Res ipsa loquitor.

res ip·sa lo·qui·tur

ˌrēz ˌipsə ˈläkwitər,ˌrās,ˈlōkwəˌto͝or/

Latin, literal translation meaning: The thing speaks for itself.

__________________________________

The BHE and I got into an argument the other day. And, honestly, we don't really argue much. But on that day, we did.

Yep.

It wasn't about money. He hadn't left his shorts and underwear intertwined in a ball on the floor of the bathroom. Nor had he stared too intently at some strange reality television show like "Alone, Naked, Afraid, Bored and In the Wildnerness for No Apparent Reason" while I was trying to talk to him about something serious.

Nope.

It wasn't a kid argument. That is, one where I think we should do one thing and he thinks another. He didn't run late with something or interrupt some plan I'd had to join a girlfriend for much needed me time. Nor had he offered some backhanded compliment to one of the thirty-minute meals I'd prepared after racing home, checking homework, and situating school items for the following day.

But.

It was a bona fide argument. The kind where one person is incensed and the other just a little too indifferent or indignant which only makes things worse. And you know the worst part about this whole thing? We were both right.

Yep.

Let me explain:

A few friends were passing through Atlanta last week. These were some of Harry's old pals from Cleveland and he was excited that things would work out for him to be able to meet up with them. And yes, it was a school night and sure, both boys had their respective sports practices but it was all good considering the plan to link up wasn't until after the kids would be turning in for bed. Simple enough, right? Right.

Okay, so check it. That all goes as planned. The BHE goes to football practice with Zachary, I go to cross country with Isaiah and we all meet back up at home. I checked homework while he showered and got ready to head out. And that's exactly what he did.

The outing went well. Those guys yucked it up past midnight and Harry got home exactly around the time he'd told me he would. And upon his arrival, I turned over and mumbled over my shoulder, "Did you have fun?" to which my love replied, "Yeah. It was really great to see my friends." And that was good.

Yep.

And so. The following morning after the kids had gotten off, we were both sitting around the house having coffee since we both had later work obligations that day. In my more wakeful state, I asked more details of his evening and he obliged me. He was smiling and animated and happy. And since we both believe that this kind of time--that is, time away from your spouse and kids with your friends--is important, that made me feel good, too.

But then there was a shift. Harry wiped his face, shook his head and said, "But, man. I had something crazy happen last night, too."

And he uttered that in this light way so I sipped my coffee and raised my eyebrows nudging his story forward. Which he did.

"So I'm driving home, right? And it was kind of late like. . .I don't know. . .maybe 1? 1:30?"

"Not much after," I interjected. "I remember when you came in and I know I would have freaked if it was later than that."

"Anyways. So I'm just listening to music and driving. Next thing I know I saw a police car behind me. And, you know, I noticed it but was like whatever."

Now I was sitting upright. I placed my coffee down in front of me and cocked my head sideways. "Okay."

"Well. Even though I had met my friends out for a few beers, you know I'm not a big drinker.  But even with my friends there, whatever reason didn't have one drink. I mean, not any alcohol--not a single drop. So that police dude turns on his lights to pull me over and I didn't even worry for two seconds since I knew I hadn't done anything."

"Were you driving crazy or texting?"

"Texting? Hell no. And that's you who drives crazy not me."

"So he pulled you over?"

"Yeah. Pulls me over at like 1 something in the morning. And, again, I'm mostly aggravated since I was tired and ready to get home."

"Was your seatbelt on?"

"My seatbelt?" He furrowed his brow at me. "Babe! Of course. Okay, so listen. Dude comes up to my window and gestures for me to roll it down. So I bring down the window and just look at him, saying nothing. Just staring him dead in his eyes and waiting to see why this dude was pulling me over."

"Oh Lord."

"Do you know what this man did? He comes over with this big ass flashlight and starts pointing it all into my car, flashing it all over the back seats and all that. And you know what the VERY FIRST thing was that this officer said to me?"

I gasped and put my hand on my chest. "What?"

"This man puts this light straight in my face and says, 'Do you have any firearms or weapons in this car with you?'"

"What?"

"Yeah, man. So I look at him like he's stupid and say, 'What? NO!' And he immediately keeps flashing that damn light all over my car and asks me some other crazy question. And I'm like, 'Look, man. Why did you pull me over? Tell me why you pulled me over so that I can go home.'"

"You said it like that? Like all funky and mad like that?"

"The FIRST THING this officer asks me is if I have a damn firearm? And I'm supposed to kiss his ass?"

"You sound crazy. Like somebody who wants to be on CNN tomorrow and who wants Al Sharpton down here talking to a crowd about what happened to you."

"Anyway." He scowled and shook his head.

"So why was he pulling you over?"

"He said that one of the little lights on the side of my license plate was out. You know, those little lights that illuminate your plate? Yeah, that. It was total bullshit."

"Was it out?"

"If it was, it was barely noticeable. He just saw me in my truck and thought he would pull me over and find something. And I was just sitting there looking at him like he was stupid."

I dragged in a big breath of air and winced because I know my husband and I know exactly how he was glaring at that officer. Which terrified me.

"Then he asks me how much I've had to drink. And I was like, 'I haven't had anything to drink at all. What are you even talking about?'"

So I'm just staring at him incredulously and trying to stay calm. He continues.

"Yeah, so I'm just waiting and he keeps flashing this light all up in the car and finally is like, 'Where are you coming from?'" And I say back, 'WHAT?' And he says it again all bad ass. 'WHERE YOU COMING FROM?'"

"Oh Jesus."

"I was like, 'Why?' And he says some shit about it being late or whatever. And I told him, 'Where I'm coming from is none of your business. I'm a 44 year old man and I can go and come wherever I want. I guess you thought by pulling me over you would find something but you won't. I haven't been drinking and I've done nothing wrong. So man, run this license and do whatever you going to do so I can go home. It's late and I'm tired of sitting here.'"

I stood up. "You SAID that?"

"Damn right I did. He was just effing with me and I wasn't having it. Then he says some shit about how I need to calm down or whatever. And I'm like, 'No, you need to run this license so you can find nothing and let me go.' Then he says he could give me a citation and he's trying to avoid that or whatever. And I told him, 'Man, do what you need to do. Give me the citation, don't give it to me, whatever.' And he's like, 'Well, I'm trying to spare you a $100 ticket.' Like he was doing me some damn favor."

And the BHE was saying all of this like people getting beat down in slippery stories in the news wasn't happening. So I felt my blood boiling and my heart racing. "Harry!" That was all I could think to say. He went on.

"So I told him, 'If my light is out, I'll get another light and prove that I did and get this waived. So I can do that or get it changed without that. It's up to you. Either way, I'm ready to go and you don't have a reason to hold me here. So do what you plan to do so I can go. There's nothing else to find.'" And he stood there with his chest all poked out like I was supposed to be all nervous and I just sat there still staring him dead in his eyes like, 'And?'"

"What happened after that?"

"He let me go. And I left. That was some bullshit." 

I sighed again. I mean, because it was. And because he was right to be irritated and insulted by that entire exchange. But, as his wife, I need him around. Badly.

"You could have been killed, you know. Arrested, taken to jail, killed."

