Stay Forever Sunday

In Raleigh, a local landmark closed this week. Pantana Bob’s bar, commonly known as PB’s, had none of the ambiance or sanitation of the Glenwood South and warehouse district establishments. Instead it had sticky floors, disgusting bathrooms and a few dusty beer signs on the walls. But it had two things that few other bars in town had, really cheap beer and a really close proximity to campus.

For 25 years, PBs was part of the NC State University student experience. Since it closed it’s doors for the last time this week, I thought I’d share a story.

I went to PB’s one night with a group of girlfriends. I had just enough plastic cups full of cheap, domestic beer to feel chatty. The place was packed shoulder to shoulder when the DJ came over the microphone and said that they were giving away two tickets to a concert the next night. I don’t even remember what concert it was now, but I remember I wanted to go. The DJ announced they were going to have a competition for the tickets and were looking for four volunteers.

Before I even have time to change my mind, my friends pushed me towards the bar and I climbed on top of it. As soon as I stood up and looked down at the sea of inebriated people below me, I started to regret my decision.

The music started and the DJ announced that each of the four contestants would have their turn to dance to the music. At the end, the crowd would vote on the best dancer.

I wanted to get down at this point because I was none of the following:

a. a good dancer

b. drunk enough not to care that I wasn’t a good dancer

So I stood there, watching as each of my competitors gyrated and shook their booties to the song chosen for them. They were sexy dancing all over the place and I was completely regretting my decision to participate.

Then something wonderful happened. It was my turn to dance and what song does the DJ choose for me?

The Devil Went Down to Georgia by the Charlie Daniels Band. In that moment, something washed over me. Something brave.

I then proceed to spend the next few minutes clogging my little heart out. I did the complete opposite of sexy dancing. Stomping and stepping all over the end of that bar, I tried my hardest not to make eye contact with anyone or fall off.

My parents took clogging lessons when they were newlyweds. Growing up, my mom taught me all of the basic steps, including some of the fancier kick steps. I don’t know the formal names because I learned all of this barefoot on our back deck. I would practice all the time because it combined my favorite childhood activities of being loud and making spastic movements with my body.

And so, there on that bar I performed my first public clogging routine. All three of my competitors watched me in amused disgust. Clearly the point of the sexy dancing contest had been lost on me. What a loser.

But when it came time for the beer fueled crowd to vote on a winner, the DJ went down the line. Holding his hand over each girl as she reveled in the spotlight, egging them on to cheer louder.

When he got all the way to the end, and put his hand over my head, the loudest cheer of all went up. Two coveted tickets to a concert I don’t even remember were mine. I’d earned them by sacrificing every last cool point I had, but with my dignity still intact.

The doors at PB’s are now locked forever, but they say that if you put your ear against the door on a moonlit night, sometimes you can hear the echos of an undergrad stomping her heels with wild abandon on the sticky bar.

Love,

M

It was Kerianne’s birthday. I don’t remember which one - 22 maybe? We all lived in the Leadenhall house together and we made a BIG DEAL out of everyone’s birthday. Balloons, banners, special dinners - it was all part of the deal.

All the girls in the house threw in on a pair of gorgeous cowboy boots for Kerianne. She’d been wanting a pair for a long time and we were all broke enough that spending $140 on boots wasn’t going to happen on its own. On our way out of the parking lot at the western store where we bought the boots, we spotted a Big Lots and decide we should grab a card and some wrapping paper. Once inside, Krissy and I start laughing at some of the silly things for sale and decide we are going to mess with Kerianne a bit. We buy the most awful little gifts - among them a miniature shoe figurine, a small cabinet with a rooster on it, and best of all, a stretchy bracelet comprised of little picture frames.

Once we get home, we fill the tiny frames with all of our faces, plus Bailey (my dog) because there is one more frame than girls in our house. It’s hideous and amazing.

We all dressed up and went out to a nice tapas place for dinner. We then present her with our “gifts” and act as if we are so proud of them. Natasha can barely speak for fear of bursting into laughter. Krissy sells her chicken cabinet with an explanation “I thought about all the cabinets you have and how much you use them and when I saw this one with a rooster on it, I knew you had to have it"  I tell here that the shoe figurine is representative of her love of shoes.

