hello everyone,

I’m selling “I ♥  Baghdad” shirts.

Spread the word via facebook, blogs, email, word of mouth, websites.

And join the hope revolution.

THANKS!!!!!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/gammarays?ref=pr_shop

http://www.alittlepregnant.com/alittlepregnant/2004/05/i_ny.html

I hope you enjoy as much as I did.  And do.

That’s not a complaint. If anything, it’s the opposite. Though I will admit that the pangs of nostalgia for NYC endure and are not likely to subside: the feeling of being a part of something monumental; to live in the heartbeat of that most amazing place and watch as it’s transformed by the mercy of a church that knows how to love because it knows the Gospel, not religion; to read a work of fiction set in Manhattan and think, I’ve been there! at the mention of a restaurant or I’ve seen him! at the mention of a local celebrity (see Naked Cowboy, Mayor of Central Park).

BUT. I have now become ensconced in family more than ever before, with additions to my own and marriage into another and involvement in a smaller church that feels like one. This is a new feeling for me, as evidenced by my doctor’s visit this morning and my hesitation at filling out the demographic questionnaire when I got to the part where I had to check the box: married? Single? My hand flew reflexively to the single box, where I resided for thirty-three years, many of them hopeless and bitter (had I gotten my petulant way years earlier, I would likely now be checking divorced, can I get an amen?). My brain and heart intervened and I headed on over to married, laughing at myself and hoping The Husband wouldn’t take it the wrong way when I told him the story later. (He won’t.)

So it’s new to me, the move from single city-dweller to married girl in a house. And there are what some may call drawbacks now, what with my spending more time plugging leaks than frequenting happy hours, but they aren’t. Drawbacks, I mean. Not when you add it all up and carry the 1 and remember gratitude. Grass we’re not standing on may tend to look greener, but I’ve learned the difference between allowing nostalgia and comparing lives and I’m getting pretty good at watering my own grass (if not growing my own literal garden). And in the spirit of blooming where I’m planted (can I use any more yard cliches?), I considered there, from my seat in the gym, how beautiful the brokenness of being in a family can be. How being a member of Redeemer felt like riding a wave of powerful justice and change, but one of its own admitted drawbacks is its size (currently being addressed by division and planting). And how now, tears clog my eyes and those around me as we are faced with the sadness of one of our own. How being in a family can make you feel busted and bruised, but also beloved. And belonging. How I realized that, when we went to The Sis’s house this weekend for dinner and listened to The Dad and The Uncle tell the same stories we’ve heard a hundred times, this is what didn’t happen at happy hour. How big grace is, that it knows each of us by name and has designed a place for us, whether in the city, or in a house…or both.

i know that it’s not an exclusive or monogamous relationship, but my love for new york runs deep and true.

growing up on the beach i always saw old trucks with surfboards hanging out of the windows and bumper stickers that read                                                                    ”a bad day of surfing is better than a good day at work”.

i feel that a bad day in new york is better than a good day anywhere else.

I was going to post the disappointing Kid Cudi track until Confusion from P&P saved me with two tracks from Samuel. This NY-based pop artist provides a hypnotizing voice on top of the most catchiest beats and melodies (produced by The Knocks). Give him a try and I swear these tracks along with his last year’s “I Heart NY” will be in your summer playlist. Stream + Download below.

Shoutout to P&P!

Samuel – “Neverland”

Samuel – “Safety Off”

Download: Samuel – Neverland + Samuel – Safety Off

The Mom likes to get into New York cabs and give the driver a one-word direction: “Balthazar.” (Or Bartholomew’s, as she has called it.) “The Hilton.” (There are several.) “Chelsea.” (A neighborhood where, for years, she was convinced I lived. I never did.) I’ve explained to her that this, along with a Southern accent, makes her a target to be taken for a ride by some cabbies. So I told our driver, “Fifty-sixth between Sixth and Seventh,” and felt busted when he replied, “Parker Meridien?” Minus one for my street cred.

