It never occurred to me until recently that my parents didn’t have a lot of money.

It wasn’t that we were ever poor, per se. We always had food on the table and clothes on our back. My dad always worked full-time, and my mom almost always was working most days of the week. In fact, my parents, in what I come to realize more and more each year is amazing kindness, often were offering support to those friends of our even worse off than us– like how they bought my best friend her prom dress after her father handed her a $20 bill.

These past holidays, my boyfriend and his brother drove me back to my home town on their way back to see their family, stopping to spend the night at my family home. It is not that I wasn’t aware that we grew up differently on the surface, they in a residential suburb of a big city, in a home with a big garage and soft carpets, me in a small town and smaller home filled with random antiques and curiosities. But, still, we’d grown up with the same morals, and the same sense of needing to work for your accomplishments, so the contrast never really stood out to me.

On their continued drive, my boyfriend’s brother remarked to him that he had a newfound respect for me, seeing that I had accomplished so much coming from such a different environment. At first, this seemed a little absurd to me. My parents were always wonderfully supportive of me, always believed in me. How was I at all disadvantaged? But, with a little thought, I realized that, unlike a good chunk of my peers in graduate school, I came from a family in which no one went to graduate school. In fact, no one in my family went to college. My mother never finished high school.

This same revelation hit me again while flipping through the program of the conference I recently attended. In the first section, there were several pages dedicated to the winners of the prestigious diversity awards, an award I had never considered applying to, since, as a Caucasian heterosexual woman of European background, I had never considered myself as fitting into the category of “population typically underrepresented in graduate school”. I then noticed that “first generation college student” was also lumped into this category. I think I actually commented to my friend about how I found this odd and incongruent for me, as despite technically fitting into this category, I didn’t feel as though I matched the label of “underrepresented population”. She told me that I should give myself more credit.

The thing is, I never thought of myself as having to bear a burden to go to university (well, except for financially, as I have paid for all nine years of university without help from anyone except scholarships, grants, and some student loans). It was just something I always wanted to do, and I did it. Nothing about my parents’ lack of university diplomas felt like it slowed me down at all.

The other day, I was reminiscing with my guy about how, at around the age of 9, I had desperately wanted to go to an autograph session with one of my favourite hockey players in a city an hour away on the weekend. I had been heartbroken when my parents had flat-out refused. He asked me why they had declined, and I told them that this question had perplexed me greatly for years to come, as it seemed so out of character, and I was never really given a point blank answer.

Suddenly, I had a bit of an epiphany– they didn’t have the money to take me there. Then, all the pieces started to fall into place. The truck that was always breaking down when I was little. My mom’s telling me that if I wanted Calvin Klein jeans, she couldn’t buy me any back to school apparel. The girl who asked if I was poor because of my clothing. My sadness at not being able to participate in the summer theatre programs due to the triple-figured fees required, and the fact that, at the age of 12, I knew better than to ask. My paying rent for living at home in my first two years of college. Having to leave our rental house behind, in part because it was being torn down for subdivisions. My mom coming home, distraught, saying she’d been laid off.

The fact that I only realized this at 27, to me, testifies to me the important aspect of all this, though– that it didn’t matter at all. My parents loved me unconditionally, supported even my most ridiculous phases, and made for a beautifully memorable childhood and adolescence. On top of that, they took in troubled foster kids, and let friends live in our basement or even in a tent in our backyard in tough times. They taught my about morality, kindness, empathy and self-sufficiency. All of these are infinitely more valuable than a college fund or those designer jeans.

A person who dislikes you for exceedingly petty reasons, yet is overly nice to your face?

Or a person who dislikes you for exceedingly petty reasons and acts cold as ice towards you?

(And, why yes, this is related to my last post, thanks for asking.)

Lately, I’ve been feeling unsettled. It isn’t because I’ve been stressed out, because I just got back from an amazing week on Kiawah Island (which explains my lack of posting for the past, er, two weeks) and I even have the sunburn to prove it.

