“Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.”

That’s just a handful of sentences in a very smart post you should probably go read, but it’s enough to explain what I’m doing here.

Occasionally I get the urge to send random emails to people saying “by the way, you’re awesome, just so you know.”  I actually had that urge this morning and remembered Poppy’s post and figured I’d do better than that and make it public.

Just A Few Of The People That Miss Britt Likes, Respects, Admires Or Just Plain Thinks Are Awesome:

Finn - you know how some people are just good, through and through?  That’s Finn.  She’s genuine and kind, but more than that, she is a million times more mature than I am.  I kind of follow her around because she is always lightyears ahead of me on the “learning to find balance in life” thing.  I have a crazy amount of respect for her.  She does such a great job of staying centered and keeping her priorities straight, something that I am constantly struggling to get better at.

Maria - since the first time I met her, I’ve found myself often just sitting in awe of this woman.  She is that rare combination of kind and funny.  But what amazes me the most about her, what puts her on my list of Women I Respect Most In This World, is that she is constantly looking inside herself to find answers.  If her life or an event in her life isn’t going well, she doesn’t run around pointing fingers at what everyone else is doing to contribute to her unhappiness.  Instead, she does the harder thing, the painful thing, and looks at what’s going on inside her own head and heart.  I don’t think she realizes sometimes that this single act, this tough choice that she makes over and over again, is a unique sign of strength.  I get the feeling she doesn’t even know it’s a choice that she’s making, because persona responsibility is just that deeply ingrained in who she is.

Barbara - I’m not sure I’ve ever met another person who made me feel so fiercely that “this is who I want to be when I grow up.”  Barbara gave up a successful career in corporate America to travel around the world, simply because it made her happy.  It hasn’t been easy and she’s faced many of the consequences that keep many of us from making similar decisions, but she presses on anyway.  She is one of the most courageous people I’ve ever had the good fortune of meeting.

Faiqa – it almost feels like a cop out to include Faiqa on this list, because I think everyone who has ever met this woman admires her, but I think it’s important to never assume that the people who deserve our praise the most get enough of it.  Yes, she’s pretty and smart and funny.  But you know what?  So are a lot of people.  What makes Faiqa so truly sacred to me is her integrity.  She is one of the most ethical people I know – and I admire it all the more because I know that staying true to her integrity is a conscious choice she makes over and over again, and not just something that “happens”.  She told me recently that we should all be careful about whose approval we seek, and I can say unequivocally that this woman’s approval is something worth striving for.

Poppy – the fact that Poppy inspired this post has nothing to do with her making an appearance here.  What she doesn’t know is that at least once a week I find myself telling someone else about how much I respect her.  When I’m struggling to hang on to my own sense of self, this is the woman I call.  Not because she knows me better than I do, but because she knows herself better than anyone else does.  She is committed to knowing and appreciating herself, and she makes no apologies for that.  She is one of the few women I know who can say with confidence, “I know who I am and I love who I am – and that’s enough.”  I am constantly hassling her with phone calls and emails, not so that I can be more like her, but so that I, too, can learn better how to be a more authentic version of me.

Becky – anyone who knows me will not be surprised to see Becky’s name on this list.  I make my adoration of this woman well known on a constant basis.  She is the only person I’ve ever known whose pureness of heart rivals Jared’s.  Becky’s gift to the world is unadulterated joy, and she gives of it freely to friends, family and strangers.  This is the woman I call when I need to cry or vent or rage about the injustices of the world, simply because I know that she is strong enough to take it.  I never have any doubt that my own venom will taint  her goodness, and I know in the end that she will help me find my way back to love.  Everything you need to know about who Becky is can be seen in her love of dandelions.

Cissa - this may seem like an odd inclusion, because Cissa and I aren’t exactly friends.  In fact, that’s specifically why I’ve added her here.  I haven’t been able to get her out of my head for the past couple of days.  You see, when Cissa moved to Central Florida a few months back, she went out of her way to befriend me.  I?  Basically ignored her.  I simply wasn’t in a place in my life where I could invest the energy necessary to become better friends with someone I didn’t know well.  Naturally, Cissa was hurt – I mean, who wouldn’t be?  But what amazes me, looking back, is that she didn’t take that hurt and channel it into some kind of blind rage.  She didn’t launch some “Miss Britt is SOOOO mean!” campaign (at least, not that I’m aware of, lol) or any of the other things that most of us naturally do when we have reason to feel rejected.  Instead, she “put on her big girl panties” (as she describes it) and got the fuck on with her life.  She recognized pretty quickly that if I couldn’t appreciate her friendship, I wasn’t worth fretting over.  It may sound odd to applaud or respect someone for that – but think about how fucking hard that is to do for a lot of us.  The more I think about, the more I am in awe of her emotional maturity and the more I respect the way she responded to my inability to give back to her.

Of course, the irony is that I look back on that now and think “damn, Britt, that is probably the type of person you actually want in your life, dumb ass.”

Regardless, she has my immense respect and admiration.

Father Muskrat – I usually describe this guy, simply, as “a good egg”.  He adores his wife and the two of them together represent one of those couples that you cannot help but envy because they are both just supremely awesome people.  I can’t exactly put my finger on what I like so much about him, but I have been dying for my husband to meet him since the first time I had a face to face conversation with him.  He’s one of those people you find yourself proud to be friends with and saying “you have got to meet this guy, he’s just really, really great.”  Yes he’s smart and funny and has never lost a case, but none of that is what makes him a stand out for  me.  I think it is the soft heart that lies underneath all of that and his genuine desire to do right by his fellow man.

