I’d like to preface the following with the important fact that most of the Navy wives I have met here are damn cool ladies. They are smart and funny and independent and generally awesome people. They are women I would want to be friends with, whether or not our husbands shared an occupation, and for that I am very grateful.

That said, what’s the deal with some of these other Navy wives? Have I somehow stumbled into a Lifetime original series?

On the one hand, it can be comforting to talk to women who know exactly what you are going through– excruciatingly long deployments, bureaucratic red tape, ridiculous difficulty planning anything further than two weeks in advance. On the other hand, that can’t be all we have to talk about.

I’ve been a little unsettled by the Navy wives I’ve met here who don’t seem to have an identity outside of being a Navy wife. Instead of asking what I do for a living or what my interests are, they ask what my husband does on the ship and where we have been stationed in the past. They sign emails “Have a great Navy day!” and drop acronyms I don’t understand into normal conversation. They form hierarchies based on the rank of their husbands instead of on any merits of their own. I kind of want to shake them and scream, “We are not in the Navy!” If Brian talked this much to his friends about my job, I would be seriously concerned about him.

Honestly, I find it a little insulting. The Navy may play a large role in my life right now, whether I like it or not, but it is not actually my life. I do not work on a ship; therefore, I find talking incessantly about what happens on a ship strange and annoying. Bottom line: I don’t really care what your husband does; I want to know who you are. What do you like to do? What do we have in common? I was a complete person before I married into this role, and I plan to remain that way. I have a job, I have hobbies, I have dreams… and believe it or not, all these things are not wrapped up in my “hubby’s” job (related note: the word “hubby” makes my skin crawl; don’t do it).

It’s funny because the possibility that I might someday become a Navy wife has been a running joke with our friends since Brian and I started dating back in college. Haha, the barefoot NorCal feminist is going to have to learn to be a proper lady and not say outlandish things at dinner with the admiral. Kind of like “Pretty Woman,” except for the minor detail that I am not a hooker.

We all joked about the Navy wife stereotype, but I didn’t actually expect it to be true in real life. I don’t know how to cope with it aside from what I’m already doing: bitching/laughing about it, hanging out with people I like and avoiding the others like the plague. Other suggestions are welcome.

Brian and I have been married for six months today, which, by Us Weekly standards, means one of us should be dating Angelina Jolie by now. I probably wouldn’t have noticed the date if my wonderful sister hadn’t emailed me with the note: “I’ve been thinking about your six-month wedding anniversary for a while, wanting to give you something to commemorate it. Attached is the extended remix of the toast I gave at the reception, including the parts that I left out because I was winging it up there. Happy anniversary!”

I don’t like to brag, but I have the best sister ever. No, no, I’m sure your sister is cool and all, but I win. Deal with it. Thank you for this, Melia. It made me weep at the wedding, and I still get a little verklempt every time I read it. I can’t wait till the day when I get to return the favor, grabbing the mike after a few too many glasses of champagne and slurring, “You can’ have ‘er… she’s mine!”

Toasting with my two favorite people

To Gill and Brian
Maid of Honor’s Toast
January 17, 2009

As you may know, I’m Gill’s older sister by three years. We’ve been close throughout our lives, and she’s one of my favorite people on this earth. There’s something about having a sister so close in age that’s like nothing else. We have the same mannerisms, and it’s common for us to say things in unison. We have almost a secret language that comes from the roughly 10,000 inside jokes that date back over 20 years. I say one word and she’ll know what I’m talking about. That’s why no one will ever play the game of Taboo with us.

Just as there’s a special bond that comes with being sisters, there’s also a special kind of torment that an older sister reserves for the younger one. My mom likes to tell a story about when I was three years old and dragging my blanket down the hall…with little baby Gill asleep on the end. I told my mom that I was taking my blanket back. I also used to hide her stuffed orange Kitty, which she loved, in places like the freezer, or the microwave, and she would tell my mom she knew I was up to something because I was “smiling my mean smile.” I told her that I didn’t know what she was talking about. [Ed. note: This was the point in the toast when Darren confirmed my accusation that Melia has a mean smile. It's a fact; it's time to admit it.]

Probably right before she tried to feed the baby raisins

Of course, we had tons of happy times, too. We used to dress up Barbies while we watched terrible daytime TV during school vacations. We decorated the Christmas tree every year while listening to “Funky Funky Xmas” by New Kids on the Block. Actually, we still do.

