends? <br /><br />And I feel bad for making her feel bad, but they aren't just friends, ya know? I wish I could just explain to her that me taking a weekend to go to Charleston would be like my dad NOT taking a week to go to Charleston. Sure, I see these people every weekend, but when you're in love you don't phrase it that way. To me, I only see them on the weekend, and I'm not willing to give one up.<br /><br />So I'm thinking it's time to come out of the closet. I imagine the conversation going something like this:<br />"You know Karma, right?"<br />"Yeah"<br />"You know how I brought him to Passover even though he's Catholic?"<br />"Yeah"<br />"You know how Lorien and I went to Ren Fest with him, and his wife and his boys?"<br />"Yeah"<br />"You know how we turned our guest room into a children's room for his boys?"<br />"Yeah"<br />"You know we're not just friends ... right?"<br /><br />After that, I have no idea, but I'm hoping for the best. Because when I'm overflowing with happiness about one boy's t-ball game, or the other saying my name for the first time, or my boyfriend doing something super sweet, or him and my husband doing something ridiculous, I want to be able to call up my mother and gush like any other proud parent and happy partner. Ya know?Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-21466010654480089622010-05-28T23:09:00.000-07:002010-06-29T10:36:25.354-07:00The Boys' RoomWhen my roommate finally moved his stuff out, I was eager to begin moving new stuff in. From the much ignored room in the basement I grabbed my colorful scrap rug, my matching papasan chair and the big, bold, popart-esque motorcycle painting that had been sitting down there, un-hung, since we moved in. I left the TV and the Playstation (to serve as a DVD player), but moved out his queen sized bed to the newly vacated downstairs. I replaced it with the twin bed from Ikea that had been floating around various rooms in our house. A toddler bed was pulled out of someone’s storage closet and a little rug with roads and cars went down on top of the big rug. To top it all off I bought an $18 rocket ship tent - because every kids’ room needs something awesome! Considering that, for the most part, I was just throwing together already owned odds and ends, I think I made a pretty good room for two young boys.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/TB6FZza4ZAI/AAAAAAAAKno/3mTz-zObsr8/s288/0528001744a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 216px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/TB6FZza4ZAI/AAAAAAAAKno/3mTz-zObsr8/s288/0528001744a.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/TB6Q8JM7c8I/AAAAAAAAKo8/fQTuuBZcHEo/s288/0528001745a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 216px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/TB6Q8JM7c8I/AAAAAAAAKo8/fQTuuBZcHEo/s288/0528001745a.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So why did I suddenly find myself building a nursery for a 4 year old and a 2 year old? I mean, children normally come into your life in predictable stages. You have 9ish months to build a baby nursery and then age it gradually as the child grows. But I never saw these kids as infants. They sprang fully formed into my life. And, after knowing them for a little less than a year, I figured it was time they had their own room in my house. <br /><br />I am not their stepmother. And even though I am Daddy’s girlfriend, I am not even a potential stepmother. Daddy doesn’t live with me. He lives in a small town in rural Georgia with his loving wife and beautiful young boys. I live three hours away in Atlanta with my amazing husband and a strict budget that does not (yet!) allow for children. My boyfriend originally was coming to Atlanta every other weekend to play in our local LARP, but after we started dating he tended to find excuses to come up every weekend. It wasn’t just for me, though. Small town Georgia can easily drive a social person like my boy to psychotic levels of cabin fever. He wanted to get out, see his friends, be social and, of course, see me.<br /><br />And that’s all totally understandable, but what about mom? Doesn’t she also deserve a social life? Friends and chatting and a chance to date? So she came out a few times, too. But if Mommy and Daddy are both coming to Atlanta, that means the kids are probably coming, as well. Now these are notably good looking, well behaved, intelligent children. Pretty much everyone in the social group took to them immediately. But as much as we may have liked having them around (me especially), it was clear that they didn’t quite fit. They crashed in whatever room was available (sharing the air mattress in the library, or bumping us from the master bedroom because it had a door that could be closed) and were constantly bombarded with “don’t play with that,” “don’t go in there,”and “what are you doing?” As much as they liked us, the fact that they didn’t have their own space clearly kept them from being fully comfortable - especially around bedtime.