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Contemplating [the nest]--a magazine for us Tweeners

H-band was rather shocked to see yet another magazine in our pile of unappreciated media matter: [the nest]--a sister pub of the Website the Knot.

"You can't even get through what you have," H-band said, eying the cover of the Naked Chef and his wife. Apparently, if we read the magazine, we would learn how to make good dinners for two.

"I didn't order it, hun. It just kinda showed up."

I had heard of the pub and marveled at the marketing smarts behind it without realizing I was a key customer. [the nest] is for newlyweds, addressing their life together after the hubbub, after the dress gets freezedried or whatever the hell you're supposed to do with it. Most people think we're not worth much after we say 'I do'. We become sensible again and would never think to engrave napkins in gold or buy pantyhose with built-in-girdles again until our kids' weddings.

But au contraire: we're worth a lot, actually, though it's been hard to determine why. We're feeling a bit off-kilter. We look at our partners and think, "OMG! This is the person I'm married to!" We wonder if the years will be nice to us. We feel differently but can't quite put our finger on it. We feel a new sense of responsibility toward someone, and this someone becomes a reason for saying no to things. "No, I won't be joining y'alls on Friday night; I'm watching Psyche with my husband..." You can't look at this person who helps to support you emotionally and financially and say Screw You when he tells you it probably isn't a good idea to go shopping for new boots. You can't understand why you've become more generous with headrubs, because giving them is like receiving them. You don't know why you are so excited about discovering a new way of making burritos.

All of this is worth something. [the nest] is betting on it.

"When you pitch in without being asked--even if it's not your job--your partner will notice," H-band said. "You've given your partner the gift of your time."

"Huh?" I said. "What are you talking about?"

H-band, came out of the bathroom after a long reading stint, about three-quarters of the way into [the nest].

"There's an article in here on cleaning the bathroom that I think you should take a look at," he said. "You do some of this already, but you should check out the part about cleaning your hair and gobs of toothpaste in the sink."

Looking over H-band's shoulder I see a page for [the nest] baby shop, and now I feel a little bit less special. We newlyweds are actually not that special. Rather we're a feeding pool for the real moolah--the breeders. I imagine we'll remain in this less-appreciated purgatory for a little while longer, at least, maybe even forever. But at least our bathroom will be clean.

On Dying Well

H-band's aunt Cynthia came over for dinner the other night. Cynthia does what she calls hospice care and what I call God's work. When my Dad was sick I found even the first day of caring for him draining, more emotionally than physically.

"What I do is really no big deal," Cynthia said to us over dinner. "Anyone can do it--care for people before they transition. But we've lost the knowledge of how."

I do believe that American society, specifically, has stigmatized death and dying to the point of making it distasteful.

The Severance

  I met my husband in a personal development seminar. His significant other had suggested he go, and to save their relationship he thought he should. I went because my company sent me. We had no intention of meeting "the one," at that seminar and we didn't date for years after that. People ask me if I knew back then that we'd be married. All I can remember, I'm afraid, was his hair.

I had been sitting behind him for a good portion of the time, and I remember wishing that my hair would spiral like his did when in a ponytail.

Now, I was never a Fabio-loving type. I never harbored fantasies of running my hands through my lover's long, luxurious hair. But something about this man's ponytail was very much a turn on. The jeans and the Converse, on the other hand, just screamed to me, college bait, and, well, I always dated older men.

Two years later, when we bumped into each other at a party and he asked me out, H-band was wearing expensive black shoes, a funky dress shirt, and the same spiraling ponytail. On our first date I had to ask him, "Did you ever have short hair?"

"Years ago," he said. "But I started to grow it out after high school. For all of my adult life it's been long."

I knew that H-band, who was not even B-friend yet, was born and raised in a beach town outside San Diego. I imagined a little boy, a more deflated version of Little Hercules, running around naked like a little Tarzan with his soft flowing hair. I imagined his hair was--like Big Hercules' long locks--his strength, his past. A past I never dared to alter. As we started dating I commented occasionally on his facial hair, but never, ever, did I so much as hint at a trim when it came to his long mane. Frankly, I couldn't imagine him without it.

Which explains the wide-eyed look when H-band declared over the holidays, "I'm thinking of cutting my hair."

But then I thought, "H-band thinks of owning a Maserati too; that doesn't mean that he will."

But then H-band turned 30, and our very dear friend--his former flame--Jen passed away at an age that was too young to not send life-questioning reverberations through all of her friends. H-band began looking into salon windows and wondering if his head was too small for short hair. Finally, this week he said to me in passing,

"You planning to be in the city on Friday?"

"I could be. Why?"

"I'm gonna do it," he said. "It's time. I made an appointment; I'd like you to be there when it happens."

I wondered, am I attending a haircutting, or a bris?

In Loving Memoriam: Jennifer Guy

We received some bad news yesterday. Not surprising news--Jen was sick for a while. Her friends had been scrupulous about keeping people in the loop. But still, hearing that one of the most vivacious people I've ever known had passed away seemed unreal to me. Not possible.

For both my husband and myself, this is very much a shared loss. Jesse and Jen dated for years before he and I did. They were close to each other for a long time. I met Jen on the tail end of their relationship, way before Jesse and I even went on a first date. I was told we were alike in some ways. When she was searching for new career opportunities I introduced her to a woman named Mindy who owned a consulting firm that I had been working for, and that I was leaving to pursue grad school. Ironically, I never entered the MA program, opting instead to try other things (sigh). But Jen and Mindy ended up partnering and growing the business astronomically. They both became my entrepreneurial heroes. Through them I learned that I had to stop trying to stumble upon good opportunities and to accept that anything worthwhile would come by hard work coupled with great faith.