We really play up the picture frame bracelet as a big deal and her eyes go wide when she opens it. Don’t you love it!?!? We ask and make her promise to wear it out that night - with all of our faces beaming back from the little plastic frames.

She was so gracious and we were all biting the inside of cheeks trying to keep back the laughter. At one point, I have to get up and go to the bathroom because I was literally about to burst into tears over how she was so sweetly trying to be appreciative of these horrible, tacky presents.

We get through dinner, and when we get outside we say to her "Kerianne. Those gifts we gave you were terrible.” No they weren’t! She said back. And we all start laughing hysterically. “Yes, they were!” we said back, “but here is your real gift!” and we pop the trunk and present her with the gorgeous cowboy boots.

She started jumping up and down and burst out laughing. “I was wondering what the heck was going on!!!” she said “they just didn’t seem like gifts you guys would buy!”.

Needless to say, it was a birthday to remember and a story we all giggle about whenever we get together.

Love,

M

Sometimes the fear sets in and I find myself staring at the wall in the dining room trying to find a name for the color. Putty. Sand. I feel panicky and overwhelmed and my first instinct is that I want to paint it.

The American Dream.

A house. a picket fence.

We have these things. and we earned them with our own hands (or rather our heads, if we’re splitting hairs here)

94 percent of the time, I marvel over this accomplishment.

Not because it’s anything noteworthy.

Lots of people buy houses (many of them bigger and more impressive than ours)

but it’s the fact that we did it.

you and i.

For some reason that feels particularly weighty.

When I think about how impractical and irresponsible we were in the beginning.

How one time when I was twenty I bought a bunch of clothes on a credit card and never paid the bill. (I didn’t pay a lot of bills back then)

Or how you never really had to be responsible for much but yourself for a lot of years.

How we never saved any money. spent every dime.

But we figured it the hell out, didn’t we babe?

We got our heads in the game when we decided to make a life together and we started to sweep up the mess and hang a photo or two on the walls.

You took me from a girl to a woman with all your ideas and hopes and the pile of dreams we kept adding to.

I welcomed you to your first responsibility… me.

And somehow, as the years passed and we grew accustomed to being a Mr. and Mrs. and a mama and daddy we took enough right turns to buy ourselves a little house.

We signed our names on the dotted line.

Do you remember how complex those feelings felt as they fell down on our shoulders? A wish. A dream. A reality. A responsibility. Heavy and beautiful.

And so 94% of the time, we walk around with our fingertips dragging the walls, feeling the old bones of this place that belongs to us now. Where we hold on to plans to paint over this color in the dining room with no name. And where we mark our children’s heights on the door frame in the kitchen.

but that 6% of me. It’s the part of me that still exists in the world you found me in.

The one that still is trying to find her feet and feel comfortable with these deep roots we’ve laid down.

Sometimes I wish we could pack up the kids and a couple of suitcases and set off for something unknown. Sell it all. Shed everything but ourselves. And find a place that doesn’t come with a contract or a commitment or an initial here, please.

I hold my breath that the roof will make it a few more years before it needs replacing. I lie in bed at night wondering what we would do if I lost my job. I wonder if it’s safer to never tie your dreams down to a pile of bricks.

But then I find myself daydreaming through the kitchen window about growing grass in the wasteland that is our backyard. And watching the way our magnolia tree dances in the wind. Our magnolia tree (It’s ours, baby, OURS!). And oh, how lovely the echo of our children’s voices sound as they bounce down the stairwell and through the halls. My thoughts linger on how perfect our front porch is for watching rainstorms.

And I realize that the 94% is always right. We all need a little bit of fear to remind ourselves why we do what we do everyday. Why we work hard and we take the risk. Why we decide to sign on the dotted line. A little fear moves us - not away from our dreams, but straight into them.

Love,

M

at least not the year over year kind. But here’s 5 things I’d like to accomplish in 2012. 