<br /><br />As a result, Mommy tended to limit her trips to when she could find a relative to babysit, which wasn’t nearly as often as we might like. At this point, in addition to liking her as a person, I was also beginning to suspect that she and my husband were falling for each other and I really wanted to give that situation the time and space it needed to develop. Plus, I really liked those kids, and wanted to hang out with them almost as much as their parents. So when my roommate said he was moving out, I told him we’d miss him and all, but then immediately started planning how to redecorate his room. The results were everything I could have hoped for! The boys were super enthusiastic about the bed they could bounce on, the rocket ship they could play in (and dismantle) and the box of toys which were brought to permanently live at our house (which means that they now only get to be played with when they’re here). They now have their own beds to sleep in, a room to watch movies in, and a variety of options for entertainment.<br /><br />All in all, I’d say it was a win-win for everyone. Daddy doesn’t have to feel bad about leaving his wife in rural Georgia while he goes to the city to play. Mommy has a place to come have a social life of her own. My husband has an awesome new girlfriend. The boys have yet another place to feel like they are included and loved. And me? I get a kids’ room in my house - screw what the budget says.<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/S_F9Cfqb36I/AAAAAAAAKeE/g6uhZOB63KI/s400/0517001329.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/S_F9Cfqb36I/AAAAAAAAKeE/g6uhZOB63KI/s400/0517001329.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-9784807630968626302009-11-11T22:24:00.000-08:002010-06-28T22:36:36.813-07:00Veteran's Day<span style="font-weight:bold;">On memorial day we honor the courage it takes to fight for your country and die for her. Today we honor the courage it takes to come home.</span><br /><br /><br />On July 20th, a friend posted an entry about a captured Marine. Here's the excerpt that's most relevant to my reply:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">So what's the big deal now? I am being a bad person; I am reacting to something differently because it hits home a little, something that irritates the crap out of me when others do it, ,and I am holding myself to task for it. My daughter is very serious about a young man who is a Marine, who deployed on his SECOND duty out in Iraq/Afghanistan. All I know is he has something to do with Operation Leatherneck (Google it). <br /><br />So I read in the news that once again, the Taliban has captured another young American soldier and is parading him around on videos (posted below). I don't know him, any more than I knew the dozens before him. But with K deployed in that area, and the Marines being sent in first into uncontrolled territory, suddenly I personalize this stuff; I see him in the video. It is an understandable reaction, but why is it worse when it is in our backyard? Why aren't we upset for every death? Is this a form of hypocrisy, or a form of coping, for if we stopped to mourn every single soldier as if he were ours, the country would shut down. <br /><br />Are you going to turn your heads and scroll by because you don't care, because you don't know him, because you can't afford to and still function? What is the right thing to do here? We may not all agree. I am torn. But I needed to vent about this.<br /><br /></span>At the time, I requested my reply remain screened. But time has passed and today seems like a good day to share it. This was my response:<br /><br />For me the war was something I thought we never should have gotten involved in to begin with but that, once started, we needed to stop screwing up, follow through on, and finish. For the most part, though, I avoided following it and thinking about it. Because it wasn't something that really affected me, but, more than that, it wasn't something I could affect.<br /><br />Then I fell in love with a soldier. By the time we got involved he was already home and a civilian again. But he's still got two more years before those who care about him can breathe a sigh of relief that he won't get called back. And all the memories are painfully fresh in his mind. I've watched him go stiff when fireworks went off unexpectedly. I've talked him down when thunder crashed in an unexpected way. And I've listened to him as he's told me in an eerily dispassionate voice about the people who died under his hands (he was a medic).<br /><br />And suddenly stories about the war matter. Because but for the grace of G-d, that could have been my soldier. If he'd still been there, if it had happened earlier. And living with the pain of the trauma and memories he brought home, how can I hope to compare to the suffering of those who are living through it while their loved ones are still there? I know how much I ache knowing about the things he survived. How much more must they suffer knowing what their soldiers may yet not?