San Francisco, 1986

Gill has always been so mature that I’ve always felt more a peer than someone three years older and wiser. I’ve always admired her for being the trailblazer in our family. She got her ears pierced first, moved across the country first, and now she’s getting married first. People ask me if it’s strange for me to have my little sister get married first, and I tell them that I love it, because when it’s my turn, she can tell me what to do.

I’ve always admired Gill for her courage to try new things no matter what anyone else is doing, and for so many other reasons. She has the entire package — she’s intelligent and beautiful, adventurous and active, creative and funny. And the biggest feat of all is that people don’t hate her for it. Quite the opposite. Girls love her because she will take them for a manicure and a martini when they’re feeling down. Guys love her because she’ll drink Miller High Lifes and play tackle football. It’s impossible not to love her. In fact, there’s a Cowboy Mouth song called “Everybody Loves Jill,” and they do not tell a lie.

I could never picture a guy who would suit Gill, a guy who A) wouldn’t be intimidated by all of her charms, and B) would bring just as much to the table. Brian surprised me by having both of these qualities and being an excellent fit for Gill. He shares her sense of humor, and like Gill, he’s smart, passionate, artistic, and really really ridiculously good-looking. One day they will have children and give rise to a superior hybrid race. When they do have kids, don’t be surprised if you never get a traditional holiday card from their family, the kind of posed studio portrait with matching sweaters. Instead, they’ll all probably dress up as Christmas pirates or will be leaping around in full-body spandex and afro wigs. (Brian, I’m not referring to any real events here).

Gill and Brian’s song, which will be their first dance and inspired the inscription on their rings, is Jack Johnson’s “Better Together,” and they really are. They’re one of those couples where the girl is cool, the guy is cool, and together they’re fantastic. They’re two talented individuals who have a synergy, meaning that their combined energy is more powerful than each alone.

I know that we’re all relieved that they’ll actually be ABLE to be together, since they’ve had to be apart during much of their four-year relationship. The summer after Gill’s college graduation, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and they had to evacuate. At that point, Gill left for France and they did long distance for the better part of a year. Then Brian was deployed, came back briefly, and was deployed again. When Gill and Bri finally settle into a normal routine, I think we’ll have to storm their house in the middle of the night just to make them feel at home.

Brian, you are one lucky guy to get to be Gill’s husband. I know this because I got to be her pseudo-husband when Gill and I lived together in San Francisco during your first deployment. She and I would make nachos and watch our favorite TV shows every week, go grocery shopping together, and even be each other’s date for weddings. (Sorry, that’s why she tries to lead now every time you two dance.) When she moved away, I missed my partner in crime like crazy. I used to burst into tears every time I walked past her bedroom door. The only thing that made it easier was knowing that you two were happy. Plus, I bought a spinning wheel and a few dozen cats to keep me company until I met Darren.

Gill, I can’t believe that you’re all growns up. I can’t tell you how much you mean to me, and how happy I am that you’ve found the perfect guy for you. I can’t wait until we live in the same place again.

Brian, I know you appreciate Gill as much as I do, and you’ll be as good a husband to her as I was. Welcome to the family. You fit right in, and we love you already.

Now, everyone, please raise your glasses for a toast. Baby Sis, and my new Little Bro, may your lives continue to be better together. Cheers!

I am a couple of steps closer to thinking of Kailua as home, and it is a damn good feeling.

I spent two weeks on the mainland in June– two glorious weeks with family and friends in the Bay Area and Portland that made me wish more than once that I had extended my trip. Hey, I work from home; what’s stopping me from escaping reality for two months instead of two weeks? I could easily get used to going to movies at the Sebastiani Theatre with my parents, eating my mom’s home cooking, grabbing beers with my fantastic high school friends and San Francisco posse.

Painting the town red with the ‘Noma crew

It wouldn’t be a night out in SF without one of these pictures

It felt so comfortable and safe to go home, and I could have coasted through an entire summer in Sonoma. It was tempting, but I knew staying longer would just be an attempt at avoiding starting my life in my new home. I already have a strong support network in California that I can go back to whenever I want; I needed to start building a new one in Hawaii.

In the end, I came back to Kailua just in time for the long Fourth of July weekend, and I’m glad I did. That weekend was a turning point for me– a wonderful balance of outings with new friends and time alone to finish settling into our apartment. Since I got back, I’ve gone sailing in Kaneohe Bay, hosted the first dinner party in the new place (on the table I repainted myself… I’m awfully proud of it and will probably start carrying photos in my wallet) and attended a writers’ group in Honolulu. Life here is pretty good.