It isn’t because I’m concerned about the economy - sure, stock prices are going down the tubes but the economy isn’t the reason I’m living paycheck to paycheck and running a never-ending race against my student loan and credit card bills.

Because I live in a world where bigger is better and more is not less, I tend to keep an eye over the fence. In all areas of life, I’m constantly taking on projects that feel overwhelming, but they’re only overwhelming because they don’t have my full concentration. I don’t bite off more than I can chew but sometimes, while I’m working on one project, be it personal or professional, I’m simultaneously planning my next bigger, better move.

On paper, my life is A-OK right now. I live close to my family and some of my closest friends, I am gainfully employed and through my blog I’ve rediscovered my passion for writing and realized that liking food doesn’t make you a pig, but it’s something to embrace and enjoy (Disclaimer: Unless you’re eating every meal at the 7-Eleven. Then I retract my previous statement). I mean, I wouldn’t complain if Jude Law appeared at my door to propose marriage but a girl can’t have it all.

Despite the fact that things are status quo right now, I can’t shake this feeling that I’m missing out on opportunities and that I could be reaching higher and further than I already am. Logically, I know that being in my mid-twenties, I still have plenty of time to reach my professional goals and to take trips, learn skills that will enrich my life, but emotionally, I’m having a hard time convincing myself to just stop and enjoy the now.

Does anyone else ever experience this feeling of “where-do-I-go-from-here?” How do you stop looking beyond the present and just be?

That is, until things got complicated.

I was always aware that Anna came from an extremely religious background. It was something mentioned in conversations about growing up, something she laughed about when the rest of us girls would bust out into rapping Skeelo’s “I Wish” as she didn’t know the words, since she wasn’t permitted to listen to the bulk of the music on the radio growing up. We heard how her cousin offered to pay for the entirety of her wedding to Jacob when she heard the two of them were moving in together after many years, trying desperately to prevent them from living in sin. Anna graciously declined. She was open about her status as the “black sheep” in the family, which was really quite a relative concept, considering that she is successful by almost anyone else’s standards: a career that had her featured in a write-up in a local newspaper, marrying the love of her life, and just having bought her first home– a real house, at that, in a city where most first buys are shoebox studio apartments– and all at the age of 26.

I got a hint of it all at her bridal shower, when her mother made a few tongue-in-cheek comments about the silky nightgowns my friends and I had purchased for Anna (which I always assumed were shower standards), when her 23 year old cousin started getting harassed for her lack of a ring, when I realized that, at 27, myself and one of my girlfriends were the oldest unmarried women there.

But it all came to a head at Anna’s bachelorette party. There were two portions. One, the daily outdoor activity portion, was intended more for the family, and was a lot of fun. Most of her cousins chose to forego the second part, the more traditional nightly bachelorette; however, one of them, a seemingly bubbly 23 year old, the very same one who was harassed for her lack of marital ambitions, decided to take part.

Really, it was fairly tame by stagette standards. Sure, there were jello shots, a blow up doll and a prize bag full of flavoured condoms. But we kept her outfit tasteful, and left all the dirty paraphnelia at home when we later went bowling. Throughout the evening, her cousin seemed to be having a good time, taking part in the games, laughing, and consuming at least a six pack of beer.

Apparently I was wrong, as the very next day, she called Anna’s mother to inform her that we were horrible influences, and Anna had been engaging in all sorts of scandalous conversations and games, let alone her copious consumption of alcohol. Anna’s mother called her, in a rage, to inform her that she was a disgrace, that she had raised her better than this, that we were all awful human beings, and even threatened to make a call that could have a negative impact on Anna’s recently acquired mortgage.