<br /><br />Was it wrong of me not to know, follow, grieve before? I don't think so. I cannot cry for every soldier and the country gains little if I do. But I can cry for my soldier, and for the parents, sibling and children I know. Because my soldier still can't cry for himself. And the tears of someone who doesn't really get it never mean as much as the sympathy of someone who does (even second hand).<br /><br />There are many things broken and breaking about our country and the world around us. If we all cared about all of them all of the time we'd spend so much time grieving we'd never be able to fix or accomplish anything. So we care about the things that affect us or that we can affect. It limits our scope into something manageable and allows us to actually make a difference. Even if it's as small as crying for someone who didn't realize he needed tears.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-58317684222226764442009-08-22T22:39:00.000-07:002010-06-28T22:40:46.026-07:00... but I'm taking you down with me<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/4TOIsueMd8lAxvrmkQSazg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_hg339c1x6xk/So9mlPZZrhI/AAAAAAAAIyE/aS4dg4dIBMM/s800/drowninlove.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(This is the first piece of fanart I've ever made. Ever. I don't even write fanfics. But once I got it in my head, I just needed to make it. If this were a real A Softer World strip then the subject line would be the scroll over text.)Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-53670773772486026162009-07-02T00:09:00.000-07:002010-06-28T22:49:10.647-07:00Two Moments That Didn't Happen ... and one that didWith the blue lights flashing behind her, she glances down at the speedometer just in time to see the bar drop below ninety. She just sighs. She wants to be upset; to muster up the tears that might save her from a ticket. But, while she's certain the tears will come again before the night is over, this isn't enough to bring them forward. All she can feel is that cold dead feeling that's been lingering with her since she first agreed to make the trip.<br /><br />She pulls off to the side of the road and stares blankly out the front windshield. The cop saunters up to the window, which she obligingly rolls down. He leans in and gives her and the car a once over. He takes note of her turquoise and white sundress and the matching pearl and crystal necklace she's wearing with it. His lip twitches slightly at the sight of her tall white heels in the other seat. He smiles as he speaks, asking her teasingly "And where are you going in such a hurry?"<br /><br />"I'm driving to Milledgeville to meet my boyfriend for dinner so he can break up with me." The cop's smile freezes and he finally looks into her eyes. Whatever he saw there causes the smile to fade completely. She isn't looking for his pity. She doesn't seem to be looking for anything at all. <br /><br />"Milledgeville. That's ... well, that's a long drive from Fulton county."<br /><br />Now it's her turn to smile slightly. It does nothing to hide her pain. "Yeah," she says, "I was hoping to get it over with quickly." He stares at her for a minute more before straightening up and walking back to his car. His lights flip off, and a moment later he is merely another car in the distance.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />"Are you lost?" He's startled by the words that seem to almost come from beneath him. He looks down to see an elderly face staring up at him.<br /><br />"Um, I'm sorry?"<br /><br />"I asked if you were lost. Standing here on the street corner, you look lost." He wants to laugh at her. Laugh at the ludicrous notion that he could be lost in this town that he knows better than any other city on earth. And laugh because he is lost and there is nothing this kind woman can do to help.<br /><br />"No ma'am. I'm not lost. I'm waiting on my girlfriend. I want to be somewhere that she can see me so I can jump in the car to give her directions rather than her trying to figure it out." His eyes drift back to the road and his focus drifts with them.<br /><br />The woman smiles. His button down shirt and dress pants seem almost endearing now that she knows he's going on a date and isn't just some lost young professional. "I take it she's not from around here, then?" she asks, wanting to keep him company while he waits. <br /><br />"No. She's driving all the way from Atlanta to break up with me."<br /><br />The old lady goes stiff then, but he doesn't notice her stunned expression. With his eyes glued to the road, he doesn't even notice as she awkwardly walks away.