Sailing on the Fourth of July

I still have rough patches when I all I want to do is throw some clothes in a bag and fly to San Francisco or New Orleans or whatever port city Brian is in at the moment, but they’re not as frequent as they used to be. I have a mental list of healthy ways of coping with stress or homesickness or general unhappiness (for example, drinking a bottle of Jim Beam and sobbing over the “Army Wives” marathon would not qualify) that I pull from when needed, but I decided to write them out into a physical list. I started this as a project for a friend going through a break-up, and I’ve been expanding it gradually. I’d love to hear more ideas from everyone else.

1. Connecting with my people back home.

After my last post, I received an outpouring of supportive comments and IMs and emails and phone calls from friends and family far away, and I was reminded again just how lucky I am to have these relationships and how important it is to maintain them. The little connections throughout the day– Facebook wall posts, Twitter replies and Google chats (can you tell I work for a Web site?)– keep me sane. The bigger ones– emails, phone calls and, my favorite, video Skype chats– make me bow down and give thanks to the Internet gods. Because of Skype’s magic, I can show Melia in Jackson how we’ve decorated the new apartment and have a good old-fashioned sobfest with Kaila and Jenna in New Orleans.

2. Spending time with new friends.

This transition would have been much harder if I hadn’t met some awesome people right off the bat through Brian’s ship and the few friends we already had here. They have been nothing but welcoming, and it’s pretty amazing to have fun, like-minded friends who are always up for an afternoon at the beach or a night of pizza and sangria.

3. Exercising.

This one doesn’t always happen as much as it should, but getting my heart rate up is the easiest way for me to stop feeling crazy (remember that logic from “Legally Blonde”? “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands.” Word, Elle.). If I go for a swim or a walk at the beach or punch out my aggression with Billy Blanks in Tae-Bo, everything seems a little more manageable.

4. Taking a class or picking up a new hobby.

In the past, I’ve tried to be flexible enough for yoga and responsible enough for financial planning (neither is an easy task for me). Now I’m trying to learn a few chords on the guitar and searching for the right halau to start up hula after an eight-year hiatus. I find the challenge of learning something new, especially something a little difficult for me, is a good way to keep my mind occupied.

5. Doing something creative.

I’m not quite at the point where I use pinking shears and puffy paints for scrapbooking projects, but I do turn to writing and photography and ReadyMade-style decorating when I need a creative outlet. Making something from scratch, even if it’s not a work of art, is cathartic.

6. Exploring.

No matter how homesick I get, I can take comfort in the fact that I keep moving to really cool places. Bottom line: I live in Hawaii and there is no shortage of places to explore. Beaches, art galleries, hiking trails, farmers’ markets, restaurants, dive bars… I’ve got my work cut out for me.

I’ve been having a hard time lately getting myself to sit down and sort through the crazy, frazzled mess that is my brain and somehow translate those thoughts into coherent, entertaining blog posts. I guess I haven’t posted anything in a few weeks because I just don’t feel like being entertaining. I feel like I’m just coming down from a massive high– months of packing and unpacking and moving and briefly landing and moving again– and I don’t quite know what to do with myself now that the dust has settled.

Brian and I finally made it to Hawaii; we have an apartment and a deck full of plants and a list of plans for our new island existence. I should be ecstatic to start our new life here (what better place to begin a marriage?) and I am; the problem is that I’m in newlywed honeymoon bliss… by myself. For some reason, champagne breakfast in bed in paradise seems a lot less romantic and a lot more alcoholic when you do it alone.

After a record seven and a half months in the same place, Brian and I are separated by a few continents and bodies of water again. He left on June 4 to meet his ship on deployment in Asia, and I’ve been struggling to settle into our new place and into the concept of being alone for the first time in awhile. I keep thinking every time we do this that it will get easier and that I’ll somehow magically be composed and reasonable when saying goodbye, instead of the sobbing mess clinging to Brian at the airport security line. Logically, I know that three months is a ridiculously easy deployment compared to the six or nine straight months apart we’ve endured in the past. But my emotions aren’t logical and here I am again, feeling crazy.

I get frustrated with myself because I’m not one of those girls who can’t stand to be alone. I tell myself that I’m independent, that I’m capable, that I don’t need to depend on anyone else for my own happiness. Each time we go through a long separation, I try to prove this in one of two extremes: excessive solitude or obsessive overscheduling.

