the art of celebration

Last night I was working on some graduation gifts for some of my very favorite girls and I decided to curl some ribbon to make them look extra-special fancy.

My mom is the best ribbon curler in the world. No exceptions, if there was a ribbon curling championship she would win it. I used to run back to her bedroom whenever I heard the familiar “zzzzzz-zip!” of the scissors spanning the length of ribbon. I found her sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor, a human island surrounded by wrapping paper, ribbons, boxes, and bows. It was fascinating enough for my childhood eyes to watch her wrap presents, how she always knew exactly how much paper to cut and how the tape never showed, but the ribbon curling was my favorite event. I watched in awe as she held her finger against the dangerous blade of the scissors with only a thin strip of ribbon separating the two. She pulled the strand straight up in the air, quick as lightning, and released it back down in tight perfect curly-q’s. She mussed the curls lightly with her fingers and handed the finished present to me.
“Here, you can go put this one under the tree.”

My mom is probably such a good ribbon curler because she is an expert celebrator who bestows pink birthday crowns and once collected beach sand to send to my cousins in “deepest darkest January.” She sends me flower cookies and mason jars of chicken noodle soup in the mail and we trade emails about beautiful things all day long. I hope some of her knack for giving good gifts has rubbed off on me and that when these wonderful girls open up their graduation present complete with extra-special fancy curled ribbon they feel the same way I do when I get a  gift from my mom.

bacon and eggs with a side of idealism

I have always loved the idea of breakfast. Whenever I picture my ideal life, it is always eating breakfast. For instance, my ideal post-college life involves one of two scenarios.

Scenario One: I am sitting in the breakfast nook of my big city loft. I have on crisp white pajamas and my hair is still in the ponytail from the night before but it’s that wonderful messy look that only comes from sleeping on it all night and is impossible to achieve in any sort of casual way unless you are an olsen twin. Anyway, there I am at my nook ready to eat breakfast. It’s all nicely arranged on a plate in front of me: toast with jam, strawberries, a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a cup of coffee. I have the tv turned to regis and kelly and I watch their banter while I eat but then I change it to the news when they get to the part of the show where they do the triva. I mute it and spend the rest of the meal sipping coffee while reading the New York Times.

Scenario Two: I wake up around nine on a Saturday morning in my big city loft. I put on some corduroy pants and an over-sized knitted cardigan (because it’s the beginning of fall and the mornings are getting a little chilly, just enough to turn your cheeks pink.) I pack my bag with essentials: ipod, book, new york times, notebook and i’m on my way. On my walk through the city I take my time and marvel at how the leaves are changing while I listen to the weepies. I arrive at my favorite coffee shop order coffee and a muffin and settle in for a lovely morning.

I think you are beginning to see why I like the idea of breakfast as opposed to the actual act of eating breakfast, i’ve set the bar a tad high. I do realize that in these lovely little vignettes I neither see myself actually cracking the eggs to scramble them, I just imagined them nicely arranged on my plate, nor do I see myself washing dishes, nor working whatever fabulous job allowed me, a recent college graduate, to own a fabulous big city loft.

Minor details…

the sseko story

I have a friend named Liz, who might be the most interesting person I know. Last time she came in town she spent the evening folding oragami paper cranes in the living room. Today when I got home she was sitting casually on my bed in her wedding dress.

But that’s not the most interesting thing about her.

A couple months ago she went to Africa and she got this big idea.
A couple months later this big idea is becoming a very real company called Sseko.
And it’s not just a boring company where people shuffle papers and make coffee in the break room, it’s a company that makes ridiculously cute shoes.
And it’s not just a shoe company, it’s a shoe company whose employees are students at a leadership academy in Uganda and the shoes that they make and you buy send them to college so they can turn their big ideas into reality too.

I am someone who gets lots of big ideas but tends to throw in the towel when I hit any sort of obstacle, for this reason I am not very good at running or crocheting. I would much rather sit around and talk about all the things I would like to do, because let’s face it, actually doing most things is much harder than the idea of the things themselves. So tonight, I, the girl who cannot run or crochet very well, tied up my new favorite pair of shoes because Liz actually did the thing she sat around and talked about. And that thing was not just a little thing- it was starting a company in a foreign country. Which is just about the biggest thing I can imagine, besides maybe trying to become president (which I wouldn’t be surprised if Liz suddenly decided to do.) There are lots of numbers and laws and general headache causing things to think about when you are trying to do such a thing, but there are also great surprises like making acquaintances with a Norwegian supermodel who just happens to haves some free time and would love to do a Sseko photo shoot.