</span><br /><br /><br />She knew she'd be wearing the new dress. He'd wanted to see it, and this would probably be the last chance. But there are many ways to wear a sundress. She looked at the punk rock necklace of chains and random beads and her eyes glanced at the green and turquoise dr. martins that would complete the transformation of the outfit into casual and fun. And then her eyes traveled on and caught the pearl necklace hanging on the stand on her vanity. She thought of the white heels in the closet. With out further hesitation she grabbed up the matching turquoise scarf to tie back her wet hair and moved to gather the other nice accessories. <br /><br />With the outfit complete she wondered if she should text him, "wear your nice clothes." Wouldn't it be ridiculous if she got all dressed up only to find him in shorts and a t-shirt? She had no idea where they would be going to dinner. She didn't even know what the options were, as it was his home town they were going to. Maybe there wasn't even a restaurant worth getting dressed up for. Ultimately, though, she sent no message. She didn't ask him to dress up so she wouldn't feel alone, nor did she ask him where they were going so she could dress more appropriately. She left her phone in her purse as she clipped on the necklace and walked to the car with her shoes in hand. Afterall, if they ended up looking horribly inappropriate together, it just proved the point, right?<br /><br />She continued to get nervous even as she got closer. She'd driven all this way with no clear idea of where she was supposed to be going once she was in Milledgeville. After driving through several large dead zones she'd confronted the fear of not being able to get in touch with him to find out on numerous occasions. She had been instructed to drive straight down this road and that she would "see what to do." When she crested the last hill, her stomach clenched. She saw him standing on the corner waiting for her and the somber expression on his face offered her no comfort. She pulled up next to him with her window rolled down, expecting him to tell her where to turn and park. Instead he opened the door and climbed into her passenger seat. His tone was barely above a whisper as he gave her directions and he refused to look at her. And yet, she couldn't help but feel a pang of relief. Because, glancing down, she realized that his shoes were almost as impractical as hers.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-83111713137973606732009-05-06T21:34:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:00:41.121-07:00Sunday Morning<span style="font-style:italic;">When my boyfriend and I first fell in love, he was not in an open marriage in any way, shape, or form. After a couple of weekends of falling asleep next to each other, sneaking guilty kisses, and finding any excuse to be alone together even just to talk, we finally decided it was necessary for him to tell his wife what was going on before he did something that would ruin his marriage. Shockingly, she told him he could keep seeing me and a year later we're the poster children for happy, poly families. But we didn't always know it was going to turn out that way. This entry was written during the tense times.</span><br /><br />"Ask me again and I'll do it."<br /><br />I lie on the bed next to him and know that I should. I've already said it twice already. How hard would it be to say it once more? Yet each of the other times I said it wanting him to talk me out of it. If I say it now, he won't. He'll leave having failed to convince me. As I stare into his eyes I can feel the words pounding in my head, but I can't bring myself to say them. It took all the strength I had to force them out the first time. A third is beyond my grasp.<br /><br />"I should. I should tell you. But I won't." Tears slide down my face forcing me to break eye contact.<br /><br />"Why should you?" he asks.<br /><br />"Because it's the right thing to do."<br /><br />"The right thing for you?" he asks sounding distinctly skeptical, "Or the right thing for me?" That has been his argument this whole time. That his sins are his to bear, and that it's not my responsibility to make him avoid situations where he will be overcome by temptation. But in this moment that argument provides no comfort; irritation and frustration flare as a mask for guilt and I find myself snapping at him as I force myself away.<br /><br />"It's the right thing for a woman I've never met." I find myself with a desperate need to escape the tension and conflict that has built up in that room. I push myself from the bed and out the door, pulling it closed behind me. I get as far as the stairs before my thoughts catch up to me. Thoughts of how much he means to me, of how I don't want him to think I'm upset at him, of how much I want him. I am stopped in my tracks by a need to reassure him. I turn and walk back into the room where he hasn't moved. I crawl across the bed to lean over him. What I intended as a brief and gentle kiss ends up far more passionate than expected. I pull away and look at him. Once again I feel the words pounding in my head. They're so potent I can feel the shape of them on my tongue. I stare at him, almost shocked that he can't hear them. It would be so simple to just let them escape. So simple to tell him to never come back again.<br /><br />"I can't. I should, but I can't."