Throw the towel in

That moment is going to come. The one that happens when you could barely brush your hair to tie it back. Where your body is seething in agony but somehow you still lift yourself gingerly from bed to wash and dress. There is a new cry from another room; something innocent and purely needing, it breaks the silence between you and he as nothing else has before or will again. Overwhelming, unsettling. A little frightening for all the things no one tells you before you have your first baby: All those feminine conversational taboo's that cause you to look at your best friend with stabbing you-knew-this-and-did-not-tell-me glances.

In your private agony, they are coming. Excited for a new life, to see what the two of you look like when shaken and stirred in the heavens, and to see the tiny feet and toes that you counted, twice, in the delivery room: To be sure she was all there, the first time. And to be sure she was real, the second.

My brother told me he never truly believed I was pregnant until he stood in that delivery room and held the first child of a new generation. Part of that is what brings them, the other is a pure love for the tiny and maybe a little sentimental trip through their own early days as parents. Either way, they want to see the baby. And the new Mother.

"Get ready." my doctor said to me in a quiet moment in the hospital room. I laughed and he smiled. But I was thinking, in those moments before the epidural wore off, how bad could it be?

It would have been a trip through a fiery, teeth-clenching, writhing hell had my Mom not filled the kitchen with food before we came home from the hospital and volunteered her home as a place to host people who wanted to come meet our new baby during limited hours in the days after she was born. It helped. It made all the difference. Because I would not have fallen easily on my sword and I would have tried to deal with serving company, checking the finger towels and soap, and scrutinizing the straightness of every frame on the wall.

Josh would have shook his head. As would his Mother, who gave life to six children and tried to help me to let myself off the hook: You won't be able to do it all now. You will have to let somethings go. This time is important, don't waste it dusting.

It turned out there is more to letting go than accepting that a sense of a well-looked after home was going to change at least temporarily.

The night my first Daughter - my Dad's first grandchild - breathed the same air, he sat in a chair in the labor suite and hesitated before he held her. She was tiny, after all. And he was, by then, a year into pancreatic cancer. "It's okay, Dad." My Brother said as he handed him my girl, "You won't break her."

Six weeks later, after all the visiting was over, my two oldest friends appeared at the summer cottage in Newport with a determined look I had seen in their gorgeous faces once or twice before: Not visiting anymore. I handed them my baby and bit my tongue. I wanted to weep in their arms. But that is not our way. We channel agony, we chew through our tongues while donning sheath dresses and throwing on Mama's pearls while mashing Ferragamo's onto our feet as we head for the car to help. We speak in steady, authoritative tones to all concerned feeling secure and then crap out in the fetal position on the bed alone. Because that is what we know of strength.

That day. Spine straight and baby bottles made, I handed Dori that child. She held my six-week-old baby day after day while I sat in the hospital room with the family that greeted m arrival on this earth - also a first grandchild - in a delivery room three decades before. I called her at ten past nine on a Thursday morning; my Dad had died while I was on my way back to the hospital from seeing the baby.

Look: They are coming to see the baby. Throw the towel in. Call your Mama, the cleaning person, and a caterer. Have a glass of wine. Hold your Daddy's hand. This time we were given is short, don't waste it on the dusting.

Beach music

I'm off for my last solo weekend at the beach with the girls. Leaving you with a little music to keep you company... have a great one.

City on Our Knees, Toby Mac






At Atlantic Beach, Florida, November, 2009.

The Old Boy Network

This past Saturday morning at 9:44 am, I had a conversation with a guy I dated in high school. The talk itself was remarkable for no greater reason than that it occurred, roughly, 14 years since the last time we had laughed at each other.

The sensible web-publisher taboo warning lights are on in my mind right now: Look out. But I have never met a taboo with which I did not want to have several cocktails: Married women do still speak to their formers. My Husband knows this. No, he is not looking concerned (yes, I can look and write at the same time; also make origami finger puppets but that is another story altogether).



Anyhow. I needed a photo of Jason to run on this site. When you need confirmation that you have made the right choices in life, and that they have rolled up to a quality existence, I hope you have a moment like mine.

I knew where to find him, generally. As you know, we're from a small town. Only ever two calls removed from the high school back there. In the spring he played a lacrosse reunion tournament with my Brother and ran into my Mother at the post party. When he called me from the field to say hello that day, I missed him. But he knew to make the call. No question in his mind or my Mother's that I would want to hear his voice.



That sureness of his, and mine, has always been there. Nothing we have been to one another was so marking as to make for standoffishness or cold-shoulders. In the grand scheme, how big a mistake can you make at sixteen years old (Juno, notwithstanding)? He was a smart kid and kept things in line. One day we all went off to school and things took their usual course.