If ever you’re in need of a real life role model in your life, I highly recommend hitching your wagon to one of these stars.

If you don’t see your name on this list, you will probably think this is the most. boring. post. ever. – but hopefully you don’t see it as a sign that you are not awesome.  As my oh so wise friend Faiqa always says, a compliment to one thing does not necessarily equate to an insult or disregard of another thing.

Thanks for the idea, Poppy.  It’s amazing how damn good it feels to love up on other people.

This is my baby brother.

And by baby brother I mean 21 year old college junior who can totally take care of himself and vote and hold a job and probably (but maybe not! probably not even!  we’re going with highly unlikely!) have sex baby brother.

I’m 9 years older than him, which has made me more like a mother than a sister to him in a lot of ways – except for the part where I never have to deal with him hating me or mouthing off to me or asking me for money.  It’s basically like getting to have a son without having to deal with the teenage years.

When we lived in Iowa, he practically lived at our house when he was in high school.  Which is to say, I would come home from work at night and mysteriously find my cupboards and refrigerator empty, as well as the toilet seat up and any and every hair product bottle in the house empty.   I’m not sure how he managed to eat my mother and I out of house and home simultaneously, but the kid always has been one to push past reasonable limits.  Somehow, one of the hardest parts of moving to Florida was saying goodbye to all that.

To put it mildly, we all miss him like crazy.

Emma and Devin adore their Uncle Creed.  Emma has gotten up every single morning since the day after her birthday and asked “how many more days until Creed gets here?”  This morning she was absolutely livid when she discovered that it was, in fact, Creed Day – and yet she couldn’t find him anywhere in the house.  Her ever practical brother, of course, explained to her that it would be very, very late when Creed actually got here and so she was being very dumb by declaring today Creed Day.  And then he asked if he could skip school for the week Creed was here in order to better “enjoy all of this sunshine!”

Jared has known Creed since he was younger than Devin is now and babies him as much, if not more, than I do.  They keep in touch by exchanging movie quotes on Facebook and text messages that damn near border on homoerotic.  And they will both have great fun plotting ways to get back at me for that statement. They will also, no doubt, have fun talking about how naturally charming and good looking they each are and swapping stories about how people pretty much do whatever they want because they are just that damn awesome.  And I will get in absolutely no trouble for that statement.

I will drive over an hour to the Orlando airport tonight at half past way past my old lady bedtime to pick him up.  I will hug him and probe him for details about his personal life.  I will probably lecture him about being nicer to our mother and staying away from girls who are not good enough for him.  I will ask him far too many times if he is sure that he’s doing OK with all of the craptastic stuff that has happened in and around his life recently, and he will assure me that “Britter, I’m fine, you know I always am.”  And maybe I will push just a little too hard and he will tell me I sound “just like mom”, but because I am not, actually, mom, he will not get pissed off at me for it.

Although I still have several hours to go before I actually see him, today is a good day.  Because today is, technically and officially, Creed Day.

And then?  Well, I don’t know what.  Other shit became more important, I guess.  Or maybe I just got bored with it.  Or maybe I just started spewing all of my creative and communication juices in other places and didn’t have a whole lot left over. Or maybe whatever.

Point is:

My daughter’s birthday was March 3rd and I didn’t so much as mention it here.  I never finished talking about the day we thought we were going to be spending the day at a PR thing  in Tampa and found out we weren’t so decided to spend the afternoon at Disney together.  I never got around to talking about the Chuck E. Cheese birthday party or how madly in love the kid was with every. single. present. she received.  I never posted pictures of the heartbreakingly sweet and awesome birthday card her big brother made her.  I never wrote the obligatory “my daughter is five and these are all the things I love about her now” post.

And truth be told?  It’s been bugging the shit out of me.

Not because you care that she turned five.

Not because she’ll care or notice that she missed out on the traditional THE CHILD OF A MOMMY BLOGGER PERSON HAD A BIRTHDAY! celebration.

Not because of anything but one single thing I have been dying to share with the world.

This is a picture of Emma on the Big Thunder Mountain roller coaster at Disney’s Magic Kingdom.

And this one picture, this one snapshot in time, says pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted to say about anything in life.

Today is one of those days.

If I was one of those people with a good sense of proprietary and common decency, I could come here this morning and tell you all that today is my 10th wedding anniversary. I would write something sappy and romantic about my husband and the ties that bind and the  joys of spending year after year with your high school sweetheart.  You would all be terribly impressed with our ability to overcome the odds and you would congratulate us and wish us many more happy years.  I could smile politely and try not to appear smug as I shared my marital success with the world.

If only I didn’t have such a big damn mouth.

Instead, I find myself almost embarrassed to celebrate this milestone.

Ten years ago today, Jared and I were married in a little church in Parkersburg, Iowa.  We have, technically, been married for ten years.  And while that sounds like a lot, like something to be proud of – especially considering today’s divorce statistics – I can’t help but wonder if it still counts as ten years if you kicked your husband out of the house for a month.

Do you get to celebrate ten years of marriage when you have spent so much of that time hurting one another?  Is it fair to rejoice on the anniversary of exchanging vows when you have, between the two of you, trampled on damn near every one of them at some point?

It’s hard to feel proud or smug today.  Instead, I find that I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

This could have all turned out so differently.  If it hadn’t been for marriage counseling, there is no way we would be where we are today.  No. Way.  And where we are is so completely different, so much better, than what I imagined for myself and for us ten years ago.

