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.

Spirit Animals

The presidential political season is like being single and still buying food in bulk: sure that giant bag of chicken nuggets was exciting at first, but after a few too many days of it you just want to scream, “I’M DONE WITH YOU, NUGGETS!” Not that this has ever happened. This is hypothetical.*

In light of the dirty side of politics, where every icon is beaten into something less respectable/human, I’ve decided to hoard spirit animals like people with money hoard things that cost money (I don’t know what people with money actually hoard).

I’m going super fluffy here.

What is a spirit animal? Who the heck cares.

I like to imagine them like as my patronus, only instead of an otter coming out of my magic wand when I yell, “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” an actual likeness of Hermione Granger would emerge. 

I HAVE A STICK!

Of course I never yell EXPECTO PATRONUM when holding things like pens, or sticks, or rulers, or dog treats. Never. I am an adult and we don’t do things like that.**

My spirit animals are not people I actually know. Several aren’t even real people. That’s not even the point. Instead, they are ever-present examples of some specific and desired trait.

My spirit animal of ambition is Dolly Parton.  The youngest of 12 children from a dirt-poor family, she has been inducted the Songwriters Hall of Fame and the Country Music Hall of Fame and has a National Metal of the Arts (and 8 Grammys). She’s released 41 studio albums over her career. She's credited with having written over 3,000 songs. She retained the rights to all of her songs when it was a risky decision (earning her the nickname “the Iron Butterfly”) and continues to write, perform, act and produce well into her 60s. Some days I don’t even put on pants until 3pm. Help me, Dolly.

That's rhinestones & a Kennedy Center Metal, MFers. 

For the beauty of brutal honesty, my spirit animal is Anne Lamott. It takes enormous courage to be honest about you. It takes more to tell others about this honesty with wit and charm and incredible skill. In Lamott’s books she faces honesty head on, and paints herself as this whole person, full of incredible brokenness, hurts, scars, loves, addictions, humor, fear, grace, talent, compassion, anger, and sarcasm. I hope to one day write one sentence as true as any of hers. One of my all-time favorites: “I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish.” 

No photo needed. You just need to picture Jesus drinking gin. Out of a cat dish. 

CJ Cregg is my spirit animal of idealism. It helps that she is birthed out of the mind of a coked-up Aaron Sorkin (before he had an Oscar and hated the Internet) and thus doesn’t suffer the imperfections of reality. She is my spirit animal because Claudia Jean never wavered in her convictions. She believed in the American form of government, even while neck-deep in its worst moments. She still believed that one person could change the world. At the end of the series she’s asked what single issue in the world she would focus on, given $10 billion to solve it. Her immediate response was, “Highways in Africa. It isn’t sexy but it’s necessary. Then maybe get started on plumbing.” That’s idealism. I wish I had it.

No shut up maybe ok fine maybe shut up. 

Tami Taylor brings compassion. Mrs. Coach is new on this list. I’ve only just begun to watch FNL on Netflix, but I was immediately struck by the way that Tami Taylor listens. She focuses on the speaker with an intensity and a love that brings tears to my eyes almost every time she is on screen.  She is present in the conversation. Also Connie Britton has hair that was birthed from the loins of Tre-Semme, the Goddess of Full Locks.***  I feel like her hair is where she stores all the compassion, because it seems too large to exist in a single person. I am a terrible listener, terrible with emotional people (so please try not to cry on my shoulder), terrible about not giving unsolicited advice or creating selfish tangents.

Even her hair is listening to Coach.

My bookworm self likes it when Rory Gilmore pops up beside me. Have you seen this list compiled of the books she read on the show? I’ve read 67 of them, and I thought that was good. I love her love of books. There are far too many people who don’t love to read the way I do; I like having a fictional BFF to read along. When I walk in to Malaprops I feel like Rory appears next to me.  Later I walk out with a book that is challenging and thought provoking.

Books look sad when you read US Weekly.

Hermione Granger is my spirit animal of unceasing commitment to lifelong learning. Ms. Granger-Weasley (let’s be honest, she probably kept her maiden name) is a character unashamed about her intellect but also one never content to rest on her laurels. She’s the type who will probably take classes for life; who lives to learn because she loves it. She learns important things, she doesn’t fill up on gossip magazines or pop culture drivel. Becoming a better-informed person was part of her identity. Me too, except I also really like the drivel.  Also she’s British so that makes her sound about 10 IQ points higher.

Smart people blow shit up!

Michelle Obama is grace & poise. She is well-spoken, extremely well-educated, well-dressed and well-liked. She is Princeton-educated lawyer with an organic garden and an affinity for J. Crew, with two beautiful & well-behaved children and a husband who clearly adores her. I know a few people who have had personal interactions with her, and they universally say that she is as warm in person as she appears, but in that warmth is a clear sense that she is also not one to cross. There is steel under her kind exterior.  Additionally, Mrs. O. has helped to usher in this idea of the female athlete’s body as something beautiful and desirable; that a fit woman is a sexy woman.  I feel like her arms are another subgenre of spirit animal entirely. As someone who is nowhere near fit, I’m challenged by her rockin’ guns.

No photo does justice to the wonder of Michelle arms. 

I like to imagine that my spirit animals combine to make my most awesome self, so in that way I’m like Captain Planet without the green mullet.  Anne Lamott (Honesty Animal) said, “My mind is a neighborhood I try not to go into alone.” Turns out the neighborhood isn’t so scary with so many imaginary luminaries.

*I really am done with you, nuggets.

**Total lie. I do it all the time.

*** The Goddess of Full Locks has an unknown origin. She requires regular sacrifices of split ends and VO5 treatments. You will never reach her luscious mountain top, you limp-coifed loser.