At the time that I connected Jen with this opportunity, Jesse and I began to date. For a while this made things tense, more for me than for Jen. She had moved on and was dating someone else, but I knew that she had been hugely important to Jesse. A little more than a year into my relationship with Jesse, Jen and I connected.

"You realize, you gave me a miracle," she said, referring to her business.

"You realize, you gave ME one," I replied.

From that point, I grew to love and admire the woman who influenced the man I would marry.

I had never maintained friendships with exes or friends of exes. I learned a new way of being with Jen; I learned to appreciate, honor, and love Jesse's past--and the people who made up the past. I learned that they could be brought into the present.

I can't help but try to imagine what thoughts she had, whether she was at peace, before she died. I hear that it was a peaceful passing, but I'll never know what it was like for her. What I do know for sure is that she had devoted friends and family who cared for her for two years, that she is free of the pain, and we miss the hell out of her.

Jennifer Guy

The Unemployed Woman's Guide to Enjoying the Holidays

This week's post on BlogHer: I wrote this after reading some great advice for people searching for jobs over the holidays. Time seems to stand still for these people at this time. I know, because I was one of them.

For those so inclined: Wedding Pix on Flickr

Meri provided an awesome solution: Rather than pick and choose wedding pix, post them! I blew my free account quota for the month, so I'll post more later. There's only so much bliss people can take, anyway.

Thanks to my pals, Jim Macove, Steve Fielding, Matt & Mindy Ranney, Teri and Ken Young, Kurt Foeller, and Todd Bronk for the documenting my day.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/22956474@N00/sets/72157594371025278/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/22956474@N00/sets/72157594371030876/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/foeller/sets/72157594342697656/

Jory Des Jardins Jesse Markman Des Jardins-Markman Wedding Steve Fielding Kurt Foeller Ranney Jim Macove Todd Bronk Ken Young

My Life as a Cryer

I dated a guy who used to have sweat issues; not while I dated him, but before we met. He told me he'd taken care of the problem through a highly risky surgery that severed a nerve near his spine. He was so desperate to be able to shake someone's hand without handing them a towel that he accepted the risk, had the surgery, and now sweats normally. It struck me as such an extreme solution, but now I'm not so sure. Every aspect of his life--social to professional--had been affected by this condition.

I wonder if there's a procedure for people who cry profusely? That seems to be my personal curse. Get me started and I don't stop. Often I'm not still feeling what started the tears, but they continue. I'm not much of a weeper, I'm rarely audible; I'm more of a seeper--tears just keep coming. I get tissues and shirtsleeves soggy. The mood could change dramatically; I could even start laughing, but I'll still be crying. This is disconcerting for people, who understandably think there's something wrong. I can only snort up snot and try to explain, "Don't worry, I'm fine," I say. "I'm just a cryer."

Sick of Seeing Pictures from My Wedding?

TUFF!

I think after this I should become a photo blogger. I've learned that people love visuals. This set is from my good friend Jim Macove, who also shot my professional pics.

Remembering Craig Cline

I would have liked to have planned Craig's Bay Area memorial sooner, but hey, better late than never. I had this other thing--my wedding--going on, and I wanted to be fresh for this.

Dave Winer was wonderful to offer up his digs for the service--if you want to call it that. When I think of memorial services, I think of some man or woman of the cloth saying something about how the departed is in God's hands now. I believe in God, but I'm not the type that needs reassurance. I know Craig's in good hands, but I miss him. I wanted stories.

Folks like Gene Gable, Mark Anderson, and Craig's kids Matt, Dylan, Ian, Ryan, Aliyah and Rob (who is traveling but there in spirit) offered up some great stories about Craig. Some resonating themes:

--Craig was never a good driver.
--Ebay owed him a Customer of the Year Award; everyone had witnessed him in the midst of a purchase.
--He always looked like a lovable sheepdog. I saw pics of Craig with much less gray hair from back in the tight turtleneck days. He always had his bangs flopping over wherever they landed and the signature shaggy beard.
--He was a die-hard Democrat. Once, while driving his daughter to school he stopped the car to pull Right-leaning signs out of someone's lawn.
--He was a gadget junkie.
--He was a master of words, though often in meetings he kept his mouth shut.

Craig's wife, Gayle, had some beautiful words to share about Craig. She also distributed information about ALS research. Though research hasn't come far enough yet to have saved Craig, in another five years that will change.

Gene Gable contributed some wonderful pics, for those who want to get a better sense of the world Craig belonged to. As the head of content for the Seybold Conference, he orchestrated keynotes, panels, and debates in the print and digital publishing world since the late 80s. In the 90s, Seybold WAS the place to speak for companies like Apple, Adobe and Microsoft, and Craig decided who took the dais.

Here's Dave Winer's account of the memorial, er salon. I think Craig would have preferred we call it that.

Craig Cline Seybold Gene Gable Mark Anderson Dave Winer Lou Gehrig's disease

The Wedding Chronicles: Hitched

B-friend rolled over to face me in our bedroom, overlooking the rolling hills of Mendocino County.

"Guess I'm H-band now," he said.

He had a point. I looked down at his left hand, where he now wore a white gold ring--a mobius strip that had been sautered together to form a twisting, but endless, loop.

"we did it," he said.

Huh. And I thought that I'd just thrown the biggest party of my life. But I guess that somewhere during the tearful soliloquies, toasts, vows and picturetaking two people got married.

Over the past few days, as photos from friends have arrived in our inboxes, I've started to piece together events. I did walk down the aisle with my mother. My niece did break protocol and run ahead of my bridesmaids--my sisters--screaming "Wait for me!" I did cry while reading to B-friend my reasons for marrying him. (For a coherent breakdown of events, check out my mother's blog).