Life As a Pearl

It’s October 31st. Let’s say the year is 1992 (because I’m not trying to be factually accurate, just set a scene). There are apples bobbing in bathtubs, pumpkins glowing on stoops, leaves crunching under boots and bike tires, and pillowcases, divested of their typical stuffing, waiting to be glutted with candy bars. I’m sure you were all there, bit parts or lead roles in the Halloween scene that played out across every neighborhood in America two decades ago. Maybe you were Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Or Egon from Ghostbusters. If your mom was less creative or your family hard up for cash, you might have been just a garden variety vampire or cowboy or scarecrow.  It didn’t matter though, did it? Everyone got the same amount of attention and candy, because that’s what Halloween was all about. It was about kids. It was about spooky decorations and drinking cider and carving pumpkins and eating more candy than you actually wanted, just because you could. I’m guessing,...

And by ladies, of course, I mean the wives and girlfriends of professional football players, who are enjoying watching their men beat other men for a change. OK. That was a cheap shot. Even though abusive footballs players have been dominating the news lately, they probably don't dominate the field. I think we all hope the majority of NFL players treat their partners with dignity and respect, and exert their physical dominance only on their professional opponents. We hope. But what do we really know  about intimate partner abuse? Did we know this? "The more than 11,766 corpses from domestic-violence homicides between 9/11 and 2012 exceed the number of deaths of victims on that day and all American soldiers killed in the 'war on terror.'" Rebecca Solnit That's just in America. That's just men killing women. And that's just women with whom men have had an intimate relationship. Please don't even get me started on what goes on off our h...

Some of you have noticed I wrote a blog post yesterday, then took it down. Because people have been asking, I wanted to address it with a sweet follow-up post. I’ll warn you now, it’s not as witty as I want it to be.   My post yesterday asked the question and generated interesting conversation about whether or not we should be honest when our lives aren’t exactly perfect. The post was prompted by the myriad complaints I’ve been hearing about people not being real on social media—always presenting the pretty picture of their perfect lives. So I’ve been hearing that a lot, mulling it over, wondering how I feel about it all. Then, as luck would have it, my husband really pissed me off. It seemed like a great opportunity to bring up the topic. Should I or should I not tell my audience that I’m really, really mad? Now if you missed the post, let me explain that I didn’t say what he did and I didn’t invite commentary on his actions—I merely asked if it does harm or good for ...

The premise of this post is going to make you jealous, so feel free to just deal with that emotion right now. Eric and I went to Costa Rica for a week and we did all the cool things imaginable. We went zip-lining and hiking and kayaking and rafting and rappelling and canyoning. We saw just-hatched baby sea turtles find their way to the ocean. We ate so wonderfully much arroz con pollo that we didn't look so great in our swimsuits. So yeah. It was awesome and as much as you're happy for us, now you want to do all that cool stuff too. If it helps any at all, we had to sleep with spiders and scorpions and beetles flying at our heads. And don't even get me started on the way howler monkeys are obviously in some kind of competition with roosters and donkeys for waking folks up at irritating hours. Because the monkeys are winning. Hard. Are we better now? Have I evened things out? Because I'd like to get to the point. Which is this: Have you ever seen one of these ...

This morning, I was listening to a story on the radio about a gentlemen who had been brought up in the family business of undertaking. The meat of the story was about the death of his father, and how he had requested that his sons prepare his body for burial. To be honest, I was only half listening. But a specific line caught my attention, and as I often do, I wrote it down to ponder on a later date: We bury our dead, then we become them . In the context of the story, I believe the man was commenting on the inevitability of his own death. Burying his father brought up all the feelings of one's own mortality that you might expect. Nevertheless, his words struck me as more complex than he had perhaps intended. Maybe because I tend to over think things. Maybe because this time of year is marked with the sadness of loss for my family. Maybe I had a premonition. Whatever the reason, I continued to listen to the story, now a bit more carefully, and turned his words over in my mind....

Olivia and I made this sign and people were like, yeah, we'll do that. So then we had to get ready. And there were lots of dresses. But the photographer wanted to take pictures of them without us in them, which makes a person wonder if maybe she isn't doing her beautiful dress any favors. But there were pretty flowers, so that made things feel a little fancier. And while girls were doing all that, boys were doing this: And then Ayana was like, "I've waited long enough. It's time to get married !" So we did. And Ayana thought she should probably say a prayer for all our souls. Then Eric gave her a bracelet and she forgot all about saving us from ourselves. Sarah didn't think that was funny at all. She was worried about us. Or trying not to cry, because Eric made everyone do that. Or concentrating on not dying in the 85 degree heat. Thanks for cranking up that heater, Dad! B...

You can just shut your mouth right now about how long it's been since I've written a blog post, OK? You and I both know (after reading the title of this post) that I'm getting married. Soon. Like next weekend soon. So yeah, I've been busy. That's a pretty combative way for a thank you note to start, isn't it? Maybe we should try again. Hey, you. I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. That's true, but it feels lame. It feels not enough. It feels empty and rote. So let's try again. Hey, you. Remember that time, like almost 10 years ago, when I got married? Remember how you were there and you were happy for me and your support and your gifts meant the world to me? Yeah. I remember that too. And I just want to say I'm sorry I squandered your well wishes and your time on a man who just wasn't the right one. I'm sorry I couldn't inject your love into a relationship in which love was never an option.  I w...