Ten years ago I was convinced that the key to our happiness was holding each other up.  I would take care of him and he would take care of me and in the process, we would both end up well cared for.  Love, I was certain, could conquer all.  Well – love and a whole lot of willpower, maybe.

I was an idiot ten years ago. What I didn’t know then was that we were doing damn near everything wrong.  We had no clue how to even begin communicating properly.  We were totally ill equipped for everything that life would throw at us, both small and large.  We survived the first several years of our marriage on little more than luck and determination and a stubborn refusal to admit that maybe we’d been wrong.

I look at who we are now, both separately and together, and the tools that we’ve gained in the last several months, and I wonder how in the hell we ever managed to survive before.  I have no idea how we’ve managed to come this far.

But I’m so, so grateful that we have.

The man I’m married to now is my partner in every way.  He is strong and capable and wise and the greatest support system that any woman – any person – could dare to ask for.  He has the same pure heart that he had ten years ago, but now he also has an amazing ability to communicate in a way that is open and honest and brave.  He is relentless in his pursuit of a constant connection between the two of us.  He works every single day to make things better – both himself and his relationship with me.

I am not proud of what we have done to each other over the last ten years, but I am exceedingly proud to be married to this man today.  I am proud and relieved and grateful for what we have managed to build together in the last six months.

We celebrated our anniversary with two of our closest friends this past weekend at EPCOT.  We ate and drank our way through every single country, and we laughed and held hands and used our words to tell each other when the other person accidentally said something that rubbed one of us the wrong way – because, yes, that still happens, even on special anniversary trips.  We exchanged gifts days ago, because neither one of us has ever been able to hold off on gift giving.

He bought me a massage table, which may sound silly unless you know me and you know the thing I love most in the world is a really good massage.  And if you know me, you also know that I have major guilt issues about asking someone to do something nice for me – and so he also made me coupon cards for “45 minute, no strings attached, fully body massages”, and he gave me a hand held hole puncher to make it official like and adorable and seriously lady, please do not feel bad about asking me because LOOK!  YOU HAVE COUPONS!

Last night I heard strange noises coming from the garage – dinging and banging and ting! ting! type noises.  When I asked him what the hell he was doing, he told me to hush up and stop asking questions.  This morning, he woke me up with this:

The "traditional" ten year gift is tin. The "modern" gift is DIAMONDS. Good thing this is so damn romantic.

The banging I heard was him cutting out the American Heart Association heart from the back of a can of Diet Coke.  This was the closest he could come to tin, which, as he informed me this morning, is the “traditional” gift for the ten year wedding anniversary.  When I oohed and ahhed and swooned, he laughed off his romantic gesture by informing me that the “contemporary” gift for the ten year wedding anniversary is diamonds.

I think I prefer my tin.

And what did I give him?

Well, Jared doesn’t ask for much.  An occasional slap on the ass and kiss with some tongue and he’s basically a happy guy.  I am, without a doubt, the needy one in this relationship.  Maintaining my happiness and sense of well being requires constant time and attention and pampering and traveling and dear Lord we spend a lot of money on keeping me satisfied.  But Jared?  Jared doesn’t ask for much.  In fact, for the last two years, there has only been one thing that Jared has consistently said he wanted.

A motorcycle.

I hate motorcycles.  Or rather, I hate the idea of my husband on a motorcycle.  I don’t mind hopping on the back of one now and then for a quick little joy ride, and I certainly have no problem with your husband on a motorcycle, but I am terrified at the idea of my husband hurtling down the road with nothing but nothing between him and the pavement.

And yet, he has been yearning for a motorcycle for years now.  He went so far as to spend a weekend this summer getting his motorcycle license, even though he knew the chances of us ever buying one were slim to none.  While I silently hoped he would get over it, he took the only steps he could at the time to make his dreams a reality.

As our anniversary approached, I tried to think of something, anything that might be an appropriate sign of my love and affection and gratitude to this man.  Anything but the one thing in the world that I knew he wanted.

But – *sigh* – Jared doesn’t ask for much.

Unfortunately, the one thing Jared does ask for is expensive as hell. And so, no, I didn’t go out and buy him a motorcycle for our anniversary.

I did, however, open a savings account specifically for the purpose of saving enough money for him to buy a motorcycle as soon as humanly possible.  I set up an automatic withdrawal from our checking account that will deposit money into that account each month.  At least someday, I thought, he’ll get his bike.

And then I did our taxes.  And lo and behold, we actually got a little bit of a refund.  And so I promised to put every dime of that refund towards his motorcycle fund.

And then, lo, I found out that we had a little more money in an old savings account than I had thought, and so I put that money towards his motorcycle fund.

Today we have about half of what he needs in that account, but only because our refund hasn’t come in yet.  In a few days, Uncle Sam will push his balance up to about 90% of what he has said he would want to spend on “just a little motorcycle, nothing huge”.  Over the next few months, we’ll continue to put money into that account until, finally, I am able to give my husband back at least a little bit of what he has given me over the years.

*Big Deep Breath*

And this where I do something that I have never, ever done on this blog before:

Ask for money.

Yes, I’ve asked for contributions for other people, but those were worthy causes.  And yes, I have ads on this site, so technically I make some money from you people all the damn time.  But I’ve never been one to put up a “tip jar” or flat out ask you to help pay for something because, quite frankly, as long as I’ve been able to keep myself in shoes and my children fed, there’s no good damn reason to ask you to dig into your wallet for me.