It’s hard to even know how to react to a situation like this. I am outraged at her cousin, who backstabbed the very same woman she had earlier claimed to look up to, who acted like a high school style spy, and who likely was just seeking to assuage her own guilt over engaging in behaviour against her moral code, while her other relatives chose not to put themselves in that situation. I am even more furious at her mother, for being so blind to what a wonderful daughter she has, and to act so insensitively and unsupportively while Anna is preparing for the most important day in her life. And, I’ll admit, I’m personally offended- this woman knows nothing about my friends and I, our background, our lives, anything– and is blatantly ignoring that it has been us who have been helping with the wedding, be it planning events or putting together centrepieces and other crafts, rather than, say, a particular cousin.

But Anna’s the one who matters the most in the days to come, so my friend and I need to put on our fancy dresses and a smile, drink some wine, and try not to picture piercing glares being shot our way.

First let me apologize for being remiss with last week’s post, although I see no one else has posted in the interim either. Regardless, I was otherwise engaged last week, and here’s why…

I have visited Wilmington (at the southern tip of North Carolina) for the past 3 Fourths of July, and it just keeps getting better. Several of my friends from high school have decided to make it their home, and I always enjoy spending time with them. But what makes it truly special for me is the new people I meet every time I go.

The South is just

So.

Damn.

Friendly.

I’m amazed by it every time I go. Suddenly what you’re wearing or what you do for a living no longer matter (a welcome respite from what I’m used to in my day-to-day), and all that matters is who you are and what you’re drinking (mostly so someone can buy you your next round).

Don’t get me wrong—I love where I live. There’s nothing like the pace of New York City, not to mention the night life. But the South has a certain charm that keeps drawing me back for more. So much, in fact, that it has started me thinking about whether I might want to end up there someday.

As one of my friends so aptly described it, “living [in Wilmington] is like one big vacation.” From what I’ve seen, I have to agree.

What is it about the South that makes people so friendly and cordial? Is it the slower pace of life? Are people socialized to actually care about one another, instead of seeing each other as simply obstacles and annoyances on the way to yet another subway ride? When I’m confronted with the alternative, I can’t help but wonder why people in the North are so unfriendly.

Although at the start of my trip I felt like an asshole Northerner, I was soon brought out of my shell. I started making friends at the drop of a hat, I picked up a nice little—albeit unnoticeable to anyone but me—southern drawl. I got some SUN, which anyone who lives in the mid-Atlantic region knows is a rarity this summer. And I had the time of my life.

Yes, I am continually drawn to the South and its charm. And I’m going back. I’ve already started planning my return trip.

So, let’s do a casual little study. If everyone offers some input, we can all hopefully gain a little insight into what makes the other sex tick.

Our topic is one of the most common—and yet anxiety-inducing—social practices we engage in: The phone number exchange/first phone call.

Ready? Let’s get started!

Question 1: Guys, if you get a girl’s number, do you plan to use it? Girls, if you give your number to a guy, are you hoping he uses it?

I’m sure there are guys out there who just try to collect as many numbers as possible, but I see that as a waste of time. Almost as a rule, if I ask a girl for her number, I’m going to use it. And, for right or wrong, if a girl gives me her number, I’m assuming it’s because she wants me to use it.

Question 2:  Guys, have you ever given a girl your phone number? And girls, if a guy gave you his number, would you use it?

I personally tend to shy away from giving a girl my number for the simple reason that I doubt she’d actually call. By getting her number, I keep the ball in my court. That way I know there will be some sort of follow-through.

Question 3: What is more appropriate for the first contact, a call or a text?

This is an interesting one. If I’m going to ask a girl out on a first date, I’m absolutely calling. However, my friend Sarah says she thinks a text is more “official.” I couldn’t disagree more, since I could spend hours crafting a text or just have someone else tell me what to say. But if I’m picking up the phone to call, I’m committing to a conversation, meaning I’m going to be attentive and responsive for at least a minute or two. Definitely the right way to go, in my opinion.

Question 4: How long should a guy/girl wait before making contact?