<br /><br />I don't know if I'm talking to him or myself. In truth, it doesn't matter. I pull away and am once again back outside the room with the door closed behind me. In a matter of moments he will be coming upstairs to get ready to get on the road and return to his home. I want to be out of the house by then, and far from all this tension and temptation. I glance towards my room with thoughts of grabbing shoes and a jacket. But there are people sleeping in my room who may ask questions about where I slept, or questions about my evening in general that I am simply not in a state to answer. I look around my living room, but only my heavy coat is in the coat closet; everything else was put away when we cleaned up in anticipation of guests. I am turning back in the direction of my room, trying to think of anywhere else I might have stray shoes, when I hear the door at the top of the stairs open. Unwilling to see him, much less walk past him, I turn and escape out the front door as quickly as I can.<br /><br />Outside the sky is grey with a slight sprinkling of rain. As the cold droplets hit my bare shoulders I wish I'd grabbed anything to put on over the light sundress I was wearing. Yet even as I think this I notice that my feet are still moving and I am quickly progressing away from the house. As I round the corner the wind picks up and I wrap my hands around my cold shoulders. A hear the sound of a truck pulling up behind me and remind myself that there is no way he would be ready to leave the house already. As the truck passes I wonder about the people who drive past a girl wandering down the street shivering and shoeless, yet don't offer to help. As I reach the next corner I find myself turning to follow the normal route that leads from our residential area to commercial civilization. I have always known that The Village is with in walking distance, but I have never actually made that journey before.<br /><br />I find myself wondering if I can make it with out shoes. And then I find myself wondering if I can make it back. I have brought nothing with me in terms of a phone or money. But these concerns drift aside as I find myself focusing on the idea that, as long as I can get there, I can probably find someone to give me a jacket. The chill that surrounds me is a far more pressing concern than how I will get back to a house I am actively avoiding. Besides, I find myself thinking, he will pass me when he leaves. It will take me longer to walk to The Village than it will take for him to get ready and drive towards the highway. He will stop and offer me a ride home. I'm not certain if I will accept the ride, but at the least I will be able to ask him for a t-shirt or coat.<br /><br />I continue walking, pleased to be on a road with a sidewalk now, instead of wandering down the street. My thoughts drift from one trivial topic to another, continually awed by the number of cars that never think to slow or inquire. My gaze momentarily strays from the ground in front of me and I am startled by the sharp pain that it produced by my foot coming down on top of an upturned twig. But the pain fades quickly into the haze and I continue my steady pace forward. As I pass Ormewood Ave across the street, I find myself surprised by how far I've come with out any notable physical protests. I begin to suspect that I might not only be able to make it to The Village, but perhaps even farther should no one offer me a way home.<br /><br />As I focus on the ground in front of me, I notice a sound that is discordant with the presence of my own unshod feet. From behind me comes the sound of boots taking long strides across cement. At first I resist the urge to turn and look, assuming that who ever is approaching will simply catch up and ultimately pass me with no consequence. But as the sound gets closer I find myself giving in to curiosity and sparing a quick glance over my shoulder.<br /><br />I cannot describe what I feel when I see him there. The fact that I was prepared for him to stop when he saw me on the side of the road does nothing when I find myself facing him on the sidewalk. Here, there will not be the distancing factor of machinery when he catches up to me. But more than that is the shocking knowledge that he has not simply encountered me by chance while leaving town, but has walked all this distance for me. My mind, which had frozen when it first saw him, now finds itself caught between the conflicting urge to simply stop and wait for him to catch up or to find someway to avoid him. Stumbling with indecision, my feet slow of their own accord and his footsteps level with mine in only a few strides.<br /><br />Covered by his shadow, my whole body tenses, bracing me for what he might say or accuse me of. The idea that he might intentionally come after me had never even occurred to me, so my mind can come up with no possibilities for what is about to happen next.