When I lived in France, I spent the vast majority of my time alone. I lived by myself, I passed the hours reading or watching trashy French TV, I hibernated in my tiny apartment to escape the mind-numbing cold. I had a few good friends who kept me from being a total hermit, but, in retrospect, I was probably a little withdrawn and depressed. When I lived in San Francisco, I tried the opposite approach and threw myself into work and socializing as if I would die if I stopped to catch my breath. I scheduled every minute of the day with dinners and happy hours and shopping dates because if I stayed busy, I wouldn’t have to think about any of those pesky emotions. This strategy clearly didn’t work either since I cried more during that year than in any other time in my life.

This time, I’m trying something new. I’m admitting that it’s OK to be sad and miss Brian when he’s halfway around the globe and that it’s OK to have a breakdown or two because I’m living several thousand miles away from the people who are most important to me. It’s OK, and I don’t have to be fine all the time. Huge, life-disrupting changes are painful, even when they result in living in Hawaii.

I used to be afraid of losing myself in a relationship, because needing someone else was equivalent to giving up my identity and becoming a clingy, needy, desperate girl who can’t cut it on her own. I don’t believe that anymore. I need a lot of people in my life. I need my family and my friends and, yes, I also need Brian. We depend on each other to brave the challenges and to celebrate the victories in this crazy world, and I am lucky to have a partner in crime who is in it for the long haul. I know I can survive on my own, but I am choosing to build a life with someone else. And, in the sage words of “When Harry Met Sally,” “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

It’s official. Brian and I live in Hawaii, and so do all our worldly possessions. After being in limbo for so many months and shuttling from one end of the country every few weeks, it is such a relief to be here. And plan to stay here. Well, I will stay here; Brian ships off for Southeast Asia next week for the last half of his ship’s deployment.

It’s bittersweet, finally arriving in our much-anticipated new home and then having to be separated again, but we’re making the most of the two weeks we have together. And by “making the most” of it, I mean, spending far too much money on closet organizers and home electronics and trying not to be crushed in our sleep by the walls of boxes surrounding us.

Terrifying, isn’t it?

It’s a little overwhelming to unpack and organize tons (literally; the moving guys told me our stuff weighed 4,600 lbs.) of clothes and papers and kitchen gadgets, but I can’t complain. We live in Hawaii. I don’t know if I get to complain ever again (who am I kidding? I totally will, but I’ll have a better view while I’m whining).

Yesterday when I got off work, we drank a beer, walked to Kailua Beach (15 minutes from our apartment), swam laps in 80-degree water and ate risotto at the Italian restaurant around the corner. Somehow, I think we’ll be able to deal with a little manual labor.

I’ll give a more extensive update later, but here are our first few days via my Twitter soundbites:

We made it to Hawaii! Slept like bebes on the couch cushions that make up our bed till our furniture arrives. Errands and painting today.

I have never been more excited to go hardware and houseware shopping. If we can find chalkboard paint today, I’ll be a happy girl.

We just bought basil, rosemary & tomato plants, green bean and chili pepper seeds & a compost bin. I am determined to grow a green thumb.

Mmm… in desperate need of beer and burgers. Goin’ over to meet some folks at Matt and Heather’s place.

Walking to Kailua Beach to test out the waters. Loving this weekend.

Screw the gym. I am going to swim in the ocean every day for as long as we live here. I’m not even fazed by the jellyfish sting on my arm.

Crashing after a long day of spending too much money and drinking too much wine.

Really, previous renter? Lime green contact paper? For shame.

Tired and content after a long day of unpacking and an incredible dinner at the Japanese place around the corner.

There is something seriously wrong when the Internet I’m stealing from my neighbors works and the one I’m paying for doesn’t.

So I guess Kailua is on a New Orleans schedule for afternoon rain every day at 3:00. No thunder so far, though.

Rocking out to some Amos Lee and getting super excited for the concert in Honolulu tomorrow! And drinking a lot of coffee.

The screaming baby upstairs is serving as extra birth control in case I needed it.

It’s only 10 a.m. and I already want a beer. It’s after noon almost everywhere else.

Pandora isn’t loading well today, so I’m streaming Bay Area radio. KFOG and Alice @ 97.3. Sounds like home.

Afternoon rain, I love you. Thank you for saving the lives of my plants. They really appreciate it.

