Buttoned Up

I honestly forgot this blog existed.

Once google took down its blog aggregator, I haven’t really checked anyone else’s blogs, so my apologies to all involved. I stopped wanting to share thoughts at full bloom.

Anyway, a story:

When I moved into the Big Blue Barn, I never quite set up my closet. Now, the barn doesn’t actually have closets (way to go, architects!) so instead of wardrobes in the rooms, we have a spare bedroom that is set up as a shared closet space. It is four walls of clothing. Women walk in and gasp in awe. And when I moved in, 16 months ago, setting up my closet wall wasn’t a high priority. I just sort of threw up some leftover shelves and shoved things around. This has bothered me for approximately 15.5 months. So, in a fit of energy, I redid my closet and now it is organized and looks amazing. In the process I discovered several articles of clothing/pairs of shoes that I had purchased but never worn (go ahead and make a comment about consumerism. I’ll wait).

The next Monday I was getting ready for work, excited to wear a newly found top. It has delicate buttons running down the back, and I came out of my room all ready for work but with my buttons undone. I couldn’t do them myself. Top button: all good. Bottom button: no problem. Middle buttons: IMPOSSIBLE. “No problem,” I thought, “this is why I have a roommate.” Alas, roommate had already left for work, and I was about to be late to my job, so I hopped in the car with my shirt mostly unbuttoned and booked it to the office. Upon arrival I asked our office manager to come into my office with me. She looked worried until I turned around and asked if she could button the rest of my shirt. She obliged, then she burst out laughing.

I forgot about my shirt situation until I got home from work. I started to change my clothes to take Patsy Cline out for a long walk, when I remembered: I couldn’t get out of my shirt. My roommate wasn’t home, and I was stuck in my clothing. Several options flitted through my mind:

(1) Break out of the buttons, Hulk-style. This shirt was a one-and-done.

(2) Phone a friend. Can anyone come over and unbutton my shirt? K thanks. Humiliation level: 8.

(3) Live and die in the same shirt, forever. Multiple outfits are overrated anyway.

(4) Go out with some friends downtown, then casually ask one of them to walk back to my car with me and unbutton this godforsaken shirt before I drove home. Proceed to drive half-dressed.

Though 1-3 had their appeals, I eventually decided on #4. I went out with friends, specifically so someone could help me out of my shirt (thanks, Megan). This is what desperation looks like.

The shirt, though lovely, shall now hang in my closet until my next stable relationship, when I am secure in the knowledge that a person who can help me get into it in the morning will also be around to help me out of it.

Or maybe I hire a ladies maid, Downton style. Where is Anna when I need her? 

Fractures

I'm a little worried being this personal on my ten-year old blog.
But I need to process and only like five of you read this.

As per our usual, I had a conversation with my brother that consisted mostly of us making fun of each other:

Typical conversation. BTW the Samsung S3 is the greatest phone ever.
I think he meant "scarring" not "scaring"

Last year I made the mistake of getting blunt cut bangs and my brother told me, "You look like...well...like a really expensive horse. Like a racehorse. Super high class horse." He said this at Christmas dinner.

I'm still laughing about it. (We ended up having a backwards compliment competition. The rest of the family was super uncomfortable. My brother and I were laughing so hard we were crying.)

I love my little brother. A lot. He's one of my very favorite people, even as there are times when I'm so angry I can't stand to look at him, even as I don't like him sometimes. Even in the midst of that, he's mine and I'm protective of him.  

My little brother is also gay as a $3 bill.
This is a surprise to no one who knows him. He's always been gay. He was gay when he was 4 years old. 

I ended up calling him after my haircut (no blunt cut bangs in case you were wondering) and he told me--his voice showing hints of cracking--that my mother had told him that for Christmas, his partner was not welcome at her house for holidays. 

My brother has been out of the closet for over a decade.
This is his first big take-home-to-meet-the-family relationship and I'm so sad and hurt and disappointed that my mother's reaction was one of restriction, of condemnation, of exclusion.
I have a very strong sense of fairness on this issue.
If I were to bring home a man for the holiday, it would be a topic of celebration (Thank God! Maybe she's finally settling down!) but for him to bring home a man is something to be shamed, to be hidden, to be talked about in stipulations and compromises.
He's entirely deserving of the family love/ridicule/mockery/judgement to the same degree that his four sisters experience. I hate for him that he's so called out.