<br /><br />"Do you know the first thing people think when they see a girl wandering down the street with no shoes on and a glazed look in her eyes?" he asks somberly. A few possibilities occur to me, some of which are genuinely concerning. "Zombie," he concludes. I am stunned into stillness by his observation. I replay the scene from a third person perspective in my mind and realize that it does, in fact, play out just like the intro to a zombie movie. The absurdity startles me into laughter. I can feel him smile beside me as the tension drains from the moment. "You don't want that," he says, his somber tone broken by the smile. "Come back to the house and put some shoes on." I simply smile up at him and he wraps an arm around my shoulders to lead me across the street. The other side has no sidewalk, and my toes curl into the wild grass that lines the road. I slip my arm around his waist as we continue back the way we came while refusing to retrace our steps.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-4040929735545813832009-04-05T20:43:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:02:35.746-07:00Sunday Evening<span style="font-style:italic;">When my boyfriend and I first fell in love, he was not in an open marriage in any way, shape, or form. After a couple of weekends of falling asleep next to each other, sneaking guilty kisses, and finding any excuse to be alone together even just to talk, we finally decided it was necessary for him to tell his wife what was going on before he did something that would ruin his marriage. Shockingly, she told him he could keep seeing me and a year later we're the poster children for happy, poly families. But we didn't always know it was going to turn out that way. This entry was written during the tense times.</span><br /><br />"Wanna go get coffee?"<br /><br />His eyes were locked on mine. Amidst the swirling coats and bags of people standing and preparing to leave the restaurant, I caught the question that was delivered to me. Even as I opened my mouth to reply in the affirmative the girl next to him responded enthusiastically,<br /><br />"Coffee would be great!"<br /><br />I wanted to turn to her and snap "He wasn't asking you," but there was no reason why anyone other than me should have assumed it wasn't an open invitation. After all, we were all here to hang out with our friends. Why would we want to disappear to a coffee shop together while everyone else went back to the house? I'm just his friend - just like all the other friends here who only get to see him once every two weeks and want to spend time with him. So I stay silent. And only the briefest flicker of his eyes portrays any conflict on his part.<br /><br />So the swirling coats and bags signed the last of their checks and walked away from the table to join the smokers who were waiting on the sidewalk. He and I walked past the group towards the gate of the coffee shop patio. As we walked past she called out forlornly from her husband's arms, "I'm not allowed to have coffee." I'm not certain if her husband was more clever than her, or if we simply got lucky that he decided to enforce the limits of their financial situation. Regardless, I expressed our regret and told the group that we'd see them back at the house.<br /><br />I walked up to the counter to catch him asking for advice on which coffee to order. He reached a decision and turned to ask me what I wanted. "I've been told I can't spend any more money," I replied.<br /><br />"You won't be," he said. Fair enough, I thought and placed an order. He paid and the man behind the counter told us to take a seat while we waited for our drinks. He walked ahead of me directly toward the table I had mentally already picked out for us; it was the one farthest away from everyone else in the small coffee shop. He sat down in the booth that ran along the wall. At a two person table etiquette would dictate that I sit in the seat across from him, but that seat had its back to the door and the rest of the shop, which is something that makes me distinctly uncomfortable. Normally, I would tell the person who took my preferred seat to move and swap to the other, but today I simply accepted the excuse to slip in beside him.<br /><br />We weren't talking much. He mentioned how tired he was, and how he should have left town already. I made passing conversation explaining my aversion to the opposite seat. Our drinks arrived and we lifted them to our lips in unison. Conversation was limited to the occasional bemused facial expression or snarky comment regarding the conversation at the table across from us. After a moment we fell silent again and simply sat side by side, drinking our dark, caffeinated beverages. The intro music for some mellow indie rock song began to play over the shop's speakers. As he sat his cup down he commented, <br /><br />"You know, sometimes there are these moments where we could just be two normal people." He stares into his cup for a second before continuing. "This is one of those moments."<br /><br />"Yeah." I smiled into my hot chocolate and didn't say anything more. I knew exactly what he meant. Meanwhile, the vocalist in the song began to sing about the conflicts of life while the people at the table across from us continued talking about sexuality and drama as if they had any idea what it meant.Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-68876421596095396702008-08-25T20:01:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:52:45.038-07:00Our Strange New Wedding Tradition<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "> Our friend, Rickles, got married last year and he charged those of his friends who were coming to the wedding with a very important task. Namely, to shock and appall his new inlaws.<br /><br /> Now Rickles' wedding reception was very DIY in a traditional way. The centerpieces were very simple, large red pillar candles with some squares of Godiva chocolate scattered around them. The reception food was primarily nosharim - fruits, cheeses, and a chocolate fountain with strawberries, marshmallows, cubes of cake and graham crackers arranged around it. Skewers were provided to allow for ease of chocolating (because you don't want people sticking their fingers in the fountain).<br /><br /> Now I don't know if your minds have traveled to the inevitable combination of these elements, but our minds got there pretty quickly. I can't even say whose idea it was. In my memory it doesn't really seem like anyone suggested it, or initiated it. But suddenly, and organically, there we were - marshmallows on skewers roasting over our centerpiece candle before being combined with our chocolate and graham crackers. It seemed so natural, so appropriate, so<em style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">right</em>. It also had the added advantage of earning us a few dirty looks from the inlaws thus managing to be delicious AND fulfill our obligations to the groom.<br /><br /> Fast forward a little less than a year. Lorien and I are at our wedding shower (which is misleadingly named since we only got three gifts). We're opening a gift from one of my mom's best friends. It's this ornate candle stand complete with raised candle tray, decorative stones, and three large pillar candles. She's going on about setting the mood on our wedding night or some such, but Lorien and I aren't really listening. We've locked eyes and the same thought is travelling through our minds. "something ... something ... wedding night." "Or the reception," one of us says, quietly, to the other. I don't remember who said it now. Truthfully, it doesn't matter. Because we both knew. Oh, yes. It would happen - Temple rules against open flames be damned.<br /><br /> And so one of our chuppah holders, one who had been a primary participant in the Rickles Wedding Shenanigans, was given the responsibility to make sure we had what we needed. He came up to me at the reception and I handed him the keys to our trunk, allowing him to get the candles. "I've got the stuff," he said upon returning. "Where should I set up?" A quick scan around the room drew my attention to a particular table filled with a specific group of friends. "The Rennie table," I replied, gesturing their direction. "If anyone will be cool with it, it's the Rennies." And so it was decided and implemented. I didn't get to follow him over there, being whisked away to be social or dance to some sentimental song, but I did manage to overhear my photographer come up to the other photographer* and say "Did you see what they're doing at that table? They're making smores!" "I know," she replied excitedly. "I got a picture of it."<br /><br /> And I smiled as I continued making my rounds. It was one time, among many, where I realized that maybe I was a bit more offbeat than I'd given myself credit for ;-)</span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662820_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662820_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><br /></span></div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-57778632806073823192008-08-25T19:55:00.000-07:002010-06-30T23:54:33.271-07:00And Tim quivered in his pew trying not to laugh ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662711_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662711_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EN5eKTcvfg8">The music to go with the lyrics</a><br /><br />Link, he come to town<br />Come to save the princess Zelda<br />Ganon took her away<br />Now the children don't play<br />But they will when Link saves the day<br />Hallelujah!<br /><br />Now Link, fill up your hearts<br />So you can shoot your sword with power<br />And when you're feeling all down<br />The fairy will come around<br />So you'll be brave, and not a sissy coward<br /><br />Now Link has saved the day<br />Put Ganon in his grave<br />So now Zelda is free<br />And now our hero shall be<br />Link! I think your name shall go down into history<br /><br />And no, that totally was not our processional music. That would have been ridiculous. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOa4tXG4EQo">But <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> was.