This is a tweet from my friend Angie about her husband Patrick, both of whom I happen to adore.  He is one of the greatest men to ever become a husband and father, a title reserved for men like Jared and Faiqa’s husband.  I don’t have any idea if Angie has insecurity issues about deserving her husband, but it’s a hot button for me – and so, here we are.

I need to say this:

I deserve my husband.

I need to say it for all the years I’ve told myself that it wasn’t true.  I need to say it for all the friends and strangers who’ve looked on from the outside and suggested it wasn’t true.  I need to say it because of the little jokes about poor Jared.

You know what’s not actually funny?

Suggesting that being married to someone is a hardship.  In front of them.  Actually, it’s not even funny if it’s not in front of them.  And it’s not only insulting to them, it’s insulting to the poor bastard whose side you claim to “be on”.  It’s insulting to suggest that someone – especially a grown man – should be pitied because his wife is too much for him to handle.

Excuse me while I wind myself up.

It’s just… damn.  Am I strong personality?  An opinionated woman?  Louder and more aggressive than my husband?  Hell yes. Does that mean that I don’t deserve all of the love, compassion, loyalty and kindness that he shows me?  According to him… I’m worth it.

I don’t know where I’m going with this.  I don’t know, exactly, why I had to stop that other post and write this post.  It’s just…

It’s not nice to pit one spouse against the other in some sort of strange “the pathetic one vs. the bitchy one” dynamic.  It’s not good for the marriage or either spouse.

And I let those snide little comments from friends and strangers affect my marriage for a really long time.  I was extra defensive about some things, projecting how other people seemed to feel onto my husband.  I beat myself up and then pushed harder than necessary to make myself feel better.  And I still (obviously) struggle to believe my husband when he tells me how he feels.

I need to tell myself, over and over again – and maybe in black and white words on a screen, that I deserve my husband.

That yes, he is kind and generous and forgiving.  He is almost always the first to apologize, while I am almost always the first to raise my voice.  He paints my toenails and I keep up a running commentary of jokes during his vasectomy.  He makes dinner and I make plans.  I am beyond grateful to be married to this man.  Next to my children, having his path cross mine and him choose me is one of the single greatest gifts I have ever received.

But I make plans.  I make him laugh and think and dream bigger than he might have dreamed without me.  I, too, am a spouse worthy of being appreciated.  A person worthy of appreciation and love.

So, yes.  I deserve my husband.

And Angie deserves hers.

And you, I daresay, deserve yours.

And… I guess I just needed to say that.

What to Expect When You’re Expecting

Because it doesn’t tell you how to be pregnant or give birth or raise babies.  It just says – hey, here are some things you can expect to see along the way.   Advice can be overwhelming, but knowledge is, as they say, power – the power to make up your own mind, maybe.

I thought about What To Expect When You’re Expecting when Robin asked if I’d put together a BlogHer “how to” post.  And I thought that there was already a whole bunch of advice out there, and certainly there wasn’t anything I could tell some grown ass women (and men) about how to attend a blogging conference in New York City.

But, well, maybe I can tell you a few things to expect.  At the very least, I can tell my friend Robin what I noticed last year that I hadn’t necessarily expected.

This is BlogHer

What To Expect When You’re Going To BlogHer For The First Time

1. You will see a lot of bloggers who do not “just write about life and stuff”.  Some of these people will ask you what your blog is about.

Now, I can’t tell you how you’ll feel or what you should do, but I can tell you that I felt like a moron and said something like “oh, um, I heard there was going to be free booze at this party.”  I know some women felt like maybe their personal blogs were stupid because they didn’t get an elevator speech with their WordPress Theme.  This year I plan on telling everyone that I’m only here because Ree Drummond and I are best friends and she asked me to come so she’d know someone.

