I was on GOOP.com the other day (I love Gwyneth Paltrow because her name is Gwyneth … which makes complete sense to me) and was browsing through the abundance of articles listed under many categories.  It’s a pretty interesting site, and I can waste spend a lot of work free time getting lost in all the goodness. (We can keep this between us, okay?)

One of the subjects immediately caught my eye, and I thought to myself, how relevant.  Friendship Divorce.  And yes, it’s as bad as it sounds.

Friendships end, that’s just how life goes, but no one really talks about it the way we all dissect and relive and interpret the break ups of romantic relationships.  And when friendships end, there are a lot of unforseen consequences ~ like a ‘real’ divorce.  Which friends are mine?  Which friends are yours?  Give me my stuff back … give me my stuff back, etc etc.

I’ve gone through a fair amount of friendship break ups  ~ some where I was immediately involved, and some where I was an innocent bystander (sort of, I mean, I’m a girl after all) unsure of how to proceed in the wake of a brutal break up of mutual friends.  (Can I keep you both?)

Navigating a friendship divorce is a lot like what I imagine navigating a mine field might be.  Sometimes you’re really calm, super zen ~ it’s all for the best.  Sometimes you’re overly analytical, completely tuned into the paranoia.  Sometimes you’re too acerbic and angry ~ like water trickling over a ledge that somehow, instantly becomes a gushing fountain, totally tapped into the frustration that got it all started in the first place.

People behave badly during these break-ups.  We don’t always say what we mean, or even intend to say.  Sometimes we forget that not everyone agrees with how we feel.  It’s a sticky, messy, far-too-sensitive thing to untangle.  In a word, it sucks.

But here’s the thing.  Friendship divorces don’t happen for no reason.  They don’t pop up out of no where because one time, your friend didn’t pick you up from the train station, or because she couldn’t meet you out for drinks one night.  They happen for the same reason romantic relationships crumble.  One day, you realize that you don’t have a single positive thing to say about your ‘friend.’  You don’t really like them, and every time you interact, your body tenses with negativity.  You find yourself sliding down a slippery slope of cattiness and small-mindedness.  Are you really supposed to stay friends with a person who makes you feel like that?  Isn’t the best thing to walk away?

There’s no need to continue to spew negativity, or think angry, narrow-minded, judgemental thoughts.  Sometimes, it’s best to call it a day.  And truth be told, that other person probably isn’t as bad as you see them, but you’ve lost perspective ~ you can’t see the other side any more for the mound of resentment that’s built up like a cold hard block in your chest (near that place where your heart is supposed to be).

I haven’t always been the best version of myself in the days that followed a friendship divorce.  Things like that make a person a little insecure (women can be, and usually in these situations are, vicious).  I let myself down recently when, instead of moving onward and upward and talking about new, exciting and thought-provoking subjects and ideas, I found myself sarcastically reliving moments from the past that didn’t need to be rehashed or even discussed.  I disappointed myself.

I have a lot of good friends, and some great ones, too.  And it’s disrespectful to them to pull them into a personal situation that they probably want to pretend isn’t happening.  Friendships are just as difficult as relationships to nurture and maintain.  And when they fall apart, they are just as ugly.  It’s the angry side in all of us that dwells and fixates, and it’s a lot easier to give into the momentary satisfaction of being mean, than to rise above all that ickiness, and move on with grace and class.  I think most of us muddle through with a little bit of both.

It can also be sad when a friendship ends ~ probably not at the beginning, when all the angst is still front and center, and the recent wound is open and angry.  But some of those friendships that drifted apart or ended abruptly still had their good times, still had memories that can no longer be ret0ld over wine with laughter.

I think that having the strength to walk away from any relationship shows character.  It’s hard to recognize sometimes that something has turned toxic.  There are a lot of excuses and explanations given until one day you look in the mirror and you know it’s time.  And when that happens, there’s really no going back.

That’s a little misleading, as this afternoon, the heavens opened up, and it positively down-poured.  However, tonight is the annual Great Chef’s Event in Philadelphia, and since the man and I were lucky enough to attend last year, I thought it was a good moment to bring attention to a great organization.

I should probably take this moment to make a little, eensy weensy, teeny tiny confession.

I work in the restaurant industry.

I know, I know – how have I spent over half my life working in the business of good food, and just now start cooking?  Pretty easy answer ~ I ate at work, or spent a lot of time with the people who did the cooking at work.