I’m a little partial to this question, since I’m on a personal quest to end dating games. I personally believe the whole “wait 3 days” thing is garbage. If you like someone and you want to call them, call them. If they like you and they want you to call, it won’t matter how long you’ve waited. Or haven’t waited.

Question 5: If you call and get voicemail, do you leave a message? If someone leaves you a voicemail, do you call back?

I’ve had girls call back after I’ve left voicemails, and I’ve had my voicemails go unrequited. It’s a mixed bag. My personal policy is not to leave a message after the first call. If I wait and try again later and still get voicemail, then I’ll leave a message. If they call back, great! If not, I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

So, those are my questions. I’m sure everyone has an opinion on most of these, so let’s hear them. Feel free to answer all the questions or just one. Regardless, let’s get some feedback!

In junior high school, everyone was required to take Home Economics class, which the oh-so-modernized school system referred to as Life Skills. In eighth grade, everyone took cooking class. I only vaguely remember learning how to make pancakes, but I remember Mike Duke, who sat behind me. He used to wear rock band T-shirts and corduroy pants.

I thought Mike was hot in that thirteen-year-old-way, though his family moved the following year and a mutual friend told me that he’d “decided to be bisexual.” I’ll never know if that was a polite “don’t waste your time on this one, Mar” or if he had realized that he actually did prefer men, but I digress.

In eighth grade, we cooked and in seventh grade, it was sewing. We learned how to sew buttons and patterns and as a final project, sewed a large, pink stuffed animal - choice between a pig and elephant that Mrs. Jinks (a lovely teacher in her thirties who wore floor length floral skirts and just looked like a sewing teacher, if that makes any sense) graded for precision and detail.

Now, Life Skills was fun and all; it was certainly a novelty to walk to your next class with your hands still mildly sticky from maple syrup and flour on your pants but really, we can hardly call the skills we picked up in these classes “Life Skills.”

Okay, cooking is important, yes. Clearly, we know that I think so. And I will never argue with any activity that merits mid-day pancakes. But to think that my parents tax dollars paid for the big yellow duck that my brother sewed and the big stuffed pink pig that I constructed as pre-teens just seems unnecessary and antiquated.

I have no idea if they still teach such skills in schools today or I’m really JUST THAT OLD but why not teach kids skills that they’ll actually use and might not discover inside the home?

Personally, I would have liked a class in high school or middle school that taught you how to read a map (and not one of those BS ones in your history textbooks but a real, genuine, oh-crap-I’m-stuck-on-the-side-of-the-road-where-am-I map). Or a class that teaches you how to deal with life after your heart is broken for the first time. How do you fight back tears when you have to go to school or work and put on a happy face? Where is the Life Skills class that teaches you how to hold your head up with pride in an uncomfortable situation? Or the class where you learn how to gently but firmly let someone know you disagree with them.

Superficially, I’ll always love that pink stuffed pig, but I certainly didn’t retain any of those skills and in the grand scheme of things, there are bigger fish out there to fry.

What do you wish you’d learned in school that you were never taught?

Yet, it can be so frightening to hear how just plain cruel people can be to the one person that you imagine should be exempt from such coldheartedness– the one they love.

This weekend, over dinner, we finally heard the story of how a couple we met last summer had split, out of the blue. At time we had come to know them, they were seemingly idyllic, having just bought a home, and in the dreaming phase about their upcoming marriage, swooning over the image of saying their I do’s in Tuscany.

And then he decided it was too much. And left. Really, just as simple as that. He didn’t even tell her of this sudden sense of being overwhelmed. He just gathered his things and left one afternoon while she was at work. She walked through the door, expecting a typical evening, only to discover that everything had changed in a sickening series of moments.

Over drinks, this Saturday night, another friend tells me of a recent break-up. Of how they both knew things were slowly inching towards their conclusion after many years together, but neither of them had yet gathered the courage to actually finalize things. Until she went to Vegas, met a guy, had an undisclosed amount of fun with said guy for a few nights, broke up with her boyfriend, and, in their attempts to stay friends, proceeded to giggle about drunken voicemails from new guy directly in front of him.