And yet…

I’ve put a widget in my sidebar where you can, if you are so inclined, donate to Jared’s motorcycle fund.  As I have outlined in painstaking detail here, he will get a motorcycle whether anyone else contributes or not.  But, well, if anyone would like to throw a few dollars our way, he may get it sooner or he may get a nicer one or he may, I don’t know, have money left over to buy a helmet.

I hope it goes without saying that I don’t expect anything from any of you and I will love you all the exact same amount as I do right now no matter what (TOTALLY A LIE!  I will not be able to help loving you a little bit more if you give us cash!) and that oh my God this is way more embarrassing than blogging about vaginas or marital problems or depression, and yet, still, I am DETERMINED to go through with it because, well -

I made the man wear a bonnet for this blog once.

And, um, er

AWKWARD!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME!

The end.

I imagine talking to them is like talking to someone who once watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  “Heart surgery?  Oh, dude, I’ve totally seen that done.  I can do this!”  Except instead of trying to bypass your aortic valve, they are constantly trying to dissect everything you say in order to identify your real motivation.

“And how does that make you feel?” they say.

“And what’s the story you make up about yourself then?” they ask.

Seriously.  Someone should probably punch those people in the face, or kindly remind them that seeking mental health help does not necessarily qualify them to give mental health help.

I’ve been through roughly one gazillion hours of therapy in the last year.

That pretty much qualifies me as the most annoying person on the planet right now.

And only someone who was exceptionally self aware would be able to say that with confidence. *snap*

My point is, it makes complete sense that I am sitting here mulling over the fact that all of you other unhealthy fuckers find yourselves on one end or another of what I am going to start calling The Responsibility Pendulum*.

A brief aside here – I am also contemplating the use of the word Spectrum and/or Continuum in place of Pendulum.  For now, my time on Dictionary.com and Thesaurus.com has lead me to believe that Pendulum is, in fact, the most correct term here.  Ahem.

ANYway…

The Responsibility Pendulum, as explained by Miss Britt

It seems to me that many, if not most, of our problems in life – including emotional distress, relationship woes, and all around general fucked-uped-ness – come from taking on too much or too little responsibility for our thoughts, feelings and actions and/or the thoughts, feelings and actions of other people.

Allow me to explain.

The Too Much Responsibility Side

Some people are responsible for everyone and everything.  Let’s say, for example, me.  (Pre-therapy and awesome enlightenment, of course.)  I am responsible for whether or not I am happy or sad.  I am responsible for whether or not my work gets done.

So far, so good.

I am also responsible for whether or not my husband is happy, what kind of people my children grow up to be, whether my friends feel valued and appreciated, whether or not my mother knows that she’s a good mom, how successful my siblings are, and whether or not Pakistan and Israel ever get their shit together.

As my husband’s wife, of course I am responsible for what he is feeling at every minute of every day.  If he’s feeling happy or proud or secure, it is because I am a good enough wife.  If he’s feeling sad or angry or frustrated or insecure, it is a sign that I have failed and am, therefore, not good enough.  His happiness is my responsibility.

Likewise, as a parent, it is my job to make sure that my children are always happy.  If they are ever sad or scared or frustrated or, God forbid, fail, it is a reflection of my failure to do my job.  I will do absolutely everything in my power to avoid failing at that job because to do so would mean, in a nutshell, that I suck.

I do not wish to suck.

Here’s the problem with these scenarios: sometimes, no matter what I do, I cannot control how other people feel.  It’s almost like they have feelings of their own. And once in a while they even make their own decisions, and those decisions can have consequences.  It is, come to find out, really, really difficult to be responsible for shit you have no control over.  Like – really difficult. Like – damn near impossible difficult.

Now, on occasion, people in my life (i.e. my husband) have tried to tell me that I “shouldn’t care” or “shouldn’t let it bother me” when someone else is unhappy or unsuccessful.  Some people (i.e. him) have suggested that I should “let it go” because “it’s not my responsibility”.  On those occasions, I have thought to myself that “clearly it is a sign of my extreme awesomeness and noble character that I am willing to take on even more responsibility than necessary, ASSHOLE.”

After all, what could possibly be wrong with being too responsible?

Apparently, living with someone who is trying to control things that they cannot possibly control is not fun.  It can also make that person seem really judgey and bitchy.  It can also make that person really, really fucking crabby and resentful because WHY DO I HAVE TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING AND YOU ARE NOT EVEN COOPERATING!?!

Ahem.

ANYway…

The Too Little Responsibility Side

On the other hand – as in way over on the hand that belongs to someone on another fucking continent – you have people who are not even responsible for their own feelings, thoughts or actions.  It is not their responsibility or their fault if they are happy, sad, or mad.  It is neither their responsibility nor their fault if their life sucks or their job sucks or their relationships suck.  They are, in fact, happy or sad or mad or successful or unsuccessful because that person over there did this.

And, as we learned just a few short paragraphs ago, it is damn near impossible to control other people’s behaviors.  So if other people’s behaviors made you (insert emotion or action here), then it is their responsibility.  Not yours.

Ironically, the people on this side have problems for the same damn reason that the people on the other side do:

You can’t control other people’s feelings, thoughts or actions.

But if you give the responsibility for your feelings, thoughts or actions to someone else, you pretty much hand over control over your entire life to everyone else around you.