2. Yes, you will actually walk a lot.

The entire conference takes place inside a hotel.  Even the parties after the conference take place in one hotel.  So it stands to reason that there is only so much walking you can do in a day.  And yet… holy balls will you be walking.  I don’t know how it happens, but it does.  This is why people tell you it’s stupid to wear shoes that are more cute than comfortable.

This is also why my feet will be bleeding by Thursday night, Friday afternoon tops.  Because I would rather bleed than wear ugly shoes in public for three days.

3. You don’t even know right now how insignificant you are – but you will!

Have you been on twitter following along with all the #blogher and #blogher10 buzz?  Are you wondering why you didn’t get invited to #NikonNightOut or #marthablogger?  I can’t tell you not to worry about it, but I can tell you that you cannot possibly even imagine how much shit you’ve been left out of.

Seriously.  The parties have parties at BlogHer.  (I’m not even exaggerating.  People who throw parties have parties about the parties before the parties start.)  It’s intense.  I got invited to a couple of parties last year and was feeling pretty good about myself, until I got to BlogHer and heard about the 138 other parties that I didn’t even know existed.  Did you know Barack Obama is having a party this year for bloggers?  Me neither!

4. There is a conference that happens at BlogHer, too!

Yeah, so, this was kind of news to me last year. I had never heard much about the sessions before, other than some very surface level gushing about all the “totally amazing and brilliant women and exchanging of ideas”, but I said the same thing about Shelly Miller when she taught me how to french braid my hair at a 6th grade slumber party.  But turns out, there actually is some conferencing that goes on.

There is also some… mmm… how you say? Crap?  Yes.  Crap.  For example, I sat on a panel last year that was all about sharing too much information on the Internet.  What we taught people was pretty much our names and URLs.  But!  It’s not all crap!  No!  Apparently there are some really amazing and brilliant women who are teaching and learning and stuff!

(I can’t tell you what to do, but I actually spent some time this year looking at the BlogHer agenda so I could plan which sessions I want to attend, because I’m kind of determined to get more than free booze out of my conference pass.)

5. Oh yes, there will be free booze.

I don’t care if you have never received a single email from a PR person or “popular blogger” in your life, you will have the chance to score free booze at BlogHer.  I hear they serve food as well.  You may gave registered for a few “private” parties, and there will also be opportunity for free booze there.  And then you might run out of drink tickets and start looking for the breastfeeding moms who aren’t using theirs anyway and might as well give them to you.  Or not.  I don’t know.  Whatever.

My point is, there will be the opportunity to mix and mingle.  I cannot tell you what to wear, but I can tell you what these parties are like: a wedding reception.

Or at least, they’re like every wedding reception I’ve ever been to in the Vets Building in Parkersburg, Iowa.  Music, booze, some people in jeans, some people in fancy dresses, but mainly everyone’s just there to have a good time and be way nicer than they are when they run into you on Main Street.  Some people are dancing and some people are sitting and some people are standing up wondering what the hell to do with their hands.  There’s probably a guy hanging out at the edge of the dance floor trying to just talk because he doesn’t dance, and there’s probably that really freaking annoying chic who’s all “whyyyyy won’t you come daaaaaance?  come onnnnnnn.”

That’s what the parties are like.

6. They are not kidding about the swag.

You’ve heard the rumors.  The bitching.  The gushing and the name calling and the attempts to downplay.  Let me give it to you straight: there will be way more free stuff than booze.  Someone told me last year to bring an extra suitcase just for the stuff.  I could have absolutely filled a suitcase with all of the stuff that was given to me.  It was a lot.

I can’t tell you what to do with it.  I can tell you that I didn’t bring home coupons for diapers, but I did bring home the world’s greatest shaving cream and so. much. lip gloss.  And 62 flash drives.  I don’t know why I brought all those damn flash drives home, but I also don’t know why I brought home all those business cards.

Is that it?

No.  Not even close.  If this is your first time going to BlogHer, the one thing you can absolutely expect is to be overwhelmed.  It’s a lot.  More people than you can imagine.  More stuff than you can imagine.  More walking and places and companies and rooms and lunch invites and business cards and more, more, more.