I'm in the midst of figuring out how I should respond and react to the holidays in light of this. I know I can't in good conscience sit at a holiday table celebrating the birth of Christ when doors have been closed on those who would want to partake. 

Fire. Whiskey. Laughter. Dogs.

Emily and I met freshman year of high school. Raised by missionaries in Paris, she came to live with her grandparents for a year to discover what American high school was like. Being international made her instantly cooler and more mysterious than those of us born and raised in the one-stoplight town. I don’t remember much about our early friendship, just that it existed. I don’t remember how or why we stayed in touch. It was as if our orbits were constantly overlapping in just enough of a way to keep the other familiar. Emily went to college in Chicago. She studied photography, and of course she’s brilliantly talented. I kept up with her portfolio, partly as an old friend but mostly as a fan. Her work is stunning. Quietly, I was proud of my friend.

In 2011, I managed to adopt a knocked-up dog. In a panic to try to find potential adopters for the pups, I created a Facebook group for people to follow the misadventures of the six little bundles of headache. Emily was an early subscriber. She’d eventually adopt the last-born; the rabble rouser with the tawny eyepatch and a penchant for getting into things. Jack (now Gil) was off to live in Manhattan, to have his photogenic mug in beautifully crafted images, to be adored in artistry.

In 2012, Instagram told me Emily was back in Virginia, visiting her grandparents. We cautiously confessed our mutual boredom and decided that a doggy play date was an order. We both wondered if Patsy Cline and Gil would remember their bond; if we’d remember ours. We stood in the snow with steaming mugs of hot toddies, throwing sticks for Gil to chase, yelling at Patsy to return.

Two days later we met for drinks at literally the only bar in town. We were two of the last to leave. We laughed, we spoke candidly. Emily was even cooler than I remembered. There is a specific breath that comes from the realization of connection. It starts somewhere deep, as if it must snake through the bedrock of our core, through the cracks that our choices have formed, through the aquifers tainted by expectation, to finally bubble up, pure and childlike. A friend!

I had no new years plans. I didn’t even know if I’d stay in Virginia or head back to Asheville; nothing was materializing in either locale. Emily texted; she was still in town. We made plans.
We made phrases. 

Fire.
Whiskey.
Laughter.
Dogs.

In the field near my father’s house is a long-standing firepit. I dug out the snow and began to pile on the brush. It only took a single match.
Emily arrived with smores and rye whiskey.
We sat in our camp chairs next to the roaring fire, watching the sparks as they disappeared into the darkness of a clouded night. We drank our rye out of old jelly jars, grabbing the snow around us to use as ice. We whittled marshmallow sticks out of lilac branches. We spoke of heartache and triumph; of what was and what we hope will be. We talked of collaborations.
We almost missed midnight.
Somewhere nearby a young child yelled out “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and we rapturously replied in return. Fireworks echoed off the mountains; our sparks floated ever higher.

Kismet. As if God had willed it. 
Fortune: both luck and wealth.
The old is new. 

There Never Was Just One

This morning I stumbled upon a random Tumbler (it's like Blogger's cousin that drinks PBR or craft cocktails) that takes screen grabs of Google's autofill function.
Most of the time, the autofill feature is useful and accurate, yet there are these rare times when it's strangely poignant. For example:

I've been mesmerized by them all day. They are all typically four or five lines, but somehow speak to a quiet, hidden, universal truth. I tried to find a few of my own. Here are some I discovered. 

A short four lines, but strangely powerful. 

Depression. 

A western told in four lines. 

I liked the subversiveness of this one. 

This one broke my heart a little bit. It's four lines we've all asked. 

I never knew you. I never told you. 

Guilt. Jealousy. Lust. Regret. 

Brit Knows

Dating life in Asheville, as illustrated by Britany Spears' X-factor faces.

First: hitting on someone in Asheville:

You get excited because well...

 Then you talk for a bit.

You have a few drinks, you chat some more.

He likes you. He asks you out.

A few weeks/days later the magic is gone....

You try to let him down easy.

Finally you admit the truth:

Happy Friday.