Do I sound sanctimonious here now?  Yeah, probably.  Because this is not my side, I tend to have a liiiitttttle bit of a problem being empathetic.  I tend to say things like “grow the fuck up and take some responsibility for your own life”, for example.  I also, maybe, perhaps, tend to get a liiiiiittttttle bit resentful of people on this side because SEE!? THIS IS WHY PEOPLE LIKE ME HAVE TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING!  YOU’RE DROPPING THE BALL, DAMMIT!

On occasion, I may get together with my fellow too much responsibility takers and commiserate about how really fucking noble we are.

Ahem.

ANYway…

The Just The Right Amount Of Responsibility Side

Because I am now brilliant and enlightened and exceptionally self aware, I have figured out that THE SECRET TO LIFE lies somewhere in the middle.

The key to happiness is accepting that we are responsible for our own feelings, thoughts and actions.

Full stop.

Ladies and Gentleman, at just 30 years old, I, Miss Britt, have GOT IT ALL FIGURED OUT.

I expect Oprah to be calling any moment.

“God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.”

Blah blah BLAH Reinhold Niebuhr Is A Show Off

You see, I love my hair.

I have naturally blond curly hair, and it is, as far as I’m concerned, my saving grace.  I may be short and 20 lbs overweight and have saggy, pancake boobs – but I have fanfuckingtastic hair.  My hair is to my appearance what my humor is to my otherwise bitchy personality.

I am, as you may guess then, very protective about who and what I let near my hair.

I am Aveda’s bitch, because their products are worth every damn penny I spend on them.  They make my hair curly and defined and shiny – and it is damn near impossible to have curly and shiny hair.  While I am frugal to a fault in every other area of my life, I selfishly spend hundreds of dollars on hair product every year without even a twinge of guilt because it’s my hair, and there is no cheaper alternative that actually gets results.

It was love of Aveda that led me to Lisa.

When I lived in Iowa, I got my hair cut at an Aveda salon by one particular stylist that I finally found who knew what the hell she was doing with curly hair.  She didn’t try to “tame” my curls, she made them fantastic.  Before moving, the very last thing I did was get one final haircut from my girl.  I may have cried a little when I got up from her chair for the last time.

When I moved to Florida and couldn’t prolong the inevitable any further, I went to the nearest Aveda salon.  Unfortunately, that is where the Hair Hate Crime of 2007 occurred.   BUT!  That is also where I found Lisa.

Lisa is the woman at the exact same Aveda salon who fixed me.  And in that one appointment, our first meeting, I fell in love with her.  Not only because she knew the difference between blond and shit brown, but because she understood my hair.  She got me and I got her and we would go on to have happy hair love forever and ever and ever.

Lisa is the one who helped me go short over a year ago (and wow, it’s been over a year?  Yeah, I’m totally justified in being so over short hair now and growing it back out.)  Lisa is the one who encouraged me to try pink last summer. She is the one who held my hand and helped me find a new way when Aveda discontinued their Sap Moss Spray.

Lisa is, to be clear, a goddess among stylists.

She was mine and I was hers.

And then, this morning, I got the news.

I was perusing the product aisles in my salon while waiting for my eyebrow wax.  “Hey,” I asked the receptionist, “is Lisa around?  I’ve got a product question for her.”  The size 0 blond squirmed a little on her stool and silently shook her head.  I should have known something was wrong.

A minute later, I heard someone behind me call my name.

“Britt?”  It was one of the salon owners.  He looked concerned and reached out to put his hand over mine, as if to say, maybe you should sit down.  “We need to talk,” he said.

“OK….”

“Lisa, um…” he hesitated again, searching for the right words.  “Lisa is no longer with us.  She left abruptly this Saturday.”

“OH NO!” I gasped.  All my prior years of bad hair while I wandered around in a sea of average stylists flashed before my eyes and I grabbed the pine table top used to hold pitchers of cucumber and orange water for support.  “I can’t… why?  What happened?”

He shook his head and I could see my own heartbreak reflected back at me in his eyes.  “We don’t know.  It was all so sudden.  She’s been with me since the beginning and this Saturday… I just… I don’t know.”  He shook his head again, unable to make sense of it all for either of us.  “I’m so, so sorry,” he told me.

“Man, me too.  What am I going to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “Teresa is really, really good.  She has curly hair, too.  I know, I know.  I really think Teresa will get your hair, I do,” he promised, and I kind of fell in love with him right there for talking about the mop on my head as if it was another person.

“I just… hmmm… I’ll have to think about it,” I told him, and he seemed to understand.  There was just no way I could even begin to think about Lisa’s replacement already.  It was too soon.  Too raw.  “I just can’t believe it,” I said again.  “I brought my friend from Pittsburgh to her.  Who will I send her to now?”

“I know, I know.”

I just can’t believe she’s gone.  And sure, maybe this Teresa Woman is fine - but fine?  How can I console myself with fine when what Lisa and I shared was perfect?

And while, yes, I can try and track her down – what about the salon that I adore?  I love that place.  They know me by name.  They are… wonderful.  Now I may be forced to choose between my love of the salon and my love for the stylist – assuming I’m even able to FIND her!

*sob*

My poor, poor hair.

“So, um, I just wanted to follow up and see if you might actually be interested in RSVPing to the invitation I sent you for the upcoming event at Busch Gardens next week.”

Basically.

(She was actually much cooler and more professional and tactful than that, but I’d bet you $100 that’s what she was thinking.)