Poor Dahlgren. This place already gets such a bad rap with the Navy folks that I feel like I’m kicking a lame puppy every time I mock it. I may have been too harsh when I called it “the armpit of the East Coast.” Yes, it is in the middle of frickin’ nowhere, 45 minutes away from civilization or a decent meal, but on the whole, Dahlgren has actually been pretty good to us.

Dinner in Colonial Beach

I’ll admit I’ve had some low moments where I desperately miss friends and family and basic social interaction, but they usually pass pretty quickly. Life is simple and pleasant here most of the time, and I decided to make a list of things I like about our Dahlgren existence so I can refer to it whenever I’m feeling like Debbie Downer.

1. Quality Time

Brian and I get two whole months together in the same place before our next forced separation, which is a huge deal. A week or two after we arrive in Hawaii, he’ll have to fly out to meet his ship for the last three months of its deployment. I’m determined to appreciate this time, because in another month, I will be longing for more evenings watching “NCIS” reruns together.

Oh no! That’s not Brian. I swear he’s just a friend. 

Check out our fancy digs: the office/living room/dining room

The first time we’ve gotten to unpack our suitcases in months

2.  Reunions

We have gotten to see so many of our friends and family members over the last few weeks. We spent Easter with Brian’s family and a few friends in Fairfax, went out with the crazy Woodson High gang in Arlington, camped and brewery toured with our favorite New Jerseyites in Rehoboth Beach, dined with Brian’s war buddy in Richmond, caught up with my grandparents in Laurel and tore up D.C. with old friends from both coasts. It’s rare that I get to spend this much time on the East Coast, and it’s a pretty incredible opportunity to see everyone before we take off again.

Getting into trouble with the Fairfax kids

Uncle Brian with two of his cutie-pie nephews

Aw, Lil Lisa sleeping off her Easter food coma

Yay, puzzles are fun!

We’re in Delaware

A-mazing camp breakfast of bacon, eggs and more bacon

California girls are a force to be reckoned with

Cynthia and Stu putting “Dancing With the Stars” to shame

Mini Camp RAD reunion!

3. Dinners

Sometimes I miss having dozens of options of where to eat, drink and be merry, but sometimes it’s nice to narrow those options. And when I say “narrow down,” I mean “eliminate.” There is no fabulous sushi restaurant down the road and no Reginelli’s to deliver take-out here, so we are forced to cook our own well-balanced meals like responsible adults. We have only two burners and a microwave, but we have managed to cook some pretty fabulous dinners: gnocchi with healthy-ish alfredo sauce and veggies, Spanish tortilla, shrimp stir-fry, even some Zatarain’s gumbo. Often our friends Heather and Amy join us, we open a bottle of wine and we make a party out of it.

Our luxurious kitchen 

Mmmm… tortilla

4. Books

Wait, what are these “books” you speak of? You mean the ones with the pages? That aren’t on a screen? I read and write things for a living, and I am ashamed to admit how infrequently I pick up an actual book these days. Since I have so little to do in the evenings here, I have had a lot more time and motivation to read. I picked up a stack of novels and short stories from the itty-bitty library on base, and I’ve been reading a few chapters every night. I’m almost done with “Tender is the Night” (partially inspired by the time Fitzgerald spent in Antibes Juan-les-Pins, where I went last October) and the second half of “Eat, Pray, Love” is next on my list. Reading feels like such a luxury after depriving myself for so long, and I am loving the indulgence.

Moral of the story: I’m pretty happy here; with the right people, some good food and a little bit of red wine, you can make anywhere fun.

I had the honor of receiving my very first Navy memo (sorry, sorry, “all hands bulletin” in non-civilian speak) today. Unlike in the movies or on “NCIS,” it was not a curt, official statement full of acronyms. It was actually a longwinded, passive-aggressive scolding that made me think I might lose my allowance money if I don’t shape up and stop using headphones on base.

No iPod for you

A little background: we’re staying in the middle of nowhere, or a naval base in Dahlgren, Virginia, for two months while Brian learns about fascinating Navy things. Where is Dahlgren, you ask? I have no idea, but its hot spots include an Arby’s, a Burger King and a Food Lion. That’s if you can get off base. We have no car here, so we are limited to the simple pleasures of cooking dinner on our two-burner stove and catching up on our Netflix queue.