1. Take the kids somewhere cool in an RV. 

2. Grow a garden big enough that I can share with our new neighbors.

3. Host a dinner party at least every 3 months.

4. Get drunk. ( I know this sounds absurd, but I haven’t done it in three years -what with all the baby growing, baby feeding & baby caring I’ve been responsible for. I drank a cocktail a little fast at dinner with Brent the other night & got so warm and fuzzy feeling for a bit. I kept thinking that I owe it to myself to send both kids to the grandparents one night so that we can let loose and get completely, laugh at everything- I want to dance by myself on the sidewalk- can I sleep in your lap on the way home-silly drunk. )

5. Write letters to people I love and mail them off. It’s been far too long since I took the time to do something like that. 

I hate when we argue, but most often, it is the thing that reminds us we are human. For so long we were a couple and then our eyes blinked closed and they opened to us with a baby on each hip, an official new title: mama. daddy. and less time than we’d ever had before for our individual selves and our relationship.

This is nothing new and it’s nothing unexpected. I remember feeling that people who reckoned themselves to giving up parts of their relationships because of their children were just flat out wrong and they weren’t trying hard enough.

But I know differently now. Because we try as hard as you can imagine to stay connected to one another while keeping all of our plates spinning, little bodies washed, bellies fed, naptimes and bedtimes on schedule and on any given day, it’s hard as hell to feel like I’ve been really, truly inside of your head and arms and mouth.

So when there have been too many moments since your arms wrapped around my shoulders or I’ve rubbed the scruff of your chin against my forehead, we sometimes find ourselves tearing away at one another because all the frustration has to go somewhere and we’re each other’s easiest and most accessible target.

But when anger flashes in my eyes, when frustration flies from your lips, I am never scared. Because we built this house of our marriage to withstand a rainstorm, a flood, wind and limbs and leaves. You laid the bricks and I poured the morter. And I know that one of us will walk away. and we both will breath. and always, every single time,  I’ll find that place in the curve of your body that God made just to shelter me.

So we go on, being human. Living with our imperfect selves. Recognizing each other’s weaknesses and loving despite. Creating our balance. Fighting sometimes. Forgiving always. The day in, day out of for better and for worse. Sometimes sacrificing small parts of ourselves for each other and our children and in turn receiving the overwhelming gifts of this life together.

Our one certainty: We are in this together. And you will make me cry and I will make you furious and we will laugh and live the best we can. We always make it work. Because when the dust clears we are left standing here with the each other and the truth. No other could love me as you do. No other could love you as I do.

I’ll ask “I’m stuck with you, aren’t I?” and your eyes will narrow and your lips will turn up at the corners and you’ll say “Afraid so, babe.” and it’s a beautiful thing to realize every.single.time.

Love,

M

Brent will play the harmonica for 3 months straight and then not touch it for what seems like a year. In those times when he plays, it seems an extension of his hand and mouth, A flash of silver in his back pocket, or constantly visible on our dining table, in between the couch cushions, on the kitchen counter.

Whenever he gets in his harmonica moods, I am instantly taken back to the early months of our relationship. When he was a wild boy of twenty four, a bit skinny but in the best way, with jeans that hung low on his hips and rarely a pair of shoes on his feet.

It was spring, we’d just started to let ourselves be really, truly comfortable in each other’s presence. He drove a black Jeep Grande Cherokee that was always messy and full of music equipment. That silver harmonica followed him around in those months and we’d drive around, windows down, our hair whipping at our faces, and he’d play it loudly

I’d just watch him as he drove with one hand and sucked in and out on that harmonica with the other and I was certain my heart was close to exploding out of my chest with adoration.

And now, when his harmonica moods hit, I float a bit more than usual. In the same way breathing deeply into a favorite childhood blanket brings me back to my youth, I feel my heart creep into every extra bit of space between my ribs when the tinny, bold sound of his harmonica’s song fill my ears.

With every note I am reminded that he is still my wild boy.

Love,

M

Perfect Valentine’s Date Attire.

Custard Heart Vintage

Nickey Vintage

The Ruby Kitten

Capricious Traveler

Little Ocean Annie

So sweet!!

Love,

M

I won these amazing vintage specs off ebay yesterday for a cool 15 bucks including shipping and that amazing case in the photo. I can’t wait to get my prescription lenses put in them once they arrive. These pretty babies have served me well the past two years and will certainly still get plenty of wear - but I’ve been on the hunt for some new ones and I’m so in love with these cat eye beauties. Look at the metal details - they are too perfect for words!