People come home from BlogHer and quit blogging because there is so much and some people, I think, are afraid of being swallowed up once they can see the ocean for what it is.

So, you know, expect that.

And remember that this conference gets bigger and bigger every year because lots and lots and lots of people go and see the ocean and damn near drown in the ocean and then talk about how they can’t wait to go back.

So, you know, expect that, too.

You’re going to be just fine, Robin.

We are so fucking wrong.

Really.  Dead wrong.  I can say with the utmost certainty that if I am ever reincarnated as a man and I end up impregnating a woman, I will sit my happy ass in the waiting room with my box of cigars and I will refuse to go anywhere near a live birth.

And if I ever invent a time machine, I will go back in time to 5:00pm on Friday, July 23, 2010 and I will tell my completely ignorant self to stay your ass in the waiting room while your husband gets a vasectomy.

Oh.  My.  God.

I thought I was being supportive.  He asked me to go, and I am much too evolved and progressive to say no because I have seen the man’s genitalia once or twice and come on. We are all grown-ups here!

Plus I was too distracted by live tweeting the entire thing to be trusted to make wise decisions.

Blah blah blah, they called Jared’s name and we both got up and walked to the tiny patient room that was currently serving as Waiting Room Part The Second, and as soon as I stood up, I heard the other wife in the large waiting room say, “See!  I’m not the only one!” and the nurse assured her that lots of women accompany their husbands.  The nurse even divulged that she had been in the room during her own husband’s vasectomy in order to “make sure it really got done.”

Someone remind me to warn that other woman in the waiting room when I go back with the time machine!

The two of us are sitting in Waiting Room Part The Second, which shared a wall with what was apparently the room where the procedure was being done. Jared and I listened to the doctor’s constant stream of chatter about family size and tried to guess if he was a Democrat or Republican.  Well, I tried to guess.  Jared started to look more and more pale.  Once in a while the doctor’s inappropriately placed questions would be answered with a grunt or halfhearted “yeah”, and I would reassure Jared that the other guy was obviously doing just fine.

And then we heard something that sounded an awful lot like a very large person falling over.  The remaining color in Jared’s face vanished completely.

“You’re going to be fine,” I insisted, reminding him again of my previous survival of TWO pregnancies and TWO childbirths.

The doctor opened the door to our purgatory room and led the two of us next door.  Jared was instructed to stand at the foot of the exam table and pull his pants down.  I stood beside him while he unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down to his ankles, the doctor looking on from the other side of the table as if this was all very routine.

“Good, good, now lay down”, Jared did as he was told, “and we’ll something something something your unit.”

Jared shot me a look and I bit my lip.  Hard.

“And then we’ll something something something the subject.”

My lip was starting to bleed, but I wasn’t laughing.  Technically.

Jared seemed to decide that looking at me was actually not helpful and began to stare at the ceiling instead.  This was probably a good call on his part.  Once the doctor started slathering the unit and surrounding area in iodine, it became impossible for me to hold back giggles with the term “oompa loompa penis!” flashing in my head.

OK, I might have slid up by Jared’s head under the guise of holding his hand so that I could discreetly whisper “oompa loompa penis”.  But that shit is too funny not so share.

The doctor is now babbling.  He’s asking about where we’re from and what’s in Iowa and where are children are and a bunch of other things that were apparently meant to distract everyone from what was going on.  But I’m no idiot.  A little small talk is not going to make me forget that someone is snipping away at my husband’s reproductive organs.  I squeezed Jared’s hand a little tighter to assure him that I was being really supportive, and then I leaned as far as I could towards his crotch.

Oh. My. God.

At first it just seemed like a small hole was being made.  A hole, I assumed, through which the entire procedure would be done.  A hole, perhaps, that a tiny tube with a camera would be inserted into.  Maybe a wire?  I don’t know, but I assumed that this tiny hole in my husband’s scrotum would be an access point.

