dearest daughters & son

The Memphis Post

Dearest Daughters,

Two weekends ago I went to Memphis.

WITHOUT YOU! And though I love you more than chocolate, I only missed you as much as five M&Ms. Bam! I just said that.

It was splendid. Auntie Katie's rehearsal dinner at The Fire Museum of Memphis, a quick tour around downtown Memphis with Auntie Katherine, wedding primping and partying and, most importantly, a good dose of Wellesley College Sister Silliness.

I can't believe it's been nearly ten years since these [proceed with caution: alliteration ahead] wonderful women walked into my wife, I mean, life. Also, ten years since I got my hands on my first laptop and cell phone. #techdinosaur

Oh the havoc I could have wreaked with a smart phone back then!

Also, ten years ago was the first time that the thought of Memphis ever entered my mind, when I was introduced to the New England collegiate culture of acapella, with this little diddy (I don't recall which all-male group came to perform it at Wellesley, but here's a version by *another* New England school):

Even though this site and my letters to you are ALL ABOUT ME, as Lola likes to point out, it isn't often that I post pictures of me on here, but here goes...

Secrets are for suckers.

Dearest Daughters,

At a family party, I was recently giving my eldest niece a VERY hard time about her boyfriend. That's neither here nor there.

But, the conversation compelled Lola to declare, accusingly, "BUT! YOU SLEPT ON A PARK BENCH!"

This fact is something I've shared with the Internet. And, I mean, I knew that the friends and family who read this blog knew about my transgressions. But, there's this whole Internet-Real Life etiquette, where we all silently acknowledge that everyone knows I ate Target popcorn for lunch because of the photo I posted to FacebookTwitterThingamajig, but we don't actually talk about it in real life.

Because the conversation would kind of go like this:

    Them: So, I saw that you slept on a park bench in Brazil?

    Me: Um, yup. So the story goes.

    [awkward pause]

    Them: So, um, cool. I guess?

In general Status Updates are not a great place to start a conversation, unless you're like: "Dude, I totally slept on a park bench too!"

It's become sort of a you-know-that-I-know-that-you-know-that-we-all-know kind of world.

So, when Lola declared her shock a full three months after I posted the Infamous story, it was a "I knew she knew, but I didn't know she knew knew" moment.

And I blushed with embarrassment and shame, getting defensive, like, Mother, that is the Least of your Worries!

Which was true, because now there's this:

( I like to call this "An Unfortunate Series of Events and Wardrobe Choices")

Your Uncle Bruce wrote a mildly interesting post on his Super Famous blog about the whole To Post Drunk Photos or Not To Post Drunk Photos debate.

And both of us are sort of in the business of Honesty, Authenticity and Vulnerability. That's what this blog is about, at least.

So, my Dearest Daughters, yes, the rumors are true.

I went to Wellesley College. It happened to be in a dry town. And the school had a strict alcohol policy. Which amounted to "if you're 21, you may drink behind closed doors." So, we put on hideous outfits. And I attempted to pop my collar, a West Coast girl never quite fitting in to the New England Prep scene. We got drunk in our dorm rooms amongst a circle of close friends. Hoisted our L.L. Bean monogrammed tote bags over our shoulders and, in our buzzed genius-iosity, pretended to steal dorm hallway adornments. Only to replace them two seconds after taking a photo of the event. (We also had a fairly functional honor code, so there was no reason to cross that line.) Then, we probably went back to our rooms to watch Love Actually. And cry about how we would never meet ANYONE who loved us. EVER.

Then, the naked pillow fights. Obviously.

The number of times in my life that I got what you could call "wasted" can be counted on one hand. If it had six fingers. And more than half of those times were in the safety of a dorm room at Wellesley College or in the company of my family.

Bam! Take that Make Good Choices Lola!

Whew. I feel so much better.

Share a secret today! Was it you who ate half a bottle of Tums in Mommy's closet? And did you really lose your Hello Kitty lip balm or did you eat it all? And what's the real reason you poop in your panties? Come on? Because it's warm, right?

I knew it!

Love,

Resolved for matters unresolved

Dearest Daughters,

I was going to write Danjo's monthly letter today, but I got distracted by this:

I was on the brink of tears all eight minutes of this trailer, shared by former MBCC intern @Derrick Weston and one of Daddy's man crushes. Did I just say that out loud? Sorry, beadle.

It brings up so many emotions and thoughts and issues. But, I've narrowed down the rush of thoughts in my brain to the following:

It is, resolved, that my daughters will go to Wellesley College like I did, I don't care how far away it is, because that place effing empowers women (Did you notice Wellesley Center for Women and Jean Kilbourne? Woot!)

Resolved, that I will help my daughters think critically, deconstruct the media on a daily basis, because I can't shield them from it. (Disney, you already know, I'm talking to you!)