So, because I work in the industry and have a pretty well-connected boss who was super generous last year, we were able to attend.  And I have to say, the food was glorious.  Additionally, I was pretty sure I saw Tom Colicchio from a distance, and I got a little faint.  I’m a big fan.  In fact, I have one of his cookbooks on my shelf, and every once in awhile I page through it, and realize that while I’m closer to being capable of cooking some of his recipes, I’m just not there yet.  Trust me, when I do finally brave some delicate and intricate dish penned by Mr. Colicchio, I will let it be known!

The Great Chef’s Event benefits Alex’s Lemonade Stand, started by an inspiring and courageous little girl named Alex who lived in the Philadelphia area and was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer, just before she turned one.  After her fourth birthday (and a stem cell transplant) Alex informed her mother that upon leaving the hospital, she wanted to have a lemonade stand to raise money for “her” hospital and to help benefit other children like her.

Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation partners with The Vetri Foundation once a year to hold the Great Chef’s Event (begun in 2006).  Major players in the hospitality and restaurant business participate, including Philadelphia heavyweights Jose Garces (Garces Restaurant Group), Steven Starr (represented this year by Executive Chef of Dandelion Robert Aiken), Michael Solomonov (Zahav), Daniel Stern (R2L) and of course, Marc Vetri (Vetri, Amis, Osteria).

Check out this link to see the picture gallery from last year (altho’ it should update to this year soon!~  http://www.alexslemonade.org/campaign/great-chefs-event/album

I have to tell you ~ it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  We got all dolled up (I even wore heels, eek!) and drove the Mini down to the Navy Yard.  All the glitterati of Philadelphia were there.  We wandered around, trying little bites from some of the best restaurants in the country.  I wish I could remember everything we had ~ I know there was a lemon crepe dish that melted in my mouth, and we went through the sushi line twice at one stand.  It was just the epitome of decadence.  I have in front of me the complimentary cookbook/program from the event, and I think I’ve found my new cooking challenge ~ finding and recreating some of the dishes we were salivating over!

But here’s the part that made it so amazing and special.  Liz and Jay Scott, Alex’s parents, thanked everyone for attending and spoke beautifully about their amazing daughter, who lost her battle to cancer in 2004.  And then the silent auction began, and the amount of money donated (for some pretty insane items, I may add ~ like a tour of Italy with Marc Vetri as your culinary guide, or a meal for 14 cooked specially by Mario Batali …you get the drift) would have blown your mind.  It did mine.  And my eyes filled with tears, because the power of being in a room where all these amazing and powerful people came together to raise money for a cause ~ well, it was incredible.

So, a year later, and sitting at home rather than all done up at a fancy event, I say Cheers! again to all the chefs and restaurants who participate, and I say even more Cheers! to Alex for being so generous and determined of spirit at such a young age, when fighting such a terrible disease.  And Cheers! to her parents, who have carried on her legacy, and continue to help so many children.

Now, I’m kinda in the mood for something with lemons …. Off to scour the kitchen!

So, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what it means to be grown up.  As a person in my early 30’s, I pretty much qualify as a full-fledged adult.  But … what exactly does that mean?  Is it about paying your bills?  Having a steady job? Being able to feed yourself on a daily basis (and not at McDonalds)? Owning a home?  Having kids?

Urgh.  So much to contemplate …

A few months ago I was pouring blood, sweat and tears into my personal statement for law school applications.  For anyone who has applied to law school, you know (and I’m sharing it with everyone else) the whole thing is re –donk -ulous in its intensity.  Every little detail counts, and it has to be scrutinized and dissected as to its value and what it says about you.  As a person who has always loved to write, I felt that my personal statement would be a strong component in my application ~ but I also knew that it was going to take a lot of work to make it good.  Truth be told, I wasn’t in love with it when I sent it out ~ but I had worked on it for so long, and felt that I just needed to let it rest.  It was like over-kneaded pastry.  Sometimes, you just have to walk away.

So, how does that tie into ‘grown-up’ -hood?

It got me thinking a lot about my life thus far … where I’ve been, the choices I’ve made, and how they have affected everything else, like ripples in a pond after a stone drops.  I still remember with clarity a fear I’d had has a teenager.  I looked at all the people I’d once sat in class with, going off to college and then getting jobs and living real lives, and I was frozen with fear that when my turn came, I wouldn’t know what to do.  I used to lay awake at night, wondering how people made that transition from kid to adult with such ease.  Was there a trick I didn’t know?  Did someone let you in on what to do at a certain point?  What if I got missed?