It was, instead, the opening the doctor used to pull stuff out of.

I looked away.

I looked back at the subject.

I looked away again.

I looked back at the subject.

And at no fucking point in time did anything turn into two tickets to that thing I love!

No.  It turned into… oh my God it was so awful.

I thought I was going to vomit.  Like, literally.  The saliva sprang up in my mouth and my stomach swelled.  I looked into Jared’s eyes and tried to look really, really supportive.

“Everything OK?” I asked.

I’m going to be the asshole wife who vomits during her husband’s vasectomy.

I don’t know what Jared said. Something that indicated that he was hanging in there. I looked back at STILL NOT DIAMONDS. SHIT. STOP LOOKING.  Looking back to Jared was no longer enough to stop the sweat and I was afraid he’d see how badly I was struggling.  I looked at the wall behind him and swallowed as hard as I could.

You will not throw up.  You will not throw up.  You will stand here and be a lovingly supportive wife.

And then I smelled it.  ”Oh my God,” the words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.  Jared’s eyes slammed into mine, and I realized that an obviously involuntary gasp of “Oh my God” may possibly be the least comforting and supportive thing a man could hear midway through a vasectomy.

“Whew, that smell, huh?” I tried to quickly assure Jared that it was just the smell of burning flesh – nothing to be concerned about!

“I can’t smell any – ohhhh.  OHHHH!”

I am quite possibly the worst wife ever.

And then I looked back again.  BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHY.  I’m an idiot.  And the smell and the cutting and the little white – *lurch*.  My stomach vaulted into my mouth.  I took a deep breath in to hold back the vomit and was suffocated by the smell of burning testicle.  I’m looking at the little white worm-like thing protruding from the scrotum and I’m tasting the smell of burning vas on my tongue and oh my dear Lord in heaven, the room started to swim.

You will not pass out during your husband’s vasectomy.

I instantly had a visual image of hospital doors swinging open and shut behind my mother’s head as my father ran out of the room moments after I was born.  I didn’t remember the sight from my own memory, but my mother had told the story so many times that I could practically hear the swing of the doors as if the memory was own.  I instantly felt empathy for my 19 year old father and sympathy for my mother and husband whose wife was actually going to pass out during this vasectomy oh my god.

“You ok?” Jared asked.

I made promises of future sexual favors in my head. “Yes, yep, yeah, of course, great!”

Total asshole.

The next several minutes were filled with a lot of shallow inhalations and deep exhalations and hand squeezing and more idle chatter and OH MY GOD HE JUST PUT METAL IN YOUR BALLS!  WHY DID HE DO THAT?!?!

Apparently there was some video I was supposed to watch beforehand.

Anyway, chit chat, metal, wipe you off, pull your pants up, mail us a sample in a few weeks and have a nice life.  Jared signed some papers, picked up his goodie bag, and we headed out to the car.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Yep!”  He pulled a lollipop out of the goodie bag and waved it at me.

“Good, good.  Glad to hear it.”  I put the car in reverse.  ”I, by the way, am completely fucking traumatized and we may never be able to have sex again.”

“WHAT?!?!”

“Listen, Jared, that little piece of paper says you can resume all normal activities in three days.  I cannot unsee what I just saw!”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“You didn’t see it!  It was – ” I wretched.  I couldn’t help it; he visuals all came flooding back and *wretch*. “I can’t even begin to -” I wretched and shuddered some more.

Jared may have been not exactly sympathetic and possibly a little annoyed.  Or maybe pissed.  I don’t know exactly because I was probably suffering from PTSD.

I’ve asked Jared several times since then about when the kids were born.  He was in there – watching.  I remember my mother asking him if he could see the baby’s hair when Devin was born and the way he scurried up by my head shortly thereafter.  I remember him helping me into the bathtub the next morning and asking him if we were ever going to have sex again.

I finally understand his response.