It’s nice in some ways to get back to basics, but it can also drive me a little stir-crazy. I work from a hotel room for eight hours a day and then spend most of the evening in the same room, so the only thing I want to do at 5 p.m. is take a nice long walk with my iPod so I can drink in the scenery and catch up with my friends at “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me.”

The first time I did this on base, a soccer mom in a minivan destroyed my serenity by flagging me down to tell me (not very nicely, I might add), “You can’t do that here.” Do what? Walk? Listen to commie NPR podcasts? Ohhh, use headphones while walking. I wanted to explain to her that I have evolved enough to master walking/talking/listening/chewing gum all at the same time. Brian and I made a few calls around base, but no one could back up this woman’s claim, so I continued to defy her silly rule.

And then we got this delivered to our door:

*** ALL HANDS BULLETIN *** Please distribute widely ***

WALKING OR RUNNING WITH HEADPHONES/EARPIECES IS PROHIBITED

While running can certainly help improve your health, running while using headphones/earpieces can be equally hazardous to it. With the onset of Spring comes the walkers, runners and bicyclists on roadways or on routes that cross roadways. Who doesn’t like listening to their favorite tunes while being outdoors and enjoying these recreations?

Effective immediately, please be reminded that all tunes will need to be sung or whistled by you because headphones/earpieces are NOT allowed on board any Naval Support Activity South Potomac installation, to include Naval Support Facility (NSF) Dahlgren and NSF Indian Head. The only exception is on trails such as the Railroad Trail, around the football field at Indian Head or the loop behind the gym at Dahlgren – in essence, trails that are closed off from and not adjacent to open roadways. This change was necessitated by the folks that continue to wear headphones while walking/jogging on open roads and on accesses that cross them.

Headphones can distract people from what they’re doing. They mask the direction of sound so that you may not be aware of vehicles beeping or coming up behind you. While base employees and residents were previously allowed to use headphones while walking or jogging on sidewalks, it’s become apparent that they are not being taken off when running on the roadways where  there are no sidewalks at all.

Walkers or joggers found using headphones in areas other than those permitted above will be stopped by Security and asked to remove the headphones. Names of offenders will be forwarded to their command. Repeat offenders could be subject to a range of options from being given a ticket to having on-base driving privileges revoked.

The real punishment, though, often isn’t handed down by Security. While accidents involving headphones do not happen often, the consequences of just one can be devastating. Is this really worth the risk?

R,
CAPT Catie Hanft, USN
Commanding Officer
Naval Support Activity South Potomac

My favorite lines are: “Who doesn’t like listening to their favorite tunes while being outdoors and enjoying these recreations?” and “Names of offenders will be forwarded to their command.” A nice blend of “Hey, I’m cool, I’m with it” and “Haha, suckas, I don’t care!” So does that mean Brian is my command? Will he revoke my privileges if I repeat the offense?

Photo courtesy of Foxtongue’s Flickr photostream

Way back in August, Chuck got me hooked on a brilliantly simple Tumblr blog called 1001 rules for my unborn son. Its tagline is “Let’s get some things straight before I get old and uncool,” and it contains some of the best and funniest advice I’ve found. I have always intended to keep a list of things I want to remember once I’m a parent, but I like this spin on it, too.

With my own awesome parents

I started my own list after Katie Ide inspired me with her “10 rules” for her “really, incredibly unborn child,” but it has been sitting neglected on my desktop since this summer. Thank you, Nicole, for reminding me of its existence. It’s a good exercise to try to wrap up your own values and beliefs into little bite-sized pieces. Here’s the first installment; I’ll try to add to it in 10-item increments as the fancy strikes me.

Oh, and by the way, this does not mean that we are planning on hearing the pitter patter of little feet any time soon. So please don’t ask me. As my friend Heather so wisely puts it, “It is rude to ask a woman when and if she is planning on having children because you don’t know a thing about her. That being said, if you ask me, I might cut you. Also, don’t ever tell me to relax. Because if you do, I just might ask you how easy it is to relax while I am hurling my fist at your jaw bone.” There is no way I can improve upon that.

Rules for My Future Children: #1-10

1. Learn to speak a second language well enough to swear comfortably. Live in a country where it’s spoken long enough to know your grocer or bartender by name.

2. Keep a journal, especially during your hardest and happiest times. It will be cathartic to write and entertaining to look back on.

3. Love cooking as much as you love eating (if you’re my child, you’ll have no problem with the latter). Don’t fear vegetables, spices or seafood.