I think that this deep rooted fear is probably what crippled me as a young adult.  Not totally, but it was a big contributer.  Now, I don’t want you to think that I didn’t have great parents.  I definitely do.  They both worked very hard to give my brother and I a great launching pad for our futures.  We went to great schools, we played sports, we (ahem, I) got to go to theatre, dance and voice classes (oh, yeah, I used to do a lot of theatre).  My grandmother lived with us, and she made home-cooked meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I mean, realistically, it was sort of idealistic.  And we lived it.  However … when you combine an idealistic childhood with the kind of fear I had about ‘growing up,’ and you add in the little assumption made by my parents that I understood certain, basic things that I did not (example: money management) and voila, you get me in my early 20’s.

My failings hurt even more because coming out of high school, there was a lot of potential weighing on my shoulders.  Potential, in certain cases, can be a dangerous thing.  It puts undue pressure where pressure is not needed, and it can cause a lot of angst as life goes on.  I mean, yes, of course, it’s a compliment.  Someone (or several someones) think that you’ve got what it takes to be be great.  But then, if you fall flat on your face (for one reason or another) all that ‘potential’ does, is make you feel worse.

I can go back through my history, and pinpoint some places where I went really wrong.  I mean, we’re talking catastrophic boo-boos.  But if I hadn’t skipped down those roads with wanton abandon, would I still be here, sitting in my cozy home, finally happy and settled in life?  Maybe … but, also, maybe not.  Would I trade a might-have-been for this very happy known quantity?  Definitely not.  And I think that is the essence of being grown up.

Here’s the thing.  We don’t own a home.  Sometimes, that’s a bummer (like when we have guests, and they have to sleep on our living room floor, because we don’t have a spare room).  But a lot of times, it’s not a bummer at all.  We’re not married, and we don’t have kids.  That doesn’t make our life any less fulfilling for us.  And that’s a great feeling.  So after all this thinking and grappling, and contemplating (I know, it even sounds exhausting!) I think I’ve figured it out.

I think being grown up is about assessing your own life, and making the best choices within it.  When everything is said and done, and all the b.s. is brushed away, the truth is whether you’re happy in your own skin.   I love where I live ~ not necessarily my zip code~ but the rooms that John and I occupy.  I love the routine we’ve established together ~ I love the long talks we have, and I love the long silences.  I love falling asleep on the sofa watching a movie and holding hands.  I guess I’ve finally figured out that life isn’t a race or a competition.  I don’t want to do anything because it’s expected, or what’s quote unquote, next.  I don’t have a check list of what I must accomplish in order to be a grown up.  I’m not saying I don’t understand the value of certain things ~ of course I do!  But the most valuable thing is, to quote my brother, “Live my style.”

I’ve learned an incredible amount of lessons the long way, or the hard way, or both.  It’s taken me ten years (give or take) to get my feet back underneath me, and establish a little bit of normalcy.  I give John a lot of credit for that, because when we first met,  he became my anchor as I was tossed about on a very stormy sea.  But I’ll take a little bit of credit, too.  I’ve had some wild adventures, and I’ve felt a lot of pain.  And now I’m here, writing again for the first time in years, applying to law school which is a dream I never thought I’d fulfill, and living a pretty domesticated life with a great guy.  It’s a little funny when one of my favorite things to do is balance the checkbook.   And we can even feed ourselves with real, well-balanced meals!  (Just as a safety net though, McDonalds is right down the street!).

There’s a small part of my brain that keeps humming to me as I write this, and I can’t help but laugh at the song.  So for any of you out there reading this who can remember it, the theme song from “Saved by the Bell: The College Years” is stuck in my head.  I’m not trying to diminish what I just wrote, but I do think that’s hysterical.

This afternoon, when we finally pulled into the driveway of our humble abode, I had home on my mind.  I’ve lived in the greater Philadelphia area for nearly seven years, and for most of that time, I’ve been plotting to get out.  There have been brief glimmers when I felt I’d broken free … just to be yanked back, like the huge hooked canes used to pull performers from the stage during the vaudeville era.

We hit the road early on Friday, glad of the practically perfect weather and looking forward to the road trip and some fun along the way.  We were on our way to Massachusetts (a state neither of us had visited before) for a wedding.  But first, we were stopping in South Norwalk, Connecticut to pick up my brother and his lady love, thus breaking up the time on the road, as well as getting some Q.T. with my little brother (who, because of his insane social life and the fact that we live in different cities, I rarely see nowadays).