“Shhhh… shhh…,” he’d patted me on the back tenderly, “let’s just not talk about that right now.”

Exactly.

Have you ever thought, "this chic should be on reality TV"?

Me too.

The producers of “Project Mom Casting” are looking to create a reality TV show about bloggers.  In order to be considered, bloggers must write a post explaining “their story” OR submit a vlog.

Here’s my story…

I’m trying to do better.

Be better.

A better mother. A better wife. A better daughter, friend, writer, blogger, citizen of the planet.

I want to be madly in love with my husband while stretching and reaching as an individual. I want to be nurturing my children while challenging them to grow into marvelous people.

I want to travel the world and share it with you, inspiring us all to see how much we have in common.

I want to do more while spending less, using less, consuming less – because really, I think the word consuming perfectly describes what we do to the people, places and resources around us these days.

My friend Faiqa described being a car recently as part of a writing exercise, and five words in her piece leaped off the screen at me as the most perfect summary of who I am:

My destiny is to move.

That’s my story. Moving. Stretching. Growing. Reaching.

And sometimes I make a spectacular mess of things in my trying to do better. Sometimes I almost get divorced or go months without speaking to my own mother or piss off total strangers and close friends alike with my misguided attempts to move. But I keep moving anyway, because it’s simply what I do.

And why do I put it on the Internet?

Because I believe that God puts desires in each of us for a reason, reasons we don’t always understand, and he put in me a constant desire to share my constant moving. I don’t know why. Maybe because the world needs a few people who aren’t afraid to make asses of themselves so that people who will not make asses of themselves will know it’s OK to try. Maybe because blondes or chics with funky eyes or abnormally short people will need a leader someday when the machines take over.* I don’t know why I was made to both move and blab about the moving. But I was, so I do, because I think we owe it to ourselves and our Creator and the big giant world we’re part of to do the things we’re made to do, even when – or especially when – we don’t understand why.

I think my grandmother might use the word faith.

So that’s my story.

And this is my video.

If you want me to become a reality TV star, hassle Project Mom Casting on Facebook and Twitter.  Basically, tell them I’m awesome.

*I don’t actually have the attention span for conspiracy theories. Plus I’m not crafty enough to make cute aluminum hats. (Do aluminum hats protect you when the machines attack, or is that just for aliens?)

God willing, forever four.

I remember reading about women who were heartbroken to say good-bye to their reproductive years.  They wrote moving prose about how their husbands’ vasectomies marked the end of an era, how a small part of them grieved for the passing of that fertile time.

I am not one of those women.

The only things I’m grieving are my weekend plans, since my husband has informed me that he will need to be “laying on the couch for at least two days”.

Granted, I’m not the one being sterilized this afternoon (which is, I need to point out again, different from actual castration, Jared).  I do have some sympathy for my husband in that regard, although he doesn’t seem to be at all concerned with becoming infertile, but maybe that’s just because he’s distracted by the idea of “HAVING MY PENIS CUT, BRITT!” (and, no, that’s not actually how it works, Jared).  In any case, I recognize that having your husband get a vasectomy is entirely different than actually getting a vasectomy.

But still.  As a couple, this is a commitment we make together to be finally and officially done with making babies.

Thank you, Jesus!

I keep waiting for a twinge of what these other women have talked about.  I even remember my own mother’s sadness when she had her tubes tied after my youngest brother was born, but I don’t feel even a trace of that remorse.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  The only thing I feel is relief and excitement and anticipation about moving out of the potential baby making phase and into the next phase of our life.  The official raising rather than having children phase.

It’s not that I don’t love my children.  I adore them both.  I physically ache for them when they are away from me for more than a day.  Last night as I stared into the darkness looking for a sign of regret about the upcoming vasectomy, all I could see was an overwhelming longing for the crowding of my daughter in my bed and the never-ending chatter of my son that is supposed to fill my home.  As a person who never fantasized about having children when I was one myself, I am often caught off guard by how much being a mother means to me.