"I'm not sorry. He was foul."

"But you have a family."

"I am a man. A grown man. And yes, I'm a black man but still. You think if our next door neighbor got pulled over around here that somebody would make the FIRST question about whether he has FIREARMS? I wasn't speeding, I wasn't reckless, I was just DRIVING. You better be glad I didn't tell him to kiss my ass."

"You sound proud and crazy!" And I said that even though I 100% agreed with his position.

And so. We argued. About me demanding that he forgo his dignity to remain safe for his family. Which is really an awful thing to ask a man to do, isn't it?

Yeah.

Yes. I recognize that there have also been assaults and killings of officers by citizens. I know that they, too, are at great risk of harm in that line of work and in no way endorse such activity. I'm willing to agree that, just as we should stay on guard, they should, too. But within reason.

My upstanding citizen, grown man husband was pulled over, insulted and harassed. In his own neighborhood. Why? Well. As they say in legalese: Res ipsa loquitor. That is, "the thing speaks for itself."

Yes, it does.

I'm mad that I have to demand my husband coil into a passive blob of jello to potentially save his life when someone has done something pretty much equivalent with spitting into his face. And worse, that I will be forced to expect the same of my two sons if I want to keep them from being beaten or shot to death just for being who they are at the wrong time.

Harry was right. This was some bullshit.

The thing is this:

No matter what was happening at that moment or no matter what the impetus for that officer pulling my husband over, it bothers me that I can say with near certainty that it wouldn't have gone this way for any person regardless of phenotypic appearance. And again, as much as I'd like to argue that his race had nothing to do with any of this, in my heart of hearts I know otherwise.

Yep.

So this. This is just one of the things that many people in this world will never, ever have to argue with their husbands about. Or their sons about. Nor will they ever even have to think about it. I mean, not as it applies to the immediate welfare of their husband, brother, children or grandchildren.

Nope.

And so. If someone asks me what I think about all of this and how it affects my family? I'll simply say this:

Res ipsa loquitor. That is, the thing speaks for itself.

The thing being that this is some bullshit indeed.

Yeah.

***

The Somebody-Done-Somebody-Wrong Song.

Hey, won't you play . . .

another somebody done somebody wrong song?

And make me feel at home. . .

~ B.J. Thomas

A few years after I joined the Grady faculty, I was given the honor of leading this huge Emory sponsored Internal Medicine board review course as the director. In this role, I'd coordinate some eighty plus speakers and manage a substantial budget for a five day program. With attendees from all over the U.S. and beyond, it was a huge deal. Especially for someone as junior as I was at the time.

The first year went swimmingly well. I met tons of faculty members and was glad to be in a position that put me on the radar of a lot of well-connected people in our department. Given my triumphant neophyte crack at this program, our leadership tasked me with the same job for a second year. And that was cool.

Yup.

Not too much earlier than that first year of planning, I met the man of my dreams--the BHE. Then, in that second year as director, Harry and I were in the throes of wedding planning. And since I'd done this thing before and knew all the moving parts, all of that was cool, too.

But you know? Weddings are exciting and have this way of consuming you. I did my job, yes. But admittedly, I was quite distracted by things like invitation styles and calligraphy and showers and menus. My May 1 wedding had the lion's share of my thoughts and attention. I was quite thankful that I, one, had experience as the board review course leader and two, had an a very knowledgable coordinator working with me.

Things had gone without a hitch the year before. Our timeline of getting in touch with speakers, securing the venue, arranging the AV support and sending out the mass mailings of brochures was proposed to be identical to the prior session. Jana (name changed), my coordinator, had been a key part of the continuing medical education department for years and was a pro at this particular event. Through lighthearted emails, we quasi-discussed our action items and discussed our game plan of rolling with things just as we had in 2003.

Yup.

Jana knew every nitty-gritty detail of my wedding plans, too. As a matter of fact, her background with planning these medical meetings made her so connected in the hospitality industry that she was a key factor in helping me lock down my own wedding venue. It was great that our collective history of working on the board review event helped me to feel less stressed. And by less stressed I mean I wasn't really paying attention to the detail of the board review.

Nope.

The months leading to our May day nuptials were a whirlwind. Showers and dates with friends and so much more swirled around me and kept me floating in the air like Mary Poppins with her magic umbrella. That day finally came and it exceeded my wildest dreams. All of it, simply sublime. And the only thing better than that was the exquisite honeymoon escape Harry and I went on a few days after.

Hand in hand, we strolled along the island paradise of St. Lucia with goofy grins plastered on our faces. We lingered in saunas and took couples' massages. We ate the ripest, freshest fruit and met new people. And mostly just marveled at the blessing of being in love and now married.

Yup.

A few days into that honeymoon, I decided to make a lazy pitstop into the internet cafe of our swanky resort. Since we weren't on our cell phones, I thought a happy little message from the newly established "Team Manning" would be a good thing to send to our family and friends. And so I logged on and planned to do just that. Which was mostly cool.

Until.

I clicked into my work email and saw this one message dated April 30--the day before I got married. It was from Jana and had been sent a few minutes before midnight. In it, she described how she'd been going through some personal things and how, as of earlier that day, had resigned from her position.

Yep.

Turns out that in my wedding obsessed state, I hadn't even noticed that we'd not touched bases much about the board review program in March or April. Every email in my inbox referred to loose, slippery plans intermingled with brainstorming sessions about how to pull off a perfect wedding. Instinctively, I panicked. I internally prayed that she'd handled all of her action items (that is, the ones I assumed she knew of that were just like the ones she had before) although something welling in the pit of my gut told me that she hadn't.

Shit.

It was now May. The first order of business--and the most urgent to confirm--was that the brochures had been mailed out to the hundreds of physicians who were our targeted audience. Now. There was a simple way to know this for sure. I was among the physicians in that bulk mailing and should have received my brochure sometime near the end of March. Problem was, that was the furthest thing from my mind back then. And you know what? For the life of me, I couldn't recall getting one.

Nope.

Well. Turns out I didn't get one for a good reason. It never was sent. Nope. The 750 to 1000 mail flyers earmarked to be shot out to every corner of the southeastern U.S. never left Atlanta. And you know what else? That's because they never got printed.

Nope.

The last thing I could say with certainty was that I'd electronically put together the sample brochure and approved it for print. But confirming that it got printed? Then making sure it got mailed? Well. I'd left all of that up to Jana, my coordinator. You know, the one who'd just notified me of her resignation. And also shut off her cell phone and discontinued her university email account.

Sigh.

So me? Obviously, I was hysterical. Freaking out near the equator and ready to punch in a wall. I called Jana every dirty, slimy name in the book and lamented nonstop about how I couldn't BELIEVE that she hadn't done ANYTHING. And since my only sounding board was Harry, he just sat by sipping his all-inclusively provided spirits and listening.

"I talked to my division chief today," I huffed. "He is just as floored that this woman would just throw this whole damn thing under the bus. I mean, who DOES that? Doesn't even print OR send the damn brochures?" I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Every few seconds I said something similar, pacing all around Harry and dropping occasional f-bombs. This? This was a multi-thousand dollar disaster.

After the 24th hour of hearing me rant about the incompetence, unprofessional behavior and lack of consideration of Jana--the woman who was "supposed to be my friend"--Harry finally had had enough.