We flipped on the radio as we drove down the PA turnpike with the windows rolled down.  Preston & Steve’s morning show was on (something I go through phases of enjoying) and they were discussing the counties around Philadelphia.  Most specifically, how much people from Delaware County (Delco to the locals) loved being from Delco.  It was an interesting conversation, as people from Montgomery County and Bucks County and Philadelphia County were also dissected in the comfortable way of morning talk shows.  People with thick accents called in to espouse the virtues (or evils) of particular places.  I began to realize that not only did I know where all these places were, but I also understood the basic psychology of the people who called each locale their home.  It got John and I discussing (for possibly the millionth time) where we lived, and where we wanted to end up.  I confessed to him that despite fighting vehemently to maintain my disdain for Philly, I was beginning to love where we lived.  We will hit two years of cohabitation in August, and we have a great little apartment, surrounded by leafy green trees, with neighbors out of a 1950’s sitcom.  We know the back roads ~ we have a sushi place, and a football place. We are beginning to branch out and learn about the surrounding area.  I sighed with resignation.  “I don’t really want to move anywhere right now.”

I could see a smile playing at the corners of John’s mouth.  (I believe, to a certain extent, that opposites attract, and I think there are more things that John and I disagree about than the other way around).  “So you like Philly now?”

“I didn’t say that!” I laughed, and swatted his arm.  John loves Philly.  “And I’m not ready to shout it from rooftops either.  I’m just saying, I like where we live.  I don’t want to move.  We’re … settled right now.  It’s a nice feeling.”

“Hmm.”  He glanced at me, still fighting a smile.  I knew this revelation made him happy.  We’ve spent quite a bit of time butting heads about where to put down roots.  As John Lennon sang, life IS what happens when you are busy making other plans.  As we’d quibbled, and gone back and forth (Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, Pittsburgh), little did I know we were putting down roots right where we were.  And … I liked it.

This in and of itself is enough to get one thinking about home.  But someone, it seemed, was sending me lots of messages, just to make sure I didn’t miss the point.  As the homily began during our friend’s wedding mass on Saturday afternoon, the priest looked directly at the groom, and asked “Where do you live?”  The groom’s facial expression was priceless ~ a sort of physical representation of “Where did that come from?/Am I supposed to answer you?/ What exactly is the response you’re looking for?” An undertone of laughter passed through the crowd.  We were all thinking exactly what the groom’s face had expressed.  Essentially, after quite a long and circuitous route, the answer was, home is where you choose it to be, and with whom you choose to share it.  “Ah ha!” you’re thinking.  “This seems exactly like something a priest would pontificate on during a marriage ceremony.”  I would have to agree.  But it also poked at my brain ~ stirred up all the thoughts of the day before, pushing me to articulate that which I understood, but hadn’t yet distilled into words.

On Sunday, after depositing my brother and his lady in South Norwalk to enjoy an afternoon at the beach and some grub with friends, John and I were alone again, finishing up the last leg of our journey.  He leaned his head back as we steered onto 95 and said, “It’s not that I don’t like spending time with your family, ” (he often prefaces things this way ~ I believe it’s to nip any argument or injury I might find in the bud), “but I was really looking forward to it just being you and I in the car.”   I knew what he meant.  It had been an incredible weekend.  The wedding reception was one of the best I’ve ever been to ~ as Mary Poppins would say matter-of-factly, practically perfect in every way.  I’d seen friends from high school whom I hadn’t seen in years ~ that alone gave me a sense of home.  We’d eaten scrumptious food (the groom is a chef, and the food was divine), had lovely cocktails, and enjoyed excellent company.  All good, all around.  But I was tired now, and the comfort of knowing that we could just be us two, sitting together in silence, felt wonderful.

I was also looking forward to getting home ~ getting back to the cool quiet of our little nest, and relaxing in silence on our big comfy couch.  I thought of how nice it always felt to come over the crest of the hill, and see the little sign at the end of our driveway, welcoming us home.  To turn into the red gravel drive, and creep slowly along as the dogs frenetically zoomed this way and that, barking and jumping, as the stones crunched under the tires, and finally pull into our little nook, with the leaves fluttering in the breeze, and the flowers waving hello in all their colorful glory.

I knew that it wasn’t about Philadelphia.  (Although to be fair, our country was founded here, and that makes it a pretty cool place ~ even without all its other amenities).  It was about finding balance, and consistency and living in it day after day.  I tried to remember the last time I’d lived in one place for two years, or worked for the same company, or been with the same man.  All at the same time?  Never.  My childhood was defined by the moves my family made, every few years, when my dad was offered a better job, in a different place.  Back then, home was where my family was ~ home was dinner every night with everyone sitting around the table.  Home wasn’t a location.

So…where am I from?  I’m not sure anymore.  Am I from Pittsburgh, where I was born?  Am I from Wyomissing, where I graduated high school?  Am I from Philadelphia now, after living here for longer than anywhere else?  Maybe I’m from all those places.  I certainly know that I have a deep love for Pittsburgh and Wyomissing.  And I’m beginning to realize that I have love for Philly, too.  Maybe a little bit dysfunctional ~ considering I try every day to remember I don’t like it here! (Cue angry child foot stomp). But love nonetheless.  Do I even need to define where I’m from to know where I’m going?