Tonight while Sseko’s newest fans threaded fabric through our new shoes, Liz showed us pictures of the girls who made our them. They were sitting under a tree and smiling as they glued the soles together. They are beautiful girls who have names and stories. One day, Liz hopes to employ every girl who graduates from the leadership academy. Currently, the girls have a 9 month gap from the time they graduate until the time they leave for university. This time is supposed to be used to make money to pay for school but finding a job that pays well and not being tempted to move home and give all the money back to their family is more difficult that it seems and some girls never make it back to school. Sseko is a way to support them during that 9 month period so these beautiful girls, who are some of the best and brightest in the country, have nothing that stands between them and their education. So you’re not just buying a cute pair of shoes, you’re supporting future leaders in a country that desperately needs them.

Now, go get yourself a pair!
http://www.ssekodesigns.com

lifestyles of the rich and famous

Some of my favorite family stories are from the “business trips” I used to take with my dad. Most kids see the country by shuffling around to museums and historic sights and consulting guide books, I got to see it with my dad, dragging him into the three story Sephora in Times Square and falling asleep in the corners of reception halls after a long night of being Marilyn Monroe’s personal assistant. He was an event photographer, so while he mainly photographed boring golf tournaments and benefit dinners, he did the occasional celebrity event. I began helping at these events when I was nine, at which point I had achieved the dexterity necessary to put the pictures into their plaques and was thus an effective source of child labor.

My first jobs were at the Jimmy V golf tournament. It was a pretty big deal around Raleigh, and might have been more so if it didn’t always occur in August, which it the worst time of year to do anything outdoors in North Carolina. I loved riding in the golf carts around to the different holes and watching my dad run out onto the green to take a picture of the players with their designated celebrity. Then he would yell “photographer’s daughter!” and I would push past the crowds and duck under the rope to get my picture taken with my celebrity of choice. I worked the Jimmy V every year except one. My mom forbid me to go after a printer had broken the year before and resulted in my subsequent learning of a lot of new cuss words. Unfortunately, this was the year Carson Daly appeared and missing it was THE BIGGEST DEAL EVER. I’m sure my parents were proud when I used the words acquired the year before to describe my feelings towards their decision.

Whenever my dad took trips to major cities he brought me along to see the sights. In Las Vegas we saw Cirque Du Solei and Sigfreid and Roy’s tigers, which are about the only places you can take an eleven year old in Vegas. The event was a party put on by Harley Davidson and featured several celebrity impersonators. “Marilyn Monroe” befriended me and I spent the evening refilling her drinks and fixing her jewelry. She stayed in character all night calling me darling and making me feel fabulous. Looking back she was probably not the most appropriate babysitter.

One of our weirder adventures was during the brief period where my dad took pictures for mall santas. Somewhere along this journey he befriend two hollywood makeup artists, who were also, inexplicably, on the mall santa circuit. (if I didn’t know my parents any better I would completely call their bluff on what appeared to be a very elaborate lie). As a Christmas present, we drove to Charlotte under the guise that I was to assist him with some santa pictures. Upon arriving, I was surprised with a makeover from these absolutely fantastic women who my dad allowed to cart me off to the mall’s attic to transform my awkward thirteen year old self into a fierce Tyra Banks creation.

We were climbing the stairs to the attic when one turned to me and said in a very serious voice, “Emily, lets hope to God for my sake and yours we do not find a naked Santa up here.” To the great relief of everyone but especially me, we found a fully clothed Santa working on a crossword puzzle. They worked their magic on my hair and make-up, all the while entertaining me with stories of the movie sets they had been on. An hour later, my head spinning from all the celebrity gossip and hair spray fumes, I emerged from the attic looking like the same awkward kid but with a few new layers in my hair and eye makeup more befitting a prostitute.
Needless to say I LOVED it.

Besides being “fodder for my memoir,” (a phrase I threaten my parents with quite frequently) these trip played an important role in how I grew up. I did most of this traveling during my middle school years, a time when I couldn’t have felt more awkward and unsure of myself. These trips were my time to shine, anyone could go to California but could everyone go to California and have Jack Nicholson touch their eye?  The stories I returned with briefly made me the most popular girl in 8th grade. More than that, in Vegas no one knew that I was the new girl in school, I was simply “the photographer’s daughter” a title I tossed around like it made me an heiress to something. I had more confidence chatting up Sylvester Stallone than I did walking through the cafeteria. Those trips gave me a much needed perspective, there was a world outside of Daniels Middle School, a world where I didn’t feel awkward and out of place. Perhaps I missed out on a museum or too, but it seemed like a pretty even trade.