</a> Only played on a piano and sounding quite lovely!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662712_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662712_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />..and yes, it was a two aisle ceremony so we're walking down simultaneously looking at each other over the guests in the middle.<br /><br /><br />all photos courtesy of Jody Burnett at <a href="http://burnettphoto.com/">burnettphoto.com</a>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701742262058286468.post-40600021648613273462008-08-25T19:43:00.000-07:002010-06-29T17:19:17.595-07:00The 30 Second Theological DebateSome of you may know of the awesome sparkly shoes I bought off etsy. They were a pair of glittery turquoise flats that perfectly matched my bridal accents BUT they were about half a size too big. However, having found them, I grew attached to the idea of glittery shoes. Failing to find any turquoise glittery heels, I resolved to make the flats fit. I stuck in the thickest insoles I could find and stitched on some sparkly trim to work as ballet style straps. Voila! Perfect fit.<br /><br />The day of the wedding rolls around and I have my shoes retied about three times (tight enough to hold them on with out them being so tight as to cut off circulation is a delicate balance) before leaving the bridal room to walk around the temple to prepare to go down the aisle. As I'm walking through the courtyard I feel a *pop* and one shoe suddenly seems much looser. Sure enough, one of the straps I'd stitched on had popped off. I took a couple steps just to check, but I couldn't keep the shoe on in any reasonable manner. Briefly, the idea of trying to fix it flashed through my head - it could probably be done, but it would take a few minutes, we were already running late, and there was still no guarantee that it would make it down the aisle. So in about the second it took to consider the idea I discarded it. And, in keeping with my decision to not freak out about anything and implement Plan C* whenever necessary, it only took another second for me to come to my decision. I saw the Rabbi at the end of the courtyard and I shouted down to him,<br /><br />"Hey Rabbi, can I go down the aisle barefoot?"<br /><br />"What?" he replied, clearly a bit startled by my shouting at him.<br /><br />"My shoe broke," I explained. "Can I go down the aisle barefoot."<br /><br />"Well, there's no Jewish law against it ..." he answered tentatively.<br /><br />"Is there a temple law against it?" I asked.<br /><br />"Probably."<br /><br />"Will you tell anyone?"<br /><br />"I guess not," he answered, clearly a bit amused. And then he started muttering. I didn't catch all of it, but there was clearly something about "... standing up there before G-d ..." clearly under the impression that my going barefoot would somehow be disrespectful.<br /><br />"But Rabbi, aren't we supposed to take our shoes off when we go before G-d?" He looked up, caught a bit off guard. "Isn't there a whole story about Moses and a<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> burning bush where he's told to take off his shoes because he's about to step onto sacred ground? Wouldn't it therefore be more appropriate for me to go barefoot?"<br /><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My mother, amazing as always, completely had my back. "Isn't that why the Cohanim take their shoes off before they give the blessing over the congregation?" she asked. At that point I think my Rabbi really wanted to mention us being reform and not buying into the whole system of a hereditary priesthood, but that wasn't the point she was making and I think he quickly realized it. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span>I don't remember exactly what his response was. I don't think he officially ceded the point, but he did decide not to debate it further (after all, who wants to be on the opposing side of a shoe conversation against a bride AND her mother). Besides, I think he was pleased by my theological justifications. He made some sort of remark implying that it was time to proceed and we turned and walked into the atrium for the beddekken. And that is the story of the 30 second theological debate on my wedding day aka How I Convinced the Rabbi to Let Me Go Down the Aisle Barefoot.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662655_400.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://image001.mywedding.com/11/662/11662655_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />*Plan C was the code phrase I'd created in a discussion with my mother when we were talking about where we'd take pictures. "I guess now we just have to hope it doesn't rain. I don't know what we'll do then." I told her that we'd implement Plan C. She looked at me hopefully and asked what Plan C was. "Winging it," I responded.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />photo credit to Jody Burnett</div>Aniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07217092123806782414noreply@blogger.com0