ANYway, apparently I had been invited to a thing at Busch Gardens.  I pumped my fists mightily in the air and declared that “YES!  Finally!  I am being recognized and courted for my work as an awesome TRAVEL BLOGGER!“  I accepted Lauren’s invitation on my behalf of myself and “my child”, and then proceeded to tell said child that she’d be getting to skip school to go “spend a day with Mommy at Busch Gardens!”

When said child was not impressed, I told her that she would also be spending time with Elmo.  And did I mention skipping school?  Said child conceded that yes, she would, grace me with her presence.

At the same time, not said child – also known as Devin – assured me that he was supremely pissed that he was not getting to skip school.  After much negotiating and discussion, we agreed that “Elmo was for babies anyway.  Fine.  Whatever.”

Blah, blah, blah, Emma and I drove two hours to Tampa on Thursday morning to enjoy the perks of mom being a very important and highly sought after travel blogger.

We pulled up to the back lot of Busch Gardens as we had been instructed, and were met by a blue vested security guard who had been charged with guiding us to our destination.

“Mommy blogger?” he asked.

“Son of a -” but I didn’t finish, because I’m pretty sure that mommy bloggers aren’t supposed to swear in public or in front of their children or at special events or at son of a bitch I am here as a mommy blogger. I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride, and nodded my head.  I was directed to my reserved for mommy bloggers parking spot and lead to a big red tent.

Where I promptly forgot about my pride the moment I was presented with the greatest breakfast buffet ever.

I’m pretty sure that this is exactly the kind of exposure that Lauren Hoyt-Williams was hoping for when she invited me to breakfast.  Clearly.  The world needs to know that Busch Gardens makes fanfreakingtastic eggs.

While Emma and I were enjoying the best breakfast ever, another PR Big Shot got on a mic at the front of the room and started talking about making Busch Gardens more kid friendly and new attractions and did I hear him say something about free?

Ha!  Yes!  I bet THAT really IS what Lauren Hoyt-Williams was expecting when she invited me!  I AM SO PROFESSIONAL.

(Hm, apparently it’s a little more complicated than “all kids get in free”.  MOST PROFESSIONAL EVER!)

ANYway, presentation over, time for Sesame Street character greetings.  This is what Emma and I have been waiting for.  Cookie Monster and Elmo and Big Bird and Zoey and All Their Sesame Street Friends came out to sing and dance and take pictures with the kids.  The kids, of course, were thrilled, because what preschooler doesn’t absolutely love Sesame Street?

So. Not. Impressed.  I’m all “LOOK!  Zoey!  Bert!  Ernie!” and Emma maintained that “meh.  At least they had chocolate milk.”  Everyone started singing, and I was very excitedly singing along to C is For Cookie, and Emma was like “hm, well, I guess you like cookies or something?”  And I could not BELIEVE that this kid was not more excited.  It’s Sesame Street!  Live!  How can she NOT be -

Ohhhh.  Right.

My children do not watch Sesame Street.

I’m pretty much the worst. mommy. blogger or otherwise. ever.

But for the record?  She would have gone ape shit if Dora or Diego had shown up.  And she could have said hello and goodbye to them in Spanish.

Ahem.  ANYway, after spending most of breakfast being extremely unimpressed, Emma eventually warmed up and decided, “Meh. Ok. Whatever.  I guess I can *yawn* take a picture with these people.”

And thus concludes Part 1 Of Britt and Emma’s Skip Day.

(I know, you are on the edge of your seat right now.)

And every time we do, one of us invariably rolls rolls our eyes and laughs, “man we are douches.”  And then another one of us laughs too and agrees, “I know!  I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to hang out with us!”  And then we all laugh some more about how absolutely obnoxious and ridiculous the whole thing is, although one of us will no doubt remind the rest of us amidst all the giggling that, obnoxious and ridiculous or not, we are still very much so fucking awesome.  And again we will laugh at ourselves and each other.

And still we will insist on referring to ourselves as a Mafia.

And as obnoxious and ridiculous and douchey as it is – it fits.  It fits, perhaps, better than any other word we could imagine.

We are not criminal masterminds.  We do not wield any power.  We are, in fact, just a tiny group of four bizarrely mismatched people living in Central Florida: Hilly, Faiqa, Adam and I.

We are family.  Not by blood or marriage or legal paperwork, but by some intangible connection that makes no sense on the surface.

It’s hard to say what binds us together.  We’re not all mothers or wives or even women.  We don’t share a career field or educational background or life ambitions.  We are a motley crew of one working mom, one stay at home mom, one single woman, and one newly divorced man.  One Pakistani American, one Midwestern girl with small town roots, one California girl at heart, and one… well… where he lives and where he comes from doesn’t mean much to him at all.

We are all bloggers, yes.  But even in that we are vastly different.  One of us writes to make others laugh, one of us to make people think, and another still simply to be emotional champagne.  And one of us – that’d be me – for a reason no one really knows.

On the outside, we share no glaring similarities.

And yet, we make up this patchwork mafia, this family, because we are more than friends.  We have made each other laugh and we have made each other cry.  We have smiled and told stories and pissed one another off on more than one occasion.  We’ve shared secret desires and secret fears, both equally terrifying and revealing.

Like most families, we each play our own role.