The one that always punctuates things for me, though, is the tale of my friend’s sister. Her and her fiance were seemingly happy as clams for years. She then became pregnant. Although not directly in the sequence of their plans for the future, they had been discussing children very soon after the wedding, so it wasn’t a full u-turn by any stretch of the imagination, and they, as a pair, decided that they were ready to become parents. Until he changed his mind right after she’d given birth. And let her know by drinking with the boys every day after work and yelling at her for not cooking elaborate enough dinner’s when he got home. And, after her and their little girl returned home from visiting her parents (with multiple messages from him about how badly he missed them sitting on her voicemail), she found several items in their home belonging to another woman– another woman who, it turned out, was not aware that the new man she’d been seeing was engaged, and thought that all the baby stuff in the home was for his new baby niece.

We’ve all heard these tales a billion times over– but what gets me is that I have met all three of these offenders, in some capacity or another. And all three of them were not so evidently mean or cruel as these tales would lead you to assume. All three of them seemed to love their partners very much. Yet, somewhere and somehow, they lost all empathy for the one person their feelings should be fundamentally intertwined with. It makes you wonder where the potential for selfishness hides itself. Because, while I know that love can die, I always expect there to be that remaining tenderness for that person you once held so dear.

I can’t see how falling out of love necessitates being so damn mean.

You know, when you are actually fun.

When you have SO many hilarious stories to tell.

When you’re not really sure if you are crossing a line by saying something- but you say it anyway because you have nothing to lose.

When you honestly don’t know what that person is going to say next.

When you are trying to impress her, fail horribly and laugh about it when she texts you to make fun.

When you’re driving in the car and learn she also knows the words to Bobby Browns “Every Little Step”.

After a while she’s heard all the stories. She knows how you feel about what Britney’s crotch looks like. You know what she is going to say. She expects you to fail at planning romantic nights. You start listening to talk radio together.

And eventhough things are still fun and interesting and pretty much wonderful, they will never be like they were in the very beginning.

It was sunny and 75 with no noticeable humidity, and a couple friends and I chose to spend the afternoon on a grassy pier that extends out into the Hudson River with a killer view of middle and lower Manhattan.

Within minutes we had made friends with some people hanging out on an adjacent blanket, and before long we had combined groups. We shared some laughs and tossed around the football, and then came the beer. But not just any beer—the beer that is quickly becoming a staple summer beer among my group of friends: Bud Lite Lime.

I consider myself a bit of a beer aficionado… not quite a connoisseur, but a passionate and opinionated indulger in the fine nectar that is beer. I do not always go with the herd, and I had my share of doubts about the new trend towards lime-flavored beer. I’ve never been much a fan of Corona. I think Miller Chill is awful. But god damn do I love Bud Lite Lime.

My classic summer brews of the past have included the following:

-    Sam Adams Summer Ale:  Truly a classic, Sam Summer has a taste that to me is unmistakably summer.

-    Moosehead Lager:  This is undoubtedly due to the fact that I drank it constantly in April and May during college.

-    Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat:  For those of you who have never had this, you’re missing out. Think Blue Moon with even more of a blueberry twist.

-    Magic Hat Circus Boy:  My personal favorite, Circus Boy is by far the best white beer I’ve ever had.

Now, I’m not ashamed to say, Bud Lite Lime has climbed onto this list.

As the afternoon wore on, a couple more friends showed up and a trip for more Bud Lite Lime quickly followed. We spent the rest of the day laughing and drinking and enjoying all the reasons we love the summer months.

When it was time to leave, everyone agreed that we had started a new summer tradition. We’ll all be back next Sunday, Bud Lite Lime in tow.

So for all you beer drinkers out there, what is your favorite summer beer? In your mind, what are the classics? And if it’s not a beer you’re enjoying, what else are you drinking to stay cool during the hot summer months?