So there I sat, the wind swirling through the car, the jam sounds of Dave Matthews providing a mellow soundtrak to our return.  And I realized that I DID feel settled.  I did feel happy.  And more importantly, I felt like I was coming home.

So here’s what I believe.  I believe that home is where I live with John.  Home is our kitchen, and our garden, and each other. Home is neighbors to share dinner with, and dogs barking hello at the end of a long work day.  Home is the barista at Starbucks smiling in recognition when I walk through the door.  It’s the clerk at Acme and the bank teller that I always wait for (because she has the best big earrings EVER).  Home is routine mixed in with adventure.  It’s learning to cook curry (I’ve only done it twice, and it’s pretty basic, but YUM YUM), and making subtle changes in home decor. It’s weekly dinner with friends (WeHANGSday, named by Mr. Josh Levin) and free concerts in the park.  Home is falling asleep to the sounds of nature, and the gentle oscillation of the fan, with your best friend beside you.

And there’s no place like home.

Having now navigated the unfamiliar waters of setting up and hosting a website of my very own, I am finally sitting down (in my pajamas and with a bowl of cheerios) to write my very first post.

Yesterday, the man and I celebrated three years together.  This, for me, is a small miracle.  Three years that went by in a flash ~ three years with very little drama.  Three years of hanging out everyday with my very best friend.  It felt good to celebrate.  I was trying very hard to get this post up yesterday ~ to commemorate our three years with starting a new venture.  And I wouldn’t be venturing down this road of ‘blog-dom’ were it not for him.  So for that, I owe him a big thank you!

John (the man) came home last week from five days away talking talking talking about camping and fishing, and getting back into nature.  He has been talking this way a lot recently, so I figured it was fairly inevitable that at some point, we would have to actually do the camping and the fishing.  But no, he assured me.  He’d spoken to his cousin, who was feeling this same itch to get back into country life.  I imagine I looked stunned (I certainly felt taken aback ~ he didn’t want to do these things with ME?)  Granted, I am a thoroughly suburban girl.  I don’t like bugs.  I DO like running water… etc, etc, you get the point.  I asked, slightly curious as to know his thoughts on the matter, “What am I supposed to do while you are camping and fishing all the time?”  (Time out for a minute: Remember the three years we celebrated?  Well, we’ve spent those three years doing pretty much everything together.  Our ‘honeymoon’ period may have lasted longer than most … I’m not sure, as I’ve never reached three years with anyone before … but the point is, what he does, I do.  What I do, he does.  This new concept raised red flags everywhere for me).

He looked at me placidly, smiled, and said, “Do you want to go camping and fishing all the time?”

“Well, no, not particularly.” I felt my grumpy face coming on.

“So, get a hobby.  Find something to do while I’m fishing and camping.”

What?!?!  Did the love of my life, the man I spend all my time with, just imply in a round about way that I have no hobbies?  My grumpy face was in full effect.

“Babe,” He started.  “You’ve been doing all this cooking recently, and we’ve been talking about taking adventures on the weekends.  Why don’t you start a website ~ blog about how you’ve been learning to cook and experimenting with things.  Blog about how we’ve been trying to eat healthier and get into better shape ~ you’re a great writer and I think it’s a good idea.”

Grumpy face began to dissipate.  I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily, so I didn’t respond right away (I believe I harrumphed and headed back into the kitchen to check on dinner).  But the seed had been planted.  It marinated in my brain over the following long weekend, as we explored a new state park in our area (“It has 27 holes of frisbee golf!” John marvelled), barbecued with friends, and went to the races for a picnic on Memorial Day proper (we won one race with a payout of $4.60, lost more, and John learned that there’s a reason I don’t gamble).

I spent some time trying to figure out how one actually goes about setting up a website.  I scribbled ideas on notepads and post-its (I <3 post its).  I drafted posts in my head as I plodded through the technical rote of this endeavor.   And now, here I am, writing into space, wondering if one day, this post will ever be read.  I read (in one of the many guides to starting a blog that I googled over the past few days) that the success of a blog is diligence in writing on it.  That you have to see if you have the makings of a blogger before your blog can be successful.

So … here I go.  Let’s see what I’m made of! And if, for some reason, you visit this site early on, in its baby phase, let me assure you that I’m working to learn how to edit and add content and upload photos and create a fun place to read, explore and experiment.  Keep your fingers crossed!  It could start out as a bumpy ride.