Resolved, if I ever have a boy, he will hear it from me even more than his sisters. He will be the most anti-misogynist, womanist person you'll ever know. I will buy him a shirt that says: "This is what a femenist looks like." And everyone will cringe and accuse me of "ruining" my son. Except for the women in his life. They will thank me. And, I will train him, like Pavlov's dog, so that any time he sees a scantily clad woman, he will quote Gloria Steinem: “We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.”

That is all.

For now.

Love,

Been There Done That, Wellesley Reunion 2011

Dearest Daughters,

I love to travel. And I refuse to resign myself to the fact that having small children equates to wanderlust castration.

I am also insane.

Because I have this habit of bringing you girls with me when I travel. I've mentioned before that my motives for traveling with you (at your current ages) are completely self-centered. First, clearly I am an obsessively attached parent and I CAN NOT live a single day without my children Velcro-ed to my bosom. Insert sarcastic tone. Secondly, I know you won't remember anything, but I want you to be a part of MY memories.

When my fifth year college reunion rolled around, I realized there was a WHOLE 'nother reason to bring my kids with me when I travel. To put it mildly: you are the Cutest, Most Intelligent and Well Behaved children on the Face of this Earth. How could I NOT bring you to my reunion and show off my highly skilled ability to create awesome children? Also, when someone asked what exactly it is that I've been doing with the last five years of my life, I could just introduce you. You have excellent conversational abilities, so I could just go grab another glass of wine while you discussed the state of the world and the market and what have you with my former classmates.

It all basically worked out the way I planned. Auntie Katherine flew with us, you were great on the flight and during the very short weekend. And you charmed anyone who made eye contact with you.

The best part was the Alumnae Parade at the end of the weekend. It was amazing to be in the presence of so many generations of women. Watching octogenarian Wellesley Women pass by in antique cars as I held your little hands filled me with indescribable emotions: pride, hope, nostalgia, premautre nostalgia for you two, connection, meaning, passion, happiness.

That was four months ago, but I'm just getting around to editing the photos and writing about it. Here's a glimpse into our too short weekend in Boston.

Forgot these. It's just a saying.

Dearest Daughters,

Here's a few photos I meant to include with Babybel's monthly letter last week.

So, I forgot. No big deal. It's just a saying.

So over it. It being Wellesley College Reunion and my socializing. Why are you regressing to such idiotic 19-year-old behavior, Mommy? And what's in that purple cup? But, a patient trooper nonetheless.

And... FREEZE. Also a cooperative statue. In addition to being a great traveler this past month.

With Daddy-kins at Glass Beach in Fort Bragg, California.

Hugs and kisses,

Have I Told You Tuesday: What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

Dearest Daughters,

While I am what could be classified as an "over-sharer" this blog being Exhibit A, I can be fairly guarded. In fact, my TMI is actually a symptom of my insecurities. My basic interactions with other human beings go like this:

1) I'm in public. I don't know you. I will cross my arms and make a prison guard mean face so you will not approach me. Because if I had a friendly conversation with a stranger, especially if I initiated it, and I get rejected, I might have to get married to aforementioned stranger OR the world might explode. And I'd be responsible for millions of deaths.

2) Okay, so you breached my security bubble and show an uninhibited interest in getting to know me.

3) So, now your my BEST FRIEND EVER!

4) And, still suspect of your intentions to marry me or make the world explode, I tell you EVERYTHING there is to know about me. I just know there will be something about me that you won't like. So, I'll give you every reason to be disgusted by me, disagree with me, think I'm rude, racist or whatever. And, hey, if YOU don't get me, that's on YOU. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

5) Hey, wait a second. You're sticking around? Really? I mean, I could talk about my poop some more?

6) And, inevitably, I talk about constipation or my kids, both pains in the butt. (Just kidding! I love my little asshole! I mean, assholes? I mean, daughters.) And, people STILL stick around.

Until they don't. And it blindsides me.

The Going Rate for Friends

Dearest Daughters,

Choosing a college is a big decision. But, these days not so much for the emotional reasons you might think, i.e. finding the "right" place.

Tuition costs are rising and student loans are all too easy to come by. When I made the decision to go to Wellesley College, I was eighteen. There was no way I could fully understand how choosing to take out $12,000 in loans each year would affect my future.

I thought 1) twelve grand to go to a forty grand school--that's like a 70% discount and you know how I love me a good deal! 2) that's what it would cost to stay home and go to a UC anyway and that money would have to come from somewhere as well and 3) what will $1000/month in student loans be once I graduate from my Seven Sisters school and am rolling in the dough!?

As you well know, life happened and while $1000/month is not unaffordable for our family, I can't help thinking how many pairs of designer jeans or purses I could buy each month with that money. Or how much more house or how much more we could put into YOUR college savings that money would afford us.

