Last night my best friends surprised me with dinner and cake at Doppio (so good), but…
The real HAPPY BIRTHDAY goes to my mom and dad, who made me who I am, who made sure I survived to see 29, and who have taught me how to love and be loved. At 7:30 this coming Monday morning, the moment at which I was born, I’ll be thinking of them (and especially my mother, who did all the pushing and especially my father who drove us home the next day).
I told her so, but I haven’t told the world yet: Happy (belated) Mother’s Day to my beautiful angel mama who always puts herself last yet deserves the first and best and most of everything. She did not give me those cheekbones, but I love her anyway.
Received a snack in the mail today—Mom sent me a book that first belonged to her mother’s mother, my great-grandmama Grace Lee. Poets of the South was published in 1903, and Grace read it in college, as evinced by her signature on the second page:
#12 Memorial Hall
M.B.S. [Mary Baldwin School]
I said, “Mommy, this book looks brand new! It doesn’t look like it’s ever been opened.”
She said, “Well, it probably wasn’t!”
I’ll open it this weekend and read it all the way through.
Things Mom taught me:
- Write your thank-you notes on Christmas afternoon.
- Dress up for air travel.
- Eat a small salad with every dinner.
- When cracking open a blue crab, start with the candlestick.
- Sleep in.
- Never talk during Seinfeld.
- Wear lipstick. (One can always use a little color.)
- Never date a man who doesn't read.
- Add mayonnaise to your grilled cheese (before grilling).
- Always maintain your own checking account.
- Don't say the F-word too much, or it loses its power.
- Go to church.
- Never pair baby blue with brown.
- There is a Rolling Stones song to suit every occasion.
- If tired, depressed or otherwise blue, take a walk.
- Never put Jack Daniels in egg nog.
- When speaking to a customer service representative, be friendly.
- Don't keep bad friends.
- Cheese and crackers are a perfectly acceptable dinner.
"The world can’t end yet. I have too many books to read."
Happy birthday to my sweet mama! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: When I was ten, my baby-sitter Lois took me to see The Baby-Sitters Club at the theatre, and I scarfed an entire large bucket of popcorn and later that night, threw up all over my bedspread, and Mom got out of bed to hose it down in the backyard, and she wasn’t even mad! She did that for me! And she said that when she croaks, she wants us to play Uncle Mick’s "She’s So Cold" when they carry her casket out of the church (not that that is every going to happen because she is going to live forever). She is a unicycle-riding, Fifty Cent-quoting bold bitch, and she is the best!!! Happy birthday, hot Peggity!
- Mom: Do you feel ready?
- Me: Do YOU feel ready?
- Mom: I don't know.
- Me: Yeah, I don't know either.
- Mom: You'd better get ready.
- Me: I don't know. I'm hungry.
- Me: Billie thinks I'm insane.
- Mom: Tell her to join the club.
Thirty years ago today, my parents got married.
Thirty years later, they’re still totally in love.
Happy anniversary, Mom and Daddy.
"Going to bed with someone you don’t love is a lot lonelier than going to bed alone."
Mom came to town this past weekend. We ate dinner at De Santos, Bakehouse, and Blue Ginger; ran the Central Park loop, toured the Brooklyn Flea (she bought me a silver Revere bowl), shared a bloody Mary at No. 7, slammed pickle backs at the Rusty Knot, wandered through the Cloisters, unearthed some great party blouses at Michael Kors, and watched the Game of Thrones pilot on my sofa. By the time she left this morning, we were both sore from head to toe and thoroughly exhausted. I miss her already.
Jane turned 26 last Thursday. Happy birthday, little bunny!
Work owns my life. It is a pain in the ass to march in there every day and give 200 percent but so rewarding to see my blood/sweat/tears come to life. I co-edited the April issue of RL Magazine, and you can view it here. My story about Newport even made the cover!
Ditto my first exclusive shoot for the Style Guide.
Ultramarathon training kicks off this week, and for the first time in a long time, running is scary. It’s scary to think that in six months these little eight-mile slogs will turn into 50. It’s scary to give my life to something so entirely, to be on the precipice of something that is going to test me in ways I don’t yet understand, and it’s scary to think that that test will last six months. I must be out of my mind.
Edit: Billie is safe and sound. Thanks to all who checked in. These acts of terror on our soil are horrifying, and I am heartbroken for all who were present in Boston today.
Cool story, Mom.
- [Back story: my mom tripped over our cat last Sunday and hit her head on a porch step, thus earning a black eye so gnarly that she had to skip work on Monday. The following conversation took place on Monday night.]
- Mom: I'm going back to work tomorrow.
- Mom: I need a cooler story to tell. What really happened was so uncool.
- Me: Tell 'em all you were having sex.
- Mom: Ha. Yeah. "I fell out of the swing."
Yesterday marked my mother’s five-year anniversary as a cancer survivor.
No need to ramble here; y’all and she know how much I love her, admire her. But when I think of how strong she is and how much living she has yet to do, how many names left to take and asses to kick, and when I think of how, even when sick, she cared first for my sisters and me, and then for my father and then for everyone else she loves and only then for herself, it’s easy to go on and on.
Mom, thank you for never giving up and for always being the boldest bitch in the room.
"I like to keep in mind that at any time, the skateboard will humble you."
Anonymous said: What are your thoughts on online dating? I'm super skeptical but after my last bad breakup I need a jolt and a dive, not a toe into the waters of dating.
After my dad broke up with Buffy, he asked his best friend for a list of the ten hottest babes in New York City and then began to check off names—calling one, taking her out, deciding, “No, she’s not for me,” and then moving on to the next one. My mom was, I don’t know, maybe fourth on the list? Number six? Anyway he showed up at her apartment on a rainy night in November; by then he was sick of the game and didn’t particularly want to be there. He even had a newspaper tucked under one arm in case it all went south. So he arrives, rings the bell, she opens the door, bursts out laughing at the sight of him, and he knows at that very moment that he will marry her. (He made good seven months later.)
The point I’m trying to make is that however you do it, whether you sign up for Match or pay a matchmaker or just hit every single happy hour in a ten-mile radius, at some point you will discover that not only are you fully submerged in the pool, but you won’t even remember diving.