As we exited the FDR in midtown Manhattan, I gazed at all the people walking the familiar streets and wondered why so many people were awake and out at 9:30 pm on a Wednesday night. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I felt positively un-suburban when TH and I, after dropping our luggage in our room, ventured back outside and headed to a nearby deli to stock up.

I spent a grand total of four hours in meetings. Thursday morning, I headed to the Sheraton and straight to my favorite row in the conference room–the back one. I ended up next to a Brooklyn dentist who talked my ear off but in a way that made me feel I had known her forever. For someone who feels one step away from social anxiety in situations like these–big rooms with hundreds of people, several of whom I would rather avoid–her presence was an addition to my gratitude list and just another way I felt taken care of in this great and terrifying city.

The same thing happened at the meeting the next day–a “coincidental” seat next to a like-minded female colleague–but not without some relaxation in between. The Parker Meridien (or Le Parker Meridien, if you’re nasty) boasts a rooftop pool and it was here that TH and I found ourselves every afternoon, congratulating ourselves on having lived multiple years in a city that we now felt no cultural obligation to in the form of museum visits or tourist stops. Just propping our feet up forty-two floors above street level and gazing down at Central Park was all we needed to feel ensconced in the Big Apple again. What we didn’t need was the toddler who shat in the pool and forced it to be evacuated for thirty minutes, but what can you do? Europeans.

Thursday morning we headed to Sarabeth’s for brunch and while we hoovered pancakes, omelets, and bacon, I used my eavesdropping skills (and aversion to Asian languages like the one being spoken on the other side of us–much love to all my Asian brothers and sisters but those who know me well know this is A Big Thing with me–why do they sound so harsh?) to listen in on a conversation between a Lebanese man and a Southern man a few feet away. Then I heard the words Gospel and church-planting and I thought I might pee myself just a bit. “I think that’s one of the Redeemer pastors,” I whispered to TH, jerking my head in the direction of the red-headed Southerner (score one for the gingers!). My palms got sweaty and my heart began to race because I knew I would have to practice one of the skills I picked up during my New York tenure–bravery–or risk regret over an opportunity missed. Sure enough, we had a lovely conversation with the two men, one of them indeed a Redeemer pastor. Jesus shows up just everywhere!

The rest of the weekend was a blur: reconnecting with friends over drinks, burgers, brunch, and cupcakes (thank you, AC, for the Buttercup fix), room-service sundaes and rented movies, tapas and more tapas, half-price pre-noon movie (Hangover 2, you were lame, sorry) with out-of-this-world bagels, walks through Gramercy Park, Union Square, and the West Village (destination: Magnolia Bakery), quality time with the Yankee ‘Rents. Any concerns I had about the trip (and there are always concerns–anxiety is a virtue next to cleanliness in my family) were allayed swiftly and kindly by the One who took me to that city in the first place, six years ago, when I had no idea of the world that awaited me. Dearest friends, ceaseless laughter, temporary tears, true love, deep faith. Appropriately enough, one of our last stops was the Redeemer West Side AM service, and when Tim walked out to preach, I turned to my friend and said it: “I’m just so excited!” There’s something about being told the truth–and knowing it’s written all over your story–that reminds you of how undeservingly well-regarded you are, how well-taken care of and provided for. And to see it all played out in a weekend? Blessings upon blessings.

image courtesy of stevie koerner

courtesy of urban outfitters

Notice anything about the two items above? Despite the fact that they look eerily similar…ok, fine, EXACTLY the same – the first image was the original item made by Etsy designer Stevie Koerner aka @imakeshinylove  and the second was a complete and utter ripoff by Urban Outfitters.

Now I have to say one thing about this – obviously we all know that large corporations constantly ripoff independents for their creativity and unique ideas.  Its part of what makes the big bucks go round.  But to be so blatant about it is simply stupid.  Maybe they could have gotten away with a stunt like this 5 years ago.  But in today’s social media-enfused world?  Check out the results of what a tweet started here.