4. Take lots of pictures and make sure you’re in some of them. Recognize that you are damn good looking.

5. Don’t let your peers dictate your timeline. Life is way too short to live by other people’s expectations.

6. Listen to your instincts when it comes to love. Be open but not careless. You’ll know when you find someone who brings out the best version of you (you’ll also know when you’re dating a tool).

7. Do something active every day—make exercise a necessity and not a chore. When in doubt, walk there.

8. Read newspapers, novels and non-fiction regularly. Indulge in Us Weekly occasionally.

9. Know how to drive a stick shift, throw an impromptu party and type with your fingers on the right keys. These are all skills that will serve you well.

10. Surround yourself with positive people. Real friends will support your crazy ideas and smack some sense into you when you’re thinking of quitting.

I have a confession to make: I have been looking forward to changing my name since I was a little girl… well, at least since kids in my class discovered that my last name contained a four-letter word and was therefore worthy of mockery. So around sixth grade. Junior high is not kind to the Dickers of the world.

As I’ve gotten older, tougher and wiser, I have embraced my family’s name and have become unfazed by any jokes people may throw my way. There is a long, fine line of Dickers before me, and I am proud to be part of that lineage. I’m sorry, are you giggling? Did I say something funny?

We will always be the Sisters Dicker

For the last few years, I’ve gone back and forth on whether I would change my name or not after I got married. The independent feminist in me said I should keep my maiden name to show I am still my own person with or without my husband. The family-oriented part of me wanted me to hyphenate or take my husband’s name to show unity between us and to make things easier for when we have kids someday.

Well, it turns out I don’t really like the way “Dicker-Burgess” or “Burdicker” or “Dickurgess” sounds. Plus, DMV employees already get testy with me for having a super long name. If I became Gillian Elena Mei Po Dicker-Burgess, they might kill me with their angry, soulless eyes. I decided to make the full change to become a Burgess.

I went to the Social Security Administration and the DMV last week to change my name officially, and I got a lot more emotional about it than I thought I would. I’ve had this name for 25 years, and it has served me well. Brian came with me to both places, waiting patiently and holding my hand in depressing, crowded, fluorescent-lit offices. We went out to lunch to celebrate after Social Security legitimized my new identity as Gillian Burgess. As we toasted over Karl Strauss beers, I told my husband that I’m happy I did it. And I meant it.

Welcome to the Burgi

Changing my name was a hard personal decision, one I thought about a lot before I took the plunge. If I was surprised by my strong emotions on the matter, I was even more surprised by the stronger reactions I received from friends, acquaintances and even total strangers (beyond the expected “wow, it’s going to be awhile before I get used to your new name”).

A few:

• It’s archaic to take the man’s last name and you should keep yours.
• You should definitely hyphenate.
• I think it’s nice when the woman goes the traditional route and takes her husband’s name.
• I’m going to change my name, too, when I get married.
• I would never change my name.
• You’re a terrible feminist and you might as well kiss your freedom goodbye because you are now your husband’s property.

Maybe that last one was more implied than stated outright, but I can read between the lines.

I respect everyone’s opinions, but this experience made it very clear to me that a decision that is good for one woman is not necessarily good for every woman. Taking a new last name or not, having children or not, being a stay-at-home mom or a working mom, traveling the world or settling down and buying a house, all the gray area in between– these are all choices we get to make as individuals. No one can make them for us. And that’s what both thrills and terrifies me about being a woman.

Coming soon… The Name Game, Part II: A How-To Guide to the Tedious, Obnoxious Process of Changing Your Name

I have a habit of going through periods of extreme, massive and sometimes violent change. I don’t, for example, just start a new job or move to a new apartment. Oh, no. That would be too easy. I go, what my friend Gene would call, “balls to the wall” when I shake things up in my life.

Around Christmas a year ago, I got laid off from one job, started a new one, moved from California back to New Orleans, found out that Brian was being deployed to Iraq, went through a number of emotional breakdowns and got engaged… all within a month. This is just how I roll.

OMG, what happened? Where did these rings come from and why am I wearing a blanket with sleeves?

Right now is another one of those times where everything is changing, and I just have to embrace the madness or go mad myself. First step toward sanity: going back home and burning things with my sister. Yep, that’s right. Melia and I have both been moving all over the country, yet we still have boxes and binders and bookcases of old memories left at our parents’ house in Sonoma. Every time I go home, I say I am going to get rid of things I no longer need, but I always find an excuse to put it off to a later visit.