The BHE is a man of few words. But when he speaks? It's almost always worth listening to. And seared with honesty. He decided to let me know what he thought about all of this.

"This has nothing to do with that woman. You fucked this up. Period end of story."

Wait, huh?

I mean, we were supposed to be "Team Manning." He was supposed to take my side, leap to my rescue and hate Jana's guts right along with me. But that? That isn't Harry's style. He just shrugged and called like he saw it.

"You dropped the ball and this is your fault. How the hell did you NOT know that the damn brochure hadn't been sent? That's crazy. And why hadn't you asked to see the final before the mailing? You'd have known that it wasn't printed then. That's because you were focused on other shit."

"She had a job. She didn't do it." I felt my face getting hot and my eyes starting to prickle with defensive, hurt tears.

"You had a job. You didn't do it. She wasn't the director. You are."

I shook my head and folded my arms. "So you mean to tell me you think this is all on me?"

Harry raised one eyebrow and jutted out his lower lip. "Well. Honestly? Pretty much. You fucked up. You delegated and didn't follow up. And you're lucky as hell that your boss isn't me. I would have torn you a new asshole."

My eyes widened with his military man's lingo. He was pulling not a single punch.

"Look, babe," he finally said, softening his voice, "the best way for you to learn from this is to own your part in it. Call it what it is, man. You dropped the ball. And now you got burnt."

Now I was full-on crying. Partly because my feelings were hurt, partly because I was scared that I would cause my department to lose thousands of dollars, but especially because he was 100% correct in his assessment. I felt so exposed, so obviously wrong. But just a few moments later, I felt that anger welling up again so I started letting the pendulum swing back to Jana. "But she--"

Harry cut me off. "Babe, did you look at our wedding invitations before they went out?" I nodded and dropped my head because I knew already where this was going. "Of course you did. No way in hell would you have missed proofing them and making 100% sure that they got mailed out exactly six weeks before our wedding day. You made that a priority. This wasn't. So just call it what it is--you fucked up."

I plopped my face into my hands and sighed hard. "I did. You're right," I whispered.

"Then own it. And make that the last thing you say about that woman. Just figure out how you are going to fix it and focus on you." Next came the obligatory Army reference, a staple in Harry's lessons of love. "See this is like during my Army days when a private messed something up and I was the lieutenant in command. I couldn't go to the colonel with no bullshit song and dance about how Private Joe didn't do this or Private Joe didn't do that. Nawww, man. It was my job to handle all of that and present results to my superior officers. "

"So she was my private."

"Yep. And you need to thank God that I ain't your colonel."

That? That was one of the most pivotal learning experiences of my career to date. A painful lesson in accountability and the futility of finger pointing--provided in a beachside lounge chair against a Caribbean backdrop.

Yup.

Let me be clear: Jana was wrong in some ways. She was. But Harry's point was that it would be more useful to focus on my part first before wasting energy trying to decimate her. He also told me that by the time a person looks at what they did and works on that, they're too exhausted to go blaming another person. And so. That's eventually what I did. And you know? The truth hurt. It was as clear as day: I was so busy focusing on things unrelated to my own job as course director that I missed my opportunity to catch what wasn't being done in a timely fashion. Which ultimately fell on me, the responsible party, not Jana.


Tonight I was called by a mentee about something that immediately took me back to this place. This person was singing a somebody-done-somebody-wrong-song and the more I listened, the more it became clear. This was something my advisee needed to own for what it was: His fault.

Yup.

And so. I told him just like Harry told me (minus the expletives.) "You messed up. Plain and simple. You used poor judgement and now you need to own it and work through the consequences."

And, like me, he countered with all the reasons why this faculty member who'd given him a hard time was wrong. His dialogues sounded like that of a victim instead of someone who truly just effed up. Big time.

I was loving in my discussion, yes. But totally honest and not even remotely yielding to coddling or adding to the narrative of this being victimization. He was mostly quiet. I can't tell if he felt seriously angry and betrayed, or if he just needed time to reflect. Either way, I will sleep well tonight.

I will.

Sometimes? Sometimes when you fuck something up, you just have to stand the rain and own it. Put on your big girl panties, raise your hand and say, "Yep. I blew that one." Then be mature enough to work through the solution and the consequences that follow. Anything other than that--especially a never-ending commentary of how terribly you were treated and how much it is someone else' fault--is not only exhausting, it pulls the drain on any patience or respect people have for you.

Truth.

Listen. We are human beings and, by design, guaranteed to mess some things up. But humans who lead other humans must push beyond pridefulness to own wrongdoing. Paradoxically, it garners more respect than people realize.

At least, that's what I think.

So the board review? It went okay. We broke even which technically isn't the goal. My boss was glad that "that woman didn't cause us to lose money" and felt satisfied with things being even-Steven. But me? Deep down I knew the truth. That my husband was right and that I'd gotten lucky. But especially that this was all my fault for not following through with my responsibility as the leader of that program.

I like thinking about leadership lessons. I think they're an essential part of being a great clinical educator, physician, community leader and mom. The accountability thread permeates our lessons of love in our home. It's my hope that telling my son that leaving homework in a desk is his fault (not his teacher's) will pave the way to recognizing fault and making improvements later. Or as Harry says "being a grown ass man" when things happen. So that zero or that silent lunch is on you, bruh. It's pretty amazing how innovative folks become once they've owned a screw up and decide to try to find a solution.

Homework included.

So yeah. Sometimes? Sometimes you just fuck up. And when you do, step one is to admit it. To whom, you ask? Well, that depends on the situation. But I can say there is one person whom you should always start with.

Can you guess who that person is?

Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday. And sorry for the f-bombs. Blame my husband. Ha.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . kicking it old school, yo.

Hold on tight to your dreams.

It's a long time to be gone

Oh, time just rolls on and on

When you need a shoulder to cry on

When you get so sick of trying

Just hold on tight to your dream.

~ Electric Light Orchestra

I remember those first months when I first moved to Atlanta. I had just turned thirty and was finally out of residency. I'd secured the job of my dreams. And honestly? As far as anything beyond that, I'd just given up.

Let me explain.

The vast majority of my romantic life had been spent as a singleton. Uggh. Wait--let me revise that word. "Singleton" sounds horrible, doesn't it? Okay, so I was whatever it is you call a woman who you constantly see and wonder why on earth they are STILL single despite being educated-not terribly hard on the eye-confident-somewhat funny or fill in the blank. I was constantly being set up or introduced to people. I generally had dudes ask about me and ask me for my number in public places, too. But almost always, it went like this:

The ones who liked me, I didn't like back. Or the ones I liked weren't ready or right.

Nope.

I recall being introduced to one guy who was super-nice, super-thoughtful, super-reliable and mostly attractive. But for whatever reason, I only felt platonic feelings for him. I recall standing in the bathroom at a restaurant pleading with myself to just GET OVER the not being romantically attracted to him part. I even employed the heavens. I think God must have been busy.

See, an acquaintance had told me that the reason women "like me" were singletons (oh, hell I'm using that word) into their forties was because we're too damn picky. This expectation of chemistry and physical attraction was just too tall a damn order. If I just showed up long enough, my feelings would grow. I mean, eventually. If I'd just shut my piehole long enough to let that happen.