Love,

M

Brent’s been oh so good in 2010. I don’t really need to elaborate as this blog is chocked full of reasons why. Here’s a little peek at what ‘Ol Saint Nick will have waiting for him under the tree Christmas morning (he very rarely reads this blog, so the secret is safe):

Gray slim cut jeans. Perfect to pair with an old plaid shirt, suspenders and his favorite cowboy boots.

Aldo Koopman Kicks. If Brent were a shoe, he would look exactly like these.

A slouchy toboggan hat, because he wears them nonstop all winter but manages to always lose them each year!

Plus a stocking full of little gifties - razors, his favorite candies, guitar stings, and other fun play things.

Love,

M

I’ve spent pages of this blog talking about finding my Brent. I’ve talked about the beginning. I’ve talked about our first date. About our adventures. Our marriage. Our journey as parents. But interestingly enough, the one thing that I get inquiries for over and over again is the page in our history where we broke up. I’ve mentioned it several times  on my blog but never really explained what happened. I think honestly, the reason this is most interesting to people is because sometimes it does the soul good to know that even happy couples had to overcome obstacles to get where they are.

We are all human. Feeling human things, learning human lessons, and trying somehow to find our way as individuals. as partners. as lovers despite (and because of) our humanness.

so here’s what happened with us.

Brent and I had been together for 3 months. We were still brand new. but we had moved fast. We’d barely spent a day apart since the beginning. We were intense, passionate, and spent more days than I should probably admit making out and skipping class and staring at each other while listening to Ryan Adams songs.

Everything I thought I had ever felt for him over those years of pinning for him had been completely true at this point. I had always held this undeniable desire for him and here I was living it.

but little by little, Brent began to change.  He stopped holding my hand. He stopped texting me and calling me when I was away. He started to have a host of reasons why he couldn’t see me. I was so confused. and in my head, every friend who had said “You’re his rebound, Melissa. this is a bad idea” began to ring in my head.

By mid March, it was clearly obvious that his heart. or his head. or both were somewhere else. One night as I sat with a lump in my throat trying to work up the courage to ask him what was going on (and also wishing I could just ignore it a little longer and maybe it would just go away) there was a knock at his front door. It was his ex-girlfriend, L,  whom he had just recently split from when we began to date. She had cooked or baked something (I can’t remember which) and  she thought she’d drop some by for him. She didn’t know I was there. I’m not even sure if she knew we were dating. He stayed outside and talked to her for a few minutes while I sat there fighting back tears and putting the pieces together. When he returned, I pushed him to just tell me the truth.

and he did. He told me he still had feelings for her. That everything with them had ended so abruptly. That we’d moved so fast he’d hardly had time to deal with it. That he was still thinking about her. That he needed time to think.

I was brave. I didn’t cry. I told him I understood, we hugged, lingering a bit in each other’s arms and then I got in my car and left. I was pretty certain that was the end of us.

I cried. oh I nearly cried myself out of tears. I was truly heartbroken and it sounds silly to say that after dating someone for only a few months but really, I had loved him for so many years and had opened my heart so completely to him - without fear or any sort of barriers in those first few months that the realization that my time with him had come and gone made me physically sick.

I picked myself up and went to class. I spent time with my friends trying to keep my mind off of him. I kept my brave face on as much as I could. I couldn’t let anyone know how badly I was hurting because A. Everyone warned me this would happen and B. I was stubbornly prideful and didn’t want to admit it myself.

After a week or so, I went to stop in and visit with some mutual friends. Brent’s car was there. So was L’s. I kept driving. and driving and driving. Wondering if they were together was one thing, knowing they were together was another.

One weekend, very soon after that, Natasha and I decided to go to the beach. I needed to get out of town and stop feeling sorry for myself.  We wore our hottest dresses, walked arm in arm down the streets of the Wilmington Riverfront, toasted drinks, laughed and relished in the attention we were getting together.  We met a couple of Blue Angels pilots that were in town for an Airshow and barhopped with them. We had too much to drink and wound up sleeping on a friend’s couch. I’ll be honest, that night, I didn’t think about him much at all - I knew partying wasn’t the answer to getting over him, but that weekend, it’s what I needed.