No, not being a mother.

Being their mother.

I’m not sure I have that seemingly universal gene that screams to produce offspring.  I love squeezing other people’s babies and I delight in watching my friend’s children and my own nieces and nephews.  But naturally maternal I am not.

But loving my children, loving these two people specifically, is the single greatest joy of my life.  It fills me up in a way that no quiet yearning for unborn children ever could.

And with them, I am full.

I get the sense that I have met my children.  Both of them.  All of them. I feel like the four of us, me and Jared and Devin and Emma, create this perfectly balanced unit, a circle that is eternal and complete.

So I don’t know if it’s a sign of my meager maternal mojo or what, but I’m not bidding a tearful farewell to our fertility today.  I’m excited to be free of that tiny voice that constantly reminds me I could still get pregnant if I’m not “careful”.

And I’m grateful to my husband, for taking this one for the team.

Thanks, baby.

What you don’t have to listen to constantly see is how much I rave about the Camaro offline.  Unless you’re stalking me or are one of the people who has ridden in the car with me.  Because I might not bring up the car in casual conversation, but I can’t help but gush about all of the fancy things it can do while I’m actually in the driver’s seat.

“Oh, hang on, let me turn down the stereo USING THE CONTROLS ON MY STEERING WHEEL so that I can hear you better.”

“What’s that?  Oh, yes, I did just start my car while I was walking towards it mainly just because I CAN.”

“No, I don’t actually know where that is, but that’s fine because… hold on a second…. yes?  OnStar?”

Yes, I am exactly that fun to drive around with.  So far no one has complained, mainly, I suspect, because if they are hearing my gushing it means they are getting to ride in my sweet, sweet car.

Recently, someone asked me a question that made me stop mid-gush.

“Just between you and me… is there anything you don’t like about the Camaro?”

I had to stop and think about this for a minute.  Not because I was afraid to say anything negative, but because in all my gushing I actually hadn’t noticed anything negative about the Camaro.  And that?  Well, that’s not practical.  If we’re being real with one another, there’s no way a $30,000 car (roughly) is perfect.

So I spent the next few days trying to look for things I don’t like about the Camaro.  Here’s what I’ve come up with…

I wish the bluetooth could read. OK, that sounds ridiculous, but I had a portable bluetooth for my car that could, actually, read the names in my phonebook and respond to my voice prompts.  The bluetooth in the Camaro will respond when I say “call” and then “Jared” by calling my husband, but I had to train it specifically to link “Jared” with Jared’s cell phone number.  I did the same thing for “mom” and my mom’s cell phone number.  And then I decided that was enough work and now I never call anyone else from the car.

I can, technically, use voice prompts and the bluetooth to call numbers that have not been programmed into the bluetooth system.  All I have to do is dictate the phone number I want called.  But I have a cell phone, which means I don’t know what anyone’s phone number is anymore because the cell phone knows it and I don’t have to.

I wish OnStar downloaded maps with their instructions. I have been using OnStar a lot since getting the Camaro.  (I may or may not have gotten a subtle reminder about how many miles we have to “play with” after mentioning just how much I’ve been using OnStar.  Because really – a lot.)  I love being able to talk to a real person and not having to know the exact address of the place you’re going and having the instructions downloaded to your car in seconds.  I love that I get turn-by-turn instructions given to me over the car speakers and on the radio (and on my driver console if I want).  I do not love that there is no actual map.  While displaying an arrow, street name, and approximate miles or yards until the next turn, showing an actual map of the immediate area would be more helpful.  I’ve had to make a few last minute lane changes or totally safe U-turns because I wasn’t exactly sure where the turn was.  Plus it just kind of freaks me out not knowing what I’m heading into, just trusting the computer to tell me what to do.  It also doesn’t give me an update on how far I have left to go to reach my destination, although it gives me an estimate at the beginning of the route.