I’ve personally experienced the power of social media a few times.  Having had a bad experience here or there with certain brands, a simple tweet or FB message was about 10 000 times more effective and garnered an almost immediate response from the companies resulting in a satisfied customer.

Whether you are a large company or a small independent, its a fact that social media can’t be ignored.  Urban Outfitters at this point in time has not even so much as tweeted a response.  The problem definitely won’t go away if you brush it under the rug, in fact, this type of PR nightmare deserves an immediate response.  What could be the holdup?!

The other disturbing part of this story is the copycatting.  Its rare to find a truly original idea whether its in fashion, home decor, literature, cooking…etc.  But copycatting has always driven me a bit batty because at the root of it lies complicity, insecurity or just plain laziness.

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery but rarely does the imitatee ever feel this way.

So – will you be boycotting Urban Outfitters/Anthropologie/Free People to support independent artists?

Stevie of imakeshineythings.com (tru.che on etsy) is a fabulous designer of some AWESOME jewelry, here is an example of her genius:

and here is Urban Outfitter’s piece:

A heartbreaking quote from imakeshineythings tumbler post about this:

My heart sank a little bit.  The World/United States of Love line that I created is one of the reasons that I was able to quit my full-time job.  They even stole the item name as well as some of my copy.

The Huffington Post also picked up the story:  Urban Outfitters Continues Their Grand Tradition Of Ripping Off Designers

And Amber Karnes wrote an awesome post today as well:  Anatomy of a trending topic: How Twitter & the crafting community put the smackdown on Urban Outfitters

While I do enjoy some of Urban Outfitter’s items, and their sister company Anthropologie, it’s time to let go. I can’t shop there anymore and will be supporting independent artists every chance I get. I am very proud to be part of a community of artists who take care of their own. Social media is an AWESOME force. Crafters and artists are an awesome force. Like Amber Karnes said in her post:

Don’t underestimate the power of tribes.

Damn right.

We’ve known each other way too long to start acting classy now.

With Paul belting out favorites like “The Only Living Boy in New York,” “Sound of Silence,” and “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” and strawberry cheesecake flavor sticking to my teeth, I practiced my gratitude (easy to do with free concert tickets and good music, but still): a table full of friends who haven’t given up on me for fifteen years, a husband who drops seamlessly into those age-old relationships and embraces them alongside me. It almost made up for Paul’s omission of “Graceland,” “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard,” and “You Can Call Me Al.” (Hope began to run out when, at 9:45 pm, Paul announced that it was getting late.)

And tonight, following that weekend reminder of time-tested friendship and astronomical comfort levels, TH and I will board a plane and reverse-route the trip we took this time last year as we headed south to our new life. We will be revisiting what is now the old one, landing at LaGuardia (ostensibly for my work meeting, but let’s be honest–there will be more play than work, more cupcakes than conferences). We will visit burger joints and rooftop bars, Alta and Rare and Stanton Social and the Standard Grill. We will be greeted by faces we’ve missed, hear voices that helped narrate a most important part of our story. We’ll cover by foot and nausea-inducing cabs the terrain that made up multiple years. We will eat and drink and spend way too much money. We’ll be reminded of how blessed we are to have multiple places deserving of the name home.

And I, with each pavement-pounding step, will have a moment to express profound gratitude for a plan beyond what I ever imagined.

I’ve become a wife, an aunt, an independent contractor (ooh! fancy! or just another word for being paid less?), an Anglophile and whatever the opposite of a Francophile is (two weeks in England and France justify this), and a homeowner. Oh, and a blogger endorsed by one of my favorite authors (HAVE I MENTIONED THAT LATELY?), whom The Husband and I had the pleasure of re-meeting, a year after our initial encounter (when I told her he was my Ethan and she signed my wedding shoes and HAVE I MENTIONED THAT LATELY?). I dragged him to a screening of Something Borrowed (my third, his first) and wouldn’t you know, despite all his good-natured complaining, that his laughter was the loudest? Love that guy. And love that he stuck around with me afterward and posed for a rather girly picture. (And love, since we’re on a roll, that EG now feels like an old friend. Rather than a stalking victim. Score.)