A winner: In actual fact as well as my estimation. One who can swing the door open on his history fearlessly. Have those conversations that deepen the richness of his character. Reaffirming for all concerned that he was the right guy for the age, and that, while you struggled with it at times then, you had indeed made not one mistake.

In thinking about it now, my college boyfriend and I attended one another's weddings, happily. Another picked up the phone after that incident in Boston and made the call that got answers out of the local police, and on the day they lowered my Dad into the ground, he and his wife were at the graveside.



I ran into my post-college former in the ob-gyn's office when I was 38 weeks pregnant (Pretty! Wanted to die right there, on the spot. Twice.) with his new (eeeek) girlfriend who was also newly pregnant (double eeeeek): He was great!

But, what an uncomfortable situation he was trying delicately to explain to me while she was ten feet away. Let me catch up with you later, I said, but good luck.... sometimes your hands are tied conversationally and the newly-pregnant new girlfriend is one of those moments. I wanted to hear him tell me how it had been since that night I told him I was out, but you know: I felt a train wreck of a story coming on and maybe the littlest, most greedy part, wanted to remember him the way I knew him on that last summer day that I smiled and shook my head at his swagger: Golden. Powerful. Triumphant. Beautiful.



I wanted him to stay there. Way back there. Where he was still winning. Whatever struggle he faced in that office that was defeating him; I hope it receded if only for an instant. For a moment I was reminded of who he had been and I can only hope he allowed himself to be reminded too: The one, who, although I left him, in my mind, will win forever. I've got him there: steady, safe, glorious for all time.

If one girl makes a difference in the esteem of a guy, then he is still a world beater. But truth be told, after that encounter, part of me feels I must work to keep him there.

Friends? No, it can't be tight in that way. It precludes truly getting on with it. But we are in one another's lives at some level beyond just being small town progeny. Pals, I suppose.

My Husband? He likes those he knows. Confident types these guys, all the way around.

This may not be the gift of maturity: We had it all along. Magnanimous behaviors, I contend, are born-in, not developed. No matter how carefully one tries to cultivate them they will elude many. Some will always be incapable of extending a broad spirit past the mistakes, failings, or the character flaws which haunt them and those who had to live with those short comings intimately.

Pictures for the make up post? Sure, that guy I knew in school, he'll find them or ask his Mom. Tell you some stories and laugh about it all once again? Good for it every time. Make sure your memories stick to the high spots and allow time to shave away the momentary difficulties? Yes, in the bag.

Maybe you know one like him. I hope you do.

OMG WTF words words words

OMG WTF words words words. That is a text message in my phone. A girlfriend sent it as a reminder that people who go to law school can sometimes be exceedingly verbose. I have the additional issue of not trusting the comprehension of others and rephrasing several times to be sure I have perfect clarity; a habit which annoys even me. I hate repeating myself. And I have not one shred of patience, each time I have to rephrase, my fuse shortens.

Does this happen to you?

Worse, I tell you something and it could be 1. The launch code for a nuclear missile or 2. That it is good to see you and you are looking well. Either way: I just gave you the bullet. No double entendre. Nothing sharply underlying. If you know me, then you know I am capable of those things if I needed to unsheathe those weapons. But, come on, sometimes we're just talking, not sparing, not playing games. Right?

I am truly asking you: Do we just talk anymore or is the psychology of the culture one which is inherently distrusting of sincerity?

Face value: Does that exist in conversation anymore? It has been done away with at my Junior League, seemingly by official gracious decree, but everywhere else?

When I say: You look fabulous. Are you reading jealousy? Or my trying to butter you up? I want something? Because I can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out what it all means, the assumption that there is a message lurking in there somewhere.

The girl who sent me that text though: She is straight. Says what she means. OMG WTF, too many words. I love her. And her text messages.

For those who are direct, have a decent command of the language, and who probably are not even interested enough to do anything but give it to you straight, the processing of words, data, and inflection is an absurd intellectual waste.

Reading into coincidences: Same.

Once I fell into this trap. My college roommates and I came home one afternoon and checked the messages on the phone. I had been thinking of leaving my boyfriend who was at another school three hours away and avoiding his calls accordingly. He left a message which we played, on speaker, it seems like, 50 times. Laughing - okay, maybe even cackling - wait, when he said "hey" did he sound pissed? Or sad? I don't know, he's probably hung over? Ugh, what if he heard about... oh no! That would be really bad...



Actually, Rick had called to say, you know, "Hey." But both roommates stood there and watched as I called him back and waited to see what the underlying reason for the call was. He was a twenty-year-old frat brother: He was really just calling to say hey and was on that day, capable of stringing few more words together than that, in fact. Huge waste of time for Heather, Amy, and I had we not howled about it for an hour before returning the call; the memory of the laughter being the true gem of the preposterous time spent in a game only we were playing.