I did try that. The whole wait-for-it-to-grow thing. But I would always feel like no person deserved to have someone escaping to bathrooms at restaurants to coach themselves in the mirror and pray for God to step on it in the feelings department. It also just didn't work for me. I couldn't bring myself to even hug let alone kiss any dude that I didn't have genuine romantic feelings towards.

And so. That meant that I'd spend a lot of time alone. I finally accepted it.

So by the time I reached Atlanta, I'd resigned myself to just being single indefinitely and having fun in a city that was known for being single-professional-black-folk friendly.

Yeah.

So that's the truth. I'd given up. And figured that having kids and all that stuff wasn't for me. I'd gotten myself okay with that, too. And even when I went out with men on dates, I assumed it wouldn't work out. Why? Because, for me, things rarely did.

Nope.

Then one day, when I least expected it. . . .it did work out. I met Harry and things worked out for me. For me.

Yup.

Here's my advice:  The whole forcing yourself or waiting and waiting to catch feelings thing is something to which I don't subscribe. Not only is it cruel to the person you don't really like, it also robs you of the opportunity to meet your real match. Instead, just be honest with yourself. If someone shows you who they are, believe them. If it isn't sunshine or chemistry or whatever you like to all it, then keep it moving. I mean it. And that? That last part is the key.

Keep. It. Moving.

Some of the best advice I ever got was this: All you're looking for is one person. Not two humdred. So don't stress about being out at every club and party. Just take care of yourself, do things to make yourself happy and confident, and release those who suck the life out of you. Then you'll attract the person you've been looking for. Oh, and the person who is holding your hand or touching your body but who isn't holding you down or touching your heart at the same time? Tell them to kick rocks. Stat. 

Yup.

Today is my eleventh wedding anniversary. And I'm still pinching myself. But I never, ever miss the chance to reflect on the ache I once felt to meet someone like the BHE. I know that if I hadn't gotten into such a strong relationship with myself there's no way that I could have attracted someone like Harry. And you know? It's hard to be kind to yourself in that way. Society makes you seem so broken when you're single so you start to hide and hate that aspect of your life. And if you let it define you, that makes you hate you. Which kind of sucks and makes it hard for your to attract the love you deserve.

Yeah.

My point? Simple. If there was a Harry out there for me, there is someone special looking all over for someone else. (Read: YOU.)  Keep the faith and don't give up. And hold on tight to your dreams. And your dream guy or girl. No. Don't be stupid. But also don't assume that you settling is the only chance you can have at quasi-happiness. Because it's not. It's NOT. If it worked out for me, it can work out for anyone. This I know for sure.

Yeah.

***
Happy Anniversary to us. And happy birthday to our family.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . 

Something big.

You're walkin' along the street or you're at a party

Or else you're alone and then you suddenly dig

You're looking in someone's eyes, you suddenly realize

That this could be the start of something big

~  from "This Could Be The Start of Something Big"

This morning my eyes opened before his. I let them rest on the side of his cocoa brown skin peeking out from under the down comforter. His breathing was audible but peaceful. I reached out and stroked his face with one hand and slowly his lids began to flutter. When he looked at me he smiled. Even though his mouth was buried beneath the covers, I knew he was smiling because I could see it in his eyes.

Yes.

I guess that image serves as the perfect metaphor for our love. From his side, it is understated yet unmistakable. Like smiling eyes, his gestures speak tender volumes and somehow feel more genuine. His love for me is never a mystery. Like, I believe that he'd risk his life for me--truly--without even flinching.

Anyways.

The day was primarily uneventful. He slept in which was what he wanted. The night before had been rather fancy for us; a black tie event with friends. Mom kept the kids overnight (thanks, Mom!) and the B.H.E. and I fixed up quite nicely. And that man of mine hangs a suit like no other, so that always puts me in the very best of moods.

Yes, it does.

After returning with the kids, I did the kind of thing that you do for a person like Harry on his birthday. See, the B.H.E. isn't so keen on receiving gifts. He generally gets what he wants for himself and gets far more joy out of giving than opening his own boxes. Lord knows that makes us a perfect union.

Ha.

But seriously, he's a man that mostly appreciates acts of service and words of affirmation. And so. I took his car to get emissions and subsequently did his on line tag registration. I put some chicken on in the crock pot (his favorite) so that the entire house would be filled with the cozy scent of slow cooker deliciousness--a thing my husband deeply appreciates. I went and got him exactly what he wanted for lunch which was a falafel sandwich from Falafel King (which happens to have the very best falafel, I think, either of us have ever had.) I also went to Kroger to buy him a Mexican Coca Cola which, if you know Coca Cola, seems to be infused with love in the place of high fructose corn syrup. Yeah, so I did those things because I knew he'd appreciate them all.

I surely did.

Then I told him what a wonderful man he is and how fortunate I feel to be his wife. And I was specific, too. I explained why I think he's amazing and which qualities in him I admire the most. Even though he acts like it's not such a big deal, I've now been with him long enough to know that it is all the the wants. That and a few kind acts of service.

Yup.

So there wasn't any wrapping paper to toss or receipts to locate for returns. Just me telling him that I love him and demonstrating that I know him well enough to get the best ways to show him.

It's been ten plus years of marriage and with each, I love him more. I'm so, so proud to be his wife and delighted to say again what I've said here many times before:

If this man wasn't my husband, I'd wish that he was. Or were. Or whichever. Ha.

I'll also say the thing that never gets old and always bears repeating. . . .

Before I met Harry, I was not lucky in love. At all. He taught me that all I was really looking for was just one person. So this wasn't about living in Atlanta or hitting the social scene all over Atlanta (although it was responsible for our first meeting.) My point is that if this happened to me, it could happen to anyone. I really believe that. Right before I met Harry, I was exhausted. I'd thrown my hands up and resigned myself to believing that the plan for me was to be single well beyond my child bearing years. But that wasn't the plan.

No, it was not.

Even from the very first day, I knew the moment he put those same smiling eyes on me that this could be the start of something big. And you know what? I've been feeling that way ever since.

Happy birthday, love. You are my testimony. Every day with you is the start of something big.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . this song sung exactly like this by young Aretha Franklin. It tells the story of what a difference a day can make and how it is indeed possible to go from "nothing ever works" to "luckiest girl in the world" in the blink of an eye. Le sigh.

Best. Husband. Ever.

You love me especially different every time
You keep me on my feet happily excited
By your cologne, your hands
Your smile, your intelligence

You woo me, you court me
You tease me, you please me
You school me, give me some things to think about

Ignite me, you invite me
You co-write me, you love me
You like me, you incite me to chorus

Ooh
Ooh
Ooh, ooh, ooh

~ Jill Scott

_______________________________________

"I'd do anything for you," he told me recently.

"I know this." This was my reply.

"I love you so much," his simple texts often read.

"You more" is my usual response. But it should be "I know."

Because, I do. I know. I know that he loves me. Through the look in his eyes. But especially his actions. His kind gestures that say, "I know this matters to you so I will do it." Those things that shift him away from his comfort zone and into mine. The teeny-tiny things like turning on the seat warmers in my car or picking me up some mediterranean food because he knows I love it and not caring so much that he doesn't.