She is the big sister you admire and find yourself imitating, because she is just so damn much cooler and more confident than you could ever hope to be.  She’s the one most likely to roll her eyes and least likely to get involved in your childish games, and once in a while you forget that she’s just as vulnerable as you.  Until the day you accidentally walk into her room without knocking, and just before she tells you to get the hell out of her room, you notice she’s crying because some boy broke her heart.  And in that instant you realize that this person you look up to is soft and squishy just like you, and you vow to bust the knee caps of the son of a bitch who hurt her if you ever get the chance.

She is the seemingly omnipotent mother.  You swear she has her shit together better than you ever will, and she makes it look effortless.  You call her for advice because you’re confident she’ll see answers where you only see chaos, and it’s hard to imagine she understands what it’s like to be lost or out of control.  And then one day you’re flipping through her old photos, and you see a younger version of a person who sure as hell looks like her, but can’t possibly be, what with that look of youth and uncertainty you see.  She sees your disbelief and smirks the smile of a woman with a history and smugly reminds you, “I wasn’t always someone’s mother, you know.”  And you think to yourself, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

He is some strange combination of the providing father, protective big brother, and eager to please little brother.  He seldom gives advice, but he usually insists on paying.  He listens to you cry, while secretly plotting to fix everything the moment you get off the phone – even if that means putting on his mercenary mask for a while.  He insists that you know that he is the strong one – until the day comes when he can’t be, and then he lets down his guard just long enough for those closest to him to rush in and comfort him.

And then there is me.  I’m not exactly clear what my role is here, but I know that my place is cemented.  It gives me comfort and strength and courage, because I know that no matter how far I wander, I’ll always have a place to come back to.  It’s hard to remember a time in my life when I wasn’t a part of them and they weren’t a part of me.

And now, one of us has gone.

Hilly, our California girl at heart, is headed back to her heart and her home.  And the term Orlando Mafia seems even more ridiculous than it did just three short days ago.

We’ve joked about her going off to Vegas California and setting up a contingency there, but that we will inevitably be forced to shoot her in the eye a la Moe Greene. We may have threatened to cut her out of The Family completely, insisting that she was betraying us all by leaving and therefore needed to be shunned.

But we’re completely full of shit.

There is no us without her.  No matter where she lays her head at night, she will always have a place in our lives, because we are family.

We are more than family.

We’re the Orlando Fucking Mafia, bitches.

But now she just calls me most of the time if she’s worried about me and she’s pretty much too busy to read my blog now anyway.  And if your mom is too busy to read your blog?  Well, why bother – right?

Twitter is pretty much the greatest ego boost in the entire world.  Even better than mamas!

ANYway – I promised Darla I’d actually post for the first time in damn near two weeks.  Two weeks?  TWO WEEKS??  How did THAT happen?

Oh, right – I’ve been busy.

First I had a Super Bowl party, where “party” means I sent out a last minute email and made a few last minute phone calls to a few of our friends and suddenly had HOLY SHIT THIS IS A LOT OF PEOPLE coming to our house – most of whom don’t watch football.  ‘Twas fun.  The end.

Then the very next day, Jared and I ditched work and went to Disney World.  Alone.  Without our kids.

In case you missed it:

WE WENT TO DISNEY WORLD JUST AS TWO GROWN UPS WITH ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN OR KIDDIE RIDES OR ANYTHING BUT JUST US!

Ahem.

It was a very good time.  And oddly enough, the grown up rides – while awesome – were not even the best part.  The very best part was wandering around EPCOT for two hours, drinking margaritas from plastic cups in Disney Mexico and eating Disney Moroccan food and deciding between Disney Paris and Disney Italy that we are, finally, totally planning a trip to Europe.  For next summer.  For real.

Sight. It was a very good time.

And then we came home and went back to work.

And I worked.  And worked.  And worked.  And worked some more.  Because come to find out?  Europe is not cheap.  See also: mortgage and water and groceries and Aveda hair products.

And in the middle of all that working, my husband informed me that he had “planned a Valentine’s Day/Rock band party, invited a bunch of people, hope you don’t mind! luv u!”

And then I considered killing him.  But just as I was about to strangle him for a) inviting people to my house when I was going to be nose deep in work for the foreseeable future and b) not, you know, planning something for ME for Valentine’s Day, he pulled me aside and said “hey, I hope you’re not mad, but I really don’t want Hilly or Adam to be alone this weekend.  I thought this could be fun for all of us, and I’ll handle everything.”

And then I kind of promised to love him forever and ever.

And you know what?  He did handle everything.  He sent the invites and bought the groceries and cleaned up the house and threw the coolest Valentine’s Day/Rock Band Party ever.

What, you may ask, is a Valentine’s Day/Rock Band Party?

It is a bunch of grown ass people dressing up as rock stars and getting together in a house to play Rock Band 2 on the Nintendo Wii – all while eating “aphrodisiac” inspired foods, including OMG AWESOME oysters.

Oh yes.  We totally did.

And we rocked our asses off!!

Until 11:30 at night.

And then, um, someone maybe kind of got really tired and started falling asleep on the couch.  LIKE A ROCK STAR!

That brings us up to Sunday – the actual Day of Valentine.  Jared and I took advantage of the fact that Hilly is still living with us and ditched her and the kids to go see Avatar, making us, officially, the last people in the entire world to see this movie.  We both loved it, and I don’t care what anyone says, it was totally romantic – and not just because it was a three hour long adult only movie.

So, there’s that.

Enjoy your vacation, Darla!

What you are about to read is a simple explanation of my beliefs.  It’s not a defense against or an attack on any beliefs that may be different from my own.  I am neither angry nor hellbent on conversion.  This is about me sharing and clarifying my own perspective.