One of the songs played at our wedding in August was the hymn “Come Thou Fount,” which we chose after we heard Sufjan Stevens’ version on the Friday Night Lights soundtrack. A month before the big day, we walked into the Alpharetta Community Center and a worship service that was being kicked off with our song, and we looked at each other and knew we were right where we were supposed to be, church-wise. And life-wise. And I have to admit that on that day, as on the day we said our vows, I let the words here I raise my Ebenezer roll on by without knowing their meaning. Until yesterday, when an article from Relevant popped up in my Facebook newsfeed and left me enlightened. And inspired.

I think about all the changes that define this past year–those mentioned above, along with the day-to-day transformation from a New York existence to a suburban one: deciding whether to hire yard help and have children, planning our Target list according to the week’s non-delivery menu, adjusting to vehicular rather than human traffic. And I find myself, in an echo of the Israelites two thousand years ago, humbled by the countless deliverances that have occurred to get me here. Deliverances from wrong relationships, moments of weakness, bad choices. My constant betrayals of grace that were met not with similar faithlessness but with unwavering devotion. And I want to mark these triumphs of love over imperfection that occur in spite of me more often than with my cooperation. I want to honor these “streams of mercy never ceasing.”

And so I thank.

And I write.

And I try to remember to live this life I’ve been given rather than let it roll on past me without uncovering its ubiquitous enlightenment and inspiration.

And in the thanking and writing and living, I feel my soul begin to cooperate with what it was made for, with who designed it. And so the stones are raised.

At least, I used to be. Throughout my formative years, I grew accustomed to measuring myself according to the letter or numerical value next to my name: on report cards, grade postings outside classrooms, standardized test scores. Each positive mark hovered in the box marked “achievement” for mere seconds before it converted to a stepping stone on the way to the next task. I was goal-oriented, always moving. I was my own Tiger Mom.

Life, for me, was never something in which I was immersed; it was always something I was building toward. I was the glasses-and-books version of Toddlers and Tiaras, the girl who found safety and meaning within the walls of classrooms, the pages of homework, the approval of authority figures.

Not that all of this is bad–”oh woe is me, I worked hard and now have a successful career, nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen”–but it wasn’t until my carefully-constructed, risk-free plan fell apart that I began to realize that the best things in life? They are not reflected by grades or won through anxious clamoring. They are gifts received by an open heart willing to accept the limitations of its own knowledge and the mystery and unpredictability of a greater plan than mine.

One of the things included in that plan was a five-year stint in New York City that I never would have considered had I remained comfortably ensconced in my Bible Belt perch, had I continued being the error-free student, had my character remained pristine and my choices stellar. But the wake of what looked like destruction that I left behind in Alabama became the foundation for a life built not upon a perfect record but upon the gifts of grace bestowed throughout five years of gritty redemption.

I’m retelling this story, my story, because some of you are new here and may be in the midst of your own mess, surrounded by what appear to be dead ends and unfulfilled dreams. And my simple and loving question to you is, who do you think you are? That’s right. Who do you think you are to appraise the turmoil around you and deem it beyond transformation, to see it as The Way Things Are rather than the raw material that will make you stronger, wiser, softer, and more prepared to jump off the cliffs that lead to real love, true faith, and the You that you were made to be?

The Me I was back when life was safe and manageable would never have gone to New York–and she sure has hell would never have stood before the only boy she ever loved and tell him how she felt. (Okay, so she may have been encouraged by a bottle of champagne, whatever! STILL BRAVE!) And she never would have had the faith to wait for a full year, until the timing was right and hearts were ready, for him to come back to her and say yes. But those kind of gifts are worth every moment of harrowing grace leading to them, and so yours will be.