I walk into the room and he says, "You okay, baby?" And he asks it like he means it. Like, if for some reason I am not okay, he will do whatever it is I ask of him to help me get okay. Which is awesome.

There are some things he's not. Like, he's not schmoozy. At all. He can be a bit of an introvert when faced with many-many people and generally won't be the one yucking it up with the boss or jumping onto the stage to belt out Marvin Gaye at the annual holiday party. His flowers are handed to me quietly on days like Tuesday and his surprise gifts on times that don't usually coincide with milestones. He is honest. The jeans that smash my butt like a pancake will be reported to me as such if I ask and fortunately not so much when I don't.

He believes in me. In this understated way, he looks at me like whatever it is I am trying to do is attainable. Or maybe even more than attainable. Like. . .I don't know. . .it's already done. He's not the guy throwing the confetti at me at the end of the half marathon. But if I asked him to do that, he would. That is, if he could tell that it was important to me. Which makes me think of another tender thing about the man I married: I often measure whether or not to tell him what I want against how seriously I want it. Why? Because he will do whatever he has to do to get it for me. Or do it for me. To help me get "okay."

His love makes me feel beautiful. I mean it. Beautiful. 

He loves me. Especially different. Even on an ordinary Monday, he does. And for that, I am thankful.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .Jill Scott providing a perfect soundtrack to how I feel every single day that I get to be with this man. Listen and you'll feel me. He incites me to chorus. . .loudly. . . because he loves me. And you know what? I love him, too.

Nor is life.

This past weekend

Harry and I took the kids to this really amazing restaurant in Savannah over the weekend. I don't mean amazing as in "ah-maaaazing" like the foodies say. More in the sense of it being an adventure--like nothing they'd ever experienced.

Anyways. This place was very family friendly and actually had this cool pond built into it where kids could buy a $3 bag of bait and go "fishing" right inside of the restaurant. On this particular evening, we were with a few other families which meant lots and lots of kids having lots and lots of fun.

As the kids fished, the parents enjoyed adult conversation and humor. All of it was wonderful and a great time was surely had by all from the lap babies all the way to the oldest in the group. Laughing out loud and stopping only to occasionally give a kid three more dollars or to take our turns at checking to make sure none of our kids had jumped into that man-made lagoon which, fortunately, no one did.

Finally, we realized that it was getting really late. Even for a Saturday night, we were pushing it for kids this age to be out in a restaurant. We squared up bills and prepared to go and get our respective children.

Zachary was already off and sitting on a bench with some of the other kids as Isaiah and one or two more stragglers held on to their makeshift fishing poles for whatever few seconds they could squeeze out before the bell tolled. Since the other parents were also there preparing to retrieve their own children, Harry focused only on getting Isaiah's attention.

"Isaiah. Let's go."

Harry's voice was firm. Not a yell or even a plea. Just a simple statement with a military man's intonation that said "order" and definitely not "suggestion."

Isaiah and his friends were still in their fishing pole la la land. We'd already given them all several "ten more minute" warnings--probably as much for us and our fun as it was for theirs. But either way, it was late and now, it was time to go.

It really was.

"Okay, okay, okay, Dad. Just let me do this one. . . last. . . thing!" Isaiah quickly grabbed the edge of the line and began to hook another new piece of bait on the end. "Dad, just this one--"

Harry interrupted him before he could even finish. This time his voice was a little more firm than that first time but still very controlled. "Isaiah. Now. It's time to go." The finality in it was clear. I've been at this with him long enough to know that Harry wasn't going to repeat himself--nor would he have to. Isaiah immediately laid the pole down where he found it, said, "Yes, Dad," and began walking toward Harry.

And that was that.

Isaiah scuffled ahead to join the rest of the kids all of whom were now crammed together on a swinging bench, cackling out loud and probably a few seconds away from costing all of us some money, some embarrassment and maybe even an emergency department trip. Harry turned to walk toward the front of the restaurant and just as he did, an older man who'd been watching the entire exchange spoke to him.

"I don't envy anyone who has to get kids away from all of this fun. Especially boys!" His tone was friendly and genuine. He had twinkling blue eyes and the warm, patient body language of a grandfather, which I'm willing to bet money he was. His skin was a sun kissed olive tone with deep crows' feet bursting like fireworks from the corners of those same happy eyes.

Harry chuckled and nodded to him in response. All of it amicable and easy. And that was that.

The man stepped a bit closer and spoke to Harry again, this time more directly. His voice became serious. That said, you could tell it was still well-meaning and non-threatening, especially because of the sparkle that remained in his grandfatherly eyes.

"Mind if an old man gives you a little bit of advice? I mean, just from an old guy who's been around the  parenting block a few times to a younger guy?"

Harry noted his age--I could tell--and paused deferentially. He raised his eyebrows and faced the gentleman to let him know he was listening.

I silently cringed and hoped this wouldn't take a wrong turn.

And so the Grandfather-man spoke:

"You know? If you say 'please' to them now, they'll respect you a lot more when they grow up to be men. Take it from me." When Harry didn't say anything, the Grandfather-man added this, "Just some advice coming from the heart from an older man who's raised up some sons of his own." He smiled at Harry again to make sure that it was clear that this was all goodnatured kindness and nothing more.

And, thank goodness, Harry received as such. No ripple in his forehead or clenching of his masseter; all tell-tale signs of when my husband is offended or annoyed. Nope. There was none of that. Just this inexplicable facial expression and searing eye contact.

Then Harry said this:

"Do you mind if I share something with you, sir?" The Grandfather-man turned his head a bit to the side to let Harry know his ear was bent. And so Harry went on. "I appreciate your advice, but I'm raising my two sons in a world that won't say 'please' to them. Unfortunately, this world just doesn't say 'please' to black boys and it definitely doesn't say 'please' to black men. My sons need to understand that. And they will understand that."

Damn.

I wish you could have seen the complexity of the look on the Grandfather-man's face. His blue eyes became sad in acknowledgement of this very obvious difference in the worlds his sons (and likely grandsons) face and that of this younger man before him. His lips pressed together and his brow furrowed; the Grandfather-man's eyes were still trained on Harry's. And you already know that Harry kept holding that man's gaze as if it were some kind of staring contest.

The Grandfather-man finally closed his eyes and sighed, his entire chest rising and collapsing dramatically. Then he looked back up at Harry and nodded his understanding of the heartbreaking relativity of that lighthearted advice. Heartbreaking, yes, but an inconvenient truth that simply couldn't be ignored.

Especially these days.

And let me be clear:

This was not a negative interaction between a younger black man and an older white man. And this isn't some rant about some uncomfortable conversation laced with racism or any such thing. Quite the contrary, actually. That Grandfather-man came to speak a good word to my husband from the sweetest, dearest place. He did--and my husband (who is usually skeptical of every stranger) would tell you the same.

But.

Without saying very much, you'd better believe that those men had a rich dialogue on race and inequality. Damn, they did.

You see--Harry didn't say it, but he said it:

"If my sons don't learn how to leave when someone says 'let's go', it could cost them their lives. And the chances of someone saying 'please' before beating or shooting them is, unfortunately, low."