/disclaimer that may or may not do any good.

I’ve gotten a lot some slack about my belief that my brother’s decision to tell the truth, the whole truth, was a good thing.  Some of that disagreement has come from people whose opinions I respect a great deal, and some of it has come from “anonymous” people whose opinion I have a very hard time valuing – because I’m kind of funny about respecting shadows.

How could anyone question whether honesty is a good thing?

Well, in this particular case, complete honesty could potentially mean that both parents of an unborn child are now facing criminal charges.  It makes sense to question whether it is best for any child to suffer through a life with both parents in jail.  Of course that makes sense.  As I told one reader who questioned me directly right here on this blog (which takes guts that I admire, by the way), these are valid concerns.

And still, I stand by my belief that, in the end, only good can come from honesty.

Unfortunately, we don’t always know when or how “the end” will show up.  And because we don’t know, we do our best to use our own human and limited understanding of the world to predict the future.

We, all of us, avoid the truth from time to time because we are certain that it will cause us pain.  We tell ourselves that it’s for the best.  We imagine the consequences to be more than what we can bear, more than what is fair or good or right for ourselves and the people we care most about.

I know, because I’ve done it.

I have held on to secrets because “no good could come from telling the truth now.”  I have lied to my husband about little things and very big things, sometimes for years, because I was absolutely certain that the truth would destroy my marriage and my family.  There was simply no way that I could foresee how a painful truth could be good for any of us.

I was wrong.

In the end, the lies and secrets damn near destroyed us.  It was, ironically, the most painful truths that saved us.  In one month, Jared and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary.  It will be bittersweet, knowing how close we nearly came to missing it and how tainted some of those years we’ve shared have been.  But it will come, just the same, and we will celebrate it with a closeness and openness that neither of us could have even begun to imagine a year ago.

I had to learn about truth the hard way, unfortunately.  It was no act of courage or faith on my part that brought truth into our life; but it came just the same, and I’m grateful for it.

My brother, on the other hand, displayed more bravery and faith than I was ever able to when he spoke his truth.  (And how is THAT for some irony?)  He told the truth despite the fact that the only consequence he could imagine was even more pain.  He told the truth without a scrap of earthly evidence that it would lead to any good.

He did it, instead, in faith.

The word faith undoubtedly carries with it a heavy religious connotation.  And rightly so.

My belief in honesty, and in this case, Jay’s, is undeniably tied to my faith that God will take care of us.

I believe that God has a plan for me, and for you, and for Jay.  I believe that God can dream much bigger than I can.  I believe that my own understanding of what is good and best for me is limited compared to what God knows about happiness.  I believe that God can see “the end” much more clearly than I can, and I have faith that that “end” will be better than anything my cynical mind can possibly imagine.

But it’s not enough for God to simply have a plan for us.  I believe that it is, unfortunately, our job to walk along the path that’s set before us.  We have to make choices every step along the way.  And good Lord it can be hard sometimes to make the right choice.

Sometimes we simply can’t tell the difference between the right choice and the wrong choice.  Other times, we are simply too weak or selfish or scared or uncontrollably human.  And so we step off that path, and we do our very best to hack through the wilderness and make our own way, convinced that we can still end up in a good place through our own will and intelligence and manipulation of our destiny.

And maybe we do.  Maybe, if we are incredibly lucky, we end up somewhere that is good enough through sheer willpower.  But I believe that those good enough places pale in comparison to what is waiting for us at the end of the paths that God makes for us.

I believe that every time we step off the right path, God is already clearing another one for us, a way out of the wilderness and towards something better than good enough.  I believe there are an unlimited amount of paths to numerous better than good enough end places.  There will always be new choices for us to make, choices that can lead us towards or away from those cleared paths.  I believe that hope, forgiveness and redemption spring eternal.

I do not believe that it is God’s intention for us to wander blindly through the wilderness.  I don’t think He’s screwing with us for sport, watching us grope about in the dark while He cackles “Guess!  Guess!  I’ve made a clear path for you, see if you can find it!”  I believe that He gives us maps and roadsigns to show us the way.

And then He gives us the freewill to completely ignore all those signs.  I can’t say that I’m a big fan of that.  Also, I prefer big, blinking neon signs to maps AND a clear picture of where I’m going, thank you very much.  I have tried many times to convince God that if He would just let me know what’s at the end of the road, I would happily stick to the path.  I think His response is usually something about faith and trust and me not being so controlling and blah blah blah.

Ahem.

ANYway.

As much as I try to ignore it, I believe, I know, that honesty is the choice that God has asked me to make every single time.  On that, I believe, He has always been clear.

I have no idea what’s in store for Jay now.  Nor do I know what is next for anyone else he may have implicated when he told the truth.  I don’t know what life will look like for my niece or nephew.  But I am comforted by the fact that God does.  I am comforted by my belief that Jay’s most recent choice has been towards the cleared path instead of away from it.  The relief that he described to me is confirmation, for me, of that belief.

I’m aware that these are not universal beliefs.  I know that to some this may seem like a primitive way of thinking.  Others will discount me as naive, and still others will continue to doubt my sincerity and true intentions.  And, perhaps, some will go so far as to delight in the knowledge that I, too, have failed miserably to live up to these principles I claim to hold so dear.

I’m OK with that – or at the very least, I’m working on being OK with that.

This is my truth.  This is where I find my peace.