My father sent me a Valentine today. Welp, I’m never going to get married. No one compares.
This is Zach Wahl.
He has two moms.
And this was his speech before the Iowa State house this week as they deliberate on a vote to ban both marriage equality and civil unions.
My heart is exploding with pride over this kid.
Preach it, Zach. Preach it.
Love,
M
This. is. so. lovely.
Two things about this picture. 1. I finally bit the bullet and went to buy glasses! The other drivers on the road thank me. 2. I actually have a land line. This allows me to talk on the phone while taking a picture with my cell AND pretend it’s still 1992.
Well, maybe not EVERY red blooded….
A few years back I met an extraordinary dapper man. It was at an event, an unconventional event, at which I was one woman amongst a flock of men. He was sweet enough to engage in conversation with the young, slightly uncomfortable, and oddly dressed lady who stood in the corner.
This dapper man was delightful, in every sense of the word, and allowed moments of much needed breath from the other guests who were…less than. After a while we discovered he had at one time known my father. My father, in fact, now has the job he once had at a newspaper.
He wore a page boy cap, used wonderful words, and had a grace about him I am now assured only comes with age. No one my age has it.
Later, my father forwarded me an email he sent him after our meeting.
I look at it often, when I feel self-conscious, and (as disgusting as it sounds) feel better about myself. And I think I’m justified in doing so because let’s be honest, the next time someone will refer to me as lissome is, well, never.
She was tall and lissome, personable and astoundingly beautiful. Any red-blooded male would be drawn to her. Even pay her $20,000 for a watch.
Then, at Meadowood in Napa, this Kate announced that she is your daughter.
On the one hand, how proud you must be. On the other, my ego was heard deflating clear to San Francisco.
My brother, father and me in 1993. Then again in 2010. Our photobooth abilities have not improved. But my goodness my hair has.
one of my all time favorite cosby show moments.
the cosby’s lip-syncing “night time is the right time”
Forever.
There has not been (and in my opinion never will be…) a show that comes even the tiniest bit close to as wonderful as The Cosby Show. I’ve seen every episode nine thousand times and still devour a marathon as if I’ve never seen a minute. I want Rudy to me my daughter.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Have you heard Horse Feathers? If not, well, I think you should. Here is a lovely cover of Nirvana’s (yep…Nirvana) Drain You. I want this to be played at my wedding as we dance barefoot in grass.
Book.
Wonderful. Here are two excerpts, both should convince you to read it:
Wendy’s husband Barry is an investment banker who, as far as I can tell, gets paid to fly around the world on private jets and lose golf games to other richer men who might need his bank’s money. A few years ago, they transferred him to the LA office, which no longer makes sense, since he travels constantly, and Wendy would no doubt prefer to live back on the East Coast, where her cankles and post-pregnancy jiggle are less of a liability. At least she’s being very well compensated for the inconvenience.
And this:
Phillip is our youngest brother, born nine years after me. It’s hard to understand my parents’ procreational logic. Wendy, Paul, and me, all within four years, and then Phillip, almost a decade later, slapped onto our family like an awkward coda. He is the Paul McCartney of our family; better looking than the rest of us, always facing a different direction in pictures, and occasionally rumored to be dead. As the baby, he was alternately coddled and ignored, which may have been a significant factor in his becoming such a terminally screwed up adult. He is currently living in Manhattan, where you’d have to wake up pretty early in the morning to find a drug he hasn’t done or a model he hasn’t fucked. He will drop off the radar for months at a time, and then show up unannounced at your house for dinner, where he might or might not casually mention that he’s been in jail, or Tibet, or has just broken up with a quasi famous actress. I haven’t seen him in over a year.