And you know what? That's some real talk right there, man.

Messed up, yes. But realer than real.

Now. Do we think our sons deserve to hear pleases and thank yous? Sure we do. Do we also think that, as their parents, we aren't required to spin our rules into requests? You'd better believe it--with all due respect to the Grandfather-man (and to the future respect that could potentially be gained by doing so.)

Harry said he would reflect on that Grandfather-man's advice and remember to be tender at the time-to-be-tender-times with his boys. At which point I reminded him that he is quite tender at those times. Those time-to-be-tender ones, that is.

Yep.

So you know? It sucks, really. It sucks that a black boy standing in the wrong place at the wrong time--even when he's innocent and doing nothing worth even noticing--needs to recognize that sometimes--no, most times--he needs to move on the first time the order is issued. He needs to get moving with as little protest as possible and with or without the "please" or the cherry on top.

Sigh.

Oh. And have we already been having these conversations with our seven and nine year old black men-children at our kitchen table? You're damn right we have. Not because we want to, but because we have to. And if this is something you will never have to think of for your son? Say a prayer of thanks. And if the thought of us and many other families being required to makes you sad? That's okay because it should.

Our kids pleaded to stay and hang out with their friends up until the last second when we loaded them into the car.

"That's not fair," one of the boys mumbled from the back seat.

"Nor is life," Harry replied.

Nor is life.

***
Happy Sunday-now-Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . as poignant now as it was when he recorded it. If not more. Listen and reflect on what is happening in the world right now. I'm too sad to specifically address it but know that, like Harry, I just did.

This morning.

"Love is the what."  ~ Angella L.

You look at me with loyal eyes. Your words to the point and no, not Hallmark worthy but, to me, even better. Quiet and genuine you turn toward me, still half buried under the covers. I am in the doorway, fully dressed for work. Heels clicking across the wooden floors with growing urgency, pausing to kiss your head trying not to wake you, but knowing that I will.

But you never mind.

You look to me, my shoulder leaning against the door frame and my fingers clasped around the knob. "You okay, baby?" you say.

"Yep," I reply. "You?"

"Yeah. Just tired still. Long day yesterday." Your voice is throaty, emphasizing those words.

"Get some rest then. You deserve it. Sorry to wake you."

"It's okay. I'm happy to see my wife."

"And she is happy to see you."

I freeze and get lost in my own thoughts. Our bedroom looking very lived in, consistent with our busy worlds. But still, instead of clutter I see life and suddenly feel intense gratitude. Grateful for you, a man who works hard and gives enough of himself to this life that he should be tired. But never too tired to love. That thought makes me smile.

"You okay, baby?" you ask again because I'm still standing there.

"Yep. Fine. Just fine."

"What's on your mind?"

Instead of answering you, I walk back over to your side of the bed, keys still jingling in my hand. I hug your torso hard and kiss your neck three times in a row. You fish your arm from under the covers to hug me back, strong and like you mean it. I let you, nearly falling down.

Then, as I leave you and softly close the bedroom door behind me, I think of words from a very wise friend that fit this moment perfectly:

Love is the what.

Yeah.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Love on top.

Honey, honey
I can see the stars all the way from here
Can't you see the glow on the window pane?
I can feel the sun whenever you're near
Every time you touch me I just melt away

Now everybody ask me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear 

(they say love hurts)
But I know 

(it's gonna take the real work)

Nothing's perfect but it's worth it 
after fighting through my tears
And finally you put me first

Baby it's you
You're the one I love
You're the one I need
You're the only one I see

Come on baby it's you
You're the one that gives your all
You're the one I can always call
When I need to make everything stop
Finally you put my love on top

~ from "Love on Top" as sung by Mrs. Beyonce Knowles Carter

________________________________________________


Let me tell you. . . .

Cinderella? Baby, she ain't got nothing on me. I mean, first of all, she had those hatin' ass stepsisters and that crazy stepmama to fight against before finally getting to her prince. My sisters are awesome, my girlfriends are rock solid, and I don't have to fool with any talking vermin.

I'm just sayin'.

So. . . .yeah. It has taken me a full week of recovery and reflection to gather my thoughts from our 10th anniversary celebration last weekend enough to actually write something. It exceeded my vision on so many levels that it's been hard to put into words. But since so many of you have been supporting us--either in real life, virtually, or both--I knew I had to get it together so that you could be a part of it all, too.

Yup.

Let me first start by telling you about how this party came together. Although the BHE always fronts like he's all low key about everything, that is SO a facade, man. He's secretly super-duper festive when it comes to any celebration. I'm not even kidding. The only thing is that he has to agree to do something--but once he does? Chile please. A little food becomes a lot of food. "Just a few people" becomes everybody and their mama. Because once Mr. Manning signs off on it? You might as well get ready to TURN UP.

Case in point:

We generally don't have birthday parties for our kids each year. We made this decision early on that we'd have a party in years divisible by 5, with the exception of something at 16 instead of 15. Or maybe nothing at 15 or 16. Ha.

Okay, so the first time we planned one of those parties? Maaaaaan, please. The B.H.E. did it B.I.G., do you hear me? A crap ton of food. Two jumpy castles. Oh, and my favorite part--lots of adult beverages and foods so that the parents would stay and hang out. Never in my life had I ever been to a birthday party for a five year-old that started at 2PM and ended at 2AM.

Okay, maybe not 2AM, but real talk, it was like 11 or 12 at night. For reals.

So waaaaay back when, I told the B.H.E. that I wanted to have a party for our 10th wedding anniversary. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I started saying this not even one year into our marriage. See, I'd always had this idea of repurposing my wedding dress into a cocktail dress--mostly because the thought of never, ever getting to rewear a dress that cost me nearly two grand just seemed wrong, man. So very early on, I declared that I was going to wear that dress again on our tenth anniversary.

Yup.

Harry had heard me say it so much that he couldn't even shut me down when I brought it back up last year. (Plus ten is a year divisible by five so it fit the house rule.)

"We should have a WHITE party!" I squealed all giddy like a middle-schooler. "And I'll wear my dress!"

"A WHITE party?" Harry groaned at me when he said that.

"Yeah! Plus it'll be after Easter so white would be officially okay to wear. That'll be fly!"

"Naaah man. Having to wear all white to a party is a pain in the ass. Especially if you're a dude. What about . . .I don't know. . .like a black and white joint or something. Just not all white."

"Bwwwaaaaah ha haaaa!!!"

My eyes got those crazy cartoon bulls eyes in them and my hands started rubbing together. I loved the idea immediately. A black and white party it would be.

Oh yeah, baby.

Around Christmas time Harry said all nonchalant-like, "Hey babe, you might want to shoot out some kind of save the date joint so people have a heads up about the anniversary joint." ("Joint" gets a lot of use in the B.H.E.'s vernacular.)

I smiled super big because this suggestion was SO very on par with my closet-festive husband's M.O. Wait. Did this dude just ask me to send a save the date? Dude. This meant that it was about to be a REAL party. And that the B.H.E. was on board for a real party, too. Like the kind that folks take planes, trains and automobiles to reach. Maaaaan, please. I had those save the date joints printed and ready before he could even finish that sentence. Dropped 'em right inside the Christmas cards ('cause y'all know I don't have NO problems with double-stuffing an envelope.) #dontjudgeme

Mmmm hmmmm.