One day, in a moment of weakness, I made up an excuse why I needed to stop by Brent’s house. (To pick up a sweater I left there, maybe? I can’t remember). We stood in his backyard. I bounced awkwardly from toe to toe. It was a good, light hearted conversation. Despite that, I remember I was on the verge of crying the entire time.

Several weeks later I got a call from Brent. He said he had to see me immediately. By now, I was doing better. I was feeling better and sure as hell wasn’t going to just roll over and say ok just because he wanted to see me. I told him I was busy (even though I wanted nothing more in the whole world than to see him).

Our mutual friends held a dinner. I knew he’d be there. All of my girlfriends went and I sent them with an excuse as to why I was absent.  I sat at home and ate spaghetti-os instead. He continued to call and one day, as I sat reading a book in a field (ah, those blissful summer days before the real world called) I told him where I was.

He showed up soon after and told me that out of the blue one evening that it struck him like a bolt of lightening that he was in love with me. He told me he realized he was making the biggest mistake of his life if he let me get away. That what he’d felt for me had confused him and scared him. He had been with L, at a lake house a few hours from Raleigh and all he wanted to do was to get back and find me and make this right.

I told him he broke my heart. I told him I was finally doing better. I told him he’d proven everyone right when he made me his rebound. I told him I didn’t trust him.

He said he’d prove it to me and over the next weeks, he wrote songs about his love for me, called, texted, showed up wherever I was. He let me take my anger  at being hurt out at him. When I called him an asshole after too many beers and jammed my finger in his chest and said “I hate you for breaking my heart.” He just listened. and apologized. and promised me that he would never leave me again.

I finally told him that I had always loved him and I might as well stop pretending that I didn’t. I also told him that this was it. That I was never going to be in a relationship where we break up and get back together and break up again and on and on. If he really meant what he said, then this was his one and only second chance.

And eventually, we found our way back to being madly in love with one another. To being inseparable and crazy, cant-get-enough of you again.

It took us awhile, honestly. I had trust issues with him for a long time. There was a time when the mere mention of L’s name put a lump in my throat. When running into her would leave me sobbing in the bathroom, convinced he was going to change his mind again and leave me.

Nothing fixed that except time. And allowing him to prove it. And not holding it over his head. and coming to the conclusion that I am willing to put aside the fear of a “what-if” broken heart in order to move on and fully enjoy being in love with him. By the time he asked me to marry him and be his wife, my heart was fully healed. I knew where he stood. I knew where I stood. I knew he was my future.

And now, 6 years later. I’m actually friends with L. I think it started with a mutual curiosity about one another but resulted in the discovering that Brent has superb taste in women. She and I are incredibly different and yet, we’ve found we have a lot in common. More than anything, over time I’ve learned to appreciate her for what she taught Brent about love and relationships.  In understanding why he loved her, I’ve been able to understand why he needed closure and why he struggled and also why he loves me too.

So there you go. The extremely long winded version of the time we broke up. the time between Happily and Ever After. It doesn’t always work out this way - but I’m proof that sometimes, it does.

(One of our first photos - Taken by Natasha at the farm during my favorite summer)

Love,

M

• A lemon
• olive oil
• white balsamic vinegar
• dijon mustard
• real butter
• honey
• garlic
• cumin
• pink sea salt/fresh ground pepper

I make sure we always, always have these ingredients stocked. Every dish I make has some mix of these things and if it requires something outside this list, chances are I don’t make it or I just find a way to sub in one of the above.

M

Here’s something I’ve never posted on my blog before.

My mom is a lesbian.

MY MOM IS A LESBIAN.

It’s about a normal a sentence to me as saying she’s also a blonde or makes the best from scratch cookies'n'cream ice cream you’ve ever had.

Since our nation is FINALLY focused on bringing awareness to bullying and prejudices that LGBT teens and young adults are facing in our society, I thought today would be a fine day to talk about my mama.

First things first, I asked her if it was ok to talk about her on my blog. It’s not that her being a lesbian is something I’d ever want to hide, it’s just - this is my blog and the private matters of my family are not something I divulge here without their permission.

So I asked her first and her response was “Please do! I love you!”

and so here I go.