On the day I left him, I drove home to Bedford, looked him in the eye and told him: He was too pent up and we were done. I adored him. But I did not love him. Those things were true, they still are. Clear as a bell ringing, in my mind.

Nothing else to say. No reason to buffer because we just needed to get there, to the end of the conversation. Great and small: When we talk, it all does come down to whether or not you were comprehensive and comprehended. Best to say what you mean, mean what you say, it seems to me. But even in that short conversation, I probably could have cut it back to: I don't love you. And maybe I should have, given the text message which began this post.

Readers: You are gorgeous. I love seeing you all at the crack of dawn each morning. Don't read into this, not even the word "gorgeous" if you are Southern. You just are, and I just am. And somewhere out there, people have to be assumed to be sincere no matter how many words they are capable of throwing on the verbal pile, yes?

Amy Misle Fine Sculptured Porcelain Giveaway

I am so pleased to welcome a fine sculptural porcelain artist into the fold of Blushing sponsors for the fifth week of holiday giveaway's. Please be introduced to Amy Misle's remarkable, delicate, and finely colored work at her website and at her etsy shop.



Amy's work is largely custom order and can be inscribed on on the base for gifts and occasions.



We're excited to announce that one Blushing reader will receive an $80 credit to be used towards Amy's work.

To enter, please leave a comment below and leave a note on Amy's Facebook wall.

Entrants will receive one additional entry for a blog post, Facebook or Myspace mention, or Tweet. Leave me a note and let me know.

You can also follow Amy on Twitter for information on her new product introductions.

Contradictions

When I think of what we have been through, you and I: All those things we endured although we quietly appeared on this page and read about God knows what besides who we really were and what was really going on in our lives: Centerpieces, sterling. It is remarkable how much of ourselves remains uncovered on both sides of the monitor.

At times, those things I am compelled to cover because they are part of my niche, sometimes make me want to bounce off the walls with boredom. Because life is so much bigger than this and there is so much more to you and I.

Have you read Martha Stewart's work? She never diverges. Once in awhile she will give an interview and there is a sign that she is deeper and greater than the sum of all her irons, garden trowels, and cakes; none of that appears on the headers of Omnimedia. When she admits to being a cougar there is an outcry because she is assumed to be one-dimensional. But she is decidedly not.

There must be a misconception, generally, about women who keep well-appointed homes and are skilled domestically. Now, I will grant that I am young and consequently having the mantle of grand dame and task master hurled upon my shoulders is not appealing for the overtones of moth balls and wool crepe I sense in the accusation. Intentionally, I have walked a fine line here and the content is geared to keep my mind away from the campor because the "hostess" subject matter is inherently mined with the stuff, only it is pleasantly tagged as "tradition". I have lived at least long enough to know a lot of this skill is what a person has been taught or picked up and has little to do with gender or social strata. Furthermore, the fact that one knows how to polish glassware and get stains out of damask does not alone make her a dyed-in-the-wool church lady.

Between myself and the twenty-somethings reading though, there is a decided gap. If they are single, they can make the mistake of thinking they are a long way from where I stand today. A well appointed life has no boundaries: Genderless, ageless, timeless. Just because we were getting away with things in our college house does not mean we were less obligated. Ours at Providence had everything it should have, only it was slapped together; obviously more geared to affording to go out than to be at home among our stuff.

Nonetheless; good girls, from good homes, and had you come to dinner, you would have been well served. Even then. In a house where, mysteriously, every time my roommate went out at night, she came home missing a shoe (and we were grateful that was all). If you knew her, you would be nodding right now at her contradictions too. She, not unlike others in that house, is a cocktail of a girl: Polished, confident, sharp-tonged, fiercely bright, well put together, and privately, one of the edgiest people I know. All the good ones are.

The other day, when I talked you about tattoos, were there ever emails (and just a reminder to those souls: Hate is monetized, so keep it coming). Then I happened to be over at blog-friend LPC's page reading about her Doc Martens. And it occurred to me that there must be a misconception that we should write from a one-dimensional perspective and accept an if-then relationship with our subject matter: If I know about china patterns and centerpieces, then, I must be a starched grand-old girl? If I married a Naval officer of an old tradition, then I must be a girl who wears twinsets and pearls and never asks for too much for herself in this itinerant life of his?

Nothing and no one is a straight line but sometimes the shade from blog trees overhead might lead some to believe the writers here might be as easily explained-away as their general subject matter. The depth, layers, and scars of the person before us have always seemed so much more worthy of investigation than their dust jackets, for me.