And so. Much to our delight, many, many of our friends from far and near made plans to celebrate our decade with us. They were great sports about wearing black and white and even better sports about just coming with positive and festive attitudes. We wanted the weekend to be filled with love--just like it was when we got married ten years before.

Okay, so a few funny things that I must tell you:

First, the dress. I personally think that the whole "dress preservation" business is a major racket. Okay, maybe it's not a racket but I'm cheap so my dress was "preserved" in a closet at my mom's house since May 2, 2004. She brought it over one night in March and we crossed our fingers hoping it wouldn't be fifty shades of grey (or brownish yellow) when we pulled it out of that plastic.

Preservation-smeservation. Chile please. How 'bout that dress was JUST FINE.

Mmmmm hmmmm.

So my mom helps me into it and . . .woo hoo. . . it slides right over my now post partum hips and. . . .oh yeah. . . .zips easily up my back right until . . .  .rut roh. . . . the last inch at the top. Yikes.

"Not gonna happen," my mom said.

"Now that's weird. I totally thought the problem area would be below the waist."

"Babies." That's all my mom said. And honestly, she was spot on. Everyone knows that even after you get the baby weight off, your body is like a sausage casing and the meat might be the same amount but it just gets pushed all into different places.

Yup.

I took my dress to the awesome seamstress sisters at M&K Alterations on North Decatur and Clairmont and they were amazing. Truly amazing. They took off appliques and broke down lining and all that. In preparation for the party, I was watching my carbs and . . . well. . .turns out that I may have lost a few pounds inadvertently. I kept trying it on and wanting to love it but I couldn't. I even broke down and showed Harry, which is something I rarely do before any big event. He said I looked "fine" which, to me, was the wrong answer. Then I tortured JoLai with facetime and a myriad of selfies, hoping she'd nudge me into feeling more fierce than just, well, fine.

"Why don't you take it back up there and see if they'll take it back in some." Simple enough suggestion, right? But these women had done SO much work. And this alteration had taken over a month. This was literally two days before the party so things were looking pretty damn rocky. "Hell, all they can say is no," JoLai said. "You have nothing to lose by asking." And I decided that she was right.

I walked into the shop holding the dress that I'd just picked up the day before which, of course, was very puzzling to them. I told Mary, the older sister, "Mary? Um. . .so this fits. . .but it's kind of. . .I don't know. . .  big-ish now. And I love how you cut it and altered the bottom, I do. But. . .I want to love the whole thing. Like. . . . I want to love it."

And I braced myself for her to tell me that I was S.O.L.  Because she was in the midst of steaming out a prom dress and there were twelve trillion other prom gowns hanging all over the store. I crossed my fingers and counted in my head. . . .wait for it. . .wait for it. . . .

Mary put down the steamer and looked over at me. Then she shrugged and said, "I want you to love it, too. It's big party. I want you to love it. Go put on dress."

And I did. She smiled and told me that she would be taking it in even a little more than the original place it was. "You lose weight, Keem," she said. "You must be excited?" And I laughed and told her yes. Because I was. But mostly I was excited that she didn't kick me square in the butt and throw my dress at my head for thinking she would do all that work again.

Ha.

So they turned that dress around to me that same day. And when I put it back on, I officially felt fierce instead of . . fine. Yeah, so shout out to M&K Alterations--go there if you live anywhere near Emory or intown.

So the next funny part was also tied to my quest for fierceness. I was in clinic the Thursday before our party and decided that I wanted to spice up look with some eyelash extensions. And by "eyelash extensions" I mean just some fancy lashes that would last a few days instead of a few hours like the strip ones. Fortunately, clinic was the perfect place to have such an epiphany because for whatever reason there seems to be this subset of Grady nurses and techs who believe in rocking the fab lashes for no occasion at all.

I hunted down Ms. Moss (one of my favorites) to get the scoop on where I could get my Liza Minelli on for a reasonable price. So Moss starts naming off some places but then--dig this--she looks from side to side and leans in like she's about to tell me something illegal.

"On the low-low. . .you know where you can get the BEST individual eyelashes put on? I'm talking natural looking and super fierce?"

My eyes widened. "Tell me. Where?"

"Quietly, Shantia is a beast when it comes to putting on lashes. She only really does her own but every now and then she'll put some on for someone else."

Now. This? This I immediately knew I just HAD to do for the story. Just HAD to. See, Shantia works at Grady and I know her quite well. And let's just be fully clear--her job has ZERO to do with me and my desire to get glammed out with eyelashes. But, after a cryptic message from me and a heads up from Moss, she agreed to come out of retirement to hook a sista up during her lunch hour the following day.

Post-lash application at GRADY, baby!

Seriously? Seriously.

So now--how can this party be anything but awesome? I mean, I got my wedding dress to a point where I loved it even more than the first time I wore it and got the world's fiercest eyelashes on a lunch break at GRADY HOSPITAL. It does not get any better than that. No, ma'am, no sir, it does not.

So in came our friends and family from all over the place. From Los Angeles and Washington D.C. From Philly and Denver. From Chicago and Dallas. From Cleveland and New York City. All with big smiles and full intentions to shake what their mamas gave them.

Oh yeah, baby.

 

That Friday a bunch of us hung out at Mardi Gras Cafe to eat good food and listen to live music. The band was amazing and we sang along with so many of his covers that we all deserved tips. One woman even jumped up and sang a full on version of Aretha Franklin's "Rock Steady" -- and tore the house down, do you hear me? Yeah. So that was super fun and a great way to get us primed for the festivities ahead. Plus it was way cool for our friends to get to see and feel Harry's restaurant. I was proud of that part.

So the party. Okay, so what I will say is that our friend, Kat, who happens to be an AMAZING INTERIOR DESIGNER helped decorate and added the loving touches that I was too frazzled to come up with on my own. Random Sidebar:  Kat (of Benenate Design) also designed our home, Harry's restaurant and office, and many of our friends' homes. She even did an amazing job with the Burn Unit and Neuro ICU at GRADY HOSPITAL--turning the family areas into cozy havens for those families.

So yeah. Shout out to Kat. Check her out if your living space or business needs a decor facelift -- she can do moderate and lavish depending on your druther. Please peep her website -- it's nothing short of amazing. Plus she's good people.

Kat in the polka dots--she's the BEST.

Mmmm hmmmm.

Harry went to the party a bit early (read: on time) while I hung out with my best friend, Lisa--who also was the "best woman" in our wedding. (We both decided that "best woman" sounded better than "maid of honor.") So Lisa helped me dress while we acted all giddy and sipped prosecco. She laughed out loud at me as I followed "How to do a smokey eye with a muted lip" look line by line out of the Kevyn Aucoin make-up book. She's known me long enough understand how cheap thrifty I am when it comes to such things and just shook her head and said, "Only my friend."

That said, she had to admit that my smokey eye-nude lip was indeed FIERCE.

We called an UBER car to get us, and it came for us in two shakes of a lambs tail. We threw some makeup into a bag--and grabbed my other dress--and we were off.