I didn’t grow up with a lesbian mom. Atleast, I didn’t know it at the time. She and my father were married for 29 years. My mom was my mom. A tomboy who loved to work in the yard, install our home appliances, and cook delicious meals for her family. She was and is, the kind of mother I hope to be to my children. Fun, creative, a little quirky, and full of love.

My mom grew up in a rural, Christian, eastern North Carolina town where no one was gay. At least not openly. It wasn’t an option and as a young girl when she found herself developing a crush on a female teacher at school, all she knew was that something must be wrong with her.

So she did what she was supposed to. She went on dates with guys at school, had sleepovers with her best friends, went to college, met a boy and got married. They started a family together and for a long time, the love she had for her family was enough to get her through.

I remember being 17. My mom walked into my bedroom and said “What do you think about you and I getting a place together?” I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she meant. We were a happy family. A complete unit. “Absolutely not, mom. Why would you even say that?"  I asked. Little did I know the turmoil that was brewing in her. The years and years of pushing down the truth and trying with all her might to be the someone everyone said she should be.

During my college years, I wasn’t home enough to see that the walls were crumbling on my parents marriage. They were doing what they could to salvage it including a last ditch effort when they sold their house, their business, the cars and lived on sailboat for a few years.

She started calling my cell phone at 1am, slurring her words and telling me that she just felt sad and wanted to talk. I still had no clue what was really going on. Some months after that she was at my apartment door telling me that she was going to rehab for alcoholism.

And not too long after that, my parent’s marriage was over.

At the time, I was completely absorbed in how all of this affected me. My family was breaking up. My parents were divorcing. What was I going to do?

I was completely self absorbed in my own tragedy. I guess, in retrospect, we all were. At the point of their divorce, I was terrified of what was going to happen to my mother. She was depressed, out of touch with reality, and drinking more heavily than I’d ever seen her before.

What I didn’t know was that it was her only coping mechanism for the realization that she either had to come to terms with the truth inside of her or drink herself to death. She’d spent most of her young life and all of her adult life being someone she was not. Not allowing herself the happiness she deserved and finally, at 49 years of age, it could be contained no longer.

She told me about Peg the same day she told me dog died.

Probably the worst way to tell someone something so important.

"Toby died”

“Oh mom, oh no. How did it happen?”

“He collapsed on the beach. He was running and then he just fell over. He was dead by the time I got to him”

“Oh mom. (tears) I hope you weren’t alone when it happened”

“I wasn’t. I had someone there with me. Someone special, Melissa. Her name is Peg”

“…….”

I got off the phone and I told Brent about our conversation. “My dog died. and also, I think my mom just told me she has a girlfriend”

I was mad at her.

Not because she was a lesbian. but because she was my mom and she was a lesbian. and my parents were divorced. and the drinking. and all of this is affecting me. me. me.

I always believed that my heart carried equality for all people. No matter their religion, race, creed or sexual orientation. All are worthy, none more or less. But my mom? My mom is a lesbian? What about all those years with my dad? What about that seemingly happy marriage? What was all of that? Is this a phase? Is this due to her depression and alcoholism?

We went months without speaking. She needed to be selfish. She deserved it after so many years of giving herself to everyone else.

and I was selfish too. not because I deserved to be… but I was immature and self absorbed.

But there are truths in this world that can’t be denied. One of those is that my mother’s love for me and my love for her, could never be truly broken. Sure we were both a little battered and skeptical  - but we came through it.

And the depression went away. The reckless drinking stopped. The sun shone in my mother’s eyes in a way I hadn’t seen since I was  little girl.  She was truly herself for the very first time in her 50 years in this world.

She’s still with Peg, some 5 plus years later. Some of the family that she was so terrified would turn their back on her, have come to her defenses and welcomed Peg as part of her life too. Others have shunned her and cast judgements on her.

My mom is happy.

I discovered that when I stopped thinking about how everything and everyone affected me and instead put myself in the shoes of others, their reasons and motivations became clear. And then, I just wanted my mama to be happy. truly.

and she finally is.

I love you mama. I love who you are. I love that you finally were true to yourself. And that you’ve found happiness. You’re the bravest woman I know.

with my eyes full of big, happy proud-daughter tears,

M