This leaves me torn on whether or not I would pay for the OnStar subscription if I had the option after my free year.  When I go to purchase a new car, I’m not sure if I’ll be looking for OnStar, an on-board navigation system, or just stick with my portable GPS device.  Perhaps I’d get more comfortable without a map after using OnStar for a while (because apparently there was once a time when people didn’t even have digital maps in their cars.  CRAZINESS!)

And.. and… and…

I am trying to decide if the noise (because holy COW it is loud when you accelerate) belongs in the plus or minus column.  When I’m alone, I love the noise.  Vroom, vroom, baby.  But when I have a friend in the car and we’re trying to have a conversation, the noise can almost be hard to talk over until I’ve finished accelerating.  Maybe sports cars just aren’t the best place for intimate conversations.

That’s all I can come up with right now.  Would those things prevent me from buying a Camaro (or weeping when I have to give this one back)?  No.  I’d have to think long and hard about extending the OnStar service after the free year, and I’d have to actually take the time to program more numbers into the bluetooth, but those minor inconveniences wouldn’t affect my purchasing decision.

I’m curious if anyone else has found anything they don’t like about the Camaro…

(Reminder, you can GO AND VOTE FOR ME IF YOU LIVE IN FLORIDA – and there’s something in it for you maybe if you do.  Also, this makes me realize that I would have introduced myself to my neighbors, because HOLY CRAP I KNOW NO ONE IN FLORIDA.  Dang it.)

What does he see?

…I must have rawhide skin, because I take unnaturally hot showers.

…I make “scary noises” when I run.

…I should not be in charge of the Netflix queue because I cannot be trusted to pick out anything “decent”.

…there is, in fact, such a thing as “too many shoes”.

…it is completely unacceptable to ask a man to move his clothes into the guest room in order to make room for more shoes.

…I am getting smaller every day.

…I have ridiculously soft skin.

…I look so cute when my hair is a mess and I haven’t showered yet.

…there is no one else in the world that is better company than me.

Sometimes, most times, actually, I wish I could see myself through his eyes for just a moment.  I know I’d have to see the bitchiness and the selfishness and the argument that I probably shouldn’t have won.  But it would be worth it for even a quick glance at the way he describes me.  It would be worth it to know, once and for all, if those are things he says to be nice, or if there is really this other – this better - version of me living in someone else’s perception.

Some days, days like today, actually, just the possibility that this perception of me exists inspires me to be more.

Jared is getting a vasectomy this week!!

Oh, I kid.  I mean, he is and it is good news to me, but he, apparently, is not quite ready to throw a party about it.  In fact, he “can’t believe you are making light of this, Britt.”

Boys and their wee-wees.*

But seriously, my good news:

What that means, for those of you that don’t blog, is that something I wrote was chosen out of over 1,000 submissions to be one of 90 pieces that will be featured and honored at a gala in New York City during the upcoming BlogHer 10 conference.

You know it’s a big deal because they use the word gala.

Also, an artist is going to be creating some kind of artwork based on this post that I wrote and that art will be auctioned off to help benefit clean up efforts in the Gulf. I’m excited and nervous to see what she comes up with, because it’s kind of on her to make sure we have something people want to bid on. (But no pressure, Robin!)

But mostly, I’m in freaking awe that I am one of 90 writers.  One of 90, which seems like a big number until you put it next to 1,000.  And not only am I one of 90, but my husband is going to be in New York City at this gala to see my work honored.  Women, I know you get it.  Women who write all these words on the Internet and struggle to make sense of it in words not on the Internet to people you live with?  I know you get it.

My writing is being honored.

And my husband is going to see it firsthand.

That is good news.

And Faiqa’s news is better.

Faiqa, who we all know I love as much as one straight woman can love another straight woman, is one of 15 people who was asked to read something she wrote at the Community Keynote before the gala.

One of 15.