Moreover, if you are going to read a blogger or a magablog for any period of time, chances are you need them to have had as many lives as a cat, ridden high and crashed and burned mightily, and known a few characters who made them, broke them, loved them, and hated them. Who could stand it if they just went on and on about china day in and day out without any color whatsoever?

The people in this world of mine are good and dangerous. They live amongst these missives. Willingly. Their choice is to be heralded and infamous on these pages by virtue of having decided not to miss out on this one life, and in turn, this one page. In a sense, now that we have you, all have agreed to the shadowy explanation that is Blushing. To put perfect clarity to the thing that is me, or her, or it, would cause us all to live in the blinding light of a less than perfect reality. You did not sign up for that, neither did we or they, in many ways. So we must agree: Parts of me, us, her, belong to you. The rest is in the air somewhere.

In parts, all here kind of know Blushing. But the truth is, "she" is a little something we tolerate when keeping it real might be too out of character for the readership's tolerence. But we are all coming about.

Here, let me explain for the fifteenth time that this is both hand painted and - excitingly! - dishwasher safe! I care about it, because I need to serve food, but I am not living and dying by it. No, no. I save that drama for grilled shrimp at Safe Harbor, which I would lay down my life to protect.

Before we go any further, then, it is best for all concerned to understand that this still-young life has been lived at a furious and sometimes wild pace. Unapologetically.

Contradictions within a person are what make the ride with them worth the time, and in the end, worth the fall. Martha Stewart is no less an authority on table setting because she sleeps with young guys, LPC is no less the high wasp for her Doc Martens, and I too am no less this hostess because I was inked when I was 22.

If I told you I was anything less than green with jealousy that our men's colleagues can own up to their experiences with vigor, acceptance (in most cases), and pride, I would be a bold faced liar (as I have told them ad nausea). At the same time, I like a woman's cloak of mystery, and when it comes to letting mine slip occasionally here so that we might know one another better, it is not my favorite sensation, admittedly.

I have not a clue where the balance is but I am also not losing sleep over placing it on this page accurately.

If you judged me for classically educated of a fine home, conservative, and reverent then you have me safely right on one count.

Welcome to The Blushing Hostess. Be advised, she is a real live girl.


Photos: Temporary quarters at Jacksonville, 2009.

A man's hand

The other day, I saw the house of a man. If a home could be said to be set to masculine-host pitch perfect, that home hit all the high notes.

It would be a mistake to call the place simple: Uncomplicated, maybe. Straight forward. Quality. Not one thing more or less than a person needs to live a gracious life, just touched, ever so gently, with a man's hand. Somewhere my Grandmother has been proved incorrect yet again: a man does not need a woman's touch to keep a gracious home. But he does need good taste.



This home was enlightened and spoke to me not only for its gentlemanly grace, but also because my taste in decor tends toward clean lines and colors.

Setting up home after home is my marital marital obligation. In doing so one argument rages on: Twelve complete dinner services. Six huge sets of stemware, nearly all discontinued and precious. Enough service items, one of us contends, to host the Second Fleet. And all the furniture which we are obligated to move with them: In the military, you cannot count on built-in's. Or anything else, come to think of it.



I don't even want to get into the words which have been slung carelessly over a 120-piece depression glass service which, "No one uses anymore," and which, "is waiting for a revival." Like I need this. As if I can stop cleaning up baby food or waxing nostalgic about lipstick colors for the fashion pieces herein to even consider whether some of my household and professional accoutrement should be jettisoned at one of these stops because - just a note here - when not doing those things I have been hostessing fleet clambakes. Ah-hem. But after feeling the serenity of that home, I thought about it at least.

I have been to the pinnacle of male household sensibilty, and I have not found it wanting. Bathrooms: Clean. White. Toweled. Papered. Kitchen: Nothing on the counter top, a bowl with the bills and that is all. Organized and clean. Spare and calculated. But not minimal and not simple. A place you would enjoy a visit, never want for anything nor worry too much over your manners.



I long suspected of my Grandfather that he would have had the magnificent and infallible taste I attributed to my Grandparents as a couple, had he been on his own. But, we knew him as the gentleman of the house and he deffered to her in matters of household. He was a charming host surely long before he met her although one never gives much thought to the domestic knowledge of the gentleman once the mistress of the household begins arranging and giving orders, do they? After all, how would it all have worked out for them if not? They would have been terribly mismatched for sixty years, it seems. Now that I have seen and understood what a gentleman can accomplish, I like the idea that men are capable of very gracious living all on their own; Without hiring a decorator, reading my work, or sacrificing one shred of their masculinity to the task.

Newly afraid for my job? Sorry if I found one day that no one needed household how-to's and etiquette primers anymore? Not for split second. If I do the job right, I will just fade away.

We are one step closer.



Credits: Architectural Digest, Living etc (2,3,4), Southern Living