Jennifer Love Hewitt Bikini Pictures controversy

So she has cellulite. I have it. You probably have it.

Get the fuck over it America. She looks fine! In fact better than most of us!

Mine. All of them. Even the weird ones. Especially the weird ones.

I was born into the biggest family you can imagine. No – I don’t have 17 siblings and my parents didn’t either. But if you go back to my grandparent’s generation (the surviving 2 are almost 95 yrs old) there were 5-6 kids in each of our local families and they were very close and still spend as much time together as possible.

4-5 generations later… Last night my “baby” cousin Lydia (who is a married Doctor and speaks Japanese) stopped for the night on her way home from a quick trip to Pennsylvania. As we munched our burgers and drank beer – laughed and shared pictures, it struck me that each of them are home to me. And there are HUNDREDS of them.

The (still) annual descent on our little beach town in NC was an amazing thing for me growing up. It was the most stability I could ever imagine. I knew without a doubt, that every August, come hell, highwater or hurricane (we have experienced all), I would be enveloped for a week or two by my enormous family. My mother would relax into the southern atmosphere (and libations) and leave me the fuck alone for a while. My cousins and Aunts and Uncles always seemed to understand that I came from a home that was less than perfect and they would spend the full extent of our trip loving me and building me up. Some years it honestly was enough to carry me through the next twelve months. My Uncles (who have all passed away now) Vance, Marcus, Jack, Bill and Guy(the most recent loss and biggest sting tonight) would remind me how strong I was. It was as if they just sensed what I needed by some strange psychic genetic thing. My aunts (most are still here) taught me all the southern belle things my mother DETESTED about her heritage. I laughed at most of it but to this day still embrace a lot of it!

When I got older, the time I spent with my various branches of said family served as my “refresh” button. I processed things by talking about what happened and hearing their opinions. Events in my life seem to attain status and meaning in my life by being known to my family. Heartbreak, medical things (small and big), my mother’s deterioration… When my Lydia left this morning I just took a deep breath, processed the past few months and moved forward with strength in my heart.

They are mostly crazy, very drunk, so hysterical it hurts, loving, accepting, judgemental and strong. They marry and procreate and divorce and die. They leave big marks on this world or are hardly heard. The span every inch of the states and parts of the world beyond. But they are ALL mine and I am all theirs. I can not imagine a world without any single one of them. We fight, we forgive, we welcome babies and say goodbye at funerals but mostly we stand fiercely together no matter how far apart we are and make sure we are all ok. Its nice to realize that I no longer need to be at the beach to process and move forward with my life. I can achieve the same thing in one day with one of them. Any of them.

This morning my cousin Jane (Lydia’s sister) called and we had a long conversation about her boyfriend. She and I haven’t spoken in almost 8 months but as always it seemed as if we have never been apart. I could tell she was processing. I provided her with a touchstone and a loving voice. We may not speak again for a while, but we both know we could and come hell or highwater we will spend a week or two together in August.

She taught me so much more than history…

Cute-n-yummy Pie drove to Williamsburg today to visit friends and it reminded me of someone who totally changed my life. My favorite Professor. Pat.

In 4th grade at Maret I had a particularily grumpy teacher named Mr. McEwan who pointed with his middle finger. I was a bubbly little girl trying to figure myself out and had just lost my father to the great state of Texas. Needless to say I was craving positive attention and it would have been nice for my first male teacher be caring and kind. But each time this crotchity old bastard furrowed his bushy grey unibrow I seemed to suffer. In fact he seemed to have it out for me. His middle finger migrated daily to my forehead and he would berate me in his loud sanctimonious growl for the reason of the day. This was all unpleasant. But I still have a hard time forgiving him for telling me, ” You are just really bad at History.”

How does someone actually say those words to a 9 year old little girl having a bad year? He said it several times. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t teaching. He was being a fuck-head to one of his students (the only one with divorced parents and a Mother who was clinically insane… but who is counting).

And so I always thought I was just bad at history. Until Pat. The 23 year old mother of a toddler, I was living in my Mom’s basement and working hard to finish my Bachelors at Marymount University. I had finished every possible credit I had to finish without taking a single history course. The jig was up. A history class HAD to be taken. The only one that seemed remotely interesting was “American Revolutionary History”. So I put on my big girl panties and took a history class.

I loved it from the start. Everything about it. I loved Pat. She was a smiley welcoming older woman who had been raised in Williamsburg Virginia. I think her father had been the librarian at William and Mary. So she grew up with living history. She had a different view on everything because of that. EVERY INCH of history fascinated her. She had tidbits and morsels to go with every boring fact known to man. She brought the period alive for us and involved everyone in the class. I looked forward to each and every class and I don’t think I missed a single one.

When the class was over I had earned a perfect A+ and knew for a fact that I had never been bad at history. I had never even met history.

Since this defining moment I have devoured history. I read historical fiction, history books and am an avid history channel devotee. My Father and I have lively weekly conversations about whatever historical period we are both fixated on, from Krakatoa to Ancient Greece. Our George Bush rants count don’t they?

Pat wrote an amazing book before I met her. I have read it many times over the years – and give it as a gift often. You should read it.

Riding Astride, By Patricia Dunlap

I guess the moral of the story is dont let anyone tell you that you can not do something or are bad at something. But I am just glad to have found Pat and that she introduced me to this world’s past.