This?  This is huge.  This is the be all to end all for people who do what I do.  And while she didn’t even freaking know how huge it was when she found out and had to have it very carefully explained to her while someone maybe resisted the urge to shake her very hard – I honestly couldn’t be more proud of her.

Yeah, proud.

Happy for her?  Sure, OK.  Insane jealousy may rank just a littttttle bit higher than happy for her.

But proud?  Proud most of all.

Because not only do I know what piece she’s reading (which is a secret I’m not supposed to know! Ha! Rebels we are!) and how much every single one of us should read it, but because I know who she is and how much every single one of us should be blessed with an opportunity to be exposed to a piece of that for a moment.

This woman whose words are being honored even more than my own is my friend.  And the really great news is that who she is will be getting the attention it deserves.

And that’s almost as good as Jared getting a vasectomy.

*I am probably going to be in worse trouble** for the wee-wee comment than the vasectomy humor.

**I am not sure if Faiqa or Jared*** will be more upset for my use of wee-wee/vasectomy humor in this post.

***Anyone want to make side bets?

This week’s mission was supposed to be grocery shopping, probably so we can show off trunk space or something.

But, well, we don’t have kids in the house. We haven’t been grocery shopping since June.  So…

2 Adults, 2.5 Days Off, 1 Camaro… 0 Kids from MissBritt on Vimeo.

But I promise to go grocery shopping this weekend.  Promise.

(Stopping at the food court while shoe shopping counts as groceries, right?)

Because we used to be friends.

We weren’t acquaintances.  We weren’t casual friends that had a good time together if we happened to show up to the same party.  I didn’t tolerate you; I loved you.  I made wishes for your good fortune, because your happiness became something I genuinely longed to see.

And then, suddenly, we weren’t friends anymore.

And just like that, I was expected to believe that nothing I knew about you was true.  We didn’t just drift apart – we exploded.  And I was supposed to rewrite our history together, because certainly that couldn’t exist in the same world as this.  There’s  no logical way to reconcile those two realities.

I know that people can live their lives as someone else for a while.  Oh God, do I get that.  But your someone else?  Your apparent break from reality?  She was my friend.

We laughed together.  We laughed until someone snorted or peed or cried, and then we laughed harder.  We reveled in the sheer joy of being able to snort or pee or cry in front of someone.

We cried, too.  Because, of course, it’s nearly impossible for two people to be friends for long without somebody crying.  We wiped each other’s tears, or sat silently beside one another until there were no more tears to cry.  We shared secrets, secrets that went beyond the superficial he said/she said/I did/I know.  We divulged the truly dangerous stuff about what we feared and regretted and hoped for and dreamed of and wanted to be when we grew up.  I split myself open in front of you, and it made perfect sense at the time to do so.

Because we used to be friends.

The day we stopped being friends, my family and I stood in front of our memories of you.  We asked one another if we should erase your photos from our walls and sweep your footprints from our lives.  We were torn.  On one hand it seemed that scrubbing you from our lives would be the logical thing to do.  On the other, it was flagrantly dishonest to pretend those memories hadn’t been made.  And so we let your picture hang until the day it fell off the wall all on its own.  The frame shattered, and I found myself surprised by a wave of sadness.

Because we used to be friends.

I’ve seen people move on from friendships.  I’ve heard the rewriting of history as the same old stories are suddenly retold from a new, more angry perspective.  I know that it’s natural to become hyper aware of a person’s faults as resentment and time puts distance between you.  I know.  I’ve done it.  And part of me wants so damn badly to do it with you, because then all of this wouldn’t still hurt.

I have no problem feeling apathy for the face you show now.  That girl is a stranger to me, with no memories to cling to.  I don’t miss that girl anymore than I miss a woman I might pass on the street during a morning run.  But there is another girl, a girl I’m told was a figment of my imagination.  A girl I laughed with and cried with and shared deep, dark secrets with.  And that girl I can neither hate nor be apathetic towards.  That girl, I’m ashamed to admit, I mourn.

Because we used to be friends.