Yet! I do not regret my decision. The education, experiences and opportunities that Wellesley College and subsequently UCLA have granted and will continue to grant me are worth every penny. I would not be who I am as a person or as your mother without my educational experiences. And an education is something that no one can take away from me.

So, yes, it sucks monkey poop to have to hand over that much money per month to the powers that be, but if nothing else, I have this to show for it:

When you break it down, I rent Ashley for about $300 a month and Katherine (as well as a few other Wellesley friends) for about $700 a month. Pretty good deals, considering the quality of the goods.

Love,

Mommy

I Look Forward to Embarassing My Children

Dearest Daughters,

How embarassing.

Not for me, of course. I'm not embarassed by the fact that I was thirty pounds heavier and, apparently, didn't look in the mirror on this day over five years ago.

Likely, embarassing for my cousin. Who had to put up with me when she visited me at Wellesley that year. And who is probably turning red right now because I'm writing about her.

Except, I'm writing to say she's AWESOME! And is home from her second year of college for a few weeks. And watched you yesterday while I went to work. And will drive with us to Redding to visit Great Grandma later in the month. And has a BOYFRIEND! AND IS ALL GROWN UP! WHAT THE HECK!?! ERRONEOUS!

I'm okay now.

I'll be better after I meet this guy on Saturday. And let him know what's what in my own silent psychic ninja assassin way.

Fear not. It will be out of my system by the time you bring someone home after your second year of college. Or not.

Love,

College Shoes

Dearest Daughters,

I give you subject A, the Birkenstock clog:

1) Yes. I wore these shoes in college. Yes, laugh. I give you permission.

2) Okay. That's enough. You can stop.

3) No really. Stop.

4) Yes. I took a picture of said Birkenstock clogs.

5) Wait: Birkenstock courduroy clogs.

6) That feels better, getting that off my chest. I felt like I was holding something back from you.

7) Yes. I took a picture. So, I could post it on my college's virtual bulletin board to sell these I-go-to-a-women's-college-I'm-not-sure-who-I-am-anyore shoes to buy gas.

8) I think I can delete this photo from my computer now.

9) Forever and ever. Amen.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Crappy Salesperson Edition

Dearest Daughters,

As I've mentioned, I had a car on campus during my senior year of college. Besides the fender bender, which Lolo and Lola paid for, my trusty Saturn didn't need much maintainence.

But, it did need gas. Well, if I wanted to go places, at least.

In order to procure gas, I needed money.

There are many ways of procuring money, some less savory than others. There was the pirate taxi business I ran. I also sold stuff that I didn't need to other students that didn't need it either, but were willing to pay for it. Real stuff. Not like drugs or illicit services or anything. More like CDs or DVDs I didn't want anymore or shoes or clothes or half empty bottles of shampoo.

So, that filled about half my tank.

I also had an on-campus job, working as an office assistant for the Department of Continuing Education. You know, the office for students of "non-traditional age." You know, mature students. Euphemism euphemism euphemism old people euphemism.

That paid for my books.

Okay. That's a lie.

I didn't buy books in college. Not after wasting $500 my first semester on books that I either A) didn't read or B) could have read for free in the library or C) could have bought used for about a dollar on the Internets.

Mostly, my campus job paid for PBR at Punch's Alley. That or popcorn and Dr. Pepper at Target Food Avenue. (Whoa. Total epiphany. I was hanging out in the streets. Figurative, but streets nonetheless. What does this mean?!? Who am I?!?)

So, I got another job. I had like ten job, mon.

I sold shoes.

I wasn't very good at it, but I had a great manager who helped me make sales or would even ring up sales under my name when it was a slow day. Since it was a job based on commission.

I had to touch people's feet. I had to pretend shoes were comfortable. Or looked good. I had to convince people of the shoes' durability or effectiveness at keeping out water or cold or zombies. I had to lie, basically.

If you know me, which you do, but not really well yet, you'll know that 1) I'm not a very good liar (in fact I'm an oversharer) and 2) WHY THE HECK WOULD I WORK IN SALES!?!

Well, this particular shoe brand didn't need a salesperson. They were just good quality shoes, you know? Good looking and comfortable and they just sold themselves    

...

Did I sell you?

Drat. See? I told you that I wasn't very good.

All was not lost:

I learned that I didn't have a future in sales. That I don't like other people's feet. That if shoes aren't comfortable in the store, they won't be at home. I also learned to come out of my shell just the tiniest bit. To talk to, nay, chat with, or dare I say shmooze with complete strangers--all skills which I had managed to avoid my entire life and which to this day still make me cringe.

I was also able to fill my gas tank. Through legitamate and legal employment. THIS is a life skill, for sure.

Don't sell drugs. Don't sell your body. Don't operate illegal airport shuttles. Don't sell half used bottles of shampoo.

Instead, just sell shoes. And lies. And your soul.

Love,

Mommy