Didn’t get to paint over the hot air balloons this time, but the Sarah McLachlan and Austin Powers posters did come down

Well, it’s finally time. If I’m really going to make the transition into adulthood and marriage, I don’t want to be tied down by pieces of my past I just don’t feel like dealing with.

Signs of progress: cleaning out shelves full of books, photo albums and knickknacks

Melia and I both came home the same week, and we formed a moral support group of two, spending our evenings deciding the fate of stacks of photos and papers and books. I was amazed by what I had kept for the last 10 or 20 years. Why did I hang on to letters that remind me of a time I’d rather forget? Did I really think my high school English paper on “The Kitchen God’s Wife” was worth saving to show my future children? I don’t even like Amy Tan!

We decided a ritual bonfire was the right way for us to let go of the past and move forward. We gathered together the bags and bags of papers we wanted to burn (sadly, photos had to be disposed of another way) and lit a match in the fireplace. In went Melia’s identity as a nonprofit workaholic: Rolodexes, curriculum plans, workshop notes. In went my reminders of being a reserved and over-achieving teenager.

Burn, baby, burn

With every stack, it got a little easier. Notes from my junior high BFFs, angsty teen poetry, senior project writing assignments, college term papers. I watched them all go up in flames, and it was glorious. Let me tell you, there is nothing more freeing than burning your SAT scores.

Anyone who has ever had to write a “dialectical journal” will know the satisfaction I got from burning one

Melia wrote a blog post about our fire, and she captured very eloquently how I felt about our ritual:

Burning the written documentation of your past is much, much more cleansing than dumping it in the recycling bin, or even shredding it. When the flames consume the pages that symbolize your past, your former self and relationships instantly cease to exist. What remains is nothing, and it forces you to relate to people — your best friend from middle school, or your enemy, for that matter — in a completely new way instead of clinging to how things used to be.

I am very different than I was at age 15 or even 20 (thank goodness), and it was a huge relief to erase my old expectations and make a fresh start. The way I celebrate a fresh start is by breaking open a bottle of red wine… and making a new list. Borderline alcoholic, maybe. More-than-slightly nerdy, definitely. But this is a good list, not my normal “holy Christ, I have so much to do and will never finish it all” list. This will be an ongoing fun list…

Fresh Start List #1: A Few Goals for the Near Future

1. Go to Central America and learn Spanish

I love traveling, and it has been far too long since I’ve gone on a down-and-dirty, fit-everything-in-a-backpack, shower-every-now-and-then trip. Summer 2005, to be exact, when Jenna and I took over the Greek Isles. I have always wanted to go to Costa Rica, Guatemala, Honduras, you name it. I loved Panama when Brian and I went there on our honeymoon, but I hated not being able to communicate beyond my toddler’s vocabulary of “hello” and “thank you” and “I have hunger.” I want to learn Spanish, and I’m comfortable enough with French now that I’m ready to tackle a new language. This summer, I am determined to go on a Central American extravaganza with my girl Angie. Our plan is to go to language school for a few weeks, then spend another month traveling from country to country on buses full of chickens while practicing our new skillz.

September 2005: Jenna has a “Titanic” moment on the ferry from Greece to Italy

2. Take the plunge on new projects

I have a million ideas a-brewin’ in my head at any given moment– business ideas, freelance writing ideas, home decorating ideas, costume party ideas– but a lot of them don’t go anywhere. I get so overwhelmed by wanting to do something perfectly that I never actually do it at all. That needs to stop. If I want to try to build a Web site (or a bookcase or a magazine) from scratch, dammit, I need to give it a shot. The worst that could happen is that it won’t be perfect and that I’ll learn something from the process.

3. Do more things every day that make me happy

I consider myself a fairly happy person. Sure, I stress out over things more than I should sometimes, but when I get carried away, I try to take a step back and keep it all in perspective. Lately, though, I’ve been working too much, working out too little and not making time for a lot of activities that make me really happy. Dancing. Cooking. Swimming. Watching movies. Taking pictures. Speaking French. Writing for fun. The best New Year’s resolution I ever made was freshman year of college when I vowed to go dancing at least once a week. I kept it up until the end of the school year (longer than any other resolution I’ve ever made), and I couldn’t have been happier doing it. I’m making a resolution to make more of these resolutions.

French Quarter Fest 2008: Dancing in the streets with my sis