Oh yeah:

I have a few friends who are known for doing the mid-party wardrobe change at their big gigs. It's always been hilarious to me and I'm usually the one poking fun at them. But. Since I was trying to channel my inner Beyonce AND I was going to be wearing this super-corseted dress that I hadn't worn since ten years and two babies ago. . .I thought, Let's DO THIS. Yes. Let's do a doggone mid-party WARDROBE CHANGE.

Bev, one of my "wardrobe changing" friends

Besides once you've started sipping prosecco with your BFF and you managed to create your own homegrown smokey eye-nude lip look, all you can hear in your ear is this:

Mmmm hmmmm. 

*feel free to eyeroll*

Oh, where was I? Lisa was an even AWESOMER wing-woman than she was in 2004. And, trust me, that's is saying a WHOLE LOT. I swear we were like twenty-something year-old med students all over again on that car ride over. We kept taking all of these ridiculous selfies after Lisa said she'd read in a magazine that squinting makes you look sultry and hides the crow's feet.

I kept messing up but eventually I got the hang of it.

Hilarious.

We came into that party with a big bang. Laughing, dancing, singing--all that. I found my man who said, "You look GOOD. Did you do something to the dress?" And I struck my fiercest pose which let him know the answer to that question.

Good Lord, this post has already gotten so ridiculously long that I'll just show some pictures which can tell it best.

 

Our travel agent extraordinaire, Jamal, came with his friend who was a REAL makeup artist.

Me telling him about my paint by numbers face after he complimented my makeup. Ha!

How can I forget the wardrobe change? Ha! 

I asked my friend Jan (a true outfit-changing-at-her-party veteran)--"How will I know when to change outfits?" To which she replied, "Baby, you'll know." 

With Jada, Lisa and Tracey--all my med school classmates, Meharry '96

If this looks like we were having ridiculous amounts of fun, it's because we were.

Ha. She was right. Us silly girls worked me out of that wedding dress and into my super comfy little black shift with white accent on the back. I even recounted another page of the Kevyn Aucoin book on "How to do a bold lip and sultry eye" look. 

Quick change artist--bold lip and all!

Oh, I MUST tell you that the dress change turned me into SASHA FIERCE for real. I had already instructed my friends to ALL bring their inner Beyonces and to leave their Kellys and Michelles (those other Destiny's Children) at home. Surely did. And please believe that we did two FULL ON Beyonce sequences where no less than fifty grown ass women left it all on the dance floor.

I called on all of my Ruths and they did not disappoint.

And then we just continued to have fun, feel the love, and be present in the moment.We paid attention to the people and the smiles and the music and the all of it. And I'm so, so very glad we did.

 

 

One beautiful thing was the other loving couples there. Many of them have been married longer than us.  Some not married yet but very much in love. It was positive, man. And super inspiring for those of us in relationships and those still waiting. And nobody was in that "smug married" state either. We all danced with each other and created a space for everybody to feel the love. 

But I did notice those other couples there. And I appreciate having them in my life as both an example and as motivation, man. Especially since many of them did that for me long before I ever even met Harry. They showed me that it was possible.

 

 

Do you see what I mean? Imagine being surrounded by this kind of positive love and energy. Just look at all of these smiling faces. I mean seriously. This is what we saw everywhere we turned, all night long. Surrounding us like a fortress of support, belief and love.

Now picture that in the literal sense.

 Here were our friends and loved ones. Literally encircling us in their love and support as our other dear friend, Wayne (also Harry's frat brother and the pastor who did Zachary's baby dedication) spoke a word of prayer over us and our marriage. What a powerful moment! The energy was so. . .palpable, man.  I will never, ever forget that. I won't.

And, of course. I thought of Deanna often because everybody knows that Deanna LOVED a good party. She would have been completely hoarse and would have been the very last person to leave. But trust me, I felt her presence. We all did.

Which reminds me. Two days before the party when I was fretting about my dress, I found an old letter from Deanna mailed in October of 2011. Randomly she'd put this picture in it and, hand over heart, I found it right at the moment that I was thinking about just scrapping the whole "wear my wedding dress again" idea since I didn't like the fit.

How random is it that seven years after my wedding, she'd send me this magazine clipping? And even more random that I would find that letter at that time?

See that? That gave me peace. It let me know that Deanna was in the midst and it also gave me confidence about that whole dress re-alteration situation. It was her way of saying, "You've got to wear the dress, Pookie!"  

 That comforted JoLai and me.

Isn't that just awesome?

What can I say?

It was a magical night. It truly was.

But most of all? It's been a magical ten years, man. Why? Because I still love my husband. Beyond that, I still like my husband. And, more than ever, I am so, so proud to be his wife.

Because this dude? He puts my love on top.

And that? That's something to celebrate, y'all. And you know what? If I don't know anything else, I know for sure that life is short and nothing is promised. So sometimes you have to clear your schedule and make a plan to really and truly celebrate the important things.

Especially if they can be divided by five.

Ha. But seriously--I debated not even sharing this much, you know? Thinking about students reading this blog and such, but then I remembered something: It's good for our students and learners to see that we have lives that go beyond the hospital. And, of course, how people decide to share that is up to them. For me, this community is a part of my life. . . and so. . .I guess it feels weird to not include you. Does that even make sense? Maybe. Maybe not.

 And sure, I may have lost an eyelash or two, but nobody had to hunt me down to match a slipper to my foot nor did anything turn into pumpkin at the stroke of midnight after the big ball. Nope. Matter of fact, we went to Waffle House at 3AM and had pecan waffles and hashed brown potatoes that were scattered, smothered, covered, chunked and all that.

Surely did.

And after all of that? I went home with that same prince of a man that I've been kissing good night for the last ten years.

Surely did.

Like I said-- that chick Cinderella?

She ain't got nothing on me.

Nothing.

***
Happy Everyday.

See? Now you were there! 'Preciate you and hope somebody, somewhere is putting your love on top.

Here's to the one that always puts my love on top. Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .



. . . .and also this video which I'm sure is what inspired the former. . . New Edition singing "If it isn't love." Which I may or may not know EVERY SINGLE MOVE to and may or may not have just performed in my kitchen for my kids.



Okay and now for some SHAMELESS SHOUT-OUTS and ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Angus snapping our Christmas pics.

The majority of these photos (less the fuzzy selfies) were taken by our family historian, friend and photographer extraordinaire, Angus W. of Nile Images. He has taken every formal picture of our family since our pregnancy photos with Isaiah and every image after. We always wish we'd known him back when we got married. He is never intrusive and is always, always efficient with the entire process.

Live in Atlanta and want your moment or family captured? Call Angus. He is THAT DUDE.

WWW.NILEIMAGES.COM

Next:

Shout out to my AWESOME ADVISEE Leah M. from Small Group Gamma for holding down the rowdy Manning ninos at the Manning casa while Mommy and Daddy celebrated. I am so grateful to Leah for allowing us to have a relaxed time completely free of worries or concerns. Our kids know her so it was win-win.

 and LAST:

One more plug for Katina B. of Benenate Design, LLC. She is a really a remarkable designer. You want to breathe life into your digs or even just a part of your home? Please check her out.

www.benenatedesign.com