(Another thing she wouldn’t have been able to do? Open her heart and pour it out on a screen, behind which waited thousands of strangers, and press “post” to EG’s page. And that girl would never have known the gifts of support and encouragement provided by a favorite author and her fans, and the gifts of community and friendship promised to a heart open to the possibility of More.)

This time last year, I was rushing from my apartment in Murray Hill to a boutique in Soho, silently urging my cabbie to step on it as the back of my knees drenched his vinyl seats with sweat. I was headed to a book signing to meet one of my favorite storytellers, Emily Giffin, and The Husband (then fiance) was meeting me there so we could head straight to a benefit afterward, then to the wine bar with friends. (Just typing that sentence from our new home in the suburbs, where a wild night means TWO episodes of Tosh.0 and a vodka tonic, makes me tired. Big tree fall hard.) P.S.–note my red face and chest in the above picture. I was ridiculously nervous (as opposed to my baseline nervous, which is not to be shrugged at), but EG could not have been more gracious in the face of my borderline stalking. She signed my copy of Something Blue along with the “something blue” for my wedding–my shoes–while TH sat patiently nearby, taking pictures and not rolling his eyes.

So it’s rather fitting that this past weekend, exactly a year later, I took my seat in the theater for the movie adaptation of one of Giffin’s books, Something Borrowed. Twice. The Sis and I were booked to see it Sunday afternoon, but with a work-free Friday, I just couldn’t wait. I previewed the movie solo, then confessed this transgression on our way into the theater Sunday. The Sis gasped at my betrayal, then recovered and asked if it was good. And for the next two hours, we passed popcorn and M&Ms back and forth as we watched one of our favorite stories play out on the screen (with minor alterations), gleefully roaring at and repeating to each other the same parts as only our matching personalities can: lines everyone else missed, like “I did” and “That doesn’t sound right.”

In the aftermath of viewing that tale of a happy ending that only came after heartache, The Sis and I went to dinner last night with one of our longtime besties. She had a sparkler on her finger and a wedding in her future, and this cause for celebration was sweetly gratifying for me since we had navigated the treacherous terrains of college and the Manhattan dating scene together. For two years, we shared a shoebox fourth-floor walkup and hungover Saturdays, crazy nights out and greasy diner deliveries, laughter and broken hearts. We had coexisted among the high highs and low lows that only New York can bestow upon and hurl at a Type A, late-twenties girl who is having fun but sure wouldn’t mind losing the losers and finding The One any time now, thank you.

As I watched the movie, and listened to my friend tell her engagement story, I was faced once again with the reality of hard-won happy endings. Of complications along the way, what I used to see as pitfalls and obstacles that stood in between me and happiness–and how I secretly believed that they were red flags warning me that the joyful resolution paired with a catchy song didn’t exist. Not for me. Like Rachel, I had “no real faith in my own happiness.”

And to think, now, that without all of those trenches, I never would have gotten here. And never would have had the heart to truly love, to know The Real Thing when it found me. To feel the profound gratitude I do now, every day. I used to want to be one of those people who skated through life without difficulty or conflict, a person for whom everything came easy. There were plenty of them around me, and they seemed so carefree! My own parents, perhaps like yours, met in college and married at twenty-two, and I thought I would inherit their story like I did their DNA.  Then years went by and my singleness remained–and I realized that my bitterness quotient was about to explode if I didn’t tend to the life I was actually living rather than the one I had planned. As I set about doing just that, I began to see that none of us ever make it through this world without scars, even high school sweethearts. But now I know that there are no good stories without the messy parts. Tales without complications are rarely retold. Pain is one of grace’s greatest disguises, and how thankful I am for the transformation that always comes along with it. (And for the fact that I didn’t marry the guy I was dating at twenty-two or become a mother shortly thereafter…yikes. And amen.)

NY will break your heart. Or at the very least these meat pies will make it stop working.